Crying Game (1992)

Only a Game

    

     Neil Jordan makes films about the sleazy side of life. He does not make sleazy movies. Character development and plotline dictate the appearance of sex and violence. He has a vision, although he is not a visionary. His strength lies in successfully pushing the limits of convention. Mona Lisa gave film noire a contemporary flair. Mr. Jordan's newest work, The Crying Game, is similiar. There are bullets and bi-sexuals, unfortunately there is no bite.   

      Mr. Jordan has demonstrated an innovative approach to  subject matter with a true understanding of the medium. Prior to Mona Lisa, love stories involving homosexuality were reserved for a refined, sophisticated, upper class characters (e.g. Sunday Bloody Sunday, Kiss of the Spider Woman), not cockney prositutes. His use of actors, lighting and music in that film were thoughtful and, at times, ingenious. The Crying Game had all the ingredients for another Neil Jordan "intelligent" gangster film: an unusual romance played- out in a gritty setting. An IRA-gunman befriends a black English soldier, who is being held prisoner. This fateful encounter leads the Irishman to flee to England, where he clandestinely seeks out his former captive's lover. These two relationships completely overturn his view of the world, both politically and personally. The film runs full circle and the former jailer becomes a prisoner in a foreign land; sharing the same love and even telling the same anecdotes as his former English charge. It is all very clever but, unlike Mr. Jordan's previous work, it fails to convince.

     The Crying Game is built around charactertures who parade as characters. These people live to tell the story. It is difficult to see them as anything but pawns in a set-piece drama. The sequence in which the English soldier is being held speaks to the "contrived" nature of the entire film. This should have been about a guard overseeing a prisoner. Instead it is an overdrawn male-bonding love-fest. All the heartfelt dialogue served to undermine the strength of the scene. In this context the action was predictable, forced and unrealistic.  The motive behind the guard's decision to remove the prisoner's hood came from Mr. Jordan's need to have the two men physically see one another. It was not, however, due to the prisoner's discomfort or the guard's feelings of sympathy. There was no "real" guard or "real" prisoner. It was all Mr. Jordan and his clever bag of tricks. This continues in the when the IRA man arrives in England. His courting of his former captive's lover is filled with plot twists akin to the blond woman who turns her ankle while fleeing the alien space monster. The dialogue was equally realistic. Once again the underlying effect is lost. These two people did not come together out of mutual passion. They fell in love because that is what the intricate plotline demanded.

    

     It would be to easy to blame the lack of believability on the players. The problem lies deeper. The acting was strong. In fact it was so good it masked emotional blandness of the film. The movie painstakingly answers the question "what happened?" but fails to ask "who were they?".  There is the rub. There is no emotional capital at risk for the audience. The suspenseful closing sequence might bring the audience to the edge of their seat but it will fail to stir the heart. This type of excitement is better suited for action-adventure movies, magic shows or animal tricks. Love stories should do more than merely entertain. This is best exemplified by Mr. Jordan's risqué (at least by American standards in 1992) use of sex. There will no doubt be much attention paid to the fact that one of the characters is a transvestite (maybe even a trans-sexual or hermaphrodite). This fact supersedes the essence of the character. When discussing the film this becomes the central issue. (Do you know who the character is? Were you surprised? Wasn't that something?…) Compare this to the prostitutes lesbian love affair in Mona Lisa. (Coincidentally the players bear a striking resemblance). In both cases the characters hide their sexuality and deceive the male protagonists. It is significant to note that the prostitute is never overshadowed by the moment when the "shocking" truth is revealed. Her sexuality becomes a footnote to the main event: i.e. her relationship to the central character. It was a scandalous moment in a film about people in a desperate love affair. In The Crying Game the moment of revelation is a grand scandal. It is center stage because this is not a movie with true human feelings, it is a parable with chartertures feigning emotion.

     Mr. Jordan chose featured musical ballads as the titles to both films. The actress' rendition of "the Crying Game" is as forgettable as Nat King Cole's "Mona Lisa" is memorable. His singing evokes the ethos of the tortured relationship between the ex-con and the prostitute. "Are you real? Are you real? Mona Lisa" - Bob Hoskins discovers which leads to real crying. Contrast this with the lover taking the stage in the cabaret. This was a convenient plot twist. The lyrics were fitting. It dutifully moved the relationship towards the appropriate ending. Unfortunately it was only a crying game. An entertaining one, but a game nevertheless. Mr. Jordan is to good for games. Hopefully next time he'll play for real.

Groundhog Day (1993)

A Groundhog Carol

    

    

Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol is a paradigm of modern parables. Recreating this story's sense of spiritual awakening would be a serious challenge for any contemporary film producer. Dickens had the advantage of living in a homogenous age. The Church of England was the religion of the land. There were small gestures to outsiders (i.e. the prohibition against Jews in Parliament was lifted in the 1850s) but this could never be called a catholic society. Outsiders were tolerated but excepted to tow the line. America in the 1990s is in the midst of a debate about "outsiders". If the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future were to re-appear on screen in a contemporary American drama they would be haunted by the specter of being tagged  male white puppets spouting oppressive Christian dogma. The apparitions in Dickens' story are shielded from these accusations by being a product of another country in a different age. Most people realize that there was a dearth of nineteen century Englishmen who celebrated Kwanza. Dickens' continued favor with the American public illustrates penance has been granted for his myopic spiritualism. He is seen as a person of his time and place. His story, however, is far more than a advertisement for Christianity. Its cornerstone lies on a universal theme - regaining a lost faith in humanity. Imagine evoking this motif without touching on the touchy subject of religion: A Christmas Carol without Christmas. What holiday would avoid alienating a part of the "gorgeous mosaic"? The answer, that most absurd and culturally impartial of holidays - groundhog day.

Harold Ramis' Groundhog Day. delivers the essence of Dickens' masterpiece with the foremost contemporary requirement for any mass marketed dramatic feature which deals in matters of the spirit - it is 1000% theologically neutral. There are no gods or creeds. The enemies are narcissism and cynicism. Furthermore, in an unlikely departure from Dickens' formula, the love affair is fully realized. In fact this parable masks itself as a light Romantic Comedy. In truth the theme of the film is grave: can a man overcome a lifetime of spiritual nihilism? Bill Murray portrays a snide fast-talking weatherman who has turned contempt into an artform. (It is interesting to note that Steve Martin chose the same profession for the protagonist in LA STORY; another film which focused on a cynic looking for meaning in the modern wasteland. He also finds redemption via a relationship with a woman). Mr. Murray's foil is Andie McDowell, who plays a vivacious beauty assigned as the producer for the "Groundhog Day" segment of the weather forecast. This requires a trip to a Punsaconti PA., home of the famous groundhog "Phil".

This unlikely duo covers the event. Mr. Murray's character displays a modicum of professionalism while Ms. McDowell's tolerates his contumely. They become trapped in a blizzard and are forced to spend another night in "Groundhogville". The weatherman is incensed. He must suffer another day with the hideous local yokels, whom he views with the utmost loathing for creating the "groundhog" festival. Furthermore he misses his regular weather broadcast which is a significant blow in the Machiavellian world of Television News. At this point the film takes a clever turn. Without warning or explanation Mr. Murray wakes up the following morning to discover he is trapped in a seemingly perpetual timeloop which forces him to endlessly re-live "Groundhog Day". The townspeople and his co-workers are oblivious to the situation and repeat their actions as if on cue. Murray's metamorphosis comes to pass as he learns to cope with eternity in Punsaconti.

Mr. Murray initial reaction is shock and anger. He quickly turns to wanton hedonism. He seduces many of the local ladies by carefully noting there likes. dislikes and lifestories. After tiring of them he sets his sights on his producer. Her genuineness shields her from his seemingly uncanny ability to read her thoughts. After relentless days spent in the chase he finally abandons hope and turns on a course of total self-destruction. Since he is automatically rejuvenated, suicide is futile. The realization that he is facing an eternity of unrequited love forces Murray to think of others - certainly a first in this character's realm of experience. He dedicates his life to altruism. By caring for the needs of others, superficially those whom he rejected as being not worthy of a second glance, he ends up winning the heart of his true love. Suddenly, once again without warning or explanation, the time warp breaks and he is free. His first decision is to settle down in Punsaconti with Andie McDowell.

The film is much funnier than the plot indicates. Mr. Murray is a comedian not a thespian . (His attempt at being an actor, the re-make of The Razor's Edge, clearly established his lack of versatility). Mr. Murray is given a wide range of "straightmen" to play against from the sundry townspeople to Ms. McDowell. Despite his limits as a player Mr. Murray is a master of comic timing and all the various encounters are genuinely amusing. Under the spell of Murray the film shies away from any hint of the "twilight zone" eeriness such a plot might engender. This lack of "an edge" becomes counterproductive. There is never any real sense that Mr. Murray is that bad or that he will suffer a horrible fate. His actions are hideous but even at his worst Mr. Murray is unable to escape his affability. This charm has suited him in purely comic supporting roles (e.g. the gardener in Caddyshack, the friend in Tootsie) and in his superhero spoof (e.g. Ghostbusters). Unfortunately it undercuts any belief that the weatherman has been spiritually reborn. Mr. Murray, instead of rising from the depths, seems to linger in the realm of likable cynicism. This might have been tolerable had any of the others characters been developed. Regrettably this film was purely Mr. Murray's show. Ms. McDowell, Chris Elliot and the legion of townspeople were only there to highlight his abilities as a comic. He is funny but this was a story which called for more than jest.  Mr. Murray's ability at being witty on cue, a rare gift, is ill-suited for drawing the audience into the weatherman's long emotional journey. As they walked down that snowy path in Punsaconti I expected him to turn around and give a smirk. I never felt this way about Scrooge when he gave Tiny Tim the turkey but that was another time, another place.            

Menace II Society (1993)

MANCHILD AT THE MOVIES

    

    

One positive result of the LA riots is that New Line Cinema permitted the Hughes brothers to direct their film Menace II Society. It is depressing that it would take a small war to convince a film executive that an African American perspective on life in the ghetto is worth backing. What the film depicts is even more disheartening. There is nothing that has not been exposed before but the degrees of brutality and depravity are shown at shorter intervals and with more intensity. The structure of the film adds to the eeriness by promoting a shocking disconnection between the acts of violence and emotional response. The central characters are so devoid of a sense of humanity that they greet each horrific act of violence with complete dispassion. This is not a pretty picture. The execution of the film is not pretty either: the acting is self-conscious, the story-line is choppy, the cinematographer showed a strange color-palette when lighting interiors, the endless voice-over narration stifled the acting-out of events… Despite all the problems the Hughes brother's have created something worth watching.

When I was a young teen-ager I used to visit movie-houses in Harlem and see the fore-runners of Menace: Black Caesar, Across 110 Street, Cornbread Earl and Me, The Education of Sonny Carson…  These movies were as varied as the titles and ranged from parables about the ruthlessness of the ghetto to pure exploitation fantasies celebrating gore and violence. They were not directed at white audiences and rarely showed in white neighborhoods. These were black filmmakers telling urban (usually New York) stories. That is not to say that only black people could enjoy the results. I certainly did but I think the context (i.e.seeing these films in Harlem with predominantly African American audiences) added greatly to my understanding and appreciation. Ghetto movie houses are social gathering places closely akin to 19th century theaters. The lights never go down all the way for reasons of safety. This also illuminates the main attraction: the audience. The seats on the extremes were designated for loners: mostly homeless people and drug attics. The center section was filled with sundry groups: boys, girls, couples, families… While the loners stayed quiet everyone else became boisterous. The goal was to shout out funny comments regarding the action on screen. A clever wit won applause but beware the stupid remark. Audiences can be harsh and unforgiving. I remember one man forcibly ejected by a group who found his humor lacking. The reaction to the protagonists was equally exuberant. Villains were jeered. Heroes were cheered. This behavior was the anti-thesis of how audience members were expected to act in white movie-houses. I remember my initial reaction, being a white Caucasian from a rich neighborhood, was shock. 

I had the good fortune of seeing Menace in its' hometown: Los Angeles. Regrettably I chose a theater in a "good" neighborhood. The audience's response was tepid except for a couple who talked incessantly and reacted to each burst of bloodshed with a guffaw. A young man sitting in my row was initially outraged by their reaction and repeatedly turned and glared. The couple was oblivious. Forget the gory goings-on on the screen; here was a genuine clash of cultures. Having spent many hours in ghetto movie theaters, I understood that it was not only acceptable to be vocal, but encouraged.  Violence is usually met with applause and laughter. Before judging this obscene it is important to note that to these audiences face crime and violence as real-life occurrences. People from good neighborhoods or a rural setting might be granted the luxury of seeing screen re-enactment as shocking. Perhaps films such as Menace can bridge the gap. It is difficult to imagine another setting which would bring the couple and the disgruntled man together in the same room. It was encouraging to note that the film itself, ironically, had a soothing effect on this small, but significant, audience confrontation. The man was overtaken by the events on screen and stopped fidgeting. The couples' outbursts became universally welcomed moments of levity. 

The genuineness of Menace is unmistakable. The language was especially revealing. One might not recognize the vocabulary but there can be no question of its authenticity. The same sense of first-hand knowledge rang through the many scenes of violence: the blasé attitudes of the perpetrators, the meandering storyline and the heartfelt struggles of those trying to live normal lives. The moments of staginess seem to come of the lack of ability of the actors and not the truth of the situation. The Hughes brothers are telling a story which is born out of being observers. It is coarse and badly told. But perhaps that shouldn't be the point. They have born witness; now you're gonna. Their vision helps fill the gap. Now one can see the roots of many of the anonymous African Americans who are casually thrown in the back of police cars on nightly television. That in turn might fill the black-white culture gap. At the very least one might come to a different conclusion about people who laugh at on-screen violence. They're not sick. They're scared. Judging by what the Hughes brothers have shown, they have every right to be.                                 

P.S. I would note that after writing this an incident occurred in San Francisco which speaks to the substance of my review. A group of inner city high school students on a field-trip were thrown out of a showing of Schindler's List. They were making silly comments and laughing while the action on screen depicted atrocities committed by the Nazis against the Jews. Many of the fellow audience members (older white people) were deeply offended and felt that this was showed a pathological hatred of Caucasians (white Jews in particular) by the students (most of whom were African American). The students were angry at being thrown out of the theater and felt they had done nothing wrong. One of the young students interviewed said that he was laughing because the manner in which one young victim reacted after she was shot was "funny" and "wasn't real". The Los Angeles Times account seemed to be using this as evidence to support the claim that the students were racist callous thugs. It would be interesting to know if this student (and the others who were laughing) were talking from the perspective of having witnessed someone being murdered by a bullet. This first hand knowledge combined with ignorance of the historical reality of the Holocaust (according to that same article over 50% of  American highschool students are unable to define the Holocaust) puts their laughter in a different context. It would also be interesting to know how many of the outraged audience members had ever been to a movie house in a predominately African-American neighborhood.       

Forrest Gump (1994)

Idiot's Delight

    

      

Forrest Gump is the only major studio film which attempts to penetrate the gray matter of summer crowds. The tag line for the poster reads: "The world will never be the same once you've seen it through the eyes of Forrest Gump". One can feel the trepidation of the usually boisterous publicity department in this ambiguous, double-edged statement. No doubt The Flintstones, Speed or Wolf would have been an easier sell. But Forrest Gump is different; at least in terms of summer releases. The director Robert Zemeckis deserves kudos for an attempt to escape his  Back to the Future past. If prizes could be given for "good intentions" Forrest Gump would sweep. Regrettably the film fails to measure up.

"What is Forrest Gump?". The question is simple and straightforward but one wonders whether anyone ever bothered to pose it to Mr. Zemeckis. His work evokes a hodgepodge of other films. It possess the grand Southern allegory of Everybody's All American without that film's straightforward storyline and well-delineated characters. It contains Zelig's use of history as backdrop without raising the technique to more than very slick gimmickry. It shares the "central character as fool" device of Being There but Tom Hanks (who plays Forrest Gump) lacks  Peter Sellars' charm and comic timing. All these other films, despite their flaws, were consistent and defined. Forrest Gump never gelled. It unfolded, failed to evolve and finally stopped. The audience, upon leaving the theater, will share the bemused bewilderment of Tom Hank's at the bus stop: Dat wus real purty but I's not real sure jis whu' in da hec jis happin'.

The Achilles heel of this film is that it is a romance. This tale can only succeed if the audience cares about the lovers' amorous yearnings. In this case the pair seems to be drawn together by fate's cruel whip rather than cupid's arrow. A mentally deficient boy and a girl who is the victim of incest elicit heartfelt pity rather than sentimental passion. The bond is strong but it is forged in a desperate struggle for survival. If this were a "buddy picture" the audience could accept their camaraderie. Unfortunately for everyone these friends start sleeping together. There is something inherently unbalanced about the pairing. It is forced and can only be believed if the woman of normal IQ is led by horrible circumstance into a shotgun wedding of sorts. The union becomes the romantic equivalent of the two farmhands in Of Mice and Men escaping to live out their lives married in some remote paradise. In the end Forrest Gump is a love story in which the audience wishes the two lovers never became involved. The film masks this contradiction with a bizarre melodramatic finish which forces the couple to be eternally together without actually having to be eternally together.

Forrest's friendships faired better than his love life. He manages to connect with two army buddies: Bubba Blue (Mykelti Williamson) and Lieutenant Dan Taylor (Gary Sinise). Both relationships are believable. These comrades are just that, comrades - they are severely handicapped: Bubba mentally, Taylor physically & emotionally. Both Sinise and Williamson play their hearts out but their efforts are crushed by poor writing. No matter how hard these fine actors try they can not escape the hollow characterizations of a gung-ho army brat and Step'n'fetchit's grandson. There is no need to give these characters lines. All that they require is to repeat their names aloud when called upon: "I's Bubba Blue, shrimpman", "I'm Lieutenant Dan Taylor, U.S. Army". The powers that be seem to gloss over the blatant racist characterture of Bubba with the fact that Forrest himself is a Caucasian dumbo. The movie never addresses why Forrest's mom only has one child as compared to Bubba's mother who is a human fruit fly in terms of procreation. Incidentally, Sally Field, Forrest's mom, is as dull as Robin Wright, Jenny the love interest, but it would be foolish to blame them. This film sees women as unavoidable, but necessary, distractions which keep those important male actors working. Since there is a dearth of significant female leads in major motion pictures it would be cruel to chastise them for taking the roles. All this might seem nit-picky. After all the entire film is pure fantasy and should be seen as a light-hearted summer film. Or should it?

Zemeckis never reveals his point of view. There are many sequences which are pure slapstick: the hokey repetition sequences showing generations of relatives involved in identical tasks, the endless running joke of Forrest running, the ping-pong games… There are others which have the sacchariness of church-sanctioned religious programming: Jenny's flight from her drunken father, Forrest's "the lame shall walk" escape, the "salvation" from the hurricane, the coast to coast false prophet sequence… Zemeckis places these two styles amidst many moments of stark realism: the vivid cruelty exhibited towards young Forrest & Jenny, the Vietnam battle, the excesses of the '60s radicals, Jenny's struggle with drugs and abusive men and an endless stream of historical re-enactments done with state of the art technology. It is strange, given all the slapstick and the parables that Zemeckis spent so much time and effort* striving to realistically re-create Kennedy, Wallace, Johnson, Nixon, John Lennon… (*not to mention money - almost one quarter of the film credits are dedicated to the people at the world's premiere effects house, Industrial Light and Magic). This is certainly an interesting cinematic development. Forrest Gump deserves to be recognized as the first mass-market film which demonstrates technology can now resurrect anyone ever captured on film and integrate them into a fictional narrative . It might not be 100 percent authentic but it is close enough to open a Pandora's box of artistic and legal questions. All good and well but how does all this affect Mr. Gump? In short it doesn't. It only complicates the telling of the simpleton's story.

No doubt there are many who will flock to this film for the special effects but what will they think of Forrest himself? Is he a good man or just extremely lucky? Is his lack of perception God's gift or God's scourge? Is he a childlike innocent or a pathetic bone-head? Are his honesty and cheerful demeanor attributes or merely results of being a dummy? Zemeckis offers nothing but vagaries delivered with an odd combination of slapstick, religion and a harsh dose of realism. It is a rare thing to compliment the advertising department but in this case the publicity people hit it right on the head: "The world will never be the same once you've seen it through the eyes of Forrest Gump". In deciphering these bold words one must turn to Forrest's response to the often repeated question: "Are you stupid?". Our protagonist speaks for the entire creative team as he responds in Andy Warhol deadpan: "Stupid is as stupid does".

Reservoir Dogs (1992)

What are Reservoir Dogs?

I have little regard for an art that deliberately aims to shock because it is unable to convince.
-Albert Camus

    

A director has two choices when faced with the prospect of making a film about robbers. The first would be to follow the successful orthodoxy laid down since The Great Train Robbery was shot in 1903. The second would be to experiment and try to take this genre to new heights (e.g.Goodfellas). Quentin Tarantino, in his debut Reservoir Dogs, does neither. New directors often hide their callow mechanics behind innovative approaches to the subject matter. Unfortunately Mr. Tarantino is not bold enough to be a visionary. He also lacks the directorial command over the medium to produce a conventional gangster film.  The result is a ponderous first feature; amateurish in its obscurity and exploitative in its use of violence and profanity.

Reservoir Dogs is muddled. It is difficult to gauge exactly what Mr. Tarantino, the writer-director, intended. It fails to be a black comedy. This idea, supported by the advertising campaign, might stem from an attempt to mask the absurd plot. There are numerous utterly, unbelievable twists and turns.It is unlikely that any policeman would allow a fellow officer to have his ear cut off and be doused in gasoline before taking action against his aggressor. The dialogue does possess moments of levity but these are far outweighed by the endless sequences of male-bonding and the gruesome bloodletting. This is a "serious" film about male criminals and their codes of friendship and loyalty - a version of Last Tango in Paris but with a robbery, rather than assignation, as the emotional glue. The plot hinges on a mobster who organizes a group of strangers, all professional robbers, to burglarize a diamond store. The group's anonymity is the source of its strength. If one member is caught he would be unable to rat on his friends because they would be, literally, strangers. This works well against the inherent intimacy involved in organizing and executing a complicated burglary. There is an interesting sequence near the beginning of the film where one of the burglars is shot in the chest. He is being comforted by another who is driving the getaway car. Their manner and trust reveals a degree of intimacy reserved usually for the best of friends. Half way through the scene it is revealed that they are using aliases and are ignorant of each other's names. If only Mr. Tarantino had stuck to his guns and explored this interesting dynamic of total strangers in league with each other. Instead he wanders.

The bulk of the film takes place after the robbery has occurred. Each of the gang members is then portrayed in flashbacks. These sequences begin with a title-card featuring a black background with large white letters indicating the character's alias. The awkwardness of this device is compounded by the randomness of what is presented in the flashbacks. "Mr.Blond" is a case in point. This character is a sadistic sociopath whose sanity is called into question by other members of the gang. His actions have led to the murder of a number of bystanders and threatened the lives of his comrades, not to mention the success of the burglary. Unfortunately Mr. Tarantino feels it unnecessary to offer any motivation for Mr. Blond's behavior. Instead the audience is presented with a lengthy scene showing his release from prison and his good-standing in criminal circles. This information is regurgitated in cumbersome exposition in the closing scene (too bad Mr. Tarantino failed use this approach initially but then again first films are a learning experience).  The "Mr. Green" sequence is equally troubling. (The identifying color might be wrong but I am referring to the undercover cop.) There is a lengthy examination of relationship with his commander (a character who never reappears). The young officer is struggling to learn the part to infiltrate the mobster's burglary crew. He is seen rehearsing his lines in visually stimulating settings. The choice of background, (a rooftop with a scenic view of downtown L.A., then a graffiti covered facade of neo-classical abandoned building) is characteristic of Mr. Tarantino's flair for the utterly random. There is no significance to any of these images but then again there is little or no significance to what is communicated in the entire sequence. Essentially we learn he is a scared, young, undercover cop. Once again a line of exposition would have sufficed. Once again Mr. Tarantino feels it unnecessary to explore motivation. Instead of answering questions and opening up the characters, these meandering flashbacks have the effect of making all the protagonists less intriguing. The more they talk in these irrelevant scenes the more boring it all becomes.

Popular film audiences have the mistaken belief that violence and vulgarity are, in themselves, interesting. Mr. Tarantino tries to capitalize on this misconception with a degree of success. Audiences rarely complain that this talky, laborious film is boring. Perhaps this can be attributed to the mantra-like invocation of the words "dick", "fuck" and "nigger". The opening scene is telling. The group sits around analyzing Madonna songs in a restaurant. The word "dick" is uttered every other sentence. The conversation then turns to one of the group's refusal to tip the waitress. "Fuck" comes into play. After a few minutes they all leave. This is all delivered with self-conscious camera work, tracking around the table in close-up, which has no relation to what little is being said. The sum total is dull, but if it wasn't for all the foul language it would have been duller. There is a pornographic sense of enjoyment in listening to screen character's curse. It is the audio equivalent of seeing a gory movie murder. And don't think Mr. Tarantino has forgotten how much we enjoy that cheap thrill. Violence and profanity have their place and can be used effectively. The Last Detail is a wonderful example of how cursing can highlight the ritual of male bonding. A Clockwork Orange shows that violent scenes can speak volumes in illustrating the brutality of protagonists and the twisted values of society at large.  Mr. Tarantino simply appeals to the worst devils in our nature. In the overall scheme of the film was it really necessary to slice off that officer's ear? Was it vital to the telling of the story to show the, dozen or so, gun shot murders?

The empathy felt toward the protagonists is one of the strongest means of evaluating the success of most fiction films. There are exceptions (e.g.Goddard's Weekend), but a vast majority of features rely on an audience investing their emotions in the characters presented before them. Regrettably Reservoir Dogs failed to establish this bond. The lack of such a connection evidenced in the unfortunate ending. It might have shocked the senses but it failed to reach the heart.  This closing scene features one criminal risking his life for a fellow stranger, who in turn confesses to being a turncoat. There was lots of blood but little reason to care. This can be laid to the major structral failure in the script: the film never showed the development of the relationships among the members of the gang. The bulk of the film centers on the group after the botched robbery. The flashbacks concerned themselves with each individual joining the group. But what about the period of the group coming together to do their work? Aside from the less than riveting opening, there is one other scene in which the team is together. In it the mob boss gives out the aliases. It is  mildly amusing but once again, what is the relevance? Why dedicate the entire scene to a secondary character? The burglars themselves and how they react to each other is of primary importance. Unfortunately there are no scenes in which the audience can see how these men react to one another and how their feeling grow. This omission doomed the ensuing conflicts of loyalty. The closing scene becomes strangely emotionally distant. It is difficult to feel for any of the characters. It is easy to react to the brutality of the scene with the same sense of gratification one receives from watching exploitation films. Producers and directors who unabashedly market films entitled Torso and Chopping Mall are more honest than Mr. Tararentino and a great deal less pretentious.

Perhaps an element of realism could have salvaged this film. Unfortunately the shaky hand of a rank amateur was firmly in control. The parlance and dress of all the central characters was contrived. There was an inauthenticity about "moving the ice", meaning reselling diamonds. Audiences haven't heard gangsters talk like that since the glory days of film noire. The costumes were also fake. Their suits and sunglasses seemed more appropriate for a session with an album cover photographer, rather than a jewelry store heist. The most disconcerting device, however, was the implementation of the radio D.J.. This technique has been employed successfully in such films as Warriors and American Graffiti. The idea is to unify the action and smooth over the transitions with a disembodied disc jockey. In Reservoir Dogs it was a meaningless random distraction. There is a certain method behind the madness. The Big Chill won over many audience members by simply blasting out Motown favorites. Why not employ the same gimmick but move up a decade to the 1970s. When was the last time anyone heard Steeler's Wheel's "Stuck in the Middle with You"? Audiences nostalgically hum along during the mutilation sequence. It is the song, not the film, that has the staying power.

Reservoir Dogs is a particularly apt tag for this picture. Nothing within the film itself offers a clue to the title's meaning. It should come as no surprise that Mr. Tarantino feels it unimportant to explain the origin of the name of his work. Its significance lies in its catchy resonance. It sounds good. For Mr. Tarantino that's good enough.

Downton Abbey

Down and Out-ton

I worked in the financial services industry for a few years. I once asked career advice from a mentor who told me: “Dress British, Think Yiddish”. The popular TV show Downton Abbey certainly confirms the the former as it’s wonderful to watch early 20th century aristocrats strut their stuff. In looking at the second part of the phrase, which touches on an ugly racial stereotype, it is clear that Britishness somehow fails to mesh with financial success.  The show also affirms this as Downton Abbey is perpetually short on native “scratch”. In fact the show was inspired by historical migration of wealthy American heiress‘ flocking to the well-healed English blue bloods lacking in green.  Even back then the rising American merchant class felt there was value in “dressing” British.  Lord Grantham, the patriarch, can be relied on to be exceedingly just and appropriate. He can hire a butler, pick the right claret and tell you the difference between Boodle’s and Brooks’s. You would not trust him to purchase a second hand car, be deposed by a clever lawyer or pick stocks. Unfortunately he undertakes the second action in Season two with the result that his valet, a trusted old army friend whom he was trying to aid, being sent to death row.  Season three opens with his accountant explaining that the investment he made, which he was advised against, has obliterated his wife’s fortune. Oops.

There is an expression in television called “jumping the shark” which marks the moment the creative energy of the show vanishes and the writers resort to over-sized gimmicks to retain the audience. The origins of the term stem from an episode of “Happy Days” where the motor cycle riding, tough-talking, Fonzie turns to water-skiing and leaps over a live shark in order to prove his bravery. It is interesting to note that the show continued on for another FIVE seasons. Downton’s “jump” occurred somewhere in the second season. It was probably the moment where the paralyzed heir suddenly starts walking in a feat worthy of Wile E. Coyote in a "Road Runner" cartoon. Then again it could have been when the heir’s girlfriend quickly dies of a broken heart after seeing him kissing his cousin opening the way for him to keep Downton “in the family”. Season three opens with more “jumps”. The heir is suddenly inheriting a huge fortune from dead fiancee, conveniently the rightful heir is “missing” in India; at the same time Lord Grantham gets the news of his financial demise. This reminded me of an episode of season two when a badly burned solider appears with a story of having swam off a sinking ocean liner and landing in Canada with amnesia. He joins the army and is sent back to Europe. His new wounds make him remember that he is actually the rightful heir to Downton Abbey. His facial disfigurement makes the claim impossible to substantiate. Don’t worry no one on the show believed it either. Except the “ugly” middle sister who is treated with more misogynistic scorn than the daughter on “Family Guy”.  He left in a huff. Maybe one of the head writers realized what was going on and pulled him before all credulity had vanished from the Downton Universe.

What could have created the strange turn of events chez Grantham? The first season was palatable PBS fluff.  The sin of being caught watching TV can always be ameliorated by decent English actors and few commercials.  You’re experiencing Lord Grantham and not Peter Griffin - although the latter is equally incompetent if not more clever.  Then again it is more proof of the misconception that laughing at an historical reference in a Tom Stoppard play is more edifying than a prat-fall in “The Producers”. Season One at Downton Abbey played to one of the lesser angels of our American nature - our worship of English Aristocracy despite the fact that they behave as badly as their distant American cousins on the “Jersey Shore”. Overall the writing was passable and Maggie Smith was extraordinary.  The show revolves around her eye-ball rolling one-liners such as: “What is a ‘weekend’?” In her character there is a sense of “what might have been” had the writers been up to the task.

It is a challenge making the ruling class sympathetic; especially at a time when there were no social safety nets and women and minorities were less than full citizens. Nevertheless there have been artists with the ability. The key lies in creating characters who have the strength of design to break out of the low earth orbit of “plot”. The three Crawley sisters journey is a tedious climb compared to Jane Austen’s brood in “Pride and Prejudice”.  The Downton Abbey crowd disappears outside their petty struggles. One might dream of having dinner with Isabel Archer before she takes her tour of Europe in “Portrait of a Lady.”  It is impossible to imagine the same meal with the future Countess Grantham without it being part of court ordered community service.  It might seem unfair to match the writers of a television mini-series with great novelists but Maggie Smith liveliness indicates the bar could have been raised.  The end result might not have been “House of Mirth”, but it would be a world away from  “As Downton Turns”.

One of the ironies for television writers is: nothing destroys like success. It is an all consuming medium which requires exponentially larger quantities of material for ever growing number of viewers.  It is hard to imagine the Downton team being prepared for the frenzy. One senses the fun and creativity being swallowed in a mob from “Day of the Locusts”. The selfless earnest goodness of Lord Grantham, Mr. Bates, Matthew Crawley and Mr. Carson becomes cloyingly masochistic in season two. By season three one wishes, dramatically speaking, that Mr. Bates had killed his first wife; ditto for Matthew pocketing his dead fiancee's fortune and saying, “well she certainly can’t use it”. This would have made the first two hours of the new installment worth enduring. Maybe in addition Lord Grantham could be overwhelmed by Matthew’s purity and threaten violence: “I need a cheque for a million sterling or you won’t see your mother again”. The fallout might have given a chance for Mr. Carson to return to singing in dance halls instead of ending his days covered in mildew in Downton’s wine cellar. In short the audience has had enough of Prince William rescuing people in the North Sea and craves more of Prince Harry in Vegas. The writers feel the need to imbue this show’s Hal, the Irish chauffeur, with super-human social concerns.  This young man dreams of being a journalist and righting the never-ending oppression of Ireland. What if he simply wanted to party in South Beach? There is historical precedent - just ask the late Princess Grace about Philip Junot. Once again the never-ending onslaught of treacle might have been stemmed if the writers’ had had time to weather the wave of expectations. They might have been praying for a couple of more episodes - instead it’s a minimum of two years worth of seasons plus holiday specials. At the moment of this show’s being green-lighted the creative team could never have imagined a New Yorker paying $20,000 to go on a date with the actor who plays Matthew.

No doubt, metaphorically speaking, the dog caught the bus. The creative team ran out of gas and simply re-cycled the goodness or the male characters, the social dramas of the female characters and the bi-polar good/bad divide in the downstairs crowd. You see there are “good” servants (everyone that Mr. Carson approves of) and “bad servants (the two that continually hoodwink Countess Grantham). There are no bad people upstairs - merely well-meaning men and a purgatory of oppressed women. Once again Maggie Smith escapes the heaven/hell dichotomy and presents as the only genuine human on the show - at least the only one you’d want to hang with.... maybe the exception is Season three’s clever addition of Shirley MacLaine. I can imagine the writers suddenly seeing “Auntie Mame” on cable and screaming: “THAT’S IT! WE NEED ONE OF THOSE”. They even included a scene of her singing. Let’s hope they don’t try to reprise the film “High Society”. Suddenly we might see an appearance of Cee Low Green in some garish 1940s zoot-suit. One can already script everyone’s reactions: Carson and Lord Grantham will be appalled but grow to like him; Matthew’s mother will think it’s wonderful; the old cook and her sidekick will hysterically object to cooking corn on the cob; the Crawley sisters will see how their potential husbands’ react; the two evil servants will try to tear his clothes; the others will cheer him on; Anna Smith will dutifully make the grim pilgrimage to Mr. Bates in prison and tell him of the wild and wacky visit - they will embrace after looking longingly into eachother’s eyes - cue tears.

The strategy going forward: Have the mute button pushed until Maggie Smith or Shirley MacLain’s lips are moving. Otherwise enjoy the costumes and scenery. Or better yet see if “Rules of the Game” is available on Netflix.

Promised Land (2012)

The Promise of Matt Damon

Matt Damon is one of those rare species that manages to pick appropriate material to showcase his talent. Sean Penn is a better actor than his body of work; the opposite might be said of Damon. His films give him a broader range than one might imagine. His matinee idol quality (Bourne Identity series/Bagger Vance/Saving Private Ryan) fails to obscure his gravitas (Syriana/ The Green Zone/ The Departed/The Good Shepard).  Off screen Damon maintains a solidly progressive political track record culminating in being the voice over for the documentary “Inside Job” which chronicled the 2008 financial debacle . Even if you’re a reactionary; it’s hard not to like the guy. His comity glows whether he is fiercely debating a reporter over teacher’s pay or signing autographs to exuberant fans.   He has a self-depreciating “everyman” quality that belies a dogged determination.  It has been over a decade and a half since he broke onto the scene with “Good Will Hunting” and yet he has remained “on top”.  That doesn’t happen by accident. Mr. Damon has now decided to reprise working with the director, Gus Van Sant, who guided his breakthrough project. It is an interesting combo as they both share the same social concerns and have chosen to base this feature around a contentious political issue: oil shale fracking.

Van Sant has a jaundiced view of the wholesome American dream.   “To Die For” is based around a woman who seduces teenagers to murder her husband who is blocking her dreams of stardom. “Last Days” is a fictional account of the suicide of a rock star based on Kurt Kobain’s final week. “Elephant” is a meditation on the Columbine massacre. Van Sant also had the courage to tell the story of the gay political pioneer Harvey Milk who was assassinated by a deluded blue collar hero.  The edgy subject matter never matches the filmmaking. “Milk” was milquetoast (my review: http://thebettertruth.blogspot.com/2009/01/milktoast-heroes-my-grandmother-was.html). “My Own Private Idaho” and “Drugstore Cowboy”, once again dark heartland tales, established a meandering, listless conventional story-telling that permeates his work. Stripping away the daring subject matter, one is left with forgettable conventional features.  The idea of Van Sant teaming up with Damon on a hot button topic conjured up the prospect of an uninspired preachy rant - however much one may agree with the perils of Natural Gas Drilling.  In the end “Promised Land” surprises. Damon manages to pull Van Sant from his gloominess and delivers a solid romantic comedy. Who woulda thought?

The key to the success of “Promised Land” is channeling the “off screen” amiability of Matt Damon. Here is an example of the spirit of the man. Most movie stars cringe at being accused of being gay.  It has been viewed, even in this day, as potential box office poison. Here is Damon’s response to accusations that he was romantically involved with Ben Affleck:

“I never denied those rumors because I was offended and didn’t want to offend my friends who were gay, as if being gay were some kind of f--king disease. It put me in a weird position in that sense.”

That response deserves an academy award for magnanimity given the fact that most stars choose to curse the reporter posing the question. Van Sant and Damon’s very open political and environmental beliefs one might have expected “Promised Land” to be a screed against BIG ENERGY. It does deliver that message - but it also surprises and draws the audience in with the acknowledgment that the dividing line between good and evil is more of a circle.

The central character in this Dave Egger’s story is a disillusioned Iowa farm boy turned huckster of big gas fracking. (Note: Damon and another star John Krasinski wrote the screenplay) The backstory is critical as the protagonist’s embrace of corporate power is rooted in a bitter acknowledgment the inevitable reach of modern corporations. One such company destroyed his beloved hometown by closing down a manufacturing facility. Matt Damon’s character isn’t a true believer but someone who lives his life in a Freudian reaction formation. To quote wikipedia:

In psychoanalytic theory, reaction formation is a defensive process (defense mechanism) in which anxiety-producing or unacceptable emotions and impulses are mastered by exaggeration (hypertrophy) of the directly opposing tendency

In other words Matt is an effective salesman because he believes this is the ONLY way that small farmers can embrace the future. In his mind there is NO choice but to join the winning side - so he does - WITH GUSTO. His dressing in costume and practicing his “down homeness” matches his scoring points with the home office by low-balling the “marks”. It is all an embrace of the mirror image of the values of the heartland: he’s an honest, hardworking bullshit-artist.... and you like him. Ditto for his partner (Francis McDormand), a beleaguered single mother wistfully watching her son grow up on Skype while she struggles to bring home the bacon.  She is less convinced of “the mission” but all she has to do is look across the table at the desperate farmers to know that it’s better to be a hammer than a nail.  Interestingly Damon, in order to suppress his pity, erupts with rage against those trying to ignore the onslaught of big business.  All the characters who have post-highschool education are finely drawn:  John Krasinski is wonderful as the Bendict Arnold environmentalist as is Hal Holbrook as the retired engineer/science teacher.  In the end you get what makes them tick delivered in crisp credible dialogue and gesture.  The local yokels fail to inspire. They are incarnations of how college people view the rural underclass.  Their words might inspire but the quality of expression is devoid of the taciturn, hard worn brevity of many farmers. Can anyone imagine the farmer in Grant Wood’s American Gothic giving a speech? All you have to know is the clenched pitchfork - direct all questions to his spouse. Note: Mr. Wood changed her role to “daughter” after depression era audiences were uncomfortable with husband having a wife half his age. The old man in the painting is remaining silent.

In the end it is the faceless company playing games with Damon’s integrity forces our anti-hero to be the real deal. He’ll play the game... to a point.  Krasinki and Mcdormand are bewildered.  We’re all getting paid in the end and we win.... so who cares?  But the beauty of this set-piece is that Damon does.  The closing scene shows him channeling the shame of John Proctor in the Crucible. The dialogue fails to match Arthur Miller’s words of the farmer from Salem MA; but one can feel Damon channeling the pathos of the American Classic:  “How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!”  In a sense this film fails to be about Natural Gas as much as the hopelessness of good people forced to do bad for all the good/wrong reasons. Matt gives us the unvarnished truth about fracking: You might get paid; but the cost could be your land and heritage.  The movie cleverly recognizes that even good people on both sides of a sale will make the wrong decision; but it’s THEIR career or land and, more importantly, THEIR choice. We are in a soapbox-free zone.

As a coda I would like to mention an article I saw in the Daily Mail.  It is strange that I should quote a newspaper dedicated to tearing apart the subject’s integrity but that makes the headline all the more poignant:

Friday, Jan 11 2013

'I couldn't leave them': Matt Damon clasps daughter tight... as he reveals he gave up director role to be with his four children

I believe him. Maybe I’m a fool and this is an elaborate PR campaign to boost the “goodness” of the film - but I don’t think so. Boxoffice fails to rule in this case. Damon will jump at the chance to be in the blockbusters.... but it seems merely a platform for quieter, more important work.  That is a promise well worth keeping.

Added in early 2018 - as a coda to the coda. The sexual abuse scandals have rocked the business and entertainment world.  Maybe I saw too much in Damon in that his failure to call out Harvey Weinstein coupled with a less than robust response to the "me too" movement has certainly tarnished his standing as an unblemished "good guy." There are no reports of his being directly involved in abuse, but there is a certainly the impression that he could have done more to stand up for vulnerable women.