The Girl Rule

I have always felt something of a distance from action, war, and legal movies. That's a pretty big cliché for me, a young female critic. And of course, there is something to be said for the fact that many of these movies are designed for men, and maybe that creates a natural distance. But it's not that I can't follow the story, or that they’re just about "man things". I simply find myself much more involved with a film if it includes female characters to whom I can relate. Now, you may say that that makes me a dumb blonde who needs women characters around who can explain things to me (and, yeah, that can be helpful). 

But put yourself in my shoes, menfolk: you don’t enjoy the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, do you? And why not? Well, for starts, because there are no male characters that are not romantic objects for the girls. There is no guy you can relate to on his own terms, rather than from the perspective of women. Flip this around, and this is the case with dozens of films released each year. As my boyfriend will attest, I’ve always carried a “girl rule” with me to the movies. “Okay, but there has to be a girl in it. And she can’t be just eye candy or a sex object. And she has to talk.” On one hand, you could regard that request as shallow and even sexist—I can’t even connect to a movie without a gender representative? But on the other, if you think about it for even a bit, it’s a pretty simple request, and one that would reflect reality a lot better than the glamorous babes that pollute action flicks just so they can make the poster look better. It really handicaps your audience to not create a character that half of your audience can relate to on one of the most basic levels, gender solidarity. I’m not asking for some kind of affirmative action; if it makes no sense to have a woman character, don’t put one in for me. But there is something that draws me in when there is a woman in there, someone who, at least on some level, thinks the way I do. If you need more persuasion, ask yourself if, as a man, you would enjoy a film with all women characters, no matter the plot. There’s simply a barrier, a difficulty breaking in. 

 For a good example of the Girl Rule followed in a “man’s genre,” take “The Silence of the Lambs.” Of course, Jodi Foster is now kind of a dyke-feminist poster girl, but at the time she was just a young actress who happened to the protagonist of a crime thriller. The film acknowledged her femininity and its unusual presence, but the movie managed to not be about that. It was about solving a crime, and Jodi just happened to be the one with the smarts and guts to do it. The rest of the movie was populated with men, and without Jodi in the lead it would have been a typically male film. But allowing her to have the role of a woman who was more than a romantic interest opened up the film’s accessibility immensely; I believe that undercurrents of gender issues in the film contributed to its success. 

All this is to say that I’ve always thought I was being a pain in the ass for longing for the Girl Rule to be fulfilled. When, lo and behold, I discover the Bechdel Test, which was created by some awesome feminists who have the same problem as me with movies created by men, for men, with no real “in” for half the population. It’s a simple formula: there have to be at least two female characters in the film, they have to talk to each other, and the conversation cannot dwell exclusively on men. Obviously, there are great films that fail this test, and I do not believe art should be subject to tests and quotas. However, it’s a great tool for awareness, because it shows how simply filmmakers could make their films richer, more realistic, and more accessible, and how often they fail to do so. 

 

 

Review: Despicable Me

Pure Squee-vil 

Dir. Pierre Coffin, Chris Renaud 2010 

Postmodern pop art has been dealing in anti-heroes for decades. It’s almost strange now to root for a regular old hero, a la Superman. Children’s films are an interesting place to look for hero mythology, because these stories are, ideally, supposed to play a role in the development of the next generation. While Disney and Pixar hold down the fort of traditional heroism, DreamWorks has been making thoroughly postmodern children’s films for the last decade, beginning with Shrek. David Denby of the New Yorker chastises DreamWorks’ methodology, which he claims has “children being entertained with derision before they’ve been ravished by awe.” Children’s films are, supposedly, where we set up archetypes that can later be broken down and questioned, but not before coming of age. But DreamWorks positions itself diametrically opposed to Pixar’s style, sacrificing soul for quick jokes, pop culture references, and satire. And here we have “Despicable Me,” a film with a premise right in the heart of the witty deconstruction: we root for the bad guy. The DreamWorks mold has its limitations when it comes to heartfelt storytelling, but “Despicable Me” is an example of what this genre gets right: it’s smart, hilarious, and self-conscious without giving in to pure snark. But it loses out to Pixar by replacing true emotion with the cutesy. 

At the center of the madcappery at work is Steve Carell’s Gru, our polygonal, Russian-accented would-be fiend. He’s just trying to get a foothold in the evil genius market, but he’s thwarted at every turn by an obnoxious rival, Vector. Vector’s gleaming white array of gadgets looks straight from the Apple Store, and Gru’s more modest means can’t earn him the villain status he craves. So when a trio of orphan girls crosses his path, he schemes up a way to use them for his most dastardly plot of all. It's all very predicable, but it unfolds so gleefully that you never mind. 

“Despicable Me” is old-school visual comedy, hearkening back to the days where comics contained the barest of captions. As the camera shows us around Gru’s house, we are greeted with wall-to-wall visual puns and gags, details we might miss without paying attention. The colors are bright, the features are exaggerated; this is more cartoon than “animated feature.” The chase scenes and effect-less violence call the Looney Toons to mind. It’s great fun, and nice to see a film where the comedy is not stuffed to the brim with fart jokes or pop culture references. 

 The superhero genre continues to be done and overdone, with parodies to spare. “Despicable Me” follows in this tradition, but its focus on the villain is an under-explored angle (though not for long, with “Megamind” being released hot on this one’s heels). What kind of antihero is Gru? What’s the difference between him and an average Super Protagonist? Obviously, he’s “evil,” but what does that mean? In the context of the film, not a lot. Gru just wears a black hat. He’s a bad guy. That’s what he does. Duh. Who needs some complex “motivation”? It’s actually quite a clever send-up of Disney villains, arbitrary “bad guys” signaled with a malevolent laugh but lacking any substance or motive, like Bowser from the Mario Bros. Oh, it’s time to kidnap Peach again, is it? Gru’s just an average villain trying to advance in his career, and any “evil” in the film is misleading. It turns out being a villain pretty much comes down to stealing the biggest thing possible, or simple inconsideration (e.g. cutting in the Starbucks line). 

So how postmodern is “Despicable Me”? It does depict “evil” in a very arbitrary way; evil is more of a lifestyle choice or career move than anything else. A clever scene has villains taking out loans at the bank for their next evil venture, a sly nod to the economic climate of our times. We will always have stories of villain’s hearts being changed by an innocent influence. But Gru’s decision at the end feels less like rejecting evil, and more like rejecting selfishness or loneliness. It’s not highly moral, but it doesn’t ruffle the viewer too much. 

“Despicable Me” isn’t attempting psychological analysis of movie villains. It’s all about the premise, a kind of messed up Mr. Mom affair: Dude, wouldn’t it be awesome if we stuck one of those movie villains with a bunch of cute little girls in his house? But really, a lot of great films start out with “Dude, wouldn’t it be awesome if--,” and the movie largely delivers on the promised hilarity. The jokes are quick and big, and it’s very stylistically sophisticated. But the biggest presence in the film is actually the all-consuming cuteness. Never before have I seen a film so single-minded in its mission to offer its audience cute in such concentrated measures. Little Agnes, the youngest of the orphans, could easily beat out Pixar’s Boo and Bonnie with one pigtail. It’s pure joy to watch. Gru’s minions, round, yellowy little guys, are so full of spunk and personality, it’s hard to know where to look. It’s engineered for constant smiling, but never comes off as syrupy, because it’s nestled in a movie of wit and alleged malevolence. But the question is, does cute count as “heart”? Up to a point. There was a small moment that was genuinely touching, but overall, the film makes up for its predictability with an endless barrage of sugar that goes down wonderfully but doesn't leave much to reflect on later. 

 In the hands of Pixar, “Despicable Me” might have explored a deep emotional place in Gru, finding out where he would connect with these kids. It might have explored the moral ramifications of Gru’s actions, using the girls to show him what he ought to value in life. But, as is, “Despicable Me” is no morality tale, no story of evil overcome by virtue. It’s crankiness met with the sheer force of adorable. Actually, it’s not unlike “UP” in that way. But where “UP” ends with a wistful, sweet fadeaway, “Despicable Me” ends with a funky dance number. What did you expect? 

Myth: 

A villain’s melted heart 

Reformation by influence of children 

Adopted Orphans 

Moral: 

People ought to let other people in their lives 

The one with the most toys doesn’t always win 

Zeitgeist Factor: 

Being DreamWorks, there is a great amount of cultural awareness present. From satire of tacky tourists to the difficulty of securing a loan, the film shows us lots of little scenarios cut from American life. Ultimately, the movie taps into one of America’s favorite sentiments of the moment, that Juno-style sour-but-sweet feel. We’re too cynical to accept a straight fairy tale, but too tenacious to reject a sweet little hope inside the sarcasm.

3.5/5

   

Lisa Shwarzbaum on Movie Criticism and Credibility

"Professional movie criticism is being viewed more and more as a rude, elitist intrusion on the popular preferences of a public with greater opportunities than ever before to be your Own Best Critic and let the world in on your thoughts."

"Both “overrated” and “underrated” stink up the place with egotism. “Disappointed” and its cousin in pain and self-regard, “I’m sorry to say,”  do something creepier still: The phraseology is a tip-off that the whole review is rigged."

http://movie-critics.ew.com/2010/07/19/inception-that-ending-movie-critics/

Review: Inception

  Messing With Minds
Dir. Chris Nolan,  2010

Dreams may well be the final frontier of storytelling. Though our cinema keeps our attention with impeccably timed conflicts leading to a choreographed climax, we are nightly enraptured by self-generated, nonsensical narratives that play unbidden in our heads. Dreams are a paradoxical element of the human experience, universal yet profoundly personal. It is nearly impossible to convey one’s experience of a dream to another person. Still, dream sequences remain a film staple, used to handily illustrate a plot point or character issue, but rarely reflecting the slippery experience of a true dream. So the question remains: can a mainstream film harness the strange appeal of these nightly, personal stories in a way that will captivate waking audiences? Christopher Nolan answers the question with “Inception,” a cinematic wonder that packs a fascinating abstract concept into a taut, sure-footed narrative structure. Technically dazzling, the film hopes to leave jaws gaping; however, its most inspired moments are the ones that venture out of the set piece and into the mess of the human heart.

The first thing to know is that “Inception” never sets out to be a Kaufman-esque brain trip. Don’t come in expecting melting clocks, fluid storytelling, or tripped-out dance sequences. Nolan is out to blow your mind, not tweak with it; no need to check your reality at the door. Because “Inception” is not an art house film: it’s a heist movie. It just happens to take place in your mind. The cinematography and score are there to remind you that this is, indeed, a textbook popcorn thriller. Set in cool tones, the camera pans around corners at suspenseful moments and shakes with handheld panic during chase scenes, a la Bourne. The soundtrack, loud and percussion-heavy, has no memorable theme and no significant deviance from that of “The Dark Knight.” You could walk in on the film for a few minutes and mistake it for a standard summer action flick.

But how wrong you would be. The scope and stakes of “Inception” are wider and higher than the typical save-the-world yawner (and the world isn’t even at stake here). That’s because “Inception” takes us inside the expansive, incredible world inside a human mind, and puts it in tangible jeopardy. It gives new meaning to the term “psychological thriller”: it’s a thriller inside someone’s psychology. It’s amazing that no one’s done it before, at least not this literally. And the genius of this premise is that Nolan ties up his philosophical questions so closely with the action that the two become one and the same. His chase scene is not just visceral, they’re ideological. This has always been a fixture of Nolan’s filmmaking, from the mind games of “Memento” to the ethical dilemmas of “The Dark Knight.” But never before has the connection been this strong and intuitive.

The plot is something that is best to experience in the theater, but here are the bones: Leonardo DiCaprio is Cobb, a neurotic genius who directs operations to steal ideas from dreams. His team includes a second-in-command (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), an architect (Ellen Page), a “forger,” a chemist, and a patron. Together, they embark on their most ambitious mission yet, but encounter psychological hangups that do more damage to their plans than any hit man could. The plot, though complex, is not difficult to follow. Nolan gives us the information when we need it, occasionally spoon-feeding exposition to help us along.

Visually, the film is chock full of set pieces and stunner moments, which have supplied the film with its major marketing push. We get gorgeous slow motion shots with water, cityscapes unfolding before our eyes, anti-gravity choreography, an Escher drawing come to life. I found myself with my jaw open more than once. The film has moments of explosive creativity, especially when illustrating the effects of outside stimuli on a dreamer (you’ll see what I mean). Aside from the set pieces, the overall visual mood is slick, calculated, and pitch-perfect. There is the sense of hot and cold imagery; slow, artistic vistas of dreamers placed alongside breathless fights and chases.

With regard to the sci-fi environment, “Inception” innovates within the lines. Undeniably, the film owes a great debt to “The Matrix,” both thematically and stylistically. Put some “agents” in an alternate reality, tell them the rules, and then watch the stakes elevate and apply to “real life.” The ideas of time travel, awakening, and alternate realities are becoming less and less shocking to us, and “Inception” shows its influences: The Matrix, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Being John Malkovich, The Truman Show, even Harry Potter. “Inception” is not a movie you would call wildly imaginative. But imaginative it is, and there were many times I found myself nodding and grinning as I saw its world unfold. The ideas of time bending connected with dreams were fascinating and well executed, especially in the finale. We do hear the rules of the game quite often, perhaps the way Nolan explained them to himself in a Word Document while developing the plot. Throughout the film, the setup and plot development continued to prove themselves clever, if not shocking. The multi-layered planning and plot structure at work here certainly make strides in the genre, enough to make “The Matrix” look too big and obvious.

A movie like “Inception” seems like it would be made for the wow-factor, but the thing that distinguishes the film from other smart thrillers is the surprisingly soulful backbone of human nature that holds it together. The film is philosophical from the get-go, and invokes all kinds of questions about the nature of ideas and creativity. As the team goes in to plant an idea in a man’s mind, they have to ask themselves questions about what makes us believe: what it takes for an idea to get its hooks in us. And the film’s answer is surprisingly un-cerebral: at our core, we are full of feelings, intuitions, longings. It’s the viscera that hook us, not facts or reason.

This idea would be merely an interesting aside were it not for DiCaprio’s Cobb, a neurotic, driven mess of a man who happens to be both the greatest asset and the greatest danger to the expedition. Despite his intimate knowledge of the depths of the human mind, he can’t get a handle on his own regrets and wishes. As the movie progresses, it becomes clear that the greatest stakes are not invested in the enterprise itself but rather in Cobb’s tangled heart. As we delve further into Cobb, we delve further into ourselves: what are our greatest doubts? What do we really hold to be true at our core? What villains do we harbor and feed inside our own minds? Do our memories and dreams become confused?

As a thriller, “Inception” delivers, keeping audiences tense and gape-jawed. As a cerebral drama, “Inception” offers enough to keep you tossing and turning at night. But what truly makes the movie memorable is how it delves into issues on a personal and unexpectedly touching level. The film’s crisis is personal, but the stakes are literal. It puts faces to our doubts and beliefs, presents our thoughts and dreams in a form we can follow with bated breath. In the end, its weight is just as much emotional as it is cerebral. “Inception” understands that our dreams get at what we are really about, and makes a real effort to offer its thesis on the matter. This movie is certainly Big Hollywood. But if a summer popcorn flick can make you gasp, cry, and stay too long in the lobby arguing with your friends about the ending, I don’t know what more you would want at the multiplex.

Myth:
Escaping to another world
Awakening

Moral:
The things we hold closest can be the things to hurt us
Feelings have a huge sway over humans

Zeitgeist Factor:
In a world where we live so much in public with presence in social networking, it seems at times that the last safe place we have is our own mind. “Inception” messes with that by saying that even that refuge might not be so stable. Similarly, “Inception” shows us a familiar postmodern principle in that the way we thought the world operated is not necessarily true, and we must open our minds to alternate realities or ways of seeing.


 

Toy Story 3

Growing Up
Dir. Lee Unkrich
2010

There are a few categories of “three-quels.” There are adaptations of a book in a series, which naturally call for a third film to correspond to a third volume (Return of the King, The Twilight Saga: Eclipse). There are film sets created with three in mind, notably including the Star Wars films. Of course there are the rampant, creatively bankrupt attempts to cash in on a franchise with a tacked-on, irrelevant film (Pirates of the Caribbean 3, Jurassic Park 3, Spy Kids 3, etc.). The final, and rarest, category of three-quel is the unexpected success, the film that is not necessary per se but reworks the franchise formula to bring about closure for the characters. This category could include films such as Back to the Future 3 and High School Musical 3 (Spider-Man 3 wishes it could be included). Count Toy Story 3 in as the newest and strongest Sequel We Didn’t Know We Needed.

It’s not as if we couldn’t have seen it coming. Toy Story 2, though a sweet, funny film, put forth an essential dilemma for its characters, one that was only partially resolved in its finale. Is it better to live forever without relationships, or to take joy in what we know is impermanent? At the end of the previous film, protagonist Woody decided that it was best to forgo the cold immortality of the museum in favor of a warm (but temporary) life with his owner, Andy. The choice was made, and audiences smiled over the credits. But there was a poignant thought lurking underneath: what are the consequences? What happens in ten years? Toy Story 3 takes what could have been a throwaway musing and creates a film around it. The premise is obvious, picking up thematically exactly where the franchise left off: Andy is going to college. The toys don’t know what lies in the next phase of life: “We’re done! Over the hill!” Mr. Potatohead moans. What follows is a moral and comic odyssey as Woody and Co. chase down a new place to call home, revisiting the “mission” structure of the previous films while getting to the heart of the series’ issues of purpose, belonging and relationships. The toys mistakenly think that Andy has abandoned them, and agree to relocate to Sunnyside Daycare Center, a candy-colored establishment with a dark underbelly. As the characters uncover a totalitarian plot to keep them in line, the film turns into a prison break, with some twists along the way. As the film progresses, we learn that the politics of Sunnyside have a lot to do with the issues of abandonment that the protagonists are also experiencing. Though there are many fun asides, the people at Pixar know what they are doing, and nothing is thematically out of place.

In some ways, the film is a piece of calculated nostalgia. It begins with an effervescent “play” scene that calls to mind the opening of the first film. It moves into a montage of camcorder footage of Andy playing with the toys, complete with “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” in the background. Character-wise, there are few new developments, and most wear the hats they have worn in the past. Woody is doggedly loyal, and skeptical of any changes in the status quo. Buzz finds himself again with an altered view of reality. Though the movie does deal with profound questions, the packaging is largely the same: the toys find themselves in a place that is not home, and go on a mission to get back there. The inventiveness comes in the riffs and little touches that happen within the formula, which are delightful and copious. The animators outdo themselves with the new toys we meet, which are full of the details of wear and tear; frayed hair, tags sticking out, faded colors. The small moments impress: Woody’s flailing run, his keeping atop a roll of toilet paper, or getting caught on his pull string. The voice acting is brilliant as always. The movie is punctuated by sight gags and chase scenes (as are many Pixar films), the stuff that makes it to the trailer. And it’s all rewarding. Especially tickling is the developing relationship between Barbie and Ken, the comic gift that keeps on giving. Pixar makes sure to give us the whole Toy Story experience, from the jokes to the characters to the structure.

And yet, there is something different here. We must remember that Toy Story 2 came out before we expected any kind of profundity from Pixar films, and its theme of abandonment and belonging was unexpected for a “kids’ movie.” Jessie’s mid-film ballad about her previous owner was a unique moment at the multiplex, an emotionally complex tearjerker that was on a different level of kiddie film heartbreak than Bambi’s mom getting killed. Sure, the movie was full of toy-store gags and chases in plastic cars, but at its core it was about the very purpose of a toy (or as Aristotle would say, its final cause). In the end of that film, the toys decided that the purpose of a toy was to be loved and played with. Toy Story 3 takes that decision and puts it in a crisis (as all effective plots should), and the stakes feel very high, and the question feels very adult.

Toy Story 3 is about life transitions, and how people deal with the pain of moving on. Andy is going somewhere new, the toys are going somewhere new, and presumably, so are we. The movie shows us the consequences of our responses to change, whether for good or for ill. Toy Story 3 is a return to form for Pixar, and it does sacrifice some of the innovation of the recent films in favor of a familiar structure. But it pulls no punches with regard to the philosophy it began to develop in the second film. It is a bit melancholy for that, but certainly finds its joy in the end. The denouement is richly satisfying, a conclusion that feels absolutely complete and stops short of outright sentimentality. By the end, we have been on a journey that has led us to reevaluate our choices, our attachments, and what it means to call something home.

We probably would have been all right without Toy Story 3. It’s another Pixar confection that follows the form of its predecessors. And I hope there will not be a fourth to spoil the impeccable wrap-up. But if there is anything we can learn from this third outing, it is that Pixar takes itself seriously as a maker of moral films. By moral, I do not mean the moralizing that most “family films” resort to, spewing out obvious messages about “being yourself.” I mean that the studio consistently puts out movies that wrestle with the meaning of life and relationships. They consistently face their characters with real choices. They mean what they say, and follow their ideas through each film. And they consistently capture the American imagination by doing it. Rarely has a sequel delved so deeply into the consequences of the happily ever after it created for itself. We may not have asked for this film, but damned if we didn’t need it.

Myth:
The issue of immortality (as the toys outlive their usefulness to their owners)
Moving to a strange land

Moral:
The extent of loyalty
The response to a great change

Zeitgeist Factor:
There is a tendency in all of us to long for simpler times, and this movie shows us that while we may never have things as they were, they can still be good, albeit in a different way. Like many Pixar films, this one aspires more to be timeless than to capture any kind of modern spirit. Perhaps giving up old ties will always be seen as a liberal theme, with Woody as the conservative, unwilling convert. The film is especially poignant to the internet-age kids who saw the first one as children and are now undergrads.

Ghost World

 Bend it Like Becket  

Dir. Terry Zwigoff

2001

"God, it's so weird that we're finally out of high school. We've been waiting for this our whole life." So goes one of the first lines of the film, the words full of promise but the voice low and lifeless. Ghost World travels that dry, sticky post-diploma stretch of life where the oasis of graduation is revealed as a mirage.

Our desert wanderer is Enid (the believable Thora Birch). She's the kind of person who has grown to inhabit her name, valiantly sporting combat boots, cat-eye glasses, a hoard of Velma-style mini-skirts ("an original 1977 punk rock look"), and a killer sarcastic delivery. Her best friend, Rebecca (Scarlett Johannsson), is more conservative in dress, but just as sardonic in outlook. Their pastimes include stalking hapless strangers in the local diner and discussing the tragedies of their pathetic small town's populace. Together, they brave a new world--an adult world-- that doesn't seem to be so different from the one they knew before.

The film unfolds like a modernist play, achingly slow with prosaic, slang-spiked dialogue. The plot kicks in when Enid and Rebecca decide to place a prank call in response to a desperate personal ad. Their cruel joke leads them to follow the man who placed the ad, Seymour (a perfect Steve Buscemi). While Rebecca is content to balk at his misfortune, we see a stirring in Enid's eyes, a hint of interest or compassion. So begins a minimalist odyssey of unrequited love, full of awkward silence and static camerawork. Enid's quiet, steadfast pursuit of Seymour the record collector is our primary subject for the next hour, a barely-there story thread dusted with pathos.

The character of Enid is well-written, but even better played. She is the soul of the film: sharp, offbeat, and dark, but with a nearly imperceptible spark of hope underneath. She enshrouds herself in a thick wall of quirks, from a love of 60's Indian music to her choice of art subjects (Satanists and Don Knotts). Her rapport with Rebecca is icy, but Enid can't help letting her voice thrill every now and then with a bit of interest in the world around her. Birch clearly developed the guarded inner life of her character, self-consciously odd in every respect. Buscemi's character work is also masterful. He lets us see the vulnerability and painful self-awareness that Seymour goes through. Both performances are subtle and sympathetic.

Some of the film's most gleefully satirical moments come from Enid's remedial summer-school art class. Enid watches in cold horror as her teacher accepts contrived political explanations for pieces of trash as art. She bucks the system by submitting her own piece, a horrid, racist poster from the 1920's, and receives a scholarship in result.

The film is certainly crass. It is about a crass world, one in which everything is a target, and sentimentality is dangerous. It may be off-putting, but it’s real. The art direction helps capture this mood. The town is deliciously dismal. The restaurants, the mini-mart, Seymour's record room, an abandoned bus stop: all are full of an attention to detail that gives us the sense of a lived-in and hated world.

Ghost World is an expression of frustrated meaninglessness. Characters glide in and out of the story: lonely, hilarious characters, subjects of derision. So we laugh. Why? The film offers no answers. Enid's art class shows people can be manipulated into believing there is meaning in the senseless. Enid and Rebecca's activities are restless and random, coldly criticizing others and making no excuses. There is even a small homage to "Waiting for Godot" in an understated set piece with a bus stop. But at the center of the film lies the pulse of Enid's hidden heart, willing to create, fall in love, and ultimately take life-altering risks. We don't get conclusions, but we do get to know the workings of two hurting, complex people. We get to watch them itching under an existential burden. It's a wandering journey worth taking.

Equivocation 11/22/09

  Backstage Politics

Equivocation at the Seattle Repertory Theatre

2009

Speculative Shakespeare—it is beginning to become a genre unto itself. And no wonder: the most famous writer in our language, with little to no history to tie him down? What a playground for the imaginative scholar of literature. One can make him into anything one desires.  

Bill Cain’s Equivocation is a curious addition to the fictional Bard canon, because it confronts the very fact that allows it to exist. “You will be the only major writer with no history,” the villain Robert Cecil prophesies to Shagspeare (Cain’s name for the character). Cecil accuses Shakespeare of being a chronic pleaser, incapable of boldness in life or art.  “People will go to your plays as they go to church, leaving unchanged but feeling somehow improved.” Cecil’s indictment of Shagspeare is just as biting for the audience as it is for the character. Are we all too happy that our favorite writer has no troublesome affiliations, and we can read into his works whatever we see fit?

Equivocation is the story of Shagspeare’s relationship with the English government (and thereby the relationship of art to politics). He has been commissioned by the King to write a play about the gunpowder plot of 1605. When it becomes clear that Shagspeare is being asked to write propaganda, he recoils: “I am a writer, not a town crier.” But soon, it is not just a question of to write or not to write— it is a matter of truth and justice, with Shagspeare’s writing caught in the moral crossfire. Perhaps Shakespeare was not a revolutionary; Cain’s script proposes that he ought to have been.. The play self-consciously examines the purpose of a play, forcing its audience to keep up and think twice about its reactions.

This show is imported from the renowned Oregon Shakespeare Festival, and it shows; the production values are impeccable. The set, formed with sturdy, elegant wood panels, gives the impression of the theatre in the round, but is used for everything from a castle to a dungeon. The sound and light designs are subtle and effective. Best of all is the superb acting talent represented. Notable is John Tufts’ vigorous performance in multiple roles. He imbues young actor Sharpe with a kinetic petulance, writhes passionately as prisoner Tom Winter, and nails King James’ Scottish brogue and giddy demeanor—sometimes playing more than one in the space of a scene. Anthony Heald shows the full arc of Shagspeare’s journey here—this is clearly a role he has lived in. The part of Judith, Shagspeare’s daughter, is small but deftly written, and Christine Albright’s cynical charisma brings a sparkling female presence to the production. And Richard Elmore demonstrates surprising versatility in his moving turn as a Jesuit Priest in prison. All the actors move with a well-timed rhythm, surely the result of adept direction.

But all this brilliant execution comes to nothing without a quality script to execute.Equivocation is a knotty play—it’s often too clever for its own good, chockfull of semiprofound one-liners and winking self-references. It juggles a few too many themes—is it about activism? Grief? Art? Truth? And its moral, when made overt, can become overbearing. All this aside, Equivocation is a stunningly thoughtful play. It boldly holds its audience accountable for its response. It stands and says: Listen up. Art matters, because life matters. Equivocation is the manipulation of words to convey a particular meaning. For Cain, it is “to answer the question really asked, and to answer it with our lives.” Cain’s provocative script, performed by Ashland’s riveting actors, makes for one night at the theatre you are not permitted to forget. 

Opus 11/4/09

  Bickering into Beauty

The Seattle Repertory Theatre

2009

The first sound in Michael Hollinger’s play, Opus, is the sound of strings tuning—a preparatory, evocative sound, a sound that readies an audience for a relaxing evening at the orchestra. And part of that is true. Opus is a musical work indeed. The set includes mere music stands, chairs, and wood backdrops embossed with notation. The play takes poetic interludes for its characters to rhapsodize about music together in separate spotlights, speaking a monologue in four parts as if it were a piece they were playing. The play is full of these lyrical moments, where realism is suspended for an underscore.

 

But that’s only part of it. The lyrical gives way to the colloquial. At the end of a beautiful piece of music, we see the quartet explode in quarrels and nitpicking that an audience never gets to see during their night at the philharmonic. It’s an interesting take, and one that will resonate with any artist. That painting, that dance routine, that scene may seem moving and effortless. But the audience doesn’t see the dark underbelly, the hours of frustration and ugliness that go into creating something lasting and beautiful. I commend Hollinger for taking on such an intriguing and untapped subject for his play. 

The play’s protagonist is not any one character, but instead it is a string quartet. The author asks us to root for the group as a whole. Individual character conflicts serve the arc of the quartet. They have recently lost their most brilliant (but unstable) member, and the story begins as they replace him with a pragmatic violist named Grace. Grace, as new to the group as we are, serves as our guide to the delicate social dynamics unique to a creative community.

The “quartet as protagonist” ploy might have come off better if the group was more cohesive. The chemistry took a while to emerge, as if the actors were warming up like they would with an instrument. Especially perplexing was Todd Jefferson Moore’s portrayal of the fired violist, whose presence hangs over the play like a ghost. It seems as if he never found the right tone for his mentally ill character, unconvincing in his histrionics. Notable was Allen Fitzpatrick, who was able to infuse energy and believability into the over-the-top, antagonistic Elliot. Throughout the play, I found myself feeling like an outsider, peeping in through a window; it was far into the performance before I began to feel any personal attachment to the lives before me. 

Awkward silences, broken relationships, bickering, small personal tragedies. These are the language that Opus speaks in. Don’t go if you’re looking to get caught up in a great human drama. It’s there, but that’s not what the show is about. It’s about music. It’s about how messy, petty humans can come together to make something great. Perhaps most telling is a scene where the quartet finally gets a piece of the success they have been looking for. They come out of a performance, glowing with the high of accomplishment and applause. They laugh, giddily. There is a pause, a stop for breath. Their leader says, “Another day.” They reply, “Yes. Another day.” Opus is all about the pitfalls along the way to making art: the boredom, the frustration, the questioning of why you started making it in the first place. All they want to do “create an opus: something worthy of posterity.” So what do you do when you get there? Was it worth it? Ultimately, the questions posed in the play are not just questions of “Why art?”—it is a question of “Why life?” Why do we put ourselves through so much to accomplish something, when in the end it is just “another day”? Opus offers few answers, but it asks the questions in a language we can understand. Like a piece of music, there are refrains that haunt the mind for days after the final notes. 

The Blind Side

 Meat and Potatoes

Dir. John Lee Hancock, 2009

 Football. Fast food. Religion. Southern hospitality. Nuclear families. "The Blind Side" may be the most All-'Murrican film of the year. That doesn't mean it doesn't accomplish what it sets out to accomplish. It's sweet, well-crafted, and strikes few false notes. But its unchallenging story leaves its viewers with nothing but the fuzzy affirmation of the American dream.

"The Blind Side" is tells the true story of Michael "Big Mike" Oher, an undereducated, inner city black kid given a second chance by the upper class Touhy family. I say the story of Michael, but the film tells us a lot more about Leigh Anne Touhy, Sandra Bullock's plucky savior character. The film is hers from the beginning, and Bullock rises to the challenge, admirably filling out her manicured character with a believable soul. Leigh Anne, in a burst of determined altruism, decides to take homeless Michael back to her family's Tennessee mansion. From there, it is assumed, the family embarks on a journey of understanding and sparks a warm relationship with this underprivileged young man. 

But we actually see very little relationship grow between Michael and his adoptive family. Much more screen time is devoted to the Touhys: attractive teen daughter, wisecracking kid brother, Leigh Anne's various crusades on Michael's behalf, Tim McGraw's quiet, benevolent presence as husband Sean. Perhaps The Blind Side thinks it is the story of Micheal Oher's salvation, but its focus is on the saviors. "Is this some kind of white guilt thing?" a character asks Leigh Anne about halfway through the film. The question is met only with shocked reproof-- but we could have done with an answer. What does it mean for a family that owns 85 Taco Bells to show mercy to this young man? Is it merely "what Christians do"? 

The question is a relevant one for a few reasons. For one, the film spends a great amount of its running time depicting a family in the act of altruism. Not only that-- it is altruism in the face of adversity. Throughout the film runs the odd yet familiar trope of good white/bad white. The school board refuses to give Michael a chance until one good man speaks in his defense. Nobody will believe in Michael's football talent until Leigh Anne speaks up for and inspires him. Michael's football opponent pitches racist taunts at him, while his coach and family encourage him. It appears as if Michael would flounder were it not for the kindness of a very special few. So where does that kindness come from? What makes Leigh Anne Touhy any different from her rich, prejudiced girlfriends at the lunch table? What drives the "good" and "bad" people in the story-- what's at stake, morally? As in Christ's parables, there are clear-cut "wise" and "foolish" archetypes at work here. But those parables are meant to make the listeners see the fools in themselves and hope to one day become the wise. The Blind Side aspires to no such subtlety; there are merely good whites, doing what any decent American would, and obviously prejudiced bad whites. "Am I a good person?" Leigh Anne asks, in a rare pensive moment. Her loyal husband replies, "You're a great person." And that is that. The question of the nature of a good deed is invoked, but never fully addressed. 

About half way through the film, I was wondering if any stakes were going to show up. It seemed as if the story was completely about the Touhys gaining a sense of personal fulfillment. "You seem happy," Sean tells Leigh Anne as she falls asleep with a smile. "It has everything to do with Michael," she replies. Thankfully, The Blind Side finally decides to explore the Touhy's motives in the final quarter of the film. Leigh Anne says to Michael, "You know, we don't know too much about you." No kidding. The conflict at the climax of the film addresses this central problem with the film up to that point: have the Touhys missed caring for Michael, the person, in the midst of caring for Michael, the football player/vessel for generosity? The heart of the problem is expressed in one of the film’s final scenes. In the scene, Michael essentially says that everyone has only asked about him in relation to the Touhys, without asking him what he really thinks and feels. It is noble that the film finally lets him speak for himself, but it probably should have happened more than five minutes before the ending.

As a vehicle for Sandra Bullock’s talent, The Blind Side works. Her heroine sashays delightfully into situations and gits-er-done like an upper-class Erin Brockovich. The kid is adorable, the message is valuable, the ending satisfactorily redemptive (and true). There is a great movie inside The Blind Side, one that explored deeper character connections, more complex moral dilemmas, and higher stakes (for examples of these goals accomplished, look to films like Freedom Writers or Finding Forrester). As it is, the film is merely a pleasant entry into the inspirational genre, a Thanksgiving film that leaves audiences full, happy, and ready for that long, forgetful nap. 

Toy Story 3

Growing Up

Dir. Lee Unkrich

2010

There are a few categories of “three-quels.” There are adaptations of a book in a series, which naturally call for a third film to correspond to a third volume (Return of the King, The Twilight Saga: Eclipse). There are film sets created with three in mind, notably including the Star Wars films. Of course there are the rampant, creatively bankrupt attempts to cash in on a franchise with a tacked-on, irrelevant film (Pirates of the Caribbean 3, Jurassic Park 3, Spy Kids 3, etc.). The final, and rarest, category of three-quel is the unexpected success, the film that is not necessary per se but reworks the franchise formula to bring about closure for the characters. This category could include films such as Back to the Future 3 and High School Musical 3 (Spider-Man 3 wishes it could be included). Count Toy Story 3 in as the newest and strongest Sequel We Didn’t Know We Needed.

It’s not as if we couldn’t have seen it coming. Toy Story 2, though a sweet, funny film, put forth an essential dilemma for its characters, one that was only partially resolved in its finale. Is it better to live forever without relationships, or to take joy in what we know is impermanent? At the end of the previous film, protagonist Woody decided that it was best to forgo the cold immortality of the museum in favor of a warm (but temporary) life with his owner, Andy. The choice was made, and audiences smiled over the credits. But there was a poignant thought lurking underneath: what are the consequences? What happens in ten years?

Toy Story 3 takes what could have been a throwaway musing and creates a film around it. The premise is obvious, picking up thematically exactly where the franchise left off: Andy is going to college.  The toys don’t know what lies in the next phase of life: “We’re done! Over the hill!” Mr. Potatohead moans. What follows is a moral and comic odyssey as Woody and Co. chase down a new place to call home, revisiting the “mission” structure of the previous films while getting to the heart of the series’ issues of purpose, belonging and relationships.

The toys mistakenly think that Andy has abandoned them, and agree to relocate to Sunnyside Daycare Center, a candy-colored establishment with a dark underbelly. As the characters uncover a totalitarian plot to keep them in line, the film turns into a prison break, with some twists along the way. As the film progresses, we learn that the politics of Sunnyside have a lot to do with the issues of abandonment that the protagonists are also experiencing. Though there are many fun asides, the people at Pixar know what they are doing, and nothing is thematically out of place.


In some ways, the film is a piece of calculated nostalgia. It begins with an effervescent “play” scene that calls to mind the opening of the first film. It moves into montage of camcorder footage of Andy playing with the toys, complete with “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” in the background. Character-wise, there are few new developments, and most wear the hats they have worn in the past. Woody is doggedly loyal, and skeptical of any changes in the status quo. Buzz finds himself again with an altered view of reality. Though the movie does deal with profound questions, the packaging is largely the same: the toys find themselves in a place that is not home, and go on a mission to get back there. The inventiveness comes in the riffs and little touches that happen within the formula, which are delightful and copious. The animators outdo themselves with the new toys we meet, which are full of the details of wear and tear; frayed hair, tags sticking out, faded colors. The small moments impress: Woody’s flailing run, his keeping atop a roll of toilet paper, or getting caught on his pull string. The voice acting is brilliant as always. The movie is punctuated by sight gags and chase scenes (as are many Pixar films), the stuff that makes it to the trailer. And it’s all rewarding. Especially tickling is the developing relationship between Barbie and Ken, the comic gift that keeps on giving. Pixar makes sure to give us the whole Toy Story experience, from the jokes to the characters to the structure.

And yet, there is something different here. We must remember that Toy Story 2 came out before we expected any kind of profundity from Pixar films, and its theme of abandonment and belonging was unexpected for a “kids’ movie.” Jessie’s mid-film ballad about her previous owner was a unique moment at the multiplex, an emotionally complex tearjerker that was on a different level of kiddie film heartbreak than Bambi’s mom getting killed. Sure, the movie was full of toy-store gags and chases in plastic cars, but at its core it was about the very purpose of a toy (or as Aristotle would say, its final cause). In the end of that film, the toys decided that the purpose of a toy was to be loved and played with. “Toy Story 3” takes that decision and puts it in a crisis (as all effective plots should), and the stakes feel very high, and the question feels very adult.

Toy Story 3 is about life transitions, and how people deal with the pain of moving on. Andy is going somewhere new, the toys are going somewhere new, and presumably, so are we. The movie shows us the consequences of our responses to change, whether for good or for ill. “Toy Story 3” is a return to form for Pixar, and it does sacrifice some of the innovation of the recent films in favor of a familiar structure. But it pulls no punches with regard to the philosophy it began to develop in the second film. It is a bit melancholy for that, but certainly finds its joy in the end, similarly to “UP”. The denouement is richly satisfying, a conclusion that feels absolutely complete and stops short of outright sentimentality. By the end, we have been on a journey that has led us to reevaluate our choices, our attachments, and what it means to call something home.

We probably would have been all right without Toy Story 3. It’s another Pixar confection that follows the form of its predecessors. And I hope there will not be a fourth to spoil the impeccable wrap-up. But if there is anything we can learn from this third outing, it is that Pixar takes itself seriously as a maker of moral films. By moral, I do not mean the moralizing that most “family films” resort to, spewing out obvious messages about “being yourself.” I mean that the studio consistently puts out movies that wrestle with the meaning of life and relationships. They consistently face their characters with real choices. They mean what they say, and follow their ideas through each film. And they consistently capture the American imagination by doing it. Rarely has a sequel delved so deeply into the consequences of the happily ever after it created for itself. We may not have asked for this film, but damned if we didn’t need it.

Myth:

The issue of immortality (as the toys outlive their usefulness to their owners)

Moving to a strange land

Moral:

The extent of loyalty

The response to a great change

Zeitgeist Factor:

There is a tendency in all of us to long for simpler times, and this movie shows us that while we may never have things as they were, they can still be good, albeit in a different way. Like many Pixar films, this one aspires more to be timeless than to capture any kind of modern spirit. Perhaps giving up old ties will always be seen as a liberal theme, with Woody as the conservative, unwilling convert. The film is especially poignant to the internet-age kids who saw the first one as children and are now undergrads.

4.5/5 gold bars

Ghost World

Bend it Like Becket

Dir. Terry Zwigoff

2001

"God, it's so weird that we're finally out of high school. We've been waiting for this our whole life." So goes one of the first lines of the film, the words full of promise but the voice low and lifeless. Ghost World travels that dry, sticky post-diploma stretch of life where the oasis of graduation is revealed as a mirage.

Our desert wanderer is Enid (the believable Thora Birch). She's the kind of person who has grown to inhabit her name, valiantly sporting combat boots, cat-eye glasses, a hoard of Velma-style mini-skirts ("an original 1977 punk rock look"), and a killer sarcastic delivery. Her best friend, Rebecca (Scarlett Johannsson), is more conservative in dress, but just as sardonic in outlook. Their pastimes include stalking hapless strangers in the local diner and discussing the tragedies of their pathetic small town's populace. Together, they brave a new world--an adult world-- that doesn't seem to be so different from the one they knew before.

The film unfolds like a modernist play, achingly slow with prosaic, slang-spiked dialogue. The plot kicks in when Enid and Rebecca decide to place a prank call in response to a desperate personal ad. Their cruel joke leads them to follow the man who placed the ad, Seymour (a perfect Steve Buscemi). While Rebecca is content to balk at his misfortune, we see a stirring in Enid's eyes, a hint of interest or compassion. So begins a minimalist odyssey of unrequited love, full of awkward silence and static camerawork. Enid's quiet, steadfast pursuit of Seymour the record collector is our primary subject for the next hour, a barely-there story thread dusted with pathos.

The character of Enid is well-written, but even better played. She is the soul of the film: sharp, offbeat, and dark, but with a nearly imperceptible spark of hope underneath. She enshrouds herself in a thick wall of quirks, from a love of 60's Indian music to her choice of art subjects (Satanists and Don Knotts). Her rapport with Rebecca is icy, but Enid can't help letting her voice thrill every now and then with a bit of interest in the world around her. Birch clearly developed the guarded inner life of her character, self-consciously odd in every respect. Buscemi's character work is also masterful. He lets us see the vulnerability and painful self-awareness that Seymour goes through. Both performances are subtle and sympathetic.

Some of the film's most gleefully satirical moments come from Enid's remedial summer-school art class. Enid watches in cold horror as her teacher accepts contrived political explanations for pieces of trash as art. She bucks the system by submitting her own piece, a horrid, racist poster from the 1920's, and receives a scholarship in result.

The film is certainly crass. It is about a crass world, one in which everything is a target, and sentimentality is dangerous. It may be off-putting, but it’s real. The art direction helps capture this mood. The town is deliciously dismal. The restaurants, the mini-mart, Seymour's record room, an abandoned bus stop: all are full of an attention to detail that gives us the sense of a lived-in and hated world.

Ghost World is an expression of frustrated meaninglessness. Characters glide in and out of the story: lonely, hilarious characters, subjects of derision. So we laugh. Why? The film offers no answers. Enid's art class shows people can be manipulated into believing there is meaning in the senseless. Enid and Rebecca's activities are restless and random, coldly criticizing others and making no excuses. There is even a small homage to "Waiting for Godot" in an understated set piece with a bus stop. But at the center of the film lies the pulse of Enid's hidden heart, willing to create, fall in love, and ultimately take life-altering risks. We don't get conclusions, but we do get to know the workings of two hurting, complex people. We get to watch them itching under an existential burden. It's a wandering journey worth taking.