My father remembers a time when American History began in 1492. Columbus laughed off the naysayers and set out across the Atlantic to prove the Earth was round. Arriving in the Caribbean, he declared that he had found a shorter route to India and founded a persistent mythology. Following on his Genoese heels, John Smith at Jamestown and the Pilgrims at Plymouth Plantation each made a white foray into the empty continent (the other part of my dad's memory of American History that is weird and arcane). As he learned it, North America was an empty continent waiting to be explore (and conquered). Sure there were Indians (thanks Columbus for that bit of misinformation) cast either as heroes (Pocahontas and Squanto) and villains (Powhatan for trying to kill Smith in the first place) but they only existed to fill their role in the narrative of the United White States of America, they had no story of their own.
As you can imagine, this view of the continent is quite convenient. The forefathers can be held up as the brave precursors to a great civilization, rather than backhanded, racist land thieves. The rebels at Lexington and Concord are Average Joes tossing off the burden of a foreign colonizing force, rather than businessmen and aristocrats who had lived a cushy life in the colonies and who now resented having to pay for the privilege to call themselves subjects of the king. The prevailing image for westward expansion is the filling of an empty land, rather than the hijacking, raping, and pillaging of numerous indigenous cultures. The problem with this image of American history is that it is false. The land was never empty, nor is it empty now.
I mention this because in the decade since I left Michigan I have noticed a tenet of coastal thinking is that there is nothing in the middle of the country. Clearly this is not meant to be taken literally, even the most Brahman of the Bostonians and the hippest of the L.A. trendsters could name a couple of cities in the middle: Chicago, St. Louis, Detroit. Like the aforementioned Indians, these locations play a part in the narrative of the American perimeter. People move from the interior in an outward migration, so the middle is not where people are, but where they are from.
When the middle garners national attention, it is usually negative- Kansas and Creationism, Big Agra throughout the plains, the Rustbelt. In film and on television, the people are portrayed as either backwards and two-dimensionally folksy or desperate and depressed.
Recently this disregard for the middle has taken on a more gut turning character. In the latest recession, the reasonably comfortable people around me in the affluent bay state in which I reside have taken to complaining about the economy. While I understand that it is a Massachusetts birthright to complain about everything from the weather to the Sox (unless they are playing the Yankees), I feel that here they cross a line. Bad economic times are a subject about which Boston knows very little. While the latest unemployment rate for the state of Massachusetts is 9%, Michigan has been experiencing higher unemployment for a longer period of time. The pain in my state was not caused by the inflation of housing prices, and greedy homeowners trying to make a buck on a quick flip. Instead it is caused by the death of an industry and the desperate mass hallucination of a population that it will come back.
Hollywood has traditionally ignored or caricatured us, we are too dumb to see the writing on the wall and too backwards to adapt to the times. Director Jason Reitman's new film, Up in the Air, portrays the middle in a different light. The story of layoff specialist and motivational speaker Ryan Bingham's quest to make connections keeps the film moving forward, but that is not what it is really about. It takes place in the middle of nowhere America. Bingham travels around the country 240 days of the year firing people. He spends most of his time in the places where the recession is worst. While he might become a kind of gleeful grim reaper who triumphs in the downfall of others, instead he exudes compassion. He understands that he is participating in the worst day of many people's lives and as such treats them with dignity. Still, this could just be a touching character drama that centers around one man's growth. The genius of Reitman's approach is that he cast actual people who had been laid off in the middle of the country (St. Louis and Detroit) as most of Bingham's assignments. This human touch gives an otherwise unremarkable film the poignancy and immediacy to deserve an Oscar nod.
I am not interested in defining real America vs. the elitist sycophants of the coast. That type of thinking is divisive and has largely contributed to the polarized political mess that we find ourselves mired in. I simply think it is important to remove ourselves from the sheltered cocoon of our own problems and see the country as a whole. So, when you find yourself tempted to deride the holdouts of the American auto, coal, and steel industries as delusional dinosaurs living for a bygone era, please remember that you are talking about real people, who have dedicated their lives to something that is vanishing up into the air.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Beyond Technology
What makes a best picture? A compelling story? Magnetic characters? Stunning cinematography? Many of this year's nominees possess all of these qualities. This implies, then, that there is an elusive, intangible quality. Critics and lay people alike refer to this quality as heart. This, too, is imprecise. After all, can one quantify the level of heart in District 9? Is it greater or lesser than the heart found in The Blind Side? Should a film articulate a story of redemption as in Up? Or instead expose the banality of human nature like A Serious Man? This year's nominees run the film world gambit (and I am not even finished watching them yet). I begin to feel a bit repetitive, but I am again moved to a (potential) new favorite.
Ordinarily I do not see movies in the middle of the week. A looming deadline coupled with a nightmare day at work (my seniors decided to write on each other, with whiteout!) impelled me to escape to another world tonight. I found my outlet on Pandora. When a movie relies so heavily on special effects, it can be tempting to view it as a one trick pony. This would do Avatar a grave disservice. While Cameron used all technologies available (and developed new ones) to tell his story, claiming that it is merely an orgy of special effects is like claiming that Star Wars is all about the light sabers. If you think this, you are clearly missing something.
The psychedelic forest serves as a backdrop for a post-colonial interpretation of the classic contact/conquest narrative. Despite several now cliched and dated references to America's current engagements (win the hearts and minds, shock and awe-we get it James) the real story is closer to that of European incursions onto the American and African continents. The humans represent the invading forces who desire some natural resource: gold, diamonds, unobtanium. In their quest for material wealth they miss other more subtle riches endemic to the place of conquest.
The story of Jake Sully, then, is one of redemption. He is the typical conqueror "gone native." The deep cover agent who no longer can distinguish between identity and, well, avatar. Couple with this the added allure for paraplegic Jake of a body that not only restores his former abilities but exceeds those of his frail human form (who doesn't want a telepathic braid?), and it his ultimate adoption of the Na'vi culture becomes only a matter of time.
Cameron's old tale gains new flesh through the natural world of Pandora. Even if it were not spiritually more fulfilling to be Na'vi, the world they inhabit it vastly superior to humans' base. The military establishment is decked out in grey, brown and olive green. The forest, on the other hand pulses with color. The pinks, purples, and greens are so vibrant that even without the benefit of 3D, one feels they can reach out and touch the foliage. Throughout the story his message is clear: the humans are base and shallow, they care only for the surface value and will destroy the more subtle riches to get to it.
What keeps this from being relegated to a mere dogmatic morality tale is that final, elusive quality. Some combination of character, writing, cinematography and heart transport the viewer beyond the ordinary. While the theme running throughout the film is that something's greater value lies beneath worldly gain, I predict Oscar gold for the Avatar crew.
Ordinarily I do not see movies in the middle of the week. A looming deadline coupled with a nightmare day at work (my seniors decided to write on each other, with whiteout!) impelled me to escape to another world tonight. I found my outlet on Pandora. When a movie relies so heavily on special effects, it can be tempting to view it as a one trick pony. This would do Avatar a grave disservice. While Cameron used all technologies available (and developed new ones) to tell his story, claiming that it is merely an orgy of special effects is like claiming that Star Wars is all about the light sabers. If you think this, you are clearly missing something.
The psychedelic forest serves as a backdrop for a post-colonial interpretation of the classic contact/conquest narrative. Despite several now cliched and dated references to America's current engagements (win the hearts and minds, shock and awe-we get it James) the real story is closer to that of European incursions onto the American and African continents. The humans represent the invading forces who desire some natural resource: gold, diamonds, unobtanium. In their quest for material wealth they miss other more subtle riches endemic to the place of conquest.
The story of Jake Sully, then, is one of redemption. He is the typical conqueror "gone native." The deep cover agent who no longer can distinguish between identity and, well, avatar. Couple with this the added allure for paraplegic Jake of a body that not only restores his former abilities but exceeds those of his frail human form (who doesn't want a telepathic braid?), and it his ultimate adoption of the Na'vi culture becomes only a matter of time.
Cameron's old tale gains new flesh through the natural world of Pandora. Even if it were not spiritually more fulfilling to be Na'vi, the world they inhabit it vastly superior to humans' base. The military establishment is decked out in grey, brown and olive green. The forest, on the other hand pulses with color. The pinks, purples, and greens are so vibrant that even without the benefit of 3D, one feels they can reach out and touch the foliage. Throughout the story his message is clear: the humans are base and shallow, they care only for the surface value and will destroy the more subtle riches to get to it.
What keeps this from being relegated to a mere dogmatic morality tale is that final, elusive quality. Some combination of character, writing, cinematography and heart transport the viewer beyond the ordinary. While the theme running throughout the film is that something's greater value lies beneath worldly gain, I predict Oscar gold for the Avatar crew.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
They Should Wear Muzzles.
The central problem in American polite society today is that it is no longer polite. We think that we have come so far from our predecessors who believed that "children should be seen and not heard." This is true. We make a crucial mistake, however, when our underlying assumption is that this is a positive trend. Our youth-obsessed culture has gone too far, giving weight to the thoughts and feelings of the underdeveloped. It must be stopped. I would like to speak for the spawnless everywhere when I say that if you cannot make your children behave, please remove them from my presence.
Perhaps I should set the scene for my anti-breeder rant. We tried again today to see Avatar, this time with friends who we do not see very often. Alas, we were foiled again; the website we looked on had the times wrong. I will never make it to Pandora. Instead, the man who steals my blankets every night and I proposed Chris Columbus' adaptation of Rick Riordan's novel, The Lightning Thief. For those of you who don't know, Riordan's series of five books follows the adventures of Percy Jackson, the adolescent son of one of the Olympian Gods. I picked up one of these books on a lark and got hooked (dragging my husband along in the process). I commend Riordan for targeting adolescent boys (a demographic that tends to stop reading for pleasure) and also for infusing the United States with a sense of mystery (to understand that one, you must read the book. Sorry).
So the four of us bought tickets and (overpriced) snacks and went into the theater. As the previews began, so did that chatter in the row behind me. Now I have been known to talk through the previews (much to my father's irritation), so I decided to extend the benefit of the doubt to the pests behind me. As the thunder rolled through the opening credits of the movie, however, motor mouth did not shut up. Picture this: a theater full of paying customers, waiting to be transported to a world where the Olympian Gods are alive, well, and living in New York, only to have that journey interrupted by Rick Riordan's number one fan anticipating the plot twists. I remember an NPR review of The West Wing which cited the show's willingness to make the audience figure stuff out on its own as part of the appeal. This young gentlemen apparently had less faith in the rest of us than Aaron Sorkin did.
But Popcorn, I can hear you saying, he's just a kid! Surely he did not know any better! And isn't it what you signed up for by going to a kid's movie anyway? If the child had been alone, or with his friends, I may agree with you. Theoretically even the best trained young spawn can be corrupted by the jocular influences of his peers. This pustule, however, was accompanied by an adult who could have at any time told his virulent offspring to be quiet (or at least extended a spoiler alert to the rest of the audience). I suppose, then, that I cannot blame the child if the parent has not explained the difference between watching a movie on one's Barcalounger and sharing a theater with fifty other people.
Which brings me back to what is wrong with society. We have lost a universal sense of decorum. While we all suffer from these lower standards, those whose parents raised them correctly (thank you Mom and Papa) suffer more. We maintain our own manners even in the absence of those around us, and we are hesitant to correct the gaffs of others-that would be rude!
I would like to make a stand today for the proper education of children. I believe that children need to learn that one must consider one's impact on others and act accordingly. Our pop culture pushes us to act in our own selfish interest; if we want it, we should have it. Simultaneously, we are so concerned with preserving our individual rights and liberties that we do not consider whether or not it is always responsible to use them. The sentence "It's a free country" has been used to paper over a multitude of social sins. Certainly in the land of the free and the home of the brave no one may take offense at the actions of another. Any attempt to restrict the brainless vitriol spewed across the various media waves is "censorship" and therefore not to be tolerated. Let me advocate, then, for the reinstatement of self-censorship. No one will be harmed by listening to that little voice within that asks "how will this affect other people?" Let's start a revolution of manners and begin with talking in the theater. So, to the gentleman who saw The Lightning Thief at the Fresh Pond Mall Cinema in Cambridge, Ma at 3:50 today (2/21/10) with two adolescent boys and sat behind four adults, set an example for those children and kindly shut up.
Perhaps I should set the scene for my anti-breeder rant. We tried again today to see Avatar, this time with friends who we do not see very often. Alas, we were foiled again; the website we looked on had the times wrong. I will never make it to Pandora. Instead, the man who steals my blankets every night and I proposed Chris Columbus' adaptation of Rick Riordan's novel, The Lightning Thief. For those of you who don't know, Riordan's series of five books follows the adventures of Percy Jackson, the adolescent son of one of the Olympian Gods. I picked up one of these books on a lark and got hooked (dragging my husband along in the process). I commend Riordan for targeting adolescent boys (a demographic that tends to stop reading for pleasure) and also for infusing the United States with a sense of mystery (to understand that one, you must read the book. Sorry).
So the four of us bought tickets and (overpriced) snacks and went into the theater. As the previews began, so did that chatter in the row behind me. Now I have been known to talk through the previews (much to my father's irritation), so I decided to extend the benefit of the doubt to the pests behind me. As the thunder rolled through the opening credits of the movie, however, motor mouth did not shut up. Picture this: a theater full of paying customers, waiting to be transported to a world where the Olympian Gods are alive, well, and living in New York, only to have that journey interrupted by Rick Riordan's number one fan anticipating the plot twists. I remember an NPR review of The West Wing which cited the show's willingness to make the audience figure stuff out on its own as part of the appeal. This young gentlemen apparently had less faith in the rest of us than Aaron Sorkin did.
But Popcorn, I can hear you saying, he's just a kid! Surely he did not know any better! And isn't it what you signed up for by going to a kid's movie anyway? If the child had been alone, or with his friends, I may agree with you. Theoretically even the best trained young spawn can be corrupted by the jocular influences of his peers. This pustule, however, was accompanied by an adult who could have at any time told his virulent offspring to be quiet (or at least extended a spoiler alert to the rest of the audience). I suppose, then, that I cannot blame the child if the parent has not explained the difference between watching a movie on one's Barcalounger and sharing a theater with fifty other people.
Which brings me back to what is wrong with society. We have lost a universal sense of decorum. While we all suffer from these lower standards, those whose parents raised them correctly (thank you Mom and Papa) suffer more. We maintain our own manners even in the absence of those around us, and we are hesitant to correct the gaffs of others-that would be rude!
I would like to make a stand today for the proper education of children. I believe that children need to learn that one must consider one's impact on others and act accordingly. Our pop culture pushes us to act in our own selfish interest; if we want it, we should have it. Simultaneously, we are so concerned with preserving our individual rights and liberties that we do not consider whether or not it is always responsible to use them. The sentence "It's a free country" has been used to paper over a multitude of social sins. Certainly in the land of the free and the home of the brave no one may take offense at the actions of another. Any attempt to restrict the brainless vitriol spewed across the various media waves is "censorship" and therefore not to be tolerated. Let me advocate, then, for the reinstatement of self-censorship. No one will be harmed by listening to that little voice within that asks "how will this affect other people?" Let's start a revolution of manners and begin with talking in the theater. So, to the gentleman who saw The Lightning Thief at the Fresh Pond Mall Cinema in Cambridge, Ma at 3:50 today (2/21/10) with two adolescent boys and sat behind four adults, set an example for those children and kindly shut up.
Friday, February 19, 2010
That Old Black Magic
Our plan for this evening was to knock another of our movies off of the list. Throughout the day, as we vacillated between Avatar and Up in the Air, both my husband and I grew sicker and sicker. As we tried to plan the evening, we had to dose ourselves with Sudafed and DayQuil. Fighting against the inevitability of our surrender, we looked up showtimes at local theaters, while simultaneously pulling the blankets more tightly around ourselves. In the end, we could not but succumb to the germs taking over our bodies.
Therefore, instead of choosing something new and award winning, my better half and I perused the contents of our DVD shelf. I believe that we all have these shelves, filled with DVDs that we buy and then never watch. Tonight we sifted through over one hundred movies and television series to determine what exactly would divert us. The three finalists were Season One of The West Wing, Bridget Jones' Diary, and The Prestige. While I am an inveterate fan of Bridget Jones' Diary, and Martin Sheen will always be my president, The Prestige was something new for me.
First, please allow me to state that Christian Bale is one of the most grievously underrated talents of our time-he also happens to be out of his ever loving mind. The transformations that he is willing to undergo to play a part convincingly are truly worthy of either the name magic or insanity. This is matched in Nolan's film, however, by the lengths to which each man goes to best the other. It suggests a determination that perhaps only a man can understand. At the risk of sounding sexist, I believe that (by and large) only men can be motivated by this need to be the best. Whether it is truly a gender based ability (probably fostered by societal expectations) or merely a perceived tendency, the proverbial pissing contest plays out better between two Y chromosomes than it would if a woman were involved.
My husband and my first kiss was over Steven Soderburgh's Ocean's 11. Several years later, my mother in law became enamored of the french film, A Very Long Engagement. Each of these follows to some degree the pattern of laying out the clues of a mystery in a sort of visual striptease enticing the audience to guess at what lies beneath only to reveal in the denouement how wrong we all were about what lay beneath those frocks. Some folks that I knew could not suss out A Very Long Engagement by themselves; most had difficulty with Ocean's 11 the first time around. The pledge, turn and prestige of Nolan's film out flank them all. They leave the audience questioning until the last ball bounces, who is the top magician? Are you watching closely?
Therefore, instead of choosing something new and award winning, my better half and I perused the contents of our DVD shelf. I believe that we all have these shelves, filled with DVDs that we buy and then never watch. Tonight we sifted through over one hundred movies and television series to determine what exactly would divert us. The three finalists were Season One of The West Wing, Bridget Jones' Diary, and The Prestige. While I am an inveterate fan of Bridget Jones' Diary, and Martin Sheen will always be my president, The Prestige was something new for me.
First, please allow me to state that Christian Bale is one of the most grievously underrated talents of our time-he also happens to be out of his ever loving mind. The transformations that he is willing to undergo to play a part convincingly are truly worthy of either the name magic or insanity. This is matched in Nolan's film, however, by the lengths to which each man goes to best the other. It suggests a determination that perhaps only a man can understand. At the risk of sounding sexist, I believe that (by and large) only men can be motivated by this need to be the best. Whether it is truly a gender based ability (probably fostered by societal expectations) or merely a perceived tendency, the proverbial pissing contest plays out better between two Y chromosomes than it would if a woman were involved.
My husband and my first kiss was over Steven Soderburgh's Ocean's 11. Several years later, my mother in law became enamored of the french film, A Very Long Engagement. Each of these follows to some degree the pattern of laying out the clues of a mystery in a sort of visual striptease enticing the audience to guess at what lies beneath only to reveal in the denouement how wrong we all were about what lay beneath those frocks. Some folks that I knew could not suss out A Very Long Engagement by themselves; most had difficulty with Ocean's 11 the first time around. The pledge, turn and prestige of Nolan's film out flank them all. They leave the audience questioning until the last ball bounces, who is the top magician? Are you watching closely?
Thursday, February 18, 2010
If I am going to die, I am going to be comfortable
There are two things that you should know about me. I believe that they exist independently of one another, though I do not have the proper emotional disinterest to be sure. 1. I am a pacifist. I believe that war does not solve problems but rather leads to greater, more costly ones. 2. I am a coward. I can not fathom putting my life on the line for anything. I have not met the cause worth dying for (or the absence of which makes living worthless).
Given these two character traits, I have mixed feelings about our military involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan. While the injudicious application of force has the ability to exacerbate the problem of the insurgency (the more innocents killed, the more friends/family wish vengeance), I cannot help but hold in high esteem those men and women who join our all volunteer military and lay their lives on the line in these conflicts. I am not naive enough to believe that all are moved by patriotism. In our desperately unequal society, there are many who use the military as a ticket to a better education and a better life. In my humble opinion, they deserve every perk allotted to them for their willingness to embark on something that I cannot even comprehend.
This is not meant to be an overly political blog. I have seen politics rip apart my family and I hope I have not alienated any friends I may have among my few followers. Tonight's movie has sparked this philosophic digression from an otherwise airy, (hopefully) entertaining snarkfest. Director Kathryn Bigelow's The Hurt Locker is quite possibly the most honest war movie I have ever seen. Being a coward, you can imagine that I have not seen many. My experience is broad enough, however to identify many of the patterns of character types, symbolism, and storylines that directors use to communicate their view of a given conflict. Perhaps it is because Bigelow apparently views war as I do, but I found her movie absent of both the usual flag waving and pacifist tripe too common in conflict film.
The movie opens with death. Not a fire fight or a bombing raid, but the sudden, unexpected death of one of the three characters that you have gotten to know in the first ten minutes of the film. A demolitions specialist, he is blown up with his teammates and countless Iraqis looking on. The thing is, he dies because the wheel came off of the demolition wagon carrying the explosives that would detonate the IED that his team was investigating. Had the wagon survived, the soldier would have as well. This sense of capriciousness is typical of Bigelow's tone throughout the film. Why is it that the man who follows all of the precautions gets killed while the cowboy who places his team in danger lives on? These questions lead to the underlying enigma about the American presence in Iraq.
While the futility of the war becomes increasingly clear as the movie unfolds, so does the heroism and humanity of each soldier profiled. While they begin the movie as types: the cowboy, the good sergeant, the one suffering from PTSD, they develop depth throughout the film and become human. The cowboy cannot connect with his wife and son but forms an attachment to a local Iraqi boy that sends him on a suicide mission. The good sergeant, strikes out in anger against the irrationality of his team leader but still turns to him for advice in his weakest area.
Throughout the whole film runs a countdown of the days left in Bravo company's tour. It inspires a feeling of foreboding in the audience. My husband predicted what I was thinking as well, "that someone is going to die on the last day." What happens instead is equally shocking and much less comfortable to absorb.
Bigelow's realism, honesty, and unblinking observation of these three warriors makes this the most deserving of the best picture nominees I have seen so far. I have yet to see Precious, An Education, or Up in the Air but my gut reaction is that none of those introspective, character-based dramas can come close to the timeliness and forcefulness displayed in this masterpiece. Every American should see this movie. Well done Ms. Bigelow
Given these two character traits, I have mixed feelings about our military involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan. While the injudicious application of force has the ability to exacerbate the problem of the insurgency (the more innocents killed, the more friends/family wish vengeance), I cannot help but hold in high esteem those men and women who join our all volunteer military and lay their lives on the line in these conflicts. I am not naive enough to believe that all are moved by patriotism. In our desperately unequal society, there are many who use the military as a ticket to a better education and a better life. In my humble opinion, they deserve every perk allotted to them for their willingness to embark on something that I cannot even comprehend.
This is not meant to be an overly political blog. I have seen politics rip apart my family and I hope I have not alienated any friends I may have among my few followers. Tonight's movie has sparked this philosophic digression from an otherwise airy, (hopefully) entertaining snarkfest. Director Kathryn Bigelow's The Hurt Locker is quite possibly the most honest war movie I have ever seen. Being a coward, you can imagine that I have not seen many. My experience is broad enough, however to identify many of the patterns of character types, symbolism, and storylines that directors use to communicate their view of a given conflict. Perhaps it is because Bigelow apparently views war as I do, but I found her movie absent of both the usual flag waving and pacifist tripe too common in conflict film.
The movie opens with death. Not a fire fight or a bombing raid, but the sudden, unexpected death of one of the three characters that you have gotten to know in the first ten minutes of the film. A demolitions specialist, he is blown up with his teammates and countless Iraqis looking on. The thing is, he dies because the wheel came off of the demolition wagon carrying the explosives that would detonate the IED that his team was investigating. Had the wagon survived, the soldier would have as well. This sense of capriciousness is typical of Bigelow's tone throughout the film. Why is it that the man who follows all of the precautions gets killed while the cowboy who places his team in danger lives on? These questions lead to the underlying enigma about the American presence in Iraq.
While the futility of the war becomes increasingly clear as the movie unfolds, so does the heroism and humanity of each soldier profiled. While they begin the movie as types: the cowboy, the good sergeant, the one suffering from PTSD, they develop depth throughout the film and become human. The cowboy cannot connect with his wife and son but forms an attachment to a local Iraqi boy that sends him on a suicide mission. The good sergeant, strikes out in anger against the irrationality of his team leader but still turns to him for advice in his weakest area.
Throughout the whole film runs a countdown of the days left in Bravo company's tour. It inspires a feeling of foreboding in the audience. My husband predicted what I was thinking as well, "that someone is going to die on the last day." What happens instead is equally shocking and much less comfortable to absorb.
Bigelow's realism, honesty, and unblinking observation of these three warriors makes this the most deserving of the best picture nominees I have seen so far. I have yet to see Precious, An Education, or Up in the Air but my gut reaction is that none of those introspective, character-based dramas can come close to the timeliness and forcefulness displayed in this masterpiece. Every American should see this movie. Well done Ms. Bigelow
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Consider My Servant...
Tonight I forgot the cardinal rule of watching a Coen brothers' movie- one should always maintain a 1:1 beer to hour ratio. In the absence of an appropriate blood alcohol level the higher purpose of A Serious Man eluded me. Until I turned to the next best thing to alcohol-Wikipedia. Apparently this film is loosely based on the book of Job- that biblical gem that calls into question Albert Einstein's assertion that "God does not play dice with the universe." God's famous gamble with Satan in this book may not be as chancy as a craps game but it remains a crappy game of chance. In His infinite wisdom, He allows Satan to strip everything away from Job that Job might be tested.
The test of this Coen brothers' movie is not so much on the main character, Larry Gopnick, but the audience. We watch Larry suffer through the loss of his wife, loss of his home, potential loss of his job, and in the end, the loss of his health, and are left to question why? Not why does this man suffer, but why do we watch it. Knowing that it is based on the story of Job, we might expect redemption in the end. The final scene does not leave one hanging but rather catapults one off of the proverbial cliff. Perhaps the Coens' God is not interested in the 11th hour rescue that the God of the Old Testament exercised time and time again.
Irrespective of this, the movie proves compelling as a train wreck. Will the beleaguered Gopnick grow a spine? Will he throw off the oppression visited on him by the rest of the world? Or will he remain the unremarkable, washed out figure that the pale colors employed by the Coens in every shot indicate that he is? This fascination certainly earns the film its Oscar nods, but my prediction is that the brothers will fail like Job in their quest for the golden gentleman. I predict another Coen quest film to document it. Somebody grab a six pack!
The test of this Coen brothers' movie is not so much on the main character, Larry Gopnick, but the audience. We watch Larry suffer through the loss of his wife, loss of his home, potential loss of his job, and in the end, the loss of his health, and are left to question why? Not why does this man suffer, but why do we watch it. Knowing that it is based on the story of Job, we might expect redemption in the end. The final scene does not leave one hanging but rather catapults one off of the proverbial cliff. Perhaps the Coens' God is not interested in the 11th hour rescue that the God of the Old Testament exercised time and time again.
Irrespective of this, the movie proves compelling as a train wreck. Will the beleaguered Gopnick grow a spine? Will he throw off the oppression visited on him by the rest of the world? Or will he remain the unremarkable, washed out figure that the pale colors employed by the Coens in every shot indicate that he is? This fascination certainly earns the film its Oscar nods, but my prediction is that the brothers will fail like Job in their quest for the golden gentleman. I predict another Coen quest film to document it. Somebody grab a six pack!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Interlude
Attempting to watch 22 movies in 28 days leaves little wiggle room. Really I should be approaching this as a mission or an assignment. The problem is I was always a procrastinator in high school (and college, and, to some extent, grad school). So when my hubby and I went away for the weekend, did I rent Oscar nominees? Are you bloody kidding me? I found two cheap romantic thrills-or so I thought.
St. Trinian's
This British Invasion teen flick is one of the most bizarre movies I have ever attempted to watch (and remember, this list includes Wes Anderson's Darjeeling Limited). While I am mad about Rupert Everett and Colin Firth, they both fall flat in this movie. It had the realism and consistency of a Disney Channel Original Series (without the budget). I anticipated a delightful romp, instead I found disappointing slog. My inner three year old spent the whole movie whining "Is it done yet?"-BLEGH
Run Fatboy Run
Last summer the hubster and I went to England for the first time. We loved every last bloody second of it! For Valentine's Day we wanted to go back. However, we are not among the rich and fabulous (It's pronounced Tar-jay dahling). So we had too cook something else up. In a town near our house is a hotel shaped like a castle (hold all snarky comments until the end please). We booked a room there and scoped out the local pub scene. Top the weekend off with a couple of limey DVDs and we have a hop, skip and a jump across the pond, in our mind anyways.
Run Fatboy Run isn't really British though. It is David Schwimmer's film directorial debut and he is significantly less annoying behind the camera. This quirky romantic comedy is set in London where Dennis a loser security guard is trying to win back Libby, the woman he left pregnant at the altar. Hank Azaria plays an unusually nasty character and adds the appropriate amount of arrogance to have you rooting for Dennis. If you like slightly off beat comedies, this one is for you.
St. Trinian's
This British Invasion teen flick is one of the most bizarre movies I have ever attempted to watch (and remember, this list includes Wes Anderson's Darjeeling Limited). While I am mad about Rupert Everett and Colin Firth, they both fall flat in this movie. It had the realism and consistency of a Disney Channel Original Series (without the budget). I anticipated a delightful romp, instead I found disappointing slog. My inner three year old spent the whole movie whining "Is it done yet?"-BLEGH
Run Fatboy Run
Last summer the hubster and I went to England for the first time. We loved every last bloody second of it! For Valentine's Day we wanted to go back. However, we are not among the rich and fabulous (It's pronounced Tar-jay dahling). So we had too cook something else up. In a town near our house is a hotel shaped like a castle (hold all snarky comments until the end please). We booked a room there and scoped out the local pub scene. Top the weekend off with a couple of limey DVDs and we have a hop, skip and a jump across the pond, in our mind anyways.
Run Fatboy Run isn't really British though. It is David Schwimmer's film directorial debut and he is significantly less annoying behind the camera. This quirky romantic comedy is set in London where Dennis a loser security guard is trying to win back Libby, the woman he left pregnant at the altar. Hank Azaria plays an unusually nasty character and adds the appropriate amount of arrogance to have you rooting for Dennis. If you like slightly off beat comedies, this one is for you.
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