21 Jump Street is the place to be
When Schmidt (Jonah Hill) first encounters Molly (Brie Larson) in Phil Lord and Chris Miller’s (Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs) revamped 21 Jump Street, he leads off with, “It’s really sad about that kid. He was talented,” hoping to earn some points for sympathizing with a high-school kid who recently overdosed. She responds, “So are you saying if he wasn’t talented it would be less sad?” Schmidt begins to backpedal, flummoxed by Molly’s overthrow of his intentions, only to hear her reassure him that she was only kidding. Later in the film, she confides in him during a telephone conversation: “I never got any stuffed animals growing up. Oh, wait, actually that’s not true. I did. My dad gave me a stuffed puppy the day he bailed on us.” Schmidt is speechless and stunned, once again, but Molly laughingly claims that she’s only kidding, once again. About the stuffed animal, that is, not about her dad leaving. Or is that a joke too? These exchanges are humorous enough on their own, but they’re more significantly illustrative of the film’s strategic banter with its audience. It’s going to feign earnestness then break its poker face and scream “Gotcha!” It’s going to flirt with cliché and cheesiness then commit to revisionism and cleverness. It’s going to be what it’s mocking then mock itself for being so. 21 Jump Street is, in effect, the filmic equivalent of the affable jerk who taps you on your left shoulder when he’s standing on your right. He doesn’t do it because he hates you. He does it because there’s nothing quite like reversed expectations. And, in this case, nothing quite as hilarious either. This movie is dumb enough to be funny but smart enough to know when it’s being dumb. Against all odds, perhaps, it’s not only a spryly winning comedy but a lean piece of comedic brilliance.
As with Schmidt and Molly, this movie wants you to like it. It’s not mainstream comedy’s answer to Godard. It wants laughs and affection, so it’s not afraid to get high and dress up like Peter Pan and prance around at the bemusement of the theater class. But make no mistake: 21 Jump Street is brainier than it appears to be. It’s a nerd dressed in a letterman jacket, pulling elaborate pranks as bystanders chuckle at the payoff rather than the work it took to get there. This is not to say that the film has a sort of disdain for its audience. On the contrary, it is glad you’re laughing. It’s just not above reminding you that it’s harder than it looks. Whether it’s lightly correlating Glee with an increase in high-school tolerance, mocking big-budget explosions then doing one itself, or putting a big star in unrecognizable costume until a “big” reveal, 21 Jump Street is nothing if not culturally aware. When Schmidt is ludicrously, sincerely praying to a “Korean Jesus,” it can’t help but pull back to reveal Jenko cracking up at his misplaced fervor. When Captain Dickson is yelling at his troops, it can’t help but have him point out that he represents a stereotype. In this case, though, he doesn’t experience himself as a stereotype, because, well, he’s actually black and actually angry. Credit goes to directors Lord and Miller, writer Michael Bacall, and stars Jonah Hill and Channing Tatum. They have pulled off the improbable, and they don’t appear to have broken a sweat. 21 Jump Street is silly, but it doesn’t take itself too seriously, which actually makes it less silly. I really wish there were more movies like this one.
-Rob
Philip Seymour Hoffman’s Salesman
Last Thursday, May 10, I experienced what can be called with no exaggeration a dream come true: watching Philip Seymour Hoffman on Broadway. It’s been a goal for years, and there was something so surreal about actually seeing this man on stage. He hasn’t done Broadway since 2003, when he played James Tyrone, Jr. in “Long Day’s Journey Into Night” (man that would have been amazing), so you don’t know how many chances you’ll have if you miss this one. It didn’t hurt that the play was Arthur Miller’s “Death of a Salesman.” Or that the legendary Mike Nichols was directing. Or that Andrew Garfield was performing as Biff. If that doesn’t comprise “must-see theater” then I don’t know what does. I can honestly say that I don’t know if I’ll ever have the opportunity to see a play with credentials comparable to these, or one that actually follows through with such promise in the same way, and there’s something sad about that. Once you look forward to something so long, you kind of feel deflated after it’s over (no matter how amazing it is…perhaps the more amazing it is, the more deflated you feel). You want it to go on forever, because once you leave the theater, you can’t be excited about it anymore. But enough pining. It was the best play I’ve ever seen with the most consistent performances of the lot. And while I might never see anything equal to it, I can at least enjoy the memory of something so extraordinary. “Death of a Salesman” received seven Tony nominations, and I hope it cleans up at the awards ceremony, because I can’t imagine anything deserving it more. It’s been revived many times, but this version felt so definitive that it seems strange that any other four individuals could perform it so intimately and so believably. You really buy them as a family unit, which is not an easy thing to pull off.
I have to admit that until Thursday, I’ve never been particularly blown away by “Death of a Salesman.” I read it in high school and understood its status as a classic, but it was never top-drawer stuff for me. Even after the TV movie with Dustin Hoffman, it was difficult for me to connect on an emotional level. Now, however, after viewing what appears to be a defining revival, I consider the play in my top tier. The themes are as relevant now as they were when it was written (perhaps more so): a man past 50 being told he’s becoming irrelevant, the changing economic realities, a man/child attempting to find himself, a father who can hardly separate past from present, a salesman who is not kingly enough to receive myriad individuals at his funeral but who nonetheless deserves sympathy as a human being, etc. But at the heart of the play is the contentious relationship between a father and a son, and in the hands of master actors, the dynamic is heartbreaking. Willy and Biff’s interplay is shot through with both love and spite, which is obviously the stuff of classically tragic theater. But this “Death of a Salesman” felt so modern that it hurt. Perhaps that’s what I loved most about this production, the modernism of it. It’s a byproduct both of how it’s performed and how it’s staged. The acting is so intimate, with characters constantly touching each other and expressing affection through such connectivity. Five years ago, I saw Eugene O’Neill’s “Moon for the Misbegotten” with Kevin Spacey, and it was a fabulous production. Yet, there was a kind of distance to it, both in the way it was acted and written. O’Neill’s voice can be very poetic, but that kind of articulation can keep spectators at arm’s length. This “Death of a Salesman,” on the other hand, felt like it was written today…full of flesh and blood and sweat. The characters do not drift off into monologues about the sea or about being a little in love with death. They speak like we do…talking about the same things but with less poetry. Now that I think about it, there are times where you can get “Death of a Salesman” and “Long Day’s Journey Into Night” mixed up with each other. Take out a morphine-addicted mother and baroque alcoholism and you have a very similar dynamic: a father who can’t keep his past out of his present, two boys who can hardly recognize how lost they are, and buried family secrets that continually affect every interaction. It might not be fun, but it’s my kind of theater.
I love dramatic theater because it seems to share my thematic obsessions, not the least of which is a conflation between history and today. In “Long Day’s Journey Into Night,” Mary says, “The past is the present, isn’t it? It’s the future too.” This line recalls one of my favorite Faulkner quotes: “The past is never dead. It’s not even past” (“Requiem for a Nun”). O’Neill’s plays are very much about this sentiment, but so is “Death of a Salesman,” and I never quite realized it until Thursday. Another pet theme of mine is self-deception, something I respond to so diligently in “Streetcar”‘s Blanche or “Iceman”‘s Hickey. Sometimes we lie to ourselves so vehemently that we believe it to be true, and we agree upon these lies with individuals to the point where the things we never speak about are the things that our relationships actually hinge on. “Death of a Salesman” is no different. The characters stretch truths and ignore truths and realize that their family is built on a shaky foundation. Where does it end? If we stare truth in the face, will be better for it or will it kill us? If all we have is a facade, then our existence falls with the crumbling of it. Willy Loman is a broken man trying to muster the will to mend himself, and when he can’t do so, he delves into past closets and hides there til he’s torn away from them. It’s true tragedy, tragedy of the basest kind. But I doubt there’s a single audience member who can’t relate. All of this talk and none about the performances. How much can one say without spouting off flowery superlatives? I typically like to describe performances rather than saddle them with hackneyed labels such as “unbelievable” or “amazing,” but I’m finding it difficult here, perhaps because they live and breathe on the stage. I can’t rewind and pause and recall exact moments. Not that they don’t exist, but transferring them from my mind to typed letters is proving a challenge.
I’ll start with Finn Wittrock (Happy), a Julliard alum and “All My Children” star. Of the four main performers, he’s the only one who didn’t receive a Tony nomination, and he’s the one most likely to be overlooked in general. But if you have a single weak actor in the family, the whole thing will fall apart (much like “Long Day’s Journey”). Wittrock is, in his own way, glue that holds it all together. Providing deftly handled comic relief (verbal and physical) and a kind of base emotionalism, Wittrock’s Happy is in perfect unison with Biff. It’s not the showiest of roles, but the young actor pulls it off expertly. This guy should have a future ahead of him. Linda Emond’s Linda actually is the glue holding the family together, or at least trying to. It’s a deceptively simple role, one that I imagine would induce a number of headaches. Emond is stunningly natural and believable, never going over the top and never acting like she’s on a stage. You feel her pain and her misplaced optimism, and she plays those famous final moments for all they’re worth. This is of course Hoffman’s show, and he acts like he was born for this role. I know that everyone from Lee J. Cobb to George C. Scott to Dustin Hoffman to Brian Dennehy have donned Loman’s shoes, but after seeing this Hoffman, I’m having trouble picturing anyone else doing it so definitively. Sporting a Brooklyn accent (much like what he does in Mary and Max) and a bear-like physicality (using it the way he does in Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead), Hoffman commands the stage. This isn’t a frail Willy Loman, not one that looks like he could fall over dead any minute. This is a big, towering Willy Loman, trying to hold onto his virility and growing more and more angry that he can’t do so. There’s an interesting ferocity to the performance, which I thought was a bit nontraditional but still effective. When he yells at Biff it’s almost scary. This guy could knock you out, and I found that slightly jarring at first but it ended up working perfectly. The family is almost afraid of this Willy, not only because of what he might do to himself but perhaps also because of what he might do to them. I might be totally misreading this, but I thought it added a lot of tension and put me on edge when I wasn’t expecting to be. Hoffman is jaw-droppingly committed here, channeling an internal rage and an unsettling nostalgia to the point where you forget about all his other roles and think that he’s only just played this one. And that’s the great thing about Hoffman, who might be my favorite actor working right now. Every time I see him, I feel like he’s only played that role. He makes every part so definitive, every character so distinct. He might not completely change every time, but you’d never get two characters mixed up. I mean, is there anything this guy can’t do? His Willy Loman has a strong voice and a commanding presence. None of the nebbish whininess found in Happiness. None of the femininity found in Flawless. None of the flighty spontaneity found in Almost Famous. Somehow he changes every time, and yet he doesn’t. You know it’s the actor, but all you see is the character.
Hoffman might be my favorite actor, and he’s admittedly wonderful in the play, but my biggest takeaway has to be Andrew Garfield. Perhaps it’s because this is his Broadway debut and he has more to prove (although he’s done London theater). Perhaps it’s because I’ve seen Hoffman in so many amazing performances in so many movies. I know what he can do, and even though I’m continually impressed, I’m never surprised (I mean, I’m surprised by the performances themselves, but not by the fact that he does so well). Garfield, however, has done strong work in the past. He’s just not had that moment where he knocks you out of your seat, where you forget to breathe because he’s created such a fraught dynamic in the scene. This was that moment for me. Don’t get me wrong…I’ve been a fan of Garfield’s, but I’ve never quite been in unmistakable awe. Not until Thursday. He deserves every bit of that Tony Award, and I hope he gets it. He’s done great work in Boy A, Red Riding, The Social Network, and Never Let Me Go, but I’ve never seen him like this. It’s a searing, intense performance, one that sticks in your bones long after the curtain closes. He has a consistent Brooklyn accent. He has a command of his physicality—believably a football player and believably something of a bully. He has a suave that brings to mind screen titans, and an angst that brings to mind the same. I just can’t imagine another Biff. The final confrontation and subsequent breakdown with his father is so mesmerizing you think you’re in a kitchen rather than a mezzanine. It’s full of simultaneous rage and tenderness, much like Hoffman’s performance. And the scene where he attempts to tell his father that he stole a pen is so tense that you want to yell directions to Biff. But for me, I’ll never forget the look on his face when he sees his father in a hotel room with another woman. It’s a look of disbelief, a look of terror. He drops his suitcase, spit and tears falling onto the ground. And he awkwardly sits on his suitcase and sobs. He sobs like we rarely do, like when we know getting it out of our systems won’t get it out of our lives. He sobs like we do when we feel like we’ve forgotten how to breathe. Like we might never remember again. In that moment, Biff’s life is changed forever. And so was my opinion of Andrew Garfield. That’s not something you fake; it’s something you feel. With so many opportunities in film, I admire Garfield for returning to the stage to feel. It’s not easy, but worthwhile things rarely are. When asked why he decided to do this play, he says “it’s that thing of waiting to be found out…that you’re nonsense.” I remember Stephen Merchant saying something similar about stand-up. It’s the fear of it that attracts you. It’s wanting to see what you’re made of, to see if you can do something that you don’t think you can. When we feel terrified and uncomfortable and doubting ourselves, that’s often when we learn the most, and the theater is certainly a place for that. Film can be, but I feel that theater always is. I love what Tom Hardy says here: ”But then, the stage is not somewhere we come to eat. It is where we come to be eaten” (IGN). I think that’s true both of the actors and the spectators. When Garfield was offered the chance to eat, he chose to be eaten. And we, as audience members, were eaten as well in an absolutely heartbreaking production. I wish more young actors would do the same. When we face ugly things, we grow as people. Dramatic theater always forces you to do this, and that’s why it will never go away.
-Rob
Rob: Top 10 Films of All Time
Okay, I’ll bite. Sight & Sound’s critics poll is in full sway, and notable film scholars—like Roger Ebert (http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2012/04/the_greatest_films_of_all_time.html)—have consequently been compiling their current lists of the greatest films of all time. Several online critics, like Incontention’s Kris Tapley (http://www.hitfix.com/blogs/in-contention/posts/the-10-greatest-films-of-all-time), have been doing the same for a Film School Rejects feature, which you can find here: http://www.filmschoolrejects.com/features/the-10-best-movies-of-all-time-according-to-the-internet.php. As with many things list-related, I initially relish the prospect of joining in the “fun” (as Tapley calls it), only to then enter into a stage of arbitrary ordering, painstaking head-scratching, and an ultimate incredulity at my having began the process in the first place. With lists of any kind—whether they be top 10 of the year, the decade, or all time—writers have a predictable way of working themselves into a state bordering on delirium, but it’s important to remember that no one is curing cancer here. Lists might be meaningless, but I don’t think the experience of composing one is, exactly. It allows you to reflect on what you respond to and why, and often, you learn as much about yourself as you do about the films you’ve chosen. A degree of levity is key in a situation like this. No one’s list is any more “right” than another’s, and no one’s list is ever “complete.” I might see a film tomorrow that could change everything.
Another thing to keep in mind is the intense subjectivity of this process. So many factors come into play, including when you saw a given film and where you were at that time in your life. Some things speak to me, while others don’t. And I can’t always explain why (though I don’t think it’s entirely futile to attempt to do so). One inevitable issue with regard to list-making is that of “best” vs. “favorite.” Do you cast your lot with the titles that have ambitiously expanded the language of cinema? Or do you give into modest trifles that nevertheless make your heart just a bit warmer every time you see them? Do you relent to works that show you something about life as you live it, even though they shatter you emotionally and you never want to watch them again? Or do you tip your hat to things that feel less like “texts” and more like funny conversations with friends? Do you side with admiration toward a film’s historical significance or affection for a film’s shaggy refusal to pretend to reinvent the wheel? Are “admiration” and “affection” mutually exclusive, anyway? And are “best” and “favorite” always different? If you hadn’t already guessed, I don’t have the answers to these questions. My solution was to sort of bridge between the ambitious, undeniably significant titles and the ones that I just flat-out love for reasons I’ll never fully know. Extremes on either side, then, got left out in the cold. Orson Welle’s Citizen Kane (1941) might be a consensus pick among critics as “the greatest film ever made,” but I’ve never crossed the border from objective respect to personal adoration. On the other end of the spectrum, something like the Coen brothers’ The Big Lebowski (1998) has put me in stitches time and time again over the last few years, but it’s so dutifully silly that I can’t quite place it next to things that make me reexamine how I experience the world. This might sound strange, but I often begin to love certain movies precisely because I admire them so much (is that a paradox?). Some might say they too closely resemble homework, but I truly enjoy tackling complex material, whether it be thematically or formally. So, for me, I can’t separate admiration and affection, as the two seem to continually feed off one another. Standard-issue rambling out of the way, here’s my assuredly contingent top ten films of all time. Some might be boring and/or depressing to some. Others might be pedestrian and middle-brow to others. But that’s okay with me. You can always make your own list.
Honorable Mentions: Woody Allen’s Annie Hall (1977), Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958), Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now (1979), Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather: Part II (1974), Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing (1989), Sidney Lumet’s Network (1976), Ingmar Bergman’s Persona (1966), Terrence Malick’s The Thin Red Line (1998), William Friedkin’s The Exorcist (1973).
#10
Kenneth Lonergan’s You Can Count on Me (2000)
A brother-sister relationship that feels achingly real. Two pitch-perfect performances by Laura Linney and Mark Ruffalo. A sharp screenplay that respects its characters but doesn’t cower from showing them at their supremely stupid. If I want something generously open-hearted, curtly funny, and unassumingly intelligent, I’ll pick this title every time. And a smile will roll across my face every time.
#9
Alfonso Cuarón’s Y Tu Mamá También (2001)
A rowdy, rambunctious road-movie that floors you with its emotional acuity and stuns you with its thematic density. Adolescent revelry, Mexican politics, and subversive feminism have formed an unlikely marriage in a work that feels affirming of live even as it often undercuts how we live it. If I want something both colorfully original and basely age-old (love triangle, anyone?), I’ll pick this one.
#8
Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity (1944)
I can’t deny that nostalgia plays an important role here. This was one of the first movies I can remember being wowed by. But even if this title were not inescapably linked with my cinematic development, I would still likely fall hard for Wilder’s quintessential film-noir. From the foreboding voice-over to the verbal gymnastics to the steamy claustrophobia, this film plunges you into a world that you wouldn’t want to live in but somehow don’t want to leave. I’ve seen it many times, and the boiling tension still gets my heart racing. If you can still get nervous when you already know the outcome, you know you have a winner on your hands.
#7
Martin Scorsese’s Raging Bull (1980)
Ebert describes it this way: “It is the greatest cinematic expression of the torture of jealousy–his ‘Othello.’” I think this is spot-on, because you wouldn’t readily call either Raging Bull or “Othello” enjoyable, but they’re undeniably compelling. I’ve always found the film so, well, intense that I can’t help but be drawn to it even as I’m aware of the utter lack of joy inside my heart. Robert De Niro’s performance is for the ages, and the technical proficiency on display is simply breathtaking.
#6
Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather (1972)
Sure, this American classic is a staple of “best” lists, but it sits comfortably as a “favorite” for me. The sequel is also wonderful, but I prefer the introduction to this world as opposed to the deepening of it. I remember watching this for the first time and being stunned. It’s a feeling I still get each time. The images are now iconic and the lines are now quoted, but the sheer, masterful storytelling never needed pop culture for validation. You made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, Mr. Coppola.
#5
Michel Gondry’s Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)
I feel like this movie knows me. I can’t say that I’ve gone through comparable experiences, exactly, but something about it seems to communicate directly to who I am. High-minded as it might sound, I think about it often and it has grown to influence how I live my life. Perhaps I was Joel once upon a time, and perhaps I don’t remember because Lacuna really does exist. Wildly funny and devastatingly melancholy, this title reminds me why I bother with movies anyway. Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet have never been better.
#4
Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction (1994)
Can I just say that Pulp Fiction is a blast and call it a day? I don’t think I could ever quite articulate the thrill of a Tarantino sequence, the way that dialogue turns musical and music turns visual and visuals turn instantly iconic. If I could, some of the magic might be lost. There’s just nothing quite like that diner or that accidental gunshot or those bullet holes in the wall or that briefcase or that needle. The violently criminal mixes gloriously with the comically absurd, and the cinematic landscape has never been the same since.
#3
Paul Thomas Anderson’s Magnolia (1999)
Would I love film as much as I do if I had never seen Magnolia? Probably not. It hit me at just the right time and made a lasting impact. Anderson makes playthings out of rules, bending and breaking them at will, and my young mind found that profoundly liberating. I could praise the endlessly inspiring ensemble. I could praise the hyper-realistic dialogue and the fluid cutting. I could praise the cathartic climax that furrows brows but opens hearts. I could praise so many things, but for me, it’s all about that final moment, when a song begins and a potential love interest speaks and you see in a damaged girl’s face that she believes redemption might actually be possible. I wouldn’t call Magnolia an easy movie to watch, but every time I do, I’m glad that I did. Anderson has made both more joyous films and more formalistic films, but this is the one that’s ineffably linked to me.
#2
Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas (1990)
At any given time, the film I would most readily sit down and watch is Goodfellas, hands down. Every time it visits my DVD player, I feel what the young Henry Hill does as he watches gangsters through his window across the street: wide-eyed wonderment and inscrutable giddiness. I feel like I’m going on the journey once more anew, aware that the good times can’t last but hoping they do anyway. The film is able to achieve voyeuristic glamour and also the completely mundane, day-to-day business of people who use guns to get what they want. It’s a life you wouldn’t choose, but given the chance to experience it all over again through Henry’s eyes, I’ll choose it in a heartbeat.
#1
Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York (2008)
Do feel free to break my heart again, Mr. Kaufman. One of our greatest screenwriters turns into one of our greatest directors with this single offering. Kaufman’s directorial debut has driven many spectators to the nearest bar, and it’s not difficult to see why. The plays-within-a-play-within-a-movie devices do somersaults to the point where you’re not sure if the characters are on sets or in the “real world.” Are they in the warehouse? Wait, which warehouse? Is that the surrogate or the surrogate’s surrogate? Synecdoche, New York can make your head hurt (even the title doesn’t let you off very easily). But it can hurt you in other ways too. It lays bare what it means to live life to the bitter end and what it means to creatively pursue something to the point of corrosive solipsism. So why is something so painful currently my top film of all time? Because it doesn’t just offer introspection; it requires it. I don’t go to the movies to escape. I go to engage with worldviews, my own and others. And Synecdoche, New York has about as much to say about art, life, and love as anything I’ve seen. It’s so personal I feel I could have written it myself (if I were that good, that is).
Judd Apatow Comedy
What defines Judd Apatow comedy? What sets him apart from his predecessors and his contemporaries? One could say “hard-R filthy dialogue,” but Kevin Smith brandished that badge years before it was the stuff of record-breaking box-office numbers. One could say “psychological realism,” but Woody Allen’s 1970s-era output tracked the actual ups and downs of relationships more fervently than Apatow’s 2000s-era output has, and brought an added dimension of urbane philosophy to boot. One could say “escapist romanticism and wish-fulfilling sweetness,” but Nora Ephron cornered that market before Apatow’s first producing credit. Granted, she might cater more to the chicks than the fellas, but heightened realism and fantastic warmth are hardly new concepts in comedy, romantic or otherwise. To me, what defines Apatow cinema is a mix of all of these things, which probably sounds more like a cop-out than I intend it to. It probably also sounds less like a compliment than I’d like it to. It might not take a genius to stir various ingredients, but I’m sure it’s harder than it sounds. See, Apatow’s characters talk like they’re in Clerks. They mate like they’re in When Harry Met Sally…They argue like they’re in Manhattan. And they’d probably all rather be in Die Hard. The great thing is that the producer/writer/director can give us silly, mindless, SNL-like comedies like Anchorman, Talladega Nights, Walk Hard, and Step Brothers. He can give us a touching cross-section of embarrassment/pain and happiness/hope in The 40 Year Old Virgin and Forgetting Sarah Marshall. He can give us fever-dream inanity in Pineapple Express and high-school disillusionment in Superbad. He can give us a female-centric circus in Bridesmaids, a pair of contentious relationships in Knocked Up, and a fascinating, if not entirely cohesive, blend of cancer, stand-up, and “the one that got away” in Funny People. And that’s before we get into his television work. In other words, Apatow can do a lot, and while he hasn’t reinvented the wheel, he’s sure made it shinier.
I’m really looking forward to This is 40, because I prefer the films Apatow directed to the ones he merely produced. That might not be quite fair, considering that he has produced many more than he’s directed, which increases the margin of error. And how can you really compare Anchorman and Knocked Up, since they aim for entirely different ends (even though both of those ends include laughter)? But as funny as Step Brothers, Superbad, and Forgetting Sarah Marshall are, I don’t think they quite measure up to The 40 Year Old Virgin and Knocked Up. All three might be better than Funny People, though, so perhaps it evens out. Anyway….I enjoy the acuity of Apatow’s voice in the films he directed, even if his tonal changes don’t always entirely gel. There’s a real personality to the work, and when it’s not perfect, it’s never not interesting. People have frequently complained about the length of his films, but I just love hanging out with the characters. I will admit that individual scenes can go a bit long, and sometimes it seems like the actors are trying to one-up each other, trying to make each other laugh, rather than the characters. Little of that matters, however, when you get a knockout joke born of improvisation. In my opinion, The 40 Year Old Virgin is the flat-out funniest film he’s done, and Knocked Up finds a mostly exceptional balance between raunchy laughs and hopeful romance. The latter has more dramatic moments than the former, but you can’t deny there’s heart in both. While Apatow has had some producing flops along the way, he continues to give us funny movies, and in between the laughs, you still care about the characters. My favorites are The 40 Year Old Virgin, Knocked Up, Superbad, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, and Anchorman. Second tier would be Step Brothers, Pineapple Express, Funny People, Talladega Nights, and Bridesmaids. I’m also looking forward to seeing The Five-Year Engagement. What are your favorites?
-Rob
This is 40 Trailer
You can find the trailer here for the fourth film Judd Apatow has directed: http://themoviebox.net/1080. I actually found it a bit, well, soft and surprisingly light on laughs, but it’s hard to judge anything with less than two minutes of footage. This is 40 focuses on Pete (Paul Rudd) and Debbie (Leslie Mann) from Knocked Up (2007), the bickering couple that brought a kind of Cassavetes-like realism to the otherwise frothily conventional proceeding of the film’s A-plot. Don’t get me wrong: Ben and Alison’s arguments could get intense, but there was never any question that the two would end up together. And even though they called ample attention to it, the central couple’s charted path stretched believability more than a little. Pete and Debbie, on the other hand, seemed less like a movie couple and more like the couple across the street from you, stuck in a suburban hell with temporary respites and eternal weariness. Knocked Up ties Ben and Alison up in a nice bow, but it essentially strands Pete and Debbie in their matrimonial contentiousness. It’s for this reason that I’m both optimistic and cautious about revisiting this tale. On one hand, it’s a great chance for Apatow to mine additionally personal material and portray a hyper-realistic marriage with a sharper eye toward Cassavetes-lite. On the other hand, I’m not sure that the material warrants a dominantly comic take. There’s humor in bickering and mid-life crises, of course, but it’s a humor that seems more suited to the backdrop. After Apatow pushed his brand to more overtly dramatic territory in the not so enthusiastically received Funny People (2009), it’ll be interesting to see if the film will be saddled with the burden of “returning” to big laughs and less raw emotion. The December release date has me hopeful that people won’t be expecting some kind of Hangover-like summer comedy smash. The connection with Knocked Up is a tenuous one, because the subject matter seems closer to Funny People than The 40 Year Old Virgin or that film. I’m also slightly worried that things will become too glossy—this appears to be a story yearning for clear vision, not even-handed wishy-washiness. I guess what I’m saying is that I hope Apatow continues to let his dramatic beats breathe, without attempting to force laughter or attempting to outright stifle it. But enough rambling.
In addition to Rudd, Mann, and Maude and Iris Apatow, we’ll be getting Jason Segel (Knocked Up), Charlyne Yi (Knocked Up), Lena Dunham (Girls), Melissa McCarthy (Bridesmaids), Chris O’Dowd (Bridesmaids), Megan Fox (Friends With Kids), and Albert Brooks and John Lithgow. They’re all sure to provide plenty of laughs, but audiences should not expect a Seth Rogen comedy here. No one brings the stoner raunch like Rogen, so it’s best that people not look for it elsewhere and that Apatow not try to duplicate it elsewhere. But I have a suspicion that in December, my fears will be dutifully relieved, and we’ll be looking at a properly filthy Apatow Christmas comedy that’s nevertheless shot through with his signature warmth.
-Rob
Russell Crowe is Noah
Unless you haven’t yet heard, it’s now official that Russell Crowe will be playing the titular role in Darren Aronofsky’s Noah, which already has a release date of March 28, 2014. Christian Bale was initially considered, then Michael Fassbender, but both had scheduling conflicts. It seemed to work out all-around as far as I’m concerned. Bale is reteaming with Terrence Malick (twice). Fassbender is reteaming with Steve McQueen (and with Crowe’s frequent collaborator Ridley Scott right before that), and the formidable Aronofsky gets to work with the formidable Crowe for the first time. I have to admit that I had sort of, well, forgotten about Crowe for a while. I haven’t seen him in anything since State of Play (2009). The Next Three Days (2010) quickly came and went. Body of Lies (2008) was hardly a proper showcase for the talents of Scott and Crowe. And it’s been five years since his one-two-punch of American Gangster and 3:10 to Yuma. But with his role in Man of Steel (2013), his inspired role in Les Misérables (2012), and his starring role for Aronofsky, it’s going to be difficult to forget about him from here on. Crowe, of course, is not unfamiliar with period pieces, especially the swords-and-sandals variety (will Noah be wielding a sword, I wonder?). He took home an Oscar for his winning turn as Maximus in Scott’s Gladiator (2000); he stormed the seas in Peter Weir’s Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003); and he battled for Scott again as Robin Hood (2010). Something about Crowe just jives so well with parts like these. As far as my personal favorites go, I’m partial to Crowe’s ferocious turn as a skinhead in Romper Stomper (1992) and as the dazzling Bud White in L.A. Confidential (1997), but there are many to choose from. I have little idea what to expect from Noah. Obviously, slavish faithfulness is not among my expectations (Aronofsky calls the story a “great fable” here: http://www.ifc.com/fix/2011/06/darren-aronofsky-noahs-ark-christian-bale). The environmentalist angle sounds intriguing, as does the alcoholic angle. And I can’t wait to see who is cast as Noah’s opponent. But mostly, I’m just excited to see the oft micro-budget Aronofsky doing something on a grand-scale. If The Fountain (2006) gives us any indication, we’re in for a visual feast. Whatever we’re going to get, I bet it’s going to be something special.
-Rob
Loki’s Defense of Superhero Movies
Acclaimed British actor Tom Hiddleston—who shows up in War Horse, Midnight in Paris, and as Loki in Thor and the upcoming The Avengers—has written a rather intriguing article in defense of superhero movies. You can check it out here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/filmblog/2012/apr/19/avengers-assemble-tom-hiddleston-superhero. Part of it shares some overlap with Brennan’s write-up on last year’s superhero-heavy summer, which you can find here: http://cinemaexverite.com/2011/05/17/comic-book-films-modern-mythologies-the-purpose-of-humanity/. These films, Hiddleston claims, tap into universal truths about humanity, illustrating on a grand scale “the danger of hubris and the primacy of humility.” They are about people (or super-people) with problems, flaws, and the possibility of redemption. We recognize them because we are them; more precisely, they are what we would be if we could fly and smash buildings with a fist. The Hulk represents our fear of anger, Batman is a brooding, vengeful Hamlet, and so on. I think this is the key quote of the article: “In our increasingly secular society, with so many disparate gods and different faiths, superhero films present a unique canvas upon which our shared hopes, dreams and apocalyptic nightmares can be projected and played out.” Movies about boy-spiders and blind daredevils, then, eradicate the specificity of “religions” and distill the common values into something visually consumable by masses of people who live by similar principles and attach different labels to them. Superhero movies unite us by catering to our fantasies while simultaneously questioning even the strength of those operating in our fantasies. The classical actor Christopher Reeve might have been derided for starring in Superman, but now he’s in good company: Jack Nicholson in Batman, Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart in X-Men, Michael Fassbender and James McAvoy in X-Men: Origins, Robert Downey Jr. in Iron Man, Andrew Garfield in The Amazing Spider-Man, Russell Crowe and Michael Shannon in Man of Steel, the entire cast of The Dark Knight. The list goes on and on. It’s time to stop griping about them and start respecting them, Loki says, because they reflect our lives and give us some fun while they do it.
I’m inclined to agree with Hiddleston…in theory. But in practice I just can’t say that I’ve had this experience. At the end of the article, the actor offers that the Lumière brothers would be thrilled with movies like this. Scenes of spectacle ”are the result of a creative engine set in motion when the Lumières shot L’Arrivée d’un Train en Gare de la Ciotat in 1895.” Look how far we’ve come at amazing audiences, the argument goes. But I think Hiddleston is misinterpreting the impact of L’Arrivée d’un Train en Gare de la Ciotat (The Arrival of a Train at La Coitat Station). Audiences were astonished not because what they saw looked so wondrously unreal but because it looked so real that they could hardly believe it wasn’t. They knew that an actual train was not headed toward them, but their brains and their bodies didn’t agree. Tom Gunning has said that “the apparent realism of the image makes it a successful illusion, but one understood as an illusion nonetheless.” I don’t think it’s quite fair to liken computer-generated-imagery and motion-capture characters and completely digital environments to footage of a train arriving at a station. Those who operate in our Transformers film culture seem to be saying “look what we can create” rather than “look what we can capture.” When the Lumière brothers were making movies, they found the power of bottling a “real” moment through a lens, which of course destroys its realism. That was the spectacle: an everyday moment framed on a big screen. It was a card-trick, not a levitation. It was about transparency, not opacity. You were wondering “How did they do that?” not because it didn’t look real but because it did. I’m cautious to give superhero movies the same credit. Things I see might look “cool,” but they don’t look real. [When I say "real," by the way, I'm injecting the term with all of the malleability inherent in it. I mostly mean "real" not by standards of "what could happen" but by what I believe is happening in the context of the film.] They distract me, taking me out of the fabric of the film and causing me to contemplate stylists sitting at computers. When you try to “wow” me, I end up feeling less invested in the story, characters, emotion, etc.
I realize that this sounds sort of strange. It’s a superhero movie, you say, and it’s not supposed to be realistic. But when I say “realistic,” I’m not objecting to aliens flying in spandex or Greek gods stranded in New Mexico or a kid shooting webs out of his wrists. I’m objecting to the tendency to privilege special effects over story, character, and emotion. I’m not claiming that all of these movies do this, but I see the industry moving in that direction, not necessarily with superhero movies specifically, but with anything with a big budget. I don’t want to bash superhero movies, because I understand Hiddleston’s praise. Yet, I see it as potential only hardly realized. In most of these films, I don’t feel that my humanity is being reflected back to me. I don’t feel that I’m connecting with universal pride or pain or faith. I don’t feel that I’m united with disparate religions under universally redemptive principles. I feel that I’m being sold something so market-tested and commercially engineered that no one involved really cares about hubris or flawed humanity. If it sounds cynical to say they care about dollar signs, I point to endless sequels and tent-pole movies that have release dates before they have scripts. Some of them have heart, but most of them feel hollow. Of course, I love The Dark Knight, but Bruce Wayne doesn’t have to be made human, because he already is one. I wish I felt the same way about other films’ characters. I wish I could join in this multiplex praise. But right now, I only can with Nolan’s franchise. Maybe more will come. Or maybe they already have, and if you feel that’s the case, chalk my reaction up to personal taste. We all have it, and we’re hard-pressed to change it.
-Rob
Rob: Most Anticipated Summer 2012
10. Dark Shadows (Dir. Tim Burton) (May 11)
The one where the director/actor team behind Edward Scissorhands, Sleepy Hollow, and Ed Wood collaborate for the eighth time.
9. Ruby Sparks (Dir. Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris) (July 25- Limited)
The one where the directors of Little Miss Sunshine cinematically resurface.
8. Your Sister’s Sister (Dir. Lynn Shelton) (June 15- Limited)
The one where Emily Blunt and Rosemarie DeWitt play sisters.
7. Hope Springs (Dir. David Frankel) (August 10)
The one where Meryl Streep and Tommy Lee Jones play a married couple and Steve Carell plays their counselor.
6. The Campaign (Dir. Jay Roach) (August 10)
The one where Will Ferrell returns to summer comedy (alongside Zach Galifianakis, no less).
5. Take This Waltz (Dir. Sarah Polley) (June 29- Limited)
The one where Michelle Williams likely gives another show-stopping performance.
4. Beasts of the Southern Wild (Dir. Benh Zeitlin) (June 27- Limited)
The one that bewitched everyone at Sundance.
3. Prometheus (Dir. Ridley Scott) (June 8)
The one where the director of Alien and Blade Runner returns to science-fiction.
2. Lawless (Dir. John Hillcoat) (August 31)
The one with Tom Hardy, Jessica Chastain, Guy Pearce, Gary Oldman, Shia LaBeouf, and Mia Wasikowska.
1. The Dark Knight Rises (Dir. Christopher Nolan) (July 20)
The one that needs no explanation.
Things to keep an eye out for: The Amazing Spider-Man (July 3), Ted (July 13), The Bourne Legacy (August 3), The Avengers (May 4), The Dictator (May 11), Neighborhood Watch (July 27), Men in Black III (May 25), Safety Not Guaranteed (June 8- Limited), To Rome with Love (June 22- Limited), Hysteria (May 18)
Things too strange to ignore: Transformers scribes delivering a drama starring Kirk and Miri (People Like Us- June 29), Steven Soderbergh’s bewildering male stripper movie (Magic Mike- June 29)
What is Pretentious?
You hear it all the time, both from critics and average movie-goers…”That film was so pretentious.” The pejorative has become something of a go-to for consumers of art-house fair, as if any film with the least bit of austerity must be saddled with pretense. It’s an overused, lazy, unfair adjective in criticism, and people often use it without explaining how they mean it. In my opinion, the films and filmmakers generally associated with the “pretentious” title are those least worthy of it, because their work is actually the opposite of what many purport it to be. When did anything creative, unconventional, and original become pretentious? When did anything that expands viewers’ cinematic vocabularies and provokes in them thought become pretentious? When did anything a little more challenging than a Michael Bay film become pretentious? I’m not saying that the adjective is always unwarranted or that every living movie-maker holds no pretense whatsoever. There’s ultimately no way to empirically judge. How do I know if Martin Scorsese is actually passionate about Christ’s dichotomy of sinless humanity? Maybe he’s just pretending to make an important film that people will call art. Since I don’t know him, I can’t say with certainty. All I can do is take an educated guess, and the impression I get from the majority of unconventional filmmakers is that claims of pretense can hardly be defended.
In my eyes, people like Terence Malick, Lars von Trier, Charlie Kaufman, Baz Luhrmann, and Gus Van Sant, to name a few, are decidedly not pretentious. They are not “trying” to be different for the sake of it. They are not “pretending” to be meaningful. In fact, some of them might tell you that their films are not “important.” When the trailers for The Tree of Life and Melancholia emerged last year, the blogosphere was running rampant with “pretentious” labels. Aside from the ludicrous practice of associating a piece of advertising with pretense (aren’t all trailers pretentious?), people made the matter worse by failing to describe what is pretentious about them. See, I don’t think that philosophical voice-over, the origin of the cosmos, a vague “afterlife” reconciliatory symbol, long stretches without dialogue, and impressionistic cinematography are examples of Malick pretending to be something he’s not. On the contrary, I think that his films unequivocally spring from who he is, and it doesn’t matter to him whether people find them artistic. Similarly, Melancholia is von Trier’s view of the universe. Why is personal expression conflated with pretense? Perhaps when Van Sant makes a movie about two guys getting lost and walking around, he’s trying to say something about friendship rather than trying to be “arty.” Perhaps when Luhrmann makes a movie about a love triangle circa 1899 and has his characters sing Elton John and Queen, we’re seeing something more akin to a dream-like diary than a striving to be different for the sake of it.
I really appreciate this quote from critic Nick Davis: “Like Luhrmann, Kaufman knows that his intensest emotions rhyme with pathetic clichés, so his strategies are to stretch them to a colossal scale and embed such creative nuance at every moment that the feelings reconnect.” This is a beautiful summation of Synecdoche, New York. Plays-within-plays-within-a-movie can be read as pretentious, but it says more about artistic ambition than almost anything could. Jumping time without signaling it or employing a dream-state logic can be read as pretentious, but it says more about how we experience our lives than almost anything could. You see a house perpetually burning and roll your eyes. I see it and feel my heart skip a beat—what a creative metaphor for life itself. Kaufman’s work is primarily about emotion, not intellectual wheel-spinning. He blends artifice and authenticity because that is how he experiences his life, and I must say that it’s pretty accurate for me. He blends art and life not in an attempt to be arty but because separating the two doesn’t make any emotional sense. Sometimes cliched feelings need to be creatively reformulated, and this means doing unconventional things, but the base emotion never leaves. Sometimes you have to risk appearing pretentious to actually express what is circling in your heart and mind.
I hope that people avoid the knee-jerk pejorative of “pretentious.” Or I at least hope that they explain what they mean by it. Because while you write-off untraditional filmmakers, they are meanwhile telling me something about my life that I always knew but never recognized—never saw on-screen in such an identifiable way. They are making me feel even if you think they’re only playing with my mind and trying my patience. Just at least take some time to reconsider—I don’t want you to miss out. Sometimes frogs falling from the sky is just what you need to see.
-Rob
The Master Gets A Release Date
Believe it or not, there’s one 2012 movie that I’m looking forward to more than The Dark Knight Rises. It’s called The Master, and now we can officially mark our calendars: October 12. This is earlier than I was expecting, which is a good thing, considering how long I had to wait for There Will Be Blood after its limited release in December. It’s been four years since the last Paul Thomas Anderson picture—par for the course, but it leads to skyrocketed expectations. Fortunately, There Will Be Blood didn’t disappoint, and I can’t imagine The Master will either. I’ve been following this project for what feels like forever. Jeremy Renner and Reese Witherspoon were at one point going to star (those roles eventually went to Joaquin Phoenix and Amy Adams). I remember reading that rehearsals had started. Then the early stages of production were suddenly shut down for reasons never fully explained (creative? financial? did scientologists put an end to it?). It looked dead in the water until billionaire heiress Megan Ellison (her father is the co-founder of Oracle) stepped in and decided to finance. Ellison is a kind of movie producing goddess right now—she’s working on Lawless (formerly The Wettest County), Killing Them Softly (formerly Cogan’s Trade), Zero Dark Thirty (formerly Kill Bin Laden), and Untitled Charlie Kaufman and Spike Jonze Project (also with Joaquin Phoenix and Amy Adams). Thank you, Ms. Ellision, for co-financing some of the most exciting titles on the horizon. There are so many reasons why I’m looking forward to this. Paul Thomas Anderson is an idol of mine—Magnolia, Boogie Nights, Punch-Drunk Love, and There Will Be Blood are some of my all-time favorite movies. Philip Seymour Hoffman is also one of my favorite actors ever. He’s done hilarious, heartbreaking work in four out of five previous PTA pictures, but this will be his first leading role with the director. This is Joaquin Phoenix’s first role since I’m Still Here (2010). Before that, it was Two Lovers (2008). He is an immense talent, and I can’t wait to see him back on the screen. Amy Adams is also an amazing actor—it’s almost a strange fit to see her in a PTA film, but in other ways it seems perfect. And all of the below-the-line work in Anderson’s features is always top-notch. Then there’s the plot, which has so much promise. October 12 can’t get here soon enough.
-Rob
