The Wife, a most unconventional tale

 The Wife was one of the most surprising movies I have ever seen. Glenn Close was giving us everything and nothing with her eyes, revealing but not revealing her inner feelings, taking us on a little roller coaster ride of suspense just by grabbing our attention with her eyes and her face. Not something you see every day. I don't have a label called #NotSomethingYouSeeEveryDay but maybe I should - it doesn't sound strong enough to describe the revelation of this film.

It's not so much that it's a movie for feminists, although in a way yes it is obviously so. That's not the true power of the movie as much as the deep intimacy between the viewer and characters. Both of the two main characters are complicated --their marriage itself is what we as viewers learn about and internalize and care about and have mixed feelings about. It's not just a psychological movie, however. There are actual acts taken and choices made. The choices are unconventional and maybe even unwise, but nevertheless we as viewers are compelled to empathize.

I think that viewers/readers/watchers/listeners (the audience) being compelled to empathize with characters is an important thing for art, Capital A Art, to do - perhaps that sounds too lofty. It's important however for us never to lose sight of the difference between art and entertainment.

This film moved me, and I am continuing to think about it and will think about it endlessly.

Birdman, aka Biggest Pile of Crap of the Year Award

Birdman has been universally acclaimed as the best movie of 2014. It was lauded for its plot, theme, cinematography, score, and direction, of course. Unfortunately this is yet another turn for me in Going Against the Crowd. Reminds me very much of the year American Beauty was released. That film, like this one, was artsy in a way that gives really good art films a bad name. It comes across as so pretentious, so abstract, and so theme-riddled that you feel the need to vomit up its theme like a bad breakfast. That film, like this one, was overwrought to the point where its message became utterly hollow when it should have been provocative and sad. That film, like this one, made mistakes in just about every category, and to my mind was most notable for being hard to sit through.

This film was worse, however. Despite having talented acting (Michael Keaton and Edward Norton were outstanding, as they usually are, and none of this can be counted against them), which ought to have helped, Birdman failed on every level. The viewing experience was nearly unbearable. ...Why? For several reasons. First, the score, which was basically a cacophonous mess, has been called "audacious" because it is almost entirely "...percussion – a careening, ramshackle-sounding drum score that underpins most of the scenes and gives the film the feeling that the whole glorious mess may come crashing down at any second." Yes, and along with it, your sanity. Many of the jazz drum solos have no notes and likewise no meaning, no soul. They just ramble on towards insanity, like the main character Riggan Thomson. I suppose it would be fitting; it could be helpful, if it were actually necessary to show us the problems the main character is having. But we don't need that erratic nerve-shattering so-called "music" because we already have this: the booming voice of Birdman that Thomson is hearing in his mind.

Yes, he is hearing voices, throughout the movie, or rather -- one voice. The booming, inevitable, inescapable, thunderous, hideous, scratchy, domineering voice of Birdman. "You know I'm right. Listen to me, man. You are the original! Let's make a comeback! You're Birdman! You are a god!"

The voice, along with the other hallucinations (Thomson believes he can fly, and can move objects with his mind) proves to us the level of mental decline. We don't need the score, on top of it all. Because of several humorous interludes, and the powerful talent of Edward Norton (portraying another large ego character, an archetype of a dedicated theater actor, for whom staged reality is the only reality), there are moments of relief in this movie (just barely enough to keep us sane). Nevertheless the hammer keeps pounding us on the head. It says in scene after scene: "Actors have big egos!" Pound, pound, pound. "The search for recognition will drive your ego into the ground!" Pound, pound, pound. "Hollywood is the only place an actor can achieve recognition!" Pound, pound, pound. "But the art world and the world of theater has no respect for Hollywood!" And on it goes.

I'd like to know why so many people found this movie "new" or "refreshing" or some such. If you'd like to see a man flying through the air, if that would be an exciting new experience for you, can I recommend Man of Steel? Wouldn't that be ironic? To find what you really want by leaving your art theater behind and going to see a mainstream superhero movie? But wait -- wasn't that the whole point? To remind us of the superhero movies? Yes, sure, yes. But that isn't what we're watching here. So the effect is, Birdman is telling us those films are too lowbrow while still tricking us with the exact same gimmick? Something smells wrong.

The conversation happens about 11 or 12 times -- the conversation about art v. Hollywood. It is truly old; there is no new idea there. Some critics have said the movie is really about Thomson's ego and search for recognition, his lost identity as an artist, his integrity as an actor being equal to his integrity as a human being. However, the movie itself seems to imply that his identification with the superhero is what saves him... The theater is only a place of torture and bloodshed. I figured the main idea was that if he had any sense of himself, in the first place, any true sense of identity, that he would be equally content to work in Hollywood as the theater, and he would have nothing to prove. He would know he was an actor, an artist, regardless of the medium. I figured the Birdman persona was redemptive, given the ending.

So. yes. Then there's the ending of the movie, which I can't say much about except it was 100% predictable. Not only are we sitting, stuck, watching a movie that hits us over the head (psychologically and sonically) and feels pointless and unbearable, but we also can see the end coming from a long, long distance.

All I can really take away from it is, once again, the old saying that "what's old is new again" to the audience. And/or, people really love cacophonous music and people are very much more masochistic than you would have thought just by looking at them.

Side Effects

I am so happy to say I was not disappointed in "Side Effects" at all. You never know with these small-budget thrillers. Sometimes they slip by and no one sees them, and there's no way to know if it's because they were awful or because they just didn't have a promotional budget.

Rooney Mara, looking nothing like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, (I wouldn't have recognized her, had it not been for her unusual name) plays a depressed woman whose doctor prescribes experimental drugs. She has tried several traditional anti-depressants, and none of them work anymore. However, once she is on the new drugs, she commits a bloody crime while sleepwalking, and has no memory of the event in the morning. It's up to the viewer to decide who's to blame.

Scene by scene we become more and more uneasy. Could her doctor have prevented this? What made her become so violent? Was there something in her history that we don't know about? What was in those drugs, anyway? Is there any precedent for sleepwalkers to be acquitted of their crimes? (It turns out, there is.)

Her doctor, played by Jude Law, seems like a very nice guy at first (sympathetic to a non-English speaker who finds himself in a psychiatrist's office because of language barriers). After a while though, we learn that he's on the take of Big Pharma. This theme is so pervasive these days, we feel right at home with it. Of course, we say: this is what doctors do. The guy is pushing new experimental drugs right and left. It seems risky and uncertain -- but does it mean he's a bad guy? Hard to be sure. But he's going to suffer from the publicity of this patient's case, either way. He'll lose his reputation and be attacked by his business partners and his wife before this is over.

Meanwhile Rooney Mara does amazing things with her eyes -- they can be zombie-like, empty of all humanity; or droop downward like a heroin addict's; or shine with manic tears and anger. It's very hard to tell what's in her head, indeed.

I can't really say more than this. If you like psychological thrillers, which are frightening not because of their shock value, but because of their familiarity -- the eerie similarity to the anxious uncertainty of real life -- you will love this movie, too.

The Paperboy

The Paperboy is an attempt at a southern gothic, basically. It is rich with dripping moss and cicadas, humid days and bloody murder. Those moments in which you most feel you are really in the south, you are really luxuriating in heat and grit, are its best moments. You get the dialogue, by instinct, rather than by clarity of diction. That's exactly how it is in the south. I love the way the young white boy and the young black maid who works for his father are friends. This is Faulknerian; this is classic. I love the way Matthew McConaughey sits in a grubby room and sweats. He glimmers and still keeps his roughness. I don't know why he always brings the south to life in so many movies. The scenes where he's holed up in his home-made "office" are so gritty they seem to be filmed behind a lens that's been covered in a thick layer of dirt. There are old, rickety oscillating fans and low, dusty lawn chairs.

Then there's the swamp - plenty of swamp - and you can certainly imagine what it's like to have your two choices be getting your throat slit or swimming with crocodiles.

John Cusack plays the murderer. He's absolutely unsettling in this movie and barely recognizable. His face is transformed from the sweet charming boy we all know into someone whose bloodlust eminates from his eyes and open mouth as he stares bluntly, dumbly, his cheeks ragged and his hair hanging down in stiff, greasy pieces.

All of this works well, and makes the movie fun to watch, but it has a shallowness problem. There's a false note in the way Nicole Kidman stumbles on the set and takes over the plot. Sure, she's got some brave moves here, as Ebert pointed out - but we're watching her brave acting rather than believing her character. She takes so much screen time for the majority of the movie; she motivates the plot (no murderer-freeing without her there) and she motivates the actions of the two hero brothers (no victim-rescuing without her there). However, aside from the fact that Nicole can still truss up as a sexy whore, what do we learn from her appearance? There's a lot of potential. She's a dumb-ish lower-class woman seeking a man; she also has a propensity to be attracted to prison inmates. In the very beginning of the story, her romance with Cusack's character, consisting only of letters they wrote each other, reminded me of the beautiful book The Executioner's Song which is motivated also by just such a romance. This could be a real story; she could be a real character. What is it about her that makes her want a convicted murderer for a mate? Why does she want him out of prison so badly?

We'll never know because all she does in the film is spout sex and then be victimized; it's truly a wasted performance by Kidman -- bravery and all.

Six Movies for Thought: Helena from the Wedding; The Romantics; As Good as it Gets; Jeff Who Lives at Home; Morning Glory; Heartburn

This last week has been a film-infusion. There were actually seven movies, but I won't mention the seventh, I don't think.

If one wanted a "snapshot" of my viewing style, this week is perfect.

Rather than choose one or two of these films to write about, I'll try something new. I'll take you through all the movies I saw over the week, and you'll get an idea of my landscape of film experiences, a more accurate picture than if I were selective.

First, there was "Helena from the Wedding," which was a disappointment, but queued me up for film-viewing for the rest of the week. The main character, Alex, is an attractive man but clueless, recently married, to an enchanting but too-young-for-him-seeming sweet lady named Alice. Alice is a nonentity. It's all about her husband, who watches her thoughtfully.

The movie opens with the two of them driving to their country cabin, silently, snowy landscapes behind. I loved the opening: a little dialogue, but not much. Simple scene: unloading the groceries, 'welcome into our little world.' It promised to be one of those quiet movies. Soon, though, you realize that Alex is unsatisfied by his wife. She acts like a little girl, seems basically asexual. Then the plot devolves, because a really sexy woman shows up for their New Year's party, (Helena, of course) -- along with a few other clowns. It becomes one of those couples-getting-away-together themes. They have conversations about life-stage things like marriage, divorce, career, changes from their past, etcetera. A worn-out plot, that no one has ever done as well as "The Big Chill," but you keep watching because the main character is such a nerd. (Obviously, his staring at Helena will not lead to anything, because his neediness is transparent.) I've seen this actor in better roles, more fitting for him, such as Rolling Stone "Reporter," a geek who did ride-alongs with marines in the Iraq invasion, in "Generation Kill."

The stars this time are the friends: Jessica Hecht as Lynn, drama queen drunkard who keeps asking her husband to fetch and carry; and Paul Fitzgerald as Nick, a man who's already done the midlife crisis thing, been abandoned by his too-young mistress, is wiser than his friend Alex and now pretty much shameless. You see the story through the eyes of Alex, but you keep watching because of everybody else. And, in another classic "how not to end" conclusion, Alex has a 'moment' by the river, with friend Nick beside him, and you're more interested in what Nick says than whatever internal insights Alex might be having.

I was then in movie-thinking mode, though, which was perfect for watching "The Romantics," an unapologetically romantic film in all senses of the word. We are talking CHEESY. But I have to confess that I still love to watch Katie Holmes, even though she and Tom Cruise were on the pages of the tabloids for years, and even though I know she's not a good actor. She does certain things very well. She does the gaga lines, the moody eyes, the moonlight walks, very well -- and in this film she even has scenes where she's walking in nylon stockings across a grassy knoll, under the aforementioned moonlight, heels in hand, searching for her lost love. Yes! And she recites poetry, and she leans against an oak tree when he leans in to kiss her. So, you can more or less see the movie now in your head, right? Do you also LOVE this kind of thing? ...Bonus: Anna Paquin as rival, the best friend who stole the man away. Anna Paquin isn't bitchy, though; she is likeable. Especially when she's wearing a green face mask and sneaking cigarettes the night before her wedding. Without saying anything, her nervousness just radiates through the screen. (Anna Paquin is a good actor.) So I give this movie five stars. Most people would say it's terrible. In my opinion it hit the right notes. It did what it set out to do. Also, the ending is nice. It's romantic. :)

"As Good as it Gets" was a repeat for me. I had seen it before, long ago, once upon a time, when I was a kid. Whenever that was, when it came out. Yeah. (I was 21.) Here's the interesting thing: I didn't understand it back then. I remember my reaction: my brain felt blurred. I didn't get it. I didn't know why Jack Nicholson was not just repulsive. I didn't know why Helen Hunt was at dinner with him, when he was so clearly weird; I didn't buy them as a romantic couple. I don't think I even registered the gay artist neighbor as one of the important characters, what with the silly dog and all. (Not to mention my not appreciating Greg Kinnear until ten years later when I saw "Feast of Love," which I now want to watch again... He's terrific.) Anyway, I knew other people loved this movie but I myself had been too immature to understand. So, bring it on again, I thought. Maybe this time it will be good. And, sure enough, I am now capable of getting it. Especially the OCD part, which it occurs to me that my 21-year-old self had no knowledge of. (As in, did I even know what that was about? Was it recognizable to me? I'm not sure.) Also, though, the desperation of Helen Hunt's character, Carol the Waitress -- which this time made me cry. When she breaks down to her mother and says she didn't realize how far in the wrong direction things had gone... Oh boy. It's an adult movie, folks. Why did I even watch it at age 21?

More on Jack Nicholson in a little bit.

So far, so good. A nice movie-watching week. But then things ramped up, on into the glorious: the next three movies were actually mood-shakers, make-you-think-ers. Sigh.... This is what I love about watching a lot of film. You get on a roll.

"Jeff Who Lives at Home" has a dumb title, and I wish I could give it a better one. Suggestions? Jeff is a lot like a lot of guys in my generation; he's like guys I've known in real life, one of whom was actually named Jeff, too. He's a pothead, lives with his mom, can't seem to figure himself out, spends too much time in his head. Maybe it should be called, "Jeff Like a Lot of Guys." In the beginning, he has a great meditative monologue about another movie, which is a nice writerly nod to "Signs," and/or to film lovers as an audience. (We know how Jeff feels right away; we relate to him right away; it makes this movie a movie for those who love movies.)

I don't know Jason Segel as well as I should, considering he's part of the Judd Apatow gang. All I can say about him right now, acting-wise, is that he's very familiar, and probably benefits from that. I liked his performance in "Jeff Who Lives at Home" mostly because I felt like I knew him. (Side note: This familiarity-thing is true of a lot of actors, many of whom have carried a career on it, like Jeff Bridges and Philip Seymour Hoffman and Jeff Daniels and others, and not a strike against them; it simply means they capture a moment in history better than the next guy. They 'fit the bill.')

But it wasn't the acting that made this movie great. In this case, it was the writing. The writing is original -- the plot (the story) is unexpected, and surprises you over and over; so too the dialogue, which is quirky and emotional at the same time. Jeff wanders about town, in a freewheeling kind of way, hopping on the backs of trucks, etcetera, following his nose (and a boy named Kevin). You just never know what will happen to him next. He encounters his own brother, Pat -- more than once -- and assists in a sloppy spy operation on Pat's wife, who may or may not be having an affair. Each of the brothers has issues, we learn; even though Pat's the one who has a job and marriage, he lacks insight into himself and could stand to benefit from his brother's contemplative path. In some ways, the story reminded me of "The Big Lebowski," only not so over-the-top like the Coen bros. do -- this is quieter, more familial; but it does have that theme of 'pothead goes on wild ride and winds up being the smartest person he meets.' There's a bit of substance here though, in the brothers opening up and learning from each other, as well as in a surprising twist at the end of the movie that is downright profound. It plays out like a classic piece of drama, and I really can't give anything away about it here. You have to see it.

A few days later I watched "Morning Glory," which was a bit of fluff, but I ended up thinking a lot about it, so it had an effect that makes it worth writing about. The premise of "Morning Glory" is simple. Rachel McAdams plays a driven career woman, Becky, whose life is dedicated to her work 100% (she gets up at 1:30 a.m. for a 4:00 start time producing a morning talk show). Her dream is to be a producer on "The Today Show." She has no relationships, no other interests, and so on. At the beginning of the movie, she's fired from her job managing the New Jersey local morning broadcast and gets a lot of flak from her mother and other people. What are the chances you'll ever go national; you can only go down from here. She's told to give up on this dream. But she persists, calling everyone she can think of, sometimes applying twice for the same job, until something comes through in New York City. A national network. Of course, it's a total loser situation; she gets a morning show that's tanking. It's absurdly bad, with horrible staff, no money, building falling apart, doorknobs falling off and the whole nine yards. She's immediately told about past producer turnover and how little time she has to bring the ratings up.

Pretty simple. And the plotline is simple, too. You know from the beginning that Becky's going to succeed, because she's so cute and passionate, so it's only a matter of watching it unfold. How will she manage it? This is meant to be a fun, silly comedy. And it is. She has to get her two primary anchors to work together (Harrison Ford and Diane Keaton), despite their differences (Harrison Ford plays a former news journalist, dour and depressed by the necessity of lowering himself in this capacity; and Keaton plays a bubbly, somewhat desperate, somewhat typical television 'personality' -- eager to please, sometimes too eager). The staff of the show must agree to do ridiculous things to get the ratings up, like in one case, ride a roller coaster live on camera, or in another, face off with a sumo wrestler (Diane Keaton, by the way, fell and injured her head during the filming of this scene, and some New Yorkers living in a nearby skyscraper recorded it, so you can see the whole thing happen -- thanks YouTube).

The movie's kind of funny, but it succeeds in going beyond what it should have been (a bit of fluff). The true joy is Rachel McAdams, herself, as you see her running around in heels and suits, bounding across sidewalks, dodging taxis, impossibly energized, cheerful, pulling you into her corner, an unstoppable force of nature -- even in the face of the gloomy, aging Harrison Ford character and his negative appraisal of the morning show phenomenon, which is not 'real news' (a point of view that reflects your own, by the way). Becky is our heroine: she takes it on, accepts the challenge, and makes you believe. And, it is actually inspiring!

I said I thought a lot about the movie. And I did. Why? It was such a failure at the box office, and arguably an embarrassment for actors of this caliber, to participate in a total fluff product. However, I can see the work that went into it, and the heart that went into it. Into every bit of it. Even Patrick Wilson (most gorgeous man alive) plays it up as Becky's love interest, and though his part is minimal and could have been withdrawn from the story, he makes it sweet, he makes it dear; he shines a flattering light on the soul of our heroine. Through him we see just how deeply invested she is (who would forego a night with Patrick Wilson to spend hours trying to motivate an aging newsman?). The character of Becky, by sheer will, makes the impossible possible. She turns the whole story and all the characters around. With the support of some talented actors, but little else, Rachel McAdams turns the whole movie around, energizes it and makes it good. That's a lot of work, and in my opinion worth reflecting on.

It was a supposedly dumb movie I'd love to see again.

So, finally, for my last film of the week, I come to "Heartburn." This is -- and I wouldn't lie -- a hidden treasure. Who ever heard of it? I discovered this film entirely by chance, while perusing a list of Jeff Daniels titles. Jeff Daniels has a teeny-tiny role here. The main characters are Rachel and Mark, played by Meryl Streep and Jack Nicholson. The writer is Nora Ephron and the director, Mike Nichols. Yikes!!! Can you stack it up better?

It's a story about marriage, and it's just beautiful. In the beginning, the unlikely couple meet at a wedding. There are no bells ringing. Their encounter looks like it has all the potential of a one-night stand. Soon enough, though, they are so charmed by each other they are getting married themselves. This all happens very quickly, so you know it's not about how they fell in love. It's about what happened after. In my head I kept comparing it to "Another Year," a film that has a dreamy but mysterious marriage in it -- an unrealistic ideal. These are the two films I've seen that really make you think about what marriage is. In "Heartburn," there are lots of beautiful details, and they feel real. The couple buys a house that needs repairs -- lots of repairs. They have trouble with their contractor, of course. There are small arguments and there's dust. (The house will never be fully renovated, in fact. They will live with unfinished walls for years.) Then, there's the first pregnancy, and singing. Rachel and Mark spend an entire evening singing every song they can think of that has the word 'baby' in it.

Eventually, there's trouble, and it's a little foreseeable, especially by the way Rachel keeps saying, "I'm so happy!" ...But it happens nice and slowly, and not in any way you could predict. It takes a long while for the couple to realize they can't stay together, and along the way there are plenty of moments when you, like they, think it might work out after all.

Meryl Streep is so different here, so subtle and perfumed, so fragile and strong. She's beautiful, of course. And young. She's delicately laughing at dinner parties. But then later ... she's curled up on top of her bedspread with her rice pudding. She's grocery shopping with a vengeance. She's at the hairdresser having a revelation, her eyes opening slowly in the mirror, while a bimbo teases her bangs. She's cooing with her little girl on an airplane, her hands forming the itsy-bitsy spider. She is, in fact, a real woman. She is so good at this that you can forget all the 1,000 other movies you have seen with the famous "Meryl Streep" starring in them. This is mind-blowing, folks. You can watch her and actually forget who she is.

I am tempted to credit Mike Nichols for that fact, because he is a genius, and those scenes are his creation. And I partially credit the age of the film (Meryl did this before she did so many of those other things -- she was new unto herself, even). But I do think this performance was outstanding, and kind of magical.

Which brings me to Jack Nicholson. Not as much was required of him; his character was one-dimensional. Perhaps the film's only weak point was that Mark's point of view is hidden from us. Nevertheless, I thought about old Jack and how diverse he is. Sure, this was a simple role for him. Play the husband who is too good-looking for his wife to see through. You don't think he's good-looking? He can be good-looking. He can do anything.

I most often tend to think of him as "Chinatown." (Snarky, jerky, quick-minded, sharp-edged.) For a lot of people he's "The Shining." (Demented, exaggerated, scary.) There are performances where he's stunned me, like "About Schmidt." Or those where he's repulsive, as mentioned above, in "As Good as it Gets." I've seen him play a retired astronaut and The Joker. In "The Departed," he pulled off being violent, not to mention Irish -- which should have been unbelievable. When you give it a little thought, it's an amazing body of work.

It's tempting to say we've seen too much of Jack and Meryl. But I picked up this little movie this week, and by accident got to discover them both anew, seeing their talent as if for the first time. So, I guess I will close with a grand statement. After years of uncertainty, I am ready to admit that Jack is the best actor of his generation. And I'm ready to say the same for Meryl. Watching them act together is a damn fine way to spend an evening.

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.)

Another Year, Black Swan, Blue Valentine (contains spoilers)

OK, so here I am on January 17th, and I'm finally getting into the seasonal film rush. I'm a little behind, but then again so were the movies, many of which didn't come out until New Year's or shortly afterward. So much for being able to watch tons in December, during break, the way I used to.  Anyway. Let's get to it. I've seen three of this year's biggies so far.

Another Year was probably the best of the three. It was subtle, comic, moving, and it offered real intellectual food, if you know what I mean -- it asked questions and provided plenty to think about. It featured two people (one of whom the adorable Jim Broadbent) who were successful in life, in that way that doesn't require money or fame or anything superficial. True success, in the way that lights life up, requires self-contentment and a sense of home. A sense of place. Another Year showed us what the good stuff is. But it was interesting, not boring as you might think this kind of picture of contentment would be. The central couple, the happy couple, were surrounded by people who were not happy. In fact, they were surrounded by people who reminded me of me and nearly everyone I know: normal, i.e. fucked up in many ways.

The resulting tension was what made the film poignant and delicious and gave me plenty to think about. What was it about that couple that made them so happy? Was it their gardening? Is the lesson of the film simply that those who work in a garden, diligently maintaining it season after season and then enjoying the fruits of their labor, will be happier? Or was it their patience - their calm demeanor, the way they approached every emotional drama with great fortitude, as if radiating the vibe of "this too, shall pass"?

And how were we to feel about them (we, the audience)? Jealous? Annoyed? There were actually scenes where their moral superiority bordered on annoying. It was mildly irritating, (particularly when I as an audience member was so easily able to relate to one of the other characters, or at least partly, able to relate to little things like the tendency to say too much while drinking), but I was never irritated enough to lose my sense of respect. Overall, the film left me with a kind of respectful awe, a kind of mellow appreciation and reflection. It said to me something like: There is indeed such a thing as a happy life. And maybe gardening has something to do with that, but it's way more than that. There was a kind of maturity and graciousness, a higher-order mindset, that I saw in the film and wanted to emulate.

Of course, if I consider myself an artist, I might be more inclined to compare my life to that of the ballerina in the hypnotizing film Black Swan. Although I can't relate at all to the desire to self-mutilate or self-torture, at least not bodily, I do understand the mental struggle that comes along with the desire to create something beautiful. To create a work of art. There is a swelling passion in the heart of every artist that threatens to burst. It is the most important thing in the world, but also has the power to destroy you. Mostly because of pressure -- a pressure that you have chosen for yourself. A height you voluntarily strain to reach. In Black Swan, you get to feel what that pressure is like. You get to feel it bodily. The little glimpses of self-mutilation (even though you know they're imaginary) will make you curl your fingers and make your shoulders shudder. It's as if the heroine, seeing something in herself that is less than perfect, has a perpetual itch to scratch. And scratch she does--scratch, and tear, and cut, and nearly snap her fragile bones in half. It's a horror film, of course, and the joy of it is never quite knowing what's real and what's not. Is she really hurting herself? Or will she be beautiful in the end? And that is how it feels to approach art. You don't know if you are really doing it or not, but you feel more sensitive the closer you get. You can feel it in your nerve-endings.

After those two extremely rich and rewarding film experiences, I was very, very disappointed in Blue Valentine. Can't blame the actors -- Michelle Williams and Ryan Gosling acted their little butts off. (She's one for whom I would ordinarly say "anything with this actor's gonna be good.") They really gave it everything they had. Frame by frame, they were going for it. But they really didn't have much to work with. They should have. In theory. And maybe they thought they did -- On the surface this seems like the kind of movie that has a great purpose. They might have convinced themselves. They thought they were acting in a love story. I too thought this was going to be a love story, a deeply engaging and sad one.

There was no love in the thing. (Except maybe the love they had, as parents, for their little girl.) The idea was simple: you start with a marriage and you see a relationship falling apart. In order to get you to care, you will see flashbacks to show you how they were when they started out. A very simply designed script like this can be elegant. It doesn't take much.

The main problem here was not the falling-apart part, which was excellent, and with any kind of backstory I would have been crying my eyes out because the performances were so good. (My favorite part: Ryan Gosling's shoulders, his inadequate but determined strength as he tries to physically if not emotionally hold on to his wife, even as she's crying 'no no no no no no no.')

[A bit more on that: The actors were amazing. Seriously. The sweat they put into it. The resistance to each other. The fighting. The swirling around drunk in a last attempt at a date night. The obviousness with which they try but can no longer connect. Swish, swish, I'm drunk, you're drunk, let's try to connect even though all the muscles in our bodies are telling us we must resist.]

So obviously what was missing was the backstory. There were flashbacks, yes, but there was no "relationship" in the early phase of the relationship. The two meet, flirt, dance around on their first and apparently only date, and that's it. It's cute but does that make me believe they fell in love? That ONE scene? I want to scream "How can you take such a simple, elegant script premise and still manage to fuck it up by leaving out the obvious?"

Yup. That was it for backstory. After that, what happened to them? After their one date? Well, she gets pregnant of course. (It's unclear who the father is, but it doesn't really matter.) Let me state the obvious: *that* particular detail does not a love story make. Instead, it has the opposite effect. It made me feel that, (besides "whoa! this happened already, this pregnancy?"), indeed their relationship was doomed from the start. She never loved him. So of course she wasn't going to last being married to him for more than a few years, when after all, all he was to her in the beginning was an "I'll step in and take care of you" guy. That is a typical, even trite, scenario and doesn't move me at all.

I didn't cry, needless to say, when she said she had fallen out of love with him, because I didn't see any hint that she'd ever loved him in the first place. They got together because she was pregnant, and I'm supposed to care?

Well, it was disappointing. But at least I can say now that the relationship I am in has a pretty damn good chance of working out. At least it starts with love. You can't have a love story that doesn't start with love. Not even a sad one.

A Word About Directors

Probably the most important thing to evaluate when evaluating films in any serious way is the directing. I have often overstated the importance of actors, mainly because I love actors. I love what they do. I am in love with their craft. However, it's ironic because the true author of a film, the person whose voice most powerfully influences it, is usually the director (unless the script was written by Charlie Kaufman).

A really great movie will almost always have a great director. It's very difficult to have a great movie with poor direction (though I'm sure I'll come up with at least one example). The director is, as I say, the voice, the personality, the perspective that shapes the entire thing.

A good director will give you a recognizable feeling. His or her point of view will be visible, it will be felt, it will be in the details and in the wide view. But it will not be heavy-handed.

The director is more like the author than the actual screenwriter. This is usually because the director takes the script and changes everything. Or, because the script is used strictly for dialogue. Occasionally, you have someone who is both writer/director and does it well. Again, more often than not, it's better if the director is an authorial voice who picks up the script from someone else and works that script to pull the juice out of it. To add the details, the vibe, the colors and angles that bring it to life.

Examples: A heavy-handed director is Quentin Tarantino. He's as heavy-handed a presence in his films as Norman Mailer was in his books. There is simply NO WAY to miss the fact that you're watching a Tarantino film. His fingerprints are all over it. It's a bit much, unless you happen to love Tarantino (as many do). But none of my favorite movies are by Tarantino. I like his stuff, don't get me wrong. But how much of him can you take? When you're watching John Travolta in Pulp Fiction, you don't even feel like you're watching Travolta -- an actor who's more or less always the same everywhere he appears! -- that's how serious Tarantino is. You're sitting there going, who is this actor? He kind of looks like Travolta, but the words coming out of his mouth sound a lot more like ... oh yeah, Mr. Brown.

Another heavy-handed director is Joel Coen, (or more accurately I should say Joel and Ethan Coen). Could Burn After Reading be anybody else's movie? Go and watch Raising Arizona, followed by The Big Lebowski, and then tell me what the heck they were doing making Burn After Reading, when we had seen all their tricks already -- at their best! -- in those two films.

On the other hand, you've got Ang Lee, who was most astonishingly responsible for both Sense and Sensibility and The Ice Storm. I always forget that he was responsible for The Ice Storm, even though it is -- yes! -- one of my favorite movies. His directorial touch is very gentle, and his point of view is certainly present consistently (it's that feeling you  have while watching his films that you could cry, but you will not cry, because probably you'll miss something if you start to cry, and you don't want to push pause just for the sake of crying, when after all you are leaning in breathlessly waiting for the next scene that will probably make you want to cry even harder, so you may as well wait for that one). But it's not heavy-handed (if it were, that would be scary!).

With a good director, you know you have a reason for wanting to enter his or her world. You are compelled to re-enter his world over and over again. There is a reason to do so. In other words you see the point of view but you don't feel like you are being hit over the head with it.

Preliminary List of Favorite Movies

OK. So this is what I've done: gone through other various lists I had of "favorite movies." Combined them. Added one or two based on some considered thought about what I'm going to do with this project. I had 24 at this point.

Then I added one more to make it 25, which feels like a nice number. Alphabetized it. And here we go. Now we have a list to work with for this project. Am I guaranteeing that this is the exact list of all my favorites and that I haven't forgotten any? No. Will I add to this over time? Definitely.

A Room with a View

Age of Innocence, (the)

Annie Hall

Anniversary Party, (the)

Apartment, (the)

Aviator

Ballad of Jack and Rose, (the)

Big Chill, (the)

Crimes of the Heart

Dangerous Liaisons

Dying Gaul, (the)

English Patient, (the)

Family Stone, (the)

Funny Girl

Gangs of New York

Hurlyburly

Ice Storm, (the)

Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle

Off the Map

Out of Africa

Pretty in Pink

Sliding Doors

Terms of Endearment

Top Gun

Wendy and Lucy

What makes a favorite?

I've been thinking about criteria. What qualities do I love in a "really really really good" movie, and how many of those have to be in the movie before I call it "favorite"?

Well, let's get more specific. For example, what if I said that "good acting" was very important to me? Wouldn't that be too simple? There are hundreds of movies that contain good acting. So as an example, this illustrates that for me to say a film is a favorite of mine, it would have to contain more than merely good acting. It should have good acting and good directing -- right? And is that sufficient? Doubtful.

Plus, these would be too simple if they were generalized. This is still not specific enough. What makes "good acting," and what makes "great acting"? What makes the acting SO great that the actor disappears, and the character becomes a person you know, a seemingly real flesh and blood person, a person you sympathize with or despise or dream about?

So there must be a list of criteria -- and well-defined very specific criteria -- that a movie has to meet before it rises from the level of "a movie I enjoyed," or "a good movie," to one that I will cherish, carry with me in my heart, watch again and again, plead with friends to watch, and turn to as if it were itself a friend.

And what is more, I want to tell you, I don't think every favorite of mine meets every one of the criteria. There may be some favorites where certain criteria are carrying so much weight that the others can go the wayside. For example, is plot important in "Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle," which is a biopic of Dorothy Parker as dark and grimly comic as the great lady herself? Is not mood much more important in a film like that?

I think that the aims of the movie have to be taken into account when weighting the criteria. And I'm telling you all this now because it will save me having to justify it later. We all know that Tom Cruise is not a "great" actor by any means. But what he accomplishes in "Top Gun" could not have been done by anybody else and transformed that movie from a one-summer blockbuster into a modern classic. If you were a screenwriter and you storyboarded Casablanca and you storyboarded Top Gun and you put them right alongside each other, you would see many similarities, because plotwise and structurewise they are nearly the same. Each of these films has the elements of a classic -- built into their scripts. That is to say, each has a script formulated according to the rules of screenwriting. They don't deviate much from these rules. The very aim of the movie is a classic rise and fall, with all those little moments along the way that seem like organic cues for emotion even though they are scripted. However, there are so many movies that aim for classic status. What makes it something you can watch again and again has more to do with the success of the actors to bring the script to life, to see what is called for -- in this formula! -- and give the viewer an experience that is more than formulaic. Each of these films is highly predictable, and yet, in some way not. Because the main character in each feels like a real person. So, I will argue even when it comes to the basics, like acting, the criteria must be considered according to the aims of the movie itself.

And one other point about criteria. I have known films that I have loved very much based on one criterion or two, but I could never call them a "favorite" despite this fact. That would be a scenario where there's a negative criterion. Something that should have been good enough but wasn't -- something that was so terrible that it brought the whole thing down on its knees. God, there are so many films like that. You often see great actors wasted, or great scripts wasted. I'll give you just one sweet example of this. "Brokeback Mountain." My oh my. Talk about great acting! Those were characters that I literally, still dream about. And you have great directing, great cinematography, etcetera etcetera -- many positives. But you have one major negative. Which is mood. And folks, this is MY blog. Perhaps you can have favorite movies that you'll watch again and again where the mood of the movie doesn't factor in. Perhaps mood ain't one of your criteria. But for me it is. It is very, very important and it'll probably be one of the first things I write about for each of these precious babies.

I'm not saying the mood has to be 'upbeat' or any such hogwash. But why on earth would I ever want to watch "Brokeback Mountain" more than the 3 times I've already seen it, when I know for a fact that the central experience of watching the film is to feel absolutely devastated?

By this I am trying to point out that, whatever its other qualities, each movie is an experience, just like any other sort of thing you can experience in this life, and when it claims a couple hours of your life, it becomes your reality for a short while. If you are a true film lover, a bona fide movie buff, you know exactly what I mean when I say there are some experiences you don't want to have more than once. Or maybe -- maybe -- twice. A 'favorite' movie has to be, for me, an experience I want to repeat over and over and over again. For the rest of my life.

Coming Soon: The Favorites Project

Hello to my few faithful readers!

I am very excited to announce that I am going to embark on a new project in this blog, which will be very much a departure from what I've done previously. I have decided to undertake a serious critical examination of my "favorite" films, and ask myself why they are my favorites, and attempt to list and describe detailed criteria.

Aren't you excited?!?

Scroll down to the bottom of the screen to get an idea of SOME of the movies I consider favorites. Of course, one asks, how many are there? Out of thousands of films I have viewed, there are probably only 20 or so that I consider favorites. So far.

Wordle of Blog, as of today

SALT: A Must-See!

Wowee! Salt gives new meaning to being "on the edge of your seat." Let me tell you, I was walking to the theater today, thinking I wonder why this show is still in theaters. Usually when I want to see a movie, it disappears before I have a chance. "Salt" has been out since, what, June? I seem to recall mentioning this to someone at least two months ago. It's September now. Most of the summer has passed. Guess why it is still showing?

Although I haven't heard that it's gotten tremendous critical reviews, someone must be talking about it and people must be going to see it. I can understand. This is not for film snobs, but it's the most fun I've had at the theater since I Am Legend. What a ride. Picks you up from the beginning and you don't ever really sit down again.  And yes, the whole time you are wondering "Who is Salt?"

Is she a CIA agent, or a Russian spy? That is only the first question you're asked and asking yourself. Is she a good guy or a bad guy? It is very difficult to decide, but you're rooting for her anyway. Something's up with her for sure. Is she a victim of brainwashing? Was she traumatized as a child? Or does she have her own agenda -- and if so, what the heck is it?

You don't really have time to think about it, because you're biting your nails watching Angelina Jolie leap from the top of one semi to another across multiple freeway overpasses, scale the interior walls of an elevator shaft or knock down ten FBI agents without dropping her one small handgun. Yes, she flies through midair and kicks like a ninja warrior! Although she is not technically playing a superhero in this movie, she may as well be.

But that's not the reason you're rooting for her. What I loved most about this movie -- and it's the exact reason some critics panned it -- was that Salt has a heart. While you're questioning her motives and admiring her skills, there's not much you know about her except one thing. She loves her husband. You might spend time wondering what role he plays in all this, but it's not nearly as important as the fascination with a woman who can kick ass and take names and still be -- well, a woman. In one key scene especially, she has to hide her emotions even when she's dying inside. By this time, yes, I could feel every beat of her heart as if it were my own.