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.

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.