Nightcrawler (2014)

Nightcrawler (2014)
Portrait of a CEO as a Young Man

 …in the midst of a war that was selfish, ruthless and cruel Sammy was proving himself the fittest and the fiercest and the fastest.”
― Budd Schulberg, “What Makes Sammy Run?”

This is just like television, only you can see much further.
― Chance the Gardener riding in a car for first time from Jerzy Kosinski’s “Being There”

“Nightcrawler” is a film depicting the meteoric rise of a sociopathic freelance news cameraman who specializes in recording crime related carnage. The premise is unsettling but the real terror lies in Dan Gilroy’s ability to take this work out of the low earth orbit of the thriller/action/horror genres. This film has more in common with the seminal “Network” than “Silence of the Lambs”. Certainly Hannibal Lector is scary but Louis Bloom, played masterfully by Jake Gyllenhaal, is a more pernicious type of monster. The former enjoys being a devil, Bloom sees happiness as something that gets in the way of the real reason for existence, profit.  Gilroy manages, amidst car chases, bloody bodies and Bloom’s eyeball-rolling grins, to give a commentary on the dangers of our distracted culture. It is an art-house film posturing successfully as a mainstream feature with ironic warnings against the perils of entertainment and the banality of corporate careerism.  Gilroy never preaches. The repulsiveness of Bloom’s vision is exposed in a carefully calibrated climb up the entrepreneurial ladder. Bloom never engages in overt violence, but his actions are as disturbing as Lector’s cannibalism. An audience member might consider an encounter with a deranged serial killer to be a matter of luck. That same movie-goer knows there is no escaping the endless smiling junior achievers, salesmen and corporate shills. Louis Bloom is the embodiment of the unforgiving fine print. There is no way out except endless vigilance. Louis means business.

The casting in “Nightcrawler” is superb. Bloom's hard luck ‘partner’ in his news gathering start up, played by Riz Ahmed, provides a startling contrast for Gyllenhaal’s unstoppable appetite for domination. Each encounter exponentially illustrates the former’s callowness and the latter’s savagery. The final sequence culminates in Riz’s sheepish attempt at taking a stand. This is met by Gyllenhaal’s channeling all the contempt of corporate flack by saying that Riz’s failure to meet agreed upon performance requirements will result in physical harm. Riz caves to the bullying thereby sharing the fate of every minimum wage slave or under-educated plaintiff caught in the rigged trap of economic desperation. His fate is sealed with his unvarnished honesty in verbally disclosing that there is something very very very wrong with his boss and the overall situation. Expressing doubt in your leader’s vision is a capital offense as is the crime of competing too well… just ask the rival news stringer played wonderfully by Bill Paxton. Louis not only dispatches him by jimmying his truck but, to the horror of Riz, records the aftermath of the crash. The old, defeated veteran is loaded into the ambulance while Louis leans over with a cam corder. This is a visual metaphor for those who fail to understand the new dimensions of a competitive marketplace. The only way to survive Louis is to get out of the way or get in bed with him. The latter is the strategy employed by Rene Russo who embodies the mean-spirited vulgarity of local TV news. The old adage, “if it bleeds it leads”, has been replaced by, in the words of the news director, “a hysterical screaming white woman running down the street”. The mealy mouthed news staff might be appalled but everyone knows that she is bringing home the bacon with Louis’s endless supply of snuff films. Russo worn mascara, cigarette stained physicality matches Gyllenhaal’s skeletal creepiness. She plays at being Louis but in the end she knows she’s is a low ratings week away from being featured as a victim one of her leading news stories. Her better self is repelled by Louis but like Lady Anne before her, she ends up falling for Richard III. Maybe Lewis could toss her off the roof of the studio and film it in slow motion. It sounds unlikely but it is the inevitable direction of all their hard work.

Gilroy fills this feature with unorthodox small moments of revelation. Lewis’s complete derangement shows through in polished speeches about being a “hard worker” and “quick learner”. But it glows in the quieter moments. In an early scene a scrap yard manager is accepting Louis’ delivery of stolen metal. He quickly dismisses Louis’ plea of a job. “I’m not hiring a thief”.  Louis is not offended. Anger only clouds the path to profit. He almost thanks the man for his candor. This “feedback” is something he can use. Perhaps the most poignant moment is a brief view of Louis at home. Casually taking part in Ellinor Rigby type domestic chores (dawning socks and ironing). He views a  slap-stick routine on one of the channels. A knight in full armor is seemingly decapitated -followed by the reveal that the suit of armor was inhabited by a petite woman who pops here head through the shoulders after the helmet flies off. Louis, for the first and only time in the entire film, roars with laughter. It is the type of humor more suited to a eight year old boy or an eighty year old man; then again the apartment is decorated with the same pre-adolescent or late geriatric sensibility.  An antiseptic, sparsely decorated room dominated by a TV. Our monster appears, to paraphrase Shakespeare,  unfinished sent before his time… scarce half made up. It is hard to feel anything for someone so depraved but the site of him in that cubicle of a living space almost provokes sympathy. Note: despite receiving an economic windfall from his perverted news-gathering, he remains living in his cell. He will get a nice mansion when his career requires it, not before. It might appear to be the same flashy style as his spiritual brother from “There Will Be Blood” but it is doubtful that he will end up braining an old friend to death in the basement. That would require passion. Louis only possesses drive.

Speaking of drive this film has a wonderful chase scene that is as disorienting as the the idea that Louis is a mammal. In most film bad guys chase good guys or vice versa. This dynamic car sequence has weird guys chasing good guys chasing bad guys. The swerves and crashes are shot from the POV of Louis and his cohort - but where is the audience’s allegiance? One wishes our anti-hero a worse fate than the erstwhile ‘bad guys’ who have brutally murdered an innocent family in cold blood. Such is the logic in a world in which Louis is winning.

Gilroy needs to be credited with producing an excellent film but it is not without flaws. The opening title sequence displayed Robert Elswit Hopper-esque picture of LA. One could hear Jim Morrison screaming “cops in cars, topless bars, never met a woman.. so alone”. This promising opening was followed by a slow meandering start. There is a long series of scenes establishing Louis prowess as a ruthless, slick, fast-talking petty thief who stumbles on the news gathering business by the serendipity of witnessing a gruesome car crash. The mechanics of the execution of the material failed to match the remaining 3/4 of the film. It dragged. The problem might lie in the disconnect between Louis’ super human efficiency and his status as a petty thief in the opening sequence. As the film progresses it showcases his extraordinary capacity to mimic and digest vital bits of information. The opaque references to his origins are equally puzzling. Louis has the ‘right’ answer to all questions. He can make up yarns on the spot and speak the language of negotiation whether he is hocking stolen metal, a high end bike or a reel of grizzly footage. When Russo asks about his history he is uncharacteristically taciturn. Where does Louis really come from? Does someone with his demonic skill set end up hocking manhole covers while he’s in his thirties? It might have been better to have Louis enter the movie returning from a prison stint. His lack of circulation might account for his dearth of achievement. The early Louis seems to undercut the diabolical achievements of the latter Louis.  It would also be interesting for him to present, whether real or imaginary, a portrait of his family. It is the kind of thing he would know would be expected in basic remedial human interaction. What would he come up with? Or perhaps a straightforward rendition of the real life origins would be even more disquieting. In watching endless episodes of 48 Hours and other “women in a ditch” TV programs it is apparent that these creatures spring from Ozzie and Harriet’s cradle.

Gilroy also seems rooted in the grimness of Louis’ world view. There is no humor (or sex) in this film. It’s not that the material screams comedy or passion but simply screaming, or more precisely, recording people screaming, fails to deliver the depravity of Louis. Riz might have served as a human foil. He might have feigned a real connection which would have given more gravitas to Louis’ actions at the end of the film. It also might have made eased the unrelenting darkness of our anti-hero. Truth be told Louis is a one note song. It’s a wonderful, albeit discordant, sound so why not ad some brief major chords of humor. One can only imagine Louis at a corporate event trying to impress the suits at headquarters. There is a touch of this as he wanders the newsroom and people know his name. His glad handing and smiling are as tragic/comic as Starkweather at the close of Malick’s “Badlands”. Louis has mastered the affect of being a “just one of the guys” hero while possessing the track record of a cold blooded killer with boundless contempt for humanity. The reality is merely a poor relation to what really matters, image. It is interesting, in this context, that the writers chose to name the protagonist Louis Bloom. Perhaps this is a mirror image of James Joyce’s Leopold Bloom, the central figure in Ulysses. Whereas Joyce journeys into Leopold’s subconscious giving an expansive commentary on the human condition, Gilroy delves into the dearness of Louis’ mind which is akin to stimulus/response Skinner Box. In this case operant conditioning can be entertaining albeit with less of the grand insight given by Joyce. Leopold is a meditation on humanity. Louis is a study in a particular pathology.

Despite some blemishes Gilroy delivers a film with resonance. Although the media, specifically news gathering organizations, takes center stage, there are broader implications to Bloom’s penchant for replacing “news” with fiction. Life is not fiction, it is stranger. A few weeks ago many publications covering the Ebola crisis tapped the screenwriter for the feature film “Contagion” as an appropriate “expert” to deliver commentary on the health crisis. Who needs a bore with an advanced degree epidemiology when Hollywood can spin a colorful yarn. Given this logic the director of the “The Titanic” might be tapped to weigh in on international North Atlantic transport agreements. There are real life consequences to replacing the arduous hard work of understanding with the distraction of entertainment. Know that our current obsession with Kardashian’s butt can render us vulnerable to ending up on a stretcher with Louis’ cam corder hovering overhead.  We must retain our vigilance. We must trust, but verify while always reading the fine print. We must always have a strong counter offer. We must never take our eye (or mind) off the never-end stream of efficient smiling adversaries. This is the new price of civilization, otherwise we will be eaten by night crawlers.  Over two centuries ago Voltaire warned us: “Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities”. One can imagine Louis Bloom hearing these words and exclaiming in a eureka moment: “now you’re giving me something I can work with”.

Moxie 2000 - 2014


We met you 14 years ago in the ASPCA shelter. We brought our dog Stanley as we thought he needed a companion. He shared your status as a stray wandering the streets. He bore the scares of a troubled beginning but you were immune to all the turmoil. They had named you Ashley and you made a grand entrance flopping over everything and everyone as a hopelessly cute sorority sister borrowing the self assurance of that Beatles song “Girl”: “When you say she’s looking good she acts as if it’s understood… she cool cool cool cool… Girl! Girl!”. Stanley was unimpressed and continued his Eeyore the donkey imitation - slowly moping about while you lit up the grey industrial tile. We were sold despite Stanley’s seeming indifference. We christened you “Moxie” as a nod to your dominating spirit. Even Stanley was won over.

You were always popular on those late night walks in Central Park. Leaping forward to greet the other dogs while Stanley held back. You were the Queen bee in the dog runs and unlike Stanley you knew when to run and when to bark - often times the loud bark was followed by a hasty retreat…. often hiding behind Stanley. The transition from the Upper West Side to off the grid rural Vermont was seamless. You found a new hobby - wandering out into the pitch darkness to gaze up at the moon. The thrill of the sylvan night matched the electricity of the city. You were resilient to the new animals, setting and weather. Stanley would cower in the corner as he thought the house was collapsing when snow slide off the roof - you wagged your tale and asked for dinner. You adjusted to cars and demanded the front seat - always staring forward as if the direction of the car relied on your gaze. You also believed that copious barking would ward away all potential threats… which often times included any person or animal within site of the front windshield.

As the years wore on your body failed… but never your spirit. Even Stanley’s quiet passing never dulled your vibrant need to participate. As your back legs gave-out you turned to your commanding voice as the means of participating. This led to many evenings of embarrassment as guests failed to understand how we could endure a dog that never seemed to stop demanding the floor. You were difficult at the Vet. You knew it could only mean trouble and pain. You didn’t understand the procedures to remove a life threatening infected cyst or the others to prevent blindness. You were angry when we left you overnight; but you never held a grudge… all was forgiven with a large meal and a loud bark. You didn’t thank us - you forgave us. And you accepted our apology. We knew you could never comprehend the dark chores of guardianship.

Now we were faced with that ultimate task: the question of ‘when?’. Your unsteady gate and bleeding paws told us “now”; your hardy appetite, endless barking and steady gaze said 'one more day'. A night of restlessly trying to stand was followed by a day of dragging yourself forward. We looked past the sores, the smell and the mess. We tried to tell ourselves that things were rebounding. You were never one to go gentle into that goodnight. That wasn’t you. To the last you were defiantly stumbling and demanding a dog treat while refusing to lie down. We prayed for the quiet goodbye that Stanley gave us… but you are Moxie. That defiance we cherished during deep dark nights became the thing that gave us the most pain. But that is not your concern. That is something for guardians to fret over. We loved you for being you… and you were you… till the last.

Your physicality was our grief writ large. The vet didn’t understand how you could stand. His eyes showed a surprise that we had not acted sooner…. just as your eyes dared us not to. You will never comprehend our grief. But perhaps Stanley can explain it to you… just as you tried to explain about the roof-snow to him. We buried you side by side so there is no need to bark so loudly to get Stanley’s attention. We know you will never thank us… but know you will forgive us. Despite having other rambunctious dogs… it is very quiet here tonight. But we take solace in knowing you have now joined Stanley and are no doubt bounding about the new room… he is very glad to see you… even though he won’t show it.

Remarks at Opening of Town Hall Opera House

 August 2014 Remarks at Opening of Plainfield's Town Hall Opera House


The Town Hall Opera House building was our ancestor’s version of Social Media/Movies/TV.  In the days of harsher winters, no electricity and horse drawn carriages a public building dedicated to ‘meeting’ was essential. Our forebears familiarity with silence and darkness would be exceptional to today’s most ardent shut-ins. This is not to say their world was grim but rather it was more isolated and less convenient. The Town Hall Opera House served the the purpose of affirming something larger. This place offered a moment of communion which all human’s crave. That muddy two hour slog to the meeting, or play or concert, delivered that tactile burst of knowing that somehow you are part of something larger; which in turn shaped those many hours of solitary reflection.

With tax dollars having to be stretched fuzzy notions about the importance local face to face gatherings fall prey to solid counter arguments based on cost and alternatives. There are other ways to host town meeting. There are other venues available for entertainment. It is risky to allocate resources to a project that has a troublesome history both structurally and financially.

In order to respect ALL sides and uphold the value of a community space one must turn to a very special kind of leadership. Former Selectboard Chairman David Strong stepped into the thankless void of raising private money and personally supervising an extremely complicated renovation. We now enjoy the fruits of David’s labor. It was a group effort - but he was in charge and inspired everyone with his boundless energy.

Our practical selves can view this as the Town adding value to an asset while sparing the taxpayer an expense. The more esoteric can see David’s work as continuing the much needed building of a broader sense of togetherness. We need creative ways to stretch the taxpayer dollar. We also desperately need spaces to join together.

It sounds trite, but as we become more electronically intertwined, bearing witness as a group takes on more significance. Traveling to the Town Hall Opera House is an act of affirming that we are not islands unto ourselves. We are all part of something larger. On a national level our Founding Farther’s knew the importance of group gatherings by making Freedom of Assembly the FIRST amendment in the Bill of Rights. Thank you David for reminding us of something our ancestors knew all along. Plainfield now has a place to come together. There will be triumphs and virtuoso performances. There will also be acrimony and artists who miss the mark. But whatever the occasion, the experience will be sure to impact our quiet moments and shape us as a community. It is what happens after the curtain falls that counts the most.

Boyhood (2014)

Boyhood (2014)
Moments of Revolution

"What is the nature of the search? you ask. Really it is very simple; at least for a fellow like me. So simple that it is easily overlooked. The search is what anyone would undertake if he were not sunk in the everydayness of his own life.” - Binx Bolling, in Walker Percy’s The Moviegoer

“Like all great discoveries, it is breathtakingly simple” - Binx’s Aunt


‘Boyhood’ is Richard Linklater’s much acclaimed, nearly three hour, feature film which documents the coming of age of a young American boy in a contemporary single parent family. The word ‘documents’ is rarely used in association with this type of fiction movie. This film is different. It is organized and produced in an unconventional manner having been shot over twelve years.The cast literally grows up before your eyes. This trope has been used in Michael Apted’s “Up” films. For over half a century the director has been returning to the same group of people to examine their progress (or lack thereof). Unlike this popular documentary, the draw of Linklater’s feature is more than witnessing people morph into adults. It is captivating to watch the cast of ‘Boyhood’ come of age but the real hook is the magic of omission. Ironically purposeful absence pushes the narrative into the sublime. Perhaps ‘narrative’ isn’t the right word choice as this ‘story’ is enmeshed in passing moments rather than plot points. The zeitgeist of this work fails to be captured in conventional terms. This speaks to its revolutionary nature.

Is this a dramatic film? Is it scripted? Was it conceived as a story focusing on the boy? Did the crucial form come from editing ad-libbed sequences? All these unusual questions and yet: ‘Boyhood’ is conventionally structured, traditionally photographed and chronologically told. This stands in stark contrast to game-changing directors of the past who freed stories from rigid scripts and pre-built sets. To name just two: John Cassavetes unbound the staid movie world with unscripted sequences shot in actual locations. Jean-Luc Godard was even more phrenetic and purposely jarred audiences by obscuring time and place.  Both these auteurs created beautiful, stylized, versions of reality but there was no mistaking their ground-breaking visions. Linklater is a quiet revolutionary. His oeuvre borrows Cassavetes hip vibrancy while ignoring Godard’s overt manipulation of reality. Make no mistake Linklater is equally subversive. He gently melds the playwright Thornton Wilder’s sense of vastness. The specter of Father Time rises from the mundane suburban landscapes. One might initially mistake ‘Boyhood’ for a conventional feature.  By the same logic one might assume “Our Town” is set small New England village. The journey, however, quietly slips from the provincial to the eternal. ‘Boyhood’  takes place on the familiar footing of track houses, highways, McMansions and institutional buildings. But don’t let the solid ground fool you. To paraphrase Dorothy: We are not in Texas anymore.

Most features rest on familiar conceits involving moving a story forward. This film opens with a ordinary lower middle class family consisting of: an overburdened mother, two squabbling children and a likable absent father. They experience the typical trials of striving Americans… dislocation, lack of money, never ending intra-family strife, substance abuse.… The usual tricks of wedding audiences to story lines and characters seamlessly drifts away as the film progresses. Here is the heart of the revolution: the small actions within the moment replace the predictable linear thread. We uncouple from the narrative and become personally involved with the overall lives of the protagonists. We are not seeing a movie. We are living with a family. As in real life we can only glimpse at the truth and never know what really happened. Things arrive and vanish without explanation. The echo of these experiences shapes what is it to come. To use a visual metaphor from ‘Boyhood’ : there are many moments when the children look out car windows to see their friends or step-siblings disappear in the distance. The conventional narrative thread would deliver meticulous explanations of the fate of their beloved companions. This approach would also relegate those who don’t deserve a full history to being merely background fill. In film terms: minor characters or extras don’t count. ‘Boyhood’ reverses that conceit. They are all that matter because, in the grand scheme, we are all extras. It is counter-intuitive to build meaning out of loose ends and walk-on characters. This is the radical nature of Linklater’s vision.

Even the bedrock notion that the players in this film are fictional ‘characters’ seems undone by the world outside the movie theater. Today, in real life as I wrote, National Public Radio ran a segment describing the release of Ethan Hawke’s “Black Album”.  This is a collection of songs performed by members of the Beatles after their breakup. Hawke made this compilation for his daughter. Linklater appropriated this moment and mixed it in the narrative. How does one categorize Hawke’s heartfelt speech to his son where he carefully unpacks the liturgy of four former apostles of music? He gave the same sermon to his daughter in real life. Are these ‘characters’ or actual people recreating their own lives? The illusionary answers are secondary to the raising of the question. What is truth? The ambiguous reality is further intertwined with a strange open-ended disappearing storyline. Here are some examples: The black clad mentally ill neighborhood boy who curses on command: seen once but forever etched in everyones’ mind. The high-school bullies who challenge the newbie in the bathroom evoking the endless torments of male adolescent rage: they threaten, curse and vanish. The chatty girl who coaxes our angst ridden anti-hero to a special party to meet her friend who has a crush on him: don’t know if he did… but he was asked. All these vignettes are interspersed with stunningly accurate dialogue and trends of the specific period. A Harry Potter book sale is featured complete with the kids in costume. There is a hilarious sequence documenting lawn sign posting during the Obama/ McCain election. The conversations amongst the characters has a startling real world intimacy. There is a sequence of our hero and his high school girlfriend discussing the merits of Facebook. He thinks it takes everyone away from ‘real life’. He also believes himself to be profound, original and different. He thinks she treasures his lone man uniqueness.  She is skeptical of his pronouncements but fails to press him too hard. She stays tethered to her phone. She also enjoys conventionality in dress and manner. The inevitable break up scene captures the absurdity of young people caught on the cusp of adulthood. This is all delivered with straightforward cinematography and no special effects or wardrobe enhancements. The genuineness of the dialogue and performance actually hides the meticulous artistry. If is as you were on a bus or in a restaurant and you witnessed these people living their lives. Detailed descriptions of most of the scenes approximate a recitation of events caught on surveillance cameras. The audience experience, however, generates the ecstasy of bearing witness to a masterful work of art.

This conveyor belt of seemingly random moments has the effect of being a Rorschach test for audience members’ own life experiences. Tolstoy’s famous remark rings true as witnessing Linklater’s creation evokes personal reflections on the unhappiness of one’s own family. Most feature films demand coalescing around a good/bad divide regarding character or plot. ‘Boyhood’ provokes very different discussions in each individual audience member. I personally was moved by the mother’s endless capacity to ‘soldier on’ and safeguard her children despite numerous mistaken life-choices. My film companion was nauseated by the never-ending finger-wagging towards American adolescents by adults who have little insight into their own lives. Once again neither view is wrong. There were so many universal touchstones it would be difficult to predict what series of magical moments would impact a typical viewer. Patrica Arquette’s physical reactions to her ex-husband’s half baked attempts to be emotionally supportive are exquisite.  She has harnessed all the pain of American single moms who do battle with absentee fathers’ boundless capacity for fecklessness. The expression on our young hero’s face while his step-father capriciously cuts off all his hair brings forth all the childhood tyranny experienced at the hands of cruel adults. These examples reveal the melancholy but Linkletter is far too good an artist to be morose. Life is tinged with sadness but great art manages to be honest and not fall into a morass of self-pity. This film is a comedy in the Chekovian sense. At times it is even ‘laugh out loud’ funny. No one will witness the children’s sudden visit to the religious, gun-toting step-grandparents and not crack a smile at parents’ emotional entanglements. This sequence is a movie version of the famous website, “Awkward Family Photos”.

Linklater shares the cojones and unshakable vision of cinema verite filmmakers who usually work in two man crews (sound and picture). The documentarians journey relies on a roll of the dice in capturing the unknown. Every project begins with the full knowledge that there might be nothing show for all the effort.  After spending thousands of days and dollars their subjects might  be uninteresting or unobtainable. Linklater’s bravery dwarfs these efforts in that he was organizing an army of production staff while tapping millions in financing: all predicated on the whims of children. In fact he even drafted his own daughter as one of the co-stars when she was literally a little girl. What if she, at the tender age of 10, decided she was no longer interested in Daddy’s dream? What if the co-stars had opted out of the project after a few years? How does one ensure a decade’s worth of commitment on an ephemeral premise? One can only imagine the facial expression of a seasoned Hollywood agent’: “you want my client for 12 years and you’re not sending me a script?” Probably could only to be matched by the grimaces of the producers when they tried to calculate their return on investment.

Some may carp that the work is too long. Others might criticize certain sequences for not measuring up to the high standards of acting and dialogue that comprise the bulk of the film. These are valid criticisms but reveal a myopicness married to conventional paradigms. These so called ‘blemishes’ oddly link the film to the major premise of ‘Boyhood’: this is life, plain and simple. It appears that way but in reality it is a skillfully imagined rendering born of a mastery of craft and a distinct vision. One of his radical decisions is to include seemingly superfluous material that would be verboten in most projects. But most films aren’t aiming as high. ‘Boyhood’ is asking fundamental questions that spur introspection.  Linklater treats his audience without condescension. He eschews dispensing sagacity on cue.

What kind of person dares to create a film such as ‘Boyhood’? The all encompassing scope combined with the logistics make career ending failure an almost certainty. Obviously the motivation cannot be grounded in penury fears or need for acceptance. Linklater, being a true artist, risked his professional life knowing he might be wrong. Most who embark on this journey share the fate of the supporting cast of ‘Boyhood’: they drift out of the picture and never reach the summit of Olympus. Some, such as Linklater, prevail. Based on the fierceness of his vision I would guess he would ally himself with those minions who were left vanquished on the mountainside.  Thematically ‘Boyhood’ shows that we are all in this together. Hard fought battles mesh together and obscure the specifics of a particular failure or triumph. A lauded academy trophy will eventually become a little noticed relic stuffed away in an office or museum... before it is forgotten and disappears.  Things always gravitate towards smallness. This is why truth lies in the grand spectrum of little moments. Banded together these droplets of memory form our eternal legacy and guard us from the nothingness of oblivion. It is futile to mark every rain storm and explain everything.  Many great artists fall into this trap. Audience-victims of Terrence Mallick’s late films (“Tree of Life”, “To the Wonder") know the pitfalls of attempting to compose “A Key to all Mythologies”.  These endeavors  always end in laborious indecipherable journeys. The real ‘key’ is to adopt a Shaker sense of simplicity while focusing on what is front and center. No need for explanation. It is arrogant to think you have answers. Just asks questions and let the audience experience personal affirmation; then get back to the business at hand.

In Linklater’s case this film will be a life’s work. It’s not over… merely the first installment. It redefines the much derided notion of soap-opera while retaining the gravitas of Marcel Proust’s “A Remembrance of Lost Time”. It is more approachable than most meditations on the human condition because it avoids the heaviness of epic drama while retaining its profundity. The closing scene says it all. There are no spoilers as this is life. We are not looking for pat endings or clever summations. Our anti-hero sits on a rock in a desert. It is the South West but it bears a resemblance to the East African Rift Valley, the area where homo sapiens first evolved.  Our anti-hero obviously has an interest in his new-found friend. They are both high on peyote. He is awkwardly trying to retain his teenage ‘cool’ while not wanting to be aloof. He wants her to like him. She is beautiful and clever and the vastness of the eternal surroundings highlights her wit and charm. He summons all his courage and says “it’s like its always right now”. Nothing could be dumber.. or more wise. It’s genius. Thank you Mr. Linklater for being brave and telling it like it is. We will get up every morning and look for your next installment. Maybe it will never come but we know that you’re working on it. We all are.

August: Osage County (2014)

Cat on a Tepid Tin Roof

A couple of weeks back “Spider-man: Turn Off the Dark” closed on Broadway.  Bono wrote the music. The famed ‘Lion King’ theater director was tapped to adapt one of the most successful comic book franchises in history to the proscenium arch. Everyone had credentials and a solid track record of delivering phenomenal box office returns. In the end the show lost a record $60 million. The financial sting was only part of the sad tale. The playwright penned a tome entitled: “Song of Spiderman: the inside story of the controversial musical in Broadway History” . The book chronicled the ugly fights between the principals and the many injuries to the actors due to stage gadgetry; but there will be no ‘talking out of school’ from the crew of John Well’s “August: Osage County”, which is based on a Pulitzer Prize winning play of the same name.  This portrait of a hardscrabble Oklahoma farm family has nothing in common thematically with the New York based Marvel Comics Heroes. Unfortunately these two seemingly disparate projects share the same fatal creative flaw. World class resumes cannot mend structural deficiencies. A movie is not merely the product of a 'master' mixing ‘great ingredients’. No cook could meld sardines and cotton candy and produce something that was palatable. The pedigree of the chef, the freshness of the fish and use of real cane sugar: are immaterial. The result would be a horrible gooey culinary disaster.  Artistically speaking this film, like the Spidey show, is the equivalent of fish candy made by the best hands with the finest ingredients. The result is a collective WTF from a befuddled audience.

Tracy Letts, the author of both the play and screenplay, is a formidable talent born of a family of creative artisans. His mother is an academic, his father an author, and his brother is a noted Jazz musician. He joined the much lauded Steppenwolf Theatre Company at a young age and has been awarded both a Tony for his performing and a Pulitzer for his writing. Not bad for someone born in the cultural backwater of Tulsa Oklahoma. His explanation of the title of the play/film:

"I could never come up with a title as brilliant as 'August: Osage County.' Mr. Howard Starks, gentleman, teacher, poet, genius, mentor, friend, created that title for an extraordinary poem that is one of the inspirations for my play. I steal the title with deference, yet without apology – Howard, I'm sure, would have it no other way – and I dedicate this play to his memory." - June 16, 2008 article in the “The Tulsa World”

Mr. Starks most famous poem, a tightly drawn portrait of the death of a beloved Great Plains matriarch, is a inverted image of the emotional gothic horror show Letts reveals in the film. Mr. Starks seminal work has been subsumed by the success of Mr. Letts’ appropriation.  It is difficult to even find references to the poem in the mountain of internet material on the film. Some might say that Mr. Starks owes a debt of gratitude for his former student’s ‘putting him on the map’. Given the disparity of the emotion in the material it would be interesting to know the original author’s POV. Might there be a touch of.... anger? Unfortunately he passed years before the play opened. Interestingly Mr. Letts work is also filled with unanswered questions from a scholarly mentor and patriarch who remains silent due to an untimely exit.

In the opening sequence Sam Shepard, the retired academic, hires a Native American woman to work as a cook/cleaner in his dysfunctional farmstead home. Suddenly Meryl Streep, the tormented matriarch, makes her appearance. One feels a wave of rage reinforced by a lifetime of addiction without her speaking a word. Unfortunately she decides to metaphorically ‘add more sauce’. Her performance is breathtaking.... to a fault. This actress has a power and subtly rarely exhibited by any film performer. Oddly her brilliance brings forth a question usually reserved for professional athletes: is it better to have a superstar or a player who makes the entire team shine. Ms. Streep fails to lift other boats. The rest of the cast, composed of seasoned professional, was extremely competent but incongruous when matched with the maestro's theatrical one woman show. The other cast members were merely in a feature film. Margo Martindale , not Ms. Streep, gave the best performance in the context of the movie. Her character’s bitterness towards her son and spouse are rooted in being a mother/spouse. Her relationship with sister Streep is a genuine unshakable bond. The sister never returns the favor. Streep is a disembodied diva rather than a engaged family member. The performance is worth watching but sadly it fails to serve the film as a whole. Ms. Streep’s formidable talent is mismatched with a callow director whose resume shows extensive experience as a producer and television writer. It is hard to imagine Mr. Wells, or even a seasoned veteran feature director, radically altering Ms. Streep’s’ conception of her part. She has an unmatched track record as the consummate artist; how does one politely ask her to ‘turn it down for the good of the whole’? Once again SHE is magical; but she fails to cast a spell on THE FILM. The initial encounter foretells a pattern of giving monologues fraught with facial choreography when a simple gesture would suffice.  In the close of the cook/cleaner interview Sam Shepard quoting T. S. Elliot remarks “Life is very long”. So was that scene; and it was Ms. Streep’s fault.

The supporting cast does an admirable job of keeping up with Streep’s whirlwind virtuosity. Martindale’s husband, played by Chris Cooper, is quietly brilliant as his spouse; just enough understatement to radiate dignity. Their unfortunate son, played by Benedict Cumberbatch, never stood a chance.  His character is the equivalent of a swatted fly left writhing without dying; but he does nail the accent. His sole fan, played by Julianne Nicholson, is drowning in a swamp of sorrow and has difficulty rising above her snake-bitten part.  Julliette Lewis is convincing as the dumbbell daughter and Dermot Mulroney is passable as the feckless lecherous boyfriend.  None of the sisters are believable as siblings.  Julia Roberts fails to exhibit a millisecond of tenderness. She is her mother’s daughter in delivering a showy performance which is anchored in the wrong harbor. Anger is central to her character’s worldview; but it should not be the ONLY attribute. Perhaps her strident rigidity in interpreting this part is an attempt to quash any notion that she is not a serious actress; more than a ‘Pretty Woman’. Her tiresome moan of a film, “Eat Pray Love”,  put to bed any notion she is a lighthearted heartthrob. She should feel free to genuinely emote happiness on screen - if that’s in her repertoire. Her on screen husband and daughter were very professional.  Once again the spouse, Ewan McGregor, is saddled with playing a castrated milquetoast - it was a wonderful interpretation of an uninspired character.  He joins Cumberbatch in delivering a very convincing American accent. Abigail Breslin is very believable as the callow daughter. The Native American cook/housekeeper’s is rooted in the of ‘the wise ole silent Indian’ stock character. She breaks through the serious-goodness to pummel Mulroney with a shovel while he attempts to seduce Abigail. One wishes she had turned the spade on the rest of the cast of despicable, emotionally damaged characters. The harshest blow would be reserved for Sam Shepard -  who set her up for this horrific gig; and promptly disappeared. He knew what was coming. Once again “Life is Very Long”.

One can only imagine the cowed director Wells, after being beaten down by Ms. Streep, facing the author Tracey Letts. This Okie would see his words inspiring as ‘the bright golden haze on the meadow”. This is his home turf. He has been certified as an important writer of an important work by the Pulitzer people. Who is this TV hack to attempt cut down his award winning dialogue.  One suspects Wells knew there was too much ‘fringe on top’. Unfortunately his failure to turn a scythe on Letts bountiful script led to a bumper crops of yawns amongst the audience (at least at the showing I attended).  Films lack the intimate immediacy of a live theatrical performance. The spoken word and surrounding landscape are fundamentally different in the two mediums. The use of monologues and utilizing confined space are primary in most theatrical productions. Films rely on movement, rather than the spoken word; there is also the challenge of taming infinite space.  It might have been a fruitful exercise to have Mr. Letts and Ms. Streep construct a completely silent rendering of the story. This would have forced them away from the proscenium arch, speech-centric, worldview. It would have also spared the audience endless scenes conceived in the claustrophobic confines of a theater. What filmmaker would imagine a grown man attempting to seduce a 14 year old girl by plying her with pot DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF THE HOUSE WHERE HER PARENTS ARE SLEEPING? Are we to believe Juliette Lewis and her boyfriend drove from California to a small town in Oklahoma on short notice in a two seater Ferrari?  Did Cumberbatch’s bus need to arrive immediately after the funeral service ended? Did 90% of the action need to take place on the first floor of the rambling house? Movies are not conceived in such small spaces. This shortsightedness is seen in the cinematography as well. It is unfortunate that Sam Shepard failed to alert the artistic team to  Nestor Almendros’ amazing photographic homage to the Plains in “Days of Heaven”:  “you know I was in the film way back that really did a great job capturing this neck of the woods....” Then again Shepard knew, despite life being long,  his time on this film was short. Why bother giving a heartfelt critique of the action when it's just another relatively small gig.... or maybe he didn't notice the mediocrity of the cinematography? Or maybe he didn't want to piss of his bosses with too many ideas?

The theatrical hall of fame of American Gothic families would have to include the progeny of Tennessee Williams, Lillian Hellman and Eugene O’Neil’s in their works: “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof”, “The Little Foxes” and “Long Days Journey into Night”.  Each of these plays have solid film adaptations. They possess an insular quality but they contain performances that break the stiltedness of watching an artwork conceived in another medium. Strong writing and a fully integrated artistry make Meryl Streep’s Violet Weston pale in comparison to Burl Ives’ Big Daddy, Betty Davis’ Regina Giddens and Katherine Hepburn’s Mary Tyrone.  In a sense we can see Violet Weston as possessing the all encompassing drug addiction of Mary Tyrone combined with the ferocious socio-pathology of Regina Giddens. In the end she shares Giddens fate of being alone in the house after being abandoned by her favorite daughter due to the discovery that money took precedence over her husband’s life.  There is an essential plot point that Letts omits. In all these other American family nightmares pecuniary deliberations are front and center: the Tyrone patriarch’s avarice causes Mary to be a junkie and his children to be rudderless souls on his dole; everyone is overtly fighting over Big Daddy’s fortune; Regina Gidden’s causes her husband’s demise to secure the loot. Lett tones down the shear grabbiness of his clan. They are, despite their failings, mostly self-supporting and independent. They all, unlike the Tyrones, Giddens and Big Daddy brood,  choosing freedom in spite of  the monetary penalties.  They have a dignity born of pathology rather than an awfulness born of desperation. Unfortunately this makes them less enjoyable to watch.  If the audience saw everyone was clearly out for the dough, the two hours with this family would passed more quickly. It would have been more understandable why they tolerated one another. There can be no discernible reason for anyone to endure Violet’s company for more than a few minutes without direct compensation. Otherwise the Weston clan appears to be merely emotionally crippled sad sacks.  Cumberbatch is the poster-child for this unfortunate family trait. His trauma drama has no resonance to a contemporary audience weened on American daytime television where incest is de rigueur.  Ironically 1950s classics such as "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" still have resonance. Paul Newman’s homosexuality in William’s work still manages to stir the audience because Newman’s character is more exquisitely drawn. We care about his inability to woo women as it relates to his relationship with Big Daddy. Whether or not Cumberbatch is intimate with his sister would have no impact on the widely held opinion of him as a loser; it might even boost the brother-lover's stock.  His step father would still love him and the rest of the clan, save the one sister, would hold him in contempt. His character shares the family problem of being a whimper, not a bang.

The gloss of Eliot quotes , the big names and resumes fail to mask the smallness of this pretentious piece of writing.  The all star cast went their separate ways. The director failed to reign anyone in with difficult questions regarding the best way to bring forth a portrait of this damaged family. This highbrow train wreck will garner awards, be praised as ‘important’; and promptly forgotten.   These talented people can move on doing good work as this turkey disappears over the horizon. Stark’s poem will live on as it possess a love of the people and place:

They watch her old hands and murmur—

How many biscuits

and pans of gravy?

How many babies soothed

and bee-stings daubed with bluing?

How many lamp-wicks trimmed?

How many berries picked?

words circling

as her quiet breath winds down to silence.

A better writer might have harnessed this deep appreciation for the lives lived and mingled it with the uncomfortable unhappiness of mental illness. Without the proud goodness of the heartland the meanness is as forgettable as any tawdry NY Post headline. A stronger director might have been able to assemble an artistic team to give life to this work rather than highlight its weaknesses. Wells and Letts will avoid the ignominy experienced by the Spiderman team.  No artist should be punished harshly for failing; that’s already in a long day’s work. There is enough serious panache that they can hold there heads high in public. But what about late on a sleepless night? Perhaps in the wee hours Wells will get a call from Bono. He can open the conversation by saying “Sorry about Spiderman”. Bono will reply,  “Sorry about August: Osage County”. When the tension breaks they can commiserate: “you know I hired THE BEST PEOPLE” and the other can reply “so did I”.

Inside Llewyn Davis (2014)

Unlike A Rolling Stone


You have to respect the Coen brothers’ craftsmanship and tenacity even if you don’t like their films. These two brothers have created an extraordinary body of features spanning three decades. Each possesses different themes and styles - yet they have a sharp precise quality of artists who never leave anything to chance. There is a tremendous amount of homework which in the hands of lesser director/writers would give birth to works weighted down by a ponderous heaviness. The Coen brothers are, first and foremost, about entertainment.  They are very well educated showman who want to deliver the goods. It’s ironic as some of their subject matter has a high brow panache: “Barton Fink” chronicles writer’s block with representations of William Faulkner and Clifford Odets; and yet they also created “Raising Arizona”  - not exactly “Public Television” material.  Each outing has the Coen brother’s signature exacting craftsmanship and ironic musings. There is a link between the over-drawn sweeping camera shots in “Blood Simple” and the outrageous dirt-bag shenanigans of the Dude in “The Big Lebowski”. These filmmakers are smart, hardworking and snarky. They are not catering to a specific audience. They make what interests them; this time around it’s Greenwich Village in 1961 right before Bob Dylan’s lionization.

“Inside Llewyn Davis” is a kunstlerroman in the manner of “Barton Fink”. The artist, played by Oscar Isaac, is loosely based on Dave Van Ronk.  He is a musician’s musician, respected by a coterie of insiders but rejected by the general public. There is a scene in which he auditions for a business big wig whose reaction to his heartfelt ballad is: “I’m not seeing alot of money here”.  This club owner, played with searing show-business honesty by F. Murray Abraham, throws our anti-hero a bone. He wants to pair him with a new group he is forming as long as he understands he will not be the lead singer. At this moment Davis has zero prospects. He diligently snatches defeat from the jaws of victory by turning down the offer.   This small moment showcases a central problem with the film. There is an un-entertaining quality to Davis’ self-destruction.  Dis-likable people can possess dramatic charm. That was illustrated by John Goodman’s performance as a over-the-hill junkie jazzman in the road sequence. Goodman‘s bellicose droning raises narcissism to an artform. He is loathsome and captivating. He channels all the decedent corpulence of Orson Welles in “Touch of Evil” with the smirk of Bugs Bunny. Davis is all the drudgery and pain of an artistic life. The brief moments of comic sparkle are overshadowed by the darkness of his quest.  This grimness is rooted in a mistaken notion of authenticity. Since middle-brow entertainment is focused on easy 'feel good' tropes, many ‘serious’ mainstream artists avoid any hint of sentimentality.  Unfortunately the Coen brothers' oeuvre requires a touch of schmaltz.  Strangely the lack of sweetness gives a repellent bitterness to Davis’ story.

There are moments in this film that deliver the no-holds-barred sardonic charm that is at the heart of the Coen’s work. The first is a complicated scene in which two of Davis‘ friends, a straight couple, join another performer on stage who happens to be enlisted in the army.  All the performances are absolutely first rate throughout this film despite the lack of depth in the secondary characters. They are archetypes: the rustic, the gullible best friend, the scold older sister, the nerdy academic, the jazz junkie... Davis has a complicated love entanglement with the female folksinger while being a friend to her cuckolded partner.  The military man is combination of Gomer Pyle and Kenneth on 30 Rock.  He embodies discipline, innocence and optimism - a trifecta of qualities absent in Davis. This hayseed is being welcomed with open arms on Davis’ home turf as our anti-hero’s prospects slip away.  All the very detailed exposition is intertwined with every strum and head nod - the love, jealousy, rivalry literally ring out effortlessly in this carefully staged segment. The recording of a novelty song involving astronauts reprises this very clever and enjoyable exposition. We meet a new character while the depths of Davis’ desperation are plumbed. The introduction of the agent/manager is a wonderful choreographed dance exhibiting the Joe Franklin netherworld of show business. Ditto for the many dinner scenes showcasing ugly, un-hip academics. These set-pieces glide the audience along in a bath of giggles and heartfelt gasps. The problem is the dramatic connective tissue.

The Coen brothers are masters of short scenes. When these exquisite vignettes are arranged in a larger arc, the center fails to hold. It is said that the true test of a musical comedy is how seamlessly the musical numbers integrate with the verbal narrative. The smoother the better. “Inside Llewyn Davis” has a unnerving ‘stop and go’ rhythm. Wonderful set pieces interspersed with forced actions to pull the story along. The yellow tabby cat, a major device in weaving the narrative together, was contrived in that it failed to be cat. It behaved as an important plot device that managed to have a, literally, unbelievable affect on our anti- hero. Davis’ character would never have taken the cat after leaving the professors’ apartment in a rage. It is also inconceivable that he would bring this animal along on a lengthy car rid to Chicago. Artistic license can be granted within a precise framework. Strangely the very careful universe created in this film highlighted the cat’s incongruousness as well as the kitsch trickery involved in ‘keeping the act moving’.   There is a moment when Davis walks by a movie theater and sees a poster for the Disney classic “The Incredible Journey”.  This film stars two dogs and (you guessed it) a cat, traveling alone through the wilderness.  The feline is prominently featured and the moment is meant as a funny ironic nod to our rootless, angry, dispossessed anti-hero who is on his own “incredible journey” with his series of magical cats. This scene was meant to show the distance between Disney’s Eden and the cruelty of real life as portrayed in this serious film. It has the opposite effect. “Inside Llewyn Davis” is merely the mirror image of the Walt’s world of set-piece confrontations and happy endings.

There is nothing more threatening to ‘serious’ artists than the mainstream.  In 1976 Paul Mazurksky  made “Next Stop, Greenwich Village”, a forgettable, successful, light, romantic comedy set in the same milieu as the Coen brother’s folk music homage. The protagonist has a similar background and challenge: abandoning his salt-of-the-earth blue collar world for the zaniness of ‘the village’ in order to establish himself as an artist. Nothing would hit deeper to the cool Coens to say that, despite its flaws, Mazurksky’s  middle-brow mediocre work is more honest and enjoyable. It is NOT a better film; but it is certainly more consistent. The Coen’s speak in the language of very conventional drama but imbrue the character with a wrong-headed nastiness that is supposed to lift the work from the doldrums of standard box office fair. In reality in made Davis’ journey excruciating for the character and the audience. His loss of the cat/son/sister/friends/father combined with the constant professional setbacks, has the unmistakable feel of playing in the negative alternate universe of those house pets in “The Incredible Journey”. The problem is that movie-goers frequent that genre desiring a ‘feel good’ moment. There might be an audience for a film in which the cute furry threesome end up writhing on huge glue traps.... but the Coens have a wider reach in mind.

The brothers’ track record shows that they can produce solid box office. They have had three films gross over $60 million. In fact their previous project,  a “True Grit” remake, was their most successful work, garnering over $170 million.  Perhaps this gave the siblings the idea to follow their vision and tackle even more personal material. They were swinging for the fences trying to make a homage to early 60s Greenwich Village while also telling the story of an artist as a young man. The end result fails as a musical paean and as a fictional biography. It’s difficult to know what would make this film more palatable. Certainly more ‘corniness’ would have helped. Would it really be so awful if he 'got the girl/son/career.....'? Does he really need to end up beaten in an alley? If the Coen’s are too nervous about losing their ‘cool’ cred as artists, they might have simply adopted the approach taken by Jim Jarmusch in “Stranger than Paradise”. Forget conventional narrative and just string the fun scenes together without much regard for careful linear plot delineation. Lose the cat and give us more wonderful incongruous set pieces of academics, agents, village people, boyfriends, family members.... interacting in the hip madcap manner which is a Coen trademark.

The brothers are famous for editing, directing, writing their own material. This work could have used outside supervision.  A disinterested adviser needed to explain that there was no possibility of reprising the musical renaissance for coffee house music that “O Brother, Where Art Thou” brought to bluegrass. The Folk genre has a more subdued sombre personal nuance which gives it little chance of breaking out of the current base. Dylan had a reason for 'going electric'. Therefore there is no need to include a full rendering of each Davis ballad. Oscar Isaac is a superb musician, singer in addition to being first rate actor; but less in more in terms of aiding the film’s dramatic flow. It is fine to continue the tradition of referring to other master filmmakers... but sometimes the brothers’ cleverness works against the pace of the film. The reprise of Davis’ beating, a device borrowed from Bertolucci’s “1900”, fails to add to the audience feelings towards the anti-hero. If anything it gave credence to the notion that he deserved a greater pummeling on the second viewing.  Maybe that was the point but noone needed any more reasons to loath Davis. The closing sequence, with the folk-savior Dylan on stage, worked very well. This is a nod to the 1972 film “Cabaret” where a pan into the audience reveals the coming anti-Christ who would destroy Germany. It is unfortunate, given their prodigious knowledge of film that they  failed to take lessons from Bob Rafelson’s “Five Easy Pieces” on how to portray an anti-hero.  That feature also has a protagonist who is a failed musician who tries to make peace with his dying father and takes an outlandish road trip with anti-social strangers. Jack Nicholson is equally misanthropic, but he wins your heart. His ability to charm stems from an outstanding performance in a script unencumbered by the need to give nuance to an era and a genre of music. (He is a classical pianist who abandoned a promising music career) It also helps that Nicholson’s problems and dramas are less contrived. Despite bouts of doubt, he is out to have a good time and live life. His supporting cast also exists outside of the small world of his problems which gives resonance to the story. Davis is a solipsistic cartoon character in a perpetual downward spiral surrounded by one-dimensional caricatures that fail to lift his boat. His ability to carry a tune fails to hide the fact that he’s ‘a drag’ .  If the F. Murray Abraham character were to sit through a screening, he might opine: “No one likes an unromantic comedy.... whose gonna drop ten bucks to watch an asshole for two hours”. He has a point.

The Wolf of Wall Street (2013)

Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf

"I can calculate the movement of the stars, but not the madness of men" - Isaac Newton, commenting on the 18th century ‘South Sea Bubble’ financial disaster. Later revealed he had invested and lost money.


Martin Scorsese’s “The Wolf of Wall Street” brought to mind some dialogue from a 1954 film noir movie:

Criminal: Now you listen to me cop I pay your salary.
Sgt. Friday: Alright sit down. I’m gonna earn it.
Criminal: You already have... the kinda money you make... what do they pay you to carry that badge around? 40 cents an hour?
Sgt. Friday: (quiet rage) You sit down!
The criminal sits.
Sgt. Friday: (sternly) That badge pays $464 a month. That’s what the job’s worth. I knew it when I hired on. $67.40 comes out for withholding. I give $27.84 for pension and $12 bucks for widows and orphans. That leaves me $356.76. That badge is worth $1.82 an hour. So mister you just settle back in that chair cause I’m gonna blow about 20 bucks of it right now.

This snippet from the decades old, forgettable, 88 minute “Dragnet” movie, has more heart than the three hours of Scorsese bacchanal. These two films might seem unrelated as they are different genres made in different eras. Actually they are both comic book examinations of professions; the former police work, the latter banking. The 1950s sketch of life in the LAPD is well crafted and gives a fun simulacrum of detective work. Scorsese's film is a badly executed hollow portrait of awful person which bares little resemblance to the financial services industry.  The success of the kitsch police thriller is simple. Sgt. Friday is entertaining. His pithy no-nonsense staccato verbal quips ooze the righteousness of someone who fails to be ruled by the dollar. Jordan Belfort, the central protagonist of “The Wolf of Wall Street, is a dreary money grabber who secretes a potent mixture of self-pity and arrogance. Note to Scorsese: good cartoon characters are good; bad cartoon characters are good; but pathetic cartoon characters are pathetic.

All hope that the director was going to create a realistic commentary on our current financial system evaporated in the first moments of Belfort’s appearance on Wall Street.  His boss takes the novice employee, played by Leonardo Dicaprio, to lunch at a high end restaurant on top of the World Trade Center on his first day on the job. (Full disclosure: I worked on Wall Street and was familiar with his boss).  I find this account of events to be unbelievable; but not as outlandish as what follows. This meal supposedly included bouts of cocaine sniffing and lengthy advice on masterbation, virility and ‘how to fleece clients’. Matthew McConaughey’s performance as the boss might have been recreated by any number of eighth grade drama students who were given the following instructions: DRUG ADDICT /WALL STREET MONEY GUY. At this point Belfort is an earnest teetotaler as the evil demons have yet to work their black magic.  This magic seems to have affected all the patrons of the restaurant because they fail to react as McConaughey leads Dicaprio in a chest pounding incantation that includes making gorilla snorts. Guess the crowd was used to it as McConaughey is a regular lunch customer. The only time I personally knew brokers to take long lunches was either to attend financial presentations or entertain clients; neither of which were daily occurrences. The essence of being a broker, especially in the days before cell phones, is to be chained to your desk while the market is open in order to facilitate customer orders. This garish caricature of Wall Street continues after our hero is laid off following the 1987 crash. His new gig was located in a low end strip mall on Long Island.  This ‘first day’ is even more implausible than his previous debut.  He picks up his phone for his very first sales call to at complete stranger and lands an enormous order. His co-workers fall silent. One of them exclaims: “How did you do that?!!!“ Maybe “so that’s why they call you Superman!” would have been more appropriate.

The most offensive dimension of these scenes is the portrayal of Belfort as a Horatio Alger-like innocent being led astray by the evil Wall Streeters. His post-crash job transition is portrayed as a natural step for someone who had secured a brokerage license and needed to continue to work in financial services.  There is a scene where he considers bringing his talent to another industry but his wife convinces him that Wall Street is where he belongs. To be clear: a decision to transition from a ‘legitimate’ brokerage apprenticeship to working in a penny stock ‘boiler room’ is the equivalent of a mainstream actor deciding to abandon broadway for pornography. Such an individual would probably know the difference between the two worlds and understand that joining one severely limits one’s chances of rejoining the other.  It is doubtful that the ‘real’ Belfort explained this to his doting wife who might have seen his penny stock career in a different light.

The film is based on Belfort’s story as portrayed in his best selling autobiography “Catching the Wolf of Wall Street”. Scorsese is impervious to any notion that the master con man is being disingenuous. Perhaps the fact that this was written while our hero was behind bars for fraud, amongst other felonies, might have given the director pause. It’s difficult to divine the Scorsese vision for this film. Current news is a grist-mill for dramatic material about Wall Street. The morning after seeing the film the following headline was in the New York Times: “Academics Who Defend Wall St. Reap Reward” - about professors hiding pro-business funding for their pro-business research. Incidentally the week before it was revealed that Warren Buffett made $25,000 a minute in 2013. Incidentally the academics yearlong toil, worth maybe four minutes of Mr. Buffett’s time, is paid via a salary rather than from investment returns. This means the teachers, and other working people, pay double the income tax rate as billionaires such as Buffett.  Despite the myriad of outrageous inequities, Mr. Scorsese feels a circus film about an unsympathetic clown is an intelligent way to showcase the shortcomings of Wall Street.

The director requires three hours to tell Belfort’s ponderous story. Early on we are treated to our hero snorting cocaine from the anus of a call girl before greeting his first wife who is patiently waiting at home. Much of the remaining two and a half hours oscillates between variations on the anus snort and passionate sales pitches. Once again kudos to Leonardo as his adrenaline filled rants, whether he was pushing stocks, downing whisky, hitting his wife.... were altogether convincing. A full third of this film is made up of the sales monologues.  The best salesman I ever knew was the fuller brush man who visited our house every month when I was a child. He sold various soaps and brushes. Dramatically speaking he would have been a more interesting subject which, in turn, should give a strong indication as to the weakness of the theatrical backbone of this movie. As a twelve year old the drug and sex orgies might have had some appeal. As a middle aged movie goer these carnal flashes have the sustaining power of fiery car crashes or exploding buildings. Despite being saddled with playing this absurd character, Leonardo manages to deliver moments of brilliance. There is a scene in the lobby of a waspy country club where he summons the seemingly lost art of physical slapstick comedy. He mimicks the effects on the human body after downing a handful of quaaludes. One felt transported back to the golden era of silent films where body movement was paramount. Scorsese himself, despite his fateful decision to bring this film to life, has some interesting moments. Noone outdoes this director in capturing the swagger of outcast, underclass New York dudes; think of the men featured in “Mean Streets” and “Goodfellas”. They are repulsive losers and yet there is a strange dignity that keeps the audience glued to every donut chomp and insipid comment. In addition he expanded his brilliant voice over exposition, which often includes a freeze frames, to include Belfort actually speaking directly to the audience. (A nod to ‘House of Cards’?)  The supporting cast managed to outshine the big name stars.  Every fat roll of Jonah Hill exudes a feckless perversion that leads the audiences to wonder what will come out when he reaches for his pockets: a crackpipe? a pen? his penis? Margot Robbie shines as the second wife. Her blond locks boldly proclaiming, this has nothing to do with Farah Fawcett - it’s a classy hairdo. The ‘Lawng Iwland’ accent was pitch perfect evoking the brassy sparkle of McMansions whose interiors evoke Versailles via Ralph Lauren. Another highpoint amidst the drawn-out sex and screaming is the taciturn FBI man Kyle Chandler.  He brings a steely calm to all the endless visual indigestion.  Unfortunately Scorsese ends the film with a odd but revealing sequence. The hero G-man, who flaunts his proud working man credentials, seems overcome with the dinginess of his subway commute. Meanwhile our hero is out of prison and racking up money with his newest venture “Straight Line Persuasion System”, a course on training salesmen. Chandler’s melancholy is rooted in the injustice of life. The director seems to forget that our FBI man is an exalted untouchable in a world of mammon.

Having the G-man feel his life’s work unrewarding compared to Belfort’s material riches shows the intellectual dishonesty of the story. Scorsese has always had a dark vision - probably best illustrated in his cameo as the misogynistic passenger in Taxi Driver who verbally fantasizes about butchering his wife. “The Wolf of Wall Street” shows that he’s finally crossed Kurtz’s line of sanity. What is the audience to make of the endless minuscule documentation of Belfort’s debauchery?; or the never-ending sequences of frenzied speeches to the duped customers/employees? Belfort is the master persuader and perhaps his most prized victim is Scorsese himself. The master salesman fooled the master film director into giving him a starring role. The truth is that the lead protagonist is merely a grotesque worth documenting in a footnote about fringe excess. The real villains are the operators who successfully integrate themselves into polite society. People such as Ken Starr the notorious Ponzi schemer who targeted celebrity clients; including MARTIN SCORSESE. Such figures are nowhere to be found in “The Wolf of Wall Street”. It is hard to know how much Scorsese personally lost in his dealings with Starr but it is interesting that he would decide to focus his artistic gaze on Jordan Belfort. Unfortunately  the choice is rooted in the “madness” of anger. It is easy to understand the rage of being taken by a slick suited Wall Street con man. It is also understandable that discussing the fact that real wages haven’t risen in the US since the 1970s might not appear as dramatic red meat. Ironically the fury of our current political divide rests in the bedrock of this income inequality. Scorsese overwrought need to definitively nail this towering bad guy is a personal revenge statement rather than a universal story. “The Wolf of Wall Street” fails to give answers to the raging crowds of Tea Partiers or 99 percenters. The lack real insight into our current centralization of wealth makes this film a private artist statement that has little resonance. Mr. Scorsese self righteously points the finger at this monster while the far more pernicious attitudes are unchallenged. Four years on from the 2008 financial crisis there have been no substantive reforms to address the concentration of wealth and power in our financial institutions.  To quote former labor secretary Robert Reich repeating Justice Brandeis: “We can either have democracy in this country or we can have great wealth concentrated in the hands of a few, but we can't have both.”  A vast majority of people are feeling immobility rooted in economic stagnation while a select few enjoy exponential financial success. Jordan Belfort is a ridiculous sideshow. A charismatic hustler who happened to land in the financial sector rather than health care (Richard M. Scrushy, HealthSouth Corp), energy production (Jeffrey Skilling, Enron) or media (Robert Maxwell, Mirror Group).  Their stories might hint at institutional trouble, but it always becomes about the specific brand of sociopathology. In short, good businessmen are alike; crooked businessmen are crooked in their own fashion. Conflating the individual with the vast behemoth of the industry might lead to the wrong conclusions about a remedy. Wall Street’s problems are not rooted in hookers and quaaludes.

The post movie Belfort is currently hawking his “Straight Line Persuasion System”. This training advice kit for salesman has a website (http://usa.jordanbelfort.com/) which asks the question: Can You Really Use The Wolf of Wall Street’s Sales Tactics to Ethically Persuade People And Make Money? (His emphasis) He is also shopping a reality TV show featuring himself. Belfort makes me crave the comic book villains of yesteryear who were less pathologically tiresome. Creeps who didn’t turn their depraved egocentric criminality into another business. As Scorsese shows these people can get under your skin and into your head. Even the FBI man wondered if he wasn’t stupid for simply cashing in and not worrying. If they can get to Chandler and Scorsese... are we all next? Where have you gone Joe Friday, our nation turns it’s lonely eyes to you. Perhaps Jack Webb could be hologrammed into this years coming Oscar ceremony. He could approach the microphone in a simple. ill-fitting, off-the-rack tuxedo. “Thank you members of the Academy. I wasn’t the most famous actor or the best paid... but I wouldn’t trade places with a movie mogul or a superstar. I tried to do my job well. I got paid fairly. I looked out for the other guy... it might seem corny but.... (pause, clears his throat)  And this years Oscar for missing an important opportunity: Martin Scorsese, director, “The Wolf of Wall Street”.

American Hustle (2013)

Do the Hustle


The Abscam affair of the late 1970s, in which several American politicians were convicted of taking bribes, gave birth to the expression: “money talks, bullshit walks”. These famous words were uttered by a Congressman being surreptitiously filmed while receiving a suitcase filled with $50,000 in cash. Ironically this phrase is never spoken in David O. Russell’s fictionalized account of the scandal titled, “American Hustle”.  The missing catchphrase is the raison d’etre for the central protagonists, a romantically involved con-artist couple. These people eat and breath the bottom line while carrying on a strange attachment which undercuts their transaction based world-view.  Their lives are tested when they come under the scrutiny of a FBI agent whose motto might be “power talks, bullshit walks”.  A tortured love triangle ensues set amidst the gritty “pre-Atlantic City ‘boom’/post NYC financial crisis ‘bust’” milieu of the Big Apple, Long Island and the Garden State. As someone who grew up in that area at that time I can vouch for the authenticity of the costuming and set-design. The acting was also superb. It is odd that such a finely crafted would fail.... but one leaves the theater with an odd feeling of missed opportunity.  “American Hustle” is merely one of the best films this year.

The first half hour was a personal ‘trip down memory lane’. My exuberance might be clouded by a wistful fondness for era which is seen by others as a fashion and cultural nadir. The movie opens with wide lapel suited Christian Bale meticulously creating a comb-over hairdo to hide his baldness. The central protagonists are introduced, complete with repulsive clothes and tortured relationships. Bale is jealous of Bradley Cooper’s hold over Amy Adams. Cooper is envious of Bale’s ability to read people. Adams is angry about being trapped and beholden to both men. The plot is revealed in wonderful Scorsese voice-over combined with just the right amount of exposition mixed with mysteries waiting to unfold.  There is a tension that propels the audience into the seedy world of cons, cops, politicians and the mob.  It explores the root word of the term ‘con man’: ‘confidence’; which in turn leads us to “trust”; which in turn leaves to the very far-removed ‘love’.  At heart this film is a romantic comedy. This turns out to be a problem as Adams, who delivers an exquisite performance, is opaque despite being the emotional linchpin of the story.  The movie drifts off course immediately after the couple is busted.  Cooper is an ambitious cop with an insatiable desire for success which in his world translates to overseeing high profile arrests. Despite his convincing portrayal, his role highlights the weakness in the characterization of Adams. Cooper plants the seeds of mistrust between the partners in crime. This leads to an extremely detailed discussion between Bale and Adams about ‘where they stand’. In witnessing these emotional negotiations the audiences channels the embarrassing voyeurism of eavesdropping on a teenage break-up or even worse; a marital impasse.  It is dramatically unfulfilling and a pale substitution for a measure of their bond. This unfortunate scene repeats itself as Adams establishes a tie with Cooper. These complicated  expository monologues are rooted in the lack of delineation in Adams’ character. Ironically the template for a successful rendering can be found in her love rival Jennifer Lawrence, who is the legal spouse of Bale.

There is no need for a handbook to understand Bale’s marriage.  Lawrence possesses a charm that showcases her beauty and ugliness. The hideous narcissism intertwined with the childlike callowness is a perfect match for Bale’s need to be a family man and felon.  Their initial attraction is as understandable as their eventual repulsion. This is best shown in one of the last scenes of them together. Her astounding carelessness has led to Bale’s near execution. There is a confrontation in which Lawrence stridently gains the upper hand by reading excerpts from a self-help best seller. Bale is overcome by bewilderment and defeat. This leads to an apology: FROM BALE. He is sorry that her stupidity almost killed him. He means it despite its illogical. This is the genius of Lawrence’s performance. She also manages summons this startling ability to dominate her opponents when facing Adams.  In the midst of receiving a well deserved dressing down, in which Adams touches on her reckless drinking and inappropriate behavior, Lawrence kisses her and walks off.  Adams is right, but Lawrence wins. That small moment touches on the larger problem of the Adams character: what does she want? Is her anger at Lawrence rooted in fear of blowing the scam and ruining herself? or destroying Cooper? or out of jealousy over Bale? Or both? Or none of the above? All the exposition about her being genuinely attached to Bale while feigning love with Cooper clouds her actions.  This is a film about trust that is tied to love. Unfortunately Adams is almost too perfect at her character’s craft with the ironic result of the audience losing ‘confidence’. Once again this is a pitch perfect rendering. Adams played it as it ‘like a pro’. Romantic comedies, however, demand vulnerable  love struck protagonists. Her fierce opaqueness forces the audience to see her love interests as marks, rather than partners.

The same puzzling professionalism plagues Cooper’s G-man. His ambition seems embedded in every strand of his meticulously coiffed head of permed hair. Is he a sociopath who is incapable of friendship and love? The brief view of his home life, featuring a dominating mother and an ignored fiancee, once again raises questions of character rather than giving the audience insight into his motives. His banter with his beleaguered boss, the comedian Louis CK, is also ambiguous.  CK was a poor choice of a foil as his performance failed to have enough range to deliver the expectations he had of his underling. Did he see Cooper as merely a troublesome employee? a potential friend to mentor? Cooper returns the favor by being a friend and foe simultaneously. This is a hallmark of professional relationships but in a story about love and trust, it works against the audience’s ability to empathize with Cooper. Is he merely working the opposing characters or does he really care?

David O. Russell has a writing credit in addition to being the director. This work seemed plagued by overdrawing and over thinking. No doubt the ‘real life’ Bale had a side business in the fraudulent art market - but how does this serve the overall story? How does this help render Bale’s character? Why was his attachment to the NJ politician so important that he would actually make a face to face confession in his house in front of the mayor’s wife and children? The film firmly establishes Bale as someone who spent a career casually stealing from other family men. The unanswered questions stem from knowing too much and failing to hone down actual events into a concise story. This was a 100 minute tale and yet the end result clocks in nearly 20 minutes over the two hour mark. If Russell had exhibited the discipline to focus the narrative this film might have touched our heart rather than wowed our senses. The virtuosity of the production is amazing but the characters seemed weighted with unspoken off-script burdens. This might have been a fascinating multi-hour cable show or a less ambitious shorter feature. Unfortunately the current length renders it a splendid meandering journey. In the end we are left with characters whose actions are supported by the need to deliver a tidy finish, rather than a ‘real’ ending. It is too ‘real’ to be a light romantic comedy; yet too unreal to be a serious drama. 

The ambiguousness can be intriguing, Adams and Cooper are fun to watch. It would have been more entertaining if Russell had abandoned exposition and explanation, for action.  Less complicated talk about relationships and emotions would have lifted all boats; including Bale’s. Deliver an unabashed romantic comedy and forget all the history of what really a happened. Think of Lawrence: She is an insolent drunk with nothing to say. She spends her time burning toast, cleaning,  having sex, complaining, breaking her fingernails,  shopping and spewing nonsense.... but she is utterly captivating. She even manages to upstage  Bale, who delivers a consummate performance of the mirror image of Horatio Alger. Let David Mamet and Thomas Mann gives us the mind of con men. This movie hints at confidence men in those brief moments without tricks or confidence;  think Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway in the original “Thomas Crown Affair”. In order to care we must trust, in some measure, that everything isn’t a transaction. This superbly rendered feature plays the audience into believing in its wonder. Unfortunately the distinct parts are better than the sum. In the end, it doesn’t add up.  It’s a good film pretending to be great. True passion talks, bullshit walks.

Dallas Buyers Club (2013)

There Will Be Drugs


“Dallas Buyers Club” is a buddy film with explosive political undertones exploring class, sexuality and the pernicious overreach of government.  The central protagonist is a roughneck homophobic bigot who pairs up with a gay transvestite male prostitute.  The movie is set during the early stages of the AIDS epidemic where there were no effective treatments for the disease. Their mission is to discover a remedy that will keep them alive. This dynamic duo decide to take on the FDA, the DEA, the IRS and the established medical establishment. Goliath wins a pyrrhic victory as the two David’s are vindicated by history. Strangely the film left a uncomfortable emptiness towards the central character, played by Matthew McCounaughey. The filmmakers shaped a tale of amoral outcasts transforming into solid ‘do-gooders’ in the face of pure evil.  In the end the cartoonish characterization of the ‘enemy’ undercut the ‘goodness’ of the protagonists. The film, despite some outstanding qualities, fails to evoke the pathos appropriate for this material. We are left with a long-winded ‘wild story’; instead of a heartfelt examination of our recent past.

McCounaughey and Jared Leto deliver standout performances which are worth the price of admission. McConaughey embodies the uniquely American rage of someone whose property has be violated. One can smell the body odor as he bunches his fingers into a fist or reaches for a gun or a bottle of discount liquor. He has been invaded by a foreign virus. His friends turn against him and label him queer - akin to being a leper/pedophile in the setting of a Southern 1980s trailer park. Those white coated professionals at the hospital are marginally more helpful... but he’s not taking a death sentence lying down. They give him 30 days... he gives them the finger. Eventually he metaphorically partners with Leto whose charm overcomes McCounaughey’s visceral hatred. Leto enables McCounaughey to trade his fists for lawyers and his clunker for a Cadillac. McCounaughey becomes a genuine jet-setter and spans the globe in search of drugs to hawk in his home-grown AIDS clinic; which is run from a seedy motel.  This is all based on a actual story and it illustrates the fierce power of the American entrepreneurial spirit.  An alcoholic, sex-addict oil-rig electrician with little formal education and even less grace manages to become a quasi-legal international health clinic operator for disenfranchised male homosexuals.  The grim reaper’s blade gives us all focus. In McConaughey’s case it becomes the equivalent of Popeye’s spinach.  Our anti-hero is ‘loaded for bear’. All the private drug companies, white collar professionals and government regulators should take cover.

Prior to his contracting HIV McCounaughey’s life revolves around hookers, gambling and alcohol.  The writer/director spend an immense amount of screen time chronicling his debauchery. There is an unconvincing moment at his job where McCounaughey calls an ambulance for a immigrant worker who is caught in the mesh gears of the oil rig equipment. His co-workers are too scared being fired for exposing illegal workers on the jobsite. McCounaughey’s burst of humanity is a contrived way of convincing the audience that everything they’ve experienced up to this point merely masks someone who is concerned with social justice. This hidden ‘good guy’ rears his head again after being ostracized by his friends. There is an encounter in a super-market with one of his former wing men. McCounaughey physically forces the ex-buddy to make nice with Leto; the new transvestite side-kick. Once again these acts of goodness contrast with the hardscrabble survivor turned entrepreneur. It’s ironic that a brilliant performance would be disingenuous. Unfortunately McConaughey’s wonderful rendering of the character is saddle with a director and writer who can never fully embrace the man.  Leto’s struggles are real. He is a drug addict shamed by his family. His encounter with his respectable bank-manager father is one of the few genuine emotional notes in the film. Leto steals the movie because his character is built on struggle rather than set-piece scenes that evoke emotions that are absent in the actual protagonist. The writer/director wasted McConaughey’s talent with gratuitous, outlandish strutting; rather than a heartfelt portrayal of a disenfranchised, under-class survivor.

The filmmakers believed the outrageousness of McConaughey’s rise was the hook for the story. The opposite is true. The most fascinating aspect of his journey is his focus and ability to adopt lifestyles and allies. All his vices are exchanged for a healthy lifestyle, copious research in medical journals and an alliance with white collar businessmen of various sexual orientations. The film should have exhibited less whoring for more practice in adopting his new persona.  In coming back from Mexico after his conversion he dresses as a priest. This hints at strategizing that was never exhibited in the script. This absence also haunts his oversees journeys. How did he figure out how to get around Japanese drug export regulations?  When did he suddenly realize lawyers were preferable to bail bondsmen? The journey is bogged down in hollow encounters with one-dimensional bad guys. The portrayal of the medical community and drug companies was flat.  It might be accurate to say that the makers of AZT put profit over people’s lives. Dramatically it is more interesting to draw an equivalence between McCounaughey and the drug companies. What about HIS actions. Given his track record it seems reasonable to assume he was struggling to save his life and make money rather than being just.  The film devolves into a simplistic story of good guys with noble intentions vs. bad guys who only care about money and power. Fronting the characters who wear black hats are the two the doctors McCounaughey encounters in the hospital. The love interest, who ends up with a white hat, is uninteresting and the leading doctor is leaden.  The sundry bureaucrats were also cartoonish. The end result  is a series of forgettable stand-offs where McConaughey’s is defiant and unrealistic. Believability would have fueled empathy and a sense of discomfort about our real world heroes and villains. In the end we are left with a movie ending coupled with a movie hero.  The audience is left in the small world of the big screen. This story should have provoked thoughts about our contemporary American landscape where the rising entrepreneurs class meshes with entrenched powerful government and private sector interests.  This film might have shed light on the ambiguousness of being successful.  Had McCounaughey prevailed - would he have been a hero? or something else.


In “The Kings Speech” an unorthodox outsider produces an effective treatment for speech pathology while being shunned by the polite society of the medical establishment.  Ironically this drama seems to be the base template for “The Dallas Buyers Club”. The filmmakers might have sought inspiration from “There Will Be Blood”, a harrowing drama about an oil field entrepreneur who rises to the top. This is a story about a man who will “drink your milkshake” rather than cure your illness. Flannery O’Connor exhibits a keen insight into the motivation for these types of anti-heroes. The killer in “A Good Man is Hard to Find”  muses over the body of a grandmother he has just executed: ““She would have been a good woman if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.” Unfortunately the writer and director lack O’Connor’s knowledge of hardscrabble Southern life and American entrepreneurs. They mistake McCounaughey for being good. He is hideously determined American individualist with a gun to his head.  Never underestimate their ability to conquer. They’re very productive people. They do great things.... but they also want your milkshake. Dramatically speaking, this is fertile ground.... but not when you pretend that doctors on TV are real doctors.  Noone wants to buy snake oil.... but everyone loves watching a snake oil salesman.

Hannah Arendt (2013)

The Banality of the Literati


In 1981 Margarethe von Trotta made an extraordinary film called “Marianne and Juliane” (in German titled “Die Bleierne Zeit” ).  This work captured the angst of post-war Germany through the tumultuous bond between two sisters.  That historical nightmare was used to make a stunning portrait of  the eternal link of family that trumps even the most strident political divides.  “Hannah Arendt”, von Trotta’s eponymous dramatic feature film, continues the theme of magnifying the mass horror through the lens of personal struggle. Arendt’s story seems tailor made for  von Trotta.  Arendt’s rise from star student to refugee to leading intellectual is shaped by Hilter’s legacy. The film might have been inspired by the aphorism: “He who sups with the devil should have a long spoon”. Instead von Trotta delivers view of academic egos clashing in 1960s New York. In the parlance of the New Yorker Magazine, an institution that looms large in the story, the film is a segment of “Talk of the Town” not a feature article by Seymour Hersh.  The disappointment comes from expecting a meditation on the nature of evil and being presented with historical gossip; interesting and highbrow... but gossip nevertheless.

The film opens with Arendt and Mary McCarthy sitting in a Midtown office dishing and avoiding phone calls so they can focus on ‘girl’s talk’. McCarthy’s best known novel is “The Group”, a primogenitor to “Sex in the City”. Arendt’s masterpiece is “Elemente und Ursprünge totaler Herrschaft”; literally translated as “Elements and origins of totalitarian rule” (English title: The Origins of Totalitarianism).  The film is definitely set in Mary’s soap opera but interestingly Hannah seamlessly blends in with the action.  The arc of the story is that Arendt, the legendary German Jewish intellectual, is hired by the legendary editor of the New Yorker, William Shawn, to cover the trial of the recently captured Nazi logistics specialist Adolf Eichmann.  The judicial proceedings are set in Jerusalem. There is strange incongruity between the weight of the matter at hand and the trivial rivalries exhibited. Perhaps the greatest visual representation lies in the abduction of Eichmann by Israeli intelligence operatives in South America. This never meshes with the breeziness of the college campuses and literary salons which the protagonists inhabit. von Trotta wanted to build a bridge between the seriousness of a mass murderer and the public stance of prominent intellectuals. Unfortunately the opposite occurred.  Questions of Eichmann seemed important and underrepresented while the fury of professors and editors hurling invectives grew louder and louder.

There is a cloud that hangs over this film and Arendt’s reputation. It’s name is Martin Heidegger. von Trotta decides to include the fact that Arendt had a passionate love affair with the renowned philosopher when she was a student. This is significant because this intellectual giant was a card carrying member of the Nazi party who never publicly apologized for his affiliation. In addition he was silent about a number of egregious acts he committed while an academic official in the regime. Strangely von Trotta, who feels it’s important to show Eichmann’s abduction, never shows Heidegger actively supporting the Third Reich. On odd omission as so much of the film hinges on his relationship with Arendt. In addition all the discussion of his crimes are through clumsy exposition by other parties.  Most of the scenes with the grand thinker are framed from the gushing perspective of a love-struck student. There is one post war moment in which Heidegger feebly excuses his actions, to a significantly cooler Arendt, with the statement that he failed to be good at understanding politics.  What is completely lost in all the banter about Heidegger: how did this relationship shape her view of Eichmann?

Eichmann is played by himself. One of the reasons to see this feature is von Trotta’s clever use of the actual trial footage. This works against the film as a whole as it steals focus. It is, however, so riveting it begs the question as to Arendt’s primacy in the story.  Her historical view of Eichmann has been vindicated by the ubiquity of her ‘banality of evil” remark.  It is difficult to view footage of the man and believe anyone mistook him for being first rate at anything other than bureaucratic paperwork. He is mediocrity incarnate. He fails to rise to the level of taskmaster - he seems more a task-attender. It is impossible to conceive of someone spending years filling trains with human beings for the sole purpose of having them executed without considering the moral implications. Unfortunately Eichmann gives life to that very unsettling proposition. He is something beyond the worst horror fiction. The incongruity of his being vs. the enormity of his crimes renders him a force of dramatic interest far beyond the pedestrian domain of the rest of the film.

Arendt was pilloried for her reporting on the trial.  She portrays  Eichmann as MERELY a nobody rather than a force of evil. History has shown her to be prescient in understanding the ability of authority to guide ‘normal’ people into committing unspeakable acts of cruelty. Whether or not Arendt read Eichmann’s motives correctly is still a matter of debate. There is also serious disagreement around her stance that Jewish leaders were an integral part of the Nazi death machinery. Her defense of raising this issue stems from an incident at the trial where a holocaust survivor accused another victim of giving names to the authorities. Needless to say her remarks are controversial to this day. This year (2013) the historian Deborah Lipstadt wrote “The Eichmann Trial” which refutes Arendt’s analysis. (interesting overview of the issues in The Forward - ) The debate still rages - but von Trotta never answers the question: how is this dramatic?

The characters in “Hannah Arendt” are locked in their heads with the occasional primal heart rearing up to make love, puff a cigarette or utter a nasty comment.  It must have been difficult for Arendt to lose friends and be threatened due to her firm stance on the trial.  She felt it her ‘duty’ to relate what she believed to be her objective truth. She has very firm answers to all the carping.  She meticulously points out her opponents failures in logic.  She steadfastly denies being sympathetic in any way to Eichmann. She is glad they hung him. She individually responds to every nasty letter with a handwritten response carefully explaining her position. She may be correct but she fails to be sympathetic; neither are most of her compatriots on either side of the issues. Mary McCarthy is the exception. She is likable because she never confuses politics with friendship. Her protection of Arendt is rooted in supporting a friend rather than delineating the veracity an argument. It is about love not logic. Interestingly this is the exact problem that haunts Arendt in her protectiveness of Heidegger. Her friends seem to constantly harp on her relationship with the great master. Is that the root of their disappointment with her coverage of Eichmann? Does the constant refrain of “THIS TIME you’ve gone too far” hint at a collective anger about her dealings with her mentor?

von Trotta has done a great deal of homework. In fact this work has the feel of homework. It’s studied... to a fault. There is no doubt each of the various luminaries stated their positions as represented. The problem is that truth is not the same as accuracy. von Trotta is a leading German director handling the most contentious historical events in her country’s history. Arendt and Heidegger are luminaries with scores of fans and detractors ready to pounce. von Trotta knew she must be very careful in managing the material. Unfortunately cautious factual presentations never make for great drama. It is difficult to understand von Trotta’s view of these people. This is a real problem. She does not love them AS CHARACTERS and neither does the audience. The strength of “Marianne and Juliane” lies in von Trotta’s passion for these people caught in the nightmare of processing the Third Reich’s legacy. The two sisters, in that film, are at opposite ends of the political spectrum... and yet there is a deep love that triumphs. I have not seen that film in 3 decades but there is one scene that still has the power to haunt. One sister is being held in jail for terrorism. The other, a very upper middle class architect, is visiting the prison. The sisters have a bitter argument. The guard enters and says it’s time to leave. Suddenly the terrorist yells something to other about clothes. The two women, who are  in their 30s, metamorphosize into children as they tear off their shirts in an exchange that signals defiance against the grey bureaucratic guards. Despite everything... they are sisters.  von Trotta’s presents none of this magic in “Hannah Arendt”. The former classmate from her days with Heidegger confronts her at the end of her lecture to signal their decades long friendship is over. He thinks she is a Nazi sympathizer. There was no love in that scene... just accuracy. The result is an audience dutifully recording the plot twist rather than crying. This does not belong in a serious drama or light comedy. It is the stuff of educational documentary re-enactment. von Trotta has demonstrated she is better than this film. Unfortunately she never got out of the way of bland ‘truth’.

The real thread of this film is woven in Arendt’s interpretation of Eichmann as it relates to her past romantic relationship with Heidegger. The presence of the ‘real‘ Eichmann and the dramatic re-staging of the kidnapping, although riveting, were distractions. Mary McCarthy’s milieu would have been a perfect place to explore how an ardent intellectual truth seeker is stained by falling for a morally bankrupt professor emeritus. The other characters would have been marvelous foils to delve and discover why it was important for Arendt to contextualize this trial in a manner sure to rile everyone. There are those who are convinced she was a self hating anti-Semite under the Svengali influence of a the demonic Heidegger. Ron Rosenbaum, the author of ‘Explaining Hitler‘ - a Roshomon-like investigation of the nature of the character of the fuhrer, wrote a damming assessment of the two love birds in Slate Magazine (  http://www.slate.com/articles/life/the_spectator/2009/10/the_evil_of_banality.html ). He cites two books published in 2009 which excoriate Arendt’s scholarship and Heidegger’s humanity.   von Trotta, as a director, should have had a firm conviction about the morality of her protagonist. Arendt once said: “the sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be good or evil”. That might be factually accurate but as a filmmaker von Trotta should have been able to say whether Arendt was feckless or heroic. Drama rises above documenting facts. It has a point of view. A director has to weigh all material and filter it through the heart and the head. Remember “Marianne and Juliane”. They had strong opinions based on ideas. But they were alive on the screen because von Trotta believed in them and let them inhabit the audience’s mind. The director’s opinion might not be the audiences', but the audience is lost without it. This brings to mind a quote by Heidegger: “Man is not the lord of beings. Man is the Shepard of Being”. Substitute “Film Director” for “Man” and it speaks to the problem with von Trotta’s “Hannah Arendt”.  It is not enough to have character’s stiffly recreate history; a film must have characters that are ‘shepherded’ into being. Once again von Trotta walked on eggshells while making this film. She needed to take Mary McCarthy’s advice on creating fiction: “I am putting real plums in an imaginary cake.” Unfortunately for the audience von Trotta’s cake ended up as un-garnished plums.  It is always interesting to witness the gossipy goings-on of historical figures. But von Trotta is more than a record keeper. She has shown a towering imagination in portraying loved ones. In the end she studied these historical characters to a degree it crushed her ability to be passionate and dream about them. von Trotta left us with their actions without imagining their motives. It is understandable that she would waiver from judging, but there is a danger in producing art in the comfortable zone of accuracy. As Mr. Banality said at his trial: "Now that I look back, I realize that a life predicated on being obedient and taking orders is a very comfortable life indeed. Living in such a way reduces to a minimum one's need to think."