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!
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
"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.)
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.)
Monday, January 17, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
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.
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.
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