Wow. This is an amazingly intense, emotional film. I've avoided it for a while, owing to the fact that it's directed by Ben Affleck and stars his little brother Casey, but I now owe them both an apology. Ben's directing and Casey's acting are top-notch, and make the emotional tension in the movie incredibly effective without crossing the line into melodrama. The subject matter (child abductions) makes this a difficult film to watch in and of itself, but Afflect handles it well, neither glorifying nor downplaying the terrible effects of these crimes. The actors (C. Affleck, Michelle Monaghan, Ed Harris, Morgan Freeman) are superb and utterly believable. Above all, the questions the film presents about right and wrong, morality and integrity, hit me like a punch to the chest. I think everyone left the theater wondering whether the right dicisions were made and pondering what their own reactions would have been under the circumstances.
The highest prise I can give the movie though, is this: I watch a lot of movies, and I always try to keep myself detached and analytical, examining the film for technique and how it's trying to get me to react. This movie, though, pulled me in, and had me cringing, covering my eyes, and at one point audibly reacting to a scene of exceptional impact. Excellent work, and, for the first time since Good Will Hunting, I'm now looking forward to Ben Affleck's next offering.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
The Glorification of Criminals - American Gangster
I don't know any real criminals. I mean, I know people who have broken laws, or been arrested, or even spent a little time in the slammer, but I don't know anyone actively supporting themselves through a criminal enterprise of any sort. You know, like dealing drugs, or killing people for money. But, for some reason, even though I have no connection to those types of people, I love movies about them; including: The Godfather and its only legitimate sequel, Pulp Fiction, Goodfellas, The Road to Perdition, Grosse Point Blank, Gangs of New York, The Departed, Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, (insert any other Scorsese film here), Lord of War, Ocean's Eleven, etc. Movies about criminals tend to be fairly popular, especially among my demographic.
Why? I suppose the easy answer falls somewhere in the desire of all of us to live outside of the normal conventions of civilized society--to ignore the rules that keep us from doing whatever we want to do whenever we want to do it. The cinematic criminal is often portrayed positively in this sense. Most of these films include at least on scene where the criminal/hero ignores a conventional barrier (even small ones work) in a dramatic and glorified fashion, with little or no repercussion. Think, for example, of the common mob movie scene where the mobster walks into a speakeasy and takes the best table away from whatever clueless fop mistakenly thought was reserved for him, usually with the help or blessing of the club's management. We all want to be able to do stuff like that without being bounced out or beat up.
Another answer to the question could be in the ability of crime films to introduce their own strict moral code. Criminal/heroes don't live by society's arbitrary standards, instead following their own code based on the things that really matter in their lives. Loyalty, of course, is the lynch pin of the movie criminal's morality, and the massive volume of mob movies bears this out. One of my favorite movie lines of all time, spoken by Michael Corleone to his brother Fredo: "Fredo, you're my older brother, and I love you. But don't ever take sides with anyone against the family again. Ever." Film criminals universally value loyalty above all else, and the clichéd phrase "the family business" shows up in many of these movies, regardless of whether the criminal/heroes are actually related. Real world viewers covet that world where people trust their friends and family with their lives on a regular basis, and those relationships stand as the primary currency of peoples' character and reputation. Because, of course, in the real world, people are abandoned, let down, ratted out, cheated on, betrayed, and lied to on a daily basis. (And of course, in the movies, the penalty for such behavior is swift and deadly justice, which almost never happens in real life.)
In any event, crime movies have a very real tendency to glorify their criminal/heroes, while at the same time punishing them for their sins. Viewers of "The Godfather" admire Michael for his loyalty to the family, his courage to act on his convictions, and his ability to outsmart opponents, but at the same time, those viewers recognize and accept Micheal's inevitable slide into the wages of his sins. (See also the rise and fall of Tony Montana in Scarface. In fact, drug movies are especially good at this dichotomy, because the characters almost always end up hooked on their own product.) Crime movies, then, try to get the audience to buy into the world of the criminal/hero, to recognize and even sympathize with his motivations and morals, while at the same time realistically depicting the consequences of a life of crime in society. The criminal rarely wins in real life, and they rarely win in the movies.
That brings us to "American Gangster." I didn't get this movie, because it fails to fit into the above-described mold. While I would normally applaud a film that breaks away from traditional conventions, I can't do that with this one, because the breaks don't make any sense to me. Here's a breakdown of what confused me about this movie:
1) Frank Lucas (Denzel Washington) is set up as a normal criminal hero - ruthless with enemies and fiercely loyal to family and friends. He embodies the criminal/hero morality, until the end of the movie when he turns snitch and bargains for a lighter sentence in exchange for information about his criminal exploits. The movie tries to downplay this egregious breach of criminal ethos with a well-acted scene where Frank explains that he'll only turn in dirty cops or other gangsters, as opposed to his own family/network. I didn't buy it. Frank Lucas is a snitch. He plea bargained. He ratted out his fellow criminals. This is unheard of in the cinematic world of criminal/heroes and turns Frank into more Fredo than Michael. The central character of a crime movie cannot be Fredo.
2) Director Ridley Scott intersperses the movie with gut-wrenching shots of heroin addicts partaking of Frank's product. Many of these shots include neglected children, as if images of dying drug addicts weren't depressing enough. These images, though, are not addressed within the larger context of the film. The images do a terrifically effective job of conveying the horrors of drug abuse and poverty, and tend to shoot holes in the audience's admiration on Frank Lucas, as the traditional criminal/hero. As in a movie like "Scarface," we start to see the awful consequences of the criminal/hero's actions, but unlike those other movies, those consequences never reach the main character. Frank doesn't get hooked on heroin, nor do his wife, brothers, or other close associates. Instead, we get a sense that the world of the crime bosses, cops, and authorities, exists on a higher plane than that of the junkie. None of the filth or decay of the end-user gets on Frank, and we're left with the sense that the junkie will continue to get high no matter what Frank or the cops do. Of course, this is true, and Frank says as much in a speech toward the end of the film, but it doesn't fit the movie. Frank stands alone in the final shot, after serving 15 years of a 70 year sentence (reduced by his snitching), and you get the sense that there were no real consequences to his actions.
Overall, while this movie was wonderfully produced (great acting, interesting directing), the message of the film is muddled and ineffective. The film is structured like a traditional criminal/hero story, but Frank Lucas breaks the moral code and forfeits his integrity in the process. Likewise, the film does not punish Frank for the horrific consequences of his desire to make money, even though we are shown those consequences in agonizing detail. What's left over, then, is the feeling that perhaps the film is really trying to make a postmodern point about how everyone is both good and bad, and none of it matters anyway. If so, the film fails there too because it spends so much time establishing Frank as a traditional criminal/hero, and just as much time establishing Richie Roberts (Russell Crowe's cop/prosecutor) as a traditional good cop/corruption buster in the mold of Elliot Ness. In the end, it's just too confusing.
(P.S. What was Richie anyway? A cop or a lawyer? He does all the police work in the movie, then at the end appears as the prosecutor in Frank's trial giving closing arguments. That made no sense to me at all.)
Why? I suppose the easy answer falls somewhere in the desire of all of us to live outside of the normal conventions of civilized society--to ignore the rules that keep us from doing whatever we want to do whenever we want to do it. The cinematic criminal is often portrayed positively in this sense. Most of these films include at least on scene where the criminal/hero ignores a conventional barrier (even small ones work) in a dramatic and glorified fashion, with little or no repercussion. Think, for example, of the common mob movie scene where the mobster walks into a speakeasy and takes the best table away from whatever clueless fop mistakenly thought was reserved for him, usually with the help or blessing of the club's management. We all want to be able to do stuff like that without being bounced out or beat up.
Another answer to the question could be in the ability of crime films to introduce their own strict moral code. Criminal/heroes don't live by society's arbitrary standards, instead following their own code based on the things that really matter in their lives. Loyalty, of course, is the lynch pin of the movie criminal's morality, and the massive volume of mob movies bears this out. One of my favorite movie lines of all time, spoken by Michael Corleone to his brother Fredo: "Fredo, you're my older brother, and I love you. But don't ever take sides with anyone against the family again. Ever." Film criminals universally value loyalty above all else, and the clichéd phrase "the family business" shows up in many of these movies, regardless of whether the criminal/heroes are actually related. Real world viewers covet that world where people trust their friends and family with their lives on a regular basis, and those relationships stand as the primary currency of peoples' character and reputation. Because, of course, in the real world, people are abandoned, let down, ratted out, cheated on, betrayed, and lied to on a daily basis. (And of course, in the movies, the penalty for such behavior is swift and deadly justice, which almost never happens in real life.)
In any event, crime movies have a very real tendency to glorify their criminal/heroes, while at the same time punishing them for their sins. Viewers of "The Godfather" admire Michael for his loyalty to the family, his courage to act on his convictions, and his ability to outsmart opponents, but at the same time, those viewers recognize and accept Micheal's inevitable slide into the wages of his sins. (See also the rise and fall of Tony Montana in Scarface. In fact, drug movies are especially good at this dichotomy, because the characters almost always end up hooked on their own product.) Crime movies, then, try to get the audience to buy into the world of the criminal/hero, to recognize and even sympathize with his motivations and morals, while at the same time realistically depicting the consequences of a life of crime in society. The criminal rarely wins in real life, and they rarely win in the movies.
That brings us to "American Gangster." I didn't get this movie, because it fails to fit into the above-described mold. While I would normally applaud a film that breaks away from traditional conventions, I can't do that with this one, because the breaks don't make any sense to me. Here's a breakdown of what confused me about this movie:
1) Frank Lucas (Denzel Washington) is set up as a normal criminal hero - ruthless with enemies and fiercely loyal to family and friends. He embodies the criminal/hero morality, until the end of the movie when he turns snitch and bargains for a lighter sentence in exchange for information about his criminal exploits. The movie tries to downplay this egregious breach of criminal ethos with a well-acted scene where Frank explains that he'll only turn in dirty cops or other gangsters, as opposed to his own family/network. I didn't buy it. Frank Lucas is a snitch. He plea bargained. He ratted out his fellow criminals. This is unheard of in the cinematic world of criminal/heroes and turns Frank into more Fredo than Michael. The central character of a crime movie cannot be Fredo.
2) Director Ridley Scott intersperses the movie with gut-wrenching shots of heroin addicts partaking of Frank's product. Many of these shots include neglected children, as if images of dying drug addicts weren't depressing enough. These images, though, are not addressed within the larger context of the film. The images do a terrifically effective job of conveying the horrors of drug abuse and poverty, and tend to shoot holes in the audience's admiration on Frank Lucas, as the traditional criminal/hero. As in a movie like "Scarface," we start to see the awful consequences of the criminal/hero's actions, but unlike those other movies, those consequences never reach the main character. Frank doesn't get hooked on heroin, nor do his wife, brothers, or other close associates. Instead, we get a sense that the world of the crime bosses, cops, and authorities, exists on a higher plane than that of the junkie. None of the filth or decay of the end-user gets on Frank, and we're left with the sense that the junkie will continue to get high no matter what Frank or the cops do. Of course, this is true, and Frank says as much in a speech toward the end of the film, but it doesn't fit the movie. Frank stands alone in the final shot, after serving 15 years of a 70 year sentence (reduced by his snitching), and you get the sense that there were no real consequences to his actions.
Overall, while this movie was wonderfully produced (great acting, interesting directing), the message of the film is muddled and ineffective. The film is structured like a traditional criminal/hero story, but Frank Lucas breaks the moral code and forfeits his integrity in the process. Likewise, the film does not punish Frank for the horrific consequences of his desire to make money, even though we are shown those consequences in agonizing detail. What's left over, then, is the feeling that perhaps the film is really trying to make a postmodern point about how everyone is both good and bad, and none of it matters anyway. If so, the film fails there too because it spends so much time establishing Frank as a traditional criminal/hero, and just as much time establishing Richie Roberts (Russell Crowe's cop/prosecutor) as a traditional good cop/corruption buster in the mold of Elliot Ness. In the end, it's just too confusing.
(P.S. What was Richie anyway? A cop or a lawyer? He does all the police work in the movie, then at the end appears as the prosecutor in Frank's trial giving closing arguments. That made no sense to me at all.)
** Post script added 1/22/08: CNN posted a story about the film's gross inaccuracies, and a lawsuit by several DEA agents against the producers for defamation. <<http://www.cnn.com/2008/SHOWBIZ/Movies/01/22/film.american.gangster.ap/index.html?iref=mpstoryview>>
This makes the movie even more confusing, as it evidently goes to great lenght to make Lucas some sort of Robin Hood figure.
Monday, October 29, 2007
3:10 To Yuma
I posted this as a comment on the blog of some friends (wilsfordandyoung.blogspot.com), but here it is for all of my loyal readers.
I like complex westerns. For the most part, the post-Civil War American West has gained a well-deserved reputation as the quintessential setting for high contrast stories of good v. evil. The setting lacks external controls: The law is either non-existent, ineffective, or easily corrupted; the elements are harsh and unforgiving; there is nothing that a person can depend on outside of his own character. Hence, the John Wayne hero. All guts, pride, and self-reliance. The strong slient type. The icon of American will. Most traditional westerns play on this archtype, and most traditional westerns bore me. The over-simplified, unrealistic nature of the John Wayne cowboy presents little insight into the human experience. Sure, those characters are easy to admire and fun to see triumph over the villian du jour, but their stories have little to say about real life.Complex westerns, on the other hand, reject the simplistic deification of the western hero. Many modern Amwericans feel just as helpless and small in the face of the 21st century urban wilderness as John Wayne looked on the deserts of Arizona. We, though, are not able to solve our problems with an iron will and a six-shooter. That's why I like westerns with flawed characters, guys that are beaten down by the harsh elements, who are just looking for a way to survive, and who sometimes make bad decisions and lose. (Examples? The Wild Bunch, The Left-Handed Gun, The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly, Unforgiven) 3:10 To Yuma falls somewhere in the middle. (Yes, I am going to actually address the movie, and it will contain SPOILERS.) I loved Bale's character. He's a classic "everyman" who can't shake his past and struggles to make ends meet in the present. There is no false bravado or glorification of his self-reliance. (Aren't we all unable to rely on ourselves?) I also liked Crowe's outlaw, in the sense that I believed him as a very bad person with some truly redeemable characteristics. When he tried to convince the son toward the end that he really was a terrible person, you could see him almost trying to convince himself as well.My favorite part of the movie, though, was the allegorical nature of Bale's rancher. He is abused, disrespected, and ignored throughout this film. He cannot care for his family, or protect his property. His son doesn't respect him. Yet, his life is full of examples of self-sacrifice. He lost his leg serving in the Civil War (in less-than-heroic circumstances), he forgoes personal needs to provide medecine for his younger son, he risks his life to earn the money to keep his family together. And in the end, he sacrifices his lfe to redeem the souls of both the outlaw and his own son.I have not seen the original version of this movie, but I gather that the rancher doesn't die at the end. I would also be surprised if his character is as run-down as Bale's is. Those touches elevate this version of the movie from a simple good v. bad morality tale, into a complex and gripping story of self-sacrificial love.
I like complex westerns. For the most part, the post-Civil War American West has gained a well-deserved reputation as the quintessential setting for high contrast stories of good v. evil. The setting lacks external controls: The law is either non-existent, ineffective, or easily corrupted; the elements are harsh and unforgiving; there is nothing that a person can depend on outside of his own character. Hence, the John Wayne hero. All guts, pride, and self-reliance. The strong slient type. The icon of American will. Most traditional westerns play on this archtype, and most traditional westerns bore me. The over-simplified, unrealistic nature of the John Wayne cowboy presents little insight into the human experience. Sure, those characters are easy to admire and fun to see triumph over the villian du jour, but their stories have little to say about real life.Complex westerns, on the other hand, reject the simplistic deification of the western hero. Many modern Amwericans feel just as helpless and small in the face of the 21st century urban wilderness as John Wayne looked on the deserts of Arizona. We, though, are not able to solve our problems with an iron will and a six-shooter. That's why I like westerns with flawed characters, guys that are beaten down by the harsh elements, who are just looking for a way to survive, and who sometimes make bad decisions and lose. (Examples? The Wild Bunch, The Left-Handed Gun, The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly, Unforgiven) 3:10 To Yuma falls somewhere in the middle. (Yes, I am going to actually address the movie, and it will contain SPOILERS.) I loved Bale's character. He's a classic "everyman" who can't shake his past and struggles to make ends meet in the present. There is no false bravado or glorification of his self-reliance. (Aren't we all unable to rely on ourselves?) I also liked Crowe's outlaw, in the sense that I believed him as a very bad person with some truly redeemable characteristics. When he tried to convince the son toward the end that he really was a terrible person, you could see him almost trying to convince himself as well.My favorite part of the movie, though, was the allegorical nature of Bale's rancher. He is abused, disrespected, and ignored throughout this film. He cannot care for his family, or protect his property. His son doesn't respect him. Yet, his life is full of examples of self-sacrifice. He lost his leg serving in the Civil War (in less-than-heroic circumstances), he forgoes personal needs to provide medecine for his younger son, he risks his life to earn the money to keep his family together. And in the end, he sacrifices his lfe to redeem the souls of both the outlaw and his own son.I have not seen the original version of this movie, but I gather that the rancher doesn't die at the end. I would also be surprised if his character is as run-down as Bale's is. Those touches elevate this version of the movie from a simple good v. bad morality tale, into a complex and gripping story of self-sacrificial love.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Boxing Movies
I'm not a big fan of boxing movies. I'm not sure why, because I generally enjoy sports movies and their general themes of hard work and persistence paying off in the end. But I don't really follow boxing in the real world so it's never been that attractive to me on screen. In fact, and I know this may disqualify me from publishing this blog in the first place, I had never seen Rocky, or any of its sequels, until my wife brought home Rocky Balboa this week. By operation of the online queue, we also ended up with Cinderella Man, resulting in a mini boxing movie marathon.
Boxing is a brutal sport, no doubt, but in the movies it's downright barbaric. Part of my distaste for this subgenre results from the utterly unrealistic, over-the-top boxing sequences. I have seen boxing matches. The reason Mike Tyson won fights in two minutes during his prime was that no human can stand to be punched that hard in the head more than a few times in a row. Not so in Hollywood. Forget for a minute that Sly Stallone is SIXTY YEARS OLD (!), no boxer, even in his prime, could ever take the kind of beating Sly takes from actual boxer Antonio Tarver in the role of horrendously-named Mason "The Line" Dixon. ( I mean, come on, who came up with the name of this character? There is nothing in the film that makes any sense about this name...it's completely ridiculous.)
Of course, there is only one actual boxing scene in Rocky Balboa, and it's way at the end. The first 80% of the movie consists to Sly demonstrating the dangers of mixing of plastic surgery and steroids, while mourning the death of his wife and telling boxing stories to patrons at his restaurant. I would call the film boring, if not for the fascination of watching Stallone and continually wondering how he managed to get this movie made. I actually felt sorry for him.
Cinderella Man was entirely different, if only in the sense that the story was compelling, engaging, and made me care about its characters. The boxing, of course, still went way too far, and I won't even get started on my loathing of Renee Zellweger as an actress (I'm sure she a very nice person, though...). The movie was great, in spite of its troubles, because of the incredible story of Jim Braddock. I went in without knowing the story at all, which probably is essential in a movie like this. Otherwise, the build-up could seem overly dramatic and contrived, I suppose, but without any background I thought it worked very well. I know that a film has done a good job telling a story when I get up and start researching it on my own. (Other examples: The World's Fastest Indian; Gangs of New York.)
Boxing is a brutal sport, no doubt, but in the movies it's downright barbaric. Part of my distaste for this subgenre results from the utterly unrealistic, over-the-top boxing sequences. I have seen boxing matches. The reason Mike Tyson won fights in two minutes during his prime was that no human can stand to be punched that hard in the head more than a few times in a row. Not so in Hollywood. Forget for a minute that Sly Stallone is SIXTY YEARS OLD (!), no boxer, even in his prime, could ever take the kind of beating Sly takes from actual boxer Antonio Tarver in the role of horrendously-named Mason "The Line" Dixon. ( I mean, come on, who came up with the name of this character? There is nothing in the film that makes any sense about this name...it's completely ridiculous.)
Of course, there is only one actual boxing scene in Rocky Balboa, and it's way at the end. The first 80% of the movie consists to Sly demonstrating the dangers of mixing of plastic surgery and steroids, while mourning the death of his wife and telling boxing stories to patrons at his restaurant. I would call the film boring, if not for the fascination of watching Stallone and continually wondering how he managed to get this movie made. I actually felt sorry for him.
Cinderella Man was entirely different, if only in the sense that the story was compelling, engaging, and made me care about its characters. The boxing, of course, still went way too far, and I won't even get started on my loathing of Renee Zellweger as an actress (I'm sure she a very nice person, though...). The movie was great, in spite of its troubles, because of the incredible story of Jim Braddock. I went in without knowing the story at all, which probably is essential in a movie like this. Otherwise, the build-up could seem overly dramatic and contrived, I suppose, but without any background I thought it worked very well. I know that a film has done a good job telling a story when I get up and start researching it on my own. (Other examples: The World's Fastest Indian; Gangs of New York.)
Ushpizin (2005)
My mom brought this movie up to STL on a recent visit. I was a little skeptical because I'm not a devoted follower of orthodox Jewish cinema, but we took a chance on it. What's two hours, right? It was well worth the time, and I had to apologize to Mom for doubting her. The movie follows the struggle of an aspiring rabbi and his wife as they deal with poverty and the tests of faith that it brings. Aside from the facinating view of orthodox life in Jerusalem, this film has a lot to say about everyone' struggle to know and understand God's will, regardless of religious tradition.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Fun with Dick and Jane (2005)
It's been a long time since I was actually bored during a movie. I usually enjoy watching just about anything as long as there is an interesting story or character involved. This movie has neither. In fact, there's nothing very interesting to say about it, except the fact that it's exceptionally unnoteworthy.
Monday, March 5, 2007
Stranger Than Fiction (2006)
Here's an interesting assignment: go rent Stranger than Fiction and Click and watch them back to back. They're similar movies, each staring a successful SNL alumnus and telling a It's a Wonderful Life-type story. Stranger Than Fiction does so with an excellent supporitng cast and an even more excellent script, while Click relies on a mailed in cameo from Christopher Walken and a script that's probably been bouncing around in Hollywood for a few years. Comparing the two presents a clear picture of how a little of effort goes a long way in creating an interesting and enjoyable movie.
It might also be fun to run a mini film festival of all the breakout "serious" roles of the typical comedy actor. Will Ferrell is excellent in Stranger than Fiction, as was Adam Sandler in Punch-Drunk Love. You could also throw in Jim Carrey's The Truman Show, Robin Williams in Good Morning Vietnam, Tom Hanks in Philadelphia, etc.
It might also be fun to run a mini film festival of all the breakout "serious" roles of the typical comedy actor. Will Ferrell is excellent in Stranger than Fiction, as was Adam Sandler in Punch-Drunk Love. You could also throw in Jim Carrey's The Truman Show, Robin Williams in Good Morning Vietnam, Tom Hanks in Philadelphia, etc.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Thank You for Smoking (2005)
Satire does not easily translate to film. We take film entirely too literally as a medium, which works against the tongue-in-cheek nature of satire. We wonder, as my wife asked during our viewing of Thank You for Smoking, "How much of this is true?" Of course, satire depends on a factual basis for its humor, but when we over-emphasize the underpinnings, the satire ceases to be funny. Thus, with film satires, it is all too easy for audiences to miss the exaggeration and believe the hyperbole and turn a potentially funny film into a depressing morality tale.
I discussed Thank You for Smoking with a co-worker who fell into this trap. He didn't enjoy the movie as much as I did because he said it was "too true" and "sad." I thought it was hilarious, so his comments made me wonder if I was just cynical and unfeeling. I realized, though, that he would not have had the same reaction if this was a written satire, or even, to some extent, a television show. We have much less of an expectation of reality when it comes to books and television. While this discrepancy, I think, has something to do with the intrinsic nature of film--a series of photographs of actual people--we have piled on assumptions and expectations that go beyond the basic format. TV and film are technically similar, yet people expect more truth from the big screen. We expect and recognize the falseness of sitcoms and even so-called "reality shows." We filter TV through a lens of manipulation and falsification. This is not so with film. In fact, we take it the other way, attempting to make even the most obvious fictionalizations into reality. We look for truth in film, even narrative (as opposed to documentary) film. Take, for example, the glut of recent movies "based on actual events." You never see that proclamation before a TV show, yet it's money in the bank for movies.
Because of all this, people like my friend at work watch a movie like Thank You for Smoking, which represents the highest level of film satire, and find it depressing rather than funny. It is no surprise then, that a poorly executed satire like Wag the Dog or a horrendous one like Man of the Year can be entirely repulsive to mainstream audiences. Less surprising still is the fact that few true satires make it to the big screen. I find this fact troubling on a couple of different levels. First, I loved Thank You for Smoking, and I wish there were more films out there like it. Think of all the "serious" issues in our world today that could use a good poke in the ribs. Instead, we end up with more and more pompous "documentaries" that have no effect on the issue they raise. Second, I hate the underlying fact that people take film as fact. Filmmakers manipulate facts and events as they see fit, yet audiences fail to question the story. Films "based on actual events" include as much fantasy as a Saturday morning cartoon, yet we buy it. That's why we need more movies like Thank You for Smoking--to get us to see film for what it is.
I discussed Thank You for Smoking with a co-worker who fell into this trap. He didn't enjoy the movie as much as I did because he said it was "too true" and "sad." I thought it was hilarious, so his comments made me wonder if I was just cynical and unfeeling. I realized, though, that he would not have had the same reaction if this was a written satire, or even, to some extent, a television show. We have much less of an expectation of reality when it comes to books and television. While this discrepancy, I think, has something to do with the intrinsic nature of film--a series of photographs of actual people--we have piled on assumptions and expectations that go beyond the basic format. TV and film are technically similar, yet people expect more truth from the big screen. We expect and recognize the falseness of sitcoms and even so-called "reality shows." We filter TV through a lens of manipulation and falsification. This is not so with film. In fact, we take it the other way, attempting to make even the most obvious fictionalizations into reality. We look for truth in film, even narrative (as opposed to documentary) film. Take, for example, the glut of recent movies "based on actual events." You never see that proclamation before a TV show, yet it's money in the bank for movies.
Because of all this, people like my friend at work watch a movie like Thank You for Smoking, which represents the highest level of film satire, and find it depressing rather than funny. It is no surprise then, that a poorly executed satire like Wag the Dog or a horrendous one like Man of the Year can be entirely repulsive to mainstream audiences. Less surprising still is the fact that few true satires make it to the big screen. I find this fact troubling on a couple of different levels. First, I loved Thank You for Smoking, and I wish there were more films out there like it. Think of all the "serious" issues in our world today that could use a good poke in the ribs. Instead, we end up with more and more pompous "documentaries" that have no effect on the issue they raise. Second, I hate the underlying fact that people take film as fact. Filmmakers manipulate facts and events as they see fit, yet audiences fail to question the story. Films "based on actual events" include as much fantasy as a Saturday morning cartoon, yet we buy it. That's why we need more movies like Thank You for Smoking--to get us to see film for what it is.
Monday, February 26, 2007
The Fallen Idol (1948)
Surrounded by boxes, bubble wrap, and nostalgia, I sat in my parents' soon-to-be-former living room this weekend and caught up with an old friend. B. J. Wexler has been hosting the OETA Movie Club on OKC's PBS station for more than twenty years. The Movie Club runs a classic double-feature on Saturday nights, which I remember fondly as consisting of two of the most boring movies ever made. (The 14-24 year-old male is not OETA's core demographic.) To make matters worse, Mr. Wexler and his Bob Ross hairdo interrupt the showing every half hour or so chomping popcorn and spouting trivia about the movie's stars. For a kid raised by a public television disciple such as my father, though, the Movie Club provided a welcome respite from OETA's other fare, including the unbearable British melodrama of Masterpiece Theatre, and the Movie Club's preposterous lead-in--syndicated reruns of The Lawrence Welk Show.
Having matured somewhat and acquired a distinct attraction to old movies, I appreciate the Movie Club's work in keeping the film classics in circulation. I happily discovered this weekend that B. J.'s playlist is not limited merely to the more well-known titles, either. Saturday's lineup started off with Sidney Poitier's 1963 Oscar-winning performance in Lilies of the Field (a typical Movie Club offering, which I'll talk about in a later post), and closed with a 1948 British thriller, The Fallen Idol.
The Fallen Idol was written by Graham Greene and directed by Carol Reed. (Greene and Reed would collaborate the next year with Orson Welles to produce the noir classic, The Third Man.) The story focuses on a young boy's psychological struggle with telling the truth and keeping secrets. The boy, the son of the French ambassador living in London, shares a special bond with the embassy's butler, Baines. We slowly learn that Baines, who is married to a horrible, mean woman who seems to be the boy's nanny, is having an affair with a young secretary. The boy witnesses the confrontation between Baines and his wife, which ends in the accidental (and much deserved) death of Mrs. Baines. The film's tension comes out of the boy's interaction with this love triangle, and his role in helping to exonerate Baines in the investigation of the death.
Part of my enjoyment of old movies comes from the "old fashioned" morals they embrace. There is a scene in this film that distinctly highlights this thought. The London police, convinced that Baines killed his wife, have asked Baines to accompany them to the station to "give a statement." (They are unable to arrest him on the French soil of the embassy.) Baines, distraught at his inability to convey his innocence but still full of righteous dignity, goes downstairs to his quarters to get his hat. In the basement, we see Baines struggling with his predicament as he opens a drawer and picks up a revolver. We then cut back upstairs as the police, continuing their investigation, discover some evidence that proves Baines's story. His lover then rushes to the stairs to tell Baines that he's off the hook. At this point, I was telling myself, "here comes the gunshot," expecting that Baines would take his own life seconds before he hears the news. I was wrong, as the lover reaches him (not even holding the gun at this point) and everyone lives happily ever after.
Were this movie made today, Baines either kills himself or comes back upstairs guns blazing. Modern movie morality would not allow him to live, playing up his moral ambiguity denying him status as the "good guy." Scorsese would have killed him, his lover, a few cops, and left the boy sitting in a pool of blood to demonstrate that the cruel world is no place for children. In 1948, though, it was still OK to think that even people who make mistakes and take a few wrong turns can be rewarded. It's an uplifting thought, and we could use a few more uplifting thoughts these days.
Having matured somewhat and acquired a distinct attraction to old movies, I appreciate the Movie Club's work in keeping the film classics in circulation. I happily discovered this weekend that B. J.'s playlist is not limited merely to the more well-known titles, either. Saturday's lineup started off with Sidney Poitier's 1963 Oscar-winning performance in Lilies of the Field (a typical Movie Club offering, which I'll talk about in a later post), and closed with a 1948 British thriller, The Fallen Idol.
The Fallen Idol was written by Graham Greene and directed by Carol Reed. (Greene and Reed would collaborate the next year with Orson Welles to produce the noir classic, The Third Man.) The story focuses on a young boy's psychological struggle with telling the truth and keeping secrets. The boy, the son of the French ambassador living in London, shares a special bond with the embassy's butler, Baines. We slowly learn that Baines, who is married to a horrible, mean woman who seems to be the boy's nanny, is having an affair with a young secretary. The boy witnesses the confrontation between Baines and his wife, which ends in the accidental (and much deserved) death of Mrs. Baines. The film's tension comes out of the boy's interaction with this love triangle, and his role in helping to exonerate Baines in the investigation of the death.
Part of my enjoyment of old movies comes from the "old fashioned" morals they embrace. There is a scene in this film that distinctly highlights this thought. The London police, convinced that Baines killed his wife, have asked Baines to accompany them to the station to "give a statement." (They are unable to arrest him on the French soil of the embassy.) Baines, distraught at his inability to convey his innocence but still full of righteous dignity, goes downstairs to his quarters to get his hat. In the basement, we see Baines struggling with his predicament as he opens a drawer and picks up a revolver. We then cut back upstairs as the police, continuing their investigation, discover some evidence that proves Baines's story. His lover then rushes to the stairs to tell Baines that he's off the hook. At this point, I was telling myself, "here comes the gunshot," expecting that Baines would take his own life seconds before he hears the news. I was wrong, as the lover reaches him (not even holding the gun at this point) and everyone lives happily ever after.
Were this movie made today, Baines either kills himself or comes back upstairs guns blazing. Modern movie morality would not allow him to live, playing up his moral ambiguity denying him status as the "good guy." Scorsese would have killed him, his lover, a few cops, and left the boy sitting in a pool of blood to demonstrate that the cruel world is no place for children. In 1948, though, it was still OK to think that even people who make mistakes and take a few wrong turns can be rewarded. It's an uplifting thought, and we could use a few more uplifting thoughts these days.
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