In a time when our country is beset by war, political scandal, and popular unrest, it's good to know that Hollywood is still able to focus on the issues that really matter: namely, its so-called box office slump. A slump in which the film industry makes a slightly less obscene amount of money than usual. Countless articles and exposes have been devoted to analyses and investigations of the slump: why is it happening and who is to blame? Do Americans not want to deal in frivolity in this time of terror and turmoil? What about the effects of piracy? Or, worse, television?
The most common explanation, however, seems pretty plausible: movies have fucking sucked lately. Studios have abandoned original material and are instead churning out remake after remake - pissing off the public in the process.
But, you know, maybe this is a little unfair. Maybe we should cut Hollywood a little slack - after all, it's possible that there is a noble, underlying reason for all this. I mean, Hollywood types are totally progressive and political, right? So maybe we should just consider the possibility that the current repurposing trend is just part of a larger Green initiative, a form of creative environmentalism. Their philosophy is probably something like why waste our precious, diminishing creative resources on new ideas when there are so many old ideas just sitting there, waiting to be reused? It is our job - nay, it is our patriotic duty to protect our strategic idea reserve.
It's possible. And it's actually sort of comforting.
At least until you realize that it would logically follow that it is also our patriotic duty as moviegoers to support something like, oh, I don't know: The Pink Panther.
The sad reality is that the nitwits in charge of coming up with new ideas in Hollywood are lazy-ass, risk-averse motherfuckers. And, so, for the past few years, the moviegoing public has been subjected to crappy remake after crappy remake. The Stepford Wives, for instance, was a totally humorless remake of a cultural touchstone. The Truth About Charlie was about as worthy as successor to Charade as, well, Mark Wahlberg is to Cary Grant. And as for Yours, Mine, and Ours? Consider this: it's not just that one person green-lit that project that's horrifying. Actual dozens of people thought that movie was a good idea.
Television, too, has provided ample fodder for Cro-Magnon cinematic upchuck: Bewitched, The Dukes of Hazzard, Scooby-Doo. Not to mention the big-screen adaptation of Dallas, the latest atrocity-to-be. At this point, I have to believe that it's only a matter of time before some genius studio exec decides to stick Jessica Alba and Vince Vaughn in a feature-length adaptation of Roseanne. With Jamie-Lynn Spears as Darlene, natch.
(If that ever happens, I will give up. Just, you know, on the world at large.)
As underwhelmed as I am, however, on a basic, economic sort of level, I get it. Remakes have an existing audience and an established formula. You may not make as much money with a mediocre remake as with an exciting new original, but, on the other hand, you can only fuck up so bad. Even if it sucks (which it probably will), I imagine that it's unlikely you're going to lose much money. Unless you remake, like, Heaven's Gate. And adjust for inflation.
So, fine. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know that capitalism isn't going anywhere anytime soon. Go, remake the fuck out of whatever you can get your hands on, Hollywood. But I do have one tiny request: I'd like to see what would happen if, instead of remaking something awesome into something godawful, you might instead focus on reworking movies that, in their original form, left a little something to be desired.
A little something I like to call nitroglycerin.
Hear me out. First of all, nitroglycerin is awesome. Why? Because it explodes. But nitroglycerin is also the cinematic equivalent of an ellipsis: a cheap-ass and slightly contrived way to add suspense. With nitroglycerin, you wouldn't even have to reshoot movies - all you'd have to do is digitally insert a few scary-looking bomb-type things and voila: instant thriller. I mean, the Wages of Fear was a two-and-a-half-hour movie about, pretty much, driving over crappy roads. In any other situation, that would just me another morning commute on the BQE. But they had the good sense to add nitroglycerin, and as a result it is one of the great suspense films of all time.
Here are a few other movies that could benefit from such treatment.
Sleepless in Seattle
Why is Tom Hanks so sleepless? Because he's strapped to a large metal canister, that's why. A large metal canister ... of nitroglycerin. The only thing that can save him now is the love of a good woman. Unfortunately for Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan will have to do. Regardless: can she get to Seattle in time to save the man of her dreams?
Spanglish
A comedy about the ultimate culture clash ... of nitroglycerin. When the Klusky family hired Flor Moreno, they knew they would have to welcome Flor into their home, but they never expected to welcome Flor into their hearts. The only problem is, Flor is pretty much constantly loaded down with nitroglycerin. Because, you know: foreigner. 
Too bad Téa Leoni doesn't speak Spanish - will the family make it through their summer vacation alive? Or will they die one by one until only Cloris Leachman remains, left alone with the flaming wreckage of her self-respect?
2001: A Space Odyssey
Film schools and geek-driven video stores across the country would erupt into volcanic fanboy wrath were anyone to suggest tampering with a Kubrick film. That doesn't mean, however, that 2001 can't be rereleased with a few modifications for the audience's viewing pleasure. My suggestion: hook up the moviegoers to a series of movement-monitoring electrodes and, above them, suspend a bucket ... of nitroglycerin. If the audience nods off or looks away, the nitroglycerin falls. No one will ever call the last twenty minutes "gratuitously boring and indulgent" again. (A slightly safer alternative, of course, is just to hotbox the theater.)
Meet Joe Black
Death makes a deal with Anthony Hopkins: no one can die as long as he shows Death the world ... of nitroglycerin.
Or, okay, so, Death falls in love with Anthony Hopkins's robot-daughter, who is really surprisingly realistic given that she's made entirely ... of nitroglycerin.
Oh, fuck it: nitroglycerin can't help this movie. Samuel L. Jackson couldn't help this movie. (Which is, by the way, a remake itself.) This is a movie where the actors will deliver a line and then just, like, hang out for a few minutes before moving on to the next one. I dare you to find a film that will more effectively suck away your will to live. It's like the State of the Union, except you don't have to pause for sycophantic applause, you have to pause for the quiet desecration of your soul.
My Dinner With Andre
Two men sit at a dinner table rigged to an audio trigger, which is in turn rigged to a vat ... of nitroglycerin. If the conversation lags, the entire place is going to blow. Will they be able to continue to dramatize the fragility and preciousness of life - when that very life is in question?
(Due to the suspicion that intellectuals and theater professionals might possibly be somewhat lacking in broad sympathetic appeal, the restaurant will also be filled with toddlers and American flags.)
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reduce, reuse, recycle
crash course
The Academy Awards are drawing ever near, and as Hollywood prepares for its big night of self-congratulatory excess, award speculation is reaching its usual brain-fevered pitch. Every year, it seems, one dark-horse nominee comes out of nowhere to challenge the odds-on favorite. This year is no different. Despite the near-universal critical acclaim lavished on Brokeback Mountain, for the past few weeks the buzz has been building steadily behind another Best Picture contender: Crash.
As legend has it, Paul Haggis outlined the entire script for Crash in a single late-night pan-flash of inspiration. Now, is he just a mad genius? It's possible. Canadians often are.
However, I have to wonder: could it be that as Paul Haggis toiled away on such televisual touchstones as thirtysomething, L.A. Law, and Due South, he was able to develop a sort of writerly technique - a formula, if you will - that allowed him to finesse an award-winning screenplay in a mere matter of hours?
I decided to find out.
I spent an evening in quiet contemplation of the complex, challenging, and - above all - artistically credible cinematic two-step that is Crash. I considered the characters, the pacing, and the plot and I tried to reconstruct the process that would allow a person to script the better part of a potential Best Picture in a single night.
Of course, I had to do this all in my head. The DVD is, like, 12 bucks or something.
Then, while taking the subway to work this morning, I decided to plot my own provocative ensemble drama. And you know what? I discovered that Paul Haggis might just be on to something. There is a process.
This is what I learned.
Okay, so, the first thing you need to do in any complex, challenging, and credible artistic process is select your issue. Be sure to pick an issue that is provocative. This means that you will be able to include graphic depictions of sex or violence without sacrificing your aforementioned artistic credibility. Sure, it's not the good kind of sex or violence, but people will pay attention all the same.
Try not to choose anything that's been too recently media-frenzied - you don't want to write a screenplay on a subject only to find out that Law & Order beat you to it.
Here are some suggestions:
Suburban Ennui
Campaign Finance Reform
SARS
Genocide
For the purpose of this exercise, my issue of choice - for obvious reasons - is "meth mouth".
Moving along: we also need to choose our character names. This might seem daunting at first, but you can actually find these names almost anywhere. You could use family names or names of friends or names from a favorite book. You could even go on the Internet, where I'm sure you can find all sorts of helpful information. Paul Haggis probably came up with his names all on his own, but remember: he's a trained professional.
I got my names from this week's issue of The Economist.
Now, we're going to be making an ensemble drama. This means that we will be able to explore the complexities of human interaction and will be eligible for the maximum number of SAG awards. Lucky for us, the more characters you have, the less character they need. So character development's going to be a piece of cake. All we have to do is take our chosen names and assign each one an occupation and an emotional state.
Let's also include the roughly opposite emotional state, as this will come in handy later on.
Jacques: Firefighter, Scared/Fearless
Vladimir: Astronaut, Immature/Mature
Hugo: Dentist, Angry/Not Angry
Kim: Pastry Chef, Malnourished/Corpulent
Blair: Nun, Conflicted/Ecstatic
Mikulas: Writer, Self-absorbed/Selfless
(Important! You should always write yourself into the story. If you don't understand why this is necessary, then you have no business being a writer. In this exercise, Mikulas is going to act as my simulacrum. I realize that this might seem unnecessarily complicated - because, well, I'm a girl and he's a boy - but it's subtlety like this that really appeals to the Academy electorate.)
Next, we have to figure out how these characters relate to one another. The key to a successful ensemble drama, I have discovered, is convoluted interrelationality. Remember that complicated and implausible are often excellent proxies for complex and challenging, so we need to be sure that all of our characters know each other, even if they run in very different circles in a very big city. Don't forget that even if you create a scenario that would never, ever happen in real life, you can always film it in ambient light or on digital video.
This is called "realism."
In order to weave an effectively complex and challenging web of interrelationality, I recommend the use of a visual aid:
I'm fairly certain that they used something quite similar for Love, Actually.
Okay, so the trick here is to give adjacent characters a pre-existing relationship and diametrically opposed characters an onscreen confrontation. The pre-existing relationships give the story depth; the onscreen conflict gives the story momentum. Both of these are essential to Academy Award-winning storytelling.
Observe:
In this example, Kim and Hugo are married. (Since their emotional states are malnourished and angry, respectively, we know that this marriage is not a happy one.) Let's say that Jacques and Hugo are friends from high school. And that Jacques knew Vladimir from his days in the space program. (Recall that Jacques is scared. This must be why he had to drop out of NASA.) And Vladimir is the younger brother of Blair who once taught elementary Latin to Mikulas who is Kim's gay best friend.
See how well this is all coming together? Already we have what the critics like to call "layers".
Now, Blair and Hugo meet when Blair goes to him with a toothache. Turns out a toothache is the least of her problems. Meanwhile, across town, Mikulas has built himself a meth lab to support his writing habit. He knew that synthesizing phenylacetone and methylamine was a recipe for a really killer high, but he never thought it might also be a formula for despair. (Or, as Jacques is about to discover, that it might also be incredibly explosive.) And as for Vladimir, he just wanted a cupcake from Kim's pastry shop. Little did he know how his life was about to change.
And there you go. All that remains now is a little third-act resolution. We don't have to worry about resolving the actual conflict, as resolution is neither complex nor challenging nor artistically credible. This is why French film is so often well-received. We do, however, need to worry about satisfying the audience, so we'll trick them into a sense of resolution by relying on our old storytelling friend, the character arc.
What is a character arc, you ask? Simple: a character arc is the path any given character takes along the way from their initial emotional state to that state's rough opposite. (See, I told you our earlier antonymical work would come in handy.) However, in the strict Euclidean world of ensemble drama, character growth is not so much an arc as it is a line: that is, the shortest distance between two emotional points. We have limited screen time here, remember, so efficiency is key.
I'm thinking that Mikulas (selflessly) pulls Jacques from a burning building after Jacques (fearlessly) breaks a leg in a daring meth-lab rescue attempt. Vlad (seriously) breaks down without his buttercream frosting while (corpulent) Kim struggles with rehab. And Blair dies in Hugo's (not-angry) arms - but not before she (ecstatically) sees the face of God.
Of course, in order to achieve maximal dramatic effect, we will want to cross-cut from scene to scene to scene, all in a seamless way that further proves the point that there is a common thread in all of us regardless of our preconceived editorial notions.
But we can take care of that in post.
And there we have it: complex, challenging, credible. It's a snappy logline away from a handshake deal with Fox Searchlight. I don't even have a particularly long commute. With a little more time, I bet I could make this story even more powerful. Particularly if I introduced a sweet-faced child - and then put that child in mortal peril.
In light of this exercise, I have to admit: I am totally rethinking my stance on this movie. A few days ago, I was infuriated at the possibility that Crash would manage to beat out both the critical favorite and my own personal favorite for Best Picture. I told myself that I should know that the Academy is no better at making an informed decision than the rest of the American public, that it should come as no surprise.
For the first time, though, I am heartened by and perhaps even in accord with the Academy's reckless bad taste. Because even though Crash doesn't really manage to say anything new or particularly interesting about racism, it does manage to give hope to the most hopeless among us:
Struggling screenwriters.
And for that alone, the man deserves a Thalberg.
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the odds are good
It's no secret that I'm mildly obsessed with awards season. I look forward to the Golden Globes and the Oscars far more than I look forward to Christmas and my birthday. Tragically, there isn't much that I enjoy more than a scrupulous examination of nominees and probabilities and expectations - and I get really pissed off when I lose Oscar pools.
Which I invariably do (lose, that is), as every year there's at least one movie that I cannot in good conscience support, even though I know a tick in a box on an Oscar prediction list means nothing about my own preferences, only those of the Academy voters. Occasionally, however, and usually regarding shamefully trivial matters, I decide to have principles and stick to them. Even if it's a face-spiting, nose-cutting gesture.
For instance, last year I refused to bet on Million Dollar Baby. The year before that it was Mystic River. Two years before that it was A Beautiful Mind. I knew these movies are popularly and even critically adored - and, more importantly, likely to sweep up at the Oscars - but I loathe baldly manufactured pathos, and all three are full of it. Worse, each film took its inflated sense of self-worth and practically beat me over the head with it. They seemed to say: if you don't like these movies then you must not like good movies, and if you aren't moved by these characters then you have no soul. It was cultural peer pressure, plain and simple. And it pissed me off. So I fought back - by excluding them from my Oscar ballot and losing myself money and respect. (See above re: face, nose, spite.)
Unfortunately for this year's Oscar pool, it looks like there are two films that are going to fuck me over: Crash and Munich. I saw both this week, one on TV and one at the theater. I went into each with fairly high expectations - which, in retrospect, was rather foolish, because the only thing worse than a bad movie is an unexpectedly bad movie.
With Crash, I really should have known better. I laughed when the posters first appeared in the subway last spring - like, did someone not tell these people about the other movie with the same name? And then that tagline "Moving at the speed of life, we are bound to collide with each other." Girl, please.
But I love Don Cheadle and I was, I admit, taken in by the onslaught of critical praise. So I settled in and prepared myself to be good and edumacated about the subtle but pervasive menace that is contemporary racism.
Unfortunately, the movie has nothing at all to say about contemporary racism except that - surprise! - it exists. Every interaction in every scene oozes prejudice - if there were a drinking game for this movie, and one of the rules was to take a sip every time one of the characters showed racist tendencies, you would be unconscious and drowning in your own vomit by minute 50. The movie doesn't try to address the source of prejudice or posit solutions to it. The entire point of Crash is, pretty much, that we're all - black, white, whatever - racist scum.
Now, this might be a valid point. But by choosing to depict racism as an almost violently overt state of being, the movie oversimplifies racist action and reaction until any point it makes becomes almost wholly irrelevant. Racism today is not the sheet-wearing spectacle of the past. Prejudice found its way around political correctness - it no longer needs racial slur to keep on truckin. Racism doesn't reveal itself so much anymore in what we say anymore, but what we don't say. (I realize this seems glib, but stay with me for a moment.) We're quick to condemn public figures who make the mistake of slipping slur into their speech, but many have come to believe that this frankly cosmetic achievement is some sort of indication that racism is no longer prevalent in our institutions or the more "enlightened" parts of society. It's the same reaction public health officials saw after the development of the cocktail of drugs to treat AIDS - sure, patients with HIV live longer, fully lives now, and white and black people share schools and toilets, but that doesn't mean we can sit back and relax. We still haven't solved the underlying problem.
The reason Crash is called "provocative" is the same reason Crash is irrelevant. We are shocked by loud-mouthed, public racism - because it's just not done anymore. But if it's just "not done", then the movie's not really looking at the real issue. It's like making a movie about health care in America that focuses on an isolated outbreak of cholera.
To make matters worse, the script is insultingly contrived and manipulative. At one point the audience is led to believe that a young girl is shot - and it is a genuinely upsetting moment. But it turns out that the gun was loaded with blanks, and the little girl was put in peril for the sole purpose of pulling at our heartstrings. It was a cheap move, it infuriated me, and it took me right out of the movie.
(And don't think I spoiled anything for you by revealing that. Quite the opposite, I assure you.)
With Munich, on the other hand, I'm not sure I ever got into the movie in the first place.
When I saw Schindler's List, I felt horribly inadequate because, to be perfectly honest, I didn't really feel anything. I remember sitting in the movie theater and thinking "You should cry, you know. Cry. No, really. Do it, already. Why aren't you crying, you heartless wench!" But the movie left me cold. And so did Munich, to the point that, during the final, lingering image of the World Trade Center, I was beginning to wonder if there might be something wrong with me, so blithely unaffected was I by Big Movies About Serious Things.
This is what I thought about while I was watching Munich:
1. How, up to that point, I hadn't fully appreciated Eric Bana's aesthetic appeal.
2. Whether or not Daniel Craig will be the worst Bond ever.
3. What Tony Kushner must have been like on set.
4. Why Spielberg would cast both Geoffrey Rush and a man who looks almost exactly like Geoffrey Rush.
5. How much Eric Bana's character's Brooklyn apartment would have cost in 1973.
6. What I was going to eat for dinner.
At least Crash managed to elicit some sort of response - even if that response was frustration and anger. Munich actually also featured a young girl in peril, but I barely batted an eye at her predicament. I reacted to Munich precisely two times, and each time with horror. The first time was when the film showed archival footage of the Munich coverage, the only thing in the entire movie that felt real, probably because it was. When Howard Cosell reported that the hostages had all been killed, my gut clenched. The second time was near the end, when Spielberg ridiculously intercut a reenactment of the hostages' final minutes with a sex scene between Bana and his onscreen wife. My gut clenched again, but in an entirely different way.
Even now, though, I can't quite explain what went wrong with Munich. It might have been the pacing, which was sluggish in that particularly Spielbergian way (that is, slow the movie down to a crawl every time you make an Important Point, which, as you might expect, happens about every five minutes). It might have been the dialogue, which was elevated in that particularly Kushnerian way (this also served to undermine the Important Points, which tended to be pithy pronouncements delivered archly into portentous silence). It also might have been Eric Bana, who really, really distracted me. The man is awfully good looking.
On a fundamental level, each of these movies fails for me, I think, because they presume to make statements about Things That Matter. But instead of making an argument, instead of letting the audience come to its own conclusions about the genesis of racism or the fecundity of violence, these movies make the conclusion for you at the start and then hammer it relentlessly home.
I was recently struck by a quote I read - an Iranian director said, "I make one film as a filmmaker, but the audience, based on that film makes 100 movies in their minds." Crash and Munich each do their best to get that 100 down to a cozy, simple 2 or 3, and neither are better films for it.
Regardless, I'm sure each will receive a half-dozen Oscar nominations. God help me if Crash ("I think we miss that touch so much that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.") wins Best Original Screenplay. If I'm really unlucky Munich will have some late surge and end up beating out Brokeback Mountain for Best Picture.
Because self-satisfied cinema doesn't just kick you, it kicks you while you're down.
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the end of the world as I know it
Fuck. I had totally forgotten that one of my favorite movie critics, Slate's David Edelstein, is moving this week to my least-favorite publication, New York Magazine.
(Seriously, Edelstein? You're seriously lapping up Ken Tucker's sloppy seconds? I hope they're paying you a fucking king's ransom.)
This means that the brilliant Slate Movie Club, as least in its current incarnation, is dead. Each year for the past several years, Edelstein has gathered together a ragtag group of prominent critics, ostensibly to dissect the year's best and worst films. In practice, though, they tend to wax articulate about larger issues of cinema and criticism with humblingly at-ease erudition.
And, along the way, Edelstein drops lazy dollops of brilliance like: "Why doesn't [Woody] Allen adapt a good novel, or, better yet, direct someone else's script? He has surprises left in him as a director, but not as a human being."
Or: "I was stunned that Cinderella Man did as badly at the box office as it did, since I think it was a beautifully done piece of utter bullshit."
(Again: seriously? New York Magazine? You're going to New York fucking Magazine? The publication responsible for the Look Book? You wound me, sir.)
Sometimes the critics let their self-congratulatory tendencies get in the way of productive debate and occasionally they veer into reductively self-conscious analysis, but at its best, the Movie Club manages not only to restore my faith in film, but also - almost - to restore my faith in humanity. At least until A.O. Scott reinserts the New York Times-mandated stick into his ass.
So go pay your respects and read it already. We may not get anything like it again anytime soon.
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rawhide
I'm sitting here in my usual Friday-afternoon haze, trying to figure out if I want to go to a movie after work or if I should just go drink.
It's a movie sort of day, after all - cold and tiring and annoying. And I'm in a movie sort of mood - cold and tired and annoyed. I also really want to see Brokeback Mountain. I read the short story online a few days ago, and I was pleasantly surprised by it. Because I didn't think I liked Annie Proulx.
A few years ago, my father called me up and said, rather urgently, "EB, I just read the most horrible book. It was awful. I couldn't even finish it."
I had experienced something similar that very day, and said so. "What was your instrument of torture?" I asked.
"The Shipping News," he spat.
If I had been drinking Diet Coke at that moment, I would have choked on it. Because I had been reading the exact same thing.
I think my father was more disappointed than I was, though. I like my novels like I like my men: mean. Annie Proulx just didn't seem like a mean bird. So I didn't really expect to like it. My dad, on the other hand, likes his novels like he likes his everything: Canadian.
And the Shipping News is set in Newfoundland.
I told him he should have known better - after all, Canadians make fun of Newfies the way Americans make fun of the French.
But Brokeback Mountain is a gorgeous story, and unlike The Shipping News, the details of which now almost completely escape me, I haven't quite been able to get Brokeback Mountain out of my head. As excited as I am about the movie, though - I have been quietly in love with Ang Lee ever since The Wedding Banquet - I don't think I can go see it by myself. I'm usually fine with seeing movies by myself, but there's something about this movie that makes me think that it's not quite right for solitary viewing, what is it ... hmm ... oh yes: it's a chick flick.
I mean it. It its core, it's a film about true love impeded by tradition and social pressure. That pretty much describes every period romance, ever - this one just happens to be about two dudes. What's more: two overwhelmingly attractive dudes. So, yes, the movie will appeal to anybody with an aesthetic appreciation of the human form. But the movie will also to the Will-and-Grace single gal who's ever on the lookout for another exciting and small-minded way to fetishize homosexuality. Remember when white poseur liberals tried to establish their PC cred by having some token minority friend to display at parties? Similarly, gay men are the de rigeur fashion accessory for the vapid fashionista set, all of whom absolutely must have a fabulous gay best friend. (Because, didn't you know, homosexuality is all about style and girlish heart-to-hearts.)
So, basically, the theaters are going to be overflowing with my least favorite segment of the population: chicks. Who are distinguished from the rest of the female population by their slavish devotion to fashion-magazine gospel and bad-sitcom cliche. I'm thrilled that so many women honor the freedom of choice and opportunity so very recently afforded us by allowing their dreams to be entirely dictated by witless representations of romance. I'm also thrilled that I'm insecure enough that these same women are able to incite in me the fear of being identified as one of them.
Which is why I just don't think I can go by myself to this movie.
Although, now that I think about it, why would that type of girl go to a movie by herself? I'm sure they're going to go in herds. All the better to drink overpriced Cosmos and talk about blow jobs with, my dear. Going alone might actually set me apart.
Oh. Well. Never mind. Apparently it's sold out. Everywhere. Thanks for playing the film in, like, four fucking theatres, Focus. At least it's playing on three screens in Chelsea. Somebody somewhere has some sense.
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