"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.
Monday, November 2, 2015
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.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Why I'm Sick and Tired of Hearing That American Movies Are Dying
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.
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.
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