Jack Reacher (2012)

Bourne Reacher

Tom Cruise knows more than anyone the limits of being able to control events. “Jack Reacher” comes after a bruising public divorce humiliation which included controversy regarding his religion. The movie’s opening PR campaign was also muted due to the ‘real world’ events in Newtown CT.  The suits in charge felt that a feature that begins with 5 people being randomly executed by a sniper might not play well with an audience still grieving the massacre of first graders by a gun totting madman.  This is a tough break for the producers - in this case Mr. Cruise himself. Nevertheless the show must go on and the film did manage to be the #2 box office gross for the weekend.  I sat with half a dozen elderly people on a Sunday night for the early show.  I was startled by the MPAA rating.   The scene in which the fingerless Russian Gangster (with a German accent) tries to force a man to chew off his own hand might have earned the picture an “R”; but since there was no nudity and little cursing it received the“PG 13” seal of approval.  Perhaps this rating inadvertently led to the dearth of teenagers amongst the crowd;  yes it was Sunday, but during Christmas break.  Or perhaps Mr. Cruise is losing touch with his core fan base. He was nearly 40 when most of them were born. There were posters in the lobby for other old men of the screen: Arnold Schawarzenegger and Sean Penn, have projects due out in early January.  Perhaps the action/adventure genre is some sort of balm for a certain class of older male stars recovering from nasty public divorces.  Arnold’s trailer failed to be promising but it was actually more entertaining than Tom’s 2 hour feature.

For those not in the loop - Jack Reacher is a character in a very popular serialized set of action/adventure novels by Lee Child .  I have not read “One Shot”, from which this film is based, but it sticks to the basic outline as it appears online in Wikipedia:

In an innocent heartland city, five murders with six shots are done by an expert sniper. The police quickly identify and arrest a suspect, and build a slam-dunk case with iron-clad evidence. But the accused man claims he's innocent and says "Get Jack Reacher." Reacher himself sees the news report and turns up in the city. The defense is immensely relieved; but Reacher has come to bury the guy. Shocked by the request of the accused, Reacher sets out to confirm for himself the absolute certainty of the man's guilt, but comes up with more than he bargained for.

Maybe Mr. Cruise should have picked a cleaner plot along the lines of Mr. Child’s “Nothing to Lose”:

Based in Colorado, traveling from the town of Hope to the town of Despair, it soon becomes clear that Reacher is an unwelcome visitor in a town with a lot of secrets to hide. Reacher cannot resist the opportunity to explore these secrets further, especially the peculiar town owner who has employed the majority of the population to work within his recycling factory.

In any event it is clear we are engaged in formulaic entertainment and not Strindberg. Nothing wrong with that, as Mr. Child, whose real name is Mr. Grant, doesn’t pretend.... and who wants to sit through Strindberg in a movie theater (or maybe even a theater theater for that matter).  Wikipedia give us insight into his choice of the name of the ex-military supercop:

While unemployed and midway through writing the first novel with the character as yet unnamed, Lee Child visited his local supermarket with his wife. An elderly lady approached him and asked him to reach an item off a high shelf for her. His wife commented: "Hey if this writing thing doesn't work out, you can be a reacher in a supermarket."

It would be interesting to see a film about the life of Mr. Lee/Grant with some insight into his own need to change his nom de guerre. Mr. Cruise, however, need to focus on the Dough Ray Me. Audiences never warmed to Cruise as anything but a Mission Impossible sort of guy as his most recent “Rock of Ages” has proved (along with “Magnolia”, “Eyes Wide Shut”, “Lions for Lambs”...). Cruise’s middle-brow choice of material matches his choice of director. One might have thought Christopher McQuarrie’s writing credit on Mr. Cruise’s “Valkyrie” would have earned him a spot on a “do not call” list.  But in all deference to Mr. McQuarrie one senses Cruise-control in Reacher. Tom isn’t searching for direction in these self-produced projects as he has figured it all out. Unfortunately the audience is left with a stilted vanity set-piece rather than a solid action/adventure film.

Jack Reacher comes from a tradition of American super-heroes who are suspect by the public at large in their pursuit of a greater good. The fathers of this genre would be George Trendle and Fran Striker who gave us the Lone Ranger and his grand nephew (yes they are literally related) The Green Hornet.  “Why do you wear a mask Lone Ranger?” could easily be transposed to “Why do you live as a unemployed vagrant Mr. Reacher?”. A web poster named Jon Glade in an online response on Yahoo answers examines the Lone Ranger’s need for anonymity (http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080515205634AAJrQvl) :

There is an interesting factor in American literature that is called "the American monomyth," which essentially concerns itself with someone who is a member of the masses coming forth to serve the cause of justice (or the needs of society, which may not always be the same thing), righting a bad situation, and then disappearing back into the masses. In other words, America is unique in the fact that it is predisposed to accepting the idea of anonymous avengers.

Whatever one thinks of Tom’s religion it is not hard to understand his ‘spirtual’ connection a loner who is selflessly battling the forces of evil despite popular opinion. To quote Tom’s infamous Scientology video in which he describes his devotion to the creed: “Being a Scientologist when you drive past an accident it’s not like anyone else. As you drive past, you know you have to do something about it, because you know you’re the only one that can really help” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFBZ_uAbxS0   section 1:00-1:16) .  And how does public respond? The answer is online at: www.TomCruiseIsNuts.com  . Tom and Jack have the weight of the world on their shoulders and no one really appreciates their struggle. Clumsy exposition gives us the bedrock of Jack’s lonely battle - he is a much decorated army hero who spent a career as a military policeman.  He has had run ins with the brass who demoted him only to have him rise to a high rank again.  Suddenly, without explanation, he returns to the US only to live an invisible life and collect cash from military a pension at various Western Union locations. As the story unfolds Tom/Jack reveals what makes him tick. In a monologue while looking out at a busy office building filled with workers: (am paraphrasing) ”I spent 25 years listening to my government tell me I was fighting for freedom... look at all those people slaving away out there;  overwhelmed by debt and worry... trying to make ends meet.... are they free? they just wish they could live like me.” Perhaps Tom/Jack overestimates the desire of the general public to live a life of violence and insecurity. Certainly Tom seems unable to distinguish his adolescent fantasies of a middle aged multi-millionaire movie star from the challenges facing working people.  The bottom line is that Jack/Tom has a personal moral code of right and wrong and his life will be dedicated to HIS truth. 

The most obvious parallel would be to the Bourne action/adventure series, featuring a disillusioned secret agent. Doug Liman’s films, unlike Tom’s Reacher, were compelling and fun. Matt Damon’s Bourne is a trusting good soldier who embarks on a journey of discovery where he, and the audience, experience the heartbreaking realization that his beloved country has betrayed him. Jack Reacher is merely giving speeches.  We are told, in painfully drawn narration, what he is like, what he has done.... we see  nothing of his journey of disaffection. Tom/Jack is a crack investigator, marksman, guerrilla fighter, memorizer of data... but his motives are drawn with the subtlety of a good guy’s white hat.   There is nothing behind his anger except the cold heroic bather. The appalling glacially paced script combined with an endless supply of comic book heavies headed by the aforementioned fingerless German/Russian, makes the experience akin to watching the one movie available on an airplane during heavy turbulence.  (Incidentally the evil bad guy is played by an actual German - the famed director Werner Herzog - who seems to be proving that behind every great european auteur is a burning desire to be a Hollywood Star... or at least stand near one on the big screen....e.g. Francois Truffaut in “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” ).  It was nice to know that Robert Duvall can still be the eternal army cracker; although he has mellowed since “Apocalypse Now”.  The ingenue Rosamund Pike was forced to try and make us believe she found a shirtless Tom Cruise utterly irresistible.  Tom is hot... for a 50 year old guy. The idea that her character would have been drooling challenges credulity and speaks to the general disposition of people on the set refusing to tell Tom the emperor should put his shirt back on.  The stunt and fight scene shortcomings are too numerous to mention and one suspect’s Cruise’s megalomania at work - not one crew member had the courage to say, to borrow the pithy phrasing of the protagonist: “Tom this shit ain’t workin’”.  Actually that’s unfair, Reacher doesn’t seem to have the imagination to curse or the producers want to preserve the PG 13 rating - it would be more like - “Fight scenes... (beat, heavy breath) not workin’”.  This extends to the whole enterprise. In fact “Tom you’re old” might be added.

Unfortunately for future audiences more Reacher tombs are headed for the big screen. But we can all wish good things in the new year and maybe Tom will option the rights and decide to hand off the lead.  The bottom line is if you’re a omnipotent superstar you can create your own world. The challenge of making a great film about someone who lives in their own world is to work with people who collaboratively handle various aspects of the project.  Mr. Cruise has a reputation of being a doggedly hard worker and consummate professional. Unfortunately what is required is a steely determined artistic vision; which in turn requires trusting powerful department heads to execute a plan.  It is hard to imagine seasoned professionals screening rushes and not commenting on the obvious flaws. More likely the production crew stepped back and nodded:“hey Tom it’s your show... you’re in-charge”.  One can imagine Tom gleefully doing donuts in the souped up muscle cars; executing complicated maneuvers well into the wee hours of the morning until things were “perfect”.  Everyone must have known the scenes would be tedious.... but who wants to tell the boss... especially since he’s a decent guy who’s working so damn hard. In the end the key to total control is knowing who to trust. Judging by this feature Mr. Cruise lives in a very lonely world.... someone needs to tell him. Ironically Jack Reacher would have... but he wasn’t on set.

LINCOLN (2012)

Logging Lincoln

The first showing of Steven Spielberg’s Lincoln was packed. This is unusual for a relatively rural movie house, even during a Friday night of the Christmas holiday season.  The grey-haired crowed was pleased and there were even some applause during the closing credits.  A younger member of the audience, obviously dragged there by a well-intentioned elder, was less euphoric.  “Lincoln sure spent a lot of time talking in that house”. Although the young man probably wasn’t a seasoned moviegoer his criticism is on the mark and goes to the heart of the stylistic problem with Lincoln.  This work fails to be a movie driven by cinematic movement but a photographic representation of a “well-made play” driven by soliloquies. This is the wikipedia entry for form of a “well-made play”:

The form has a strong neoclassical flavor, involving a very tight plot and a climax that takes place very close to the end of the action, with most of the story taking place before the action of the play; much of the information regarding such previous action would be revealed through thinly veiled exposition. Following that would be a series of causally-related plot complications.


Spielberg’s work doesn’t exactly match this definition as the exposition is about as thinly veiled as a peacock on a snow drift.... but it was carefully crafted and hit its marks. It is odd to take issue with this film as most contemporary features are shoddily made and badly written.  It is, however, important to understand the context of this work. Steven Spielberg,  America’s most popular and successful director has undertaken a portrait of Abraham Lincoln,  American’s most revered President.  This is serious stuff... at least from Spielberg’s POV. The director has taken a special interest in the plight of African Americans.  Lincoln is his third feature examining “our peculiar institution”. (The other two: The Color Purple and Amistad).   Spielberg turned 18 when the 1964 Civil Rights Act was less than 6 months old. No doubt the racial struggle during the 1960s made an impression.  It is not surprising that “Lincoln” fails to be a biopic but rather the story of the President legally destroying slavery by carefully steering Congress to adopt the 13th amendment.  This is an interesting dramatic choice given Lincoln’s life. A few years back I took a tour of  the library of Congress was was told: aside from William Shakespeare, Abraham Lincoln is THE most popular subject for book writers.  I would note the new museum dedicated to our 16th President hosts The Lincoln Tower. This is a visual demonstration of his popularity with publishers : “the tower totals approximately 6,800 books. At three stories high, the tower represents just a fraction of the 15,000 titles written about Lincoln”. The myriad of topics include: his sexuality, his contentious relations with his family, his morphing attitudes towards race relations, his obscure origins, his fragile health, his depression, his love of the theater, his work as a lawyer..... and yet Spielberg chose the complicated political morass surrounding the updating of the Constitution as his centerpiece.

His screenplay was crafted by one of America’s premiere playwrights, Tony Kushner, and one of the country’s leading Presidential historians, Doris Kearns Goodwin. The idea was that the telling of this particular Constitutional struggle would illuminate the man.  Kushner did wonders painting the demon-like Roy Cohen in Angels in America; perhaps he could show the better angels of his nature and give us Lincoln. Kearns Goodwin would keep it historically accurate. Spielberg would handle the magic and spare no expense with the best acting and craft talent resulting in a serious general audience portrait of our most famous, yet enigmatic, President. There is a desire to define and honor our nation’s greatest leader.  Ironically the result a paean to all the things we think we know rather than a radical unfolding of that quixotic face that stares out from the five dollar bill. This film wants us to think of father Abraham more in the manner of father George.  Spielberg forgets that George stars out at us on our 1 dollars bills with a noble, direct gaze. Lincoln, in the 5 dollar portrait, looks off to the side in the same direction as the Mona Lisa.

Daniel Day Lewis continues his tradition of turning in a performance that overshadows his director and fellow cast-members. He IS the Lincoln we expect - saintly, self-deprecating, folksy and fierce. One laments the supporting cast who seem merely polished and professional.  There were solid performances and yet Lewis seemed to catapult the film into “what might have been”; whereas Tommy Lee Jones, Sally Field et al were only as good as the surroundings.  Ironically the slew of African American performers were hard hit with a the dramatic challenge of being representatives of goodness under oppression; a lesser form of the “magic negro”. Once again I turn to Wikipedia:

The magical negro is a supporting stock character in American Cinema who is portrayed coming to the aid of a film's white protagonists. These characters, who often possess special insight or mystical powers, have been a long tradition in American fiction.

In this case there are no psychics or superheroes trying to help whitey. Spielberg’s black cast channels the Christian savior in their magnanimity. One might suspect an angry vengeful disposition given the conditions surrounding 19th century slavery, but Quentin Tarantino’s Django cannot be unchained in this universe.  Whereas Tarantino channels the rage of the 1970s blaxploitation heavies such as Mandingo - who want to kill whitey for for being evil; Spielberg has a never-ending parade of black people who are as well-mannered, well groomed and amiable as Sidney Poitier in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. It is, strangely, two sides of the same coin.   It is certainly progress when one considers Step’n’Fetchit, the most popular African American movie star of the early 20th century, made a career of exhibiting the most vile, feckless black stereotypes.  The beneficent mirror image, however, does deny the black characters the ability to be fully human. It is important to note that Spielberg should not be considered racist as his typecasting crosses color-lines. Noone is ‘real’ in this ‘historical reenactment’.  There are a slew of encounters between the beneficent Father Abraham and a number of earnest, coiffed, articulate African American characters in which the evils of slavery and the dignity of humanity are dutifully discussed.  It would be interesting to know if Kearns Goodwin took issue. It is a well-known historical fact that the 16th President’s views on blacks were evolving and would not be in accord with present day progressive attitudes.  The man we view in the cinema is NOT the man who at one time proposed sending blacks back to Africa. Then again Spielberg might see artistic license as more important than complete accuracy. This is the crux of the problem. The hallmark card visuals are merely cloying but the substance is troubling. Spielberg has a vision of what is necessary to produce an important serious portrait of this important serious historical figure. The result is neither historical, serious or important.

Lincoln’s family has always been a treasure trove of intrigue to the general public. George Washington might have been the first President; but he was his wife’s second husband. Martha had an immense fortune. These facts might come as a surprise to most as the Washingtons are sealed in the cool white gossip-free marble of hagiography. Lincoln’s saintliness has always had the common touch of marital upheaval.  The public knows  Mrs. Lincoln as “troubled”.  Spielberg has decided that the best way to approach this sensitive topic is to paint her as an overly emotional woman who failed to managed the loss of her favorite child. There is a scene in which she accuses her husband of wanting to lock her in an insane  asylum to conveniently shield him from her justifiable grief.   The fact that he fails to dispute this accusation leaves a uneasy ripple in the warm-fuzziness. Was honest Abe trying to lock up the troublesome mrs? The effect is about as jarring as an 18th century outhouse suddenly appearing in the Colonial Williamsburg theme-park.  No doubt Kearns Goodwin approved of this historical fact - but the truth seems to be swimming upstream. Mrs. Lincoln’s issues predated the death of her son William. In fact it predates the death of her other son Edward, who does not exist in this Lincoln family. “Molly” Lincoln suffered severe mental illness which bore the hallmarks of bi-polar depressive disorder.  She eventually ended up in a mental hospital being committed by her son Robert. Truth should not be a slave to fact in rendering art; but here truth seems completely lost. Lincoln’s chose to marry a VERY VERY difficult person who had extreme emotional issues.  That is NOT the couple portrayed in the film.  It should also be noted that the President himself was not the paradigm of mental health PRIOR to taking office.  He bouts with depression as a young man have been well documented. Once again that is not the character on screen. Spielberg could claim that their is a broader truth in what he shows. Molly was difficult but bore many ills with dignity. Lincoln himself was dour that was merely exacerbated by the carnage and horror which he was forced to orchestrate. Their deficits are illustrated with complete with thumbnail explanations as to their cause.  Unfortunately the director’s explanations and white lies muddle an understanding of the characters.  Spielberg, with the imprimatur of a credited historian, gets it completely wrong. It would be difficult to “know” Lincoln, but the idea that Mary Lincoln was merely difficult and oversensitive, and that Mr. Lincoln was a befuddled husband misses the mark.

She was really crazy. He was a real depressive. He certainly knew what he was getting into.  These obscured “facts” tell me more about Lincoln that two hours of clumsy Tony Kushner dialogue such as Mary saying something to the effect of: “you always held it against Robert (the eldest son) that he was born because it forced you to marry me” or how about this turkey: “People will remember you as great and me as crazy”.  I’m paraphrasing but you get the idea that broad, character-defining themes are handled with the subtly of a Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving painting.  Perhaps this analogy is a disservice to Rockwell as his job was to marshal the power saccharine cliches to sell papers. Spielberg is trumpeting this film as... well, serious stuff.  Once again artistry has license to cut and paste, but not to mislead.  Lincoln’s distance with Robert probably deserves its own separate feature to cover the vast ocean of family tension.  This film’s harping on his mother’s refusal to allow Robert to join the service is placed squarely on in the coffin of the beloved William. Mrs. Lincoln’s past instability and loss of another child puts this in a different light. It also shows the President willingness to support her, over his eldest son, to be somewhat darker than Spielberg’s telling.  In addition the nature of Lincoln’s overindulgence and closeness to Tad fails to mention Tad’s cleft pallet which rendered his speech incomprehensible. This is the dramatic equivalent of mounting a production of Dicken’s A Christmas Carol, and leaving out Tiny Tim’s crutch.  Seems an odd omission; but it was no doubt a casualty in the intense battle for truth back at production headquarters.

One can well imagine Mr. Spielberg, Mr. Kushner and Ms. Kearns Goodwin pouring over the mountains of material. One can feel the vast amount of pressure it must have taken to mold this sprawling narrative into Spielberg’s oeuvre.  In a sense it must have been an unintentional re-hashing of the vast political infighting that let to the passage of the 13th amendment. It is VITAL we include THIS. It is PARAMOUNT we don’t touch THAT. I’m sure, in the vast network of top departments and people, there were lobbyist of sorts who petitioned for inclusion of major events in Lincoln's life - the “Appottomax Court House” camp “won” - it is IN - the “Ford’s Theater” camp “lost” - there is no assassination scene... ditto for Gettsyburg.... although “the address” makes an appearance. One can only imagine the delight felt by some at Kushner’s cleverness: four soldiers at a busy army camp near the front, two black and two white, dutifully recite the speech to a well lit, seemingly unencumbered Lincoln, who seems to be posing for the monument on the mall. One suspects Kearns Goodwin missed that production meeting.... lets hope so.

In the end we have a clear, albeit simplified, narrative of how and why the 13th amendment passed along with uneven forays into family life and Washington personalities.  It will come as a surprise to many how the President’s insistence on this piece of legislation hinged on a very well-reasoned legal argument about how his banning of slavery could be reversed at a latter date. Lincoln believed the whole horrible business of war might re-ignite again.  There is the sub-plot of the Confederate peace offering which almost derailed the passage. In other words the idea was peace could be had WITHOUT completely settling the slavery question. Lincoln, through a series of cunning moves which involved lying to his allies, stuck to his guns and the measure was passed. We have the crafty maneuvers... but Spielberg fails to give us the man; or more correctly the person he reveals is molded by the future.  We have a representation of good father Abraham; rather than the genuine article.  There is a strange arrogance in this film which stems from the idea that hiring the best will render the truth. 

Interestingly the most successful sections of this film are the director’s brief re-creations of the battles and the aftermath on the field.  It is the same in Private Ryan. That film faltered after a stunning re-enactment of the Normandy invasion. Spielberg is more adapt at re-drawing actual places and events... rather than the individuals.  Lincoln becomes merely saintly, strong and clever.... Perhaps a repositioning of the battle scenes, specifically the opening sequence, might have given the audience more of a feeling for the steeliness of the President’s actions in potentially drawing out the war. It’s one thing to look back with hindsight and realize that he followed the right path. It’s another to see the carnage first hand and wonder what kind of stuff it must have taken to, as one recent President put it, “stay the course”. Victory has many fathers... but imagine if the war had dragged on for another half decade. Lincoln might have been viewed as a lawyerly perfectionist who toyed with hundreds of thousands of lives and his legacy might have steered closer to his predecessor and successor - the little remembered Buchanan and much maligned Johnson. Modern President’s have learned the hard way that self righteous belief in the ‘greater good’ has not always served to bolster their reputations; neither has skirting the law - something Spielberg’s  Lincoln freely confesses.  The greatness of Lincoln lies in the grey of doubt. Spielberg is more comfortable with bold strokes of black and white .  The director seems to banish the man who once said: “Sir, my concern is not whether God is on our side; my greatest concern is to be on God's side, for God is always right”.

Spielberg’s Lincoln echoes the words recently removed from the Martin Luther King Jr. memorial on the Washington mall:

“I was a drum major for justice peace and righteousness.”

The correct quote from Dr. King’s sermon reads:

“Yes, if you want to say that I was a drum major, say that I was a drum major for justice. Say that I was a drum major for peace. I was a drum major for righteousness. And all of the other shallow things will not matter.”

It is a distinction that probably be lost Mr. Spielberg as his Lincoln embodies a fierce knowing sense of justice.  Lincoln was a great fan of Shakespeare.  In fact Kushner lightly peppers the President’s dialogue with subtle references to the bard. Nothing too overt which was a welcome relief from a script that seems to want to prove that everyone had done their homework.  In short Spielberg sees the 16th President as a Henry V of good: A brash warrior/politician who cloaks his offense in a playful avuncular manner but keeps his eye on the prize of victory. What little I know makes me think more of Prince Hamlet: A man who inherits a disastrous political situation and the journey towards righteousness is bound by a constant questioning of the world around him in order to understand the meaning of victory.  There is little doubt that the Abraham Lincoln of 1861, who might have struck a bargain with the South, was not the same as the Abraham Lincoln of 1865. This does not make either bad or good. The bottom line is that the greatness of Lincoln lies in his ‘not knowing’; not his ‘knowing’. Mr. Spielberg, despite the legion of highly paid staff, missed the forest for the trees.  But no worries. Many in theater didn’t seem to notice. They clapped. They were very enthusiastic. Perhaps this is due to the fact that the other movies showing in the same time were: Skyfall, Life of Pi, Killing Them Softly, Playing for Keeps and Wreck It Ralph.  Certainly Mr. Spielberg’s historical foray should earn him great praise and many awards. But now that it’s over it’s time to get back to business. It has been revealed  Spielberg’s next two directorial projects are: Indiana Jones 5 and Robopocalypse.

Killing Them Softly (2012)

HITMAN, MISSMAN

It’s too easy to say “Killing Them Softly” is a bad movie. It fails to work but we do see an individual’s vision and effort.  This might sound trivial but all too often features are akin to chain restaurants where a committee-centric group-think is on display. It is a relief to be able to say “the artist didn’t see this or that” rather than “headquarters didn’t hire the right firm to run the focus groups”.  The essential mistake of this work is the writer/director’s attempt to make a bold statement about America.  It is not surprising that Andrew Dominik is a foreigner.  This is especially true when you consider Brad Pitt’s closing monologue in which he skewers Thomas Jefferson and the hypocrisy of American political myths. America has a proud tradition of jingoistic nationalism and we come across as too serious and severe in matters of religion and morality. Our moments of self-criticism, however, are more opaque. The “nattering nabobs of negativism” are either cloaked in tweed at the academy or t-shirts in the commune. They ain’t packing heat running around the street. The entrepreneurial gangster, if they reflect on politics at all, would never be harsh. That is the genius of this country; even our crooks are patriots. This is the tragic flaw that undermines Mr. Dominik’s whole endeavor.

For an genuine American portrait of low level robbers and hitmen turn to Springsteen’s “Born To Run” album: Meeting Across the River. This is a simple 215 word, lightly orchestrated tune about a down and out loser looking for the “big score”. This is the cornerstone plot-point in Mr. Dominik’s work.  Springsteen gives us a heart-wrenching portrait of people he knows:

And tonight's gonna be everything that I said
And when I walk through that door
I'm just gonna throw that money on the bed
She'll see this time I wasn't just talking
Then I'm gonna go out walking

Mr. Dominik gives us pages and pages of dialogue and MTV imagery of killings and blustery speeches delivered with gusto by top actors... and yet it’s Mr. Springsteen minimalist sketch that communicates everything that Mr. Dominik was trying to say.  It is important to note that other excellent foreign directors have stumbled in trying to make bold pronouncements about the schizophrenic contradictions of the land of opportunity.  Antonio’s “Zabriski Point”, although brilliant, shows little understand of the home of the brave. Americans don’t reflect much on our political state - we leave that to the French (de Tocqueville or Bernard-Henri Levy). Brad Pitt and James Gandolfini should have taken a cue from Coppola’s taciturn heavies who philosophize and moralize with simple curt pronouncements: we’re making you an offer you can’t refuse. There is a moment where Pitt tries to channel these potent warnings - but this quickly deflates into a clumsily masked DISCUSSION. We don’t go to the movies to see gangsters discuss - we want them glaring and strutting - think of many Scorsese moments - for example DeNiro sucking down a cigarette in “Goodfellas” as he stares at a partner who has made a scene. That partner is DEAD. You know it. In Dominik’s work you know it but.... you don’t really care as the “reveals” short-circuit themselves so the gad guys have no charge.

There is a prop in this film that is the perfect metaphor for “Killing Them Softly” - the sawed-off shotgun.  One of the low-end criminals produces a shotgun that is so “sawed” (i.e. shortened) that it looks ridiculous. In fact the co-bandit makes fun of it. The idea is that these down and out losers can’t even buy the right guns. They are uncomfortable, meandering and out of sorts.  There weapons don’t even make sense. This is Mr. Dominik’s major themes but unfortunately it is the film itself and not the characters who beg clarification.  After the initial hold up of the card game, the movie goes on a journey which reminded me of the incongruousness of that gun. There is the build up of the “mentor” Galiffino - who disappears off screen with a dialogue laden explanation.  There is the corporate Gangster who hires the elusive Brad Pitt - both these characters seem under or over-exposed - you haven’t known them enough but you’re afraid you know them too much; in the end don’t really care either way.  Every scene is peppered with Bush, Obama or Paulson reflecting on the ’08 financial crisis. Where is all this going? Let’s turn to an Italian director who go it somewhat right: Sergio Leon. His gangster epic “Once Upon a Time in America” gave answers. That film was bombastic and simplistic, however there are clearly drawn sagas which give an overarching coherence to the narrative. It also has a political undertones which genuinely speak to issues of community and fairness in the American system. “Killing Them Softly” opens up grandiose themes that are lost in endless sophomoric rants and journeys.

There are two defenses the director might put forth: 1. this is a black comedy and 2. the studio got in the way. In addressing the first argument: “Killing Them Softly” is not funny and therefore NOT a comedy (not even in the Russian social-satire sense of the word). This feature fails to elicit even a wry smile - Chekov’s “The Seagull” is slapstick compared to Mr. Dominik’s work.   In terms of the studio: I have not bothered to read about anything connected with the production of this film but I have little doubt there is AT LEAST another 90 minutes of material on the cutting room floor. Filmmakers are on a quest to find the missing footage in von Stroheim’s “Greed” or Capra’s “Lost Horizon”.  No one, save Mr. Dominik, would be able to endure MORE of “Killing Them Softly”. If the suits at headquarters cut large swaths of plotline from this feature the remaining footage shows their fears were justified. They are NOT GUILTY; the director will take full responsibility for the crime.  Were I to meet the Dominik I would not harp too much on this project. He’s young. He clearly has talent. It is impressive that he has managed to line up so much industry fire-power behind his project. I’d pat him on the back and mutter: “Kid you gonna do a job... bring the right gun”.  Then I’d walk away, turn around and say very firmly “you owe be $9 and 97 minutes.”

The Master (2012)

 

Master Strokes, No Masterpiece

Paul Thomas Anderson has made a career of depicting what befell the people who took up Horace Greeley’s cry to go West for “manifest destiny”.  Anderson is smart enough to know that good fortune is different from getting what you want.  The dark side of the American dream started with the unfortunate gamblers in “Hard Eight” and peaked with the parable of oilmen in “There Will Be Blood”. In-between were the Angelinos in the skin game, “Boogie Nights” and their counterparts in the legitimate show business, “Magnolia”; not to mention those residents who aren’t even in entertainment, “Punch Drunk Love”.   We see real seekers of fortune before fame; all slowly roasting in the eternal sunshine. The light has the ability to tan, but is also burns. No popular filmmaker has so elegantly painted these desperate, lonely dreamscape refugees.  Anderson’s latest, “The Master”, is a spiritual journey: A reflective meditation on a California religion with a genuine prophet for profit. The result is exquisite, masterful and disappointing.

The plotline is simple: imagine if a shell-shocked Dean Moriarty, Kerouac’s “On the Road” party animal, had been taken in by L. Ron Hubbard instead of Sal Paradise. Anderson’s master is more cerebral than the Beats.  He likes his booze and girls but this trip is more of a mindgame than a brawl.  He also prefers yachts to hitchhiking and blue haired ladies to pool room hookers. In a sense this might be one of the problems as the strongest moments of the film are when Joaquin Phoenix goes “animal”.  Joaquin steals this film just as Daniel Day Lewis hijacks “There Will Be Blood”. The very elaborate biographical details and intricate metaphysical/psychological journey take a back seat to Joaquin being the embodiment of that uniquely American blend of emptiness and terror. You feel bad for the war-scarred PTSD sentimental veteran; but you also realize he might resort to mass murder and cannibalism. (Note: he does admit to incest). Anderson might have done well to eliminate all dialogue except for Joaquin’s laugh.  That sound is the embodiment of Anderson’s career: a scary combination of innocence snuffed out by unspeakable trauma leading to nefarious delusional quests. When you hear Joaquin guffawing you know that even a legitimate savior would throw up his hands in an act of futility.

This film’s savior is too busy listening to his own voice to notice his apostle’s lack of piety and sanity. Philip Seymour Hoffman reprises his role as the alcohol infused charismatic intellectual trickster suckering a callow captive; but I much preferred him as Truman Capote. He was believable as the troubled author; less so as the troubled author/cult-leader. Unfortunately the performances are in the same key with swings of rapier-wit spiced with hatred and rage fueled by unbridled narcissism. His anger is steeped in weakness– hence a desire to have a good guard dog; i.e. Joaquin.  Capote didn’t need a bodyguard – he was smarter and funnier hence better able to defend himself as long as he was in the “right” circles. It isn’t merely that Capote was a “better” character. Hoffman fails to master this master. It was pitch perfect… to a fault. Having recently seen a YouTube video of Hubbard during this period it is apparent that Hoffman did his homework. He was the person he was supposed to be… but it isn’t enough to save the film.  This speaks to the overall problem – is this who the audience wanted?

There is an odd dreariness about "The Master" based in its "realism".  This comes front and center when faced with an odd paradox in non-animated dramatic films:  Whereas animators fear the “uncanny valley” – audience revulsion at slightly imperfect replication of human beings – this turns out to be the holy grail for most dramatic features.  Directors strive for “realism”. Most fall short. But there is an elite group of directors, including Anderson, who have mastered the craft. Their challenge is to bend “realism” towards drama.  It’s a peculiar criticism as the film has a lyrical quality that ads flourish to the meticulous stagecraft… but does it “sing”? Joaquin is outstanding. Hoffman is too perfect. Amy Adams is a brilliant Lady Macbeth. Unfortunately Anderson is no Shakespeare. He is closer to Capote in capturing the minor key of the American Zeitgeist. Capote, however, made you care about the cold blooded killers.

The penultimate scene in the movie shows the prodigal son returning to face a father who has made his mark. The master has a “real” following and has made a dent in the establishment he seeks to conquer. This scene is the dénouement of this intricate character study. The two protagonists are coming together to face their demons and reconcile their improbable friendship/bond/love affair.  They face an unpleasant reality.  There is genuine affection – a marvel given the psychopathic profiles of each of these protagonists – but in the end the stars are not in their favor. This is ironic as the master’s re-incarnation cosmology usually has the hopeful resonance found in supermarket self help books.  The master, with tears in his eyes, explains that if they meet again in future lives, they will be mortal enemies. Despite all the heart-wrenching dialogue and exquisite performances – the film was dead. I felt nothing. I was longing for the scenes in which Joaquin delivers the blows, literally, to all the establishment types who looked down on him and his god: Joaquin assaults a paradigm of respectability while working as a department store photographer.  (The victims crime was wanting a picture portrait for his wife.) Joaquin throws an apple at a questioner at the NY blue blood reception before stalking him and laying him out; Joaquin pummeling the skeptic at the book review party; Joaquin bashing his cage in the Philadelphia prison. These moments give life to a moribund plot loaded with gullible acolytes and unsympathetic marks.

This is really a film about misfits railing against post war Pax Americana.  “The Master” lacks a Ginsberg howl or a James Dean smirk or a Kerouac belch. You want to join forces with Joaquin on the anti-hero journey but in the end Hoffman only brings a real life ambivalence about the sadness of con-men. There is a moment during one of the master’s sermons when he comes up with the answer of the moment. “Laughter”.  That is the key “laughter”. Joaquin isn’t impressed. This nugget of wisdom is met with a disillusioned grimace.  Perhaps Hoffman’s son is right: “He’s just making it up as he goes along”. At this point I genuinely missed Joaquin’s laugh. It would sooth Joaquin’s physical embodiment of brokenness. All the fairy tales of “that one true love” or “the one man who has ALL the answers” are encapsulated in the hunched broken man. It’s a trauma appropriately illustrated in adolescents where there is the hope of knowledge gained and a long road ahead. Middle aged men faced with these travails are pathetic, not tragic. That isn’t to say it is impossible to create a solid drama of their plight.

The spiritual grandfather of “The Master” would be  “The Misfits”. This is another paean to Western oddballs.  Their journey into the desert isn’t about digging up a copy of a self-composed sacred text or letting a motorcycle rip.  Clark Gable and company are out to re-live their Western dreams by turning wild horses into dog food. Marilyn Monroe puts her foot down by screaming bloody murder.  You shouldn’t care… but you do. When Montgomery Cliff, who bears a striking resemblance to Joaquin,  is on the payphone with his mother you know it’s pathetic… but you care. Anderson’s “The Master” has it’s moments when the sheer absurdity of the character’s actions trigger empathy and awe. Hoffman dutifully poses for a photographic portrait by Joaquin. He is sweating which is a subtle reference to Joaquin’s previous portrait debacle in which he causes the subject to sweat by pushing the lights up against the poor victim's face. In this case Hoffman provides his own water works. He’s channeling the corporate boardroom seriousness of the era.  He desperately wants all those East Coast establishment types to take him seriously. He musters all his strength and Joaquin takes the shot. It’s the kind of small silent moment that makes you, ever so briefly, believe in the film by siding with the lunatic heroes.  It goes beyond being clever and well crafted…. It makes you smile… maybe even laugh. In the end that’s what it’s all about.

In loving memory of my mother

For Irene

How do you create efficient burning kindling out of newspaper? Answer: Shape it into a triangle. It’s not easy to do. It looks simple but it takes practice. It’s not something most people know about but I learned it from my mother. She had read it in a NYT article when I was a child. She showed me. In fact I was charged with folding many “triangles” at the many fireplaces in our house on Long Island. In my career as a Newspaper kindling creator I don’t think I came close to making the number that Mom folded. She wanted all the fireplaces to be “ready” so that all the guests needed to do was strike a match and put it to the nest of “triangles” that held up the logs.

This small remembrance brings back my mother’s determination in terms of organizing and prioritizing. To many of you my mother was a “free sprit” who had a casual sense of style and a “live and let live” philosophy. That is true but I’ve heard it said that great “free verse” poetry requires the most attention to craft. Effortlessness requires dogged practice. For those of you who were privileged enough to experience the thousands of meals she served or sleep in the thousands of beds she made – every single detail – from the wattage of the light on the nightstand to the breezy background music to the way the hedge was pruned – were all her hand. I mean HER hand. My mother did not delegate willingly. She worked with loyal groups of people to create the setting but make no mistake – it was her vision. She was the director.

This brings up another aspect of my mother’s vision – she was a truly egalitarian person in that everyone was treated with the same amount of respect. Ironically this led to strange evenings and encounters – I remember once she invited my piano teacher to join us for a family meal. He was the male musical version of Elenor Rigby. It was a long night punctuated by his racist views and the ugly display of an alcohol problem. But you know even after 40 years I can remember how happy he was to be invited for dinner. I was furious at the time but it’s odd how that evening takes on a much different cast when viewed from middle age. As a child I felt the whole thing was inappropriate. But now I’m not so sure. Ditto for her choice of a summer helper who lived with us. The fact that he only spoke Mandarin and was prone to serious mood swings might have given pause to most employers – not my mother. I remember when she helped him get into a boarding school and we visited him en masse. He was sullen and depressed. But you know I remember seeing his Christmas cards on the walls years later – he was beaming with his young family on a suburban lawn. Certainly made me think. But at the time I was hoping she’d fire him and I wouldn’t have to deal with his awkwardness. Shame on me.

But you know it’s hard to understand the big picture when you’re a child. My mother’s endless patience with strangers was inversely related to her expectations of her own children. My best friend was allowed to come to the table looking and acting like Jimi Hendrix at Montray Pops – lets just say there was a different dress and conduct requirement for my siblings and I. This is not to give the impression that my mother was a “stuffed shirt” as a parent. Quite the contrary – she had an unothrodox way of approaching life’s lessons. Here is an example: When I was 14 I gave a 17 year old friend an record for Christmas. I dropped it off at his father’s store. It was the Dead Boys second album and unfortunately for me the lyrics were printed on the inside sleeve. The father was deeply offended. Once again in looking back I guess a tribute to the serial killer Son of Sam (who had been recently arrested) and a number of anti-Catholic and misogynistic ballads were maybe not the most appropriate choice as a holiday gift. But my mother focused on something else: I HOPE THIS IS GOING TO TEACH YOU TO WRAP YOUR GIFTS! It might seem odd that a mother would stress the proprietary of giftwrapping and ignore the impropriety of late 1970s punk rock – but that was my mother. Someone who cherished old world values of conduct while embracing new, often disconcerting, forms art and behavior. We had a house-guest in East Hampton who almost burned the place to the ground while cooking “lunch” at 3AM. But what angered my mother was the mess he left upstairs when he finally left. She could tolerate his alternative schedule, odd jokes and even his carelessness that almost cost us the house – but to trash the guestroom?

This brings up another facet of my mother as host – I venture to guess that most if not all the people in this room spent many weeks or days as a guest of Irene’s. But I’m equally confident that very few of you ever hosted her – and if you did it was for a very brief period. This isn’t to mark ingratitude on your part but to point out – my mother did not care for being a guest. I think it was too stressful for her. She looked on it as an awesome responsibility. I know this sounds strange but to be a good guest, in my mother’s view, required a whole-hearted acknowledgement of the host’s generosity. The basest thing is to be ungrateful. There are times when you just want to kick back and not be polite and be rude – but this is something my mother would never really want to share with the outside world. Mom was a private person who found the modern confessional society to be base and undignified. She had very high standards that she applied rigorously to herself. Once again she hid this harsh Calvinist self-critism within the veneer of a downtown bohemian façade. There were very high standards which needed to be upheld in herself and her family: dress could be “different” - but it had to be “thought through”, furniture could be made from found objects – but it had to be clean, you could be a free-spirit – but not rude, you could be laid back – but not lazy.

I used to be angry because there were many times when I felt badly dressed, sloppy, slovenly and rude. I expected encouragement and I felt criticism. But from my mother’s POV she merely applied the high standards she set for herself to her children. That was her way of showing love: To explain the correct way to behave… to give tips on how to get things done CORRECTLY, NEATLY, EFFECIENTLY….. For example the best way to create kindling out of newspaper. I really resented making those newspaper triangles….. but low and behold many years later I found myself living in the middle of the woods, off the grid in an un-heated house – and wouldn’t you know it – making those things kept me going through the winter.

I’m going to show all of you how it’s done – (make a triangle)

I’m going recite a poem by Robert Hayden. I took the liberty of changing the sex of the protagonist:

Sundays too my mother got up early
and put her clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked her.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, she’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to her,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?


Towards the end of my final conversation with my mother I broke down. She calmly told me she loved me. In a gentle frail voice she explained that she wasn’t crying and so I shouldn’t either. It took me nearly half a century to understand. But in the end I did.

The Artist (2011)

Silence is Golden for the Artist

It would be accurate to describe “The Artist” as a simple, sentimental black and white film that idolizes the silent film era. It would also be accurate to describe bread as a mixture of flour and yeast. The fact of the matter is that things are often more than the sum of their parts. “The Artist” is a masterpiece. The credit goes to the writer/director Michel Hazanavicius. A good measure of ‘an artist’ is the mastery of their craft. The best prism with which to judge skill is to view their execution of rudimentary tasks. How does the master-chef tackle an omelet? How does the prima ballerina approach the bar? How does a fist violinist play a C scale? In these simple exercises one views a life-blood of being a master. In “The Artist” an audience has a the rare chance of experiencing the work of someone who, in an almost religious sense, “understands” film.

The film centers around a vain film star who is challenged by the motion picture business’ transition to sound feature films. Truth be told many performers managed the change seamlessly but the film “Singing in the Rain”, whose plot revolved around a star failing to make the vocal grade, seem to immortalize this legend. Hazanavicius grabs this fable and runs with all his might. No need to know film history. No need to be familiar with Chaplin, Arbuckle, Keaton et al. Let scholars talk about “Modern Times” or “Sherlock Jr.”, audiences for “The Artist” need to simply sit back and react. An old film professor once told me “films are about reaction not action”. This axiom is at the heart of the success of “The Artist”. The opening sequence brilliantly shows a movie audience watching a feature while simulations illustrating the movie stars’ impression of that same audience, in addition to his cynical take on his co-star and producer. We’re watching them watch the film while he’s watching them watch the film while simultaneously watching his co-star and producer. In this stew observations everything is shown, not told, and a primordial reaction is generated: the audience is captivated on an almost biological level. The tropes are as old as the human experience. We see ambition, vanity, lust, love, fear, hate, jealously... without tiresome dialogue indicating action. The seamlessness of the sequences can be attributed to a keen mastery of technique. We all a have an innate sense of the human emotional experience but so few films can touch at the heart-chords due to lack of rigorous attention to the details of story telling. Modern audiences are continually subjected to the laborious “action” sequences or detailed dialogue- narration whereas what everyone desires is to merely react to the situation. The director is there to MAKE you feel; not TELL you what to feel.

In an amateur’s hands the “cute” little dog-companion is a cheap sugar pill that illicitness a passing burp of sweetness. Note Hazanavicius’ use of this animal: The canine is a genuine co-star whose endless routines with the master give the audience boundless love of the protagonist and his companion. The “gags” are as old as Lassie’s great- great- great grandfather and yet this man and dog break out of the low earth orbit of side-show cleverness. Their banter is a building block in the seemingly simplistic storyline. Ditto for the interaction between the protagonist and the ingenue. The “blind” dance behind the screen in their second encounter which beautifully foretells the climax of the film. The actor standing up for the young woman against the pompous producer. Once again a subtle mirror to the second half of the film. The truly magical “failed” dance sequence which the downfallen star clings to as the token of his life’s work. All these “simple” sequences pull the audience into the over-arching flow of the narrative on a glandular level. Your heart beats because your nerves were triggered automatically. You love them because all the “knee jerk” set-pieces are struck with the master-hand of a physician gauging a reflex and not the sloppy roar of a carnival barker. These people are as “real” as the theatergoers around you in the audience; ironically maybe even more so. It should be noted that the infamous gangster Bugsy Siegel took his cues on how to dress from his childhood friend George Raft - who played gangsters in the movies. Sometimes the fantasy world, when executed by masters, has more “reality” than “real” life.

One might assume producing a “silent” film would require less rigor as the technical demands are decreased. No need to worry about background noise and extensive miking and mixing. Ironically this feature pays more attention to sound than most “talking” films. Absent dialogue the score becomes exponentially more prominent. The challenge is to prevent the music from overwhelming the “foley” effects (term used for recording of incidental noises - footsteps etc). In addition this balance must be met while convincing modern film audiences that this is faithful to the early silent era - as this is the central conceit of the film. Modern audiences would have a difficult time merely having instruments and song. Hazanavicius convinces everyone of the genuineness of the “primitive” production values while employing very sophisticated visual and sound effects. The opening sequence with the large audience viewing a projected film in a large theater requires significant technical prowess. Ditto for the “dream” sequences. The sound is also masterfully employed. Although the film is essentially silent the closing moments have “talking sound”. The director cleverly plays against expectations and the focus, aside of one brief line, is the protagonists huffing for breath after a strenuous scene. This heavy breathing carries more heft than 1,000 pages of scripted dialogue.

Once again there are those who will see “The Artist” as a solid piece of work but merely good candy. They will give the director his due as a craftsman but say the work lacks gravitas as it is merely a stylized fairy tale love story. Once again this is accurate but false. What is great art? It’s one of those simple questions that could give rise to centuries of discussion. It is hard to bring any sort of consensus. It’s similar to trying to describe beauty or laughter. Justice Potter Stewart came close to a concise definition in his reflection on whether or not the film “The Lovers” was obscene:

I shall not today attempt further to define the kinds of material I understand to be embraced within that shorthand description ["hard-core pornography"]; and perhaps I could never succeed in intelligibly doing so. But I know it when I see it, and the motion picture involved in this case is not that. [Emphasis added.]
—Justice Potter Stewart

Well in the spirit of Justice Stewart “The Artist” is great. I know it when I see it.

Fight Club (1999, reviewed 2011)

Fight Club Beaten By Heavy Idea

Two years before 9/11 a mainstream Hollywood film was released which references “Ground Zero” and “terrorists”. The cataclysmic ending shows the anti-hero holding hands with his girlfriend as a vast number of buildings in the financial district are blown to pieces. It is odd for the film industry to be so prescient. It is standard fair for the people in the dream factory to be late for the party. For example the industry took a stand on Vietnam many years AFTER the war had ended (“Coming Home”, “The Deer Hunter”….) Although “Fight Club” fails to be a direct commentary on international global intrigue or Arab extremism, there is an eerie, disquieting feeling one gets viewing this work in 2012. When asked why the terrorist were targeting the headquarters of credit card companies the answer seems to be lifted from a Ron Paul supporter: “if we blown up the credit card companies then no one will know what the debt is…. there will be chaos. “ Given the financial debacles of the last few years it is doubtful this dialogue would have okayed by a jittery mainstream film producer. After all scaring people sells…. But terrifying the audience is never good box office. Even for 1999 this film is testing the delicate balance between selling tickets and sowing fear. Whatever one feels about the artistic merits of the production it is a brave effort when measured against the sea of mind-numbing features. This film dares us to think. I accept the challenge.

There is always a problem with corporate sponsored entertainment that highlights revolution and sub-culture. Niggers With Attitude, the pioneering gangsta rap group that vividly portrayed brutal LA street life, had a majority of its fans in white suburban enclaves. Gwenth Paltrow, in her Marie Antoniotte-like blog called GOOP, highlighted the fact that she played NWA’s “Straight Outta Compton” in her photo spread documenting her Harpers Bazaar cover shoot. It would be interesting to know if the number of subscriptions to Harpers Bazaar in South Central is greater than zero. In short, when the revolution is televised make sure you understand who owns the broadcasting company. The shows might be entertaining and exhilarating but there is a difference between Che and a Che T-shirt. Having made the point that “Fight Club” is about the bottom line and not real social commentary the producers might have stumbled into dangerous territory in spite of themselves. It is interesting to note that only a Hollywood film about a narcissistic, nihilistic socio-path would feel the need to create a love interest in order to frame this incredibly dark film as some sort of hybrid romance. What was Helen Bonham Carter doing in this movie? Unfortunately it is very apparent that Ed Norton’s real love is Brad Pitt. They are the REAL couple – the fact that Brad is actually an imaginary extension of Ed doesn’t undercut the genuineness of their romance. In short if Ed has the ability to beat himself to a pulp – it seems equally likely that he’d be able to fuck his own brains out. There is something forced about Ed’s struggle. Carter instead of being the motivating agent seems more of an awkward bystander. Unfortunately leading men as overt homosexual lovers is bad box office. This conundrum was illustrated in the classic “Bonnie and Clyde”. Although the scriptwriters were open to hinting at Clyde’s real life sexual preferences – the suits gave a resounding “NO”. The men upstairs were right in terms of ticket sales but not in terms of artistry. “Fight Club” has more homo-erotic sadomasochistic imagery than a soft core pornographic movie but the presence of Carter shields the producers from any charge of being “queer”. It’s odd think of a movie showcasing radical anarchy to be worried about homophobia but Carter keeps the film in the closet. Imagine what an audience member might think about Ed Norton’s serial embrace of a morbidly obese, castrated, former body builder without the allusions to his interest in Ms. Carter. This would certainly not be good box office but it would have rendered a more genuine anti-social radical. The failure to “go all the way” eats away at the film’s foundation.

Angst about ubiquitous, soulless consumer culture is fertile ground for artistic commentary. The essence of the film can be crystallized in Brad Pitt’s sermon to his troops:

I see all this potential, and I see squandering, God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables, slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need. We’re the middle children of history man… no purpose or place… we got no great war, no great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives. We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, movie gods and rock stars… but we won’t. We’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re VERY VERY PISSED OFF.

The most interesting reference in the speech is to “the great war and the great depression”. Immediately one shifts back to the 1950s – the original pre-Vietnam generation that was raised in a society of boundless post-war prosperity and American supremacy. The Pope for the ironically disillusioned youth was Alan Ginsburg. His sermon, the poem Howl, begins with:

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,
starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear,
burning their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,


In this comparison Ginsburg kicks “Fight Club’s” ass. It would be foolish to expect a commercial Hollywood feature to compete with a classic poem but herein lies the problem for the makers of “Fight Club”. When you address big issues you are stepping into the ring with heavyweight champions. They’re going to break Rule #3 of “Fight Club”: If someone says "stop" or goes limp, taps out, the fight is over. In other words if you’re going to show buildings and computers being blown to bits in savage portrayal of the evils of consumerism you’re going to have to confront the ghosts of filmmakers past. In this case it’s the closing sequence of “Zabriskie Point”. I challenge anyone to watch (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJsW6ta4X8o) and not consider Antonioni the winner by a knock out.

Another unfortunate aspect of “Fight Club” valiant battle to say something “important” about the dehumanization of modern culture was the inclusion of the troupe of “class warfare”. Once again the filmmakers seem to possess déjà vu as this tired chestnut seems to have raised its ugly head in the contemporary Presidential debates. Most of the bourgeois (I am a card carrying member) consider suicidal terrorists to be completely insane…. But there is crazy and there is CRAZY. There is Osama Bin Laden, a selective reader of history and religion who justifies strategic murdering of innocents by brainwashing highly educated adults with a abhorrent propaganda. Then there is Joseph Kony, a rebel leader who raids unguarded rural villages murdering adults and taking their children as slaves to fight in his “Lords Resistance Army”. The goal is to set up a country based on the “10 commandments” with this fearsome child–army protected from bullets by special holy water. So far two million people have been displaced and thousands maimed and murdered. Although Brad Pitt would like to think of himself in the Bin Laden mold – the audience is in on the fact that he’s more of a Joseph Kony. The attempts to sanitize Pitt’s gruesome world view with a sprinkle of Marxism and a hollow visions of social justice only make Pitt/Norton inauthentic. The filmmakers counter Pitt’s savage attack on a immigrant, holding a gun to his head while grilling him about his dreams, as a deranged way of “helping” that refugee to focus himself so he can be prosperous. Pitt steals his drivers license and says he will “check up on him”. In a latter scene we briefly see a wall filled with drivers licenses. He’s “helping” scores of people. Once again his attacks on buildings are given the fig leaf of “being at night when noone is them”; as if this is some sort of victimless crime. Ed Norton is beside himself with grief when the overweight mommie-figure becomes a police causality. His counter-ego, Brad Pitt, coldly quips “you have to break an egg to make an omelet”. This seemingly shocking duality really can’t hold a candle to the real world. Truth is far uglier than fiction. Joseph Konys has no such maudlin sentimentality. If he must personally rape and maim hundreds of children it is all in the good faith of knowing you have to break a few eggs etc. This is perhaps the greatest failing of “Fight Club”. In trying to humanize characters who eschew the basic elements of humanity the work becomes merely shocking. If their boundless depravity becomes unleashed then the story really provokes reflection; otherwise the characters are abstract stick figures. Another hallmarks of cartoons that distances the viewer's engagement is their physical resilience. No matter what befalls Bugs Bunny – stabbings, violent fights explosions – he always returns unscathed in the next scene. Note that during the most gruesome interludes of “Fight Club” the participants wounds are superficial. There is remarkable absence of the type of brain damage or paralysis one would expect in bare-knuckled, free for alls on concrete floors. Angry young men have been known to be seduced by the allure of carefree mayhem. One need not be schoolmarm to be concerned about “the message”. This is not to say that the filmmakers should vilified for pandering to our collective blood-lust. In a sense - that’s their job.

The makers of “Fight Club” waged a hard battle. It is difficult to imagine upper management green-lighting a meditation on using extreme psychotic male aggression as a counter attack on mainstream consumerism. That takes guts. Those could not have been easy meetings. It is important to give credit where credit is due. However in a world of real-life monsters that terrorize millions with bankrupt philosophies the argument can be made that this work glamorizes charismatic demons. This is an old conundrum in features dating back to the days of “Public Enemy”. Does the “Godfather” film romanticize Mafioso lifestyle? Yes, but the artistry is strong enough to take the hit. “Fight Club” doesn’t stand up. The challenge in boxing is, no matter the barrage of punches, never let your guard down. “Fight Club” fails in its defenses by pandering to the culture it ostensibly wants the audience to question. If you want to make a film with a amoral anti-hero one can only provoke real thought by letting them, in the words of Aleister Crowley, “do what thou Wilt”. Anything goes.... anything. One of the most successful scenes in “Fight Club” is where Ed Norton blackmails his boss by beating himself silly and in the process destroying his superior’s office. It’s all there - a demonic determination to annihilate the system in a disconcertingly unconventional manner. Who knows what comes next. In trying to understand this monster it draws a critical eye inward. What exactly do we, as a society, expect. If the “terrorists” have a real moral code and have conventional ideas about fairness and justice it prevents a candid view of our own personal darkness. In short “Fight Club” fails to be artistically clever enough to merely entertain while being ironically timid in presenting the big picture. Brad Pitt, embodiment of Ed Norton’s id, does battle with one hand tied behind his back. Perhaps the paradigm film in the genre of digging in society’s basement would be Pasolini’s “Salo”. The director’s reward for bringing forth this creation: he was beaten to death then run over with his own car. There is a price to pay for bravery.... but it’s not good box office.

Donny Osman's Cages (2012 Lost Nation Theater, VT)

Donny Osman - FTW

“Town Meeting” is annual gathering of Vermonters that sets the local government agenda for the coming year. In one of my first experiences at this event (I am from “away”) the delinquent tax collector was being publicly skewered for “not being tough enough”. The criticism was warranted. The tone was mean-spirited. Compounding the problem was the inarticulateness of the office holder and the relative fluidity of the verbal barrages by the pack of angry taxpayers. An older gentleman rose and took command. He immediately pointed to the difficulty of the position and the perils of being cruel to those who were down on their luck. One should not assume that every person who is behind on payments is a scoundrel and every civil servant who founders in delivering the cash is a weak kneed bleeding heart. While listening I felt ashamed that I had failed to rise to the occasion. Who was this man?

The answer came years later. Recently I attended an autobiographical one man show featuring Donny Osman; not - Donny Osmond. But the irony that Mr. Osman should share a similar name to a teenage bubble-gum star of the 1970s goes hand in hand with Mr. Osman’s world view. God often embodies opposites: God can be cruel/funny. As a mere mortal one should acknowledge life’s hardship but one has a responsibility to God, community and family never to forget to laugh. Mr. Osman has arranged a series of stories from a full life that has involved the theater, politics and family. The structure of the piece involves Mr. Osman sitting at a desk and loosely reading from notes and occasionally rising while a guitarist strums and picks - not so much music as appropriate collaboratory support. It is a mark of the musician’s talent that the focus stays on Mr. Osman and his tales. Ironically Mr. Osman’s tone is a dual mixture of apology and defiance. These are stories from his life: “they might not make much sense to you - but they are what makes me who I am.” There is a reference to “cages”. Everyone is emotionally placed in boxes and separated against their will. Life is, in a sense, a process of escape.

The stories he tells continue the theme of “duality”. They are heartbreaking/hilarious, fun/painful, silly/serious..... There are many deeply personal biographical moments - but once again the opposite is also true: Mr. Osman keeps his own counsel while bearing his soul. This is especially the case in sketches he makes of his parents. These were formidable people. His mother was a member of SNCC, a major civil rights organization. It is easy at this point in our history to underestimate the courage it would take to actively participate in the cause of unblemished righteousness. One might see grainy images of Martin Luther King reciting “I Had a Dream” and conclude that every person with a conscious would have wanted to bear witness. Truth be told: many moderates considered King a radical and others were unwilling to be associated with “trouble”. (The NY Times wrote an interesting article on the anniversary of the march commenting on the fact that on the day itself Washington DC was nervously gripped by fear; not celebration.) In short, Donny had a very brave outspoken mother. Her choice of spouse was equally dynamic. The senior Mr. Osman was a push-cart peddler who rose to own and operate a famous New York discount store. In one of the highlights of the performance the son speaks of the father handling a vendor. The man wanted to try to sell Donny’s father some goods at a high price. The senior Mr. Osman firmly explained that “he is an undertaker” and that these goods are, metaphorically speaking in terms of profit potential, “already dead”. This man must realize that if he wants to sell the goods it will be at a loss. This is the harshness of the market delivered by someone WITHOUT MALICE. I emphasize this as it is central to the father’s legacy. He was a businessman who never forgot that his measure was in the respect felt by his family, community and customers. The bottom line could never be found in a bank statement.

Perhaps the most memorable moment of the performance was when Donny describes his mother’s passing. She committed suicide with the aid of clandestine medical staff after receiving a terminal diagnosis after her husband’s death. Donny and his brother bore witness. Whatever one’s personal views on end of life decisions it is important to acknowledge the boldness of this very public disclosure. It would be easy in our “reality TV” world to attribute this to the need for “sensationalization”. In Donny’s case the opposite is true. This revelation comes as a parable in his mother’s never-ending fight for social justice. Mr. Osman lets it be known that he believes strongly in personal end of life decisions being made by the patient . One sense the steely determination of his father with the vendor when he says “I did not know the names of the people who assisted my mother... but even if I did I wouldn’t tell you”.

One of the first stories involves a Vermont neighbor who helped Donny and his family when they first arrived. He was a hard drinking, trailer-living, porno-watching, gun totting family man. One senses Donny’s repulsion/fascination. They were friends; or more accurately “friendly”; people who could rely on one another in the custom of the country. Cities have conversation. Rural areas have dependable neighbors. The neighbors’ wife would look after Donny’s house when his family traveled. Donny recalls that his family returned from a trip and the local paper wanted his comment on the shooting. The shooting? It turns out the neighbor shot his wife in the head in front of their children. Donny let slip that this was one of three murderers he had encountered since re-locating to a sylvan ideal.

Donny tells us that his decision to move out of New York wasn’t motivated by any “back to the land” romanticism. He thought farming looked like “too much work”. All joking aside Mr. Osman never really reveals what prompted his pulling up stakes and settling, for four decades, in Vermont. It brought to mind Prospero’s penultimate lines at the closing of the Tempest:

And thence retire me to my Milan, where
Every third thought shall be my grave.


Mortality is certainly a central focus of Mr. Osman’s work but it is Prospero’s opaqueness that creates the parallel. What about the other two thoughts? The irony of Mr. Osman’s autobiography is that it becomes hard to know what he thinks; although it is clear portrait of what he believes is right. The disconnect might lie in other matters that he unveils: he is a hypochondriac but has real medical conditions, he is a politician but has disdain for vulgar popularism, he needs constant re-assurance but is very much his own man.... At heart is the strange contradiction of a private person needing to escape the comfortable narcissism of self and “come clean”.

There are three central figures in Mr. Osman’s life who are barely mentioned: his wife, his brother and his son. Donny’s spouse is referenced as being the bedrock of his recovery from depression. The veracity of her courage fails to play dramatically. Who is she? The same is true for the missing son and scantly referenced brother. Obviously it is impossible to catalog all close relationships in a dramatic summation however some color on these specters might have illuminated other characters and actions. For example the afore-mentioned killer returns to greet Donny after his manslaughter term is served. One senses the surprise/repulsion but it is difficult to know what Donny would do if the murderer chose to re-kindle the friendship. There are also a strange “blank” in understanding his relationship with his parents. The respect and love is unquestioned.... but did they get along? Donny recalls: “everyone loved talking with my father” - this is distinct from “I loved talking to my father”. Donny describes the macabre moments waiting the two hours for the mother’s “medical assistants” to make their full exit. Once again the exasperation of having to be a part of this grim ritual is real.... but is he angry at his mother for creating this burden? Is their guilt at feeling rage? Is everything washed away by fulfilling his role as being the dutiful son? There is a great deal of expectation involved in having such dynamic role models - was this a factor in the choice of leaving New York? What was their reaction to his working in the theater? There is a long history of loving parents being skeptical of a stage career. In fact one of the first “talking” motion pictures, “The Jazz Singer”, documents the struggle of an artist shackled by parents well-intentioned, but misguided, concern. One wonders how a serious social activist and self-made retail magnate would react to having a son who is a professional clown? Had these wonderful parents placed Donny in their cage of expectations?

On a mechanical level the structure of the piece works against his being fully candid. By clearly delineating himself as the storyteller he is taking on the burden of facing the every-present judgement of the audience - not merely for a performance - but for a life’s work. “Cages” could be “set free” if Mr. Osman embodied the various characters he presents. Speak in the voice of his mother and father or even take on his own character as almost a separate persona. There are glimmers of Osman’s ability to inhabit the protagonists - brief shouts and jesters - we need more of this showing and less telling.

These technical suggestion should not take away from what Donny has created - this is a life’s work. There is an expression that young internet users employ when they wish to recognize an amazing performance - be it in sports, acting, class.... “FTW” stand for “For the Win”. The origin of this “shout out” is obscure but the idea is to exclaim “this is the best!” or “Amazing!”. Ironically this acronym had almost the exact opposite meaning for an earlier generation. During the turbulent 1960s some people would use “FTW” to mean “Fuck the World”... but it is important not to dwell on the negative... that could lead to darkness and depression. We have a responsibly to laugh and cheer. Remember the Book of Psalms while contemplating to the Book of Job. Life is hard... but good. Donny Osman - FTW!

X (1992 Spike Lee film about Malcolm X)

Much Ado About Malcolm

There is a rumor that there exists a person who has not heard of the opening of Spike Lee's X, but it has been unconfirmed. No film in my lifetime has received has much publicity. "Scientific American" seems to be the only periodical which has not given its cover over to Mr. Lee, Denzel Washington (the actor who plays Malcolm X) or Malcolm himself. According to the New York Amsterdam News, one of New York's leading black newspapers: " 'X' merchandising has yielded $100 million in sales from caps, T-shirts, jackets, trading cards, posters, key chains, wristwatches, buttons, drinking mugs, refrigerator magnets, pins and air fresheners." All this prior to the film's opening. Batman eat your heart out. It lacks propriety to liken a movie about a comic book super-hero with one which tells the "real" lifestory of a murdered American revolutionary. Unfortunately the marketing of these films begs the comparison. Seeing all the "X" paraphernalia brought back memories of the "bat" craze. Putting questions of decency aside it is difficult to walk anywhere and not encounter the "X". Students of sociology can wrestle with its significance while students of advertising can marvel its popularity. Students of film, however, have little to mull over. Perhaps the most ironic aspect of X is, filmically speaking, its irrelevance. It is, however, an important work in another context.

Mr. Lee deserves much credit for persuading the Hollywood establishment to serve up some meaty fair. A high budget epic about the life of a black '60s radical is not exactly business as usual. The discussions over the final running time of a 31/2 hours must have been harrowing. Given the movie industry's penchant for making films with no social relevance (a perusal of the newspaper advertisements of the newest crop of Hollywood features makes the case- Under Siege, Candyman, Traces of Red, Dracula, Passenger 57, Aladdin, Home Alone 2…) the significance of Mr. Lee's endeavor should not be underestimated. He fought the good fight and won. Perseverance is a cardinal attribute in being a filmmaker but there is also the craft of filmmaking itself.

A good film biography lets the audience "experience" the subject. (e.g. Lenny, Patton) X gave made me the feeling that I had read an in-depth, favorable, magazine profile. The events were there, but the man wasn't. This was a re-enactment of facts, not an interpretation of a life. Mr. Lee begins with Malcolm's teenage years in Massachusetts. Stylistically he chooses fantasy over reality. Mr. Lee's "Boston: during the war years" is reminiscent of the set of "Guys & Dolls". The director also chooses to cast himself as Malcolm's goofy, but likable, sidekick. The saccharine setting is occasionally punctuated with flashbacks which illustrate Malcolm's brutal childhood. This fairy tale approach, peppered with revelations horrific childhood, does serve to soften the early criminal misdeeds of young Malcolm. It also undercuts the serious achievements of a mature Malcolm. Malcolm's re-incarnation, during his incarceration, marks a stylistic change of gears. The film moves from pure fantasy to contrived reality. Spike & Denzel are no longer sporting zoot suits and executing choreographed dance sequences. Malcolm finds religion and the film takes on a more somber tone. The problem for an audience is accepting the re-born man as "real". The best illustration of this could be seen where the camera pans around a street in Harlem to compare Malcolm X's preaching to that of other pastors. The controversial Rev. Al Sharpton was chosen for a cameo. Politics aside, personalities aside, the Rev. Al was more compelling than Mr. Lee's Malcolm. Sharpton's "realness" highlighted the staginess of the early Malcolm. Rev. Sharpton had him beat from the start; or rather because of the start.

The adult portrayal of Malcolm, although more "real" than the early years, was, nevertheless, contrived. It had the feel those television dramas in which the characters indicate, rather than act. The resulting action becomes forced. This rang true in all the major plot twists: his conversion to Islam, his marriage, his split from the Nation… The acting was professional, the facts were relevant but the overall effect was unconvincing. The confrontation with the New York City Police is a case in point. In this sequence Malcolm hears that the cops have unjustly beaten and seized a fellow Muslim. There are echoes in the crowd of "All you preachers like to talk but when it comes to action you can't deliver". Quickly cut to the police station where Malcolm is being treated rudely by the red neck looking cops. He asks them to look out the window where there are two neatly formed lines of well dressed Muslims. They relent and let him see the prisoner. Malcolm finds him near death and shouts "Get an ambulance!". An ambulance arrives. The cops ask him to dismiss the crowd. He refuses, "Not until I'm satisfied". He turns to the Muslims and shouts "To the Hospital". On they march. The demonstration in front of the hospital is loud and angry. The cops are scared. The captain begs him to dismiss the crowd. A doctor walks out of the hospital and introduces himself as the man in charge. He re-assures him that his companion will recover and is receiving the best care available. Malcolm turns to the angry mob. He holds up his hand and they fall silent. He gives a quick gesture and they march away. The red neck captain stands in disbelief. Despite the logic and factual accuracy, the overriding cause-effect rigidity suffocates the sequence. Life is not that wooden. Nothing is ever that pat and simple. No doubt this incident occurred. Undoubtedly it did not occur as it was shown.

The film's stylistic failures are not as troubling as its structural flaws. Mr. Lee did his homework but not his thinking. He turned in a work which is substantial but not substantive. The most important question a filmmaker needs to address when tackling a biography is: what does this person's life mean to me? Mr. Lee ignored the issue. He gave us what everyone would believe to be the hallmarks of Malcolm X's life (e.g. his father's murder, his family being divided, his imprisonment, his conversion, his marriage…) and asks the audience to figure it all out. Mr. Lee seems decidedly undecided. He gives us the fire of Malcolm's anger in the opening credits and closes with a universalist plea for peace complete with schoolchildren from America and Africa and a guest appearance by Nelson Mandela. This is all sandwiched in between a tepid, sanitized re-enactment of the facts of his life. Mr. Lee never bothered to ask himself the big question. There can be many reasons for the director's vagueness: fear of alienation, fear of offending a particular party, pressure to bend to an accepted point of view… Unfortunately the reason reflected in the film's actual execution would be, laziness.

X is sloppy . There are a number examples of editing which seem motivated by poor planning rather than artistic desire. (e.g. the jump-cut in the middle of the scene in which Malcolm gives his gangster mentor the disputed number, the non-sensical camera angles used to show Malcolm with his "good-girl" lover on the beach, the close-up on a tea cup to indicate a transition to a house…) Even when Lee is using his trademark head-shot montages he seems off the mark. The epilogue contains this stylistic signature by having a series of school children entering frame in close-up repeating the line "I am Malcolm X". The shot begins in a classroom in Harlem and ends in a classroom in Soweto with Nelson Mandela acting as the teacher. This device relies on rapid fire movement for its success. It works beautifully until the camera parks on Mr. Mandela. All that was needed was his visual image to make the point; at most give him a quick line. Instead Mr. Lee breaks the symmetry of the sequence by having him give a small speech. This undercut the effectiveness of the entire epilogue. Less of Mr. Mandela would have given more resonance to the closing. And as a corollary, less of Malcolm would have given more life to the film X. Mr. Lee, in his previous work (e.g. Do the Right Thing) has demonstrated he can do better.


What is Mr. Lee's motive in choosing a movie about Malcolm X? He contends he needed to portray the life a historical figure in order to educate the general public. His critics call it a tasteless exploitation a controversial black figure in order to further Mr. Lee's career. Casting himself as the likable side-kick does little to aid his defense (not mention the drag it puts on the telling of the story). Oliver Stone was harshly criticized for taking liberties with historical characters in J.F.K.. It is easy to accuse Lee of taking the process one step further: literally inserting his persona into what purports to be a historical biography. Aside of this small blemish of blatant vanity, the film reveals a director who is neither saint nor devil . This film is neither a malicious stepping stone or an important cinematic experience. Unlike the plotline of the movie, real life isn't so simple. X is a confusing, mish-mash of contradictions: artistically bland, commercially revolutionary, sociologically important, filmmically insignificant… Perhaps focusing on the film misses the point. Mr. Lee, not Mr. X is the real star here. He didn't need to cast himself in the film. He is firmly ensconced in our gallery of cultural icons. To analyzes the nuts and bolts of X is the equivalent of believing James Dean's importance lies in his contributions to the art of acting. As Public Enemy states on their album "Fear of a Black Planet":


As I walk the street of Hollywood Boulevard,
Thinking how hard it was for those who starred, in the movies
Portraying the roles, of butlers and maids, slaves and holes

Many intelligent black men seemed,
To look uncivilized when on the screen,
Like I guess I figured you, to play some jigaboo
On the plantation, what else can a nigger do.

And black women in this profession,
As for playing a lawyer? Out of the question.
For what they play Aunt Jemima is the perfect term
Even if now she got a perm.

So lets make our own movies like Spike Lee
Cause the roles being offered don't strike me
As nothing the black man could use to earn.
Burn Hollywood Burn!


To say that Spike Lee is a part of the Hollywood establishment misses the point of the song. It would be the equivalent of expecting everyone who wears an X hat to know the facts about Malcolm himself. This is the world of pop-culture where the overriding message wins-out over attention to details. Whether or not Mr. Lee is revolutionary filmmaker with a black consciousness is less important than the fact that he is a black voice that has risen to be heard by America at large. He has made it despite the appalling record of exploitation of blacks in the film industry. In a similar vein, the wearing of the X signifies a tribute to a black man who stood up to the white establishment. Anyone who wonders why such a point should be made might have a conversation with someone waiting on line for X. As a veteran movie-goer the crowds possess a more serious attitude towards this film. This isn't entertainment in the usual sense, this is perceived as "important". In the Times Square theater where I viewed it, there were the usual cat-calls from the rowdies, but not one audience member left during the entire 31/2 hours. It is easy to take Mr. Lee to task technically. There will always be raging debates about his historical accuracy and his personal morality. But all this fails to take note of his effectively using film as a springboard for difficult social commentary. Whether one likes the X, the alternative is far more terrifying. We all have Mr. Lee to thank for liberating us from the "bat".

Antonioni (1992 NY Film Society Retrospective)

Antonioni: A Better Truth

The New York Film Society in conjunction with the Italian government is sponsoring an Antonioni retrospective. They have chosen to showcase his work chronologically. It is now the middle of the cycle and his style can be witnessed in its full bloom. Antonioni is, without doubt, a revolutionary. His work, especially this period, challenges the established relationship between the medium and the audience. Traditional conceptions of characterization, storyline, camerawork, settings… are all upset. There have been film journals brimming with interpretations of the significance of the work. But by far his greatest achievement was to force film audiences to rise above being passive spectators. Upsetting the status quo has never won anyone popularity contests. His films are not universally loved, but they are respected. "Alienation" and the "impossibility of love" are not themes which would garner blockbuster status. Antonioni chooses them, not once, but for the bulk of his work. This is especially true during the middle of his career (some would say the apex) 1957-1964 where he made Il Grido (the Cry) L'Avventura (the Adventure), La Notte (the Night), L'Eclisse (the Eclipse) and Il Deserto Rosso (Red Desert). Ironically behind the stark images and the isolated protagonists lies a religious sense of optimism about the medium. Antonioni may not have faith in relationships but he believes in film; and by default, the audience at large.

Yesterday, I saw La Notte. What struck me was the enormous sense of hopefulness in this film. Paradoxically it centers around the angst of long term relationships and is crafted within the harshest of stylized realities. There are not many smiles. From the opening sequence in the hospital, where a troubled couple visits a terminally ill friend, to the closing rape on the golf course, there is hardly a laugh. This is true visually as well. During the titles the camera descends down the facade of a modern glass skyscraper which reflects the ant-like world of old Italy. There is a sense that Mussolini's victory could not have constructed something as authoritarian and dehumanizing. The final image, a shot of trees and grass devoid of people, has an eerie edge; even nature in this modern landscape has lost its charm. Yet despite all the gloom there is an unwavering trust in the power of the medium and a strong faith in the audience. He accurately renders his vision of the world and, most importantly, assumes the audience cares. He has created a film which centers around core issues of emotional well being and human interaction. Although this is standard fare for poets, the difficulties of achieving this numerous times in the medium of full length fiction films, cannot go unrecognized. It is the equivalent of raising an army of workers in order to build a highly personal, stylized monument to "the truth", to be visited by anyone who cared to make the trip. Certainly there would be those who would question the sanity of the instigator of such an undertaking, not to mention the sneers regarding the superfluous nature of this "gift". But one would be hard pressed to scoff at the dedication and respect such a builder would have for the general public.

La Notte is one such monument. Over the years the visitors have found the experience an enthralling meditation or a boring waste of time. The varied range of the response can be laid Antonioni's unique sense of design. La Notte abandons the general causal plot structure. The story is seemingly aimless. Nothing happens. A reconstruction of the specifics would read like a series of unrelated random events surrounding a couple experiencing marital difficulties. The two protagonists themselves are equally enigmatic. The husband is a successful writer with a intelligent, beautiful wife, who seems perfectly suited for his moody disposition. He is miserable. There is no reason given for his general unhappiness and, with a disconcerting nonchalance, the film debunks rational explanations for his melancholy. He is interested in nothing and his passion is aroused on a whim. Distraction via sexual encounters seems his central means of escaping his personal hell. His wife has a similar spiritual void, but is more emotionally aware and therefore more sympathetic. She embarks on an ill-defined quest in which she encounters men; young, old, smart, dumb, fighting, playing, drinking, working, carousing… who see her solely as an erotic object. Her reaction is ambivalence, not outright rejection. In the end she reflects on her relationship with her terminally ill friend, another male writer. Here was someone who believed in her, loved her and took her seriously. Unlike a majority of men she encounters he was not primarily motivated by sex. This is in sharp contrast to her spouse, who blends perfectly with the crowd of lechers. She admits to choosing her husband. This is not an epiphany but an underlying truth which she attempts to understand. There are no grandiose conclusions or pat answers.

This is my humble interpretation of some the events that occurred. An accurate description of "what happened?" would require a text similar in spirit to James Joyce's Finnegin's Wake. This can be attributed to Antonioni's use of photography, setting and sound to subtlety convey mood. Most filmmaker rely primarily on dialogue to express emotion. When that fails there is always mood music and the last resort of voice-over narration. All these devices are efficient ways of communicating plot and exposition. Clarity and brevity must be incorporated into all forms of art but Antonioni begs the question: at what cost? Once again the James Joyce example holds true - there are more efficient ways of telling the story but that would undercut the merits of what the author intended. The telling of the story holds as much weight as the story itself. A small example of the strength of Antonioni's method can be seen in the opening of the party sequence in La Notte. The gathering takes place at a rich industrialists' mansion. The driveway is strewn with cars. The couple pulls up and adds their Fiat to the pile. The silence contrasts sharply with the clutter of cars. It is almost as if they are in a junkyard after dark. The house is a tasteless hodgepodge of old and new architecture. The arches hint at the charm of antiquity but modern layout suggests a brave new world. As the married couple approaches, crowd noise is heard. They look around and see no one. They walk through the house, its interior matches the facade. The crowd noise increases as they enter the backyard. They look and see a large patio with empty tables and chairs. The juxtaposition of image and sound is jarring. There is no one here. The camera then shifts to the left to reveal the partygoers surrounding a large thoroughbred which the host has trotted out. Not a word of dialogue has been spoken thus far and yet the mood and characterization of the events has been beautifully rendered. When the wife of the industrialist greets the protagonists her words are meaningless. It is social chit-chat which meshes perfectly with the surroundings. Those surroundings and how they were shaped via the choreography, lighting and sound, tell the story. All that "happened" was the couple entered the house and encountered the hostess. A lesser director might have ignored the milieu and cut immediately to the wife of the industrialist and let her words convey the shallowness of the affair. The horse would have been used as a visual gag to buttress her statements. Her manner would have to be a bit "over the top" in order to quickly relate her own personality and the nature of the festivities. Given this small example it is easy to see the party itself becomes far more than the sum of its plot twists. The husband goes off with the industrialist's daughter, the wife discovers her friend has died when she calls the hospital, the industrialist offers a job to her husband, the wife goes off with another man… All these things occur but they are the tip of the iceberg when trying to accurately describe "what happened?".

It would be easy, with hindsight, to pick apart La Notte. Probable its major flaw lies in its lack of levity; although there are moments during the party sequence. Antonioni seems to fall into the sophomoric trap of mistaking the melancholy for the profound. But this error must be overlooked when measured against the admiration he has for his audience. As a veteran movie-goer, it seems contemporary filmmakers (whether Hollywood, European or Independent) share a mistrust of the public. Their goals are to shock, to soothe or to dazzle. Antonioni focuses on telling the truth; or more precisely his vision of it. This sounds bombastic and arrogant but Antonioni avoids this by being genuine. A small example of this can be seen in his portrayal of the industrialist in La Notte. This is a minor part; a small almost incidental figure in the grand scheme of the film. Yet Antonioni avoids making a easy characterture of a nouveau rich businessman. He renders, with care, an elegant portrait of a man who has "made it" in the world of business. It may be unflattering but it is not condescending. It is accurate to a point of being beyond pigeon-holing. The industrialist is past good or bad; he merely is. This is the essence of Antonioni's truth. His truth is not supreme or universal. Not everyone will care to glean the significance from objects or actors conventionally relegated to the role of background. If the current cinema is any measure of popular taste, a majority of people freely accept the notion of an intellectually passive audience. La Notte is not for everyone.

There are few, if any, contemporary film makers who follow Antonioni's tenants with regard to plot, characterization, use of scenery, use of sound… It is therefore not surprising that La Notte is as radical a film now, in 1992, then it was when it premiered in 1960. This does not mean the revolution has failed. Antonioni's films will, like all great works of art, survive the fickleness of fashion. Their integrity places them above the fray. They fall into that rarefied group of works which combine honesty of vision with genius in execution; in short they are classics. Whether one accepts the work it is important to recognize Antonioni's truth. It goes against the grain of most popular fiction filmmaking. It is the antithesis of MTV videos; a use of the medium featuring fast-paced, sound driven editing and the presentation of women, more often than not, as sexual objects void of thought. (Music videos may seem inconsequential but I would argue they have had an tremendous impact in shaping the public's visual expectations. One need only note the decreasing length of television commercials and the more frenetic editing of popular movies). Antonioni's goals may be absurd: to meticulously render fictional films to a point where a stylized vision of reality flaunts notions of simple categorization. He may not have found the truth. But, in examining the status quo, I submit it is a better truth.