Fight Club (1999, reviewed 2011)

Fight Club Beaten By Heavy Idea

Two years before 9/11 a mainstream Hollywood film was released which references “Ground Zero” and “terrorists”. The cataclysmic ending shows the anti-hero holding hands with his girlfriend as a vast number of buildings in the financial district are blown to pieces. It is odd for the film industry to be so prescient. It is standard fair for the people in the dream factory to be late for the party. For example the industry took a stand on Vietnam many years AFTER the war had ended (“Coming Home”, “The Deer Hunter”….) Although “Fight Club” fails to be a direct commentary on international global intrigue or Arab extremism, there is an eerie, disquieting feeling one gets viewing this work in 2012. When asked why the terrorist were targeting the headquarters of credit card companies the answer seems to be lifted from a Ron Paul supporter: “if we blown up the credit card companies then no one will know what the debt is…. there will be chaos. “ Given the financial debacles of the last few years it is doubtful this dialogue would have okayed by a jittery mainstream film producer. After all scaring people sells…. But terrifying the audience is never good box office. Even for 1999 this film is testing the delicate balance between selling tickets and sowing fear. Whatever one feels about the artistic merits of the production it is a brave effort when measured against the sea of mind-numbing features. This film dares us to think. I accept the challenge.

There is always a problem with corporate sponsored entertainment that highlights revolution and sub-culture. Niggers With Attitude, the pioneering gangsta rap group that vividly portrayed brutal LA street life, had a majority of its fans in white suburban enclaves. Gwenth Paltrow, in her Marie Antoniotte-like blog called GOOP, highlighted the fact that she played NWA’s “Straight Outta Compton” in her photo spread documenting her Harpers Bazaar cover shoot. It would be interesting to know if the number of subscriptions to Harpers Bazaar in South Central is greater than zero. In short, when the revolution is televised make sure you understand who owns the broadcasting company. The shows might be entertaining and exhilarating but there is a difference between Che and a Che T-shirt. Having made the point that “Fight Club” is about the bottom line and not real social commentary the producers might have stumbled into dangerous territory in spite of themselves. It is interesting to note that only a Hollywood film about a narcissistic, nihilistic socio-path would feel the need to create a love interest in order to frame this incredibly dark film as some sort of hybrid romance. What was Helen Bonham Carter doing in this movie? Unfortunately it is very apparent that Ed Norton’s real love is Brad Pitt. They are the REAL couple – the fact that Brad is actually an imaginary extension of Ed doesn’t undercut the genuineness of their romance. In short if Ed has the ability to beat himself to a pulp – it seems equally likely that he’d be able to fuck his own brains out. There is something forced about Ed’s struggle. Carter instead of being the motivating agent seems more of an awkward bystander. Unfortunately leading men as overt homosexual lovers is bad box office. This conundrum was illustrated in the classic “Bonnie and Clyde”. Although the scriptwriters were open to hinting at Clyde’s real life sexual preferences – the suits gave a resounding “NO”. The men upstairs were right in terms of ticket sales but not in terms of artistry. “Fight Club” has more homo-erotic sadomasochistic imagery than a soft core pornographic movie but the presence of Carter shields the producers from any charge of being “queer”. It’s odd think of a movie showcasing radical anarchy to be worried about homophobia but Carter keeps the film in the closet. Imagine what an audience member might think about Ed Norton’s serial embrace of a morbidly obese, castrated, former body builder without the allusions to his interest in Ms. Carter. This would certainly not be good box office but it would have rendered a more genuine anti-social radical. The failure to “go all the way” eats away at the film’s foundation.

Angst about ubiquitous, soulless consumer culture is fertile ground for artistic commentary. The essence of the film can be crystallized in Brad Pitt’s sermon to his troops:

I see all this potential, and I see squandering, God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables, slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need. We’re the middle children of history man… no purpose or place… we got no great war, no great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives. We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, movie gods and rock stars… but we won’t. We’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re VERY VERY PISSED OFF.

The most interesting reference in the speech is to “the great war and the great depression”. Immediately one shifts back to the 1950s – the original pre-Vietnam generation that was raised in a society of boundless post-war prosperity and American supremacy. The Pope for the ironically disillusioned youth was Alan Ginsburg. His sermon, the poem Howl, begins with:

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,
starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear,
burning their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,


In this comparison Ginsburg kicks “Fight Club’s” ass. It would be foolish to expect a commercial Hollywood feature to compete with a classic poem but herein lies the problem for the makers of “Fight Club”. When you address big issues you are stepping into the ring with heavyweight champions. They’re going to break Rule #3 of “Fight Club”: If someone says "stop" or goes limp, taps out, the fight is over. In other words if you’re going to show buildings and computers being blown to bits in savage portrayal of the evils of consumerism you’re going to have to confront the ghosts of filmmakers past. In this case it’s the closing sequence of “Zabriskie Point”. I challenge anyone to watch (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJsW6ta4X8o) and not consider Antonioni the winner by a knock out.

Another unfortunate aspect of “Fight Club” valiant battle to say something “important” about the dehumanization of modern culture was the inclusion of the troupe of “class warfare”. Once again the filmmakers seem to possess déjà vu as this tired chestnut seems to have raised its ugly head in the contemporary Presidential debates. Most of the bourgeois (I am a card carrying member) consider suicidal terrorists to be completely insane…. But there is crazy and there is CRAZY. There is Osama Bin Laden, a selective reader of history and religion who justifies strategic murdering of innocents by brainwashing highly educated adults with a abhorrent propaganda. Then there is Joseph Kony, a rebel leader who raids unguarded rural villages murdering adults and taking their children as slaves to fight in his “Lords Resistance Army”. The goal is to set up a country based on the “10 commandments” with this fearsome child–army protected from bullets by special holy water. So far two million people have been displaced and thousands maimed and murdered. Although Brad Pitt would like to think of himself in the Bin Laden mold – the audience is in on the fact that he’s more of a Joseph Kony. The attempts to sanitize Pitt’s gruesome world view with a sprinkle of Marxism and a hollow visions of social justice only make Pitt/Norton inauthentic. The filmmakers counter Pitt’s savage attack on a immigrant, holding a gun to his head while grilling him about his dreams, as a deranged way of “helping” that refugee to focus himself so he can be prosperous. Pitt steals his drivers license and says he will “check up on him”. In a latter scene we briefly see a wall filled with drivers licenses. He’s “helping” scores of people. Once again his attacks on buildings are given the fig leaf of “being at night when noone is them”; as if this is some sort of victimless crime. Ed Norton is beside himself with grief when the overweight mommie-figure becomes a police causality. His counter-ego, Brad Pitt, coldly quips “you have to break an egg to make an omelet”. This seemingly shocking duality really can’t hold a candle to the real world. Truth is far uglier than fiction. Joseph Konys has no such maudlin sentimentality. If he must personally rape and maim hundreds of children it is all in the good faith of knowing you have to break a few eggs etc. This is perhaps the greatest failing of “Fight Club”. In trying to humanize characters who eschew the basic elements of humanity the work becomes merely shocking. If their boundless depravity becomes unleashed then the story really provokes reflection; otherwise the characters are abstract stick figures. Another hallmarks of cartoons that distances the viewer's engagement is their physical resilience. No matter what befalls Bugs Bunny – stabbings, violent fights explosions – he always returns unscathed in the next scene. Note that during the most gruesome interludes of “Fight Club” the participants wounds are superficial. There is remarkable absence of the type of brain damage or paralysis one would expect in bare-knuckled, free for alls on concrete floors. Angry young men have been known to be seduced by the allure of carefree mayhem. One need not be schoolmarm to be concerned about “the message”. This is not to say that the filmmakers should vilified for pandering to our collective blood-lust. In a sense - that’s their job.

The makers of “Fight Club” waged a hard battle. It is difficult to imagine upper management green-lighting a meditation on using extreme psychotic male aggression as a counter attack on mainstream consumerism. That takes guts. Those could not have been easy meetings. It is important to give credit where credit is due. However in a world of real-life monsters that terrorize millions with bankrupt philosophies the argument can be made that this work glamorizes charismatic demons. This is an old conundrum in features dating back to the days of “Public Enemy”. Does the “Godfather” film romanticize Mafioso lifestyle? Yes, but the artistry is strong enough to take the hit. “Fight Club” doesn’t stand up. The challenge in boxing is, no matter the barrage of punches, never let your guard down. “Fight Club” fails in its defenses by pandering to the culture it ostensibly wants the audience to question. If you want to make a film with a amoral anti-hero one can only provoke real thought by letting them, in the words of Aleister Crowley, “do what thou Wilt”. Anything goes.... anything. One of the most successful scenes in “Fight Club” is where Ed Norton blackmails his boss by beating himself silly and in the process destroying his superior’s office. It’s all there - a demonic determination to annihilate the system in a disconcertingly unconventional manner. Who knows what comes next. In trying to understand this monster it draws a critical eye inward. What exactly do we, as a society, expect. If the “terrorists” have a real moral code and have conventional ideas about fairness and justice it prevents a candid view of our own personal darkness. In short “Fight Club” fails to be artistically clever enough to merely entertain while being ironically timid in presenting the big picture. Brad Pitt, embodiment of Ed Norton’s id, does battle with one hand tied behind his back. Perhaps the paradigm film in the genre of digging in society’s basement would be Pasolini’s “Salo”. The director’s reward for bringing forth this creation: he was beaten to death then run over with his own car. There is a price to pay for bravery.... but it’s not good box office.

Donny Osman's Cages (2012 Lost Nation Theater, VT)

Donny Osman - FTW

“Town Meeting” is annual gathering of Vermonters that sets the local government agenda for the coming year. In one of my first experiences at this event (I am from “away”) the delinquent tax collector was being publicly skewered for “not being tough enough”. The criticism was warranted. The tone was mean-spirited. Compounding the problem was the inarticulateness of the office holder and the relative fluidity of the verbal barrages by the pack of angry taxpayers. An older gentleman rose and took command. He immediately pointed to the difficulty of the position and the perils of being cruel to those who were down on their luck. One should not assume that every person who is behind on payments is a scoundrel and every civil servant who founders in delivering the cash is a weak kneed bleeding heart. While listening I felt ashamed that I had failed to rise to the occasion. Who was this man?

The answer came years later. Recently I attended an autobiographical one man show featuring Donny Osman; not - Donny Osmond. But the irony that Mr. Osman should share a similar name to a teenage bubble-gum star of the 1970s goes hand in hand with Mr. Osman’s world view. God often embodies opposites: God can be cruel/funny. As a mere mortal one should acknowledge life’s hardship but one has a responsibility to God, community and family never to forget to laugh. Mr. Osman has arranged a series of stories from a full life that has involved the theater, politics and family. The structure of the piece involves Mr. Osman sitting at a desk and loosely reading from notes and occasionally rising while a guitarist strums and picks - not so much music as appropriate collaboratory support. It is a mark of the musician’s talent that the focus stays on Mr. Osman and his tales. Ironically Mr. Osman’s tone is a dual mixture of apology and defiance. These are stories from his life: “they might not make much sense to you - but they are what makes me who I am.” There is a reference to “cages”. Everyone is emotionally placed in boxes and separated against their will. Life is, in a sense, a process of escape.

The stories he tells continue the theme of “duality”. They are heartbreaking/hilarious, fun/painful, silly/serious..... There are many deeply personal biographical moments - but once again the opposite is also true: Mr. Osman keeps his own counsel while bearing his soul. This is especially the case in sketches he makes of his parents. These were formidable people. His mother was a member of SNCC, a major civil rights organization. It is easy at this point in our history to underestimate the courage it would take to actively participate in the cause of unblemished righteousness. One might see grainy images of Martin Luther King reciting “I Had a Dream” and conclude that every person with a conscious would have wanted to bear witness. Truth be told: many moderates considered King a radical and others were unwilling to be associated with “trouble”. (The NY Times wrote an interesting article on the anniversary of the march commenting on the fact that on the day itself Washington DC was nervously gripped by fear; not celebration.) In short, Donny had a very brave outspoken mother. Her choice of spouse was equally dynamic. The senior Mr. Osman was a push-cart peddler who rose to own and operate a famous New York discount store. In one of the highlights of the performance the son speaks of the father handling a vendor. The man wanted to try to sell Donny’s father some goods at a high price. The senior Mr. Osman firmly explained that “he is an undertaker” and that these goods are, metaphorically speaking in terms of profit potential, “already dead”. This man must realize that if he wants to sell the goods it will be at a loss. This is the harshness of the market delivered by someone WITHOUT MALICE. I emphasize this as it is central to the father’s legacy. He was a businessman who never forgot that his measure was in the respect felt by his family, community and customers. The bottom line could never be found in a bank statement.

Perhaps the most memorable moment of the performance was when Donny describes his mother’s passing. She committed suicide with the aid of clandestine medical staff after receiving a terminal diagnosis after her husband’s death. Donny and his brother bore witness. Whatever one’s personal views on end of life decisions it is important to acknowledge the boldness of this very public disclosure. It would be easy in our “reality TV” world to attribute this to the need for “sensationalization”. In Donny’s case the opposite is true. This revelation comes as a parable in his mother’s never-ending fight for social justice. Mr. Osman lets it be known that he believes strongly in personal end of life decisions being made by the patient . One sense the steely determination of his father with the vendor when he says “I did not know the names of the people who assisted my mother... but even if I did I wouldn’t tell you”.

One of the first stories involves a Vermont neighbor who helped Donny and his family when they first arrived. He was a hard drinking, trailer-living, porno-watching, gun totting family man. One senses Donny’s repulsion/fascination. They were friends; or more accurately “friendly”; people who could rely on one another in the custom of the country. Cities have conversation. Rural areas have dependable neighbors. The neighbors’ wife would look after Donny’s house when his family traveled. Donny recalls that his family returned from a trip and the local paper wanted his comment on the shooting. The shooting? It turns out the neighbor shot his wife in the head in front of their children. Donny let slip that this was one of three murderers he had encountered since re-locating to a sylvan ideal.

Donny tells us that his decision to move out of New York wasn’t motivated by any “back to the land” romanticism. He thought farming looked like “too much work”. All joking aside Mr. Osman never really reveals what prompted his pulling up stakes and settling, for four decades, in Vermont. It brought to mind Prospero’s penultimate lines at the closing of the Tempest:

And thence retire me to my Milan, where
Every third thought shall be my grave.


Mortality is certainly a central focus of Mr. Osman’s work but it is Prospero’s opaqueness that creates the parallel. What about the other two thoughts? The irony of Mr. Osman’s autobiography is that it becomes hard to know what he thinks; although it is clear portrait of what he believes is right. The disconnect might lie in other matters that he unveils: he is a hypochondriac but has real medical conditions, he is a politician but has disdain for vulgar popularism, he needs constant re-assurance but is very much his own man.... At heart is the strange contradiction of a private person needing to escape the comfortable narcissism of self and “come clean”.

There are three central figures in Mr. Osman’s life who are barely mentioned: his wife, his brother and his son. Donny’s spouse is referenced as being the bedrock of his recovery from depression. The veracity of her courage fails to play dramatically. Who is she? The same is true for the missing son and scantly referenced brother. Obviously it is impossible to catalog all close relationships in a dramatic summation however some color on these specters might have illuminated other characters and actions. For example the afore-mentioned killer returns to greet Donny after his manslaughter term is served. One senses the surprise/repulsion but it is difficult to know what Donny would do if the murderer chose to re-kindle the friendship. There are also a strange “blank” in understanding his relationship with his parents. The respect and love is unquestioned.... but did they get along? Donny recalls: “everyone loved talking with my father” - this is distinct from “I loved talking to my father”. Donny describes the macabre moments waiting the two hours for the mother’s “medical assistants” to make their full exit. Once again the exasperation of having to be a part of this grim ritual is real.... but is he angry at his mother for creating this burden? Is their guilt at feeling rage? Is everything washed away by fulfilling his role as being the dutiful son? There is a great deal of expectation involved in having such dynamic role models - was this a factor in the choice of leaving New York? What was their reaction to his working in the theater? There is a long history of loving parents being skeptical of a stage career. In fact one of the first “talking” motion pictures, “The Jazz Singer”, documents the struggle of an artist shackled by parents well-intentioned, but misguided, concern. One wonders how a serious social activist and self-made retail magnate would react to having a son who is a professional clown? Had these wonderful parents placed Donny in their cage of expectations?

On a mechanical level the structure of the piece works against his being fully candid. By clearly delineating himself as the storyteller he is taking on the burden of facing the every-present judgement of the audience - not merely for a performance - but for a life’s work. “Cages” could be “set free” if Mr. Osman embodied the various characters he presents. Speak in the voice of his mother and father or even take on his own character as almost a separate persona. There are glimmers of Osman’s ability to inhabit the protagonists - brief shouts and jesters - we need more of this showing and less telling.

These technical suggestion should not take away from what Donny has created - this is a life’s work. There is an expression that young internet users employ when they wish to recognize an amazing performance - be it in sports, acting, class.... “FTW” stand for “For the Win”. The origin of this “shout out” is obscure but the idea is to exclaim “this is the best!” or “Amazing!”. Ironically this acronym had almost the exact opposite meaning for an earlier generation. During the turbulent 1960s some people would use “FTW” to mean “Fuck the World”... but it is important not to dwell on the negative... that could lead to darkness and depression. We have a responsibly to laugh and cheer. Remember the Book of Psalms while contemplating to the Book of Job. Life is hard... but good. Donny Osman - FTW!

X (1992 Spike Lee film about Malcolm X)

Much Ado About Malcolm

There is a rumor that there exists a person who has not heard of the opening of Spike Lee's X, but it has been unconfirmed. No film in my lifetime has received has much publicity. "Scientific American" seems to be the only periodical which has not given its cover over to Mr. Lee, Denzel Washington (the actor who plays Malcolm X) or Malcolm himself. According to the New York Amsterdam News, one of New York's leading black newspapers: " 'X' merchandising has yielded $100 million in sales from caps, T-shirts, jackets, trading cards, posters, key chains, wristwatches, buttons, drinking mugs, refrigerator magnets, pins and air fresheners." All this prior to the film's opening. Batman eat your heart out. It lacks propriety to liken a movie about a comic book super-hero with one which tells the "real" lifestory of a murdered American revolutionary. Unfortunately the marketing of these films begs the comparison. Seeing all the "X" paraphernalia brought back memories of the "bat" craze. Putting questions of decency aside it is difficult to walk anywhere and not encounter the "X". Students of sociology can wrestle with its significance while students of advertising can marvel its popularity. Students of film, however, have little to mull over. Perhaps the most ironic aspect of X is, filmically speaking, its irrelevance. It is, however, an important work in another context.

Mr. Lee deserves much credit for persuading the Hollywood establishment to serve up some meaty fair. A high budget epic about the life of a black '60s radical is not exactly business as usual. The discussions over the final running time of a 31/2 hours must have been harrowing. Given the movie industry's penchant for making films with no social relevance (a perusal of the newspaper advertisements of the newest crop of Hollywood features makes the case- Under Siege, Candyman, Traces of Red, Dracula, Passenger 57, Aladdin, Home Alone 2…) the significance of Mr. Lee's endeavor should not be underestimated. He fought the good fight and won. Perseverance is a cardinal attribute in being a filmmaker but there is also the craft of filmmaking itself.

A good film biography lets the audience "experience" the subject. (e.g. Lenny, Patton) X gave made me the feeling that I had read an in-depth, favorable, magazine profile. The events were there, but the man wasn't. This was a re-enactment of facts, not an interpretation of a life. Mr. Lee begins with Malcolm's teenage years in Massachusetts. Stylistically he chooses fantasy over reality. Mr. Lee's "Boston: during the war years" is reminiscent of the set of "Guys & Dolls". The director also chooses to cast himself as Malcolm's goofy, but likable, sidekick. The saccharine setting is occasionally punctuated with flashbacks which illustrate Malcolm's brutal childhood. This fairy tale approach, peppered with revelations horrific childhood, does serve to soften the early criminal misdeeds of young Malcolm. It also undercuts the serious achievements of a mature Malcolm. Malcolm's re-incarnation, during his incarceration, marks a stylistic change of gears. The film moves from pure fantasy to contrived reality. Spike & Denzel are no longer sporting zoot suits and executing choreographed dance sequences. Malcolm finds religion and the film takes on a more somber tone. The problem for an audience is accepting the re-born man as "real". The best illustration of this could be seen where the camera pans around a street in Harlem to compare Malcolm X's preaching to that of other pastors. The controversial Rev. Al Sharpton was chosen for a cameo. Politics aside, personalities aside, the Rev. Al was more compelling than Mr. Lee's Malcolm. Sharpton's "realness" highlighted the staginess of the early Malcolm. Rev. Sharpton had him beat from the start; or rather because of the start.

The adult portrayal of Malcolm, although more "real" than the early years, was, nevertheless, contrived. It had the feel those television dramas in which the characters indicate, rather than act. The resulting action becomes forced. This rang true in all the major plot twists: his conversion to Islam, his marriage, his split from the Nation… The acting was professional, the facts were relevant but the overall effect was unconvincing. The confrontation with the New York City Police is a case in point. In this sequence Malcolm hears that the cops have unjustly beaten and seized a fellow Muslim. There are echoes in the crowd of "All you preachers like to talk but when it comes to action you can't deliver". Quickly cut to the police station where Malcolm is being treated rudely by the red neck looking cops. He asks them to look out the window where there are two neatly formed lines of well dressed Muslims. They relent and let him see the prisoner. Malcolm finds him near death and shouts "Get an ambulance!". An ambulance arrives. The cops ask him to dismiss the crowd. He refuses, "Not until I'm satisfied". He turns to the Muslims and shouts "To the Hospital". On they march. The demonstration in front of the hospital is loud and angry. The cops are scared. The captain begs him to dismiss the crowd. A doctor walks out of the hospital and introduces himself as the man in charge. He re-assures him that his companion will recover and is receiving the best care available. Malcolm turns to the angry mob. He holds up his hand and they fall silent. He gives a quick gesture and they march away. The red neck captain stands in disbelief. Despite the logic and factual accuracy, the overriding cause-effect rigidity suffocates the sequence. Life is not that wooden. Nothing is ever that pat and simple. No doubt this incident occurred. Undoubtedly it did not occur as it was shown.

The film's stylistic failures are not as troubling as its structural flaws. Mr. Lee did his homework but not his thinking. He turned in a work which is substantial but not substantive. The most important question a filmmaker needs to address when tackling a biography is: what does this person's life mean to me? Mr. Lee ignored the issue. He gave us what everyone would believe to be the hallmarks of Malcolm X's life (e.g. his father's murder, his family being divided, his imprisonment, his conversion, his marriage…) and asks the audience to figure it all out. Mr. Lee seems decidedly undecided. He gives us the fire of Malcolm's anger in the opening credits and closes with a universalist plea for peace complete with schoolchildren from America and Africa and a guest appearance by Nelson Mandela. This is all sandwiched in between a tepid, sanitized re-enactment of the facts of his life. Mr. Lee never bothered to ask himself the big question. There can be many reasons for the director's vagueness: fear of alienation, fear of offending a particular party, pressure to bend to an accepted point of view… Unfortunately the reason reflected in the film's actual execution would be, laziness.

X is sloppy . There are a number examples of editing which seem motivated by poor planning rather than artistic desire. (e.g. the jump-cut in the middle of the scene in which Malcolm gives his gangster mentor the disputed number, the non-sensical camera angles used to show Malcolm with his "good-girl" lover on the beach, the close-up on a tea cup to indicate a transition to a house…) Even when Lee is using his trademark head-shot montages he seems off the mark. The epilogue contains this stylistic signature by having a series of school children entering frame in close-up repeating the line "I am Malcolm X". The shot begins in a classroom in Harlem and ends in a classroom in Soweto with Nelson Mandela acting as the teacher. This device relies on rapid fire movement for its success. It works beautifully until the camera parks on Mr. Mandela. All that was needed was his visual image to make the point; at most give him a quick line. Instead Mr. Lee breaks the symmetry of the sequence by having him give a small speech. This undercut the effectiveness of the entire epilogue. Less of Mr. Mandela would have given more resonance to the closing. And as a corollary, less of Malcolm would have given more life to the film X. Mr. Lee, in his previous work (e.g. Do the Right Thing) has demonstrated he can do better.


What is Mr. Lee's motive in choosing a movie about Malcolm X? He contends he needed to portray the life a historical figure in order to educate the general public. His critics call it a tasteless exploitation a controversial black figure in order to further Mr. Lee's career. Casting himself as the likable side-kick does little to aid his defense (not mention the drag it puts on the telling of the story). Oliver Stone was harshly criticized for taking liberties with historical characters in J.F.K.. It is easy to accuse Lee of taking the process one step further: literally inserting his persona into what purports to be a historical biography. Aside of this small blemish of blatant vanity, the film reveals a director who is neither saint nor devil . This film is neither a malicious stepping stone or an important cinematic experience. Unlike the plotline of the movie, real life isn't so simple. X is a confusing, mish-mash of contradictions: artistically bland, commercially revolutionary, sociologically important, filmmically insignificant… Perhaps focusing on the film misses the point. Mr. Lee, not Mr. X is the real star here. He didn't need to cast himself in the film. He is firmly ensconced in our gallery of cultural icons. To analyzes the nuts and bolts of X is the equivalent of believing James Dean's importance lies in his contributions to the art of acting. As Public Enemy states on their album "Fear of a Black Planet":


As I walk the street of Hollywood Boulevard,
Thinking how hard it was for those who starred, in the movies
Portraying the roles, of butlers and maids, slaves and holes

Many intelligent black men seemed,
To look uncivilized when on the screen,
Like I guess I figured you, to play some jigaboo
On the plantation, what else can a nigger do.

And black women in this profession,
As for playing a lawyer? Out of the question.
For what they play Aunt Jemima is the perfect term
Even if now she got a perm.

So lets make our own movies like Spike Lee
Cause the roles being offered don't strike me
As nothing the black man could use to earn.
Burn Hollywood Burn!


To say that Spike Lee is a part of the Hollywood establishment misses the point of the song. It would be the equivalent of expecting everyone who wears an X hat to know the facts about Malcolm himself. This is the world of pop-culture where the overriding message wins-out over attention to details. Whether or not Mr. Lee is revolutionary filmmaker with a black consciousness is less important than the fact that he is a black voice that has risen to be heard by America at large. He has made it despite the appalling record of exploitation of blacks in the film industry. In a similar vein, the wearing of the X signifies a tribute to a black man who stood up to the white establishment. Anyone who wonders why such a point should be made might have a conversation with someone waiting on line for X. As a veteran movie-goer the crowds possess a more serious attitude towards this film. This isn't entertainment in the usual sense, this is perceived as "important". In the Times Square theater where I viewed it, there were the usual cat-calls from the rowdies, but not one audience member left during the entire 31/2 hours. It is easy to take Mr. Lee to task technically. There will always be raging debates about his historical accuracy and his personal morality. But all this fails to take note of his effectively using film as a springboard for difficult social commentary. Whether one likes the X, the alternative is far more terrifying. We all have Mr. Lee to thank for liberating us from the "bat".

Antonioni (1992 NY Film Society Retrospective)

Antonioni: A Better Truth

The New York Film Society in conjunction with the Italian government is sponsoring an Antonioni retrospective. They have chosen to showcase his work chronologically. It is now the middle of the cycle and his style can be witnessed in its full bloom. Antonioni is, without doubt, a revolutionary. His work, especially this period, challenges the established relationship between the medium and the audience. Traditional conceptions of characterization, storyline, camerawork, settings… are all upset. There have been film journals brimming with interpretations of the significance of the work. But by far his greatest achievement was to force film audiences to rise above being passive spectators. Upsetting the status quo has never won anyone popularity contests. His films are not universally loved, but they are respected. "Alienation" and the "impossibility of love" are not themes which would garner blockbuster status. Antonioni chooses them, not once, but for the bulk of his work. This is especially true during the middle of his career (some would say the apex) 1957-1964 where he made Il Grido (the Cry) L'Avventura (the Adventure), La Notte (the Night), L'Eclisse (the Eclipse) and Il Deserto Rosso (Red Desert). Ironically behind the stark images and the isolated protagonists lies a religious sense of optimism about the medium. Antonioni may not have faith in relationships but he believes in film; and by default, the audience at large.

Yesterday, I saw La Notte. What struck me was the enormous sense of hopefulness in this film. Paradoxically it centers around the angst of long term relationships and is crafted within the harshest of stylized realities. There are not many smiles. From the opening sequence in the hospital, where a troubled couple visits a terminally ill friend, to the closing rape on the golf course, there is hardly a laugh. This is true visually as well. During the titles the camera descends down the facade of a modern glass skyscraper which reflects the ant-like world of old Italy. There is a sense that Mussolini's victory could not have constructed something as authoritarian and dehumanizing. The final image, a shot of trees and grass devoid of people, has an eerie edge; even nature in this modern landscape has lost its charm. Yet despite all the gloom there is an unwavering trust in the power of the medium and a strong faith in the audience. He accurately renders his vision of the world and, most importantly, assumes the audience cares. He has created a film which centers around core issues of emotional well being and human interaction. Although this is standard fare for poets, the difficulties of achieving this numerous times in the medium of full length fiction films, cannot go unrecognized. It is the equivalent of raising an army of workers in order to build a highly personal, stylized monument to "the truth", to be visited by anyone who cared to make the trip. Certainly there would be those who would question the sanity of the instigator of such an undertaking, not to mention the sneers regarding the superfluous nature of this "gift". But one would be hard pressed to scoff at the dedication and respect such a builder would have for the general public.

La Notte is one such monument. Over the years the visitors have found the experience an enthralling meditation or a boring waste of time. The varied range of the response can be laid Antonioni's unique sense of design. La Notte abandons the general causal plot structure. The story is seemingly aimless. Nothing happens. A reconstruction of the specifics would read like a series of unrelated random events surrounding a couple experiencing marital difficulties. The two protagonists themselves are equally enigmatic. The husband is a successful writer with a intelligent, beautiful wife, who seems perfectly suited for his moody disposition. He is miserable. There is no reason given for his general unhappiness and, with a disconcerting nonchalance, the film debunks rational explanations for his melancholy. He is interested in nothing and his passion is aroused on a whim. Distraction via sexual encounters seems his central means of escaping his personal hell. His wife has a similar spiritual void, but is more emotionally aware and therefore more sympathetic. She embarks on an ill-defined quest in which she encounters men; young, old, smart, dumb, fighting, playing, drinking, working, carousing… who see her solely as an erotic object. Her reaction is ambivalence, not outright rejection. In the end she reflects on her relationship with her terminally ill friend, another male writer. Here was someone who believed in her, loved her and took her seriously. Unlike a majority of men she encounters he was not primarily motivated by sex. This is in sharp contrast to her spouse, who blends perfectly with the crowd of lechers. She admits to choosing her husband. This is not an epiphany but an underlying truth which she attempts to understand. There are no grandiose conclusions or pat answers.

This is my humble interpretation of some the events that occurred. An accurate description of "what happened?" would require a text similar in spirit to James Joyce's Finnegin's Wake. This can be attributed to Antonioni's use of photography, setting and sound to subtlety convey mood. Most filmmaker rely primarily on dialogue to express emotion. When that fails there is always mood music and the last resort of voice-over narration. All these devices are efficient ways of communicating plot and exposition. Clarity and brevity must be incorporated into all forms of art but Antonioni begs the question: at what cost? Once again the James Joyce example holds true - there are more efficient ways of telling the story but that would undercut the merits of what the author intended. The telling of the story holds as much weight as the story itself. A small example of the strength of Antonioni's method can be seen in the opening of the party sequence in La Notte. The gathering takes place at a rich industrialists' mansion. The driveway is strewn with cars. The couple pulls up and adds their Fiat to the pile. The silence contrasts sharply with the clutter of cars. It is almost as if they are in a junkyard after dark. The house is a tasteless hodgepodge of old and new architecture. The arches hint at the charm of antiquity but modern layout suggests a brave new world. As the married couple approaches, crowd noise is heard. They look around and see no one. They walk through the house, its interior matches the facade. The crowd noise increases as they enter the backyard. They look and see a large patio with empty tables and chairs. The juxtaposition of image and sound is jarring. There is no one here. The camera then shifts to the left to reveal the partygoers surrounding a large thoroughbred which the host has trotted out. Not a word of dialogue has been spoken thus far and yet the mood and characterization of the events has been beautifully rendered. When the wife of the industrialist greets the protagonists her words are meaningless. It is social chit-chat which meshes perfectly with the surroundings. Those surroundings and how they were shaped via the choreography, lighting and sound, tell the story. All that "happened" was the couple entered the house and encountered the hostess. A lesser director might have ignored the milieu and cut immediately to the wife of the industrialist and let her words convey the shallowness of the affair. The horse would have been used as a visual gag to buttress her statements. Her manner would have to be a bit "over the top" in order to quickly relate her own personality and the nature of the festivities. Given this small example it is easy to see the party itself becomes far more than the sum of its plot twists. The husband goes off with the industrialist's daughter, the wife discovers her friend has died when she calls the hospital, the industrialist offers a job to her husband, the wife goes off with another man… All these things occur but they are the tip of the iceberg when trying to accurately describe "what happened?".

It would be easy, with hindsight, to pick apart La Notte. Probable its major flaw lies in its lack of levity; although there are moments during the party sequence. Antonioni seems to fall into the sophomoric trap of mistaking the melancholy for the profound. But this error must be overlooked when measured against the admiration he has for his audience. As a veteran movie-goer, it seems contemporary filmmakers (whether Hollywood, European or Independent) share a mistrust of the public. Their goals are to shock, to soothe or to dazzle. Antonioni focuses on telling the truth; or more precisely his vision of it. This sounds bombastic and arrogant but Antonioni avoids this by being genuine. A small example of this can be seen in his portrayal of the industrialist in La Notte. This is a minor part; a small almost incidental figure in the grand scheme of the film. Yet Antonioni avoids making a easy characterture of a nouveau rich businessman. He renders, with care, an elegant portrait of a man who has "made it" in the world of business. It may be unflattering but it is not condescending. It is accurate to a point of being beyond pigeon-holing. The industrialist is past good or bad; he merely is. This is the essence of Antonioni's truth. His truth is not supreme or universal. Not everyone will care to glean the significance from objects or actors conventionally relegated to the role of background. If the current cinema is any measure of popular taste, a majority of people freely accept the notion of an intellectually passive audience. La Notte is not for everyone.

There are few, if any, contemporary film makers who follow Antonioni's tenants with regard to plot, characterization, use of scenery, use of sound… It is therefore not surprising that La Notte is as radical a film now, in 1992, then it was when it premiered in 1960. This does not mean the revolution has failed. Antonioni's films will, like all great works of art, survive the fickleness of fashion. Their integrity places them above the fray. They fall into that rarefied group of works which combine honesty of vision with genius in execution; in short they are classics. Whether one accepts the work it is important to recognize Antonioni's truth. It goes against the grain of most popular fiction filmmaking. It is the antithesis of MTV videos; a use of the medium featuring fast-paced, sound driven editing and the presentation of women, more often than not, as sexual objects void of thought. (Music videos may seem inconsequential but I would argue they have had an tremendous impact in shaping the public's visual expectations. One need only note the decreasing length of television commercials and the more frenetic editing of popular movies). Antonioni's goals may be absurd: to meticulously render fictional films to a point where a stylized vision of reality flaunts notions of simple categorization. He may not have found the truth. But, in examining the status quo, I submit it is a better truth.

Carnage (2011)

Roman’s Holiday

Roman Polanski is a force. Whatever one believes about his private life there is no erasing his mark as a director: Rosemary’s Baby, Chinatown, Macbeth... to list just a few. Directing is only one of his talents. He’s been acting and producing for decades as well. Unfortunately old age has seen a sad inverse relationship grow between his output and his notoriety. Having recently ducked a significant prison sentence for fleeing trial decades ago he returns to the screen with “Carnage” - a terse comedy of manners.

“Carnage” is an interesting choice for its minimalism. The “action” is confined to a few rooms and it moves in real time lasting an hour and a third. We see four seasoned actors playing two sides of the upwardly mobil divide. The plot centers around an incident where one of the couple’s middle school son assaults the other couple’s boy with a stick; resulting in the loss of two teeth. Jodi Foster and John C. Reilly play two strivers. He is a successful high end appliance salesman and she is a want-to-be writer who has global social concerns. Kate Winslet and Christoph Waltz are successful banker/lawyers who are higher up the ladder who can barely hide their scorn at John and Jodi’s provincialism. The fact that their son as the aggressor makes them disposed to being amiable - but the facade seems to crack from the start.

Polanski’s choice of having the incident appear under the opening credits cleverly plays into the trivialness of the event which sparks the adult firestorm. There are dozens of intelligent, well meaning people who find themselves in violent confrontations over parking spaces, places on line, seating arrangements etc. This film is a homage to our pettiness which plays nicely against our belief in our superiority. Upwardly mobil Brooklynites are certainly fertile ground for funny social commentary. Oddly, given the credentials of all the principles, this project misses the mark.

Polanski knows a great deal about theater, acting and film. I personally watched him perform the lead in Amadeus in Paris and can attest to his skill beyond directing. No doubt he is familiar with the constraints of translating static, dialogue driven narratives to the large screen. Ironically his first major feature, “Knife in the Water”, takes place on a sailboat with three characters. This work is a triumph of directing and should be viewed by any filmmaker interested in making the most with limited space and personnel. “Repulsion” and “Death and the Maiden” were less successful artistically but once again Polanski did wonders with actors in small spaces. Unfortunately the master forgot his lesson; or didn’t bother to prepare for class. “Carnage” is claustrophobic and unfunny. Three of the four actors did their best. Christoph Watz performance was sub-par. This failed to aid the cause but the shortfall of the piece should be squarely laid on Polanski’s shoulders. Perhaps the veteran director fell prey to the idea that “light” comedy requires “light” preparation; or maybe Polanski isn’t that funny. It’s hard to know. Maybe he deserves kudos for trying something new rather than resting on his laurels. When a master stumbles - it’s important to examine the terrain. It strange but perhaps this hard-nosed erudite European, who has seen more in his lifetime than most, should have spent time with Seth Mcfarland. No doubt the creator of “Family Guy” and “American Dad” could teach him about social satire; in turn maybe Seth could learn something about real culture. It’s an odd pair but given Polanski’s extracurricular activities one sense they’d have a fair amount in common.

PS - I found it odd that Jodi Foster would choose to work with Polanski. I vividly remember watching her performance in “The Accused” - a heart-wrenching story based on actual events. A disadvantaged woman was gang raped in a bar and prosecutors balked at bringing charges. I’m not equating this tale with the accusations against Polanski. But there is no doubt that, given a cursory facts of the case, Mr. Polanski failed to act in the best interest of a young female child. Ms. Foster doesn’t need to publicly denounce him - but she doesn’t need to support him in a collaboration; ditto for Mel Gibson. Then again maybe it’s a sign of good character to come to the aid of friends who are in trouble. It’s hard to know.

The White Balloon (1995)

Don't Shoot - I'm Holding a White Balloon

When countries are hostile it is easy to view the opposing citizens as merely an extension of the government. Growing up during the cold war I did not distinguish between Lithuanians, Georgians and Asians living near Mongolia. I considered them all Russian Communists, period. It was hard to conceive of anything Russian without immediately making a link to politics. That all changed when I saw the movie Moscow Doesn't Believe in Tears. I remember very little of the plot line but this film drastically affected my view of the Soviet Union. For the first time there were Russians struggling with life's travails without a mention of Marx or Lenin. It is difficult in this age when every other cabdriver is from Kiev or St. Petersburg to imagine the impact of this simple movie. In short there were real people over there not just communist appachiks. The White Balloon, a Persian film featuring a seven year old, serves the same purpose as the earlier Russian feature. It dispels the notion that everyone living in Modern Iran is a radical Shiite cleric.

The White Balloon borrows from the Neo-realist tradition of De Sica & Sajit Ray with the sensitivity towards children of Earl Morris & Francios Truffaut. The director exhibits none of the greatness of these masters but he/she does show promise. The story is simple: a young girl needs to buy a goldfish before a national holiday. This is a Iranian tradition which is never explained. (Perhaps the goldfish is as obscure in meaning as the origin of the Easter bunny is in Western culture). The film branches out into equally elementary sub-plots: the girl nags her mother for money, she bargains with her older brother for help, the money is stolen, the money is returned, the money is lost, the money is found…

It is more captivating than it sounds but there were instants of ennui combined with unintended moments of tension. The boredom comes from the pressure of constructing a film which is entirely in 'real time' - i.e. time passes in the same manner for both characters and audience. There were too many pauses in which the characters sat around and strategized. The filmmakers could be afforded artistic license to 'keep the act moving'. This, however, was not as disconcerting as two other scenes which provoked unintended stress. In the first the little girl falls pray to a snake charmer who steals her money. It is difficult to imagine that in a large crowd of men no one would intervene to help the hysterical five year old. The scene drags on and becomes disturbingly out of context with the rest of the film. The fact that the other snake charmer finally comes to her aid is of little comfort. The damage has been done. In the second sequence a young soldier stops to talk to the girl at length. When a young man temps a child into conversation with candy (which she continually refuses) one can, with very little provocation, believe that this adult is a pederast. It is only after the long sequence is over that the audience realizes that this young man is telling the truth. The young girl reminds him of his little sister. Unfortunately it all comes too late. The pay-off of the scene is devoured in worries that she is in danger. These instants should not detract from the overall attractiveness of the film. The little girl is wonderful as is her brother and many of the numerous cameos. The cast was at ease and believable. This is no small feat considering the age of the protagonists and the use of non-professional performers in real-life locations.

The White Balloon's significance lies outside of the cinematic. This work is interesting precisely because of its origin. It presents modern Iran in an unpolitical light. If one looks closely all the women are covered (arms and heads). Aside of this peculiarity there are no signs of the fundamentalist regime - no mullahs or calls to prayer. This is not to infer that the country would be palatable to a Westerner. It is important, however, to view 'the other side' as human. Even the most ardent opponent of the Ayatollah would find the film agreeable and learn unexpected tid-bits about that society. (e.g. the young balloon seller, referred to as the 'Afghan boy', looks strikingly Asian). Anyone who believes that communication between our two cultures is satisfactory should be reminded of a bit of patriotic chauvinism that was proudly displayed by many Americans in the not so distant past. It was a black button with huge block white capital letters which read: FUCK IRAN. I doubt many people would adhere to that statement after watching The White Balloon.

Margin Call (2011)

Stock Movie

“Margin Call” is a feature film that uses the 2008 financial crisis, as its main storyline. The filmmaker is faced with the daunting challenge of translating the arcane skullduggery of the securities industry into a watchable dramatic storyline. The result is an engaging, well acted, feature; no small task given the dearth of decent films about high finance.

The paradigm movie about this topic is probably Oliver Stone’s first “Wall Street”. It is ironic that the scion of a prominent banking family (his father was the “Stone” of the specialist firm Lasker Stone and Stern) would paint such a hollow portrait of the industry. Stone’s work was based on the high-flying 1980s junk bond/LBO kings. Although Michael Douglas captured the arrogance and flamboyance of the times, the industry faded into the background. It was merely stage for decadent sociopath-peacocks to strut. (In the interest of full disclosure I worked as a branch manager for a number of years at a prestigious firm) Wall Street is more complicated than Stone’s cartoon. There are good people. There are bad people. Perhaps most interestingly the industry has a way of making good people into not so good people. It’s not that they’re so bad (that would be dramatic). It’s that they’re so uncomfortably familiar. You and your friends wouldn’t do anything bad for $1,000… but what about $500,000? It’s not an area that is fertile ground for uplifting character studies. Lawyers and doctors roam the land of good and evil. That’s why we love to watch them on TV. But brokers and traders are in the purgatory of pedestrian failings… not even good or bad… just grindstone Joes and Janes trying to make one dollar into two. Whereas the professional classes have their heroes and villains, brokers and investment bankers are somewhat suspect. There are no “good” bankers or traders… just successful/unsuccesful ones.

“Margin Call” inhabits this netherworld of un-dramatic amorality by carefully undoing all the expectations established in the first half hour. The opening shows a typical Wall Street style “downsizing”. Industry outsiders would find the process appalling: your computer phone are immediately turned off while you are handed a box for personal items and escorted off the premises. The audience feels the pathos as a sympathetic soul is given the business. An industry veteran would have known that this harsh practice stems from the fact that a terminated employee could do millions of dollars of damage with a few simple key strokes. Harshness is a given and the analyst’s rage at not being able to use his phone seemed, from an insiders POV, somewhat contrived. But in the realm of storytelling, it works. Our sympathy goes out to him in equal measure to our disdain for his boss; who seems more concerned with the illness of a family pet rather than the plight of hundreds of people who’ve been terminated. One feels the dramatic stage being erected for a classic battle between a “hero” vs. the drones who inhabit “the system”. “Margin Call” might have its flaws but its ability to redraw the war makes it the first film that tackles the essence of Wall Street’s seduction. It’s not us versus them but us versus ourselves.

Kevin Spacey, who appears an archetypal heartless boss, metamorphosizes into a noble sergeant who is fighting a disgraceful war; unfortunately his allegiance is to an entity controlled by a supreme business mogul. The young risk manager who takes the reigns, Zachary Quinto, is more callow technocrat than hero analyst. One senses he might share the fate of Spacey if he has more lunches with Mr. Big; deftly played by Jeremy Irons. The management team is composed of the aggressive, heartless letter-of-the-law types who could rationalize building orphanages on top of nuclear waste dumps. Once again their awfulness is somewhat muted by the actions of the supposed “heroes”. The risk management team leader, who is terminated unjustly after exposing the crisis, falls in line with the junta. He’ll take his payoff and even sit blithely with his heretofore nemesis, Demi Moore, and wait out the storm. It’s not about exposing the truth. It’s about getting paid. In this light, with minions paid very well to do your bidding, how bad is Jeremy Irons? Even Paul Bettany, Spacey’s right hand man, loses his soul by dumping tones of worthless paper on unsuspecting buyers. But once again we are in the world of CAVEAT EMPTOR (Buyer Beware). You don’t trade with your friends – you trade with traders – who are just like you. They would do the same. Trust me they would.

The only character that failed to ring true was the young risk management analyst who makes the first cut but is eventually fired. Penn Badgley gave it his best but the character failed to rise from the crass caricature of an ambitious young yuppie. There are certainly enough horrible young people who enter the business and behave badly on and off the Street. In capturing their essence the challenge is to never pander to a sum of casual clichés. Their appalling, greedy behavior must be their own and not a sum of a widespread perception of heartlessness. But this was a small flaw in an otherwise well-drawn sketch of the business. One must admire the director’s ability to craftily deliver the complicated plot points by “dumbing down” the people in charge. Each supervisor seemed to say “give it too me straight… I’m not smart enough to understand the numbers” – this would be followed by a simple explanation of what was at stake.

It’s an interesting note that the title, “Margin Call”, was never directly explained to the audience. It is the practice of having the lender demanding collateral on a loan that was used to purchase the financial instrument. But that’s boring. “Margin Call” is more dramatic. It sacrificed authenticity for action, but all and all, it works. After a screening you might not know what caused the financial crisis of 2008; but you will look more closely at an expert who explains the situation. After all; they might be selling something. Caveat emptor.

Melancholia (2011)

Last Moments at Marienbad

Lars Von Trier has sympathy for Adolph Hitler. Most people who harbor such thoughts might think that a crucial PR press conference touting your newest film might not be the best forum to share… then again this is the same person who thought it appropriate to call his dead mother “a slut”. Her crime was to reveal a dark family secret at an inopportune time. Discovering your father is really your step-father on his deathbed certainly would shake anyone’s emotional foundation. It come as no surprise, even with these few tidbits, that Mr. Von Trier decided to make a two hour feature call “Melancholia”. It lives up to its title and some… We see not only the dissolving of a marriage – but the end of the world itself.

It was reported that Von Trier was checked into a mental hospital some time after the unfortunate press conference due to depression. So many Hollywood types feign illness to avoid responsibility but this Great Dane seems to be the genuine article. His experimental documentary, “The Five Obstructions”, shows him interacting with a mentor Jorden Leth. Von Trier seems to expand the definition of “tough love” in this work. If humiliation was a crime in Denmark the state might want to take his mentor’s side and pursue charges. Love him or hate him Von Trier’s angst is real. Unfortunately unhappiness does not a great artist make.

The opening sequences of “Melancholia” are magical: A series of still or super-slow moving images that depict moments in the unfolding saga. The director is in full control of the startling near-paintings. One can feel him adjusting the lighting, the gesture, the expression, the subtle movements… These are magnificent, jarring miniature portraits. One would wish to sit in a gallery and walk from one to the other taking in the majesty. After this we return to earth in a lighthearted sequence feature a young couple arriving at their wedding. Not surprisingly comedy is not Von Trier’s strong suit; but this vignette surprises. We come to understand the playful dynamic of the new pair. It is also a clever segue into the storyline (such as it is). It’s when the couple arrives that Von Trier begins to miss his mark.

There is something altogether disingenuous about Von Trier’s sketch. It is unbelievable in the sense that even in the context of the stylization of the film, it rings false. There are moments. The mother is the paradigm of skepticism and bitterness. She is the perfect foil to the untrustworthy, carefree father who is the embodiment of what causes the pain of unfulfilled promises and responsibilities. He is, in a sense, the true mother of the daughter’s growing unease – although everyone will blame the harsh mother. It is ironic that Von Trier, given his own personal history, would make a film that vindicates the mother. She is unlikable – but only because she has true knowledge of the world… or at least Von Trier’s world. The two sister’s difficult “burdensome caretaker vs. all giving parent” relationship is also neatly drawn.

Unfortunately these moments are overwhelmed by a lack of focus and a continual repetitive harping. The bride’s reluctant entrance to the reception hall, after arriving two hours late, certainly showed her ambivalence about the ceremony. Her fleeing the party for naps, bathroom breaks, dalliances etc… only transferred her sense of claustrophobic entrapment to the audience. We didn’t want to be there either. The choice of frenetic camerawork to highlight the nervous tension had the opposite effect of making an uncomfortable setting difficult to digest. The opposite approach, a fixed POV, would have been more suited to delivery the shallowness of social rituals. In general the performances were strong, with the exception of Keifer Sutherland, but the dialogue and flow failed to gel. All of the friends or acquaintances were merely set pieces professionally hitting their cues and marking the gradual destruction of a storybook magic castle wedding. The sisters, the father and mother were in a better film than the myriad of sketches of “a boss”, “a maitre de”, “a group of friends”…

Perhaps the overall disappointment lies in the sense that Von Trier should have done better. He is a student of film that doesn’t shy away from visual references of other noted directors. (e.g. the hedge formation on the lawn is directly drawn from Alan Renais’ “Last Year at Marienbad”) What a pity the party sequence failed to drawn on lesson’s learned from Jean Renior’s “Rules of the Game”, Robert Altman’s “A Wedding”, Michael Cimino’s sequence in the “The Deerhunter”, Jonathan Demme’s “Rachel Getting Married”… to name just a few. The lack of humor sealed the fate of this sequence. It’s not that Von Trier fails to see the comedy in the moment. It’s just that he’s not funny; or maybe he’s funny in a Chekovian way without being Chekov.
Perhaps a reversal of the 100 to 1 “seriousness to comedy” ratio would be in order. All and all the wedding seems to have defeated Mr. Von Trier.

There is nothing like a deadly doomsday planet hurtling towards the earth to give a director clarity. One senses box office gold if Von Trier had traded in his art-house shtick for disaster movies. “Meloncholia” rises above the dreariness of the wedding to come alive with the crucible of the two sisters facing the end in the golden cage of the chateaux. Von Trier is at his best with small groups in excruciating situations. The symbolism is heavy – the moon and the deadly blue planet rising above the dark and fair sisters… It was enjoyable seeing the fair/dark sister stripe down to face the deadly blue planet and rise from her stupor. The dark/fair sister’s reverse breakdown was also captivating. The inclusion of the child softened the harshness of the message of facing a world of sound and fury. It was good that Von Trier understood that children known the truth and adult’s responsibility is to play along and yet, never lie. It was a surprising insight in that the other characters seem bent on illustrating fairly mundane truth’s about adult’s ability to lie to themselves.

“Melancholia” is a savage assault on the comfortable ruling class. They join their less economically fortunate brethren in deluding themselves with pantomime plays in order to soften the blow of life’s harshness. Unlike the working class, however, the rich can afford to extend the delusion. They can pretend by delving into “Paradise Lost”, or owning a Breugal painting, or watching poetic European art house movies that make cultural references that only they would understand. The audience at the showing I attended could have acted as extras in the wedding scene. Von Trier’s Achilles heel is that his anger never rises above the small pettiness of a petulant child screaming at his parents for being “phoney”. It is no wonder he was lost in the party crowd of adults during this film. His rage is invested in a bi-polar world where “honesty is good” and “deceit is bad”. Western civilization has been struggling with the question “what is truth?” since Pilot posed it to Jesus in the Gospel of John. Albert Camus wrote a play based on the pursuit unvarnished honesty. Perhaps Von Trier should peruse “Caligula” and weigh whether he would want to live in a world of absolute “truth”. A crazed demonic tyrant would be the least of his worries. There would be the endless encounters with disagreeable egoists: such as the bride who decides to urinate on the lawn in view of the reception. Social norms are cumbersome. Unfortunately human beings lack the prelapsarian innocence of animals. A society with manners is bad. A society without manners fails to be a society.

A certain degree of tolerance of other’s delusion is the bedrock of being a healthy adult. That’s a more subtle and demanding theme. Von Trier hides behind the grandiosity of a planet called “melancholia” in seeming to make a big statement. If only he realized that his strength lies in those small vignettes at the beginning of the film. His oeuvre paints small portraits of truth. He recaptured some of that honesty when the child crawled into the make-believe stick frame hut… but he spent too much time in the overwrought stone castle banging his head against the wall and complaining about having to wear and suit and tie. The end result of this monumental earth shattered drama is the response one gives to a child on a long car trip who perpetually asks the question: are we there yet? Hold your anger. Be re-assuring and know that you were once the youngster singing the same tired song. One can only feel a degree of pity for the adults who never evolved beyond endless boredom with social norms. An artist who dedicates a two hour feature? Be re-assuring and hope his next work will be more mature.

Contagion (2011)

How to Survive the Plague and Keep Working

Steven Soderbergh is more interested in film than show business. He took the world by storm in winning the Palm d’Or in 1989 with a meditation on post college angst. His follow up? Kafka. Yep a feature about… Kafka. I am one of the few living people who sat through it on the big screen. It brought to mind the line from “Stranger Than Paradise” when one of the characters brags about seeing the latest European movie titled “Days Without Sun”. “Sex Lies and Videotape” was dark and funny. “Kafka” was dark and… dark. In defense of the director – he wasn’t looking for box office gold – and he didn’t find it. Mission accomplished.

Life presents the problem of making a living. Mr. Soderbergh has sought to balance the art vs. manna conundrum. His career has oscillated between two poles: projects that flesh out ideas of interest to a curious boy raised in an academic setting (his father was a University administrator) and projects designed to get asses in the seats. It mirrors his life experience. Rather than go to college he went to Hollywood and worked holding cue-cards for game shows. This was the crucible for a very cleverly conceived first feature. One senses he might have wanted to make “Kafka” out of the gate – but that apprenticeship on daytime TV must have made the young auteur save his bullets. Remember it’s show BUSINESS.

Sonderbergh can sell tickets when he wants to: Erin Brockovitch, Traffic, Ocean’s 11, 12, 13, The Informant!… but he can also work on his craft: Schizopolis, Full Frontal, Bubble, The Girlfriend Experience… Not sure what to make of his two part bio-pic about Che Gueuevra – this was , unlike many of his more experimental works, real money with big stars – hard to believe he would think this would bring home the tocino. Maybe Che is indirectly an inspiration for “Contagion”: a disastrous film forces the director to make a disaster film.

Contagion is Soderbergh’s first crack at this tried and true Hollywood formula for box office gold. This genre isn’t exactly an auteur’s dream. I doubt there are very many articles in Cahiers du Cinema about “The Towering Inferno” or “Deep Impact”. Previously Soderbergh has lowered himself to re-hashing film noire or road films… but this is unpretentious ca-ca. The pay off is bodies dropping; the more you scare the shit out of everyone – the better. We’re closer to “Night of the Living Dead” than “The Maltese Falcon” or “Some Came Running”. One can only imagine the teamsters on set, not to mention the producers, wondering if the kid can deliver the goods. In short – he does… sort of.

Contagion is all dressed up… with absolutely nowhere to go. The problem with this film is in the DNA of the disaster movie. There can never really be a good one. The cities burns… or doesn’t. The meteor hits… or misses. The boat sinks.. or stays afloat. The plague rages… or is contained. In between the set up for there are sundry good/bad people riding out the threat. Some die. Some live…”. The spectacle of mass Armageddon is only of interest to young audiences that are callow enough to believe this is entertaining. Older people have seen enough of the world to be more invested in the characters within the spectacle of calamity. Unfortunately the disasters always snuff out whatever hope there is of having been touched by actual human interactions. By definition a “disaster movie” prevents you from caring about the characters in the story.

The first hour of Contagion works. We see a top director working with a talented cast uncovering the nightmare. The threat looms and the actors cower. The struggles are real. Matt Damon, the decent family man, accepts loss and rises above rage to protect his daughter. Kate Winslet, the paradigm of the “good doctor”, faces off against small- minded bureaucrats and rushes to stop the spread. Laurence Fishburne faces the contumely of press coverage and struggles with the demands of his job and his role as a friend, lover and good citizen. Jude Law hits all the marks as a self-righteous, get rich quick, Internet conspirator…. It’s good stuff that gives a telling glance at contemporary political and social mores. Ironically these sketches are too good. The logic of this genre demands a less compelling group of lab rats. In great films plot and character take center stage. In disaster movies the spectacle is the thing.



Sonderbergh should have remembered “Friday the 13th” – the serial killer never reveals his face. The power of the threat lies behind that white hockey mask. In “Contagion” the disease finally lays bear its deadly secrets and “poof” the dramatic arc of the story vanishes and all that is left is a dreary waiting game. Who is going to get the dreaded sniffles? Who is going to get the magic vaccine? Which begs that eternal question which haunts everyone working in the arts: Does anyone care? Ironically, the dynamism of cast/script undercuts the last half of the film. Sonderbergh might have been able to make a really dumb movie interesting. Unfortunately he made a somewhat interesting movie tedious. Maybe the approach should have been to MERELY present a less authentic, less studious, more bombastic feature: more creepy scenes of bodies dropping, less character introspection and most important of all – don’t reveal the deadly virus’ secrets until right before the credits role… but this is a dangerous endeavor for a director who has built a career as being a reflective, alternative filmmaker.

Maybe there is heroism in trying to be deep in the shallow end of the pool. Perhaps if he had kept the virus going he might have a franchise on his hands. Then again a cynic might accuse him of pimping himself while retaining the mantel of the cool, clever director. There were snippets on the news that some health officials lauded Contagions realism – i.e. this isn’t merely entertainment – this is IMPORTANT. Let me inoculate you against any notion that this film is as healthy as spinach – it’s a chocolate bar… better than a Milky Way…. Maybe as good as Lindt…. But candy at heart. Fighting plagues and hosting revolutions are not so sweet. Failure can lead to bitterness, isolation and, even worse, a career in daytime television. Contagion plays it safe. The result is neither awful nor fantastic. Soderbergh’s career and standing are intact. The audience can cheer or cry at the protagonists brimming with greed, heroism, vanity, integrity – and leave feeling unfulfilled. Film critics might carp at what might have been. In the end Soderbergh is neither a hero nor a villain… just a filmmaker trying to make a living.

The Tree of Life (2011)

The Land of Nod

Let’s go back to the cosmic origins of Terrence Malick-the- filmmaker. In the beginning the young Malick gave us the masterpieces Badlands and Days of Heaven. These films were poetic allegories about the American experience. They achieved a resonance much larger than their thread-bare narratives would suggest and touched us in a manner that approaches the sublime: a fugitive and the young girl playing house in the forest in Badlands; a locust-fire in the wheat fields in Day of Heaven. In his first feature, Badlands, one senses the young director choosing the salacious Starkweather murders as a way of establishing broad appeal. A topic such as that would guarantee acclaim beyond the low earth orbit of film critics and art houses. His second feature, Days of Heaven, is less approachable but the sheer force of artistry dazzles us within the strict confines of the story, which is a retelling of Genesis. It is far more substantive a work to be merely a show-piece – but make no mistake – Malick wanted to impress… and he did.

But Malick’s penchant for favoring poetry over plot seemed to be gaining momentum. The Thin Red Line and The New World, his next two films, are visually arresting but seem rooted in a murky private language. They fail to reach the lushness of Days of Heaven and lack the narrative pull of Badlands. The Tree of Life brings this unfortunate movement to its apex. Not surprisingly the story, such as it is, is based on autobiography. It is as if the director has fallen so far inside himself that life-long personal demons take over the filmmaking.

One can view many over-arching themes in Malick’s work: youthful innocence searching for the garden, fraternal strife, the ever-present goddess (usually a strawberry blond)…. The Tree of Life brings us back to the genesis of Malick himself: an emotionally devastating childhood in post WWII Texas. There are few societies that reward introspective sensitive young people. The Lone Star State certainly follows this trend. Everything is big in Texas – including the clash between warm human emotions and hard driving relentless individualism. The Malick family had a casualty in the struggle: the suicide of the second son. The echo of Malick’s brother’s gun shot to the head over 50 years ago seems to be still echoing in the director’s head. Pain of this kind is cannot be quantified… but the artist has a duty to try. One would think a film about this paradigm of tragedy would be the chef d’ouerves of a visionary filmmaker of the caliber of Terrance Malick. Ironically the effort to illustrate universe- shattering pain diminished the force of the work.

Malick is at his best with an exquisitely crafted simple story with classic types: the sensitive loving mother, the brutal oppressive father, the beloved Christ-like brother. The moments, in Tree of Life, of the children interacting with the angelic mother and hard-bitten father rank with the best of his work. It is enough. The director, on the other hand, felt the need to embellish this heart-breaking story with poetic commentary and National Geographic slideshows of “creation.” It is almost as if the director was insecure about the beautiful simplicity. There is a sense that the audience would fail to feel the gravitas of the single most painful event in Malick’s life. One can hear the director shouting at his audience through classical chorus’ and flashy maudlin images – sunsets, butterflies, sunflowers, sand and surf -- including the touchstone of all cinematic clichés: flying seagulls. I suspect Malick doesn’t own or watch television. If he did he would have known that all his visual pandering had been co-opted by mainstream TV advertising 30 years ago. The closing sequence, the emotional peak of the film, was supposed to feature a transcendent display of all the characters in a heavenly afterlife. Unfortunately for Malick, modern audiences equate this sort of thing with Verizon super-bowl ads. The saddest aspect of this work is the magic of the pitch-perfect montages of family life. The genius of his spare exposition and seemingly simple moments hint at what this film might have been.

The denouement features the father figure reflecting on his own failure to recognize the treasure in his life: his sons. Brad Pitt, who appears as a fierce red-neck from a Robert Frank photo, quietly speaks to the fact that despite the blow of losing his house – he has his family. It is especially poignant as this hard-luck would-be artist fell into the trap of listening to Dale Carnegie rather than Brahms. But one doesn’t expect someone living the dark side of the American dream to have the insight to see the real road to the pursuit of happiness. As he says to his oldest son “I was hard on you and I’m not proud of it”. This “hardness” was rooted in a dogged hope of shaping everyone around him to the same sad hopeless vision. The father wanted everyone in his family to feel the desperation of his quest. His verbal barrages were designed to shape his family so they would understand the true meaning of success. The insidious nature of his father’s cruelty was blindness rooted in isolation. The man was hurting and stopped being able to see those near and dear. Such arrogance cost the father his son. I believe the same thing may have cost Malick his audience.

Devil (2010)

The Details of the Devil

The Sixth Sense, Mr. Shyamalan’s breakthrough feature, was clever enough. The gimmick of Bruce Willis’ death/life worked. Signs and The Lady in the Water were not clever at all. In fact it is amazing that these efforts failed to drive a steak into his career. Anyone who has attended a film production course knows the student who behaves in the same manner as the boss on the Television Show “The Office”. The class will watch in polite horror as the fellow student's abominable footage rolls on. The “auteur” prattles on and on and on with some sort of mystical gibberish or appalling unfunny comedy. Fellow classmates nod with grimaces of pity and try to be encouraging. What they fail to realize is their opinions are completely immaterial. This is an impregnable ego that magically turns even the harshest scorn into praise. Mr. Shyamalan is that student; with a multi-million dollar career. It is an unfortunate combination for the entertainment industry. M. Night Shyamalan meditates on divine beings working on occult machinations. No need to watch his films, the career is a confirmation that God does work in mysterious ways.


Having pondered: the nature of mortality, the creation mystical worlds, good and evil, the supernatural, the natural, the religious, the post-mortem, the philosophical, Nation Geographic Magazine, brass buttons, the kitchen sink – M. Night Shyamalan will weigh in on… the Devil; or in this case Devil. Perhaps a more apt title would be A Light Meditation on the Christian Nature of Sin and Repentance in an Enclosed Space. Might not be catchy, but it certainly would be an honest representation of the ponderous nature of the work. It should be noted that Shyamalan was the writer and perhaps the indictment should list the director as the main perp. In this case the state believes Shyamalan is the guilty party. There is a paper trail of previous offenses. God may work in mysterious ways… but unfortunately for audiences Shyamalan doesn’t… neither does his Devil.

There is a well established history of captivating cinematic works which take place within a single set: Hitchcock’s Rope or Lifeboat, Polanski’s Knife in the Water, Lumet’s 12 Angry Men, the Twilight Zone Perandello based episode “Five Characters in Search of an Exit”… and so on and so on… As a student of film (Tisch graduate) and a citizen of the Universe, one would have thought a brief perusal of these classics might inspire. But once again why listen to old-fashioned masters when you’ve single-handedly created: the cinema of big ideas for small minds. In this space you are the god… or someone else. Devil has mediocre creations being punished by a super-natural demon due to past transgressions. The sins are ostensibly in the context of a Christian world-view. Mr. D took the elevator to settle the score – a little preview of St. John’s vision. There are innocents: the building workers and the initial suicide – these are sacrifices to the box-office god who demands at least a few grisly, random deaths if your feature is taking place in an elevator shaft. It’s difficult to have sympathy for this devil, or anyone else, as their motivations are contrived, the acting is poor and the direction is forgettable. It also committed the cardinal sin of any horror flick: it wasn’t scary.

The opening sequence possesses clumsy dialogue indicating the lead detective is still recovering from the death of his young family in an unsolved hit and run accident. You’ll never ever ever ever ever ever guess who one of the people in the elevator is… no need for a spoiler alert as the feature itself is the definition of the word “spoil”. The opening sequence shows a panoramic shots of Philadelphia that are presented upside down. Get it. And guess how Philadelphia looks in the closing title sequence? Here’s a hint – the devil doesn’t get his way… so Philadelphia is now… right side… you got it… great minds think alike.

Perhaps this work is merely a misdemeanor. There are many who believe the state might be squandering valuable resources by pursuing the case against Shyamalan. It’s merely a crappy horror movie from a crappy filmmaker. It is doubtful he even gives a damn, as long as the checks clear. What’s the big deal? The case can be made, however, that the rap sheet is growing. Responsible film executives should put an end to these pretentious, tiresome, sophomoric, projects. Mr. Shyamalan is not in any danger. Egomaniacs with no cloths never feel the sting of public contempt. The trouble isn’t in the star; it’s in the industry. There are many unknown souls who possess interesting ideas and untapped creative power. Why keep backing this ridiculous charlatan? It’s a crime… actually it’s a sin. The executive who approved this film should have been in the elevator… facing the elevator music.

Winter's Bone (2010)

Squeal Like a Piglet

The rape in Deliverance forever scarred 1970s American moviegoers. A Faulkner-like depravity laid threadbare in Technicolor. Inner city poverty might be an illness; the rural, specifically Southern, underclass is the embodiment of the American nightmare. Unbridled self-made individualism mixes with the God from the book of Job. It’s life, liberty without the pursuit of happiness. Not a pretty picture and complaints will be punishable by death… capital punishment also extends to speaking to outsiders. Yankees might be clever but we’re tougher… even though we lost the war… and we remember that at sunrise cause everyone needs a good hate to get through the day.

The last shot in Deliverance is the gothic-horror “hand” unexpectedly rising from the water. Now Winter’s Bone shows us what it was trying to grasp. The landscape of the rural South, always very distance from any economic booms, has been hit with the plague of meth and crank since Burt Reynold’s and his buddies decided to go canoeing. There is an unrelenting grimness that seems to extend beyond the decrepit houses and broken people. There is a scene in which some squirrels are “dressed” for a stew. Lucky squirrels.

I’ve always wondered about the cradle of Southern monsters. Charles Manson learned the good book in West Virginia with his aunt and uncle – might have been just down the road from where our protagonist’s house is being foreclosed due to her father’s failure to meet a bail-bond obligation. We’ve seen the male demons starting with Huck Finn’s father – but what about the hand the rocks the cradle? Winter’s Bone illustrates the other side of Scarlet O’Hara. Put away you’re Antebellum gowns and pick up your 12 gauge. The only Southern Comfort you’re getting from these ladies is in a bottle; which might end up being smashed against the side of your head.

Winter’s Bone has an odd way of reinforcing and tearing-down myths. The first seems to support the adage that backwoods family trees are similar straight edge rulers. Everyone we see in this film is related. Men are also kings of their castles with women as honorary serfs. There is a line where a particularly brutal good-ole-boy admonishes his wife: I told you once with words. No doubt fists are the secondary mode of communication. Yet despite these truisms there is a surprising amount of female empowerment. Under the surface of male domination there is a sense that women run the show. Everyone in these towns has a fear of grandpa; but grandma seems to be the enforcer/policy-maker. In fact the only beating we witness is when the women decide to deliver justice (against another woman). The men are frozen in reputation and rumor, as exhibited by the cowardly sheriff; it is the women who are the movers and shakers; literally.

The mechanics of Winter’s Bone are solid. The writing is strong; although the spare script might have benefited from even less dialogue. (e.g. was it really necessary to have the protagonist verbalize her wish that her mother would give her advice – it was already clear in the moment without the words). There were other literary devices that might have been excised, as they appear overbearing on the big screen. (i.e. the uncles giving the young chicks to his young niece and nephew signaling a rejuvenation of their relationship; ditto for the passing of the banjo). The pacing slowed in a couple of segments but all these are minor notes in otherwise strong film. The director, editor and cinematographer delivered the goods by painting all the rusted dirt-brown dishevelment with care. It is one of the ironies of filmmaking that the accurate portrayal of random chaos relies on methodic craftsmanship and painstaking attention to detail. This brings us to the actors themselves.

There is a level of genuineness in these performances that is a rare in American films. This is an ensemble piece with no “stars”. This is a rendering of a place and its people; not simply a vehicle for one actor to demonstrate their virtuosity. The result is a feeling as if you’ve turned down and unmarked dirt road and were lost amongst the locals. It is a relief to see real people rendered with dignity. This work rescues the underclass from daytime TV clichés and brings a Shakespearean drama to these heretofore-unmarked lives. Make no mistake, the heroines save everyone from the heroin… and crack, crank, meth, murder, mayhem….

Winter’s Bone is a tale of redemption. The gothic-horror hand that ends Deliverance becomes a saving totem; a magic ring which delivers the innocents… It is the choice of focusing on the women that gives new life to the old South. It’s not all unspeakable violence and ignorance. There is tough love delivered by tough women who understand that perseverance is the antidote to self-loathing and self-pity. Frankly my dear, she does give a damn. And so should you.

Inception (2010)

INCEPTION

The great untold truth about most “action” films is: they are dull. This is especially true in an age where advances in computerized special effects can render movies primitively obsolete in less than a decade. Whereas I might have found the car chase in Steve McQueen’s “Bullit” dazzling decades after the premiere; most audiences would find the 2007 film “Transformers” quaint when compared with “Avatar”. In order to retain an interest in this genre the script need to rise above the spectacle. Unfortunately most blockbusters focus and the fireworks resulting in mind-numbing sequences of explosions, fire-balls, carnage, tidal waves, meteors, volcanoes… Don’t get me wrong – I love a good car chase or Armageddon sequence – but I don’t think it should be the main entrée… just as I wouldn’t go to a restaurant and order a stick of butter with some salt and sugar. In this light I was really looking forward to “Inception”. Here is someone who mixes the mental with the physical. Christopher Nolan’s debut was the cult hit “Memento” – an action film predicated on the protagonist debilitating brain injury (no short term memory). His blockbuster debut, “the Dark Knight”, tried to lend some gravitas to the Batman franchise. I thought there were a few too many explosions. I had visual indigestion etc… but I loved the Joker. But who am I to judge anyway: it was the highest grossing film of the decade! Chacun son gout. But hey I didn’t hate it. What’s a good Indie to do once he’s joined the “real” world of Hollywood anyway.

I had high hopes. Nolan directing an action blockbuster of his own choosing and returning to the realm of the mind: Would it be an update of Hitchcock’s “Spellbound” or an action version of “Enternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind”? Well… yes and no. The film is centered around dreaming and memory but, well, ah, I don’t think I’d call it an “action film”. Call me old-fashioned but I think most summer fun shouldn’t feel like homework. I haven’t been so confused in a movie theater since Jack Nicholson worked his directorial magic in the sequel to “Chinatown”. Oh I “got it”: Leonardo DiCaprio is working in commercial espionage that focus on harnessing secrets of the mind… he is on the run for supposedly murdering his wife – he didn’t do it, sort of, but she blamed him in an attempt to get him to return to their sojourn in a deep sleep netherworld where they had spent a life-time together… meanwhile he needs to return to see his children – apparently they are unable to take an airplane to visit him – which is odd as I thought there were commercial flights to Hong Kong and Africa – back to the plot: DiCaprio decides to work for an Asian mogul, whom he initially was spying against. Mogul promises him he will get all the charges dropped in the U.S. if DiCaprio decides to plant an idea in the head of the son of another Mogul who controls the worlds energy supply. DiCaprio goes and locates his former mentor/father-in-law, Michael Caine, who introduces him to the girl who was the star of “Juno”. That actress appears looks even younger than she did in “Juno”. I thought I had been transported to an Episode of Blues Clues. Back to the plot: she discovers that his DiCaprio’s ex-wife is stalking him in his sub-conscious so she is scared of “what will happen”. Of course it doesn’t stop her from taking the job. Now they have to dive down to the three levels of consciousness and each level there is an exponential shift in time so if something… I can’t go on.

The problem with “Inception” is that it isn’t a movie: it’s a logic game – the kind of brain-teasing nonsense that haunts law school applicants on the LSAT or is the pastime of commuters with obsessive compulsive disorder. There are some people who enjoy these exercises… and there are people who willingly expose themselves to Sudoku and word cross – I’ve considered these activities to have their food equivalents in olive loaf and vegemite. An acquired taste that is, fortunately/unfortunately, not my thing. Now the special effects are fun and the acting is professional so… dream on.

Shutter Island (2010)

Not Spellbound

Martin Scorsese was 3 years old when Hitchcock released his psychological thriller “Spellbound”; choc-a-bloc with Freudian dreamscapes with Salvador Dali art direction. The same year one of the first Technicolor noir films,“Leave Her to Heaven”, featured Gene Tierney drowning her character’s husband’s paraplegic brother in a lake. Two years later Richard Widmark made his debut in “Kiss of Death” by guffawing while pushing an old wheelchair-bound biddy down a flight of stairs. When Scorsese turned 18 Hitchcock gave birth to Norman and his dear mother. Two years later Robert Mitchum would terrorize the upstanding Gregory Peck and his virtuous family in “Cape Fear”. Scorsese was so moved by the psychotic jailbird that he had Robert DeNiro reprise him in his remake nearly 30 years latter. Scorsese spent his youth devouring these and a slew of other dark movie classics centered on tormented, psychologically damaged, people struggling with the world. His childhood viewing would have an impact in his later work in addition to “Cape Fear”. One senses that the goodfellas in the mean streets would be very much at home being in “Public Enemy”; There is a raging bull in every “Scarface”.

What’s an old director to do? He’s finally got his statue with “The Departed”. There is an irony in being awarded “best director” for one of your lesser works (does this film compare to “Raging Bull”, “Goodfellas”, “Taxidriver”?) – but after so many years of being snubbed; it’s well deserved. But now that you’re a cultural icon, a popular success, lauded by your peers…. how do you avoid becoming irrelevant? It’s easy for someone born three years after “Gone with the Wind” to feel ill at ease in a world of iPhones; especially when you have made your name being one of the top feature film directors. It would be very dangerous to try and compete with the present. Do what you know: return to the past.: not “The Age of Innocence” but YOUR age of innocence: those Film Noir years when televisions were props in Sci-Fi movies or trinkets in exclusive homes. Bring it back and show everyone that past is prologue. However mesmerizing and dizzying our present world seems – nothing can compete with the timeless verities of well - crafted demons. This old man will scare you just as much anything on Grand Theft Auto or “Avatar”.

The only episode of Saturday Night Live not available for re-broadcast is Milton Berle’s 1979 appearance. This is especially significant since other hosts were banned from re-appearing but their original shows have been grinding through syndication for years. Berle earned the extraordinary banishment for making the hippest show on Television seem “old fashioned”. Mr. Television of the 1950s needed to be excommunicated by the young Turks who’d taken over the medium. We need to underline the fact that this is NOT your father’s Oldsmobile. The cardinal sin in cutting edge entertainment extends beyond merely being bad: it’s being old, stale AND BAD. No doubt Scorsese, a show business vet, knows the horrific scorn of appearing “old news”. “Shutter Island” is a bid to dispel any hints of being long in the tooth. It’s ironic to break out the old, to establish yourself as new – but like his “best director” Oscar shows – the world is filled with irony.

“Shutter Island” doesn’t work. Despite box office success this is a jumbled grandiose mess with enough craftsmanship to make the 2 hours pass moderately quickly. Mr. Scorsese, the master of small thugs in big worlds, tries to master the big world. This film touches on crime, punishment, Freud, the holocaust, justice, eternal love, revenge…. If you thought Scorsese had bitten off too much in “The Last Temptation of Christ” you’re eyes will roll when you see the first flash-back of Dachau. One wonders if Scorsese had seen episodes of the current entertainment industry Island fixation, “Lost”. That show does a marvelous job of keeping everyone in the audience, and on the island, guessing. In Scorsese’s Island the mood is more ponderous. Is not so much “what is going on?” but “what the hell is this?”. A serious parody/tribute? A stylized commentary? A meditation on old time movies? The justice system? Contemporary America’s anger towards the mentally ill? Maybe all. Maybe none. But the overarching question becomes: who cares? Not me. I’m glad he’s doing well financially. I’m happy he’s able to attract top rate talent but, judging by this work, his time has past.

Unfortunately one might think that “I didn’t get it”. Well let’s just say that I felt that I could have rented myself out to many groups of perplexed audience members as a guide to the action. I have no special talent – I’d say, judging by the mystified chatter, that 1 out of 6 people could actually follow the plot – not that this ability is the “end all” in movie appreciation. I still don’t know what happens in the last 1/5 of “2001” – but like the film. No, this is a more basic failure. “Shutter Island” is all dressed up – with absolutely nowhere to go. The endless music swells, superb acting, wonderful set design fail to mask that this pudding “lacks a theme”; or maybe it’s the potpourri of themes: The parallels between the protagonist’s crime and the perceived wrongdoing of others; the links between the Nazis in his mind and the actions of 1950s psychiatry; the line between cop and criminal – yep… check, check, check…. Ahhhhh what a bore it all is – I’m actually looking forward to one of Scoresese’ contemporaries newest production. Yeah I know he’s a rapist – but as someone who actually experienced the holocaust he’s smart enough not to drag it into a B movie. It used to be that when Scorsese asked the question “You talkin’ to me?”. It produced a shutter – now it’s just polite nod. Yep.