Pauline Kael's collections of film criticism, which stretch from the late 1960s to the late 1980s, all have a couple things in common. First, they all have outstanding, well-considered reviews of the movies of the day. Second, they have hand-wringing articles about the decline of American cinema.
I think about those pieces a lot as I see the endless laments over the state of American film. You know the story: it's all sequels, remakes, franchises. And looking at the list of upcoming franchise expansions--this doesn't even include all the DC and Marvel franchises--it's easy to get disheartened. No, I'm not very interested in seeing any of these films. Yes, I think Hollywood is foolhardy for thinking it can project tastes over the next decade. But I think it's worth taking a look at the past, as well as the overall state of the present, before we go into mourning
I'm focusing here on American films; great foreign films have been reliably hitting our shores for decades, and nobody seems to be complaining about them.
***
The 1930s and 1940s are traditionally known as the first Golden Age of cinema. Hollywood benefited tremendously from an influx of talented writers, from newspapermen to novelists, who injected wit and energy into the studios in exchange for large piles of cash. But the subject matter of movies of this time were limited, just as our own are. Hollywood tended to make either romantic comedies and dramas or epic Westerns and war films. Moreover, these movies tended toward sentimentality, with "good guys" and "bad guys." There wasn't much room for emotional or moral ambiguity. You can argue that they can't be blamed for reflecting their times. But you can't give bonus points to a film that belonged to a less interesting age.
The 1950s and 1960s had their share of classics. But Hollywood was struggling through a period of transition. Antitrust rulings took the theaters away from the studios, which broke down the old studio system that gave opportunities to those writers. And with the erosion of the Hays code and progressive changes in society, movies began to acknowledge some uncomfortable truths, like the fact that people have sex outside of marriage or that black people aren't inferior. The blurry lines resulted in some awkward--and just plain bad--entertainments like "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" and "Breakfast at Tiffany's."
The 1970s are rightfully known as a Golden Age in their own right, for reasons I needn't go into here. Suffice to say that not every age can be golden, and that there's no use in wishing for a set of circumstances--particularly the uncertainty in Hollywood over what would be a hit--that aren't coming back.
The 1980s were quite dire. I'm consistently surprised at how mediocre the "good" movies of that decade turn out to be. I wish today's grumbling critics would be forced to sit through the treacle that Kael had to deal with on a weekly basis.
The 1990s are known as a time of resurgence, when independent studios that made quality their brand burst onto the scene. But they often oversold their wares, favoring middle-of-the-road feel-good pap that seemed better and more serious than it actually was.
***
That brings us more or less to the present day. In this century, Hollywood has slowly given up on almost everything beyond the big tentpoles. But the independent studios have stepped up their game, bringing us tough and uncompromising films like "The Hurt Locker" and "Foxcatcher."
Two factors offer hope for the future. First, digital photography has made filmmaking far cheaper. There's less money available for quality films, but less is needed. This is most noticeable in the documentary genre. These are films that make almost no money, yet they're flourishing--"Exit Through the Gift Shop" and "The Act of Killing" are just two recent examples--because it's now so cheap to film. Second, because the independents aren't worried about reaching a broad swath of the public, they can make movies that are far more honest about the world. We've gone from "Driving Miss Daisy" to "12 Years a Slave" in less than 25 years. If that isn't progress, I don't know what is.
And let's try to be a little more honest about the past, too. It's hard to know what movies are not getting made, but that's always been true. We're talking about an industry that destroyed the careers of greats like Orson Welles and Sam Peckinpah. Wesley Morris laments that it might have taken Robert Altman 12 years to make a movie today, but Altman basically was in the wilderness for 12 years, from his "Popeye" flop to his comeback with "Short Cuts."
Looking back, 2014 was not the bumper crop year that its predecessor was. There haven't been a ton of standout films over the past 12 months. But there are some clear bright spots, like "The Grand Budapest Hotel," "Under the Skin," and "Gone Girl." Of course I wish for more from American cinema. But I suspect that many have done so before me.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Monday, November 3, 2014
Birdman
"Birdman" is basically two films. One is a quirky little showbiz comedy. The other is a character study aiming for something much more profound. Both films largely fail, but the originality of "Birdman" keeps it captivating from start to finish.
The comedy here is particularly disappointing. Plenty of films have skewered the vanity of actors, and this one isn't nearly clever enough to make the exercise worthwhile. This is the kind of movie which thinks a line is funny if you insert the word "balls." The primary driver of "laughs" is Edward Norton, who plays a brilliant but volatile actor. It feels like a rerun of Dustin Hoffman's role in "Tootsie," only without the gender commentary and most of the entertainment value. Norton has a fling with a much younger woman, for reasons that are hard to discern; there's also a passionate kiss between two ostensibly straight actresses, just to add to the "hijinks."
The character study concerns Riggan Thomson, a former actor in superhero movies who's staging a Broadway adaptation of a Raymond Carver book. Thomson is starting to smell his own bullshit, recognizing his boundless self-absorption and need for approval. That leads to familiar and somewhat tiresome scenes mapping out what a crappy husband and father he's been. But it also leads to something more interesting: Thomson is starting to realize how pointless everything is, not just his failures but his attempts to correct his failures. "Birdman" approaches a dark truth, but the movie takes a coward's way out, aiming for something transcendental that mostly just seems silly.
"Birdman" keeps you interested, though. The movie is shot as one long take. While that can be a little distracting--the camera used sometimes jerks a bit when in motion, and an object like a mirror or pole is often used to create the illusion that two takes are actually one--it allows us to roam freely between the stage, backstage, and the actors' dressing rooms. This highlights the film's most interesting point: the permeability of the actors' onstage characters and offstage lives. Often it's unclear if an actor's words are lines from the play or his own.
The film's most inspired moment highlights this blending. Thomson has gotten locked out of the theater, in his underwear, before a pivotal scene in the play. He strolls down Broadway, reenters the theater, and enters the scene from the cheap seats, all in his underwear. It's hilarious, brilliant stuff. The camera then wanders up to an empty hallway and holds for probably close to a full minute. Finally, we hear cheers, and Thomson reenters the frame walking back to his dressing room. It's a bold choice, the kind that could only come from a movie as crazy as this one.
The comedy here is particularly disappointing. Plenty of films have skewered the vanity of actors, and this one isn't nearly clever enough to make the exercise worthwhile. This is the kind of movie which thinks a line is funny if you insert the word "balls." The primary driver of "laughs" is Edward Norton, who plays a brilliant but volatile actor. It feels like a rerun of Dustin Hoffman's role in "Tootsie," only without the gender commentary and most of the entertainment value. Norton has a fling with a much younger woman, for reasons that are hard to discern; there's also a passionate kiss between two ostensibly straight actresses, just to add to the "hijinks."
The character study concerns Riggan Thomson, a former actor in superhero movies who's staging a Broadway adaptation of a Raymond Carver book. Thomson is starting to smell his own bullshit, recognizing his boundless self-absorption and need for approval. That leads to familiar and somewhat tiresome scenes mapping out what a crappy husband and father he's been. But it also leads to something more interesting: Thomson is starting to realize how pointless everything is, not just his failures but his attempts to correct his failures. "Birdman" approaches a dark truth, but the movie takes a coward's way out, aiming for something transcendental that mostly just seems silly.
"Birdman" keeps you interested, though. The movie is shot as one long take. While that can be a little distracting--the camera used sometimes jerks a bit when in motion, and an object like a mirror or pole is often used to create the illusion that two takes are actually one--it allows us to roam freely between the stage, backstage, and the actors' dressing rooms. This highlights the film's most interesting point: the permeability of the actors' onstage characters and offstage lives. Often it's unclear if an actor's words are lines from the play or his own.
The film's most inspired moment highlights this blending. Thomson has gotten locked out of the theater, in his underwear, before a pivotal scene in the play. He strolls down Broadway, reenters the theater, and enters the scene from the cheap seats, all in his underwear. It's hilarious, brilliant stuff. The camera then wanders up to an empty hallway and holds for probably close to a full minute. Finally, we hear cheers, and Thomson reenters the frame walking back to his dressing room. It's a bold choice, the kind that could only come from a movie as crazy as this one.
Nightcrawler
Sometimes a movie lets you know how far we've come. I recently rewatched "In and Out." What was a charming and light comedy about the virtues of leaving the closet 20 years ago feels damn near pointless now, at least for the portion of the audience willing to watch Tom Selleck and Kevin Kline kiss.
"Nightcrawler" feels similarly dated, yet it just came out. It took me a while to figure out why it feels like a film from 20 or 30 years ago. Eventually I realized that it largely relates to the running time. This movie is easily half an hour too long, not because it packs too much in but because it takes its time getting to the point. We watch so many TV shows and movies now that we're extremely accustomed to cinematic language; we have no problem with shorthand techniques like jump cuts in the middle of a scene to abbreviate time, or cramming exposition into a few quick lines of dialogue. Writer-director Dan Gilroy mostly eschews that, opting for a slow build to a climax that isn't quite as shocking as he thinks it is.
That gets to the second reason "Nightcrawler" feels dated: its heavy-handedness. After a year which saw a new moral sophistication in Hollywood, this film is dully insistent on making, highlighting, and underlining its point. This is a movie about local TV news footage that feels the need to have a character actually say, "If it bleeds, it leads." There's a character at a TV news station whose entire job seems to be to frown worriedly at morally questionable footage. Gilroy is aiming for a satire in the vein of "Network," but he doesn't have the verve of Paddy Chayefsky, and even that film got tiresome.
It's a shame, because the titular character is a fantastic creation, brought to terrifying life by Jake Gyllenhaal. Lou Bloom is basically a sociopath spouting capitalistic bromides. He delivers his messages with such openness and forthrightness that it's like he's shining a 50,000-watt bulb on the Protestant work ethic and showing how silly it can all be. If the rest of the movie had had this sense of humor, we could have had "The Wolf of WKRP."
"Nightcrawler" feels similarly dated, yet it just came out. It took me a while to figure out why it feels like a film from 20 or 30 years ago. Eventually I realized that it largely relates to the running time. This movie is easily half an hour too long, not because it packs too much in but because it takes its time getting to the point. We watch so many TV shows and movies now that we're extremely accustomed to cinematic language; we have no problem with shorthand techniques like jump cuts in the middle of a scene to abbreviate time, or cramming exposition into a few quick lines of dialogue. Writer-director Dan Gilroy mostly eschews that, opting for a slow build to a climax that isn't quite as shocking as he thinks it is.
That gets to the second reason "Nightcrawler" feels dated: its heavy-handedness. After a year which saw a new moral sophistication in Hollywood, this film is dully insistent on making, highlighting, and underlining its point. This is a movie about local TV news footage that feels the need to have a character actually say, "If it bleeds, it leads." There's a character at a TV news station whose entire job seems to be to frown worriedly at morally questionable footage. Gilroy is aiming for a satire in the vein of "Network," but he doesn't have the verve of Paddy Chayefsky, and even that film got tiresome.
It's a shame, because the titular character is a fantastic creation, brought to terrifying life by Jake Gyllenhaal. Lou Bloom is basically a sociopath spouting capitalistic bromides. He delivers his messages with such openness and forthrightness that it's like he's shining a 50,000-watt bulb on the Protestant work ethic and showing how silly it can all be. If the rest of the movie had had this sense of humor, we could have had "The Wolf of WKRP."
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
The Jersey List
NFL fans need an intervention. If it were not already abundantly clear that getting a player's jersey is a dangerous proposition, the Adrian Peterson and Ray Rice cases should make it obvious. I recently saw a Redskins' Donovan McNabb jersey at a consignment sale. Skins fans should probably avoid jerseys of their quarterbacks for a while.
So, if you had to get a jersey of one player for your team, who would it be? Here are our requirements:
1. The player was cool. Bonus points for a cool name.
2. The player was great. Bonus points for being great for your position. A great left tackle is more historically significant than a good quarterback.
3. The player is retired. Sure, that Matt Ryan jersey looks like a good bet now. But just watch him go to the Saints and torch you. (And yes, some of the people on this list played for multiple teams. But those wounds can fade with time. You don't want to own a current player's jersey if he's on another team. Odds are he'll beat your team and you'll be staring at his jersey in your closet in shame.)
4. The player is probably not going to do anything horrific or embarrassing in retirement. This can range from the Marvin Harrison tragedy to the ongoing absurdity that is Terry Bradshaw.
5. The player had to play in the team's current city. You're representing your hometown here. If you're an Indianapolis Colts fan with a Johnny Unitas jersey, you're a poser.
NFC East
Dallas Cowboys: Roger Staubach
Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith, and Michael Irvin have not exactly distinguished themselves in their broadcast careers.
New York Giants: Harry Carson
LT has been forgiven for a lot, but there is way too high a likelihood he'll be involved in a shooting at some point. As for Carson, no less an authority than Bill Belichick said he was the greatest all-around linebacker he ever coached.
Philadelphia Eagles: Randall Cunningham
His career was plagued by injuries, but he was one of the most electrifying players ever. Plus you've got a cool name and throwback uni.
Washington Redskins: Darrell Green
Redskins fans suffer from a lot of embarrassment. You want a jersey that will exemplify excellence on the field and dignity off it. You want Darrell Green. (Who, by the way, supports a name change for the team.)
NFC North
Chicago Bears: Walter Payton
Don't overthink it.
Detroit Lions: Barry Sanders
I'm assuming that if you're a Lions fan, you would have gotten over the heartbreak of Sanders' retirement enough to celebrate the guy who may have been the greatest running back of all time. You have gotten over it? Right?
Green Bay Packers: Paul Hornung
He was the Paul Newman of the NFL.
Minnesota Vikings: Alan Page
All kinds of good stuff here: Page was a terror on the field, he hails back to the Vikings' glory days (they made 4 Super Bowls in the '70s! 4!), and you get the cool throwback novelty of a pass rusher wearing number 88. Plus he now serves on the Minnesota Supreme Court. This one's a slam dunk.
NFC South
Atlanta Falcons: Jessie Tuggle
Deion Sanders and Claude Humphrey are the only Hall of Famers who spent substantial time with Atlanta. How sad is that? Plus Deion only played with them for 4 seasons and is now a TV personality who could charitably be described as...colorful. In a weak field, Tuggle wins out for having a cool name and leading the league in tackles for the '90s.
Carolina Panthers: Sam Mills
He only played for the team for three seasons, but it's hard to resist the story of a 5'9" undrafted linebacker who helped lead a young expansion franchise to the NFC title game.
New Orleans Saints: Steve Gleason
The Jim Mora era offers some options, but why not promote ALS awareness even after it was cool?
Tampa Bay Buccaneers: Hardy Nickerson
Only the creamsicle jersey is acceptable.
NFC West
Arizona Cardinals: Aeneas Williams
Not a lot of options from the Arizona days. Plus he's a minister now. There's no way he'll commit some heinous act. Right?
San Francisco 49ers: Joe Montana
You were thinking maybe Terrell Owens?
Seattle Seahawks: Cortez Kennedy
Steve Largent is the obvious pick, but he's a former politician. Get his jersey and he's liable to run again and land in a sex scandal. Kennedy was one of the greatest defensive tackles of all time.
St. Louis Rams: Marshall Faulk
Bitterly disappointing that Jack Youngblood played in LA, not St. Louis. You'll have to settle for one of the greatest running backs of all time.
AFC East
Buffalo Bills: Jim Kelly
He made it to 4 Super Bowls and beat cancer. Done.
Miami Dolphins: Larry Csonka
Say, did you know the '72 Dolphins are only team to go undefeated? Anyway, Csonka is a cool name.
New England Patriots: Troy Brown
He represents the Pats' glory years and is retired, which means he can't be traded by Bill Belichick for wanting a raise.
New York Jets: Joe Klecko
Mark Gastineau has a good case based on on-the-field performance, but he's committed several felonies and his daughters were on a reality show. Read: stay away. Anyway, Klecko is a good football name. Gastineau sounds more like a chef.
AFC North
Baltimore Ravens: Ed Reed
One of the coolest guys to play the game.
Cincinnati Bengals: Cris Collinsworth
The rare ex-player who has distinguished himself in the broadcast booth.
Cleveland Browns: Otto Graham
Jim Brown is the obvious pick, but he's become a bit of a crotchety old man. Graham won seven titles. Seven.
Pittsburgh Steelers: Joe Greene
It's weird to even type his name without putting "mean" in front of it. That's how cool he was.
AFC South
Houston Texans: Andre Johnson
Yeah, I'm violating the rules here. Who do you want me to say? David Carr?
Indianapolis Colts: Jeff Saturday
You celebrate the Peyton Manning Era while avoiding the uncomfortable fact that you're now rooting to beat Peyton Manning.
Jacksonville Jaguars: Tony Boselli
Some franchises have too many good options to choose from. This is not one of them.
Tennessee Titans: Bruce Matthews
It would be nice to have the option of a Houston Oilers jersey. That would give you a cool throwback look, plus a can't-lose choice between Warren Moon and Earl Campbell. But you want to represent Tennessee, not Houston. So why not have the best of both worlds? Matthews was one of the greatest offensive lineman of all time, plus he played in both towns, so you can go with a Houston uni.
AFC West
Denver Broncos: John Elway
In the Orange Crush jersey, not today's tasteful, Nike-approved snoozers.
Kansas City Chiefs: Derrick Thomas
Honors the memory of one the NFL's greatest pass rushers, who died way too soon.
Oakland Raiders: Ken Stabler
Hearkens back to a time when Al Davis was not a punchline.
San Diego Chargers: Kellen Winslow
The Air Coryell Era offers a few options. Winslow stands out because he wasn't just great--he was one of the greatest at his position ever.
So, if you had to get a jersey of one player for your team, who would it be? Here are our requirements:
1. The player was cool. Bonus points for a cool name.
2. The player was great. Bonus points for being great for your position. A great left tackle is more historically significant than a good quarterback.
3. The player is retired. Sure, that Matt Ryan jersey looks like a good bet now. But just watch him go to the Saints and torch you. (And yes, some of the people on this list played for multiple teams. But those wounds can fade with time. You don't want to own a current player's jersey if he's on another team. Odds are he'll beat your team and you'll be staring at his jersey in your closet in shame.)
4. The player is probably not going to do anything horrific or embarrassing in retirement. This can range from the Marvin Harrison tragedy to the ongoing absurdity that is Terry Bradshaw.
5. The player had to play in the team's current city. You're representing your hometown here. If you're an Indianapolis Colts fan with a Johnny Unitas jersey, you're a poser.
NFC East
Dallas Cowboys: Roger Staubach
Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith, and Michael Irvin have not exactly distinguished themselves in their broadcast careers.
New York Giants: Harry Carson
LT has been forgiven for a lot, but there is way too high a likelihood he'll be involved in a shooting at some point. As for Carson, no less an authority than Bill Belichick said he was the greatest all-around linebacker he ever coached.
Philadelphia Eagles: Randall Cunningham
His career was plagued by injuries, but he was one of the most electrifying players ever. Plus you've got a cool name and throwback uni.
Washington Redskins: Darrell Green
Redskins fans suffer from a lot of embarrassment. You want a jersey that will exemplify excellence on the field and dignity off it. You want Darrell Green. (Who, by the way, supports a name change for the team.)
NFC North
Chicago Bears: Walter Payton
Don't overthink it.
Detroit Lions: Barry Sanders
I'm assuming that if you're a Lions fan, you would have gotten over the heartbreak of Sanders' retirement enough to celebrate the guy who may have been the greatest running back of all time. You have gotten over it? Right?
Green Bay Packers: Paul Hornung
He was the Paul Newman of the NFL.
Minnesota Vikings: Alan Page
All kinds of good stuff here: Page was a terror on the field, he hails back to the Vikings' glory days (they made 4 Super Bowls in the '70s! 4!), and you get the cool throwback novelty of a pass rusher wearing number 88. Plus he now serves on the Minnesota Supreme Court. This one's a slam dunk.
NFC South
Atlanta Falcons: Jessie Tuggle
Deion Sanders and Claude Humphrey are the only Hall of Famers who spent substantial time with Atlanta. How sad is that? Plus Deion only played with them for 4 seasons and is now a TV personality who could charitably be described as...colorful. In a weak field, Tuggle wins out for having a cool name and leading the league in tackles for the '90s.
Carolina Panthers: Sam Mills
He only played for the team for three seasons, but it's hard to resist the story of a 5'9" undrafted linebacker who helped lead a young expansion franchise to the NFC title game.
New Orleans Saints: Steve Gleason
The Jim Mora era offers some options, but why not promote ALS awareness even after it was cool?
Tampa Bay Buccaneers: Hardy Nickerson
Only the creamsicle jersey is acceptable.
NFC West
Arizona Cardinals: Aeneas Williams
Not a lot of options from the Arizona days. Plus he's a minister now. There's no way he'll commit some heinous act. Right?
San Francisco 49ers: Joe Montana
You were thinking maybe Terrell Owens?
Seattle Seahawks: Cortez Kennedy
Steve Largent is the obvious pick, but he's a former politician. Get his jersey and he's liable to run again and land in a sex scandal. Kennedy was one of the greatest defensive tackles of all time.
St. Louis Rams: Marshall Faulk
Bitterly disappointing that Jack Youngblood played in LA, not St. Louis. You'll have to settle for one of the greatest running backs of all time.
AFC East
Buffalo Bills: Jim Kelly
He made it to 4 Super Bowls and beat cancer. Done.
Miami Dolphins: Larry Csonka
Say, did you know the '72 Dolphins are only team to go undefeated? Anyway, Csonka is a cool name.
New England Patriots: Troy Brown
He represents the Pats' glory years and is retired, which means he can't be traded by Bill Belichick for wanting a raise.
New York Jets: Joe Klecko
Mark Gastineau has a good case based on on-the-field performance, but he's committed several felonies and his daughters were on a reality show. Read: stay away. Anyway, Klecko is a good football name. Gastineau sounds more like a chef.
AFC North
Baltimore Ravens: Ed Reed
One of the coolest guys to play the game.
Cincinnati Bengals: Cris Collinsworth
The rare ex-player who has distinguished himself in the broadcast booth.
Cleveland Browns: Otto Graham
Jim Brown is the obvious pick, but he's become a bit of a crotchety old man. Graham won seven titles. Seven.
Pittsburgh Steelers: Joe Greene
It's weird to even type his name without putting "mean" in front of it. That's how cool he was.
AFC South
Houston Texans: Andre Johnson
Yeah, I'm violating the rules here. Who do you want me to say? David Carr?
Indianapolis Colts: Jeff Saturday
You celebrate the Peyton Manning Era while avoiding the uncomfortable fact that you're now rooting to beat Peyton Manning.
Jacksonville Jaguars: Tony Boselli
Some franchises have too many good options to choose from. This is not one of them.
Tennessee Titans: Bruce Matthews
It would be nice to have the option of a Houston Oilers jersey. That would give you a cool throwback look, plus a can't-lose choice between Warren Moon and Earl Campbell. But you want to represent Tennessee, not Houston. So why not have the best of both worlds? Matthews was one of the greatest offensive lineman of all time, plus he played in both towns, so you can go with a Houston uni.
AFC West
Denver Broncos: John Elway
In the Orange Crush jersey, not today's tasteful, Nike-approved snoozers.
Kansas City Chiefs: Derrick Thomas
Honors the memory of one the NFL's greatest pass rushers, who died way too soon.
Oakland Raiders: Ken Stabler
Hearkens back to a time when Al Davis was not a punchline.
San Diego Chargers: Kellen Winslow
The Air Coryell Era offers a few options. Winslow stands out because he wasn't just great--he was one of the greatest at his position ever.
Saturday, June 21, 2014
The Right Stuff
Tom Wolfe is easily shocked. He's the kind of person who learns about the moral bankruptcy of the ruling classes, or the casual sex of certain college students, and thinks it's worthy of a 600-page tome. His breakthrough work, "The Right Stuff," profiled Air Force test pilots and the Mercury Program. It was nonfiction, and therefore more nuanced. But it was still far too surprised that astronauts used their celebrity for sex, or that the space program was politicized.
By his own admission, writer-director Phillip Kaufman took his cues from Wolfe in adapting the book. Kaufman doesn't know how to be subtle. At times he lionizes his astronauts in scenes that would practically be at home in "Top Gun." At other times he ridicules the vultures of the press corps. (And, since this movie is north of three hours, he does both of these things many, many times.)
In keeping with the film's self-satisfied tone, there's a lot of humor, or at least attempts at it. In one sequence, Alan Shepherd struggles to hold his bladder while waiting on the launch pad. The film cuts to suggestive images: a teacup overflowing, a water jug sloshing, and so on. Of course, Shepherd can't see these things. But it's funny, you see, because he's an astronaut, and he needs to pee.
There's one moment in the film where Kaufman finds some ambiguity. Astronaut Gus Grissom has the door blown off his capsule. It's implied that he had debris in the capsule that he was planning to sell. Grissom gets less glory because of his gaffe, and his wife is upset that she isn't feted at the White House. But she knows he's still accomplished something tremendous, and she tries to put a brave face on for the press. It's the one time where Kaufman doesn't think he has all the answers.
By his own admission, writer-director Phillip Kaufman took his cues from Wolfe in adapting the book. Kaufman doesn't know how to be subtle. At times he lionizes his astronauts in scenes that would practically be at home in "Top Gun." At other times he ridicules the vultures of the press corps. (And, since this movie is north of three hours, he does both of these things many, many times.)
In keeping with the film's self-satisfied tone, there's a lot of humor, or at least attempts at it. In one sequence, Alan Shepherd struggles to hold his bladder while waiting on the launch pad. The film cuts to suggestive images: a teacup overflowing, a water jug sloshing, and so on. Of course, Shepherd can't see these things. But it's funny, you see, because he's an astronaut, and he needs to pee.
There's one moment in the film where Kaufman finds some ambiguity. Astronaut Gus Grissom has the door blown off his capsule. It's implied that he had debris in the capsule that he was planning to sell. Grissom gets less glory because of his gaffe, and his wife is upset that she isn't feted at the White House. But she knows he's still accomplished something tremendous, and she tries to put a brave face on for the press. It's the one time where Kaufman doesn't think he has all the answers.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Inside Llewyn Davis
The movie opens with Llewyn Davis singing soulfully into a mike. Melodramatically, he closes his eyes and nods his head. He's feeling it, and the audience in the cafe he's serenading does too. At least until someone asks him outside and beats him up, allegedly for something he said the night before. It feels like the movie should be called "Folk Jesus."
But then you see that no one is asking Llewyn to be a martyr. He turns up his nose at commercial material, like a jingle called "Please Mr. Kennedy" that he serves as a session musician on. He refuses an opportunity to be part of a trio; tellingly, he says he doesn't do harmonies. His ex-girlfriend is none too pleased with him because he may have knocked her up. He has no plans, no organization, no discipline.
Still, the world does him no favors. His label insists there are no royalties from his record. His songwriting partner killed himself. Another ex-girlfriend had his child without telling him. It's hard to draw the line between Davis' bad decisions and bad luck.
All this would make for a nice little (bleak) character study. But "Davis" is more than that. It's also a journey of sorts. There's a cat that pops up several times named Ulysses. Of course, "Ulysses" was based loosely on the "Odyssey." Also based on the "Odyssey" was another Coen brothers film, "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" And this movie has a similar feel to "O Brother," with colorful characters popping up all over as our "hero" drifts along. There's a shit-talking jazz singer played by John Goodman, a cheery Army private who serves as Davis' antithesis, a foulmouthed bar owner, and more. These characters all stay long enough to make an impression without wearing out their welcome.
The other Coen brothers movie "Davis" calls to mind is "A Very Serious Man," since both feature heroes who seem to have nothing but terrible luck. But while the latter film seemed to be a seriocomic lament at the cruelty of the universe, "Davis" feels almost like a plea of thanks. It's the path the Coens could have found themselves on, if one of them had lost their partner, as Davis does, or if they weren't discovered, as Davis clearly won't be. A Bob Dylan song plays over the closing credits. This movie shows how aware the Coens are that for every Dylan, there are many more like Davis.
But then you see that no one is asking Llewyn to be a martyr. He turns up his nose at commercial material, like a jingle called "Please Mr. Kennedy" that he serves as a session musician on. He refuses an opportunity to be part of a trio; tellingly, he says he doesn't do harmonies. His ex-girlfriend is none too pleased with him because he may have knocked her up. He has no plans, no organization, no discipline.
Still, the world does him no favors. His label insists there are no royalties from his record. His songwriting partner killed himself. Another ex-girlfriend had his child without telling him. It's hard to draw the line between Davis' bad decisions and bad luck.
All this would make for a nice little (bleak) character study. But "Davis" is more than that. It's also a journey of sorts. There's a cat that pops up several times named Ulysses. Of course, "Ulysses" was based loosely on the "Odyssey." Also based on the "Odyssey" was another Coen brothers film, "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" And this movie has a similar feel to "O Brother," with colorful characters popping up all over as our "hero" drifts along. There's a shit-talking jazz singer played by John Goodman, a cheery Army private who serves as Davis' antithesis, a foulmouthed bar owner, and more. These characters all stay long enough to make an impression without wearing out their welcome.
The other Coen brothers movie "Davis" calls to mind is "A Very Serious Man," since both feature heroes who seem to have nothing but terrible luck. But while the latter film seemed to be a seriocomic lament at the cruelty of the universe, "Davis" feels almost like a plea of thanks. It's the path the Coens could have found themselves on, if one of them had lost their partner, as Davis does, or if they weren't discovered, as Davis clearly won't be. A Bob Dylan song plays over the closing credits. This movie shows how aware the Coens are that for every Dylan, there are many more like Davis.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
American Movie
We all have attributes where our dreams and our talents don't line up. Woody Allen has frequently said that his movies never turn out as good as he imagines them. These blog posts always sound better in my head; when I go to actually write them, I come out with awkward phrases that I don't know how to correct. Probably most of us experience this with singing: in our heads, we're all Freddie Mercury, but feedback from others likely suggests otherwise.
This gap between aspirations and skills is the most heartbreaking aspect of "American Movie," a documentary about filmmaker Mark Borchardt. Borchardt cut his teeth making short horror films, but his dream is to make "Northwestern," which sounds like the movie version of a Replacements album: an indie film about heavy-drinking young men in the Midwest with dead end lives.
Films cost money, though, and Borchardt is hopeless with finances. He hopes to raise money for "Northwestern" by finishing another short horror film, "Coven." (Which he hilariously insists must be pronounced "coh-ven." Otherwise it would sound too much like "oven.") It's during the making of "Coven" that we see that Borchardt is probably never going to make "Northwestern." If he does, it won't be anything close to what he's hoping for.
Borchardt has the right idea; from his bookshelf we see that he's studied "Do the Right Thing," "2001," and other classics. Parts of his film seem like they're going in the right direction: he loves creating atmosphere with stark black-and-white shots of Midwestern tundra, and he's trying to tuck a story about an alcoholic writer into his loopy horror film. But it somehow takes him three years to make a half-hour horror film which looks like it was banged out in a week.
For me, the saddest moment of "American Movie" is when Borchardt discusses his plans to shoot in a haunted house. The location looks dull, and he's surely shooting there because he could do it for free, but he compares the footage he wants to shots from "The Seventh Seal" and "Manhattan." The man's talents and resources just can't measure up to his imagination. In a way, that's what a lot of pop culture consumption is for the public: watching others do what we can only dream we could.
This gap between aspirations and skills is the most heartbreaking aspect of "American Movie," a documentary about filmmaker Mark Borchardt. Borchardt cut his teeth making short horror films, but his dream is to make "Northwestern," which sounds like the movie version of a Replacements album: an indie film about heavy-drinking young men in the Midwest with dead end lives.
Films cost money, though, and Borchardt is hopeless with finances. He hopes to raise money for "Northwestern" by finishing another short horror film, "Coven." (Which he hilariously insists must be pronounced "coh-ven." Otherwise it would sound too much like "oven.") It's during the making of "Coven" that we see that Borchardt is probably never going to make "Northwestern." If he does, it won't be anything close to what he's hoping for.
Borchardt has the right idea; from his bookshelf we see that he's studied "Do the Right Thing," "2001," and other classics. Parts of his film seem like they're going in the right direction: he loves creating atmosphere with stark black-and-white shots of Midwestern tundra, and he's trying to tuck a story about an alcoholic writer into his loopy horror film. But it somehow takes him three years to make a half-hour horror film which looks like it was banged out in a week.
For me, the saddest moment of "American Movie" is when Borchardt discusses his plans to shoot in a haunted house. The location looks dull, and he's surely shooting there because he could do it for free, but he compares the footage he wants to shots from "The Seventh Seal" and "Manhattan." The man's talents and resources just can't measure up to his imagination. In a way, that's what a lot of pop culture consumption is for the public: watching others do what we can only dream we could.
Wadjda
One of cinema's landmarks, "The Bicycle Thief," is about an impoverished man looking for his bike so that he can provide for his family. "Wadjda" is about a young girl who's also facing poverty and looking for a bike. But Wadjda's is a poverty of rights, not possessions.
Saudi Arabian women were only recently allowed to ride bikes, and the film makes clear that there's still a significant stigma for those who wish to do so. Indeed, "Wadjda" is all about the things women can't or aren't supposed to do. Since women can't drive, Wadjda's mother has to hire a cantankerous man to take her to her job. She'd like to work closer to home at a hospital, but that job would require her to interact with men; her husband would not approve. (Even being in view of men is frowned upon for Wadjda.) Despite their bowing to his wishes, Wadjda and her mother are forced to endure the shame and humiliation of her father taking a second wife. Women aren't even treated as second-class citizens; it's more like they're property.
And that's what becomes clear from watching "Wadjda": so much of an emphasis is placed on women's sexuality in Saudi Arabia that they're reduced to nothing but their sexuality. That mindset leads to terrible harassment and abuse, as we see when a man leers at Wadjda and asks to grope her "apples."
But while "Wadjda" does not shy away from the plight of Saudi women, it does offer hope. Wadjda is cunning and determined, and while those are basically the opposite of the traits Saudi men would like her to have, they enable her to carve out some small freedoms for herself. The very existence of "Wadjda," the first feature film made in Saudi Arabia, let alone the first film by a woman, offers hope. Director Haifaa Al Mansour has said, "It's better to make the things that you have work. If you have a small thing, make it work and capitalize on it." We can all agree that Al Mansour shouldn't be forced to settle for "a small thing." But we should also be inspired by her achievement in spite of her limitations.
Saudi Arabian women were only recently allowed to ride bikes, and the film makes clear that there's still a significant stigma for those who wish to do so. Indeed, "Wadjda" is all about the things women can't or aren't supposed to do. Since women can't drive, Wadjda's mother has to hire a cantankerous man to take her to her job. She'd like to work closer to home at a hospital, but that job would require her to interact with men; her husband would not approve. (Even being in view of men is frowned upon for Wadjda.) Despite their bowing to his wishes, Wadjda and her mother are forced to endure the shame and humiliation of her father taking a second wife. Women aren't even treated as second-class citizens; it's more like they're property.
And that's what becomes clear from watching "Wadjda": so much of an emphasis is placed on women's sexuality in Saudi Arabia that they're reduced to nothing but their sexuality. That mindset leads to terrible harassment and abuse, as we see when a man leers at Wadjda and asks to grope her "apples."
But while "Wadjda" does not shy away from the plight of Saudi women, it does offer hope. Wadjda is cunning and determined, and while those are basically the opposite of the traits Saudi men would like her to have, they enable her to carve out some small freedoms for herself. The very existence of "Wadjda," the first feature film made in Saudi Arabia, let alone the first film by a woman, offers hope. Director Haifaa Al Mansour has said, "It's better to make the things that you have work. If you have a small thing, make it work and capitalize on it." We can all agree that Al Mansour shouldn't be forced to settle for "a small thing." But we should also be inspired by her achievement in spite of her limitations.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
2014 Oscar Race
2013 really was a banner year for movies. I haven't been so proud to be a film buff since my college years. What strikes me about most of the year's standout films is how nuanced they are. For a town that's usually trafficked in Good Guys and Bad Guys, Hollywood made some pretty complex movies this year.
It's worth noting just how dedicated Hollywood has historically been to black-and-white storytelling. For decades, it had to be because of the Hays Code, a silly set of rules put in place under threat of boycotting by Catholics. As great as James Cagney was, he never got a part like, say, Michael Corleone; his mobsters always had to be monsters that bit the dust in the end. Even after the power of the Hays Code waned, though, Hollywood stuck with simplistic stories. That's par for the course for popcorn blockbusters, but it has also been true of the more serious dramas made by the likes of Stanley Kramer, Oliver Stone, Ed Zwick, and Steven Spielberg. Those directors made it perfectly clear what the morals of their stories were.
But consider some of the films of 2013. Many of them were about subjects that easily could have been converted into the message movies of old. (One, "Dallas Buyers Club," clearly was, which is part of why it's such a bore.) But they dug for something more:
It's worth noting just how dedicated Hollywood has historically been to black-and-white storytelling. For decades, it had to be because of the Hays Code, a silly set of rules put in place under threat of boycotting by Catholics. As great as James Cagney was, he never got a part like, say, Michael Corleone; his mobsters always had to be monsters that bit the dust in the end. Even after the power of the Hays Code waned, though, Hollywood stuck with simplistic stories. That's par for the course for popcorn blockbusters, but it has also been true of the more serious dramas made by the likes of Stanley Kramer, Oliver Stone, Ed Zwick, and Steven Spielberg. Those directors made it perfectly clear what the morals of their stories were.
But consider some of the films of 2013. Many of them were about subjects that easily could have been converted into the message movies of old. (One, "Dallas Buyers Club," clearly was, which is part of why it's such a bore.) But they dug for something more:
- "Captain Phillips," which 50 years ago would have been a story of blue-collar Americans fighting a Great Black Menace--probably with ominous music substituting for most of the dialogue of the "bad guys"--does a terrific job of digging into why the pirates committed their crimes. And it manages to do this while never excusing their behavior.
- "12 Years a Slave," which Spielberg would have converted into a simple story about the past wrongs of whites, doesn't just lay bare the cruelty of slavery. It shows how whites were perverted by the practice as well, from Benedict Cumberbatch's well-meaning slaveowner who won't upset the status quo to Paul Dano's monstrous overseer to Michael Fassbender's demented, lovesick plantation owner.
- "Her," which could have been a cautionary tale about the dangers of our reliance on machines, becomes a much trickier exploration of the challenges of having a relationship with a real, live human being.
- "American Hustle," a movie about an entrapment scheme by the FBI to take down politicians, depicts almost all its characters as con artists. The only altruistic person in the film is one of the criminals, Jeremy Renner's Atlantic City mayor, who takes kickbacks but wants to invest them back into his community to create jobs. He cares a lot more about the American people than the FBI's undercover agents, who are only looking for the glory of a bust.
- "Before Midnight" is a powerful look at the challenges of maintaining a marriage. In probably the most famous scene of the year, Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy take off the gloves for a fascinating fight where both sides seem equally to blame. (Though crucially, it never feels as though the writers are purposefully trying to even it out; both of the characters are just that good at fighting.)
- "Blue Jasmine" essentially takes the Blanche DuBois character and fills in the backstory. Though the movie isn't great, Woody Allen does some fine work with the character, making her both more tragic and more nauseating.
Perhaps the exception that proves the rule is "The Wolf of Wall Street." This is a movie that traffics in black and white, but it's a cartoon. It takes for granted the moral of Oliver Stone's "Wall Street"--that our financial markets are a rigged game which only the powerful can win--and turns it into a cruel joke. Like the movies above, it assumes a certain level of intelligence from the audience. It's about time.
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