The Age of Innocence (1993)

The Age of Slumber

   
   
     The paradigm Martin Scorsese fiction film is a beautifully stylized work which features violent, street-wise New York life. (e.g. Mean Streets, Raging Bull, Taxi Driver and Goodfellas). He has strayed from this motif with varied results. Certainly Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore was artistically successful. After Hours, The Color of Money and Cape Fear were plagued with problems. New York, New York, The King of Comedy and The Last Temptation of Christ were problems. Mr. Scorsese has, once again, trained his eye on New York. This time it is the genteel upper class world of the 19th century. Choosing to adapt Edith Wharton's The Age of Innocence is his most radical thematic departure since he told the story of Christ. One could argue this is even more bold because of the lack of violence.

    Edith Wharton writes about the duplicity of polite society. The central protagonist in her novel is a young lawyer who knows the rules. His professional insights are not as significant as his social prowess. He knows how to play the game outside of the office. He lives in a world of men to whom work is merely a sport. They are beyond caring about money. The huddled masses are light years away. In this framework his social skills are survival tools which he has mastered. No gesture goes unregistered. No slight unnoticed. This young man falls victim to the velvet glove brutality he is expert at overcoming. Mr. Scorsese movie is about props (i.e. white gloves, waistcoats, earrings, ball gowns, cigar cutters, oil paintings and food and food and food…) and customs (i.e.greetings, bows, table arrangements, dances, music, expressions…). Mr. Scorsese deserves credit for the research. The homework must have been exhausting. He realistically re-created the ethos of 19th century New York. The task at hand, however, was to translate Ms. Wharton's words to the screen. Mr. Scorsese forgot the assignment and he became a filmic Liberace: everything was showy but nothing was in context. The scenery cannibalized the scene. The performers and the thrust of Ms. Wharton's novel lingered in the background. Appearances are everything in fashion but fiction features require more than a facade.

    It is hard to imagine that the same director who devised the brilliant narration of Goodfellas could allow the intrusive voice over which permeates The Age of Innocence. Mr. Scorsese was meant to bring life to Ms. Wharton's words. Instead he chose to have them read by Joanne Woodward. Ms. Woodward can read. Ms. Wharton can write. Mr. Scorsese should have directed. The narration indicates countless emotions which needed to be enacted. A small example is a moment when the Countess crosses the room to talk to the protagonist. As she walks towards him the narration dutifully indicates she is committing a social faux-pas. This might seem trivial but it underscores the central flaw in the film. It would be difficult to discern that any grievance had occurred by simply watching the action. Mr. Scorsese seems to believe that since these people were discreet and subtle there is no way to convey the sense of the scene without Ms. Woodward's play-by-play. Since the crux of the novel hinges on the delicate balance between societal perceptions of events vs. the actual reality of what is occurring, this choice is fatal. It leads to Ms. Woodward's intrusive explanations of what all the protagonists are feeling in the course of the climatic final dinner party. It begs the question: if Ms. Woodward reading of the words is such an integral part of understanding the film why not simply read Ms. Wharton's book?

    Other movies have demonstrated that it is possible to portray the sub-text of a scene without resorting to the vulgar use of voice-over. John Huston's The Dead, based on the James Joyce's short story, is a case in point. This film also contains a dinner party in which people are interacting on a myriad of levels. The scene shows the party and yet it told many other stories. It lacked narration. Including it would have been a needless intrusion. The director worked with the performers and created an ensemble piece which clearly delineated the sub-text. This dinner party enacted the reality of Mr. Joyce's words. Mr. Scorsese chose to indicate what was occurring in Ms. Wharton's book. Adding insult to injury was the choice of Ms. Woodward as narrator. She is a talented reader but the story is told from a man's point of view. It is true that Ms. Wharton was a woman but the sex of the author is irrelevant when compared to the gender of the central protagonist. The all-knowing female voice was a peculiar distraction in interpreting the thoughts of the young man. It became yet another reason to disregard first hand perceptions of events presented and focus on what the omnipresent narrator was instructing the audience to feel.

    The central performers added to the need to seek outside opinions in determining the nature of the film. All three leading players were flawed. Michelle Pfeiffer is an American born European Countess who feels alienated upon returning home after many years. Unfortunately those many years in Europe failed to leave any residue. Ms. Pfeiffer seemed more American than Daniel Day Lewis, the supposedly All-American exemplar of old world New York. Mirages of modern day California appeared whenever she uttered a word. The combination of the two was awkward and unconvincing from the moment they met at the theater during opening sequence. She boldly holds out her hand for him to kiss and he merely shakes it. Is he trying to instruct her on American etiquette? Is he re-kindling a past romance?  Is he suddenly struck by cupid's arrow? It is difficult to know. This confusion only increased as the film progressed. Was he dutifully supporting his wife or was he willfully a part of the world which conspired against his true love? In the end is he a pathetic weakling who was duped into remaining married or a man upholding tradition as a religion? Mr. Lewis's sphinxlike performance leaves no clues. He and Ms. Pfeiffer are talented performers who exhibit many skillfully executed moments of passion/hate/warmth/love. Neither, however, could convince an audience that they were together in spirit. These were two mis-cast virtuosos not a desperate love-struck couple. The third part was the most challenging. It required a ingenious blending of callow innocence and ruthless cunning. Winona Ryder was not up to the task. She wallowed in the basics. She never reached beyond mastering the manner of the age. In a sense she embodied Scorsese whole approach to the novel. A true rendering of Ms. Wharton's complex antagonist required more than speaking without contractions and handling the props properly. An audience must know that this smiling waif has the will and cunning to massacre the innocents. Ms. Ryder only proved that she could recite her lines with a minimum degree of unpleasantness. 

    Mr. Scorsese had the same ill-luck with the implementation of special effects. Raging Bull and Goodfellas take full advantage of the film medium. The fades, freeze frames, tints, colors, shading, dissolves, textures, framing, sound… all worked beautifully in rendering the stories. The special effects in The Age of Innocence were self-conscious distractions. A notable example would be Daniel Day Lewis's entrance into the ballroom. The camera was placed on a steady-cam and swirled hysterically over all the lavishness as Mr. Lewis mingled with the guests and Mrs. Woodward's droned on explaining the action. It was as if Mr. Scorsese felt the endless photographic roamings over all the extravagance would shed light on Mr. Lewis's disposition. Compare this to Ray Liota's arrival at the Coppa Cabana in Goodfellas. Here is essentially the same scene, the initial moments of an important social function rendered with the use of a steady-cam.  Mr. Loita's entrance, however, told the audience his relationship to that world: the endless stream of people greeting him and clamoring to shake his hand while knowing his first name… The steady-cam gave the sense of excitement and power to his movement thus re-enforcing the underlying thrust of the scene. Mr. Lewis' arrival, on the other hand, only told the audience that the host for the evenings entertainment had expensive taste in art and a large exquisitely furnished house. Little of Lewis's standing or attitude could be gleaned from the entrance. The same lack of artistry was shown in the vignetting and highlighting of characters in the midst of important discussions. When Mr. Lewis seeks out Ms. Pfeiffer at the opera they are magically highlighted and all the other voices are silenced. By separating them from the rest of the crowd, i.e. the society, Scorsese fights the central focus of the novel which is how society digests their clandestine love. Their struggle would be better served if the couple was placed in the midst of the group where they would be forced to show the nature of the conflict. The ramifications of the consequences of their actions would be better understood. It is not their love which is intriguing but how the society reacts to it. Society must be given equal weight (e.g. Huston's The Dead). Separating and highlighting, by whatever means, should never have been employed in the telling of this story. The other two techniques which were used, fading to primary colors and presenting mini-montages (e.g. when people responded by letter declining the party), seemed contrived. There were a few moments when Mr. Scorsese showed that he possesses a master's control of the medium (e.g. the camera choreography and editing in the opening scene) but these were pearls in a very, very large desert.

    This is a long, long movie by someone who must know better. What is behind this behemoth? There are rumors that Mr. Scorsese has been incensed by his perennial snubbing by the geniuses at the Academy. The success of the Merchant Ivory formula must have hit home. Ironically the thinking is  sound. He might walk away with a best-director trophy for one of his worst films. Elite societies reward those who play by its rules. Certainly Edith Wharton knew that to be true. It would be curious to know if she would applaud or smile wryly if Mr. Scorsese secured the award. Judging by her writing one would have to say the latter.

The Remains of the Day (1993)

The Remains of the Book
   
   
James Ivory has made a career producing films with a well-made play sensibility (e.g. The Bostonians, Room with a View, Heat and Dust, Mr and Mrs. Bridge). The only thing missing is Allistair Cooke giving a re-assuring introduction while sitting by the fire in his den. Mr. Ivory does go out on a limb now and then (i.e. Slaves of New York, Maurice*) but he seems most at home with a mannered drama cast with wealthy people of other eras facing upper class problems. It is natural that Mr. Ivory would gravitate to Kazuo Ishiguro's magnificent novel The Remains of the Day. Although this a contemporary work written by a young writer the central character is an elderly English butler in the twilight of his career which spanned from pre World War I through the 1950s.

Mr.Ishiguro's background sheds light the spirit of the story. He is a native of Japan but moved to England at an early age. The central character embodies an English sense of propriety and etiquette with a Japanese ethos of duty and honor. Mr. Ishiguro's Mr.Stevens approaches his work with a zealot's fervor. His mission in life is to be a truly great butler. His days are spent honing his skills and meditating on what qualities define "greatness". This goes beyond any notions of popular recognition. Mr. Steven's standards are not of this world. The closest mortal analogy would be the military. Mr. Stevens' relationship to his Lord resembles that of a dedicated foot soldier to a respected General. The Lord's whims, guests and dinners become the battle itself. It is not surprising than that Mr. Stevens refers to taking a position at any level of his profession as "being in service". Mr. Ishiguro structures this seemingly esoteric story brilliantly. The reader is draw into Mr. Steven's mind and becomes enthralled by his Weltanschauung. The book is the story of a man confronting his god and becoming an atheist. Unfortunately Mr. Ivory's movie concerns a man pursuing an old romance out of a sense of missed opportunity.

On the surface Mr. Ivory has been faithful to Mr. Ishiguro's text. The essential plot elements remain intact. The adjustments are minor and in many cases work to give the story a more concise framework. The movie melds the diplomat who criticizes Lord Darlington's pro-German positions with the American who purchases the estate after his death. This works well save the regrettable choice of Christopher Reeves (A brilliant Superman but this role required someone with a larger emotional palette). Mr. Stevens father is employed in the house as a replacement for a wayward footman who is struck by cupid's arrow. Introducing the father in this way helps build the romantic tension between the young Mr. Stevens and Miss Kenton and it also reinforces the sense of isolation with those who remain "in service". The scene in which the young Mr. Stevens demotes his father is another improvement on Mr. Ishiguro's original story. This confrontation ironically paints Stevens the younger as a man of compassion despite his clipped words, stoic manner and harsh deeds.

There were two changes which were less successful. These alterations are seemingly minor but they speak to a significant difference in Mr. Ivory's approach to the character of Stevens. The country Doctor in Mr. Ishiguro's narrative is an idealist turned pragmatist. The socialist dreams which he nurtured in his privileged youth have long since faded into the mundane tasks involved in being a rural practitioner. Although there are tinges of regret about a life spent amongst the rustics he seems to have accepted his role in life. It is a interesting parallel to Mr. Stevens who is on the verge of assessing the fruits of being "in service". Mr. Ivory strips the character of the country doctor to the barest necessities: he is an upper class doctor who is held in high esteem by the locals. His youthful dreams and the attitude about his job are absent. The movie doctor is designed to play a different role. He aggressively questions Mr. Stevens about a career dedicated to the cares of another person. The doctor seems to be nibbling around the edges of: Haven't you wasted your life? This is a vulgar device which undercuts the spirit of Ishiguro's work. Even more disturbing is Mr. Stevens' answer. He replies that he is on a journey to rectify the situation.

The issue is one of awareness. In Mr. Ishiguro's novel Mr. Stevens' trip is undertaken in order to see if Miss Kenton is available "to return to service". It is clear that Mr. Stevens is unwilling to confront the fact that Miss Kenton is the unconsummated love of his life. The idea that Mr. Stevens would comment to a stranger that he is on a journey to turn his life around; (i.e. try to woo back his long lost love) is antithetical to Ishiguro's character. The Mr. Stevens of the novel would be unable to whisper this to himself alone in his own room. This is the beauty of the book. The reader sees what the protagonist cannot. The reader can shift through Mr. Stevens' reactions and grasp the overriding truth. His misconceptions are humorous and his unbending loyalty is admirable. In the end his fate is heartbreaking. After the encounter with Miss Kenton, Mr. Stevens is left a broken man. Although it is likely that Ishiguro's Stevens returns to Darlington Hall the author deliberately ends the book on the beach. His Mr. Stevens is alone on a bench as night falls. He has ceased sobbing and consoles himself by watching groups of people gather on an ocean pier. He muses on the ease with which they interact and attributes the general warmth exhibited to their ability to "banter". He follows this thought with the idea of practicing his bantering skills in order to please the new owner of Darlington Hall. It is a poignant moment of truth. Mr. Ivory ignores this scenario entirely and chooses to add a coda in which Mr. Stevens returns "to service" with the new American owner. There is a strange scene in which Mr. Stevens frees a pigeon which is trapped in one of the central rooms. The film ends with a literal "birds eye view" of the house and the surrounding countryside. This escapist imagery might be meant to highlight Mr. Stevens' predicament. Unfortunately seeing Mr. Stevens back "in service" plays against the thrust of the story. All of the heartfelt subtlety of Mr. Ishiguro's ingenious ending is lost.   

The closing scene illustrates the central challenge to a screen adaptation of this novel. How does a director tackle a story which is essentially inside the head of the protagonist? The beauty of the book lay in reacting to Mr. Stevens' ongoing monologue. Mr. Ivory's choice of highlighting the love interest in lieu of Stevens' ever-present self-scrutiny undermined the heart of the novel. Anthony Hopkins gave an admirable performance as did Emma Thompson. Unfortunately their efforts failed to convey the novel's unworldly sense of dignity. The blame can be laid to Mr. Ivory's misinterpretation of the text. The film is a professional rendering of the exterior of Ishiguro's work. The characters are there. The events are there. The setting is right. The soul is missing. This was a fatal mistake. The Remains of the Day is a story of religion; not love.


*-Maurice is a movie in which homosexuality takes center stage. This is in every sense a conventional James Ivory drama (i.e. a period piece set in the upper echelons of English society handled with bland professionalism). The reactionary social fervor which reigned during the Reagan-Thacter years made this lack-luster production a daring enterprise. Maurice's content should set it apart from the body of Mr. Ivory's work despite its form being identical.

Barcelona (1994)

BORECELONA

   
   
Barcelona is the second film of the American auteur, Whit Stillman. His debut, Metropolitan, showed rich white teenagers facing the travails of the New York debutante world. Although Mr. Stillman has shifted continents little else has changed. It is the same crowd with the same struggles in older buildings. Variations on a theme can be an interesting challenge provided the artist is up to the task. Unfortunately Mr. Stillman proves that film is still without its Edith Wharton.

The conflicts involved in Mr. Stillman's work might better be suited to an Everly Brothers' song rather than a full length feature film. Barcelona's two young American yuppie male protagonists fret over girls in between petty fights and sophomoric philosophizing. These two cousin fail despite Stillman's efforts. There are hints that he intended something grander. The tag-line in the poster reads "Americans and anti-Americans in love". The opening scene features a terrorist bombing of Barcelona's American library and other attacks on U.S. targets. There are endless references to the Cold War and the United States love/hate relationship with Europe. This is prompted by one of the cousins serving as an American Naval Officer. Unfortunately the superfluousness of the central characters undercuts any hint of larger themes. The sailor is a coxcomb and his cousin is a prig. In this context the weighty political debate melds into knit-picky roommate altercations and dull gossip. Comedy might have been the path to success; regrettably Whit doesn't prove very witty. In a basic structural terms he gives us two Felix Ungers; The Odd Couple becomes The Annoying Cousins.

The stiffness of the two cousins mirrored the director's mechanics. It is odd that Mr. Stillman chooses to work in film. One feels the proscenium arch in every one of the laborious vignettes. The voice over cues an establishing shot, the "action" begins till the fade out prompting another voice over… The visual monotony is coupled with dialogue that seems paced by a metronome. Not even the upper class WASP world is this rigid. Given Mr. Stillman's blue blooded aristocratic east side background one would have thought he would have been able to detect the patent falseness. Not surprisingly the natives are even more disappointing. There are a steady stream of second rate American actresses pretending to be Spanish. They are beautiful, bland and thoroughly unconvincing.

In his debut Whit Stillman exhibited an ability to carefully craft a story and fully utilize a setting. Metropolitan was shot on super 16 with a shoe-string budget using borrowed apartments and late night exteriors. It is a case study in how to produce a quality low budget fiction feature. It seems Mr. Stillman left all his Yankee frugality and know-how state-side while in Europe.  The production values in Barcelona matched the acting, directing and writing. Mr. Stillman managed to produce a work of uniform mediocrity. It is an astounding leap backward. There is no doubt that the next Stillman production will focus on young American aristocrats. Let us hope the director re-discovers some of the magic of his first effort. Those "Metropolitan" aristocrats were born in the frugality of Stillman being an unknown first-timer. The "Barcelona" group evolved in the luxurious decadence of Stillman's success. This second feature proves the old adage: money isn't everything. Maybe a few of Whit's characters will learn this lesson as well.      

The River Runs Through It (1992)

The Words Run Through It

   
The written word is king in our culture. Writers are the spokespeople for the intelligentsia. Movie makers are media stars. This may be a sweeping generalization but it will be many years before there is a Nobel Prize for Film. More importantly the assumption that movies are a second rate medium affects how they are made. The River Runs Through It is a paradigm of the stifling ramifications of being overpowered by the written word.  

Norman Maclean is an excellent writer. The River Runs Through It is a magnificent piece of literature. I didn't read the book, I saw it; or to put it more accurately I saw the movie. It was problematic. The acting was strong. The photography was breathtaking. The costumes and scenery were accurate and beautiful. All and all it was very professional. Everyone performed there job with consummate skill. Unfortunately the reason for the failure of the end result can be traced to the belief in books; and conversely the lack of confidence in film.

Voice-over narration is something that is used often but rarely effectively. A strong example of this technique (and ironically another transformation of a novel into a film) can be found in Goodfellas. Scorsese has the central character speak to the audience as a unobtrusive guide. The words convey the events and descriptions which, in turn, propels the images forward. It is a symbiotic relationship. Ray Liota's voice would drop in during transitions or other critical moments as if it were a friendly insider giving the  "inside dope". A "local" giving the tourist-audience the lay of the land. The narration could never stand on it's own. What good is the lay of the land, without the land. The images would suffer a loss also; the land without the lay. In short, Ray Liota's voice-over is an integral part of the telling of the story.

Robert Redford's voice-over in The River Runs Through It is the polar opposite. It is a distraction, despite Maclean's gift as a writer and Mr. Redford's strength as a reader. I might go so far as to say "because of" instead of "despite". Mr. Redford has a distinct voice which any American moviegoer over the age of 10 would recognize immediately. He is, however, visually absent from the screen. This has the effect of drawing the audience away from the images and towards the  that familiar, unmistakable, disembodied voice. The visuals undercut themselves by mimicking the still photo montages which are the hallmark of film-as-slideshow documentaries. (e.g. Ken Burn's The Civil War) This technique might befit an educational presentation whose main objective is to inform. It is ill-suited for dramatic filmmaking whose mission lies in the realm of emotion.  La Jette proved that a riveting story can be told through the use of a series of still pictures. It is therefore the choice of images themselves and not their lack of fluidity which presents the problem. The antique photographs and beautiful landscapes were, in themselves, pleasing and appropriate but they were not specific. Any antique family pictures or beautiful montainscapes would work in buttressing Mr. Redford's reading. This lack specificity carried over into the action.

It is interesting to note that the film's emotional apex, the murder of one of the protagonists, is covered in the narration but ignored visually. This is consistent with the overall short-shrift given to the actors. The central philosophical underpinnings of the film were spoken by Mr. Redford, not performed by the cast. The characters were representational arch-types instead of actual people. The brief moments of levity were provided by minor characters (the Methodist family, the Calamity Jane bar fly…). The main actors were too bound up in being icons to be able to live and breath. This creates the specificity problem. As with the photo-montages any appropriate icon would work equally well. Any "good brother" or "dutiful mother" or "minister-father" would be as compelling. The result becomes a strange disconnect with the action. The protagonist death is meaningless in itself. There is no need to show it. The family response is characteristically stoic and uninteresting. The film maker is forced to abandon the actors quickly and move to his main vehicle for evoking emotion: words. The closing narration evokes the response. Tears began to flow as Mr. Redford reads the beautiful words and the image of an old man fishing in the river appeared on the screen. Norman Maclean's passing ironically supports the generic nature of the visual image. The old man fishing would have been the author himself; unfortunately he died. They used a stand-in. A generic old man reflecting on life encircled by the breathtaking Montana scenery. Filmically the choice was irrelevant. He worked equally well.

It should be noted that tears did flow. Many audience members have been, and will be, very moved by this movie. Perhaps some might see this as confirming the success of the transformation of Maclean's words to the screen. The goal of making the jump should be in liberating the text from the book. Unfortunately Mr. Redford's adaptation relies solely on the power of the word itself. In a sense the film is closer in spirit to a reading of the story by Mr. Redford accompanied by well chosen slides and carefully choreographed pantomime. Although professionally executed, the lack of specificity of the characters, worked against the audience forming an emotional connection with any of the central protagonists. The words mask the lack of a bond by striking passionate chords. Yes there were tears, but they were for the characters in Mr. Mclean's novel and not the actors in Mr. Redford's film.

Words are powerful, but so are images. Books are important, but so are films. When transposing between the two never be lulled into believing the strengths of one will play equally well in the other. Failure to take into account the differences will lead to results which are passable, but not exceptional. In The River Runs Through It, the audience heard a passionate tale, and they reacted strongly. One can only imagine the results if they had seen the story as well.   
   

The Player (1992)

The Player's Player
   
    Robert Altman has been very busy since Nashville was finished in 1976. He has traveled all over the map turning plays into movies: from the army base (Streamers) to little towns in Texas and the South West (Five and Dime Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean & Fool for Love), the forgettable stay in the White House (Secret Honor) and the equally forgettable European jaunt (Vincent & Theo). Plays aren't movies. Whether this was an epiphany or a sabbatical designed to keep the engine running is hard to figure. No more playing around. Robert Altman has returned with The Player.

    Movies are the media du mode in self-reflective, entertainment-obsessed, American society. The Player has therefore become the film of choice for filmgoers "in the know". Word on the street has Altman, an American auteur operating outside the system, creating a scathing indictment of the industry via a brilliant parody in which "the players" play themselves. It is more than "great" it is "important"; too serious to be a financial blockbuster. As Jeffrey Lyons, a critic of "The Living Section" sensibility, states "this is a film for people overly concerned with how movies are made."  Well isn't a slap from Jeffrey really a compliment? Everyone who is anyone is overly concerned with how movies are made. If only there were more people of Altman's integrity who might "tell it like it is". Confessions from con men, however, should be regarded with the utmost skepticism. A Hollywood film which purports to expose the evil doings of an insider in the movie business, a player, must be greeted with kid gloves (or a falconer's mitt). Con men and socio paths are often charming and fun and at times even brilliant. (As John Guare and David Mamet have proved). The Player shares all these characteristics but one must never forget we are dealing with a player. The danger lies not in being killed or robbed but of being taken.

    Before canonizing Altman it is important to closely evaluate the miracles. He needs three and without doubt he should be given two: M*A*S*H and Nashville. These are his masterpieces. Here institutions (the army & the country music business) are brilliantly rendered through collections of individuals. This is his strength - institutional portraits via the group. A Fred Wiseman of dramatic filmmaking. The result is the same as Wiseman's - heartfelt social satire. Altman's genius lies in his weaving together disparate groups and different levels of reality. M*A*S*H and Nashville oscillate from the serious to the absurd; from harsh reality to complete fantasy. They are driven by juxtaposition of characters and settings which keep the audience guessing and happily wandering through his mad cap worlds. To experience a good Altman movie is not to have taken in a linear story but to have visited a strange land and met the natives. When Altman stumbles it is like being at a boring party in an awful place (Buffalo Bill,The Wedding). Even at his worst, not counting those endless play-movies, Altman had an eye and ear for what people were saying and what was going on. In capturing the specific absurd incident, whether a traffic jam in Nashville or a military R&R trip during the Korean war, he spoke universally. His work is usually entertaining, often disconcerting and most importantly, well done.

    It was an exciting prospect: Altman tackling Los Angeles. The master of contemporary American social satire captures the Movie establishment. What went wrong? In short Altman abandoned himself to formulaic Hollywood filmmaking and ironically hide behind the facade of parody. Interestingly the film chronologically self destructs. It is as if Altman slowly turned the directors chair over to the scores of agents, script doctors, studio executives and movie stars who appear in the film. In the opening sequence, the director is in top form. The camera effortlessly glides over a Hollywood lot as a collection of characters goes about the business of "making movies". This is definitive Altman: revealing the essence of the Movie business through a diverse collection of people while oscillating between the absurdly funny (Buck Henry pitching the Graduate II), to the seriously funny (The Japanese taking the studio tour), to the serious (the mail carrier collapsing). It is strange to think that the same person who created one of the best film openings of all time could end this same work with hollow melodrama. Altman's defense would be the formulaic, soap opera finale and the tedious linear plot were all part of the design of the grand parody. Never forget we are dealing with a player and a smart talented one at that.

    The degree to which The Player is a parody is at the heart of the matter. I remember having a discussion with a woman from Tennessee soon after the release of Nashville. Her reaction to the film was telling:"It (Nashville the movie) is just a slick Jewish New York look at my hometown." Racism aside, her remarks reveal a significant degree of anger and defensiveness. She was oversensitive. The target of the satire was neither people in the country music business or the citizens of Nashville but America circa 1976. Career army doctors might have had the same reaction to M*A*S*H. It was certainly not the Army of "be all you can be." The point is: however stylized and unrealistic the films became, they never lost their bite; not that Altman was solely interested in biting. M*A*S*H and Nashville are too universal to be promoting narrow political agendas or cataloging social ills. Altman watched and listened to everyone and in the end told us everything. This includes things which, for politeness sake, might be better left unsaid; but what is the fun of eavesdropping on a censored conversation?

    The Player is a censored conversation. Don't let the blatant negativity and the general reprehensiveness of everything and everyone, fool you. Altman decided to climb on a soap box and preach. When players done white collars - watch out! They'll do anything to attract a congregation. Whatever they say remember: the only real sin is sitting on the bench. How do you redeem your player-status when you've been drifting in the desert of small-film, small audience limbo for so many years? How do you come back when you are worse than an unknown - you are a has-been? You do what all great players do - you play the part. They think you an outsider - you're the king of the outsiders! The system stinks. Down with the system! Altman is the cinematic Jerry Brown, the outside-insider coming clean, imploring the masses to join him in screaming "Oh the horror, Oh the horror". If you get all the inside jokes and can identify the supporting cast - all the better. We all love the speeches - but really is this for real? Can every star in Hollywood truly hate a system which created them? More likely Altman's film is the consummate insider's joke. Altman is no Sammy "the Bull". He's not a stool pigeon. He's an underboss; and a damn good one at that.

    The Player has no heroes. The murdered screenwriter, who along with the ex-girlfriend are the only people who posses some degree of integrity, is very deliberately shown to have no talent. There are hints that he might be good. He dutifully goes to watch the Bicyle Thief; his screenplay sounds somewhat intriguing. Then his friend undoes him by reading an unfinished work at his funeral. There can be no doubt; a dead, well intentioned, buffoon. At that cemetery Altman completely puts to rest any hint that the issue is the system suppressing the truly gifted in favor of the thoroughly crafty. This is a Machevelian cultural wasteland devoid of talent. The only nod at greatness comes from the obligatory nod at De Sica, Hitchcock, Bogart…. Creativity died years ago in a galaxy far far away. With the "talent" issue in the grave, what remains is hollow scoundrels and pathetic victims. Ironically with no heroes there can be no real villains. This is a cartoon and unlike Pop Eye, not a very daring one. It is the deliberate timidity which is so infuriating. Everyone dressed up but unfortunately no one really played. Altman created even what the most cynical of studio executives could never hope to achieve: an Altman parody.

    Even in the most obvious of Altman devices the master's hand seemed deliberately tied. The primary mystery character, for example: M*A*S*H had the disembodied voice on the P.A. system; in Nashville it was the unseen politician. In both cases they served the roll of linking seemingly obscure events and pulling the film forward unobtrusively. They are  familiar touchstones which the audience might return to after a strange or disquieting interlude. (A friendly stranger in the crowd - the man you see at the bus stop every morning whom you don't know but would dearly miss if he failed to appear.) The postcard writer attempts to serve this purpose in The Player. Since Altman abandoned his refreshing cinema verite approach to plot (and with it his nonsensical but masterful juxtapositions of the real and unreal) the post card writer becomes as gimmicky as Wayne's World's refrain of "NOT!". Every time a fax started clicking it was: here we go again, ha ha ha. Altman's insane artistic self-involved woman is another case in point. Geraldine Chaplin vs. Greta Saatchi. One is a multi faceted egomaniac whose eccentricities are charming. The other is a shallow bore whose expository merits are worthy of an episode of Kojak. Surely a person of Altman's talent can see the difference. He can and like the protagonist in his film he knows the only real sin is sitting on the bench.

    If Altman really tackled Hollywood would everyone be tripping over themselves for cameos? Not! Would Premiere magazine write a story giving that desperate media obsessed public tips on Hollywood lingo so they can better understand the film? Not! Would Altman have to return to the desert if he gave it his best effort? Yes. That is the real tragedy. Like the English writer who yells at the ex-girlfriend after she reprimands him for selling out: "No one at the test screening in Peroria liked the other ending! That's reality baby!". Well whether it is or is not reality Altman is guilty of the same crime. Fear of an alienating type of failure. Fear of losing the respect of the power brokers and audiences in the know. It would not have to be another Welcome to L.A.. With Altman's sensibility it would be entertaining. Unfortunately it would also be damning.

    Mr. Altman is only human. Why incur the wrath of everyone and everything and spend the rest if your days cranking out the film version of The Substance of Fire on a shoestring in upstate New York or Canada. Why not become the grand old man of integrity in the land of no integrity. Even at half speed the film will be better than most and probably the best Hollywood movie in years. Who will know? The long trip is finally coming to an end in a very comfortable place. Despite what Altman's comic book says, being a player doesn't mean you can't be good. It is, however, nearly impossible to be a Saint. That requires three miracles and so far he only has two.            

Patriot Games (1992)

The Hunt For A Good Tom Clancy Movie

  Tom Clancy is the undisputed king of the popular spy novel. He has single-handedly invented the techno-thriller. Graham Greene and John Le Carre spend pages plumbing the  souls of the cold warriors. Mr. Clancy is more at home with the inner workings of their props and routines. The old school focused on the man. Mr. Clancy zeroes in on his schedule and toys. This in a sense is the same evolution James Bond experienced (or suffered). In "Dr.No" we were interested in Bond himself by "Goldfinger" his car seemed more appealing. Clancy, however, gives the gadget gimmick a new life. Bond is in every sense a superhuman, a comic book spy: entertaining - yes, real - no. The unworldly cars, planes, guns… buttress his superhuman qualities and firmly place Mr. Bond in the world of fantasy. Mr. Clancy takes the opposite approach and uses the knowledge of "unworldly" props (Trident subs, missiles, training procedures…) to place the reader in the heart of the "real-life" clandestine world of espionage.  Clancy's "The Hunt for Red October" rarely touched on the individual character's themselves but rather Clancy's knack for minutia. "How did he know all that?", "This book should be classified!" were typical reactions. This is not to say people did not enjoy the book. Mr. Clancy created a passionate following. I remember being cornered after confessing to not reading spy-novels: "No Bram this is different this isn't just a spy novel; its how things really work, it's reality." I was not totally convinced but I did look forward to the film. Of course I knew there would be a film - the success of the book combined with the subject matter. I heard, I waited, I went; I was disappointed.

 "Patriot Games" is the newest of no doubt a number of Clancy books which will be turned into films. Once again I was disappointed. I began to wonder why these two popular blockbuster thriller suspense novels made for such lackluster ponderous movies. Was the problem in the direction or in the material in its original form? It would seem that even in the hands of the most untalented craftsman the substance of the Clancy works would carry themselves through with the minimum of downtime. "Patriot Games", for example, centers around the IRA assassinating a member of the royal family. An ex-CIA man, Harrison Ford, becomes embroiled in a messy shoot-out in London and incurs the wrath of a psychopath murderer bent on revenge against not only Ford but his pregnant wife and young daughter. The film goes from car chases in Maryland to terrorist training camps in Libya. On the surface, such a film might be badly made, but how in the world could it be boring? The answer lies in the material itself not in the direction.

    Strange as it may seem, Clancy's works should be reserved for filmmakers at the peek of their abilities.  Clancy's strongest suit, his emphasis on techno-jargon and "authenticity", are not inherently filmic. A writer will be able to impress his audience with attention to detail and a turn of phrase but how does that material translate on the screen? In Clancy's case the director's have focused on the plot line and turned everything else over to the art department. This is a critical mistake. The "plot" is not what makes a Clancy novel; it's the "attention to detail". This focus on minutia makes the reader feels he is an insider; a fly on the wall at CIA headquarters. The movies are simply melodrama.  A Tom Clancy movie is in effect the opposite of a Tom Clancy novel. The "reality", "insiders view" is transformed into a James Bond comic book fantasy. Unfortunately, since Clancy abandons character development in favor of techno-tid bits, the films lack the 007 himself: Does anyone remember the name of the central figure in the Hunt for Red October? Does anyone really care about Harrison Ford's (the name of the character escapes me) relationship with the CIA or his surgeon wife? The audience is left with tiresome stock characters falling into obvious plot lines which are dictated by a cursory view of international affairs. 

    How can Clancy's knack for description and technical detail be successfully translated to the screen? The key lies in giving the machines and technology a human face. The most successful moments in "The Hunt for Red October" dealt with the sonar expert who initially discovers the Russian submarine. In these, all too brief, scenes there is a successful merger of techno-jargon and plot line via a "colorful" character. (Pardon the pun - the audio expert happens to be a person of color but he is not vulgar racist characterture). The audience is presented with an audio virtuoso, who plays his highly sophisticated unworldly equipment like a concert pianist. More importantly he translates his obvious expertise into easy to understand language which fits beautifully with the drama. The sub has disappeared and they must be using a new type of engine because… The drama of the film comes to life. The audience is being technically "wowed" by a genuine figure who "knows his stuff". If only the Sean Connery character and the forgettable American were as "real" and interesting. (As for the American - saccharine touches e.g. bringing his daughter the Teddy Bear are the opposite of endearing)
   
    Speaking of the opposite of endearing let us examine Harrison Ford and his family in "Patriot Games". From the get go there was trouble: that cutesy opening sequence of them all playing monopoly. I was waiting for the young daughter to turn to her parents and start professing the desire to turn the world into a better place by working for "Dow Chemical". Harrison Ford and the wife could have started singing "Dow makes you do great things." I'm not sure the opposite approach, i.e. a dysfunctional family with a drug or incest problem, would have made any difference. This family, no matter how you slice it, was simply a group of set pieces which clumsily move the plot along. They were the first of an entire cast of bowling pins. (Actually bowling pins are more interesting because you never know which way they will fall.)  The only moment in this film which caught the spirit of the techo-thriller was when the CIA assassinates the terrorists in Libya. This scene, although saddled with self-conscious editing, was the diamond in the rough. Harrison Ford unexpectedly walks into a room filled with screens and satellite tracking devises. Quietly strange images appear. They are explained, in brilliantly casual understatement, as army troops attacking the terrorists. Silhouettes of soldiers and helicopters surround barely discernible human figures asleep in tents. The blobs in the tents move and tumble as flashes of light engulf them. One blob in particular is singled out as an officer in the room breaks the casual techno-chatter with a cat call and a clenched fist, "Hooray!". The horror on Harrison Ford's face truly reflects the horror of modern warfare.  It is the scene which gives anyone who witnessed the Gulf War on CNN a moment of pause.  This is the heart of the techno-thriller. Not the technology but the humanness. The technology only aids a modern audience in identifying with the action thereby making things "real".

    Can the intensity and inherent drama of this particular scene be sustained throughout a film? The answer is: Fail Safe. Sidney Lumet's "Fail Safe" is the father of all cinematic techo-thrillers. Here is a feature which successfully transforms the sange foid of modern high-tech drama into true human drama. "Fail Safe" brilliantly interweaves complicated modern war systems and the men behind them. A balance is struck. There are all the gadgets: nuclear bombers, warning systems… all the procedures: explanations of first strike attacks, fail safe points… and most importantly all the dedicated technicians running the equipment. An interesting case in point is "Fail Safe's" nuclear bomber pilot.  The heartfelt emotion in Lumet's film is gripping: the pilot chooses duty, turns off his radio, which is blaring the voice of his desperate pleading wife; and continues on a suicidal mission. Nowhere can anything that comes close to this level of feeling be found in either of the Clancy films. It is particularly interesting to note that the central themes of "Patriot Games" revolve around family and duty. Lumet manages to capture what the Clancy film so desperately tried to show (i.e. the eternal bond between husband and wife) without even showing the pilot and his wife together. (So much for cutesy monopoly scenes.) As for realism: I doubt anyone watching "Fail Safe", even thirty years after its debut, does not engage in some sort of serious discussion about nuclear war. Its realism will haunt audiences thirty years from now even when the weapons and strategies are unrecognizable.

    "The Hunt for Red October"'s legacy will be less enthralling. It will be akin to a contemporary audience's viewing re-runs of "Secret Agent Man". There is a campy sense of gratification which can attributed to nostalgia. The discussion might turn on how young a particular actor appears or the awkward style of dress or the primitivness of the production…  So much for Clancy's realism. At the heart of vacuousness of this film is the lack of effectively integrating the technology with the characters. Take, for example, two scenes in which sounds are used to highlight important breaking moments in international intrigue. In "Hunt" we have the central turning point in the film:  the American sub and the Russian sub meeting for the first time.  One "ping" is answered by another. This is mildly more exciting than my description. Compare that with the American President talking on the phone to someone in Moscow during the nuclear attack in "Fail Safe". The President is told that when the bomb strikes the phone in Russia will melt creating a high pitched whine. I will never forget that sound. It is the audio equivalent to Edvard Monk's "the scream".

    It would be interesting to know whether "Fail Safe" was a novel before becoming a film and if so whether the balance between man and machine was weighted differently than in the movie. Regardless, Walter Bernstien's screenplay strikes the perfect chord. Lumet was given superb material. I doubt a director tackling the newest Clancy work will have as tightly crafted a screenplay. The two previous director's emphasis on Clancy's less than memorable cast of character's and his ponderous plot lines have been, cinematically speaking, failures. A more interesting approach would be to place the hollow characters in the background and give the gadgets central billing. This seems to fly in the face of the notion of emphasizing the human side of technology but in fact the characters would come to life.

  The paradigm of this approach would be Kubrick's "2001". The central character on his own terms is really not much to digest: a successful scientist with an simple family. Kubrick's juxtaposition of this "ordinary" man with his extraordinary surroundings gives the film its deep resonance. Take, for example, Kubrick's having the man place a call to his home on earth. A young girl answers the phone and talks in a non-plused, childlike way about her birthday and the fact that her mother is out. What belies this seemingly meaningless interaction is how much it comments on man and his relationship to the literally "unworldly" surroundings. This scene is a powerful statement on the immutability of the family unit and man's overall relationship to technology. The film continues this trend on a grand scale: the future of mankind is explored via an ordinary man battling a machine.  Half the film centers around a single astronaut talking to a computer. On paper this would appear tiresome; which is probably why the original short story is only ten pages long. On screen, however, Kubrick creates an tale with epic proportions. This grand scale fits well with the overall grandness of the production. As with "Fail Safe", audience no matter what the state of technology, will be deeply moved by man vs."HAL".

   It would be foolish to expect Clancy's works to have the same impact as an undisputed cinematic masterpiece. However the principles which Kubrick applied should be utilized to give these films life beyond the maddening summer hype runs.  "The Hunt" is a case in point. The story is the epic struggle between to advanced technological societies with the submarines being the metaphors for each. Make all the characters secondary to the surroundings. In a sense, as with "2001", the machines are the primary characters. There should be groups of colorful experts, akin to the sonar officer, but none should stand out; not even the captains.  In demoting the stagy Sean Connery and his forgettable American nemesis turned-ally, the focus of the drama would return to the epic struggle between the US and the USSR. The driving force of the novels, the genuineness and realism, would also reappear. This approach would also ride the film of the tiresome plot-oriented approach and the annoying daytime television charactertures.

   The same methods apply to "Patriot Games". This is a drama which pits "spy" culture against "terrorist" culture. "Good" families vs. "Bad". The emphasis should focus on the routines and rituals of both worlds. Once again, large over-blown characertures, i.e. Harrison Ford and the Irish terrorist…, would not necessarily be replaced but redrawn to establish a broad spectrum of believable people going about their lives. Technology and gadgets would, once again, play centerstage. Both cultures live and die by the sword and that sword can be extremely cinematic: e.g. the previously mentioned night battled viewed on infrared screens.

 In short Clancy's work present an interesting challenge. A filmmaker must re-evaluate what makes Clancy's work live on the screen. It is the realism not the melodrama. One should be thinking more in terms of Fred Wiseman's "Missile" rather than a "Dallas" episode that touches on international intrigue. If anyone thinks my T.V. analogy is harsh let me paraphrase a poignant moment from "Patriot Games":

                      Harrison Ford
        (having second thoughts about attacking terrorist)
I can't be sure it's them. Maybe we shouldn't attack?

                                       Commander
We're going forward. What can you be sure of in life?

                 Harrison Ford
My daughter's love.

I'll leave on that note. This film speaks for itself and "The Hunt for Red October".
                   

The Piano (1993)

The Organ-Grinder

       
Jane Campion's The Piano is this year's darling amongst the films which were viewed as more than mere entertainment. Ms. Campion has had other art-house successes (An Angel at My Table, Sweetie) but this film  has firmly established her as a director of note to the general public. It has garnered numerous awards at film festivals but more importantly American audiences have been mesmerized. The box office gross might not compare to a Hollywood blockbuster but it seems to be the film on everyone's lips in theaters from New York to Seattle. The most remarkable aspect of this film that there is little in its conception or execution that is remarkable.

This film is about two kinds of passion, carnal and artistic. Holly Hunter is the mute piano-player mother protagonist. She is the linchpin of a love triangle which involves Sam Neill, a misplaced country-gentleman, and Harvey Keitel, the frontiersman gone native. The backdrop is a 19th century New Zealand jungle inhabited by a Maori tribe. The sheer exoticness is captivating. The scene in which Ms. Hunter's arrival is especially enthralling. The unkempt bawdy sailors' laughter is juxtaposed with long dresses and horrified expressions of the mother and daughter as the two are carried across the raging surf. Instead of being thanked the sea Captain is greeted by the pianist's snobbery. The aristocratic mother and daughter are abandoned on the desolate beach along with all their very worldly belongings; including, of course, the piano. Completing the magnificent tableaux of civilization confronting untamed wilderness is the arrival of the suitor and his Maori luggage carriers. Unfortunately Sam Neill and his band lead the two new arrivals into the jungle. The expectations generated by this brilliant opening disappeared into the muck and mire. The story is as old as the hills and the hills themselves are grim and oppressive.

The film is set admist a group of hut-like houses in a swamp where the sun rarely shines. Holly has difficulty adjusting although the young daughter quickly falls into step amongst the free-spirited natives and the weird colonialists. (The malleability of the young). The plot thickens. Holly sells herself for her true love; the piano. Holly eventually discovers her true love is really Harvey Keitel. In the end Sam Neill discovers Holly is not his true love. The daughter plays and plays and plays. All this takes far too long. Ms. Campion has a penchant for over-telling the story. This was even exhibited during the opening sequence. The brilliant beach scene was preceded by an unnecessary voice over in which the mute pianist speaks philosophically about her life. The film comes full circle and closes with Ms. Hunter verbally musing about what has already been clearly shown. The verbal narration sandwiches a smoldering love story and two stylized moments of violence in which Holly barely escapes death: Sam Neill's cruel mutilation and Holly's dramatic attempted suicide (or was it a well placed accident). It is doubtful anyone will forget Holly being hauled to the chopping block. It is equally jarring to watch her being dragged under the ocean by a piano. Unfortunately Ms. Campion fails to integrate these shocking moments into the plodding general narrative. Holly is re-born. Her finger is replaced by a garish silver prosthesis. She becomes the town freak (a role she relishes). Harvey loves her even more. The child plays and plays and plays. Hmmmm. Well at least everyone is out of the dingy swamp.

Ms. Campion's view of carnal passion pales when matched against Terrence Malick's in Days of Heaven. The films' structures are closely matched: A mute traveling with a young girl becomes ensnared in a tragic love affair. Mr. Malick countered the bland storyline with visual grandeur. There was no need to travel to the remote jungles of New Zealand. Malick honed exoticness from a region which prides itself on ordinariness - the Mid West. Under Nestor Almendros' eye  the heartland becomes surreal. This was Richard Gere's best film performance because he let his finest attribute, his looks, speak for him. This was a story of love set in a earthly paradise. Ms. Hunter's physical presence was only mildly more appealing than her character's personality. Mr. Keitel's lust seemed to grow from sheer isolation. Wheras Mr. Gere was a magnet for sensuality, Ms. Hunter was the only thing worth hearing or viewing within a thousand miles. Ms. Campion is telling a story of desperation set in a latrine. In addition, Malick's tough little girl was far more appealing than Ms. Campion's prissy waif.

Days of Heaven failed to address the issue of artistic sensibilty. Ms. Campion added the attribute of the obsessed musician to her silent protagonist. Holly Hunter played a brooding premadonna who possessed a maniacal need to practice her piano. Unfortunately the art was as dull as the cartoonlike view of artists. Paul Cox's Man of Flowers focuses exclusively on the driving force behind creativity. His protagonist was infatutated with playing the church organ ever time he had a sexual desire. This misenthrope was also sexually attracted to flowers. Ms. Campion's mute pianist becomes as stale the overweight church organist.

RSC's Madness of George III (1993)

Caring about the crazy king

 Watching the RSC production of The Madness of George III brought to mind Hamlet's words: "The play's the thing wherein I'll catch  the conscious of the king". Unfortunately George's conscious was nowhere to found on stage. Ironically this underscored the first part of the Danish Prince's words. An evening in the theater without drama is laborious. The degree of the niceties of the production (set design, lighting, casting…) become irrelevant. The play really is the thing.

This drama centers around the Machiavellian intrigues which are played-out behind palace doors as King George slowly seeps into psychosis. There are two anti polar Prime Ministers, a loyal wife, an evil son, a stupid son, a slew of sycophantic physicians and an entourage of court attendants with varying degrees of morality. The set design was interesting. The costuming appropriate. The directing was adequate and the acting was superb. In fact it was the presence of Nigel Hawthorne, George III, which drew me to Stanford's Performing Arts Center. He is, without doubt, one of the preeminent actors of out time. There was, however, a malaise which swept over me as I left the theater. Certainly the $60 ticket combined with the $20 Metro-North round-trip contributed to my uneasiness. I continually re-assured my self of the facts presented: This production featured a range of performers who were a magnificent compliment to Mr. Hawthorne. It was a world class production. Tickets for movies are $8 and this was certainly more fulfilling than the last 13 features I attended. The return trip to Grand Central saw my apprehension blossom into a feeling of a squandered opportunity.

 The Madness of George III is literally mind-boggling. What could possess someone to write such a play? Why would performers of this caliber dedicate so much time to it? (This series of dates in American followed Mr. Hawthorne's two English Tours). George III has historically been an unsympathetic figure in the United States. This play does little to dispel our Founding Father's first impressions. It is sad when he loses his marbles. It evokes the same sort of pathos one feels to anyone in pain. It fails to be tragic. There is nothing at stake. The slew of characters, whether Whig or Tory, loyal or unfaithful, likable or pathetic; are all uninspired. It is not their fault. This play could not have been  better cast. They did the best they could with what they had. The Welsh doctor, the two sons and the wife I found particularly captivating. The problem lies, not surprisingly, with the king. There is nothing which binds the audience to the monarch's struggle. This is especially true for an American audience. Our political philosophy pre-disposes us to the opposition. When the supposedly loathsome Whig prime minister presented his agenda I personally wanted to rise to my feet and applaud. Yet in the context of the drama he was aligned with the evil forces such as the hedonistic elder son. This Oscar Wilde-like regent-in-waiting was painted in sharp contrast to the staid, stately, sensible George. Frugality and prudence might be admirable qualities in a guardian but they can distance an audience which wants a protagonist with more flair. George was more interesting and likable when he was raving nonsense while covered in shit. The playwright, once again, was on the other side of the fence. The audience is, supposedly, waiting with baited breath for the pestilence to vanish.

 Dramatic re-creations of actual events occur for combination of three reasons: historical significance (e.g. masterpiece theater's Henry VIII & Elizabeth I), voyeuristic thrill (e.g. television real crime re-enactments of Waco Texas or the Starkweather killings) or the author uses the event as a springboard to reflect on an aspect of human nature (e.g. The Crucible or Amadeus). The Madness of George III takes a revolutionary approach. It re-enacts obscure, tedious historical events with no apparent point of view. What can be said about George? He was an unfortunate man stricken with a disease which was incurable in the 18 century. Fortunately he recovers in time to hold off the jackals in waiting. A perusal of the program, which theorizes his condition was a build-up of red blood cells, shows that his good luck ran out almost immediately after the final curtain fell. His remission ended and he lived out his final years in confinement after loosing his sight and hearing as well as his mind. Why is it so important to stage a re-enactment of his initial encounter with the illness? What does his story say about the human condition? I pose these questions to the author of the play because after witnessing the production I have no answers. It was entertaining to watch someone of Mr. Hawthrone's abilities rant and rave. To quote Hamlet's good old uncle Claudius: "Madness in great ones, must not unwatch'd go". I humbly add "If you can afford the dough and don't care if the action is really, really slow".  

Angles in America Part 1 (original 1993 b-way production)

PART 1: LES MISERABLES

   
   
The Angels are very at home in New York. Everyone waited for months after hearing the praise about the stagings of Angels in America in San Franciso, Los Angeles and London. Even the choice of showcase became news. The New York Times ran an article about the snubbing of the Public Theater in favor of a prominent Broadway house. The play lived-up to expectations and received numerous accolades (Tony Awards, Drama Desk Awards, even the Pulitzer). The New York producers decided to divide the epic in two. (The entire play runs over 5 hours) Part I is titled Millennium Approaches. Part II, Perestroika, is scheduled to open next week. I decided to bear witness later than most, the opening was a few months ago. I assumed that since the fervor was at a lull, in anticipation of the second opening, attendance would be slack. I was mistaken. There was not a seat to be had. The Angels have some staying power. The superscript of the title reads "A Gay Fantasia on National Themes". It is impossible to examine this work without an understanding of the plight of the homosexual community in the United States in the post Reagan era. This is what makes this play an important period piece. It is also what undercuts it attempts at profundity. The Angels will not be around forever; maybe not even till the end of the Clinton era.

The play is far from revolutionary in its composition. It is structured as a television Soap Opera with three intertwining linear narratives. Two of these plot lines revolve around couples in which one partner is unable to cope with the responsibilities of caring for an ill spouse. In one case the husband is actually culpable for his wife psychosis because of an inability to admit that he is a homosexual. The other pair, a male gay couple, is faced with the tragedy of AIDS made even more horrific by the test of moral strength which the disease-free partner fails miserably. The characters are defined by their problems. These are embodiments of torment, not tormented souls. It is difficult to conceive of these people divorced from their hardships. They are metonyms for the problems themselves. Without AIDS the gay couple consists of a man who likes to complain and a man who likes to dress up. Without the issue of the husband's sexuality the other couple metamorphoses into an ambitious Yuppie man. The woman disappears. She does not exist. Her schizophrenia and drug abuse are inextricably linked to the husband's feigning straitness. The playwright, Tony Kushner, fails to conceive of woman outside of being foils to illustrate male problems. Aside of the madwoman their is a generic nurse, a generic mother, a generic real-estate woman, another madwoman, a cameo by Ethel Rosenberg and an angel, complete with gossamer wings. Women are more substantive and in control when they play men (e.g. Kathleen Chalfant's Rabbi Chemelwitz and Henry  or  Marcia Gay Harden's Martin Heller). In short there are inconsequential woman who buttress men who represent recognizable hardships of being male homosexuals. It is no wonder Mr. Kushner felt the need to tell more than one story. Neither couple could sustain treatment as a full length play. The third narrative breaks the couple mold. It features an historical figure and not a product of Mr. Kushner's imagination. The enigmatic, controversial Roy Cohn rears his ugly head. Ron Leibman's brilliant portrayal certainly throws Mr. Cohn's persona into the limelight. There is a more central reason Ron as Roy steals the show. He is the only primary character who has life outside of his affliction. In fact the two plagues of his life, AIDS and disbarment, are introduced late in the game. Here is a man who lives and breaths outside of the issues. He is a loathsome paper-pushing Richard III. He is detestable, captivating and, dramatically speaking, alive. This devil is what drives Angels.

His story also makes the most poignant statement about the travails of being gay in America. His ruthless paranoia is rooted in a survival strategy. It is best illustrated when he threatens to destroy his physician of 30 years for even associating the name Roy Cohn with AIDS, and by default homosexuality. The mask of the demon slips and we see a lonely scared man determined to instill terror in everything around him to avoid even an appearance of his own fear. His bravado in claiming that he alone is the reason Ethel Rosenberg was sent to the electric chair betrays a man filled pathological self-hatred. He rants about the fact that she violated a wide-ranging sense of "trust". She was a traitor to her country and he made sure she died. Mr. Cohn delivers this speech in the midst of trying to convince a young lawyer, whom he has seduced, to risk his career and commit a felony on his behalf. Given Roy's civic virtue one ponders over the reasons for Ms. Rosenberg's death. It appears more likely that in killing this communist, Jewish, woman in the mid-1950s Mr. Cohn was somehow establishing his own credentials with the mainstream heterosexual goyem. It further begs the question of what kind of world could create such an alienated desperate man? Roy is never sympathetic but bigoted societal attitudes about his sexuality help illuminate his tragic disposition. It is impossible to feel sorry for the him, given the extent of his evil, but it is difficult not to empathize with the isolation of any gay power-broker. It also raises questions about the push behind the disbarment proceedings (which incidentally succeeded - not in part I). Mr. Cohn's story has all the ingredients for a solid full length play. It is unfortunate that Mr. Kushner placed it amidst all the stale one dimensional couples and his ill-conceived metaphysical musings.

Angels borrows from the church as well as television. Mr. Kushner feels the need to evoke the spirits and be long-winded. This is an old Kushnerian tradition. Anyone who can recall the Devil appearing after many tedious moments in A Bright Room Called Day can vouch for both. Here the playwright seems to have discovered heaven or at least 19th century conceptions of how benevolent spirits appeared. There are bright flashes of light, thunder and lightening, a chorus with voices swelling and at last an angel with gossamer wings. It is difficult to know what the author is trying to say. In Mr. Kushner's defense this was only Part 1. It was, however, three hours long. Hopefully something will occur in the remaining hours which will clear up this metaphysical mish-mash. A Bright Room Called Day is evidence for pessimism but one must have faith. That play also included time travel and re-incarnated apparitions which Kushner re-evokes to no avail, again. There are spirits from ages past! Why? Maybe Kushner knows but it is doubtful any audiences members share his private metaphysical cosmology. Obscurity is the hallmark of most religions but it is debatable whether that cryptic sense can be channeled into a positive theatrical experience. Certainly Mr. Kushner has failed to prove the possibility.

The playwright parts ways with the most of the clergy in that he demonstrates a sense of humor. There are numerous moments of genuine levity throughout the performance. Mr. Kushner has a stand-up comic's sense of a well timed, one-liner. In addition there are several name jokes. One of the protagonists in Prior William. He is visited by ghosts his prior ancestors, aptly named Prior: one from the Dark Ages and one from the Age of Enlightenment. It is all very amusing. It is unfortunate that blandness seemed to be a family trait. None of the Priors from any age had anything to say. It must be pointed out, once again, that this was only Part I. Perhaps in Part II all the Priors will blossom into a irresistible trio that will forever be emblazoned in the consciousness of American audiences. Once again, we must have faith in order to safeguard our belief in those professional accolade-givers (theatrical institutions of great esteem, well-regarded critics of stage & writing, people in the know…).

Part 1 could turn anyone who follows the theatrical Zeitgeist into a unbeliever. The play is badly written. All the acclaim and support casts a dark shadow over the state of the stage. One can be generous and say that the need for a play depicting the plight of male homosexuals overrode the breath of knowledge about what makes good theater. Certainly the gay community has suffered greatly from a dreadful plague and widespread discrimination; often officially sanctioned. (As I write the Senate of the United States has passed a bill which states that homosexuality is incompatible with military life and can be grounds for dismissal from the armed services). Given these harsh realities the arrival of a play depicting gay men in a positive light might serve some benevolent social function. In the early stages of the AIDS epidemic the play AS IS, a saccharine portrayal of a gay couple facing the disease, served the cause well in heightening awareness and generating sympathy. No one treated AS IS as great art. Perpetrating a lie of that dimension would be an insult to the intelligence of theater-goers but, even worse, it would patronize those victims of the disease by making their suffering a fashion statement. That is precisely what is occurring with Angels In America. There is something lurking behind those gossamer wings which has a malevolent face. Hopefully Part II will redeem my faith. The title is ominous. "Perestroika" is taken from Michael Gorbachev's late 1980s book about the new "openness" of the Soviet Union. It is doubtful that Mr. Kushner meant to be ironic. His work  has, thus far, never plumbed that deep. More likely the book and the phrase were pivotal at the time he was writing Part II. Events overtook Mr. Gorbachev. It is doubtful anyone would claim Perestroika has any currency in the remnants of the Soviet State. It was merely a vacant political catchword which played at exposing a horrible crisis; significant only in the context of a brief tumultuous period. Perhaps Mr. Kushner should saved this title for Part I.

Naked (1993)

The Idle Poor

       
Mike Leigh is the filmic step child of John Cassavetes. This contemporary Englishman has re-invigorated the life-work of the late American. Their artistry centers around using the actor as muse. Cassavetes pioneered the notion of free-wheeling improvisational fiction features in which the performers spontaneously created dialogue and whimsically dictated the plot. The result was a gritty, meandering realism which gravitated to subject matter generally not covered by mainstream movies (e.g. race issues in Shadows, pornography & homosexuality in Killing of a Chinese Bookie….) Cassavetes' characters were generally down and out desperadoes beating their heads against a harsh unforgiving society. Mike Leigh offers a present-day parallel world across the Atlantic. He features lower-middle class people ensnared in dead-end jobs and emotional chaos. He avoids the usual glamorization of poverty and violence. The cast of a Mike Leigh film could pass for the occupants of the last car of an off peak New York City subway train or background extras in a Hollywood film about a nondescript urban area in decay. The grittiness of Leigh's work differs from Cassavetes' in that the former has sharpened the focus of the improvisation. The actors are free but they are always under Mr. Leigh's watchful eye. Whereas anything can happen in a Cassavete's film anything Mr. Leigh wants to happen can happen in his work. Cassavetes was a anarchist. Mike Leigh is a progressive dictator who believes in anarchy. 

 Naked is Mr. Leigh's latest film. It is typical of his work in terms of casting and structure but unusual in the degree of pessimism. Mr. Leigh never paints a pretty picture but this film lacks his gallows humor. His other movies have characters who approach life with a lighthearted resignation. (e.g. Life is Sweet, High Hopes) They have made peace with their foes and woes. In Naked almost every performer seems to be engaged in a fight to the death with an amorphous nemesis. These are people who have failed to come to terms with themselves. The communal agony is relentless. The central character sets the tone for the film. He is a misanthropic vagrant. The only thing he despises more than work and society at large, is himself. Anti-heroes can be charming or detestable unfortunately Mr. Leigh's protagonist can only be viewed as pathetic. The film opens with the leading man raping a woman then stealing a car and ends with him stealing money then abandoning his girlfriend. In between are a series of random encounters with characters less empathetic and more confused than the protagonist. This is an in-depth journey through the modern urban wasteland guided by a rebel without a clue. The overall effect is a resounding sense of pity. Pity for the man himself and pity for everyone who has contact with him. It is no wonder, prior to the film's screening at the New York Film Festival, Mr. Leigh openly warned against "enjoying" the movie.

It is a challenge to interest an audience in the plight of those who are so blatantly unagreeable. Mr. Leigh might have taken a lesson from Agnes Varda's Vagabond. This film presents a protagonist of the opposite sex but with a similar Weltanschauung. Varda uses a radical technique in painting the life of this young wanderer. She makes her a sphinxlike waif. Ironically her deafening silence augments the significance of her chance encounters. The film is about the strangers she meets and in turn about the audience itself. The woman is adored, abused, adopted, hated, betrothed, rejected, glorified, vilified… Her demise leads the audience to an uncomfortable position of becoming one of faceless crowd she encountered. In order to fully digest the film one must decipher her vacant stare. Discussing the work inevitable leads to a revelation about one's own private world view. (It is akin in spirit to the Henry James story, A Turn of the Screw.)  Since Varda's anti-hero is a homeless young woman aimlessly stumbling through a nondescript modern landscape, any commentary on her plight necessitates treading into the realm of politics. This film generates heated debates about society's values. Vagabound was successful because the protagonist was a mirror for everything polite people never discuss. By leaving her blank the audience is left to drawn their own conclusions. The film is a endless search for definition which haunts people as they leave the theater. The audience is driven by a need to come to terms with her. The movie only paints ambiguous vignettes and ends with her untimely death. Varda's successfully delivers a film which casts an uneasy pall over the society's conscience.

Naked wanted to generate the same social introspection but Mr. Leigh's protagonist was an overwhelming obstacle. Whereas Varda's woman is a cryptic tabula rasa, Leigh's man is psychotic wind bag. He endlessly pontificates on everything. One of the few gainfully employed characters takes matters into his own hands. Our anti-hero is picked up by a professional posterman who has a specific route filled with decrepit walls swathed in garish advertisements for concerts, plays, movies… Our protagonist berates him with opinions about everything and then asks to participate in the activities. The busy worker stoically obliges and suffers through his half hearted attempt at mounting a poster. After a few moments our anti-hero carelessly throws down the tools. It is difficult to know if he was overwhelmed by the chore or if he had a sudden epiphany that the task was work. Nevertheless the verbal harangue proceeds unabated. The worker ignores the chatterbox and diligently goes about his business slapping up several more posters. He then turns and gives our anti-hero a well deserved thrashing. Finally the babble stopped! The worker might have been excessive but given what the audience had endured up to this point their could be little doubt that his actions were justified. This scene captures the main failure of this film. The anti-hero is obviously intelligent, truly complex and thoroughly unbearable. His endless verbiage snuffs out any real debate about the larger societal issues. Instead of meditating about his predicament the audience is left wishing their were others who possessed the courage of the poster man.

The supporting cast does little to evoke any soul searching. They are an equally troubled lot. Their relationship to the anti-hero is revealing. They are at a loss to counter the his endless chit-chat due to their own inebriation or critical need indiscriminate companionship. The desperation is particularly acute in the portrayal of the female characters. They are all hopeless victims who tolerate outrageous excesses from their male counterparts. The leading misogynist is not the anti-hero but a rich land-lord. Mr. Leigh is generally unsympathetic to the upper class and has been known to be excessive in his portrayals (e.g. the yuppies and wanna-bes in High Hopes). The land-lord shows that this bad habit continues. This rich, psychotic, sadist is a gratuitous addition to the story. He seems to be a third wheel who possess much flash but little substance. There can be little doubt that horrible rich people exist but Leigh seems to draw parallels between his lavish lifestyle and the character's malevolence. The result is a contrived stereotype.

 It is a credit to Mr. Leigh's skill as a director that the land-lord is alone in being inauthentic. The darkness of the film should not hide the fact that it possesses marvelous performances from all members of the creative team. The actors and actresses were outstanding. The cinematography aided greatly in presenting the story. The bleached images and frenetic camerawork were a perfect compliment to the melancholic action.  Naked might not be palatable but it is a work of integrity presented by a director with vision. Hopefully his next outing will be on a sunny day. Maybe even in a rich neighborhood.

Natural Born Killers (1994)

Stone-Bred Killers

   
Robert Sandifur's story was nearly lost amongst the flurry of news reports chronicling the latest developments in the OJ Simpson trial. Mr. Sandifur opened fire with his nine millimeter semiautomatic severely wounding a 16 year old. Two hours later he used the same pistol in an attack on a group of children playing pick-up football; a 14 year old girl died. Robert loves cookies, collects stuffed animals and sports a tattoo. He is eleven years old. Oliver Stone's Natural Born Killers, a meditation on youthful violence and American TV culture, opened to nationwide movie audiences the same week as the six grader's rampage. Mr. Stone prides himself on being topical and self-righteous. He chronicles a baby boomer's view of the seminal moments/personalities from the recent past/present; weaving histrionic stories with sophomoric calls to action. It is doubtful that Salvador had any impact on US policy in Central America or that JFK shed any light on President Kennedy's assassination but his zeal is unmistakable. These are films from a man possessed by a vision.  Platoon and Wall Street are heartfelt, albeit mindless. Mr. Stone doesn't engage an audience, he preaches his gospel. This monomania leaves little room for doubters and non-believers. Stone delivers simulacrums populated by one dimensional characters. Although the artistry is lacking he deserves credit for attempts at creating an activist, socially conscious, popular cinema. Little wonder in the age of little Robert Sandifur that Mr. Stone chooses to tackle youth violence and the media.

Natural Born Killers is a departure for Mr. Stone and for mainstream Hollywood dramatic features. The formulaic linear narrative is supplanted by a frenetic, highly stylized medley which oscillates amongst a variety of moods: newsreel documentary, MTV rock-video fantasy, sit-com parody and traditional story telling. These swings are accompanied by shifts in format (video to film, fine to grainy, color to black & white), camera choreography (fixed to unwieldy) and soundtrack (straightforward dialogue to ear shattering rock). The center attraction in the visual circus is a bloodthirsty teenage couple, Woody Harrelson & Juliette Lewis. The first half of the film chronicles their carnage. The motivation for their blood-lust is traced to their abusive families. Ms. Lewis has a sexually abusive father, Rodney Dangerfield, who commits acts of incest in-between his trademark one liners. This disturbing sequence is presented with a mock sit-com "laugh track". Woody's upbringing is no less horrific but is delivered in staccato black and white images: the young innocent being pummeled by a drunken father. Don't worry Daddy blows his head off; unfortunately it is in front of his impressionable son. The sideshows, which are the central focus after the couple are incarcerated, are equally disturbing. Robert Downey Jr. plays a Robin Leach-like tabloid journalist who places ratings above everything. Tommy Lee Jones parodies his performance in The Fugitive by being an idiotic, mean-spirited jail warden. Tom Sizemore is a psychotic publicity-crazed police detective who is infatuated with the murderous teen couple to a point of jealousy. Given this supporting cast Woody and Juliette are some of the more likable characters presented. Once again, in terms of style and text, this is not a typical Hollywood narrative.

All the sound and the fury fails to mask the lack of substance. Natural Born Killers' uneven tone and stark brutality prevents it from being pure satire. As drama it is careless, sensationalistic and ill-conceived. Perhaps Mr. Stone's greatest shortcoming is the depiction of Harrelson & Lewis. This couple is an incarnation of the dispassionate, high-tech world which places celebrity over meaningful human interaction. American cinema is replete with anti-social crime couples devouring the heartland (e.g. Bonnie & Clyde, In Cold Blood, Badlands…). Unfortunately for Mr. Stone the old formula of placing the badguys in a unstylized environment is far more effective in telling the story: the savagery of the couple's acts is highlighted and the audience is forced to examine their motivation through the prism of a familiar world. The only redeeming character Mr. Stone chooses to present is, not surprisingly, far outside middle American culture - an elderly Native American. Conversely Woody & Juliette are the native son and daughter of a deranged mainstream establishment. In this context their brutality blends with the background rendering them invisible. They simply disappear amidst a shower of flash-frame images and Trent Reznor's power chords.

Underneath the complicated morass of images and noises lies Mr. Stone bellowing "oh the horror". It is hard to reconcile all the gloom and doom with the fact that he makes a damn good living mining the cultural wasteland. It is doubtful that he is thinking of abandoning Los Angeles for a Hopi retreat in the Arizona mountains or a survivalist camp overseas. The apocalyptic message might simply stem from a slip-shod approach to the subject matter. The director became overwhelmed by the technical gimmickry and created a hopeless world as an unintentional byproduct. Stone might also be gleefully feeding the fires of a cultural Armageddon: "The kids are killing everything so I'll make a picture where the kids kill everything. It'll sell like hot-cakes". Whether Stone is careless, misguided or evil the disingenuousness of the film rises to the surface. There is a disconnection between the slick events on screen and real-life social turmoil. Natural Born Killers fails to give insights into the life of little 11 year old Robert Sandifur. Evil is far more than the sum of bad deeds. Anti-heroes must be empathetic; not pathetic. It would be interesting to know Robert's thoughts on the film. Unfortunately he was executed by a 14 year old fellow gang-member because his actions were drawing too much pressure from the police. Following his murder he was immortalized on the cover of Newsweek. Oliver Stone's imagination pales when matched against our horrible reality. The need to speak out is real; so is the need for better filmmakers.   

Jurassic Park (1993)

Uncle Steven's Cabin

The most popular play ever staged in the United States is, without doubt, Uncle Tom's Cabin. In late nineteenth century America, when theater reigned as the leading form of entertainment (no competition with movies, television, radio, rock concerts…) there were as many as 30 touring companies who performed it exclusively . Uncle Tom's Cabin defined popular entertainment. The success of this melodramatic tale, which featured slave owners chasing a runaway, had little to do with empathy for the plight of African Americans. A few decades later audiences would flock to D.W. Griffith's Birth of a Nation which painted the Ku Klux Klan as the guardians of Western Civilization. The stage version of Uncle Tom's Cabin had no political message. This was entertainment for the glands and not the head. Audiences came to witness an elaborately staged chase which repeatedly invoked the motif of the innocents narrowly escaping the evil hunters. Producers spared no expense. One production featured actual running water for the "crossing of the Mississippi". Our great-great grandparents ate it up.

Times change. It is difficult to find a script of this play; actual live productions are an even greater rarity. Modern audiences prefer Jurassic Park. This movie is having the most successful opening of any film in the history of cinema. Jurassic Park is based on a novel by Michael Crichton, a Harvard educated doctor who uses his extensive knowledge of science as a basis for action-oriented stories. Steven Spielberg, the leading motion-picture director of our time, brought it to the screen. It was scored by John Williams, one of the most tiresome composers of all time. The Hollywood public relations wizards launched an advertising campaign which rivals Batman and Malcolm X. (Cartoon characters, black historical figures, dinosaurs - they are very indiscriminate about what they sell but damn good at selling the product). It is projected that the ancillary goods (cups, hats, tee-shirts) will gross close to a billion dollars.

The film purports to make a statement about the application of advanced science, specifically genetics. This notion gained credence when the New York Times ran a front page article about a group of scientists who isolated a strand of DNA from an insect from the Jurassic period (190 to 140 million years ago). The bug was trapped in amber. This coincidentally bears a striking resemblance to the set up in Mr. Crichton's book, in which dinosaurs are resurrected from blood found in a mosquito which is trapped in amber. The story broke within a week of the film's opening and was based on an article in the scientific journal "Nature". Hollywood public relations people have not been know to keep abreast of reports in science publications but it would not be surprising if they had a hand in the timing of this disclosure. The National Science Foundation readily admits planning the release of a dinosaur-related study to coincide with the opening of the film. Ms. Dybas, a spokeswoman for the N.S.F., was quoted as saying: "We thought it would be a good opportunity to get the word out on 4 of the 10 dinosaur research projects the N.S.F. is funding this year"*. It would be interesting to know whom Ms. Dybas is trying to "get the word out" to. The canard that Jurassic Park is a serious film about science had other venerable supporters. New York's Museum of Natural History whored itself to the movie by presenting an exhibit featuring "the dinosaurs of Jurassic Park" (the robot-monsters used in the movie). This was coordinated with the release of the film and featured a large banner over the main entrance highlighting the Jurassic Park logo. Ironically the notion that scientists can be bought exists in the plot of the film: a tycoon bribes two paleontologists to spend a weekend at his "Jurassic Park" by promising three years of research money. Art imitates life.

This film has nothing to do with science. It is about large ferocious lizard-like monsters tearing up people, cars and each other (not to mention one cow and one goat). It was easy to be saddened by the death of the barnyard animals, less so by any of the human carnage. Animals, especially ones that graze, have a natural ability to be at home on the screen; if only this had been true for their anthropoid supporting cast. The stars of this film are the faux-reptiles. The real mammals never had a chance. The script was merciless to them. The fate of the ruminants has been revealed. The humans spouted inane dialogue while their actions showed a penchant for stupidity. The robotic-lizards carried the day. Despite the fact they were machines they had more character than the hominid performers. It is certainly easier to eat than be eaten but even given the circumstances it is hard to fathom why the humans were so pathetic. The men, women and children in this film were as sympathetic as a random member of the Tokyo crowd which faced Godzilla. Pity these poor actors. It is the equivalent of having been sawed in half on stage and being upstaged by the saw. They bear some responsibility themselves. It had to have been a two pronged attack: the script in combination with their lackluster performances. Only that could have produced such a resounding catastrophe; at least from the human perspective.

The fake-dinosaurs, however, were absolutely brilliant. They really seemed real. They acted just as one expected large, mean-spirited lizards to act. They were graceful, single-minded, cruel and hungry. The only disappointment was the Triceratops. He acted like a machine. The reason is he was the only dinosaur who was not eating or being eaten. Fear and ravenousness are portrayed magnificently by all the others. Unfortunately Triceratops was sick. That requires more technique. Perhaps in a few years the technicians at Industrial Light and Magic will insert new chips and instill a wider range of emotion. Not to worry, much was accomplished despite the dinosaurs' limited ability to exhibit passion. In fact the representations of mankind made them appear to be brimming with ardor. It was a relief to have the humans disappear during the climax. It was pure reptile vs. reptile; no distractions from those horrible insect-like bipedal primates.

There is no doubt that the lizards are as spectacular as the humans are appalling. Whether one wishes to focus on the insipid portrayals of people or the technical wizardry of the pseudo-dinosaurs it is important take note of the insidiousness of this film. The movie is grounded in falseness. The pseudo-science has already been mentioned. Even more disturbing is the relationship between what the movie preaches and the impact of the film's arrival. The central storyline involves a tycoon who endangers his own grandchildren, not to mention the rest of the planet, by arrogantly building his notion of a dream-park without thinking of the consequences. Mr. Spielberg and his minions, are guilty of the same crime. The marketing of this film is directed at children. (Is the assorted McDonalds paraphernalia [cups, happy meals…] directed at the over 30 crowd?). Mr. Spielberg, however, announced that he is forbidding his tykes to bear witness. He claims it is too violent. Hmmmm. It is difficult to know whether Mr. Spielberg the parent has ever met Mr. Spielberg the movie tycoon. Perhaps during one of the screenings the two shall coalesce. This might give birth to an interesting advertising campaign: dinosaurs cups might start appearing in Yuppie bars. Speaking of dinosaur cups: the gift shop in the tycoon's dinosaur park features actual Jurassic Park regalia that your children can purchase in any number of shops. Children's television shows are subject to very strict guidelines as to how merchandise, especially toys, can be advertised (one would never guess by watching Saturday morning TV). It would be interesting to know whether this film's exhibiting of the gift shop items, essentially advertising souvenirs in the midst of the story, would be in violation of that law. Ignoring the legal issue, what is Mr. Spielberg actually saying by including this clever marketing gimmick? Are the pee-wees who sport this attire making an ironic statement about a tycoon's dream gone bad? Or, more likely, are they showing support for a movie moguls dream gone good? Mr. Spielberg has probably not considered any of these questions. He is not an evil man. He is merely a very successful tycoon who is relentlessly pursuing his dream. Sound familiar?

Jurassic Park is a meditation on the role of technology in modern society. What drives audiences to see this film are the impressive special effects. The leaps that have been made in video, film and robotic technology are truly astounding. The dinosaurs are a visual culmination technical craftsmanship. Underlying all the sophisticated high-tech images lies a very old story. The chase has always compelled us; whether it is a enslaved person fleeing his oppressors or a sundry group of tourists caught on a Caribbean island hiding from dinosaurs. Chases are fun but it is hard to really understand characters who are stalking one another with frenzied zeal. That is why the characters take a subordinate role to the elements that will heightened the suspense of being caught. Animated poodles could have worked just as well playing any of the human roles in Jurassic Park as long as the dinosaurs were scarery and the impediments they had to surmount were difficult enough to raise the level of anxiety. This task of building the monsters and the obstacles lies in the realm of the technician rather than the artist. There can be little question that a great deal of artistry is needed. It must have taken a virtuoso to realize the dream of having running water represent the Mississippi in those late 19th century productions of Uncle Tom's Cabin. That same genius is alive in the movement of the robotic lizards. This wizardry is akin to the finesse of a master craftsman rather than the brush-stroke of a great artist. Artists are concerned with a dinosaur's head and heart, not his teeth and limbs. A good artist tries to move an audience. Master Craftsmen are concerned with producing spectacular goods. It is immaterial to them whether the friuts of their labor are used to mesmorize a crowd. Artist's are more concerned with moving an individual's soul, not a mob's. Unfortunately the economics of show business dictates a need for a mob. That was true in the days of Uncle Tom's Cabin as well. In spite of all the new technology very little has changed or will change. Let us not forget that times change. Jurassic Park's dinosaurs will some day seem as arcane as the staged river crossings of 100 years ago. Steven Spielberg will become as obscure as last century's theater barons. The only difference is speed. Things happen faster. Expect the next "Cabin" to be built in the next 30 years by pillar of the entertainment community who has command over a legion of master craftsmen. It probably will not be a film. It certainly will not be a play. No need to remind its creator of that long-forgotten fossil, Jurassic Park. It would be the equivalent of warning Steven Spielberg about Uncle Tom's Cabin or a tycoon about the danger of re-introducing dinosaurs.