Archives for Screen Takes

The Way Things Ought To Have Been

Published on March 30, 2010

At the risk of my readers getting sick of hearing me squawk about how much I loved Inglourious Basterds, I thought I’d better post something a little more substantive explaining why I think it’s such a great film. Then – I promise! – I’ll shut up about it.

First, this film is a first, and of no small proportion, in my view, when it comes to pushing the limits of narrative convention. I don’t know of any other film that has had the “chutzpah” to so dramatically re-imagine such an indisputably documented historical event. (Okay, there’s Gladiator claiming that the Emperor Commodus was killed by a betrayed-general-turned-slave in a gladiator contest circa 180 A.D. when, in fact, he ruled for 12 more years and then was ignominiously assassinated by poison and strangling. But that was two millennia ago, so there is no shock value in the liberty taken because no one much cares anymore what really happened. Whereas, at only half a century’s distance, Hitler is still pretty hot-button.)

I need to spend a few more paragraphs here impressing upon the reader how big this is. All of drama history has been one long process of testing audiences to see what they will and will not accept. What they will and will not believe. What they will and will not comprehend. What they will and will not pay money to go see. And it has been a progressive process. Today, we will accept, comprehend and plunk down a ten spot for all kinds of narrative conventions that were unimaginable when drama was in its infancy, some of which were still considered off limits even a short time ago.

Let me give you a sense of the progress we’ve made. You know that dramatic convention we often see in stage plays where all the action happens in the same location and in a limited span of time, say, a single day? That didn’t come about simply as a way to save money on sets and costumes. It dates back to ancient Greece when playwrights thought it best to contain their drama in one location and limit it to one day (or slightly exceeding that) out of the belief that, otherwise, the audience wouldn’t be able to understand what the hell is going on. It was believed that the viewer literally didn’t have the mental capacity to follow too many jumps in location or time. Therefore, it was also believed the audience wouldn’t accept the drama any other way.

See, the art of storytelling was in the process of transitioning from the recited epic poem (The Iliad and The Odyssey) to performed drama (The Oresteia, Oedipus Rex, Medea) and no one was too sure yet how far they could take it. So, for a few more centuries, they kept having the “chorus” step in at various points as the drama unfolds to explain a few things and fill in some details. They still thought the story had to be explained, as it was in epic poem recitation. They didn’t know yet the degree to which their viewer would understand what they were trying to say simply by watching action unfold. And it’s entirely possible that viewers back then would not have understood because their brains had not yet evolved into that capacity.

Now, at the dawn of the third millennium, we have no doubt that viewers can comprehend a story simply by witnessing action. And if we didn’t yet fully know this a hundred years ago, the short history of the movies has demonstrated it to spectacular effect. Maybe the movies have helped us discover mental capacities that we always had, or maybe our brains have evolved to meet the challenges of a new technology. I don’t know. I’m just grateful to the dramatists and movie makers over the ages who have gradually pushed us forward into previously unknown perceptual abilities.

But the movies got caught up in its own trap. We were so enthralled at the beginning with our newly found ability to go out with a camera and capture “reality” on film, that we became over invested in using the technology to faithfully imitate reality. For decades, the golden standard of narrative filmmaking has been the ability to maintain the “suspension of disbelief,” the illusion that, as the viewer, you are getting a fly-on-the-wall perspective to something that is really, truly, actually happening. As the filmmaker, you just have to make sure that, whatever you do, you don’t break that illusion. Because your audience won’t accept it. Think of how often you have heard someone respond to a film, as if it’s the ultimate in damning criticism, by exclaiming, “That would never happen!”

It’s an odd paradox that, at the same time, we also love those movies in which a big hairy monster takes over the city, or a super hero saves the world from annihilation or a love smitten crooner belts his heart out while twirling on a lamp post. So we want fantasy, too. And movies can dish up the multi-sensory fantastic like no other art form yet invented.

How do we reconcile the need to imitate a plausible reality with the wish for wild fantasy? We set some prudent boundaries: Don’t put a song and dance number in an otherwise straight drama. Don’t mix abstract techniques with naturalistic drama. Don’t mix animation and live action. Don’t mix documentary and dramatic footage. Don’t mess around with linear time. Don’t do flashbacks. Don’t break the “fourth wall.” Not so long ago, these were all very strict rules. The belief was that viewers wouldn’t be able to maintain their suspension of disbelief while switching back and forth between one form and the other. So they wouldn’t accept it. By now, of course, each of these rules have been broken. And audiences have accepted it just fine.

However, just when we thought all the rules had been broken – by the likes of Paul Thomas Andersen, Charlie Kaufman, Spike Jonze, Ang Lee, Todd Haynes, Christopher Nolan and certainly not least among them Tarantino himself – we discover that there was one more rule that was so deeply ingrained that we were not even aware we were living by it. And that rule was – Don’t mess with history!!

(I suppose at this point I should insert – Spoiler alert! – even though it’s hard for me to imagine that any serious student of screenwriting has not yet seen this film.)

When David Franzoni wrote Gladiator he knew he was safe with his “dramatic license” because no one would know the difference unless they went home and looked it up on Wikipedia. Taratino, on the other hand, put his dramatic license right up in your face. And, in so doing, he knocked down the last remaining boundary in film (that I know of). He made it allowable to rewrite actual history with the pen of filmed fantasy for the benefit of collective emotional release. Get that son-of-a-bitch Hitler! Get him! Get him!!! GET HIM!!!!

Indeed, why shouldn’t we imagine that a random assortment of courageous and committed individuals could have planned and awkwardly executed a plan that nonetheless succeeded, against all odds, in bringing down a real live monster! Don’t we wish that’s what had happened? Why shouldn’t we envision what we wish had happened and get at least some feeling of satisfaction as if it really had? Think of the possibilities for rewriting the history of the past ten years!

To emphasize how radical this is in that larger context of drama history, I’m going to invoke the Greeks again. Aristotle is widely regarded in the story structure business as the ultimate authority, to such a degree that I sometimes feel The Poetics is a bit overrated. Drama theory may begin with Aristotle, but it certainly doesn’t end there. Nonetheless, as an early treatise cataloguing the various elements that successful dramas tend to have in common, it is an important text and there is one passage that I have found particularly useful as a description of drama’s possible purposes.

According to Aristotle, drama should achieve one of three objects (Chapter 25, Butcher translation): To portray things as they were or are (gritty realism), things as they are said or thought to be (for the Greeks, this meant speculations on what the gods are doing and thinking), or things as they ought to be (this includes both wishful fantasy and the morally instructive). Think about your favorite films and you will discover that they all fall into one of those three categories, except one. Now, Quentin Tarantino is here to tell us that drama can be utilized for a fourth objective: to portray things as they ought to have been (a sort of combo category of the gritty realistic and the wishful fantastic, in content as well as style). Not only did he rewrite history with this film, but he also improved on Aristotle.

I don’t know about you, but I was fortunate enough to see the film right when it came out, so I had little advanced knowledge of what was in it. I remember sitting in the movie theater and first thinking, “I don’t think that really happened.” Then, “Oh, look, he’s departing even further.” Then, “Wow, he’s taking this to some outlandish extremes.” Then, “Oh my God! Is he really gonna kill Hitler?! Whoa!!” And, finally, “Great! Yeah! Let’s do it! Why the hell not!!!”

There was a point at which I had to let go of my internalized narrative expectations in order to keep going with Tarantino on the ride he had planned for me. And it is a testament to his skill as a screenwriter (and director) that I was able to make that break and stay with him all the way through to his ending. So I wonder, What was it in the way the film was constructed that enabled me to do that? After some cursory study of the film’s structure, I have developed a couple of passable theories.

It turns out that Tarantino has, once again, despite appearances to the contrary, heavily drawn upon the old-reliable, time-tested narrative conventions while he is also energetically pushing beyond them. First among those is that he has made sure we have, in Shoshanna, a sympathetic character to attach to  emotionally at the outset. Shoshanna’s circumstance is unequivocally tragic and unjust. This not only positions her as the sympathetic character but it also grounds the film in actual history and provides the emotional motivation for what happens in the end. However, her story, by itself, it is not quite enough.

There is a risk that portraying Shoshanna’s homespun plan for revenge as successful could come across as trivializing the problem of the Nazis. We all know how ruthless and powerful they were. Considering the tremendous amount of damage they did to millions of lives, it is a bit offensive to suggest that getting rid of them might have been as easy as burning down a movie theater. This is the kind of reality vs. fantasy gap that could cause you to lose your audience, unless you’re okay with only appealing to the Lara Croft: Tomb Raider crowd. But I have a feeling Tarantino, much as I’m sure he respects Lara Croft, had something greater than that in mind.

To be a meaningful rewrite of history that brings authentic emotional release, the story’s dramatic weight must match  the historical circumstance. In actual fact, no one did succeed at assassinating Hitler, despite numerous attempts, because he was such a formidable foe. So the element we need, to give authenticity to our imagined alternative reality, is an equally formidable foe positioned in direct opposition to Hitler. Thus, we have Aldo the Apache.

Let’s now look, just for a moment, at the contrary possibility. Say we had Aldo’s story without Shoshanna’s. Well, we would have the necessary brute force to convincingly do the job but we wouldn’t have the human pathos to motivate it. Sure, Aldo has no lack of disdain for the Nazis for their “murder, torture, intimidation and terror” and for being the foot soldiers of a “Jew-hatin’, mass murderin’ maniac.” But, if not for our having seen Shoshanna suffering the consequences of such Nazi aggression, Aldo’s words would have remained, at least somewhat, abstract, making his triumph in the end more about conquering brute force with brute force and less about righting a terrible injustice. In fact, such a film could appear to be exploiting WWII and the Holocaust for an excuse to blow up a movie theater with a big hairy monster inside.

So here’s my two-fold theory: Not only do we, the audience, need an emotional grounding in reality at the beginning to make the revenge fantasy meaningful (as opposed to trivializing) but we also need, as the story progresses, a steady build up of narrative energy sufficient to break us through that dense boundary of acceptable narrative convention (the one that says you can’t recognizably alter history because the audience won’t accept it). We need a narrative energy so compelling that, as the story takes more and more left turns away from actual history, we are less and less inclined to nitpick about mere facts at the expense of staying with the story’s action-packed, fun-filled trajectory. In turn, this letting go of intellectual attachment to historical accuracy then enables us to discover how emotionally satisfying it is to watch Hitler getting mowed down with a machine gun and the rest of the Nazi party leaders being blown to smithereens. Thus, we have our revenge fantasy.

So how is that build up of narrative energy achieved?

As already pointed out, the shear brute force of Aldo and the Basterds is one source of energy in the story. Another, in a nice Taratino-esque touch, is that, while Shoshanna’s first function is to provide human pathos, she is by no means pathetic. No passive victim, damsel-in-distress here. She is acting as her own agent of empowerment and revenge, which also adds some energy.

But the third, and most important, source of energy is in the story’s structure itself. It took me a bit of time, studying my scribbled outlines and charts, to figure this one out. But, while searching for some sort of underlying system to all these disparate characters coming in at different times and from different places, eventually converging in one big culminating escapade, what finally jumped out at me is that, structurally, this film is simply a caper.

Takes me back to Screenwriting 1 in film school when one of our first assignments was to create an outline for a caper story. We were given these parameters: Something happens (the inciting incident) that motivates a small band of mischief makers to pull off a caper. So they come up with a plan (the end of the first act). They then make preparations and launch the plan (the beginning of the second act).  But their first attempt either fails or is only partially successful (first culmination of the second act, also called the mid-point). So they regroup and modify their plan, and adapt their preparations. Then they launch the second phase of the plan when they come very near to success (the second culmination, or end, of the second act). But there’s still a piece missing or something left to be done. This takes a final effort (the climax) that then brings them success. They divvy up the goods and go on their merry way (the resolution).

We’ve all seen the caper story a hundred times. Part of why we love it so much is because, along with its action and adventure, it also provides a high dose of audaciousness, cleverness and humor. No doubt Tarantino loves it for this, too. Hence, as usual, we see him drawing upon an old reliable form but doing it one better. Let’s go through the film chapter by chapter and see how it adheres to and departs from the form.

Chapter One (in which Colonel Hans Landa gets Farmer LaPadite to betray the Dreyfus family hiding in his basement, who are then executed by Landa’s men except for the teenage Shoshanna who escapes and runs away):

Here the emotional weight of the problem is established, that the Nazis are relentless and merciless in their persecution of the Jews. But there’s more. Landa’s viciousness goes beyond simply killing the Dreyfus family as we see the skill with which he manipulates LaPadite into abandoning his values and betraying his friends. Our initial sympathy for LaPadite is then transferred over to Shoshanna, whose circumstance is even more tragic. So the crushing power of the adversary is established and we are left with a mix of outrage and powerlessness at what we have just witnessed.

Chapter Two (in which Lt. Aldo Raine, having recruited “The Basterds” to kill Nazis, has managed to terrorize the German army and infuriate Hitler by sparing one soldier from each raid to go back into the ranks and report on the Basterds’ mercilessness):

Aldo is introduced as an Avenging Angel to answer Shoshanna’s plight. Once we see him state his intentions, we go directly to the results: Hitler is not pleased to learn there is someone out there beating him at his own game. As Hitler hears the details of Aldo’s extreme practices, we see them in action.

The only structural function of these first two chapters is simply to set things up. The story we have been brought in to see hasn’t even begun yet. But we have been given the backstory, we have met the main characters and are fully engaged with them and we know the magnitude of the problem and have a good idea of what’s at stake. We also see that there is a pecking order among the characters with Hitler in the highest power position and Shoshanna in the lowest and Landa and Aldo mid-spectrum in parallel positions (Landa is hunting Jews, Aldo is hunting Nazis), each displaying their unique methods for getting what they want.

Chapter Three (in which Shoshanna, well established four years later as a movie theater proprietress in Paris, is wooed by the German war hero/movie star Frederich Zoller, who then convinces Joseph Goebbels to move the premiere of his film to her theater, prompting her to decide that she and her projectionist Marcel will burn down the theater with all the Nazi leaders inside):

Here we have the inciting incident (the event that begins the story we’ve been brought in to see). The Nazis are premiering a war hero movie in Paris and Shoshanna has no choice but to let them do it in her theater. This is the “something happens” that then prompts a decision to pull off a caper. Indeed, Shoshanna wastes no time deciding to utilize the opportunity to rid the world of some of the most powerful Nazis.

Chapter Four (in which a British army operative/film critic, Archie Hicox, is briefed on Operation Kino in London, meets up with Aldo and The Basterds in Nadine, France, rendezvous with German film star Bridget von Hammersmark at the tavern La Louisiane, is killed, along with Basterds Wicki and Stieglitz, by partying German soldiers, leaving Aldo and Bridget to come up with an alternative plan for carrying out the operation):

This is where things start to get interesting, not just story-wise, but structurally as well. We learn that, as Shoshanna was hatching her plan, another plan was also being hatched. Operation Kino is Bridget von Hammersmark’s caper. Hicox has been drafted into it, as has Aldo and his Basterds. This caper has the same inciting incident as Shoshanna’s and a similarly motivated decision (both are women with unique access who plan to blow up the movie theater out of their hatred of the Nazis).

Critical to the caper structure is seeing the moment of decision to launch it and learning of the plan. This is what creates the tension as we then watch how well that stated plan is carried out in actuality. Note that, in this caper, we saw Shoshanna’s decision but skipped Bridget’s. That’s because there’s no need to fulfill that structural function twice. One decision will do. And since the decision is the direct result of the “something happens” that motivated it (a Nazi film premiere in Paris), which in this case we saw through Shoshanna’s perspective, it is Shoshanna’s decision that we are shown.

But there’s still the plan, which we only get brief mention of from Shoshanna (she’s going to burn down the cinema using 350 nitrate prints and make a special film just for the Nazis). So we jump to Bridget’s caper and are given a long extrapolation of her plan (with maps and pointers and the like). Again, as we only need one decision, we also only need one plan.

Then we have to follow Bridget’s plan to see how it plays out. Hicox meets up with the Basterds and we have a brief preparation looking out a second floor window at the entrance to a tavern, mostly in a tension-building lament about it being in a basement. The long, tension-filled set piece inside the tavern then fulfills the first phase of the caper (the first attempt). But the macho-posturing, egghead film critic botches the job and gets everyone killed (failure) except for Bridget who hooks up with Aldo (partial success).

Bridget and Aldo get a few things straightened out between them (regrouping). But she is doubtful that the mission can be accomplished. Aldo almost agrees, until he hears that Hitler will be in attendance (raising the stakes). “Getting a whack at planting ole Uncle Adolph makes this a horse of a different color,” he says. So they come up with a new plan.

Meanwhile, Landa inspects the site of the massacre and finds Bridget’s shoe and celebrity signature (more tension).

Chapter Five (in which Bridget, Aldo, Donowitz and Hirschberg attend the premiere, along with Landa, Zoller, Goebbels, Goerring, Boorman, Emil Jannings and Adolph Hitler. Shoshanna and Marcel review their plan. Landa greets Bridget and friends. Donowitz and Hirschberg take their seats and plant bombs. Landa takes Bridget aside and strangles her. Aldo is taken hostage and carted away with Utevitch. Landa tells Aldo he wants to make a deal. Zoller intrudes on Shoshanna and they shoot each other. Shoshanna appears on screen. Marcel ignites the nitrate. Donowitz and Hirschberg shoot Hitler and Goebbels. The theater explodes. Landa drives Aldo and Utevitch to the front and uncuffs them. Aldo cuffs Landa and carves a swastika in his forehead.):

In the caper structure, we not only need to be told the plan, we also need to be shown at least some of the preparation. This creates plot elongation for building tension, but it also lends plausibility and can show some potential cracks in the plan, which brings in even more tension. In this case, since we just heard the new plan from Bridget, we’re going to jump over to Shoshanna for preparation, continuing their trade off of structural functions. We are given a parallel action montage, alternating shots of Shoshanna dressing for the premiere with flashbacks of how she and Marcel made their special film for the Nazis, strong-arming a lab technician to develop it under threat of death. Once again, we don’t need two preparations, so we skip over how Bridget and Aldo managed to get all cleaned up in less than 24 hours, including how Bridget learned to walk wearing that high-heeled plaster cast. Tarantino could have chosen to show that preparation instead of the filmmaking bit. But to do both would have bogged things down and been unnecessary. And we need to bring Shoshanna back into the story.

With Shoshanna’s entrance to the party, we have completely broken through the boundary of narrative convention that demands adherence to historical accuracy. We have gotten a rag tag group of Allied conspirators and an impressive display of Nazi leaders in the same room together, with Hitler due at any moment. Thus, the energy and tension of the caper structure has done its job, so we no longer have to hold close to its parameters. All we have to do is unleash the characters on each other and let them fight it out. And that’s what Tarantino does.

Was Tarantino consciously creating a caper structure as he was writing this script? My guess is he was not. But neither would I say his decisions leading to this structure were not deliberate. Great film does not happen by accident. His decisions were simply instinctive rather than calculated. I’m sure he has been exposed to enough caper stories amongst the hundreds and thousands of films he’s seen to have absorbed the form into his unconscious. It is that unconscious knowledge that then guides him in his creative process, no doubt with some conscious tweaking on the details as he goes along.

Sadly, we can’t all be Quentin Tarantino, with his finely tuned instincts for creating stories that both draw from conventional structures while also breaking through them. But we can definitely learn a few things about the future of storytelling from some close study of the results he has managed to achieve.

Filed in Inglourious Basterds | No replies

Oscar Wrap-up

Published on March 9, 2010

Oh, those Academy Awards . . . I love ‘em, and I hate ‘em. Why do I always get so worked up about them?

On a philosophical level, I don’t really believe in picking bests. I’d rather come across as all generous and high-minded, magnanimously declaring, “Everyone’s a winner!” However (as you may have noticed from my last post), I also can’t resist getting swept up in the competitive spirit and boisterously cheering for my favorite underdog.

But, really, how can we possibly determine a best film of the year? There are so many good ones, all for different reasons. That’s what makes it seem like such a popularity contest, measuring something unmeasurable and, ultimately, of little value. Okay, there’s the publicity value and the status in the industry thing. But what is the artistic value of picking one single best film out of hundreds released in a given year?

So, at its worst, the Academy Awards is all just one big brash, gaudy, shameless effort at commercial promotion. That’s why sometimes I hate that I love it so much. But, the fact is, as base and self-serving to the industry as it may be, I do love it. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

And that’s because, at its best, it’s a big, brash, gaudy, shameless celebration of the movies, these goofy, imperfect diversions from daily life that range from our most trivial collective fantasies to truly inspiring and transporting works of art (with most falling somewhere in between). As Leo Tolstoy couldn’t help loving his selfish, imperfect Sophia, so I can’t help loving the movies. (Needless-to-say, I finally saw The Last Station yesterday. In a word, it was great.)

If I were the producer of the show, I would punch up the celebrating-the-movies stuff. Do more of what they did last night with the comic bit of Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin sharing a hotel room in the style of Paranormal Activity. That was good. The tribute to horror films was also fun to watch, with all those old favorites popping up on the screen (The Shining, Rosemary’s Baby, Bride of Frankenstein). And the John Hughes tribute was quite moving. Made me want to go watch all his films I’d missed (as I got further and further away from his target age range).

But I’m sure there will be no dearth of mention in all the Oscar wrap-up today that the interpretive dance number seemed woefully out of place. If it were up to me, I’d fill that spot with something like the fantasy dance sequence from 500 Days of Summer, which was great simply for its movieness – a bit of Showboat, a bit of Snow White, a bit of Ferris Beuhler’s Day Off.

Instead of trying to squeeze more films into the BP category, why not feature the big budget, wide release and high cultural impact films in affectionate comedy skits and musical numbers while the smaller, more artistic ones are being honored with the awards? At home watching, we’ll all play “Name that Film” as each interlude goes by while we also tick off the wins and losses on our ballot.

Time problem, you say? Well, here’s a way to make time: Ditch some of those technical categories, especially the ones where they have to explain to the audience what it is, like sound editing and mixing, even picture editing. Not to mention the categories where they couldn’t come up with more than three nominees, like visual effects and makeup. (I know this is controversial – apologies to my friends in editing and visual effects.)

I certainly wouldn’t ditch the short and documentary film categories in the interests of time. That would undercut the goal of celebrating movies overall. Besides, those are the categories that produce some of the most entertaining acceptance speeches. (Come to think of it, they could make the show even more interactive if they made the docs and shorts available ahead of time on iTunes. That way, the viewer at home could make a more informed vote in those categories. And the filmmakers could make a little money. Doesn’t this seem like a bit of a no-brainer?)

But I’m not the producer of the show.

So – what about the winners? As I predicted, much of it was highly predictable. Probably the biggest upset was Precious winning over Up in the Air in the Adapted Screenplay category. I’m glad Precious got that recognition. Where I was way off was on the Costume category. But I got the impression that Sandy Powell, winning for The Young Victoria, agreed with me that perhaps someone else would have been a more appropriate awardee. She seemed to shrug it off as a ho-hum third Oscar, before generously championing costume designers who work on non-period films.

I am also glad, despite my Tarantino allegiance, that The Hurt Locker got its due. In fact, on reflection, I have to say there’s a lot of justice in it. First, of course, is the woman director thing. It was quite poignant and moving to hear Barbara Streisand say, “Ah, the time has come!” The movie industry is well known to be way behind other professional arenas, such as medicine and law, in its overall gender parity. At least in this one area, some catching up has been accomplished.

But did you also notice that it was the writer, Mark Boal, who gave the Best Picture acceptance speech? Tons of justice there! It was his vision from the beginning. His initial inspiration. And he was somehow able to keep his hand in as producer all the way through. That’s unusual. The position of the writer, generally speaking, is pretty far away from the position of the producer. Hence, the long history of lowly writer jokes, such as Alec Baldwin’s quip about Matt Damon getting an Oscar for screenplay and going on to become an action star, which is the most action a writer has ever seen in Hollywood. Love the layers of nuance there considering the many meanings of the word “action” – sex, profit sharing, popularity, excitement, fun, all of which writers are widely reputed to not get much of. Not to mention recognition. The woman director thing is pretty great. But the writer, the one who came up with the idea for the film in the first place, getting the Best Picture award? That is totally cool!

I also heard a little factoid yesterday that if [that other film] had won, it would be the highest grossing Best Picture winner of all time (little surprise there), and that if The Hurt Locker won, it would be the lowest grossing Best Picture winner of all time. Perhaps not everyone would be with me on this, but I see justice in that as well.

And here’s one more curious distinction: Of the roughly 31 wide release films nominated (in any category), 18 (almost two-thirds) were released in November or December and eight were released between July and October, which means only five were released in the first six months of the year. Two of those – Harry Potter (cinematography) and Star Trek (makeup) – were big budget, big release films, and two – Coraline and Up – were animated, these being characteristics that helped keep them from fading out of consciousness. So what was the fifth nominated film released way, way back in the first six months of the year? That had to remain in the industry consciousness long enough to be remembered for awards season? Standing, therefore, in a category of its own? Hmm. The Hurt Locker.

Also interesting to me is seeing to which film the runner-up longevity award goes (for its July release) – none other than my personal pet favorite . . . In the Loop!!! Yea! Way to go little under-the-radar scathing political satire! Yes! Yes! Yes! Now, I’m sure some enterprising social/cultural theorist could have a field day speculating on the implications of The Hurt Locker and In the Loop sharing this distinction, but I’m not going to go there.

I would, however, like to say something about Fox News’ embrace of The Hurt Locker as a “conservative values” film because of its portrayal of soldiers as “heroes.” The film opens with a quote from war correspondent Chris Hedges: “The rush of battle is a potent and often lethal addiction, for war is a drug.” And by the end, the film leaves no doubt that its main character is hooked. Is he a hero for wanting to go back to Iraq and defuse bombs again? Maybe to some people. Or is he simply an addict, and therefore the victim of an unseen drug pusher for whom it is convenient that he is driven to need more and more life-and-death, risk-taking excitement?

I read this film not as a tribute to heroic sacrifice, but, rather, as laying bare a psychological trap endemic to the warrior life – the compulsion to seek more and more danger. My 82-year-old friend Martha, who I went to see the film with, pointed out to me that in past wars, soldiers didn’t re-up over and over again. They did one or two tours and were discharged. Or the war ended and they went home. This war shows little sign of ending.  It is well known that for an addiction to grab hold and flourish there must be a continuous supply of the drug of choice, which, at eight years plus, there certainly has been. Another link that can be made from this film is that, for those whose goal it is to prosecute endless war, its helpful to have addicted soldiers. We just have to get them to believe they are being heroes when they choose to go back and re-indulge their addiction.

That’s what I got from The Hurt Locker.

Filed in Oscars | No replies

My Picks

Published on March 7, 2010

It’s Sunday morning and I’ve got to get ready to fill out my Oscar ballot. I have never been very good at winning these contests. The only time I ever won (and that was in a tie for first place) was the year I ended up at an Oscar party dominated by movie biz know-nothings. Somehow all of their votes managed to be even more naïve than mine.

The way I see it there are two ways of voting in these Oscar contests: You can vote to win or you can vote with your heart. I used to vote to win, year after year, even though I never did. I continued to nurture the delusion that I could be a mind reader to that collective consciousness called Hollywood. I would go at my ballot, pen in hand, with all my puffed up cynicism, and no small amount of arrogant superiority, like the outcast in high school believing she can guess the results of the student popularity contest, even though she despises everyone on the ballot (I’m picturing Janeane Garofalo in Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion).

Problem was I didn’t, and don’t, despise all of them. In any given year, many of the movies nominated I regard as mindless, or heartless, or just not up to standard, but many of them I genuinely love. So, if I loved Nominee #5 but cynically voted for the silly, audience-pandering Nominee #2 believing it had a better chance at winning the popularity contest, and then #5 ended up winning, I would hate myself for betraying the one I loved. How could I have so little faith in one I so profess to admire? As the years went on I came to dislike that feeling more and more, until one year I made a solemn vow: From now on, when it comes to Oscar ballots, I will only vote with my heart (unless faced with a category in which I have no favorite, then I’m allowed to vote to win).

All of this comes up this time around because this appears to be a year in which one could easily vote to win and actually win. All the indicators are right out there for the major categories (of course an Oscar ballot’s success is not dependent on the major categories, it’s all those little categories, many of which are full of films that no one could possibly have seen, that make or break it). Nonetheless, I am still determined to vote with my heart.

Here are my picks:

In the actor categories, the vote-to-win picks and the heart picks largely line up. Jeff Bridges and Christoph Waltz appear to be shoe-ins, and I loved both the performances and the films. Mo’Nique is also a pretty sure bet, and I was certainly in awe of that performance as well. But, while I also admired the film substantially, I will say the one problem I had with it was that all the “good” characters were 100% good and all the “bad” characters were 100% bad. This is not my understanding of human nature.

Now, on Best Actress is where I have to make the split. All the indicators are pointing to Sandra Bullock winning, but my heart is with Meryl Streep. I confess I never saw The Blind Side, and I do have plenty of regard and admiration of Sandra Bullock as an actress, but I just had so much fun watching Streep do Julia Child that I can’t possibly deny that experience.

As for Best Directing and Best Picture, in my previous post I made clear how I feel about Avatar in those categories, which leaves The Hurt Locker and Inglourious Basterds as the main contenders. All indicators are that The Hurt Locker will win both. But, my heart is with Inglourious Basterds. And I will not betray it.

So, where does that take us? Just a minute while I consult the ballot I picked up at my local video store. Oh yeah, Art Direction, Cinematography, Costume, Editing. For Art Direction, a vote-to-win should go to Avatar, but my heart says The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus (in fact, I’ve been working on a blog comment about that film, so stay tuned). On Cinematography, I have no idea where a vote to win should go – Avatar is a joke (they created most of that look in the computer!), and Harry Potter and The White Ribbon are category fillers. So it’s between The Hurt Locker and Inglourious Basterds. My guess is that  Tarantino is going to be utterly and completely dissed this year. So I would have to say that a vote-to-win should go to The Hurt Locker. But my heart vote is going to The White Ribbon. (Have you seen it? The look is incredible!)

For Costume, they all seem pretty great. And I’m inclined to say the vote-to-win choice is Coco Before Chanel, even though it seems a bit like cheating since actually one of the greatest fashion designers in the history of the world designed all those “costumes.” There would be justice in Bright Star winning since it’s part of the premise of the story that the main character is a highly creative fashion designer.  To grant Imaginarium the costume award would practically be an insult, since that film is about so much more than that. And Nine and Young Victoria are clearly category filler. My heart, I have to say, is caught between Bright Star and Coco Before Chanel. But, even though that last scene of the fashion runway in Chanel made me gasp in awe, I’ll have to give my heart vote to Bright Star because those costumes were actually designed for the film.

So, Editing. I never know how to evaluate editing. Seems to me the highest goal of good editing is that it should be invisible. So I look at a list of nominees and I’m trying to figure out in which film I noticed the editing the least. I look at this list and I have no idea. So I give my heart vote to the film that most has my heart in all of these categories: Inglourious Basterds. As for vote-to-win, can’t help you. You’re on your own.

Which leaves the two categories of most importance to me (and most likely to disappoint, year after year after year) – Best Original and Best Adapted Screenplay. Oh, the pain of it all! For Best Adapted, my heart is with In the Loop (RENT IT!) but vote-to-win appears to be Up in the Air. Best Original is clearly going to The Hurt Locker, but my heart, as ever, remains with . . .

Inglourious Basterds!!! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!

(I know.  . . .  It’s hopeless.)

Filed in Oscars | 2 replies

Techno Talk

Published on February 16, 2010

I try never to pass up an opportunity to hear a director speak about his or her film, regardless of my feelings on it, because my appreciation and understanding is always expanded. I have seen films that left me completely cold, until I hear the director talking about all the ideas they were chasing in the process of making it and I get caught up in the sincerity of their intentions and the fascination they hold for their subject. Then it becomes a whole different film.

The other day I had the opportunity to hear James Cameron speak about Avatar. As I pretty much expected, a high degree of the discussion went straight over my head. Image based special capture process? Huh? Negative space compositions? Wah? Polygonally optimized environments? How’s that again? Sitting amongst a knowingly focused audience, occasionally nodding their heads, I was definitely out of my depth.

What I gained a greater appreciation for was the tremendous risk entailed in making that movie. He had an intention to do something on the technological cutting edge and he had to demonstrate to the studios that he could pull it off. He did a year and a half of research and development during which he had to create a fantastic world and then conceptualize the creatures that inhabit it. Then he had to show that he could make it all happen technologically. His success at this enabled him to get the studio greenlight necessary to then continue toiling in that world, at which point he went into the traditional production phase, with actors and cameras and the like (well, sort of traditional). Apparently, that was the comparatively easy part. From there, he faced a painstaking post-production phase extending over a whopping three years. The film was finished only about two hours before the absolute final deadline. Nothing like a ticking clock, as they say.

No question, he took on a gargantuan task with very high stakes. Also, with the shooting having been completed four to five years ago, the (none-too-subtle) political message takes on a different perspective. At least when it was conceived, it was a little less so-what-else-is-new? than it is now. Thus, we see an unfortunate downside to a heavily CG laden work – your message can get old as you invest the time needed to carefully craft every digital image.

However, it was amidst all this techno-talk, most of which went straight over my head, that I started to see where Cameron likely veered off track with his script. A tip off was when he spoke of working on “character design” while describing that early creative phase during which most writers would be concerned with “character development.” He was talking about the year and a half long R&D period. “It’s always desirable to have a finished script before you start,” he conceded. “But we decided to start without one. This gave the advantage that while writing the script I could surround myself with the art work of the characters and the forest.” Okay, maybe there’s an advantage there. But what I hear in that statement is a de-prioritizing of story development in favor of the process of manifesting it on screen.

I was reminded by this of how Quentin Tarantino spoke of his writing and directing processes back in December. (See “Tarantino-mania” from 12/9/09.) In contrast to Cameron’s simultaneous immersion in the problems of how to manifest the film, Tarantino claims that he largely forgets how to direct while he’s in his writing phase. This indicates to me a prioritizing of the writing, indeed, of the story itself, over the directing, which is simply the effort it takes to realize the story. While Tarantino is engaged in writing he has no idea how he’s going to direct what’s coming out of him. He just wants to make sure he is following his writing impulses wherever they need to go and being thoroughly responsible to his characters. For Tarantino, it is essential to create a solid barrier between his writer and director selves.

Cameron was happy to let the two mix and mingle under the assumption that they will surely trade ideas back and forth as they work toward their mutual goal. By my estimation, what happened instead was, in age-old Hollywood fashion, the writer got kicked aside and the director dominated the picture.

I understand there was a necessity in that. With a budget reported to be in the vicinity of $250 million, Cameron is bound to his investors to create a visual thrill ride. That’s got to be his first priority. With such a high financial risk, he can’t afford to take a lot of artistic risks. That would be manifestly irresponsible. That would be like doing the kind of thing that Terry Gilliam would do.

In fact, I wasn’t inclined to begrudge Avatar any of its success until it got the Golden Globe award. It’s a film that’s designed to make a lot of money. To resent it for that would be silly. But to judge it among its peers is to hold it to a higher standard. According to the film-as-thrill-ride standard, Avatar is a masterpiece. As a film drama? Up against The Hurt Locker, Precious, A Serious Man and Inglourious Basterds? Does it really meet that standard?

This is why I’m not really looking forward to watching the Academy Awards this year. Even though I just might go see Avatar a third time to catch the Imax experience.

Whenever I attend these kinds of events, I always like to linger a bit afterwards, just to see if anything serendipitous happens. I stood to the side for a while, as people were milling about, but nothing seemed to be happening. So I turned to leave the theater. Then, walking up the aisle, I realized I was about to fall into step alongside Walter Murch. Cool! I thought. But what do I say? Oh, I know. “Great question,” I said, to which he said, “Thanks.”

See, in the Q and A period, Murch had asked Cameron if he thought the future of 3D would likely go the way that color film did in replacing black and white. Cameron said, yes, and backed it up with the fact that what caused color to finally gain dominance over black and white was color television. When people had color in their homes, they were no longer interested in watching black and white in the movie theater. Likewise, it is inevitable that 3D will become the standard, but how will depend on when it starts to appear on other platforms, such as your laptop or your iphone. When it becomes the norm in those arenas, which it surely will, then it will be de rigueur in the moviegoing experience. All good news to me, since now I want to see everything in 3D. (Although I do have to take issue with Cameron’s producer Jon Landau when he said: “3D enhances the narrative storytelling process.” I’m not sure I see how that could be true.) But back to me and Murch.

So then I thought, Now what do I say? Wait, this is Walter Murch. He must have opinions of his own on the subject. So I asked, “Did you agree with his answer?” To which Murch said, “Basically, yes. Although there’s still the problem of the glasses.” The glasses! Good point! Forgot about those. I asked if he knew of any progress in the direction of solving that problem. He said, No, none that he’s seen.

We were standing in the lobby by then and next thing I knew Jon Landau was standing on the other side of me. I said, Hello, introduced myself and said something complimentary about the talk. He was very friendly and polite. But then he reached past me to introduce himself to the tall guy on my right. Oh, I get it. He doesn’t want to talk to me. He just wants to meet Walter Murch, too. They immediately started getting into it about Imax 3D, strobe effect, blah, blah, blah, all going straight over my head. So I quietly slipped away.

Filed in Avatar | 2 replies

Lost Spectacles

Published on February 9, 2010

Somebody asked me the other day if I liked Avatar and I have to say I was stumped by the question. “Like it?” I thought. “I’m supposed to like it or not like it? I thought I was just supposed to go see it because everyone else is seeing it.” But I was also surprised at the realization that I had no strong opinion to offer up. That’s not like me. I began to wonder, What are my feelings on Avatar?

So, I went to see it again (in 3D this time). And, still, I honestly can’t say I liked it or didn’t like it. I wasn’t blown away, deeply moved, transported, or even richly entertained. But I also wasn’t sorry I plunked down my money and gave it two-plus hours of my life,  . . .  twice. The first time, I let it wash over me with no pre-judgment, and then thought, “That was fun.” On the second viewing, my response was about the same, with the added perk of the 3D effect, which I loved. I think I’ll see everything in 3D from now on.

I suppose I could offer the opinion that the special effects were awesome. But does anyone need me to tell them that? I could exclaim how much I enjoyed entering into the beautiful and compelling world of the Navi. But that opinion is hardly unique. Who wouldn’t love the Navi world? I could lend my endorsement to its (none-too-subtle) portrayal of corporate greed at the expense of nature and human rights. Sadly, though, that’s old news by now.

I guess I’m not inclined to judge this film just as I wouldn’t judge a thrill ride at Disneyland. Okay, so some thrill rides are more thrilling than others. But overall my expectations of them are pretty limited. Momentary diversion, that’s about it. So here’s an opinion I can offer on Avatar: I was momentarily diverted in a generally satisfying way. (Is that an opinion?)

What’s that you say? You want my opinion of the script? Oh. Right. Well, . . . I didn’t think much of the script. But that, too, is no surprise. In a film like this, the script is just a frame to hang all the techno wizardry on, . . . right? I’m not supposed to have high expectations of the underlying drama in a film that is designed first and foremost to be a CGI spectacle, . . . am I?

Am I? Wait. Hold on. Just a minute. I’ve lost something. Just a sec. I’m looking around for it. I know they’re here somewhere. I just had them! Where did they go? Where, oh where, did my values go? Just give me a sec to figure this out. . . .  Oh! I remember now! I’m the one who values story and character and drama above all else! I’m one of those who feels that special effects should exist to serve the story. Not the other way around. Phew! How could I lose sight of that? Could it have been my vision was impaired by those glasses?

Come on, let’s be real. Jake Sully, as a character, is almost completely generic. He is Everyman Wounded Soldier, which is fine, I guess. Except for all the opportunities that are lost by not making him more individual.

In fairness, though, it’s worth noting that the Everyman character has plenty of precedent in drama history, having originated in the medieval morality plays created by The Church to put forth moral instruction. He still turns up from time to time to fulfill his moralistic purpose in films such as It’s a Wonderful Life and Heaven Can Wait (1943). So you can get away with using the Everyman character, if you want to tell a moralistic story.

The problem in this story is that Jake’s circumstances prompt so many questions in me. He lost the use of his legs in combat? Gee, I wonder what that did to him? All we’re told is that he had dreams of flying. Geneeeeerrriiiic. That response would be felt by anyone. But, beyond wanting to fly, what did it do to him? Then his brother died? His brother the golden boy in comparison to whom Jake was just a grunt? Seems to me he might have some complicated feelings about that. Then he’s asked to take over his brother’s role in a far away, high stakes, heavy commitment scientific program? What would it do to a despairing, grieving, low self-esteem  paraplegic to be asked to become the brother he could never measure up to?

These are all just the fundamental character study questions any writer should explore when creating a new character. But I don’t want to get all school-marmish about this, lecturing on what makes a good character and such. Let me try to illustrate the deficiencies I see in this story another way. Instead, I’m going to use the here’s-how-I’d-rewrite-that-screenplay technique:

AVATAR
a revised treatment
by Jennine Lanouette

We are introduced to Jake bedridden in a dreary, run down VA hospital ward. He’s not adapting well to his injury. He’s angry, resentful, acting out, etc. His golden-boy brother, Tom, visits him, trying – again – to help him out of his funk. He offers to lend Jake some money if he needs it. Jake refuses. Tom then concedes that Jake was always the sensitive one, which Jake balks at. Tom then reports that he’s about to depart on some kind of risky venture. Jake’s only response is a snarky comment to the effect of “Aren’t you special!” He sends Tom away and goes back to his self-pitying stupor.

[It’s possible that Cameron considered going in such a direction but decided against it so as not to risk having Jake come across as unlikable. If this is so, he is harboring a misconception about the sympathetic character function. To be sympathetic (i.e., to garner audience sympathy and engagement), a character doesn’t have to be likable. They just have to be shown at a power disadvantage. Being a disabled veteran is more than enough power disadvantage to get us on board with him. The beauty of it is that you can then have him act out in all kinds of nasty ways and we are still engaged with him because we can’t resist siding with an underdog. And all that acting out just makes him more and more individual and human. Trying to keep him faultless enough to be “likable” actually has the unwanted effect of keeping him generic. But I’m lecturing. Let me get back to my rewrite.]

Then Jake gets the news of his brother’s death. [And the circumstance that kills Tom is more connected to his work than simply an unelaborated “robbery.”] Now Jake’s got guilt and grief on top of his self-pity and despair. He pulls himself together to go to Tom’s funeral and sees his golden-boy brother being lionized in death, which is just more injustice since Jake is the one who actually wishes he was dead. His brother gets to become a saint while Jake is still left in a forgotten back ward with a broken body. Insult on injury. In short, as the story opens, Jake is a physical and emotional train wreck. [Nowhere to go but up.]

Still at the funeral, as the mourners disperse, Jake is approached by two “colleagues” of Tom’s, lab-coat-and-pocket-protector types. They take him out for a consoling coffee, then clumsily present their agenda: Would Jake take Tom’s place in the Avatar program? The pay is good, the benefits are generous and the work is interesting. Jake knows little to nothing about Tom’s work, but he’s not stupid, so he quickly figures it out: They lost a valuable asset in Tom but were lucky to discover he had an identical twin brother. So, Jake concludes, now they want to “harvest” Jake’s body to replace Tom’s like he’s some kind of a second kidney? No fucking way!!!

He goes back to his little mud hole of pity, bolstering his self-esteem by beating everyone on the ward at video games. Enter the corporate suits. They have a marketing pitch worked out –  he can have all the perks and privileges that his brother had. The job will be easy and he’ll have the lifestyle he’s always dreamed of! All he has to do is fill his brother’s shoes. “Fuck you!” says Jake. “Get out of my face!”

Jake receives a letter stating that his request for a spinal operation to restore his legs has been denied because the injury wasn’t sustained in a military operation. He was trying to help a civilian mother and child take refuge when he stepped on a mine. He sinks further into depression.

Finally, Colonel Quaritch, a fellow marine, shows up. He talks straight, no sugar-coating, telling Jake this assignment won’t be easy, but it’ll be the most important thing he could ever do for his country. Way more important than any of his combat tours. Jake bonds with the colonel, they speak the same language. But he’s still cynical and circumspect. The colonel asks him what he wants. Jake thinks a moment. Can they get him a spinal operation to restore his legs? The colonel is taken aback at first. Then he assures Jake that if he’s successful in his mission, he can guarantee him an operation. Jake wants it in writing. The colonel says, No problem.

[Yes, all of this wooing of Jake would delay his entry into the Navi world. But it wouldn’t have to be by much. And the upside is that, by seeing him go through his decision process, we get to see him as someone who is exercising his will in the context of formidable odds rather than someone who is being passively transported along. This gives us a better understanding of the stakes at work in the story, which increases the tension and gets us more invested in him.]

[Also being introduced here is a Cain and Able theme between the brothers. This, too, increases tension and provides an underlying character issue that can continue to be at play throughout the story.]

When Jake arrives on Pandora, Grace, the head scientist, is happy to see him but is upset to see him wearing his marine uniform. She was hoping her guys would succeed in recruiting him on their own and then get him discharged from the military so he would be a civilian like his brother and answer only to them. Having failed at that, it then becomes her bad luck that Tom had a twin brother in the marines because that means the corporation won’t finance the building of a new Avatar from the DNA of another scientist. But it’s good luck for the corporation since they can still maximize their investment in Tom through Jake. An even greater stroke of luck for the corporation is the fact that he’s a marine because they can have some control of him. [This is the source of the tension that underlies all the interactions between Grace and Selfridge, the corporate hack. The two are battling for Jake’s allegiance.]

Jake just wants to tow the line and fulfill his mission so he can get his legs back. But there is much culture clash and miscommunication between him and his scientist co-workers. For one thing, those who knew Tom keep mistakenly calling Jake by his brother’s name, which he hates. He, meanwhile, has no patience for all the scientific gobbledy-gook. “Just give it to me straight,” he says. Ultimately, he discovers that he is more intuitive about human relationships than they are. [This creates more concrete and nuanced tension between characters, in contrast to the all-purpose, garden-variety tension that we are given in the film. (Why does Norman suddenly get so pissy at Jake and then suddenly he’s nice again?)]

At a certain point, Jake can’t take it anymore. He wants to quit the program. It’s not worth it. He’ll get his legs back some other way. So the scientists and the corporation guys have to work together to get Jake back in. Finally, they get him (kicking and screaming) into his Avatar body and then . . .  everything changes.

When he enters the Navi world, Jake finds something that not even Grace and the other scientists can see, despite all their close study. Because of his still lingering despair, the Navi have a mystical, transcendent effect on him. Plus, there is no Tom in that world, so he is accepted by them simply for who he is. [So, in a way, we have a Cain and Abel story in which Cain, rather than getting kicked out of the Garden of Eden, is kicked into it. Then we see what that does to him.]

Maybe for the first time in his life he is around people who are as intuitive and sensitive as he, who value him as a noble and genuine person. Maybe they see an essential heart in him that neither the military, nor the corporation, nor the scientists are capable of seeing.

Maybe he develops a brother-like relationship with a fellow Navi warrior who he has to work through an ongoing conflict with to then come to a place of mutual peace and understanding. Maybe this teaches him how to let go of his feelings of unworthiness.

Maybe each time he comes out of the Navi world, back to so-called reality, he is confronted with more and more conflict, competition, backbiting, callousness and cruelty. He just wants to get back to the Navi, but has to keep hidden that he has “gone native.” Maybe Grace starts to see this so she stages an “intervention,” like he’s become addicted to his Avatar body, or she brings in a “de-programmer,” like he’s gone off and joined a cult.

Okay, okay, now I’m getting a little far fetched. But see what I’m getting at here? I don’t pretend that these are the most brilliant ideas in the world for improving that script. (And, obviously, in my version there would still be an escalating conflict between the Navi and the corporation forcing Jake to finally make a choice between them.) I’m only wanting to demonstrate that there’s a whole lot more that could have been done within that story to build up its character and thematic elements.

Of course, I can’t exactly argue that by following my advice Avatar would have appealed to more people and, therefore, made more money. You got me on that one. All I can say is . . .  it would make a better story. A deeper, richer, more resonant, more transporting, more humanly authentic and more artfully dramatic story.

You wanna know why, some 70 years later, we are still going with Dorothy on her journey through that bizarro world of Oz? It is this: (a) because Dorothy had a real human problem (no one was paying attention to her cries of alarm that a mean old woman was threatening to kill her dog, so she felt her only recourse was to run away from home); (b) because the people and circumstances she encounters on her journey are exactly those that will challenge her in the ways she needs to be challenged in order to get past her problem; and (c) because the world of Oz is all just one big metaphor for our own unconscious. Thus, The Wizard of Oz is both a fun ride and a provocative human parable.

So, I like a fun ride as much as the next guy. And I also like a provocative human parable. When I can have them both together, then I’m richly entertained.

I read a couple of reports saying that, in the months before Avatar was released, Cameron was touting it as a film that will change the face of cinema. I’m not really sure what he means by that. Could he possibly mean that from now on the highest, noblest aspiration of a big budget film will be to create a maximum impact thrill ride? Story be damned?

I think if this film wins Best Picture, I’m going to cry.

Filed in Avatar | 2 replies

Ho Hum

Published on February 2, 2010

Just want to register one little opinion on the Oscar noms: In an otherwise snoringly predictable line up, I was pleasantly surprised to see In the Loop appear in the Adapted Screenplay category. For months now, I’ve been telling people this was the most hilarious movie I’ve seen all year, while feeling like I might as well be reporting a sighting of Big Foot. Is there anyone else in this whole wide world who is aware that this film even exists? Well, now there is. I hope it benefits from this boost, so I won’t have to feel so lonely when I am looking for someone to wax nostalgic with about the ample belly laughs it bestows.

One other little opinion (but I’m sure I don’t have to feel quite so lonely in this one): Glad to see A Serious Man squeezed in on the list of 10.

Filed in Oscars | No replies

The Last American Heart

Published on January 29, 2010

I’ve seen a few films in recent weeks – Up in the Air, Avatar, Me and Orson Welles, The Private Lives of Pippa Lee – all interesting in their own way. But, for some reason, Crazy Heart is the one I feel compelled to write about. Maybe its cause of that word “heart” in the title.

I’ve been a Jeff Bridges fan for a long, long time. I have a treasured memory of the first time I saw him, in Hearts of the West, in 1975. It’s not a profound film, but very sweet and engaging, the kind you can’t help but like despite its flaws. And the young Jeff Bridges had such freshness in it, such delightedness, like a galumphing puppy dog.

Then I saw Cutter’s Way, then Fat City and, of course, The Last Picture Show.  Later came The Fabulous Baker Boys, The Fisher King and American Heart. Along with so many others. That’s the thing about him – he has given us so much to choose from. And he so rarely disappoints. If ever. I can’t think of a single time.

So now he’s dishing it up again in Crazy Heart. (He does a lot of films with that word “heart” in the title, but then he has also done a few “Last of This” and “Last of Thats,” not to mention all those “Americas” and “Americans.” Maybe someday we’ll see a culminating work from him called “The Last American Heart,” a sort of “Citizen Kane” for our current age of cold corporate control.)

I had read beforehand a mini-review in which the film was referred to as “The Wrestler meets Country and Western,” which gave me a slight feeling of dread. With a lesser actor than he, I may well have skipped it. Who needs to see another tale of slow agonizing decline and death? Mickey Rourke already did it about as perfectly as can be done. So they added a few country music songs. So what? But I can’t pass up a Jeff Bridges starrer (especially one with that word “heart” in the title).

So I went, and I watched, and I couldn’t help noting all the Wrestler parallels. The down and out legend, the reverent fans, the alluring woman who is also a mother, the waking up alone in a hospital bed, the ominous warning from a doctor, the attempt to reconcile with an alienated child, the eventual loss of the woman. But at a certain point, to my relief, I knew that this story would have a different ending. There was a little less loneliness in it. A little more hope. He, at least, had an agent on his side, and a protégé-made-good who wanted to work together again. And the woman he was after was interested in him, too.

In fact, Bad Blake had a lot more going for him than Randy “The Ram” Robinson. “So what’s his problem?” I wondered, as I watched him throw back one McClure’s whiskey after another. Then a new sense of dread came over me. “Oh, no, don’t tell me! It’s an addiction story! Ugh, now I know exactly how it’s going to end.”

See, stories about alcoholics and drug addicts can only end in one of two ways – the abuser either hits bottom and gets better or . . . he dies. Because, see, addiction is a disease. And not only is it the nature of disease that you either get better or you die but any given disease has essentially only one course of progression. Like when you get the chicken pox – first you get a fever, then you feel fluish, then little red dots appear, then they itch, then you think you’ll go insane, then the blisters burst and crust over and then you get better. This is how it goes in everyone.

So with addiction – first the substance is used socially, then recreationally, then compulsively, then obsessively, then exclusively and then disastrously. The individual in its grip goes down, down, down, compromising – or losing altogether – friends, family, job, school, home until either the body succumbs or the consciousness is finally jolted back to life.

This is why I have always cautioned students against trying to write an addiction story – because it’s bound to come across as generic. In fact, the desire to tell the truth about addiction is almost at odds with the desire to portray individual character growth. The whole point is that it’s generic.  It’s not about the individual. It’s about the disease, which is the same for everyone. The underlying character isn’t going to get anywhere until the addiction is gotten past. So we end up with a well-intentioned but bland film that reads more like a textbook description of a diagnosis than an individual human drama.

Thus, my sinking feeling in the middle of Crazy Heart. But I hung in with it. And, once again, my old pal Jeff did not disappoint me.

Hmm. The film brazenly defies the advice I’ve been giving my students all these years. But I didn’t leave the theater with that feeling of having been spoon fed an over-responsible and earnest portrayal of a syndrome. How did it do that?

In exploring that question, first let me address the fact that, dramatically speaking, and according to precedent, it’s easier to pull off an alcoholic/drug addict story in which the subject succumbs in the end than a story of uplifting recovery. Long Day’s Journey Into Night comes to mind. While the morphine-addicted Mary doesn’t die, there is little doubt left that she will never recover from her addiction and, thus, is certainly on a downward slide to her death. But in the process, an awful lot of truth is revealed about how a family can systematically destroy itself. No one had explored addiction so thoroughly before this play so it immediately became the standard bearer on the subject. And it gave little hope for recovery. But then, little was known at the time about the possibilities for recovery.

In the 1980s, on the heels of Betty Ford’s recovery in 1978 and founding of her rehab center in 1982, addiction recovery hit the media. But addiction had a lot to live down – Bowery bums, ghetto drug pushers and the notion promulgated by the Temperance Movement that alcoholics must “reform.”  Understandably, the Recovery Movement had to actively promote the disease model. An unfortunate side effect was a spate of well-intentioned Movie of the Week dramas full of generic characters.

No doubt contributing to this tendency was the Alcoholics Anonymous ethic of anonymity, which tells those in recovery not only do they have the right not to volunteer their identity but they are also free to tell anyone who’s asking, “None of your god-damned business.” So exactly whose story are we telling in this Movie of the Week about an alcoholic? None of your god-damned business! But, as Eugene O’Neill so effectively demonstrated, the best source of compelling, truth-telling drama is in very deep, ruthless mining of one’s own personal experience. For our purposes as dramatists, the preservation of anonymity and the mining of deep human truths, while not complete strangers to each other, are nonetheless unproductive bedfellows. They create generic babies.

Crazy Heart didn’t have any generic babies in it. It very much left the feeling that somebody had ruthlessly mined their deep personal truth. Certainly, Jeff Bridges did in order to come up with that performance. But there also had to be a lot of personal truth already showing up in the script. Yet, prowling around the internet for information on book author Thomas Cobb and writer-director Scott Cooper, I found no revelations of experience with addiction. Too bad.

Maybe they’re subscribing to that none-of-your god-damned-business view. Okay, they’re entitled. So, if no one else is going to share, I’ll say a little something about how I learned an important lesson of storytelling.

I went through a period, back in my late 20s, of attending 12-step meetings when I was coming to terms with my mother’s drinking. Every meeting began with one person sitting in front of the room and telling their story of growing up in an alcoholic household. While I was terrified of telling my own story, I found these stories of others’ riveting.

It was in this context that I came to learn the truth of the phrase, “the more personal it is, the more universal it becomes.” I’d, of course, heard it said many times while studying screenwriting in film school. But the meaning was abstract. Here, I saw people pour their guts out, in the most intimate and inimitable detail, and the rest of the room, far from nodding off in boredom or screaming in horror and running out the door, would simply nod and sigh knowingly.

When it finally came my turn to be at the front of the room, my own story of growing up with refined John Cheever-like suburban tippling felt so lame compared to some of the high drama that headlined on other nights. But the gathered assembly simply nodded and sighed for me as knowingly as they did for everyone else. A few even thanked me later. Thus, demonstrating to me that it didn’t matter what my story was, so long as it was my very personal and unique story. In a confounding paradox, the more specifically I told it, the more thoroughly they were able to see themselves in it.

Walking out of the theater after Crazy Heart, I did a mental assessment of the impression the film left on me and realized that it reminded me of the testimonies I used to hear back in those meetings. It had that feel of someone chronicling their downward descent, with ruthless soul-searching honesty, revealing all their misdeeds and humiliations along the way. And in so doing, it was riveting. As I used to do back then, I was leaning forward in my seat so as not to miss a word.
And the happy ending? Well, as with any happy ending, the degree to which we can accept it is directly related to the degree to which the character had to work for it along the way. And the amount of hell the character had to go through. That’s what justifies and supports a happy ending. So Bad Blake’s happy recovery is supported by how low – how very low – we saw him fall before he hit his own personal bottom with a resounding thud.

But, of course, the ending of Crazy Heart isn’t entirely happy. I don’t want to spoil it for anyone, but he loses something big in the process of gaining his sobriety. This is what makes the story individual. That was the path he had to follow to get there.

The universal part is the compulsion towards self-destructiveness. We have all felt that compulsion in ourselves at some point in our lives. Maybe we have acted on it. We have certainly feared our potential to act on it. That is what the film is expressing for us.

This brings us back to The Wrestler, in which self-destructiveness is not only a way of life, it’s a professional calling. Despite it’s literal title, The Wrestler is not a literal story of substance abuse. The alcohol use is rather down played in it. Instead, it’s a metaphor for a self-destructive path. Crazy Heart, on the other hand, despite it’s metaphoric title, is not. It is a literal chronicling of a very personal testimony. From somebody. I don’t know who.

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The Big Dis *

Published on January 18, 2010

Avatar?

Where the hell did that come from? I just read an item in which the head of Fox makes a somewhat disingenuous claim that Avatar was the underdog (yeah, a 250 million dollar underdog). Then he decries how disrespected broad appeal films can be.

But I thought the purpose of these awards shows was to honor Art. Oh, silly me. Let’s just create an award for Best Motion Picture – Special Effects and get it over with.

Here’s who I’d like to honor for their performances at the Golden Globes last night:

The award for Most Heartfelt Speech goes to . . . Mo’Nique. She certainly got the evening started on a lovely note.

The award for Most Apt Speech goes to . . . Jeff Bridges. (“You’re screwing up my reputation for being underappreciated,” as a room full of his professional peers showed their appreciation with a well-deserved standing ovation.)

The award for Most Poetic Speech goes to . . . Christoph Waltz, when he told of the little orbiting globe that is his life being pulled into Tarantino’s gravitational pull. Anyone who has had any exposure to Tarantino immediately knew the truth of that metaphor. But then he kept going with it, on an extended trajectory of astronomical allusions until he finally brought the image system back around to tell us that his globe has now been made golden. Whoa! That was quite skillful!

I’m not going to spend too many words here bemoaning The Big Dis of Tarantino last night. I doubt he’s sitting around feeling sorry for himself. Doesn’t seem like that kind of guy. He’ll just go off and make his next film about burning down the ballroom of the Hilton Hotel with the entire Hollywood Foreign Press Association inside. And his big mug on the screen, laughing. (I mean, really! What were they thinking?!)

I do, however, have a little award of my own that I’d like to give him:  Most True Response to Hearing His Name Called in the Nominees Line Up . . . for his fist pumping to the camera. YES!!!

Here’s another award I’d like to give – Best Send Up of False Humility in Acceptance Speeches to Robert Downey, Jr. (“I’m not going to thank anybody! I did this all myself! . . . I’m not going to thank my agent for restarting my career about 12 times! I’m not going to thank my wife, without whom I would be working as a bus boy somewhere. What a great job that would have been!”)

And I have a couple of inglourious awards to give:

Most Diplomatic Speech goes to . . . James Cameron, for claiming that he thought the Best Directing prize would go to Kathryn Bigelow (his ex-wife) when everyone else in the room was sure it would go to Quentin.

And, I don’t like to be petty, but I have to say I would give the Most Ungracious Recovery From a Gown Mishap award to Chloe Sevigny (“I can’t believe he just tore my dress!”)

And more on the subject of dresses (when the awards disappoint, at least we have the dresses):

For my money, Most Classy Dress goes to Helen Mirren – basic black with subtle sequins in a shape that made her look incredible.

Most Interesting Dress (and my personal favorite) to Sally Hawkins, for a knee-length, silvery-gray, criss-crossed, sparkly thing I would describe as a sort of Techno meets Mary Jane style.

How bout an award for Best Cleavage? (I’m a woman, so I can do this.) I actually don’t have one (maybe also because I’m a woman). But I will say that the fashion industry seems to have discovered that being flat chested offers many interesting opportunities for deep, deep, deep necklines (chestlines?) (waistlines?). In that category of dress, I think I liked Felicity Huffman’s the best.

And did you see those spiked heels on Julia Roberts? How do they walk in those things?

(* By the way, in the area of giving due credit, The Big Dis is the title of a little-known 1989 independent film made by Gordon Ericksen and John O’Brien in the vein of Spike Lee’s She’s Gotta Have It. It had its own small cult following at the time (some of us thought it should have been titled He Can’t Get It). Don’t know how it would play today, but it was a real charmer back then.)

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Not Complicated Enough

Published on January 16, 2010

Last night, Ed and I went to see It’s Complicated. Boy, the state of romantic comedy these days is really pathetic, isn’t it. When I saw Steve Martin lighting up that joint, I thought, “Thank God! He’s going to break out and do his thing!” But it was too little too late to save this movie.

Cut to:
Ed and I walking out of the theater.
Ed: Don’t you think it should have ended with the scene of them [Streep and Baldwin] on the swing?
Me: No. I think it should have ended with her giving him a swift punch in the gut. What an asshole!

Here’s how I would have rewritten that screenplay – First her ex-husband just simply comes on to her. That alone would be enough for her to go back to her Greek chorus of girlfriends and report with glee. For a divorced woman who’s husband left her for a younger woman, for him ten years later to be coming on to her would be a triumph of the highest magnitude.

Then the Greek chorus of girlfriends, after they have all finished cackling in utter delight, says, “You should take him up on it!” “Me? What? Oh no!” “Yes, yes, yes!” “But I don’t want him back!” “So much the better!” “That would be mean!” “That’s the point! After all he did to you?!” “Yeah, after all he did to me . . . “ “You’re going to give it back to him! Toy with him! Torment him. Make him squirm.” “Hmm. I get what you’re saying . . .”

So they hatch a plan to pull him into her witch’s lair. They account for every contingency and hitch, elaborately going over every detail. She gets very nervous about it. What if it doesn’t work? But of course when it comes time to pull it off, it’s a cinch. He’s a total sucker for it. She makes him do her every bidding and gets a satisfying feeling of accomplishment.

So she reports back to her klatch. That was fun. Thanks, guys, that was well worth it. But they’re not done, they have other ideas to egg her on with (see, cause they are all divorced too. So they are getting vicarious outlet from this as well). They come up with all kinds of sexual fantasies to get him to fulfill while also planning to get him in all kinds of compromising positions – with his new wife, with his workplace, with his friends. They want to humiliate him every way they can.

And she starts to go along. In fact, she becomes surprised to discover how good at it she can be (like Thelma discovering what a talented criminal she is). Then she starts to really get into it, even surprising her support team with a few innovations of her own. She has him by the nose (so to speak) and they are all getting great delight and satisfaction out of this act of revenge.

Meanwhile, she meets the “mensch,” the sweet, sentimental, lonely guy who is ga-ga for her. (I had a friend who used to say, “When you have a lover, everyone wants to be your lover.” So that effect will be at work, making her more attractive to others.) She starts to be friends with him. They pal around. She has a good time with him. In fact, she’s having a good time with both of them. So she starts to think this is the answer – to be friends with these men over here, while having sex with those men over there. What a great idea!

But, of course, the “mensch” is ga-ga for her. So she unwittingly ends up “toying” with him, too. Not her intention at all. He starts to suffer and she starts to feel badly. But she’s not the kind of woman who can sleep with two different men in the same span of time. And she’s not done yet with tormenting her ex. Then her ex starts to want something more. He wants to be friends again. So he starts to suffer. And by this time she has put him through so much crap that even we are starting to feel kinda badly for him.

So ultimately she gets her karmic comeuppance with the mensch and then she has to figure out how to disentangle herself from her ex. And it all culminates in a wild and whacky party scene where everyone gets drunk and finally falls into bed with the person they were supposed to be with from the beginning. Details to be worked out later. Needless to say, she is happy in the end with her new mensch boyfriend and her ex goes home to his wife with his tail between his legs.

Okay, so I’m a little twisted. But what’s wrong with making a full out, no-holds-barred revenge fantasy? Those impulses are entirely human and we should be able to laugh at them. Better to let them out in drama than in real life. Just ask Quentin Tarantino.

Maybe I could pitch Callie Khouri on writing the script . . . .

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My Friend Mike

Published on January 7, 2010

Over the holidays, a couple of my students tipped me off to the You Tube video review of Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace (Parts 1-7).  Have you seen it?  It’s very smart, very funny and . . . SICK!!  But I guess that’s the point – that even an axe murdering misogynist hiding out in a basement can tell the difference between this film and a good film. Another point, I suppose, is that you might want to disguise your voice and create a fictional identity if you’re going to criticize the Big Man. Who is this Mike from Milwaukee, anyhow? Are we sure he’s not some CGI geek at ILM? He’s got some pretty intimate knowledge from behind-the-scenes at Lucasland.

Anyhow, it was fun to watch and I can’t disagree with a bit of it. I have to admit I only saw The Phantom Menace for the first time a few months ago. Like Mike, I, too,  couldn’t understand what was going on most of the time, but I was trying to reserve judgment. I thought, “Maybe it’s a generational thing.”

I had decided to view the entire series in sequence, most of which I’d seen before but a couple of which I hadn’t. I found myself regarding the first three as if engaging in an anthropological study. Or reading the sacred texts of an exotic far-off religion. I can’t really relate to them but I know they have great meaning for vast numbers of people. So I respectfully decline to comment.

Then I got to Episode IV and – Phew! What a breath of fresh air! Is it only my sentimental memory of standing in line on the corner of 86th Street and Lexington Avenue in New York on the first day it opened in 1977 that makes me feel this way? Not according to my esteemed colleague “Mike” who is now here to tell me I’m not such an old fart after all. Thank you, Mike, for affirming that those of us who came of age with #4 were, indeed, fed a more substantial diet than those who have sentimental memories of the day #1 was released. I’ve got to learn to trust my instincts more. May the Force be with me.

My favorite part of Mike’s review was when he asked four “average” people to describe the characters without reference to their looks, costumes or role in the film. The difference between their answers about the Episode IV characters and the Episode I characters says it all. After all those years I’ve spent trying to explain to students why it’s important to give each of your characters their own distinct personality, all the words I’ve parsed, all the breath I’ve expended, and, now, here it is demonstrated, simply, efficiently and with an indisputable clarity in a three-minute video analysis. Wish I had that clip ten years ago when I was teaching know-it-all 19-year-olds back in New Jersey.

Next favorite part is Mike’s comparative analysis of the two films’ openings. I’ve always loved the exercise of examining purely visual openings – just staring at them, deeply contemplating them – to tease out all the information they provide that you’re not fully aware of on first viewing. He gives a nice illustration of the difference between the light, airy, poetically visual opening of #4 that works on you unconsciously and the dense, dialogue-bound, information-heavy opening of #1 that you have to think about to figure out what the hell it means.

And, of course, his constant grousing about #1’s failure to give us an emotional connection to a solid main character endears him to me even further. Such a lovable kvetch. And no fool. It’s not lost on him that if you’re going to play around with that cardinal rule of storymaking, you really want to be sure you’re doing it to serve some greater intent, as has been shown by that pantheon of Film Gods he parades across the screen (Coen Bros., Kubrick, Lynch, Scorcese, etc.).

But, I have to say, he does drone on a bit in the middle about illogical plot connections. It’s a fantasy, after all. Some stretching of plausibility is expected in a fantastical world. He gets a little picayune. But I get his point: there’s a limit to how much suspension of disbelief one can take before the neuron cables start to snap and the whole synapse network collapses into narrative confusion. And I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, given some of his other unusual tendencies, that he can’t seem to resist beating a dead horse about it.

I think, however, that the part for which I am most grateful to Mike is his comparative analysis of the fight scenes. It gets bizarre, in fact. Almost like he’s comparing the work of two different directors. He shows how over-choreographed and emotionally empty the seemingly endless sword sparring is in #1 as compared to how much more spare but emotionally meaningful each individual maneuver is in the fight scenes of #4. He further bemoans the lack of any “temptation, anger, revelation, defiance, sacrifice or redemption” in the #1 fighting. An impressive lot of big words for such a troll-under-the-bridge.

Nonetheless, his simple analysis goes to the heart of the whole violence-in-the-movies debate. It seems there are many different ways to portray violence. Some ways are emotionally numbing, others provide emotional release. Whether or not some types of violent portrayal have the power to completely desensitize the viewer to its human consequence, or, worse yet, incite copycat behavior, is a subject for further, and much more in-depth, study.

But there is no question, as this analysis demonstrates, that within this debate, it is not accurate to treat “violence in the movies” as if it is all one thing. Most of us who advocate against censorship just want to make sure that, at the least, the artistically meaningful portrayals are not lost in a puritanical effort to sanitize the world of the purely exploitative. But, unfortunately, there is much commercial incentive towards the purely exploitative. I, for one, would like to see more shaming revelations such as Mike’s out there to motivate those in creative control to use their dramatic violence more substantively.

“You see, we need a deeper meaning to things,” says Mike in conclusion. “Without it, none of it really matters, does it?” I couldn’t have said it better myself.

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