Carnage (2011)

Roman’s Holiday

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

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

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

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

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

The White Balloon (1995)

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

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

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

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

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

Margin Call (2011)

Stock Movie

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

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

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

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

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

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

Melancholia (2011)

Last Moments at Marienbad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Contagion (2011)

How to Survive the Plague and Keep Working

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

The Tree of Life (2011)

The Land of Nod

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

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

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

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

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

Devil (2010)

The Details of the Devil

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


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

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

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

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

Winter's Bone (2010)

Squeal Like a Piglet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inception (2010)

INCEPTION

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

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

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

Shutter Island (2010)

Not Spellbound

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

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

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

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

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

Avatar (2009)

More Art, Less Matter


It would be difficult to miss the hoopla surrounding the new James Cameron feature. The man who re-sunk the Titanic, creating as much buzz as the original trans-Atlantic tragedy, has delivered his chef d’oeuvre: “Avatar” – a vast science fiction epic using the latest and greatest special effects money can buy. And money certainly was spent: $300 million production cost sans advertising. This is ironic, as the era of the HUGE budget special effects feature seemed to be heading the way of the Soap Opera. The success of “Paranormal Activity”, which was produced for less than $100,000 and grossed $150 million, seems to signal the future of the film business. The traditional movie theater is becoming as anachronistic as a newspaper.

It is hard to imagine a studio chief “green lighting” this budget-busting project in light of overall box-office carnage due to the endless small screen entertainment alternatives. The same executives employed this strategy in the 1950s with the advent of another small screen: the television. That decade saw the heretofore-static movie house “improved” with wondrous innovations such as growing screens (cinema-scope, cinarama) and outdoor settings (the studios got behind the Drive-In). There was also the development 3-Dimensional films. Well past is present: Mr. Cameron’s brave new world is delivered in a highly specialized updated version of: 3 D. (Note: I saw the 2 D version). Bigger wasn’t better. Cinamax, a technology rooted in these 1950s innovations, has had some lasting success but it’s impact on the “average” movie theater experience has been negligible. “The plays the thing” would be closer to what has traditionally drawn people to the boxoffice. Good writing, acting and directing ALWAYS trumps technology.

Cameron’s “Avatar” is very impressive. Even in the traditional format the experience is extraordinary. This is a magical world; unfortunately it fails to be a magical film. The disconnect lies in Cameron’s visionary lack of vision in understanding his own strength. This director’s best work “Aliens” and “The Terminator” exhibit co-screenwriter credits. But when the director assumes total control of the screenplay the results are “The Abyss” and “The Titanic”. Cameron should take a cue from Ridley Scott, who directed both “Bladerunner” and “Alien”. These works are the most influential sci-fi blockbusters of the latter half of the 20 century. Scott never pretended to be a writer. He focused his abilities on telling the story in a fashion that literally set standards for decades after the films’ debuts. Ironically Cameron’s sequel to Scott’s “Aliens” is a stronger film… but not as groundbreaking. Cameron egotistical need to be a self-contained “auteur” has weakened the impact of his work. Ironically the mega-hit “The Titanic” assured the money-men that Cameron could handle the task of writing and well as directing. It’s a dangerous thing for artists to judge the impact of their work merely by initial box-office reaction. “Kung Fu Panda” was the third highest grossing feature in 2008…. it is doubtful a sentient mammal would consider it the third best film.

“Avatar”’s story centers around a paraplegic soldier who steps in for his older brother, a scientist, on a complex mission where he will inhabit the body of an alien. The basic idea revolves around identity. Cameron deserves praise for having a wheelchair-bound protagonist. This is certainly a first for the sci-fi action adventure genre. Kudos as well for giving the self-discovery narrative a new dimension: IN ADDITION to wrestling with the ghost of his brother he is finding his way as an alien in another culture. Great start. Unfortunately Cameron’s mastery of spectacle cannibalizes character and storyline. His other world is very familiar in an unintentional way: the multi-million dollar landscape is chockablock with airport novel heroes who would seem more at home on daytime TV. There are the valiant magical colored people attacking evil big-business. The tough kind-hearted female scientist pitched against the ruthless bloodthirsty commander who in turn answers to the feckless corporate lackey. Cameron tries to gloss over the thin dramatic structure by throwing in a few one-liners indicating he honestly believes he’s making a parable about current politics. Anyone old enough to buy a pack of cigarettes would see the irony of a major studio insider spending hundreds of millions to launch a crunchy pro-luddite anti-corporate screed. In listening to him on the promotional tours it would seem he is sincere in believing he is a thinker and a writer. “Avatar” proves otherwise. There was an air of bragging in his revelation that it only took him 3 weeks to create the script. Given the final product, 2 days would have been sufficient (without an all-nighter). A major plot point, greedy anti-environmental interest attacking the sacred holy tree where the good guys live, appears in Wes Anderson’s “The Fabulous Mr. Fox”. Perhaps Cameron was inspired by the source material for Anderson’s work – a Roahld Dahl novel. Actually this in unlikely as Dahl and Anderson seem to possess something completely absent from Cameron’s epic – a sense of humor.

Cameron is a virtuoso with the tech – it is easy to be stricken with vertigo on the mountainscapes or be wowed by the realism of the invented language of the alien race – created by a PhD in linguistics especially for this project. The father of the new tongue was on set, and available to the actors settle questions of grammar and syntax. One wonders if the father of “Avatar” was jealous? There were probably other experts paid vast sums: anthropologists, botanists, programmers, architects, product designers…. How unfortunate the master of the Universe failed to hire a script doctor…. Or an editor. His baby wails for nearly 3 hours. One can feel that it took nearly 15 years for Cameron to bring his creation to the screen, post his 3 weeks of banging out the script. He suffered for his baby – and now you’re gonna. In the end there is a parable unfolding: Great powerful men conspiring to spend vast sums to re-conquer a lost audience. They are employing failed strategies from mid-century. “Shower them the most expensive interconnected, computer-driven extravaganza since Ben Hur!!!!!!” The audience has a limited attention span and is glued to their mini-phone screens. No matter – “stuff the movie houses with a 180 minutes of slicker versions of their video game heroes!!!!!!!” Unfortunately the targets are at home hiding behind their Avatars in a world of their own creation. When will middle-aged men understand that you can’t conquer the world by shock and awe?

Star Trek (2009)

To Boldly Go....


The genius of the original series lay in it's ability to play with
issues of the day while fooling you into thinking you were merely
watching a sci-fi adventure. The commentary on race relations,
Vietnam, hippie movement, battle of sexes... all raged with the
relative safety of being in "the final frontier". Star Trek (the
movie) went where other Trek movies never went before - it was
exciting and entertaining but it left me feeling abit, well, yearning
for the zeitgeist of the original program. There was an unmistakable
pop seriousness in the TV series that went beyond mere legend and
parable. I see what you mean in terms of bringing a "Star Wars"
sensibility to the endeavor. This film was wrapped in the kind of
Arthurian, ancient tales and myths of coming of age and understanding
fate and family.... that fit nicely in the Lukas' framework. But
Rodenberry was a cop, not a mere bed-time storyteller. He wanted it
to be more than fable - he wanted you to look out your window, or at
your neighbor, or at the President, or Iraq, or Darfur, or global
warming... and think STAR TREK. I can only imagine him turning in his
grave with a film that celebrates Cowboy sensibility in the post-Bush
era. I also thought there was too much overt tribute to Star Wars -
Scotty's little green friend, the death star, the sword fight, the
escape from the monsters on the cold planet.... Kirk isn't
Skywalker... but having said all this I must confess to thinking it
the best Trek feature - but maybe that says more about the other
efforts than this one...

PS - I don't think Spock looked 137 - I'd say 326.... glad he didnt
have any accidents on the set.

Richie Havens 2009 performance in Barre Vermont

Back to the Garden

Richie Havens opened Woodstock 40 years ago screaming “Freedom”. That voice epitomized the zeitgeist of a generation where people saw the possibility of up-ending the established order. As Mr. Dylan reminded us back then; “The times they are a-changin’”. And nothing changes faster than those on the cutting edge who come to represent their time. There is a sense of awkwardness in hearing the contemporary Bob Dylan, even though he recently became one of the oldest performers to score a number one hit single. He seems to have morphed into a curmudgeon superstar with a social agenda that sits hazily in the background. He shields himself from being a “sell out” by professing he never really “bought in”. Your problem with Bob is YOUR problem – not his. Havens, on the other hand, has a genuine aura of someone who has dedicated himself to the “counter-culture”. This sounds odd given that Havens was for a time the voice of Amtrak: “Climb Aboard America!”. The spirit of the ‘60s was one of embracing individualism while adopting a communal sense of the greater good. Putting politics and history aside – Havens, the performer, embodies the best of what is meant by being “a hippie”.

It was a few degrees below zero when I entered the Barre Opera house to see the show. The crowd was a mixture of aging hippies, farmers, business people and Vermont “folk”. I was seated in back of the handicapped section and I wondered what the elderly woman was doing during Havens’ famous performance on Max Yasgur’s farm. Something told me that she would have had more in common with the New York dairy farmer than the young African American folkie from Brooklyn. But never the less here we all were – 40 years later. Havens came on stage with a very proficient accompanist Walter Parks – Havens provided the voice and percussive strumming while Parks gave the perfect solos and fill. Havens, at 68, is a towering bald presence with a grey beard which rests gently over his African or Indian tunic – he wore a brown version in ’69. Despite this sounding scruffy and exotic the whole outfit fits him as a grand presence – someone you would take note of in public as being dignified and important. You would never notice his stage partner. Parks, a quiet white hipster, is technically brilliant but there is no mistaking the main attraction – akin to Maury Muehleisen's performances with Jim Croce…. Walter knows that everyone is there to see Richie no matter how much guitar pyrotechnics he performs – but he also is aware that Richie appreciates his ability and doesn’t see him as anything less than himself. I read nothing about these two together – their relationship is revealed in the duets and body language. There is an easy effortlessness to their interactions, which speaks of something more than professionalism amongst colleagues – more akin to master craftsmen at their trade.

That voice. If you read the transcripts of Havens stage patter it would seem incoherent, random and rambling. It might be all those things but the delivery converts the banter into a soothing, restful parable. The stories are disjointed but they seem to rest on the idea that Mr. Havens is celebrating every moment of life and his warm exuberance is all encompassing. There were stories about children, his family, other folkies, aging, dying, living – but all incorporated in the warm fabric of his voice. One has the temptation of leaning back and closing your eyes – not in boredom – just a restful respite. The stage talk fits in with the music. Havens’ strong rumbling guitar has two modes: preaching “truth to power” or caressing like a lover. He can alternate moods with a flick of the wrist – unlike most popular entertainers, he has been at this for a lifetime. Walter is in the background giving the right chord or solo. His consummate studied approach blends perfectly with Haven’s strange thumb figuring bar chords (most players use the pointer finger) and quasi-slide approach to positioning the instrument on his lap – he has BOTH an upper and lower fret-board surrounding the guitar’s sound hole as he frantically strums at a 45 degree angle. The combo is a visual representation of the importance of formal training and street smarts – the sound has an exhilarating cry that has a heart in addition to a head.

Mr. Havens quietly smiles; unlike at Woodstock he now has teeth. He looks out into an audience of cold, very uncool, rural white Vermonters and says: “I’m happy to be here. At this point I’m happy to be anywhere. And we (referring to Walter as well) know that if you weren’t there. We wouldn’t be here”. Within seconds everyone is one their feet cheering on the bearded man with the weird guitar. You might not know what he means – but he means it. In these troubled times it is easy to look back at the sixties’ idealism with scorn. Mr. Havens gentle, firm resilience stands as an answer to Elvis Costello’s song-question “What’s so funny ‘bout peace love and understanding?” The contemporary Mr. Dylan might say “Maybe peace, love and understanding are silly”. Mr. Havens, however, holds firm. When he greets you by saying “peace” you know, as everyone did in Barre, that he really means it.

Harvey Milk (2009)

Milktoast Heroes

My grandmother was born when women were forbidden to vote. I was born when African Americans were legally segregated and exploited. I was a seven years old when the gay community put its foot down at Stonewall. As a middle-aged American I can say, borrowing the tag line from the first smokes broadly marketed to young women: “You’ve come a long way, baby”. Harvey Milk is a name most likely remembered by the same people who can recall “Virginia Slims” cigarettes. It’s unfortunate that Mr. Milk has fallen into obscurity. My theory is that the timing of his assassination unfortunately coincided with one of the most disquieting events in 20th Century American history. Milk was murdered on Nov. 27th 1978. Jim Jones orchestrated the Jonestown massacre on Nov. 18 the same year. To give you an idea the impact the mass suicide had on the news cycle I would note that the Dec. 4 issue of Newsweek featured a cover “special report” on “the cult of death”. Harvey was being pushed out of history before his ashes were scattered.

There is much carping about matching the struggle of the gay rights movement with the battles of the mainstream civil rights advocates. A cursory viewing of the actual black and white film footage of police raids on gay bars, which appears during the opening credits of the feature film “MILK” should put to rest any notion that this movement lacked legitimacy. The pathos of these images is strong enough that only the most hardened bigot would fail to see the inhumanity. There is no doubt that Mr. Milk should be placed alongside Malcolm X and other easily recognizable martyrs for human rights. Mr. Van Sant made the film to correct the record and give Harvey is rightful place in the mainstream collective consciousness of good men fighting for a good cause. Unfortunately the film shares the fate of Spike Lee’s bio-pic “X” in that strong performances cannot overcome poor direction and bad writing.

The paradigm American hero is George Washington, a man very, very aware of his place in history. I doubt there are any schoolchildren familiar with the red haired founding father who had no biological children and owed his wealth and standing to marrying a widow. This does not detract from Washington’s accomplishments but it does give a human touch to a personage who coolly gazes up from the one dollar bills (maybe it was the laudanum – you didn’t know?). Young America, still somewhat awed by European aristocracy, adopted the notion that national heroes need to be heroic beyond their recognized accomplishments. “The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin” is chock-a-block with advice on frugality, humility, hard work, honesty… even tips on bathing… Is it any wonder that a century and half latter two young American boys from immigrant families would create the culmination of the George Washington ideal: SUPERMAN. It is unfortunate that Truth, Justice and the American Way gives us little humanity in our pantheon of national heroes. MLK has become tepid… no room for his attitudes regarding economic egalitarianism, his family difficulties or his short-comings as a scholar…. Once again the truth of MLK’s doesn’t detract from his greatness – in fact I would argue the opposite. Just as the lies Samuel L. Jackson repeated in the pre-inauguration ceremony about Rosa Park’s ordinariness take away from this daring activists role as the spark that ignited the conscious of a nation. She certainly did get on the bus to get arrested AND I SAY BRAVO!

Who was Harvey Milk? I’m sure of few things in life but one of them is that he wasn’t the selfless, affable, earnest, edgeless do-gooder depicted in Mr. Van Sant’s work; despite Sean Penn’s efforts. How could he be? The last person I saw who resembled that person was the leading character in the original production of Godspell. There are hints of something more human in the storyline: the failed relationships, the lover’s suicide, the unbridled ambition and, most interestingly, the taped recording “to be played if I am assassinated”. Now here is someone who possesses our Founding Father’s sense of scripting a place in history. His ability to swap a pony-tale for a three piece suit also gave a hint at something darker – it is difficult in the early 21st century to convey the significance of trimming the locks (see David Crosby’s song “Almost Cut My Hair”). It raises an interesting question about degree of compromising involved in winning. The other aspect, glossed over in the film, was Milk’s war on “being closeted”. I don’t know if Harvey actually “outed” someone without their permission but once again the significance of his stance was pummeled over in the TV movie sensibility of keeping our hero on his journey to martyrdom.

In terms of the writing and direction the closing scene post Harvey’s demise sums up the effort: two of his close aids arrive at a city hall remembrance ceremony soon after the assassinations. It is in the foyer of the solemn marble building and it is sparsely attended - one turns to the other "Doesn't anyone care?" - they leave in disgust..... They walk outside and "discover” a candle-lit parade of 30,000 crying mourners. Guess they missed everyone on the way in? Didn’t hear about the march? I don’t remember the scenes where these two aides were cut out of the loop; ditto from them suffering from severe visual or audio impairment. But I guess that’s “artistic license” – just like the stop action of Harvey locking eyes with the poster of Verde Opera woman as he falls (it was soon over after the fat lady sang). The mainstream stereotype of the gay community is a group obsessed with fashion and style. Mainstream television shamelessly plays on this notion in “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy”. It is weird and ironic that “Milk” is so, well, “straight”. This is blandest most mainstream production of an alternative lifestyle you will ever experience (actually there is the movie “Philiadephia”). It is as if the Walt Disney company created a theme park called Queerworld. In short the film was too “straight”.

Aside of the artistic camp there was a more insidious side to the Milk show. The producers decided that they didn’t want to associate the film with the Prop 8 anti-Gay marriage proposal that was circulating in CA at the time of the film’s scheduled release. This was a conscious decision and had nothing to do with production issues. The irony here is that, if one is to believe the film (a dubious choice) the crowning achievement of Milk’s career was his leading the DEFEAT of the anti-Gay workplace proposition brought forth by Anita Byrant. The director noted in an interview “Harvey would have opened it in October”. Well we can hope the producers had some sort of strategy in mind that didn’t involved soft-peddling the very principles of the principle. Maybe they figured if Prop 8 won the film would garner an even larger stage – Sean Penn will win best actor and I’ve no doubt that the film will garner more statues than the competition. It looks like the plan, if that’s what it was, is working. Maybe it’s a tribute to Harvey’s pragmatic side – let’s not consider the alternative.

The Dark Knight (2008)

Our Dark Knight

“The Dark Knight”, the newest Batman film, broke box office records this weekend. The tragic death of Heath Ledger months prior to the opening certainly spawned a certain morbid curiosity regarding the film. Images of Ledger’s Joker appeared on the Net within days of his demise. It was more than a publicity ploy – Ledger is the movie. The film revolves around the not so merry prankster. It’s worth the price of admission but one can’t help feeling some regrets that this Swan Song wasn’t set in a different pond. I’m not referring to the fact that this Gotham is Chicago – even if they’d done it right by using the Big Apple, the flaws are more than geographic.

It’s all very slick. There are marvelous supporting actors (Morgan Freeman, Michael Cain…) and the modernist slant on Gotham and the Bat-cave were ingenious. No cramped quarters amidst Depression era squalor – we’re in an endless sea of Seagram’s buildings – this Batman lives in Architectural Digest. It works. The props were equally impressive – loved the Mad Maxish cycle and the up-armored Hummer Bat-mobile. And lets not forget the make-up & costumes. This Joker is a homage to Clockwork Orange and PT Barnum; the caped crusader is GQ cool in-and-out of his cowl – couldn’t get enough of that endless wind-flapping curtain-like cape. Unfortunately the writers had too much wind and the director seemed to blow in the breeze of FX fun. The mechanics overwhelmed the driver.

There is talk about this being a meditation on our current regrettable political state. The dramatic team comes out on the side of the rule of law vs. the rule of order. Having just seen “Batman Begins” they still are on the side of Dirty Harry in “Magnum Force” and not Dirty Harry in “Dirty Harry”. Well unfortunately they didn’t quite strike the meditative balance of Fritz Lang’s “M”. The bottom line is the sermon must fit within the dramatic framework. In this case too much weight was laid on a cumbersome love triangle. It wasn’t the actors’ fault, Batman, the DA and the Assistant DA all hit their marks – but you can’t do ballet when the band is playing a polka. Did you believe anyone was smitten with anyone? Once again they all gave it their best shot – but this Love Boat never left the harbor.

Maybe I’m being abit hard – hey what’s wrong with a slick production that tries to rise above the fray and actually say something. Well good intentions can only go so far and this political season I’ll reserve my “Yes We Can” feel good spirit for real politics. Let comic books be… well comic books. Villains need to cackle and good guys need to muster the forces of righteousness just in time to save the lady tied to the saw-mill. The righteousness arrived, albeit it was a busy last half hour. There was plenty of cackling and Ledger’s last performance was indeed memorable – although I really think John Malkovitch nailed this sort of character in “In the Line of Fire”. But at least Ledger wasn’t burdened with being one of the sides of that triangle. Alas he was forced to showcase the writer’s unfortunate habit of giving lines to the character that should have remained director’s notes. I think the Joker is everything he said he was but I don’t think he would have said he was. It’s the same problem Hannibal Lector had in the sequel to “Silence of the Lambs”. In the first film he was Hannibal but in “Hannibal” he was the idea of Hannibal. That film was ingenious, clever, well researched but intellectual summersaults are for the brain and not the heart. Same goes for “The Dark Knight”: We needed more of the dashing DA metamorphosing into the Portrait of Dorian Gray. It’s absurd. It’s over the top. But… it worked. Kudos to Aaron Eckhart; a lesser actor might not have understood how much ham to put in the sandwich. Gary Oldman was equally impressive as the battled hardened cop exhibiting the importance of being earnest. Yes they’re campy but hey THIS IS A COMIC BOOK… women really faint and yes the villain always blink their eyes…. Let’s not discuss motivation or make incisive commentary about current events.

Once again I’m being picky. Lay your $7.50 (or more) down, sit back and look for the signal of the bat in the sky. He’ll come. He’s everything a 21st century batman should be. Morgan Freeman channels James Bond’s Q and delivers enough jabber about the technical side of the Bat-gizmos to make any child of the Wacky Pack generation think: well they probably have stuff like that for Special Forces… More importantly he’s what we crave in W’s second term: a rich. Handsome, corporate tycoon, void of arrogance, saddled with doubt, wrestling with his social conscience and channeling everything into a magic machine to crush the evil doers. It’s enough to make you believe in a smart, good looking, ambitious Chicago politician who doesn’t believe in politics.

Juno (2008)

Inconceivable

The hot independent film this year is “Juno”, a comedy about teenage pregnancy. It is possible to humorously dramatize hot button material. It requires diplomatic sensitivity in drawing the fine line of propriety. Cutting edge comedy often bleeds rather than tickles. In this case it was simply repellent. It is interesting to note that “4 months, 3 weeks and 2 days”, this year’s critically acclaimed Romanian film, is also a comedy centered on an unwanted pregnancy. I haven’t seen it. I’ve heard good things. Unfortunately after all the kudos about "Juno" I couldn't make it through the second half.

This film is not funny. The bun-holder is smug, starlet who’s slumming it as a blue collar outcast. I sense in real-life she’s the kind of red-carpet strutter who chews threw personal assistants like M&Ms. No doubt she’ll be successful – at least for 15 minutes – but that might be enough to put some green under the mattress. The unfunniness is credited to one Diablo Cody. In this case your Sunday school teacher was right at least as far as the Devil’s abilities as a writer are concerned. The director, Jason Reitman, keeps the show on the road in a TVish linear storyline way. The main question: was this merely a gig or did he actually think this was funny? I had heard good things about “Thank You For Smoking” but then again word of mouth this one was strong. I guess since I haven’t been much of a devil’s advocate I should charge him as a co-conspirator in Ms. Cody’s preguation comedy. Getting into the details of their crime would be the equivalent of critiquing the opening sequence of "Threes Company" or analyzing Pat Sajack's interview techniques. Do most young teenage girls joke around with the Deli-man about their predicament after "failing" the pregnancy test in public bathroom? HA HA HA - the laughs are just starting everybody - we're only two minutes past the opening credits.

Maybe my funny bone is broken but I would advise all "Juno" fans to view the following: “Citizen Ruth” as how to handle unwanted pregnancy in a clever manner; and “Ghostworld” as a brilliant portrait of young female outsiderness. There have been people saying this is another “Little Miss Sunshine”. No. That was a well executed road film with sympathetic characters. They were genuine American Family odd-balls, the filmic descendants of “Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore”. “Juno” has its stylistic roots in forgettable "issue oriented" TV movies – I remember one that brought up the scourge of husbands who are physically abused by their wives. I had a deep belly laugh the whole two hours – unlike my experience in “Juno”. It takes a fair about of mediocrity to force me to abandon the warm movie theater at the hight of a New England Winter before the closing credits. It was inconceivable. In the end: the Diablo made me do it.

There Will Be Blood (2007)

Stealing the Show

The American Woodsman is interested in nothing. Any notion of sensitivity is foreign to him. Those boughs so elegantly sprouted by nature, the fine foliage, the bright color that enlivens a part of the forest, the deeper green that darkens another part – all this means nothing to him. He has no memories to call upon in any particular place. His only thought is for the number of ax-strokes required to chop down a tree. He has never planted anything; he does not know such pleasures. Any tree he might plant is worthless to him, because he will never see it sufficiently large to be chopped down. Destruction is what keeps him alive. Destruction is everywhere; hence every place suits him. He cares nothing for the field where he has done his work, because his work is only toil and no idea of sweetness is associated with it. What emerges from his hands does not pass through all the stages of growth that so touch the farmer’s heart. He does not follow the destiny of his products. He does not know the pleasure of new ventures. And so long as he does not forget to take his ax with him he has no regrets about leaving the spot he has dwelled in for years.

-Talleyrand, Memoirs on the Commercial relations between the United States and England, April 4, 1797

Last night I saw Paul Thomas Anderson’s “There Will Be Blood” – a searing character study of an early 20th century oil entrepreneur. This morning I read the cover story of the NYT business section regarding the feud between Maurice Greenberg, the creator of the world’s largest insurance company, and his heir apparent. It seems that the protagonist is alive and well. This is not a criticism of Mr. Greenberg so much as a compliment to Mr. Anderson’s prescience in telling this story at this time. Americans prefer to think of themselves as optimistic do-gooders and we extend this veneer to business. Our Gospel is simple: capitalism is the bulwark against evil. It is ironic that our patron saint, George Washington, a formidable real-estate entrepreneur who had the good sense to marry a wealthy widow, fails to be honored for his business acumen. There is something about maximizing profit. Even the most ardent pious patriot knows that this preoccupation bears a resemblance to the pursuit of forbidden fruit. We watch television shows about doctors, lawyers and policeman who strive for truth justice and the American way. Imagine a drama featuring bankers, stockbrokers and entrepreneurs? Our heroes might lose their luster discussing a cost benefit analysis of the latest baby-food. How about a frank talk about the pay-day loan business? (Maybe an episode where the bosses target young soldiers going off to war?) I had a friend who worked for a used car dealer. He saw his mentor sell a worthless car to an elderly customer. The novice pressed his elder about the transaction. The boss sagely quoted scripture that extolled the virtues of Eve’s friend from the tree: “Be as wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove” (Matthew 10:16). Our good book is focused on the “bottom line”. No doubt our first President took this to heart. His first job was as a surveyor. Washington was virtuous but he also knew that the pie needed to be divided.

Anderson’s anti-hero is the embodiment of the division that is in America’s blood. Daniel Plainview divides things: earth from oil, families from themselves and his share from everyone else’s. This film is based on the early 20th century writer Upton Sinclair’s “Oil”. Sinclair is better known for his, literally gut-wrenching expose of the meat packing industry (“The Jungle”). I haven’t read “Oil” but given the film I’d say Plainview would have been equally at home selling adulterated cows to orphans. Audiences might not be able to stomach him as a weekly series (although we did have J.R. Hewing) but as a special feature – he’s a treat to watch. This film is really the Daniel Day Lewis show. Without doubt this is one of the best films in awhile but given Mr. Anderson’s previous work (Hard 8, Boogie Nights, Magnolia) I am holding him to a higher standard. The director is, in contrast to his star, out of top form. There are glimmers of brilliance. The scene in which Plainview’s son confronts him after being exiled is magnificently executed in a long shot. Ditto for the staging of Plainview’s fake conversion. The choice of having him confront the preacher out of ear-shot prior to returning to the pews is equally masterful. But the overall effect is Lewis’ star burning amongst set-piece performances, startling under-drawn foil characters and a drab unmusical background.

Mr. Anderson has a track record that showcases a wonderful ability to manage a parade of virtuoso performances in poignant, carefully sculpted American landscapes. In “Blood for Oil” he seems to have lost himself in Mr. Lewis. It’s understandable. This is one of the great film performances of all time. Given Mr. Anderson’s writing/directing, credit must be due. However there is strong imbalance to the work as a whole. On paper this is a film contrasting Mr. Plainfield with a host of luminaries with a distinctly American flavor. There is the distant looming “big oil” – the free market entrepreneurs who are further down the road to salvation. There is the vain preacher and his foolish flock – on the wrong road – they could be plucked from an unpublished Mark Twain story. There is beloved/hateful son who rises from silent shadows of the sins of the father. Yet Anderson, like his protagonist, has a myopic fatalism. If Plainfield’s downfall is “oil”; Anderson’s is Plainfield himself. This sounds strange. How could a tour de force performance undermine a film? The problem lies in Plainfield being framed by his surroundings. It has been said that “no man is an island” – well the same holds true for actors. The LA milieu of “Boogie Nights” or “Magnolia” stands in stark contrast to the dreary bleakness of Plainfield’s world. The sounding of an artistic portrait should never be mistaken for the note it is trying to strike. The director’s job is to bring majesty to the grimness. Lewis gloriously renders hard-nosed, bitter, striving desperation. Anderson thought that was enough. His previous work gives us WORLDS of appalling desperadoes; not simply one single individual. “There Will be Blood” gives us the jewel of Mr. Lewis’ performance in a cardboard box. With the exception of his young son the secondary cast was forgettable. The portrayal of the landscape was equally mediocre – contrast to the “Days of Heaven”. There was equally a surprising lack of music. How about a Woody Guthrie dust bowl ballad from 1937:

Oh, if you ain't got the do re mi, folks, you ain't got the do re mi,
Why, you better go back to beautiful Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Georgia, Tennessee.
California is a garden of Eden, a paradise to live in or see;
But believe it or not, you won't find it so hot
If you ain't got the do re mi.

Although thematically perfect it is chronologically inaccurate. I’m sure a clever musicologist could find a period appropriate ballad echoing the themes of the film. But Mr. Anderson wasn’t looking. Perhaps he thought it might cloud the hardscrabbleness. Mr. Lewis sure makes up for all the shortcomings. He struck a gusher. I’m just disappointed Anderson wasn’t able to cap it. I listened to Anderson speak about the choice of subject matter. He wanted to make a political statement that was so profound as to rise above politics. Unfortunately people will savor Lewis’ dazzling virtuosity and not the implications of the story. The proof is in the pudding. In the New York Times piece about the bitter, vicious internecine struggle over the fate of Mr. Greenberg’s AIG insurance company – the reporter made reference to Greek Tragedy; but not Anderson’s work. That’s the real tragedy of “There Will Be Blood”.

No Country for Old Men (2007)

Beep, Beep

Imagine you’re invited to a gourmet’s Thanksgiving Dinner. This person can cook. You’ve previously experienced their meals. It’s maybe not to your liking at times but there’s no doubt this person is a foodie. They know their stuff. The spread is laid and you’ve sampled some sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce – so far so good. The cook comes out with the central attraction and starts carving. You can’t wait. Instead of serving up the bird the chef delivers a soliloquy about how Thanksgiving has changed. People don’t cook the way they used to… the holiday is too commercial… they’ve forgotten the meaning… You know the speech. You patiently wait through all the talk in anticipation of the feast. The cook/host abruptly ends the heartfelt blabber and takes the bird back into the kitchen… never to return. This is how I felt watching the Coen brothers’ “No Country for Old Men”.

Cormac McCarthy chronicles the Southwest in the same spare sympathetic yet unsentimental way Springsteen paints New Jersey. The desolate landscape is peopled with beaten souls who have heart. “All the Pretty Horses”, part one of the border trilogy, purposely disposed of apostrophes as if quotes someone seemed pretentious in a book about broke cowboys and broken horses. It was a very exciting prospect: the sparse “down and dirty” writing combining with the smart craftsmanship of Joel and Ethan. I was looking forward to this as I’d heard that the brothers were returning to the roots of their debut film.

I remember the buzz about “Blood Simple”. The boys made a big splash with a very tightly crafted slick film noir thriller. There was enough dazzle to show Hollywood they could play ball balanced with a smartness that kept the black-clad urban sophisticates inline. I remember hearing “They went to Princeton”. Half true – one of them did. But the real issue is that they did their homework. “Barton Fink” was a meditation on what sparks a writer’s ideas (or doesn’t). It was well crafted with all aspects of the production fueling the angst of creation. The choice of the Hollywood screenwriter was balanced with references to real events… It was clever, popular, well received and I couldn’t stand it. I thought it was a bore. BUT I’d never say it wasn’t well done. Hats off to any director who is able to tame the mainstream movie making behemoth to bow to his wishes. These brothers have kept it up for decades and have a body of work that stands up.

Ironically “Blood Simple” was, after all these years, my favorite. For me that film highlighted the brothers’ ability riff on the motion of filmmaking. Little moments. Beads of sweat telling stories. A flash of stark headlights illuminating what might take a pulp writer ten pages to describe. Coen brothers’ have the ability to dance as well. Think of “Raising Arizona” or the “Hudsucker Proxy” – the frenetic movement gliding through scenes… “No Country for Old Men” had an auspicious start born of pure simplicity: who has the goods? It might be hard to build an interesting novel on such a simple idea. Novels have a need for endless subplots and ruminations – even Cormac McCarthy’s. Films can meditate and ferment on even the most threadbare storylines. When this film focused on the simple chase it worked. The brothers’ should have remembered the lesson from another dramatic figure who roamed the Southwest: “Roadrunner”- he was never allowed to leave the road. If he could roam anywhere – how could Wile E. Coyote lay traps? In this case the roadrunner starts drifting and Wile E. Coyote starts talking. The novel’s dramatic anchor was most likely the Tommy Lee Jones’ character. The crux of his struggle was his perceived loss of the utopian world. The film is chalk full of Tommy reminiscing about the good ole days. Maybe the radical historian Howard Zinn should have stepped and explained that the reason those old guys never carried any guns: their father’s had already done the dirty work – there were no more Mexicans and Indians left to kill. Or maybe an anthropologist could have stepped in and discussed the destruction of the Anasazi people and the controversy over suspected cannibalism in the centuries before the European. No Tommy it wasn’t all that pretty way back when, but more to the point – who cares?

You don’t go to see a Coen brothers’ film for enlightenment – its about entertainment. Where was the humor of “The Big Lebowski” or “Fargo”? There were brief moments when Tommy and his dummy deputy almost had something going – but I guess Tommy figured “this is serious business”. It’s too bad. What about Woody? Not that one – Woody Harrelson. He looks promising as a super cool bad boy – but he makes an early-unexpected exit – sort of inline with the rest of the film’s dramatic movement. The directors’ exhibit the uneasiness of treating McCarthy’s book as merely an action film by showing the aftermath of great battles. Even one of the central protagonist’s demise is treated as a after-thought. We view the deed already done as if to say – this movie is about more important things. Well, the book might have been. The film begged for less talk and more suitcase shuffling or pitched pick-up battles. Someone should have told Tommy Lee that he wasn’t the center of the pizza. That honor goes to Javier Bardem. If there is any definitive winner in this project it is former Rugby player/journeyman actor from Spain. This is a mainstream breakthrough role that will get him out of the art-houses and into the multiplexes. Bardem limits the philosophy to a coin toss and a glare from his Picasso eyes. It’s all you need. He’s funny-terrifying and speaks to the Coen brothers weird melding of the off-beat and mainstream. He’s could be in a Scorsese film or Friday 13. If only the Coen brothers could have understood that the book should have been a springboard for a chase movie. It’s not as glamorous as being deep but filmically, their ain’t no water in the desert.

What’s wrong with simplicity? Remember Blood SIMPLE. No one is ever tired of watching Road Runner. Keep it on the road. Who has the money? Who gonna get it? Keep them guessing. Keep them on the road. People come to a Coen brothers film for ride, a smile and maybe a gasp. Leave the brooding at Antonioni’s “Zabriskie Point” or Wim Wender’s “Paris Texas”. It’s like Thanksgiving. They may have served eagles and eels at the original meal – but that’s for historians. People want the turkey – trust me.