The Wolf of Wall Street (2013)

Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf

"I can calculate the movement of the stars, but not the madness of men" - Isaac Newton, commenting on the 18th century ‘South Sea Bubble’ financial disaster. Later revealed he had invested and lost money.


Martin Scorsese’s “The Wolf of Wall Street” brought to mind some dialogue from a 1954 film noir movie:

Criminal: Now you listen to me cop I pay your salary.
Sgt. Friday: Alright sit down. I’m gonna earn it.
Criminal: You already have... the kinda money you make... what do they pay you to carry that badge around? 40 cents an hour?
Sgt. Friday: (quiet rage) You sit down!
The criminal sits.
Sgt. Friday: (sternly) That badge pays $464 a month. That’s what the job’s worth. I knew it when I hired on. $67.40 comes out for withholding. I give $27.84 for pension and $12 bucks for widows and orphans. That leaves me $356.76. That badge is worth $1.82 an hour. So mister you just settle back in that chair cause I’m gonna blow about 20 bucks of it right now.

This snippet from the decades old, forgettable, 88 minute “Dragnet” movie, has more heart than the three hours of Scorsese bacchanal. These two films might seem unrelated as they are different genres made in different eras. Actually they are both comic book examinations of professions; the former police work, the latter banking. The 1950s sketch of life in the LAPD is well crafted and gives a fun simulacrum of detective work. Scorsese's film is a badly executed hollow portrait of awful person which bares little resemblance to the financial services industry.  The success of the kitsch police thriller is simple. Sgt. Friday is entertaining. His pithy no-nonsense staccato verbal quips ooze the righteousness of someone who fails to be ruled by the dollar. Jordan Belfort, the central protagonist of “The Wolf of Wall Street, is a dreary money grabber who secretes a potent mixture of self-pity and arrogance. Note to Scorsese: good cartoon characters are good; bad cartoon characters are good; but pathetic cartoon characters are pathetic.

All hope that the director was going to create a realistic commentary on our current financial system evaporated in the first moments of Belfort’s appearance on Wall Street.  His boss takes the novice employee, played by Leonardo Dicaprio, to lunch at a high end restaurant on top of the World Trade Center on his first day on the job. (Full disclosure: I worked on Wall Street and was familiar with his boss).  I find this account of events to be unbelievable; but not as outlandish as what follows. This meal supposedly included bouts of cocaine sniffing and lengthy advice on masterbation, virility and ‘how to fleece clients’. Matthew McConaughey’s performance as the boss might have been recreated by any number of eighth grade drama students who were given the following instructions: DRUG ADDICT /WALL STREET MONEY GUY. At this point Belfort is an earnest teetotaler as the evil demons have yet to work their black magic.  This magic seems to have affected all the patrons of the restaurant because they fail to react as McConaughey leads Dicaprio in a chest pounding incantation that includes making gorilla snorts. Guess the crowd was used to it as McConaughey is a regular lunch customer. The only time I personally knew brokers to take long lunches was either to attend financial presentations or entertain clients; neither of which were daily occurrences. The essence of being a broker, especially in the days before cell phones, is to be chained to your desk while the market is open in order to facilitate customer orders. This garish caricature of Wall Street continues after our hero is laid off following the 1987 crash. His new gig was located in a low end strip mall on Long Island.  This ‘first day’ is even more implausible than his previous debut.  He picks up his phone for his very first sales call to at complete stranger and lands an enormous order. His co-workers fall silent. One of them exclaims: “How did you do that?!!!“ Maybe “so that’s why they call you Superman!” would have been more appropriate.

The most offensive dimension of these scenes is the portrayal of Belfort as a Horatio Alger-like innocent being led astray by the evil Wall Streeters. His post-crash job transition is portrayed as a natural step for someone who had secured a brokerage license and needed to continue to work in financial services.  There is a scene where he considers bringing his talent to another industry but his wife convinces him that Wall Street is where he belongs. To be clear: a decision to transition from a ‘legitimate’ brokerage apprenticeship to working in a penny stock ‘boiler room’ is the equivalent of a mainstream actor deciding to abandon broadway for pornography. Such an individual would probably know the difference between the two worlds and understand that joining one severely limits one’s chances of rejoining the other.  It is doubtful that the ‘real’ Belfort explained this to his doting wife who might have seen his penny stock career in a different light.

The film is based on Belfort’s story as portrayed in his best selling autobiography “Catching the Wolf of Wall Street”. Scorsese is impervious to any notion that the master con man is being disingenuous. Perhaps the fact that this was written while our hero was behind bars for fraud, amongst other felonies, might have given the director pause. It’s difficult to divine the Scorsese vision for this film. Current news is a grist-mill for dramatic material about Wall Street. The morning after seeing the film the following headline was in the New York Times: “Academics Who Defend Wall St. Reap Reward” - about professors hiding pro-business funding for their pro-business research. Incidentally the week before it was revealed that Warren Buffett made $25,000 a minute in 2013. Incidentally the academics yearlong toil, worth maybe four minutes of Mr. Buffett’s time, is paid via a salary rather than from investment returns. This means the teachers, and other working people, pay double the income tax rate as billionaires such as Buffett.  Despite the myriad of outrageous inequities, Mr. Scorsese feels a circus film about an unsympathetic clown is an intelligent way to showcase the shortcomings of Wall Street.

The director requires three hours to tell Belfort’s ponderous story. Early on we are treated to our hero snorting cocaine from the anus of a call girl before greeting his first wife who is patiently waiting at home. Much of the remaining two and a half hours oscillates between variations on the anus snort and passionate sales pitches. Once again kudos to Leonardo as his adrenaline filled rants, whether he was pushing stocks, downing whisky, hitting his wife.... were altogether convincing. A full third of this film is made up of the sales monologues.  The best salesman I ever knew was the fuller brush man who visited our house every month when I was a child. He sold various soaps and brushes. Dramatically speaking he would have been a more interesting subject which, in turn, should give a strong indication as to the weakness of the theatrical backbone of this movie. As a twelve year old the drug and sex orgies might have had some appeal. As a middle aged movie goer these carnal flashes have the sustaining power of fiery car crashes or exploding buildings. Despite being saddled with playing this absurd character, Leonardo manages to deliver moments of brilliance. There is a scene in the lobby of a waspy country club where he summons the seemingly lost art of physical slapstick comedy. He mimicks the effects on the human body after downing a handful of quaaludes. One felt transported back to the golden era of silent films where body movement was paramount. Scorsese himself, despite his fateful decision to bring this film to life, has some interesting moments. Noone outdoes this director in capturing the swagger of outcast, underclass New York dudes; think of the men featured in “Mean Streets” and “Goodfellas”. They are repulsive losers and yet there is a strange dignity that keeps the audience glued to every donut chomp and insipid comment. In addition he expanded his brilliant voice over exposition, which often includes a freeze frames, to include Belfort actually speaking directly to the audience. (A nod to ‘House of Cards’?)  The supporting cast managed to outshine the big name stars.  Every fat roll of Jonah Hill exudes a feckless perversion that leads the audiences to wonder what will come out when he reaches for his pockets: a crackpipe? a pen? his penis? Margot Robbie shines as the second wife. Her blond locks boldly proclaiming, this has nothing to do with Farah Fawcett - it’s a classy hairdo. The ‘Lawng Iwland’ accent was pitch perfect evoking the brassy sparkle of McMansions whose interiors evoke Versailles via Ralph Lauren. Another highpoint amidst the drawn-out sex and screaming is the taciturn FBI man Kyle Chandler.  He brings a steely calm to all the endless visual indigestion.  Unfortunately Scorsese ends the film with a odd but revealing sequence. The hero G-man, who flaunts his proud working man credentials, seems overcome with the dinginess of his subway commute. Meanwhile our hero is out of prison and racking up money with his newest venture “Straight Line Persuasion System”, a course on training salesmen. Chandler’s melancholy is rooted in the injustice of life. The director seems to forget that our FBI man is an exalted untouchable in a world of mammon.

Having the G-man feel his life’s work unrewarding compared to Belfort’s material riches shows the intellectual dishonesty of the story. Scorsese has always had a dark vision - probably best illustrated in his cameo as the misogynistic passenger in Taxi Driver who verbally fantasizes about butchering his wife. “The Wolf of Wall Street” shows that he’s finally crossed Kurtz’s line of sanity. What is the audience to make of the endless minuscule documentation of Belfort’s debauchery?; or the never-ending sequences of frenzied speeches to the duped customers/employees? Belfort is the master persuader and perhaps his most prized victim is Scorsese himself. The master salesman fooled the master film director into giving him a starring role. The truth is that the lead protagonist is merely a grotesque worth documenting in a footnote about fringe excess. The real villains are the operators who successfully integrate themselves into polite society. People such as Ken Starr the notorious Ponzi schemer who targeted celebrity clients; including MARTIN SCORSESE. Such figures are nowhere to be found in “The Wolf of Wall Street”. It is hard to know how much Scorsese personally lost in his dealings with Starr but it is interesting that he would decide to focus his artistic gaze on Jordan Belfort. Unfortunately  the choice is rooted in the “madness” of anger. It is easy to understand the rage of being taken by a slick suited Wall Street con man. It is also understandable that discussing the fact that real wages haven’t risen in the US since the 1970s might not appear as dramatic red meat. Ironically the fury of our current political divide rests in the bedrock of this income inequality. Scorsese overwrought need to definitively nail this towering bad guy is a personal revenge statement rather than a universal story. “The Wolf of Wall Street” fails to give answers to the raging crowds of Tea Partiers or 99 percenters. The lack real insight into our current centralization of wealth makes this film a private artist statement that has little resonance. Mr. Scorsese self righteously points the finger at this monster while the far more pernicious attitudes are unchallenged. Four years on from the 2008 financial crisis there have been no substantive reforms to address the concentration of wealth and power in our financial institutions.  To quote former labor secretary Robert Reich repeating Justice Brandeis: “We can either have democracy in this country or we can have great wealth concentrated in the hands of a few, but we can't have both.”  A vast majority of people are feeling immobility rooted in economic stagnation while a select few enjoy exponential financial success. Jordan Belfort is a ridiculous sideshow. A charismatic hustler who happened to land in the financial sector rather than health care (Richard M. Scrushy, HealthSouth Corp), energy production (Jeffrey Skilling, Enron) or media (Robert Maxwell, Mirror Group).  Their stories might hint at institutional trouble, but it always becomes about the specific brand of sociopathology. In short, good businessmen are alike; crooked businessmen are crooked in their own fashion. Conflating the individual with the vast behemoth of the industry might lead to the wrong conclusions about a remedy. Wall Street’s problems are not rooted in hookers and quaaludes.

The post movie Belfort is currently hawking his “Straight Line Persuasion System”. This training advice kit for salesman has a website (http://usa.jordanbelfort.com/) which asks the question: Can You Really Use The Wolf of Wall Street’s Sales Tactics to Ethically Persuade People And Make Money? (His emphasis) He is also shopping a reality TV show featuring himself. Belfort makes me crave the comic book villains of yesteryear who were less pathologically tiresome. Creeps who didn’t turn their depraved egocentric criminality into another business. As Scorsese shows these people can get under your skin and into your head. Even the FBI man wondered if he wasn’t stupid for simply cashing in and not worrying. If they can get to Chandler and Scorsese... are we all next? Where have you gone Joe Friday, our nation turns it’s lonely eyes to you. Perhaps Jack Webb could be hologrammed into this years coming Oscar ceremony. He could approach the microphone in a simple. ill-fitting, off-the-rack tuxedo. “Thank you members of the Academy. I wasn’t the most famous actor or the best paid... but I wouldn’t trade places with a movie mogul or a superstar. I tried to do my job well. I got paid fairly. I looked out for the other guy... it might seem corny but.... (pause, clears his throat)  And this years Oscar for missing an important opportunity: Martin Scorsese, director, “The Wolf of Wall Street”.

American Hustle (2013)

Do the Hustle


The Abscam affair of the late 1970s, in which several American politicians were convicted of taking bribes, gave birth to the expression: “money talks, bullshit walks”. These famous words were uttered by a Congressman being surreptitiously filmed while receiving a suitcase filled with $50,000 in cash. Ironically this phrase is never spoken in David O. Russell’s fictionalized account of the scandal titled, “American Hustle”.  The missing catchphrase is the raison d’etre for the central protagonists, a romantically involved con-artist couple. These people eat and breath the bottom line while carrying on a strange attachment which undercuts their transaction based world-view.  Their lives are tested when they come under the scrutiny of a FBI agent whose motto might be “power talks, bullshit walks”.  A tortured love triangle ensues set amidst the gritty “pre-Atlantic City ‘boom’/post NYC financial crisis ‘bust’” milieu of the Big Apple, Long Island and the Garden State. As someone who grew up in that area at that time I can vouch for the authenticity of the costuming and set-design. The acting was also superb. It is odd that such a finely crafted would fail.... but one leaves the theater with an odd feeling of missed opportunity.  “American Hustle” is merely one of the best films this year.

The first half hour was a personal ‘trip down memory lane’. My exuberance might be clouded by a wistful fondness for era which is seen by others as a fashion and cultural nadir. The movie opens with wide lapel suited Christian Bale meticulously creating a comb-over hairdo to hide his baldness. The central protagonists are introduced, complete with repulsive clothes and tortured relationships. Bale is jealous of Bradley Cooper’s hold over Amy Adams. Cooper is envious of Bale’s ability to read people. Adams is angry about being trapped and beholden to both men. The plot is revealed in wonderful Scorsese voice-over combined with just the right amount of exposition mixed with mysteries waiting to unfold.  There is a tension that propels the audience into the seedy world of cons, cops, politicians and the mob.  It explores the root word of the term ‘con man’: ‘confidence’; which in turn leads us to “trust”; which in turn leaves to the very far-removed ‘love’.  At heart this film is a romantic comedy. This turns out to be a problem as Adams, who delivers an exquisite performance, is opaque despite being the emotional linchpin of the story.  The movie drifts off course immediately after the couple is busted.  Cooper is an ambitious cop with an insatiable desire for success which in his world translates to overseeing high profile arrests. Despite his convincing portrayal, his role highlights the weakness in the characterization of Adams. Cooper plants the seeds of mistrust between the partners in crime. This leads to an extremely detailed discussion between Bale and Adams about ‘where they stand’. In witnessing these emotional negotiations the audiences channels the embarrassing voyeurism of eavesdropping on a teenage break-up or even worse; a marital impasse.  It is dramatically unfulfilling and a pale substitution for a measure of their bond. This unfortunate scene repeats itself as Adams establishes a tie with Cooper. These complicated  expository monologues are rooted in the lack of delineation in Adams’ character. Ironically the template for a successful rendering can be found in her love rival Jennifer Lawrence, who is the legal spouse of Bale.

There is no need for a handbook to understand Bale’s marriage.  Lawrence possesses a charm that showcases her beauty and ugliness. The hideous narcissism intertwined with the childlike callowness is a perfect match for Bale’s need to be a family man and felon.  Their initial attraction is as understandable as their eventual repulsion. This is best shown in one of the last scenes of them together. Her astounding carelessness has led to Bale’s near execution. There is a confrontation in which Lawrence stridently gains the upper hand by reading excerpts from a self-help best seller. Bale is overcome by bewilderment and defeat. This leads to an apology: FROM BALE. He is sorry that her stupidity almost killed him. He means it despite its illogical. This is the genius of Lawrence’s performance. She also manages summons this startling ability to dominate her opponents when facing Adams.  In the midst of receiving a well deserved dressing down, in which Adams touches on her reckless drinking and inappropriate behavior, Lawrence kisses her and walks off.  Adams is right, but Lawrence wins. That small moment touches on the larger problem of the Adams character: what does she want? Is her anger at Lawrence rooted in fear of blowing the scam and ruining herself? or destroying Cooper? or out of jealousy over Bale? Or both? Or none of the above? All the exposition about her being genuinely attached to Bale while feigning love with Cooper clouds her actions.  This is a film about trust that is tied to love. Unfortunately Adams is almost too perfect at her character’s craft with the ironic result of the audience losing ‘confidence’. Once again this is a pitch perfect rendering. Adams played it as it ‘like a pro’. Romantic comedies, however, demand vulnerable  love struck protagonists. Her fierce opaqueness forces the audience to see her love interests as marks, rather than partners.

The same puzzling professionalism plagues Cooper’s G-man. His ambition seems embedded in every strand of his meticulously coiffed head of permed hair. Is he a sociopath who is incapable of friendship and love? The brief view of his home life, featuring a dominating mother and an ignored fiancee, once again raises questions of character rather than giving the audience insight into his motives. His banter with his beleaguered boss, the comedian Louis CK, is also ambiguous.  CK was a poor choice of a foil as his performance failed to have enough range to deliver the expectations he had of his underling. Did he see Cooper as merely a troublesome employee? a potential friend to mentor? Cooper returns the favor by being a friend and foe simultaneously. This is a hallmark of professional relationships but in a story about love and trust, it works against the audience’s ability to empathize with Cooper. Is he merely working the opposing characters or does he really care?

David O. Russell has a writing credit in addition to being the director. This work seemed plagued by overdrawing and over thinking. No doubt the ‘real life’ Bale had a side business in the fraudulent art market - but how does this serve the overall story? How does this help render Bale’s character? Why was his attachment to the NJ politician so important that he would actually make a face to face confession in his house in front of the mayor’s wife and children? The film firmly establishes Bale as someone who spent a career casually stealing from other family men. The unanswered questions stem from knowing too much and failing to hone down actual events into a concise story. This was a 100 minute tale and yet the end result clocks in nearly 20 minutes over the two hour mark. If Russell had exhibited the discipline to focus the narrative this film might have touched our heart rather than wowed our senses. The virtuosity of the production is amazing but the characters seemed weighted with unspoken off-script burdens. This might have been a fascinating multi-hour cable show or a less ambitious shorter feature. Unfortunately the current length renders it a splendid meandering journey. In the end we are left with characters whose actions are supported by the need to deliver a tidy finish, rather than a ‘real’ ending. It is too ‘real’ to be a light romantic comedy; yet too unreal to be a serious drama. 

The ambiguousness can be intriguing, Adams and Cooper are fun to watch. It would have been more entertaining if Russell had abandoned exposition and explanation, for action.  Less complicated talk about relationships and emotions would have lifted all boats; including Bale’s. Deliver an unabashed romantic comedy and forget all the history of what really a happened. Think of Lawrence: She is an insolent drunk with nothing to say. She spends her time burning toast, cleaning,  having sex, complaining, breaking her fingernails,  shopping and spewing nonsense.... but she is utterly captivating. She even manages to upstage  Bale, who delivers a consummate performance of the mirror image of Horatio Alger. Let David Mamet and Thomas Mann gives us the mind of con men. This movie hints at confidence men in those brief moments without tricks or confidence;  think Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway in the original “Thomas Crown Affair”. In order to care we must trust, in some measure, that everything isn’t a transaction. This superbly rendered feature plays the audience into believing in its wonder. Unfortunately the distinct parts are better than the sum. In the end, it doesn’t add up.  It’s a good film pretending to be great. True passion talks, bullshit walks.

Dallas Buyers Club (2013)

There Will Be Drugs


“Dallas Buyers Club” is a buddy film with explosive political undertones exploring class, sexuality and the pernicious overreach of government.  The central protagonist is a roughneck homophobic bigot who pairs up with a gay transvestite male prostitute.  The movie is set during the early stages of the AIDS epidemic where there were no effective treatments for the disease. Their mission is to discover a remedy that will keep them alive. This dynamic duo decide to take on the FDA, the DEA, the IRS and the established medical establishment. Goliath wins a pyrrhic victory as the two David’s are vindicated by history. Strangely the film left a uncomfortable emptiness towards the central character, played by Matthew McCounaughey. The filmmakers shaped a tale of amoral outcasts transforming into solid ‘do-gooders’ in the face of pure evil.  In the end the cartoonish characterization of the ‘enemy’ undercut the ‘goodness’ of the protagonists. The film, despite some outstanding qualities, fails to evoke the pathos appropriate for this material. We are left with a long-winded ‘wild story’; instead of a heartfelt examination of our recent past.

McCounaughey and Jared Leto deliver standout performances which are worth the price of admission. McConaughey embodies the uniquely American rage of someone whose property has be violated. One can smell the body odor as he bunches his fingers into a fist or reaches for a gun or a bottle of discount liquor. He has been invaded by a foreign virus. His friends turn against him and label him queer - akin to being a leper/pedophile in the setting of a Southern 1980s trailer park. Those white coated professionals at the hospital are marginally more helpful... but he’s not taking a death sentence lying down. They give him 30 days... he gives them the finger. Eventually he metaphorically partners with Leto whose charm overcomes McCounaughey’s visceral hatred. Leto enables McCounaughey to trade his fists for lawyers and his clunker for a Cadillac. McCounaughey becomes a genuine jet-setter and spans the globe in search of drugs to hawk in his home-grown AIDS clinic; which is run from a seedy motel.  This is all based on a actual story and it illustrates the fierce power of the American entrepreneurial spirit.  An alcoholic, sex-addict oil-rig electrician with little formal education and even less grace manages to become a quasi-legal international health clinic operator for disenfranchised male homosexuals.  The grim reaper’s blade gives us all focus. In McConaughey’s case it becomes the equivalent of Popeye’s spinach.  Our anti-hero is ‘loaded for bear’. All the private drug companies, white collar professionals and government regulators should take cover.

Prior to his contracting HIV McCounaughey’s life revolves around hookers, gambling and alcohol.  The writer/director spend an immense amount of screen time chronicling his debauchery. There is an unconvincing moment at his job where McCounaughey calls an ambulance for a immigrant worker who is caught in the mesh gears of the oil rig equipment. His co-workers are too scared being fired for exposing illegal workers on the jobsite. McCounaughey’s burst of humanity is a contrived way of convincing the audience that everything they’ve experienced up to this point merely masks someone who is concerned with social justice. This hidden ‘good guy’ rears his head again after being ostracized by his friends. There is an encounter in a super-market with one of his former wing men. McCounaughey physically forces the ex-buddy to make nice with Leto; the new transvestite side-kick. Once again these acts of goodness contrast with the hardscrabble survivor turned entrepreneur. It’s ironic that a brilliant performance would be disingenuous. Unfortunately McConaughey’s wonderful rendering of the character is saddle with a director and writer who can never fully embrace the man.  Leto’s struggles are real. He is a drug addict shamed by his family. His encounter with his respectable bank-manager father is one of the few genuine emotional notes in the film. Leto steals the movie because his character is built on struggle rather than set-piece scenes that evoke emotions that are absent in the actual protagonist. The writer/director wasted McConaughey’s talent with gratuitous, outlandish strutting; rather than a heartfelt portrayal of a disenfranchised, under-class survivor.

The filmmakers believed the outrageousness of McConaughey’s rise was the hook for the story. The opposite is true. The most fascinating aspect of his journey is his focus and ability to adopt lifestyles and allies. All his vices are exchanged for a healthy lifestyle, copious research in medical journals and an alliance with white collar businessmen of various sexual orientations. The film should have exhibited less whoring for more practice in adopting his new persona.  In coming back from Mexico after his conversion he dresses as a priest. This hints at strategizing that was never exhibited in the script. This absence also haunts his oversees journeys. How did he figure out how to get around Japanese drug export regulations?  When did he suddenly realize lawyers were preferable to bail bondsmen? The journey is bogged down in hollow encounters with one-dimensional bad guys. The portrayal of the medical community and drug companies was flat.  It might be accurate to say that the makers of AZT put profit over people’s lives. Dramatically it is more interesting to draw an equivalence between McCounaughey and the drug companies. What about HIS actions. Given his track record it seems reasonable to assume he was struggling to save his life and make money rather than being just.  The film devolves into a simplistic story of good guys with noble intentions vs. bad guys who only care about money and power. Fronting the characters who wear black hats are the two the doctors McCounaughey encounters in the hospital. The love interest, who ends up with a white hat, is uninteresting and the leading doctor is leaden.  The sundry bureaucrats were also cartoonish. The end result  is a series of forgettable stand-offs where McConaughey’s is defiant and unrealistic. Believability would have fueled empathy and a sense of discomfort about our real world heroes and villains. In the end we are left with a movie ending coupled with a movie hero.  The audience is left in the small world of the big screen. This story should have provoked thoughts about our contemporary American landscape where the rising entrepreneurs class meshes with entrenched powerful government and private sector interests.  This film might have shed light on the ambiguousness of being successful.  Had McCounaughey prevailed - would he have been a hero? or something else.


In “The Kings Speech” an unorthodox outsider produces an effective treatment for speech pathology while being shunned by the polite society of the medical establishment.  Ironically this drama seems to be the base template for “The Dallas Buyers Club”. The filmmakers might have sought inspiration from “There Will Be Blood”, a harrowing drama about an oil field entrepreneur who rises to the top. This is a story about a man who will “drink your milkshake” rather than cure your illness. Flannery O’Connor exhibits a keen insight into the motivation for these types of anti-heroes. The killer in “A Good Man is Hard to Find”  muses over the body of a grandmother he has just executed: ““She would have been a good woman if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.” Unfortunately the writer and director lack O’Connor’s knowledge of hardscrabble Southern life and American entrepreneurs. They mistake McCounaughey for being good. He is hideously determined American individualist with a gun to his head.  Never underestimate their ability to conquer. They’re very productive people. They do great things.... but they also want your milkshake. Dramatically speaking, this is fertile ground.... but not when you pretend that doctors on TV are real doctors.  Noone wants to buy snake oil.... but everyone loves watching a snake oil salesman.

Hannah Arendt (2013)

The Banality of the Literati


In 1981 Margarethe von Trotta made an extraordinary film called “Marianne and Juliane” (in German titled “Die Bleierne Zeit” ).  This work captured the angst of post-war Germany through the tumultuous bond between two sisters.  That historical nightmare was used to make a stunning portrait of  the eternal link of family that trumps even the most strident political divides.  “Hannah Arendt”, von Trotta’s eponymous dramatic feature film, continues the theme of magnifying the mass horror through the lens of personal struggle. Arendt’s story seems tailor made for  von Trotta.  Arendt’s rise from star student to refugee to leading intellectual is shaped by Hilter’s legacy. The film might have been inspired by the aphorism: “He who sups with the devil should have a long spoon”. Instead von Trotta delivers view of academic egos clashing in 1960s New York. In the parlance of the New Yorker Magazine, an institution that looms large in the story, the film is a segment of “Talk of the Town” not a feature article by Seymour Hersh.  The disappointment comes from expecting a meditation on the nature of evil and being presented with historical gossip; interesting and highbrow... but gossip nevertheless.

The film opens with Arendt and Mary McCarthy sitting in a Midtown office dishing and avoiding phone calls so they can focus on ‘girl’s talk’. McCarthy’s best known novel is “The Group”, a primogenitor to “Sex in the City”. Arendt’s masterpiece is “Elemente und Ursprünge totaler Herrschaft”; literally translated as “Elements and origins of totalitarian rule” (English title: The Origins of Totalitarianism).  The film is definitely set in Mary’s soap opera but interestingly Hannah seamlessly blends in with the action.  The arc of the story is that Arendt, the legendary German Jewish intellectual, is hired by the legendary editor of the New Yorker, William Shawn, to cover the trial of the recently captured Nazi logistics specialist Adolf Eichmann.  The judicial proceedings are set in Jerusalem. There is strange incongruity between the weight of the matter at hand and the trivial rivalries exhibited. Perhaps the greatest visual representation lies in the abduction of Eichmann by Israeli intelligence operatives in South America. This never meshes with the breeziness of the college campuses and literary salons which the protagonists inhabit. von Trotta wanted to build a bridge between the seriousness of a mass murderer and the public stance of prominent intellectuals. Unfortunately the opposite occurred.  Questions of Eichmann seemed important and underrepresented while the fury of professors and editors hurling invectives grew louder and louder.

There is a cloud that hangs over this film and Arendt’s reputation. It’s name is Martin Heidegger. von Trotta decides to include the fact that Arendt had a passionate love affair with the renowned philosopher when she was a student. This is significant because this intellectual giant was a card carrying member of the Nazi party who never publicly apologized for his affiliation. In addition he was silent about a number of egregious acts he committed while an academic official in the regime. Strangely von Trotta, who feels it’s important to show Eichmann’s abduction, never shows Heidegger actively supporting the Third Reich. On odd omission as so much of the film hinges on his relationship with Arendt. In addition all the discussion of his crimes are through clumsy exposition by other parties.  Most of the scenes with the grand thinker are framed from the gushing perspective of a love-struck student. There is one post war moment in which Heidegger feebly excuses his actions, to a significantly cooler Arendt, with the statement that he failed to be good at understanding politics.  What is completely lost in all the banter about Heidegger: how did this relationship shape her view of Eichmann?

Eichmann is played by himself. One of the reasons to see this feature is von Trotta’s clever use of the actual trial footage. This works against the film as a whole as it steals focus. It is, however, so riveting it begs the question as to Arendt’s primacy in the story.  Her historical view of Eichmann has been vindicated by the ubiquity of her ‘banality of evil” remark.  It is difficult to view footage of the man and believe anyone mistook him for being first rate at anything other than bureaucratic paperwork. He is mediocrity incarnate. He fails to rise to the level of taskmaster - he seems more a task-attender. It is impossible to conceive of someone spending years filling trains with human beings for the sole purpose of having them executed without considering the moral implications. Unfortunately Eichmann gives life to that very unsettling proposition. He is something beyond the worst horror fiction. The incongruity of his being vs. the enormity of his crimes renders him a force of dramatic interest far beyond the pedestrian domain of the rest of the film.

Arendt was pilloried for her reporting on the trial.  She portrays  Eichmann as MERELY a nobody rather than a force of evil. History has shown her to be prescient in understanding the ability of authority to guide ‘normal’ people into committing unspeakable acts of cruelty. Whether or not Arendt read Eichmann’s motives correctly is still a matter of debate. There is also serious disagreement around her stance that Jewish leaders were an integral part of the Nazi death machinery. Her defense of raising this issue stems from an incident at the trial where a holocaust survivor accused another victim of giving names to the authorities. Needless to say her remarks are controversial to this day. This year (2013) the historian Deborah Lipstadt wrote “The Eichmann Trial” which refutes Arendt’s analysis. (interesting overview of the issues in The Forward - ) The debate still rages - but von Trotta never answers the question: how is this dramatic?

The characters in “Hannah Arendt” are locked in their heads with the occasional primal heart rearing up to make love, puff a cigarette or utter a nasty comment.  It must have been difficult for Arendt to lose friends and be threatened due to her firm stance on the trial.  She felt it her ‘duty’ to relate what she believed to be her objective truth. She has very firm answers to all the carping.  She meticulously points out her opponents failures in logic.  She steadfastly denies being sympathetic in any way to Eichmann. She is glad they hung him. She individually responds to every nasty letter with a handwritten response carefully explaining her position. She may be correct but she fails to be sympathetic; neither are most of her compatriots on either side of the issues. Mary McCarthy is the exception. She is likable because she never confuses politics with friendship. Her protection of Arendt is rooted in supporting a friend rather than delineating the veracity an argument. It is about love not logic. Interestingly this is the exact problem that haunts Arendt in her protectiveness of Heidegger. Her friends seem to constantly harp on her relationship with the great master. Is that the root of their disappointment with her coverage of Eichmann? Does the constant refrain of “THIS TIME you’ve gone too far” hint at a collective anger about her dealings with her mentor?

von Trotta has done a great deal of homework. In fact this work has the feel of homework. It’s studied... to a fault. There is no doubt each of the various luminaries stated their positions as represented. The problem is that truth is not the same as accuracy. von Trotta is a leading German director handling the most contentious historical events in her country’s history. Arendt and Heidegger are luminaries with scores of fans and detractors ready to pounce. von Trotta knew she must be very careful in managing the material. Unfortunately cautious factual presentations never make for great drama. It is difficult to understand von Trotta’s view of these people. This is a real problem. She does not love them AS CHARACTERS and neither does the audience. The strength of “Marianne and Juliane” lies in von Trotta’s passion for these people caught in the nightmare of processing the Third Reich’s legacy. The two sisters, in that film, are at opposite ends of the political spectrum... and yet there is a deep love that triumphs. I have not seen that film in 3 decades but there is one scene that still has the power to haunt. One sister is being held in jail for terrorism. The other, a very upper middle class architect, is visiting the prison. The sisters have a bitter argument. The guard enters and says it’s time to leave. Suddenly the terrorist yells something to other about clothes. The two women, who are  in their 30s, metamorphosize into children as they tear off their shirts in an exchange that signals defiance against the grey bureaucratic guards. Despite everything... they are sisters.  von Trotta’s presents none of this magic in “Hannah Arendt”. The former classmate from her days with Heidegger confronts her at the end of her lecture to signal their decades long friendship is over. He thinks she is a Nazi sympathizer. There was no love in that scene... just accuracy. The result is an audience dutifully recording the plot twist rather than crying. This does not belong in a serious drama or light comedy. It is the stuff of educational documentary re-enactment. von Trotta has demonstrated she is better than this film. Unfortunately she never got out of the way of bland ‘truth’.

The real thread of this film is woven in Arendt’s interpretation of Eichmann as it relates to her past romantic relationship with Heidegger. The presence of the ‘real‘ Eichmann and the dramatic re-staging of the kidnapping, although riveting, were distractions. Mary McCarthy’s milieu would have been a perfect place to explore how an ardent intellectual truth seeker is stained by falling for a morally bankrupt professor emeritus. The other characters would have been marvelous foils to delve and discover why it was important for Arendt to contextualize this trial in a manner sure to rile everyone. There are those who are convinced she was a self hating anti-Semite under the Svengali influence of a the demonic Heidegger. Ron Rosenbaum, the author of ‘Explaining Hitler‘ - a Roshomon-like investigation of the nature of the character of the fuhrer, wrote a damming assessment of the two love birds in Slate Magazine (  http://www.slate.com/articles/life/the_spectator/2009/10/the_evil_of_banality.html ). He cites two books published in 2009 which excoriate Arendt’s scholarship and Heidegger’s humanity.   von Trotta, as a director, should have had a firm conviction about the morality of her protagonist. Arendt once said: “the sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be good or evil”. That might be factually accurate but as a filmmaker von Trotta should have been able to say whether Arendt was feckless or heroic. Drama rises above documenting facts. It has a point of view. A director has to weigh all material and filter it through the heart and the head. Remember “Marianne and Juliane”. They had strong opinions based on ideas. But they were alive on the screen because von Trotta believed in them and let them inhabit the audience’s mind. The director’s opinion might not be the audiences', but the audience is lost without it. This brings to mind a quote by Heidegger: “Man is not the lord of beings. Man is the Shepard of Being”. Substitute “Film Director” for “Man” and it speaks to the problem with von Trotta’s “Hannah Arendt”.  It is not enough to have character’s stiffly recreate history; a film must have characters that are ‘shepherded’ into being. Once again von Trotta walked on eggshells while making this film. She needed to take Mary McCarthy’s advice on creating fiction: “I am putting real plums in an imaginary cake.” Unfortunately for the audience von Trotta’s cake ended up as un-garnished plums.  It is always interesting to witness the gossipy goings-on of historical figures. But von Trotta is more than a record keeper. She has shown a towering imagination in portraying loved ones. In the end she studied these historical characters to a degree it crushed her ability to be passionate and dream about them. von Trotta left us with their actions without imagining their motives. It is understandable that she would waiver from judging, but there is a danger in producing art in the comfortable zone of accuracy. As Mr. Banality said at his trial: "Now that I look back, I realize that a life predicated on being obedient and taking orders is a very comfortable life indeed. Living in such a way reduces to a minimum one's need to think."

New World (2005)

American New World

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malick is, at heart, a Texan. This part of the country tends to root for the guys in black hats. Malick has a soft-spot for Cain. Abel was a favored son we are a nation of Cain’s. We the hard-luck second sons busting our asses to do good and seem pretty. We loathe introspection in direct proportion to our love of THE LAW. Rules are made up of isolated facts that create abstractions so we can live with ourselves. On the surface this is a film about a group of marauders who invade and pillage and for good measure trumpet the daughter of the rival king in front of their own. These victims trusted the invaders and were repaid with annihilation. Pocas constant refrain to Capt. Smith is “Who are you?”. The Captain might not know the answer, but he knows enough to know that it isn’t pretty. Malick knows that in Smith’s ambivalence and quest to rise above his station lies the heart of the American experience. We are desperate castaways striving to be better. We’ll kill our brother to get there but what choice do we have? The meek shall inherit the earth – but by that time – who cares? We live in the here and now. We live in a world of conquerors and by God we’ll conquer. We’re not refined as our European cousins. We’re not saintly as our Native American brothers. We’re Americans – ugly, guilty but at the same time mesmerizing and innocent.

Tommy (1994 stage production in Los Angeles)

TOMMY CAN YOU HEAR ME?

   
   
Broadway musicals have survived in recent years by re-staging past hits and recycling old tunes: 42nd Street, Guys & Dolls, Carousel, Jerome Robbin's Broadway, Crazy for You, Show Boat, Damn Yankees… This trend stems from Producer's unwillingness to take risks on untried material due to the exorbitant cost of mounting productions. The 50+ crowd has been eager to spend the $60+ per seat to see elaborate re-enactments of the best of yesteryear. There is a familiar sense of "this is what Broadway should be". The challenge lies in attracting the next generation of theater-goers who are not as nostalgic; to them Oklahoma is just a state near Kansas. What's a Producer to do? Classes in American Musical Comedy might not be very popular. Tommy to the rescue!

Tommy the musical, is based on the seminal rock album of the same name by the group the Who. Most Americans with a cursory knowledge of rock (i.e.the under 45 crowd) would be immediately familiar with at least three of the songs if not the entire album itself. This late '60s so called "rock opera" spawned a cultlike following including a Ken Russell film based on the "story". One can hear the Producer's salivating. A musically based narrative which appeals to "younger" audiences who can afford the price of a theater ticket. There is only one problem - no plot. Well this is a small obstacle in the eyes of a zealous theatrical producer who sees gold. The rationalization for mounting a production might be along the lines of: Classic American Musical Comedies were always "light" on plot; for that matter look at Lloyd Weber's CATS - not much on story either.

Connoisseurs of the theater would question the artistic merits of anything based on a Cats model. Furthermore the "thin" plots of classic musicals were buttressed by the fact that the composer and playwright conceived of the piece as a staged event. Despite the massive amounts of drugs available to  Pete Townsend (the composer) in the late 1960s it is doubtful whether he could have envisaged a set of circumstances which would make Tommy a sought after Broadway Musical property. Tommy is first and foremost a rock album; albeit a revolutionary one. It sought to expand the notions of what could be done within the confines of Rock'n'Roll as experienced through woofers & tweeters and not a proscenium arch. Rock'n'roll is felt and not necessarily understood. It is common to for Rock fans to adore songs without comprehending or even knowing the lyrics (from the Kingsmen's "Louie Louie" to Nirvana's "The Smell of Teen Spirit"). This casualness fits well with the carefree ambiance with which the music is heard. It is uncommon for fans to cease all activity and give their full attention to an entire album. In fact such an act might me counter-productive in terms of gauging the success of the work. Theater is the exact opposite. It requires a maximum amount of attentiveness within a set time frame. The challenge of making the transition from album to stage relies on understanding the undisciplined power of Rock and harnessing it to the rigors of the stage.

Aristotle's Poetics, the paradigm work on structuring plays, lists plot as the central element of drama. Although the Greek philosopher might be somewhat out of fashion few could argue his point. Tommy's purported plot centers around an abused boy's life-long search for his identity. In reality the storyline is a series of loosely related moments: Tommy witnesses the murder of his step father by his war-hero father. The former assumed the role of father when it was thought the latter was killed in action. The newly discharged soldier comes home and sees his wife in the clutches of another man. The result is the murder. It seems to have mattered very little to the loving wife. She never misses a beat and falls into a heartfelt swoon as soon as one body hits the floor. Her ambivalence is shared by the audience who also have difficulty distinguishing between the two men. The parents react by demanding the young boy's silence. He is a very impressionable child and takes them at their word: he turns deaf, dumb and blind. Tommy goes on through numerous cruel and inappropriate "treatments" as well as suffering abuse at the hands of his alcoholic uncle and sadistic cousin. Finally his genius is unmasked - he is a pinball wizard. A love interest appears. His fame leads to cultlike religious status and the predictable exploitation by Uncle & Cousin.  Tommy has an epiphany and stops being deaf, dumb and blind. His implores his followers stop following. A reconciliation occurs with his exploiters and his disciples. There is a happy and grand moment when everyone comes together and starts singing for no discernible reason other than the band starts playing the catchy "Listening to You". The play ends. So much for plot.

It is obvious that Tommy is about nothing and makes no sense. Pete Townsend is not to blame. In the context of the original medium Tommy is brilliant. The producers and directors of the stage version have much to explain. Instead of accepting the heartfelt illogic they attempt to force Tommy into being a straight-line narrative with intervening musical numbers. In a sense they are as absurd as any of the strange assortment of miracle cure quacks who attempt to "cure" Tommy's affliction. Tommy needs to be accepted for what it is: a magnificently crafted rock album with a passing nod towards story. Given the undisciplined nature of rock'n'roll it is no surprise that the "plot" fails to translate to the stage. The producers ignore the visceral sense of the music and focus on the non-existent plot. Mr. Townsend, sensing trouble, shied away from writing an extra song which would "tie the whole story together". The producer inspired musical addition is, not surprisingly, forced and forgettable.      

The play is not the thing; the music is. Forget plot just play the songs and stage a series of flashy disconnected stage happenings. Focus on two elements: music and special effects. A sign greets current audiences: WARNING THIS PRODUCTION CONTAINS FLASHING STROBE LIGHTS AND LIVE GUNFIRE. Unfortunately not enough of either to make any lasting impact. The fact of the matter it would be more entertaining if this production gave up any pretense of being a play and instead embraced a Lazerium or rock concert approach. Underscoring this point is the placement of the musicians. The current production, taking its cue from musicals, places the band in the orchestra pit. It only becomes apparent that live musicians are performing when the conductor occasionally bobs his head & arms above the sight-line. All the actors must play instruments in order to fully integrate the music with the show. The sound system should be "Cranked up" and  the smoke machines and the laser guns must be at full throttle. All the songs should be eliminated except. "Tommy Can You Hear Me", "See Me, Hear Me", "Listening to You" and "Pinball Wizard". If the required time-frame isn't met just repeat the songs at a different tempo with a different light show until the crowd feels its received $60+ worth of entertainment. Any Audience member who complains about missing Pete Townsend's imaginative story (with all those delightful characters) should be directed back stage for a live encounter with Tommy's dear Uncle and Cousin. If that isn't enough they should be placed in a sensory deprivation tank where they can experience Tommy's angst.     

Gravity (2013)

The Eagle Almost Landed

I want a world without gravity
It could be just what I need
I'd watch the stars move close
I'd watch the earth recede
- Jim Carroll, Wicked Gravity

The feature film “Gravity” has been called the juggernaut of the Fall season with a gross of over $300 million dollars and a three week hold as the number one box office draw. Not bad for a story set essentially in real time and fixed exclusively on one female character. In addition there is little dialogue. What hooks the audience is the terrifying portrait of the limitless expanse of space. More specifically the juxtaposition of the abyss against the fragile man-made outposts and even more delicate men and women who choose to be the inhabitants.  This film is a tour de force of cinematography, set-design and special effects.  This is a story made for the 3D format as objects literally leap from the screen. Unfortunately the first rate design is laid over a simulacrum of a script.

All those who grew up with Star Trek, which had its TV premiere during the Apollo era, have the opening words burned into their minds: “Space, (pause) the final frontier”.  Capt. Kirk chose the word ‘frontier’ with great purpose. This is an extremely DANGEROUS place. In fact it is the opposite of place; it is the embodiment of nothingness. A small malfunction or misstep and the pioneer drifts into the dark oblivion. Astronauts are brave; not cavalier. This is where the fine work of the filmmakers, Alfonso and Jonas Cuaron, encounters the first patch of turbulence. George Clooney, the only other major character in the film, outside of Sandra Bullock, is inappropriately glib from the opening moments. He seems to be channeling exuberance of Buzz Lightyear rather than taciturn cool of  John Glenn. Courage has been defined as grace under pressure. Clooney is impervious to pressure which results in a complete lack of grace. He is moronic, not heroic.  His demeanor is that of a super-hero crossed with a joke-telling uncle at a family wedding.  Perhaps the Cuaron brothers were trying for the astronaut paradigm which combines the best of science, soldier and pilot. Clooney failed to launch. Bullock is all nerves - which works... to a point. Her reactions to the unfolding series of catastrophes are richly human. Unfortunately being paired with a cartoon spaceman leaves her alone metaphorically as well as physically. The dazzling special affects can obscure her isolation for awhile. In the end, however, she is adrift in a tiring script... but one must not underestimate the power of spectacle. This film is worth the price of admission, despite the shortcomings in storytelling.

Perhaps the most compelling component of the work is the effortless expansive drift of universe pitted against the ant-like flicker of mankind’s great technological prowess.  The Cuarons are familiar with all the classic film depictions of outer space and they choose wisely in incorporating the best ideas from past masters. Their clever integration of the latest computer graphics wizardry gives new dimensions to classic interpretations of the place beyond the clouds. The rapid sound design explosions juxtaposed with daring silences add to the intense immersion into the terror of being on the cusp of a bottomless pit of darkness. This audible dissonance, as well as the horror/beauty of claustrophobic abandoned space stations,  is taken from Danny Boyle’s underrated “Sunshine”.  Bullock’s rejuvenating fetal recline after managing to seal the hatch in the temporary refuge is a homage to the closing of Kubrick’s “2001”.  There is even a reference to  Looney Tunes as a “Marvin the Martian” chachka floats out of a compartment filled with battered corpses of fellow crew members.  It all works to show a director in control of his medium and supporting the storyline. Unfortunately the dialogue and plot twists burn up in the atmosphere of unnecessary exposition and kitsch motivation.

 The writer/director team know what they are doing. The brilliant shifting POV during the initial debris storm cinematically captures the entire drama of being a spider dangling between the comfort of earth and the darkness beyond. The choreography of the crashing solar panels and awkward zero gravity dance all help build a struggle of survival against the universe (literally). It is difficult to jibe this technical perfection with the unfortunate Clooney performance and the insipid banter. There is a strange nervousness tick in mainstream American feature films where the characters vomit deep seated personal details at crucial moments. Script doctors and studio executives believe this gives the audience a firmer perspective on the motivation of the characters. Unfortunately it has the effect of sucking away all the mystery and romance. It is anti-dramatic in that it replaces onscreen chemistry and action with limp narration and hollow reasoning. Bullock’s character’s tragic loss of a child is incidental to the scene in which Clooney tugs her across the universe to safety.  In fact her revelation strangely places all the terror in a box of appropriately simulated grief.  The images and actions are enough and completely speak to the emotional trauma and desolation.  All that was needed was a vocal metaphor to compliment the visual feast - the sound of stressed breathing. It worked in “2001” and no doubt Cuaron knows it would have been a fit in this sequence. There is, however, the reality of the marketplace. Film is a collaborative work which relies on the input from those who are footing the bill; regardless of their ability to shape the work artistically.

Sandra Bullock is an interesting choice as the person to carry the film. No doubt the suits were referencing her role in the thriller franchise: “Speed” and “Speed 2: Cruise Control”. Bullock has maintained her sex appeal and has a seasoned resume demonstrating a range beyond reactive repertoire of traditional actions films. It was a good performance encased in a pedestrian dialogue.  Obviously the suits can point to box office and exclaim: Mission Accomplished. It begs the question, however, of how much Bullock would have soared had she been given the script that matched the Cuaron’s brilliant visual accomplishments.  What if her character had been granted enough strength to forgo the absurd ‘dream sequence’? How would the re-entry have played without the necessity to narrative her fears and feelings.  Bullocks physicality and visual expressions were undercut by needless prattle. Note: her character was the most memorable while she was actively battling the endless barrage of obstacles. This was not accompanied by detailed descriptive narrative but simple directions, commands, grunts and endless rushes of breath.  She might have repeated the same desperate distress call, “Houston in the blind”, for the last half of the film and it would have had more power than the gooey anecdotes and verbal reaffirmations of her state of mind.

There is a wonderful video of the international space station narrated by Commander Sunita Williams which gives a view of the mundane aspects of space life (e.g. brushing teeth, showering, room layout...). ( The video is at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmV90BmMNMg) No doubt the cinematographer and set designers spent countless hours re-creating this strange zero gravity home base. The overall effect was completely convincing to this reviewer - a certified non-space expert. The real scientists were less impressed. Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson, a leading American astrophysicist, issued a number of twitter posts challenging the science, although he said he enjoyed the film. Mr. Cuaron responded in the Hollywood Reporter revealing he was aware of the real world shortcomings but felt he had artistic license.  (http://www.theguardian.com/film/2013/oct/21/gravity-alfonso-cuaron-knew-science-flaws) This is a small exchange but speaks volumes about American’s audiences quest for ‘authenticity’.   In order to ‘really’ validate a film’s worthiness the filmmakers must pay homage to the god of science. Forcing fiction to submit to factual reality obscures the real truth behind the story.  This is a tale about a frail human technician dangling over the vast unknown. Space journeys are terrifying because they challenge the modern American shibboleth: we live in a material world that can be controlled by our will .  A mainstream commercial feature must bring us to the edge and carefully snatch of away from the horror of nothingness. Ironically Dr. Tyson’s commentary, although negative, adds to the sense that this work is somehow rooted in science rather than science fiction. The director’s response speaks to the technical prowess balanced with ‘real’ science. Perhaps the lesson of this film might be that we need to untether from the notion that our comfortable factual hard-nosed ‘reality’ is rooted in explainable logic. Here is a fact that seems to be lost in all our technical prowess: our current scientists have absolutely no idea what makes up the composition 95% of the universe.  Metaphorically speaking we live in an extension of the ‘dark ages’. What does this have to do with ‘Gravity’? If we accept the idea that we ‘don’t know’ we will feel less inclined to hamstring our art with pat explanations.  We really are dangling over a dark unknown. This can be applied to our characters’ motivations and actions. In this respect truth can set us free... and produce better films.

Carlito's Way (1993)

DePalma's Way

       
    Brian Depalma is the Ralph Lauren of film: prolific, successful and unoriginal. He shares the clothing magnet's knack for turning uninspired reproduction into an artform. Mr. Lauren evokes the past by replacing the context of history with his guess as to what the public will gobble-up that particular year. His annual pretentious appropriations are startling for their shear randomness (19th century England, Czarist Russia, the old West…). Mr. Depalma work shares this whimsical arrogant derivativeness. In fact he augments the crime. Instead of borrowing the general look of a particular era he usurps the specific recognized masterpieces of renowned directors: Eisenstien's Battleship Potemkin, Hitchcock's Vertigo and Psycho , Antoninio's Blow Up, Howard Hawks' Scarface. The results are limp counterfeits. It is hard to image anyone finding Dressed to Kill and Body Double more compelling than Hitchcock's originals. The same is true of Scarface; aside of a riveting opening sequence Depalma manages to double the length and produce less than half the thrill. The staircase shootout in The Untouchables is a classic Depalmaism. In the middle of a remake of a cult film noire serial the director decides to pay homage to a revolutionary (in both senses) Russian director. Einsenstien portrayed the birth of the Bolshevik uprising. The proletariat are brutally massacred on the staircase by the Czar's troops. It is impossible to fathom any correlation to Al Capone's Chicago. Mr. Depalma, to my knowledge, has remained silent and the film fails to offer a clue. Blow Out (the reworking of Blow Up) was an abomination. This is an exquisite example of a Ralph Lauren Channel suit.

    Mr. Depalma's newest work is Carlito's Way. It is less and more of the same; less blatant in its borrowings but uninspired and unoriginal nevertheless. There are touches of Serpico, Saturday Night Fever, The French Connection and once again Einsenstien's staircase scene from The Battleship Potemkin. This time its on an escalator and, sensing when to say when, Mr. Depalma omits the icon baby carriage tumbling, unattended, down the steps. To give Mr. Depalma some credit the script left little chance of producing a first rate drama. David Keopp's script is based on two novels by Edwin Torres, a former judge. It is terrifying to think that someone on the front lines of the criminal justice system could present such callow portraits of outlaws. The absurd plot twists can be laid to Judge Torres's having a full time career on the bench. The central characters, Al Pacino as a former drug king pin and Sean Penn as a corrupt lawyer, are more difficult to justify. Anyone with a cursory knowledge of the Mafia, drug dealers and the criminal justice system would have to conclude that these men are products of startling meager artistic imagination. The fact that Judge Torres had numerous encounters with the real Mcoy makes these creations all the more shocking.

    Mr. Depalma uses Serpico, the exposition of corruption in the NYPD, as a guide. In both films, which are set during the 1970s, Al Pacino plays an honest man struggling to escape a corrupt milieu. The structures are nearly identical: Pacino is ambushed during the opening sequence which is followed by a flashback which sets the stage for the shooting. Sean Penn follows Pacino's lead in dredging up past performances. Although the make-up gives him the air of Alan Dershowitz the character evokes his other portrayal of a cocaine addict. (i.e. the snowman in The Falcon and the Snowman). Penelope-Ann Miller delivers a strong rendering which nearly lifts her character out of the chauvinistic conception of women as pathetic victims. The choice of working at a sleazy topless bar to support her ballet career was contrived. There are people who are forced to make these choices but the contrast of the angelic ballerina with the crass showgirl called to mind the male obsession of portraying women as either saints, whores or both. Given Judge Torres' renditions of convicts it should come as no surprise he holds this view of the opposite sex. In a sense Ms. Miller's choosing to take the part is a more realistic illustration of the pitfalls women face when pursuing a career in the arts. In short, all the leading performers were diligent professionals going through the motions. No one broke new ground; but then again Mr. Depalma has never been know as an innovator.

    Carlito's Way glides from one obvious set-up to another. The emphasis is on action, not reflection. All the protagonists are troubled souls who have developed harsh survival strategies in an unforgiving world. Ms. Miller's character chooses to be part of a girlie-show, Pacino's decides to go straight and Penn's goes to the devil. This unfortunate trio falls into a series of set-pieces. They duck bullets, escape enemies, lie, fight, flee, scheme… The missing element is the most essential: motivation. What possessed these desperate people to make these choices? The film skirts the issue. Carlito decides, after spending his life in crime, that he wants to rent cars in the Bahamas. Penn's character is incredulous and reprimands Carlito with a laughing smirk. Despite Carlito's sincerity the film retained a residue of the corrupt lawyer's skepticism. The motivation for Pacino's fore-running character, Frank Serpico, is crystal clear. He became a policeman in order to serve the public. That film also revealed the young officer's torment in challenging accepted codes of behavior. Carlito is more perplexing. His epiphany on the values of civic virtue is never illustrated. This makes the believability of his former life in crime hard to accept. There are countless badguys who pay homage to Carlito by recounting stories of his evil deeds but without any reflection by the man himself the effect is lost. It is impossible to reconcile the incongruity between the old "gangster" Carlito and the new "citizen" Carlito. Pacino's heartfelt portrayal is doomed because the screenwriters never show the real turning point in the story: Carlito's change of heart. How did he develop his "Way"? Carlito himself muses about being tired of the street carnage and life in prison might but a few sentences between action sequences does little to resolve the mystery. It is difficult to know what precipitated this dramatic turnaround. Was it because he was freed from jail early on a technicality? Did it occur after his arrest on the charges which brought him the long sentence? Was it the brutal death of his cousin, whom he allows to participate in a drug deal? Did he engage in criminal acts behind bars? The film never answers these questions making it impossible to understand the man.

    The same criticisms hold true for the other central players. Ms. Miller's character's life with the "old" Carlito is hard to imagine. She does not appear to be the type of person who would date a heroin king pin. Did she also undergo an grand epiphany? The artistic team behind this film sees this as an irrelevant issue. The corrupt lawyer is the least perplexing but even his actions are bizarre. It is understandable that a young naive criminal lawyer could become seduced by the flashy lifestyle of his clients. Mr. Penn's character, however, shows a hostility towards Carlito and his other clients which is never fully explained. Surprises are an integral part of the action-crime genre. A problem arises when such bombshells reveal character traits which are heretofore invisible. The result is a loss of credibility. The player becomes merely a pawn in a drawn-out movie fantasy. Perhaps this is the key to coming to terms with Depalma. Focus less on the characters and more on the theatrics.

    There were many moments which were genuinely exciting. The shoot-out in which his cousin is murdered is especially engaging. The tension builds as Carlito realizes they are being set-up. The editing and choreography are first rate. There are other fun moments but without good writing and  believable characters the film lacks staying power.  The problem lies in his methods of placing the violence in the context of a story. When his characters are attempting meaningful interaction there behavior becomes artificial. The Penn-Pacino friendship is a case in point but nowhere is this more clearly illustrated than in the love story. Miller and Pacino are strong performers but their romantic interludes in this film are brazenly synthetic. The closer they became the more the sterility grew. The final scene evoked a sense of relief for not having to suffer through another moment of saccharine drivel. This relationship showed the degree of Mr. Depalma's inability. This director is at his best when his screen characters are at their worst. If hitting, stabbing and shooting could sustain a drama then Mr. Depalma would rank among the cinematic legends. Unfortunately spicing his own films with recreated snippets of their work fails to mask Depalma's dearth of creativity. His vision seems ideally suited for a medium in which surface-flash counts for everything. He might become one of the great directors of commercial television spots but as a feature filmmaker he has firmly established himself as a hack.                      

Fire in the Sky (1993)

Fire in the Snowflake
   
   
I saw the poster and I was intrigued: Alien Abduction, November 5, 1975, 5:49 PM, Fire in the Sky - based on a true story. I've been in the mood to escape. I thought this film might evoke a vicarious thrill. Humans can be so tiresome and earth can be so drab (especially in Long Island City Queens). Instead of leaving "the great globe" I became immersed in the more sordid aspects of life on the mother planet.

Fire in the Sky plays at being an alien suspense movie (e.g. Close Encounters of a Third Kind). In reality it bears little resemblance to that film genre with the exception of a five minute sequence near the close (the victim experiencing flashbacks of being inside the UFO). Fire in the Sky is closer in spirit to Bad Day at Black Rock or High Noon. An idealized Western town facing a crisis of morality which centers around the old Western institution of the "lynch mob". Unfortunately Fire lacks the artistry or the moral fortitude of the two earlier films. Whereas Spencer Tracy and Gary Cooper faces fictitious crisis in make believe towns their struggles have a larger resonance than the trials and tribulations of the "real" protagonists in that "real" Western Town: Snowflake Arizona (who could make that up).

The bulk of the movie focuses on the relationship amongst the collection of Snowflake citizens who are snared into a drama sparked by the disappearance of one of Snowflake's finest: a popular local logger. The idea has potential. A small town falling under the cloud of suspicion. Neighbor turning on neighbor.  Was his best friend, the head logger, implicated or was he murdered by a mean spirited, non-Snowflake logger? James Garner is sent to straighten-out the mess. He's non-Snowflake but he can be trusted. We learn from the painful expository dialogue "You're the sheriff who's solved every case. I'm so happy to meet you". Mr. Garner shrugs off the compliments. He wants to get right down to business in the tradition of Mcload. (I know he was Rockford but the Cowboy hat made me think of Mcload. His acting style made me think of the spots he used to do for the Beef industry: "Beef, Real food for real people" - well returning to the real drama). James Garner thinks all this UFO talk is fooey hogwash. He's on a mission to find the truth. Oh yes the truth. The truth is that the logger was abducted by aliens. Therein lies the problem. The mean-spirited actions of the citizens and the sheriff are justified. From an audience's point of view the bad guys fail to be malevolent. (Unless one thinks it unreasonable for a group of people in a small town to be skeptical when told that a space ship just sucked a close friend into outer-space). They're not really evil. They just were denied the opportunity of seeing the first twenty minutes of the movie or more precisely the flying saucer and the campy special effects. Furthermore the good guys fail to be compelling. Their actions are weird even in the bizarre context of the situation. Panic is understandable. Panicking then regrouping only to panic again is less so. Calling UFO watchers instead of the police upon rediscovering your friend is incompressible, not to mention inhuman. I don't think the aliens themselves would have been so cruel.

It is interesting to note the fates of the two central characters: the leader of the logging team and his best friend, Travis, the "victim" of the alien abduction. The leader begins the film as, just that, the leader. He is in charge of a group of loggers which is assigned to complete a government timber contract which he negotiated. He needs the money.  He is behind on his mortgage and is having difficulty  providing for his family (his younger sister as well as a wife and two children). His spousal relationship is strained but nothing outside of the normal toil of a married couple of limited means. Things are tough but it is a community where life is hard. He is facing his responsibilities and enduring with dignity, something Snowflake understands and admires. This is in sharp contrast to Travis; the abductee. Travis is a dreamer; the never ending adolescent with a beat-up motorcycle and pie in the sky ambitions. Travis is a the point where it isn't cute to be a flake. It he really intends to marry his best-friend's live-in sister he must "buckle-down". The epilogue to the film (the obligatory Hollywood happy ending) shows the two best friends making an attempt at reconciliation two years after that fateful night. (Travis originally blamed his friend for being abandoned in the woods). The former leader and bulwark of Snowflake has metamorphosed into a disheveled loner living in a cabin deep in the woods. He lost his job, house and family.(Even his sister, who married Travis, seems to have written him off as a hopeless coward.) Travis is now the well adjusted family man with a thriving business not to mention the proceeds from the best-selling first hand account his torment with the aliens. (A fact never overtly mentioned in the plotline but which can be gleaned from a cursory reading of the opening credits: "Adapted from the novel: Fire in the Sky by Travis). There is nothing wrong with Horatio Alger but what about Timon of Snowflake? The ramifications of the misdeeds of our neighbors in space seem beginning, if not downright helpful, when contrasted with the repercussions of the conduct of the dear family, neighbors and friends of Snowflake. But, once again, who can really blame them. In the realm of skepticism "Alien abductions" certainly rank with incidence of "spontaneous combustion" if not matching sightings of Elvis. In this context the strange, unsettling role reversal of the two lead characters is merely unfortunate not tragic. There is nothing in this tale to evoke more than a sympathetic groan. Peeling  away the extraordinary we are left with the sense of having born witness to one of life's horrible fender benders.

In order for this story to have resonance it must unfold as more than a slow-motion re-enactment of a series of inevitable misunderstandings. It never does. It is all very sad but it is also so inevitable. There is nothing at stake. The cars move slowly on a collision coarse and eventually make contact. This could have been avoided if the audience was placed in the same position as the denizens of Snowflake. It could have easily been achieved by leaving the existence of the aliens as an open question. The film should have begun after Travis had disappeared and focused exclusively on the plight of the friend and his battle with the righteous God fearing townsfolk. Let the audience participate and judge. Give us a stake in the action. Although this would have surely been a more captivating film it is doubtful that it would have been made. The "action space movie" advertising campaign would have been scraped (no beam of light from the heavens on the poster). More importantly the film fires a direct volley at Snowflake U.S.A.; the paradigm of middle American virtue. What kind of a producer would expect a blockbuster from a film devoid of special effects and action sequences which exhibits the darker side of "Mom, the flag and apple pie"? That would take someone of extraordinary vision. Perhaps such a person would believe in aliens. Don't worry there aren't too many of those. No one in Snowflake to be sure.

The Lover (1992)

The Lover is not Mon Amour

   
    Merchant-Ivory has been very successful in the last few years by taking recognized works of literature and translating them to the screen (i.e. Room with a View, Maurice, Howard's End…). This is thinking-man's fun; the film equivalent of Masterpiece Theater with enough English accents to play on the American sense of cultural insecurity. A new wave has arrived, or more precisely a nouvelle vague: Magritte Duras' The Lover is now a movie. Merchant-Ivory beware, the idea is catching on.

    The Lover is the story of a love affair between an impoverished adolescent French girl and wealthy Chinese man in his thirties. It is framed by having an older woman, a writer living in Paris, reminiscence about this experience which occurred in Indo-China where she spent her childhood. There is a hint that this is an autobiographical portrayal of Ms. Duras. Although this film can be erotic and enthralling, the role of the Duras figure undercuts its strength. The opening shows obscure erotic shapes (bodies perhaps) in close up. A distinctive voice of an older woman, speaking English with a French accent, begins the narrative. As she talks, the shapes evolve into a close-up of a hand writing out the story in French. This sequence ends and the beautiful young French teenager quickly encounters the dashing rich Chinese man. These two figures stand out in the harsh reality of pre-World War II Vietnam. The romance takes its course in the midst of a very impressive re-creation of the period. I felt as if I was there. If only that old lady had shut up. Instead the narrator talks and talks and talks. It is as if she was hired for the visually impaired. In the context of the abstractness of the opening sequence, the narration worked. Throughout the film it became antithetical to the passionate portrayal of the couple. Radio show hosts and sports broadcasters never do much to build a sense of romantic intimacy. Despite the refined timbre of her voice, she was an endless annoying intrusion.

    The most glaring verbal assaults were exhibited at the close of the action and during the epilogue. The climax of the film features the young woman leaving on a ship. She looks out to see if her lover has remembered her. The film is shot in a straightforward way which clearly shows the action. It is personal moment at the end of a very passionate story. My enjoyment of the outcome was clouded by that groggy old voice from the future carefully explaining exactly was occurring. This sequence jumps to a moment when the ship is out at sea. The girl wanders around then bursts into tears. It is not necessary to wonder what she is thinking. In fact there is no need to watch the scene. The fateful narrator tells all. It was truly a bizarre cinematic experience. It was the equivalent of watching a foreign film and having a stranger in a distant seat giving expository comments in-between reading the sub-titles aloud. This carried over into the epilogue. This sequence ties into the opening close-up of the hand and the pen. Unlike the beginning there is no montage of abstract close-ups. The director has  completely capitulated to the narrator. Visual blandness lives as the voice drones on. There is a wide shot of an older woman, with her back to the audience, writing at a desk. The narrator goes on to explain that many years later the lover contacted her. The voice spells out his feelings, her reaction, the outcome…  all the while her back faces us, an unintended metaphor for the visual surrender which has occurred. The voice has run out of things to explain. The film ends. Movies are primarily a visual medium. It seems such an obvious statement but The Lover's closing begs a reminder of this simple truth.

    The director, despite the ending, exhibits some control of the craft. The film is successful when the telling stops and the showing starts. There are two sequences which particularly stand out. The sexual interplay between the protagonists is truly erotic. They are usually making love but in one gruesome scene he "fucks" her. Throughout it all, however, there is not one moment of pornography. The director completely avoided being gratuitous or sensationalistic. In an age where Madonna's Sex is a bestseller, this is no small feat. The "meet the family" encounter was another moment when the director and the actors were in top form. This evening is perfectly drawn. Compassion, rudeness and ruthlessness gyrates back and forth between friends, enemies, family and lovers. Anyone who has ever encountered the rough waters of mixing relations and sweethearts will take solace; nothing could be as nightmarish as Ms. Duras' experience. Even the narrator's interruptions failed to dull this brilliant portrait. It is so vivid it calls into question the need for the earlier domestic scenes. The initial flashback of the horrors of the young girl's home becomes superfluous. Everyone comes to life clearly and succinctly when she clandestinely introduces her family to her lover. This is good filmmaking.

    Overall The Lover is an adequate rendition of a tragic love story with professional acting, magnificent design work and passable directing. Perhaps that would suffice if it were not for Ms. Duras' Hiroshima Mon Amour. This film, which was directed by Alain Renais in the early '60s, is built around a Frenchwoman's tryst with an Asian man. It might be easy to become absorbed in the fact that the protagonists in both films are almost racially identical. More importantly, however, both these couples face the same predicament: trying to establish true love in a horrific, unforgiving world. Hiroshima Mon Amour is a haunting film. Ms. Duras' bleak outlook on the prospects of finding a spiritual-emotional partner are fully realized. Despite having only viewed it once 11 years ago, I can vividly recall the strange interaction between that blessed but unfortunate couple. It might seem unfair to expect The Lover to live up to this recognized cinematic masterpiece. Unfortunately the thematic resemblance forces the issue. The director also opens The Lover with a subtle reference to the Renais film. The abstract montage of the hand writing on the page evokes Renais' abstract human forms in the midst of passion/torture. In both cases Duras' words provide the voice over. From this point on, however, the films go their separate ways. Mr. Renais creates a love fraught with passion and ambivalence. The Lover relates an engaging, erotic and unhappy reminiscence.

    Perhaps the ultimate irony is that The Lover was made three decades after Hiroshima Mon Amour's premiere. If this is truly an autobiographic episode from Ms. Duras' childhood, it gives an interesting perspective on the seed from which Renais' masterpiece evolved. Regrettably most audiences will not have the experience of seeing the earlier film in movie houses, if at all. Perhaps a future film professor might show the two works as a double bill: High Brow Entertainment and Great Cinema. No need to say which film will be shown first.    

JFK (1991)

SOS OS

   
    It isn't really necessary to pay that much attention to an Oliver Stone movie. You can make dinner, talk to a friend on the phone, work out, read the paper… just so you glance over every 5 or 10 minutes for a visual or a snippet of dialogue. That'll do it. No need to take the whole thing in. One sixtieth will suffice. OS has an interesting attitude about subtlety. His movie characters haven't yet resorted to wearing placards designating "good" and "evil". Then again there are so many fascinating hot buttons of current social history which OS has yet to apply his fresh, brilliant, cinematic vision. Maybe he can utilize the placard technique in MANSON?   

    JFK breaks new ground for America's premier storyteller. Even if an audience listens to every word and watches every frame; the film remains utterly incomprehensible. I will refrain from commenting on OS's understanding of recent history. It would bring back memories of 25 minutes I spent with an anti-Darwin creation-science teacher. I will, however, dare to go way out on a limb and say I don't believe our former President was soft on Communism and I do not consider the DA of New Orleans to be beyond reproach. (To quote a former Governor of that bastion of civic propriety: "The only way they gonna run me outta office is if they find me in a hotel room with a women dead or a boy alive".) But lets not get into all that. Let's look at JFK on its own merits.

    I enjoyed the first twenty minutes. Those montages of all the great old people in the great old days. Kinda makes you wonder about now. It's like seeing a clip of the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show then witnessing Guns'n'Roses on MTV. What the hell happened? We used to be so cool, interesting and more than anything, full of conviction. It's even worse when we try to relive the past (e.g. the remake of Breathless or Paul McCartney on MTV unplugged.) Yes, yes I know revisionist historians have gone and proved that Camelot was a forerunner of Reagan's P.R. blitz. And that no one was really as pretty, as smart, as cool or thin as we are all programmed to believe. Perhaps all those blurry black and white pictures make you suspend, for a few seconds, the inherent sense of cynicism which is a part of any rational person who grew up in the 70's and came of age in the 80's. Perhaps. Perhaps. There is, however, more to it than just romanticizing. Orson Welles, the cinematic  Last night Orson Welles The Third Man" was on T.V. He made this memorizing political thriller when he was in his early 30s. I couldn't help shuddering to myself when I thought of our current cinematic wunderkind's latest film, "Kafka". This is also a statement about government intrigue;  unfortunately it is opaque and private whereas Welles' work is crisp and universal. Maybe it's nostalgia but something seems lacking when contrasted with the past. 

    To quote Lou Reed from his ballad "Heroin", "I guess I just don't know. And I guess that I just don't know". This echoed through my head for the remaining 2 hours and 40 minutes of JFK. In a sense this is a battle cry for our time. Our master storyteller utilizing all the creative talent currently available - the finest actors, grips, cameramen, lighting designers, set designers, gaffers,  FX men… all to set the stage for the climax: A courtroom scene in which the main conspirator is on trial for no easily discernible reason and the protagonist is choreographing a ballistic ballet making and equally obscure point. This is capped off by a speech in which Kevin Costner looks into the camera and implores us all to do something. I can't remember what. Maybe it was to convict the "fag". Oh yes. On top being a dullard OS is a bigot. But male homosexuals should take solace in the fact that OS is what they are often falsely accused of being: a rapid misogynist. In OS's universe women are awful and irrelevant - lesbians do not exist. Back to that closing scene. Is Donald Trump writing screenplays? I ask because the closing argument bore a striking prosaic resemblance to Mr. Trump's full page N.Y. Times add "Why I bought the Plaza Hotel". Mr. Trumps musings about the Mona Lisa vs. Mr. Costner's quoting Coleridge or was it Browning? or was it Tennyson? Well I know it wasn't Ginsberg.

    I'm feeling very lonely these days. The world seems to be wondering "Who was on the grassy knoll?" Congress is opening files. Oprah, Phil, Sally and Heraldo are pointing at Cubans and the mob. N.P.R. has experts arguing with callers who are quoting the Warren Commission verbatim. Norman Mailer has weighed in with a piece for Vanity Fair. OS is addressing the National Press club then he is scheduled to be on a panel with Nora Ephron and others. OS is in New Hampshire denouncing everyone and everything and telling students at Dartmouth he'll let them see JFK for free if they vote. "I guess I just don't know. And I guess that I just don't know."

    I've strayed. Lets return to the latest creation and take it scene by scene. After the montages, Ed Asner argues with Jack Lemon about something. Ed dies? Is murdered? Joe Pesci gets hauled in by Kevin Costner. Something about goose hunting in Texas. There are many gay people having fun; something which seems to elude all the hets (maybe I was wrong about OS).  The fun male homosexuals are right wing crazies who run a military camp and want to invade Cuba - they hate JFK who they consider a wimp and a traitor. We shift to the future. Kevin Costner is on a plane with Walter Matthau. For me this was the most startling scenes in the film. I thought Matthau had died of a heart attack many years ago. I could have sworn I had read his obituary. Yet there he was sitting next to Costner on the plane playing Sen. Earl Long. My heart was pounding. I almost turned to the stranger next to me "Isn't Walter Matthau…" Luckily, the invigorating dialogue brought me back to my senses: Sen. Long expresses misgivings about the Kennedy assassination saying he thought something might have been going on. Oswald had some dealings in New Orleans. Costner decides to dedicate his life to finding the "real" assassin. Of course. Why not. He is only the DA for New Orleans. He has all the time in the world. I wonder if Sen. Long had decided to talk about the Bermuda Triangle what course the film would have taken. Back to the plot. There are meandering intrigues. His wife is a bitch. The guys in the office are nice but weird. More of the right wing homosexuals. It goes on. What did I forget to remember? Oh yes, Donald Sutherland appearing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Costner gets a phone call from a stranger who claims to be a ex-CIA man and tells him to fly to Washington D.C. and meet him by the Lincoln Memorial. Costner takes the next plane - of course. A thumbnail rule in "good" film or theater is "show don't tell". Well Donald tells and tells and tells and tells and tells… a verbal diarrhea burst of conspiratorial crap. Something about being sent to the South Pole and a newspaper in New Zealand. He wasn't very engaging and when Costner asks him to stop talking and start helping, he pats Costner on the back as if to say "What do you think I am, crazy?". Unfortunately for movie audiences nationwide OS never explores the answer to this question. Sutherland wishes Costner luck, walks away and disappears.

    I wonder if the Sutherland scene was based on actual encounters. I can imagine OS receiving clandestine calls in the middle of the night to arrange meeting with strangers in Grand Central station or the Golden Gate Bridge. This might account for his view of the King and RFK assassinations. (OS doesn't miss a cultural-historical beat.) OS ties these events into this plot as only someone of his abilities could. Sissy Spacek, Costner's wife, is burdened with their 7 children. Or was it 5 children. No, no I distinctly remember there was only one child in the closing shot. The family tableau of the wronged Kevin Cosner marching off in the distance with wife and child.(Do you think they killed their own children? No, no they just shrank the family to fit the shot) Back to OS's brilliant tie in: Sissy, overburdened with a large number of children, <7 but="">3, thinks hubby has lost a screw. What a crazy ungrateful bitch. Just when he was about to take a field trip to Dallas. (Remember he lives in WHO-DAT-VILLE.) Costner sees King and RFK blown away on the tube and he straightens Sissy out… "You're crazy if you don't think this is connected to what I'm doing". I dunno Kev. Maybe the little lady is on to something or maybe James Earl Ray and Siran Siran were on the payroll of Bell Helicopter. I can't go on.

    I just saw a poster for RUBY- "the man who killed the man who killed Kennedy". Ruby is dead. Oswald is dead. JFK is dead. Walter Matthau isn't dead. Jim Morrison is dead? Elvis is dead? Is Paul dead?  "I guess I just don't know. And I guess that I just don't know"