No Country for Old Men (2007)

Beep, Beep

Imagine you’re invited to a gourmet’s Thanksgiving Dinner. This person can cook. You’ve previously experienced their meals. It’s maybe not to your liking at times but there’s no doubt this person is a foodie. They know their stuff. The spread is laid and you’ve sampled some sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce – so far so good. The cook comes out with the central attraction and starts carving. You can’t wait. Instead of serving up the bird the chef delivers a soliloquy about how Thanksgiving has changed. People don’t cook the way they used to… the holiday is too commercial… they’ve forgotten the meaning… You know the speech. You patiently wait through all the talk in anticipation of the feast. The cook/host abruptly ends the heartfelt blabber and takes the bird back into the kitchen… never to return. This is how I felt watching the Coen brothers’ “No Country for Old Men”.

Cormac McCarthy chronicles the Southwest in the same spare sympathetic yet unsentimental way Springsteen paints New Jersey. The desolate landscape is peopled with beaten souls who have heart. “All the Pretty Horses”, part one of the border trilogy, purposely disposed of apostrophes as if quotes someone seemed pretentious in a book about broke cowboys and broken horses. It was a very exciting prospect: the sparse “down and dirty” writing combining with the smart craftsmanship of Joel and Ethan. I was looking forward to this as I’d heard that the brothers were returning to the roots of their debut film.

I remember the buzz about “Blood Simple”. The boys made a big splash with a very tightly crafted slick film noir thriller. There was enough dazzle to show Hollywood they could play ball balanced with a smartness that kept the black-clad urban sophisticates inline. I remember hearing “They went to Princeton”. Half true – one of them did. But the real issue is that they did their homework. “Barton Fink” was a meditation on what sparks a writer’s ideas (or doesn’t). It was well crafted with all aspects of the production fueling the angst of creation. The choice of the Hollywood screenwriter was balanced with references to real events… It was clever, popular, well received and I couldn’t stand it. I thought it was a bore. BUT I’d never say it wasn’t well done. Hats off to any director who is able to tame the mainstream movie making behemoth to bow to his wishes. These brothers have kept it up for decades and have a body of work that stands up.

Ironically “Blood Simple” was, after all these years, my favorite. For me that film highlighted the brothers’ ability riff on the motion of filmmaking. Little moments. Beads of sweat telling stories. A flash of stark headlights illuminating what might take a pulp writer ten pages to describe. Coen brothers’ have the ability to dance as well. Think of “Raising Arizona” or the “Hudsucker Proxy” – the frenetic movement gliding through scenes… “No Country for Old Men” had an auspicious start born of pure simplicity: who has the goods? It might be hard to build an interesting novel on such a simple idea. Novels have a need for endless subplots and ruminations – even Cormac McCarthy’s. Films can meditate and ferment on even the most threadbare storylines. When this film focused on the simple chase it worked. The brothers’ should have remembered the lesson from another dramatic figure who roamed the Southwest: “Roadrunner”- he was never allowed to leave the road. If he could roam anywhere – how could Wile E. Coyote lay traps? In this case the roadrunner starts drifting and Wile E. Coyote starts talking. The novel’s dramatic anchor was most likely the Tommy Lee Jones’ character. The crux of his struggle was his perceived loss of the utopian world. The film is chalk full of Tommy reminiscing about the good ole days. Maybe the radical historian Howard Zinn should have stepped and explained that the reason those old guys never carried any guns: their father’s had already done the dirty work – there were no more Mexicans and Indians left to kill. Or maybe an anthropologist could have stepped in and discussed the destruction of the Anasazi people and the controversy over suspected cannibalism in the centuries before the European. No Tommy it wasn’t all that pretty way back when, but more to the point – who cares?

You don’t go to see a Coen brothers’ film for enlightenment – its about entertainment. Where was the humor of “The Big Lebowski” or “Fargo”? There were brief moments when Tommy and his dummy deputy almost had something going – but I guess Tommy figured “this is serious business”. It’s too bad. What about Woody? Not that one – Woody Harrelson. He looks promising as a super cool bad boy – but he makes an early-unexpected exit – sort of inline with the rest of the film’s dramatic movement. The directors’ exhibit the uneasiness of treating McCarthy’s book as merely an action film by showing the aftermath of great battles. Even one of the central protagonist’s demise is treated as a after-thought. We view the deed already done as if to say – this movie is about more important things. Well, the book might have been. The film begged for less talk and more suitcase shuffling or pitched pick-up battles. Someone should have told Tommy Lee that he wasn’t the center of the pizza. That honor goes to Javier Bardem. If there is any definitive winner in this project it is former Rugby player/journeyman actor from Spain. This is a mainstream breakthrough role that will get him out of the art-houses and into the multiplexes. Bardem limits the philosophy to a coin toss and a glare from his Picasso eyes. It’s all you need. He’s funny-terrifying and speaks to the Coen brothers weird melding of the off-beat and mainstream. He’s could be in a Scorsese film or Friday 13. If only the Coen brothers could have understood that the book should have been a springboard for a chase movie. It’s not as glamorous as being deep but filmically, their ain’t no water in the desert.

What’s wrong with simplicity? Remember Blood SIMPLE. No one is ever tired of watching Road Runner. Keep it on the road. Who has the money? Who gonna get it? Keep them guessing. Keep them on the road. People come to a Coen brothers film for ride, a smile and maybe a gasp. Leave the brooding at Antonioni’s “Zabriskie Point” or Wim Wender’s “Paris Texas”. It’s like Thanksgiving. They may have served eagles and eels at the original meal – but that’s for historians. People want the turkey – trust me.

The Mist (2007)

The King Knows His Crowd

I went to see Steven King’s “The Mist”. Mr. King is aptly named. Over 43 of his creations have been turned into films. I’ve sat through my fair share. Ironically “The Shinning”, which I thought was the strongest, was so repellent to King that he produced is own version of the tale. I didn’t see it but I have a hard time believing he outdid Kubrick. Another of his works that made an impression: “Apt Pupil”. That film really illustrates why King is popular – it’s not us vs. the bogey men – it’s us. Behind every all American teenager lies a Nazi SS Commandant. King seems to speak from the heart in his work. It’s not that he’s a creep; he just knows, deep down, everyone is.

“The Mist” is the equivalent of a good fast food meal: competently crafted, filling and forgettable. I confess I left halfway through due to stomach troubles but I feel confident in saying “I got the picture”. Once again its not the creepy crawlers coming out of the fog – it’s the reactions of a crowd of normal people facing “the end”. King’s motto should be: a normal person is someone you don’t know very well. The good ole people in a good ole state go to the good ole store in the good ole town and come face to face with… themselves.

King lives in Maine. I visited there once and I can vouch for the fact that “fog” in that state is the real deal. Imagine a cold steam room where you stretch out your arm and can’t see your hand. King, once again, playing on the personal, has brought all the Maine-fog anxiety to life: if you can’t see your own hand – what are you to make of the person standing in front of you? It gets really scary when there’s no fog, no abstraction, no opaqueness – just you and your unobstructed view of all the normal people. Once again King seems to have been born to tell these stories. I heard this about his childhood: When he was a toddler his mother left him to play with a friend who lived near a railroad track. The mother of the friend left them playing in the back yard. A few hours latter King was found wandering the streets of the upright, middle class neighborhood. He stood out. A beautiful young boy walking alone, covered in blood. He doesn’t remember what happened. The mother found the playmate on the tracks, dead. He’d been run over by the train. Who knows if this is merely an apocryphal story. King’s life lesson remains: It’s not the monsters in the mist; it’s the monsters in our midst.

The Darjeeling Limited (2007)

Train Kept A’Rollin’


Wes Anderson specializes in the humorous and off-beat. Sometimes he’s funny, i.e. “Rushmore”, and sometimes things seem abit too off the beaten path: “The Life Acquatic”. “The Darjeeling Limited” is a road less traveled but for Anderson and co. – a very familiar path.

The American dysfunctional family is the bread and butter for most members of the Writer’s Guild and even more young novelists. It is a seemingly endless mine of poignant irony and likable anti-heroes. This latest effort by Anderson and co. centers around three brothers and their search for something. Unlike the brothers Karmazov there is no patricide in their spiritual journey. Daddy in this case is dead. Mommie has fled and the two of the brothers are unknowingly being strong-armed into a grand reconciliation quest. The setting is where all contemporary Western spiritual journeys start – from the Fab Four to Steve Jobs – get your tickets ready we’re on a train in India. Anderson is well aware of the irony and he’s clever enough to play on the absurdity of truth seeking tourists. There is some good slap-stick, a strong ensemble cast and a strong script – but it’s a long ride. Brevity really is the soul of wit. Anderson negatively proves the point.

The film had some nice moments. There is a wonderful sequence involving the brothers interacting with some villagers during a funeral: American hipsters bumbling into the Apu Trilogy – it worked. Their dislocation augmented the majesty of the locals. The images spoke. There was also a nice surrealistic sequence showing all the different players magically appearing in compartments on the train. Unfortunately things failed to stay on track. Collaboration is a two edged sword. It’s great to work with friends but how honest can you be? The first 15 minutes of this work is a short loosely connected to the feature in which one of the brothers has an encounter with his nemesis/girlfriend/wife/lover. It didn’t work. It wasn’t funny. Maybe a seasoned borsch belter like Henny Youngman should have walked into the editing room and given the auteurs some advice: Kid ya gotta hook’em from the opening line. Anderson’s unwillingness to leave more on the editing room floor makes me suspect allegiance to individual performers and writers overrode the safeguards for the film as a whole. To put it in terms of another artistic endeavor that was produced post an Indian spiritual Journey: The White Album is good – but it would have been better WITHOUT Revolution #9. One can imagine Paul shrugging and not wanting to challenge John. There might have been a similar dynamic at work behind Anderson making the following choices: Why does t the film have 3 endings? Why does Bill Murray appear? Why find the mother appear and disappear?

Owen Wilson brings an unintended poignancy to the film. His character is the anchor that assumes the role of the absent parents and tragicomically brings everyone together while tearing them apart. It is revealed in the closing of the film that the spark for the family reunion is his failed suicide. Wilson’s real-life brush with self-destruction makes for uneasy reflections about the painfulness of quiet desperation. The tabloids put the finger for his troubles on an unscrupulous druggie “friend”. Funny thing about “friends” – sometimes they don’t bring out the best in you. Let’s hope Anderson’s next feature, which is being co-written by his buddy Noah Baumbach, hits the mark. My gut tells me he needs to find some new collaborators. Sometimes the best work comes from the acrimony - ask John and Paul about their Indian adventure.

Beowulf (2007)

Out of the Dark Ages


One doesn’t usually turn to old English epic sagas from the dark ages as material for main-stream American feature films. “Beowulf” is an exception. Studio execs went out on limb and it paid off – and not just financially. My decision to see this film was based on default – not desire. I live in a rural town and I’d seen everything else. The first few minutes were rough going. Not only was I sitting through a Hollywood version of an ancient poem – IT WAS ANIMATED. I was wondering if an early exit was in order – if I left now – the local restaurants would still be serving dinner. I withstood the “bust’em up”, “blood and gore” of the opening sequence. It reminded me of a television spot that ran a few years ago for the Marines in which a dragon is slain. But the film settled down… and so did I.

Certainly the director has the younger set in mind in terms of pyrotechnics of the animation. Video games are having an effect on features – in this case it worked. “Beowulf” is in many respects a comic book from the last millennium. The issue of “realness” fades and many of the fine performers’ work pushes through the advanced graphics. But what makes things click is the writer’s clever adaptation of the story. The cornerstone of the work, the monster and his mother, are given an extra dimension in terms of their relationships with the protagonists. This in turn makes the story more than simply a testosterone-fest of bad-guy-killing. These heroes are flawed AND they are linked to the forces of doom.

This alteration to the storyline opens up this work to both the fans of “Grand Theft Auto” and “The Seventh Seal”. Let the kids marvel as bodies fly and the camera swoons. There is room for adults, who have weathered generational changes, to muse about the real conflicts afflicting Beowulf and the other nobles. Kudos should also be given to the filmmakers for presenting these characters’ ambivalence about the rise of monotheism and the Christian sensibility. This is not a stab at any faith but a recognition that not everyone at that time fell in line with the Church’s ascent. I understand this is very much a part of the original text. Many make noise about the current American films being immoral – well praise should be given when a film examines the nature of morality in an intelligent way that is approachable to many different audiences. Unfortunately many of these critics will focus on the debauchery and violence – those are only a few of the notes in this surprisingly edifying rendering of a literary classic. This film is not for the faint of heart; but those who throw stones should remember their bible. The last book certainly would merit more than a PG-13.

Lions for Lams (2007)

Lions for Lambs by Bores


Here’s a joke for you. “How do you get a turkey in a projector?”. Answer: ”Ask Robert Redford to direct it”. Attention: all those paying victims of the “Milagro Beanfield War” – the general is on the march again! Protect your hard earned admission fee and wait until it turns up on very very very late night television – you’ll have the opportunity to turn the channel. If you want to have the experience without actually viewing “Lions for Lambs” here are some instructions: round up a group of well meaning precocious 5th graders and have them write down their thoughts on Iraq, Afghanistan, Peanut Butter and life in general.

There are some unsettling mysteries surrounding this film; particularly Merly Streep’s active participation. It is difficult to know if she was a victim of some sort of extraordinary rendition – she’s not talking. I guess she figures let sleeping lions and lambs lie. Maybe there was an exchange of an extraordinary amount of money which might explain the production values or lack thereof. Tom Cruise strikes me as the kind of person who might have actually believed this was an interesting, important script. But doesn’t he have an army of handlers? There isn’t one member of the posse who could have spoken truth to power and muttered: “Tom, ah, this project is, ah, pretty fucking stupid”

The movie has three plotlines: Tom Cruise, a venal ambitious young Republican booster has a plan about a new surge strategy to win the war in Afghanistan and ultimately secure his bid for the Presidency. Tom must convince a skeptical seasoned Washington lefty reporter, Merly, that he is sincere and knows his stuff. Neither is true and she knows it but she’s getting long in the tooth and TV News ain’t what it used to be. Robert Redford himself appears as a tired old humanities prof who’s guilt ridden about inadvertently sending two minority students off to “fight the good fight”. Redford throws all his effort into convincing a brilliant rich white kid that its bad to be cynical. Then there’s the tragic story of the minority kids themselves. Have we gotten your adrenaline flowing? Just imagine all these amazing tales mixed together. Meryl’s “frustration” seems genuine as does Redford’s “old and tired”. Tom’s performance really suffers from the lack of windows to break and furniture to smash – but maybe they’ll be an Mission Impossible IV. The saint-like African American and Hispanic do there best but it’s hard to be that good and not be boring. In the end the mirror image of Step’n’Fetchit can be equally stifling creatively. It’s unfortunate that the writers created caricatures and not characters.

Redford has a few lines in here throwing barbs at the rich white kid for not getting involved. I think the student should have responded: “How could you put us in this movie! We’ll never get hired again!!! You and Tom and Meryl can afford to waste your careers on this dreck – YOU'RE ESTABLISHED! What about us! How come you didn’t hire good writers!? Don’t you run a fucking institute for young talent?! Why did you try to direct again!? You think Rumsfeld is arrogant – what about you!? Didn’t you learn anything from Milago!? How many more young actors are you going to sacrifice!?”

Dartmouth College 2007 Production of HAIR

Back to the Future


Imagine if Rip Van Winkle woke up and discovered his teenage children re-enacting his parents’ youth. My guess is that he’d want to go back to sleep. I had a similar experience returning to my alma mater and watching the drama department’s production of the seminal musical “Hair”. The twilight zone feeling started when the student usher told me her father was in a class a couple of years before mine. I waited in vain for re-assurance that I appeared much, much younger than Dad. Truth be told I remember THE ORIGINAL production of “Hair”. In fact my parents saw it staged prior to it being launched officially and my mother begged my father to financially back the production. My father wasn’t a prude but being a prudent businessman – he declined. The rest is…. I remember a very serious conversation with my best friend about the nude finale. I’d say the lack of clothes was more interesting than all the politics and drugs for the pre-tween crowd – we were 9 years old. I mentioned to the usher that Diane Keaton was in the original production and jokingly said she was a crowd pleaser in the final seen. She’d never heard of Diane Keaton. The joke, however, was really on me as this production lacked bare bodies – except for one very tightly choreographed, dimly lit scene. Staging this play without nudity is akin to mounting Macbeth with no violence. But I understand the director’s choice. This is 2007 not 1969 – this is Dartmouth College not the Public Theater – this is Iraq with a volunteer army not Vietnam with a draft. The overall effect was a disconcerting view of the past and the present.

Technically the production was strong. By and large the students dance and sang their hearts out – certainly solos should have been re-assigned, staging was off in parts… but lets not quibble – for a student production it was an “A”. But this is “Hair” and the whole point of the play is getting a good grade doesn’t matter. It’s a strange undertaking to resurrect the zeitgeist of the recent past. The students will have a much easier time with next term’s production of “Julius Caesar” – their parents didn’t actually live through the fall of Rome so they’ll be plenty of confidence with which to use their newly minted artistic licenses. The main problem with their efforts was a sense of strain. Every performer on that stage is a young person saddled with student loans, worried about AIDS and terrorized by environmental catastrophe – not to mention the two overseas wars… the struggles in “Hair” failed to measure to today’s economic and social challenges. This is not to say that the 60s youth had a walk in the park but the non-singing portion of this show has the sort boy/girl drama that would barely register with your average 7th grader. “Hair” is a reaction against the 1950s and ironically it has its roots in a fairly conventional American original – the Musical Comedy. Today’s young people don’t line up for musicals unless they happen to be in New York with their parents. Is it any wonder that these performers failed to muster an authentic sense of revolution and rage? I can only imagine the back-stage talk: so did they have health insurance back then? They’d probably have an easier time relating to a more recent youth oriented smash musical. I’m sure you’d hear some genuine cries during a rendition of: “How we gonna pay! How we gonna pay! How we gonna pay! THIS MONTH’S RENT!!!!!”

There is much talk these days about the lack of activism amongst young people and general criticism of the 1960s. “Hair” holds an interesting lens in which to view both those questions. This play originated in a landscape probably closer to present day Iran. Homosexuality was an illegal disease. Many rape laws of that period were based on the Common Law notion of woman as property. The ability of people of color to gain unrestricted access to public transportation and accommodation was a new concept. New York City and other municipalities revoked “cabaret cards” (a license to work) to many performers on the grounds of obscenity or prior narcotics convictions. Given this reality one can better feel the resonance of songs about drug-use, love and equality sung by a scantily clad multi-racial cast. It might seem quaint to a modern eye but this was cutting edge. Tom Brokaw has recently released a book about the generation after his “Greatest Generation”. In “Boomers” one of the leaders of the Columbia student uprisings talks about how “the other side won”. Certainly the rise of Ronald Reagan and new religious right has given support for this notion. It is important to point out, however, that Ronald Reagan was the first divorced President. The fact that this was a complete non-issue can be directly attributed the liberalization of mainstream notions of acceptability. It is also interesting to note that many mega-churches take their cues from 60s era music happenings rather than standard church fair of the early 20th century. The whole notion of casual dress for dining or travel is something the current generation takes for granted. It would not have been unheard of for a gentleman flying in a commercial airplane prior to 1960s to be refused a boarding pass for failing to wear a jacket and tie – there is no question such a person would be refused entry to any urban restaurant or nightclub. The effects of the “Hair” era are more than cosmetic – ask the last three Secretaries of State. Certainly the ideals of racial harmony, sexual equality, progressive attitudes about the underclass… have all fallen woefully short. But make no mistake we live in a world born of the 60s not the 50s.

The sour notes sounded by the former radical leader and others stems from a sense that our society, despite our economic and technical prowess, has regressed. There is a fondness for a simpler time. Even monsters such as Manson seem re-assuringly crazy compared to Harris & Kleilbold. The carping about “the kids” is nothing new. To people who remember a world without answering machines young people seem callow and distracted. There is no doubt all the “advances” have made for a more the over-extended, hypercompetitive America, but not dumber. Verbal and communications skills have been negatively affected but today’s 9 year old has mastered more gadgets than their predecessors – they can do more than re-program a VCR. We can bemoan their deficits but remember there are plenty who reminisce about the days when people would dress up to eat out. There is a reason our government is nervous about calling a draft. Today’s youth might not march on Washington – they’d shut down the economy via a modem from their living room. Janis, Jimi and Jim OD’ed but Kurt blew his head off. There’s a difference. Don’t mess with these kids – they won’t be dancing and singing “Let the Sunshine In”. It’s the dawning of a new age and its not Aquarius.

American Gangster (2007)

All in the Family Values

When you think of 1970s black New York drug dealers the word that comes to mind is “Superfly”. Curtis Mayfield’s composition trumps Gordon Parks’ direction in conveying the angst of “tryin’ to get over”. To quote the song: “The aim of his role was to move a lot of blow; ask him his dream – what does it mean? He wouldn’t know – ‘Can’t be like the rest’ is the most he’ll confess but the time’s running out and there’s no happiness”. Ridley Scott re-visits the mean streets of New York in the age of marshmallow shoes, wa-wa guitars, view-blocking afros and real-life home grown (not Colombian) drug dealers who would be known even to the most sheltered of Upper East side white kids. Scott’s “American Gangster” doesn’t give us “Superfly” and that is the film’s strength as well as its weakness.

All New Yorkers in the 1970s feared Nicky Barnes – the flamboyant Harlem heroin trafficker whose "Mr. Untouchable" image loomed in the tabloids in the same way "the teflon don" John Gotti would during the 1980s. Only the insiders knew of Frank Lucas. Scott’s film reveals why – Mr. Lucas was in business while Nicky was in show business. Lucas combined a Puritan work-ethic, his version of family values with street smarts and Machiavellian ruthlessness. The two kingpins cross paths in “American Gangster”. There is a workplace collegiality but Mr. Lucas makes clear that his organization is more interested in heartland values rather than “bling”. Scott paints a portrait of Lucas as a solid apprentice who carefully studied the master. Bumpy Johnson was the strong arm for the traditional mafia in Harlem and ruled the roost. Lucas learned how things were done and, more importantly, how it could be done better. He craved his mentor’s success but questioned why Bumpy needed the mob.

Lucas’s foil, Detective Richie Roberts, equally ambitious and matches Lucas’ ability to morally compartmentalize his life. Whereas Lucas makes family the bedrock of his career, Roberts loses his to neglect and philandering. Ironically both men share an inhuman devotion to their amoral “code of honor” which eventually renders the same result. Roberts’ wife, son and best friend are sacrificed on the alter of “being the best crime-fighter in the world” while Lucas does the same by “being the best drug dealer in Harlem”. Scott deserves praise for reviving the gritty New York of Abe Beame, "Shaft" and "The French Connection". It all looked right. The script, although suffering from over-exposition of Roberts material woes, was strong. The secondary casting was excellent… as was lighting, set direction, costumes… So why did the film feel, to use the words of Lucas’ mentor: “that there’s no heart in it”?

The primary problem lies in the choice of the two stars – Denzel Washington and Russell Crowe. These are excellent actors who have been miscast. Crowe failed to master the accent – a startling error for someone who is usually technically flawless. More to the point – he was not convincing as the Jewish gadfly. Compare Crowe to Sean Penn in “Carlito’s Way” or Meryl Streep in “Prime”: these goyem are believable as Jewish New Yorkers. Crowe, despite heartfelt moments, failed to deliver the goods. The performance had a forced professionalism – an unspoken: “I’m doing this to establish the fact that…” Contrast this with some of the secondary players – Carla Gugino WAS the forlorn neglected wife; Ruby Dee WAS the kingpin’s mother. Crowe is merely good – it isn’t enough.

Washington’s Lucas had a subtle but equally damning defect: the hardness was flawless. No doubt there was a great deal at stake in choosing to portray a real gangster who is currently being glorified in Rap songs. One can hear activists from all sides questioning the decision of the leading African American movie star to portray an unmistakable, real-life, bad-guy who preyed on members of the community. Washington’s chooses a stony un-repentance that flattens the character. It might shield him from criticism of making Lucas out to be a weak black man – but for dramatic effect vulnerability is preferable – think of his rendition of the crooked cop in “Training Day” – that sociopath had resonance. Lucas has some of the dreariness of a monomaniacal entrepreneur. You might want to buy stock in Apple or Microsoft but how many people really enjoyed: “Pirates of Silicon Valley”? – the dramatization of Gates’ and Jobs’ rise to the top. In other words the mechanics of Washington’s steely creation of an organization that produced the best dope at the cheapest price fails to be as dramatically compelling as the story of an insecure country bumpkin who made it to the top of New York City’s drug world. In Washington’s portrayal there is anger but no real fear. There is rage but no compassion. The denouement is the scene in which Ruby Dee pleads with her son to realize “you don’t kill cops”. He is respectful but firm. She then slaps him. Here is the moment in which the mask should have fallen. This should have been the mortal blow. Here was Washington’s opportunity to give Lucas the hint of a soul. Unfortunately he let it pass and the stone-cold Lucas lived on until the closing credits.

It is interesting to note that New York Magazine ran an interview with the real life Lucas prior to the release of the film. He prattled on about “best product at the best price”. In this piece he was paired with his old nemesis/friend Nicky Barnes. Predictable, given our criminal justice system, both these murderous sociopaths are free after giving up all their compatriots. Meeting real life gangsters has the same effect of witnessing a bar-fight or watching pornography - the initial thrill quickly morphs into repulsion built on boredom. Lucas and Barnes are your typical depraved “businessmen” – with a bit of education either would have been a captain of industry making excuses about hiring child-workers, poisoning local villages, painting toys with lead, building orphanages on nuclear waste sites, making cars that explode, hiring thugs to kill union workers, turning over clients to oppressive goverments….. In this case they’re stuck with justifying a more obvious, less acceptable form of gangsterism – the street drug trade. At the heart of every successful gangster is a bore who sees violence as another strategy in the corporate tool-box. Master Lucas reveals in the interview:

“In our business, you get paid by fear. When the fear factor comes in, that’s when you start to make money. Violence is part of it. You ain’t gonna sweet talk no motherfucker”

There you have it – and if he gone to Harvard business school he might be using the phrases “skill-set”, “thinking outside the box”, “pushing the envelope”… Ironically “American Gangster” is peppered with talks about customer satisfaction, knowing your clients, building a brand, loyalty to the organization…. Kudos for Ridley Scott for taking the time to understand the heart of the beast – but dramatically speaking audiences prefer the type of thugs in “Goodfellas”, “Scarface” and “The Godfather”…. In fact it should be noted that Pablo Escobar was known for endlessly watching Marlo Brando in action. One of his prized possessions was a box set of Coppola’s masterpiece (Godfather I, II & III) – discovered in his private prison after his ignoble end. (He also had a photograph of himself dressed as Pancho Villa) Pablo died alone running on a roof-top recalling his early police escapes when he was a grave stone robber – this time he didn’t make it. He was a desperate egotist who fell into crime – a successful business genius but at heart your run-of-the-mill car thief, burglar, bank robber….. Crime is about people who lack empathy and possess an unattractive desperation – this is a major dramatic challenge. Even the most successful drug dealer of all time knew he could never compete with Hollywood’s reality. The dream-factory knows how to create bad guys who CHOOSE to be gangsters. Hollywood crime villains make their own rules without hints of being governed by the petty forces of careerism and practicality.

Which brings me back to “Superfly”. Show business is about myth – about a shaped reality that delivers escape. “Superfly” rules the 70s New York drug world because he was what Nicky Barnes wanted to be: the noble, flashy anti-hero – aware of his desperation and vulnerability. Frank Lucas really wanted to be head of a Fortune 500 company – the film even has him quip about the lack of opportunity on Wall Street – its tongue and cheek BUT.... This might be “real” but that’s not the kind of gangster audiences pay to see. Flashy romantic desperados are the real ticket – remember the song: “‘Can’t be like the rest’ is the most he’ll confess but the time’s running out and there’s no happiness”. Its impossible to imagine Denzel “trying to get over” – his thought it all through and made calculated choices based on the highest return. It might make for good business – but not good show business. Everyone feels the heavy hand of corporate rule - we wish to believe our gangsters are immune.

King Kong (2007)

The Kong Show

I am old enough to remember the last attempt. Mr. DeLaurentis, the larger-than-life producer, took advertisements out in the NY tabloids asking people to come down to the World Trade Center for a reaction shot of Kong’s death. I recall there was a hullabaloo about him breaking up the concrete at the base of one of the Trade Towers where they placed Kong’s body. Jessica Lang, the new Hollywood ingénue, played Faye Ray’s part. Aside of Ms. Lange and trying to see my friends in the closing sequence (none appeared) the 1970s “updated” Kong was forgettable. Mr. Jackson seems to have shared my reaction. This “Kong” is a homage to the original 1933 production.

It is interesting that Jackson marks this work as a primary influence. Being close to Jackson’s age I remember my first viewing of the original Kong left me cold. Sure it was exciting to watch the iconic ape in action but the scratchy dialogue and stop-action stuttering made the film difficult for 70s New York kid to fully appreciate. We were children of Star Wars and the black & white monsters from the Depression era seemed hokey. Yet Jackson saw something profound beneath the musty scenery. One can imagine this young New Zealander hunched before a pre-color TV or riveted to a fold out chair in a school gym watching a 16mm print of the giant ape battle the forces of modernity in pre-VHS Kiwiland.

What sparked Mr. Jackson’s worship of this weatherworn classic? Why did the man who could choose anything decide to remake this particular beast? Given Mr. Jackson’s beginnings as a low-budget horror film creator the idea of tackling the granddaddy of cinematic monsters is natural. But a look at Jackson’s roots reveals that “the plays the thing” rather than the beast itself. The story of King Kong revolves around a self-created meglomananical filmmaker. In fact Jack Black, the film’s rakish villain, might consider Jackson a benevolent fellow-traveller. Jackson, a small town film-buff working in a camera shop, marshaled armies of friends and neighbors over weekends to create his first feature (titled Bad Taste) which revolved around aliens abducting a small town to be the main course in their inter-stellar fast food chain. This was followed by Braindead in which a mother turns into a cannibal that even George Romero might consider “over the top”. Jackson might not share Jack Black’s lack of morals but they are certainly kindred spirits whose beginnings lurk in the neitherworld of showbusiness.

Jackson found his “Kong” in the film adaptation of C.S. Lewis’ fairytale masterpiece. Kudos to the film executive who recognized in Jackson’s early work an ability to create fantasy “by any means necessary”. C.S. Lewis can worry about highbrow elements of story and references to history and ages past – Mr. Jackson was there to put on a show. His abounding spirit combined with heretofore unlimited resources produced the block-buster of blockbusters. Jack Black, on the other hand, never found a way to tame his monster-hit and created a real-life blockbuster. This monster not only destroyed New York City but Mr. Black’s new found respectability.

In a sense Jackson’s King Kong is two separate films: one is a pyrotechnical display of Jackson’s ability as a horror/action-adventure filmmaker; the other film is a meditation on the blinding price of success. As an action film Jackson certainly delivers the goods. The director has taken fight scenes to a new plane – literally. Whereas traditional protagonists battle back and forth – Jackson’s fight up and down as well. This has become a popular device in kung fu movies and although Jackson might not be the first to employ this technique – he certainly knows how to use it. Kong is literally all over the place - slaying scores of never-ending monsters from ALL DIRECTIONS. The backdrops are always breathtaking and sublime – whether at the pinnacles of the mountains or the nadir of the valley. The natives, however, were a problem – not that they weren’t restless. They were too restless. As a New Zealander Mr. Jackson probably shares a European sensibility regarding race relations. Its not that people across the pond are more racist but they consider American’s to be hysterical with regards to cultural differences. Call me over-sensitive but the group of black-as-night, spear-throwing, bone-threw-the-nose savages were too reminiscent of vile stereo-types of native cultures. I’m surprised that there hasn’t been more discussion of this depiction. It probably lies in the fact that Jackson genuinely meant no harm and the root of this portrayal lies in a hyped-up version of the original. Given the fact that this was the age of Stepinfechit I think Mr. Jackson should have come up with a different approach. This, however, does not take away from the over-all success in portraying a fantasy world of natural monster demons. Even before arriving on the Island itself the “sturm and drang” of the boat against the rocks showed Jackson the director fully in control of his game.

The meditative sections of the film are in a sense the heart of the matter. We know Jackson can juggle and spit-fire but how does he tackle heart-felt drama without C.S. Lewis’ breadth of knowledge regarding the human condition? Is Jackson merely a technician/showman or can he make us think? The key test lies in the feelings towards the monster. Were the bullets flying out of the fighter planes striking something more than Kong? I found myself thinking about human’s relationship with animals and felt genuine sorrow at the death of Ann Darrow’s companion. Jackson’s Kong, more than the ancient original (certainly more than DeLaurentis’) rose above being an icon of terror and became a tragic love-struck anti-hero. This Kong didn’t merely exist – he lived, loved and died. The re-creation of Depression-era New York was flawless. The human actors were all strong. So when the giant ape hits the pavement all is in place for Jack Black to deliver his famous camp line: “Twas beauty killed the beast”.

The message struck a cord because you know in your heart of hearts Jack is lying. The beast wasn’t a beast and beauty certainly wasn’t the cause of his demise. Jackson is pointing at – Jack Black/himself. It is ironic that the character Jack Driscoll, the writer, played by a very talented Adrien Brody, disappears into the scenery. This is not a film about writers and this really isn’t, despite the many action sequences, a film for children. This is a film about doers. The kind of people who come out of nowhere from some down-under part of the world and make their mark in the big city. This is Jack Black’s movie. This is a man at the top of his game looking at the world and realizing that fulfilling your dreams without regard to an understanding of the more fundamental laws (of nature, of God…) is pure folly. Business is business but business is NOT everything.

The word is that the film is not living up to the monumental financial expectations. But I’m sure Jackson isn’t really thinking about the other entertainment moguls and money men. He made a labor of love and I’m sure he’s more concerned with the natives on his small island and his wife – whom has co-wrote all of his films. It’s a wonderful thing to create a monster – it’s more important to know how to control him. If Jack Black only knew. I get the sense that the man who made this film still stays in touch with the people next door who carried the scenery for his first feature. That is surely something Jack Black would never do.

Schindler's List (1993)

Steven Spielberg is the undisputed leader of popular cinema. He has been responsible for a number of the highest grossing pictures ever made (E.T., Jaws, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Close Encounters of the Third Kind). Although his work has been accepted by the public, critics and peers have been less approving. They have labeled his films saccharine, pandering and derivative.(An Andrew Lloyd Weber of the silver screen). Mr. Spielberg tried to heighten his standing by turning to adaptations of recognized books (i.e. The Color Purple, Empire of the Sun). The jury was still unimpressed. Their continued disapproval did not escape Mr. Spielberg. A few years back he even made a public allusion to his feeling slighted by the Academy. (Ironically it was while he received the Irving Thalburg Award). To this day (1/24/94) he has not received an Academy Award but all that could change on March 21 starting at 6PM (West Coast Time). Mr. Spielberg's two current releases show him maintaining his ability to produce mindless box office blockbusters, Jurassic Park, while still pursuing the artistic recognition he feels he deserves, Schindler's List. Mr. Spielberg has, once again, turned to an award winning book for his material. This film, however, stands apart from his other "serious" works. Empire of the Sun was forgettable except for the marvelous recreation of pre-Communist China. The Color Purple was simply forgettable. Schindler's List demonstrates that Mr. Spielberg is capable of producing work with staying power.

Technically Schindler's List is flawless. The attention to detail in costuming and scene-design made the setting altogether convincing. Re-creating the factory where the Jewish slave laborers produced pots, pans, hinges… must have been a particularly daunting task. It was as if one had been transported into a European version of a Lewis Hine photograph. The ghetto and the concentration camps were also tour de forces in terms of realistically re-creating a time and place. This goes beyond the mere act of choosing to shoot on location. It is the magical task of making those places live as they did in the past. One need not be an expert on mid-twentieth century European fashion and architecture to be utterly convinced. The genuineness supersedes academic or professional accreditation. The artisans who helped reconstruct this reality are truly deserving of the title of master craftsman.

Spielberg's use of color raises many issues although the cinematographer exhibits the same unsurpassed professionalism as the set designers. The bulk of the film is black & white with the exception of the closing sequence and two colorized objects. Mixing black & white and color has been a device used in many films for varied ends with mixed results. Spielberg colors the two objects (Hanukkah candles and a little girl's red coat) in order to highlight their innocence. They are beacons of hope in the dreary black and white hell. The device was used Coppola's Rumble Fish; Mickey Rouke staring into the tank watching the brightly colored fish. The problem in both films is that the black and white images, although gritty and mean, possessed a strength and beauty which made the colorization appear hokey. The little girl with the red coat is especially irksome. Instead of looking on her as a innocent amongst the carnage she becomes an annoying red splotch in a beautifully rendered image. This is the opposite of what Spielberg intends. His choice of contrasting the past and the present was also troubling. Modern film audiences associate black and white with "old movies". (Proceeds from television sales make black and white commercially prohibitive). Given this frame of reference the events depicted in the film become distant and removed. The color in the closing "present day" sequence only reinforced the remoteness of the atrocities. Perhaps intercutting black & white and color works best when illustrating fantasy sequences (e.g. The Wizard of Oz) but even in this context it can become a self-conscious distraction (e.g. She's Gotta Have It). In other respects the camerawork is exquisite. The characters are framed beautifully and the textures vary with the action. The storming of the ghetto sequence is brilliant. The frenetic camera movement intertwined with the flashes from the machine guns makes for a riveting crescendo of horror.

Schindler's List possesses a stupendous cast. All the leading players are virtuosos and the secondary cast is equally convincing. One performance should be singled out. Ralph Fiennes steals the show. His portrayal of the Nazi death camp Commandant Goethe brilliantly plays on the banality of evil. The myriad of W.W. II movies have cast SS leaders as die-hard true believers. Mr. Fiennes shatters this stereotype with the first words uttered from his mouth. He is being given a driving tour of the ghetto by two junior officers who ask what he thinks. Instead of responding with a contrived speech about the glories of Hitler… he blows his nose and yells "put up the roof of this car; it's fucking cold". Nazism becomes a job not a religion. It is a means by which school-yard bullies with mediocre minds can create hellish fiefdoms and rule with impunity. There is no sport in killing Jews; it's just a pastime; an ugly stop on the climb up the ranks. The most disconcerting aspect about Com. Goethe is how recognizable a character he is: his whimsical abuse of power, his lack of introspection, his knee jerk uttering of the party line, his greed, his narcissism, his lust…. Here is the overlooked, insecure nobody that exists in every social institution: school, camp, neighborhood, army, work force…. Nazism affords a means of acceptance and success. It's not about believing in anything; it's about pleasing the boss. His final cry of "Heil Hitler" is given as a parting nod to his own role as a dictator not the dictator himself. This single character embodies the spirit of that dreaded political philosophy.

The fact that Mr. Fiennes stands-out points to a fundamental flaw in Schinlder's List. The film is uneven and ambiguous. Mr. Fiennes is wrought in stone but the rest of the cast is underdeveloped or obscure. The epitome of the former can be seen in Embeth Davidtz magnificent rendering of the domestic. It has been said that the greater part of screen acting is reaction; not action. Ms. Davidtz mastery of gesture and expression can be witnessed from her initial selection on line to her confrontation with Fiennes in the basement. The problem lies in what is missing; not from her but in the editorial development of her character. The audience is presented with this captivating figure only to have her whisked away in the behemoth of Schindler's story. She is not alone. There are others, especially amongst the secondary characters, who seem well delineated but ignored. There can be little doubt that in the interest of brevity things must be sacrificed. Given the films length, almost three hours, one wonders if the proper decisions were made. Does it really require all that time to establish Mr. Shindler as a wheeler-dealer? Should the emphasis of the story shift to make the Jewish prisoners the central focus rather than Mr. Shindler himself?

What are we to make of Shindler? Liam Neeson's portrayal, although technically superb, is unsympathetic. His breakdown at the close of the story was especially troubling. He is a war profiteer turned saintly savior. In order for his final speech to be convincing one must see the grand metamorphosis and, despite the three hour build-up, Mr. Spielberg fails. At some point Schindler realizes that the Nazis are evil. The story lacks a moment of epiphany. There are hints of a gradual change of heart but his decision to actively fight the Nazis is rooted in obscurity. Schindler is a man who has no compunction about living in a dispossessed Jewish family's house or using slave-laborers. After witnessing the massacre in the ghetto he still finds room in his heart to defend Com. Goethe. He tells Ben Kingsley that Goethe is a busy man just trying to do his job. Kingsley then recounts a grisly tale in which he tells of the Commandant's personally executing a few dozen prisoners with his revolver. In the end Schindler sees the light. He becomes born-again gallant savior who personally rescues hundreds of prisoners from the gas chambers while risking everything to build a munitions plant which supplies defective artillery shells. His new-found virtuosity extends to his personal life as well. Schindler abandons his philandering and re-unites with his wife. Is Spielberg's Schindler believable?

There can be no argument that the protagonist in this drama performed heroic deeds; but does that necessarily make him a hero? At the heart of the matter lies a question of motive. Judging by the obtrusive text, which would appear to delineate the exact time and place events were occurring, Mr. Schindler's change of heart occurred after the Nazi's war effort was on the wane (circa 1944). Might it be possible that Schindler decided to switch sides sensing a German defeat? The suitcases of money which he possessed seemed to be issued by the German central bank; what would this currency be worth if the Allied forces triumphed? These troubling thoughts spring from an unsettling ambiguity surrounding the movie's Schindler. Mr. Spielberg seems to feel it is enough to deify and forget the past. Unfortunately not even Mr. Neeson's technical virtuosity could mask this film's structural flaw. He delivers the "could have saved more" speech with heartfelt gusto. The problem lies in the fact that the Schindler of the first two and a half hours undercuts every word he utters. This is a story about a man who undergoes a fundamental spiritual re-assessment. Spielberg showed us the before and after but forgot the most essential "during". Despite the marvelous array of ingredients and wonderful presentation; the pudding lacks a theme.

There is an odd parallel between Mr. Spielberg and his protagonist. It is interesting to weigh the what might driven a director of box office sensations and unappreciated "serious" films to tackle the Holocaust. Could it be the sacredness of the subject matter forces a modicum of respectability and likewise shields him from criticism? Is there anything ethically wrong with evoking those millions of victims in order to secure artistic acceptance? Perhaps these thoughts are as blasphemous questioning the morality of Spielberg's hero. Once again there can be no argument that the Spielberg's Schindler, whatever his design, saved hundreds of people from certain death. Likewise Schindler's List, whatever Mr. Spielberg's motives, has generated important awareness about the nadir of modern civilization. In the end the tangible goodness outweighs any negative speculations. There is a wonderful moment in the film when Ben Kingsley holds up a crudely typed sheet containing all the names of those that Schindler will save. He says "This list is all good". Hopefully Mr. Spielberg will be able to do the same with his Academy Award trophy.

Pochahontas (2007)

Our American Hero

In 1973 Terrence Malick established himself as a great American auteur by writing and directing Badlands – a stunning portrait of a great American invention – the serial killer. In retrospect Mr. Malick, unlike his contemporaries of that era - Spielberg, Lucas, Coppola – never delivered the likes of an ET or Star Wars or a Godfather. In fact he not only failed to deliver a blockbuster – he failed to deliver. Since his stunning debut he has directed three features: Day of Heaven, Thin Red Line and now The New World. Three features in three decades is not what our Puritan work ethic dictates as a “respectable” output. But perhaps Malick, in the tradition of the Founding Fathers, Thoreau, the Western pioneers… is following his manifest destiny.

Let others have a career; Mr. Malick has been strolling through American history – taking in the scenery and drawing his own conclusions. He’s spent half his time in the Heartland (Badlands, Days of Heaven) wresting with desperate lost souls – dying in all the innocent beauty east of Eden. He pondered about our Great War (WW II) and drew a portrait of ambiguous soldiers wrestling with themselves as much as the Japanese. The odd thing is that all these films inhabit the American mythology while tearing at its seams. Badlands is a nightmarish foreshadowing of Lucas’ American Graffiti. Days of Heaven might be viewed as Thomas Hart Benton’s Guernica. The Thin Red Line shows Tom Brokaw’s Greatest Generation in their hour of darkness or maybe Speilberg’s soldiers having an existential crisis on their mission to save Private Ryan.

Malick has decided to begin at the beginning. The tale of Pocahontas and Capt. Smith is the bedrock of the American experience. Most Anthologies of American Literature begin with Capt. Smith’s tales about the “New World”. Interest in the story has reached beyond academics with the Walt Disney Company producing an animated feature, Pocahontas, within the last decade. Recently William T. Vollmann has dedicated a entire volume of his seven part History of America to Smith’s founding of Jamestown. The element of this story that pulls together academics and patrons of popular culture is the relationship between the swashbuckling Smith and the young Native American princess. That such a relationship existed at the moment of America’s conception vaults the historical into the realm of the mythic. Hollywood couldn’t have given the country a better script of its beginnings.

The “real” Capt. Smith lived through war, starvation, imprisonment, enemy-capture, enslavement… One wonders however, if he would have survived the 21st century American debate about what constitutes fact and fiction in a memoir. The following is the portrait Capt. Smith paints of himself in “The General History of Virginia, New England, and the Summer Isles”:

“by his own example, good words, and fair promises, set some to mow, others to bind thatch, some to build houses, others to thatch them, himself always bearing the greatest task for his own share, so that in short time he provided most of them lodgings, neglecting any for himself.”

One can feel the other residents of Jamestown flocking to their blogs to refute the wise Captain in the early stages of his book tour. Malick is unconcerned. The director is smart enough to know better but the Smith-myth is central; not the actual history. Malick paints a very realistic portrait of the new Americans despite the fact that the valiant Captain might have taken the same liberties as the author of “A Million Little Pieces”. But in the end isn’t Capt. Smith the great great grandfather of James Frey and Oprah?

Ambition is the driving force in Jamestown. This group will stop at nothing to get ahead. The internecine struggles over rank and authority will be hideously familiar to any modern American office worker. Its not that our distant cousins over in Europe wouldn’t be petty and awful – it’s just that our fore-fathers were, in Ross Perot’s words: the people working the third shift at the Dairy Queen. In such an environment manners and a sense of civility are signs of weakness. This was a group that certainly knew the word “Roanoke” – the nearby colony that two decades earlier disappeared with the 90 men, 17 woman and 9 children never to be heard from again. Yet they willingly made the choice to go on this voyage. Makes you wonder about their lives in the motherland. The Lords of the Manor and the Captains of Industry knew better. Capt. Newport, played by a very blue-blooded Christopher Plummer, was on the first boat back home while Jamestown “took shape”. Given what followed he certainly made the right choice. The new colonists resort to eating their leather belts to stay alive. Maybe Smith was right to implore everyone to stop wasting time digging for gold.

Malick’s harsh portrayal of this world of Joe Shmoes and John Smiths certainly undercuts the primness with which we revere the Founding Father’s fathers. These people weren’t blue blood or even blue collar – they were red-neck through and through. Capt. Smith, however, is a stand-out. He is aware that he is on a journey to, in the great American tradition, re-invent himself. He is our first Bruce Springsteen – a sexy poet repulsed by the grimness of his culture and surroundings but accepting the fact that he is a character in Jungleland. One can hear Capt. Smith rollicking on some boulevard serenading a modern-day Pocahontas with the promise of a new life if she’d just stop listening to her Chief. We can also see the young maiden crying in the back seat of the beat-up Camaro asking the driver “who are you?”.

The unanswered question in this film is: who are the Indians? There is a disturbing asymmetry to The New World. The young Americans are drawn with precision yet the Native Americans remain elusive. Malick no doubt did his homework and the costuming and set designs are outstanding. The backdrop is authentic – but not the people. The “naturals” are more akin to fairies in an expensive production of A Mid Summer Nights Dream rather than actual aboriginals. The initial reaction to Smith is certainly genuine – they want to kill him. Unfortunately for them they make a series of very bad choices. They spare his life and then adopt him as a tribesman and let him frolic with the Chief’s favorite daughter – the prettiest girl in the tribe. The implausibility of the situation is secondary to the super-human genuineness of the natives. Pocahontas and her father seem implausiblely plausible – people make bad choices and pay the price – but the other Natives and their society appear other-worldly. As the good-captain says “they are without jealousy or malice”. Certainly after months of living with the Jamestown crowd “the naturals” – a successful traditional society living in sync with their surroundings – would appear to be super-human. There is a palatable sense of horror when Smith returns to the world of the violent, mean-spirited, petty, desperate gold-diggers. It would have been interesting to Malick had found a way to paint the Powhatans as real – but where would he find a source? These poor people were annihilated. The lack of a record left Malick with all the trappings of the Powhatans without the Powhatans themselves. The father-chief and Pocahontas are plot devices to further the narrative of Jamestown. John Smith’s world is grimly real whereas the Powhatans “are the stuff that dreams are made of”. In this case Capt. Smith is the dreamer.

The New World takes an extended journey to the old world in the second half of the film. The plot takes on a Shakespearian edge: the princess goes to meet the King and Queen of England and is re-united with her lover. They come to their senses and she returns to her true love. The comedy turns tragic, however, when the Princess suddenly dies. The banality of the narrative is beside the point. Shakespeare’s forte was language not story. By the same logic assessing Malick’s in terms of the plot-driven narrative is to be deaf to the visual feast. There is a small sequence where the Native American escorting Pocahontas walks amongst the trees in the formal gardens at one of the English palaces. In a sense this small scene of this traditionally dressed native wandering around the formal hedges and rigid tree-lines is a metaphor for the entire film. This exquisite tableaux is a tile in a cross cultural mosaic painting the birth of America. It’s not about “story” or “romance” but the romance of the myth of our founding. Malick, with his usual flair for excellent acting, photography and craft, has given us another one of his American visions. We are a brutal, savage people who touched a prelapsarian (in our view) world and beat it down to our level. There is always something tragic/heroic in our quest despite our venal actions. Badlands is successful in spite of the loathsome protagonist. The audience is drawn to the killer in Days of Heaven even though he schemed against an innocent man. The soldiers in The Thin Red Line are too uneasy about their brutality to be the usual World War II heroes… and yet there is a hallowed of innocence surrounding these ambiguous warriors.

Malick is, at heart, a Texan. This part of the country tends to root for the guys in black hats. He has a soft-spot for Cain. Abel was a favored son, we are a nation of Cains. We are the second sons busting our asses to make the right sacrifice for the all powerful. We loathe introspection in direct proportion to our love of THE LAW. Rules are made up of isolated facts that create abstractions so we can live with ourselves. Pocahontas’ constant refrain to Capt. Smith is “Who are you?” The Captain might not have an answer, but he shares Cain’s disdain for his brother’s good fortune. Malick knows that in Smith’s quest to rise above his station lies the heart of the American experience and his hideous ambition to be the favored son will lead to his downfall. No matter how hard we Americans will it, the fact remains: God has rejected our offering. God preferred our brother’s sacrifice because it was more than mere fruits of the field – it contained blood. Well if its blood God wants – its blood he’ll get. Fratricide was our answer to God’s rejection – only sending us further into the wilderness. Europe and the Natives have Kings, Queens, Chiefs and Princes whom God looks upon with favor. America has the hardscrabble, hard-luck Capt. Smith. The treason-filled, self-promoter struggling to better himself. One can hear the Captain reflecting on his plight by singing a Bruce Springsteen song about Starkweather, the “hero” of Malick’s first feature:

I saw her standin' on her front lawn just twirlin' her baton
Me and her went for a ride sir and ten innocent people died

From the town of Lincoln Nebraska with a sawed off .410 on my lap
Through to the badlands of Wyoming I killed everything in my path

I can't say that I'm sorry for the things that we done
At least for a little while sir me and her we had us some fun

The jury brought in a guilty verdict and the judge he sentenced me to death
Midnight in a prison storeroom with leather straps across my chest

Sheriff when the man pulls that switch sir and snaps my poor head back
You make sure my pretty baby is sittin' right there on my lap

They declared me unfit to live said into that great void my soul'd be hurled
They wanted to know why I did what I did
Well sir I guess there's just a meanness in this world

Badlands might be seen as a modern day version of what would have happened if Capt. Smith had run away with Pocahontas.


The American curse is to be thoughtful and reflective. The greatest threat to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” is those who question “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”. The tycoon, the worker bee and even the dispossessed are as truly American as mom, the flag and apple pie. But those who step back and question the process are dangerous. They start asking questions about right and wrong. There is no good or bad just THE LAW. If Smith can escape hanging he can go on to become a penultimate Founding Father. If Starkweather gets the chair; well he deserved it. That’s that. That’s the law. That’s what happened. Don’t think too much about it or we’ll suspect you’re a communist or worse yet an artist. Don’t think, just act. Just make the movies and have a career. Malick seems to take the challenge. You want blood? I’ll give you blood. I’ll dress it up and show it off. In reality Starkweather was pigeon-toed, cross-eyed but Malick sees him as a young Charlie Sheen. The real Pocahontas & Capt. Smith could never compete with the sex appeal of Q’Orianka Kilcher and Colin Farrell. But these are merely facts. Bits of history that can be molded in the same fashion as other uncomfortable truths: our beloved land of freedom was founded by a savage group of marauders who invaded, pillaged then annihilated “everything in my path”. Pocahontas visit to the King and Queen is really the ultimate humiliation for a Princess robbed of her culture and whose subjects were already falling under the sword. The institution of slavery took root a little more than a decade of the founding of the colony. But once again these are mere facts. Smith was just another hard-luck soldier trying to have fun amongst all the smoke and bodies. Malick takes it all in and smiles. He strolls through the carnage and studies all the hardworking ill-fated sons of Cain. He’s not going to excuse the mess by becoming another mega-star in the pantheon of the American Entertainment Heroes. He’s sitting down with that ever-expanding group of alienated American thinkers who love this country but loathe all the crassness born of a desire to forget. His job is to entertain.. and entertain he will. Long after Spielberg, Lucas and Coppola have faded from the public consciousness Malick’s band of American anti-heroes will be delighting and horrifying future generations. Somewhere, centuries from now, a young person will look at this body of work and remark: “What a bunch of savages”. And Malick’s spirit will tip his black hat and say “but you gotta love’em”.

La Dolce Vita (1960, reviewed in 2007)

Midlife Crisis: La Dolce Vita

I was standing inline in the local post office when the two people in back of me began to sing along with the music playing over the loudspeaker. I suddenly realized it was Bob Marley. I wonder whether this icon of rebellion from my youth would welcome the ultimate in conventional acceptance: Not only to be recognized by a random group of Americans of various ages but sanctioned as entertainment by the hallmark government institution. This in turn made me think about the DVD I’d seen the night before: Fellini’s La Dolce Vita.

I’m two years younger than this Fellini classic. The tagline for the film was: “The world's most talked about movie today!” Four decades later they’ve stopped talking. The work would be recognizable to people interested in film. I’m sure even Blockbuster Video has a copy on hand for that odd-ball who wanders into the foreign film section. But I don’t think the Bob Marley fans on line at the post office would have anything to say. They would, however, know the term “Paparazzi” a bastardization of the name of a minor character in the film: Paparazzo. It would be interesting to know if during the Hurley-Burley of production Fellini would have guessed that this word would be his legacy and not the film itself. Given the themes he was wrestling with it probably would not have come as a surprise.

With so many people living “la vida loca” it is ironic that this masterpiece has lost its currency. It begs the question: How does a director capture the height of fashion without falling victim to it? I remember black and white TV’s and commercials that ran over a minute. “La Dolce Vita”, despite reflecting on the timeless battle between progress and tradition, is rooted in the specific period of post WW II Europe. Marcello Rubini’s (Mastroianni’s character) struggle must be seen through the eyes of an audience that had witnessed the devastation their land in a conflict that ended only a decade and a half prior to this film’s release. In this prism the characters’ behavior in this new-found land of plenty was profoundly disturbing evoking questions of morality. The work was banned in Spain and the Catholic Church and right wing elements in the motherland tried to prevent its distribution. Others were enthralled by Fellini’s circus/gallows humor. Here was a ringmaster who knew how to present the decline of Western civilization with a smile. (None of Antoniono’s starkness – it is interesting to note that his L’Aventura premiered the same year). But to a contemporary audience it all seems quaint: The well-fed, stylishly quaffed moderns always with cigarettes or clunky phones, float along in landscape of 1950’s kitsch buildings in their classic sport cars. The struggles with fidelity, artistic integrity and loneness have the ring of Everly Brothers’ songs about teenage angst. Instead of shock and repulsion there is a sense of nostalgia.

That Fellini’s world of misery and decadence would strike cords of longing for a simpler time is a harsh comment on the present. A decade BEFORE 9/11 Hunter Thompson was commenting: "What is there left to a generation that has been told that there is poison in the rain and sex is death? Nothing but TV and relentless masturbation.” Now we have the additional layers of terrorism, never-ending category 5 storms, rising sea levels and continuous Hieronymus Bosch carnage. It is as if the horrors of World War II are no longer freakish but enmeshed in the landscape. Imagine Marcello viewing the smoldering World Trade Center, wandering through a post-Katrina New Orleans or traveling a few hundred miles south to the genocide in Darfur? After the trip Marcello would be smiling and saying without a hint of irony: “I’m very lucky… I live in Rome and I’m a hack writer for tabloids… it’s a good life”.

There is a scene in La Dolce Vita in which a young sickly child is trampled to death by a mob. This horrifying accident is sparked by a sensationalist press who prime a hysterical crowd to follow the directions of a group of farm children who claim to have seen a vision of the Virgin Mary. I heard the following on the radio as I write: 73 people were trampled to death in the Philippines while lining up to be contestants on a game show. The grand prize that these unfortunates died for: less than $20,000 US. The following day in NYC a young father of three, who was hired to guard the jewelry of a rap star, was gunned down during the taping of a music video when the performers squared off over who could be in the recording studio. How can Fellini compete? Reality seems to trump even his most decedent creations: Paris Hilton is exponentially more ridiculous and obscene than anyone who appears in this film. The aristocrats in Fellini’s world, although idle and moldy, possess taste and a measure of dignity. The Garden of the Finzi-Continis might be filled with drugs, depression, incest and suicide but they stand apart from mall rats and porno stars.

If Fellini’s Infero lacks the ability to burn our post-modern sensibilities there are two characters who strike a cord: Paola, the innocent, and Steiner, the doomed intellectual. Steiner famous quip “Salvation doesn’t lie within four walls” squares with Paolo’s association with the beach. In the closing scene of the film Marcello is viewing the dead fish while Paolo shouts from across the water. Marcello smiles knowingly but chooses not to hear her. The sound of the ocean drowns her out but it is really Marcello’s desperate, decadent life that makes Paolo unapproachable. It’s been another night of ridiculous people partying till they cry – what could he say to this innocent? Marcello’s plight is with the lifeless, grotesque sea monster not with the salt-of-the-earth hardworking people who hauled it to the beach. Paolo could be one of their daughters for all he knows – she certainly isn’t familiar with anyone at the party. This harkens back to the scene in which Marcello tries to seduce the movie-star by driving her into the countryside. They are out of place in the land of Eden. The dog starts barking and Marcello worries that the hardworking farmers might start to gather. They are intruders from the city. They flee back to Rome where Marcello is greeted by a drunken boyfriend who, prompted by the Paporizzi, punches Marcello in the face. A cartoon fight over nothing only to be equaled by Marcello’s pathetic attack on the woman in the party with a feather-filled throw-pillow. How could any of this be explained to Paolo, the farmers, the fisherman? Marcello’s fate is to know that he has become as absurd as the people who fill his stories; more so in fact because there is the hint that he possessed the ability to rise above it all.

And speaking of being above it all – there is Steiner. He plays Bach beautifully, knows everything and everyone that really matters… and yet. The play “Amadeus” is a meditation on the perils of being a brilliant hack in the face of genius. Steiner has the same murderous reaction but unlike Saliari he turns on his children and himself. Marcello responds to his mentor’s rampage/suicide by abandoning any pretense of being “a writer”. The scene in which he accompanies the police chief to break the news to the unsuspecting wife is particularly gruesome. The paparazzi gouge on the startled mother/wife turned grieving widow with a ferociousness that foreshadows the standard operating practices of our present day tabloid press. (note: California passed a law against “stalkerazzi” who slam their cars into celebrity’s vehicles in order to take photos of their anger). Marcello’s retreat into being a Press Agent, a godfather of hack writers, is a sad coda to his friend’s demise. The tragedy of this film is that these two character fail to connect. Steiner possessed gravity while Marcello wallowed in levity. Somewhere they might have found balance in each other; instead both these men set our to destroy themselves and those around with guns and pillows.

What to say in the present? Where is Paolo? The sad fact is that our Beatrice has left us in the Inferno. In fact the idea of a “Beatrice” has become quaint. We stopped waiting for Godot. The hope is that we can regain Paolo’s innocence amidst all the rubble. We must take heart in the fates of Steiner and Marcello. The motto of our current age was spoken by a contemporary of Fellini’s: Winston Churchill said “Success is going from one failure to the next failure without loss of enthusiasm”. That Paolo’s secret: “enthusiasm”. And if Marcello and Steiner thought it was hard in post-war Rome they might want to join me online in the post office. Marcello would like the Bob Marley music while Steiner studied the harried people in their mis-matched outfits. The two foreigners would exchange a knowing glance - “we need to get back home”. Marcello would ask Steiner in aristocratic Italian “maybe we could get the singer will come with us to Rome”. Steiner would say “the singer is not of this place”. Meanwhile a teenager would carry his package to the counter and say “There are these two middle-Eastern guys talking in Arabic, smokin’ cigarettes and pointing at people”. The clerk behind the counter would nod “I’ll get security”.

In the Shadow of the Moon (2007)

Shoot the Moon

I was seven years old when Neil Armstrong took his first step on the lunar surface. My mother tried to wake me to watch the event on TV but I decided to stay in bed. My initial indifference gave way to the universal space frenzy. Months later I was one of thousands who stood in line for hours at the Museum of Natural History in New York to witness one of the great marvels of the moment - a moon rock. This unimpressive pebble now sits, barely noticed, just across town in the lobby of the United Nations. It would be impossible to explain to today's seven year olds why anyone would patiently cue-up to see a rock; just as it is hard for middle aged Americans to recreate the unabashed national optimism which they felt as young children. Looking back on that time today's adults know that they lived in a world as far away as the moon.

Ron Howard started his career in feel-good nostalgia. He was a child actor in Andy Griffith's "Mayberry RFD". This 1960s family drama, although set in the 1950s, recreated an ideal small town America of the 1930s. This soothing paean to simple times and easy living was a huge hit in the days of revolution, hippies, race riots and an unpopular war. Mr. Howard continues this formula of success. He documents the unabashed exuberance generated by NASA's moon missions for a contemporary public awash in economic uncertainty, religious fanaticism, environmental catastrophe and an unpopular war.

"In the Shadow of the Moon" is the reality version of Howard's popular dramatic feature "Apollo 13". Here are the men behind the mission. It is unfortunate that Presidents Eisenhower's formula for "the right stuff" demanded respectability and education. No doubt the founding fathers of test flight, Chuck Yeager et al, would have made for a more exciting film. Yeager broke the sound barrier while flying with broken ribs from a riding accident a few days before. He hide his injury from his superiors and was in such pain that he was unable to close the hatch of his Bell X-1 without assistance. He was chosen for the flight because another pilot was suspended for buzzing a friend's car in a fighter-jet the day before. The politicians felt that to muster the funds for this Cold War era moon extravaganza the leading men needed to be "college men"; not "crackers". The Apollo crews certainly possessed the same gritty verve and courage but also had education and a sense of decorum. You could count on them to attend a White House dinner and not wreck the furniture or make a pass at the First Lady. The polish, which certainly won the hearts of the public, makes for slow-going in a behind-the-scenes look. There is nothing overtly disagreeable about these obviously accomplished, brave, faithful men but creating dramatically compelling characters requires a bit of "the wrong stuff". It is no wonder that the 19th century actors cued up to play the villains and avoided the pious "George Washington" incarnation. The filmmakers obviously sensed that the main event needed garnish - hence the large card titles which dutifully explain something along the lines of: THESE ARE THE ONLY MEN EVER IN THE HISTORY OF TIME TO ACTUALLY EXPERIENCE A COMPLETELY OTHER WORLD. It appears not only in the opening sequence but returns before the closing credits to remind audiences who might feel a lack of lift-off after the Apollo men have spoken. Ironically there is a layer of disquietude in the sea of tranquility. In between the faded off-color grainy stylishly unstylish flashbacks and the formulaic TV show talk-head interviews, is a strange silence. It's name is Neil Armstrong.

Neil Armstrong does not participate in a THE documentary feature which purports to tell the story of NASA's Moon Mission via interviews with living astronauts. In other words - we're going to examine Niagara Falls: without the water. There are no explanations as to the space star's absence except for the cryptic allusion in one of the interviews to his need for privacy. Hmmm. Perhaps Mr. Armstrong realizes that the best way to play George Washington is to never appear on stage. Mr. #2, Buzz Aldrin, only expands the void. Ironically the apex of his appearance he is talking about #1 - no not Mr. Armstong - the OTHER #1. After Armstrong descends the ladder and delivers the "small step" line Buzz decides to desecrate the holy scene. Buzz gleefully explains that his long pause on the ladder prior to becoming Mr. Penultimate: "I was urinating - no disputing that was a first". There are apocryphal stories about Buzz photographing Armstrong ONLY while Buzz himself gleamed in Armstrong's visor. After viewing this film they are completely believable. In fact one wonders if Mr. Aldrin was the inspiration for the saying: "if they can send one man to the moon... why can't they send them all?" The ole space wizzer's creepiness manages to seep through all the filmmaker's best gloss. Aldrin describes the difficulty in actually landing the Eagle and can't help mentioning how "those guys at MIT didn't listen to me" - something about the computer. No doubt the boys from Boston were not alone in receiving advice from the space sage. He also manages to drop in the fact that he gave up pipe smoking and alcohol very soon before the launch. One can only imagine how his fellow travelers endured the extra spice that nicotine and booze withdrawal gave to the Buzz-less Buzz. Mr. Armstrong isn't talking and Collins isn't dishing any dirt. Collins somehow managed to escape the NASA slick filter. Here is a guy who would have happily fit in with Chuck and co. in the test pilot hanger. Collins is Frank Purdue flying a spaceship. The filmmakers rely on him to deliver the goods. He is affable and self-deprecating; in stark contrast to the undisputed first lunar jackass. There is an interesting segment in the film where they show Nixon reading a speech that was prepared in case the eagle couldn't leave the nest. Apparently there was great fear that Neil and Buzz might end up being the first 'lunar human sacrifice' due to questions about blasting off from the surface. If that had happened one can imagine Buzz immediately re-enacting the scene from the first fraternal feud. In this case Cain would be screaming; "How come they didn't pick me to go first!!!!!!!!!"

It is interesting to note that the crew of the first Apollo mission to orbit the moon chose to read aloud from Genesis on their first lunar orbit in view of the earth. The test pilots would have cracked open the beer they'd sneaked on board. There is a surprising open-minded religiosity one would not expect from the paradigms of 1950s white apple-pie male America. One of the scripture reader's talked about a lawsuit complaining about their literally "universal" global incantation. He said he had nothing against atheists and maybe it was inappropriate but that it really was meant in the spirit of universality. Another man spoke in almost Buddhist terms about the singularity and oneness of the world - something "beyond religion". There was a traditional "born again" who talked about finding his faith. Interestingly this occurred AFTER his space career and one wonders if his faith is rooted in a search for the ultimate "mission control".

At the heart of this films lies the question of what really makes an explorer. If the definition of coolness is "grace under pressure" you'd have to award all these men top honors. Sometimes their derring-do bordered on the pathologically frigid. The anecdote about a fellow-astronaut dropping in on Neil Armstrong. The visitor casually discovers that the future first moon-man had bailed out of an exploding aircraft a few hours before their encounter. Neil didn't think it worth mentioning and deadpanly answered "yeah" that did happen that morning and went on to shuffle papers on his desk. This certainly beggs questions about the borders between coolness and insanity. There was another astronaut who's heart rate remained at 70 beats a second DURING LIFTOFF. Hmmm - it would be interesting to know what makes him break a sweat - or maybe not. The more the film progressed the Neil's non-appearance becomes self-explanatory. It's really best to savor those heroes in those scratchy, faded newsreels. They were the men of that time who most effectively speak to us IN THAT TIME. They are all heroes - even #2. Buzz reflected on the responsibility of being a man who walked on the moon. He spoke about living up to expectations. It obviously weighs on all of them. Perhaps its would have been best if they'd all sat in a room and answered one question: Are you the only men ever in the history of time ever to experience another world? They could have dutifully stood at attention and answered "yes sir" or "yes ma'am". The test pilots might be heard cackling in the next room; Chuck could enter and moon the moon-men. Run credits: These are the only men.......

Gone Baby Gone (2007)

Beantown Afflecked

Picasso supposedly said that every good portrait painter needs a person standing behind him with a revolver pointed at the back of his head ready to pull the trigger at the right time. The same might be said of film directors. The tendency to overdraw, over-explain... is a trap for first time movie directors and it is especially noticeable when actors get behind the camera. It is as if the performer, brimming with all the hard work of creating their character, is now taking revenge on every director who said "That's okay - I think we have it covered". Recently DeNiro's "The Good Shepherd" comes to mind - although in that case maybe the shot should have been fired in pre-production. (other examples: Marlon Brando's "One Eyed Jacks", John Nicholson's "The Two Jakes" and all of Sean Penn's directorial efforts). Films, unlike plays, are not driven by the spoken word. Visual reaction is the heart of all good dramatic features. Performers have a difficult time understanding that if pictures say 1,000 words - moving pictures say 1,000,000 - even if there is no dialogue.

Ben Affleck's unfortunately titled "Gone Baby Gone" is a strong case in point. The title sequence and setting of the scene is absolutely magical. Ben and his brother Casey, who stars in the project, are natives of Boston. This fact dovetails with the plot which revolves around a young private detective who is hired because of his familiarity with the gritty streets of an insular Beantown neighborhood. Casey's character knows the territory and his older brother demonstrates in the first 10 minutes that he is also the real deal. One of the greatest films of all time is a short documentary primarily shot by still photographer Helen Levitt (often credited exclusively to James Agee) entitled "In the Street". Affleck's painting of the hood concisely reveals the pride, poverty, anger, joy, pain, pathos in much the same way Levitt did in her lower east side neighborhood half a century earlier. There is a trust in these images which outsiders would fail to capture. Whereas Fellini often delivered the grotesque as a punch-line or a means to shock; Affleck shows the overweight, the disabled, the down & out with the care of a guardian. Don't laugh - these people are ugly, loud and fierce - but these are my people. Bravo. There are other aspects to this film which also deserve praise. The cast is superb. The best performances occur while everyone bunkers down in the endless bitter family interactions or step rigidly into Catholic ritual. Its interesting to contrast this with Scorsese's recent Boston saga "The Departed". All things aside - Affleck manages to make you feel like you've been to Fenway. Aside of Mark Wahlberg (the genuine article) all of Scoreses' cast seemed to be "from away".

Unfortunately "Gone Baby Gone" fails. Its demise is rooted in misunderstanding the power of his home-grown knowledge. Mr. Affleck trusts editorializing. He should have stuck with his gut.. A clear illustration of this lies in a scene in which Casey and Ed Harris have a drunken heart to heart following a shooting which critically injures Harris' partner. There is a long back and forth regarding the question of action, justice and guilt. The film is a meditation on what it really means to "Do the right thing". Spike Lee's ambiguous answer at the end of his feature, quoting both a pacifist and a violent activist, matches Affleck's conflicting feelings. Putting philosophy aside and focusing on mechanics: does the long dialogue between these two good actors really make the point? Ed Harris is a great performer who is endlessly called upon to deliver the blue vein popping out of the red face rage-scream. It would have been better to play this scene in a different octave - can Mr. Harris whisper? It's too bad Mr. Affleck, along with many other directors, never tests this range. But the problems are more than tone. The audience at this point knows that Casey is guilt-ridden and looking for answers. The audience is also aware that Harris is the old hand brimming with bitterness and wisdom. We know that - we don't need to hear it. In fact hearing it undercuts these feelings - its as if lovers suddenly read Hallmark cards aloud to each-other to demonstrate affection. An actor's training slavishly drives him to the script which in an performer's mind translates to the spoken word. The first 10 minutes of this film illustrates that the two are not the same. Words can drive a stage-play but here we need more matter, less talk. Think more of Antonioni's "Blow Up" instead of Kurosawa's "High & Low" (a Japanese homage to Joe Friday?). Affleck is compromised by a script which has more twists than a pretzel and a need for plot driven exposition. Throw it all to the wind. This is Boston. There is a reason detective story's are traditionally set in cities that are loaded with psychiatrists' couch (New York, LA or San Francisco). Boston is a schizophrenic combo of old line Brahmin and gangsters - neither group prizes verbal introspection. Lonely heartfelt speeches are contrived in this setting. The Yankees might win every other year but would the fans show up if they didn't? In Boston they have proof that they do - they'll show up in droves even if they win the big one once a century. They'll also go to church no matter what they say about the Cardinal. This is about duty, history, honor - not talk. You might wonder why - but asking the question out loud? Bestiality would be more acceptable. Unfortunately "Gone Baby Gone" is an endless verbal-fest of questions peppered with plot points.

Affleck would have been better with minimal plot and a meandering meditation on Boston. Its unfortunate he didn't tackle Freedomland. This Boston drama also centered around a missing girl but it was a device to examine race relations. Unfortunately the director failed to capture the nuances of the city and the film devolved into a endless set-piece of racial characters harassing each-other. Despite its shortcomings it was a truer representation of racial issues than Affleck's work. All the teenagers who chanted "here we go Southie! here we go!" during the busing crisis of the 70s grew up and they didn't become Civil Rights lawyers at the Justice Department. The iconic image of the white blue collar worker beating a suited black attorney at Boston City Hall does not represent where things are either. But it a leap of faith to believe that a West Indian gangster would have a white thug as his #2. It is equally difficult to swallow that a blue collar Joe from the South End would reprimand someone for using "racial epithets" in his house. Com'on Ben - there are still bigots in beantown. It's not the whole story - but lets not pretend. As one of the police cadets says in the Scoreses picture : you're a black man in this town - isn't that tough enough?

This film gives Casey Affleck a vehicle. Not the road the riches but he's good enough to play with his older brother. The brother needs to keep at it. Lets hope the horrific flashbacks towards the end of the film were a studio exec trying to make things better. Ben has a clue - there are real moments in his debut. He's proved can work with actors. He didn't win this time but as a Red Sox fan he knows - there's always next year.