Interstellar (2014)

Interstellar (2014)

Ground Control to Chris and Jon

“Sometimes I wonder whether the world is being run by smart people who are putting us on or by imbeciles who really mean it.” 

― Laurence J. Peter, The Peter Principle

Matthew McConaughey is a bore to watch. There, I said it. Unfortunately he is the star of “Interstellar”, Christopher Nolan’s latest sci-fi film. McConaughey's performance in “Dallas Buyers Club” was a tour de force but “True Detectives” showed the limits of his force. He has a propensity to ham it up if left unsupervised - see “Wolf of Wall Street”. Nolan gave McConaughey free reign to drift when the actor needed to be fastened to his command chair. Someone might have tapped the director on the shoulder and noted that John Lithgow, a seasoned master of stage and screen, was on the set. Lithgow plays a grumpy old man with nothing to do except yell at his grandkids. He did an amazing job but there are only so many ways to bark at children. Michael Caine, another screen legend, phoned-in his part as the chief Scientist. The other cast members were saddled with roles that failed to test their mettle, maybe they could have assisted Lithgow with the kids. It is a crime that all these talented people were put under the yoke of Nolan and hundreds of millions in studio money. They needed direction, not expensive props. They were crushed by an army of accountants and technicians adrift without a leader. Even Matt Damon, who has exhibited discretion in his choice of material, fell victim. Two hours into battle Matt rises out of a deep induced coma. He has openly expressed regret for rejecting a part in the sci-fi mega-blockbuster “Avatar” which explains his unfortunate decision to participate in this holiday turkey. Damon throws a few punches and then blows up, literally. His character’s fury is rooted in having lied in order to secure an undeserved rescue. The off screen Damon might be equally peeved for different reasons.

Nolan’s films prove the ‘The Peter Principle’. This is business management jargon for the idea that managers rise to the level of their incompetence.  Promotions based on past work are no harbinger of future success as the new job requires a new toolkit. This writer/director started with an innovative independent film, “Memento”, based on a leading character with no ability to retain long-term memory. It was followed “Insomnia” where a California detective is forced to solve a case in the endless sunlight of an Alaskan summer. It was a main-stream commercial feature with big name stars and pushed the boundaries of a detective story, think “Crime and Punishment” rather than Dick Tracey. The serial killer was played against type by Robin Williams. Ironically during the dissection of this actor's suicide the stress of working in constant daylight took a serious emotional toll on the erstwhile comic, leading to a relapse and a stint in rehab. It had the opposite effect on Mr. Nolan’s career leading to his taking the reigns of the Batman franchise and his own high budget science fiction film “Inception”. These endeavors showed strong box office which led to Nolan being given the opportunity to direct another of his ideas, which he penned with his brother Jonathan (who wrote “Memento”). “Interstellar” is a complicated apocalyptic tale with elements of time travel and space exploration. Commercially speaking the Nolans’ projects have shown a general upward trend in gross receipts. They have been given more resources and delivered solid returns. Artistically speaking, however, things ended with “Batman Begins”. In viewing “Interstellar” one wonders whether Robin Williams wasn’t the only victim of “Insomnia”. Plumbing the minds of brain damaged loners and guilt wracked detectives does not prepare one to paint portraits of established super-heroes or create other worlds. The Nolan brothers are better suited to a narrower canvass. Unfortunately “Interstellar” is a grand showcase of glitzy lazy amateurism born of being overwhelmed.

It’s difficult to give scope to the epic horribleness of this film. Usually the craft-related departments come through in these blockbusters. Not in this case. Even the makeup was bad. McConaughey, who plays a NASA pilot/corn farmer, had an unearthly copper hue. This dove-tailed with the flatness of the special effects, astounding for a modern day sci-fi feature. What was particularly disturbing was the blatant  borrowing from Kubrick’s “2001”. Imitation of a classic is derigueur… but a half baked, half assed re-staging? Norton's “astronaut falling into the time abyss” is even more embarrassing when one considers the original was made over 46 years ago, decades before wide-scale deployment of computer graphics in motion pictures. Nolan’s visual impairment is matched by his aural deficits. The sound mix lost all sense of proportion. Key moments of dialogue were drowned out by tinnitus inducing swells of music or special effects. Not that hearing the words really mattered. Nolan has the knack of repeating things in droning soliloquies. If you miss it the first time due to a timpani drum or a tidal wave, you will have four or five more opportunities to digest the narrative. As we drift through Nolan’s universe with this crew of tired cartoon characters, we yearn for yesteryear’s stark simplicity. Nearly half a Century ago HAL was terrorizing his astronauts with simple curt sentences as they breathed and breathed and breathed. This combined with the Strauss waltzes defined the rhythms of space. Instead we are subjected to the tedious dialogue on obscure science or non-sensical plot points. Nolan’s script is designed for obsessive test takers who are interested in passing a quiz on the plot, rather than an audience focused on experiencing the texture of other worlds. There is a madness to the grand reveals in this film. Are we supposed to believe that this passionate NASA employee is completely unaware of a major NASA installation with a few hours drive in this underpopulated world? Are we to believe that the people in charge of this super massive installation are unaware that the leading NASA pilot is just down the road? Are we to believe that the NASA chiefs would suddenly hire this pilot who happens upon the facility due to his 10 year old daughter's receiving messages in morse code from another dimension? Yes, yes yes…..  Which begs the exclamation, WTF!? It goes on and on…. for 2 hours and 49 minutes. This audience member was praying that another encounter with a black hole would speed the clock… alas unlike the Lazarus project heroes stranded on those distant planets, there was no hibernation chamber to shield us from the desolate monotony.

Even the most insipid late night television spot can lay bare insights into the society at large. This holiday blockbuster offers a strange asymmetrical message regarding scientific progress. “Interstellar’s” earth has suffered an unspecified ecological disaster leading to the degradation of farmland and a one generation end-time. There are vague references to greedy selfishness being at the heart of the debacle. Everyone wanting too much which might hint at a call to collectivism. Strangely McConaughey seems to exhibit an abhorrence to the idea that the government, or anyone, can tell him anything. The apocalypse has had no dent in our hero’s solid American individualism. Oddly the this end-time earth bears little resemblance to the standard “Mad Max” set-piece. It is a subdued shabby rural setting. Imagine a crappy small town in the Mid West or upstate NY that is visited by a dust storm every fortnight. It’s drab, but people are well fed. There is a muddled sense of order more Mayberry than dystopia. The government has the same listless quality. There is an odd sequence where the local school teaches McConaughey’s daughter that his beloved Apollo missions never made it to the moon. This propaganda is designed to keep the young people interested in farming rather than technology. This makes little sense as McConaughey’s farm is swimming in high tech automation. Logic would dictate a Federal push against publicizing space exploration achievements would have no bearing on agriculture as a career. Unfortunately we are in the Nolan’s strange universe. This particular storyline makes Pol Pot’s campaign to promote smoking seem downright comprehensible. “Interstellar”, despite the reams of expository dialogue, is riddled with inexplicable reasons for the characters’ motivations. Probably the central incredulous plot point lies in Caine lying to McConaughey about the prospects for earth. We are supposed to believe this former NASA pilot, who loathes his current farm work and obsessively collects space trinkets, would refuse to lead an intergalactic mission to save mankind. All because of his young daughter. I guess the Nolan’s missed the news story about Mars One, the current ONE WAY mission to form human colonies on Mars. Here is a quote from the NY Times article: “More than 200,000 people from dozens of countries applied”. No doubt there are hundreds of parents amongst the throngs willing to abandon their families to serve some outlandish fantasy of “progress”. McConaughey himself is an odd proselytizer about Science’s place in man’s future. He rails against the lying PC police who deride NASA. At the close of the film he has a change of heart. He sits in the old farmhouse replete with a small little league field outside. It is now located in a huge space station orbiting Saturn. He senses something is wrong and embarks for the wormhole to get to his sweetheart. Her partner has conveniently died. His sweetie sits in her brave new world. The odd thing is it bears a remarkable resemblance to the desolate earth everyone is abandoning. One again, WTF? One keeps on thinking - why didn’t everyone just stay on earth and try to solve those problems? This sort of question is never really addressed in the film. Earth IS finished. Period. All the wizardry that assures a successful space mission never applies to the mother planet. Underneath the copper skin of McConaughey’s “down to earth” hero is a pernicious technological escapism. This badly executed, poorly thought-out, feature is really a paean to mankind’s technical prowess. Our answers lie in our abilities to innovate. We can always build tunnels to escape out mistakes.

The Nolans have proved themselves clever with their early work. This film is dumb which is highlighted by it’s attempts at being smart. There is a constant refrain from Michael Caine of Dylan Thomas’ wonderful poem, “Do Not Go Gentle into that Goodnight”. The force of this work lies in KNOWING the fight will inevitably END IN DEATH. The valiance is born in being DOOMED. So why is this poetry triumphantly repeated by the lead scientist charged with manning earth’s salvation? Well the clever Nolan brothers might say that Caine knew the earth would fail. Correct. Except that he had a strong faith in his mission’s success exhibited by the fact that he felt guilty about not having a majority of earthlings join in his careful PLAN B. Thomas’ words sound good, especially when rounded by Caine’s rough English accent. Unfortunately they make about as much sense as the rest of this draw-out mess of a film. It is inconceivable that people who would carefully plot the logical progress in “Memento” would make the amateurish mistakes which permeate every aspect of “Interstellar”. How could this happen? It is preferable, from an artistic POV, to believe the Nolan brothers are simply in it for the money. Sadly it seems this nearly three hour waste of time is rooted in a genuine effort to produce good work. It would be economically more rewarding to produce a shorter film. There is also an excess of heartfelt nonsense that simple con men would eschew. No, the fraternal duo are being blinded by misguided accolades and the Sirens’ call of huge budgets in order to spare no expense for their “vision”. Audiences everywhere can hope that their inner circle possesses an honest friend who can advocate for spare modesty in their next endeavor.  How about a ninety minute film of a father caught between the pull of duty and his tween daughter? Unfortunately one sense future movie-goers are in store for more of the Nolans' magic. The brothers might want to ponder the lyrics of a current indie calypso band: “Don’t need no message from outer space, to see what’s goin’ on in front me face” *.  And maybe someone could send them a copy of “The Peter Principle”. 

Citizenfour (2014)

Citizenfour (2014)

 A Hero of Our Time

AMY GOODMAN: But why did he choose “Citizen Four”? What does it mean?

LAURA POITRAS: Yeah, yeah, that’s a good question. Actually, I made a trip to Moscow not that long ago, where I filmed part of the end of the film where he’s with his longtime partner Lindsay Mills. And I asked him, you know, because I didn’t actually ever know what it was, and he said, “Well, I’m not the first person who’s going to come forward and reveal information that the public should know, and I won’t be the last.” And so, that’s where it comes from.

This brief exchange between prominent left wing activist Amy Goodman and Laura Poitras unwittingly reveals a great deal about her film portrait of Edward Snowden. This government computer systems administrator is responsible for the single greatest leak of American Security secrets which he copied and gave to media outlets. Ms. Poitras, the film’s director, has a background documenting the fault lines of contemporary American life. She has examined race relations, LGBT acceptance, foreign policy blunders and the never ending civil liberties encroachments by an anxious post-911 US government. She is an obvious choice for a documentary about the most polarizing government employee since Alger Hiss. Ironically she was chosen… by Snowden himself. The film opens with a mysterious Citizenfour, later revealed to be Edward, connecting to her via coded email.  He explains he is an insider who possesses reams of secret government information on nefarious spy programs. The narrative continues and another established civil liberties reporter, Glen Greenwald is also selected by Snowden to be a conduit for exposing the horrors of the US government’s reach into EVERYONE’S private lives. Poitras and Greenwald know this material is literally earth shattering. It can shake nation-state alliances in addition to the security of world leaders. They also know that it can burnish the reputations of the messengers. This type of scoop provides a ticket to the pantheon of Woodard and Bernstein journalist/heroes. The problem lies in that Snowden is aware that his status as keeper of the ring of knowledge inoculates him from serious scrutiny by the dynamic duo of righteous truth. The degree to which the filmmaker and the reporter fail to probe their golden goose is startling. Equally shocking is Snowden’s evidence of the US Government’s scorn for civil liberties. It is no wonder then that the filmmaker never bothers to reveal the origin of Snowden’s nom de guerre in the movie. Even more startling is Poitras’ off screen admission that she failed to raise the question until near the end of the film’s production, “I didn’t actually know what it was”.

This much is known and displayed in the film, high ranking US government officials publicly lied to Congress and hoodwinked the American public in regards to eavesdropping on everyone’s phone calls, internet usage and email. We can acknowledge that Mr. Snowden revealed a complete upending of our accepted notions of due process and rule of law. “Citizenfour” does an excellent job of excerpting the relevant Congressional Testimony and Court Cases. Certainly one of the highlights is a lawyer for the Justice Department casually explaining to a sitting Federal Judge that the Judiciary needs to step aside and relinquish their responsibilities so the National Security Agency can engage in whatever it deems necessary to protect the country. Unfortunately the startling revelations completely obscure an issue of central importance: who is Edward Snowden?

Snowden plays at being a simple man interested in“the people’s” best interest. Unfortunately his actions show narcissism. We meet our anti-hero in a hotel room in Hong Kong where, after feats of computer masking, he manages to  arrange a face to face meeting with the filmmaker and two reporters, Greenwald and his fellow Guardian writer Ewen MacAskill. Once again Snowden is firmly in the driver’s seat. Hong Kong is an interesting choice as a place  for a clandestine rendez-vous. The explanation given is that there is a haziness regarding legal jurisdiction and semi-autonomous Chinese Province would provide Snowden with sanctuary. It is also true, however, that Greenwald has a deep connection to Brazil, a country known for a reluctance to extradite foreign nationals. Britain spent decades trying to secure the capture of a noted multi-million dollar armed robber, Ronnie Biggs, to no avail. Greenwald has a Brazilian partner and, as shown in his testimony before the Brazilian Congress, speaks perfect Portuguese. It turns out that Snowden had a great deal of information regarding the NSA’s insatiable interest in private Brazilian emails and internet use, including members of the Government. Judging by their horrified looks at the hearing one would have thought securing asylum would be a given. In fact one wonders if they wouldn’t have offered him citizenship. Perhaps this wasn’t feasible due to Brazil’s not wanting to offend the U.S….. but why not Venezuela, a bastion of anti-US fervor? Or maybe Ecuador? This country has chosen to thumb their nose at Europe and America by hosting wiki-leaks founder Julian Assange in their embassy in London. The notion that the rule of law might somehow prevent the Chinese, who control Hong Kong, from seizing Snowden is odd. One might want to quiz the recent pro-Democracy protesters about Chinese deference to rule of law. It wouldn’t be possible to ask their spiritual progenitors from Tiananmen Square as they were all brained to death. Perhaps Hong Kong was a clever choice but not for the reasons given in this film. There is zero discussion of Snowden’s choice. This is the Edward Snowden show and he is in control of the interview.

The bulk of the film takes place in charmless upscale Hong Kong hotel room which overlooks a even more dreary array of glass box skyscrapers. Snowden himself blends in with the scenery. He sits on his bed with a couple of days of beard stubble banging away on a laptop. He has the appearance of a graduate student pulling all-nighters to finish a project but without any real nervousness about its completion. The calmness stems from the fact that he is clearly the boss, at least in this setting. He seems very pleased by the attention and smiles as the reporters hang on his every word regarding the scope of NSA’s ability to watch and snoop. He points to the phone and says they can hear you regardless of whether it’s hung up. He lectures them on the importance constantly changing one’s computer and phone cards. Oddly this fear of the boundless power of the NSA seems to be restricted to electronic devices. Snowden spends a great deal of time staring out a large hotel window making him a literal target. It’s difficult to understand as he is in the process of betraying the US’s most guarded spy secrets. It speaks to hubris. Maybe he’s not as clever as he believes.  The choice of Citizenfour as a moniker shows this wiz kid’s lack of imagination. He might have taken Pussy Riots cue and thought of Citizensixtynine as a way of sending an irreverent message,  or even better, a nod to Joe Heller - Citizentwentytwo. It is a tribute to Poitras’ skill as a filmmaker that the movie is watchable. The driving force, however, is the magnitude of his revelations rather than the man himself.

Snowden ducks personal questions by saying that he finds it troubling that so much of the media is focused on personalities rather than “real” stories. The anti-hero wants the message to be delivered without clouding the issues with his own superfluous story. Then why not take the approach of “Deep Throat” and be completely anonymous? Certainly the reporters and the filmmaker would have been on board as they willingly acquiesce to all other demands. This issue is never addressed although Poitras gives hints that Snowden is vain. Not since John Edwards was caught on camera preening his hairdo have audiences witnessed such an over the top male grooming ritual. When the cat is out of the bag and our hero must face the world - he’s takes a long break in front of the mirror in the hotel room. There is an earlier scene when, after a few hours of taping he realizes he has bed head and retreats to fetch a comb and water. The clash between not wanting to be part of the story and being overly concerned about his physical appearance is nonsensical. His vanity, however, is surpassed by the odd leaps of logic when he justifies his actions.

Snowden alleges that he is a martyr for the cause of securing civil liberties. He wants his selfless actions to be a springboard of conversation about the need to reign in the NSA. He knows he must pay a price but it’s worth it, as leaking this classified information is the only road to overthrowing our morally bankrupt leadership. He is the Martin Luther King Jr. of civil liberties rather than civil rights. Dr. King wrote his letter from a Birmingham Jail and cheated death many times before finally facing the assassin’s bullet. Snowden records his interview in an upscale hotel with room service and hair gel. Where is his touted sacrifice?  He ends the film re-united with his blond girlfriend making salad and drinking wine in a yuppie Moscow apartment. The filmmaker and reporters seem oblivious to the cushiness of his march to Selma. Snowden makes it very very clear he is not returning to the United States. This Dr. King is dismayed  that those police dogs bite and the guns are real. There is a long scene in which a group of established international lawyers fly to Moscow and meet the besieged freedom fighter who is marooned in the Moscow airport. Those bastards at foggy bottom have canceled his passport and Mr. Putin refuses him formal entry to mother Russia. The legal eagles explain the impossibility of his return to the homeland. The Justice department is charging him with an obscure WW I law which makes his actions indefensible. In other words if he returns he will face certain conviction. This seems to come as a surprise to Snowden which begs a number of questions. If exposing the hypocrisy of the legal framework of a corrupt system is the point of his actions then how would a public trial hinder the cause? Shouldn’t this be the centerpiece of a master plan to expose the injustice. Rosa Parks never said “I don’t want to sit in the white section cause I’ll get arrested and end up in jail”. Then again Rosa Parks was a real hero. Mr. Snowden is something else.

There can be no doubt that Mr. Snowden’s most publicly overt crime is giving President Putin the ability to play the role of a magnanimous statesman. The Russian leader extends a visa to our self-less civil libertarian. Putin also gives the girlfriend permission for a conjugal visit. Once again the apartment and the food looked better than Robben Island. Prior to the closing sequence, in which the re-united couple seem as they are expecting to be joined by the cast of Friends, there is a sequence in which Greenwald and Snowden meet in Moscow. Greenwald is inappropriately boisterous and triumphant. He jokes around with Snowden in a nicely furnished room with St. Basil’s Cathedral visible out the window. Greenwald carefully feeds Snowdown pieces of paper gleefully indicating which reporters are running with various explosive stories which sprung from Snowden’s trove of secrets. It is too dangerous to speak this information out loud - not sure if they fear the Europeans or the Americans. They do not appear to be bothered by the Russians. Greenwald fervently writes thing down and allows Snowden to read. Our anti-hero, repeats the off-key emotional reactions exhibited in Hong Kong. He is forcibly giddy at the revelation that Obama is ordering drone strikes on the Middle East through bases in Germany. Poitras focuses her lens on the bits of paper which Greenwald has torn up… just enough. The conceit is that they must be careful about revealing that they know of this secret war lest Washington or Berlin seek retribution before the public is informed via the news sources. Fair enough. But why no questions about our anti-heroes present circumstance? Is Putin shielding Snowden simply to spite the West or is it something else? What are specifics of his journey to Moscow? In April 2014 Snowden appeared at a news conference and queried Putin about domestic spying in Russia. (Note: the English transcript of the exchange is taken from the simultaneous translation provided by the Russian news channel)

SNOWDEN: “I’ve seen little public discussion about Russia’s policies on mass surveillance so I’d like to ask you: does Russia intercept, store, or analyze, in any way, the communications of millions of individuals? And do you believe that simply increasing the effectiveness of intelligence or law enforcement can justify placing societies, rather than subjects, under surveillance?”

PUTIN: “Mr. Snowden, you are a former agent — a spy — I used to be working for an intelligence service, we are going to talk one professional language…First of all our intelligence efforts are strictly regulated by our law so how special forces can use this kind of special equipment… they have to get a court permission to stalk a particular person.  We don’t have a mass system of such interception. Of course we know that criminals and terrorists use technology for their criminal acts, and of course special services have to use technical means to respond to their crimes, including those of terrorist natures; of course we do some efforts like that, but we do not have a mass scale, uncontrollable efforts like that. I hope we don’t do that, and we don’t have as much money as they have in the States, and we don’t have these technical devices that they do in the States… Our Special (security) services, thank God, are under strictly controlled by the society and the law and regulated by the law. 

Snowden’s response to Putin’s answer goes un-recorded but our anti-hero’s willingness to participate in Putin’s propaganda blitz is duly noted. To be fair this exchange might have occurred after “Citizenfour” was completed and therefore would be impossible to integrate with the material. However this cannot excuse the film’s lack of probing of Snowden’s relationship with this anti-Western strong man and begs questions regarding Snowden’s motivations. Was this really about shining a light on the NSA upending the Constitution or did our anti-hero have another agenda? Mr. Putin rightly calls Snowden a former spy, a label that is never applied by Poitras, Greenwald  or MacAskill. This is significant in that they accept Snowden’s account as being a private contractor who was appropriated by the NSA. There are numerous reports that he worked directly for the CIA and was stationed in Geneva prior to his stint as a high ranking computer analyst.  Furthermore a cursory view of Snowden’s biography in Wikipedia reveals things that certainly would have helped to inform the “Citizenfour” narrative. It turns out his grandfather is a Coast Guard rear admiral who became a high ranking FBI official. His sister is a lawyer who works for the Federal Judicial Center, a government agency in charge supervising operations of the Federal Court system, where Snowden’s mother is an employee. Snowden states in an interview “Everyone in my family has worked for the Federal Government in one way or another, I expected to pursue the same path”. This family network might have something to do with his meteoric rise, especially considering his unimpressive academic credentials. Edward Snowden fails to possess a BA. In fact he never graduated highschool. He received a GED and had unfinished stints at a community college and an online masters degree program. What are we to make of Snowden’s knowledge of Japanese and Chinese? How does a peripatetic high school drop out end up, before the age of 30, as a high ranking system’s administrator for American’s most powerful security agency? Most importantly, why do the filmmaker and reporter refuse to pursue this line of inquiry?

Is Snowden merely an honest broker who was frustrated by government overreach or does his background speak to motivations rooted in something far more complicated? Perhaps those frequent window gazing trips speak to a sense of invisibility rooted in knowing his bases are covered. It is always difficult to judge the appropriateness of people’s actions while under stress. That said, Snowden’s verbal rumination on the plight of his girlfriend and family were off key in the same manner as his trips to the window. One doesn’t feel the deep loss of a significant other but rather the guilt of putting a loved one through a difficult time. He doesn’t appear genuinely sad. Was the reunion in Moscow inconceivable as he fretted with Greewald et al in the hotel in Hong Kong?  There is one mention of the effects on his government employed family members. He will never be able to see them again. This might be a relief to some but the disingenuousness of his affect reveals someone merely speaking the words. It is neither happy or sad. It is the equivalent of his constant nervous giggling. At times he appeared to be a giddy boy in the midst of winning a really special video game. Perhaps the most startling omission is the absence of talk about the co-workers and people on the front lines. There is no discussion about whether his actions injured loyal American agents or their allies. It is bad that Poitras et al never asked the question but even more disturbing is the notion that Snowden never considered it. 

Poitris wants to represent Snowden as civic minded and without ulterior concerns. In order to safeguard his sanctity all queries about his personal life and his motives are verboten. Unfortunately the facts fail to support the hagiography. We can be grateful to Snowden for sparking this conversation in the way that Joseph Vallichi’s revelations gave birth to the public understanding of the mob. This gangster’s testimony gave birth to the term “costa nostra” and gave mainstream America an vivid understanding of the threat of organized crime. Vallichi and Snowden were integral to their organizations. Being expert tour guides in a sausage factory is not the same thing as being being a honest citizen.

Governments, especially liberal democracies, are uncomfortable with publicly acknowledging the actions of clandestine security services. These agencies rely on violence, lying, cheating, stealing, eavesdropping and committing murder while avoiding the judiciary at all costs. This is the price countries pay for being credible nation states. This unseemly activity is placed under the harmless moniker of “statecraft”. What are the limits of safeguarding our perceived national interests? Congress attempted to address the issue the NSA collection of bulk data with The USA Freedom Act of 2014. It passed in the House but failed in the Senate. Any bill that is supported by both Sen. Ted Cruz and Sen. Bernie Sanders and opposed by Sen. Mark Rubio and Rep. Peter Welch shows a broad degree of opinion about what are acceptable practices. Not everyone in the US Government shares Vice President Cheney’s view that security requirements supersede due process.  In addition no one in the US Government sees abandoning the dark side spying, whether against friends or enemies. This film never plumbs the depths of the argument. It presents straw men to be ridiculed or honored with the appropriate approbation or praise. Snowden is a good selfless man who risked a great deal to bring the awful truth to a somnolent American public. The Obama administration is mired in the poisonous anti-terror paranoia of the post-911 era. Congress is feckless in safeguarding our liberties. 

What if this truth was delivered at the hands of a known enemy of United States? It doesn’t diminish the need for reform. It does, however, highlight the necessity of statecraft. Poitras, Greenwald and MacAskill have faith in this spy and believe his motives are good or irrelevant. We must defend ourselves from our own government’s overreach. One might argue that we also need protection for other governments, especially those run by former spies. Think how awful it would be to have an unmerciful, power hungry despot sow pandemonium in our national debate about appropriate security measures. The makers and stars of “Citizenfour” might think this is fantasy. Some audience members might wonder if this has already happened. Who is Edward Snowden? Is he a new breed of bourgeois martyr whose “sacrifice” includes picture windows and merlot? Is he a giggly, goofy, overly-delighted, callous crusader for liberty? Or is he a self-serving, vain double agent who, by default, exposed some the most important and alarming truths about what we have become? Whatever he is, he is certainly a hero of our time.

Nightcrawler (2014)

Nightcrawler (2014)
Portrait of a CEO as a Young Man

 …in the midst of a war that was selfish, ruthless and cruel Sammy was proving himself the fittest and the fiercest and the fastest.”
― Budd Schulberg, “What Makes Sammy Run?”

This is just like television, only you can see much further.
― Chance the Gardener riding in a car for first time from Jerzy Kosinski’s “Being There”

“Nightcrawler” is a film depicting the meteoric rise of a sociopathic freelance news cameraman who specializes in recording crime related carnage. The premise is unsettling but the real terror lies in Dan Gilroy’s ability to take this work out of the low earth orbit of the thriller/action/horror genres. This film has more in common with the seminal “Network” than “Silence of the Lambs”. Certainly Hannibal Lector is scary but Louis Bloom, played masterfully by Jake Gyllenhaal, is a more pernicious type of monster. The former enjoys being a devil, Bloom sees happiness as something that gets in the way of the real reason for existence, profit.  Gilroy manages, amidst car chases, bloody bodies and Bloom’s eyeball-rolling grins, to give a commentary on the dangers of our distracted culture. It is an art-house film posturing successfully as a mainstream feature with ironic warnings against the perils of entertainment and the banality of corporate careerism.  Gilroy never preaches. The repulsiveness of Bloom’s vision is exposed in a carefully calibrated climb up the entrepreneurial ladder. Bloom never engages in overt violence, but his actions are as disturbing as Lector’s cannibalism. An audience member might consider an encounter with a deranged serial killer to be a matter of luck. That same movie-goer knows there is no escaping the endless smiling junior achievers, salesmen and corporate shills. Louis Bloom is the embodiment of the unforgiving fine print. There is no way out except endless vigilance. Louis means business.

The casting in “Nightcrawler” is superb. Bloom's hard luck ‘partner’ in his news gathering start up, played by Riz Ahmed, provides a startling contrast for Gyllenhaal’s unstoppable appetite for domination. Each encounter exponentially illustrates the former’s callowness and the latter’s savagery. The final sequence culminates in Riz’s sheepish attempt at taking a stand. This is met by Gyllenhaal’s channeling all the contempt of corporate flack by saying that Riz’s failure to meet agreed upon performance requirements will result in physical harm. Riz caves to the bullying thereby sharing the fate of every minimum wage slave or under-educated plaintiff caught in the rigged trap of economic desperation. His fate is sealed with his unvarnished honesty in verbally disclosing that there is something very very very wrong with his boss and the overall situation. Expressing doubt in your leader’s vision is a capital offense as is the crime of competing too well… just ask the rival news stringer played wonderfully by Bill Paxton. Louis not only dispatches him by jimmying his truck but, to the horror of Riz, records the aftermath of the crash. The old, defeated veteran is loaded into the ambulance while Louis leans over with a cam corder. This is a visual metaphor for those who fail to understand the new dimensions of a competitive marketplace. The only way to survive Louis is to get out of the way or get in bed with him. The latter is the strategy employed by Rene Russo who embodies the mean-spirited vulgarity of local TV news. The old adage, “if it bleeds it leads”, has been replaced by, in the words of the news director, “a hysterical screaming white woman running down the street”. The mealy mouthed news staff might be appalled but everyone knows that she is bringing home the bacon with Louis’s endless supply of snuff films. Russo worn mascara, cigarette stained physicality matches Gyllenhaal’s skeletal creepiness. She plays at being Louis but in the end she knows she’s is a low ratings week away from being featured as a victim one of her leading news stories. Her better self is repelled by Louis but like Lady Anne before her, she ends up falling for Richard III. Maybe Lewis could toss her off the roof of the studio and film it in slow motion. It sounds unlikely but it is the inevitable direction of all their hard work.

Gilroy fills this feature with unorthodox small moments of revelation. Lewis’s complete derangement shows through in polished speeches about being a “hard worker” and “quick learner”. But it glows in the quieter moments. In an early scene a scrap yard manager is accepting Louis’ delivery of stolen metal. He quickly dismisses Louis’ plea of a job. “I’m not hiring a thief”.  Louis is not offended. Anger only clouds the path to profit. He almost thanks the man for his candor. This “feedback” is something he can use. Perhaps the most poignant moment is a brief view of Louis at home. Casually taking part in Ellinor Rigby type domestic chores (dawning socks and ironing). He views a  slap-stick routine on one of the channels. A knight in full armor is seemingly decapitated -followed by the reveal that the suit of armor was inhabited by a petite woman who pops here head through the shoulders after the helmet flies off. Louis, for the first and only time in the entire film, roars with laughter. It is the type of humor more suited to a eight year old boy or an eighty year old man; then again the apartment is decorated with the same pre-adolescent or late geriatric sensibility.  An antiseptic, sparsely decorated room dominated by a TV. Our monster appears, to paraphrase Shakespeare,  unfinished sent before his time… scarce half made up. It is hard to feel anything for someone so depraved but the site of him in that cubicle of a living space almost provokes sympathy. Note: despite receiving an economic windfall from his perverted news-gathering, he remains living in his cell. He will get a nice mansion when his career requires it, not before. It might appear to be the same flashy style as his spiritual brother from “There Will Be Blood” but it is doubtful that he will end up braining an old friend to death in the basement. That would require passion. Louis only possesses drive.

Speaking of drive this film has a wonderful chase scene that is as disorienting as the the idea that Louis is a mammal. In most film bad guys chase good guys or vice versa. This dynamic car sequence has weird guys chasing good guys chasing bad guys. The swerves and crashes are shot from the POV of Louis and his cohort - but where is the audience’s allegiance? One wishes our anti-hero a worse fate than the erstwhile ‘bad guys’ who have brutally murdered an innocent family in cold blood. Such is the logic in a world in which Louis is winning.

Gilroy needs to be credited with producing an excellent film but it is not without flaws. The opening title sequence displayed Robert Elswit Hopper-esque picture of LA. One could hear Jim Morrison screaming “cops in cars, topless bars, never met a woman.. so alone”. This promising opening was followed by a slow meandering start. There is a long series of scenes establishing Louis prowess as a ruthless, slick, fast-talking petty thief who stumbles on the news gathering business by the serendipity of witnessing a gruesome car crash. The mechanics of the execution of the material failed to match the remaining 3/4 of the film. It dragged. The problem might lie in the disconnect between Louis’ super human efficiency and his status as a petty thief in the opening sequence. As the film progresses it showcases his extraordinary capacity to mimic and digest vital bits of information. The opaque references to his origins are equally puzzling. Louis has the ‘right’ answer to all questions. He can make up yarns on the spot and speak the language of negotiation whether he is hocking stolen metal, a high end bike or a reel of grizzly footage. When Russo asks about his history he is uncharacteristically taciturn. Where does Louis really come from? Does someone with his demonic skill set end up hocking manhole covers while he’s in his thirties? It might have been better to have Louis enter the movie returning from a prison stint. His lack of circulation might account for his dearth of achievement. The early Louis seems to undercut the diabolical achievements of the latter Louis.  It would also be interesting for him to present, whether real or imaginary, a portrait of his family. It is the kind of thing he would know would be expected in basic remedial human interaction. What would he come up with? Or perhaps a straightforward rendition of the real life origins would be even more disquieting. In watching endless episodes of 48 Hours and other “women in a ditch” TV programs it is apparent that these creatures spring from Ozzie and Harriet’s cradle.

Gilroy also seems rooted in the grimness of Louis’ world view. There is no humor (or sex) in this film. It’s not that the material screams comedy or passion but simply screaming, or more precisely, recording people screaming, fails to deliver the depravity of Louis. Riz might have served as a human foil. He might have feigned a real connection which would have given more gravitas to Louis’ actions at the end of the film. It also might have made eased the unrelenting darkness of our anti-hero. Truth be told Louis is a one note song. It’s a wonderful, albeit discordant, sound so why not ad some brief major chords of humor. One can only imagine Louis at a corporate event trying to impress the suits at headquarters. There is a touch of this as he wanders the newsroom and people know his name. His glad handing and smiling are as tragic/comic as Starkweather at the close of Malick’s “Badlands”. Louis has mastered the affect of being a “just one of the guys” hero while possessing the track record of a cold blooded killer with boundless contempt for humanity. The reality is merely a poor relation to what really matters, image. It is interesting, in this context, that the writers chose to name the protagonist Louis Bloom. Perhaps this is a mirror image of James Joyce’s Leopold Bloom, the central figure in Ulysses. Whereas Joyce journeys into Leopold’s subconscious giving an expansive commentary on the human condition, Gilroy delves into the dearness of Louis’ mind which is akin to stimulus/response Skinner Box. In this case operant conditioning can be entertaining albeit with less of the grand insight given by Joyce. Leopold is a meditation on humanity. Louis is a study in a particular pathology.

Despite some blemishes Gilroy delivers a film with resonance. Although the media, specifically news gathering organizations, takes center stage, there are broader implications to Bloom’s penchant for replacing “news” with fiction. Life is not fiction, it is stranger. A few weeks ago many publications covering the Ebola crisis tapped the screenwriter for the feature film “Contagion” as an appropriate “expert” to deliver commentary on the health crisis. Who needs a bore with an advanced degree epidemiology when Hollywood can spin a colorful yarn. Given this logic the director of the “The Titanic” might be tapped to weigh in on international North Atlantic transport agreements. There are real life consequences to replacing the arduous hard work of understanding with the distraction of entertainment. Know that our current obsession with Kardashian’s butt can render us vulnerable to ending up on a stretcher with Louis’ cam corder hovering overhead.  We must retain our vigilance. We must trust, but verify while always reading the fine print. We must always have a strong counter offer. We must never take our eye (or mind) off the never-end stream of efficient smiling adversaries. This is the new price of civilization, otherwise we will be eaten by night crawlers.  Over two centuries ago Voltaire warned us: “Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities”. One can imagine Louis Bloom hearing these words and exclaiming in a eureka moment: “now you’re giving me something I can work with”.

Moxie 2000 - 2014


We met you 14 years ago in the ASPCA shelter. We brought our dog Stanley as we thought he needed a companion. He shared your status as a stray wandering the streets. He bore the scares of a troubled beginning but you were immune to all the turmoil. They had named you Ashley and you made a grand entrance flopping over everything and everyone as a hopelessly cute sorority sister borrowing the self assurance of that Beatles song “Girl”: “When you say she’s looking good she acts as if it’s understood… she cool cool cool cool… Girl! Girl!”. Stanley was unimpressed and continued his Eeyore the donkey imitation - slowly moping about while you lit up the grey industrial tile. We were sold despite Stanley’s seeming indifference. We christened you “Moxie” as a nod to your dominating spirit. Even Stanley was won over.

You were always popular on those late night walks in Central Park. Leaping forward to greet the other dogs while Stanley held back. You were the Queen bee in the dog runs and unlike Stanley you knew when to run and when to bark - often times the loud bark was followed by a hasty retreat…. often hiding behind Stanley. The transition from the Upper West Side to off the grid rural Vermont was seamless. You found a new hobby - wandering out into the pitch darkness to gaze up at the moon. The thrill of the sylvan night matched the electricity of the city. You were resilient to the new animals, setting and weather. Stanley would cower in the corner as he thought the house was collapsing when snow slide off the roof - you wagged your tale and asked for dinner. You adjusted to cars and demanded the front seat - always staring forward as if the direction of the car relied on your gaze. You also believed that copious barking would ward away all potential threats… which often times included any person or animal within site of the front windshield.

As the years wore on your body failed… but never your spirit. Even Stanley’s quiet passing never dulled your vibrant need to participate. As your back legs gave-out you turned to your commanding voice as the means of participating. This led to many evenings of embarrassment as guests failed to understand how we could endure a dog that never seemed to stop demanding the floor. You were difficult at the Vet. You knew it could only mean trouble and pain. You didn’t understand the procedures to remove a life threatening infected cyst or the others to prevent blindness. You were angry when we left you overnight; but you never held a grudge… all was forgiven with a large meal and a loud bark. You didn’t thank us - you forgave us. And you accepted our apology. We knew you could never comprehend the dark chores of guardianship.

Now we were faced with that ultimate task: the question of ‘when?’. Your unsteady gate and bleeding paws told us “now”; your hardy appetite, endless barking and steady gaze said 'one more day'. A night of restlessly trying to stand was followed by a day of dragging yourself forward. We looked past the sores, the smell and the mess. We tried to tell ourselves that things were rebounding. You were never one to go gentle into that goodnight. That wasn’t you. To the last you were defiantly stumbling and demanding a dog treat while refusing to lie down. We prayed for the quiet goodbye that Stanley gave us… but you are Moxie. That defiance we cherished during deep dark nights became the thing that gave us the most pain. But that is not your concern. That is something for guardians to fret over. We loved you for being you… and you were you… till the last.

Your physicality was our grief writ large. The vet didn’t understand how you could stand. His eyes showed a surprise that we had not acted sooner…. just as your eyes dared us not to. You will never comprehend our grief. But perhaps Stanley can explain it to you… just as you tried to explain about the roof-snow to him. We buried you side by side so there is no need to bark so loudly to get Stanley’s attention. We know you will never thank us… but know you will forgive us. Despite having other rambunctious dogs… it is very quiet here tonight. But we take solace in knowing you have now joined Stanley and are no doubt bounding about the new room… he is very glad to see you… even though he won’t show it.

Remarks at Opening of Town Hall Opera House

 August 2014 Remarks at Opening of Plainfield's Town Hall Opera House


The Town Hall Opera House building was our ancestor’s version of Social Media/Movies/TV.  In the days of harsher winters, no electricity and horse drawn carriages a public building dedicated to ‘meeting’ was essential. Our forebears familiarity with silence and darkness would be exceptional to today’s most ardent shut-ins. This is not to say their world was grim but rather it was more isolated and less convenient. The Town Hall Opera House served the the purpose of affirming something larger. This place offered a moment of communion which all human’s crave. That muddy two hour slog to the meeting, or play or concert, delivered that tactile burst of knowing that somehow you are part of something larger; which in turn shaped those many hours of solitary reflection.

With tax dollars having to be stretched fuzzy notions about the importance local face to face gatherings fall prey to solid counter arguments based on cost and alternatives. There are other ways to host town meeting. There are other venues available for entertainment. It is risky to allocate resources to a project that has a troublesome history both structurally and financially.

In order to respect ALL sides and uphold the value of a community space one must turn to a very special kind of leadership. Former Selectboard Chairman David Strong stepped into the thankless void of raising private money and personally supervising an extremely complicated renovation. We now enjoy the fruits of David’s labor. It was a group effort - but he was in charge and inspired everyone with his boundless energy.

Our practical selves can view this as the Town adding value to an asset while sparing the taxpayer an expense. The more esoteric can see David’s work as continuing the much needed building of a broader sense of togetherness. We need creative ways to stretch the taxpayer dollar. We also desperately need spaces to join together.

It sounds trite, but as we become more electronically intertwined, bearing witness as a group takes on more significance. Traveling to the Town Hall Opera House is an act of affirming that we are not islands unto ourselves. We are all part of something larger. On a national level our Founding Farther’s knew the importance of group gatherings by making Freedom of Assembly the FIRST amendment in the Bill of Rights. Thank you David for reminding us of something our ancestors knew all along. Plainfield now has a place to come together. There will be triumphs and virtuoso performances. There will also be acrimony and artists who miss the mark. But whatever the occasion, the experience will be sure to impact our quiet moments and shape us as a community. It is what happens after the curtain falls that counts the most.

Boyhood (2014)

Boyhood (2014)
Moments of Revolution

"What is the nature of the search? you ask. Really it is very simple; at least for a fellow like me. So simple that it is easily overlooked. The search is what anyone would undertake if he were not sunk in the everydayness of his own life.” - Binx Bolling, in Walker Percy’s The Moviegoer

“Like all great discoveries, it is breathtakingly simple” - Binx’s Aunt


‘Boyhood’ is Richard Linklater’s much acclaimed, nearly three hour, feature film which documents the coming of age of a young American boy in a contemporary single parent family. The word ‘documents’ is rarely used in association with this type of fiction movie. This film is different. It is organized and produced in an unconventional manner having been shot over twelve years.The cast literally grows up before your eyes. This trope has been used in Michael Apted’s “Up” films. For over half a century the director has been returning to the same group of people to examine their progress (or lack thereof). Unlike this popular documentary, the draw of Linklater’s feature is more than witnessing people morph into adults. It is captivating to watch the cast of ‘Boyhood’ come of age but the real hook is the magic of omission. Ironically purposeful absence pushes the narrative into the sublime. Perhaps ‘narrative’ isn’t the right word choice as this ‘story’ is enmeshed in passing moments rather than plot points. The zeitgeist of this work fails to be captured in conventional terms. This speaks to its revolutionary nature.

Is this a dramatic film? Is it scripted? Was it conceived as a story focusing on the boy? Did the crucial form come from editing ad-libbed sequences? All these unusual questions and yet: ‘Boyhood’ is conventionally structured, traditionally photographed and chronologically told. This stands in stark contrast to game-changing directors of the past who freed stories from rigid scripts and pre-built sets. To name just two: John Cassavetes unbound the staid movie world with unscripted sequences shot in actual locations. Jean-Luc Godard was even more phrenetic and purposely jarred audiences by obscuring time and place.  Both these auteurs created beautiful, stylized, versions of reality but there was no mistaking their ground-breaking visions. Linklater is a quiet revolutionary. His oeuvre borrows Cassavetes hip vibrancy while ignoring Godard’s overt manipulation of reality. Make no mistake Linklater is equally subversive. He gently melds the playwright Thornton Wilder’s sense of vastness. The specter of Father Time rises from the mundane suburban landscapes. One might initially mistake ‘Boyhood’ for a conventional feature.  By the same logic one might assume “Our Town” is set small New England village. The journey, however, quietly slips from the provincial to the eternal. ‘Boyhood’  takes place on the familiar footing of track houses, highways, McMansions and institutional buildings. But don’t let the solid ground fool you. To paraphrase Dorothy: We are not in Texas anymore.

Most features rest on familiar conceits involving moving a story forward. This film opens with a ordinary lower middle class family consisting of: an overburdened mother, two squabbling children and a likable absent father. They experience the typical trials of striving Americans… dislocation, lack of money, never ending intra-family strife, substance abuse.… The usual tricks of wedding audiences to story lines and characters seamlessly drifts away as the film progresses. Here is the heart of the revolution: the small actions within the moment replace the predictable linear thread. We uncouple from the narrative and become personally involved with the overall lives of the protagonists. We are not seeing a movie. We are living with a family. As in real life we can only glimpse at the truth and never know what really happened. Things arrive and vanish without explanation. The echo of these experiences shapes what is it to come. To use a visual metaphor from ‘Boyhood’ : there are many moments when the children look out car windows to see their friends or step-siblings disappear in the distance. The conventional narrative thread would deliver meticulous explanations of the fate of their beloved companions. This approach would also relegate those who don’t deserve a full history to being merely background fill. In film terms: minor characters or extras don’t count. ‘Boyhood’ reverses that conceit. They are all that matter because, in the grand scheme, we are all extras. It is counter-intuitive to build meaning out of loose ends and walk-on characters. This is the radical nature of Linklater’s vision.

Even the bedrock notion that the players in this film are fictional ‘characters’ seems undone by the world outside the movie theater. Today, in real life as I wrote, National Public Radio ran a segment describing the release of Ethan Hawke’s “Black Album”.  This is a collection of songs performed by members of the Beatles after their breakup. Hawke made this compilation for his daughter. Linklater appropriated this moment and mixed it in the narrative. How does one categorize Hawke’s heartfelt speech to his son where he carefully unpacks the liturgy of four former apostles of music? He gave the same sermon to his daughter in real life. Are these ‘characters’ or actual people recreating their own lives? The illusionary answers are secondary to the raising of the question. What is truth? The ambiguous reality is further intertwined with a strange open-ended disappearing storyline. Here are some examples: The black clad mentally ill neighborhood boy who curses on command: seen once but forever etched in everyones’ mind. The high-school bullies who challenge the newbie in the bathroom evoking the endless torments of male adolescent rage: they threaten, curse and vanish. The chatty girl who coaxes our angst ridden anti-hero to a special party to meet her friend who has a crush on him: don’t know if he did… but he was asked. All these vignettes are interspersed with stunningly accurate dialogue and trends of the specific period. A Harry Potter book sale is featured complete with the kids in costume. There is a hilarious sequence documenting lawn sign posting during the Obama/ McCain election. The conversations amongst the characters has a startling real world intimacy. There is a sequence of our hero and his high school girlfriend discussing the merits of Facebook. He thinks it takes everyone away from ‘real life’. He also believes himself to be profound, original and different. He thinks she treasures his lone man uniqueness.  She is skeptical of his pronouncements but fails to press him too hard. She stays tethered to her phone. She also enjoys conventionality in dress and manner. The inevitable break up scene captures the absurdity of young people caught on the cusp of adulthood. This is all delivered with straightforward cinematography and no special effects or wardrobe enhancements. The genuineness of the dialogue and performance actually hides the meticulous artistry. If is as you were on a bus or in a restaurant and you witnessed these people living their lives. Detailed descriptions of most of the scenes approximate a recitation of events caught on surveillance cameras. The audience experience, however, generates the ecstasy of bearing witness to a masterful work of art.

This conveyor belt of seemingly random moments has the effect of being a Rorschach test for audience members’ own life experiences. Tolstoy’s famous remark rings true as witnessing Linklater’s creation evokes personal reflections on the unhappiness of one’s own family. Most feature films demand coalescing around a good/bad divide regarding character or plot. ‘Boyhood’ provokes very different discussions in each individual audience member. I personally was moved by the mother’s endless capacity to ‘soldier on’ and safeguard her children despite numerous mistaken life-choices. My film companion was nauseated by the never-ending finger-wagging towards American adolescents by adults who have little insight into their own lives. Once again neither view is wrong. There were so many universal touchstones it would be difficult to predict what series of magical moments would impact a typical viewer. Patrica Arquette’s physical reactions to her ex-husband’s half baked attempts to be emotionally supportive are exquisite.  She has harnessed all the pain of American single moms who do battle with absentee fathers’ boundless capacity for fecklessness. The expression on our young hero’s face while his step-father capriciously cuts off all his hair brings forth all the childhood tyranny experienced at the hands of cruel adults. These examples reveal the melancholy but Linkletter is far too good an artist to be morose. Life is tinged with sadness but great art manages to be honest and not fall into a morass of self-pity. This film is a comedy in the Chekovian sense. At times it is even ‘laugh out loud’ funny. No one will witness the children’s sudden visit to the religious, gun-toting step-grandparents and not crack a smile at parents’ emotional entanglements. This sequence is a movie version of the famous website, “Awkward Family Photos”.

Linklater shares the cojones and unshakable vision of cinema verite filmmakers who usually work in two man crews (sound and picture). The documentarians journey relies on a roll of the dice in capturing the unknown. Every project begins with the full knowledge that there might be nothing show for all the effort.  After spending thousands of days and dollars their subjects might  be uninteresting or unobtainable. Linklater’s bravery dwarfs these efforts in that he was organizing an army of production staff while tapping millions in financing: all predicated on the whims of children. In fact he even drafted his own daughter as one of the co-stars when she was literally a little girl. What if she, at the tender age of 10, decided she was no longer interested in Daddy’s dream? What if the co-stars had opted out of the project after a few years? How does one ensure a decade’s worth of commitment on an ephemeral premise? One can only imagine the facial expression of a seasoned Hollywood agent’: “you want my client for 12 years and you’re not sending me a script?” Probably could only to be matched by the grimaces of the producers when they tried to calculate their return on investment.

Some may carp that the work is too long. Others might criticize certain sequences for not measuring up to the high standards of acting and dialogue that comprise the bulk of the film. These are valid criticisms but reveal a myopicness married to conventional paradigms. These so called ‘blemishes’ oddly link the film to the major premise of ‘Boyhood’: this is life, plain and simple. It appears that way but in reality it is a skillfully imagined rendering born of a mastery of craft and a distinct vision. One of his radical decisions is to include seemingly superfluous material that would be verboten in most projects. But most films aren’t aiming as high. ‘Boyhood’ is asking fundamental questions that spur introspection.  Linklater treats his audience without condescension. He eschews dispensing sagacity on cue.

What kind of person dares to create a film such as ‘Boyhood’? The all encompassing scope combined with the logistics make career ending failure an almost certainty. Obviously the motivation cannot be grounded in penury fears or need for acceptance. Linklater, being a true artist, risked his professional life knowing he might be wrong. Most who embark on this journey share the fate of the supporting cast of ‘Boyhood’: they drift out of the picture and never reach the summit of Olympus. Some, such as Linklater, prevail. Based on the fierceness of his vision I would guess he would ally himself with those minions who were left vanquished on the mountainside.  Thematically ‘Boyhood’ shows that we are all in this together. Hard fought battles mesh together and obscure the specifics of a particular failure or triumph. A lauded academy trophy will eventually become a little noticed relic stuffed away in an office or museum... before it is forgotten and disappears.  Things always gravitate towards smallness. This is why truth lies in the grand spectrum of little moments. Banded together these droplets of memory form our eternal legacy and guard us from the nothingness of oblivion. It is futile to mark every rain storm and explain everything.  Many great artists fall into this trap. Audience-victims of Terrence Mallick’s late films (“Tree of Life”, “To the Wonder") know the pitfalls of attempting to compose “A Key to all Mythologies”.  These endeavors  always end in laborious indecipherable journeys. The real ‘key’ is to adopt a Shaker sense of simplicity while focusing on what is front and center. No need for explanation. It is arrogant to think you have answers. Just asks questions and let the audience experience personal affirmation; then get back to the business at hand.

In Linklater’s case this film will be a life’s work. It’s not over… merely the first installment. It redefines the much derided notion of soap-opera while retaining the gravitas of Marcel Proust’s “A Remembrance of Lost Time”. It is more approachable than most meditations on the human condition because it avoids the heaviness of epic drama while retaining its profundity. The closing scene says it all. There are no spoilers as this is life. We are not looking for pat endings or clever summations. Our anti-hero sits on a rock in a desert. It is the South West but it bears a resemblance to the East African Rift Valley, the area where homo sapiens first evolved.  Our anti-hero obviously has an interest in his new-found friend. They are both high on peyote. He is awkwardly trying to retain his teenage ‘cool’ while not wanting to be aloof. He wants her to like him. She is beautiful and clever and the vastness of the eternal surroundings highlights her wit and charm. He summons all his courage and says “it’s like its always right now”. Nothing could be dumber.. or more wise. It’s genius. Thank you Mr. Linklater for being brave and telling it like it is. We will get up every morning and look for your next installment. Maybe it will never come but we know that you’re working on it. We all are.

August: Osage County (2014)

Cat on a Tepid Tin Roof

A couple of weeks back “Spider-man: Turn Off the Dark” closed on Broadway.  Bono wrote the music. The famed ‘Lion King’ theater director was tapped to adapt one of the most successful comic book franchises in history to the proscenium arch. Everyone had credentials and a solid track record of delivering phenomenal box office returns. In the end the show lost a record $60 million. The financial sting was only part of the sad tale. The playwright penned a tome entitled: “Song of Spiderman: the inside story of the controversial musical in Broadway History” . The book chronicled the ugly fights between the principals and the many injuries to the actors due to stage gadgetry; but there will be no ‘talking out of school’ from the crew of John Well’s “August: Osage County”, which is based on a Pulitzer Prize winning play of the same name.  This portrait of a hardscrabble Oklahoma farm family has nothing in common thematically with the New York based Marvel Comics Heroes. Unfortunately these two seemingly disparate projects share the same fatal creative flaw. World class resumes cannot mend structural deficiencies. A movie is not merely the product of a 'master' mixing ‘great ingredients’. No cook could meld sardines and cotton candy and produce something that was palatable. The pedigree of the chef, the freshness of the fish and use of real cane sugar: are immaterial. The result would be a horrible gooey culinary disaster.  Artistically speaking this film, like the Spidey show, is the equivalent of fish candy made by the best hands with the finest ingredients. The result is a collective WTF from a befuddled audience.

Tracy Letts, the author of both the play and screenplay, is a formidable talent born of a family of creative artisans. His mother is an academic, his father an author, and his brother is a noted Jazz musician. He joined the much lauded Steppenwolf Theatre Company at a young age and has been awarded both a Tony for his performing and a Pulitzer for his writing. Not bad for someone born in the cultural backwater of Tulsa Oklahoma. His explanation of the title of the play/film:

"I could never come up with a title as brilliant as 'August: Osage County.' Mr. Howard Starks, gentleman, teacher, poet, genius, mentor, friend, created that title for an extraordinary poem that is one of the inspirations for my play. I steal the title with deference, yet without apology – Howard, I'm sure, would have it no other way – and I dedicate this play to his memory." - June 16, 2008 article in the “The Tulsa World”

Mr. Starks most famous poem, a tightly drawn portrait of the death of a beloved Great Plains matriarch, is a inverted image of the emotional gothic horror show Letts reveals in the film. Mr. Starks seminal work has been subsumed by the success of Mr. Letts’ appropriation.  It is difficult to even find references to the poem in the mountain of internet material on the film. Some might say that Mr. Starks owes a debt of gratitude for his former student’s ‘putting him on the map’. Given the disparity of the emotion in the material it would be interesting to know the original author’s POV. Might there be a touch of.... anger? Unfortunately he passed years before the play opened. Interestingly Mr. Letts work is also filled with unanswered questions from a scholarly mentor and patriarch who remains silent due to an untimely exit.

In the opening sequence Sam Shepard, the retired academic, hires a Native American woman to work as a cook/cleaner in his dysfunctional farmstead home. Suddenly Meryl Streep, the tormented matriarch, makes her appearance. One feels a wave of rage reinforced by a lifetime of addiction without her speaking a word. Unfortunately she decides to metaphorically ‘add more sauce’. Her performance is breathtaking.... to a fault. This actress has a power and subtly rarely exhibited by any film performer. Oddly her brilliance brings forth a question usually reserved for professional athletes: is it better to have a superstar or a player who makes the entire team shine. Ms. Streep fails to lift other boats. The rest of the cast, composed of seasoned professional, was extremely competent but incongruous when matched with the maestro's theatrical one woman show. The other cast members were merely in a feature film. Margo Martindale , not Ms. Streep, gave the best performance in the context of the movie. Her character’s bitterness towards her son and spouse are rooted in being a mother/spouse. Her relationship with sister Streep is a genuine unshakable bond. The sister never returns the favor. Streep is a disembodied diva rather than a engaged family member. The performance is worth watching but sadly it fails to serve the film as a whole. Ms. Streep’s formidable talent is mismatched with a callow director whose resume shows extensive experience as a producer and television writer. It is hard to imagine Mr. Wells, or even a seasoned veteran feature director, radically altering Ms. Streep’s’ conception of her part. She has an unmatched track record as the consummate artist; how does one politely ask her to ‘turn it down for the good of the whole’? Once again SHE is magical; but she fails to cast a spell on THE FILM. The initial encounter foretells a pattern of giving monologues fraught with facial choreography when a simple gesture would suffice.  In the close of the cook/cleaner interview Sam Shepard quoting T. S. Elliot remarks “Life is very long”. So was that scene; and it was Ms. Streep’s fault.

The supporting cast does an admirable job of keeping up with Streep’s whirlwind virtuosity. Martindale’s husband, played by Chris Cooper, is quietly brilliant as his spouse; just enough understatement to radiate dignity. Their unfortunate son, played by Benedict Cumberbatch, never stood a chance.  His character is the equivalent of a swatted fly left writhing without dying; but he does nail the accent. His sole fan, played by Julianne Nicholson, is drowning in a swamp of sorrow and has difficulty rising above her snake-bitten part.  Julliette Lewis is convincing as the dumbbell daughter and Dermot Mulroney is passable as the feckless lecherous boyfriend.  None of the sisters are believable as siblings.  Julia Roberts fails to exhibit a millisecond of tenderness. She is her mother’s daughter in delivering a showy performance which is anchored in the wrong harbor. Anger is central to her character’s worldview; but it should not be the ONLY attribute. Perhaps her strident rigidity in interpreting this part is an attempt to quash any notion that she is not a serious actress; more than a ‘Pretty Woman’. Her tiresome moan of a film, “Eat Pray Love”,  put to bed any notion she is a lighthearted heartthrob. She should feel free to genuinely emote happiness on screen - if that’s in her repertoire. Her on screen husband and daughter were very professional.  Once again the spouse, Ewan McGregor, is saddled with playing a castrated milquetoast - it was a wonderful interpretation of an uninspired character.  He joins Cumberbatch in delivering a very convincing American accent. Abigail Breslin is very believable as the callow daughter. The Native American cook/housekeeper’s is rooted in the of ‘the wise ole silent Indian’ stock character. She breaks through the serious-goodness to pummel Mulroney with a shovel while he attempts to seduce Abigail. One wishes she had turned the spade on the rest of the cast of despicable, emotionally damaged characters. The harshest blow would be reserved for Sam Shepard -  who set her up for this horrific gig; and promptly disappeared. He knew what was coming. Once again “Life is Very Long”.

One can only imagine the cowed director Wells, after being beaten down by Ms. Streep, facing the author Tracey Letts. This Okie would see his words inspiring as ‘the bright golden haze on the meadow”. This is his home turf. He has been certified as an important writer of an important work by the Pulitzer people. Who is this TV hack to attempt cut down his award winning dialogue.  One suspects Wells knew there was too much ‘fringe on top’. Unfortunately his failure to turn a scythe on Letts bountiful script led to a bumper crops of yawns amongst the audience (at least at the showing I attended).  Films lack the intimate immediacy of a live theatrical performance. The spoken word and surrounding landscape are fundamentally different in the two mediums. The use of monologues and utilizing confined space are primary in most theatrical productions. Films rely on movement, rather than the spoken word; there is also the challenge of taming infinite space.  It might have been a fruitful exercise to have Mr. Letts and Ms. Streep construct a completely silent rendering of the story. This would have forced them away from the proscenium arch, speech-centric, worldview. It would have also spared the audience endless scenes conceived in the claustrophobic confines of a theater. What filmmaker would imagine a grown man attempting to seduce a 14 year old girl by plying her with pot DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF THE HOUSE WHERE HER PARENTS ARE SLEEPING? Are we to believe Juliette Lewis and her boyfriend drove from California to a small town in Oklahoma on short notice in a two seater Ferrari?  Did Cumberbatch’s bus need to arrive immediately after the funeral service ended? Did 90% of the action need to take place on the first floor of the rambling house? Movies are not conceived in such small spaces. This shortsightedness is seen in the cinematography as well. It is unfortunate that Sam Shepard failed to alert the artistic team to  Nestor Almendros’ amazing photographic homage to the Plains in “Days of Heaven”:  “you know I was in the film way back that really did a great job capturing this neck of the woods....” Then again Shepard knew, despite life being long,  his time on this film was short. Why bother giving a heartfelt critique of the action when it's just another relatively small gig.... or maybe he didn't notice the mediocrity of the cinematography? Or maybe he didn't want to piss of his bosses with too many ideas?

The theatrical hall of fame of American Gothic families would have to include the progeny of Tennessee Williams, Lillian Hellman and Eugene O’Neil’s in their works: “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof”, “The Little Foxes” and “Long Days Journey into Night”.  Each of these plays have solid film adaptations. They possess an insular quality but they contain performances that break the stiltedness of watching an artwork conceived in another medium. Strong writing and a fully integrated artistry make Meryl Streep’s Violet Weston pale in comparison to Burl Ives’ Big Daddy, Betty Davis’ Regina Giddens and Katherine Hepburn’s Mary Tyrone.  In a sense we can see Violet Weston as possessing the all encompassing drug addiction of Mary Tyrone combined with the ferocious socio-pathology of Regina Giddens. In the end she shares Giddens fate of being alone in the house after being abandoned by her favorite daughter due to the discovery that money took precedence over her husband’s life.  There is an essential plot point that Letts omits. In all these other American family nightmares pecuniary deliberations are front and center: the Tyrone patriarch’s avarice causes Mary to be a junkie and his children to be rudderless souls on his dole; everyone is overtly fighting over Big Daddy’s fortune; Regina Gidden’s causes her husband’s demise to secure the loot. Lett tones down the shear grabbiness of his clan. They are, despite their failings, mostly self-supporting and independent. They all, unlike the Tyrones, Giddens and Big Daddy brood,  choosing freedom in spite of  the monetary penalties.  They have a dignity born of pathology rather than an awfulness born of desperation. Unfortunately this makes them less enjoyable to watch.  If the audience saw everyone was clearly out for the dough, the two hours with this family would passed more quickly. It would have been more understandable why they tolerated one another. There can be no discernible reason for anyone to endure Violet’s company for more than a few minutes without direct compensation. Otherwise the Weston clan appears to be merely emotionally crippled sad sacks.  Cumberbatch is the poster-child for this unfortunate family trait. His trauma drama has no resonance to a contemporary audience weened on American daytime television where incest is de rigueur.  Ironically 1950s classics such as "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" still have resonance. Paul Newman’s homosexuality in William’s work still manages to stir the audience because Newman’s character is more exquisitely drawn. We care about his inability to woo women as it relates to his relationship with Big Daddy. Whether or not Cumberbatch is intimate with his sister would have no impact on the widely held opinion of him as a loser; it might even boost the brother-lover's stock.  His step father would still love him and the rest of the clan, save the one sister, would hold him in contempt. His character shares the family problem of being a whimper, not a bang.

The gloss of Eliot quotes , the big names and resumes fail to mask the smallness of this pretentious piece of writing.  The all star cast went their separate ways. The director failed to reign anyone in with difficult questions regarding the best way to bring forth a portrait of this damaged family. This highbrow train wreck will garner awards, be praised as ‘important’; and promptly forgotten.   These talented people can move on doing good work as this turkey disappears over the horizon. Stark’s poem will live on as it possess a love of the people and place:

They watch her old hands and murmur—

How many biscuits

and pans of gravy?

How many babies soothed

and bee-stings daubed with bluing?

How many lamp-wicks trimmed?

How many berries picked?

words circling

as her quiet breath winds down to silence.

A better writer might have harnessed this deep appreciation for the lives lived and mingled it with the uncomfortable unhappiness of mental illness. Without the proud goodness of the heartland the meanness is as forgettable as any tawdry NY Post headline. A stronger director might have been able to assemble an artistic team to give life to this work rather than highlight its weaknesses. Wells and Letts will avoid the ignominy experienced by the Spiderman team.  No artist should be punished harshly for failing; that’s already in a long day’s work. There is enough serious panache that they can hold there heads high in public. But what about late on a sleepless night? Perhaps in the wee hours Wells will get a call from Bono. He can open the conversation by saying “Sorry about Spiderman”. Bono will reply,  “Sorry about August: Osage County”. When the tension breaks they can commiserate: “you know I hired THE BEST PEOPLE” and the other can reply “so did I”.

Inside Llewyn Davis (2014)

Unlike A Rolling Stone


You have to respect the Coen brothers’ craftsmanship and tenacity even if you don’t like their films. These two brothers have created an extraordinary body of features spanning three decades. Each possesses different themes and styles - yet they have a sharp precise quality of artists who never leave anything to chance. There is a tremendous amount of homework which in the hands of lesser director/writers would give birth to works weighted down by a ponderous heaviness. The Coen brothers are, first and foremost, about entertainment.  They are very well educated showman who want to deliver the goods. It’s ironic as some of their subject matter has a high brow panache: “Barton Fink” chronicles writer’s block with representations of William Faulkner and Clifford Odets; and yet they also created “Raising Arizona”  - not exactly “Public Television” material.  Each outing has the Coen brother’s signature exacting craftsmanship and ironic musings. There is a link between the over-drawn sweeping camera shots in “Blood Simple” and the outrageous dirt-bag shenanigans of the Dude in “The Big Lebowski”. These filmmakers are smart, hardworking and snarky. They are not catering to a specific audience. They make what interests them; this time around it’s Greenwich Village in 1961 right before Bob Dylan’s lionization.

“Inside Llewyn Davis” is a kunstlerroman in the manner of “Barton Fink”. The artist, played by Oscar Isaac, is loosely based on Dave Van Ronk.  He is a musician’s musician, respected by a coterie of insiders but rejected by the general public. There is a scene in which he auditions for a business big wig whose reaction to his heartfelt ballad is: “I’m not seeing alot of money here”.  This club owner, played with searing show-business honesty by F. Murray Abraham, throws our anti-hero a bone. He wants to pair him with a new group he is forming as long as he understands he will not be the lead singer. At this moment Davis has zero prospects. He diligently snatches defeat from the jaws of victory by turning down the offer.   This small moment showcases a central problem with the film. There is an un-entertaining quality to Davis’ self-destruction.  Dis-likable people can possess dramatic charm. That was illustrated by John Goodman’s performance as a over-the-hill junkie jazzman in the road sequence. Goodman‘s bellicose droning raises narcissism to an artform. He is loathsome and captivating. He channels all the decedent corpulence of Orson Welles in “Touch of Evil” with the smirk of Bugs Bunny. Davis is all the drudgery and pain of an artistic life. The brief moments of comic sparkle are overshadowed by the darkness of his quest.  This grimness is rooted in a mistaken notion of authenticity. Since middle-brow entertainment is focused on easy 'feel good' tropes, many ‘serious’ mainstream artists avoid any hint of sentimentality.  Unfortunately the Coen brothers' oeuvre requires a touch of schmaltz.  Strangely the lack of sweetness gives a repellent bitterness to Davis’ story.

There are moments in this film that deliver the no-holds-barred sardonic charm that is at the heart of the Coen’s work. The first is a complicated scene in which two of Davis‘ friends, a straight couple, join another performer on stage who happens to be enlisted in the army.  All the performances are absolutely first rate throughout this film despite the lack of depth in the secondary characters. They are archetypes: the rustic, the gullible best friend, the scold older sister, the nerdy academic, the jazz junkie... Davis has a complicated love entanglement with the female folksinger while being a friend to her cuckolded partner.  The military man is combination of Gomer Pyle and Kenneth on 30 Rock.  He embodies discipline, innocence and optimism - a trifecta of qualities absent in Davis. This hayseed is being welcomed with open arms on Davis’ home turf as our anti-hero’s prospects slip away.  All the very detailed exposition is intertwined with every strum and head nod - the love, jealousy, rivalry literally ring out effortlessly in this carefully staged segment. The recording of a novelty song involving astronauts reprises this very clever and enjoyable exposition. We meet a new character while the depths of Davis’ desperation are plumbed. The introduction of the agent/manager is a wonderful choreographed dance exhibiting the Joe Franklin netherworld of show business. Ditto for the many dinner scenes showcasing ugly, un-hip academics. These set-pieces glide the audience along in a bath of giggles and heartfelt gasps. The problem is the dramatic connective tissue.

The Coen brothers are masters of short scenes. When these exquisite vignettes are arranged in a larger arc, the center fails to hold. It is said that the true test of a musical comedy is how seamlessly the musical numbers integrate with the verbal narrative. The smoother the better. “Inside Llewyn Davis” has a unnerving ‘stop and go’ rhythm. Wonderful set pieces interspersed with forced actions to pull the story along. The yellow tabby cat, a major device in weaving the narrative together, was contrived in that it failed to be cat. It behaved as an important plot device that managed to have a, literally, unbelievable affect on our anti- hero. Davis’ character would never have taken the cat after leaving the professors’ apartment in a rage. It is also inconceivable that he would bring this animal along on a lengthy car rid to Chicago. Artistic license can be granted within a precise framework. Strangely the very careful universe created in this film highlighted the cat’s incongruousness as well as the kitsch trickery involved in ‘keeping the act moving’.   There is a moment when Davis walks by a movie theater and sees a poster for the Disney classic “The Incredible Journey”.  This film stars two dogs and (you guessed it) a cat, traveling alone through the wilderness.  The feline is prominently featured and the moment is meant as a funny ironic nod to our rootless, angry, dispossessed anti-hero who is on his own “incredible journey” with his series of magical cats. This scene was meant to show the distance between Disney’s Eden and the cruelty of real life as portrayed in this serious film. It has the opposite effect. “Inside Llewyn Davis” is merely the mirror image of the Walt’s world of set-piece confrontations and happy endings.

There is nothing more threatening to ‘serious’ artists than the mainstream.  In 1976 Paul Mazurksky  made “Next Stop, Greenwich Village”, a forgettable, successful, light, romantic comedy set in the same milieu as the Coen brother’s folk music homage. The protagonist has a similar background and challenge: abandoning his salt-of-the-earth blue collar world for the zaniness of ‘the village’ in order to establish himself as an artist. Nothing would hit deeper to the cool Coens to say that, despite its flaws, Mazurksky’s  middle-brow mediocre work is more honest and enjoyable. It is NOT a better film; but it is certainly more consistent. The Coen’s speak in the language of very conventional drama but imbrue the character with a wrong-headed nastiness that is supposed to lift the work from the doldrums of standard box office fair. In reality in made Davis’ journey excruciating for the character and the audience. His loss of the cat/son/sister/friends/father combined with the constant professional setbacks, has the unmistakable feel of playing in the negative alternate universe of those house pets in “The Incredible Journey”. The problem is that movie-goers frequent that genre desiring a ‘feel good’ moment. There might be an audience for a film in which the cute furry threesome end up writhing on huge glue traps.... but the Coens have a wider reach in mind.

The brothers’ track record shows that they can produce solid box office. They have had three films gross over $60 million. In fact their previous project,  a “True Grit” remake, was their most successful work, garnering over $170 million.  Perhaps this gave the siblings the idea to follow their vision and tackle even more personal material. They were swinging for the fences trying to make a homage to early 60s Greenwich Village while also telling the story of an artist as a young man. The end result fails as a musical paean and as a fictional biography. It’s difficult to know what would make this film more palatable. Certainly more ‘corniness’ would have helped. Would it really be so awful if he 'got the girl/son/career.....'? Does he really need to end up beaten in an alley? If the Coen’s are too nervous about losing their ‘cool’ cred as artists, they might have simply adopted the approach taken by Jim Jarmusch in “Stranger than Paradise”. Forget conventional narrative and just string the fun scenes together without much regard for careful linear plot delineation. Lose the cat and give us more wonderful incongruous set pieces of academics, agents, village people, boyfriends, family members.... interacting in the hip madcap manner which is a Coen trademark.

The brothers are famous for editing, directing, writing their own material. This work could have used outside supervision.  A disinterested adviser needed to explain that there was no possibility of reprising the musical renaissance for coffee house music that “O Brother, Where Art Thou” brought to bluegrass. The Folk genre has a more subdued sombre personal nuance which gives it little chance of breaking out of the current base. Dylan had a reason for 'going electric'. Therefore there is no need to include a full rendering of each Davis ballad. Oscar Isaac is a superb musician, singer in addition to being first rate actor; but less in more in terms of aiding the film’s dramatic flow. It is fine to continue the tradition of referring to other master filmmakers... but sometimes the brothers’ cleverness works against the pace of the film. The reprise of Davis’ beating, a device borrowed from Bertolucci’s “1900”, fails to add to the audience feelings towards the anti-hero. If anything it gave credence to the notion that he deserved a greater pummeling on the second viewing.  Maybe that was the point but noone needed any more reasons to loath Davis. The closing sequence, with the folk-savior Dylan on stage, worked very well. This is a nod to the 1972 film “Cabaret” where a pan into the audience reveals the coming anti-Christ who would destroy Germany. It is unfortunate, given their prodigious knowledge of film that they  failed to take lessons from Bob Rafelson’s “Five Easy Pieces” on how to portray an anti-hero.  That feature also has a protagonist who is a failed musician who tries to make peace with his dying father and takes an outlandish road trip with anti-social strangers. Jack Nicholson is equally misanthropic, but he wins your heart. His ability to charm stems from an outstanding performance in a script unencumbered by the need to give nuance to an era and a genre of music. (He is a classical pianist who abandoned a promising music career) It also helps that Nicholson’s problems and dramas are less contrived. Despite bouts of doubt, he is out to have a good time and live life. His supporting cast also exists outside of the small world of his problems which gives resonance to the story. Davis is a solipsistic cartoon character in a perpetual downward spiral surrounded by one-dimensional caricatures that fail to lift his boat. His ability to carry a tune fails to hide the fact that he’s ‘a drag’ .  If the F. Murray Abraham character were to sit through a screening, he might opine: “No one likes an unromantic comedy.... whose gonna drop ten bucks to watch an asshole for two hours”. He has a point.