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.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
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.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Nebraska
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
