I am a huge movie fan, yet I’ll freely admit that there are few movies that have truly changed my life. For instance, I grew up in a somewhat conservative household, and I thought of gays as bad people. I remember that I took piano lessons when I was a kid from a man who my parents mentioned in passing was gay, which really shook me up. I quit piano lessons shortly thereafter, in part due to my fear that I was in danger of being molested sitting on a bench alone in a room with a gay man. Then when I was a freshman in high school, a friend and I went to see Philadelphia, which really humanized homosexuals for me. Tom Hanks made me see a gay man as a person deserving of respect and fair treatment, an ordinary human being rather than a monster. But that movie is one of the rare instances of a film that challenged my views on the world and really shook me up.
One of the few recent films to do help change my thinking like that is Up in the Air. I saw it originally in the theater, and though I loved it immediately and felt it was the standout film of that year (and it’s still one of my favorite movies of the past several years), it also really depressed me and left me feeling down for a couple weeks. The reason this movie shook me up so much is because I related strongly to the main character, Ryan Bingham (played by George Clooney in a phenomenal performance), a man who has virtually no ties to the world around him, who lives distanced from other people, who is alone in any crowd, and who likes his existence exactly as it is. Or at least he likes it when the film begins. As with many great stories, Up in the Air is about a character in the process of changing, and during the story, Ryan realizes how much is lacking in his life. He comes to appreciate that relationships are what truly give life meaning.
I imagine this simple message is one that most people will find obvious, and of course it is. The movie unfolds in many ways as one might expect. This solitary man starts to fall for a woman he meets on the road. He is challenged in his philosophy of isolationism by a young colleague, and reconnects with his distanced family through a wedding in which the groom has cold feet. Yet despite those basic, somewhat predictable plot turns, the movie holds surprises. It feels fresh and real in its humor. The specific setup—a man whose job is to travel the country firing people—is one I’ve never seen in another story. The performances are strong across the board. And the ending manages to avoid the obvious. In fact, what struck me the most when I first watched the movie was how perfect the ending is. As it got closer, I worried that there would be a pat ending that would feel forced, and then the movie stunned me by ducking away at the last moment from what would have been a clichéd, trite, romantic-comedy ending, and instead had Ryan’s story unfold in what struck me as the most truthful way possible. It was beautiful and resonant in the way that great art is, but it was also enough to send me into a blue mood for days.
Again, the message of the film might seem fairly obvious, but it was a message that hit me hard. I spent much of my young adulthood cultivating connections about as well as Ryan Bingham did. I didn’t have a career like his that sent me traveling a majority of the time, from the time I finished college, I moved about every two years, and not just to a new apartment or to a city across the state. I moved from one corner of the country to another. Of course, when one only lives in a place for a couple years at a time, one does not develop strong relationships. But by the time I reached my thirties, I was beginning to reevaluate where I stood in life. I looked at those around me who seemed the happiest, and I saw strong connections and love that I lacked.
I think the desire to connect with other people is natural and inborn in most people, but somehow it was something that I struggled with and only came to understand much later. So when I saw Up in the Air, I saw myself: a man with no deep connections and, therefore, no sustenance for life. At one point in the film, a character asks about what the point of everything is, what it all means. And the only answer is simply that the happiest moments in life are those moments that are shared with others. As I mentioned before, that may seem obvious to most people, but it was a conclusion I had been coming to slowly over a period of years.
Now, there are certainly differences between me and Ryan Bingham. I’m not nearly as handsome and successful, for one thing. And I’m younger. And I have a far better relationship with my family. Truly, I am probably closer with my family than most people are with theirs, and they are what have sustained me emotionally throughout my life. But in key ways, I resonated with Clooney’s character.
After the film, I continued to think about what really matters in life and reached a conclusion I had been approaching for a long time, and it’s the same conclusion that Ryan Bingham reaches. Within months of seeing Up in the Air, I began trying to cultivate a relationship for myself in the hope that I might be able to achieve the kind of happiness I see in those who have deep connections. And I even began dating more seriously than I ever had before. Up to that point in my life, my longest dating relationship had lasted about two months. But now, my new longest relationship was close to a year. That relationship didn’t ultimately work out because we were very different people and not a great fit for each other in some key ways, but it did give me a taste for the connection that I long for and increased my desire to experience the love that I see in others.
Although it seems a bit strange to say it, the movie Up in the Air really may have changed my life. I’m not sure whether the nearly year-long relationship I recently had would have happened had I not seen this movie. I’m not sure that I would believe that maybe I will find connection someday had I not seen it. In the short term, it made me depressed, but in the long term, it acted as a catalyst for me to begin changing some of the ways I approach my life. And to have such power makes it a rare work of art, indeed.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Moneyball
This probably says something significant about me as a person: My first impulse when I initially saw a trailer for Moneyball was to think, “Hmm . . . a baseball movie? I’ll pass.” Then the trailer continued, and I thought, “Oh, it’s a movie about statistics; a movie that glorifies rational thought and the power of cold, hard numbers over intuition—yes, that’s a movie for me!”
First, let me address the baseball movie issue. I am not a sports fan in general and not a baseball fan in particular. And when it comes to movies about sports, baseball tends to leave me cold. I remember liking Hoosiers and The Pistol as far as basketball movies go. Rocky is fantastic, and The Fighter was quite good. And even all the football in Jerry Maguire got my blood pumping. But baseball seems to have a much bigger draw for fans when it becomes the subject of movies. And here’s my deal: I didn’t get Field of Dreams. It’s been years since I saw it, but I remember it being boring and without any real appeal. Then there’s Bull Durham, which I understand is highly rated as one of the all time great baseball movies. I watched it years ago and felt confused because I was under the impression it was supposed to be a great comedy, yet I didn’t think it was funny, and I also didn’t think it was interesting at all. Strangely, though, I did enjoy For Love of the Game, a movie that I think is rarely rated as highly as those other Costner baseball stories. The difference for me with that movie was that although it was about baseball, it felt to me to tell a sort of universal story about passion. It didn’t matter particularly that the main character was a pitcher striving for a perfect game; he could have easily been a poet struggling to compose a perfect stanza or a guitarist trying to move an audience with his playing or anything, really. The theme of loving what one does and trying to be great resonated with me, even though it was about baseball, which I don’t specifically care about.
Moneyball has the same type of appeal. It is specifically about baseball, but it’s about more than that. It’s about how one looks at the world and understands how events unfold. There are those who believe in going with their guts, in following intuition, believing that it will lead to the best possible outcome. Those people feel rather than think. This is a tempting way to live life. It can be exciting, and certainly when it comes to something like sports, it can be dramatic because the scout gets a good feeling about a young athlete, and then when the athlete delivers on the promise and hits the dramatic game-winning homerun, the crowd cheers, and the scout appreciates that his intuition led him down the right path. But the problem with this approach to life is that it’s not as reliable as a more rational approach. Those with a scientific worldview will have a better understanding of the real world around them, but that world will likely be less exciting because of that.
I try to live my life rationally. I believe science and statistics are the best way to understand our world. Intuition is inherently faulty. So the premise of Moneyball held strong appeal for me. And sure enough, it delivered.
The basic story is about Billy Beane, a former baseball player who never lived up to the promise he showed as a high school athlete. He is now the general manager of the Oakland Athletics, a team that can’t compete with most other teams because of its small budget and inability to attract star players. But Beane rethinks how to put a team together and focuses on the statistics of his players rather than the less tangible factors like what they look like or how much muscle they have or how attractive their girlfriends are or how they live their lives off the field—the factors that lead traditional scouts to have gut feelings about who will be a star and who won’t. Beane understands that a successful team isn’t about star power, it’s about adding up point after point after point, getting on base, no matter whether that’s achieved through homeruns or walks. By putting together a group of cheaper players who have consistent abilities to get onto base, he is able to compile a team that will win more consistently than those teams made up of pricey superstars.
The disadvantage to a story like this is that it’s inherently less dramatic than the traditional sports story. It has the underdogs-make-good plotline that often comes with this territory, but there’s no big hero. We don’t have the amazing player to root for. We have players who don’t swing at the ball and get walked onto first base. But that’s the power of this story: in the real world, the cold, hard numbers win. It’s exciting to think about beating the casino through an amazing streak of luck, but over time the casino will always win because the odds are in its favor. And Moneyball shows how the same idea is true in sports because it’s true in all aspects of life. Statistics trump feelings.
I’ve read a couple reviews of Moneyball that critique the sometimes slow pace and assert that the movie, though generally strong, has too many endings so continues on too long. I can understand this view, but I disagree. The ending wasn’t flashy with a victorious team. It was a slow winding down with some reflection. And that felt right to me. A big victory is exciting, yes, but to truly appreciate the way the world works, one has to slow down and think.
First, let me address the baseball movie issue. I am not a sports fan in general and not a baseball fan in particular. And when it comes to movies about sports, baseball tends to leave me cold. I remember liking Hoosiers and The Pistol as far as basketball movies go. Rocky is fantastic, and The Fighter was quite good. And even all the football in Jerry Maguire got my blood pumping. But baseball seems to have a much bigger draw for fans when it becomes the subject of movies. And here’s my deal: I didn’t get Field of Dreams. It’s been years since I saw it, but I remember it being boring and without any real appeal. Then there’s Bull Durham, which I understand is highly rated as one of the all time great baseball movies. I watched it years ago and felt confused because I was under the impression it was supposed to be a great comedy, yet I didn’t think it was funny, and I also didn’t think it was interesting at all. Strangely, though, I did enjoy For Love of the Game, a movie that I think is rarely rated as highly as those other Costner baseball stories. The difference for me with that movie was that although it was about baseball, it felt to me to tell a sort of universal story about passion. It didn’t matter particularly that the main character was a pitcher striving for a perfect game; he could have easily been a poet struggling to compose a perfect stanza or a guitarist trying to move an audience with his playing or anything, really. The theme of loving what one does and trying to be great resonated with me, even though it was about baseball, which I don’t specifically care about.
Moneyball has the same type of appeal. It is specifically about baseball, but it’s about more than that. It’s about how one looks at the world and understands how events unfold. There are those who believe in going with their guts, in following intuition, believing that it will lead to the best possible outcome. Those people feel rather than think. This is a tempting way to live life. It can be exciting, and certainly when it comes to something like sports, it can be dramatic because the scout gets a good feeling about a young athlete, and then when the athlete delivers on the promise and hits the dramatic game-winning homerun, the crowd cheers, and the scout appreciates that his intuition led him down the right path. But the problem with this approach to life is that it’s not as reliable as a more rational approach. Those with a scientific worldview will have a better understanding of the real world around them, but that world will likely be less exciting because of that.
I try to live my life rationally. I believe science and statistics are the best way to understand our world. Intuition is inherently faulty. So the premise of Moneyball held strong appeal for me. And sure enough, it delivered.
The basic story is about Billy Beane, a former baseball player who never lived up to the promise he showed as a high school athlete. He is now the general manager of the Oakland Athletics, a team that can’t compete with most other teams because of its small budget and inability to attract star players. But Beane rethinks how to put a team together and focuses on the statistics of his players rather than the less tangible factors like what they look like or how much muscle they have or how attractive their girlfriends are or how they live their lives off the field—the factors that lead traditional scouts to have gut feelings about who will be a star and who won’t. Beane understands that a successful team isn’t about star power, it’s about adding up point after point after point, getting on base, no matter whether that’s achieved through homeruns or walks. By putting together a group of cheaper players who have consistent abilities to get onto base, he is able to compile a team that will win more consistently than those teams made up of pricey superstars.
The disadvantage to a story like this is that it’s inherently less dramatic than the traditional sports story. It has the underdogs-make-good plotline that often comes with this territory, but there’s no big hero. We don’t have the amazing player to root for. We have players who don’t swing at the ball and get walked onto first base. But that’s the power of this story: in the real world, the cold, hard numbers win. It’s exciting to think about beating the casino through an amazing streak of luck, but over time the casino will always win because the odds are in its favor. And Moneyball shows how the same idea is true in sports because it’s true in all aspects of life. Statistics trump feelings.
I’ve read a couple reviews of Moneyball that critique the sometimes slow pace and assert that the movie, though generally strong, has too many endings so continues on too long. I can understand this view, but I disagree. The ending wasn’t flashy with a victorious team. It was a slow winding down with some reflection. And that felt right to me. A big victory is exciting, yes, but to truly appreciate the way the world works, one has to slow down and think.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance
As a kid growing up in Arizona, I was not a huge fan of cowboys and the Old West and the whole western genre of stories. I resisted the appeal of that mythology because I was surrounded by it. My town, which had been the territorial capital of Arizona, had its annual Frontier Days and Territorial Days and The World’s Oldest Rodeo. My young rebellious spirit wanted to like something different, not something that the rest of my town seemed obsessed with. And yet some of the appeal did sink in, in part due to my older brother’s influence. He loved cowboys, and since I looked up to him, I started getting into some of those as well. But my early images of westerns include Emilio Estevez and Kevin Costner rather than John Wayne and Gary Cooper. It wasn’t until later in life that I went back and started watching some of the old classics. And when I finally did, I was stunned by how good many of them are. I had largely dismissed the genre as cheesy, sentimental, and simplistic. But many are truly great films with complex themes.
I just watched for the first time The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, a John Ford western starring James Stewart and John Wayne. This is a great example of what the western genre is capable of. The basic story is about senator Ransom “Rans” Stoddard (James Stewart) who returns from Washington to the small western town of Shinbone to attend the funeral of an old friend. The local newspaperman is curious who would bring such a prominent man all that way, and the name Tom Doniphon is unfamiliar to him. So Rans begins telling the tale of how he first came to Shinbone. The movie flashes back to decades earlier. We meet young Rans, an optimistic lawyer headed west; Tom (John Wayne), a gruff but kindhearted homesteader; the outlaw Liberty Valance (Lee Marvin); and Hallie, the woman both Tom and Rans desire, who, as we’ve already seen in the opening, will eventually become Rans’s wife. The basic structure works like many other movies, among them Citizen Kane, with initial questions presented that we expect to see revealed through the flashback. We want to know who shot the gunslinger Liberty Valance and how bookish Rans rather than tough Tom ended up marrying Hallie. But those issues of plot are not what make this film special. It’s the exploration of significant themes that make the movie a standout.
I was struck early on by the names Ransom and Liberty. Clearly liberty is a significant ideal when packing up and moving out to the frontier. A major conflict in the story comes from the different ideals of the townsfolk, who want their territory to become a state, and the ranchers, who want no outside intrusion and regulation of their free range. The townsfolk want law and order, which could mean sacrificing some personal liberties for the greater good of all. The ranchers want total freedom, which can result in anarchy. Representing that anarchy is Liberty Valance, who, along with being a thief and killer, is also a hired thug sent to Shinbone to scare the townspeople into voting the way the ranchers want. But what about Ransom? What does his name signify? Ransom wants to use the law to prosecute Liberty Valance, but Tom insists that the only way to deal with the outlaw is by being quick with a gun. So what has to be ransomed, paid, sacrificed? Is it possible to have liberty without ransoming some principles? Is liberty itself worth sacrificing?
These ideas are hit upon several times in different ways. For instance, Rans starts a school to teach the townsfolk to read and write and understand the laws of the country in which they live. The opening words of the Declaration of Independence are recited by Pompey, Shinbone’s sole African American, who is not allowed to drink with the white men at the saloon. Pompey struggles to recite the words, forgetting the part about all men being created equal, until Rans reminds him. And the remaining lines about unalienable rights—life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness—are left unspoken to resonate silently with the audience.
There’s much more, too, in this film. Ideas about the role of the press in our democracy and the ways politics can become a sideshow are explored. The film even touches on the end of the Old West, the way that time has been misrepresented and misremembered, ideas that are prominently explored in later western films like Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven.
I could continue on with interesting themes this film explores, and I’m sure this is one that will resonate in my head for days to come. The bottom line is this: if you’re like me and have in the past dismissed westerns, give them another try. Their quality and complexity might surprise you.
I just watched for the first time The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, a John Ford western starring James Stewart and John Wayne. This is a great example of what the western genre is capable of. The basic story is about senator Ransom “Rans” Stoddard (James Stewart) who returns from Washington to the small western town of Shinbone to attend the funeral of an old friend. The local newspaperman is curious who would bring such a prominent man all that way, and the name Tom Doniphon is unfamiliar to him. So Rans begins telling the tale of how he first came to Shinbone. The movie flashes back to decades earlier. We meet young Rans, an optimistic lawyer headed west; Tom (John Wayne), a gruff but kindhearted homesteader; the outlaw Liberty Valance (Lee Marvin); and Hallie, the woman both Tom and Rans desire, who, as we’ve already seen in the opening, will eventually become Rans’s wife. The basic structure works like many other movies, among them Citizen Kane, with initial questions presented that we expect to see revealed through the flashback. We want to know who shot the gunslinger Liberty Valance and how bookish Rans rather than tough Tom ended up marrying Hallie. But those issues of plot are not what make this film special. It’s the exploration of significant themes that make the movie a standout.
I was struck early on by the names Ransom and Liberty. Clearly liberty is a significant ideal when packing up and moving out to the frontier. A major conflict in the story comes from the different ideals of the townsfolk, who want their territory to become a state, and the ranchers, who want no outside intrusion and regulation of their free range. The townsfolk want law and order, which could mean sacrificing some personal liberties for the greater good of all. The ranchers want total freedom, which can result in anarchy. Representing that anarchy is Liberty Valance, who, along with being a thief and killer, is also a hired thug sent to Shinbone to scare the townspeople into voting the way the ranchers want. But what about Ransom? What does his name signify? Ransom wants to use the law to prosecute Liberty Valance, but Tom insists that the only way to deal with the outlaw is by being quick with a gun. So what has to be ransomed, paid, sacrificed? Is it possible to have liberty without ransoming some principles? Is liberty itself worth sacrificing?
These ideas are hit upon several times in different ways. For instance, Rans starts a school to teach the townsfolk to read and write and understand the laws of the country in which they live. The opening words of the Declaration of Independence are recited by Pompey, Shinbone’s sole African American, who is not allowed to drink with the white men at the saloon. Pompey struggles to recite the words, forgetting the part about all men being created equal, until Rans reminds him. And the remaining lines about unalienable rights—life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness—are left unspoken to resonate silently with the audience.
There’s much more, too, in this film. Ideas about the role of the press in our democracy and the ways politics can become a sideshow are explored. The film even touches on the end of the Old West, the way that time has been misrepresented and misremembered, ideas that are prominently explored in later western films like Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven.
I could continue on with interesting themes this film explores, and I’m sure this is one that will resonate in my head for days to come. The bottom line is this: if you’re like me and have in the past dismissed westerns, give them another try. Their quality and complexity might surprise you.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
The Trip
Probably my favorite new movie I’ve seen this summer is The Trip. This is a British movie that was evidently first a six-episode BBC television show and then was reedited into a feature film. This seems like a strange way to make a movie, as there must have been an hour or so of material from the sitcom cut out. But it works well. I’m curious to see what was included in the original show that was left out of the movie, but I don’t feel like anything is missing. As a film, it works well.
The story is about English actor/comedian Steve Coogan (played by English actor/comedian Steve Coogan), who is taking a road trip through the north of England, visiting restaurants and bed & breakfasts for an article he’s been contracted to write. He was planning on taking his American girlfriend, but she decided they need a break and has returned to America. So instead, Steve takes his friend, the Welsh actor/comedian Rob Brydon (played by Welsh actor/comedian Rob Brydon). The plot is really nothing more than these two traveling around, talking about what they would like to do in their careers, and working on various impressions. Yet there’s so much more going on.
The most immediately enjoyable parts of the movie feature the two competing with each other in performances. In one scene that will surely be remembered and replayed again and again, they both work on Michael Caine impressions. In another, they discuss wanting to make a period drama à la Braveheart or Rob Roy, and the conversation devolves into a hilarious bit about when a troupe of soldiers should rise before battle, whether they need to rise at daybreak or if maybe they could sleep in a little and get going by 9:30 following a continental breakfast. There are several set pieces along these lines that stand out and made me laugh incredibly hard. Before watching the movie, I had heard clips on the radio and seen some of the Michael Caine sequence in ads, and I feared that maybe I’d already experienced the best the movie had to offer, and though those scenes are some of the best, there are many, many more throughout.
What elevates this movie, however, is the quiet moments intertwined with the hilarity. Steve Coogan is a talented comic actor who has yet to really break out in America. My understanding is that in Britain, he is fairly well known for having played an iconic character for years on television. But in Hollywood, he’s still relatively unknown. I first saw him in the movie 24 Hour Party People (directed by Michael Winterbottom, who also directed The Trip), which is a fantastic film, and Coogan is great in it. I remember around that time hearing that he was going to break out and become an A-list actor as a result of that movie. The next thing I remember seeing him in was Jim Jarmusch’s Coffee and Cigarettes, another movie I loved. In this one, Coogan played Steve Coogan, a self-important actor who is hitting the big time following his performance in 24 Hour Party People. He meets with Alfred Molina and barely has time to spare for someone at Molina’s level of celebrity, which I found amusing in part because I would consider Molina more famous than Coogan, and now, years later, Coogan still hasn’t achieved the fame that the Steve of Coffee and Cigarettes seemed to feel was his due. I saw Coogan play Steve Coogan again in Winterbottom’s meta-adaptation of Tristram Shandy, A Cock and Bull Story. And for the third time, Coogan plays a version of himself in The Trip. In between these, he has been in bigger Hollywood movies, like Tropic Thunder and The Other Guys, but he has still never managed to become a household name in America. And this is the basis for the Steve character in The Trip. He is an actor who has been somewhat typecast as his television character in Britain and desperately wants to break out in Hollywood, but despite a decade of making movies, he has yet to reach the level he feels he’s entitled to.
The issue at the heart of The Trip is identity. Who is Steve Coogan? What kind of person is he? What kind of actor? Ultimately, the movie portrays him again and again as someone who desperately wishes to be something and someone he isn’t. Of course, actors make their living being people they aren’t, and that thread runs through the whole movie as both Steve and Rob attempt to be the better version of Michael Caine or of James Bond or of a Bond villain. Actors are supposed to not be themselves. But in The Trip, Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon are playing Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon. And as the two interact, the differences between them emerge. Rob is married and has a baby. He is so aware of what makes him successful, that he has developed an iPhone app for one of his silly character voices. He’s content with his life and with his career. He’s a comedian. He’s an impressionist. He spends nearly as much of his time speaking in other people’s voices as he does his own, but he seems comfortable. He is most himself when he is Hugh Grant. Steve, on the other hand, is divorced. He chases younger women. He is a father but rarely talks to his children. He wishes he had the career of Michael Sheen. He thinks he has not been granted his due. He is discontented with his life and seems uncomfortable being himself. But, like Rob, Steve’s identity comes through most clearly and he seems the most comfortable when he is riffing on impressions and joking around. He is, deep down, a comedian, but he wishes he were a great dramatic actor. His failure to be himself, to accept who he truly is, is his great tragedy.
The Trip is fully worth watching solely on the merits of the comic scenes, but the exploration of identity lifts the film to another level. Steve Coogan, the character, is a modern Salieri, and Steve Coogan, the actor, plays the role so perfectly that it is clear he is a very talented dramatic actor as well as a talented comedian. I’m sure Steve Coogan could be a star on the level of Michael Sheen, but I hope he is content being Steve Coogan. That’s certainly good enough.
The story is about English actor/comedian Steve Coogan (played by English actor/comedian Steve Coogan), who is taking a road trip through the north of England, visiting restaurants and bed & breakfasts for an article he’s been contracted to write. He was planning on taking his American girlfriend, but she decided they need a break and has returned to America. So instead, Steve takes his friend, the Welsh actor/comedian Rob Brydon (played by Welsh actor/comedian Rob Brydon). The plot is really nothing more than these two traveling around, talking about what they would like to do in their careers, and working on various impressions. Yet there’s so much more going on.
The most immediately enjoyable parts of the movie feature the two competing with each other in performances. In one scene that will surely be remembered and replayed again and again, they both work on Michael Caine impressions. In another, they discuss wanting to make a period drama à la Braveheart or Rob Roy, and the conversation devolves into a hilarious bit about when a troupe of soldiers should rise before battle, whether they need to rise at daybreak or if maybe they could sleep in a little and get going by 9:30 following a continental breakfast. There are several set pieces along these lines that stand out and made me laugh incredibly hard. Before watching the movie, I had heard clips on the radio and seen some of the Michael Caine sequence in ads, and I feared that maybe I’d already experienced the best the movie had to offer, and though those scenes are some of the best, there are many, many more throughout.
What elevates this movie, however, is the quiet moments intertwined with the hilarity. Steve Coogan is a talented comic actor who has yet to really break out in America. My understanding is that in Britain, he is fairly well known for having played an iconic character for years on television. But in Hollywood, he’s still relatively unknown. I first saw him in the movie 24 Hour Party People (directed by Michael Winterbottom, who also directed The Trip), which is a fantastic film, and Coogan is great in it. I remember around that time hearing that he was going to break out and become an A-list actor as a result of that movie. The next thing I remember seeing him in was Jim Jarmusch’s Coffee and Cigarettes, another movie I loved. In this one, Coogan played Steve Coogan, a self-important actor who is hitting the big time following his performance in 24 Hour Party People. He meets with Alfred Molina and barely has time to spare for someone at Molina’s level of celebrity, which I found amusing in part because I would consider Molina more famous than Coogan, and now, years later, Coogan still hasn’t achieved the fame that the Steve of Coffee and Cigarettes seemed to feel was his due. I saw Coogan play Steve Coogan again in Winterbottom’s meta-adaptation of Tristram Shandy, A Cock and Bull Story. And for the third time, Coogan plays a version of himself in The Trip. In between these, he has been in bigger Hollywood movies, like Tropic Thunder and The Other Guys, but he has still never managed to become a household name in America. And this is the basis for the Steve character in The Trip. He is an actor who has been somewhat typecast as his television character in Britain and desperately wants to break out in Hollywood, but despite a decade of making movies, he has yet to reach the level he feels he’s entitled to.
The issue at the heart of The Trip is identity. Who is Steve Coogan? What kind of person is he? What kind of actor? Ultimately, the movie portrays him again and again as someone who desperately wishes to be something and someone he isn’t. Of course, actors make their living being people they aren’t, and that thread runs through the whole movie as both Steve and Rob attempt to be the better version of Michael Caine or of James Bond or of a Bond villain. Actors are supposed to not be themselves. But in The Trip, Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon are playing Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon. And as the two interact, the differences between them emerge. Rob is married and has a baby. He is so aware of what makes him successful, that he has developed an iPhone app for one of his silly character voices. He’s content with his life and with his career. He’s a comedian. He’s an impressionist. He spends nearly as much of his time speaking in other people’s voices as he does his own, but he seems comfortable. He is most himself when he is Hugh Grant. Steve, on the other hand, is divorced. He chases younger women. He is a father but rarely talks to his children. He wishes he had the career of Michael Sheen. He thinks he has not been granted his due. He is discontented with his life and seems uncomfortable being himself. But, like Rob, Steve’s identity comes through most clearly and he seems the most comfortable when he is riffing on impressions and joking around. He is, deep down, a comedian, but he wishes he were a great dramatic actor. His failure to be himself, to accept who he truly is, is his great tragedy.
The Trip is fully worth watching solely on the merits of the comic scenes, but the exploration of identity lifts the film to another level. Steve Coogan, the character, is a modern Salieri, and Steve Coogan, the actor, plays the role so perfectly that it is clear he is a very talented dramatic actor as well as a talented comedian. I’m sure Steve Coogan could be a star on the level of Michael Sheen, but I hope he is content being Steve Coogan. That’s certainly good enough.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Super 8
Another summer movie I saw recently is Super 8. This one came fairly highly recommended. I had heard positive reviews and had friends comment on what a pleasure it was to see. Then another friend posted a comment on Facebook checking the generally overwhelming praise. He still seemed to think it was good, but not the greatest summer movie of our time. I was glad to read a few remarks going against the tide of praise to lower my expectations before I went to see it.
I didn’t go to it when it was still in its initial run; instead, I waited until it was at the second run theater at a nearby mall where matinee tickets are only two dollars and evening shows are four. I went to the 4:30 showing, and my ticket and a soda together cost less than the price of a ticket by itself at a first run theater. Of course, the sound system was a bit low tech, leaving the whole movie a bit muffled, and the seats have seen better days, but in order to save a few dollars, I’m willing to put up with the lesser accommodations, especially if it’s a movie I’m somewhat indifferent about or one that I’m seeing to stay out of the heat and kill a summer afternoon rather than because I’m desperate to see the movie itself. I saw Bridesmaids at this theater a couple weeks ago (and I still need to write about that one), and if I bother to see The Hangover 2, it’ll be either at this theater or on TV. But with Super 8, I actually wished I’d seen it at a nicer theater because it’s a movie that is well made and engaging enough to deserve the full theatrical treatment projected onto a big screen with high quality surround sound.
Let me not get carried away, though. The movie is good enough to deserve to been seen in all its glory, but that doesn’t mean it’s the greatest summer movie ever. Basically, it’s intended to feel like an old Steven Spielberg film, and it does achieve some of that feeling, but it also left me with the desire to go back and watch Jurassic Park and E.T. and Raiders of the Lost Ark. Super 8 is good, and it does capture some of the essence of those wonderful Spielberg films, but it also feels a bit like an imitation of them, a forgery of a master artist’s work.
In case you’re unfamiliar with the basic story, I’ll recap here. It’s 1979 in a small Ohio town. Our hero, Joe, is dealing with the death of his mother in a steel mill accident and the newfound reality of living alone with his father, who is unprepared to be a single parent. Summer vacation is starting, and Joe and his best friend Charles are excited to have more time to work on their 8mm zombie movie that they plan to enter in a local film contest (Joe handles makeup and special effects; Charles directs). They sneak out of the house one night to film on a train station platform, and as they film, a train derails. The Army comes to town to clean things up and investigate, and the mystery really begins: what or who was on that train? Why is the Army keeping things quiet? Why do all the dogs in town suddenly want to run away?
Strangely enough, the same elements that work as some of Super 8’s great strengths are also weaknesses. Charles, the young film director, talks about changing his script to add more story because that is what will move an audience. He read an article in a moviemaking magazine about the need for more than just special effects and thrilling adventure. So Charles writes in a wife for the main character, so the audience will understand what’s at stake for him. Charles also realizes that in order to stand a chance at making his movie stand out in the competition, he needs “production value.” So he films as the train passes by and ultimately derails so his film will have more going on than just kids standing around talking. Later, he films in front of the derailed train and near a group of Army guys. The same elements that Charles recognizes as essential to a good film are present throughout Super 8. The dead mother makes the audience more invested in Joe’s character. The conflicts between parents and children add more emotion. The derailing train sequence is a great example of production value, as are the other top notch special effects throughout the rest of the movie.
So if what we go to movies for is to have our emotions played with and to be awed with production value, then Super 8 is a great film. However, I sometimes felt like it was all a bit shallow, like J. J. Abrams, the writer-director, was really just a grown up version of Charles. All he wants to do is have fun making a movie, not because he has a story he feels utterly compelled to tell, but rather because he loves movies and wants to make one like the kind he loves. So the special effects and emotional twists come across as a bit manipulative rather than authentic. Just as Charles wanted to make his version of a Romero film, Abrams wanted to make his version of a Spielberg. I imagine him working on the screenplay and trying to figure out what would make this movie stand out, and just as Charles thinks, “I’ll give the guy a wife,” Abrams thinks, “I’ll give the kid a dead mom.”
It’s hard to explain exactly why I find it a bit dissatisfying. Overall, it is very well made. The audience is as skillfully manipulated as in just about any other movie. And I enjoyed the experience on a whole. Yet I also left feeling a bit empty, like this was only a great movie if I didn’t think too much about it. Or maybe it’s as simple as I mentioned earlier: the move left me really wanting to watch E.T. or Jurassic Park. Super 8 is a great example of just how good Spielberg is, though I can’t explain why he’s so much better than almost everybody else.
I didn’t go to it when it was still in its initial run; instead, I waited until it was at the second run theater at a nearby mall where matinee tickets are only two dollars and evening shows are four. I went to the 4:30 showing, and my ticket and a soda together cost less than the price of a ticket by itself at a first run theater. Of course, the sound system was a bit low tech, leaving the whole movie a bit muffled, and the seats have seen better days, but in order to save a few dollars, I’m willing to put up with the lesser accommodations, especially if it’s a movie I’m somewhat indifferent about or one that I’m seeing to stay out of the heat and kill a summer afternoon rather than because I’m desperate to see the movie itself. I saw Bridesmaids at this theater a couple weeks ago (and I still need to write about that one), and if I bother to see The Hangover 2, it’ll be either at this theater or on TV. But with Super 8, I actually wished I’d seen it at a nicer theater because it’s a movie that is well made and engaging enough to deserve the full theatrical treatment projected onto a big screen with high quality surround sound.
Let me not get carried away, though. The movie is good enough to deserve to been seen in all its glory, but that doesn’t mean it’s the greatest summer movie ever. Basically, it’s intended to feel like an old Steven Spielberg film, and it does achieve some of that feeling, but it also left me with the desire to go back and watch Jurassic Park and E.T. and Raiders of the Lost Ark. Super 8 is good, and it does capture some of the essence of those wonderful Spielberg films, but it also feels a bit like an imitation of them, a forgery of a master artist’s work.
In case you’re unfamiliar with the basic story, I’ll recap here. It’s 1979 in a small Ohio town. Our hero, Joe, is dealing with the death of his mother in a steel mill accident and the newfound reality of living alone with his father, who is unprepared to be a single parent. Summer vacation is starting, and Joe and his best friend Charles are excited to have more time to work on their 8mm zombie movie that they plan to enter in a local film contest (Joe handles makeup and special effects; Charles directs). They sneak out of the house one night to film on a train station platform, and as they film, a train derails. The Army comes to town to clean things up and investigate, and the mystery really begins: what or who was on that train? Why is the Army keeping things quiet? Why do all the dogs in town suddenly want to run away?
Strangely enough, the same elements that work as some of Super 8’s great strengths are also weaknesses. Charles, the young film director, talks about changing his script to add more story because that is what will move an audience. He read an article in a moviemaking magazine about the need for more than just special effects and thrilling adventure. So Charles writes in a wife for the main character, so the audience will understand what’s at stake for him. Charles also realizes that in order to stand a chance at making his movie stand out in the competition, he needs “production value.” So he films as the train passes by and ultimately derails so his film will have more going on than just kids standing around talking. Later, he films in front of the derailed train and near a group of Army guys. The same elements that Charles recognizes as essential to a good film are present throughout Super 8. The dead mother makes the audience more invested in Joe’s character. The conflicts between parents and children add more emotion. The derailing train sequence is a great example of production value, as are the other top notch special effects throughout the rest of the movie.
So if what we go to movies for is to have our emotions played with and to be awed with production value, then Super 8 is a great film. However, I sometimes felt like it was all a bit shallow, like J. J. Abrams, the writer-director, was really just a grown up version of Charles. All he wants to do is have fun making a movie, not because he has a story he feels utterly compelled to tell, but rather because he loves movies and wants to make one like the kind he loves. So the special effects and emotional twists come across as a bit manipulative rather than authentic. Just as Charles wanted to make his version of a Romero film, Abrams wanted to make his version of a Spielberg. I imagine him working on the screenplay and trying to figure out what would make this movie stand out, and just as Charles thinks, “I’ll give the guy a wife,” Abrams thinks, “I’ll give the kid a dead mom.”
It’s hard to explain exactly why I find it a bit dissatisfying. Overall, it is very well made. The audience is as skillfully manipulated as in just about any other movie. And I enjoyed the experience on a whole. Yet I also left feeling a bit empty, like this was only a great movie if I didn’t think too much about it. Or maybe it’s as simple as I mentioned earlier: the move left me really wanting to watch E.T. or Jurassic Park. Super 8 is a great example of just how good Spielberg is, though I can’t explain why he’s so much better than almost everybody else.
Captain America
Once again, as tends to be the case with superhero movies, Captain America was pretty much what I expected it to be. I didn’t know much about this character going in, and so I was intrigued at the set up of the weakling who wants to help his country and do the right thing but is unable to enlist until a brilliant scientist gives him a chance to become part of an experiment to create a new super soldier. After Steve Rogers is transformed from a ninety-eight pound weakling into a super buff fighter capable of helping the Allies destroy the Nazis, the movie takes a turn I wasn’t expecting with a really delightful song and dance routine. But, of course, we must get back to the action when Captain America goes out alone to save his old buddy from the bad guys with the evil plan to take over the world.
The plot from there isn’t too important to recap. The bottom line is that the movie does a good job of being what it is. My one major critique is the same critique I have of a lot of action movies in recent years, and that’s simply that it’s too long. By the final half hour or so, I was ready to be done. I don’t know if I have a short attention span or what, but I generally think ninety minutes is a good length for an action movie, comedy, horror, mystery, whatever. Anything other than a serious character-driven drama should probably be less than two hours. And any single action sequence should probably be no more than ten or fifteen minutes. Now, I wasn’t timing the big climactic action sequence in Captain America, but it sure felt like it went on for a half an hour or so, and I wanted it be done about halfway through.
It’s strange: I don’t have any specific problems with the action sequences. There weren’t any moments that stand out as being gratuitous, but on a whole, it was just too much. I think the tendency in recent years is to always try to make the newest movie bigger than what has come before, but bigger doesn’t mean better. I’d rather have smaller, with more specifically chosen moments that really work instead of throwing every possible event at the screen, hoping that something will be amazing. I have a feeling of déjà vu as I write this. Did I write this same thing about Thor or X-Men? It seems likely.
So here’s my general advice to directors making the next big blockbuster action movie: go for a lean ninety minutes. The last thing you want to do is bore the audience with too much action. Plus, if a movie is ninety minutes instead of over one hundred and twenty, the theaters might be able to squeeze in an extra showing each day, which means the movie could rake in even more money.
The plot from there isn’t too important to recap. The bottom line is that the movie does a good job of being what it is. My one major critique is the same critique I have of a lot of action movies in recent years, and that’s simply that it’s too long. By the final half hour or so, I was ready to be done. I don’t know if I have a short attention span or what, but I generally think ninety minutes is a good length for an action movie, comedy, horror, mystery, whatever. Anything other than a serious character-driven drama should probably be less than two hours. And any single action sequence should probably be no more than ten or fifteen minutes. Now, I wasn’t timing the big climactic action sequence in Captain America, but it sure felt like it went on for a half an hour or so, and I wanted it be done about halfway through.
It’s strange: I don’t have any specific problems with the action sequences. There weren’t any moments that stand out as being gratuitous, but on a whole, it was just too much. I think the tendency in recent years is to always try to make the newest movie bigger than what has come before, but bigger doesn’t mean better. I’d rather have smaller, with more specifically chosen moments that really work instead of throwing every possible event at the screen, hoping that something will be amazing. I have a feeling of déjà vu as I write this. Did I write this same thing about Thor or X-Men? It seems likely.
So here’s my general advice to directors making the next big blockbuster action movie: go for a lean ninety minutes. The last thing you want to do is bore the audience with too much action. Plus, if a movie is ninety minutes instead of over one hundred and twenty, the theaters might be able to squeeze in an extra showing each day, which means the movie could rake in even more money.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
In the past week I watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part One and Two. Both are good. They’re entertaining and satisfying conclusions to the series. I’ve been a Harry Potter fan for years now, although I was a bit slow to get into them initially.
I remember the first time I ever heard of Harry Potter was when I was in college. I was taking a class on Tolkien (which, unfortunately, I had to drop after the first class because it was an evening class and I was cast in a play that semester so had to attend evening rehearsals). The professor asked if any of us had read the Harry Potter books. There weren’t more than two or three of the books out at that time, and none of the movies had been made yet. I had no idea what Harry Potter even was, and neither did most of the rest of the class. It seems funny to think back on that now since Harry Potter is probably one of the best-known characters in the world.
Within the next couple of years, I heard more about Harry Potter. My father is a pastor, so I heard reference to the controversy within the conservative Christian community about how dangerous it was to allow children to read books about witches. My parents picked up the books to see what the hubbub was about and discovered how enjoyable they were. At some point, when I was on summer vacation maybe, I borrowed the audiobooks from my mom and got caught up in the fun stories (I still think audiobook is the way to experience Harry Potter; Jim Dale is an amazing reader). The first movie came out the Thanksgiving after I finished college, and I was living back at my parents’ house, so we all saw it together (there’s really nothing that makes one recognize his failure to truly enter adulthood like being twenty-two, living with his parents, and going with them to see a children’s movie). That first movie was decent if a bit too long and slow.
The next movie was likewise acceptable, but nothing particularly special. But by the third movie, the series really took off. And the final two really cement the franchise’s place in film history. It’s truly a phenomenal achievement to have made eight consistently high-quality films, especially when the beginning of the series is the weakest point.
I don’t really have too much to say about these final two films. I’m sure anybody reading this either already knows how good these movies are or doesn’t care and isn’t interested in the first place. There seems to be little middle ground with Harry Potter.
The one negative comment I’ll share about Deathly Hallows Part Two is that it has jumped onto the 3D bandwagon, which I feel is a mistake. It’s tough to know whether 3D is really the future of cinema or just a short-term fad. I suspect it’s a fad. I’ve seen a few movies in 3D, but typically I’d just as soon save the extra money and watch it in 2D. I think in the best cases 3D adds little, but in the worst cases it is an annoying distraction. I watched Deathly Hallows in 2D, but there were a few moments in the film where I was distracted by elements that seemed to be deliberately included to take advantage of 3D. There’s a roller coaster-like sequence in the goblin bank that is filmed like it’s supposed to simulate being on a ride at a theme park. Then a dragon lunges straight at the camera. I’m sure it looks cool in 3D, but the problem is that these moments distract from the story. I’d rather have filmmakers simply tell their story without trying to make things cool or to feel the need to use new technology simply because it exists.
I remember the first time I ever heard of Harry Potter was when I was in college. I was taking a class on Tolkien (which, unfortunately, I had to drop after the first class because it was an evening class and I was cast in a play that semester so had to attend evening rehearsals). The professor asked if any of us had read the Harry Potter books. There weren’t more than two or three of the books out at that time, and none of the movies had been made yet. I had no idea what Harry Potter even was, and neither did most of the rest of the class. It seems funny to think back on that now since Harry Potter is probably one of the best-known characters in the world.
Within the next couple of years, I heard more about Harry Potter. My father is a pastor, so I heard reference to the controversy within the conservative Christian community about how dangerous it was to allow children to read books about witches. My parents picked up the books to see what the hubbub was about and discovered how enjoyable they were. At some point, when I was on summer vacation maybe, I borrowed the audiobooks from my mom and got caught up in the fun stories (I still think audiobook is the way to experience Harry Potter; Jim Dale is an amazing reader). The first movie came out the Thanksgiving after I finished college, and I was living back at my parents’ house, so we all saw it together (there’s really nothing that makes one recognize his failure to truly enter adulthood like being twenty-two, living with his parents, and going with them to see a children’s movie). That first movie was decent if a bit too long and slow.
The next movie was likewise acceptable, but nothing particularly special. But by the third movie, the series really took off. And the final two really cement the franchise’s place in film history. It’s truly a phenomenal achievement to have made eight consistently high-quality films, especially when the beginning of the series is the weakest point.
I don’t really have too much to say about these final two films. I’m sure anybody reading this either already knows how good these movies are or doesn’t care and isn’t interested in the first place. There seems to be little middle ground with Harry Potter.
The one negative comment I’ll share about Deathly Hallows Part Two is that it has jumped onto the 3D bandwagon, which I feel is a mistake. It’s tough to know whether 3D is really the future of cinema or just a short-term fad. I suspect it’s a fad. I’ve seen a few movies in 3D, but typically I’d just as soon save the extra money and watch it in 2D. I think in the best cases 3D adds little, but in the worst cases it is an annoying distraction. I watched Deathly Hallows in 2D, but there were a few moments in the film where I was distracted by elements that seemed to be deliberately included to take advantage of 3D. There’s a roller coaster-like sequence in the goblin bank that is filmed like it’s supposed to simulate being on a ride at a theme park. Then a dragon lunges straight at the camera. I’m sure it looks cool in 3D, but the problem is that these moments distract from the story. I’d rather have filmmakers simply tell their story without trying to make things cool or to feel the need to use new technology simply because it exists.
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