FotM: Oscar's Dark Side

There are times when I despair of writing about the movies at all. How can you take something that can be so vast and encompass it into a few hundred words of text on a white screen in such a way that someone, anyone, would actually want to read it? I guess I’m still trying to figure that one out. When I read the critics that I enjoy and respect most, there’s a sense of something greater at work. With Roger Ebert, it’s this idea that a movie can show us something about how to live our lives and what makes us more or less human. With Manohla Dargis, it’s this notion of how the movie she’s talking about fits into the scheme of things culturally and within the history of cinema. Peter Travers is kind of like everyone's secret hipster uncle giving it to them straight up, and if you like something he thinks is bad? HOW COULD YOU? Then . . . me. I guess I fit in there somewhere. It seems that, despite all the eloquent deconstruction I want to be good at, I should really just shoot from the hip until I get it right. In the end, all the imitation in the world isn’t going to add up to anything worth reading or worth writing.

Now, Best Picture. . .

I haven’t seen all 82 of the winners of the Academy’s big prize. I’ve only seen 34, which is less than I would like. I could choose one, watch it, and dissect it piece by piece (or, at least, I would like to imagine that I have that kind of dexterity at my disposal), but I don’t think that would be interesting.

Instead, let’s talk about the elephant in Oscar’s bedroom.

Crash.

I didn’t see the film until a few years after it had won the Oscar in dramatic fashion, upsetting Brokeback Mountain, the heavy favorite and winner of almost every other “best film” award this side of kingdom come. It went something like this. I’m at the store looking at the DVDs and I see Crash. I’ve heard that it’s very good, so I start considering the idea of buying it, which is more of a foregone conclusion at that point, because I’m terrible at telling myself no when it comes to something like that. I text a friend to ask his opinion. He suggests renting it instead of buying it, as he’s seen it and knows a bit about what I like. I don’t listen, buy it anyway, and watch it either that night or later that week.

At this point, all I knew was that a lot of people were incensed that Crash had won Best Picture, and others had said that it was an incredible viewing experience. Now, suddenly, I understood.The Oscar is supposed to recognize excellence in filmmaking, and if we’re lucky, what gets that recognition will be of the best work of that particular year. Despite that, Crash was clearly not high-quality filmmaking, not the best work of 2005, and certainly NOT even that good of a movie on its own merits.

I’m not opposed to the idea of film challenging popularly held cultural beliefs and forcing us to see things we recognize within people we don’t know. I actually think that’s one of the highest functions that any art form can fulfill. Some of the best films I’ve ever seen have done just that to spectacular, unforgettable effect.

The trouble with Crash isn’t in the grandiosity of its reach. The problem with the film is in the clumsy, heavy-handed, and simplistic way it goes about doing it. The idea is straightforward. In Los Angeles, there’s a group of ethnically diverse people whose lives are suddenly and violently going to crash together. Along the way, the notion is that the film’s supposed to illustrate the inbred racial prejudices present within all of us.

This concept isn’t exactly brand-new. Robert Altman built a legacy on ensemble casts wandering in and out of each other’s lives. In more recent years, Paul Thomas Anderson has done much the same thing.

On some level, I get what people who dig this movie see in it, but I have a hard time believing that audiences really respond to such amateurish schlock. Despite my (shall we say) distaste for it, there are individual moments within Crash that are effective. The sequence where Matt Dillon pulls Thandie Newton out of a burning car was effective and even gripping. The scene where Anthony Pena comforts his infant daughter is touching. The bit where Don Cheadle buys groceries for his mother, even though she thinks his missing brother is the one doing it, is moving. . . and those are pretty much the only major examples I can think of.

Sadly, much of the rest of the film results in characters talking about how other people from different ethnic backgrounds don’t understand them, witnessing incredibly coincidental incidents that somehow just happen to bring them together, and then realizing that gee, we aren’t so different after all and maybe if we just stopped making assumptions based on race/ethnicity, the world might be a better place.

I could have told you all that, and I wouldn’t have needed an hour and fifty-two minutes to do it.

Paul Haggis, the film’s director and co-writer, certainly isn’t without talent. You’ve heard me wax long-toothed about my out-and-out love for Million Dollar Baby, one of my favorite films, and my admiration for In the Valley of Elah. I just don’t understand how someone who’s capable of such good work turned out something that plays like a film school student’s attempt at a feature film, albeit a student with an A-list cast to work with.

Three more things: First, know I texted my friend back and said, “I wished I’d listened to you.” I bet he loved hearing that. Second, Annie Proulx isn’t the sore loser I thought she was. Third, I sold the DVD as soon as I was able to. Crash is no longer is a part of my collection, thanks be.

A lot people don’t put much stock in what wins an Oscar. Even though I watch the show religiously every year, I have to admit that much of it is a popularity contest with a heavy slant toward films made by Brits or Americans. Despite that, a lot of times, I’m ok, pleased, or even thrilled with what wins.

Not here.

Oh, I've got a light . . .

Clint Eastwood is a god among men, man among boys, and, at 78, could still kick just about anyone's butt in 10 seconds flat. Ask most movie buffs who holds the title of greatest living American filmmaker, and most would pick Martin Scorsese. Since the passing of Robert Altman, it's hard to argue with that choice. However, I think Clint's on the shortlist, and, furthermore, might just be knocking on the door.

For the first time since 2004's Million Dollar Baby, Clint found a project he believed in enough to star in it. Previously, he'd said that he was done with acting and even turned down the lead in In the Valley of Elah, a role that Paul Haggis had written especially for him. (not to worry, Haggis had one heck of a backup plan) I went into Gran Torino with mid-level expectations, and came out blown away.

Clint is a rare breed of filmmaker and one that I think deserves to be considered an auteur. This distinction is one that is normally afforded a filmmaker with a well-defined visual and thematic style whose films are clearly recognizable as "theirs." That said, Clint Eastwood is probably not the first person who comes to mind when thinking about who is or isn't an auteur. From a visual standpoint, Clint's films are very naturalistic. I get the feeling that he could care less about impressing the audience with a nifty shot or camera trick. Instead, his focus is always on serving the story, which, I'd argue, is exactly where it should be. It's on these grounds that I really feel that he deserves the "auteur" label. In most cases, his films are small in scope in that they deal with only a few characters who are usually ordinary people. The real riches are in the emotional landscape he chooses to explore. I challenge you to find a Clint Eastwood film that doesn't feel like a Clint Eastwood film.

Gran Torino is no exception. I went into the film not expecting a great movie, and was completely surprised. I'd been interested in seeing it since seeing the first trailer, but felt that the material seemed formulaic and might come across on the corny side. My initial assumptions have some grounds, but, in large part, Gran Torino's strengths wipe out its weaknesses.

The film's single greatest strength is the performance of Clint Eastwood. I think he deserves serious consideration for an Academy Award nomination. It's one of the finer performances I've ever seen him give and one of the year's best. One of the things I like most about the film is the way it doesn't sugarcoat Walt Kowalski, the main character. He's a racist, pure and simple, and, to be honest, isn't a big fan of a lot of white folks either. It's refreshing to find a character like Walt who doesn't get sanitized and made politically correct. Then, when his perspective starts to shift, the changes are natural and feel as though they've been earned. This is unique, because a lot of films err in this area by trying for certain types of character development without building the character enough to sustain those changes. As a result, the changes feel false and clumsily tacked on. A lot of filmmakers would do well to watch this film and take notes . . .

Another of Clint's trademarks comes into play in Gran Torino to great effect: the sucker punch. He's a master of lulling the viewer into thinking that he/she's watching a certain type of film, creating a false sense of security, and then blindsiding him/her with a sudden shift in tone and thematic content. I wouldn't spoil it for the world, but there's a moment in Gran Torino that will almost take your breath away. It's perfectly set up by the film's humor, one of its unexpected strengths. I spent the first hour and a half laughing and enjoying myself (and enjoying my friend's reactions to Walt's behavior. Priceless.) and then after that moment occurs, I knew I wasn't in Kansas anymore and the stakes had just gotten monumentally higher.

As most people go through life, they mark different time periods by certain occasions. I've almost always marked my years by movies and I'd have to say that Clint Eastwood's made for some oustanding moments in my cinematic life. With Letters From Iwo Jima, I knew I'd seen one of the greatest films about war that I'd ever seen. With Million Dollar Baby, I knew my life had been changed by one of the greatest films I'd ever seen. Gran Torino doesn't quite get as high up, but I wouldn't worry, 'cause it gets a distinction of its own. It's just one of the year's best films.

The Greats: Robert Altman

I’ve been thinking about Robert Altman lately. It probably has something to do with the fact that I watched, his final film, A Prairie Home Companion, again about a week ago. I first saw it on opening night back in 2006 in a theater full of people about 30 years older than I was, and, after it was over, I knew that I loved the movie, even though I had no idea what it was really about. This shouldn’t be too big a deal, since my parents asked me the same question when we finished it on Saturday night.

Thus far, I’ve seen a handful of Altman’s films. I’m working on it, and plan to see many more, hopefully soon. (side note: I was going to rent McCabe and Mrs. Miller last night, but Blockbuster didn’t have it. I ended up with Scorsese's Raging Bull instead. No harm done . . .) Altman is often described as a “naturalistic” filmmaker, in that his films take a “natural” approach to the events portrayed on screen. In particular, one of his trademarks is the use of overlapping dialogue. He uses this a lot in his films. For example, in Gosford Park, the sequence in which the characters arrive at the manor involves an array of people, places, objects, and dialogue that’s almost dizzying. In addition to this, the majority of the people who are talking have British accents, which can make it kind of tricky to understand them. In a way, it’s almost like being pushed out onto the field and told to play a game that you’ve never learned.

Here’s the best part: Altman doesn’t apologize or candy-coat any of it. This is one thing that I really appreciate about his work. I’ve always felt that he respected my intelligence as a viewer. It’s weird, but I’ve always believed that, with his work, he was saying something like, “OK, I’m going to take you for a ride. It’s going to be bumpy, and you won’t always understand what’s going on or where you’re going. But, if you trust me, I’ll get you to the end.” Now, that might sound totally corny, but that’s what goes through my head. To once again use Gosford Park as an example, after I was done watching it, I still didn’t know who’d committed the crime. (that’s not a spoiler, by the way. You’d read that there was a crime in just about any summary of the film you could possibly find.) Then, I went back and watched it again with my sister. I’ve now watched it about 7-8 times, and, just about every time, I see more and more detail, and, fortunately, now do a heck of a lot better with those tricky British accents.

This approach is something that far too few filmmakers use. In the vast majority of mainstream American film, the director clearly outlines everything for the audience. As a result, there’s hardly ever any sense of true discovery or revelation. The furthest that a lot of contemporary filmmakers will go is the implementation of a twist somewhere in the film. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love an excellent twist, (The Sixth Sense, anyone?) but there’s so much more to fashioning a good story than the use of a surprise somewhere within the body of the narrative. Take Hancock as a more recent example. There’s a twist that pops in around the midpoint that is very, very obvious, considering, of course, that the audience is paying attention, watching the screen, and has seen other films with twists. While the movie is fairly entertaining, the full impact of the revelation is lost, due to it being ineffectively set up. Now, compare and contrast that with Gosford Park. (don’t you love how that seems to be my go-to example? I can hear you now . . . “oh, no, not again . . .”) There’s a big twist that takes place toward the end of the film, and it’s extremely effective, to the point that it only becomes more effective upon repeated viewings of the film. One of the reasons for how well it works is due to the fact that Altman takes the time to set everything up in a very subtle way. Instead of just asking the audience to accept certain revelations on good faith, if one watches the film closely, each and every revelation has been pre-empted by an earlier scene, pairing of characters, or line of dialogue. Here’s the real kicker: someone watching the film for the first time would probably never get the fact that they’re being royally set-up, since most of their concentration would be focused on just keeping up with the story and who’s who.

At the end of the day, I think I’ve now figured out what A Prairie Home Companion is about. I think it’s about life, death, love, time, and change. Maybe that’s really what all of his films are about, because, if you think about it, those are the things that make us human, after all. It’s this fabulous sense of humanity that’s one of the main reasons why I love his work. Some said that A Prairie Home Companion was a minor Altman film, but I don’t think so. He may not have known that the film he was making would turn out to be his elegy, but, when my time comes to check out, I hope to leave something half as wonderful to remind people that I was here. I sincerely hope that current and future filmmakers will take the time to devote themselves to fashioning films that are truly memorable with the wonderful sense of discovery that was the trademark of Robert Altman’s work. His films weren’t all blockbusters, and he never did win an Academy Award. But, I think in 50 years, people will still be watching this man’s films. There’s no higher compliment that he could be paid, and I don’t think that he would have wanted anything more than that.

Recommended viewing: Gosford Park