There's a fine line between profundity and cliche. Writer-director Paolo Sorrentino walks it like a pro. He understands that the key is to strip things away to their essence. He doesn't pretend to have any great key to the mysteries of life. The honesty is refreshing.
"Youth" is "about" several people vacationing at a spa in the Swiss Alps: a retired composer (Michael Caine), his daughter (Rachel Weisz), an aging director (Harvey Keitel), and an actor (Paul Dano). The daughter goes through a divorce with the director's son. The director struggles to write his new movie. The composer demures on offers for performances and memoirs.
But this all makes the movie seem far more conventional than it is. Typically, Sorrentino presents a spare scene of dialogue, ending on a key line. He then shows images from around the spa. Frequently he blasts in music--his taste is terrific--to create an atmosphere, only to suddenly cut it out. When all else fails, he's not afraid to lean on some gorgeous images of the Alps.
Sorrentino's an experimenter, and not everything works. (A character based on Diego Maradona, with a giant tattoo of Marx on his back, comes to mind.) Like Altman, Sorrentino discovers the movie as he goes. But he's got a destination in mind. For a while, it seems like this movie has no point, until suddenly it does: you either keep looking forward, or your die.
Monday, December 21, 2015
Monday, November 2, 2015
Steve Jobs
"Steve Jobs" is not a great movie. But it is a great accomplishment. In its own way, this film is as ridiculous as any of the "Lord of the Rings" movies. Steve Jobs faces a series of personal and professional crises, all of which conveniently occur in the moments leading up to three of his biggest product launches. It's an idea that only someone as megalomaniacal as Aaron Sorkin--or Steve Jobs--could come up with and pull off.
For a movie that's basically nothing but people talking, "Steve Jobs" has tremendous energy. Sorkin piles scene on top of scene. Sometimes he nests one scene within another. Director Danny Boyle was an inspired to choice for the material. Sometimes he can try too hard, but here his fussiness is essential to keep the movie from feeling too stagey. He injects the film with adrenaline in a host of ways. Some are obvious, as when he puts together zippy montages to introduce each of the three set pieces. Some are minor, as when Jobs pauses before pounding on a door and marching in to confront an associate. And some are subtle. Boyle is constantly cutting across the axis--switching the side from which he's filming a two shot--in this film. It's a technique that's become overused in the last few years, but the confrontational nature of many of the conversations here demands it. In one sequence, Boyle cuts back across the axis for every line of dialogue to show the discordance between two characters.
Michael Fassbender deserves enormous credit for his unshowy performance as Jobs. Fassbender understands that true confidence isn't demonstrative; you don't have to prove you're the smartest person in the room when you already know it. He quietly helps carry this movie.
"Steve Jobs" is a complex juggling act between Sorkin, Boyle, and Fassbender. It's impressive to behold.
For a movie that's basically nothing but people talking, "Steve Jobs" has tremendous energy. Sorkin piles scene on top of scene. Sometimes he nests one scene within another. Director Danny Boyle was an inspired to choice for the material. Sometimes he can try too hard, but here his fussiness is essential to keep the movie from feeling too stagey. He injects the film with adrenaline in a host of ways. Some are obvious, as when he puts together zippy montages to introduce each of the three set pieces. Some are minor, as when Jobs pauses before pounding on a door and marching in to confront an associate. And some are subtle. Boyle is constantly cutting across the axis--switching the side from which he's filming a two shot--in this film. It's a technique that's become overused in the last few years, but the confrontational nature of many of the conversations here demands it. In one sequence, Boyle cuts back across the axis for every line of dialogue to show the discordance between two characters.
Michael Fassbender deserves enormous credit for his unshowy performance as Jobs. Fassbender understands that true confidence isn't demonstrative; you don't have to prove you're the smartest person in the room when you already know it. He quietly helps carry this movie.
"Steve Jobs" is a complex juggling act between Sorkin, Boyle, and Fassbender. It's impressive to behold.
Friday, July 17, 2015
Running Times
In college, my friend Greg used to frequently say that a movie had "pacing issues." It took me a little while to realize that this was just a fancy way of saying, "The movie's too long."
He had a point. For decades, Hollywood films typically meandered to around the 2-hour mark, whether it made any sense for them to or not. In recent years, Hollywood's blockbusters have only grown more bloated, sometimes nearing the 3-hour mark.
You could argue that the longer lengths are merited. Hollywood is stuffing more characters and more subplots--some of which only get paid off in a later film--into its tentpoles. But there is a point at which a movie becomes so long that it grows numbing. Old Hollywood epics offered audiences an intermission. (And were also made in an era when attention spans were longer.) But there's no respite in a movie like "The Dark Knight," which is so long and overbearing that I barely cared by the time Gordon intoned his closing monologue.
Thankfully, most serious adult dramas have migrated over to the indie world, which has never had the luxury of padded-out running times. To cut costs, many indie films now have only four or fewer characters of any real significance. They clock in at an hour and a half or so, usually more than enough time to express what they're trying to say. The "tiny or tentpole" syndrome of American movies has become almost literal: it often feels as though movies can either be 90 or 150 minutes, with no in between.
Could some "feature length" films grow even shorter? (Obviously artists have long made short films, but that's a separate playground.) HBO's recent comedy, "7 Days in Hell," was a fleet 42 minutes. Star Andy Samberg and writer Murray Miller, who produced the film, initially thought it could be a theatrical release. But I suspect that as Miller was writing it, he realized what a challenge it would be to sustain the outrageous tone of the film, which starts to run out of gas halfway through. (He probably wasn't thrilled about the prospect of drumming up the financing, either.)
As movies move away from the theatrical experience, the pressure to extend a film to justify the consumer's $10 purchase could dissipate. Video on demand could offer different pricing points for different running times. Shorter films could mean fewer financing hurdles, smaller obligations for stars, and more suitable plot structures. Directors wouldn't have to spend many years of their lives on one project. And, oh yeah, consumers could see more films for less money.
He had a point. For decades, Hollywood films typically meandered to around the 2-hour mark, whether it made any sense for them to or not. In recent years, Hollywood's blockbusters have only grown more bloated, sometimes nearing the 3-hour mark.
You could argue that the longer lengths are merited. Hollywood is stuffing more characters and more subplots--some of which only get paid off in a later film--into its tentpoles. But there is a point at which a movie becomes so long that it grows numbing. Old Hollywood epics offered audiences an intermission. (And were also made in an era when attention spans were longer.) But there's no respite in a movie like "The Dark Knight," which is so long and overbearing that I barely cared by the time Gordon intoned his closing monologue.
Thankfully, most serious adult dramas have migrated over to the indie world, which has never had the luxury of padded-out running times. To cut costs, many indie films now have only four or fewer characters of any real significance. They clock in at an hour and a half or so, usually more than enough time to express what they're trying to say. The "tiny or tentpole" syndrome of American movies has become almost literal: it often feels as though movies can either be 90 or 150 minutes, with no in between.
Could some "feature length" films grow even shorter? (Obviously artists have long made short films, but that's a separate playground.) HBO's recent comedy, "7 Days in Hell," was a fleet 42 minutes. Star Andy Samberg and writer Murray Miller, who produced the film, initially thought it could be a theatrical release. But I suspect that as Miller was writing it, he realized what a challenge it would be to sustain the outrageous tone of the film, which starts to run out of gas halfway through. (He probably wasn't thrilled about the prospect of drumming up the financing, either.)
As movies move away from the theatrical experience, the pressure to extend a film to justify the consumer's $10 purchase could dissipate. Video on demand could offer different pricing points for different running times. Shorter films could mean fewer financing hurdles, smaller obligations for stars, and more suitable plot structures. Directors wouldn't have to spend many years of their lives on one project. And, oh yeah, consumers could see more films for less money.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Inherent Vice
Maybe we all misjudged Paul Thomas Anderson.
His filmmaking is so rigorous that it's easy to believe that his ideas are equally so. But let's take a quick spin back through his filmography. "Hard Eight," his debut, was basically a tragic character study. "Boogie Nights," his sprawling tour through the changing porn industry, has been understood, if not appreciated, by college bros the world over. The next one, "Magnolia," was admittedly more abstract. But it's packed with monologues in which the characters come right out and say what they're thinking. It's fundamentally a big, emotional movie--hardly the cerebral mindfuck of a "2001." The following two films, "Punch Drunk Love" and "There Will Be Blood," are wonderful, terrifically made films. But they're fairly slight character studies, more interested in mood than in answering the Big Questions.
That brings us to "The Master," a movie that's admittedly a lot more inscrutable. I felt it was about the limits of man's ability to control his animal impulses. Clearly, it's also yet another Anderson movie about a particular moment in time for California--this time, the post-war years of the 1950s, when America lacked the vocabulary to deal with the horrors of what it had just gone through.
There's also a much simpler reading of the film. When Marc Maron asked Anderson to describe each of his films in a few words--a facile question that Anderson had surprisingly little trouble handling--he chose to call "The Master" "a love story." This should clarify things for anyone who missed the homoerotic subtext of Phillip Seymour Hoffman singing Joaquin Phoenix "I Want to Get You on a Slow Boat to China."
Still, in the wake of "The Master," it was reasonable to expect that Anderson would come back with another tough read. This notion was only reinforced by the fact that the film was an adaptation of a Thomas Pyncheon novel and preserved much of the novel's labyrinthine plotting.
But as "Inherent Vice" unfurls, the viewer becomes increasingly aware that all the plot twists and complications don't really matter. This is a Robert Altman movie, a film with a fun, hang out vibe that has casual moments of profundity. It's ultimately about the moment when The Man started co-opting the dreams of all those infamous hippies. The sprawling story only serves to bring in all the elements that conspired against their envisioned utopia: capitalism, racism, sexism. And, of course, since we're dealing with hippies, bad trips.
It's amazing how cartoonish and goofy the movie can be. Phoenix's character is nicknamed "Doc." At one point, he walks past another character and addresses him as "Doctor," receiving a "Doc" in return. The film is filled with silly gags like that. Some of them are too dumb to land, but in the midst of the somewhat grim plot, they can be a breath of fresh air. Phoenix deserves a lot of credit for making the humor work. At first I thought he was playing the material wrong, exposing undercurrent of silliness that threatens to ruin even the most hard-nosed noir. But the whole film has the same sort of irreverent vibe. Phoenix gets a lot of mileage out of "C'mon man" reactions to the grim characters who are trying to push him around.
And then there's the love story. Just as with "The Master," there's a strong homoerotic subtext, never fulfilled, between two of the characters. (And let's not forget the unrequited loves of gay characters in "Boogie Nights" and "Magnolia.") Josh Brolin plays a strong-willed detective who mourns the loss of his slain partner--ever since, he's worked alone. If that's not obvious enough, he spends several scenes fellating Banana Pops. Though Brolin disdains Phoenix's hippie lifestyle, the two keep getting drawn to one another. In their final scene, Brolin points to Phoenix's cigarette and says "Give it to me." After taking a drag, the two say exactly the same thing, a cartoonish version of the way old married couples finish one another's sentences. Brolin then eats the cigarette and much of Phoenix's ash tray and walks off, unable to express his true feelings.
His filmmaking is so rigorous that it's easy to believe that his ideas are equally so. But let's take a quick spin back through his filmography. "Hard Eight," his debut, was basically a tragic character study. "Boogie Nights," his sprawling tour through the changing porn industry, has been understood, if not appreciated, by college bros the world over. The next one, "Magnolia," was admittedly more abstract. But it's packed with monologues in which the characters come right out and say what they're thinking. It's fundamentally a big, emotional movie--hardly the cerebral mindfuck of a "2001." The following two films, "Punch Drunk Love" and "There Will Be Blood," are wonderful, terrifically made films. But they're fairly slight character studies, more interested in mood than in answering the Big Questions.
That brings us to "The Master," a movie that's admittedly a lot more inscrutable. I felt it was about the limits of man's ability to control his animal impulses. Clearly, it's also yet another Anderson movie about a particular moment in time for California--this time, the post-war years of the 1950s, when America lacked the vocabulary to deal with the horrors of what it had just gone through.
There's also a much simpler reading of the film. When Marc Maron asked Anderson to describe each of his films in a few words--a facile question that Anderson had surprisingly little trouble handling--he chose to call "The Master" "a love story." This should clarify things for anyone who missed the homoerotic subtext of Phillip Seymour Hoffman singing Joaquin Phoenix "I Want to Get You on a Slow Boat to China."
Still, in the wake of "The Master," it was reasonable to expect that Anderson would come back with another tough read. This notion was only reinforced by the fact that the film was an adaptation of a Thomas Pyncheon novel and preserved much of the novel's labyrinthine plotting.
But as "Inherent Vice" unfurls, the viewer becomes increasingly aware that all the plot twists and complications don't really matter. This is a Robert Altman movie, a film with a fun, hang out vibe that has casual moments of profundity. It's ultimately about the moment when The Man started co-opting the dreams of all those infamous hippies. The sprawling story only serves to bring in all the elements that conspired against their envisioned utopia: capitalism, racism, sexism. And, of course, since we're dealing with hippies, bad trips.
It's amazing how cartoonish and goofy the movie can be. Phoenix's character is nicknamed "Doc." At one point, he walks past another character and addresses him as "Doctor," receiving a "Doc" in return. The film is filled with silly gags like that. Some of them are too dumb to land, but in the midst of the somewhat grim plot, they can be a breath of fresh air. Phoenix deserves a lot of credit for making the humor work. At first I thought he was playing the material wrong, exposing undercurrent of silliness that threatens to ruin even the most hard-nosed noir. But the whole film has the same sort of irreverent vibe. Phoenix gets a lot of mileage out of "C'mon man" reactions to the grim characters who are trying to push him around.
And then there's the love story. Just as with "The Master," there's a strong homoerotic subtext, never fulfilled, between two of the characters. (And let's not forget the unrequited loves of gay characters in "Boogie Nights" and "Magnolia.") Josh Brolin plays a strong-willed detective who mourns the loss of his slain partner--ever since, he's worked alone. If that's not obvious enough, he spends several scenes fellating Banana Pops. Though Brolin disdains Phoenix's hippie lifestyle, the two keep getting drawn to one another. In their final scene, Brolin points to Phoenix's cigarette and says "Give it to me." After taking a drag, the two say exactly the same thing, a cartoonish version of the way old married couples finish one another's sentences. Brolin then eats the cigarette and much of Phoenix's ash tray and walks off, unable to express his true feelings.
Monday, June 8, 2015
Results
My father-in-law completed an Ironman triathlon a few years ago. It's an astonishing physical achievement, especially for someone in his fifties: a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride, and a marathon. Preparing for the event took months of intense work. Years, really; before he could do an Ironman he had to complete numerous shorter triathlons in preparation.
But what did he do after that Ironman? Did he really "get" anything out of it? The morning after the race, he presumably woke up proud (and sore). But after that, it was on to the next goal, the next achievement. So what was the point?
The problem is that you can say this about anything if you think too much. Even parenting, a task that involves great emotional rewards and hard work over many years, ultimately leaves you wanting. "I thought there would be more," as Patricia Arquette says at the end of "Boyhood." If you go down this line of reasoning long enough, you can't get out of bed in the morning. Everything is a dead end because everything dies.
This is the dilemma faced by two personal trainers in "Results." They're in love, but they don't want to admit it. As trainers, they're constantly wired to want more, to improve; settling down is a hard concept because "settling" isn't in their vocabulary.
They take on an eccentric client for whom settling has become all too easy. He recently inherited a pile of money and doesn't know what to do with himself. He needs a kick in the pants; they need a reality check.
Both parties get what they need, more or less. But anyone who's seen writer-director Andrew Bujalski's previous film, "Computer Chess," knows that he takes odd routes to his destinations. This movie could have easily been another bland indie dramedy, given the premise. Instead it crackles with life. The pacing of scenes and plotlines are off-kilter. Sometimes this kills the energy, but it feels true to life.
At the end of the credits there's a message: "Fear Excuses Surrender." And then a question mark appears on the end. This whole observant, funny film is that question mark.
But what did he do after that Ironman? Did he really "get" anything out of it? The morning after the race, he presumably woke up proud (and sore). But after that, it was on to the next goal, the next achievement. So what was the point?
The problem is that you can say this about anything if you think too much. Even parenting, a task that involves great emotional rewards and hard work over many years, ultimately leaves you wanting. "I thought there would be more," as Patricia Arquette says at the end of "Boyhood." If you go down this line of reasoning long enough, you can't get out of bed in the morning. Everything is a dead end because everything dies.
This is the dilemma faced by two personal trainers in "Results." They're in love, but they don't want to admit it. As trainers, they're constantly wired to want more, to improve; settling down is a hard concept because "settling" isn't in their vocabulary.
They take on an eccentric client for whom settling has become all too easy. He recently inherited a pile of money and doesn't know what to do with himself. He needs a kick in the pants; they need a reality check.
Both parties get what they need, more or less. But anyone who's seen writer-director Andrew Bujalski's previous film, "Computer Chess," knows that he takes odd routes to his destinations. This movie could have easily been another bland indie dramedy, given the premise. Instead it crackles with life. The pacing of scenes and plotlines are off-kilter. Sometimes this kills the energy, but it feels true to life.
At the end of the credits there's a message: "Fear Excuses Surrender." And then a question mark appears on the end. This whole observant, funny film is that question mark.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Three Days of the Condor
It's an oft-stated truism that specificity can make drama feel more universal. Hollywood studios like to sand the edges off characters and turn them into bland Everypeople. Paradoxically, this makes them less realistic and therefore less relatable. More idiosyncratic characters feel more true to life.
Having watched "Three Days of the Condor," though, I'm not sure that detail is as helpful for political allegories. "Condor" frequently gets mentioned in the same breath as "The Parallax View," another '70s thriller released in the wake of Watergate. But "Parallax" is a classic, while "Condor" feels faintly (though enjoyably) ridiculous.
On paper, though, "Parallax" should be the sillier movie. Its plot sounds lifted from the rantings of the mentally ill: a mysterious corporation recruits and trains young men to assassinate troublesome politicians. But the workings of the Parallax Corporation are left so opaque that it's hard to poke holes in the plot. That forces viewers to dwell on the unsettling implications of the story.
"Condor," in contrast, is based in a world much closer to our own. The conspiracy in question operates inside the CIA, and its strategies and objectives are more or less revealed over the course of the film. But this opens "Condor" up for easy ridicule.
"What if there was a secret CIA...inside the CIA?" Robert Redford asks at one point. It's an unintentionally hilarious line. Partly because it's terribly written, but also because the idea of a "rogue operation" within the rigid hierarchy of that organization feels silly. Redford also proves to Faye Dunaway that he works for the CIA by showing her his business card, which is for a fake company. The number on the card is the same as the number for the CIA in the phone book. Also, the card is for a different company than what's shown on the building where he works. Nice cover story, CIA!
I could go on, but you get the idea. "Parallax" has a more ridiculous premise, but it feels like a cousin of "1984." "Condor" seems more like the serious older brother of James Bond.
Having watched "Three Days of the Condor," though, I'm not sure that detail is as helpful for political allegories. "Condor" frequently gets mentioned in the same breath as "The Parallax View," another '70s thriller released in the wake of Watergate. But "Parallax" is a classic, while "Condor" feels faintly (though enjoyably) ridiculous.
On paper, though, "Parallax" should be the sillier movie. Its plot sounds lifted from the rantings of the mentally ill: a mysterious corporation recruits and trains young men to assassinate troublesome politicians. But the workings of the Parallax Corporation are left so opaque that it's hard to poke holes in the plot. That forces viewers to dwell on the unsettling implications of the story.
"Condor," in contrast, is based in a world much closer to our own. The conspiracy in question operates inside the CIA, and its strategies and objectives are more or less revealed over the course of the film. But this opens "Condor" up for easy ridicule.
"What if there was a secret CIA...inside the CIA?" Robert Redford asks at one point. It's an unintentionally hilarious line. Partly because it's terribly written, but also because the idea of a "rogue operation" within the rigid hierarchy of that organization feels silly. Redford also proves to Faye Dunaway that he works for the CIA by showing her his business card, which is for a fake company. The number on the card is the same as the number for the CIA in the phone book. Also, the card is for a different company than what's shown on the building where he works. Nice cover story, CIA!
I could go on, but you get the idea. "Parallax" has a more ridiculous premise, but it feels like a cousin of "1984." "Condor" seems more like the serious older brother of James Bond.
To Rise Again At A Decent Hour
I have a love-hate relationship with contemporary American fiction. I can get wrapped up in a book. But I tend to like books that are set in the here and now and comment on our times. (Science fiction and fantasy can do this, but I generally find that they function more as timeless parables, or, worse, fetishizations of distant lands and magical peoples.) The trouble is that most authors who write in the here and now can see nothing but the here and now. The worlds they create are identical to our own. They end up writing about the same old things: struggling marriages, tumultuous relationships with parents, lasting friendships.
Joshua Ferris does not have this problem. He knows how to take our world, look at it from a slightly different angle, and find a fresh perspective. He's still best known, justifiably, for his debut novel, "Then We Came to the End," a book about an office written in first person plural. His second book, "The Unnamed," concerned a man who suddenly began going into trances, walking for miles with no purpose.
His latest, "To Rise Again At A Decent Hour," follows Paul O'Rourke, a dentist whose identity is "stolen" online. Someone creates a website for Paul's business. Then creates a Facebook page. Then a Twitter account. Then an e-mail address.
There are a lot of interesting things one could do with this conceit. Curiously, though, Ferris seems to lose interest in it. Of course, the ironies of e-mailing to yourself are not lost on him. But he's more concerned with his protagonist than his predicament. O'Rourke seems to be in the midst of an existential crisis. He's a dentist who's struggling to convince himself that it matters whether his patients floss. As the book flows along, it becomes increasingly clear that he's the perfect target for a cult, which appears to be what's behind the appropriation of his identity.
But Ferris zigs when you expect him to zag. There's a minor character in the book, Pete Mercer, who happens to be a billionaire. I figured this would come in handy at some point, that O'Rourke would need assistance from someone with unlimited funds. But Mercer's money is just a demonstration of his own crisis; he can do whatever he wants, except come up with a reason to do it.
Ferris sets the book entirely in O'Rourke's head, and there's not much in the way of incident. Things can drag a little; Ferris is basically driving the book purely with his own intellect. But along the way, he finds a nuanced take on the search for meaning and faith in the modern age.
Joshua Ferris does not have this problem. He knows how to take our world, look at it from a slightly different angle, and find a fresh perspective. He's still best known, justifiably, for his debut novel, "Then We Came to the End," a book about an office written in first person plural. His second book, "The Unnamed," concerned a man who suddenly began going into trances, walking for miles with no purpose.
His latest, "To Rise Again At A Decent Hour," follows Paul O'Rourke, a dentist whose identity is "stolen" online. Someone creates a website for Paul's business. Then creates a Facebook page. Then a Twitter account. Then an e-mail address.
There are a lot of interesting things one could do with this conceit. Curiously, though, Ferris seems to lose interest in it. Of course, the ironies of e-mailing to yourself are not lost on him. But he's more concerned with his protagonist than his predicament. O'Rourke seems to be in the midst of an existential crisis. He's a dentist who's struggling to convince himself that it matters whether his patients floss. As the book flows along, it becomes increasingly clear that he's the perfect target for a cult, which appears to be what's behind the appropriation of his identity.
But Ferris zigs when you expect him to zag. There's a minor character in the book, Pete Mercer, who happens to be a billionaire. I figured this would come in handy at some point, that O'Rourke would need assistance from someone with unlimited funds. But Mercer's money is just a demonstration of his own crisis; he can do whatever he wants, except come up with a reason to do it.
Ferris sets the book entirely in O'Rourke's head, and there's not much in the way of incident. Things can drag a little; Ferris is basically driving the book purely with his own intellect. But along the way, he finds a nuanced take on the search for meaning and faith in the modern age.
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