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!