Monday, May 31, 2010

The Godfather: "You broke my heart. You broke my heart."


(Warning: plot of both films discussed in close detail)

I don't quite know why it is I've fallen out of love with The Godfather--is it a case of 'familiarity breeds contempt?' A need to admire something newer, fresher? Is it that the flaws have become too glaring, the virtues too faded? A perverse reaction to seeing it on top of every 'best picture' and 'greatest films' list known to Man? I don't know.

We're familiar with the genesis of the film, from a novel that at the time of the film's production wasn't a bestseller yet, but grew in popularity during production; the pressures exerted on its neophyte director (thanks to all the fan expectations) grew accordingly. Coppola recalls he was constantly in danger of being fired after the first week's shooting, and it was only after the powers-that-be saw his staging of the Sollozzo hit--of Pacino as Michael walking out of the bathroom with a calm, distant look in his eyes--that they saw something there; the possibility of a good film, maybe even a hit. 

We know Coppola basically took a lurid potboiler of a crime novel, reached deep inside, and pulled out the book's true heart--a family epic that captured the mood and thoughts (somewhat dark, somewhat cynical) of America at the time. Instead of the book's pulpy pacing, he adopted a statelier rhythm, as befits a Major Production (he might have taken for inspiration Visconti's Il Gattopardo (The Leopard, 1963)--history and epic drama, in effect, told at a processional pace). Coppola had many collaborators, but two are crucial--Gordon Willis with his shadowy amber lighting (supplemented by Bill Butler in certain sequences), and Nino Rota with his swooningly sentimental score

The Godfather may be the peak achievement of '70s Hollywood, the supreme example of their brand of storytelling, but after all is said and done, it's just, well, pretty much conventional storytelling. It has, as Godard might put it, a beginning, a middle, an end, and arranges those elements in the usual order. It uses an omniscient point of view, only zooming in to identify with characters at specific moments (say, Michael during the Sollozzo hit) the way Tolstoy kept to the conventionally omniscient point of view in his novels, breaking convention only when necessary (Pierre plotting to kill Napoleon, say). 

Another perhaps more serious charge is that it glamorizes the Mafia--even their flaws (the sexism and racism, the cruelty, the cold-blooded murders) are depicted on a larger-than-life scale. This is a fairly accurate portrait (the inaccuracies--the Godfather's stance on drugs, for example--being more subtle crimes of omission and distortion than outright fabrications) warts and all, but of the overall impression one comes away with a feeling like--"Wow, I'd like to be in a family like that."

The Godfather Part II is a correction to that impression--a correction to both major objections I have to the first film. We see the ugly underside of both business and family relations, the destructiveness and decadence; at the same time Coppola attempts a more ambitious time scheme, taking the story of the father's rise, and pairing it with the son's consolidation of power and eventual isolation from anyone and everyone he knows or loves.

It's not perfect; fact of the matter is, I'd admire it less if it were perfect. Perfection implies absolute mastery over tried-and-true practices, implies a minimization of risk-taking, the avoidance and absence of imaginative leaps. Coppola does take considerable risk in attempting this scope and density of storytelling in not one but a pair of narratives, and as a result half the film--the '50s era story--tends to suffer in terms of coherence. Someone attempts a hit on Michael; the possibility is raised that there is a traitor in the family. Who is behind it and who involved takes up too much screen time--compare the plot to that of the original's first half, where we had a clear villain (Virgil Sollozzo) capable of plotting devious machinations and springing constant surprises on the hapless Corleones. Sollozzo created suspense; he managed to put the Godfather in a hospital bed, and you wondered what he was going to do next. His eventual elimination would take much of the momentum out of the film (in which case the question of succession--of who would take the Godfather's place in the family--came into play), but there's no real equivalent to the man in Godfather II.

Arguably there's no need for such a villain; Michael is his own worst enemy. One might say that Part II is basically a character study, the tragedy of a man losing the very thing he fought for--the subject of some of the greatest dramas (it's Shakespeare's favorite plotline, for one).

If the question of succession is the motor that drives the first film's latter half, Michael's conflict with his brother is the motor that drives the second film's latter half, and it's compelling enough--what does one do with the irredeemably weak, especially those of one's own blood? Mario Puzo objected to the possibility that Michael's older brother Fredo might be murdered, but that's the only direction Coppola can go. None of Michael's enemies can really touch Michael (even Hyman Roth (a.k.a. Meyer Lansky), memorably played by Lee Strasberg, is a rather ineffectual antagonist--or at least his most effective attack, assault by senatorial investigation, isn't as visually charismatic as, say, Sollozzo's hospital-room maneuver). It's people close to Michael who have the power to hurt him, either his wife Kay or his brother  (Fredo's actual betrayal wasn't much either, though Michael if were less quick-witted he would have been dead; it's the emotions evoked, of anger and betrayal, that deeply wound Michael).

As an example of epic directing I've mixed feelings about Coppola's twin achievements. He's inspired copycats through the years, of less and less subtlety and interest (Brian De Palma's Scarface comes to mind, all profanity and little substance; that said, his Carlito's Way is possibly what Coppola was trying for and failed to achieve in The Godfather Part III: an irredeemable man's attempt at redemption, done with poignancy and style). I suppose we can't entirely blame the progenitor for his bastards, though going through both films again, one can't help but notice how many of Coppola's devices, so fresh then, seem like hoary cliches now. It's a challenge to keep context in mind, to remember--and more to the point, feel--what was fresh and new back then in what is now considered old. If art has a sell-by or expiration date, this might be the basis for the establishment of such a date.

Then there's evolution--in art and not just biology. I believe that, say, Hou Hsiao Hsien's Bei qing cheng shi (A City of Sadness, 1989) unrolls a richer tapestry of changing relationships and passing time, presenting them in an atmosphere and against a delicate emotional texture that puts anything Coppola does in shadow, if not shame.

I believe Johnnie To's Hak se wui (Election, 2005) and its sequel (Hak se wui yi wo wai kwai, (Election 2: Harmony is a virtue, 2006)) both outdo Coppola in terms of plotting, action staging, suspense, economy of storytelling, and overall ambiance (a difficult-to-define combination of sentiments, from cynicism to despair to an invincible faith in man's capacity to seriously screw up his fellow man).

I believe Matteo Gorrone's Gomorra (2008) is a more persuasive, less glamorized depiction of the Mafia. And as for The Godfather films' combination of old-style visuals and punk-rock action filmmaking, James Gray's We Own the Night has set a new high water mark.

Mind you, most if not all of these films owe a huge debt to Coppola's twin epics; at the same time, Coppola's epics are not set on an unreachable pedestal, nor should they be; new filmmakers will come with new ideas, with films that speak to new times with greater, more relevant power. At least I believe these films do.

Even amongst Coppola's own works one might find superior fare, as Coppola himself might agree. I doubt if Coppola ever bettered himself in terms of action filmmaking when he did Apocalypse Now; I think he'll agree when I say he attains greater visual virtuosity and design in films like One From the Heart, Rumble Fish, even the dramatically flawed Dracula (which I consider more a celebration of old-school special effects than a straight horror film). Even a hard-to-like film like his Tetro speaks more directly from the heart, shows more integrity in its stubborn refusal to tell its story in an accessible, audience-friendly manner.

Basically what I feel about the two Godfather films is this: they work well, they're wonderful examples of understated, stately filmmaking, then and even now. But they don't speak to me with force anymore. They've run out of things to say to me (though I do feel something even now, watching them again), and everything I can say or write about them has basically been written down, somewhere else on the internet. Though I've tried through this piece to be more articulate and coherent about my sentiments, it comes down to this: I've fallen out of love with these films. They don't rock my world anymore. 


5.31.10

The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus (Terry Gilliam, 2009)

http://criticafterdark.blogspot.com/2010/04/altar-vs-avatar.html

Smoke and mirrors and mirrors

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus is, as director Terry Gilliam puts it, a summation of his work to date, taking the freewheeling transitions of Time Bandits, the monumental scale of Brazil, the fabulously junky baroque designs of Baron Munchausen, the affection for the poor and marginalized in The Fisher King, the fabled air of The Brothers Grimm--all lovingly inscribed on yellowed sheepskin parchment and bound in ancient leather binding, with a latch opened by an ornate brass key. The Portable Gilliam could have been the film's alternate title.

It's ostensibly about storytelling, Mr. Nick (Tom Waits) having challenged the head monk of a monastery (Christopher Plummer) to a bet: which has the more powerful appeal, stories or vices? The first to accumulate a dozen converts on either cause wins, and Gilliam contrives to fling across the screen a fleeting image of Christ surrounded by his twelve disciples (the monk, some centuries later). That's the hook, of course; Mr. Nick let him win, to whet the man's  appetite. Millennia later the monk--now named Dr. Parnassus--rides a rickety old cart towed by horses into London, and here the film proper begins.

Gilliam notes that this was the first image he thought up: a decrepit wagon rolling into the streets of London, to open like a clockwork flower into proscenium, stage, a burst of marquee lights--the extreme contrast (but Gilliam is all about contrasts) of an anachronistic theater group wandering in an ultramodern megalopolis. Parnassus over the years has been reduced from founder of Christianity to performer of a dilapidated song-and-dance routine with his tiny troupe: his daughter Valentina (Lily Cole), his assistants young Anton (Andrew Garfield) and minuscule but stout-hearted Percy (Verne Troyer).

Ostensibly that's the story. Mr. Nick plays Mephistopheles to Parnassus' Faust, alternately goading and leading him down one garden path after another. But Waits' Mr. Nick is not all malevolence--Gilliam has his fun with the man, from splattering him with bird droppings (from a supposedly mythical bird of paradise) to inflicting him with a reluctant sense of compassion (he's constantly bending his own rules to allow Parnassus a fighting chance). The two are adversaries, but they're more the kind of adversaries that through long struggle have perversely become friends, one always looking over the shoulder to see if the other's close by. The dynamic between the two reminds me of novelist Anthony Burgess' Tremor of Intent, where the writer railed against the 'neutrals.'

Simply put, Mr. Burgess likes champions for good, but even champions for evil he respects as being committed antagonists, necessary to the struggle; what he couldn't stand are 'the neutrals'--people who sit on the sidelines, who have no personal stake in the struggle, who take advantage of or ally themselves with you, as circumstances dictate. In his best-known novel A Clockwork Orange (turned into a famously ultraviolent film by Stanley Kubrick) Burgess created a memorably repellent protagonist--Alex DeLarge--who despite being a criminal, rapist, and murderer at the age of fourteen is nevertheless capable of that most human of abilities, moral choice. That makes him worthy of respect, or at least serious regard (“Will he or won't he be redeemed?” being for Burgess a question of real import, no matter who is being talked about). I don't know if Gilliam has ever read Burgess, but watching this picture one can see the director totally agreeing with the writer's concept of moral choice, and the nature of the true enemy.

In this film the enemy--the character that earns Gilliam's most intense ire--is Tony. He's Gilliam's idea of the modern man, ever shifting (as incarnated by Heath Ledger, Johnny Depp, Jude Law, Colin Farrell) in appearance and in loyalties. “I've been trying to nail him for years,” muses Mr. Nick, who watches Tony scamper across a vast desert.

But of course. Gilliam has stated his contempt for much of the modern world time and time again--its heartlessness, its constant state of amnesia, its utter interchangeability--and Tony as played by Ledger illustrates (or rather incarnates_ this quality surpassingly well. He's by turns a confidence man, a fanatic, a seducer, an abuser, all and/or any combination thereof, depending on how matters can be turned to his advantage. Ledger plays him with an unholy energy, as if he realizes that his time onscreen is limited; that he's played by three other actors (Depp, Law, Farrell) handily demonstrates Tony's mutable nature--you can't even count on him to keep his face on for too long. If one wasn't aware that Ledger died during the course of filming, that Depp, Law and Farrell filled in last-minute at Gilliam's request, one might think this a clever idea for visualizing the film's themes, not some desperate measure aimed at keeping the production afloat.

The true star of the film isn't Ledger of course, no matter how good he is, no matter how many actors play his role posthumously--it's really Gilliam's eccentric, ramshackle style, which expresses (in an eccentric, ramshackle manner) his themes. Gilliam is possibly the world's greatest proponent of archaic effects--the more archaic and theatrical, the better. He loves Rube Goldberg machines hidden behind curtains that shudder and belch smoke, then lurch forward to frighten children in the audience--one might imagine that he would, if he could, work with a steam-powered camera, on a silent movie. He's all about celebrating the marginalized and forgotten arts and artists. Especially the forgotten; his Parnassus isn't so much Christ (despite what the film suggests) as he is a sidewalk performer, struggling daily to practice his termite art.

Of which Gilliam's film is a wonderful example, one might add--for a production with the relatively modest budget of thirty million dollars, the picture looks and feels three times bigger (Funny, James Cameron's Avatar is some eight times more expensive yet less than half as substantial). Gilliam employs a cornucopia of sleight-of-eye tricks to extend his special-effects dollar, especially through the use of striking locations (London's Leadenhall Market, the foyer of the Vancouver Public Library) and (thanks to 8 mm Ziess lens) extreme wide-angled shots, but I'm especially enamored of his simplest effects--the scenery flats standing immediately behind Parnassus' aluminum-foil mirror, the transparent cube that holds Parnassus aloft in supposed meditation, the sleight-of-hand tricks Garfield and Plummer perform on Ledger's gold tube. Some of the imagery--the sky-high ladders, for example, or the landscapes in the style of Grant Wood, or the giant spinning police officer's head--recall Gilliam's Monty Python days, when he would push cut-out drawings around and call it 'animation').

It's in these moments that you begin to suspect the nature of Gilliam's true theme--not so much good versus evil or storytelling versus vice as it is sodden versus sleek, ancient versus antiseptic, handmade versus the insufferably mass-produced and hygienic. One imagines Parnassus' shambling wagon troupe rolling out onscreen, belching out colored smoke and uttering unholy roars while Gilliam works away backstage. The digital effects man with the keyboard sits silently in the dustiest, least-used corner of the theater--a necessary evil put in his proper place, humbly supporting film and story instead of hogging the center stage. Gilliam's got a heart as big and gorgeous as the whole world and for now--for this film only--it's the undisputed star of the show.

The DVD:

Subtitles and audio in English and Spanish; includes a deleted scene with optional commentary by the director; brief features detailing production background, an elaborate digitally composited model-and-effects shot involving a monastery (possibly the most complex in the film), test shots of star Heath Ledger trying on wigs and costumes; and more.

The commentary is worth listening to--Gilliam is full of amusing anecdotes, and tells a cute little story about his real intentions for the song “We Are the Children of the World,” which was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Song. After which, of course, we are treated to the song itself, and the full import of Gilliam's words truly sink in. Hilarious.

First published in Businessworld, 4.20.10

Saturday, May 22, 2010

A Nightmare on Elm Street (Samuel Bayer, 2010)




Wake me when it's over

I wouldn't call Wes Craven's A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) with its attempts to blur the line between dream and reality an especially great horror movie, or even a particularly unique one. Remember that Joseph Ruben's wittily conceived Dreamscape came out the same year, that David Lynch's no less nightmarish Eraserhead screened over a decade ago, that Roman Polanski's Repulsion had arms sprouting out of apartment walls to grope Catherine Deneuve almost twenty years before, that Herk Harvey's Carnival of Souls (to which Craven's film bears a striking similarity) played in drive-ins three years previous to Polanski's, that most of Luis Bunuel's career (from 1929 to 1977) was predicated on the blurring of the line between reality and dream, and that Carl Dreyer's Vampyr (arguably the greatest nightmare ever realized on the silver screen) was released in 1932, a silent film belatedly converted to sound--a time when dreams found their voice, and spoke to us directly.

No, I wouldn't call Craven's movie great or even unique, but it was driven by a couple of clever ideas, it had a handful of striking imagery, and it's directed with a supple, not entirely ungraceful, visual style. One remembers it fondly for the way it spoke to teenagers about the deceitful nature of adults, the vulnerability of youths left unaware of their secret histories, their childhood traumas. Most of all, one remembers it for Freddy Krueger--named after a boy who bullied Craven in his childhood--the fried-faced, blade-fingered fiend who haunts the edges of the picture's (and our) inner landscapes. Craven basically borrowed the unstoppable Bogey Man figure from Halloween (1972) and Friday the 13th (1980) and, instead of merely suggesting their link to our nocturnal fantasies, makes the link an explicit and integral part of plot and story (“don't go to sleep or Freddy'll get you!”). Part of the inspiration was from Southeast Asian culture: Craven had read of Cambodian refugees fleeing the Khmer Rouge who refused to sleep, terrified of the nightmares they're experiencing. Our version is in some ways even more insidious--the bangungot, or waking dream, where we're aware of being asleep but for some reason are unable to wake up (I've experienced this once; one of the most frightening experiences in my life). Craven has yet to acknowledge being inspired by or even being aware of this local phenomena, but I for one have no doubt about it--some of the most unsettling moments in the picture borrow heavily from Filipino nightmares.

Mega-mogul Michael Bay, director of such oversized, underbrained hits as Armageddon and the Transformers movies compounds his cinematic sins nowadays by giving us less-than-stellar remakes of horror classics (The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2003), this movie). Well, arguably The Amityville Horror wasn't a classic--easily the silliest haunted house movie ever made this side of the Three Stooges--but even this low mark Bay managed to miss with his 2005 version.

For this production Bay hired music-video director Samuel Bayer to direct traffic and veteran screenwriter Wesley Strick to whip up an upgraded screenplay. Bayer might have done a good job--music videos and even TV commercials nowadays often employ reality-to-dream transitions almost as a matter of course--but here the result is a largely dutiful re-enactment of Craven's iconic images: the children playing jump rope, Freddy's shape looming out of the walls, a clawed hand peeking up from between a girl's legs in the bathtub, a girl being eviscerated on her ceiling (Craven's brilliant parody of Fred Astaire in Royal Wedding (1951)). Once in a while Bayer attempts to be inventive--one new image is of a girl in a body bag being dragged along a school corridor--but the attempt (compared to any number of Craven's) seems more enervated than inspired (Bayer does hit upon one clever little touch, a snapped-off paper cutter blade that doubles as an improvised sword--but that's neither here nor there, nightmarewise).

Strick and co-writer Eric Heisserer do bring back an element Craven rejected for the original Nightmare (warning: read no further if you plan to see the picture--why, for the life of me I can't imagine): they made Freddy a child molester. That does add something unsavory to the character, but not all that much; Freddy has always been recognized as a father figure turned leering sadist, and it had always been my unspoken suspicion that Freddy probably molested his victims before he killed them (even if Craven didn't actually use it, the idea must have leaked through the edges of the original). With Jack Earle Healey playing the role (he'd previously played a molester in Todd Field's Little Children (2006)), the writers might have taken the picture in a more radically different direction, said direction suggested in the scene where the parents trap Freddy in an abandoned building and burn it down--Healey here is almost heartrending in his distress. But any attempt at creating sympathy is subsequently dropped like the hot potato it probably is, sympathetically portrayed child molesters being a touchier subject than outright killers turned cool anti-heroes. A pity--Freddy out for justice, if not a little understanding, is a different Freddy, only the challenges involved are probably too much effort for the filmmakers to meet head-on.

So what's left? A chase sequence that pretty much follows the original; the promise of at least two more sequels (Healey signed on for that many in his contract). The power of the bangungot lies in the threat of absolute helplessness, of being stuck unmoving for some time, perhaps the rest of your life--you're fully aware of everything going onand there's not a thing you can do about it. That sounds exactly like our situation with regards to this Nightmare reboot, except there's nothing brilliant about it--just the prospect of an endless number of sequels, sloppily done. Welcome to my nightmare, breakdown, whatever.


First published in Businessworld, 5.13.10

Monday, May 10, 2010

Iron Man 2 (Jon Favreau); Kick-Ass (Matthew Vaughn




Ironic, man
 
Prefer this sequel over the original and here's why: it's soapier. All that nonsense about Tony Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.) self-destructing, and Pepper Pott (Gwyneth Paltrow) worrying like a mother hen over him, and James Rhodes (Don Cheadle, taking over from Terence Howard) glowering from the sidelines like some forgotten authority figure--all that lingers in the head much longer than the mecha figurines flying around and shooting up the landscape. Metal junk bashing each other? That's so Mazinger Z. That's old, man, and the last time I enjoyed it was when Neon Genesis Evangelion was replaying on Cartoon Network. 

Evangelion--now there's an interesting mecha storyline for you. Not just mere soap, or who gets which girl or how the country (or world) will be saved, but serious psychodrama, with Freudian images and the Kabbalah thrown in for good measure. Wrote somewhat extensively on the series here, if anyone's interested.

That all said, Favreau does seem to know enough to borrow from Eva--during the battle sequences he cuts away from boring shots of metal smashing to Downey's or Cheadle's face, the better to give us a sense of their growing anxiety. As for movie villain Vanko (Mickey Rourke), Favreau leaves him largely bare-chested and helmet-free, which makes no sense from a tactical standpoint but plenty from a dramatic standpoint. It's a technique Hideaki Anno perfected when directing Eva, only he pushed it much further--with Anno, you developed this growing suspicion that the giant robots were more than just robots, the link between robot and rider more than just the standard-issue telepathic link found in every other Japanese mecha animated TV series. Favreau keeps it on a simple battle sequence/reaction shot/battle sequence level, but it does keep one awake while all that heavy metal is crashing about. 

Filipino film critic Oggs Cruz in his blog post notes that there's plenty of dialogue here, much more than in the first one, and the dialogue comes off as Altmanesque--overlapping, casual, often freewheeling and funny. This hit both of us differently--Oggs bemoaned the less-than-pure entertainment provided, I thought the movie at least distinguished itself from most other summer blockbusters (it's not even officially summer yet--what's going on here?), appreciated the attempt, however half-cocked, to be different. 

I have to give it to Favreau--being an actor himself, he knows how to make his actors shine. A bit of Downey struggling with a spinning desk sculpture is funnier and more inventive than all the CGI effects crammed into the picture; actors Sam Rockwell and Gary Shandling (who's been missing in action for years, apparently, except when he released his boxed set of It's Gary Shandling's Show) consistently steal the scenes they're in (Shandling pinning a medal deep into Downey's chest: "funny how annoying a little prick can be"). 

Mickey Rourke should have made a bigger impression--word has it he improvised much of his business, even researched the tattooes printed all over his massive body--but his role is much too sketchy. He was a far more memorable villain when he confronted Jean-Claude Van Damme in Tsui Hark's Double Team, back in 1997; even his background was more fascinating (he was an American operative turned renegade, and Van Damme had inadvertently caused the death of his only son). 

It's only a popcorn movie, a fairly well-made one (at least when nothing's being digitally manipulated), but one has to take the picture to task when it takes, however unintentionally, a questionable stance. Like Stark before the Senate committee, claiming "I have privatized world peace!" All that arrogance sounds suspiciously like Bernie Madoff caught on a wiretap recording--which might be the point, only the movie goes on to validate Stark's pronouncement. Sure he may have self-desructive tendencies and sure he likes to drink and suit up, but he's Tony Stark, the industrialist billionaire genius; he deserves a break, the picture seems to plead, from government scrutiny (any attempt to do otherwise is probably part of a supervillain's master plan). If a movie on Madoff's life ever gets made, the man might do the smart thing and funnel a few million of his ill-gotten dollars into making sure Favreau gets the assignment to direct. 

I'd mentioned preferring Iron Man 2 to Iron Man; frankly Matthew Vaughn's Kick-Ass has them both beat, so badly you can see Vaughn's toes wiggling from deep inside Favreau's throat. The film's leaner, more violent, hungrier; it has something to prove, and doesn't care how it proves it. 
 
Based on Mark Millar and John Romita Jr.'s graphic novels, Kick-Ass is possibly the best comic-book adaptation since Guillermo Del Toro's Hellboy 2 (You heard me. I didn't say The Dark Knight, for two reasons: unlike Nolan, Vaughn 1) has no pretensions, and 2) actually knows how to shoot and put together a coherent action sequence).  

I'd noted earlier how Favreau's scenes devoted to dialogue and character were much better than his scenes devoted to action; with Vaughn (for all we know channeling F. Scott Fitzgerald), action is character. So Kick-Ass (Aaron Johnson) is a superhero wannabe: when he moves, he moves with the wild energy of a youth imitating his comic-book idols; when confronted with the real world however--in the form of a pair of thugs, or the gap between two rooftops--he is hesitant, constantly second-guessing himself.  

Hit Girl (Chloe Moretz) is different; when she moves, it's to the choreographed beat of "The Tra La La Song" as performed by The Dickies. The tune is perfect--it's energetic with a hurtling beat, and it drowns out any sense of awareness that she's murdering a roomful of men. 

Kick-Ass is well-made, even if it cribs some of its best moves from John Woo (Hit Girl running down a hallway with guns blazing bears an uncanny resemblance to Chow Yun Fat in a purple fright wig); it's also irresponsible. The character of David/Kick Ass is our emotional and moral compass--our POV, so to speak; we enter the world of masked vigilantism through his eyes. He then proceeds to be pummeled, stabbed, humiliated and tortured in all sorts of colorful ways. When he changes his methods and thinking to reflect this world we go with him, without question or any uneasy qualms--our compass has just gone off the rails, and no one comments on this or even notes it. Oh, there's a moment when he's with his girl and makes the sensible observation that most people don't become masked heroes because they have too much to lose--but otherwise, he pretty much follows the program.

Hit Girl is the most problematical, and a great opportunity wasted. She's by common audience consensus the coolest character and the picture's true monster--she kills without remorse, without even thinking twice, Big Daddy's great masterpiece. If, say, Big Daddy went on to grow back the conscience those years of prison scoured out of him--if he at least had some awareness of exactly what he's created in her--I can say to myself that the filmmakers know what they're doing...but he doesn't, and I suspect they haven't an inkling of their failure. It's as I've said before well-made (derivative and wildly out-of-control it may be), and between it and the bloated piece of Hollywood pop that is Iron Man 2 I'd pick it in a second, but there ought to be a better selection out there.

Wednesday, May 05, 2010

Mortal (Mario O'Hara, 1975)

 Mortal [VHS]


Watching Shutter Island, I was reminded of this, O'Hara's debut feature. My thoughts on the film (and on a certain Ron Howard movie) written for Menzone Magazine back in March 27, 2002:


A Beautiful Lie

With the recent brouhaha over A Beautiful Mind--the autobiographical drama on mathematical genius John Nash, whose frontrunner position at the 2002 Oscar race was almost (but not quite) derailed by doubts about its authenticity--the question comes to mind: how true should a true story be? How much of the facts can you distort, modify, create out of whole cloth? Should one follow the truth, or at least approximate it, run parallel to it, ignore it altogether? And what is the truth anyway, while we're asking...?

The whole debate would be so much simpler if it weren't for Shakespeare. He wrote quite a few historical plays in his day, and some of them were outright slander (Richard III) while others were propaganda pieces slanted favorably towards the family of his patron, Queen Elizabeth (Henry IV Parts 1 and 2, Henry V). The result is what I like to call "The Shakespeare Defense"--where William Shakespeare's plays are held up as examples of adaptations that veered considerably from their source material, but are considered great literature anyway. Art, The Shakespeare Defense suggests, has its own prerogatives (with film requiring its own entire subset) and being factually faithful--as Shakespeare repeatedly demonstrated--isn't an especially urgent one.

It would be easy for A Beautiful Mind director Ron Howard to invoke The Shakespeare Defense; it would be just as easy for him to slip on a very large banana peel. Basically, Shakespeare got away with what he did was because he was, well, Shakespeare--the plays he wrote wandered off the historically beaten path, but they were 1) incredible pieces of dramatic literature, and 2) incomparable poetry. He's just too damned good, damn it--Henry V is bugle-blat for the Bolingbrokes, but it's also a canny, perceptive meditation on the demands and compromises that go with power. Richard III slanders the real Richard by making him hunchbacked, but the character is also an irresistible rogue with a seductive tongue (if someone were to portray me as a hunchback, this would be a nice way to do it). Conventional wisdom considers Machiavelli's "the end justifies the means" to be ethically indefensible reasoning in common human interaction; in the case of art, however, you may want to pause first and ponder...

Which brings us to A Beautiful Mind. Granted Howard and his writer, Akiva Goldsman, were aware of the other aspects of Nash's life--that he was bisexual, that he had a son by another woman, that he made anti-Semitic remarks--and granted that they chose not to use this material in their film. The question I'd like to ask, the only relevant one: does it work?

As it stands, Beautiful Mind is a conventional, cliched, totally unexciting piece of mainstream moviemaking, one that manages to cookie-cutter the rich dough of Nash's story into a standard-issue piece of uplift. Those who started the whispering campaign against the film should be roundly condemned, not for starting the campaign, but for using the wrong tack--the facts that have surfaced since the film's release could only have improved the story, not invalidate it; Ron Howard should not be accused of whitewashing, but mediocrity. The bisexuality might have provided a much-needed twist to Nash's apple-pie martyrdom; the anti-Semitism could have awakened the audience to the less lovable aspects of schizophrenia. The fact that Alicia, the wife, was not a beautiful WASP (like Jennifer Connelly) but an El Salvadorean suggests interesting tensions--how much more loyal is a Latino wife to her Anglo-Saxon husband? What desperation drove her to divorce her husband--and what sympathy (to a fellow social outcast) would compel her to allow him to continue living in her house, long after the divorce?

It's sad to see the son--the legitimate one--go largely unnoticed for most of the film, banished to one corner like a forgotten coffee mug; the way he was treated by both mother and father since birth could have given us hints of the kind of parents Mr. and Mrs. Nash were like. In real life the child ended up being both brilliant and schizophrenic like his father...a horrific touch that might not have gone well with the film's determinedly happy ending.

Very little is seen of the math that was Nash's life passion--the most Howard does is to show some numbers twinkling onscreen, like storefront Christmas lights. What's ironic about Nash's game theory was that he developed it at the beginning of his career--it was his thesis--and that mathematicians consider it the least of his achievements. That would be my foremost complaint--that the film is light on irony, heavy on inspirational moments. It's as if Howard didn't want to tax your brain with the more contradictory aspects of the man's life.

It's instructive to compare the picture with a similar tale of a fragmenting mind, Mario O'Hara's Mortal (1975)--also based on the true story of a young man named Antonio, who I suspect suffers from schizophrenia as well.

Part of what sets Mortal apart from A Beautiful Mind is the structure. At first you aren’t sure what kind of movie you're watching (the thought arises that maybe the filmmaker himself is suffering from delusions)--Antonio runs down one endless corridor after another; he watches in horror as grotesque dwarves pray in an open grave. He runs after a young woman who is abducted by strange men--or does she follow willingly? He can't be sure, and the uncertainty is killing him. Through all this strides a slim, menacing figure in glittering dress (Lolita Rodriguez, taking her cue from Maria Casares’s Death in Jean Cocteau's Orphee).

Eventually, a narrative emerges--the young man and his wife were assaulted, the wife gang-raped. The woman is traumatized, the man shattered; soon he's entertaining suspicions that his wife is a slut, constantly unfaithful to him. He kills her, and is committed to a mental asylum. 
Form follows content in Mortal: while the man's mind is immersed in madness, the film itself is nightmarish and confused; when the man starts to recover, so does the film--like its hero, it regains sanity. What starts out as a vision of utter dementia ultimately transforms itself into the rather moving story of a man struggling out of his self-dug pit to regain his soul.

Not that Beautiful Mind doesn't tell a similar story, but there are differences. O'Hara's film is uncompromising--when the movie begins, you plunges straight into Antonio's psychosis, no introduction or apologies; only after the first hour does the film even begin to make sense. Howard has always been a user-friendly filmmaker, he never strays far from conventional narrative (when he does, he seems to expect a pat on his head for his 'daring').

Then there are the delusions themselves...when Howard presents Nash's more sinister apparitions, they're shot at a low angle, with shadowy lighting (you can tell Howard is drawing from the noir films he's seen--which is counter-productive; presenting the delusions as noir imagery makes them more familiar, not less). The delusions come in clearly marked packages, with every shift in reality telegraphed and scrupulously prepared (the dead giveaway--at least for me--was the ridiculously huge atomic clock they manage to inject into Nash's arm).

O'Hara's images are harder to identify, borrowings from Cocteau (and, I suspect, Fellini, Bunuel, and Dante) aside. The delusions run freely for pretty much the film's first half, and struggle mightily through most of the second. Much of the imagery--dwarves in a graveyard, wife carried away by men--play on that most potent of emotions, the Filipino male's sexual jealousy. Antonio is committing the ultimate act of self-flagellation--taunting himself and his manhood for failing to protect his wife.

Then there's the way the protagonists resolve their respective crises. Nash in Beautiful Mind uses superior intelligence to differentiate illusion from reality--a neat solution, except the schizophrenia in the real Nash merely receded of its own accord. The movie goes on to show his struggle to regain normal life, and only when he actually wins the Nobel Prize, the film implies, is the struggle validated. NO doubt the Nobel was a good thing, but it displaces attention from what I think are his true accomplishments: surviving the ailment and re-establishing himself in society (the Nobel, in fact, is so overhyped you wonder if the filmmakers aren’t projecting their own lust to win an Oscar statuette).

Mortal does share a common belief with Beautiful Mind that love--for daughter in Mortal, for wife in Beautiful Mind--can help counter and ultimately redeem a man’s insanity. Howard counts on this love so much, however, that it never transcends the status of tired convention--the wife may scream in frustration, but never abandons her man (which wasn’t true). Antonio’s love for his daughter is much more persuasive--is such a fragile, tremulous emotion that its very struggle against madness is an element of suspense in the film: love as an ever-threatened thing.

As for historical truth--the facts behind Mortal's story are even more obscure than those of John Nash, partly because it happened so long ago (back in the '70s) partly because the woman’s family successfully sued the producers (plunging the picture's production company, Cinemanila, into bankruptcy). In this case, however, I don't think the facts matter as much, mainly because it's easier to invoke The Shakespeare Defense--the film by itself is so interesting and strange you may not care as much if it were faithful or not.

Mortal died at the box-office; its reputation has since grown as a little-seen, largely forgotten cult classic. A Beautiful Mind was a critical and commercial success during its theatrical run and has gone on to win an Oscar for Best Picture (trust the Oscar voters to miss the boat as usual). The difference--which has teeth and which doesn't; which is an inoffensive mediocrity and which brilliant experimentation; which feels honest and which doesn't--is dramatic indeed.

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