Django Unchained

Posted on January 6, 2013 by Mark DuPré

My film students know full well how much I don’t “appreciate” the work of Quentin Tarantino. I softened a bit with Inglourious Basterds, a lusciously filmed work that contained genuine moments of love, suspense, and an acknowledgement of historical tragedy. Now, with Django Unchained, I’m back to my original assessment of his work as essentially amoral and smart-alec (that’s in place of a more accurate but less family-friendly term).

First, the compliments: Tarantino knows how to get good performances from his actors. (In fact, the only bad performance in the film is his.) Christophe Waltz, one of the great film discoveries of recent years, turns in a performance as accomplished as his Oscar-winning turn in Inglourious Basterds. If he hadn’t done that work, he’d likely win the Oscar for this finely tuned performance. He’s confident, funny and absurdist. Also getting attention, and perhaps an Oscar, is Leonardo DiCaprio’s performance as the ridiculously named Calvin Candie. For those who never saw What’s Eating Gilbert Grape or can’t see the incredible scope of this actor over his career, perhaps this performance will finally convince skeptics of his talent. He holds onto this despicable character like a dog with a bone, and presents us with yet one more color in his acting palette. Then there is Tarantino perennial Samuel L. Jackson, who bravely takes on a role that’s about as far from his “normal” character than is even possible. Kudos for taking a brave actor’s step into the new and difficult and for pulling it off. Those who are afraid they might miss the onslaught of foul language usually associated with Mr. Jackson’s character may rest assured. The pre-Civil War timeframe and the abhorrent obsequiousness of his character do nothing to dull the onslaught of profanity, especially the actor’s most well known 12-letter word.

Jamie Foxx embodies the lead character well (especially in the comedy parts), and Kerry Washington provides the only classical acting of a major character as well as embodying her character with the beauty and strength that makes it logical that Django would go to such lengths to have her back.

That said, the rest is typical Tarantino. Lots (and lots) of profanity, and an utter disregard for the value of the human life or even anything resembling a standard. In fact, as in most of his oeuvre, there is little evidence for respect of anything; everything seems grist for the Tarantino mill. Some have apparently seen the film as a criticism of slavery, or violence, or violence-begetting-violence, or an indictment of racism. Inglourious Basterds seemed to at least occasionally acknowledge that perhaps the Nazis’ anti-Semitism and their death camps were not exactly OK. Django, on the other hand, uses slavery, racism and violence as subjects, but then merely exploits them for Tarantino’s brand of “isn’t everything fodder for satire?” humor and an indulgent orgy of violence that serves no good purpose (especially now) and obliterates any possible interpretation of this film as a social or historical comment.

I had expected an overuse of the “n” word, based on some reviewers. There was plenty, but perhaps my expectations prevented me from considering it overdone. But the violence is, to use a term, overkill. It’s not funny, nor ironic, nor a statement on anything thematically. It redefines excessive and promiscuous.

A late-phase genre piece, Django Unchained, especially in the hands of a stylist like Tarantino, could be expected to be more about style than substance. There’s nothing’s wrong with style being substance—see Moulin Rouge for musicals and any number of the Italian westerns Tarantino draws from here for examples of a baroque treatment of the western. Style can be a vessel for a love of sound, or beauty, or the history of the art form. Here, style gives a nod to the American westerns of the ‘50s, spaghetti westerns of the ‘60s and ‘70s, and any number of pieces of music from movie-theme to rock. The violence is clearly in his grindhouse movie tradition as well. Let the interpreters delve. Let them find every cinematic and musical reference and see if, along with the narrative and especially the treatment of racism and violence, if there is some kind of thematic thread other than snarkiness, a near-worship of excessive violence that glories in rather than comments on, and a tendency to riff on every topic imaginable, including (or perhaps especially) on subjects that some people might hold dear—such as, you know, like slavery and the Ku Klux Klan. (Seriously, Jonah Hill? And a “can’t see out of this hood” scene straight out of Blazing Saddles?)

Lastly, it bears repeating that unlike Hitchcock, who did a quick guest appearance in nearly all of his films, Tarantino tends to cast himself as a real character that opens his mouth. A big mistake. Even in a film where anything goes, he’s a major distraction in what is supposed to be a serious portion of the plot, and he’s simply a bad actor that’s painful to watch.

Much will be written about the various serious and real subjects QT “addresses” in this film. But he doesn’t “address” so much as riff, which devalues nearly every subject he touches. Beautifully filmed, well acted. Violent, hollow.

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Les Misérables

Posted on January 4, 2013 by Mark DuPré

Les Misérables succeeds on so many levels, I almost lost count. In many ways, it’s a film in the narrow category of films made from sung-through musicals. In that context, it really only has The Phantom of the Opera to compare itself to, which is a fairly low bar for a comparison. Yet aside from the benefits of being a rather singular kind of film , it faces a number of cinematic and musical challenges with nary a false note (pun intended).

The quibbles: It’s too long by a half-hour, and particularly flags in the last section of the film. How director Tom Hooper handles the last few sequences bogs the film down, but is consistent with what he does in the earlier part of the film, where he finds much greater success with his material.

One has a choice of where to place the emphasis in a dramatic epic; one can emphasize the scope and sweep, or the film can focus on the human drama. Few, such as Lawrence of Arabia, can manage the delicate balance of both. Here, while there are occasional stunning epic shots, Hooper has chosen to focus on the human element, to the film’s great benefit and occasional detriment. For a musical epic, it’s a major artistic decision, and Hooper has somewhat controversially handled it by a rigorous insistence on the human face. (In some ways, Les Misérables is today’s version of Dreyer’s silent classic The Passion of Joan of Arc, with its dogged focus on the face at the expense of the sets.) The tight focus on the face has given rise to accusations of emotional manipulation, which might be considered were it not for the integrity of the performances. This is not a film about revolution, or uprisings, or economic inequities, or even a specific historical moment. It’s about survival, manipulation, suffering, selflessness, and grace versus law—and specifically how the individuals feel about it all. Set against a background that could have been explored from any number of angles (think what a Bertolucci or Godard would have done with this!), Hooper makes this a film of musically expressed emotions. For those expecting anything else, they have been or will be disappointed.

Once that emphasis is understood, Hooper’s well-documented decision to have the singing done live makes even more sense. With the focus on the live musical expression, Les Misérables becomes a classic example of how adaptation from stage to film is supposed to work. In general, the musical numbers are excellent models of how to keep the drama and immediacy alive while accounting for the realism of film as opposed to the stage. The “beauty” of the musical expression is sacrificed in each number as the singers occasionally speak, play with rhythms, and vary their musical tones wildly (but legitimately) at times. The vast majority of the time, it works.

The great case in point is Anne Hathaway’s “I Dreamed a Dream,” which unless there is a Les Miz backlash, will certainly net her the Oscar. Yes, it’s incredibly emotional and raw, and the cold heart might consider it manipulative. But she makes the thousand near-perfect musical and dramatic decisions throughout the song that earn her the right to go to the edge expressively, while maintaining the integrity of the story, the drama, the emotions, and yes, the music itself. Yes, it’s a tear-jerking scene, but the moment and her work here make it work.

This brings us to the casting, which is the greatest strength of the film. Yes, the film looks great, sounds great, and has Hooper’s unusual mise-en-scène that chooses to isolate a character somewhere in a corner of the frame, either lost or overwhelmed by the surroundings (see saw a lot of that in The King’s Speech). But it’s the casting that makes this delicate balance of acting, song, and story work so well. Other than looking a little too tall and strong (even with the weight loss), Hathaway nails her role in terms of acting and song as strongly as anyone in the film (or in any other musical film, in fact).

Almost as strong as Hathaway is Eddie Redmayne (My Week with Marilyn), whom the camera loves and is as accessible and sympathetic as any young actor in films today. He’s a (surprise) real singer, and the loveliness and occasional lightness of the voice combines with a dramatic ability to act through the song and the lyrics to create some exquisite moments in the film, especially in “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables,” which occasionally rivals “I Dreamed a Dream” for beauty, intensity and impact. But it also exemplifies the downside of Hooper’s approach. The film stays relentlessly focused on Redmayne’s expressive face throughout this song, but if ever there was a need for flashbacks or a look around at the stripped down room, it was here. The performance makes it work, but only because of the actor’s talent. This was a moment that could have used some cuts away from the main performer, and it’s just barely rescued by the actor’s skill.

Hugh Jackman in the lead role of Jean Valjean is a good choice, though his voice is just “good” and the score strains it and brings out an unfortunately nasality. But he acts through his singing, like Hathaway and Redmayne, and has the necessary tenderness, masculinity, strength and kindness for the role; in fact, the earlier scenes of the tough-and-bitter Valjean are much less believable than the later Valjean transformed by grace. He can’t put any kind of stamp on the classic “Bring Him Home,” unlike what Hathaway accomplished; he just doesn’t have it vocally. But as Hooper does with Russell Crowe’s songs occasionally, what is lacking vocally is made up with sweeping camera movements and epic aerial shots. It’s not the same as a voice that can nail the notes with conviction, but it’s a decent and intelligent substitute that creates moments the voices can’t.

Amanda Seyfried as Cosette reflects the part: pretty, fairly inconsequential, and light. Her voice is small but lovely, and her insistent vibrato is well served by a score that allows her to hit the notes and get off them without warbling. She looks and sounds the part, and that works for the film.

And then there’s Russell Crowe, an actor of strength and authority who can sing, but not the way the film needs. His voice is soft and at odds with Javert’s relentless focus. And I can’t believe I’m writing this about Crowe, but he lacks the character’s intensity. He doesn’t sing poorly, but there’s a disconnect between him and the character, and the singing voice Crowe possesses and the musical passion and force the role demands. His acting skills almost carry the day, almost….

Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham-Carter as the Thénardiers aren’t as over-the-top as feared, though he is given a bit too much comic business to do (arguably his strength). She has the better voice, but is surprisingly subdued compared to him and his frenzied actions. It’s a tough act to pull off outside of the stage, but it works here.

A happy surprise is Aaron Tveit as Enjolras the revolutionary. He’s a relatively new Broadway star, and has the most solid voice of anyone in the cast. He also has the acting chops necessary to make a believable leader and a dramatic foil for the love-struck Marius (Redmayne) In fact, he could have easily done Marius, but this is still a star-making role for him.

Samantha Barks as Eponine (“On My Own,” etc.) again demonstrates how one moves a song from stage to film. Watch her performance as Eponine at the 25th anniversary concert presentation of Les Miz, and then watch her in the same role here. It’s not a wonder why she got the part. Of course she nails things vocally, but adjusts the performance to the realism of film and of Hooper’s approach to the songs. Were it not for Hathaway, she’d be the talk of the film.

In an age when musicals are undergoing a major identity crisis, it’s encouraging to see a musical adaptation done with such intelligence and such acting/singing talent. Performance and spectacle here are not a matter of the voice alone, as with most musicals, but the interpretation of musical line and lyric that fits the realist element of the film medium and the director’s vision of a film of faces and expression. It shares a few of the weaknesses of Phantom in its resolve to use the whole Broadway score, but it happily outpaces that film in nearly every respect.

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Skyfall

Posted on December 23, 2012 by Mark DuPré

Skyfall, the latest James Bond film,is an apologia for the whole Bond series. It rather pointedly keeps reminding us of the value of the “old ways,” old-style weapons and gadgets, and the worth of old-timers—all the while re-populating the franchise with new possible regulars and offering reasons for the need for spying in the age of modern terrorism. This isn’t your father’s James Bond movie, and it essentially kills the series and resurrects it at the same time, (slight spoiler alert) much as it does to its central character in the opening scenes.

Oscar-winning director (for American Beauty) Sam Mendes doesn’t seem the obvious choice for a Bond film. But much as Daniel Craig reinvented 007 upon his casting, Mendes reboots the series with a visual style and intelligence that almost completely removes memories of the cheese and groans that were such a part of the Bond films of the ‘80s and ‘90s. His action scenes may not be Jason Bourne-intense, but they are smarter, sharper and less unbelievable than in earlier Bond films, keeping us drawn into the film instead of disconnecting us with either respect or disbelief. His treatment of the eye-rolling double-entendres and painful one-liners renders them nearly invisible. They’re there, but they are handled in character, as part of the game that everyone knows is being played, and often coated in an irony that works for the scene. Plus this is likely the most beautiful and dazzling photographed film in the series. All this works to bring the Bond film to a new level of intelligence and visual creativity, even as it struggles to validate its existence in the age of electronic espionage and drones.

The look is simply stunning. We expect a high level of graphic design in the opening credits of a Bond film. We get that here, but it turns out to be a preview of the visual template that Mendes and cinematographer Roger Deakins (True Grit, No Country for Old Men) use in the rest of the film, most obviously in the murder-in-the-skyscraper scene, which is almost distractingly designed and beautiful. There are reflections and silhouettes everywhere, reminiscent of the director’s underrated Road to Perdition, including a repeat of that film’s gripping scene of a reflection in a window that might function as see-through glass or a mirror. The colors, the designs, the surfaces are all so gorgeous that one can be forgiven for not noticing that the ending scenes are a veritable master class on how to photograph action scenes in darkness. (His work has already been voted the best of the year by the Los Angeles Film Critics Association.)

The acting might be on the highest level of any Bond film. A late scene in an old church has Craig (a solid actor) and three Oscar winners: Judi Dench, Javier Bardem and Albert Finney in a throw-away role. One of the strengths of the film is how much film time that Dench’s character is given. Her presence elevates any film she’s in, and her authority and skill gives the film a gravitas other Bond films haven’t even aimed for; the fact that her character supplies a great deal of the narrative only enriches the entire enterprise. Bardem’s performance simultaneously provides the Bond oeuvre with one of its greatest villains and also raises the near-heretical thought that a Bond villain performance might draw an Oscar nomination. Bardem’s lines are often cheesier than the ones Craig has to deal with, but Bardem generally makes them work in character. His Silva is a multi-layered bad guy with understandable issues who draws sympathy as well as antipathy from the viewer. His role adds the “this time it’s personal” element of the plot, which sets the villainy apart from mad men or crazed terrorists. Since the vengeance is aimed at M rather than Bond, it provides an opportunity for Silva to relate to Bond in an unprecedented manner. Aside from a homoerotic exchange that will be studied far beyond its worth to the film, the connection between Silva and Bond—and their stories of work with M16—deepens both their characters and adds a frisson of recognition to them both that under slightly different circumstances, one could have become the other.

A significant departure from the Bond norm is in the treatment of women. As with the one-liners that have become embedded or are lightly tossed away, Bond’s relationships with women have undergone a transformation. This is a Bond light-years away from the womanizing Connery, where women were interchangeable and disposable. This is the post-Casino Royale Bond that was once in love, and who can see women as individuals with brains and cunning as well as looks. There is some sexual activity, to be sure, but it is mostly perfunctory, both in terms of plot (a bored Bond trying to find himself again on a desert island) and presentation (a shower seat with as much heat as a snowman and with essentially no significance to the plot). Bérénice Marlohe is lovely and has a few touching moments as the damsel in distress, but it’s Naomie Harris as Bond’s partner agent who adds the freshest note. She’s beautiful, of course, but she’s also funny, great with a gun and a line, and is Bond’s equal without her strong individuality being compromised by becoming a romantic possibility (and hence a second banana) to Bond. Dench’s M (spoiler alert) clearly won’t be making any more appearances in a Bond film, and (another spoiler alert) her replacement won’t have the age, depth or acting ability that Dench provided. Sexual tension might be re-introduced, but the jury is still out on what the series will do with Bond’s escapades or romantic interests. After all, he’s known real love and now realizes that verbal flirtations are better off being ironic or used a vehicle for exchanging real information.

For the film nerds among us, Mendes has references to his own Road to Perdition, as well as to Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief and North by Northwest, the latter often called “the first James Bond film” for its themes, opening sequence, and style. I’m sure subsequent viewings will produce more awareness of Mendez’ homages.

Skyfall brings resurrection, not just renewal, to the series, as it does to Bond himself in the plot. The promise is of better direction, stronger acting, deeper themes, and something of a less adolescent approach to sex and relationships. If that is the case, this is a good start. If not, it will be an unhappy missed opportunity.

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My new book is out!

Posted on December 8, 2012 by Mark DuPré

Dear Film People:

I know that I’ve been lax in getting my film writings on this site. It’s because I’ve been busy getting my first book to press. How to Act Like a Grown-up is now available on createspace.com and Amazon. It will be available for e-readers very soon, too.

Check out more details at http://www.actlikeagrownup.com.

It’s the perfect book for…everyone else!

Mark DuPré

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Lincoln

Posted on December 3, 2012 by Mark DuPré

Steven Spielberg’s Lincoln may be the most beautifully photographed, best-acted procedural ever filmed. The core of the film is not Lincoln’s life, or death, or any of his many personal struggles. It’s the ratification of the 13th Amendment abolishing slavery, and what Lincoln did to make that happen. It’s Law and Order in the House of Representatives. It’s gorgeous to look at, solid, slow and wordy. That’s not so much a disparagement as a description. The story, the acting and the cinematography save the day.

The Best Actor race for this year is over. It’s Daniel Day-Lewis all over the place. He’ll likely win every major award and is a shoo-in for the Oscar. His performance is a sight to behold, and to enjoy, and will be a master class for every serious actor from this point on. His Lincoln is a man who has been crushed by life, perhaps several times over, and yet has emerged stronger, kinder, and smarter for the trials. He is direct, even bluntly so, when he needs to be, yet elusive and cagey at other times. Philip Seymour Hoffman as The Master offers the only performance in this league this year, and in many ways, Hoffman nails his part as much as Day-Lewis. But no one but critics seemed interested in The Master, and Lincoln is the kind of film that wins Oscars for its central performance: good enough, but not overshadowing the superior quality of its lead’s acting. It’s by far the best thing in the film, and it’s a performance for the ages. He has effectively erased nearly every other interpretation of Abraham Lincoln with this one.

Happily, the excellent acting doesn’t stop with him. Sally Field continues to show her skill and range as a tormented Mary Lincoln. The film presents her as suffering greatly from the loss of her son Willie just a few years before, though other mental or emotional issues are suggested by her behaviors. In some ways, her performance is also a master acting class, but in ways that hurt the film. Here she is whip-smart and sarcastic, there she is bitter and clueless, then self-aware but unhappy about it, and then irrational and unhinged. Field pulls all these together as best as she can, but the film presents her in bits and pieces, in spite of the actress’s best efforts.

Tommy Lee Jones is threatening, like Philip Seymour Hoffman and others of that rank, of being so consistently good that we don’t notice how good he is. Here he is great, but it’s almost lost in Day-Lewis’s shadow and the general good work of the cast. And here is one of the problems with the cast. Other than DDL, who so disappears into his part as to hide all vestiges of a working actor, the cast of Lincoln is packed to the gills with recognizable faces, often distractingly so. The most successful at transcending their own persona is Sally Field. She will always be Sally Field, but she manages to break through by sheer virtue of talent here. But Tommy Lee Jones is still Tommy Lee Jones, no matter what he does with his hair. And then there is Oscar nominee (ON) David Strathairn, ON Hal Holbrook, and ON John Hawkes, who will become another ON this year for The Sessions. Then there are ON Jackie Earle Haley, Tim Blake Nelson, and Jared Harris, all doing yeoman work but unable to hide their recognizability. Worst of all in that category is the talented Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the Lincolns’ oldest son Robert. He does a fine job, but there’s no hiding the fact that it’s the star of 500 Days of Summer, Premium Rush and Inception playing the role. Perhaps the one who fares best here is James Spader, nearly unrecognizable under a one-for-the-ages moustache, and offering a juicy, slightly overripe performance that pulls the film in a much-needed comic direction, risking a buffoonish quality in his character and actions to breath some life into the oft-times trudging proceedings.

The real problem is one that few will point out. As a screenwriter, the highly respected and highly rewarded Tony Kushner is a great playwright. The solid structure is there in Lincoln, and Kushner knows how to build dramatic tension, but the wordiness makes Joseph Mankiewicz’ All about Eve seem like a silent film. There are plenty of opportunities to show off great talk—Lincoln’s folksy stories, his cabinet meetings, his talks with Mary, the rough-and-tumble of political clashes as the bill moves forward. But perhaps the most effective moment in the film isn’t a verbal exchange, but the quiet move of young Tad Lincoln as he wordlessly crawls on his dad’s back as Lincoln lies down next to his sleeping son on the floor and quietly awakens him to get him into bed. The move is tender and speaks volumes about their relationship and the “quality time” they’ve obviously spent together. The film needs a lot more of those kinds of visual moments. It’s never anything but lovely to look at and delightful to the ear, though John Williams’ music is a bit much at times. But Spielberg is such a visual director that you wonder how much he sacrificed to get every last word in. It’s similar to the stranglehold that the music had over the direction of Phantom of the Opera, which ended up being a music video rather than a film. We certainly get a great history lesson in Lincoln, and we never lose our place in the story. But the film borders on being illustrated at times rather than filmed.

Some have touted this as Spielberg’s best. That’s still Schindler’s List, which has the same breadth but the energy and momentum that Lincoln lacks. I’m hoping that the pictorial excesses of War Horse and the static nature of Lincoln are temporary hiccoughs, and that Spielberg gets back to making move-ies.

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Babes in Arms (1939)

Posted on October 1, 2012 by Mark DuPré

Opening time capsules can be fun. That was my experience recently saw Babes in Arms, a 1939 classic that’s also a surprising curiosity. It’s known as the first in a series of Mickey Rooney-Judy Garland “let’s put on a show” movies (Strike Up the Band, Babes on Broadway, and Girl Crazy were to follow) and that’s the context in which it’s normally viewed. But standing on its own, it’s a showcase for Rooney and Garland, a strange and not always wondrous example of shifting musical tastes, and a pre-WWII rally all in one.

Rooney was nominated for Best Actor for this, and in many ways this may represent a peak for him. Considering his competition that year, he really doesn’t deserve it, but the film shows us what was so attractive about him. If you love energy, you love this guy. He’s everywhere at once, and his imitations of Clark Gable and Lionel Barrymore are cute if not dead-on. He’s called irrepressible by many, and a bit over the top and tiring by others. He can barely contain himself in some scenes, and you sometimes fear he’s going to explode or pass out. He’s really more of a performer and impersonator than an actor, and doesn’t really have much of a singing voice or a range. He seems to play a variety of instruments, but doesn’t. He does dance well, though.

The film opens with his character’s birth, and it’s fun to see inserted footage of the child Mickey as the film follows his character growing up on the stage. He was an exceptional child performer who unhappily didn’t develop into a more nuanced and subtle actor.

Garland, though, astonishes. Just 17 when the film was produced, she is already a solid actress and a extraordinarily sensitive singer. Released just after The Wizard of Oz, this film shows the young adult Garland with yearnings and thoughts beyond anything Dorothy was dreaming of. Her version of I Cried for You, while a bit too imitative of her Gable-dedicated You Made Me Love You of a few years before, is as heartfelt and exquisite a version as is possible from a young person. And it is as beautifully interpreted as anyone has ever done it. “Music adaptor” Roger Edens knew exactly what to do with Garland’s voice, and here he draws out a performance where every note vibrates with meaning. Some people have a voice; others know how to sing. Garland had the voice, and knew what to do with it. Revisiting that expressive, haunting voice alone is worth the visit to the film.

The other main singers contribute to the curiosity label. Betty Jaynes plays Mickey’s sister in the film, and she and baritone Douglas MacPhail supply the antiquated semi-classical sound that Nelson Eddy and Jeannette MacDonald had contributed to the mid-‘30s. There was a moment in time when placing opera next to “swing” was a win-win. It may have worked with audiences in 1939, but feels strange and musically mutant here. MacPhail has a strong baritone voice, but its power and size don’t quite fit with the others. Neither does his age (25). But perhaps the greatest curiosity of all is June Preisser as a child star looking for a comeback. Her acting style, voice and bizarre gymnastics look and sound downright alien, and remind us all that novelty acts age quickly and raise more questions than they answer. (You’ll have to see it to appreciate what I’m talking about here.)

Perhaps the most instructive part of watching—and studying—Babes in Arms is realizing what a grand departure it is from the original Broadway play. Rodgers and Hart, New York sophistication, and perhaps the greatest musical score up to that time (and continuing for another 20 year, IMHO). Think of it: “Where or When,” “My Funny Valentine,” “The Lady is a Tramp,” “Johnny One Note” and “I Wish I Were in Love Again.” All those great classics were in the Broadway version—an astonishment. Only “Where or When” made it into the film—and that was given the soft operatic trteatment by Jaynes and MacPhail. Of course, Garland would have nailed the song if given the opportunity, though as with “I Cried for You,” it would have been a bit compromised by her lack of years. Think of what Garland’s version of “My Funny Valentine” might have sounded like then. We already know what her (later) versions of the other songs sounded like. The specter of Andy Hardy hangs over the film; this was conceived as an extension of Rooney-Garland instead of as a film version of a Broadway show with the best score anyone could remember. Sometimes films simply have to cut songs because of time (Cabaret, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, etc.). Thinking that Garland and some others couldn’t have helped turn the play into a workable, albeit sophisticated, film was a business decision, a failure of imagination, or both. In either event, it was an opportunity missed.

Instead of these musical jewels, we get the fun and serviceable “Good Morning,” which shows up all over the place. It’s a solid song, and is best known as part of 1952’s Singin’ in the Rain. But it doesn’t hold a candle to the other songs from the original play. It might have made a solid addition to them, but fails as a substitute.

I’ve always considered 1939 “the year of the century,” and Babes in Arms gives another reason why. In what is traditionally considered Hollywood’s peak year, this film gives us a trip back to a time few of us remember, and even fewer can relate to. Busby Berkeley at the helm reminds us of the left-leaning Depression musicals at the early part of the decade (42nd Street, Gold Diggers of 1933)—making this MGM film look strangely like a Warner Bros. production. Berkeley’s style is a little less kaleidoscopic here, yet those sweeping crane shots are his personal signature and easily evoke those earlier films and their gritty, working-man themes. But the last number, God’s Country,” is given a classic Berkeley treatment, but with a theme as right-leaning as his earlier films were left-of-center. It’s as far from the stage version as one could get. It’s all gung-ho USA, with jibes at Hitler, Nazis and other enemies we weren’t officially at war with yet. In that way, perhaps it’s either of its time or prescient. In either case, it yanks the film (pun intended) into a rah-rah patriotism that feels out of place in a ’30s musical at the same time as it places the film at the forefront of wartime propaganda.

And I had just remembered it as the first of the “let’s put on a show” films….

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Soul Surfer

Posted on September 24, 2012 by Mark DuPré

Finally saw 2011’s Soul Surfer, mostly because I like to keep track of how “nearly mainline” Christian films are faring these days. It was…OK.

As a story, it’s more than inspiring, and if that’s what motivates you to see it, then it really does the trick, and is well worth the time. It’s based on the true story of teenage Bethany Hamilton, an up-and-coming surfing champion living in Hawaii who survived a vicious shark attack in which she lost her arm. Bethany and her family are strong Christians, and the story is really two parts—the story of her attack and survival, and the story of how she integrated a faith-shaking incident into a faith-filled life and oh, yes, how she managed to get back to championship surfing.

In the age of special effects landscapes, alternate universes and zombie/vampire worlds, it’s refreshing to have a simple story sold simply. It would have been easy to gild the lily of such a powerful story by cranking up the dramatic moments, of which there are inherently plenty. But while the story comes through in some of its power, the film is less emotionally powerful than it might have been, and it seems to have its Christian identity a bit tamped down.

Perhaps in an effort to keep things from becoming melodramatic, the film tends to treat nearly every scene equally. There is a night surfing scene that is allowed to play out somewhat in its beauty and awe, but that is the exception. The family scenes, the missionary scenes, the times of doubt and discouragement, even the shark attack scene—-they are all fairly straightforward in treatment. Perhaps it’s the script, perhaps it’s the camera placement, or the direction, but most scenes look and feel like the rest. The emotions never get out of hand, and perhaps they should.

The Christianity is also curiously presented. According to the extra materials, the Hamilton family was insistent that two things were gotten “right”—the surfing and the Christianity. When an early scene had an outdoor church service with the worship team leading Matt Redman’s “Blessed Be Your Name,” a fairly current and popular Christian chorus, I was anticipating a film that would present today’s Christian evangelical believers with a degree of reality. Questions of faith and expressions of faith are in there, but are curiously non-specific when they should be pointed. Pain and doubt are real, whether God is in the picture or not. When He is, it can be more dramatic rather than less. Giving real thanks and glory to God is also real, and film needs to find a way to express the profound joy of getting to that place.

I’m reminded here of one of the supposed ironies of Woody Allen’s Annie Hall. It’s as focused in time and place as a film can get. It’s all about a Manhattan Upper West Side, intellectual group of creative people in the mid-1970s—some of them New York Jewish. And it’s also a love story universal in scope and appeal. Its universal appeal comes out of its specificity.  Soul Surfer offers some moments of spiritual reality and depth to the underfed Christian American filmgoer, but falls into platitudes about human strength and willpower. Bethany is clearly an amazing person, but I’m guessing she would be the last to credit herself with as much of the “survival miracle” as the film gives her.

The parents are played by top-tier actors Dennis Quaid and Oscar-winner Helen Hunt. Both are talented actors, but sometimes even the best non-Christian actors have a hard time suggesting the depths of spiritual struggles that involve God. Hunt is an excellent actress, but her cry to God to not “take” Bethany right after the attack, for example, is the work of an accomplished actor, not a woman crying out to a God she knows. Sometimes the lack of personal experience shows in an actor’s work.

Carrie Underwood stretches herself by playing Bethany’s youth leader in a role that is curiously written or poorly edited. There seem to be some issues in the first half of the film that don’t get resolved in the second. As an actress, Underwood is a great singer. (I say this with tenderness—she and my son and daughter-in-law attend the same church). I applaud her move as a step of public expression of her faith. Some singers do become good actors. Not sure I see that potential here.

Soul Surfer is a move in the right direction. But films with substantive, realistic spiritual themes can’t be left to the Europeans and Robert Duvall. American filmmakers—Christian or not—are going to have to find a way to dig deeply enough into the Christian experience to represent it in honesty, truth and artfulness. It’s a rich but under-unexplored terrain.

 

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Strangers on a Train (1951)

Posted on September 17, 2012 by Mark DuPré

Strangers on a Train, directed by Alfred Hitchcock, is more than 60 years old and is as energetic, smart and fresh as anything released this year. Catching it on TV recently, I was impressed all over again with the film—one I haven’t seen straight through in too many years. Released in 1951, it was overshadowed then and still is by that year’s A Place in the Sun and A Streetcar Named Desire, both black-and-white dramatic classics. Those films are a delight to revisit, but watching them has something of a museum visit to the experience, whereas Strangers is a jazzed-up joy from beginning to end. It has the power to surprise, stop your heart, and put you on the edge of your seat as much as the best of today’s thrillers.

The greatest joy I received is the sheer delight of watching a master in complete control of his craft. I recently saw three Hitchcock films on a train ride—his first talkie Blackmail (1929) the regrettable Rich and Strange (1931) and his early classic The Lady Vanishes (1938). Blackmail shows a successful silent film director showing his genius by how he approached the new sound capabilities. Rich and Strange is mostly the latter, and could best be described in current language as lame. The Lady Vanishes is light years ahead of Rich and Strange, and shows a director growing in confidence and style.

But Strangers is something else again. It’s beautifully shot by Hitch’s frequent collaborator Robert Burks (who received the film’s only Oscar nomination) with a rich, unusually dark and deep noir-ish palette. The acting by leads Farley Granger and Ruth Roman is classic Hollywood studio acting—clear, clean and solid, if not particularly interesting in any way. Even with thoughts of nepotism floating over the casting, and with her slightly distracting speech impediment, Patricia Hitchcock is a breath of fresh air, bringing intelligence and comic relief in nearly ever scene she’s in. But this film belongs to Robert Walker as Bruno Antony, one of the great screen creations. Walker’s performance doesn’t belong to the ‘50s, but to the ages. Bruno is probably gay, definitely a Mama’s boy struggling with an Oedipal urge, and a stylish psychopath. There is more to discuss about his character and possible motivations than could fill many a master’s thesis. Suffice it to say that Walker gave his greatest performance here and completely re-started his career artistically. Tragically, he died shortly after the film’s release at the early age of 32. What a loss for film. We can only be grateful that we have at least this one performance to enjoy.

There are shots and scenes that simply need to be experienced: Bruno NOT watching the tennis game, Bruno reaching for a lighter, the murder on the fairgrounds, reflected in a pair of glasses. Then there is the incredible carousel scene near the end. No spoilers here—just enjoy a sequence full of suspense and energy, and enjoy a director who knows exactly what he wants to do and is able to do it. And who else but Hitchcock could make a man simply standing on stairs so chilling and gut-wrenching at once?

There are plenty of Hitchcock motifs and themes to go around. His views of marriage are there in all their confused glory. Critics and fans of Freud—plenty for you here. Knock yourselves out. But his themes of guilt and transferred guilt, generally more subtle, resonate so loudly that they almost reach the level of the carousel music in the climax of the film. That is, if you’re looking for them. Otherwise, it’s an intelligent thriller of the first order, with one brilliant performance, done by a film master at the top of his game. With all the film’s other strengths, Hitchcock’s artistic confidence and skill may well be the film’s greatest source of enjoyment.

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Premium Rush

Posted on August 25, 2012 by Mark DuPré

I love movies like this because I like movies like this. My film students always assume that because it’s not classic or foreign or Oscar bait, that of course a film professor wouldn’t waste precious time on a film that’s just simple fun.

But Premium Rush is a great summer fun film. It’s not art, and doesn’t pretend to be. Full disclosure: It was doubly fun for me because I went to school at Columbia University in New York, and every shot in the film of the campus or 116th and Broadway was a personal joy. I’m also a fan of the present and possible future work of Joseph Gordon-Levitt, an immensely likeable film personality who is showing us an ever-greater range every year [The Dark Knight Rises, Inception, 50/50, (500) Days of Summer]. Casting such an appealing personality in a part that could be considered a little crazy goes a long way in holding the film together and creating sympathy for a character who makes questionable choices.

The plot, for what it’s worth, is the story of a bike messenger in New York City who has no brakes on his bike and few on his temperament. He moves fast and thinks faster, and his quick decisions on the road combine the mental approach of Sherlock Holmes (in the Robert Downey films) when faced with a fight with the special effects of Wanted (but with much less seriousness).

The catalyst for all the action is a delivery that Wilee (Gordon-Levitt) has to make. Of course it’s a hot item, and needs to be intercepted by the bad guy for nefarious reasons. Eventually all the old standards are dragged in—the conflicted romance, the romantic competition, even the “I thought this was about something else, but now it’s personal” angle. Everything is eventually explained as we go along, but credibility is still stretched to the breaking point several times, especially in the scene of Wilee chasing down his romantic and business rival. But it doesn’t much matter.

Sometimes fun films or quickly made films (this film for the first, Psycho an example of the latter) can be studied for how they reflect society or deal with racial or political issues. This could probably be grist for the mill for a good university thesis. We have a white guy who has rejected the world of business, a black romantic rival who is jealous of the white guy’s success as a messenger and with “the girl.” Plus that girl is perhaps half-black and half-white or Hispanic or whatever. Then we have all the Chinese, corrupt both here and overseas, making life hard for all our characters in the film. It’s always intriguing to see who are the villains in films that just need a villain to keep things moving.

And then there is Michael Shannon, the villain, who is quickly becoming Mr. Unhinged of the American cinema. He’s an actor capable of subtle and lovely work (Take Shelter, Revolutionary Road), but here he chews up the scenery so often and so aggressively that I thought he’d ending up eating up the actors and having the messenger bikes for dessert. We can all hope it was just quick money and that he’ll go back to exploring the depths of his talents.

Ultimately, this is just a breezy, fun, almost unbelievable film. It’s got some good casting, some good actors not used to their fullest, and a solid if simple script. It’s also got energy and a solid rhythm. Check your critical faculties at the door and enjoy the ride. You’ll forget it all in a day or two anyway.

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The Bourne Legacy

Posted on August 25, 2012 by Mark DuPré

This semi-reboot of the Bourne trilogy with Matt Damon is a kind of “Whew, that was intense, wasn’t it!” reaction to the earlier series. The Bourne Legacy is simpler, easier, less layered and subtle, and heads in different directions.

Our central figure, still an action hero of sorts, isn’t plagued by the “Who am I and who are these people out to get me and why?” struggles that Jason Bourne was challenged with. We have a cleaner issue here having to do more with the simple survival of Aaron Cross (Jeremy Renner), a Bourne-like human experiment that (spoiler alert) must be put down. So the series is apparently shaking off the subtleties and ontological questions that made the earlier films so much more than well-done action films. The series couldn’t have gotten much more intense—between its explorations of identity and its ever-tightening editing rhythms—without inflicting some physiological and physiological damage on the audience.

The simpler line makes this film less interesting, less profound, and less exciting. But standing on its own, without comparisons, it’s a well-acted action film with only a slightly unbelievable story line and some decent action sequences.

This is apparently a family affair for the director, and that may account for its strengths and weaknesses. Tony Gilroy, the screenwriter or co-writer of the earlier trilogy, takes over Bourne directing duties for the first time. His earlier two films were Duplicity and Michael Clayton, both quieter, intelligent and dialogue-heavy films. This is anything but quiet, but the dialogue is smarter than most films known for their action. Co-writer is younger brother Dan Gilroy, and editing the film is Dan’s twin brother John Gilroy, who edited Michael Clayton and the more recent Warrior. The editing in the talking parts is a bit slow and boderline-ponderous, and the action sequences carry none of the emotional weight of the earlier films—Jason was always fighting for more than one thing at a time—and they just seem faster rather than an intensification of the conflicts in the slower portions.

Casting Renner in the lead contributes to and perhaps reflects the shift in emphasis. Renner is about as intense an actor as the American screen has at the moment. He’s a good actor (Oscar nominations for The Hurt Locker and The Town), but a different animal from the always-underrated Matt Damon, who brought such a high level of physicality and internal conflict to his character. Renner can show the inner life of his characters, but he isn’t much called on to do that here. When he does, it’s buried much deeper under the surface than Damon did, and he’s therefore a harder character to relate to. Few can match Damon for likeability, and Renner normally doesn’t even try as an actor. It takes longer to come up alongside him, but we eventually get there as more is revealed of the backstory. But it will never be as deep a connection with the audience as they had with Damon/Jason.

Opposite him is a fascinating casting choice. Oscar-winner Rachel Weisz (The Constant Gardener) dials down her normal luminosity (hard to do) and cranks up the intelligence and inner action star of her character. This could have been a casting mistake of the first order, as she can be cast in anything for her looks. But Weisz’s intelligence makes her character believable, and she is a gifted enough actress to pull off the scenes of confusion and conflict with ease, which brings some needed believability and weight to the surroundings. Her action scenes actually add depth to the film, as she is clearly not transformed into a Lara Croft figure, and her running around has some tension and meaning that goes deeper than Cross’s. (We can also be grateful that the producers didn’t foist one of the young pretty faces on us and tried to make us believe that a pair of glasses and a tight face make one a doctor. A real actress—not all that young—with real intelligence—thank you.)

The required romantic element is given short shrift here, and is abruptly presented at the end. That opens the door to the sequel/s, of course, but it seems both tacked on and too late. But a romance with these characters, played by these actors, written by the writer/director of Duplicity—there are some strong possibilities here for the future. So the Bourne series has been reinvented something along the lines of Spider-Man—simpler, with a straighter line, fewer nuances, and greater possibilities of romance. Do we see a trend here?

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