The Opposite of Shallow
On the way to a movie with my daughter (8 years old), I find myself in an interesting discussion. We’re listening to the soundtrack of the musical Wicked, one of her favorites having seen the show and performed a number as part of her most recent stagecraft class. She wonders why it’s funny when Elphaba, having been described as “exceedingly unusual and peculiar and all together nearly impossible to describe,” classifies her roommate Glinda as merely “Blonde.” In the best way I can, we talk about stereotypes, what they are, what they mean and why we don’t prescribe to them in our daily lives (though they can make for good literature).
Prior to leaving the house, I read a brief review of our movie, Where The Wild Things Are. In sum, it says the movie is clever, “but not very much happens.” We settle in and off it goes. An adaptation of the classic Maurice Sendak book, the film shows frustrated, emotional Max charging through his house, being ignored by his sister and acting out for his mother before running out of the house, finding a boat and sailing away to the island of the wild things. Director Spike Jonze says he decided to depict the monsters as emotions. On the surface perhaps not much happens, yet we are invited to go deeper.
The film is an amazing depiction of youth. The emotions bared by tiny Max on an intimate level are echoed on a grand scale by the monsters. It is tender, telling, emotional, and scary – a meditation on the perils and joys of being a child.
We need to begin to value the joys of depth. Nothing in this world is as it seems on the surface. When exposed to art (high or low), if you consider the work to be simple and basic please remember layers of decision making were required to agree that it should appear simple and basic. There’s depth in the process, even if it isn’t in the result. Every moment, wink, piece of clothing, prop and watchband is put there on purpose.
Every public move, every political decision, most every dollar spent, every moral, ethic, establishment, premise, promise, desire and promotion – especially promotion – is multi-layered, examined, considered, tested and rendered by a team. There are 300 million people in the United States, seven trillion in the world. To move forward on any venture with an aspiration of reaching, pleasing or understanding them all is a fool’s errand. The diversity of our world is staggering. Find the niche you can serve and serve them well – aspiring for mass fame and fortune is the dream of a bygone era.
The exception that proves the rule is love. There are no facets, layers or degrees. If you believe there are, you are doing it wrong. Your relationships may vary – all the while you either love or you don’t. That’s not shallow – that’s deep.
Tarantino’s Wet Dream
The problem with reviewing a film like Inglourious Basterds lies in the conceit of the auteur and, simultaneously, the reviewer. Tarantino has made such a broad epic about movies with so many inside jokes and obscure film references that anyone who doesn’t get it is perceived as a (insert Uma Thurman drawing a box in the air). So many of the rave reviews of this film I have seen read like a film school essay paper, the reviewer striving to show just how in the know he or she is by praising the subtleties of the soundtrack, camera angles and homages. Just like Sasha Baron Cohen, half the battle in enjoying the ride is realizing the joke is also on you. If you can’t take it, it just shows how little you know.
Hey, I’m a film school graduate and I left feeling like I got maybe half of what I was supposed to see. Judging by the reaction of the audience around me, I was well above the average. For them, most of what is remembered will be the startling (if not cathartic) bursts of brutal violence including iconic images of heads being scalped, necks being slashed and Hitler’s face being pulverized by machine gun fire. Oops, hope I didn’t reveal too much there. Funny that; revealing too much about a film which is pretty much an exercise in revealing too much. Except, unfortunately, when things get a little more serious as when he cuts away much to soon from a crumbling Melanie Laurent who has managed to keep her composure during a congenial exchange with the man who killed her entire family and loses it after he leaves the room.
Tarantino is, in my opinion, better when he isn’t revealing as much. Or when he allows his reveals to come via a mish-mash of time defying storytelling. Here he obviously thinks his exposure of suspenseful bits of information is knock on, but the most brilliant scenes (the opening sequence; the basement bar; the theater during the premier) are put off by trickery and reveals that are just slightly too early. This is the sense of the entire movie: Just when you want the film to play out with its amazing story line, brilliant acting and intense camera work, Tarantino slams himself into the middle of the epic, pounding you on the head with reminders that this is HIS MOVIE!, DAMNIT! A completely dopey introduction of one anti-hero negates the brilliant portrayal of the true villain of the film; a brief interruption to allow explanation of an obscure, but vital, plot point is something that would be “jumping the shark” in anyone else’s movie; in spite of all the other violence, a completely gratuitous, slow-motion shooting in the projection booth betrays all hipster chic and is Tarantino’s most conventional death to date, et. Al.
The story is pure pulp fiction (though not nearly as good as that); a rewrite of history all of us wish were true. The fate of Nazi’s in his world is horrible and spectacular. Those responsible are subject to a gruesome end. And yet, given the real horrors of the war known to us now, the death of the elite is hardly delightful and really more wistful and depressing. In Tarantino’s vision, violence and death are the ultimate revenge, which is surprisingly subtle from a guy who graphically told us how to “go midevil” on somebody’s ass and let us listen in on a torturous ear-ectomy once upon a scene. We don’t get to revel in their fear or revelation even pain in the midst of this ultimate revenge. Just dead Nazi’s, dispatched far more painlessly, probably, than the horror they inflicted on the world in their time.
I still recommend it. For one, the high points outweigh the lows and are worth the price of admission. Second, the acting is outstanding. Brad Pitt is allowed to go a little nuts and he’s much the better for it. Christoph Walzt (as one of Taratino’s greatest characters, played with brutal Nazi truth from wink to punch) and Diane Kruger (as a actress with the resistance who brilliantly portrays the most heart wrenching moments) are the highlights from a very solid cast.
And third, you can chat with your friends for hours about the representations of the Nazi Propaganda, the wry insertion of his favorite actors – or characters – in fanciful moments throughout, the implications of the strudel or why he used the theme music from a 1973 southern trash Burt Reynolds film for his opening credit sequence. Just don’t take it too seriously, even though the director sure does.
The worst of times (and a nod to one of the best)
I’ll admit that from the start, I knew I wasn’t going to like The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I went in expecting it to be an overblown, pompous Hollywood epic of contrite values riding the laurels of the town’s favorite son, Brad Pitt. I was right. I just didn’t realize I would be so confident in declaring it the most “over reviewed” picture of the year (not to mention over awarded). I haven’t felt this misled by the movie critic corps since King Kong (the Peter Jackson remake).
First of all, what kind of story is this? Loosely (very loosely according to those in the know) based on a story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, I just don’t see the inherent drama. The guy is born old of body, but not of mind. It’s not like he has all his memories or experiences and has to catch up with them as time goes on (this might make a compelling story). He simply has the body of an old man and must get younger. Wrapping the story with modern day inserts as Hurricane Katrina bears down on New Orleans gives us the opportunity to force some narration, but does little to add any depth to the tale. After nearly two and a half hours the audience must be expecting some sort of point, so director Fincher staples on a coda that only serves to insult the audience, tossing a on lame moral drawn with broad strokes, forced metaphors and sentimentality.
This makes a nice vehicle for Brad Pitt, by the way, since the movie is basically about him getting cuter and cuter. But best actor? Hardly worth the nomination. He walks through the picture, his accent the best acting required of him from script or director. When his mother in the story dies I finally expected it to be his opportunity to show some depth. Fincher puts him an African American church with histrionic mourners. Pitt, however, is stoic. Not a single tear is shed and CUT TO: Pitt riding his motorcycle, apparently mourning the way a young man (or is it an old man in a young man’s body) would. It must have been his ability to walk with a limp that so impressed the Academy.
So, it must be the artistic merit everyone is fired up about. Makeup! Oh, yes, makeup. Granted Pitt is allowed to change ages during the film, making him cute to a wide demographic of movie ticket buying women. Now those who always wished he was in their league can see, for themselves, how he just might look if he was of their generation. Trouble was, I had a very hard time figuring out how old these folks were supposed to be. Pitt was told he was an “pretty old man” on the trip across the North Atlantic, so I suddenly realized he was supposed to be in his 60’s though his good genes had him looking more like 50. How old is Daisy supposed to be when they flirt on the bandstand in the park? She looks about 27 but says things that imply she’s about 17, even though she’s been to New York by now and is a budding chorus girl in a major ballet company. Pitt during this scene is implied to be “way too old” for her, but I thought he looked a handsome 35ish. Him at about 16 years old near the end of the film is the best trick (not acting, mind you, since Brad Pitt has pretty good looks to rest on here). But the forced persepective of the last shot in that scene (in which Pitt looks so much smaller/younger because he’s positioned far from the camera) is blown when Fincher allows the take to go too long and they meet at the door leading outside. Suddenly Pitt is as tall as Cate Blanchett all over again.
Well then, it must have been the sweeping grandeur of the production design itself. Recreating New Orleans over many decades is no easy feat. Except, with the use of Computer Graphic Imaging almost anything is relatively easy to recreate. The ferry boat on the North Atlantic is not really a stretch and the entire war scene can be created, changed and revamped in the comfort of an office. Though it’s all done very well, there is no filmmaking craft of old shown here. I haven’t read the press notes, but I gather very few locations were required to film this masterpiece. Don’t worry about having to recreate Katrina, as all that drama comes in the form of rain splashing the windows and recreated newscasts on the hospital television.
That just leaves the love story. Since the theme of the movie seems to rest on “being in an old body sucks” the love story gives us the same depth. Compelling would be these two living together while their bodies age in different directions. Instead, we are shown that good love only really happens when you are between 20 and 30 (or something like that, I couldn’t really tell). Or is that good sex only really happens during these years? The rest of the time you can really love somebody but since you’d only be annoyed because you were caring for them or listening to an experience that you can’t mesh with your own you should just stay away from each other. Again, it would have been interesting to see him as an old man counseling her through adolescence if only he had some information in his head when he was born. (Read The Time-Traveller’s Wife for an interesting take on an idea similar to this.) But, alas, he’s just as boring and in the dark as any other seven year old.
And that’s the way I felt at this movie – bored, in the dark and talked to like a seven year old. That some the press corps fawned over the film shows where their heads are, too.
+++
Consider, as an antidote to Benjamin Button, the outstanding, moving and delightful Milk starring Sean Pean actually acting and calling upon the viewer to consider what they believe, why they believe it and if they are doing something about it on behalf of their brothers and sisters. It’s a real production with people and everything! Put any political squemishness aside and rank this high on your list of things to see, now available on DVD.
Ain’t That A Kick In The Head?
“The Wrestler” is a film lovers film. Movie goers who love being transported to places they aren’t likely to go and meet people you might not interact with each day will appreciate the gritty sub-culture exposed here. I’ve seen enough slick, $80 million productions with perfect looking stars and fantasy lives. Even a domestic drama like “Revolutionary Road” seems convoluted (see below) next to the unsteady, almost documentary feel from director Darren Aronofsky.
The film deserves awards for writing, actor, actress and supporting actress as well, with special commendation to Marisa Tomei. She makes the bravest choices here as the aging “stripper with a heart of gold.” Except her heart is not pure, just steeled and doing the very best she can. Rourke is brilliant and obviously bled for the role, before and during production.
And beyond the independent spirit that draws a certain ticket buyer, “The Wrester” is a powerful movie because it is about the everyman. Perhaps you don’t get bashed over the head with ladders or stapled with a staple gun. But you may mess up your relationships sometimes, no matter how hard you try. And you may be doing your best to survive even though your memories are brighter than your present. You, too, may have something you like to do more than anything else; a talent that brings you to life and allows you to feel. And maybe you’ll admire, as I did, a character who decides to live this way even if it means his end.
I have stood in the presence of greatness.
First of all, you can’t even imagine the magnitude of this work, because there are no references in this picture. You and I have seen this before, on posters or postcards – or maybe even a plate in a big coffee table book. But this is Monet, and this is Monet done BIG. Each panel is 6 1/2 feet tall and almost 14 feet wide. STOP – look at the wall of your kid’s bedroom. Lop a couple feet off the ceiling height and you’re talking the size of one of the panels. And there are three! The entire piece is more than 41 feet long. So you have to start by understanding the sensory experience is not isolated with a frame and another piece right there next to it. When you see Claude Monet’s CReflections of Clouds on the Water-Lily Pond. c. 1920 you can dive right in.
When I lived in New York City as a college student, I would go to MOMA and sit with this work, knowing it was good to be around but not really being in touch enough to wonder why it was the right place to go. And sit. And think.
Now I’m older and yesterday I visited MOMA without even remembering how I used to do that. The museum has been renovated since I was there, so when I came around a corner and found myself in the presence of this painting, this masterpiece, this freaking icon of beauty and grace, I lost my nerve. I went back out of the room. I found my friend and had to return with him to lean on. Present, then, and fully able to open my eyes and believe in the beauty, I stood and wept. Not, like, cried and made a fool of myself. But got teary enough to have to wipe my eyes.
I’ll be candid: I’m not smart enough for some modern art; just like I don’t get modern jazz and really like only about half of Wes Anderson’s films. There’s meaning there I’m not connecting with somehow. I see cubes and piles of sewn fabric on the floor and I’m at a loss. Who decides this stuff is great, anyway? But when I see Reflections of Clouds on the Water-Lily Pond I know – I mean down to my core I know – that the passion and talent and genius men are capable of doesn’t get any more coherent than this.
And it may not be your favorite. That’s fine. What hit me on further reflection is the realization that many people don’t even know that it is important to go to the museum and find a favorite. Zillions of people go through life and don’t think they need to see – no, feel – greatness. What it instills in a person is a knowing that will tickle the back of your throat for your entire life until you cough up your innermost desire to also be brilliant. We all have it, but we ignore it.
Monet could quash the impulse because we could respond, “I’ll never do that so why bother.” Bother because your greatness, in whatever field, is the basis for meaningful life. If you don’t ingest the knowledge of human greatness it can’t fester inside you. And if we don’t get greater than we are, we’ll just be, well, this, forever. The human animal is designed to be okay with that – to endure. Art, among other things, is Spirit, brought forth by another being, to remind us we are more than enduring animals. We are the vehicles for greatness.
If only we will be inspired to aspire.
“Beautiful Children” = Beautiful Book
My book list is eclectic and the fiction I read needs to be compelling, unique and beautifully written. This book is dark, grim even, and the subject matter is not for everyone. The subjects are teens, families, young people and others in distress and on the dark side of our society. The writing is masterful and the characterizations brilliant. The author’s ability to get deep into the psyche of characters and nail, right on the head, the absurd and tragic details that also pierce the reader’s heart. If you can handle not needing a “feel good” experience from your entertainment, I highly recommend this debut novel.
