Alexander Payne has clearly softened with age. His first two features, "Citizen Ruth" and "Election," were almost gleefully cynical affairs. His last two films, "Sideways" and "The Descendants," were much more humane, offering some hope for his irascible heroes. "Nebraska," his latest, splits the difference, featuring both the petty squabbles of a small-town community and the poignancy of a man in the twilight of life. It offers both humor and heart.
The heart of the film is Woody, a retired electrician. The best moments in "Nebraska" happen when Woody tersely reflects on his life. He's old enough to have plenty of regrets, but wise enough to know that they don't amount to much. When his son asks him if he wished he had been a farmer, he looks wistful and says, "I don't know. Doesn't matter."
Still, Woody can't quite let go of his dreams. Battling dementia, he's convinced that he's won a million dollars via a junk mail scam. He's determined to get from Montana to Nebraska to collect his prize even though he can't drive. By the third time he tried to walk there, I had a lump in my throat.
A film with nothing but this material would leave the audience in wrist-slitting mode. As usual, though, Payne can ably lighten the mood. Woody's wife is the primary comic engine here, getting off lots of cracks at family and friends--particularly those who think Woody's prize is real and want some of the action.
The last piece of the puzzle is the most conventional: Woody's son David starts learning more about his father. Naturally, it turns out that his gruff dad is a much nicer guy than he let on. But these scenes are so low-key that they don't feel forced or manipulative.
That's the thing about Payne: he works with stories fraught with emotion without turning them into melodramas. (Although "The Descendants" comes awfully close.) Often when I watch a film, I start worrying that the story is going to hit false notes to play on the audience's sympathy or desire for a feel-good ending. I was never worried about that during "Nebraska," and once again Payne validated my faith.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Dallas Buyers Club
Not much happens in "Dallas Buyers Club." It's a boring movie.
It feels weird to say that. There are a lot of movies in which not much happens that I don't find boring at all. I love character studies, movies that focus on getting to know someone instead of plot mechanics.
But "Dallas Buyers Club" isn't interested in burrowing into the psyche of any of its characters. It's got an inspirational story to tell, and it's going to tell it, even if there isn't much to the tale.
The film is based on the life of Ron Woodroof, a hard living cowboy who was diagnosed with AIDS in 1985. Early on, the movie gets locked into a cycle: Woodroof finds some illegal medication that improves his condition, sells it to fellow patients, and gets shut down by the Food and Drug Administration. Then he finds some new medication--or new illegal means of transport--and the cycle starts all over again.
That cycle basically takes up the last three-quarters of the film. There's a little bit of other business; Woodroof is homophobic, so naturally he must see the error of his ways, and Jennifer Garner stars as a sad-looking doctor who is eventually converted to the cowboy's cause. It all just adds to the melodrama. Director Jean-Marc Vallee tries to make the story seem more edgy with handheld camerawork and quick editing. And Matthew McConaughey and Jared Leto both give fine, if occasionally showy, performances as AIDS patients.
And it must be said that this is yet another Hollywood tale of the privileged helping the powerless. American film history is littered with stories of whites helping blacks and straights helping gays. In real life, the privileged are usually the problem, not the solution.
It feels weird to say that. There are a lot of movies in which not much happens that I don't find boring at all. I love character studies, movies that focus on getting to know someone instead of plot mechanics.
But "Dallas Buyers Club" isn't interested in burrowing into the psyche of any of its characters. It's got an inspirational story to tell, and it's going to tell it, even if there isn't much to the tale.
The film is based on the life of Ron Woodroof, a hard living cowboy who was diagnosed with AIDS in 1985. Early on, the movie gets locked into a cycle: Woodroof finds some illegal medication that improves his condition, sells it to fellow patients, and gets shut down by the Food and Drug Administration. Then he finds some new medication--or new illegal means of transport--and the cycle starts all over again.
That cycle basically takes up the last three-quarters of the film. There's a little bit of other business; Woodroof is homophobic, so naturally he must see the error of his ways, and Jennifer Garner stars as a sad-looking doctor who is eventually converted to the cowboy's cause. It all just adds to the melodrama. Director Jean-Marc Vallee tries to make the story seem more edgy with handheld camerawork and quick editing. And Matthew McConaughey and Jared Leto both give fine, if occasionally showy, performances as AIDS patients.
And it must be said that this is yet another Hollywood tale of the privileged helping the powerless. American film history is littered with stories of whites helping blacks and straights helping gays. In real life, the privileged are usually the problem, not the solution.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
12 Years a Slave
Director Steve McQueen started out as a photographer. His first two features, "Hunger" and "Shame," showed it. They were frequently wordless affairs, telling their respective stories through mesmerizing visuals.
It's therefore a bit jarring to see how conventional McQueen's third film, "12 Years a Slave," is at times. The movie starts in media res, with our hero near his lowest point. It then cuts to the beginning of the story, showing our hero as a shining, smiling, upstanding citizen, completely unaware that any harm could befall him. Eventually, there's a kindly white man (played by Brad Pitt, recycling his ridiculous Southern accent from "Inglorious Basterds") who's willing to give our hero a helping hand.
I suspect McQueen saw his opportunity for the brass ring--Oscar glory and better opportunities to make films--and took it.
But that reading is too cynical. There's some fine filmmaking here. McQueen isn't afraid to stop the action and give us a lyrical shot of willow trees or the Mississippi River. (Terrence Malick would approve.) He also holds shots to let them sink in. Most notably, he spends several minutes showing our hero standing on his toes with a noose around his neck, struggling desperately to avoid strangulation. (Most Hollywood directors would have cut from that scene in under 30 seconds.) The film's best scene, which eventually leads to our hero whipping another slave, is shot in a single long take. As with recent release "Gravity," the lack of cutting makes the scene almost unbearable, leaving the viewer with a sense that there's no way out.
"12 Years a Slave" also functions as an acting clinic. Chiwetel Ejiofor delivers a fine performance as the hero. Occasionally the material overwhelms him, but there's no shame in that, given the extreme degree of difficulty for the role. Michael Fassbender is tremendous as a loony slave owner; he shows how slavery destroys the dignity of masters as well as slaves. Benedict Cumberbatch, Paul Dano, and Paul Giamatti all do nice work in small roles.
"12 Years a Slave" is a tad too conventional to be great. It's not "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" or "There Will Be Blood." Nonetheless, it's a very good film. We need more of those--particularly depicting the horrors of slavery.
It's therefore a bit jarring to see how conventional McQueen's third film, "12 Years a Slave," is at times. The movie starts in media res, with our hero near his lowest point. It then cuts to the beginning of the story, showing our hero as a shining, smiling, upstanding citizen, completely unaware that any harm could befall him. Eventually, there's a kindly white man (played by Brad Pitt, recycling his ridiculous Southern accent from "Inglorious Basterds") who's willing to give our hero a helping hand.
I suspect McQueen saw his opportunity for the brass ring--Oscar glory and better opportunities to make films--and took it.
But that reading is too cynical. There's some fine filmmaking here. McQueen isn't afraid to stop the action and give us a lyrical shot of willow trees or the Mississippi River. (Terrence Malick would approve.) He also holds shots to let them sink in. Most notably, he spends several minutes showing our hero standing on his toes with a noose around his neck, struggling desperately to avoid strangulation. (Most Hollywood directors would have cut from that scene in under 30 seconds.) The film's best scene, which eventually leads to our hero whipping another slave, is shot in a single long take. As with recent release "Gravity," the lack of cutting makes the scene almost unbearable, leaving the viewer with a sense that there's no way out.
"12 Years a Slave" also functions as an acting clinic. Chiwetel Ejiofor delivers a fine performance as the hero. Occasionally the material overwhelms him, but there's no shame in that, given the extreme degree of difficulty for the role. Michael Fassbender is tremendous as a loony slave owner; he shows how slavery destroys the dignity of masters as well as slaves. Benedict Cumberbatch, Paul Dano, and Paul Giamatti all do nice work in small roles.
"12 Years a Slave" is a tad too conventional to be great. It's not "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" or "There Will Be Blood." Nonetheless, it's a very good film. We need more of those--particularly depicting the horrors of slavery.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
American Gigolo
In discussing why he took the role of the titular character in "American Gigolo," Richard Gere said, "There's kind of a gay thing that's flirting through it and I didn't know the gay community at all. I wanted to immerse myself in all of that and I literally had two weeks. So I just dove in."
That's one reason (among others) why gays should be offended by this movie. Two weeks is hardly enough time to learn about a culture. It's barely enough time to become a tourist.
And that's what "American Gigolo" feels like: tourism. Writer-director Paul Schrader seems so shocked by things like gay bars, cuckolding, and gigolos that he thinks it's noteworthy to simply point out that they exist. Likewise, Schrader feels the need to make cynical points that should be obvious, like the transactional nature of many relationships, or the hypocrisy of socialites and politicians.
Plenty of good movies have been made with a cynical veneer--you could describe most Coen brothers movies that way--but cynicism doesn't offer much substance. You need style to make up for it. And any pretensions to style that "Gigolo" might have are demolished by its awful storytelling. The film's pacing is so terrible that it almost seems purposeful. We get several minutes of Gere matching his ties with suit jackets, plus several extended scenes of him driving around. Yet when the film finally reaches its denouement, it rushes through. In about seven minutes, the plot is resolved with a series of short scenes distractingly cut up by fades to black.
Earlier this year, Schrader released "The Canyons," a sleazy (excuse me, "erotic") thriller starring Lindsay Lohan. I was disappointed that he had stooped so low; he made the terrific "Affliction" only 14 years ago. But now I see that he was on familiar ground.
That's one reason (among others) why gays should be offended by this movie. Two weeks is hardly enough time to learn about a culture. It's barely enough time to become a tourist.
And that's what "American Gigolo" feels like: tourism. Writer-director Paul Schrader seems so shocked by things like gay bars, cuckolding, and gigolos that he thinks it's noteworthy to simply point out that they exist. Likewise, Schrader feels the need to make cynical points that should be obvious, like the transactional nature of many relationships, or the hypocrisy of socialites and politicians.
Plenty of good movies have been made with a cynical veneer--you could describe most Coen brothers movies that way--but cynicism doesn't offer much substance. You need style to make up for it. And any pretensions to style that "Gigolo" might have are demolished by its awful storytelling. The film's pacing is so terrible that it almost seems purposeful. We get several minutes of Gere matching his ties with suit jackets, plus several extended scenes of him driving around. Yet when the film finally reaches its denouement, it rushes through. In about seven minutes, the plot is resolved with a series of short scenes distractingly cut up by fades to black.
Earlier this year, Schrader released "The Canyons," a sleazy (excuse me, "erotic") thriller starring Lindsay Lohan. I was disappointed that he had stooped so low; he made the terrific "Affliction" only 14 years ago. But now I see that he was on familiar ground.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
The Missing Middle in Movies, or Why Steven Spielberg and George Lucas Deserve to See the Empire Strike Back
In case you missed it, Steven Spielberg and George Lucas threw a hissy fit recently. The subject of their rant? Their struggles to get movies financed. "You're talking about Steven Spielberg and George Lucas can't get their movie into a theatre!" whined Lucas.
You might argue that this isn't such a bad thing; George Lucas has done very little of artistic value in the last thirty years. (Excepting, of course, the great "Howard the Duck.") The real issue, though, is that it simply isn't true. Independent studios would line up to make a movie with Spielberg or Lucas for $5 or $10 million.
But these directors don't want to work at that scale. That's plain enough in the case of Lucas, who long ago lost interest in making movies without explosions. Spielberg, on the other hand, could work on that budget; he's simply gotten spoiled. "Lincoln" was made for $65 million. That's an outrageous figure, when you consider that "Looper," an ambitious sci-fi movie with several major stars, cost $30 million, and "Zero Dark Thirty," which filmed in several different countries, cost $40 million.
But these boys won't work on the cheap, and once you get into the $20 to $30 million range, you have to deal with the major studios. The arthouse studios are happy to release a movie in 300 theaters and get their money back. But the bigger companies are going to want to release a movie in 3,000 theaters. That adds tens of millions of dollars in marketing costs, placing ever-mounting pressure on a movie to be commercially viable. "Iron Man" can work on that scale, but "Lincoln" is a tougher sell.
***
Now, I'm being a little unfair to Spielberg and Lucas. The major studios don't have to release a movie on that many screens. They could have smaller releases, risk less, and recoup modest profits. Trouble is, they're not interested in that sort of small ball. They want hits, eye-popping ones.
This leaves us with a situation in which the middle has fallen out of the movies. Of the 2013 U.S. releases, I count only three that were released on more than 400 and less than 3,000 screens: "Mud," "The Bling Ring," and "Kevin Hart: Let Me Explain." We get the arthouse fare, released on a small number of screens with little fanfare, and the popcorn flicks, released worldwide with the usual bombastic CGI, and nothing in between.
***
If only someone with knowledge of the industry, an interest in quality films, and deep pockets could help fill the gap. Who might we look to for such leadership? Well, how about George Lucas and Steven Spielberg, who are worth about $7 and $3 billion, respectively? (The ironies of a multibillionaire whining that his movie almost ended up on HBO boggle the mind.)
Unfortunately, these two are businessmen first and artists second. One can't imagine them risking bankruptcy to get a film made, as Coppola and Scorcese, their '70s movie brat brethren, have done. Lucas and Spielberg don't have the right to complain about studios focusing on the bottom line, considering how clearly they're focused on their own.
You might argue that this isn't such a bad thing; George Lucas has done very little of artistic value in the last thirty years. (Excepting, of course, the great "Howard the Duck.") The real issue, though, is that it simply isn't true. Independent studios would line up to make a movie with Spielberg or Lucas for $5 or $10 million.
But these directors don't want to work at that scale. That's plain enough in the case of Lucas, who long ago lost interest in making movies without explosions. Spielberg, on the other hand, could work on that budget; he's simply gotten spoiled. "Lincoln" was made for $65 million. That's an outrageous figure, when you consider that "Looper," an ambitious sci-fi movie with several major stars, cost $30 million, and "Zero Dark Thirty," which filmed in several different countries, cost $40 million.
But these boys won't work on the cheap, and once you get into the $20 to $30 million range, you have to deal with the major studios. The arthouse studios are happy to release a movie in 300 theaters and get their money back. But the bigger companies are going to want to release a movie in 3,000 theaters. That adds tens of millions of dollars in marketing costs, placing ever-mounting pressure on a movie to be commercially viable. "Iron Man" can work on that scale, but "Lincoln" is a tougher sell.
***
Now, I'm being a little unfair to Spielberg and Lucas. The major studios don't have to release a movie on that many screens. They could have smaller releases, risk less, and recoup modest profits. Trouble is, they're not interested in that sort of small ball. They want hits, eye-popping ones.
This leaves us with a situation in which the middle has fallen out of the movies. Of the 2013 U.S. releases, I count only three that were released on more than 400 and less than 3,000 screens: "Mud," "The Bling Ring," and "Kevin Hart: Let Me Explain." We get the arthouse fare, released on a small number of screens with little fanfare, and the popcorn flicks, released worldwide with the usual bombastic CGI, and nothing in between.
***
If only someone with knowledge of the industry, an interest in quality films, and deep pockets could help fill the gap. Who might we look to for such leadership? Well, how about George Lucas and Steven Spielberg, who are worth about $7 and $3 billion, respectively? (The ironies of a multibillionaire whining that his movie almost ended up on HBO boggle the mind.)
Unfortunately, these two are businessmen first and artists second. One can't imagine them risking bankruptcy to get a film made, as Coppola and Scorcese, their '70s movie brat brethren, have done. Lucas and Spielberg don't have the right to complain about studios focusing on the bottom line, considering how clearly they're focused on their own.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Mud
"People don't change." That's a frequent quote from Matthew Weiner, the creative mastermind behind "Mad Men." It's a sentiment I tend to agree with, but it creates a conundrum for character-based dramas. If people don't change, how do you create meaningful action? Some character studies ignore this issue and pay little attention to plot. That's a fine approach, but some movies aim for more. How to do that without giving the audience a dishonest ending, one that tells us a character will now live happily--or perhaps unhappily--ever after, when he'll probably just revert to his old ways?
I won't spoil the ending, but "Mud" faces this trap and then artfully finds its way out. The protagonist, Ellis, is a 14-year-old who seems to be seeing his illusions about love crashing down around him. His parents are on the brink of divorce and he's fallen for a 16-year-old who gives him just enough attention to break his heart. But he's also helping Mud, a drifter played by Matthew McConaughey, to reunite with his girlfriend, played by Reese Witherspoon.
Another movie would have McConaughey and Witherspoon ride off into the sunset, reaffirming Ellis' faith in the power of love. An extremely downbeat ending was also possible. But "Mud" takes a more honest approach. It shows us that the characters have had significant experiences and learned from them. They may or may not apply those lessons. But that's how life tends to be. It's about experiences, not magical personal growth.
***
"Mud" also offers a good opportunity to reflect on the talents of McConaughey. By now every seemingly every film critic has recounted his comeback tale since he started taking movies seriously again. But McConaughey is a rare breed of actor. He's not just a movie star, someone with a distinct persona who's fun to hang out with for two hours. He's also a talented actor. Will Smith and Tom Cruise have plenty of charisma, but they're basically playing themselves in every movie. McConaughey has a definite brand, but he's also capable of slipping into a role. He's more like Jimmy Stewart, Katherine Hepburn, or Paul Newman. They all had familiar personas, but they were talented enough to carry real films, not just popcorn flicks. McConaughey is now on track to join their ranks as a screen legend.
I won't spoil the ending, but "Mud" faces this trap and then artfully finds its way out. The protagonist, Ellis, is a 14-year-old who seems to be seeing his illusions about love crashing down around him. His parents are on the brink of divorce and he's fallen for a 16-year-old who gives him just enough attention to break his heart. But he's also helping Mud, a drifter played by Matthew McConaughey, to reunite with his girlfriend, played by Reese Witherspoon.
Another movie would have McConaughey and Witherspoon ride off into the sunset, reaffirming Ellis' faith in the power of love. An extremely downbeat ending was also possible. But "Mud" takes a more honest approach. It shows us that the characters have had significant experiences and learned from them. They may or may not apply those lessons. But that's how life tends to be. It's about experiences, not magical personal growth.
***
"Mud" also offers a good opportunity to reflect on the talents of McConaughey. By now every seemingly every film critic has recounted his comeback tale since he started taking movies seriously again. But McConaughey is a rare breed of actor. He's not just a movie star, someone with a distinct persona who's fun to hang out with for two hours. He's also a talented actor. Will Smith and Tom Cruise have plenty of charisma, but they're basically playing themselves in every movie. McConaughey has a definite brand, but he's also capable of slipping into a role. He's more like Jimmy Stewart, Katherine Hepburn, or Paul Newman. They all had familiar personas, but they were talented enough to carry real films, not just popcorn flicks. McConaughey is now on track to join their ranks as a screen legend.
This is 40
It's hard to overestimate the influence of Judd Apatow on mainstream American comedy. Of course, he's known for creating the "man-child with heart" persona in his directorial efforts, "The 40-year-old Virgin" and "Knocked Up." But he's also produced breakout films for Will Ferrell, Seth Rogen, Jason Siegel, James Franco, and Kristen Wiig. Throw in his work on television on "Freaks and Geeks" and "Girls," and there's almost certainly no one who currently has a bigger influence on American comedy, on screens both big and small.
All of which has made him just a little too powerful. There's no one to tell him "no" at this point. That can be a good thing: he's free to make movies about the concerns of contemporary adults, which Hollywood has all but forgotten. But there's also no one to reign him in, to save him from his worst impulses. The result is that his good ideas get half-buried in indulgences.
Last time out, he gave us "Funny People," a good story about the emotional neediness of comedians that somehow got hijacked by an awful love-triangle plot. That storyline was so bad that it seemed suspiciously like an excuse to cast his wife and kids, bolstering his family's income while allowing him to hang out with them on set.
This time around, he's returned to the Paul Rudd and Leslie Mann couple from "Knocked Up." This allows him to not only cast his family again, but also get some sequel money. (Somewhat hilariously, the end credits tell us that the movie was "written and directed" by Apatow and also is "based on characters created by" Apatow. I would hope this was the case if he wrote the damn thing, but I assume it was contractually necessary to get those extra royalty checks for writing a sequel. Fittingly, IMDB tells us the film was "written by Judd Apatow and Judd Apatow.")
But that's not the real problem here. Apatow wants to tell a story about the struggles of marriage, and he's got the right angle: he's not afraid to show how ugly being a spouse and a parent can get. But he has no real story. That would be fine if he could keep the running time fleet, but the man who normalized the two-hour comedy seems incapable of going under that mark now. The result is a bunch of flailing subplots that mostly go nowhere. The biggest of those, Rudd's money troubles, seems awfully tone-deaf: the man owns a record label, has a huge house, takes his wife on a lovely vacation, throws a lavish party, and gives his dad obscene amounts of money. But there are others: Mann looks for a thief at the store she owns, the couple spar with a rude child and parent, Rudd tries to eat fewer cupcakes. Apatow tries to tie it all together with a huge final set piece, but he's like a juggler who's taken on too many bowling balls.
Also, it's time to say it: Apatow has contracted a very serious case of Cameron Crowe Disease, the rare but serious condition whereby a director loves everything on his iPod so much that he has to share as many of his songs as possible with the world. Crowe at least throws some variety into his movies, but Apatow seems to have an endless supply of bittersweet acoustic songs to tug at your heartstrings. (If you don't like Graham Parker, tough--Apatow will ram him down your throat in this film.). He also throws in songs by Alice in Chains, Stone Temple Pilots, and Sublime, just in case you haven't owned a radio in 20 years.
I feel a little guilty rambling on about the shortcomings of "This is 40." Apatow has some good insights here: how men find fun in aggression, how one person tends to fight more to improve a relationship, how festering problems for a couple can be buried and then explode. But there's a lot you have to wade through to get there. My wife was asleep by the time the big climactic scene rolled around, and I can't say I blame her.
All of which has made him just a little too powerful. There's no one to tell him "no" at this point. That can be a good thing: he's free to make movies about the concerns of contemporary adults, which Hollywood has all but forgotten. But there's also no one to reign him in, to save him from his worst impulses. The result is that his good ideas get half-buried in indulgences.
Last time out, he gave us "Funny People," a good story about the emotional neediness of comedians that somehow got hijacked by an awful love-triangle plot. That storyline was so bad that it seemed suspiciously like an excuse to cast his wife and kids, bolstering his family's income while allowing him to hang out with them on set.
This time around, he's returned to the Paul Rudd and Leslie Mann couple from "Knocked Up." This allows him to not only cast his family again, but also get some sequel money. (Somewhat hilariously, the end credits tell us that the movie was "written and directed" by Apatow and also is "based on characters created by" Apatow. I would hope this was the case if he wrote the damn thing, but I assume it was contractually necessary to get those extra royalty checks for writing a sequel. Fittingly, IMDB tells us the film was "written by Judd Apatow and Judd Apatow.")
But that's not the real problem here. Apatow wants to tell a story about the struggles of marriage, and he's got the right angle: he's not afraid to show how ugly being a spouse and a parent can get. But he has no real story. That would be fine if he could keep the running time fleet, but the man who normalized the two-hour comedy seems incapable of going under that mark now. The result is a bunch of flailing subplots that mostly go nowhere. The biggest of those, Rudd's money troubles, seems awfully tone-deaf: the man owns a record label, has a huge house, takes his wife on a lovely vacation, throws a lavish party, and gives his dad obscene amounts of money. But there are others: Mann looks for a thief at the store she owns, the couple spar with a rude child and parent, Rudd tries to eat fewer cupcakes. Apatow tries to tie it all together with a huge final set piece, but he's like a juggler who's taken on too many bowling balls.
Also, it's time to say it: Apatow has contracted a very serious case of Cameron Crowe Disease, the rare but serious condition whereby a director loves everything on his iPod so much that he has to share as many of his songs as possible with the world. Crowe at least throws some variety into his movies, but Apatow seems to have an endless supply of bittersweet acoustic songs to tug at your heartstrings. (If you don't like Graham Parker, tough--Apatow will ram him down your throat in this film.). He also throws in songs by Alice in Chains, Stone Temple Pilots, and Sublime, just in case you haven't owned a radio in 20 years.
I feel a little guilty rambling on about the shortcomings of "This is 40." Apatow has some good insights here: how men find fun in aggression, how one person tends to fight more to improve a relationship, how festering problems for a couple can be buried and then explode. But there's a lot you have to wade through to get there. My wife was asleep by the time the big climactic scene rolled around, and I can't say I blame her.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
To the Wonder
At this point, a Terrence Malick film that wasn't about God would be like a Woody Allen film that wasn't about neurotics. Still, what's striking about Malick's latest, "To the Wonder," is that its spiritual elements fall flat. The most compelling part of the film is what it has to say about relationships.
Now, I'm pulling punches a little here: in a Malick film, everything ties back into the spiritual elements. But his depiction of how a relationship falls apart--here, one between Ben Affleck and Olga Kurylenko--is quite well-observed. He shows how close depression can be to love, how someone is often withholding a part of himself in a relationship, how women struggle to tame men's aggression and wandering eye. And of course, because this is Malick, it's conveyed beautifully with images and music more than words.
In contrast, the more explicitly religious material feels recycled. Kurylenko has a lot of voice-overs which could have easily been said by Jessica Chastain in "The Tree of Life": God is all around us and so on. Javier Bardem turns up as a priest who's lost touch with his faith. He doesn't come to any real conclusions, beyond a resolution to carry on. It's the same old stuff for Malick: the conflict between our love for God and our love for ourselves.
What I'm describing--a broken relationship, a doubting priest--sounds more like the stuff of a Bergman film, the material of many great dramas. But Malick seems uninterested in doing anything besides reaffirming his faith. He's said about all he can on the matter: When you depict the creation of the universe, as he did in "Tree of Life," where can you go from there? My fear is that Malick will have to choose if he wants to continue making interesting art or staying true to his God. There can be little doubt where his priorities lie.
Now, I'm pulling punches a little here: in a Malick film, everything ties back into the spiritual elements. But his depiction of how a relationship falls apart--here, one between Ben Affleck and Olga Kurylenko--is quite well-observed. He shows how close depression can be to love, how someone is often withholding a part of himself in a relationship, how women struggle to tame men's aggression and wandering eye. And of course, because this is Malick, it's conveyed beautifully with images and music more than words.
In contrast, the more explicitly religious material feels recycled. Kurylenko has a lot of voice-overs which could have easily been said by Jessica Chastain in "The Tree of Life": God is all around us and so on. Javier Bardem turns up as a priest who's lost touch with his faith. He doesn't come to any real conclusions, beyond a resolution to carry on. It's the same old stuff for Malick: the conflict between our love for God and our love for ourselves.
What I'm describing--a broken relationship, a doubting priest--sounds more like the stuff of a Bergman film, the material of many great dramas. But Malick seems uninterested in doing anything besides reaffirming his faith. He's said about all he can on the matter: When you depict the creation of the universe, as he did in "Tree of Life," where can you go from there? My fear is that Malick will have to choose if he wants to continue making interesting art or staying true to his God. There can be little doubt where his priorities lie.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Argo
"Argo" tells us that it is "based on a true story." The key word there is "based." That leeway gives the movie enough rope to hang itself.
The film tells the tale of a CIA operation to extract six diplomats hiding in Tehran during the Iranian hostage crisis. The CIA--with a lot of help from Canada that isn't acknowledged much in the film--flew out the diplomats under the cover that they were filmmakers doing a location shoot.
An obvious question emerges: Who would believe that a Canadian film crew wanted to shoot a movie in Tehran in the midst of an international crisis? I suspect the answer is that the Iranians simply weren't paying attention. The diplomats were picked up, went to the airport, made it through security, and left, with no issues.
But "Argo" makes it seem as though the Iranians are hot on the heels of the diplomats, which renders the whole thing ridiculous. The film uses some stupefying leaps of logic to manufacture pulse-pounding drama in the airport. (I won't spoil it, but I will say that I don't think a CIA operative would defy an order from the President.)
The film also invents a scene in which the diplomats are invited on a tour through a market for location scouting. We're told that they're calling the CIA's bluff. But if they really wanted to do that, they would have simply detained the diplomats, interrogated them, and uncovered the ridiculous ruse.
There are other problems. The first half of the film has some jarring shifts in tone, jumping between the very different spectacles of Hollywood and Tehran protests. It also tacks on a disposable subplot involving the son of a CIA agent. The first 20 minutes of the film are terrific, but they hit a note that "Zero Dark Thirty" sustains for over two hours. The rest of "Argo" is well-made, but about as fanciful as "The Artist."
The film tells the tale of a CIA operation to extract six diplomats hiding in Tehran during the Iranian hostage crisis. The CIA--with a lot of help from Canada that isn't acknowledged much in the film--flew out the diplomats under the cover that they were filmmakers doing a location shoot.
An obvious question emerges: Who would believe that a Canadian film crew wanted to shoot a movie in Tehran in the midst of an international crisis? I suspect the answer is that the Iranians simply weren't paying attention. The diplomats were picked up, went to the airport, made it through security, and left, with no issues.
But "Argo" makes it seem as though the Iranians are hot on the heels of the diplomats, which renders the whole thing ridiculous. The film uses some stupefying leaps of logic to manufacture pulse-pounding drama in the airport. (I won't spoil it, but I will say that I don't think a CIA operative would defy an order from the President.)
The film also invents a scene in which the diplomats are invited on a tour through a market for location scouting. We're told that they're calling the CIA's bluff. But if they really wanted to do that, they would have simply detained the diplomats, interrogated them, and uncovered the ridiculous ruse.
There are other problems. The first half of the film has some jarring shifts in tone, jumping between the very different spectacles of Hollywood and Tehran protests. It also tacks on a disposable subplot involving the son of a CIA agent. The first 20 minutes of the film are terrific, but they hit a note that "Zero Dark Thirty" sustains for over two hours. The rest of "Argo" is well-made, but about as fanciful as "The Artist."
Monday, February 25, 2013
2013 Oscars
The 2013 Oscars will be remembered as the awards ceremony that spread the wealth. The top six categories--Best Picture, Best Director, and the four acting awards--all went to different films. That generosity is fitting for an Academy that doesn't especially care about quality anyway.
By now, it's well-known that "Argo" is the first Best Picture winner in 23 years to not even be nominated for Best Director. And it's pretty crazy to think about that discrepancy: it would be very difficult for a movie to truly be the best picture of the year without boasting at least one of the five best directorial efforts.
But as the Academy proves time and again, the voters aren't really interested in recognizing the Best Picture of the year. They just want to reward the movie they like the most. To me, the conversation for Best Picture of 2013 basically begins and ends with "The Master" and "Zero Dark Thirty." (Though if you want to make an argument for "Amour," I wouldn't stop you.) You could argue that that's just my opinion. But you could hardly argue that "Argo" represents the best of movies in 2012; I saw a lot of critics' top-10 lists at the end of the year, and I can't think of any that even gave "Argo" an Honorable Mention.
And looking at Oscar history, the case becomes pretty obvious. No one argues that "Ordinary People" is better than "Raging Bull," that "Shakespeare in Love" is better than "Saving Private Ryan." I could rattle off Oscar injustices all day, but the point is that the Best Picture award should really be called the "Best Picture" award. And this delegitimizes all the other awards; I could easily give examples of travesties in other categories as well.
So if you aren't going to seriously attempt to reward quality, you might as well spread the awards around. There isn't a huge difference in quality between "Argo," "Lincoln," "Django," "Silver Linings Playbook" and some of the other nominated films. So why not recognize them all?
In a few years, no one will care who won at these Oscars. They'll go for movies of high quality. Cinephiles will study every detail of "The Master"; the average moviegoer will more likely check out "Zero Dark Thirty." These things tend to work out in the end: does anyone care at all about "Ordinary People" at this point? Heck, "The Artist" is already hazy in my memory. The cream rises to the top; a light and fluffy film like that just dissolves.
By now, it's well-known that "Argo" is the first Best Picture winner in 23 years to not even be nominated for Best Director. And it's pretty crazy to think about that discrepancy: it would be very difficult for a movie to truly be the best picture of the year without boasting at least one of the five best directorial efforts.
But as the Academy proves time and again, the voters aren't really interested in recognizing the Best Picture of the year. They just want to reward the movie they like the most. To me, the conversation for Best Picture of 2013 basically begins and ends with "The Master" and "Zero Dark Thirty." (Though if you want to make an argument for "Amour," I wouldn't stop you.) You could argue that that's just my opinion. But you could hardly argue that "Argo" represents the best of movies in 2012; I saw a lot of critics' top-10 lists at the end of the year, and I can't think of any that even gave "Argo" an Honorable Mention.
And looking at Oscar history, the case becomes pretty obvious. No one argues that "Ordinary People" is better than "Raging Bull," that "Shakespeare in Love" is better than "Saving Private Ryan." I could rattle off Oscar injustices all day, but the point is that the Best Picture award should really be called the "Best Picture" award. And this delegitimizes all the other awards; I could easily give examples of travesties in other categories as well.
So if you aren't going to seriously attempt to reward quality, you might as well spread the awards around. There isn't a huge difference in quality between "Argo," "Lincoln," "Django," "Silver Linings Playbook" and some of the other nominated films. So why not recognize them all?
In a few years, no one will care who won at these Oscars. They'll go for movies of high quality. Cinephiles will study every detail of "The Master"; the average moviegoer will more likely check out "Zero Dark Thirty." These things tend to work out in the end: does anyone care at all about "Ordinary People" at this point? Heck, "The Artist" is already hazy in my memory. The cream rises to the top; a light and fluffy film like that just dissolves.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Django Unchained
Sally Menke died in 2010. She was just 58.
Who was Sally Menke? She was Quentin Tarantino's editor. "Django Unchained" is the first movie he made without her help in the editing bay.
Her absence hangs over the film. "Django" feels lumpy and misshapen. It's basically split into two parts. In the first, Dr. King Schultz frees Django and trains him to assist in his bounty hunting operation. In the second, Django works with Schultz to free his wife, Broomhilda.
The emotional arc of the movie is in the second part. Yet Tarantino spends far too much time on the first. Django kills several people, and then there's the inevitable training montage. Audiences don't need this much time to understand such a simple storyline. There's even a scene lasting several minutes in which Schultz and Django ride through snowy mountains. They come upon a sheriff's house, he invites them in, end scene. The whole thing could have been cut from a movie that's already pushing three hours. (Tarantino apparently thought it would be cool to shoot in the snow. Perhaps, but you've got to be judicious with a movie this unwieldy.)
"Django" was never going to be great. There's not a lot of A-grade Tarantino material here: no iconic setpieces and only one great monologue. But it's frustrating to see what was left on the cutting room floor. In particular, the character of Broomhilda could have been given some badly-needed backstrory: Kerry Washington is basically wasted as a pretty damsel in distress. Similarly, the cut scene between Samuel L. Jackson and Jamie Foxx sounds like an excellent opportunity to demonstrate why Jackson's character has such a "house boy" mentality.
Writer-directors can be a bad judge of their own footage. They may be too emotionally attached to certain storylines or unable to see how their film plays differently on the screen than on the page. Tarantino either needs to be more discerning about his own work or get a better editor for his next project.
Who was Sally Menke? She was Quentin Tarantino's editor. "Django Unchained" is the first movie he made without her help in the editing bay.
Her absence hangs over the film. "Django" feels lumpy and misshapen. It's basically split into two parts. In the first, Dr. King Schultz frees Django and trains him to assist in his bounty hunting operation. In the second, Django works with Schultz to free his wife, Broomhilda.
The emotional arc of the movie is in the second part. Yet Tarantino spends far too much time on the first. Django kills several people, and then there's the inevitable training montage. Audiences don't need this much time to understand such a simple storyline. There's even a scene lasting several minutes in which Schultz and Django ride through snowy mountains. They come upon a sheriff's house, he invites them in, end scene. The whole thing could have been cut from a movie that's already pushing three hours. (Tarantino apparently thought it would be cool to shoot in the snow. Perhaps, but you've got to be judicious with a movie this unwieldy.)
"Django" was never going to be great. There's not a lot of A-grade Tarantino material here: no iconic setpieces and only one great monologue. But it's frustrating to see what was left on the cutting room floor. In particular, the character of Broomhilda could have been given some badly-needed backstrory: Kerry Washington is basically wasted as a pretty damsel in distress. Similarly, the cut scene between Samuel L. Jackson and Jamie Foxx sounds like an excellent opportunity to demonstrate why Jackson's character has such a "house boy" mentality.
Writer-directors can be a bad judge of their own footage. They may be too emotionally attached to certain storylines or unable to see how their film plays differently on the screen than on the page. Tarantino either needs to be more discerning about his own work or get a better editor for his next project.
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