Review of Happiness is a Journey (2022)

 The Serfs in Our Midst

Review of Happiness is a Journey

"The best artist has that thought alone which is contained within the marble shell; only the sculptor's hand can break the spell to free the figures. -Michelangelo, Letter To His Father In Florence

“In a sort of ghastly simplicity we remove the organ and demand the function.” -C.S. Lewis, The Abolition of Man

“We will have to leave this planet, and we're going to leave it, and it's going to make this planet better” -Jeff Bezos

Link to 12 Minute Film, Happiness is a Journey

Ivete Lucas and Patrick Bresnan’s Happiness is a Journey is a quiet 12 minute film with no real dialogue and made for a budget of less than $10,000. It features a poor, ungainly, anti-celebrity, Edie “Bear” Lopez, delivering newspapers in the middle of the night. That’s it. It sounds ponderous and dreary. In the hands of lesser artists it might have been, but Lucas and Bresnan manage to give Mr. Lopez’s life the dignity and beauty it deserves. They have also made one of the most scathing indictments of the current economic system since Walker Percy and James Agee teamed up for, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, the poetic documentation of depression-era dust-bowl poverty. This seemingly simple visit to a newspaper distribution plant in Texas packs the same punch as the much-ballyhooed Nomadland, the star studded feature film showcasing the harsh conditions for American’s army of transient workers. This film is a salvo against the constant drum-beat that we live in the best of times.

Lucas and Bresnan cloak their subversive narrative in classical form. This work is a masterclass in the “direct cinema” style. Starting in the late 1950s Filmmakers Richard Leacock and Robert Drew pioneered a handheld documentary approach that eschewed verbal commentary and fixed tripod set ups. Happiness is a Journey combines this form with the use of a split screen, something popular in the late 60s early 70s. Essentially the audience is given two “channels” to view the action, or lack thereof. It reenforces the feeling of witnessing a process unfolding, rather than an individual’s personal struggle. This is a film about a way of life, rather than a single story. In fact the first half of the film takes place with an ensemble of warehouse workers. This is an important introduction as we see Lopez’s journey is shared by an array of folks of varying ages, sexes races, disabilities…. They are united in the need to make twenty two cents per newspaper delivered, without any benefits.  

The filmmakers wisely chose Christmas Eve as the night to showcase the working life at the bottom of the economic rung. The atmosphere is friendly but there is no air of celebration, save some holiday cards doting the work areas. The filmmaker’s titles, occasionally appearing on top of the images,  explain that these independent contracts work 365 days a year. Holidays are an anathema to those in charge. The title of the film comes from a workspace gussied up with tchotchkes breaking the institutionalization. Amongst a collection of Monster energy drinks, gold bond powder and a black painted figurine of Bart Simpson, is a sign which reads: Happiness is a journey… not a destination.  This bromide captures the spirit of the friendly workplace where everyone, regardless of age or gender, loads and sorts.The congeniality is born of being in the same boat. Three generations of an African American family work next to an elderly white woman just down from a young man who looks like a roady for a Southern rock band. The protagonist, Mr. Lopez, wears a hillbilly beard complete with a Craftsman tool baseball hat and a Dallas Cowboys change-purse covering his neck. He wears his wealth on his hands with each finger covered with extremely large silver rings, many are adorned with skulls. He looks a decade older than his actual age of 60. His companion, a chihuahua, seems even more ancient. Both man and dog trudge through the night with determination. The grind occasionally showing through with Mr. Lopez stumbling a little on a small curb and the dog shaking in the early morning cold. Some of the co-workers are not as resilient, with one middle-aged man collapsed in a slumber on a pile of freshly sorted papers.  

The second half of the film shows Mr. Lopez making the rounds to florescent-green lit blue collar neighborhoods, drab institutions and gas stations. He stops for gas, begging the question about how many papers he must sell to fill up his pick up. The truck is an extension of Mr. Lopez’s cluttered appearance. The inside of the cab is as crowded as all the silver jewelry on his hands. Judging by the amount of stuff in the front seat it is clear there are issues with hoarding. This notion is reenforced at the end of the film where he finally arrives at his modest residence. The front area, too small to be called a lawn, is packed to the gills with things. When he opens the door a cat crawls to an assigned space amongst the debris between the gate and the trailer.  It is roughly 6AM Christmas morning and Mr. Lopez is finished until he has to get up again and arrive in the early evening at the newspaper distribution center. The final card for the film states that he has been religiously following this routine, going to work EVERY SINGLE DAY, for 21 straight years without a break. 

Those interested in defending the economic status quo would point to Lopez’ abundant material possessions as proof of his well-being. He has a decent place to live and access to calories. His vocation is his choice. This is HIS journey. This would probably be a minority opinion as most would consider decades of piecework with no benefits to be Dickensian.  Putting Mr. Lopez’s journey aside the filmmakers spent roughly half the movie showing the group, not the individual. Some might rationalize Mr. Lopez’s choices but what about the array of others? The most economically successful country in the world has at risk families, in addition to the disabled and elderly, spending Christmas working for pennies. There have always been economically disenfranchised forced to the margins to make ends meet. The genius of this film is the ordinariness that exposes the ever expanding numbers of vulnerable people. Whereas in the past this work might have been delegated to a specific group on the bottom rung, the warehouse crowd is remarkably familiar. These are people you know. And now, because of Lucas and Bresnan, you know their struggles.  Watching the quiet process of newspaper delivery, peppered by the occasional cue-card, produces an unsettling array of questions. What happens when Lopez’s pickup breaks down? Who takes care of the young child playing amongst the worker when his attentive father falls ill? What becomes of the lady in the mechanized wheel-chair when people stop buying newspapers? The answers become important as the distance between the audience and Mr. Lopez narrows. The filmmakers have captured the zeitgeist of this precarious moment by highlighting an unsung laborer with his ancient toy-dog, garish rings and friendly demeanor punching the clock 24/7. He becomes a fellow-traveller in early 21st century America, rather than a remote character in a documentary. Happiness is a Journey shows something is very wrong with the overall picture. The scenery grows bleak as we approach our destination. We might not end up on the metaphorical perpetual-loading dock, but their struggle is ours. The filmmakers aren’t making bold claims. Just bearing witness. This is a film about seeing the unseen. You won’t look at the ubiquitous newspaper vending machines the same way. That’s a good thing. 

Review of Licorice Pizza (2021)

 Hearing the Sirens

Review of Licorice Pizza

“And you climb up the mountains and you fall down the holes” 

• Song All The Way From Memphis, Mott The Hoople

“Everyone has the right to make an ass out of themselves. You just can't let the world judge you too much” 

• Maude, from Harold & Maude

“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter”

• Mark Twain

Licorice Pizza, Paul Taylor Anderson’s latest feature, arrived in the midst of a seemingly never-ending pandemic. The talented director chooses optimism over despair and delivers a heart-felt paean to young lovers. This is a very personal film. It is set in the early 1970s when the writer/director came of age. Every artist struggles with presenting the passion of intimacy without losing an audience to the opaqueness of a private language. This is especially challenging for mature filmmakers who are past fretting about disapproving producers. Licorice Pizza is a qualified success. It shows Anderson’s strengths in working with actors and capturing the zeitgeist of youth, LA and the 1970s. Unfortunately it stumbles in an odd, meandering way. It is as if you asked a parent about their grown children and they gave a detailed description of the neighborhood where they grew up. It’s a great response that has nothing to do with the question.

At the heart of Anderson’s drama is a perfect couple. That’s the problem. Cooper Hoffman is magnificent as Gary. Alana Haim nails the part of Alana. They are magical together. Why aren’t they together? He is 15 and she is in her 20s. Certainly this would be a challenge, even more so in the the previous decade. Unfortunately this gap doesn’t play on screen. He seems older and she appears younger, undermining the perception of the impossibility of a romance. At one point Alana literally voices to her sister/confidante that she feels uncomfortable hanging out with Gary and his younger crowd. It is as if the writer/director needs to reinforce the central plot point.The words fail to convince. Without the impediment to true love the interactions become rehearsed, rather than felt. Gary, the supposed 15 year old, manages the adult tasks of forming businesses, hanging out in bars, managing clients, securing acting parts with the aplomb of a polished adult. The public, especially their crowd, would not frown upon their union. This isn’t the startling age gap exhibited by the patron saints of odd-ball romantic comedy, the 10 year old Harold and his elderly mentor, Maude from the eponymous Harold and Maude. But even given the supposed impossibility of being a couple, Anderson fails to reign-in the seduction of “cool” asides.  The central characters drift into a different film that tries to capture the wider world. 

The concise, unadorned moments in Licorice Pizza are superb. We see the young couple facing the trials of early adulthood without the noise of larger statements about the 70s entertainment industry. Gary goes on an audition and faces the smiling sociopaths who hire aspiring child actors. The glances between the casting director and the producer tell a million stories.  In another sequence Gary tries to have his agent take an interest in Alana. This is a sublime portrayal of the harshness of an industry where the callow, obsequious, success-hungry wannabes are played by indifferent, capricious seasoned pros.  At one moment the elderly agent seems as if she will take out a knife and cut Alana to bits, then comes a seamless pivot to laughter and compliments. No doubt being a child star can be exhilarating, as exhibited by the New York City showcase visit. However, even in this frolicking riot of fun the dark side is apparent.  The mature star turns on Gary for his prank. You can’t help thinking how it would have turned out had the handlers not been around to stop her physical assault. Furthermore this diva has the air of a grudge-holder. Will there be longterm consequences? Contrast these crisp show-business portraits with the overwrought introduction of Jon Peters and the sequences involving Sean Penn and Tom Waits. These figures would have been more appropriate to Boogie Nights.  Anderson’s sweeping portrait of the LA skin trade was a sprawling feast of decadence. Licorice Pizza is supposed to be an intimate love story… or wants to be. The asides cloud us getting to know Gary and Alana. The film becomes a disjointed soup of interesting moments that never coalesces. The audience yearns for the conciseness of Anderson’s debut feature, Hard 8. That gritty love story revolves around a young, down and out, couple on the fringes of the Las Vegas casinos. Their struggles stir passion. Licorice Pizza produces wry smiles. Despite the fine acting and directing, the final reunion of Gary and Alana gets a thumbs up, rather than a tear. Anderson’s other romantic comedy, Punch Drunk Love, has the same problem. The romance is lost to the pyrotechnics of a wild plot line which includes a manufacturer of toilet plungers squaring off against thugs sent by a phone sex operator. 

At the heart of Licorice Pizza is the confusion about the central storyline. Is this about the couple, or the era? At times the audience is left with the impression that this film starts where Tarantino left off in his panoramic sweep of 60s LA, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. Anderson is a far superior director and even the mis-steps make for a fun trip. Unfortunately the director commits the same crime as the absent guardians of latchkey kids. The parents vanish and the children are left to fend for themselves. Gary and Alana’s mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters disappear and we are left with waterbeds, pinball machines, closeted politicians and flashy movie stars. It’s entertaining but distracting. Their final reunion becomes a simple beat, rather than a crescendo. The audience needed more quiet time. There is a brilliant, silent,  moment involving Gary, in a pique of jealousy, calling Alana at her house. She is dating a rival actor and our hero is heartbroken. They are both in their homes. Gary is babysitting his brother and Alana is surrounded by the constant din of her sisters. Nothing and everything happens. Gary is completely quiet and simply listens as the confused Alana hangs on the phone. It is a scene that outshines all the slick cameos and outlandish set-ups. Something real was at stake. Too often Anderson’s resorts to Disney-esque adventurism and the couple’s escapes lack an edge. A mirror example, that exhibits the much needed tension, is the seminal 70s feature, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. The audience is absorbed in the believable money struggles facing an itinerant single mother and her young son. Homelessness and poverty hover at every turn, despite many funny moments. Contrast comic-book untouchability  of Gary and Alana. Even when he is apprehended by the police, one of the few genuinely harrowing moments, the danger evaporates in minutes without explanation. Alana arrives. All is good. The families are nowhere to be seen. The couple continues on their way, as if they were Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland in a 1940s Andy Hardy film. It’s catchy fun, rather than heartfelt emotion. 

Perhaps Licorice Pizza has more resonance but given the body of Anderson’s work, expectations are high. It seems his forte is the wide shot rather than the close up. His searing renderings of zealots, be they in business, religion or fashion, are potent to a fault. ( There Will Be Blood, The Master, Phantom Thread) The exacting expositions of the protagonists’ pathologies make an audience feel they’ve witnessed an autopsy rather than experiencing a life. Licorice Pizza has the opposite problem in erring on the side of frivolity. The balance is struck with the epic portraits of Los Angeles. There is an element of this genius at work in Licorice Pizza. Sadly Gary and Alana’s story seems a weaker version of the many individual sequences from his magnum opus, Magnolia. That film showcases a wide-ranging group of Los Angelenos facing various crisis’. The difference is that Anderson is more fully invested in their stories. The other slices of Licorice Pizza are leftovers from his penultimate achievement, Boogie Nights. Once again the antics of the sad denizens of the porno trade are more carefully delineated than the current offering.  That is not to say the film isn’t worth the time. 

Anderson is a wonderful filmmaker. His achievements are even more impressive in light of the onslaught of serialized action features which have taken over the fading feature film offerings. Licorice Pizza is a welcome entree when the top grossing films this week are The Matrix Resurrections and Spider-Man: No Way Home.  Anderson has something to say and is a superb craftsman. If only if he would resist the siren call of cool distraction. Even the title Licorice Pizza betrays a wandering eye. “Licorice Pizza” is 70s slang for vinyl records. It’s catchy but what does that have to do with the couple at the heart of the drama? Perhaps “Mood Ring” or “Wacky Pack” would have been more appropriate. If you’re not old enough, look up the definitions. Those quintessential 70s items capture the irreverent romantic un-romance of Gary and Alana. Unfortunately Anderson chose the nick-name for an LP. It is fitting. This careful, insightful writer/director lost track of his metaphorical children. It’s a great title, but not for this movie.  Anderson is careless but still manages to deliver a wonderful, nostalgic, reprieve from our current pandemic world. My reaction to the film is summed up by the rock group 10cc in their 1975 smash hit, I’m Not In Love. Take off your mask. Wipe off your hands with alcohol. Think about a more innocent time. Download the song, put in your earbuds… and listen. It’s a wonderful distraction.