Killing Them Softly (2012)

HITMAN, MISSMAN

It’s too easy to say “Killing Them Softly” is a bad movie. It fails to work but we do see an individual’s vision and effort.  This might sound trivial but all too often features are akin to chain restaurants where a committee-centric group-think is on display. It is a relief to be able to say “the artist didn’t see this or that” rather than “headquarters didn’t hire the right firm to run the focus groups”.  The essential mistake of this work is the writer/director’s attempt to make a bold statement about America.  It is not surprising that Andrew Dominik is a foreigner.  This is especially true when you consider Brad Pitt’s closing monologue in which he skewers Thomas Jefferson and the hypocrisy of American political myths. America has a proud tradition of jingoistic nationalism and we come across as too serious and severe in matters of religion and morality. Our moments of self-criticism, however, are more opaque. The “nattering nabobs of negativism” are either cloaked in tweed at the academy or t-shirts in the commune. They ain’t packing heat running around the street. The entrepreneurial gangster, if they reflect on politics at all, would never be harsh. That is the genius of this country; even our crooks are patriots. This is the tragic flaw that undermines Mr. Dominik’s whole endeavor.

For an genuine American portrait of low level robbers and hitmen turn to Springsteen’s “Born To Run” album: Meeting Across the River. This is a simple 215 word, lightly orchestrated tune about a down and out loser looking for the “big score”. This is the cornerstone plot-point in Mr. Dominik’s work.  Springsteen gives us a heart-wrenching portrait of people he knows:

And tonight's gonna be everything that I said
And when I walk through that door
I'm just gonna throw that money on the bed
She'll see this time I wasn't just talking
Then I'm gonna go out walking

Mr. Dominik gives us pages and pages of dialogue and MTV imagery of killings and blustery speeches delivered with gusto by top actors... and yet it’s Mr. Springsteen minimalist sketch that communicates everything that Mr. Dominik was trying to say.  It is important to note that other excellent foreign directors have stumbled in trying to make bold pronouncements about the schizophrenic contradictions of the land of opportunity.  Antonio’s “Zabriski Point”, although brilliant, shows little understand of the home of the brave. Americans don’t reflect much on our political state - we leave that to the French (de Tocqueville or Bernard-Henri Levy). Brad Pitt and James Gandolfini should have taken a cue from Coppola’s taciturn heavies who philosophize and moralize with simple curt pronouncements: we’re making you an offer you can’t refuse. There is a moment where Pitt tries to channel these potent warnings - but this quickly deflates into a clumsily masked DISCUSSION. We don’t go to the movies to see gangsters discuss - we want them glaring and strutting - think of many Scorsese moments - for example DeNiro sucking down a cigarette in “Goodfellas” as he stares at a partner who has made a scene. That partner is DEAD. You know it. In Dominik’s work you know it but.... you don’t really care as the “reveals” short-circuit themselves so the gad guys have no charge.

There is a prop in this film that is the perfect metaphor for “Killing Them Softly” - the sawed-off shotgun.  One of the low-end criminals produces a shotgun that is so “sawed” (i.e. shortened) that it looks ridiculous. In fact the co-bandit makes fun of it. The idea is that these down and out losers can’t even buy the right guns. They are uncomfortable, meandering and out of sorts.  There weapons don’t even make sense. This is Mr. Dominik’s major themes but unfortunately it is the film itself and not the characters who beg clarification.  After the initial hold up of the card game, the movie goes on a journey which reminded me of the incongruousness of that gun. There is the build up of the “mentor” Galiffino - who disappears off screen with a dialogue laden explanation.  There is the corporate Gangster who hires the elusive Brad Pitt - both these characters seem under or over-exposed - you haven’t known them enough but you’re afraid you know them too much; in the end don’t really care either way.  Every scene is peppered with Bush, Obama or Paulson reflecting on the ’08 financial crisis. Where is all this going? Let’s turn to an Italian director who go it somewhat right: Sergio Leon. His gangster epic “Once Upon a Time in America” gave answers. That film was bombastic and simplistic, however there are clearly drawn sagas which give an overarching coherence to the narrative. It also has a political undertones which genuinely speak to issues of community and fairness in the American system. “Killing Them Softly” opens up grandiose themes that are lost in endless sophomoric rants and journeys.

There are two defenses the director might put forth: 1. this is a black comedy and 2. the studio got in the way. In addressing the first argument: “Killing Them Softly” is not funny and therefore NOT a comedy (not even in the Russian social-satire sense of the word). This feature fails to elicit even a wry smile - Chekov’s “The Seagull” is slapstick compared to Mr. Dominik’s work.   In terms of the studio: I have not bothered to read about anything connected with the production of this film but I have little doubt there is AT LEAST another 90 minutes of material on the cutting room floor. Filmmakers are on a quest to find the missing footage in von Stroheim’s “Greed” or Capra’s “Lost Horizon”.  No one, save Mr. Dominik, would be able to endure MORE of “Killing Them Softly”. If the suits at headquarters cut large swaths of plotline from this feature the remaining footage shows their fears were justified. They are NOT GUILTY; the director will take full responsibility for the crime.  Were I to meet the Dominik I would not harp too much on this project. He’s young. He clearly has talent. It is impressive that he has managed to line up so much industry fire-power behind his project. I’d pat him on the back and mutter: “Kid you gonna do a job... bring the right gun”.  Then I’d walk away, turn around and say very firmly “you owe be $9 and 97 minutes.”

The Master (2012)

 

Master Strokes, No Masterpiece

Paul Thomas Anderson has made a career of depicting what befell the people who took up Horace Greeley’s cry to go West for “manifest destiny”.  Anderson is smart enough to know that good fortune is different from getting what you want.  The dark side of the American dream started with the unfortunate gamblers in “Hard Eight” and peaked with the parable of oilmen in “There Will Be Blood”. In-between were the Angelinos in the skin game, “Boogie Nights” and their counterparts in the legitimate show business, “Magnolia”; not to mention those residents who aren’t even in entertainment, “Punch Drunk Love”.   We see real seekers of fortune before fame; all slowly roasting in the eternal sunshine. The light has the ability to tan, but is also burns. No popular filmmaker has so elegantly painted these desperate, lonely dreamscape refugees.  Anderson’s latest, “The Master”, is a spiritual journey: A reflective meditation on a California religion with a genuine prophet for profit. The result is exquisite, masterful and disappointing.

The plotline is simple: imagine if a shell-shocked Dean Moriarty, Kerouac’s “On the Road” party animal, had been taken in by L. Ron Hubbard instead of Sal Paradise. Anderson’s master is more cerebral than the Beats.  He likes his booze and girls but this trip is more of a mindgame than a brawl.  He also prefers yachts to hitchhiking and blue haired ladies to pool room hookers. In a sense this might be one of the problems as the strongest moments of the film are when Joaquin Phoenix goes “animal”.  Joaquin steals this film just as Daniel Day Lewis hijacks “There Will Be Blood”. The very elaborate biographical details and intricate metaphysical/psychological journey take a back seat to Joaquin being the embodiment of that uniquely American blend of emptiness and terror. You feel bad for the war-scarred PTSD sentimental veteran; but you also realize he might resort to mass murder and cannibalism. (Note: he does admit to incest). Anderson might have done well to eliminate all dialogue except for Joaquin’s laugh.  That sound is the embodiment of Anderson’s career: a scary combination of innocence snuffed out by unspeakable trauma leading to nefarious delusional quests. When you hear Joaquin guffawing you know that even a legitimate savior would throw up his hands in an act of futility.

This film’s savior is too busy listening to his own voice to notice his apostle’s lack of piety and sanity. Philip Seymour Hoffman reprises his role as the alcohol infused charismatic intellectual trickster suckering a callow captive; but I much preferred him as Truman Capote. He was believable as the troubled author; less so as the troubled author/cult-leader. Unfortunately the performances are in the same key with swings of rapier-wit spiced with hatred and rage fueled by unbridled narcissism. His anger is steeped in weakness– hence a desire to have a good guard dog; i.e. Joaquin.  Capote didn’t need a bodyguard – he was smarter and funnier hence better able to defend himself as long as he was in the “right” circles. It isn’t merely that Capote was a “better” character. Hoffman fails to master this master. It was pitch perfect… to a fault. Having recently seen a YouTube video of Hubbard during this period it is apparent that Hoffman did his homework. He was the person he was supposed to be… but it isn’t enough to save the film.  This speaks to the overall problem – is this who the audience wanted?

There is an odd dreariness about "The Master" based in its "realism".  This comes front and center when faced with an odd paradox in non-animated dramatic films:  Whereas animators fear the “uncanny valley” – audience revulsion at slightly imperfect replication of human beings – this turns out to be the holy grail for most dramatic features.  Directors strive for “realism”. Most fall short. But there is an elite group of directors, including Anderson, who have mastered the craft. Their challenge is to bend “realism” towards drama.  It’s a peculiar criticism as the film has a lyrical quality that ads flourish to the meticulous stagecraft… but does it “sing”? Joaquin is outstanding. Hoffman is too perfect. Amy Adams is a brilliant Lady Macbeth. Unfortunately Anderson is no Shakespeare. He is closer to Capote in capturing the minor key of the American Zeitgeist. Capote, however, made you care about the cold blooded killers.

The penultimate scene in the movie shows the prodigal son returning to face a father who has made his mark. The master has a “real” following and has made a dent in the establishment he seeks to conquer. This scene is the dénouement of this intricate character study. The two protagonists are coming together to face their demons and reconcile their improbable friendship/bond/love affair.  They face an unpleasant reality.  There is genuine affection – a marvel given the psychopathic profiles of each of these protagonists – but in the end the stars are not in their favor. This is ironic as the master’s re-incarnation cosmology usually has the hopeful resonance found in supermarket self help books.  The master, with tears in his eyes, explains that if they meet again in future lives, they will be mortal enemies. Despite all the heart-wrenching dialogue and exquisite performances – the film was dead. I felt nothing. I was longing for the scenes in which Joaquin delivers the blows, literally, to all the establishment types who looked down on him and his god: Joaquin assaults a paradigm of respectability while working as a department store photographer.  (The victims crime was wanting a picture portrait for his wife.) Joaquin throws an apple at a questioner at the NY blue blood reception before stalking him and laying him out; Joaquin pummeling the skeptic at the book review party; Joaquin bashing his cage in the Philadelphia prison. These moments give life to a moribund plot loaded with gullible acolytes and unsympathetic marks.

This is really a film about misfits railing against post war Pax Americana.  “The Master” lacks a Ginsberg howl or a James Dean smirk or a Kerouac belch. You want to join forces with Joaquin on the anti-hero journey but in the end Hoffman only brings a real life ambivalence about the sadness of con-men. There is a moment during one of the master’s sermons when he comes up with the answer of the moment. “Laughter”.  That is the key “laughter”. Joaquin isn’t impressed. This nugget of wisdom is met with a disillusioned grimace.  Perhaps Hoffman’s son is right: “He’s just making it up as he goes along”. At this point I genuinely missed Joaquin’s laugh. It would sooth Joaquin’s physical embodiment of brokenness. All the fairy tales of “that one true love” or “the one man who has ALL the answers” are encapsulated in the hunched broken man. It’s a trauma appropriately illustrated in adolescents where there is the hope of knowledge gained and a long road ahead. Middle aged men faced with these travails are pathetic, not tragic. That isn’t to say it is impossible to create a solid drama of their plight.

The spiritual grandfather of “The Master” would be  “The Misfits”. This is another paean to Western oddballs.  Their journey into the desert isn’t about digging up a copy of a self-composed sacred text or letting a motorcycle rip.  Clark Gable and company are out to re-live their Western dreams by turning wild horses into dog food. Marilyn Monroe puts her foot down by screaming bloody murder.  You shouldn’t care… but you do. When Montgomery Cliff, who bears a striking resemblance to Joaquin,  is on the payphone with his mother you know it’s pathetic… but you care. Anderson’s “The Master” has it’s moments when the sheer absurdity of the character’s actions trigger empathy and awe. Hoffman dutifully poses for a photographic portrait by Joaquin. He is sweating which is a subtle reference to Joaquin’s previous portrait debacle in which he causes the subject to sweat by pushing the lights up against the poor victim's face. In this case Hoffman provides his own water works. He’s channeling the corporate boardroom seriousness of the era.  He desperately wants all those East Coast establishment types to take him seriously. He musters all his strength and Joaquin takes the shot. It’s the kind of small silent moment that makes you, ever so briefly, believe in the film by siding with the lunatic heroes.  It goes beyond being clever and well crafted…. It makes you smile… maybe even laugh. In the end that’s what it’s all about.

In loving memory of my mother

For Irene

How do you create efficient burning kindling out of newspaper? Answer: Shape it into a triangle. It’s not easy to do. It looks simple but it takes practice. It’s not something most people know about but I learned it from my mother. She had read it in a NYT article when I was a child. She showed me. In fact I was charged with folding many “triangles” at the many fireplaces in our house on Long Island. In my career as a Newspaper kindling creator I don’t think I came close to making the number that Mom folded. She wanted all the fireplaces to be “ready” so that all the guests needed to do was strike a match and put it to the nest of “triangles” that held up the logs.

This small remembrance brings back my mother’s determination in terms of organizing and prioritizing. To many of you my mother was a “free sprit” who had a casual sense of style and a “live and let live” philosophy. That is true but I’ve heard it said that great “free verse” poetry requires the most attention to craft. Effortlessness requires dogged practice. For those of you who were privileged enough to experience the thousands of meals she served or sleep in the thousands of beds she made – every single detail – from the wattage of the light on the nightstand to the breezy background music to the way the hedge was pruned – were all her hand. I mean HER hand. My mother did not delegate willingly. She worked with loyal groups of people to create the setting but make no mistake – it was her vision. She was the director.

This brings up another aspect of my mother’s vision – she was a truly egalitarian person in that everyone was treated with the same amount of respect. Ironically this led to strange evenings and encounters – I remember once she invited my piano teacher to join us for a family meal. He was the male musical version of Elenor Rigby. It was a long night punctuated by his racist views and the ugly display of an alcohol problem. But you know even after 40 years I can remember how happy he was to be invited for dinner. I was furious at the time but it’s odd how that evening takes on a much different cast when viewed from middle age. As a child I felt the whole thing was inappropriate. But now I’m not so sure. Ditto for her choice of a summer helper who lived with us. The fact that he only spoke Mandarin and was prone to serious mood swings might have given pause to most employers – not my mother. I remember when she helped him get into a boarding school and we visited him en masse. He was sullen and depressed. But you know I remember seeing his Christmas cards on the walls years later – he was beaming with his young family on a suburban lawn. Certainly made me think. But at the time I was hoping she’d fire him and I wouldn’t have to deal with his awkwardness. Shame on me.

But you know it’s hard to understand the big picture when you’re a child. My mother’s endless patience with strangers was inversely related to her expectations of her own children. My best friend was allowed to come to the table looking and acting like Jimi Hendrix at Montray Pops – lets just say there was a different dress and conduct requirement for my siblings and I. This is not to give the impression that my mother was a “stuffed shirt” as a parent. Quite the contrary – she had an unothrodox way of approaching life’s lessons. Here is an example: When I was 14 I gave a 17 year old friend an record for Christmas. I dropped it off at his father’s store. It was the Dead Boys second album and unfortunately for me the lyrics were printed on the inside sleeve. The father was deeply offended. Once again in looking back I guess a tribute to the serial killer Son of Sam (who had been recently arrested) and a number of anti-Catholic and misogynistic ballads were maybe not the most appropriate choice as a holiday gift. But my mother focused on something else: I HOPE THIS IS GOING TO TEACH YOU TO WRAP YOUR GIFTS! It might seem odd that a mother would stress the proprietary of giftwrapping and ignore the impropriety of late 1970s punk rock – but that was my mother. Someone who cherished old world values of conduct while embracing new, often disconcerting, forms art and behavior. We had a house-guest in East Hampton who almost burned the place to the ground while cooking “lunch” at 3AM. But what angered my mother was the mess he left upstairs when he finally left. She could tolerate his alternative schedule, odd jokes and even his carelessness that almost cost us the house – but to trash the guestroom?

This brings up another facet of my mother as host – I venture to guess that most if not all the people in this room spent many weeks or days as a guest of Irene’s. But I’m equally confident that very few of you ever hosted her – and if you did it was for a very brief period. This isn’t to mark ingratitude on your part but to point out – my mother did not care for being a guest. I think it was too stressful for her. She looked on it as an awesome responsibility. I know this sounds strange but to be a good guest, in my mother’s view, required a whole-hearted acknowledgement of the host’s generosity. The basest thing is to be ungrateful. There are times when you just want to kick back and not be polite and be rude – but this is something my mother would never really want to share with the outside world. Mom was a private person who found the modern confessional society to be base and undignified. She had very high standards that she applied rigorously to herself. Once again she hid this harsh Calvinist self-critism within the veneer of a downtown bohemian façade. There were very high standards which needed to be upheld in herself and her family: dress could be “different” - but it had to be “thought through”, furniture could be made from found objects – but it had to be clean, you could be a free-spirit – but not rude, you could be laid back – but not lazy.

I used to be angry because there were many times when I felt badly dressed, sloppy, slovenly and rude. I expected encouragement and I felt criticism. But from my mother’s POV she merely applied the high standards she set for herself to her children. That was her way of showing love: To explain the correct way to behave… to give tips on how to get things done CORRECTLY, NEATLY, EFFECIENTLY….. For example the best way to create kindling out of newspaper. I really resented making those newspaper triangles….. but low and behold many years later I found myself living in the middle of the woods, off the grid in an un-heated house – and wouldn’t you know it – making those things kept me going through the winter.

I’m going to show all of you how it’s done – (make a triangle)

I’m going recite a poem by Robert Hayden. I took the liberty of changing the sex of the protagonist:

Sundays too my mother got up early
and put her clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked her.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, she’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to her,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?


Towards the end of my final conversation with my mother I broke down. She calmly told me she loved me. In a gentle frail voice she explained that she wasn’t crying and so I shouldn’t either. It took me nearly half a century to understand. But in the end I did.

The Artist (2011)

Silence is Golden for the Artist

It would be accurate to describe “The Artist” as a simple, sentimental black and white film that idolizes the silent film era. It would also be accurate to describe bread as a mixture of flour and yeast. The fact of the matter is that things are often more than the sum of their parts. “The Artist” is a masterpiece. The credit goes to the writer/director Michel Hazanavicius. A good measure of ‘an artist’ is the mastery of their craft. The best prism with which to judge skill is to view their execution of rudimentary tasks. How does the master-chef tackle an omelet? How does the prima ballerina approach the bar? How does a fist violinist play a C scale? In these simple exercises one views a life-blood of being a master. In “The Artist” an audience has a the rare chance of experiencing the work of someone who, in an almost religious sense, “understands” film.

The film centers around a vain film star who is challenged by the motion picture business’ transition to sound feature films. Truth be told many performers managed the change seamlessly but the film “Singing in the Rain”, whose plot revolved around a star failing to make the vocal grade, seem to immortalize this legend. Hazanavicius grabs this fable and runs with all his might. No need to know film history. No need to be familiar with Chaplin, Arbuckle, Keaton et al. Let scholars talk about “Modern Times” or “Sherlock Jr.”, audiences for “The Artist” need to simply sit back and react. An old film professor once told me “films are about reaction not action”. This axiom is at the heart of the success of “The Artist”. The opening sequence brilliantly shows a movie audience watching a feature while simulations illustrating the movie stars’ impression of that same audience, in addition to his cynical take on his co-star and producer. We’re watching them watch the film while he’s watching them watch the film while simultaneously watching his co-star and producer. In this stew observations everything is shown, not told, and a primordial reaction is generated: the audience is captivated on an almost biological level. The tropes are as old as the human experience. We see ambition, vanity, lust, love, fear, hate, jealously... without tiresome dialogue indicating action. The seamlessness of the sequences can be attributed to a keen mastery of technique. We all a have an innate sense of the human emotional experience but so few films can touch at the heart-chords due to lack of rigorous attention to the details of story telling. Modern audiences are continually subjected to the laborious “action” sequences or detailed dialogue- narration whereas what everyone desires is to merely react to the situation. The director is there to MAKE you feel; not TELL you what to feel.

In an amateur’s hands the “cute” little dog-companion is a cheap sugar pill that illicitness a passing burp of sweetness. Note Hazanavicius’ use of this animal: The canine is a genuine co-star whose endless routines with the master give the audience boundless love of the protagonist and his companion. The “gags” are as old as Lassie’s great- great- great grandfather and yet this man and dog break out of the low earth orbit of side-show cleverness. Their banter is a building block in the seemingly simplistic storyline. Ditto for the interaction between the protagonist and the ingenue. The “blind” dance behind the screen in their second encounter which beautifully foretells the climax of the film. The actor standing up for the young woman against the pompous producer. Once again a subtle mirror to the second half of the film. The truly magical “failed” dance sequence which the downfallen star clings to as the token of his life’s work. All these “simple” sequences pull the audience into the over-arching flow of the narrative on a glandular level. Your heart beats because your nerves were triggered automatically. You love them because all the “knee jerk” set-pieces are struck with the master-hand of a physician gauging a reflex and not the sloppy roar of a carnival barker. These people are as “real” as the theatergoers around you in the audience; ironically maybe even more so. It should be noted that the infamous gangster Bugsy Siegel took his cues on how to dress from his childhood friend George Raft - who played gangsters in the movies. Sometimes the fantasy world, when executed by masters, has more “reality” than “real” life.

One might assume producing a “silent” film would require less rigor as the technical demands are decreased. No need to worry about background noise and extensive miking and mixing. Ironically this feature pays more attention to sound than most “talking” films. Absent dialogue the score becomes exponentially more prominent. The challenge is to prevent the music from overwhelming the “foley” effects (term used for recording of incidental noises - footsteps etc). In addition this balance must be met while convincing modern film audiences that this is faithful to the early silent era - as this is the central conceit of the film. Modern audiences would have a difficult time merely having instruments and song. Hazanavicius convinces everyone of the genuineness of the “primitive” production values while employing very sophisticated visual and sound effects. The opening sequence with the large audience viewing a projected film in a large theater requires significant technical prowess. Ditto for the “dream” sequences. The sound is also masterfully employed. Although the film is essentially silent the closing moments have “talking sound”. The director cleverly plays against expectations and the focus, aside of one brief line, is the protagonists huffing for breath after a strenuous scene. This heavy breathing carries more heft than 1,000 pages of scripted dialogue.

Once again there are those who will see “The Artist” as a solid piece of work but merely good candy. They will give the director his due as a craftsman but say the work lacks gravitas as it is merely a stylized fairy tale love story. Once again this is accurate but false. What is great art? It’s one of those simple questions that could give rise to centuries of discussion. It is hard to bring any sort of consensus. It’s similar to trying to describe beauty or laughter. Justice Potter Stewart came close to a concise definition in his reflection on whether or not the film “The Lovers” was obscene:

I shall not today attempt further to define the kinds of material I understand to be embraced within that shorthand description ["hard-core pornography"]; and perhaps I could never succeed in intelligibly doing so. But I know it when I see it, and the motion picture involved in this case is not that. [Emphasis added.]
—Justice Potter Stewart

Well in the spirit of Justice Stewart “The Artist” is great. I know it when I see it.

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.