When I tell people that I'm into immersive theater, the response I invariably get is: "What's that?"
"Well, you know, it's like regular theater, except the audience is actually part of the play."
"Like improv?"
"Not exactly, although there is an element of improv to it. But there's no stage."
"So the actors are just out in the audience?"
"No, there's no theater, either."
"How does that work?"
"It's performed in other kinds of buildings. Offices, warehouses, hotel rooms, sometimes people's houses. Anywhere, really."
"Oh."
...
"So, what else are you into?"
Nobody gets it. Least of all my own mother, to whom my "immersions" (that's what she calls immersive theater, as in, "You still doing your immersions?") are, for some reason, completely beyond her powers of comprehension no matter how many times I explain them. ("So ... how do you know what to do?") My closest friends just think it's weird, and the more I regale them with tales from my experiences, the less interested they get. Somehow, when I tell them I was strapped naked to a bed and repeatedly slapped by a man in a koala mask, they don't immediately want to run out and buy a ticket.
(Also, it's hard to describe it without making it sound like a form of BDSM. It's not BDSM, I swear. BDSM is cool too but this is not that, and any nudity or physical aggression or intensity is always completely optional and consensual.)
But it's definitely become my Thing over the past three years (and I can't believe it's only been that long). Everybody has a Thing (or if they don't, maybe they should). For some it's surfing, or motorcyles, or birdwatching, or rock climbing, or roller coasters, or rodeo, or cosplay, or light drugs, or heavy drugs, or nude clown racing (whatever, I don't judge). For me, it's immersive theater. It's my lifestyle, my sub-culture, my community, my social circle, my support system. It's my drug.
It's not for everyone (clearly, since most people don't even know it exists). It's the only art form I can think of that requires a certain amount of courage to experience. Which is not to say that I'm braver than most people -- I still get nervous before every show. In fact, I now live with a chronic nervous condition that I like to call the NF Cycle, named after Nocturnal Fandango, my favorite and (by far) most frequented immersive theater company. I'll buy a ticket to one of their shows (usually a couple months in advance), get really excited, and start literally counting down the weeks until the show date. Then the day actually arrives and suddenly I get nervous and don't want to go. Then I get in my car and drive to the venue, and I get very nervous and start wondering why I'm doing this. Sometimes I have to practically force myself to enter the show. Then, once I do, my nerves immediately dissolve away and I have an amazing time. Then it ends and I start counting down the weeks until the next show and the cycle continues.
To answer the question of why I do immersive theater, I'm going to start by discussing, perhaps counter-intuitively, my most recent experience, which didn't even have a live component and was instead performed entirely over the phone (since, in the age of COVID, that's how immersive theater is done). And in fact I'm not even going to start there; I'm going to start with the aftermath of that show. I was in a Zoom meeting for one of Nocturnal Fandango's talkbacks, in which the cast and the audience got together to discuss the experience we had just shared. In the middle of this talkback, I suddenly felt very sad and depressed for reasons I couldn't identify, a feeling that only got worse as the meeting progressed and increased to an unbearable degree after it ended.
"Why am I feeling this way?" I kept asking myself. I thought about it, thought about it some more, couldn't quite figure it out, but this is the theory I came up with: when you do a Nocturnal Fandango show, you're almost always in there alone, just you and the actors. Everyone is focused on you. It's like stepping into a new world that was created for you and where you are the most important person. (This is literally true in some cases. I've done shows that were tailored specifically for me.) It's like when Zaphod Beeblebrox enters the Total Perspective Vortex near the beginning of Douglas Adams's The Restaurant at the End of the Universe. The Total Perspective Vortex, we are told, is the ultimate torture device, in which the victim is confronted with the maddening immensity of the universe and their own miniscule, insignificant place in it; only, in Zaphod's case, he is already inhabiting a small artficial universe created specifically for him, so the Vortex merely shows him that he is the most important being in the universe. That's what an NF show is like.
So, to suddenly be pulled from that back into the real world, where I was just another face in the crowd, just another paying customer, and where the characters I'd gotten to know and love were gone and replaced by actors ... that's a lot to deal with, even if it's only on an unconscious level. Obviously, I already knew on an intellectual level that I wasn't special, but it didn't matter. The experience was ingrained into my nervous system, into the core of my being; my depression was simply an autonomic response to six weeks of Pavlovian conditioning.
(Of course, this theory is rather belied by the fact that A. I'd been in constant communication with the other audience members throughout this experience, and B. I'd previously attended other talkbacks with no ill emotional effects. But, whatever, it provided a good analogy, so I'm sticking with it.)
But perhaps it's time to go back and explain exactly what this experience was. The show was called Dr. Rocket's Doomsday Carnival. It was, as I have said, a six-week long show performed entirely over the phone. It was also a kind of sequel to Dr. Rocket's Twilight Carnival, which was a festival of live one-act shows held last summer (with a reprise in November), each show bearing its own distinctly whimsical and evocative title: Attack of the Lightningseed Monsters; The Museum of Mostly Human Oddities; The Centrifugal Force of Lemon Peel; The Plasma of Paper Airplanes; and many others. These shows initially appeared to be self-contained stories, albeit with a small crossover here and there, but an overarching meta-narrative gradually became apparent, as we learned that these shows were all performed by artificial beings called (and this is very important) "machines" created by the sinister and sadistic Dr. Rocket.
Cut to two months ago, when, as a response to the live theater void created by our current crisis, NF miraculously produced this remote experience, seemingly out of thin air. For six weeks I and a couple dozen other participants received anywhere between two and 10 phone calls every single night (and on the final night I believe I got 14 calls), encompassing 16 different carnival "attractions" (i.e. story lines) plus the Dr. Rocket meta-narrative surrounding them. And what attractions they were! I met and befriended a slightly unhinged woman who was obsessed with a man who lived in a dollhouse in her bedroom. I was re-acquainted with the trio of drug addicts from Attack of the Lightningseed Monsters, who were now trying to put together a taxidermied sperm whale in their apartment. I gave swimming lessons to a cannibalistic child who lived in a box. I "moved" into a strange new apartment complex with a rather unusual set of house rules. I even went on a blind date with a very handsome and charming young man.
But what really interested me more than anything was the meta-narrative. Like the attractions, this story played out via phone calls, but it also played out in a Slack moderated by a pair of unusually self-aware machines with conspicuously self-explanatory names: Hello and Welcome. This is also where we met Barbara, Dr. Rocket's assistant, who if anything was even more sadistic and awful than her employer. Dr. Rocket and Barbara were clearly the villains of the piece, a pair of tyrannical sadists who forced machines to perform in their shows under constant threat of the dreaded Button (the pushing of which being something no machine ever wants). When machines would get even the slightest bit out of line (or even when they weren't), they would receive vague but obviously painful and terrible punishments bearing such ominous names as "blackgum" and "riflelove."
Now, it's important to understand that Hello and Welcome and the other machines weren't just characters for me. I talked to them every day for six weeks. They were my friends. When you watch a movie or a TV show, and a character you love and care about is hurt, tortured, or killed, you can be sad, sure, but it's a different thing altogether when it happens to characters you've actually interacted with and who have become part of your life. And it's still another thing when a character dies because of your inability to save them. This happened about midway through the experience, when we were given a test (by a machine named, naturally, Test) and repeatedly told that something bad would happen if we failed to complete it. The test was a word puzzle, an extremely difficult word puzzle -- NF is known for their difficult puzzles, but this one proved beyond the abilities of even the most seasoned puzzle solvers. In the end, we weren't able to completely solve it, and, as punishment for our failure, Test was brutally killed by Barbara. And that ... hurt. Particularly when Hello gave us the three answers (out of 20) we were missing, mournfully adding that these three simple words were all it would have taken to save Test.
Jesus.
I mean, how do you come back from that? I literally sobbed when I read Hello's words, which speaks to how invested I'd become in this saga and how personally I was taking it. This is when everything changed for me. Up until this point, I treated Barbara the way I would treat any bully: like a joke. But how could I make jokes about her after that? How could I in good conscience continue to patronize the carnival, let alone enjoy it? Part of me wanted to quit the experience altogether. The only way I knew how to continue with it was to fully embrace the narrative given to me, which was that Dr. Rocket's carnival was an evil institution built upon slavery and torture and not a carnival at all. So I had no choice but to stop participating in the attractions, making it clear that I was just there for the Maze, so to speak (to use a Westworld analogy ... an analogy that, for reasons you shall soon see, is very appropriate).
But then something interesting happened. I got a call from an attraction in which a machine playing the role of a lonely insurance salesman momentarily "broke character" to tell me that Wishbone (a very wise and self-aware machine who had become the ringleader for the resistance movement) had a plan, but that he needed me to play along. And just like that, I was back in. That was all it took, really. It was like I had been given permission to enjoy the carnival again ... which was fortunate, as there was a lot of great carnival still to come.
I was particularly intrigued by something called Bright Lights, which we were repeatedly told was not a cult despite it sounding very much like a cult in every respect. Bright Lights was essentially an extended interview process culminating in some sort of ceremony. I ended up being one of the "lucky" audience members to receive an invitation to the ceremony, and attendance, we were told, was not optional. My friend Melissa wrote a post in the Slack pointing out the similarity between the descriptions of the coming ceremony and the stories we were being told of the process by which machines received their roles in the carnival, which they called their Becoming. I had also noticed the similarity but hadn't given it much thought. Seeing it written out like that, though ... that's how it hit me.
"Oh, shit," I thought. "I'm a machine!"
This completely rocked my world. I can't begin to describe the shock this revelation sent through my system, except to say that it was a lot like being Bruce Willis at the end of The Sixth Sense. I kept flashing back to all the hints and clues that had been cleverly planted all along, such as Wishbone telling me that "not all machines know they're machines." He totally Sixth Sensed me, and I hadn't even picked up on it. Suddenly, everything made sense. Everything was right. Everything was pre-ordained. I would be a good machine.
As much as I love movies, television, literature, and traditional theater, this is not something you can ever experience from those forms of storytelling. You can be surprised by [REDACTED FOR WESTWORLD SPOILERS] discovering that he's a host, but when you're the character it's happening to, it's that much more impactful an epiphany. It was also a beautiful and potent way to articulate some of the principal themes of this piece. The show was in many ways an argument: do machines feel pain and emotions? The machines repeatedly insisted that yes, they did; but the counter-argument, advocated by Dr. Rocket and Barbara, was that they were merely programmed to simulate the normal responses to stimuli -- even their claims that they felt pain were merely what they had been programmed to say. I, of course, had always been on the machines' side and had taken their claims at face value; but to have them validated in this way, to finally know for sure how machines felt because I had been one all along ... that's a very powerful device, one that, again, is completely unique to immersive theater and cannot be reproduced by any other medium.
Shortly after this revelation, I received a call from Wishbone that I will never forget. This is what he said to me (and I'm tearing up just thinking about it): "Robert, you don't remember this yet, but you were at my wedding." He went on to paint a vivid picture for me in loving, wistful tones, describing how I danced with a handsome young man, how I got drunk on tequila, etc. What an inexpressibly lovely and bittersweet sentiment that is -- and it came at just the right moment for maximum emotional effect: after I had figured out that I was a machine (so that I understood what it all meant), but before it was officially revealed to me (so that Wishbone couldn't be sure if I believed him). Wishbone's tragedy was that his husband, Mr. Fish, was repeatedly mind wiped by Dr. Rocket and kept apart from him, so that he, Mr. Fish, had no memory of his own husband. My tragedy was that my mind, too, had been wiped and replaced by false memories of a life I never lived (i.e. my actual, real-life life), so that I had no memory of being part of this amazing community of machines (which, let's face it, are better than humans in most ways), of loving them and being loved by them. That's a beautiful, heartbreaking thing to contemplate, and yet another example of the unique power of immersive theater.
Another important theme of the piece was free will, and whether we have it or we're all just machines playing out a program that's already been written for us. I've always been a strong proponent of the existence of free will, mainly because life is cruel and doesn't let us off the hook for our own actions that easily. But for the purposes of this narrative, in which I was a machine who clearly had been programmed, it was hard to argue for it. I felt beaten and defeated; Barbara always seemed to be one step ahead of us, crushing hope every time it sprouted (one machine who managed to escape was quickly found and dismembered and castrated, and even Test was discovered to still be alive, only to be destroyed once again), so I finally had to accept my fate and attend my Becoming as an obedient machine. But then, just when all hope seemed lost, Wishbone, Hello, and Welcome came through and saved the day, freeing the machines and giving Barbara her comeuppance.
But the experience still wasn't done with me. Around midnight, after I'd already gone to bed, I got one final phone call, from a character I'd never heard of before. This character, Benjamin, was a novelist, and he began describing for me the novel he was currently working on, which was entitled Dr. Rocket's Doomsday Carnival and which told the story of a carnival in which human-like machines performed for guests under the thumb of the evil scientist who created them. He told me about some of the supporting characters before describing the heroic protagonist ... Robert. Layers upon layers of reality.
Every Nocturnal Fandango show leaves me with a different feeling, a different emotional state. The best way I can describe how I felt at the end of Dr. Rocket's Doomsday Carnival is that it was like the ending of Angels in America. If you've seen the play, or the mini-series, you know what I'm talking about. The characters (and the audience) have just been through six hours of AIDS and Roy Cohn and general misery, and have now come out the other side, happy and healthy at last, for a final, cleansing catharsis. It's like a fever has broken and we're sweaty and exhausted but feeling good and hopeful for the first time in what feels like a very long time.
This is not art that you can experience and then forget about. This is art that changes you, becomes a part of you, gets into your DNA and stays with you forever. I've just barely scratched the surface in describing this experience (I haven't even gotten into Margie, the God of Machines, for instance), but hopefully I've conveyed a sense of the profound impact it had on me. I paid money for it and it still feels like a tremendous gift bestowed upon me. And this is only one show out of many that I've done over the past few years.
Naturally, when you do a lot of these shows, the creators and actors get to know you. In some cases, they get to know you very well. Some of these actors know me better than some of my friends know me. It's like that song from Next to Normal:
My psychopharmacologist and I.
It's like an odd romance:
Intense and very intimate, we do our dance.
My psychopharmacologist and I.
Call it a lover's game.
He knows my deepest secrets.
I know his ... name!
You can substitute "psychopharmacologist" with "immersive actor" and still have some eerily accurate lyrics on your hands. Immersive theater is not therapy, obviously, but sometimes it feels a lot like therapy. And sure, it comes with emotional risks, like any intimate relationship does. I remember one instance when a character called me an "Eeyore" and told me I was just a "sad person"; which, you know, is no big deal, I've been called much worse, and the character was a sociopath anyway so at the time I just shrugged it off; and yet I admit that I've had a moment or two when I actually was feeling sad or depressed and I couldn't help but think, "Wait, is that how that actor sees me? Am I just a sad person?!" But most of the time it's a rewarding relationship that allows actors and creators to better customize your show and provide a more personal experience. Who better to create art for you than somebody who knows you well? I know I sound like a broken record (broken machine?) at this point, but you just can't get that from other dramatic art forms.
Sadly, when I was in the middle of writing this post, Nocturnal Fandango announced that they are closing up shop for good and canceling all upcoming shows. Obviously, I was heartbroken by this news, and, though I have little doubt that they'll eventually be back in one form or another, this is still a devastating loss to the immersive theater scene as well as for me personally. I began this piece as a kind of self-therapy in order to sort out my own emotions. It then turned into an expository essay. And now it must perforce become a eulogy.
That may sound like an overstatement, but that announcement honestly felt like a death. NF has been such a big part of my life for the last two years that it was difficult to imagine life without them. They had become the reason to save my money (because this is not a cheap hobby), the reason to work harder to earn more money. And they've given me so many memories that I'll carry with me for the rest of my life.
Like the time I was in a room with one actor for 30 minutes, and in that 30 minutes we spoke and sparred and struggled, both physically and emotionally, and by the end of the 30 minutes we were sweating and crying and hugging, and it was the single greatest lesson I've ever received on the incredible power of acting and sharing a scene with someone.
Or the time I spoke with an 80-year-old British woman, played by a young American actress so convincingly and brilliantly that it was almost difficult to enjoy the performance, knowing as I did that nobody would ever give her an Oscar for what she was doing.
Or the time I was a fly-on-the-wall witness to an intense discussion between a man and what appeared to be a woman who had changed her identity and was hiding out, only to have the woman reveal her true name, and I experienced a surreal frisson because it was my name, and I was suddenly pulled into the scene and found myself in the position of having to explain why I wanted to leave my life behind to start a new one.
Or the time I found myself in the blackest of black comedies, one shocking, offensive thing piled on top of another, and then to my delight watched as it turned into a musical (thus combining my two favorite genres) before the scene ended and the actors broke character, revealing it to be immersive theater within immersive theater.
Or the time I was in the middle of a show performed over the course of several hours at four separate locations in the beautiful coastal town of Cambria, and I was driving from one location to another thinking it was the coolest thing I had ever done, scarcely able to believe it was happening.
Or, hell, the beginning of any show, because as far as I'm concerned there is no greater thrill than opening a door and having no idea what awaits you on the other side.
I could go on. The sheer volume of their output is astonishing (close to 100 distinct productions in four years ... crazy), and, even more astonishingly, their quality never suffered from their prolificacy. They're quite simply the best, and they are irreplaceable. For one brief, shining moment, there was Nocturnal Fandango, and, though I feel like I am fit to be neither Arthur nor Tom of Warwick in this analogy, I will not let it be forgot.
I guess there's nothing left to say but "thank you." Thank you, Jason and Kevin Davidson, Chelsea Morgan, Lyric Luedke, and your amazing ensemble of actors. Why do I do immersive theater? Because of you.
Thursday, July 30, 2020
Saturday, October 28, 2017
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Best Films of 2014 -- A Critical Consensus
Since Movie City News didn't appear to be doing its annual tally of professional movie critics' top 10 lists, I decided to do it myself. Of course, then it turned out they did do it -- they just didn't post it on their home page for some strange reason. But whatever, mine is more complete, using every list from both MCN and Metacritics. I used MCN's tallying method: 10 points for every #1 film, 9 points for every #2 film, etc. For alphabetical lists, I gave each movie 5.5 points (the average of 1 to 10). Only ten films were allowed for each list -- in the event of "ties" (a lot of critics do this, which I've never understood), I gave the two tied films equal points and then continued doling out the points the same as if there hadn't been a tie. So, for example, if two movies were tied for the #2 spot on a list, I'd give them both nine points and then give the #3 film seven points, and so on down the line, giving zero points to the #10 film.
The big winner here was no surprise, but what was surprising was just how many damn points that damn Linklater film got (1,370.5, compared to the 855.5 points earned by the second place winner). The most interesting race was for the bronze medal, for which Birdman and Under the Skin were neck and neck the entire time, until finally it was an exact tie, before Birdman shot ahead with a 10-point bomb dropped by the very last list I tallied.
All in all, 270 films were mentioned. So, basically, every movie from last year made some critic's list... but not The Best Offer. WTF, critics?
The big winner here was no surprise, but what was surprising was just how many damn points that damn Linklater film got (1,370.5, compared to the 855.5 points earned by the second place winner). The most interesting race was for the bronze medal, for which Birdman and Under the Skin were neck and neck the entire time, until finally it was an exact tie, before Birdman shot ahead with a 10-point bomb dropped by the very last list I tallied.
All in all, 270 films were mentioned. So, basically, every movie from last year made some critic's list... but not The Best Offer. WTF, critics?
1. Boyhood – 1,370.5
2. The Grand Budapest Hotel – 855.5
3. Birdman – 634
4. Under the Skin – 624
5. Whiplash – 542
6. Selma – 422
7. Ida – 403.5
8. Inherent Vice – 367
9. Gone Girl – 359.5
10. Nightcrawler – 322
11. Only Lovers Left Alive – 291
12. Goodbye to Language – 256
13. Two Days, One Night – 255
14. Mr. Turner – 232
15. Force Majeure – 222
16. Snowpiercer – 213
17. Citizenfour – 211
18. The Immigrant – 208.5
19. Foxcatcher – 201.5
20. The Lego Movie – 201
21. Guardians of the Galaxy – 184
22. Winter Sleep – 147
23. Leviathan – 145.5
24. Calvary – 140.5
25. The Babadook – 139
26. Interstellar – 135.5
27. Love Is Strange – 132
29. We Are the Best! – 130.5
30. The Theory of Everything – 125.5
31. The Imitation Game – 116
32. Life Itself – 104.5
Listen Up Philip – 104.5
34. Locke – 103.5
35. American Sniper – 90.5
36. Dawn of the Planet of the Apes – 88.5
37. Stranger by the Lake – 88
39. A Most Violent Year – 87.5
40. Wild – 83
41. Edge of Tomorrow – 80
42. Blue Ruin – 66
43. Mommy – 61
44. Stray Dogs – 56
45. Manakamana – 55.5
46. Norte, the End of History – 48.5
47. Captain America: The Winter Soldier – 47
48. Maps to the Stars – 45.5
The Overnighters – 45.5
50. Dear White People – 45
The Raid 2 – 43.5
The Homesman – 43
Jodorowsky’s Dune – 43
The Tale of the Princess Kaguya – 40
The Dance of Reality – 39.5
Nymphomaniac – 39
The Strange Little Cat – 39
Obvious Child – 38
12 Years a Slave – 36.5
A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night – 35.5
Starred Up – 35
Get on Up – 33
God Help the Girl – 33
A Most Wanted Man – 32
Wild Tales – 32
The Wind Rises – 31
Jealousy – 30
The Last of the Unjust – 30
L’il Quinquin – 30
National Gallery – 29.5
Night Moves – 27.5
Beyond the Lights – 26
The Missing Picture – 25.5
Actress – 25
Frank – 24.5
Belle – 23.5
Joe – 23
Unbroken – 22
What Now? Remind Me – 22
The Wolf of Wall Street – 22
Inside Llewyn Davis – 21
Level Five – 21
Chef – 20.5
Lucy – 20.5
The Double – 19
A Spell to Ward Off the Darkness – 19
Tales of the Grim Sleeper – 19
Closed Curtain – 18.5
The Lunchbox – 18.5
The Drop – 18
Enemy – 18
Horse Money – 18
It Felt Like Love – 18
Land Ho ! – 18
The Tribe – 18
Vic + Flo Saw a Bear – 18
The Guest – 17
Last Days in Vietnam – 17
Muppets Most Wanted – 17
The Rover – 17
Top Five – 17
The Congress – 16.5
Fury – 16.5
Godzilla – 16.5
Still Alice – 16.5
John Wick – 16
Abuse of Weakness – 15
Into the Woods – 15
Like Father, Like Son – 15
Story of My Death – 15
Cheap Thrills – 14
Journey to the West – 14
Violette – 14
Mood Indigo – 13.5
Stand Clear of the Closing Doors – 13.5
Venus in Fur – 13.5
Bird People – 13
Jauja – 13
Beloved Sisters – 12
Big Eyes – 12
The Fault in Our Stars – 12
The Hunger Games: Mockingjay Part 1 – 12
Keep On Keepin’ On – 12
Le Week-End – 12
X-Men: Days of Future Past – 12
Maidan – 12
Cold in July – 11
Kids for Cash – 11
The One I Love – 11
Pride – 11
20,000 Days on Earth – 11
The Battered Bastards of Baseball – 10
Begin Again – 10
Buzzard – 10
Ellie Lumme – 10
Jimmy P. – 10
Northern Light – 10
Thou Wast Mild and Lovely – 10
Amour Fou – 9
Breathe In – 9
Celestial Wives of the Meadow Mari – 9
Coherence – 9
Life of Riley – 9
Manuscripts Don’t Burn – 9
Rambleras – 9
Red Army – 9
The Retrieval – 9
The Salt of the Earth – 9
The Strange Color of Your Body’s Tears – 9
Gloria – 8
Hard to Be a God – 8
How to Train Your Dragon 2 – 8
Lesson of the Evil – 8
Memphis – 8
Miss Julie – 8
Noah – 8
See You Next Tuesday – 8
The Skeleton Twins – 8
St. Vincent – 8
Timbuktu – 8
Alan Partridge – 7
Bethlehem – 7
Big Hero 6 – 7
The Blue Room – 7
The Boxtrolls – 7
Das Spektrum Europas – 7
Dreams Are Colder Than Death – 7
Finding Vivian Maier – 7
Her – 7
My Little Pony: Equestria Girls – 7
Phoenix – 7
The Selfish Giant – 7
Song of the Sea – 7
Third Person – 7
The Two Faces of January – 7
The Unknown Known – 7
Why Don’t You Play in Hell? – 7
Exhibition – 6.5
Omar – 6.5
The Duke of Burgundy – 6
A Field in England – 6
Farbe – 6
Heli – 6
Hill of Freedom – 6
My Name Is Salt – 6
Saint Laurent – 6
Thursday Til Sunday – 6
The Case Against 8 – 5.5
The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Them – 5.5
Final Cut: Ladies and Gentlemen – 5.5
Happy Christmas – 5.5
Laggies – 5.5
Gett – 5
Guilty of Romance – 5
The Kindergarten Teacher – 5
Mistaken for Strangers – 5
Out in the Night – 5
Over the Garden Wall – 5
Pulp: A Film About Life, Death & Supermarkets – 5
Revenge of the Mekons – 5
Rich Hill – 5
22 Jump Street – 5
The Way He Looks – 5
While We’re Young – 5
Neighbors – 4.5
Nothing Bad Can Happen – 4.5
Antarctica – 4
Breakfast with Curtis – 4
Diplomacy – 4
The Great Invisible – 4
Happy Valley – 4
Jersey Boys – 4
Low Down – 4
Policeman – 4
Pompeii – 4
They Came Together – 4
What If... – 4
Bjork Biophilia Live – 3
Child’s Pose – 3
The David Whiting Story or the Cesar Romero Joke – 3
Don’t Go Breaking My Heart 2 – 3
Hateship Loveship – 3
Ilo Ilo – 3
The Kill Team – 3
Patema Inverted – 3
The Princess of France – 3
Proxy – 3
Queen & Country – 3
She’s Beautiful When She’s Angry – 3
The Trip to Italy – 3
What We Do in the Shadows – 3
White God – 3
Words and Pictures – 3
Zero Motivation – 3
Above and Below the Minhocao – 2
The Amazing Catfish – 2
Clouds of Sils Maria – 2
Everyday – 2
The Galapagos Affair – 2
The Interview – 2
Last Weekend – 2
Le Paradis – 2
Thy Womb – 2
War of Lies – 2
August Winds – 1
Bad Hair – 1
The Better Angels – 1
Big Men – 1
The Book of Life – 1
Butter on the Latch – 1
Class Enemy – 1
Draft Day – 1
Ernest and Celestine – 1
Fading Gigolo – 1
The Gambler – 1
Glen Campbell: I’ll Be Me – 1
Heaven Knows What – 1
Journey to the West: Conquering the Demons – 1
The Kidnapping of Michel Houellebecq – 1
The Last Sentence – 1
Magic in the Moonlight – 1
Our Sunhi – 1
Paddington – 1
Particle Fever – 1
Rob the Mob – 1
The Secret Trial 5 – 1
Stop the Pounding Heart – 1
A Summer’s Tale – 1
Tip Top – 1
Transformers: Age of Extinction – 1
Welcome to New York – 1
Witching and Bitching – 1
Of course, results are sullied a bit by the inability of some critics to agree on the definition of a 2014 movie. Most of them limited it to films that were released theatrically during the year, but some included festival films that won't play in theaters until 2015, if ever. And then there are the British folks who included some 2013 films (like 12 Years a Slave and The Wolf of Wall Street), presumably because they didn't play in the UK until 2014. *Sigh* Why do I bother?
Sunday, May 11, 2014
How Hollywood Has Failed Broadway, and How to Fix That
Quick, name the last great movie adapted from a Broadway musical (if you said Les Miserables, there's really no reason for us to continue our relationship). I don't mean a good, faithful adaptation, I mean a genuinely great piece of filmmaking, one that stands on its own as an exemplary work of art. You'd pretty much have to go all the way back to Cabaret (made in 1972, before I was born) to find one that's still generally held in high regard, and that one just barely qualifies as an adaptation, having essentially gutted and stripped the Broadway show for spare parts.
Honestly, I can't think of a single one. And the reason for this is that no one has ever made one. I would know it if they had. Oh, sure, there have been some very good ones, mostly in the '60s and early '70s-- The Sound of Music, Oliver!, My Fair Lady, How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, Sweet Charity, Fiddler on the Roof, the aforementioned Cabaret; some might add West Side Story, but I've never been a particular fan (although I don't think I've seen it since junior high, so just ignore me on this one). But are any of these really masterpieces?
You may think so, and that's fine, because it doesn't change my principal point, which is that all of the really good Broadway adaptations were made more than 40 years ago. And even those pale in comparison to original movie musicals like Singin' in the Rain.
The reason for this seems pretty clear: musicals, for whatever reason, don't attract the top directing talents. When a top-notch director does deign to dabble in the genre, it's always with an original work: Martin Scorsese with New York, New York, or Lars von Trier with Dancer in the Dark. But a Scorsese or a von Trier doesn't do Broadway (exception: Spike Lee with Passing Strange, but since that was just a filmed performance of the stage show, it hardly counts), leaving the job to Hollywood hacks like Rob Marshall, Adam Shankman, Joel Schumacher, or Chris Columbus (or, worse, theater directors who don't really know what they're doing behind a camera, like Phyllida Lloyd; technically Marshall is a theater director, as well, but he's at least competent as a filmmaker). And that's how we end up with, for instance, a cinematic take on Rent that omits "Christmas Bells" (the big show-stopping number) out of sheer laziness, and has Mark, Angel, and Collins walk around the corner during "Another Day" and start singing along with Mimi even though they have no idea who she is or what's going on (seriously, the movie's terrible; just watch the stage show, it's freaking amazing).
But I ask you: why don't great filmmakers tackle Broadway musicals? Why must the genre be shunned and ghettoized and tossed to mediocrities? Are we never to discover what a master auteur could do with our favorite shows? Are we to forever see them being butchered by talentless rent-a-directors?
The following list of pairings of musicals and directors is pure fantasy on my part, but indulge me. Because, to me, there is literally nothing in the world that's better than a great musical number, and frankly I'm tired of great musical numbers happening everywhere but in film, my favorite medium. I think these guys could change that:
Les Miserables, directed by Steven Spielberg
Really, who would have been a more perfect choice to direct this most hallowed of musicals? His penchant for idealized pathos was practically made for this tear jerker, and his romantic style would have injected the sense of grandeur and gravitas that this particular musical requires. Instead, we got Wolverine and Catwoman doing karaoke. But hey, he could always remake it, couldn't he? Nobody ever remakes musicals, but why the hell not?
Rent, directed by Wong Kar-Wai
This is even more of a long shot, but just think what Wong could do with something like Rent. He's got that perfect blend of operatic sensibility and rock 'n roll energy that is precisely what this musical is all about, and he's also got the artistic talent to translate the more abstract elements of the show to the screen (which Columbus didn't even attempt).
In the Heights, directed by Spike Lee
This one's a no-brainer, since Lee has basically already made this movie twice before. New York City, "the summer's hottest day"... sound familiar? This story of a hot summer day in a Manhattan barrio would make the perfect completion to the trilogy begun by Do the Right Thing (hot summer day in an African-American Brooklyn neighborhood) and Summer of Sam (hot summer in an Italian Bronx neighborhood). Nobody gets that New York urban vibe like Spike. Just don't let Michel Gondry get his hands on it, because this is exactly the sort of thing that would attract him, and which he would inevitably screw up.
Avenue Q, directed by Spike Jonze
Avenue Q, for those who haven't seen it, is brilliant. I'm not kidding when I say it's one of the most important works of art of the 21st century. I'm not even sure a screen version would work. But if anyone should be allowed to attempt it, it's Jonze. The tone of his films -- a kind of comic absurdity grounded in realism -- is perfect for this send-up of Sesame Street, and at the same time his delicate directorial style is subtle enough to avoid interfering with the very particular look that such a parody requires.
Chess, directed by Martin Scorsese
Chess is not a great musical, but it could be. The original concept album is a masterpiece of '80s synth pop and Rodgers and Hammerstein fusion, and if they had just stuck with that template for the stage version, it would have been the greatest musical ever made. Unfortunately, they added a host of mediocre songs, turning it into a messy, lopsided rock opera that constantly attempts to over-explain its complicated plot with absurdly moronic lyrics. When it moved to Broadway, they tried to "fix" the problem by removing the extraneous material and turning it into a simpler, more traditional book musical -- a worthy endeavor, except for the fact that they drastically changed the plot and somehow made it even worse. Only a return to its concept album roots could save this musical, and Scorsese would bring the artistry and majesty it deserves -- just thinking about the climactic, astonishing "Endgame" filmed with Scorsese's gorgeous camera swoops brings tears to my eyes.
Jesus Christ Superstar, directed by Lars von Trier
This has already been made into a movie, by Norman Jewison, and it's actually pretty good; but it's also very dated, very '70s, and it could definitely use an update. Von Trier's mastery of complex emotions and his fearlessness in exploring the darker sides of mankind are just what this rock opera needs. It would make a fitting companion to Antichrist, anyway.
American Idiot, directed by Terry Gilliam
I realize rock musicals are taking up an inordinate amount of space here, but, hey, that's what I like. I think it's the most underrepresented of all art forms, and so on the rare occasion when a good one comes along, we need to cherish and celebrate it as much as possible. This musical is actually already in development, with Michael Mayer, director of the stage version, at the helm. But I'm not sure I trust a film newcomer, and anyway, the idea of Terry Gilliam making it is too insane not to fantasize about.
Of course, my real response to the question of who should make these movies is: me. These are my seven favorite musicals of all time, and, well, you know what they say about wanting something done right. Just putting that out there, Hollywood producers.
Honestly, I can't think of a single one. And the reason for this is that no one has ever made one. I would know it if they had. Oh, sure, there have been some very good ones, mostly in the '60s and early '70s-- The Sound of Music, Oliver!, My Fair Lady, How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, Sweet Charity, Fiddler on the Roof, the aforementioned Cabaret; some might add West Side Story, but I've never been a particular fan (although I don't think I've seen it since junior high, so just ignore me on this one). But are any of these really masterpieces?
You may think so, and that's fine, because it doesn't change my principal point, which is that all of the really good Broadway adaptations were made more than 40 years ago. And even those pale in comparison to original movie musicals like Singin' in the Rain.
The reason for this seems pretty clear: musicals, for whatever reason, don't attract the top directing talents. When a top-notch director does deign to dabble in the genre, it's always with an original work: Martin Scorsese with New York, New York, or Lars von Trier with Dancer in the Dark. But a Scorsese or a von Trier doesn't do Broadway (exception: Spike Lee with Passing Strange, but since that was just a filmed performance of the stage show, it hardly counts), leaving the job to Hollywood hacks like Rob Marshall, Adam Shankman, Joel Schumacher, or Chris Columbus (or, worse, theater directors who don't really know what they're doing behind a camera, like Phyllida Lloyd; technically Marshall is a theater director, as well, but he's at least competent as a filmmaker). And that's how we end up with, for instance, a cinematic take on Rent that omits "Christmas Bells" (the big show-stopping number) out of sheer laziness, and has Mark, Angel, and Collins walk around the corner during "Another Day" and start singing along with Mimi even though they have no idea who she is or what's going on (seriously, the movie's terrible; just watch the stage show, it's freaking amazing).
But I ask you: why don't great filmmakers tackle Broadway musicals? Why must the genre be shunned and ghettoized and tossed to mediocrities? Are we never to discover what a master auteur could do with our favorite shows? Are we to forever see them being butchered by talentless rent-a-directors?
The following list of pairings of musicals and directors is pure fantasy on my part, but indulge me. Because, to me, there is literally nothing in the world that's better than a great musical number, and frankly I'm tired of great musical numbers happening everywhere but in film, my favorite medium. I think these guys could change that:
Les Miserables, directed by Steven Spielberg
Really, who would have been a more perfect choice to direct this most hallowed of musicals? His penchant for idealized pathos was practically made for this tear jerker, and his romantic style would have injected the sense of grandeur and gravitas that this particular musical requires. Instead, we got Wolverine and Catwoman doing karaoke. But hey, he could always remake it, couldn't he? Nobody ever remakes musicals, but why the hell not?
Rent, directed by Wong Kar-Wai
This is even more of a long shot, but just think what Wong could do with something like Rent. He's got that perfect blend of operatic sensibility and rock 'n roll energy that is precisely what this musical is all about, and he's also got the artistic talent to translate the more abstract elements of the show to the screen (which Columbus didn't even attempt).
In the Heights, directed by Spike Lee
This one's a no-brainer, since Lee has basically already made this movie twice before. New York City, "the summer's hottest day"... sound familiar? This story of a hot summer day in a Manhattan barrio would make the perfect completion to the trilogy begun by Do the Right Thing (hot summer day in an African-American Brooklyn neighborhood) and Summer of Sam (hot summer in an Italian Bronx neighborhood). Nobody gets that New York urban vibe like Spike. Just don't let Michel Gondry get his hands on it, because this is exactly the sort of thing that would attract him, and which he would inevitably screw up.
Avenue Q, directed by Spike Jonze
Avenue Q, for those who haven't seen it, is brilliant. I'm not kidding when I say it's one of the most important works of art of the 21st century. I'm not even sure a screen version would work. But if anyone should be allowed to attempt it, it's Jonze. The tone of his films -- a kind of comic absurdity grounded in realism -- is perfect for this send-up of Sesame Street, and at the same time his delicate directorial style is subtle enough to avoid interfering with the very particular look that such a parody requires.
Chess, directed by Martin Scorsese
Chess is not a great musical, but it could be. The original concept album is a masterpiece of '80s synth pop and Rodgers and Hammerstein fusion, and if they had just stuck with that template for the stage version, it would have been the greatest musical ever made. Unfortunately, they added a host of mediocre songs, turning it into a messy, lopsided rock opera that constantly attempts to over-explain its complicated plot with absurdly moronic lyrics. When it moved to Broadway, they tried to "fix" the problem by removing the extraneous material and turning it into a simpler, more traditional book musical -- a worthy endeavor, except for the fact that they drastically changed the plot and somehow made it even worse. Only a return to its concept album roots could save this musical, and Scorsese would bring the artistry and majesty it deserves -- just thinking about the climactic, astonishing "Endgame" filmed with Scorsese's gorgeous camera swoops brings tears to my eyes.
Jesus Christ Superstar, directed by Lars von Trier
This has already been made into a movie, by Norman Jewison, and it's actually pretty good; but it's also very dated, very '70s, and it could definitely use an update. Von Trier's mastery of complex emotions and his fearlessness in exploring the darker sides of mankind are just what this rock opera needs. It would make a fitting companion to Antichrist, anyway.
American Idiot, directed by Terry Gilliam
I realize rock musicals are taking up an inordinate amount of space here, but, hey, that's what I like. I think it's the most underrepresented of all art forms, and so on the rare occasion when a good one comes along, we need to cherish and celebrate it as much as possible. This musical is actually already in development, with Michael Mayer, director of the stage version, at the helm. But I'm not sure I trust a film newcomer, and anyway, the idea of Terry Gilliam making it is too insane not to fantasize about.
Of course, my real response to the question of who should make these movies is: me. These are my seven favorite musicals of all time, and, well, you know what they say about wanting something done right. Just putting that out there, Hollywood producers.
Friday, January 4, 2013
10 Best Movies of 2012
I'm not even going to bother lamenting about how this was the worst year for movies in recent memory (even though it was), because, frankly, I'm tired of being that guy. The thing is, I want to be one of those people who claims this to be an incredibly wonderfully great year for movies (which they do every year). And I am so freaking jealous of them. I'm jealous that they can watch a movie like Zero Dark Thirty or Lincoln and say, "Yes, this is a great work of art." It's not that I necessarily think their standards are lower than mine (even though they probably are), it's that we're clearly looking for different things, and the things I'm looking for are elusive and rare. I saw exactly two great movies last year, plus a possible third which, judging by the great wave of appreciation that crashes against my heart and brain every time I think of it, I may have underrated. There were also some other movies I liked a lot. Here they are:
10. Cloud Atlas
Tom Tykwer and the Wachowski siblings' (sounds like a polka band) ambitious epic, based on David Mitchell's brilliant genre-bending novel (which I highly recommend), is so insane and yet so earnest that I fell a little bit in love with it, warts and all. With its devil-may-care treatment of race, gender and sexuality, it's almost like something John Waters would make if given a studio-sized budget.
9. Miss Bala
Gerardo Naranjo's rigidly self-controlled Mexican crime drama came out way back in January, and has mostly been forgotten since then (it's appeared on only two "top 10" lists made by professional critics). It's a remarkably assured work from a director with whom I was completely unfamiliar (this is his fourth feature). The title is a play on words -- the plot revolves around the Miss Baja beauty pageant, and "bala" is the Spanish word for "bullet" -- but the film is much more austere than that implies, doggedly following its heroine as she desperately strives to take control of a life that, through an unfortunate twist of fate, has become not her own.
8. Argo
This is the year's best CIA-in-the-Middle-East movie, a film set in 1980 that could just as easily be a film from 1980. Unlike those of that other CIA movie, its pleasures are contextually autonomous; you don't need to have ever heard of Iran or the hostage situation to understand or enjoy it. It's also the most breathtaking nail-biter to come along in some time, with a plot that would have been screaming to be dramatized immediately after the real-life events occurred, had they not been classified.
7. Beasts of the Southern Wild
One of the year's most impressive debuts (both director-wise and actor-wise), Beasts of the Southern Wild is an almost otherworldly achievement. It's pragmatic yet fantastic, morbid yet adorable, frequently unpleasant yet absolutely joyous. Six-year-old newcomer Quvenzhane Wallis carries the film as if she's been acting for thirty years.
6. Jiro Dreams of Sushi
I love it when a documentary comes along that understands that non-fiction films don't have to sacrifice aesthetics. This study of the world's most revered sushi chef is a zen-like meditation on both culinary art and old age, and what the latter means for the former (and what the former means, period). And this is above its completely fascinating role as an exposition into the sushi-making process, which is much more complicated and interesting than you probably think.
5. The Snowtown Murders
The name change is unfortunate but necessary, I suppose. In Australia (and at AFI Fest, where I saw it), it was simply called Snowtown, a convenient catch-phrase recognizable to Aussies but meaningless to Americans, who likely haven't heard about the grisly real-life murder spree that inspired the film. As an abbreviated title, then, it's especially meaningless, seeing as how the film does not take place in Snowtown and the murders weren't actually committed there (but the media dubbed them "the Snowtown murders" because that's where the bodies were dumped and later found). The actual film, too, is often meaningless and difficult to follow for anyone not already familiar with the case, and yet I found this to be bracingly challenging rather than vexing. It's a quiet, eerily convincing examination of the seductive nature of evil, as personified by serial killer John Bunting, played here with a terrifying mix of menace and affability by Daniel Henshall (my pick for best actor of the year, if the Academy is paying attention). Another stunning directorial debut, by Justin Kurzel.
4. Jeff, Who Lives at Home
Sometimes you just fall for a movie without really understanding why. Such is the case for me with Jeff, Who Lives at Home, which has nothing innovative or visionary going for it, and yet it provided the happiest 83 minutes of my collective 2012 movie-going experience. I think a lot of it has to do with the casual, offhand humor at which Ed Helms excels and which provides a perfect counterpoint to Jason Segel's patented dopiness (which usually irritates me, but which makes him positively cuddly here). But mostly, it's the idiosyncratic script by the Duplass brothers that got me, with its series of absurd scenarios and its characters that are fully aware of their absurdity. Hey, look at that, I guess I do understand why I fell for it.
3. Once Upon a Time in Anatolia
This is the one that I may have underrated slightly. I was a huge fan of Nuri Bilge Ceylan's Distant, but was somewhat less enthused about his follow-up, Climates, and absolutely hated the next one, Three Monkeys, so I was relieved to find him returning to form with this, his most audacious and ambitious film yet. It runs two and a half hours, more than ninety minutes of which consists of a group of policemen searching for a dead body in the Anatolian steppes in the middle of the night. And it's riveting. Not because anything happens, but because, perversely, nothing happens. It's an existential police procedural that uses the mundanity of detective work as a synecdoche for the human experience, seeming to argue that a routine murder case maybe should be an oxymoron.
2. Moonrise Kingdom
This is the movie towards which Wes Anderson seems to have been building his entire career. Every Andersonian device and quirk seems to have been invented in earlier films in order to be perfectly placed in this one. It's wryly hilarious and deliriously romantic and impossibly adorable, filled with more delightful sight gags per square inch than any other recent film I can think of. Wes Anderson antipathists are strongly advised to steer clear.
1. Samsara
It floors me that this film has gone almost completely ignored by critics, even as Koyaanisqatsi (a movie I find utterly tedious) is still discussed in reverential tones. Is it simply a case of Too Much? Originality versus perfection? Because this film is astonishing; not just cinematographically (though it's so beautiful it makes it hard to breathe), but intellectually, as well. It's a film about where we've been, where we are, and where we're going as a collective species. Ron Fricke is nothing short of heroic for filming it all, editing it together, and giving us this gift for what had to be absolutely zero profit, and I kind of think he deserves a medal.
10. Cloud Atlas
Tom Tykwer and the Wachowski siblings' (sounds like a polka band) ambitious epic, based on David Mitchell's brilliant genre-bending novel (which I highly recommend), is so insane and yet so earnest that I fell a little bit in love with it, warts and all. With its devil-may-care treatment of race, gender and sexuality, it's almost like something John Waters would make if given a studio-sized budget.
9. Miss Bala
Gerardo Naranjo's rigidly self-controlled Mexican crime drama came out way back in January, and has mostly been forgotten since then (it's appeared on only two "top 10" lists made by professional critics). It's a remarkably assured work from a director with whom I was completely unfamiliar (this is his fourth feature). The title is a play on words -- the plot revolves around the Miss Baja beauty pageant, and "bala" is the Spanish word for "bullet" -- but the film is much more austere than that implies, doggedly following its heroine as she desperately strives to take control of a life that, through an unfortunate twist of fate, has become not her own.
8. Argo
This is the year's best CIA-in-the-Middle-East movie, a film set in 1980 that could just as easily be a film from 1980. Unlike those of that other CIA movie, its pleasures are contextually autonomous; you don't need to have ever heard of Iran or the hostage situation to understand or enjoy it. It's also the most breathtaking nail-biter to come along in some time, with a plot that would have been screaming to be dramatized immediately after the real-life events occurred, had they not been classified.
7. Beasts of the Southern Wild
One of the year's most impressive debuts (both director-wise and actor-wise), Beasts of the Southern Wild is an almost otherworldly achievement. It's pragmatic yet fantastic, morbid yet adorable, frequently unpleasant yet absolutely joyous. Six-year-old newcomer Quvenzhane Wallis carries the film as if she's been acting for thirty years.
6. Jiro Dreams of Sushi
I love it when a documentary comes along that understands that non-fiction films don't have to sacrifice aesthetics. This study of the world's most revered sushi chef is a zen-like meditation on both culinary art and old age, and what the latter means for the former (and what the former means, period). And this is above its completely fascinating role as an exposition into the sushi-making process, which is much more complicated and interesting than you probably think.
5. The Snowtown Murders
The name change is unfortunate but necessary, I suppose. In Australia (and at AFI Fest, where I saw it), it was simply called Snowtown, a convenient catch-phrase recognizable to Aussies but meaningless to Americans, who likely haven't heard about the grisly real-life murder spree that inspired the film. As an abbreviated title, then, it's especially meaningless, seeing as how the film does not take place in Snowtown and the murders weren't actually committed there (but the media dubbed them "the Snowtown murders" because that's where the bodies were dumped and later found). The actual film, too, is often meaningless and difficult to follow for anyone not already familiar with the case, and yet I found this to be bracingly challenging rather than vexing. It's a quiet, eerily convincing examination of the seductive nature of evil, as personified by serial killer John Bunting, played here with a terrifying mix of menace and affability by Daniel Henshall (my pick for best actor of the year, if the Academy is paying attention). Another stunning directorial debut, by Justin Kurzel.
4. Jeff, Who Lives at Home
Sometimes you just fall for a movie without really understanding why. Such is the case for me with Jeff, Who Lives at Home, which has nothing innovative or visionary going for it, and yet it provided the happiest 83 minutes of my collective 2012 movie-going experience. I think a lot of it has to do with the casual, offhand humor at which Ed Helms excels and which provides a perfect counterpoint to Jason Segel's patented dopiness (which usually irritates me, but which makes him positively cuddly here). But mostly, it's the idiosyncratic script by the Duplass brothers that got me, with its series of absurd scenarios and its characters that are fully aware of their absurdity. Hey, look at that, I guess I do understand why I fell for it.
3. Once Upon a Time in Anatolia
This is the one that I may have underrated slightly. I was a huge fan of Nuri Bilge Ceylan's Distant, but was somewhat less enthused about his follow-up, Climates, and absolutely hated the next one, Three Monkeys, so I was relieved to find him returning to form with this, his most audacious and ambitious film yet. It runs two and a half hours, more than ninety minutes of which consists of a group of policemen searching for a dead body in the Anatolian steppes in the middle of the night. And it's riveting. Not because anything happens, but because, perversely, nothing happens. It's an existential police procedural that uses the mundanity of detective work as a synecdoche for the human experience, seeming to argue that a routine murder case maybe should be an oxymoron.
2. Moonrise Kingdom
This is the movie towards which Wes Anderson seems to have been building his entire career. Every Andersonian device and quirk seems to have been invented in earlier films in order to be perfectly placed in this one. It's wryly hilarious and deliriously romantic and impossibly adorable, filled with more delightful sight gags per square inch than any other recent film I can think of. Wes Anderson antipathists are strongly advised to steer clear.
1. Samsara
It floors me that this film has gone almost completely ignored by critics, even as Koyaanisqatsi (a movie I find utterly tedious) is still discussed in reverential tones. Is it simply a case of Too Much? Originality versus perfection? Because this film is astonishing; not just cinematographically (though it's so beautiful it makes it hard to breathe), but intellectually, as well. It's a film about where we've been, where we are, and where we're going as a collective species. Ron Fricke is nothing short of heroic for filming it all, editing it together, and giving us this gift for what had to be absolutely zero profit, and I kind of think he deserves a medal.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
I signed up for Letterboxd, where I will be posting short capsule reviews of movies I watch. At least until I get tired of it. You can find it here: http://letterboxd.com/blurtforreel/
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Objectively Great
Is there such a thing as an objectively great film? I've been having this argument in one form or another for at least 20 years. The prevailing school of thought seems to be that yes, there are objectively great films, and if you don't like these films, well, you're just plain wrong.
Which of course is ridiculous. "Objectively great" is an oxymoron. If something is objectively anything, it is so based on facts, free from bias or personal interpretation. And personal interpretation is integral to any discussion of film.
So, why, then, do people make this claim? Someone once told me that certain films simply become objectively great, based on their place in cinema history and the general consensus. Which, to me, sounds worryingly like opinion by syndicate, groupthink taken to ridiculous extremes. I'm reminded of an anecdote I heard the other day, in which a screenwriter called up a Hollywood studio executive to find out what he thought of his script, and the response he got was: "Honestly, I don't know what I think, because I'm the only one here who has read it."
Even the meaning of the word "great" is subjective. My ex-husband used to get annoyed when I described a movie as being very good but not great, because he didn't understand the difference between a great movie and a movie that has nothing particularly wrong with it (I eventually cured him of this condition). But what is a "great" movie, really? Everyone has their own standards for bestowing that most sacred adjective on a film. Myself, I tend to think of a great film as being one that challenges me, either artistically, intellectually, or emotionally. But really, the best answer is the same one used to define everything from art to pornography: I know it when I see it.
Many people confuse historical importance for artistic greatness, as though the one automatically assumes the other. This has always seemed problematic to me, though. Surely, greatness requires more than mere innovation. Sure, The Birth of a Nation is noteworthy for, if you'll pardon the pun, birthing modern cinema in many ways, but is it really a great movie, this offensively racist, cartoonish Civil War melodrama? Is The Jazz Singer a great movie for being the first with synchronized sound? A movie is a lot more than merely the sum of its technical achievements, and being the first to do something certainly does not mean you were the best at doing it, or even particularly good at it.
The real reason people make this claim of "objective greatness," I suspect, is simply that they don't trust their own opinions. And really, who can blame them? There are so many factors to consider when forming an opinion of a movie -- directing, writing, acting, cinematography, editing, sound, makeup, costumes, set design, to say nothing of those that are entirely script-related: plot, dialogue, characterizations, are there any plot holes, does it all make sense? -- that it's a wonder we're even able to coalesce our thoughts after only one viewing. It's much easier to trust the experts to determine cinematic greatness for us, to start from that fundamental viewpoint and work our way to an understanding of the film from there.
There comes a point, however, when you just have to stand on your own legs and declare, "No, actually, this movie really isn't all that great!" But people are afraid to do that. Nobody likes to stand alone, to be the dissenting voice in the crowd. It's scary out there. And because it's so scary, a kind of herd mentality overtakes us. It's not that we necessarily alter our opinions to match those of the majority, but when our opinions do match the majority's, or at least come close enough to roughly align with them, it comes as such a relief to have them validated in such a way that we start thinking of them as objective truths. Opinions seldom thrive in a vacuum. Knowing others feel the same way we do makes us feel less alone, less strange, less... different. It's why we watch movies to begin with. And read books. And listen to pop songs. It's all to confirm that there are others out there who are Just Like Us.
So what happens when we don't agree with the majority? Well, results vary from one person to the next. For some, it's anger ("How can you all like this overrated piece of crap?!"). For others, it's fear ("What's so great about this movie? I'd better watch it again because I must have missed something!"). For still others, it's concession ("I know this is a great movie, I just don't like it."). We scour the Internet in search of smart people who agree with us just so we know we're not crazy. We're all so afraid of our own opinions that it's become nearly impossible to have a rational, intelligent discussion anymore.
This is especially true in the nerd community. Certain movies have to be great. They just have to. Nerds are extremely protective of their movies, and often go to extreme lengths to defend them. The Dark Knight Rises (you knew this was coming) opens this weekend, after four years of collective salivating over casting news, leaked set pics, general gossip, any tidbit having anything to do with anything having any kind of connection to this movie. Such levels of anticipation create a pressure cooker situation, one which requires only the barest hint of negativity to set it off. When early reviews came in, and not all of them were positive, the fans exploded. "How dare they dislike this movie, when clearly it's the best movie ever even though we haven't seen it yet?!" Rotten Tomatoes actually had to shut down comments, it got so heated. This goes beyond a mere unwillingness to accept differing opinions. This is fanaticism in the truest sense, as blind and irrational as any extreme religious zeal. But it's what we humans do, I suppose.
So if there are not objectively great movies, does this mean there are no objectively bad films? That's harder to judge. Certainly, there are films that one would be hard pressed to call "good"; it's why something like Mystery Science Theater 3000 could exist. At least from a technical standpoint, there are certain standards that must be maintained; if a movie fails to reach any or all of them, then yes, a case could be made that it is objectively bad. On the other hand, in my 30+ years of moviegoing, I've discovered few movies as purely entertaining as Plan 9 from Other Space, a film that clearly falls short of acceptable standards of quality in virtually every aspect of its creation. So how can it be a bad movie if I enjoyed it so much? This brings us back into that gray area governed largely by "I know it when I see it."
Of course, fans are just as quick to label a movie as "objectively bad" as they are to label something "objectively great." There are the reasonable candidates, like the aforementioned Plan 9. Manos: The Hands of Fate is another commonly cited one. But then there are movies like The Phantom Menace, Attack of the Clones, Superman Returns, and X-Men: The Last Stand, movies that actually got good reviews from the majority of critics on Rotten Tomatoes (76% in the case of Superman Returns), and yet which are invariably used in fan discussions as synonyms for "bad movie." Now, I bring up these four examples in particular (there are many others) because they're all movies that I personally love. Not like, love. And yet I can never talk about my love for these movies in public, because I'm already coming from a foundation of Wrong in the minds of most people who might take part or in some way encounter the discussion.
How did we get to this point, where opinions are so threatening that they need to be quarantined? Is this really what we want in an intelligent society (which I realize is another oxymoron)? I suppose humans have always had a fundamental need to make others agree with them -- it's why we have religion, wars, and Oprah -- but at its core, it's always been a matter of fear and insecurity. Applying that paradigm to something as trivial as moving pictures (and I'm speaking as an ardent film lover) is just doubly pathetic. Movies aren't mathematical equations to be solved. They're not scientific formulas. They're collections of images, sounds, ideas, emotions, rhythms, perceptions. Some affect you, some don't. Some that don't affect you affect others, and vice versa. Whether they affect others or not has nothing to do with you and the effects the movie has on you. Acceptance of this truth is the first step to a genuine, uncompromising love of the cinema.
Which of course is ridiculous. "Objectively great" is an oxymoron. If something is objectively anything, it is so based on facts, free from bias or personal interpretation. And personal interpretation is integral to any discussion of film.
So, why, then, do people make this claim? Someone once told me that certain films simply become objectively great, based on their place in cinema history and the general consensus. Which, to me, sounds worryingly like opinion by syndicate, groupthink taken to ridiculous extremes. I'm reminded of an anecdote I heard the other day, in which a screenwriter called up a Hollywood studio executive to find out what he thought of his script, and the response he got was: "Honestly, I don't know what I think, because I'm the only one here who has read it."
Even the meaning of the word "great" is subjective. My ex-husband used to get annoyed when I described a movie as being very good but not great, because he didn't understand the difference between a great movie and a movie that has nothing particularly wrong with it (I eventually cured him of this condition). But what is a "great" movie, really? Everyone has their own standards for bestowing that most sacred adjective on a film. Myself, I tend to think of a great film as being one that challenges me, either artistically, intellectually, or emotionally. But really, the best answer is the same one used to define everything from art to pornography: I know it when I see it.
Many people confuse historical importance for artistic greatness, as though the one automatically assumes the other. This has always seemed problematic to me, though. Surely, greatness requires more than mere innovation. Sure, The Birth of a Nation is noteworthy for, if you'll pardon the pun, birthing modern cinema in many ways, but is it really a great movie, this offensively racist, cartoonish Civil War melodrama? Is The Jazz Singer a great movie for being the first with synchronized sound? A movie is a lot more than merely the sum of its technical achievements, and being the first to do something certainly does not mean you were the best at doing it, or even particularly good at it.
The real reason people make this claim of "objective greatness," I suspect, is simply that they don't trust their own opinions. And really, who can blame them? There are so many factors to consider when forming an opinion of a movie -- directing, writing, acting, cinematography, editing, sound, makeup, costumes, set design, to say nothing of those that are entirely script-related: plot, dialogue, characterizations, are there any plot holes, does it all make sense? -- that it's a wonder we're even able to coalesce our thoughts after only one viewing. It's much easier to trust the experts to determine cinematic greatness for us, to start from that fundamental viewpoint and work our way to an understanding of the film from there.
There comes a point, however, when you just have to stand on your own legs and declare, "No, actually, this movie really isn't all that great!" But people are afraid to do that. Nobody likes to stand alone, to be the dissenting voice in the crowd. It's scary out there. And because it's so scary, a kind of herd mentality overtakes us. It's not that we necessarily alter our opinions to match those of the majority, but when our opinions do match the majority's, or at least come close enough to roughly align with them, it comes as such a relief to have them validated in such a way that we start thinking of them as objective truths. Opinions seldom thrive in a vacuum. Knowing others feel the same way we do makes us feel less alone, less strange, less... different. It's why we watch movies to begin with. And read books. And listen to pop songs. It's all to confirm that there are others out there who are Just Like Us.
So what happens when we don't agree with the majority? Well, results vary from one person to the next. For some, it's anger ("How can you all like this overrated piece of crap?!"). For others, it's fear ("What's so great about this movie? I'd better watch it again because I must have missed something!"). For still others, it's concession ("I know this is a great movie, I just don't like it."). We scour the Internet in search of smart people who agree with us just so we know we're not crazy. We're all so afraid of our own opinions that it's become nearly impossible to have a rational, intelligent discussion anymore.
This is especially true in the nerd community. Certain movies have to be great. They just have to. Nerds are extremely protective of their movies, and often go to extreme lengths to defend them. The Dark Knight Rises (you knew this was coming) opens this weekend, after four years of collective salivating over casting news, leaked set pics, general gossip, any tidbit having anything to do with anything having any kind of connection to this movie. Such levels of anticipation create a pressure cooker situation, one which requires only the barest hint of negativity to set it off. When early reviews came in, and not all of them were positive, the fans exploded. "How dare they dislike this movie, when clearly it's the best movie ever even though we haven't seen it yet?!" Rotten Tomatoes actually had to shut down comments, it got so heated. This goes beyond a mere unwillingness to accept differing opinions. This is fanaticism in the truest sense, as blind and irrational as any extreme religious zeal. But it's what we humans do, I suppose.
So if there are not objectively great movies, does this mean there are no objectively bad films? That's harder to judge. Certainly, there are films that one would be hard pressed to call "good"; it's why something like Mystery Science Theater 3000 could exist. At least from a technical standpoint, there are certain standards that must be maintained; if a movie fails to reach any or all of them, then yes, a case could be made that it is objectively bad. On the other hand, in my 30+ years of moviegoing, I've discovered few movies as purely entertaining as Plan 9 from Other Space, a film that clearly falls short of acceptable standards of quality in virtually every aspect of its creation. So how can it be a bad movie if I enjoyed it so much? This brings us back into that gray area governed largely by "I know it when I see it."
Of course, fans are just as quick to label a movie as "objectively bad" as they are to label something "objectively great." There are the reasonable candidates, like the aforementioned Plan 9. Manos: The Hands of Fate is another commonly cited one. But then there are movies like The Phantom Menace, Attack of the Clones, Superman Returns, and X-Men: The Last Stand, movies that actually got good reviews from the majority of critics on Rotten Tomatoes (76% in the case of Superman Returns), and yet which are invariably used in fan discussions as synonyms for "bad movie." Now, I bring up these four examples in particular (there are many others) because they're all movies that I personally love. Not like, love. And yet I can never talk about my love for these movies in public, because I'm already coming from a foundation of Wrong in the minds of most people who might take part or in some way encounter the discussion.
How did we get to this point, where opinions are so threatening that they need to be quarantined? Is this really what we want in an intelligent society (which I realize is another oxymoron)? I suppose humans have always had a fundamental need to make others agree with them -- it's why we have religion, wars, and Oprah -- but at its core, it's always been a matter of fear and insecurity. Applying that paradigm to something as trivial as moving pictures (and I'm speaking as an ardent film lover) is just doubly pathetic. Movies aren't mathematical equations to be solved. They're not scientific formulas. They're collections of images, sounds, ideas, emotions, rhythms, perceptions. Some affect you, some don't. Some that don't affect you affect others, and vice versa. Whether they affect others or not has nothing to do with you and the effects the movie has on you. Acceptance of this truth is the first step to a genuine, uncompromising love of the cinema.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)