The Notebook

I wonder why everybody was gaga over this movie. Supposedly it was "so romantic," "so moving," it would make me cry, ("even made my dad cry," one friend told me), it was the "greatest love story" in modern film. Sure. What are we, desperate for romance?

I remember so well that conversation with my girlfriend when I remarked on the lack of great romance in films these days. Where's the passion? Where's our Clark Gable, our "Gone with the Wind"?

"You should see 'The Notebook.' It even made my dad cry."

Well, now I've seen it and, apart from appreciating the quite lovely Rachel McAdams, I didn't enjoy it. A great romance has to have conflict. These two young people fell in love smoothly enough, but there wasn't much in the way of passion, of tormented desire. They really didn't have any conflict. They were happy-go-lucky. Then what happens? Sure, sure, they're separated - it's a plot twist and causes a temporary delay to the relationship, but does that cause conflict within their love? No. The love doesn't suffer from it, there's no doubt they still love each other just the same. It's so obvious that they're going to get back together anyway, since the whole time you've got the two of them together in old age narrating the entire story. So where's the intensity? Where's the emotion? Where's the heat?

Hell, I think there was more passionate romance in some of those old "Dawson's Creek" episodes where Pacey is pining for Joey but can't make a move because she's Dawson's girl. And everybody said that was corny - but they liked "The Notebook"?

Charlie Wilson's War, The Jane Austen Book Club, My Summer of Love

What do these three movies have in common? The enchanting, daring Emily Blunt. I've become a great admirer of hers. The first time I saw her in a film - which I won't discuss right now - was actually something else, something called "Gideon's Daughter." That was beautiful, too, but I've decided that in this blog I'm going to write reactions to movies I've just seen. I won't start writing about all the movies I've seen in the past. It would be fun, but then I'd never get anything else done.

So let's talk about these three. In "Charlie Wilson's War," Emily Blunt has a very small appearance, but it's crucial. It happens so fast you almost don't realize it's happening. We've just barely been introduced to the character of Charlie Wilson (Tom Hanks); so far we've seen him in two settings: 1) Las Vegas and 2) his office. In his office we see women with big hair, cleavage and a mysterious efficiency belying their bimbo looks. So we've gotten a quick and dirty impression of who the man is and what he likes and the way he likes it. OK. Then there's a small scene in which Peter Gerety comes in as a Texas preacher demanding a defense for displaying a creche on secular land. He brings along his daughter Jane (Emily Blunt), for no apparent reason. Note she seems quiet, reserved, conservatively dressed - a good Christian girl. And she's just sitting there, waiting patiently while everyone runs around. Cut to the next scene. Jane is now in Charlie's suite, wearing only his shirt, sipping a cocktail. She continues to undress until she's wearing only underwear, and then we see her lounging on the sofa, her perfect long legs extended gracefully before us. She is a vision of seduction. Charlie, however, opts to take the phone call from Joanne Herring (Julia Roberts) instead of paying attention to Jane.

Why this transition in Jane? Why is she in her underwear? How did Charlie seduce the nice Christian girl? How did the nice Christian girl turn out to be so sexy? And why is Charlie not taking advantage of the situation? Why give Emily this short and seemingly meaningless appearance? The phone call has to be really important.

It is. It's the phone call that gets the whole plot moving. Joanne gets Charlie to go to Houston, then she gets him to go to Pakistan, then she gets him to go into Afghanistan, and the rest is history. So think of it! Think of how important this phone call has to be to get the movie rolling. And then, further think how attractive and seductive Emily Blunt has to be, in order to highlight the importance of the phone call - that Charlie should choose to ignore her and stay on the phone.

In "The Jane Austen Book Club," Emily Blunt plays a lonely, snobbish young French teacher named Prudie, unhappily married to a man who doesn't appreciate her. She's the odd woman out in the book club, having been invited on a whim by a stranger, while the other women know each other already. At the outset, Prudie's probably your least favorite of the women in the club, (Maria Bello is probably your favorite), unless you like lonely, prude-y, pale-faced women with dark hair and light eyes. At first we don't sympathize with her plight of being married to an unappreciative husband. (That is a worn-out cliche and the film suffers for it as well as others scattered throughout.) No, the only thing worth noticing about Prudie at the outset of the movie is that she is very pretty in an unopened-flower kind of way.

Then one of her students forms a crush on her, and this blurs her sharp borderlines for a minute, and then her aging-hippie mother shows up with some marijuana and this too, creates a mess in Prudie's life and she begins to be more interesting. At some point in Prudie's gradual mellowing, when she begins talking to the book club members, we find out she has never even been to France. She cries, "A French teacher who has never been to France!" (or something like that). Ah, no wonder she was so upset her hubby wouldn't take her abroad.

I won't tell you how, in a climactic moment, Prudie unfolds, but I will say that it takes a really good actress to achieve the scope of change her character has to come through in a limited number of scenes. (And she's taking turns with Maria Bello and Kathy Baker and Amy Brenneman and others, almost competing with them for attention in a badly-constructed movie.) In an otherwise lame movie, Emily Blunt takes us from uninterested to curious to hooked - and admiring. Once again.

And if you really want an exciting performance from Emily Blunt please see "My Summer of Love," an exceptionally daring film about two British girls who try each other on for size. One is poor and orphaned and being raised by an ex-con-turned-preacher brother. That's Mona (Nathalie Press) whose accent tells us everything we need to know about her. The other girl is Tamsin (Emily Blunt) whose accent is very refined. Tamsin rides in on, literally, a white horse to save Mona from her brother, poverty, and boredom above all. She says in effect, 'Mona, you're a wild one, but come into my mansion and try on some beautiful dresses. Try on my life for a summer. See if you don't come out feeling beautiful.'

Tamsin is a self-described "fantasist" and she sure can weave a tale, whether it's a ghost story or a love story. She does tell Mona these and other stories quite convincingly, sipping red wine and making the viewer feel haunted or bewitched, right along with Mona. There's even one tall tale about Edith Piaf, and her alleged crimes of passion (I will admit, adding the gorgeous French voice belting out "La Foule" in the scene does provide support for Tamsin's spell-casting over Mona). What crime of passion will Mona commit at the end of all this, we wonder.

The Paper Chase

I used to like this movie, when I saw it the first time. Cute flick about a cute boy who's on his way to becoming a lawyer. Lots of good classroom scenes.

I don't know what I thought it was "about," except there's a guy struggling in law school (Harvard no less) and he's got a sorta-romantic subplot which is sorta interesting.

Recently I watched it again and I decided, it's political. And I don't like the political statement it makes. And furthermore! I don't think it makes any sense. Like many liberal "statements" this one is corny and rings false. Do you really think that a Harvard law student wouldn't care about his grades at the end of the year? Just because his teacher didn't know his name?

Throughout the movie there's this repeated mantra - "It's all about the grades." Then there's a scene where the pretty, but frankly boring, romantic interest tells the boy that he's on a paper chase (note the lack of subtlety). She compares attaining a law degree to attaining a driver's license and an insurance policy. Hm. Let's think about that.

And the boy, struggling through law school -- Harvard law school -- is supposed to swallow that and decide (in a sudden moment of gushing realization when his teacher doesn't remember his name) that suddenly his grades don't matter? He actually makes a paper airplane out of them and sends them out flying over the ocean. It doesn't come any cornier than this.

Great performance by John Houseman, though.

Things We Lost in the Fire

I expected to be depressed by this movie. I heard it was about a heroin addict, so naturally, I assumed it would be a downer. Imagine my surprise to discover what an uplifting movie it actually is! And it gets better: This film celebrated my favorite quality (if one can be said to have such a thing as a 'favorite quality' without being accused of vagueness). That is, subtlety. It's my favorite quality in people and in acting and in filmmaking. It's my favorite quality in flavor and in flirtation and in intelligent conversation. It's my favorite quality.

Anyway, subtlety. Let me give you some examples.

Subtlety in camerawork: A lingering closeup on one - just one - of Halle Berry's eyes. The mark of tears, but no tears, on the side of her face. When she goes to the sink then, to wash her face, we see the water softly splashing as she washes her hands. (Subtle substitute for image of crying, you see.)

Subtlety in character development: Benicio del Toro plays the part of Jerry, the long-time friend of a man who's just died. Jerry shows up at the funeral and it's clear that no one knows who he is. (Well, even before the wife - Halle Berry - called him, people were asking "who's Jerry.") Jerry is alone at the funeral, wandering, sort of lost, smoking one cigarette with another behind his ear. We, the viewers, already know that he's an addict, and that the friendship was kept hidden for a reason. Thing is we don't know how Jerry feels about it. He seems sad, but how close were they, really? We're wondering. We're watching Jerry for a few good minutes and we want to like him, but we're not sure if we can. Then, he approaches the two kids on the swing. And slowly, he begins revealing himself to them. He lets them know that he knows stories about them. Something about a burn or a birthmark or a fear one of them has.

We, the viewers, can see then that he was a good friend of the dead man, a confidant. We realize that Jerry can be taken seriously. This is the superficial work of the scene. What's the subtlety, you're wondering? Consider: Jerry reveals himself only to the kids.

There isn't much in the way of "plot," and I understand why critics panned the film.

You may be curious about thematic subtlety (as I often am); i.e. "What's the point of this movie?" It's often hard to figure out when you've got mostly mood to go on, and some subtle writing.

I'll tell you. There is only one major plot point in the film - several small ones, of course, and plenty of beautiful camerawork and character development to keep you going, but only one major plot point. The key to theme is in that plot point. If you can figure out why it happens - What do Audrey and Jerry have in common? - then you've got it and everything that was subtle becomes obvious, all of a sudden. All of a beautiful sudden.

The question is, Can mood, subtle camerawork, and subtle character development keep you going until you get to this point? For me, they can.