The Fabelmans and Jurassic Park

Back in the summer of '93, as a critical 15 year old, I found the dialogue in Jurassic Park to be simplistic and I attributed it to poor writing, bad acting, and worst of all I assumed that it might have been a weakness in Spielberg's direction.  In the years that followed, and after many subsequent viewings of Jurassic Park, I have come to realize that everything about that film is perfect:  Every line of dialog advances the plot, establishes character, or in most cases it does both.  For some reason, I just had the thought, "what if Jurassic Park had the dialogue from As Good As It Gets?"  But then I realized that it kind of already does, just in a condensed form that is more suited for three people trying to outrun a T-rex with a Jeep, than for three people on a road trip in a Saab to get some soft-shell crab.  A quick explanation of "impact tremors", the misplaced optimism of "maybe it's the power trying to come back on", and the juxtaposition of the  phrase "Chilean Sea Bass", all contributed to the overall film in a way that is difficult to quantify - it wouldn't have been the same movie without that specific writing and delivery.

Unsurprisingly, The Fabelmans is another example of Spielberg's filmmaking prowess, yet overall I did not find the film to be as compelling as I had hoped.  There were stand-out scenes that are definitely memorable, but overall it this film felt more like an exercise in Spielberg exorcising his traumatic memories, instead of exposing us to his fears like so many of his greatest films have done.  What I mean is this, Jaws is about the unseen dangers, Jurassic Park is about man's manipulation of the natural world, Schindler's List is about standing alone against evil, and Raiders of the Lost Ark is about snakes.  In each of these aforementioned films, the audience must face the same fear as the protagonist; Spielberg more than any other director is able to bring us into his film.  Yet somehow it is very clear that the main character in The Fabelmans is Spielberg himself, and this time he doesn't expect us to know what it's like to walk a day in his shoes.  Some may conclude that his mother, or maybe his father, or even his own self-doubt is the fear that must be overcome, but I think that would be an oversimplification of what Spielberg is trying to accomplish with The Fabelmans.  Ultimately, I found the film to be disjointed, and it wasn't as satisfying a viewing experience as most of Spielberg's other films, but maybe he wasn't making it for the audience.

Best Picture

I would recommend Belfast and CODA to anyone looking to watch uplifting films.  Dune was my favorite of the all the nominees.  From a filmmaking perspective, The Power of the Dog was the best film of the ten nominated for Best Picture this year - click on the link below to read my review.  If you're interested in my opinions on the other nine films, they're here too.

Belfast

CODA

Don't Look Up

Drive My Car

Dune

King Richard

Licorice Pizza

Nightmare Alley

The Power of the Dog

West Side Story

Dune

There's no denying that Denis Villeneuve is on a roll as a director; Sicario, Arrival, and Blade Runner 2049 are smart, visually impressive, and entertaining.  With Dune, Villeneuve has continued the trend; in some ways he brought together elements from each of those earlier films.  Considering that this is the first, of at least two films, Dune seems primed to do for science fiction what The Lord of the Rings did for fantasy.  It would be inaccurate to categorize Dune as an epic film, but it feels like the first chapter of an epic series.  The question should be asked, can a film without a conclusion, or even a plot, be considered a great film?  Of course it can, but I'm not sure that Dune quite reaches that level.  It looks amazing, it is well cast, it has a thundering score, and Stellan Skarsgård's Brando-esque performance was very cool.  Hopefully a year and a half from now I'll be able to write about how important Dune: Part I was, and that it was a stroke of genius - but that all depends on Part II (or however many other parts it takes to tell the story).

Nightmare Alley

Please know that I recognize that the following statement is somewhat of a cliché, but I can't help myself:  Guillermo del Toro's Nightmare Alley reminded me why I go to see movies in the theater.  It's a spectacle that must engulf you to be fully appreciated.  And it helps when a film has its perfect ending, an ending that's both surprising and the only logical conclusion at the same time.  Like Casablanca, Citizen Kane, No Country for Old Men, and Die Hard... each movie has it's own perfect ending, and if it can be found, it makes all the difference in the world.  Please also note that I'm heaping extravagant praise on a film by del Toro, who's last film, The Shape of Water I utterly despised.  I'll admit that del Toro's style and sensibilities haven't changed, actually he has always been a director with a distinct style and vision.  I believe that it was the twisted message that caused me to dislike The Shape of Water, and I don't have a similar issue with Nightmare Alley.  To the contrary, there's actually an interesting moral arc that del Toro creates, which is interwoven with the path that the main character takes from the opening scene to the end.

On my way home from the movie last night I had a chance to talk with my son Jude, who hasn't seen Nightmare Alley yet, but was more than happy to talk about movies in general.  Somehow our conversation strayed into comic book movies, and specifically we were discussing how Marvel movies are extremely entertaining while you're watching them, but don't have any lasting value.  I think that the same is true for the storytelling style of del Toro in Nightmare Alley; it was a crazy show, with a jarringly violent climax, which was followed by a perfect ending, but you had to be there to get the full effect - now that it's over, it's time to move on to what's next.

The Power of the Dog

Jane Campion exhibits a mastery of her craft, as she finds the right tone, pacing, and atmosphere in her film The Power of the Dog.  The acting is also spot-on, with Benedict Cumberbatch as Phil, Jesse Plemons as George, Kirsten Dunst as Rose, and Kodi Smit-McPhee as Peter.  Campion allows the characters to develop as the film progresses, they're not changing for the convenience of the plot, rather the depth of their true character is being revealed as the events of the film unfold.  The most impactful scenes are the ones in which the relationship between Phil and Peter deepens; from first impressions, to an intimate understanding that comes from similar experiences, it's fascinating to watch.  Utilizing a term that's making the rounds right now, Cumberbatch does the lion's share of the heavy lifting, as his acting is on another level.  His performance is nuanced in a way that alludes to thoughts and feelings that are bubbling just below the surface, but are never spoken.  He brings an ominous unpredictability to each scene, which is captivating because just when his motivations seem clear, he does something surprising, that forces the other characters to reconsider their perception of him.  The cinematography is beautiful, and it doesn't hurt that the film is set in Montana, with the stark grandeur of God's creation being on full display.  

The ending was almost perfect, if it wasn't for an extraneous expository exchange between Plemons' character and another character, who's only purpose was to provide a simplified explanation for what was already clear.  I had a sneaking suspicion that this interaction had been added to make sure that anyone who had been texting, tweeting, snapping, tiktoking, etc. and may have missed the clues along the way, was given a clear understanding of what just happened.  There's nothing worse than looking up from your phone as the credits start to roll and feeling like you just missed something important.  For what it's worth, I found that the exchange in question was included in the final working draft of the script (you can see it here), so I guess that Campion knew that she needed this scene as she was writing the script; she must have already made a deal with Netflix.

Drive My Car

The first act in Ryûsuke Hamaguchi's Drive My Car is forty-one minutes long.  I know this because I checked the time when the opening titles started, which was forty-one minutes into the film.  I had to check, because obviously this must be the furthest into a film that I've ever seen the opening titles, and I also realized that it represented a milestone in the film.  Everything that came before was of importance, but everything that happened after would be was somehow independent; the opening titles marked a new beginning.  The film was punctuated with similar cinematic cues; moments of deep connections between two characters, and silent scenes where body language said everything that needed to be said, yet overall the film has a very minimalist sensibility, which subtly draws the audience in.  The central character of the film is a stage director, and much of the film takes place as he is adapting one of Chekhov's plays, Uncle Vanya.  It turns out that the process of directing, rehearsing, and performing is cathartic for the main character, and as such it opens him up to some profound introspection.  The characters that he interacts with along the way are pull him in surprising directions; most notably his relationship with a young actor provides a revelation in an unexpected way.  While the film is definitely compelling from time to time, it fails to recognize the principle of efficiency.  To paraphrase the late Roger Ebert, editing a film is the process of removing all the extraneous pieces, until all that remains is a great film.  There may be a great film encapsulated in Hamaguchi's Drive My Car, but certain scenes run long, points that have already been made are unnecessarily repeated, and the ending felt out of place.  Actually, the ending had all the earmarks suggesting that the filmmakers didn't have confidence in the audience; a better film would have ended with the second-to-last scene, but then again, isn't that usually the case?

Licorice Pizza

Paul Thomas Anderson's Licorice Pizza has two main characters; Gary, played by Cooper Hoffman, and Alana, played by Alana Haim.  It's clear to me that Gary is someone that Anderson relates to, maybe even to the point of being auto-biographical.  Alana, on the other hand, is someone that Anderson deeply admires and respects, and probably is based on someone he's fallen in love with.  Anderson did something with these two characters that is rare in film, he fully realizes each of them, which results in the audience developing an attachment to them, individually, and as a couple.  On the surface, the pairing in Licorice Pizza is diametrically opposed to the sets of characters in Anderson's other films; in Phantom Thread an abusive artist is nursed from the precipice of death by his muse, who (spoiler alert) is the one who has been methodically poisoning him.  In There Will Be Blood, an ambitious oil tycoon spars with the local reverend, in a relationship that is as toxic and maddening as has ever been depicted on film.  While the characters in Licorice Pizza share nothing in common with those from Anderson's earlier films, there is a theme that applies to each, these characters wouldn't be the same without each other.  While some might argue that good pairings in movies are commonplace, I would argue that chemistry between actors isn't the same thing as Anderson's depiction of the phenomena that occurs when two individuals become something completely different when they're together.  Aside from being an excellent character study, Licorice Pizza is also an entertaining romp through the streets of Southern California in the early 1970s, with an energy and style that I found reminiscent of Almost Famous.  And with that comparison, I wonder if directors are drawn to to their own story, as it somehow provides a key to understanding their other work.  On a side note, I learned while writing this review that Cooper Hoffman is the son of the late Philip Seymour Hoffman.  The elder Hoffman was a frequent collaborator with Anderson, and it's great to see that his son has carried on the family trade.

CODA

Please forgive me for taking this opportunity to continue my rant against Don't Look Up.  I think you will find that it serves a purpose, and is ultimately part of my review of CODA.  Back in the olden days of the '80s and '90s we had a term for movies that were made-for-TV, we called them "made-for-TV", and with that term came a certain amount of disdain.  Perhaps there were some made-for-TV movies that edged close to being worthy of a theatrical release, but I challenge you to name one with a straight face.  Thanks to Netflix we live in a time where all* movies are made-for-TV, and we are all suffering consequences:  In 2019 Scorsese made The Irishman for Netflix, which suffered certain made-for-TV issues; I'm referring in part to special effects that may have been acceptable on a relatively small screen, but did not translate well to the movie theater, and definitely detracted from the overall film.  The previously mentioned Don't Look Up is filled with so many made-for-TV elements that it almost felt like the people making the movie must have done it intentionally.  One scene in particular stood out, which clearly utilized a handheld digital video camera, with no cinematic explanation.  I have to imagine that the cameraman was told "just hold it really steady, and maybe no one will notice".  Then there's the scene where a multitude of rocket ships were launched, which looks like it were created by half-baked film students in Blender.  All of these criticisms are meant to set the groundwork for a compliment that I have for CODA, even though it was released on Apple TV, it is a wonderful film with lots of heart.  I could take the same approach that I used in my recent review of Belfast, and simply list things that I liked about the film, but instead I will describe a scene that I believe is representative of the overall film.  The main character of the film is a high school girl named Ruby, and she likes a high school guy named Miles.  The two have been paired-up to sing a duet together, and were practicing at her house one afternoon, when they encountered a particularly embarrassing situation.  The next day at school, she realized that word of the encounter has spread like wildfire, and she's understandably upset.  What happens next is what makes the film special, Miles chases her down, and apologizes.  More than that, he reveals that he has always admired and respected Ruby, recounting a specific memory from their childhood that has left a lasting impression.  What makes this scene, and the overall film, special is that the emotions of the characters are earned.  Most movies are content with characters who are "in love" because they're the best looking people in the movie, or they're the two characters who happen to be in focus.  CODA is about the relationships between its characters, and since they're kind, interesting, and passionate, it's actually enjoyable to watch.

*While not technically true, it makes the sentence more compelling. 

The Batman

If you haven't seen The Batman yet, you may want to turn aside, as I'm about to describe the final scene.

Dear Diary,

This evening, when I was up on that catwalk, that guy who I'd never seen before, and wasn't The Riddler, but maybe he worked for The Riddler, he said "I am vengeance".  Now it's not really fair, because everyone around here knows that I am vengeance, and it goes without saying that there can only be one vengeance.  My world has been rocked. 

P.S.  I had to say goodbye to my new girlfriend Catwoman after I got off work, and I tried to lighten the mood by asking her "Are You Gonna Go My Way"?, but she didn't think that was funny and stormed off on her motorcycle.  I couldn't help myself, and yelled out to her "It Ain't Over 'Till It's Over"!  But I don't think she heard me (her helmet cat ears were facing the wrong direction).

P.P.S.  I'm heading back to the club now.  I've been spending most of my time there, which kinda surprises me since there are so many other interesting places to visit in this city... I think that I just like the ambience, and the D.J. is amazing.

Don't Look Up

Believe it or not, my youngest child is now 18 years old, and has become a film critic in her own right.  For weeks she has been asking me whether I've watched Don't Look Up yet, because she felt that it was applicable to something that we were discussing during one of walks at Pine Island.  When I finally did watch the movie, my first question of her was "did you watch the end of the movie?"  You see, even though she grew up in a household where the entire movie is viewed, she's surrounded by people who get up as soon as the credits start rolling, and exit the theater, as though words on the screen might contain some horrible disease.  And even though she grew up in a household where the same respect to the filmmakers is shown at home, she lives in the time of Netflix, where you can barely glimpse the credits without another video starting; a protocol implemented to keep your attention and prolong the binge.  So I was suspicious that we had seen a different movie, and I was correct.  She saw a mess of a movie with a contemplative conclusion.  I saw a mess of a movie with a contemplative aside, followed by a stupid mess of an ending.  The question that this raises is, does an offensive amalgamation of B-movie clichés pretending to be a dark satire find redemption through an ending that feels honest?  Perhaps, but I'll never know, because I kept watching.  By now many of you will be familiar with my position on the importance of endings; they can ruin otherwise good films, i.e The Last Samurai, they can salvage otherwise mediocre films, i.e. The Usual Suspects, and they can be the capstone to great films, i.e No Country For Old Men.  I will give my daughter the benefit of the doubt (since she does have excellent taste in film - and she is my daughter), and conclude that Don't Look Up falls into The Usual Suspects category, as long as you stop it once the credits start rolling.

King Richard

King Richard distinguishes itself from the typical sports movie in two ways: its central character doesn't play, nor is there any indication that he ever has played a sport.  And, there is an underlying theme that sports are simply a conduit for greatness; pursuing greatness in any form is its own end.  The director Reinaldo Marcus Green, and Will Smith in the leading role, are mostly successful in avoiding the clichés that tend to saturate this genre.  Smith, playing the father of Serena and Venus Williams, is able to convince us that he's completely committed to his children's success, and is struggling with the weight and shame of his own failures.  In one scene he is a stoic example of good sportsmanship, and the next his pride and insecurities seep to the surface.  The weakness of this film is that the outcome is already known; we know at the onset that the Williams sisters will become champion tennis players, so we are more likely to excuse their father's more extreme behaviors.  While Green and Smith explored some interesting territory, it seems like they're always playing it safe.  Smith's character indicates that he would be just as proud of his daughters if they were to achieve greatness as doctors, or teachers - but that wouldn't have been worthy of getting a Hollywood movie.  The unfortunate result of making a movie about an almost-compelling character and the pre-glory days of his daughters, is that it's just not that interesting.  It's only now that I look to close out my review of King Richard that I am reminded of my own tennis experiences from my own childhood... I don't want to spoil the plot, but I wouldn't be the man I am today if it weren't for my own tennis coach father.

Belfast

It is very easy for me to compile a list of things that I like about Kenneth Branagh's most recent film Belfast.  

I liked that the soundtrack featured so many songs by Van Morrison; partly because I love his music, but more importantly because each track so wonderfully sets the tone for the given scene.  I also liked that there was a progression to the music that matched the story arc; there is heartfelt joy in Morrison's music that brightened happy moments in the film, and soulfulness in Morrison's music that deepened the sad scenes.  

I liked that the events of the film are seen through the eyes of a child, not simply as a storytelling device, but because the storyteller experienced the events when he was a child, and it's only natural that the story be told from that perspective.  The child is both innocent, and disarmingly astute, as he has led a relatively sheltered life, but is very bright, and is treated with respect by the adults in his life.  

I liked that Branagh surrounded the child with so many influential role models; his grandparents were imperfect, and sometimes grumpy, but loving towards each other, and sacrificially caring towards their children and grandchildren.  It's refreshing to see such strong positive characters on film.

I liked that the film was projected in black and white.

I liked that the when the family goes to movies together, the movie screen is projected in color, because the most impressionable moments in life are always more vivid than everything else.

I liked that the child's mother danced, and his father sang; and it was all the more poignant that they did so at his grandfather's wake.

I like that the movie was honest.  So often films in this genre are depressing from beginning to end, i.e. Manchester by the Sea, other times they're unconvincingly positive, ie. La La Land.  Branagh found the perfect balance with Belfast.

West Side Story

I have somehow managed to avoid seeing any version West Side Story until now. Perhaps I was subconsciously waiting for the definitive version to be released, but honestly I had little interest in seeing any version, and always felt that I was sufficiently culturally informed without subjecting myself to the entire play/movie. I knew that the story was based on Romeo and Juliet (I have seen Baz Luhrmann's film version of that play). I knew that it had two rival gangs, the Sharks and the Jets (I was hopeful that the hero was named Bennie, but I was kind of fuzzy on that point). And, I had heard "I Feel Pretty" in that Nike ad a few years back, so it's like I'd already seen the movie a hundred times. Now that I have seen the most recent film version, I don't believe that my cultural condition has improved, but I can now say that "I've seen West Side Story". It's my understanding that Steven Spielberg decided to make this version of West Side Story because he loved the play in his youth, and believed that it had a relevant message to convey. While Spielberg's version of West Side Story is technically flawless, which should surprise no one, it is missing something that keeps it from achieving greatness: originality.  I can say this without hesitation, even though I have limited knowledge of the source material, because every aspect of the film felt constrained.  The characters' depth, motiviations, dialogue, and especially the singing felt like it was happening as planned, and didn't flow naturally.  The result of Spielberg taking such a mechanical approach is that you never forget that you're watching an adaptation of a play.  I would have preferred an adaptation that sought to convey the spirit of the source material, yet take full advantage of the film medium and Spielberg's mastery thereof.

As I have watched, and discussed a number of the other films nominated for Best Picture this year, a common theme has been revealed: formulaic films being treated as original constructs by a new generation of film critics.  As I write about a movie like Don't Look Up, and films like CODA and King Richard in the coming days, my point will become clearer, but the general gist is that I've come to realize that there are two distinct types of film viewers:  those who already know the story and are interested in how it's told, and those who've never seen the story before.  I've seen West Side Story hundreds of times before, and to my disappointment, Spielberg's version didn't give me a good reason to have seen it again.

House of Gucci

In advance of this year's Academy Award nominations, I'd like to compare two films, and share with you a new policy that I'm considering. The two films that I'd like to compare are Marriage Story (2019), and House of Gucci (2021). The first film stars Adam Driver and Scarlett Johansson as an unhappily married couple who selfishly navigate their way through a messy divorce. The film was awkward, upsetting, and lacked any entertainment value. The only reason that I watched the entire film is because it was nominated for Best Picture, and I was holding out hope that maybe, just maybe it would end with some virtuoso closing sequence that would make it all worth while. The least the filmmakers could have done is give the film a truly dark ending, something memorable. Instead, if I can remember, we were given some sort of everything will be ok, even if no one's really happy ending.  The other film, House of Gucci has a similar premise; this time it's Adam Driver and Lady Gaga who are unhappily married and are heading towards divorce.  The difference is that this film was truly entertaining, and even though every single character was despicable, the presentation was compelling, and I wanted to see more.  I won't be surprised if House of Gucci is nominated for multiple Academy Awards, specifically in the acting categories, but I'd like to focus on my favorite three elements from the film:  1) The cinematography was rich, in the vein of The Godfather Part II, where somehow the blacks are deeper, the reds are all burgundy, and the forests are lush and foreboding.  2) I don't know Lady Gaga, so I don't know what her personality is really like, but I can tell you that it wasn't her in this film; somehow she embodied her character, and it was quite amazing.  3) Jared Leto made me laugh harder than I've laughed in a long time, and his character was the most tragic of the bunch.  

The policy I'd like to enact is no more Marriage Storys...  only House of Guccis.