Analyzing the Boomers for the 5 Millionth Time

Everything seems to be going to hell lately. To pick just a few examples: Our economy figures to sputter along for many decades to come, as the middle class shrinks and the nation becomes hampered by medical expenses. Our politicians and press are growing ever more rancorous and partisan. Music and movies seem to be growing ever more homogenized.

But maybe this is all normal. Maybe what we grew accustomed to in recent decades was an aberration. After all, the economic growth America witnessed from 1950-2000 was basically unprecedented. And for most of our history, newspapers were essentially partisan rags and politicians played pretty dirty, using political machines and voter fraud to climb to power. As for the arts, our nation has never been known as an artistic hotbed. The number of historically great American artists is downright embarrassing when one considers the size of our nation.

Let's take the last problem. It seems that the 1960s and 1970s in particular are revered as a golden age for American entertainment. I always resist such nostalgia--usually those who indulge in it are just unwilling to seek out the many great artists working today. But the fact that they have to be sought out does say something. It seems clear that talented artists, particularly musicians and filmmakers, got a lot more exposure in these decades. They also got a lot more money for their projects, which often allowed them to make much grander works.

But why was this? Was the Baby Boomer generation really this much more gifted than the rest of us? Were they really so much better at appreciating talent than other generations?

There were two opposing forces at work for the Boomer generation. First, they grew up in relative comfort. Having endured the Depression and World War II, their parents were not messing around. They took advantage of the opportunities offered by the GI Bill to create safe, stable homes for their kids. And their diligence paid off: the war left America as the economic growth engine for the world. Born with all these advantages, the Boomers were better off than any other generation of youth in history.

But while the Boomers had all they wanted, they could not do all they wanted. They were expected to follow in the footsteps of their parents. (Consider: in 1920, women received 20 percent of all Ph.Ds. By 1963, that number had dropped to 9 percent.) But because they didn't have to suffer through the Depression, they didn't understand why they had to get the same old boring jobs and follow the same old boring rules. They took material comfort for granted--America was now prosperous enough that they could--and started pursuing happiness with abandon. Why couldn't women and minorities have equal rights? Why couldn't people have sex with whoever they wanted? Why couldn't they take drugs whenever they wanted? (Some of their causes were more just than others.) The fact that the government started forcing young men to fight in a pointless war only added to their questioning of authority.

All of this unrest spilled over into pop culture. Why did a pop song have to be three minutes long? Why did a movie have to have a wholesome and good protagonist? Why couldn't music be more intelligent and indulgent than the Dave Clark Five? Why couldn't movies be just as experimental as any other art form? Listening to Hendrix and watching "Bonnie and Clyde" became another form of protest for the Boomers. And record labels and movie studios had no choice but to respond, since young adults have no kids, no mortgages, and therefore plenty of disposable income.

It was all fun while it lasted. But by the late 1970s, the party was over. The Boomers began to fall in line. They realized that making a buck wasn't so bad. They also clung to the art of their youth, as every generation does. (In fact, the late 1970s are a perfect example of our predicament today. This era was filled with great bands, from the Talking Heads to the Clash to Joy Division, that most Americans don't know anything about.)

Meanwhile, with the economy sleepwalking (thanks to some overzealous government policies and a couple of oil crises), corporations were becoming more cutthroat. Merging and union busting became the trendy management techniques--they still are to this day. Mergers were particularly harmful to artists. Radio station playlists were programmed to within an inch of their life, preventing any breakthroughs by bands without corporate sponsorship. Movie studios were taken over by men who knew nothing about filmmaking, resulting in crap like "Top Gun."

And now here we are. We still have tons of great artists. But bands like Spoon and the Arcade Fire, which should be hailed across the nation as Great American Bands, are unknown to most of the country. Talented directors struggle to drum up money for the expensive filmmaking process. (It took Derek Cianfrance seven years to secure financing for "Blue Valentine." The movie eventually earned back its budget ninefold.) And so most people consume variations on the same themes: Auto-Tuned divas, mindless rom-coms, "CSI: Albuquerque." This shouldn't be surprising. But it's still more than a little sad.

Blue Valentine

The man-child. He's become a comedic cliche. His goals in life are to consume Doritos and play Xbox while high-functioning women ensure that his life doesn't fall apart. Like any comedy archetype, it has a ring of truth to it: guys usually don't want to grow up.

That can be hilarious in the right context. But it also has very serious consequences, as Ryan Gosling demonstrates with his wonderful performance as Dean in "Blue Valentine," a terrifically rendered portrait of a marriage in crisis. Dean is awfully charming, but he can't quite seem to behave like an adult. He drinks too much, he handles his emotions poorly, he twists his wife's words instead of taking her arguments seriously.

From all that, you would think that Dean was the reason his marriage is failing. But it's to the film's great credit that there is no one culprit. In fact, for most of the movie, Dean is the one struggling to keep things together. His wife Cindy (Michelle Williams) married him in large part because she had been impregnated by a jerk she couldn't stand. Dean's affections sparked the relationship and helped keep it going. But one person's love can only do so much.

All of this is largely implied. Dean and Cindy's emotional issues are revealed patiently, naturally. The film also hints at how they've come to be this way. Both are the product of unhappy marriages. Dean's father is a janitor, indicating that he doesn't come from the genes of go-getters. Cindy's father is emotionally abusive, which may be why she started having sex at 13 and seems to fall for the wrong men.

This is storytelling done right. Director Derek Cianfrance is clearly a major talent. But it would all fall apart without the two leads. Gosling and Williams lived together for a month to develop the tension and conflict which comes out on screen. Both helped to develop characters whose actions are frequently deplorable yet completely understandable. Gosling, in particular, is witty and clever and irresponsible all at once. He can be funny, but his immaturity is also more than a little sad.

The King's Speech

"The King's Speech" is a well-made, well-acted historical drama. Its plot is innocuous and inspirational. In other words, it's a prototypical Best Picture winner.

What makes "The King's Speech" work is the chemistry between Colin Firth, who plays Bertie (later King George VI) and Geoffrey Rush, who plays his Australian speech therapist. These are two fine actors at the top of their games. Watching Rush push Firth to overcome his stammer and become a skilled public speaker is genuinely fun.

Unfortunately, they are ill-served by the simplistic storyline. Bertie is like a dog who was abused as a puppy: emotionally vulnerable, but pure and good. His elder brother David, who ascends the throne before he does, is more interested in banging his ex-hooker girlfriend than in confronting Germany. (In real life, Bertie favored appeasement just as much as David did until shortly before the war. Yet the story makes it appear as though Bertie knew all along the threat Hitler posed. But the filmmakers can't be bothered with silly little details when they're trying to be uplifting, now can they?)

Nonetheless, "The King's Speech" is a fine film. I don't begrudge it the Best Picture win. The real travesty was Tom Hooper's victory for Best Director. Hooper created a well-made British historical drama. If he was the best director of 2010, then Lone Scherfig should have won for "An Education" in 2009 and Cary Fukunaga should win in 2011 for "Jane Eyre."

It's not just that Hooper won over a more deserving candidate. It's that all of the nominees were more deserving than him. The Coen brothers' style is now so familiar that we can easily take it for granted, but only they could have made the funny, grim, charming "True Grit." David Fincher saved "The Social Network" from being a boring talkfest with skillful editing, inspired casting, and a terrific score by Trent Reznor. David O. Russell spiced up the fun, conventional "The Fighter" with plenty of personal touches. Darren Aronofsky made the rather silly "Black Swan," but he showed off some bravura filmmaking flourishes that will be emulated for years to come.

All of these movies are more creative and inventive than "The King's Speech," and they all relied far more on their respective directors for their success. As Manhola Dargis once said, "Let's acknowledge that the Oscars are bullshit and we hate them." So why do we still care so much about them?

Point Blank

"Point Blank" is like a Spoon song: it takes the most enjoyable elements of its medium, reduces them to their bear essence, and chops them up to create something fresh. Like many Spoon songs, "Point Blank" is a fun ride that leaves you with a vague, uneasy feeling.

Professional badass Lee Marvin stars as Walker (it's a testament to the simplicity of the film that most characters have only one name). Walker is betrayed by his wife and his friend Mal in a heist. Left for dead, he goes after Mal and his organization to get the money owed him. Walker proceeds with enough ingenuity, poise and toughness to make James Bond fiddle with his gadgets in envy.

With a traditional ending, "Point Blank" would be a terrific little film. But instead, it takes things to another level in the third act, introducing paranoia and confusion. Why is Walker risking so much for this money? (With his skills, he could easily get more elsewhere.) Just who runs the organization he's attacking? (Each time he kills a "boss," a new superior pops up.) Will he ever be able to get his money? (He can never be sure that a delivery isn't a set-up to kill him.)

Released in 1967, "Point Blank" presages the Nixon era, when nothing made sense and no one could be trusted. In short, "Point Blank" is a noir tinged with Kafka--a brilliant evolution of an old genre.

The Other Guys

Let's face it. As recently as a year ago, Will Ferrell's movie career was in trouble. He seemingly ran his man-child persona into the ground with "Semi-Pro" and "Step Brothers," then followed that up with an embarrassing cash-in, "Land of the Lost."

But then he got his mojo back with "The Other Guys," a film that's just different enough from Ferrell's previous efforts to feel fresh and hilarious. (Interestingly, Ferrell doesn't get a writing credit here, although frequent partner Adam McKay does.) Instead of playing another ignorant, spoiled brat, Ferrell plays Allen Gamble, a mild-mannered accountant for the NYPD. Gamble is so bland that he has six Little River Band CDs in his car and so naive that he unwittingly accepts a bribe to see "Jersey Boys." For extra zaniness, he used to be a pimp named Gator.

"The Other Guys" also doesn't pair Ferrell with a fellow man-child. Instead he gets a genuine foil in Mark Wahlberg. Wahlberg plays Terry Hoitz, a live-wire cop who makes up for his stupidity with energy. (Throughout the film, he's convinced that the accounting scandal they're investigating involves Columbian drug lords.) Wahlberg has a narrow range, but he can do this type of role extremely well: lots of yelling and confused looks. (That's a compliment, I swear.)

There's even a semi-relevant plot! In the wake of the financial crisis, "The Other Guys" focuses on accounting fraud, highlighting the fact that white-collar crime is often far more consequential than the robberies and drug busts we typically associate with police work. (The contrast is drawn with some hilariously over-the-top action sequences featuring Samuel L. Jackson and Dwayne Johnson.)

But really, we're here for the laughs, not the story. Like all good comedies, "The Other Guys" understands this. And so the jokes keep coming, whether it's Wahlberg mistaking a dance studio for a strip club, Steve Coogan mocking the overuse of flashbacks in movies, or Michael Keaton dropping TLC references.

But at the center of it all is Ferrell. Comic actors tend to go downhill really fast. (Seen an Eddie Murphy movie lately? I hope not.) Maybe he won't find material this good again, or maybe he'll stick with big paydays from now on. Whatever happens, he and McKay have given us another gem.

Four Lions

American films tend to deal with politics in a few ways. There are the "up with the people" movies, paeans to the underdog like "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington" and Michael Moore-style documentaries that aim to stand up to special interests. (There are few truly even-handed documentaries.) Then there are Hollywood-style entertainments that try to dabble in serious issues. Oliver Stone and Ed Zwick are the major auteurs in this area; their movies tend to shoehorn heavy-handed monologues into conventional "good vs. evil" tales. Finally, there are movies that simply use politics as a vehicle for the plot: think cockamamie political thrillers and comedies with corrupt businessmen for villains.

These films all struggle to deal with politics in an honest way because their first priority is to entertain. (How else will they get funding?) Therefore, they tend to use policy to score political points or make plot points.

"Four Lions," a British film, puts virtually all of these efforts to shame. It's at once an incredibly entertaining movie and an honest examination of an extremely serious issue: Islamic terrorism.

How do you make terrorists entertaining? By turning them into bumbling nitwits. "Four Lions" focuses on five utterly incompetent jihadists. These characters are so ridiculous that the film could be about practically anything and it would still be hilarious. But the humor is taken to another level through the juxtaposition between their deadly aims and their hopeless stupidity. One character insists they must bomb a mosque (the logic is hilariously tortured). Another brings a Prayer Bear with him to Pakistan--pull the string and it gives you a prayer to say! (The al-Qaeda operatives are not amused.) Another invites a girl in to dance with him to Maroon 5 while their explosives are in plain sight.

However, as the film progresses, it slowly and skillfully begins to acknowledge the utmost seriousness of their intentions. It also tackles other issues, like the wide variety of views held by Muslims and the British government's practices of racial profiling and rendition.

The filmmakers can handle this material because they trust the intelligence of their audience. They show rather than tell--unlike, say, Oliver Stone, who probably would have included a scene with some paranoid government official ranting about the danger of Muslims. "Four Lions" is more subtle, and more effective as a result.

Chloe

There are two aspects to making art: the craft and the spark. The craft involves the technical aspects of art: brushwork, story structure, framing a shot. The craft can be learned through education and improved through perseverance. The spark, in contrast, represents those magical pieces of invention in art that captivate us. The spark cannot be taught; one can no more learn creativity than learn how to believe in God.

Different art forms require different proportions of craft and spark. Songwriting requires a great deal of creativity; while songs can be well-played and well-structured, ultimately a song tends to be carried by a tune or inspired lyrics, the kind of thing that seems to emerge from the ether. Narrative writing generally requires a fair amount of both craft and spark. Writing well-constructed sentences and believable characters can be learned, but an inventive plot or a fervent piece of prose comes from one's imagination. Directing a movie can often be almost all craft: a director is frequently akin to a construction foreman. If a foreman is working with a talented architect and contractors, he will be successful as long as he has an eye for what works and knows how everything works together. Likewise, a director working with a skilled cast, editor, cinematographer and screenwriter will probably be successful. Imagination can be immeasurably helpful, but it often isn't necessary.

The craft and the spark are key to understanding artists' evolution as they age. Craft can be maintained, even improved upon, with experience. The spark is a much more fickle element. This is why songwriters often seem to lose their touch. Why couldn't David Bowie write ten more albums as good "Ziggy Stardust"? How did Jimmy Paige pull off possibly the best songwriting run over ten years or so in pop history, then quickly lose his touch? How could U2, the same band that wrote so many inspired songs in the '80s, become a hollow shell of themselves in this century?

On the other end of the spectrum, directors like Scorcese and Spielberg can often be incredibly successful for decades. They're such masters of their craft that they don't need the creativity of their youth, when Scorcese wrote "Mean Streets" and Spielberg orchestrated the incredible ending of "Close Encounters of the Third Kind". Their choice of material may be a bit dodgier now: "Shutter Island" had a rather embarrassing plot, while Spielberg has had increasing difficulties with the third acts of his films. But while both have made bad movies, it's almost impossible to imagine them directing a poorly made film.

Things are a bit hairier for writer-directors who generate their own material. They may maintain their craft as directors but see their spark as writers start to fail them. Over the last fifteen years, Woody Allen's scripts have grown considerably weaker; in particular, his sense of comedy seems to have left him almost entirely. Yet his movies are always well-made; he works with talented people and knows filmmaking like the back of his hand. Or witness the Coen brothers: lately their results are a bit mixed when they work from their own material (witness "Burn After Reading" and "A Serious Man"). But when base their films off the work of others, the results--"No Country for Old Men" and "True Grit"--are spectacular, thanks to their complete command of the technical aspects of filmmaking.

Which brings us to Atom Egoyan. Egoyan wrote and directed "The Sweet Hereafter," arguably one of the best films of the '90s. It had a hypnotic, elliptical quality to it, pulling you in while leaving you unsure about just what was going on. Indeed, the actors were only given their parts of the script, so they were often just as confused the viewer, adding to the movie's cryptic feel. Only in the final frames of the film does the audience learn what really took place.

It's almost shocking that the auteur behind a movie as good as "Hereafter" could produce "Chloe," Egoyan's latest effort. A huge part of the problem is the source material: for the first time, he's directing a feature film he didn't write. Not only is it a lurid, predictable thriller; it explores some Egoyan's previous themes in an embarrassingly juvenile fashion. When two characters chat over Skype, one laments that he cannot see the other in person--see how alienating the Internet is! A high schooler could do a better job exploring the impact of technology on personal relationships.

But all of this could be attributed to the terrible script, which Egoyan didn't write. Perhaps he's lost the spark, run out of ideas. (Or perhaps he just needed money or wanted to make a film and couldn't come up with an idea.) What really makes "Chloe" shocking is the terrible production quality. It doesn't just feel like a late night movie on Showtime; it looks like one too. The cinematography is practically indifferent: paint by numbers master shots, over-the-shoulder shots, and so on. The score is utterly rote, hitting every note you expect at the most predictable moments. The production design is downright drab, with much of the action taking place in tacky-looking restaurants, a far cry from the vivid small-town sets of "Hereafter". And none of this can be explained by money: "Chloe" cost more than twice as much as "Hereafter" to make.

Egoyan doesn't just lose his spark here, he loses his craft. It's mystifying, and depressing given how few quality films are released in the U.S. already. But Egoyan is only 50. Here's hoping he still has something left in the tank.