You've Got Mail

What a refreshing thing it is to watch something as purely moment-defining as "You've Got Mail," which has recently regained popularity in the wake of Nora Ephron's passing. Simply the first few auditory moments of the film make it worthwhile: you get to hear the sound of the old 2600 baud modem dialing, and its tinny whistle and rumble before connecting. The sound reminds me of the emotional excitement I used to feel when connecting to the Internet in the mid-90s. Although I never used AOL and so never had a computer tell me directly "you've got mail," my emotion was the same. I used to get email. Real email, you know, that had nothing to do with my job. It was personal. I was always breathless, waiting for that "connection," and even used to sing along with my modem.

Nostalgia for an earlier Internet time transforms this movie. The plot about the competing bookstores, itself riddled with nostalgia, especially now when even the mega-super-store type bookstores are going under, can't engage our attention as much as the old-fashioned Internet romance. How strange! Now that we are "always on," always connected, and expect our mobile devices to serve as stand-in brains, remembering our schedule and reminding us to go to the grocery store, I think Internet flirtation has gone the way of the card catalog. Needless to say a text message from a boyfriend holds as much satisfaction as the one that reminds you to buy onions.

So: First, the old traditional romance of books and letters disappears via the fiber-optic Internet addiction. Then, email and chat rooms become the source of adrenalin rushes. Then, the Internet becomes a series of shopping networks and advertisements, "always on." Then, our mobile phones replace our memories and reshape the outlines of our every day lives. The Internet is banal! So we're now already ready to wax nostalgic about Internet flirtation? Must be! Makes sense when you think about it. What would Nora Ephron have written next? Has romantic life passed away along with Nora? Was "You've Got Mail" the very last truly romantic film that represented "the now" (the now of the time it was made)? Will every romantic film from now on necessarily be looking backward?


I know that was what I liked about it. Nostalgia for the Internet, as ironic as I find that.

There really isn't much else in "You've Got Mail," unless you happen to enjoy Hanks and Ryan -- I found myself realizing for the first time that, although I've grown up with Hanks ever-present on screen, I'd never really looked at him before. This time I studied his face closely. He's as comfortable as an old bathrobe. There's nothing sexually attractive about him. As for Meg Ryan, well, ditto. Her little half-tilts of her head and hips are so familiar, they have ceased to be cute. And as I said, I don't really buy into the story about the poor little losing bookshop. It doesn't feel real -- not as real as their email exchanges do! I think Nora must have known this, too. If it did feel more real, if we were inclined to resent Hanks as a "big businessman" (yeah right), then the romance wouldn't be pulled off in the end. So you kinda have to subconsciously accept that the bookstore-competition plot is not what the movie's about. It's about the Internet romance, at the time such a hugely shared phenomenon that this movie captures its moment with perfect clarity.

Albert Nobbs (and Young Adult, accidentally)

I'm thinking right now about movies that misidentify themselves. Is that a word? Movies that seem to believe they are something other than what they actually are. One example of this, from recent memory, is a movie called Young Adult. It was billed as a comedy, and the trailers made it seem like a typical fluffy romance -- a chick flick. Even though there were one or two scenes that made this implication possible, the overarching vibe of the film was very dark, featuring a main character whose depressive immaturity and complicated web of neuroses is extremely difficult to watch. She may be beautiful, but she's not beautiful on the inside, and that may be one of the misleading elements. We're not accustomed to seeing someone as beautiful as Charlize Theron acting in a way that's viscerally disgusting, at least not without her first putting on a lot of "ugly person" makeup and altering her appearance like she did in Monster. In "Young Adult" she's simply disgusting because of her neuroses. The way she pulls at her hair, for instance, plucking out a bald spot on the back of her head compulsively. Her drunkenness, how pathetically unaware she is of how pathetic she is, her false sense of pride as she piles on layers of makeup like sludge to hide her age. It's so obvious that she is 100% phony. It's miserable to watch. I sat in the theater, cringing throughout.

People told me afterward, "Didn't you think that was a really profound portrayal of a woman who hasn't outgrown the self-image she had as a teenager?" Well, yes. "But!" I yelled. "It was supposed to be a romantic comedy! Or heck, just a comedy at least! It wasn't funny at all!"

Now, that was an extreme case of bad marketing. However, I was shocked not only by how misleading the marketing for the film was, but also by its expectations for itself. Did it really expect to win an Oscar? Did it really expect to be successful as a "comedy" in the Golden Globes? Did it not understand that it was a film destined to be loveable only by the fringe, a film dealing with heavy, heavy territory that not many people would be willing to traverse? Unfortunately for Charlize, because she is such a high-caliber actor and this performance was so exquisite, the film will never get the attention it deserves. Why did it not stand up and say what it truly was? Something like a psychological horror film. If I were in the editing room, I would cut out all the supposedly-comedic or supposedly-romantic "borderline" scenes and emphasize all the ones involving makeup or vomit. After all, "Young Adult" in fact has more in common with "Black Swan" -- which did win an Oscar -- than it does with "Notting Hill."

So. Mis-identified movies. I was thinking about this because of the movie I just watched yesterday: Albert Nobbs. What a totally confused movie this is. On one hand, it thinks it's a period piece. On the other hand, the period is completely irrelevant. Also, there's a lot of references to other movies about class struggles and the plight of the poor. While the viewers are sitting there figuring out that this is no Jane Austen movie, they're left wondering why it's important that the primary characters are working class.

Too much is happening all at once: You've got a woman disguised as a man, and it's not at all clear why she is doing this. Not for a long, long time. You've also got a bunch of working class people, in a time where clearly it's difficult to find work -- but the socioeconomic conditions are never clearly explained. Yes, Albert is saving up "his" money in order to gain independence. But what does that have to do with the decision to pass as a man? You might start to think that passing as a man was something Albert chose to do in order to make money. But then, why would "he" have to do this for so long? Early in the film he makes us aware that he will be well enough off in six months to buy his own tobacco shop. That's his plan. But he's not a young man. Couldn't he have done this a long time ago? Besides, couldn't he have taken a more traditional route as a woman? It's completely unclear what the class struggle has to do with the gender struggle.

And then to confuse matters even more: Suddenly there is another woman posing as a man. What are the chances? And this woman is married (to a woman). Suddenly, it's apparently the central plot point that Albert wants to be married, too. This is now his grand pursuit. He sees they have a successful marriage and he wants one, too. Why? We spend a lot of time in the film with Albert "courting" a young working maid. A lot of his precious saved-up money is wasted on her, buying her hats, chocolate and whisky. But why? Does this movie now think that it is, in fact, a Jane Austen novel with a twist? Is it going to become a lesbian romance?

No. Finally, Albert confesses his story. It turns out that Albert Nobbs was actually gang-raped when she was a young girl of fourteen. My, how disturbing it is to see her put on a dress for the first time after some forty-odd years of living as a man and, having confessed her horrible rape story, in a state of exhilerated emotional release, run wildly on the beach. She looks like an old man in drag, and she looks also like someone with severe mental derangement. Is there pity for her? Of course there is. Gang rape?! Is there anything more horrible in all the world? It's deeply disturbing. Your "aha" moment, the big reveal. Albert is a victim of a serious trauma, and Albert is mentally ill.

But, as a viewer, by this time aren't you completely angry with the movie? Aren't you completely disappointed that nothing that's happened so far really matters at all? Think about it. Socioeconomic struggle? Not relevant. Long courtship with pretty young maid? Not relevant. Life in 19th century Ireland? Completely irrelevant. The only thing that matters, in fact, is passing as a man because she could no longer stomach the identity of a woman -- She could no longer live with the idea of sex, or play the part of demure feminine girl seeking a husband. This movie turns out to be something utterly, utterly off the charts un-mainstream. I have rarely seen something so horrible. When the revelation hits you, and you realize what you're watching, you instantly want your money back. Figuratively speaking.

What was Glenn Close thinking, anyway? We know she likes a little crazy, and does it well (I'm thinking "Dangerous Liaisons" and "Fatal Attraction" now). But "Albert Nobbs" has a multi-layered identity crisis, thinking of itself as some kind of cross between "Emma," "Yentl," and "Boys Don't Cry," but with none of the payoff of any of those films. I won't even mention how badly it ends for poor Albert. Oops. Well, you weren't going to see it anyway.

Congratulations "Albert Nobbs," you are now officially the worst movie I've ever seen, bumping "Edward Scissorhands" out of the bottom spot.

The Aviator

Last night, I re-lived the bliss of watching the movie that I long ago decided was my all-time favorite movie: The Aviator, with the stunning Leonardo DiCaprio.

It became my favorite movie the minute I walked out of the theater having seen it for the first time. Ever since then, whenever I want someone to get to know me, or whenever I'm in the middle of a deep conversation with a new close friend, I tend to somehow work in an opportunity to quote DiCaprio, as Howard Hughes, repeating: "The way of the future. The way of the future. The way of the future. The way of the future."

If the person I am speaking to finds this funny, then s/he will be able to understand me. If not, then probably not. It's very simple.

What does it say about me, that my "ALL-TIME FAVORITE MOVIE" is The Aviator? Well, I begin to answer this by first pointing you toward my previous favorite movie, before I had seen The Aviator. It was: The English Patient.

For this, the very first blog post in a series where I discuss my favorite movies, we'll have a perfect introduction by comparing The Aviator and The English Patient. Both of these movies have a tragic hero. That is crucial. Both of these movies have a flawed tragic hero, reminiscent of ancient Greek literature. Both of these movies tend toward the romantic, in style, philosophy and substance. Both of these movies are absolutely, breathtakingly gorgeous to watch -- Both movies fill the screen with huge, lucid portraits of landscapes, skies, architecture and masterpieces of human engineering. Both of these movies are masterpieces of cinematography.

Both of these movies have an extremely handsome male lead. Both of these movies have a quirky, unusual, melodramatic, introspective, fearful and socially awkward male character as the lead. And the things he must do! to make us love him. In both cases.

Both of these movies have Drama, with a capital D. Some would argue that both of these movies are overly dramatic and overly romantic -- that they veer so far from realism that they are unbearable. In their very unbearableness, they are both beautiful. Whether it is an apocalyptic small plane crash where the roofs of Los Angeles are torn in two and burst aflame, or a poetic dialogue between two lovers trapped in a dark car while a desert sandstorm gusts around them, the scenes in these movies will echo eternally in the walls of your imagination. They will not let you go.

Isn't the height of good Drama just fundamentally defined by how readily you are taken away from the mundane and lifted up into an experience that challenges your imagination? Your mind must burn new neural territory in order to accomodate how alive this makes you feel, and in order to burnish words for the new aesthetic you have been given.

So -- that's a nice introduction, isn't it? But let's talk just a little bit about why The Aviator is better than The English Patient.

First of all, The English Patient has a weaker plot. It relies on the adaptation of a book; the adaptation was much better than the book, (yes, I read it) --it kept the romantic magic the author intended. It just didn't translate in terms of the action into a movie. The action becomes, in the movie, a story of a love affair and a cuckolded husband, set against a backdrop of a war. The war becomes the most important character, and the moral message of "War is Evil" does not roll out lightly. No, it thunders down. The war/Evil character is primarily responsible for what befalls everyone in the movie. The burns on the patient; the bombing of loved ones; the missing thumbs; even the fatal union of the lovers is shaped by war. The war/Evil is so obviously the lowest, most morally wrong of all the wrongs that could be -- so much so that the affair, and the harm it does to the cuckolded husband, become forgivable and seem less wrong. They are let off the hook completely.

Which, in turn, (deeply analyzing the plot at this point, so follow along with me), almost destroys the weight of the problem for the two lovers. You may think that the lovers are driving the plot, but you see, they're not really. How could it be so important for them to stay apart, given what's going on with the war? --The plot is weak. Upon repeated viewings it becomes tiresome.

Ralph Fiennes is damned good and Kristin Scott Thomas earned my lifelong admiration. I have never been able to forget the charm of Naveen Andrews. I love the movie still, and I'll keep it on my favorites list. But it definitely got knocked down several bars as time went on and I saw more movies.

The Aviator is breathless and literally, awesome. The planes alone -- the engineering -- make the film worth watching. Right from the start you are treated to triumphant scenes. Hughes informs his new CFO that he's standing looking at the "largest private airforce in the entire world." So right away you get the scope of it. The planes swoop and duck, and sometimes you get this amazing angle as if you were in one of the planes yourself! Cate Blanchett steps in to play Katharine Hepburn, and you feel that as a movie viewer you have suddenly gone to Heaven without having died. DiCaprio makes you know Hughes, makes you know not only Hughes' temper and stridency, passion and vulnerability, but also his shyness, his nightmares, and his inner ego. I have never in all my life felt like I could live inside another human's brain as much as DiCaprio allowed me permission to live inside Hughes'. And I relate to Hughes. I relate to him because anyone with a big heart would have to relate to him. We've all been that vulnerable at some point. We've all wished we were that powerful.

Plot, as far as it goes, in this movie takes on one of my criteria for "HIGHLY SUCCESSFUL DIRECTING;" which is to say, it is subtle and nuanced. I can't even sum up the plot in a few sentences. I might be able to say that it is a biopic of Howard Hughes, which is vague enough not to touch the plot question, but avoid it altogether! Or, I might be able to sum up the plot in a few paragraphs. That's the range. For example, I might write a paragraph about each of these questions: is it a movie about competing airlines? Is it a movie about United States history? Is it about obsessive-compulsive disorder? Is it a love story? Is it about Hollywood? Is it about money and greed, power and fame? Holy shit, buddy: it's about all of those things and more. This movie is, in short, epic. It's epic because it's directed by Martin Scorsese. He has a knack for making things larger than life, nuanced, and unforgettable. I'll write more on the perfect partnership of Scorsese and DiCaprio soon, when I discuss another fave, The Gangs of New York.

There are so many scenes in this movie that I could rave about. I don't know what excited me more: the sweeping interior of a Hollywood lounge, the plane crash scene mentioned above, the lights of nighttime LA as Cate and Leo glide above it in a gentle airplane motion (that you as the viewer can actually feel, like you're back in childhood riding the Peter Plan flight ride at Disneyland), or the horror of the dank red theater in which Hughes slides into craziness, growing wolflike and repeating his instructions for milk delivery into the void. This movie is SO big in my imagination. It takes me to SO many different places, unreal places, vivid dreamscapes. It satisfies me intellectually, too -- when Hughes takes the microphone into his overscrubbed fingers and charges Senator Brewster with corruption, this is quite a bit more than a history lesson. The movie is political, and DiCaprio is at his best in those scenes.

Shall I go on? On a personal note, the scene when Hughes burns all of his clothing after Hepburn walks out on him will always move my heart. On a technical note, the scene where Hughes is barraged by cameras for the debut of his movie, and bulbs are smoking, popping and exploding all around him, is the best piece of cinematography that I have ever witnessed.

If you don't believe me, watch it again.

So we have powerful acting, (of the highest caliber -- the kind that makes you intimate with the characters), nuanced direction, action-packed and complex screenwriting, layered and intellectual plotlines, unforgettable cinematography, and stellar stylistic design from head to toe. It has the best ending to a film that I can possibly imagine, with one the most ironic and memorable lines of dialogue for its concluding sequence.

One last thing: The Aviator bears watching again. And again. And again.

This weekend: "Another Happy Day" and "J. Edgar"

I have two movies to write about from my weekend. Warning: Both of them were dark, sad movies. However, I don't regret the viewing experience in either case.

First, I watched Another Happy Day. What you might have guessed already is that the title is ironic. Yes! It is! The film is about one of the most neurotic families that ever lived, and the misery that naturally follows the people who participate in any event having to do with that family. In this case, the event is a wedding. The main character, Lynn, is played by the (maybe actually neurotic) Ellen Barkin. With all due respect to female actors everywhere, I must ask: Ellen, did you have to pout so much? Her mouth is in a seemingly permanent shape of downward protrusion, as if she had just tasted something hideous! (Of course, there's also the possibility it's her Botox.) She is not pretty, and not "hot," as one of her teenage sons suggests. Both of her sons seem to be a little in love with her, but no one knows why. She's not likeable in any way. She's a whiny, narcissistic, fragile, bitchy, anxious person. From the very first scene, we see her yelling needlessly at her (other) teenage son. It's quickly clear that Lynn can't handle stress, family events (such as the wedding they're driving to), her sons, or even driving her car -- Lynn can't handle anything, basically.

We learn that Lynn has been physically abused by her husband, forced to separate her two (other) children from that marriage, give up her eldest son and protect her daughter from complete psychic breakdown after the violence she witnessed. Lynn has four children altogether: the daughter, Alice, has been slowly mutilating her body with a straight razor, thanks to her abusive father. The younger two sons (teenagers) come from Lynn's second marriage.

We also see that Lynn has a cold mother, two stupid loudmouth sisters, a teenage son who's on the autism spectrum and another teenage son who's addicted to opiates. Lynn has a lot to deal with, but she can't handle it at all.

The family, as presented to us, is obnoxious. The mother, beautifully cold and brazen Ellen Burstyn, has sided with the ex-husband, Paul, despite his abuse. She even flirts with him over the telephone! She tells her daughter that she's just inviting trouble and wonders "why can't we just have a good time?" Paul himself, played by the rarely mis-cast Thomas Haden Church, is little more than an idiot brute. He behaves as if he doesn't remember his own sins, and we're inclined to think he doesn't. Or doesn't get it. (Is he a brute who has been hit over the head one too many times?) Lynn's father, an old man with heart problems and other ill-defined health troubles, is usually medicated or asleep, unless he's having a heart attack in the middle of the night (apparently a regular occurence). Lynn's sisters do little more than sit around gossiping, guffawing and dressing up toy dogs. Another family twist: Lynn has to fight for the right to be called "mother" to her eldest son (whom she was forced to leave with her ex). Paul comes with a second wife, Patty, played by Demi Moore. This really might be Demi Moore's best performance, as she has never been as hateworthy nor as authentic as she is here, playing a grown-up-stripper stepmom with territorial poison to spew in the face of her husband's fragile ex-wife. "I'm the one who tucked him in at night," she says. "I'm the one." (She, too, has apparently forgotten that her husband forced Lynn to leave her son.)

So of course, Lynn runs around from one disastrous, devastating interaction to another, and we're all just waiting to see if she'll survive the wedding without her son overdosing or her daughter committing suicide or her ex-husband bullying her again.

Sounds awful, right? So why do I say this movie is worth watching? Because there are some tricky nuances that will surprise you. Here is one example: you don't think Lynn is really to blame for anything that happens to her, at first, (although Lynn is frightfully annoying, she is still a victim!) until the scene where you finally get her mother's perspective. Dear Ellen Burstyn, you are a genius. The scene is the kitchen table after midnight, where Lynn stumbles upon her mother sitting in the darkness. She tells her daughter "No" when Lynn asks "Mom can I talk to you?"

Lynn flinches.

"No. You have never had the decency or the respect to know when to keep things private!" Doris (Burstyn) says. [This, after an afternoon of Lynn describing Paul's abuse in detail, to a room filled with people.]

"I'm just trying to make things better," Lynn (Barkin) says (pouting, as usual).

"Better for who? Better for me? Unable to sleep, exhausted, and unable to sleep in the middle of the night? How are you going to make things better for me?"

Doris (Burstyn) then proceeds to share with her daughter what it's really like
having her husband disappear before her eyes, falling into old age, isolated, frightened, expecting at any moment to be widowed. The intense loneliness of her life, accumulated, now Lynn must bear witness to. She is not just "Lynn's mother," but a woman with her own pain. A pain that she never, ever, shares with anyone else. Doris has been holding herself together precisely because everyone else in the family spews poison at each other all day long. It is quite truly the most heart-wrenching scene in the entire film. A film filled with heart-wrenching. Doris, the cold matriarch, turns out to have every reason to be insensitive to her daughter. Within just a few seconds the entire movie is turned on its head. The idea of a necessary insensitivity is just one example of the remarkable ways characters reveal themselves in human terms.

There are many gorgeous performances in this film. Burstyn's is best, but there's also the young addict portrayed by Ezra Miller, and Demi Moore as mentioned. All these messed-up humans are truly gorgeous to observe, once you adjust your eyes to the darkness. It's a sad story, and dark, but for anyone who knows what a neurotic family is like, this is a necessary film. It's necessary to show how truly black that bottomless pit of pain can be. It's necessary to show, also, how human are the human beings who live in it.

Second, I watched J. Edgar this weekend. By contrast to the above characters, J. Edgar is not permitting himself to be human at all. Apparently he denies himself his sexuality, even in the privacy of his own bedroom. He is unmoved by criticism or by other humans' ideas of what he should be. He is motivated, robotically, by his mother's perception of him and by his own quest for power. This is the story of a chronically repressed person, with a nastiness layered on top like a thick skin. Only it's not a thick skin. If it were self-defense, we might sympathize. No. He's only nasty because of how unhappy he is.

I didn't like the movie very much. Two things I liked. One: Naomi Watts as the devoted Ms. Gandy, Hoover's secretary for life. She is sweet, expressively silent, and offers up her own face as the window into Edgar's soul (since his own cannot express it). Two: the art direction. The juxtaposition of Edgar and Clyde at the races in the 1920s and then again in the 1960s, for instance. There are a thousand clever transitions between past and more recent past. Edgar's desk, office, and private rooms are symphonic in their carriage of the movie's mood and the main character's dark personality. You feel as though you have lived in Hoover's actual life for a little while.

Of course, Leonardo DiCaprio is always good to watch. One knows, "anything with this actor's going to be good," is not a believable statement. But I love him, anyway. He's commanding. J. Edgar Hoover only wished he were as commanding as DiCaprio actually is.

Casual Comment about Laura Linney Reveals Moviegoer Milestone

You know what? In my last post I very casually remarked that watching "The High Cost of Living" reminded me of my first viewing of the actress Laura Linney. Why should such a reference make sense? I wrote it without thinking. Allow me to explain myself: Upon reflection, Laura Linney embodies a particular milestone in my personal moviegoing history (or, moviewatching, to be more accurate - but doesn't that sound bad? should it be my 'filmviewing' history? ugh. at least 'moviegoing' sounds good).

Prior to You Can Count on Me, I was not really a great viewer of independent films. Of course, I had seen some indie films before. In fact, I had seen some really good ones that no one else I knew had ever seen (for example, Afterglow, which was so dear to me that I watched it many times over, yet no one else had even heard of it).

But I was not an informed viewer of independent films; I didn't have any framework to evaluate them; I didn't have any knowledge of the "currency" they traded in. How can one begin to compare such nuanced "slice of life" movies like that when your frame of reference is "Titanic" or "A Few Good Men" or "Steel Magnolias" -- all movies that were very good, but were designed to reach the biggest possible audience?

Laura Linney was probably not the only one who helped turn the key for me, but over time she has become a symbol. A symbol of when I discovered what "good acting by an unknown" can LOOK like, can FEEL like. When I discovered how drama can be subtle. So this is what independent film comes down to for me: Good acting that doesn't rely on its audience. Good acting that is ONLY about the nuance of an emotion, and doesn't even bother with the obvious part of the emotion. Linney's face is capable of many more obvious emotions, as we saw with her hysterical grimace in "The Truman Show," or her collapsing romantic tears in "Love, Actually." But in "You Can Count on Me," the way she talks to her brother when he arrives in town (her judgmental squeals of "you did what?!" upon hearing he's been in jail and the little nods, nods, nods of her head when he asks for money as if to say "of course, of course, this is why you're really here") -- her actions in this scene do NOTHING to reveal the true nature of the character (who later in the film goes on to commit adultery with her boss and make all sorts of moral blunders, allowing her brother to witness her own confusion in a kind of role reversal) -- i.e. she does nothing that is obvious, nothing that is expected, throughout the entire film. It's not clear why the character does what she does and she, the actress, Linney, does not gauge her ability to perform a scene by how obvious it's going to be to you, the viewer. You might even watch the whole film twice through and never feel like you "get" the character she plays. But the character is intact and real, with or without you, and Linney knows that. I tend to think of independent film this way.

Well, I could go on and on about that one movie alone, but I won't. The point is that it marks a time in my life when several emotional 'filmviewing' doors were opened. And without Laura Linney's performance there, I'm not sure I ever could have understood some of the indie movies I came to relish later in life, like Swimming Pool or Waitress or Off the Map. (Or a hundred others.) I just kinda want to say "thank you" to Laura Linney for opening up my world!

The High Cost of Living

This film was absolutely beautiful, both inside and out. I was really moved. It reminds me of the way I felt the first time I watched Laura Linney, in You Can Count on Me, except this was a better film. That feeling of getting to know and care about people so deeply in only 1 1/2 hours -- that feeling of understanding the world of the characters almost as if they were real people; your world and theirs become one; you become enclosed together in sensation -- it was that, plus, it was a REALLY engaging story of an ethical dilemma. So many times the movie critics go on and on about "a real human story," or a character facing "tough choices," but the movie itself won't live up to the description. In The High Cost of Living, Zach Braff is so skilled that his character's ethical dilemma becomes your own. I also think the title of the movie is completely fitting. What does it cost to be a human being? What kind of pain or sacrifice is required to connect (truly) to other human beings around us?

That's what it's about. (Not only death, which the title suggests, although yes, there is a death in the film. But I think the title means more and the film carries more meaning.)

Including this one, I have now seen Zach Braff in two very touching movies. The first one was Garden State, which many of us of a certain generation could relate to. The typical sort of Generation X movie. (I mean my generation, otherwise known as "those who grew up in the 1980s" - a group of us born mostly between the mid 60s and the late 70s - a group of which I was on the tail end - also considered the generation that followed the baby boomers.) It was filmed almost 10 years ago. Zach Braff was a lot younger then, as was I. He did an excellent job portraying a young man in his 20s who is smart, handsome, capable, and yet rather lost. That word, "lost," describes how a lot of us felt in our 20s, and maybe beyond... Walking around, almost silently, the character of Andrew carried an inner burden and an inner universe of feeling, but did not know what to do with it. Where to put it. There seemed to be no place for it in the post-1970s superficiality that denied us the passion of our birthright. "Garden State" was also about human connection, about how to strip life down to its tiniest and most essential details, and how actually to share those with another person (!). It was a love story, despite appearances (there were a few standard tropes in there that made several people shout 'bildungsroman!' like a knee-jerk reaction).

But getting into his late 30s now, Zach Braff is a grown-up man. He's different; he seems to own himself. He's got facial hair and looks mature. And he's gotten even more skilled as an actor. He brings a gentle roughness to the character of Henry ("High Cost of Living"), lets us know that Henry is not a bad guy, not a scary guy, even though he's a drug dealer and clearly walks on the wrong side of the tracks. Braff also lets us know, subtly, that Henry is a lonely person. He's not out there advertising his loneliness; he's not desperate, but he sure could use a friend (someone who's not strung out). He's actually quite...normal...almost, except for the drug-dealing lifestyle. What went wrong with Henry? We won't know exactly, but Braff will let us know that it wasn't irreversible. In Henry's encounter with an upper-class, quite lovely, pregnant housewife named Nathalie (in French-speaking Montreal) we begin to see his real soul emerging. Is it too much? Some of the critics have laid into the sensitivity of this movie.

There are some potentially risky elements that might weaken the impact were they not so beautiful. Montreal as location suggests internationalism and cultures colliding, because Henry is "American" (i.e., from the United States) and these people speak French. There is also the class conflict between the couple, (Nathalie and her husband), who are enchantingly well-off and reside in a very good neighborhood, and Henry, dweller of the urban jungle, selling drugs on the street and in ratty back bathrooms and in basements. You get the idea. So when Henry collides literally with Nathalie, and it changes his life, the movie says "now his real soul begins to emerge..." Is it too much?

For me, it struck just the right note, not only because I feel a generational kinship with the actor, but because of people we've lost, like David Foster Wallace, who believed that it was not possible to write real emotions simply and straightforwardly anymore, in this age of commercials. Or like Heath Ledger, whose blunt-edged emotions in "Brokeback Mountain" were a stunning sight to behold, like watching someone fall from a cliff. We need more of this. We need beauty and humanity, and beauty in humanity. Quite frankly. We just do.

And Zach Braff - who would seem from the outside to be not the right person for the job (he's so little-known as a serious independent film actor, and for years worked an awkward part in a lame television slapstick serial) - does it perfectly. This movie is beautiful, and he carries the meaning of it just beautifully.

"Shame" vs. "A Dangerous Method"

I recently watched Michael Fassbender twice in a row; in one film, he portrayed Carl Jung, and in the other, a random man walking aimlessly through the world who has been accused (by the critics) of "sex addiction."

Do I need to tell you he was more fun as Carl Jung?

One thinks, when drawn to watch a movie like "Shame," that one is going to see something lusty. The title implies that Random Man (the audience has only one or two chances to notice that the character is named "Brandon") will do something shameful! A sex addict? What does it mean? Don't you think it means someone who has a lot of sex?

First of all, the term "sex addict" has been used by the critics, film reviewers, the official movie pundits... But... I saw no evidence for this in the film. Does owning pornography make you a "sex addict"? If it does, we live in a world full of sex addicts. Does sleeping with a stranger make you a "sex addict"? If it does... You get the idea. Really what the random man does is walk around, silently, or stare at people on trains, argue with his sister (who showed up unexpectedly), and then, occasionally, look at porn.

Second, what is this movie about? Is it about sex at all? Or is it about depression? Why don't we just call it "Depression." I don't think the guy has shame. What does he have to be ashamed about? There's an implication that he doesn't connect with women (one very awkward dinner date, nothing to do with sex) and that he doesn't enjoy his work (whatever his work is, it's only depicted as a nameless, purposeless, dull office), and that he has nothing to do but ride around on trains and stare morosely at pretty girls.

Third, when his sister shows up, we know absolutely nothing about her, other than the fact that she is depressed, too. Her close-up of singing "New York, New York" (in slow-motion, and off-key) in a bar does nothing to make us like her. She's got pouty lips, ugly hair in need of a good stylist, and she, even more than her brother, has something to be ashamed of: She has attempted suicide.

Nothing happens in "Shame" except watching two depressed people move aimlessly from one place to another. Oh, there is one sex scene.

(Worst movie ever? I would say so except Michael Fassbender is so good-looking.)

The one about Carl Jung, and his breaking away from his mentor Sigmund Freud, is actually quite thought-provoking, and Fassbender is endearing as a psycho-analyst who falls in love with one of his patients. Keira Knightely is extremely annoying, as always, so you will have to do your best to ignore her. But Carl Jung really came to life in Fassbender, not only because he makes the process of psycho-analysis seem like a worthy endeavour, but because the line between intellect and emotion is so blurry in his portrayal. His patient, evidently skilled and intellectual herself -- enough so to later become a rival analyst -- challenges his mind and his willpower. Jung seems human; he seems MALE -- just as much as he seems like a hero of academics everywhere.

We get the chance, in other words, to probe some of the ideas of psycho-analysis, such as dream analysis, and early attachment theory, alongside someone who is finding his own way in the world.... alongside a man, who dares to challenge his master, THE master. Jung has faults, and this endears us to him and demonstrates the embodiment of imperfect intelligence.

(P.S. It's also an excellent performance by Viggo Mortensen in the role of Freud.)