Menace II Society (1993)

MANCHILD AT THE MOVIES

    

    

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

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

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

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

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

Forrest Gump (1994)

Idiot's Delight

    

      

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reservoir Dogs (1992)

What are Reservoir Dogs?

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

    

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Downton Abbey

Down and Out-ton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Promised Land (2012)

The Promise of Matt Damon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, Jan 11 2013

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

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

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

Jack Reacher (2012)

Bourne Reacher

Tom Cruise knows more than anyone the limits of being able to control events. “Jack Reacher” comes after a bruising public divorce humiliation which included controversy regarding his religion. The movie’s opening PR campaign was also muted due to the ‘real world’ events in Newtown CT.  The suits in charge felt that a feature that begins with 5 people being randomly executed by a sniper might not play well with an audience still grieving the massacre of first graders by a gun totting madman.  This is a tough break for the producers - in this case Mr. Cruise himself. Nevertheless the show must go on and the film did manage to be the #2 box office gross for the weekend.  I sat with half a dozen elderly people on a Sunday night for the early show.  I was startled by the MPAA rating.   The scene in which the fingerless Russian Gangster (with a German accent) tries to force a man to chew off his own hand might have earned the picture an “R”; but since there was no nudity and little cursing it received the“PG 13” seal of approval.  Perhaps this rating inadvertently led to the dearth of teenagers amongst the crowd;  yes it was Sunday, but during Christmas break.  Or perhaps Mr. Cruise is losing touch with his core fan base. He was nearly 40 when most of them were born. There were posters in the lobby for other old men of the screen: Arnold Schawarzenegger and Sean Penn, have projects due out in early January.  Perhaps the action/adventure genre is some sort of balm for a certain class of older male stars recovering from nasty public divorces.  Arnold’s trailer failed to be promising but it was actually more entertaining than Tom’s 2 hour feature.

For those not in the loop - Jack Reacher is a character in a very popular serialized set of action/adventure novels by Lee Child .  I have not read “One Shot”, from which this film is based, but it sticks to the basic outline as it appears online in Wikipedia:

In an innocent heartland city, five murders with six shots are done by an expert sniper. The police quickly identify and arrest a suspect, and build a slam-dunk case with iron-clad evidence. But the accused man claims he's innocent and says "Get Jack Reacher." Reacher himself sees the news report and turns up in the city. The defense is immensely relieved; but Reacher has come to bury the guy. Shocked by the request of the accused, Reacher sets out to confirm for himself the absolute certainty of the man's guilt, but comes up with more than he bargained for.

Maybe Mr. Cruise should have picked a cleaner plot along the lines of Mr. Child’s “Nothing to Lose”:

Based in Colorado, traveling from the town of Hope to the town of Despair, it soon becomes clear that Reacher is an unwelcome visitor in a town with a lot of secrets to hide. Reacher cannot resist the opportunity to explore these secrets further, especially the peculiar town owner who has employed the majority of the population to work within his recycling factory.

In any event it is clear we are engaged in formulaic entertainment and not Strindberg. Nothing wrong with that, as Mr. Child, whose real name is Mr. Grant, doesn’t pretend.... and who wants to sit through Strindberg in a movie theater (or maybe even a theater theater for that matter).  Wikipedia give us insight into his choice of the name of the ex-military supercop:

While unemployed and midway through writing the first novel with the character as yet unnamed, Lee Child visited his local supermarket with his wife. An elderly lady approached him and asked him to reach an item off a high shelf for her. His wife commented: "Hey if this writing thing doesn't work out, you can be a reacher in a supermarket."

It would be interesting to see a film about the life of Mr. Lee/Grant with some insight into his own need to change his nom de guerre. Mr. Cruise, however, need to focus on the Dough Ray Me. Audiences never warmed to Cruise as anything but a Mission Impossible sort of guy as his most recent “Rock of Ages” has proved (along with “Magnolia”, “Eyes Wide Shut”, “Lions for Lambs”...). Cruise’s middle-brow choice of material matches his choice of director. One might have thought Christopher McQuarrie’s writing credit on Mr. Cruise’s “Valkyrie” would have earned him a spot on a “do not call” list.  But in all deference to Mr. McQuarrie one senses Cruise-control in Reacher. Tom isn’t searching for direction in these self-produced projects as he has figured it all out. Unfortunately the audience is left with a stilted vanity set-piece rather than a solid action/adventure film.

Jack Reacher comes from a tradition of American super-heroes who are suspect by the public at large in their pursuit of a greater good. The fathers of this genre would be George Trendle and Fran Striker who gave us the Lone Ranger and his grand nephew (yes they are literally related) The Green Hornet.  “Why do you wear a mask Lone Ranger?” could easily be transposed to “Why do you live as a unemployed vagrant Mr. Reacher?”. A web poster named Jon Glade in an online response on Yahoo answers examines the Lone Ranger’s need for anonymity (http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080515205634AAJrQvl) :

There is an interesting factor in American literature that is called "the American monomyth," which essentially concerns itself with someone who is a member of the masses coming forth to serve the cause of justice (or the needs of society, which may not always be the same thing), righting a bad situation, and then disappearing back into the masses. In other words, America is unique in the fact that it is predisposed to accepting the idea of anonymous avengers.

Whatever one thinks of Tom’s religion it is not hard to understand his ‘spirtual’ connection a loner who is selflessly battling the forces of evil despite popular opinion. To quote Tom’s infamous Scientology video in which he describes his devotion to the creed: “Being a Scientologist when you drive past an accident it’s not like anyone else. As you drive past, you know you have to do something about it, because you know you’re the only one that can really help” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFBZ_uAbxS0   section 1:00-1:16) .  And how does public respond? The answer is online at: www.TomCruiseIsNuts.com  . Tom and Jack have the weight of the world on their shoulders and no one really appreciates their struggle. Clumsy exposition gives us the bedrock of Jack’s lonely battle - he is a much decorated army hero who spent a career as a military policeman.  He has had run ins with the brass who demoted him only to have him rise to a high rank again.  Suddenly, without explanation, he returns to the US only to live an invisible life and collect cash from military a pension at various Western Union locations. As the story unfolds Tom/Jack reveals what makes him tick. In a monologue while looking out at a busy office building filled with workers: (am paraphrasing) ”I spent 25 years listening to my government tell me I was fighting for freedom... look at all those people slaving away out there;  overwhelmed by debt and worry... trying to make ends meet.... are they free? they just wish they could live like me.” Perhaps Tom/Jack overestimates the desire of the general public to live a life of violence and insecurity. Certainly Tom seems unable to distinguish his adolescent fantasies of a middle aged multi-millionaire movie star from the challenges facing working people.  The bottom line is that Jack/Tom has a personal moral code of right and wrong and his life will be dedicated to HIS truth. 

The most obvious parallel would be to the Bourne action/adventure series, featuring a disillusioned secret agent. Doug Liman’s films, unlike Tom’s Reacher, were compelling and fun. Matt Damon’s Bourne is a trusting good soldier who embarks on a journey of discovery where he, and the audience, experience the heartbreaking realization that his beloved country has betrayed him. Jack Reacher is merely giving speeches.  We are told, in painfully drawn narration, what he is like, what he has done.... we see  nothing of his journey of disaffection. Tom/Jack is a crack investigator, marksman, guerrilla fighter, memorizer of data... but his motives are drawn with the subtlety of a good guy’s white hat.   There is nothing behind his anger except the cold heroic bather. The appalling glacially paced script combined with an endless supply of comic book heavies headed by the aforementioned fingerless German/Russian, makes the experience akin to watching the one movie available on an airplane during heavy turbulence.  (Incidentally the evil bad guy is played by an actual German - the famed director Werner Herzog - who seems to be proving that behind every great european auteur is a burning desire to be a Hollywood Star... or at least stand near one on the big screen....e.g. Francois Truffaut in “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” ).  It was nice to know that Robert Duvall can still be the eternal army cracker; although he has mellowed since “Apocalypse Now”.  The ingenue Rosamund Pike was forced to try and make us believe she found a shirtless Tom Cruise utterly irresistible.  Tom is hot... for a 50 year old guy. The idea that her character would have been drooling challenges credulity and speaks to the general disposition of people on the set refusing to tell Tom the emperor should put his shirt back on.  The stunt and fight scene shortcomings are too numerous to mention and one suspect’s Cruise’s megalomania at work - not one crew member had the courage to say, to borrow the pithy phrasing of the protagonist: “Tom this shit ain’t workin’”.  Actually that’s unfair, Reacher doesn’t seem to have the imagination to curse or the producers want to preserve the PG 13 rating - it would be more like - “Fight scenes... (beat, heavy breath) not workin’”.  This extends to the whole enterprise. In fact “Tom you’re old” might be added.

Unfortunately for future audiences more Reacher tombs are headed for the big screen. But we can all wish good things in the new year and maybe Tom will option the rights and decide to hand off the lead.  The bottom line is if you’re a omnipotent superstar you can create your own world. The challenge of making a great film about someone who lives in their own world is to work with people who collaboratively handle various aspects of the project.  Mr. Cruise has a reputation of being a doggedly hard worker and consummate professional. Unfortunately what is required is a steely determined artistic vision; which in turn requires trusting powerful department heads to execute a plan.  It is hard to imagine seasoned professionals screening rushes and not commenting on the obvious flaws. More likely the production crew stepped back and nodded:“hey Tom it’s your show... you’re in-charge”.  One can imagine Tom gleefully doing donuts in the souped up muscle cars; executing complicated maneuvers well into the wee hours of the morning until things were “perfect”.  Everyone must have known the scenes would be tedious.... but who wants to tell the boss... especially since he’s a decent guy who’s working so damn hard. In the end the key to total control is knowing who to trust. Judging by this feature Mr. Cruise lives in a very lonely world.... someone needs to tell him. Ironically Jack Reacher would have... but he wasn’t on set.

LINCOLN (2012)

Logging Lincoln

The first showing of Steven Spielberg’s Lincoln was packed. This is unusual for a relatively rural movie house, even during a Friday night of the Christmas holiday season.  The grey-haired crowed was pleased and there were even some applause during the closing credits.  A younger member of the audience, obviously dragged there by a well-intentioned elder, was less euphoric.  “Lincoln sure spent a lot of time talking in that house”. Although the young man probably wasn’t a seasoned moviegoer his criticism is on the mark and goes to the heart of the stylistic problem with Lincoln.  This work fails to be a movie driven by cinematic movement but a photographic representation of a “well-made play” driven by soliloquies. This is the wikipedia entry for form of a “well-made play”:

The form has a strong neoclassical flavor, involving a very tight plot and a climax that takes place very close to the end of the action, with most of the story taking place before the action of the play; much of the information regarding such previous action would be revealed through thinly veiled exposition. Following that would be a series of causally-related plot complications.


Spielberg’s work doesn’t exactly match this definition as the exposition is about as thinly veiled as a peacock on a snow drift.... but it was carefully crafted and hit its marks. It is odd to take issue with this film as most contemporary features are shoddily made and badly written.  It is, however, important to understand the context of this work. Steven Spielberg,  America’s most popular and successful director has undertaken a portrait of Abraham Lincoln,  American’s most revered President.  This is serious stuff... at least from Spielberg’s POV. The director has taken a special interest in the plight of African Americans.  Lincoln is his third feature examining “our peculiar institution”. (The other two: The Color Purple and Amistad).   Spielberg turned 18 when the 1964 Civil Rights Act was less than 6 months old. No doubt the racial struggle during the 1960s made an impression.  It is not surprising that “Lincoln” fails to be a biopic but rather the story of the President legally destroying slavery by carefully steering Congress to adopt the 13th amendment.  This is an interesting dramatic choice given Lincoln’s life. A few years back I took a tour of  the library of Congress was was told: aside from William Shakespeare, Abraham Lincoln is THE most popular subject for book writers.  I would note the new museum dedicated to our 16th President hosts The Lincoln Tower. This is a visual demonstration of his popularity with publishers : “the tower totals approximately 6,800 books. At three stories high, the tower represents just a fraction of the 15,000 titles written about Lincoln”. The myriad of topics include: his sexuality, his contentious relations with his family, his morphing attitudes towards race relations, his obscure origins, his fragile health, his depression, his love of the theater, his work as a lawyer..... and yet Spielberg chose the complicated political morass surrounding the updating of the Constitution as his centerpiece.

His screenplay was crafted by one of America’s premiere playwrights, Tony Kushner, and one of the country’s leading Presidential historians, Doris Kearns Goodwin. The idea was that the telling of this particular Constitutional struggle would illuminate the man.  Kushner did wonders painting the demon-like Roy Cohen in Angels in America; perhaps he could show the better angels of his nature and give us Lincoln. Kearns Goodwin would keep it historically accurate. Spielberg would handle the magic and spare no expense with the best acting and craft talent resulting in a serious general audience portrait of our most famous, yet enigmatic, President. There is a desire to define and honor our nation’s greatest leader.  Ironically the result a paean to all the things we think we know rather than a radical unfolding of that quixotic face that stares out from the five dollar bill. This film wants us to think of father Abraham more in the manner of father George.  Spielberg forgets that George stars out at us on our 1 dollars bills with a noble, direct gaze. Lincoln, in the 5 dollar portrait, looks off to the side in the same direction as the Mona Lisa.

Daniel Day Lewis continues his tradition of turning in a performance that overshadows his director and fellow cast-members. He IS the Lincoln we expect - saintly, self-deprecating, folksy and fierce. One laments the supporting cast who seem merely polished and professional.  There were solid performances and yet Lewis seemed to catapult the film into “what might have been”; whereas Tommy Lee Jones, Sally Field et al were only as good as the surroundings.  Ironically the slew of African American performers were hard hit with a the dramatic challenge of being representatives of goodness under oppression; a lesser form of the “magic negro”. Once again I turn to Wikipedia:

The magical negro is a supporting stock character in American Cinema who is portrayed coming to the aid of a film's white protagonists. These characters, who often possess special insight or mystical powers, have been a long tradition in American fiction.

In this case there are no psychics or superheroes trying to help whitey. Spielberg’s black cast channels the Christian savior in their magnanimity. One might suspect an angry vengeful disposition given the conditions surrounding 19th century slavery, but Quentin Tarantino’s Django cannot be unchained in this universe.  Whereas Tarantino channels the rage of the 1970s blaxploitation heavies such as Mandingo - who want to kill whitey for for being evil; Spielberg has a never-ending parade of black people who are as well-mannered, well groomed and amiable as Sidney Poitier in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. It is, strangely, two sides of the same coin.   It is certainly progress when one considers Step’n’Fetchit, the most popular African American movie star of the early 20th century, made a career of exhibiting the most vile, feckless black stereotypes.  The beneficent mirror image, however, does deny the black characters the ability to be fully human. It is important to note that Spielberg should not be considered racist as his typecasting crosses color-lines. Noone is ‘real’ in this ‘historical reenactment’.  There are a slew of encounters between the beneficent Father Abraham and a number of earnest, coiffed, articulate African American characters in which the evils of slavery and the dignity of humanity are dutifully discussed.  It would be interesting to know if Kearns Goodwin took issue. It is a well-known historical fact that the 16th President’s views on blacks were evolving and would not be in accord with present day progressive attitudes.  The man we view in the cinema is NOT the man who at one time proposed sending blacks back to Africa. Then again Spielberg might see artistic license as more important than complete accuracy. This is the crux of the problem. The hallmark card visuals are merely cloying but the substance is troubling. Spielberg has a vision of what is necessary to produce an important serious portrait of this important serious historical figure. The result is neither historical, serious or important.

Lincoln’s family has always been a treasure trove of intrigue to the general public. George Washington might have been the first President; but he was his wife’s second husband. Martha had an immense fortune. These facts might come as a surprise to most as the Washingtons are sealed in the cool white gossip-free marble of hagiography. Lincoln’s saintliness has always had the common touch of marital upheaval.  The public knows  Mrs. Lincoln as “troubled”.  Spielberg has decided that the best way to approach this sensitive topic is to paint her as an overly emotional woman who failed to managed the loss of her favorite child. There is a scene in which she accuses her husband of wanting to lock her in an insane  asylum to conveniently shield him from her justifiable grief.   The fact that he fails to dispute this accusation leaves a uneasy ripple in the warm-fuzziness. Was honest Abe trying to lock up the troublesome mrs? The effect is about as jarring as an 18th century outhouse suddenly appearing in the Colonial Williamsburg theme-park.  No doubt Kearns Goodwin approved of this historical fact - but the truth seems to be swimming upstream. Mrs. Lincoln’s issues predated the death of her son William. In fact it predates the death of her other son Edward, who does not exist in this Lincoln family. “Molly” Lincoln suffered severe mental illness which bore the hallmarks of bi-polar depressive disorder.  She eventually ended up in a mental hospital being committed by her son Robert. Truth should not be a slave to fact in rendering art; but here truth seems completely lost. Lincoln’s chose to marry a VERY VERY difficult person who had extreme emotional issues.  That is NOT the couple portrayed in the film.  It should also be noted that the President himself was not the paradigm of mental health PRIOR to taking office.  He bouts with depression as a young man have been well documented. Once again that is not the character on screen. Spielberg could claim that their is a broader truth in what he shows. Molly was difficult but bore many ills with dignity. Lincoln himself was dour that was merely exacerbated by the carnage and horror which he was forced to orchestrate. Their deficits are illustrated with complete with thumbnail explanations as to their cause.  Unfortunately the director’s explanations and white lies muddle an understanding of the characters.  Spielberg, with the imprimatur of a credited historian, gets it completely wrong. It would be difficult to “know” Lincoln, but the idea that Mary Lincoln was merely difficult and oversensitive, and that Mr. Lincoln was a befuddled husband misses the mark.

She was really crazy. He was a real depressive. He certainly knew what he was getting into.  These obscured “facts” tell me more about Lincoln that two hours of clumsy Tony Kushner dialogue such as Mary saying something to the effect of: “you always held it against Robert (the eldest son) that he was born because it forced you to marry me” or how about this turkey: “People will remember you as great and me as crazy”.  I’m paraphrasing but you get the idea that broad, character-defining themes are handled with the subtly of a Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving painting.  Perhaps this analogy is a disservice to Rockwell as his job was to marshal the power saccharine cliches to sell papers. Spielberg is trumpeting this film as... well, serious stuff.  Once again artistry has license to cut and paste, but not to mislead.  Lincoln’s distance with Robert probably deserves its own separate feature to cover the vast ocean of family tension.  This film’s harping on his mother’s refusal to allow Robert to join the service is placed squarely on in the coffin of the beloved William. Mrs. Lincoln’s past instability and loss of another child puts this in a different light. It also shows the President willingness to support her, over his eldest son, to be somewhat darker than Spielberg’s telling.  In addition the nature of Lincoln’s overindulgence and closeness to Tad fails to mention Tad’s cleft pallet which rendered his speech incomprehensible. This is the dramatic equivalent of mounting a production of Dicken’s A Christmas Carol, and leaving out Tiny Tim’s crutch.  Seems an odd omission; but it was no doubt a casualty in the intense battle for truth back at production headquarters.

One can well imagine Mr. Spielberg, Mr. Kushner and Ms. Kearns Goodwin pouring over the mountains of material. One can feel the vast amount of pressure it must have taken to mold this sprawling narrative into Spielberg’s oeuvre.  In a sense it must have been an unintentional re-hashing of the vast political infighting that let to the passage of the 13th amendment. It is VITAL we include THIS. It is PARAMOUNT we don’t touch THAT. I’m sure, in the vast network of top departments and people, there were lobbyist of sorts who petitioned for inclusion of major events in Lincoln's life - the “Appottomax Court House” camp “won” - it is IN - the “Ford’s Theater” camp “lost” - there is no assassination scene... ditto for Gettsyburg.... although “the address” makes an appearance. One can only imagine the delight felt by some at Kushner’s cleverness: four soldiers at a busy army camp near the front, two black and two white, dutifully recite the speech to a well lit, seemingly unencumbered Lincoln, who seems to be posing for the monument on the mall. One suspects Kearns Goodwin missed that production meeting.... lets hope so.

In the end we have a clear, albeit simplified, narrative of how and why the 13th amendment passed along with uneven forays into family life and Washington personalities.  It will come as a surprise to many how the President’s insistence on this piece of legislation hinged on a very well-reasoned legal argument about how his banning of slavery could be reversed at a latter date. Lincoln believed the whole horrible business of war might re-ignite again.  There is the sub-plot of the Confederate peace offering which almost derailed the passage. In other words the idea was peace could be had WITHOUT completely settling the slavery question. Lincoln, through a series of cunning moves which involved lying to his allies, stuck to his guns and the measure was passed. We have the crafty maneuvers... but Spielberg fails to give us the man; or more correctly the person he reveals is molded by the future.  We have a representation of good father Abraham; rather than the genuine article.  There is a strange arrogance in this film which stems from the idea that hiring the best will render the truth. 

Interestingly the most successful sections of this film are the director’s brief re-creations of the battles and the aftermath on the field.  It is the same in Private Ryan. That film faltered after a stunning re-enactment of the Normandy invasion. Spielberg is more adapt at re-drawing actual places and events... rather than the individuals.  Lincoln becomes merely saintly, strong and clever.... Perhaps a repositioning of the battle scenes, specifically the opening sequence, might have given the audience more of a feeling for the steeliness of the President’s actions in potentially drawing out the war. It’s one thing to look back with hindsight and realize that he followed the right path. It’s another to see the carnage first hand and wonder what kind of stuff it must have taken to, as one recent President put it, “stay the course”. Victory has many fathers... but imagine if the war had dragged on for another half decade. Lincoln might have been viewed as a lawyerly perfectionist who toyed with hundreds of thousands of lives and his legacy might have steered closer to his predecessor and successor - the little remembered Buchanan and much maligned Johnson. Modern President’s have learned the hard way that self righteous belief in the ‘greater good’ has not always served to bolster their reputations; neither has skirting the law - something Spielberg’s  Lincoln freely confesses.  The greatness of Lincoln lies in the grey of doubt. Spielberg is more comfortable with bold strokes of black and white .  The director seems to banish the man who once said: “Sir, my concern is not whether God is on our side; my greatest concern is to be on God's side, for God is always right”.

Spielberg’s Lincoln echoes the words recently removed from the Martin Luther King Jr. memorial on the Washington mall:

“I was a drum major for justice peace and righteousness.”

The correct quote from Dr. King’s sermon reads:

“Yes, if you want to say that I was a drum major, say that I was a drum major for justice. Say that I was a drum major for peace. I was a drum major for righteousness. And all of the other shallow things will not matter.”

It is a distinction that probably be lost Mr. Spielberg as his Lincoln embodies a fierce knowing sense of justice.  Lincoln was a great fan of Shakespeare.  In fact Kushner lightly peppers the President’s dialogue with subtle references to the bard. Nothing too overt which was a welcome relief from a script that seems to want to prove that everyone had done their homework.  In short Spielberg sees the 16th President as a Henry V of good: A brash warrior/politician who cloaks his offense in a playful avuncular manner but keeps his eye on the prize of victory. What little I know makes me think more of Prince Hamlet: A man who inherits a disastrous political situation and the journey towards righteousness is bound by a constant questioning of the world around him in order to understand the meaning of victory.  There is little doubt that the Abraham Lincoln of 1861, who might have struck a bargain with the South, was not the same as the Abraham Lincoln of 1865. This does not make either bad or good. The bottom line is that the greatness of Lincoln lies in his ‘not knowing’; not his ‘knowing’. Mr. Spielberg, despite the legion of highly paid staff, missed the forest for the trees.  But no worries. Many in theater didn’t seem to notice. They clapped. They were very enthusiastic. Perhaps this is due to the fact that the other movies showing in the same time were: Skyfall, Life of Pi, Killing Them Softly, Playing for Keeps and Wreck It Ralph.  Certainly Mr. Spielberg’s historical foray should earn him great praise and many awards. But now that it’s over it’s time to get back to business. It has been revealed  Spielberg’s next two directorial projects are: Indiana Jones 5 and Robopocalypse.

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.