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

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

Monty Python and the Holy Grail (Terry Jones, Terry Gilliam, 1975) DVD

Fun stuff--not just the movie itself (arguably the best of the Pythons' screen efforts), but also the extras, and even the menu instructions. When clicking on the "extras" option, for example, instructions appear asking you to "insert Disc 2;" after listening to the grotesque noise of a man in pain, you're admonished "I mean in a DVD player!"

If you choose to play the monks' Latin Chorus number, instructions appear asking you to take the DVD cover, hold it parallel to the forehead, and give yourself a sharp rap; if said rap isn't painful, "you aren't hitting hard enough." The instructions then proceed to advise you to use the side of the disc, preferably a sharp corner...

I remember hearing the Pythoners discussing the Japanese version of the film, and how the Japanese translation was thoughtfully translated back into English via subtitles--and two scenes with the said dub/subtitles are included. You haven't seen anything till you see Chapman and Cleese discuss the "Holy Sake Cup," or the Knights of "Ni!" demand that Arthur and his knights produce a bonsai ("not too expensive!") by way of ransom.

Maybe one of the oddest features is a subtitle option allowing that not everyone will enjoy the Pythoner's written dialogue; in which case, the filmmakers have thoughtfully included dialogue from William Shakespeare's Henry IV, Part 2, carefully tailored to fit the film. And it's a surprisingly good fit; when Carol Cleveland informs Michael Palin (playing Galahad the Chaste) that she and all the girls need a good spanking followed by oral sex, the titles read "satisfy the woman!" For the running gag where people yell "Get on with it!" (in response to any and all diversions), Shakespeare has them repeatedly yell "To the point!" At the Bridge of Death, when the Bridgemaster (Gilliam) asks Galahad his second question ("What's your quest?"), he asks "What say you to my water?"

Maybe my favorite tidbit is when Terry Jones and Michael Palin revisit all the film's shooting locations, 25 years later. Jones in particular is a pleasure to listen to, as he's quite well-versed in Medieval history--he notes, for example, that the squalor depicted in the film is worse than it really was; records show that Medieval teeth were actually in better condition than modern teeth, mainly because they haven't invented a lot of sugary snacks back then.

They also tell the story of how at the last minute the Scottish Department of the Environment withdrew permission to use any of the publically owned castles, out of fear that the script's tone would be "incompatible with the history and fabric" of the castles (to which Palin wondered: incompatible with what? The boiling tar and eviscerations and killings that are part of the castles' histories?). So most of the film's castle scenes, set in several different locations, mostly had to be shot in the privately owned Doune Castle, with various rooms doubling for a French fortress, a wedding party, a prince's bedroom, a girl's dormitory (well, what else would you call it?), Camelot, so on and so forth. What castles you see in the distance (save the first, which is the real Doune Castle) are mostly plywood models, roughly twelve feet high, and likely as not to fall down from high winds during a take.

Jones and Palin arrive and point out the parking lot, and the modern houses surrounding the castle; they enter and find a gift shop, complete with copies of the film's script being sold on the shelves. Then the shop clerk reaches under the counter to present the piece de resistance--a pair of coconuts! Apparently people come all the time, wanting to re-enact scenes from the film, and the clerk has thoughtfully put away a pair of the tropical fruit shells in case they haven't brought any of their own ("they can borrow it so long as they return it"). Few do, I imagine; the clerk tells stories of visitors coming dressed in full armor, or of a tourist dragging luggage having driven straight from the airport, completely sensible-looking save for a pair of coconut shells.

Eric Idle, Palin, and John Cleese take up the fifth commentary track (what, they still can't get along with each other?), while the two Terrys occupy the fourth. Highlight of track five (actually, Eric, Michael and John talk more about the acting and writing--valuable information there too--while the two Terrys talk more about the directing) include Cleese noting that the one-legged man who substitutes for him during the Black Knight episode was named Richard Burton, and believes that Burton was more agile on one leg than he ever was on two.

Cleese also tells the story that inspired the Black Knight episode--a tale of two Roman wrestlers who fought for hours, ending up in a complete tangle. One wrestler eventually broke his leg, and gave in because he couldn't stand the pain; the referee pats the other man on the shoulder, telling him that he won. When men untangled the two, however, they found out that the other man was dead.

The man who told Cleese the story didn't think the opponent lost, however; he believes that as long as a man doesn't give in, he's the winner. Cleese expressed doubts about the validity of that philosophy.

Palin talked about hot water--how there wasn't enough for the entire cast and crew, so after a long day in the cold and damp and shooting was finished, they made a mad scramble for the cars and raced back to the hotel for the remaining hot water. Palin and Cleese ended up doing a little research and found another hotel with hot water, and moved in there, a lonely proposition until one night they found themselves sitting with two dozen pretty girls at dinner--the Glasgow extras hired to play the lonely young virgins at Castle Anthrax.

Giliam dominates the latter part of the Track Four commentary, and makes some interesting points. English humor is the way it is, he muses, because England used to be the world's dominating power, later dwindling down to a little island with only a minor role to play in world affairs. He thinks the source of their silliness is their confidence, a legacy of that long-ago imperial culture--it's hard to be silly, he asserts, if you have self-doubts.

He tries to defend his filmmaking, conscious that Terry Jones had to take over at some points because he wasn't handling his fellow Pythoners too well. Interesting to listen to him stutter and defend himself; actually, I think he comes off fairly well--admits it could all be his fault (doesn't sound like much, but for a filmmaker that's a big-time admission of responsibility), though he couldn't help doing a little good-natured sniping ("in theory they were concerned (with the film's look); in practice the armor's really heavy"). He opines that one's belief in or love of a subject (religion, the Middle Ages) is strong if it can stand up to satire--if one's faith in or affection actually grows stronger despite, or rather because of, having stood up to ridicule. That comedy both tests and strengthens its target at the same time.

During the film's final moments, he had this to say: it's amazing that he got away with what he did; if he had to make the film again using the same budget and resources, he very probably couldn't do it. In fact, the rest of his career is based on trying not to go through all that again.

He loved the first screening they did in New York, how the audience responded to the film and its humor. Ten years later he remembers screening The Meaning of Life for college students, who found the film's ugliness and violence upsetting. "The difference ten years makes is amazing," he said. "Back then, people wanted to upset things, they wanted to change the world. Students these days, all they want to know is that after four years of college there's a job waiting for them." Or words to that effect.

Postscript: about Doune Castle visitors and coconuts, apparently I spoke too soon. I'd love to have gone to this thing--do they still hold it (maybe not, I can't google a more recent article), and will I ever be able to scrape together the money to fly there?

Brazil (Terry Gilliam, 1985)

From Forum With No Name:

Saw Brazil again and brooded on the way it didn't quite come together--how Sam Lowry (Jonathan Pryce) and his mother, for one, sit down to dinner, a bomb explodes, and they don't even stop eating (they're even annoyed); it's maybe that one scene that destroys much of one's empathy for Lowry, and if Pryce manages to gain much if not all of it back by film's end, it still seems a pity, how callous he seems early on. Then there's the impression Lowry gives you that he can't seem to get his act together--he panics when Jill parks in front of Information Retrieval, insists on crashing through a checkpoint, and can't even develop the cunning to use what position and influence he has to do what he wants (when he does, finally, it's too little, too late).

More than that, I suppose, is the feeling that this is a dumbed-down version of Orwell's classic dystopia, and that Gilliam was too disorganized or incoherent to maybe borrow effectively from Orwell or keep different elements less jarringly inconsistent (is it a noir? Parody? Action-adventure fantasy?). He pretty much jettisons Orwell's intellectual baggage (from Newspeak to the philosophy of power) and instead fashions a mediocracy barely able to keep itself working, much less effectively reppressive.

That said, Gilliam does take advantage of the decades of hindsight he has over Orwell to be more accurate about the kind of fascism ruling the world today: that "mediocracy" is spot-on, with marketing taking precedence over skill and value, and spin the most valuable commodity of all. And his version of terrorism and the government's tendency to take advantage of it to systematically violate civil rights (in 1984, it's an endless war between three states) is eerily prophetic--what's missing, really, is the revelation that it's the government that's behind the bombings, as a way of preserving its hold on power. The detail, though, of the government actually charging you for your detention and torture (a detail Gilliam reportedly lifted from some 16th century European witch trials)--well, it remains to be seen if that little bit ever comes true, or becomes true again.

Maybe the film's real power lies not so much in the nightmare future it posits--Orwell's vision is more aggressively nightmarish--but the utter impotence of its hero. Gilliam did say he had wanted to make a film where the happy ending is that a man goes insane, but do we need to accept his word on the subject? Isn't Lowry in truth a devastating portrait of a man who could have saved the world but didn't bother? Callous at first, stupid later on, hopelessly escapist by film's end, Lowry just doesn't seem to have either the spine or the balls to do what needs to be done; he seems constantly trapped in a vegetative (and isn't Brazil--the country, not song--just chock full of rain forests?) state of mind caused by humming the title song once too often.

That ending isn't just bleak; it's downright confessional. The ostensible message may be "it's all too much and too powerful for us to really fight (even if it is a watered-down version of Orwell); let's just sit passively and hum a happy tune (it's a conclusion Gilliam arrived at earlier with his colleagues in Life of Brian)." Behind all that, though, he seems to be muttering "I'm just saying this because I'm a lot like Sam--too weak and dumb and disorganized to be really effective." And behind that--behind the struggles he underwent to finish and properly release the film, behind what artistry he does achieve is the hint of a whisper: "it doesn't have to actually be that way, you know." He leaves Lowry humming away in a vast space, but the tune Lowry's humming is, of course, Brazil--just the very tune we're taught throughout the film to resist succumbing to. Possibly it's his one moment of real subtlety, in a film full of unsublte passion and grandeur, that he would use a little ditty to remind us to carry on the struggle, long after Lowry (and he, by implication) has fallen.

rufus christ: Noel, at first blush, my take on Lowry was pretty similar to yours. However, upon seeing it again not long after it was released, it occurred to me that Gilliam was trying to show why people don't act when they can. When this film was released, American culture was reaching a point where it was seen as permissible by many to sacrifice morals for comfort and acquisition of wealth and power.

Lowry was a quisling who could be easily lulled by creature comforts from any horror he might feel. No matter how moved he felt by the heroics of Harry Tuttle, Lowry just didn't have the fortitude to make the sacrifices or engage in the kind of fight that drove Tuttle. Was there ever anything beyond his attraction to Jill that inspired him to act? Maybe a little pang of conscience, but its not enough to even qualify as a still small voice.

The bottom line is that Sam Lowry is a piss-poor hero. It is also a pretty sad fact that there are far more Lowrys around than Tuttles or Jills. This might have been Gilliam's point, which is why I have a hard time writing off Brazil and just as hard a time watching it as I get older.

Hm. From what I read, my view of Lowry is pretty much similar to yours, rufus. It's not a great take on a dystopia, but it's a great take on a failure of a hero--us, in effect.

rufus: I think where we diverge is on Gilliam's intent. You could be right, maybe he does see himself as just another Lowry. Or am I misreading the last couple of paragraphs?

The distinction could be even finer--he's being critical of the liberals' impotence, and including himself in the criticism. Covering both our points, so to speak. It's a mess, but I think it has power despite the mess.

ChrisJ: It's simply a case of it being too ambitious, trying to do a little too much. You create a dull hero and then have to live with what you have done so you allow him to twist and shift a bit and become more interesting which not everyone is going to go along with.

That's probably how he arrived at what he did.