Sa Ngalan ng Ina (Mario O'Hara, 10/3/11 - 10/14/11)

In the name of the artist

Filipino actress Nora Aunor works best with Filipino filmmaker Mario O'Hara.

There, I've said it. Oh, Aunor--a multimedia, multi-awarded giantess in the '70s and '80s--has done excellent work with other directors (Bona (1980) with Lino Brocka, Himala with Ishmael Bernal, 'Merika (1984) with Gil Portes), but arguably her finest films were with O'Hara (Condemned (1984); Bulaklak sa City Jail (Flowers of the City Jail, 1984); the great Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos (Three Years Without God, 1976)). If Brocka had his favorite actors (Philip Salvador, Gina Alajar) and Bernal his (Vilma Santos, Maricel Soriano), O'Hara's is possibly Nora. More than a filmography they share a quiet sensitivity, a kind of shyness; they would rather avoid the spotlight if they could help it (but when it falls on them, they step up with the confidence of veteran professionals). In temperament they could conceivably be brother and sister, having practically grown up together as workers and artists in a pitilessly changing industry. 

Talk about pitiless, O'Hara and Aunor have not worked with each other for some twenty-four years, and time has taken its toll--O'Hara has gained a mane of white hair, Aunor''s expression has grown solemn, even careworn. The actress has spent almost eight years out of the country, in seeming exile, trailed along the way by stories of bankrupt finances and a drug possession charge. Now she's come home, and judging by all the media fuss she seems bigger than ever, and we (at least those who've never really forgotten) wait with bated breath for the results of their first collaboration in decades. Will lightning strike yet again? Is the magic still there? 

It is. Sa Ngalan ng Ina (In the Name of the Mother) is that rare creature in Philippine television, the political melodrama. Longer and more complex soap operas have been mounted on Philippine television before, and politics has been touched upon before, but far as I can recall there has never been a series (the exact name of the genre is, I believe, the teleserye) fully driven by politics, hinging upon the election into office and subsequent administration of the main character. This particular production will run for only the month of October--meaning the production budget (which is lavish) can and has already be measured out, and the storyline guaranteed, more or less, not to run out of gas (a common complaint, apparently about many a teleserye--that they have overstayed their welcome).

It's a whirlwind of a melodrama--without much wasted breath O'Hara and co-director Jon Red (brother of independent filmmaker Raymond Red) take material written by Dinno Erece, Jerry Gracio, Benedict Mique, Pamela Miras, and establish the dozen or so characters of the story, their often conflicting motivations, the tumultuous milieu in which they operate. 

Philippine elections have traditionally been a chaotic affair, to put it mildly; I'd call it a cross between an endless town rally and a three-ring circus, with the occasional rival-gang shootout interrupting the festivities. The idea of setting a melodrama during a province's gubernatorial elections is, to put it mildly, genius--the marriage of tone and substance makes such perfect sense it's a wonder no one's ever thought of it before. Complex machinations and even more complex plot twists? Nefarious treacheries and lurid sex? Vicious confrontations among political rivals, long-time friends, blood brothers? Torture, car chases, assassination attempts? Either you're watching a lengthy melodrama (with a Hollywood-sized budget I'm guessing The Godfather, Part 1 and 2) or it's election season in the Philippines, baby; don't forget to wear a raincoat (for the mudslinging and spittle) over your bullet-proof vest.

This is familiar territory for O'Hara; his Bagong Hari (The New King, 1986) is set in a large and powerful (if fictional) province, where two rival factions vie for the position of governor of the land. The fictional province is Manila, the office of governor a stand-in for the office of President of the Philippines; the relatively small-scale struggle (relatively; I thought O'Hara had wrought a rarity among noir films--the noir epic) served as metaphor for the nationwide struggle to wrest power away from former president Ferdinand Marcos. 

Sa Ngalan ng Ina while lighter in tone (Bagong Hari received an "X" rating from the censors board for its extreme violence) is broader in scope, ranging from housewife-turned president Cory Aquino's rise to power (she was chosen to run against Marcos for the sentimental value of her husband Ninoy's death--presumably assassinated under orders from Marcos' wife, Imelda), through her struggles as naive Chief Executive (both traditional politicians (trapos) and the military (here represented by the province's police force) alike constantly underestimated her). The series even throws in a subplot involving secret recordings--a reference to the "Hello, Garci" tape scandal that marred former president Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo's administration. 

Easy to equate the characters to their real-life inspirations: Elena Deogracias (Aunor) is the Cory Aquino figure, her husband Amang (Bembol Roco) the martyred Ninoy; wheelchair-bound Pepe Ilustre (Christopher de Leon) is Ferdinand Marcos, the voluptuous Lucia Ilustre (Rosanna Roces) his ruthless wife. The script introduces several interesting changes to the actual story: turns out Elena and Pepe were once lovers (as Aunor and De Leon were in real life), and their children also romantically involved (a la the late Bienvenido Noriega's comedy musical Bongbong at Kris). The script cunningly links not just to recent political history (Aquino vs. Marcos, with a touch of Macapagal-Arroyo) but to recent popular movie history (Aunor vs. De Leon, both having once been married to each other).

So--topical relevance; high production values; a royal flush of excellent actors (along with the main stars there's Leo Rialp, Raquel Villavicencio, Alwyn Uytingco, Eugene Domingo), a solidly constructed, intricately plotted script. Not a bad vehicle, overall--but a television melodrama? How to reconcile this with O'Hara's reputation as one of the Philippines' better filmmakers?
 
Actually there's nothing to reconcile; O'Hara has always embraced melodrama--it's where he comes from. He got his first break in a Proctor and Gamble radio show in 1963, years before meeting Brocka, and Filipino radio is nothing if not melodrama. He acted on the theatrical stage; wrote scripts for and acted in Brocka's TV series Balintataw. His script for Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos was originally written for the drama series Hilda, a dramatic showcase for Brocka protege Hilda Koronel. At one point he was the director of the hit series Flordeluna, starring Janice de Belen in the 1980s--you might say he improved the series. On occasion I've caught him directing the odd episode of Lovingly Yours, Helen; he did one of the better instalments for Eddie Romero's 1896 TV mini-series, Alitaptap sa Gabing Madilim (Firefly in the Dark Night) based on a Lualhati Bautista script. Far as I know he's still acting onstage, and on radio. 

In short O'Hara does not put on airs, and has not lost touch with his roots--he takes this project seriously, and has lavished it with his distinct visual and narrative sensibilities. You see it in the camerawork--though O'Hara has always maintained that video is a less expressive medium, you wouldn't think it looking at the film's extravagant lighting scheme (all those large-scale night scenes with their need for floodlights are always more expensive to shoot). 

You see it in big ways--the many parties, rallies and large crowds; in several of the action sequences, the biggest to date being the safehouse assault. O'Hara in films like Kastilyong Buhangin (Castle of Sand, 1980) and the aforementioned Condemned and Bagong Hari has proven time and time again he's a competent action director, and he proves it yet again here. The assault is realistically staged, cleanly shot and edited, and not a little suspenseful (can't help but think that the gang leader's last stand on the mansion's highest alcove is a little bit inspired by the finale of Kurosawa's Throne of Blood (Kumonosu-ju, 1957)).

(As it turns out, I am wrong--Red directed this. In which case, kudos to the man; it's a very well done setpiece) 

You see it in subtler ways--the first meeting between Elena and Pepe in an old church, for example. Pepe in his wheelchair sits up and turns to look at the camera; he is limned in light against a dark background. Reverse cut to Elena, a dark silhouette against brilliant sunlight, contrasting light and shadow used to contrast two physically and temperamentally different actors (the dusky, quietly intense Aunor, the mestizo-looking, more easygoing De Leon). Later you have party leader Apo Lucas (Leo Rialp) approaching Elena in a gazebo, and the sequence is shot and framed like a stage production not unlike A Midsummer Night's Dream. Which makes all kinds of sense--Apo will offer Elena the candidacy for governor and it's meant to be a quietly moving moment, the episode's dramatic high point. But Apo's intentions are false; he means to use her as a puppet figure. He assumes Elena has visions of power, and that her ambitions are a mere fantasy he can grant or cause to vanish at any time, much like dreams--or much like, as Puck suggests, most of what happens in Shakespeare's play (If we shadows have offended / think but this, and all is mended / that you have but slumbered here / while these visions did appear).

I can't help but play this game, who's directing what scene--I keep thinking most of the sweeping crane shots are Jon Red's (really beautifully done, some of them), and some of the high static overhead shots are O'Hara's (he occasionally likes to assume a God's eye view of the action, to remind us how small and helpless we really are). I'm guessing all the church scenes are O'Hara's, mainly because they have the feel of his work (locked-down camera, simple setup, sharp mis-en-scene).

I'm guessing some of the sound editing and music cuing are O'Hara's work--as he likes to put it, they're so radio. Conversations from the next scene often overlap the images of the previous scene; at one point the conversation on television runs on in the background while the scene has already cut from studio into the Ilustre's bedroom--a nice way of telling us that, despite all of Lucia's protestations, she does have something to do with what they're talking about on TV.

Perhaps oddest of all is a trick used at least twice, where the image suddenly slows down while conversation runs on ahead. You get a sense of events moving past you, past the characters, past everyone's control, while you're left staring at slowed-down people struggling to catch up. It's easily the series' most disconcerting audio effect.

Easily O'Hara's simplest yet most powerful device would be his musical cuing. No one else I know can cue like O'Hara (he had to help Brocka with the soundtrack of Maynila sa Mga Kuko ng Liwanag (Manila in the Claws of Neon, 1975), for example). He'll keep the scene mostly quiet, the acting mostly subdued, and at a key word or phrase or carefully timed moment he'll sneak in the music--and just like that you're trying your level best not to tear up.

Actingwise, there's very little to fault. Eugene Domingo as Pacita presides over Elena's household and governor's office like a born second-in-command; her salty down-to-earth wisdom makes one think of Sancho Panza, supporting the fragile Don Quixote. Leo Rialp as Apo has few scenes, but what few he has stands out (his charming old patriarch act very much caught me by surprised, as I was at one point thinking this political party seemed too squeaky-clean for its own good--Rialp quickly put paid to that misconception). The lovely Raquel Villavicencio as former Vice Governor Dorinda Fernando doesn't have a consistent presence--the script writes her out of entire episodes--but her character when actually there is wonderfully bitchy, a real power-climber and seasoned survivor. Alwyn Uytingco as Elena's stepson Alfonso has the showy role, the prodigal child, and plays it to the hilt; he knows, however, that when called to play differently (as in the aftermath to the assassination attempt gone wrong) that that is his moment, and he comes through wonderfully. Christopher De Leon as Pepe Ilustre reportedly refused to take direction from O'Hara when they did Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos over thirty-five years ago (though for the record I liked him there); he's apparently learned enough to listen now, as his is a largely restrained performance. His scenes with Aunor have a beautiful delicacy to them, as if the two veterans know they only have to do very little to suggest page upon page of intense feelings between them. Rosanna Roces plots and rants and fumes as Pepe's evil wife Lucia, and you can tell she's having the time of her life with possibly the role of her life, as the melodrama's chief villainess. If Ray's Johnny Guitar (1954) is basically a confrontation between two powerful women, so is Sa Ngalan ng Ina (fact is, I think we're ahead of the United States in depicting women taking power onscreen--our women have now reached the level of achievement of Ray's film, in reducing men to pawns and trophy husbands); Roces steps up to the plate across Aunor and delivers an over-the-top performance worthy of Joan Crawford herself.

It's a spectacular success, but what stays in one's memory are the quieter moments. There are the scenes of Aunor and De Leon in church, of course, but then there's the very quiet, very fine scene of Pacita feeding Alfonso, and Alfonso wishing she and not Elena were his stepmother. It's more than just killing time; it helps show us a more motherly side to Pacita, and an altogether more human side to Alfonso--when he does what he does later in the show, we can't forget having seen that side, and it makes his later anger all the more unsettling. Later Lucia confronts Pepe, and we realize that for all her evil machinations and adulteries she does love him, very much; if anything, she does it all out of a sense of love, not hate. You realize you're watching not a virago but a woman after all, flesh-and-blood and full of helpless anguish at the treacheries of the human heart. 

As for Aunor--what else to say about her? When Amang dies on the treatment table the room bursts out in a symphony of grieving. Aunor knows she has to play against that, she has to pull your eyes down, down, down to her diminutive level so you're aware that, while everyone else is being far more demonstrative, the news has hit her the hardest. Later, she has a simple scene with Domingo putting away Amang's clothes where it's her effort not to cry, instead of the usual histrionics and tears, that makes the scene so quietly moving. 

It's not perfect work, and perhaps the most serious flaw in it is Elena's sainted goodness, which is almost too good to be true. But we're only halfway through the series, and hopefully O'Hara, Red, and the rest of the filmmaking team will manage to show us more sides to our heroine, give us the clay feet as well as the halo.

O'Hara helps out; he has Aunor flash out in steely anger more and more often, and I remember a line she delivers to an underperforming police officer that deserves to be an oft-quoted classic ("Remember I had my own son arrested--think what I'd do to someone outside my family!"). Most of O'Hara's work seems to consist of modulating Aunor's glamor, of having the camera treat her thematically, according to the demands of the narrative, instead of protecting her as befits the star of a big production. Often Aunor looks harried and exhausted, and it's heartrending to see her like this (you feel all the problems of the series weighing down on her). Once in a while though O'Hara relents, finds a certain angle...and suddenly she's gorgeous to look at, our Superstar forever, the literal face of Philippine cinema. 

(Cont'd in next part)

10.17.11

Biutiful (Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, 2010)

Passion play

Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, one might say, does not do things in halves. He does not waffle; he does not prevaricate; when his films state something they do so declaratively, forcefully. His protagonists faced with the ultimate struggle do not go gentle into that good night--they kick a few garbage cans along the way, shriek their lungs out, and for good measure toss rocks through the back window.

Take Inarritu's latest, Biutiful (2010)--no; backtrack a bit. Inarritu has a tendency to employ multiple story threads in his movies: Amores Perros (2000) used a car crash to unite three separate narratives; 21 Grams (2003) used a hit-and-run accident (vehicular mishaps figure heavily in his pictures); Babel (2006)--his most ambitious work to date--follows four stories in as many countries, and does not involve a vehicle as a major plot element, though a bus rider is, at one point, shot.

With Biutiful Inarritu seems to have forsworn this tendency by focusing on only one protagonist, Uxbal (Javier Bardem), a single father raising two kids--seems, that is, until one looks at the protagonist's situation more carefully. Uxbal's wife Marambra (Maricel Alvarez) is an ex-drug addict and suffers from a bipolar disorder; he is torn between denying her the children and leaving them in her unreliable care. He finds jobs for twenty-five Chinese workers smuggled into Spain illegally; along the way finds himself concerned for a young woman sick with colds (she and her fellow workers sleep in an unheated basement). He sells drugs through a series of Senegalese vendors (also in Spain illegally) and is later saddled with the problem of caring for a Senegalese woman and her child.

Any one of these responsibilities would be enough to weigh down even the strongest men but no; Inarritu continues to pile on the poor man--Uxbal learns that he has prostate cancer, and that with chemotherapy he only has months to live; a friend urges him to put his affairs in order before he goes (duh). He also sees dead people (where did that come from--Shyamalan?) and at at one point has to tell a boy's father that his son was a thief.

It's at about this far in that you want to throw up your hands and yell “Okay!” Innarritu doesn't know when to stop; it's his most glorious virtue and most damning curse. The movie ranges all over the place, from urban hyperdrama to domestic melodrama to Twilight Zone supernatural; each narrative is accompanied by its own garish color scheme, each strains for its own memorable climax.

If anything in this escudella i carn d'olla--a kind of Catalan Christmas stew--sticks out, if anything in this overheated, overflowing bowl of mushy potage remains distinct in memory, it's Bardem. He's like the MGM lion with sad, Castillan eyes, a monument of a figure with a magnificently sculpted head and mane (Bardem's hair worn loose and long is like a mark of Biblical profundity--that's why the ridiculous 'do forced on him by the Coen brothers was so unforgivable, Oscar award or no Oscar award); he is like a supersized silent stone figure meant to commemorate some great tragedy (in Inarritu's eyes, three or four of them). Bardem as Uxbal somehow makes all this work; he sells the absurd plot with his heroic forbearance, his almost inhuman way of glaring at one unspeakably sad image after another and making his reaction somehow fresh and honest (even if for the film's last hour he's been racking up enough tragedies to fill a dozen socialist operas full to brimming).

Bardem does more than his share in selling this silliness--you almost want to bow to him in respect for what he's trying to do. You want to say “what a pile of shit!” but the scorn catches in the throat; the attempt, after all, is made with noble (if simpleminded) intentions, and the failure is still of Brobdingnagian scale, and impressive as hell.

The picture does remind one of other, more successful attempts: one remembers the Dardennes brothers' La Promesse (1996) which also dealt with illegal immigrants, but was as beautiful and persuasive in its austerity as this is confusing and ridiculous in its prodigality. It helped that the Dardennes filtered the story through the eyes of a child; when detail after damning detail finally clicks into place in the child's quietly perceptive mind, he (and through his eyes we the audience) gasp at the monstrousness of what's going on. The understated heroism of the child's final gesture seems earned, where the tragedy of Bardem's downfall here--and it does feel tragic despite, not because, of all the hoo-hah--seems forced and artificial. The Dardennes are masters of gracefully neorealist storytelling; Inarritu, it seems to me, is a master of garishly sensationalist poverty porn. All in all, I much prefer the Dardennes.

First published in Businessworld, 10.6.11

Vancouver International Film Festival's Dragons and Tigers Award 2011

Poster for Eduardo Roy's Bahay Bata (Baby Factory)

From Tony Rayns, regarding the Vancouver International Film Festivals Dragons and Tigers Award 2011:

This year’s jury comprised (in alphabetical order) Simon FIELD from Great Britain, Ann HUI from Hong Kong and YANG Ikjune from South Korea. 

The jury has decided to award two Special Mentions.

The first goes to BABY FACTORY by Eduardo ROY Jr from The Philippines. The jury admired the film’s unique mixture of documentary and fiction. The film addresses the cruel realities of overpopulation in a country where birth control is neither taught nor freely available, and we salute it for its candour and directness.

The second goes to RECREATION by NAGANO Yoshihiro from Japan. The film focuses on a case of lethal youth crime. We admired its unique atmosphere of ennui mixed with apprehension, and the brilliant interaction of the cast. Strangely enough, given the cruelty and desperation of the story, the film never for a moment loses its sympathy for the characters.

The 2011 Dragons & Tigers Award for Young Cinema goes to:

THE SUN-BEATEN PATH by the Tibetan director Sonthar Gyal from China. The jury admired its remarkable cinematic qualities, and its ability to tell a moving story with complex emotions through one face and one landscape. We were also impressed by the way the film draws such distinctive characters and by its persuasive evocation of Tibetan culture. It brings us a powerful voice from a new ethnic cinema.

10.9.11

Hannah (Joe Wright, 2011)

Ronan looking suitably shell-shocked in Hanna

Little killer girl

Hanna, Joe Wright's first attempt to direct an original screenplay as opposed to a literary adaptation, is fun in a lowbrow way, easily his most enjoyable work yet. It's silly from the get-go and not as smart as it thinks; the fight sequences range wildly in quality, from incomprehensible to derivative. But the imagery is vivid, and the performances compelling and memorable.

The basic premise goes like this: Erik Heller (Eric Bana) trains his daughter Hanna (Saoirse Ronan) to be a remorseless, relentless killer in the icy reaches of Finland. The girl is hunted by intelligence officer Marissa Wegler (Cate Blanchett), who's trying to clean up the mess left behind by an old CIA program involving unwanted fetuses and genetic manipulation.

The story so far seems like the kind of fantasy scenario dreamed up by ambitious young college students while still in film school--and in fact is the product of a film school graduate, one Seth Lochhead (with additional polish provided by TV writer and playwright David Farr). What brings the movie down to Earth and in the realm of human emotions is what happens when Hanna escapes--she falls in with a hippie-ish family out on a camping vacation, and makes friends with their daughter Sophie (Jessica Barden). Life with Sophie and her parents affords Hanna her own fantasy, that of living a normal life, with normal friends--even a potential boyfriend, without the prospect of snapping his neck.

Ronan plays Hanna like a robot or android with its human infiltration software imperfectly installed--but instead of crippling her performance, this not-all-there quality only intensifies it, makes it mysterious and (hence) fascinating. The girl has a pale wintery beauty that befits the Finnish snowscape; when taken on the camping trip she's hilariously out of place--an ethereal fairy lacking only a pair of wings to fly off and sprinkle pixie dust all over everyone.

As her father Eric Bana does creditably well--a mix of training coach and father, with all the accompanying baggage of patriarchal guilt and pride (it doesn't hurt that he's in perfect physical condition to kick ass). As CIA Officer Wegler Cate Blanchett easily steals the show; she lays her Texan accent about her like a cudgel, and fires laser glares at her opponents from her brilliant blue eyes (she's more than a match for Ronan, gazewise). She gives the movie the campy charge it badly needs, and indicates a potential direction the picture sadly refuses to take--the whole thing could have been more persuasive, sold as a more explicitly comic romp.

Director Wright isn't one to inspire admiration--his 2005 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice was widely and highly regarded, though I much prefer either Colin Firth or Laurence Olivier as Mr. Darcy and Jennifer Ehle or Greer Garson as Liz Bennet anytime (Kiera Knightly as Wright's Liz was too, I don't know, contemporary-looking; too bony; too slight in terms of talent and charisma to really count). I thought his 2007 adaptation of Ian McEwan's Atonement was a beautifully staged misfire, with a wretchedly edited crucial love scene near its beginning (again featuring the perennially miscast Miss Knightly), a pretentiously overextended post-battlefield tracking shot near its middle, and a finale (narrated by the great Vanessa Redgrave) that practically begs you to shed tears (and I would, for wasting Redgrave in this). I had my suspicions with Pride, but Atonement that pretty much confirmed it for me--Wright doesn't really know what he was doing.

With the kind of premise the movie has--killer girl chased by intelligence agency--you'd think the action sequences would be crucial, and you'd be right. Wright, unfortunately, only gets it partly right--he tends to shoot far too close in for us to see what's going on clearly, and doesn't seem to know how to use the judicially applied cut to create mounting tension. That said, a fight scene where Erik fends off four attackers in a single, constantly re-framing long take is impressive, the best single action sequence in the picture, until you realize Wright is cribbing from Park-Chan Wook's far more impressively staged and shot Oldboy.

It's a mixed bag, really--a pair of beautiful killers confronting each other; a chase over Finnish snowscapes, Moroccan deserts and an abandoned amusement park (a location that manages to be both evocative and pretentious); a director only half in control over his material,  a script written back in film school. It makes you long for the equally pretentious but far more entertaining visual stylings of Luc Besson, who at least know how to cut, and use slow motion, and the like--a man Terence Rafferty once described as “The end of French cinema as we know it.” Wright doesn't represent the end of anything, though you wonder why he keeps bothering. For the record he's doing another adaptation, his most ambitious yet, of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina--this some fourteen years after Bernard Rose's version (critically lambasted, though in my book an underrated gem), with gorgeous Sophie Marceau as Anna. Rose is at least twice the filmmaker Wright is; why oh why does the man even bother?

First published in Businessworld, 9.29.11

Dr. Who Season 6 finale: The Wedding of River Song

"It's an eyepatch; I wear an eyepatch now. Eyepatches are cool"

Some notes (warning--story discussed in close detail)

1) The vision of London where all time is happening at once is pure delight--I love the high towers, the cars on balloons (steampunk always talks longingly of lighter-than-air transportation, this actually looks like a quick and near-practical way of getting that talk realized, with existing vehicles), the elevated rails, the Romans on chariots, Pterodactyls flying above city parks, Churchill as Ceasar with Cleopatra as his date, Amy introducing herself ("Amy. Amy Pond"--you can tell Moffat was saving that up for a special occasion), then bringing the Doctor to her office-on-a-train (shades of Once Upon a Time in the West, perhaps?).

If I had serious complaint about the episode, it's this: do we really have to make all that go away? Because it looks like a wonderful place to live in...

2) There's talk of the Doctor spending too much time in that world--which I think ridiculous; if anything they spent too little time there. I think the time spent makes for a good clarifying device: Churchill's as confused as we are, so the Doctor has to fill him in (and us along the way) with the details.

3) Madame Kevorian captured--how'd she get there? Amy boss of a secret organization and Rory her faithful but oblivious second in command--when did that happen? Why keep the Silence locked in the pyramids? How'd Amy and River build a distress signal? Lots of questions unanswered, and I for one thought: who cares? If the ride's fast enough and fun enough, that's all we need; questions are secondary.

That's a tricky position to take, though; sometimes Moffat's scripts aren't that satisfying (Day of the Moon comes to mind; so does much of Silence at the Library and Forest of the Dead, at least the bits that didn't involve River--the inventiveness is there, or the attempt to be inventive, but I'm either too confused or not entertained enough). Fine line Moffat's treading, and he's not going to please every one, every time (me included).  

4) There's this interesting article which argues why this finale's better than Season 5's. Lots of good points--this finale does make more sense; this ending is more carefully prepared (instead of just inserting shots of glowing cracks in different episodes a la Season 5), and the breaking of the season into two helps shape the narrative from a rising action (the Doctor believing more and more in his own press) to a falling one (the Doctor feeling more and more he's better off alone and dead).

That said, I still prefer Season 5's--it's more emotionally satisfying. The Eleventh Hour is easily one of Moffat's most delightful and poignant episodes (basically The Girl in the Fireplace retold, only funnier, and with a happier (somewhat) ending). The Pandorica Opens and The Big Bang ties that first episodes' questions all up, more or less, adhering to the principle (which I find perfectly valid) that enemies and big events and narrative buildup should be secondary to character and emotional needs (it's All About Amy, in effect), and you can pretty much get away with anything so long as you're witty enough about it ("It's a fez. I wear a fez now. Fezzes are cool."). 

If the 6th season is a carefully shaped and prepared run-up to River's wedding, the 5th is basically The Eleventh Hour and its two-part conclusion separated by a series of fairly discrete adventures; that one season is more integrated than the other doesn't necessarily make one superior to the other--that depends on the plotting and dialogue of each episode (profundity and poignancy too--it's not how much time is spent in the telling but how good the writing is). Fact is, Moffat as much as hinted that the next season might just focus more on discrete episodes instead of a season-long story arc; did he hear my complaints, sense the lack in his work, perhaps...?

5) River--I hear a lot of talk about the direction her character's taken; I suppose it is true, familiarity breeds contempt. I do think Kingston does well for the most part--stepped up the dramatic stakes at River's wedding, for one. Think she's still gorgeous--looks great in any dress, even an eyepatch. 

Did Moffat shortchange her wedding? In classic screwball comedy the weddings are as often unelaborate as they are elaborate; they're sometimes done on the run, sometimes even under the gun--I for one find it more romantic that way. Anders, who wrote the article I link to above, thinks the Doctor may have been pressured to marry her, just to save the universe. I don't believe it--he wants her in the worse way. You see it when they're together, the chemistry is palpable. And they've definitely flirted enough that he has to marry her, just to stop all the scandalous talk. 

Anyway; your husband throwing away the universe, just to save your life--who can resist a gesture like that? The Doctor loves her; his wedding's rubbish, but then he's said as much before ("I'm rubbish at weddings, especially my own"). I'm sure he made it up to her on their honeymoon. 

It's the emotional high point too--if I had to kill my husband right after marrying him, I might shed a tear or two. Throw in other high points--Amy confronting Madam Kevorian about Melody's kidnapping, Rory being a true badass (again), that moving tribute to Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart (nice one, that). Overcomplicated, timey-wimey stuff? Not really--it's still about characters and their feelings, with this one focused on the Doctor trying to reassure his relatively young bride that he loves her, forgives her, wishes her a long and happy life.

6) Then that question that's in front of everyone all along--no, none of us saw that coming, did we? Anyone claiming otherwise--yeah, right. 

Well, a few, actually.

7) Some more clarification of plot points (thanks to Jason E.):

The fixed point in time was River shooting the Teselecta. When River refuses to kill it, that created the rift. Then the Teselecta and River kisses at the wedding, that's the healing of the rift. If River had kissed the real Doctor, that wouldn't heal the rift, because she has to kiss the Teselecta.

Then River shoots the Teselecta. They burn the robot, the Doctor escapes in the TARDIS inside the Teselecta--he gets a little singed in the process. Teselecta gone, all burnt up (presumably it's been preset to incinerate itself, to escape detection).

Everyone watching and the rest of the universe assumes that the fixed point of time is River shooting the Doctor. It isn't; it's River shooting the Teselecta. In fact I'll bet you that if River shot the Doctor all hell would break loose because that's not the fixed point time recognizes. She has to shoot the Teselecta.

And where was the second TARDIS in Utah? Inside the Teselecta.

Confused enough? I think it's brilliant, now.
 
8) No, The Wedding of River Song isn't Moffat's best (but then after two seasons, can even Moffat keep up the pace and quality of his best work?), but it's far from his worst; it's also a satisfying end to a pretty good season.

10.2.11

 

The Doctor's death: some thoughts

Alex Kingston as River Song

(For those who have yet to see the Sixth season, a warning: story  to be discussed in close detail)

Just a few hours to the new Dr. Who's sixth season finale and I thought I'd put my ideas down on record, before I'm proven completely correct (in which case dress me in a wig and toga and call me nuts) or completely wrong (in which case you've just wasted your time reading this blog note).

By now we (meaning all who care) know of the Doctor's death back in The Impossible Astronaut; we've speculated on the validity of this death and the possibility of the Doctor somehow evading it, or proving it false ("It's an android! A banger! It's the Doctor whisking himself away in an elaborate timey-wimey plot to fake his death!"). Moffat after all has proven himself time and again to be a fiendishly inventive plotter (see Blink), capable of pulling off all kinds of narrative coups (the sudden introduction of a major character like Mels in Let's Kill Hitler is in every way and form an unforgivable cheat save for one thing--it's hilariously written and enormously entertaining). The alleged death of a Time Lord should be no small matter to resolve, considering how many times said Gallifreyan has escaped the clutches of Death time and time again (almost fifty years by our reckoning; some thousand years by his). The Doctor is about to cheat death for the umpteenth time in tonight's episode, and the manner by which he will cheat it will (in classic Moffat fashion) stun everyone with its ingeniousness, humor, and fiendish complexity.

But here is where I think Moffat's about to pull off his riskiest, most daring stunt yet: the Doctor will not cheat. He's not going to throw some hapless banger in harm's way, and he's not going to pull some last minute regeneration schtick out of his holed Stetson. "That," as Canton Delaware III puts it "most certainly is the Doctor, and he is most certainly dead."

Why, one wants to ask. Why would Moffat want to kill off one of the most popular if not the most popular character in BBC's history, the source of millions of dollars in income from ad revenues, royalty fees, and merchandise sales? Why slay the golden goose just when it's laying so many 24-karat eggs?

For one thing Moffat's not actually slaying the goose; just giving him a deadline (some 200 years in his future, which should leave plenty of time for Moffat and actor Matt Smith to grow a few gray hairs while still involved with the show). For another it's Moffat's way of demonstrating the intricate consequences of time (its "timey-wimey"-ness, if you like, a term that has yet to have its own Wiki page as of this writing, but seems to have entered common lexicon anyway)--arguably the overarching theme of his writing career (check out Coupling, a non-SF sex farce TV series, where in one episode the story splits into two time streams, Steve's and Susan's, and some of the biggest laughs come out of the unintended consequences that arise when the two streams abruptly merge).

I suspect, though, that one  reason Moffat has done this is to--well, let me put it this way: in the very best scripts (a goodly proportion of which were penned by Moffat himself) one appreciates the Doctor's many virtues (wit, courage, an often commendable moral compass). What one never felt was a sense that at any moment the Doctor can actually, truly die; that he's capable of experiencing irreparable harm (that's what regeneration's supposed to fix in a Time Lord), that he will not step aside or fail to dodge the coming bullet. 

It's a comforting trait this invincibility, and it's encouraged the kind of blind faith we put on all recurring characters of a beloved TV show, that as long as the series continues so do they--Moffat tonight is going to screw with that in a very major way. As for how Season 7 will proceed, why, there are hints in The Impossible Astronaut all this time, albeit writ in a smaller scale--the episode's first few minutes having given the series an endpoint, it then shows us how the series can continue anyway, despite having reached said endpoint. Timey-wimey indeed.

But beyond that, beyond the need to fiddle with basic assumptions, Moffat wants to give the Doctor a quality many great legends of old have: a sense of mortality. Robin Hood was bled to death by a treacherous nun; King Arthur met his end at the hands of his son; Beowulf suffered mortal wounds from his fight with the dragon. None of these myths would be half as poignant if we knew they'd go on forever, eventually to become old and grumpy with age (and tiresomeness). The best legends die young, and we mourn the loss--mourn our loss, since they're figments of our imagination.

This then is the Doctor's best chance at true immortality, the kind that inspires tears in grown men's eyes, generosity in their souls, a steadfast flame in their hearts.

In the meantime: what keeps the Doctor from hatching some intricate plot to save himself? Why, I suspect, that's where River Song comes in. I predict--with all the accuracy and reliability I can muster (not much, I know)--that her survival will depend on the Doctor's death, and that he goes willingly to his doom out of love for her. Harm River, whose life he is responsible for in many ways, has already screwed up in as many others? He'd rather die.

And if--somehow, someday, but please not too soon--Moffat decides to hand the reins over to someone else (Neil Gaiman? Wish away!), I'm willing to bet Moffat's going to take back everything he has plotted, prepared for, and so carefully established for the last two years. If years from now we have to prepare (after having resisted all of this season) for the idea of the Doctor not dying last April 22, 2011, then River will (I suspect) suddenly look very expendable indeed. And I hope--no, expect--Moffat to write some appropriately witty, sad, and wise dialogue to accompany poor River out of the series; we owe her no less. The classical symmetries must be preserved, in a timey-wimey, wibbly-wobbly manner.

Maybe. We'll know for sure tonight, of course, and if I'm wrong I'm wrong, if I'm right I'll buy a Lotto ticket. Wish me--well, either outcome is fine with me--

Oct. 1, 2011

The Debt (John Madden, 2011)

Dame Mirren about to give Nazi criminal a piece of her mind in The Debt

Everything old is new again

John Madden's The Debt, a remake of Assaf Bernstein's 2007 thriller Ha Hov, has a cute premise: three Mossad agents infiltrate Cold War Berlin and spirit away Dieter Vogel (Jesper Christensen), a Nazi war criminal nicknamed the Surgeon of Birkenau; the operation involves one of the agents, Rachel (Jessica Chastain) posing as a patient (he's a gynecologist) and submitting to a vaginal examination (talk about heroic sacrifice). Things go wrong when Vogel is kidnapped; the three end up taking refuge with their prisoner in an apartment, waiting for further instructions.

The apartment becomes a pressure cooker of repressed frustrations, power struggles, desire. The men are a study in contrasts--David (Sam Worthington) is moody and idealistic and not a little touchy; Stephan (Marton Csokas) is ambitious and charismatic, not above bending the rules a little. Rachel only exacerbates the tension between the males (it's clear she's attracted to both men); one can't help but ask the question (one among admittedly many, but still the first to pop into one's mind)--does she sleep with David or Stephan?

Vogel isn't interested in making matters any easier; he acts up, struggles with his bindings, spits in the men's faces when he can. With Rachel, however, he's different; you can actually feel the discomfort radiating from Rachel as she spoons food into Vogel's mouth, just inches below his closely watching eyes--he's obviously every bit as attracted as either David or Stephan, but (and Rachel can't help being aware of this) he's also achieved a level of physical intimacy with her that the younger men have not.

Of the young cast, Chastain stands out--her role's the most interesting anyway and she runs with it, her gestures and expressions captured with almost microscopic detail by Madden's camera. Christensen by far has the most fun with his character, as the uncooperative Nazi captive--he gets to try a number of bondage poses, and spurt unappetizing-looking mush in people's faces; when ungagged, he taunts his captors with anti-Semitic rants (David is a particularly favorite target). And he gets to play the unashamed creep: you can feel his eyes roving all over Rachel's slim body as she crouches to feed him.

Released from the confines of the pressure cooker the movie actually loses a little air--you realize just how much nervous energy Madden has managed to create in that tight space--but the thematic concerns broaden (the storyline actually jumps back and forth, from 1997 to 1965 and back). Thirty years later the agents (David played by Ciaran Hinds, Stephan by Tom Wilkinson), are now heroes for having shot the Surgeon of Birkenau; Rachel's daughter has written a book in tribute to the heroes. But--as with the original kidnapping--something starts to unravel, and it's up to Rachel (now played by Helen Mirren) to go to Ukraine and find out what she can, hopefully repair matters.

The actors have far more evocative faces here; you can believe they have pasts, complicated, unhappy ones, though it would be easier to link the faces to their equivalents thirty years ago and create the kind of “this was then and this is now” effect Madden must have wanted if you could actually find some resemblance between the actors and their younger counterparts. The tension is gone, of course; the story needn't keep itself confined to that location, but with the thematic, physical and temporal expansion one really needed a compensatory upgrade in dramatic stakes, and we don't really get that--the movie sort of slows to a crawl as the actors contemplate their suddenly uncertain fates. The tension only ratchets up again when Rachel finally arrives at the Ukrianian old folks' home where Vogel is presumably kept.

Madden isn't exactly an incompetent filmmaker--Mrs. Brown was an understated miniaturist portrait of an odd episode in a queen's history; Shakespeare in Love was a far more commercial yet oddly winning rom-com featuring the Bard himself (or his handsomer Hollywood equivalent) and an unknown paramour. Both movies showed a deft and modest hand at lighthearted storytelling, but the impression they give of the director himself--no, he's not exactly the first choice to pop into mind when looking for someone to direct a picture about international espionage.

That understated hand, though, does feel refreshing in this summer of big robot movies and fantasy franchises (in 3D at that); one is reminded of Ronald Neame's efficient The Odessa File (1974), Franklin Schaffner's exuberantly loony The Boys from Brazil (1978) and--best of the lot--Martin Ritt's bleakly spare The Spy Who Came In From the Cold (1965) arguably the finest adaptation of a John le Carre novel ever. Spy in particular preferred to employ grim atmosphere, psychological insight and moral ambiguity to fashion its thrills, as opposed to relying on handycam action cut chop-suey style--you can see the influence on Madden's film, which emulates but doesn't necessarily exceed its role model. Both pictures' virtues are so old-fashioned (especially today) they seem positively radical, startling in their relative use of stillness and quiet. Not too shabby; not too shabby at all.

(First published in Businessworld, 9.22.11)