Gone Girl, Gone

gone-girl-poster-ben-affleckHeading to the press screening of David Fincher’s Gone Girl, I was, as usual, running late. But as I rushed from bus to cab to dashing down crowded Chicago streets, I reassured myself that even if I was five minutes late, I had a pretty good sense of what I’d miss in that opening: a series of blue-gray, pre-dawn shots of a quiet Mississippi river town in Missouri; empty streets, silent houses, shuttered downtown businesses, the blackish river creeping by, etc. All set to a low-key, subtly ominous score that forebode trouble on Main Street, Heartland, USA.

As it turned out, I made it to the screening on time, and sure enough, I was pretty close in my guess. (There’s also a chilling thematic aperitif just before the river town montage.) The opening is very well done, but how did I know what it would be? Because I’ve seen dozens of suburban tales of violent, domestic intrigue—Murder in the Cul-de-sac, Guilty by Suspicion, that sort of thing. I’ve read Gillian Flynn’s 2012 best-selling novel. And I’ve seen all of David Fincher’s films.

Which isn’t to say that Gone Girl isn’t a near-immaculate version of all that or that the movie doesn’t have plenty of devious pleasures. But it is to say that if you’ve read Flynn’s book, or seen a Fincher thriller, or really any tale of small-town murder and/or nefarious domestic scheming, you’ll have a pretty good idea going in of exactly what Gone Girl will deliver with impeccable, almost frustrating precision.

At Fincher’s hand, with Ben Affleck and Rosamund Pike starring and Flynn adroitly and economically adapting her own novel, the book’s Midwest Gothic tale gets the shiniest of Hollywood-noir glosses—visually and tonally, we’re firmly in Fincher-land, although for the sake of what Fincher knows is mass-market entertainment-value and artistic and thematic slumming, let’s call it Fincher-land Lite… FincherBurbia?

In Fincher-land the wood grains are rich and darkly polished, shot on rich, darkly polished digital by Fincher’s long-time cinematographer Jeff Cronenweth (Fight Club, The Social Network, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo). (Someday Fincher is going to fulfill his artistic dream and his cinematic destiny and make a Ken Burns-sized documentary entitled Richly Grained, Polished Wood in Shadow: A Chiaroscuro Study in Ten Parts.) In Fincher-land even the rust, rot, and moral decay is burnished in deep, evocative shades—heady, beautiful Platonic Ideals of rust, rot, and moral decay that form a gorgeous Pottery Barn Noir.

Flynn’s script is compact, tight, and efficient, and as in the book, the plot twists and puzzles are carefully parceled out to keep the viewer happily locked in for the whole trip, and Fincher’s direction is equally mannered, crafted to a fine hum. In diving into the eerie small-town Missouri tale of Nick Dunne (Affleck) and his suddenly missing wife Amy (Pike), the film Gone Girl (like Flynn’s novel) plays as a good old-fashioned Hitchcockian page-turner. Fincher has however, with his now-trademarked craftsmanship, created yet another of these “entertainments” that tends to feel as echoingly hollow as it is visually and narratively compelling—the triumph of the slick aesthetic.

gone-girl-01_1485x612That said, if you haven’t read the book or seen the flick yet, here is where we bid you a fond adieu. Because much from here on out is going to be spoiler-ish And as those who’ve read/seen Gone Girl know, on both page and screen, it’s a tale that rides and compels on its plot twists.

If indeed his intent is to create a satiric puppet show about the deadly domestic void behind most romantic tales, Fincher couldn’t have found two better actors for the endeavor than Affleck and Pike. Both have always given off a sheen of Old-Hollywood marquee-attractiveness while carefully cultivating guarded, even sealed-off personas on (and off) screen.

To be clear, I’ve always stood in full praise of Ben Affleck—he is and always has been a singularly talented and grippingly watchable actor, often using his paradoxical combination of natural, boyish charm and distant old-school poise to mask deeper currents. Hatas gonna hate, and over the past couple decades, prior to Argo’s Oscar success, it was cheap, easy sport to pick apart Affleck’s role choices and to fall back on lazy dismissals of him based on an artificially created tabloid-media shallowness. (To be fair, for a long while, Affleck had an impressive track record for picking stunningly crappy projects. Though the two usually hauled out against him for the sake of a lazy laugh —Gigli and Jersey Girl—are not nearly as bad as people like to pretend.)

As a long-time member of the Affleck Fan Club (even when it seemed membership consisted solely of Kevin Smith and myself), I can’t help but smugly sneer at everyone now putting aside their “Batffleck” Twitter jibes and pretending to be suddenly shocked the actor is so good in Gone Girl. (Even as they try to diminish his natural talent by suggesting that Affleck’s own guarded emotions and past history with the media neatly inform Nick’s own tabloid trials.)

david-finchers-gone-girl-4-tv-spots-and-a-clipMaybe if everyone hadn’t been so busy enabling and feeding the tabloid distraction machine with the easy snark, they might have noticed the subtle depth of Affleck’s work in films like Hollywoodland, State of Play (a test-run for Nick Dunne’s pre-judged guilt), and The Company Men. As with those roles, Gone Girl stars Affleck the Dark Movie Star. His Nick is all dour disappointment and sullen disassociation, tucked tightly behind the glib politician’s need to please and be liked.

Likewise, Rosamund Pike has long quietly impressed with great work in good films like The Libertine, Pride & Prejudice, An Education, and Barney’s Version, and is often the best thing in other, mixed-quality films. Like Affleck, Pike sometimes seems hampered by her classical good looks—her face appears so pristine, so ideally proportioned that the actress turns up her haughty demeanor in hopes of subverting her own beauty. At other times, her porcelain-doll face and relentlessly clear eyes can start to drift into the Uncanny Valley—sliding from Grace Kelly into something more alien; a femme fatale-bot giving off the sort of low-register subconscious warnings that make the animal hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

On paper Pike is an obvious fit for Amy Dunne. That cold, other-worldly manner and the effortless shift from the pleading fear and vulnerably of a frail ice princess to the silent ferociousness of a cornered feral cat well-serve Amy’s squirming, seductive, and deadly duplicity. Unfortunately while Pike’s increasingly wild-eyed performance is (like most of the film) completely enjoyable, it further undermines the actual character of Amy, turning her into even more of a cartoon; a bottle-blonde Hannibal Lecter. First Flynn’s script, then Pike’s performance, and finally Fincher’s direction steadily strip away all the humanity from Book Amy, who at least felt like a real person (albeit a real crazy person). Movie Amy winds up yet another of Fincher’s unknowable freak-show ciphers, which, sadly, is how we prefer our movie villains.

(In fact,gone_girl_17 Pike’s portrayal of Amy in Gone Girl comes off so inhuman, so terrifyingly calculating even from the early halcyon flashbacks, that it reminds me of why I only grudgingly accept Anthony Hopkins’ iconic Lecter—I get a kick from its obvious, Gothic-fun value, but find it less interesting than the deceptive humanity and charm Brian Cox brought to his more subtly sinister Lecktor [sic] in Mann’s Manhunter.)

The rest of the film’s cast is equally well-chosen, face by terrifically appropriate face: Kim Dickens (Treme) and Patrick Fugit (Almost Famous) as the investigating police (Dickens is especially good); Carrie Coon as Nick’s sibling support system; Neil Patrick Harris as a fastidious, fussy former Amy paramour; and Tyler Perry as superstar lawyer Tanner Bolt.

(The best thing about Perry’s genuinely great performance isn’t that he disarms the anti-Medea wags, but that Bolt is a refreshing change of pace in Fincher-land: a full-blown cynic who gleefully embraces, owns, and delights in his cynicism and the cynical world he swims in.)

But this is where my mild dissatisfaction with Gone Girl (despite having a decent enough time watching it) may feel churlish. Throughout the film, from the lighting to the direction to the acting in major and minor roles, all that seemingly laudable Fincher attention to detail takes what was already a rather shallow contraption to begin with in Flynn’s novel and shines it all to near blinding familiarity. There are surprises in the film (especially if you haven’t read the novel), and there are shocking scenes, and Affleck (and Pike to a lesser extent) masterfully holds our attention. But in the end, the film feels like the blandly beautiful McMansion Nick and Amy rent: clean, picture-pretty, and well comported, but devoid of anything interestingly sloppy or raw.

3029156-poster-p-1-gone-girl-trailerEven when a hair (or drop of blood) is out of place in Gone Girl, it’s meticulously out of place—to be fair, that perfectionism suits a story in which everything, everyone, every event and emotion has been carefully crafted by some onscreen character to achieve a desired effect.

In fact, that’s the most interesting thing about Gone Girl: its subtext about the artificiality of not just present-day new media (professional witch-burner Nancy Grace gets a much-deserved pillaring), but of how nearly everyone in the film is constantly creating a “brand” or “story” about themselves, tweaking their persona and presentation to sell themselves to someone. Your life is a lie you first tell yourself, suggests Gone Girl, then you try to find other interested “readers” who will buy it. (In exchange, you reciprocate and agree to buy their lies.)

Fincher-land’s icy aesthetic and philosophy often invites comparisons to Kubrick, but Kubrick always took a gods’-eye remove from humanity—his mis-perceived misanthropy was the unblinking, curious gaze of the alien observer. Fincher’s slick and shiny version more often feels like the lazy formalism and moral detachment of a one-time commercial director who, no matter how heady the subject matter, still prefers the surfaces and the suggestion of a vast hollow below. (When it comes to a lack of faith in humanity, Fincher makes his idol Hitchcock look like Capra.) In Fincher-land the human condition is dim and beyond that, unknowable–not that you’d want to. (Though his view of it is rarely dreary or dull—Fincher’s particular brand of artifice has little time for mundane naturalism).

In that sense, in Fincher’s Gone Girl Nick and Amy become yet another of his studies of someone consumed by someone else’s (often deadly) delusion/story: David Mills made a part of John Doe’s psychopathic tableau in Seven, Nicolas Van Orton caught up in The Game, Fight Club’s Narrator trying to sort out his role in Tyler Durden’s increasingly extreme narrative, Robert Graysmith slowly entrapped by his search for The Zodiac Killer in Zodiac.

gone-girl-12Fincher doesn’t so much see hearts of darkness in his characters as a void. Humans are shells; playthings jerked along by a cruel fate born of deadly curiosity and troublesome ennui, trapped by their obsessions, cornered by the things they fear most.

Most Fincher characters look long into the abyss and find… just the abyss, all nothingness and nihilism. (We’ll leave out Benjamin Button because… well, because who knows what the hell Fincher was thinking there.) They’re maneuvered into hunting and fighting demons, but in the end the demons hold no special meaning, belong to no epic adversarial legions, impart no grand truths. They just are; we just are. Enjoy your popcorn.

It’s no surprise that Fincher’s most-lauded film, The Social Network, centers on Jesse Eisenberg’s portrayal of Mark Zuckerberg as a quizzical sociopath—exactly the kind of person who sees a massive social-media network as a legitimate replacement for actual, emotional human interaction. With Social Network and then The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, and Netflix’ House of Cards (which he executive produces), Fincher was finally able to move away from stories about protagonists struggling against nihilistic sociopaths and simply make the sociopaths his heroes. The giddy appeal of Gone Girl is you’re not sure which sort of Fincher film you’re watching—are some of these “heroic” characters manipulative, malicious sociopaths? Or all of them?

All of this doesn’t sound much like the sort of film “critics” are calling a great “date night movie” and yet audiences are flocking to it on date nights, making it Fincher’s highest grossing release. That’s understandable–both the book and flick Gone Girl do bang-up jobs of keeping the readers/viewers neatly skewered on that meat hook of omg-what-next fascination. But watered-down satire of modern marriage aside, Gone Girl is not constructed to get at anything other than a rippin’ good, gruesome yarn—yet another grim fairy tale about Our World Today, complete with a nutty-mean witch at its heart. Sure it’s a lurid funhouse, but just as you know all the spooky tricks going in, you can still get a hoot out of the ride.

gone-girl-2(The glaring exception to all this clockwork thriller craft: the plot-spinning, head-scratchingly cheap, second-half pivot the film inherits from the novel. Amy’s sudden decision to return to Nick is silly on the page, but at least there it has plenty of motivational buttressing from previous chapters’ internal currents.

(On film, streamlined to keep things moving forward, the moment is played off by Pike as a clichéd literal “eye-opening” change of heart. You can feel Fincher, Flynn, and even Pike convincing themselves that by this point they’ve earned some cheat points and agreeing to toss their hands in the air and say, “Yeah, it makes no sense, but oh well, whatever!”)

But the main reason Flynn’s novel and now Fincher’s film succeed so well in the mainstream is their relentless plucking at our cynical chords about love and marriage. Nick and Amy’s tale peels back the fairy-book dream of the happy couple; of the heroic husband striking all the right brave, hopeful poses while desperately trying to get his beloved wife back.

Eventually in Gone Girl, love and matrimony reveal themselves as codependent addictions every bit as self-destructive as booze or smack in films like Days of Wine and Roses, Sid and Nancy, Drugstore Cowboy, or Leaving Las Vegas. (Best Sweetest Day date movie evah.) In Romance According to Nick and Amy, after the passionate battle of courtship, marriage becomes an uneasy detente in the face of mutually assured destruction, each side peering through binoculars at the other across a king-sized DMZ.

And we love it, gleefully smirking over how effed up the characters are, even as we see a bit of ourselves in them. Like Clarice and Hannibal, Mills and John Doe, the Narrator and Tyler Durden, Greenwood and the Zodiac, or the viewer and Frank Underwood, we’re not just drawn to dangerous characters because of some easy bad-boy, bad-girl flirtation with danger or desire to be scared, but because fictional characters like these, and like Nick and Amy in Gone Girl, allow us to simultaneously pass judgment on “evil” (or at least naughtiness) in fiction while secretly embracing the nastier impulses and desires within ourselves; our own brokenness. We have met Nick and Amy, to paraphrase the possum, and they is us. We are Nick, willingly laying down to an uneasy sleep each night next to not only a creature that might kill him but his own murderous impulses.

gone-girl-1At his best, Fincher is fascinated by this never-ending, oft-denied dance within us all—even when his explorations of the darker side of the human condition fall short of really saying anything (as in Gone Girl). Despite its sometimes gory, sometimes sexy shenanigans, Gone Girl never feels truly transgressive, subversive, or satirical in the ways Fincher’s films like Seven, Fight Club, and Zodiac reached for. But at his most commercially opportunistic, the director still milks the shadows for entertainment value and cheap thrills.

One of the major changes from page to screen is in the film’s final scene, bookended with its opening, in which Nick, through troubled voice-over, muses over what’s going on in his wife’s head (more specifically, he speculates on smashing her skull open with a rock to peer inside her brain). Both the book and the film alternate between Nick and Amy’s versions of events, and its Nick’s unraveling of the missing-girl puzzle that drives the story.

But when it comes right down to it thematically, the book is primarily Amy’s tale—she carries the written narrative both forward and backward as she speaks directly to the reader; it’s her psychosis we find so mesmerizing. And it’s Amy’s voice and her unsettling, threatening concerns about her future with Nick that closes the novel.

But the film Gone Girl is all about Nick; his trials and tribulations in the public eye and the media court; his quest for the truth; his take on the bizzare events unfolding around him. As it becomes yet another of Hollywood’s Man’s-eye Movies, it’s naturally Nick (and Affleck the Hollywood Star, not Pike the British indie queen), who gets the film’s final word, speculating on what may come for Amy and himself. Once again, Amy, a fascinating character on the page, is shoved into the “Movie Villain” Tupperware.

Flynn’s book also stirred controversy over its perceived misogyny—after all, it can be argued Amy is purely a fictional validation of every “my ex-girlfriend is a crazy bitch!” argument; a femme fatale for the Internet Age. Though a case could be made that she also functions as id catharsis for some female readers/viewers enjoying a little anti-cheating husband payback: “Sure, she’s insane and horrific and goes too far, but…” (

And yes, Flynn’s script preserves a condensed version of the novel’s famous “Cool Girl” soliloquy, even if Pike’s Movie Amy is a very different kind of “cool” girl; emphasis on the freeze, not the fun.)

gone-girl-10As is so often the case with these sorts of pop-cultural concerns, the problem isn’t so much the character of Amy, but the eventual popularity of the book and film. As I’ve said before, we can’t praise the power of film as art, especially as popular art, and not accept that powerful, popular art can and does have an effect—a slow, steady drip drip drip into the cultural subconscious.

Gone Girl is silly, sick-fun pulp noir and is easily enjoyed as such—as is intended—but as popular as the book and film are, and given that—like Fatal Attraction more than 25 years ago—they will be with us in the pop-culture firmament for many years, the character of Amy sadly reinforces some guys’ (and gals’) stereotypical image of the “crafty, unhinged, deadly woman spurned.”

Pike’s Movie Amy is so much of a cartoon villain, it’s hard to imagine anyone taking her seriously as a gloss on real human female behavior, any more than we think Hannibal Lecter is an accurate representative of British psychiatry. (Oddly, this year’s other popular film about what motivates a villainous female, Maleficent, attempts the exact opposite, showing the maternal, loving, and caring side of a cartoon villain.)

But then, for all his evil, Lecter is still a privileged white male character, and as we once again wade through toxic filth like currently raging online controversies, we’re reminded that when it comes to villainizing women in our current pop culture landscape, we (especially stupid young white males soaked in a warped sense of victimized entitlement) don’t always shower ourselves in glory.

gone-girl-14-600x421Such hand-wringing aside, both Flynn and Fincher know what their tale is, what it needs to be (a wickedly fun night at the theater), what bells need to be rung, what strings need to be tugged to keep a mainstream audience not just on the hook, but enjoying hanging there.

The writer and director know this is trash, but it’s never allowed to be messy. Instead, its carefully packed into securely tied garbage bags and placed neatly on the suburban curb. What happens to it after that is someone else’s problem.

Interview: Kill the Messenger Director Michael Cuesta

kill-the-messenger-postermichael cuestaIn 1996 the San Jose Mercury News published (in print and on the nascent World Wide Web) a series of investigative articles entitled “Dark Alliance” by journalist Gary Webb.

In the articles, Webb stated that in the ’80s the CIA not only supported cocaine smuggling out of Nicaragua in order to fund its clandestine war against the Sandinista Government, but the Agency also turned a blind eye to the spread of the Los Angeles crack epidemic.

Soon after its publication, other newspapers, including the Washington Post, The New York Times, and the Los Angeles Times began attacking Webb’s story, trying to poke holes and discredit his reporting.

A passion project of its star and producer, Jeremy Renner, the new drama Kill the Messenger follows both Webb’s investigative legwork and publishing triumph and his subsequent fall from grace as his character and integrity are attacked by both the CIA and other news organizations. The gripping film is not so much about vast, shadowy conspiracies, but a view from within an individual of the self-destructive cost of a personal, passionate pursuit of the truth. (Webb’s claims would eventually be vindicated by a 1998 CIA report, and in the 2000s, several of the newspapers that had attacked him and his story published mea culpas.)

kill_the_messenger_4_largeStarring Renner as Webb and written by Peter Landesman (based on Webb’s own 1998 book Dark Alliance and Nick Schou’s 2006 book about Webb, Kill the Messenger), the film Kill the Messenger is directed by Michael Cuesta, whose work includes the 2001 feature film L.I.E., extensive directing duties on Six Feet Under, Dexter, and an Emmy for Homeland).

The film also features Michael Sheen, Andy Garcia, Ray Liotta, Barry Pepper, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Rosemarie DeWitt, Paz Vega, Oliver Platt, Richard Schiff, and Michael K. Williams.

I spoke with Cuestra last month in Chicago about his film, working with Renner, and how he went about telling the real Gary Webb’s story.

Kill the Messenger opens this weekend in select cities.

___________

 

The interesting thing about Webb’s story is that it wasn’t so much the CIA that tried to crush him as it was other newspapers.

Michael Cuestra: The CIA is part of it, but it’s much more about other journalists, the papers, and the bigger media monster that was created in the ‘80s, when it became more for-profit.

kill-the-mes-6All those papers that wrote disparaging stories poking holes in Gary’s investigation didn’t print the story when it should have been investigated in the ‘80s.

So I saw it as those papers being really jealous that they missed the scoop or were afraid or were diverted and they didn’t dig. So it took a guy like Gary at a smaller paper that wasn’t really part of that conglomerate.

This took place in the early years of the Web, when everyone thought it would really open up investigative journalism. Instead, the film feels almost like a eulogy for investigative journalism.

Cuestra: Gary and the Mercury were the first to use the Internet, using it for that story. It was Gary’s idea to do that, letting the readers into his notebook and all his sources. Gary was very much a watchdog and was encouraged to dig as deep as he could. They brought him to San Jose because he had a reputation of going after corruption and government scandal. He was hired to do exactly that.

The film does have a swan-song feeling for investigative reporting. I did approach it like that. We don’t have those guys anymore, and I wanted to present Gary as kind of rock star with that cock-of-the-walk swagger. He was the end of an era.

But he was also really a stickler for detail, spending hours at night going through archives and old files. He checked everything—he was that guy. Especially in the first half of the film, I wanted to get that rhythm, of the cop on the beat. I approached it almost like a procedural.

killthemessenger-firstlook1-fullThat’s the challenge of a journalism movie, like any film about writing–you might have a big story and big themes, but you still have to figure out how to show the legwork, the research, and the actual writing.

Cuestra: That was tough, but it was obviously my job. The original script didn’t have the writing process, so I wanted that moment of catharsis when after all his investigation, he finally gets to sit down and write the story.

I added that scene in, where he sits down and puts on The Clash and gets to writing. He was a rock guy, and you can see his excitement for writing; he’s making the painting. I wanted to bring the audience into that process and make it exciting.

How did you and Renner go about creating a character version of Webb that was compelling on the screen but still true to the real-life person?

Cuestra: It’s really about two film-making techniques.

For me, I want to make the character as complex and real as possible. It’s not about being entertaining, but being completely truthful in the scene and not over-characterizing anything. I’d worked with Jeremy before, so we could work together to make his performance real and not just a character.

messengerThen as a film maker you work to structure the film as a dramatic piece, using the real-life facts as story beats—for example Gary getting this mysterious call from this woman, Coral Baca (Vega), that sends the story off to the races.

That’s the way you put a movie together—once you have the performance, it’s my job to structure it, subtly, to figure out the movement of it all. Get his performance into the path of the story beats, where the story needs to go.

For example, the third act of the movie slows down a little bit because Gary goes into Purgatory, getting further and further away. He’s alone in this. I always wanted the film to come from him and his point of view.

How do you then capture that intention through visual style and camerawork?

Cuestra: It’s the subjectivity of it; it’s from inside, it’s his story and what happens to him as a result of his investigation. That was always the intent, to keep the camera on his shoulders, so to speak. The camera should reflect his feeling.

So the first half is more optimistic; it’s looser, scrappier, focused on Gary. That was a conscious effort by myself and my Director of Photography Sean Bobbit—we would discuss the script every morning and go through each scene.

Kill_the_Messenger_reviewThen the second half of the film gets bigger as a bigger thing is imposed onto Gary, and the film and the camera becomes more omniscient. There’s something else surrounding Gary that’s way more powerful than him, so the swagger starts to get stripped away and he starts to get lost in an open ocean, in uncharted waters.

The battlefield gets wider and wider, and I put more and more space on the screen—he’s alone. He knows he’s going there, and he chooses to go there.

It’s Gary’s journey, and the film has to tell his story as best it can. It’s all about getting the audience to feel what it’s like to carry that burden; that drive and passion to get at the truth. And the cost of it, the sacrifice.

Interview: The Guest Star Dan Stevens, Writer Simon Barrett, and Director Adam Wingard

cropped guestthe-guest-poster-exclusiveA few years ago, director Adam Wingard and his creative partner, writer Simon Barrett began intriguing horror fans with low-fi, often deftly deconstructive and ironic films like the mumblecore serial-killer flick A Horrible Way to Die, the V/H/S horror anthologies, and last year’s terrific You’re Next.

While part of the mumblecore film un-movement with pals Joe Swanberg, Amy Seimetz, and Ti West, Wingard and Barrett have been inching toward the mainstream. Their latest is The Guest, about a mysterious military vet who, upon returning from an unnamed present-day war, ingratiates himself into the still-grieving family of a fallen comrade.

British Downton Abbey star Dan Stevens plays David, a seeming drifter who turns out to be as deadly as he is charming, masterfully manipulating the emotions of the mourning Peterson family (Shelia Kelly and Leland Orster as the parents, Maika Monroe and Brendan Meyer as their teenage children). Lean, smart and sure-handed, The Guest is an often darkly amusing, clear-eyed, cold-hearted action-thriller.

Another writer and I sat down with Wingard, Stevens, and Barrett last week in Chicago. Our long, free-wheeling chat covered the film’s obvious ’80s genre influences, the British tradition of truly dark satiric comedy, and how to fulfill audiences’ entertainment expectations while still creating something layered and ironically subversive.

The Guest opens in theaters everywhere today.

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Adam, you’ve mentioned you were inspired to make this after watching the original Halloween and The Terminator back to back. How do you walk that line between ’80s homage and imitation?

Adam Wingard: The important thing for us was to inhabit that headspace of ‘80s films. The zeitgeist of the time period created that kind of undefinable ‘80s aesthetic. You can’t put it into words, but you can apply elements of it to a story like this, that doesn’t take place in the ‘80s.

The type of storytelling we’re doing aligns itself with that same thing. I don’t want to create an ‘80s parody—I want the movie to exist beyond that reference point, but I want that to influence your enjoyment on another level. But the film is centered on characters and story—the ‘80s style stuff just accentuates that.

guest_2_largeYou mentioned Jason Zinoman’s great book Shock Value which put the rise of ‘70s horror films in the cultural context of post-Vietnam. Is that something you were conscious of when setting your film in our current Iraq/Afghanistan era?

Simon Barrett: We wanted to make a film that had the tone and energy of the movies we grew up with and were inspired by, but we didn’t want to do an imitation of that because that would be lazy. So it was about finding what the modern version of that is.

Our cultural anxiety now is about the fact we’re entering this new terrorism-based endless war, so we wanted to comment on things but not be too on the nose about it. If you make a film with a strong political statement, unfortunately the only people who will see it are those predisposed to agree with that statement, which is how our society consumes media right now.

We want our movies to have layers to them. I don’t want to make a film you have to see twice to get it—we’re not our friend Shane Carruth. We tend watch the films we enjoy again and again, so we try to make films that reward that with layers and subtext. We don’t ever want to make a film that’s not saying something, but it’s about finding that balance.

If you want to come to a movie and have a good time, we’ll deliver that. But if you’re interested in going deeper, I would hope all our films have something to say. So we are interested in our current endless battles in the Middle East and our relationship with the military industrial complex, and what’s going on now with ISIS, but we made it not very specific in the film.

Wingard: Everyone assumes he’s come back from Iraq, but we don’t really say. We saw him more as part of a peripheral special forces unit involved in wars you’ll never hear about.

Like all those secret wars Jeremy Skahill covers in the book and film Dirty Wars.

Barrett: I saw that documentary in theaters, but how many other people did? So that’s the problem—how do you reach those people? How do you reach people whom Dirty Wars would have really educated?

Dan Stevens: By not being specific about the conflict, it enabled us to slightly cut loose.

Wingard: We’re not thinking about our nation’s current predicament. It’s not saying one war is bad and the other ones are okay. It’s more about the general misguided military industrial complex agenda. So hopefully people will see The Guest who maybe wouldn’t plop down the same amount of money to see Dirty Wars, and if they want to, they can get something out of it, and if not, they don’t have to.

Barrett: We want to make movies for audiences, first and foremost. We don’t make movies for ourselves, but we make movies that we would enjoy.

1407781768851_wps_3_The_Guest_2_jpgThere’s certainly some very dark humor.

Wingard: Our take on humor is we try to avoid obvious deconstructive humor that comes with horror or action movies. It seems like either you get a straight-forward genre picture or you get one that supposedly is reverse-engineering the genre, taking it apart and being self-referential. We’re being self-referential, but in a low-key way that is not plot-based, but based more in the stylization and tone and aesthetics of the film.

There are no actual jokes in the film. It’s more about the situation that Simon creates and Dan brings to life. It becomes funny because we in the audience see the absurdity of it and watch the characters deal with that absurdity. By making those characters as real as possible—or at least a stylized version of real—it allows the viewer to project themselves on that situation, and it becomes funny.

Barrett: We don’t just treat our characters as stereotypes that are gonna get murdered. We try to make them feel real in how humans actually interact and speak. It’s not that we don’t have empathy for all our characters—we know who they are. It’s not just characters lining up in a row to get slaughtered. We take our characters quite seriously.

As for whether our sense of humor culturally is getting darker, when you look at the style of humor practiced created online at places like 4Chan and Reddit is in some ways darker, but is it really darker than say Brass Eye or Blackadder? I don’t think it’s getting darker, I just think the mainstream goes in waves. And right now we’re culturally feeling more cynical for good reasons.

Stevens: I want to note that the two cultural references you used were British. We’ve always paved the way. [Laughs]

Barrett: In terms of dry humor, that’s very true.

Stevens: I was very psyched that Adam and Simon had heard of Chris Morris who did Four Lions and a lot of very dark television in the UK in the mid-to-late-‘90s, like this show called Jam.

x99oqP4Dan, you have a background in stand-up comedy?

Stevens: I did a lot of student stand-up, every Tuesday night for three years, but I had no ambitions to be a stand up. I enjoyed it as a discipline to make myself write something five minutes long each week to make my friends life. It was usually a smoky digestion of the week’s happening. It was a great chance to gather and make your words work.

You know immediately doing comedy if what you’ve written is effective because people are laughing or they’re not. If you’re doing a very intense dramatic monologue, you go outside and see your friends either weeping or embarrassed and shuffling off to the car park, pretending they half enjoyed it. I had no aspirations to be comedian, but it’s been very nice to recently reconnect to some of those lines.

You certainly play David with some very subtle, deadpan comic reactions.

Stevens: Let’s go back to Chris Morris. A lot of the performances in his work are very, very straight. They’re barely knowing. Those actors are able to trend a very fine line between ridiculous absurd extreme comedy and a very bleak, dark truth to a scene. Context is key, especially with Adam and Simon’s work.

You’re Next made me laugh, especially [You’re Next spoiler alert!] in A.J. Bowen’s monologue at the end, where it’s revealed the whole affair has been part of some middle-class aspiration to make a little money and have a honeymoon in Paris. To me, that’s so bleakly funny, coming deep in an economic recession.

The Guest has a similar take on global politics, while digesting all those muscle-bound action movies of the ‘80s. For example, some of the ways my character is objectified in the film are perversely funny in that context.

Dan, last night you mentioned two of my favorite films, Lindsey Anderson’s If… and O Lucky Man!

Stevens: If… was another influence we talked about. If… predated the Terminators and the Halloweens—it really had this wonderfully anarchic sense of cool violence, which at the time must have been extremely shocking. That unapologetic, blithe take on destruction.

And Malcolm McDowell was clearly delighting in that role. As an actor, there’s nothing I enjoy more than seeing another actor really enjoy the shit out of his work, on stage or screen. You see it with Kurt Russell in Big Trouble in Little China or Uma Thurman in Kill Bill—they’re clearly having such a good time. I always dreamed of an equally good time in a role like that and managed to achieve it with David in The Guest.

the-guest-dan-stevensHow do you continue to explore these genre films while keeping in mind your audience’s expectations?

Wingard: You’re Next was the first time we’d tried to do a film that was paced and executed in a more audience-friendly way.

In the past because I was working on such a low-budget scale, the only way I was able to make a movie interesting and surpass the low budget was to distract the audience with a lot of experimental film-making techniques. You’re Next was the first time I consciously decided to use more conventional cinematic language and not rely on a lot of weird gimmicks. I figured out a lot of things, but hadn’t refined them yet.

The Guest is a progression from You’re Next in terms of refining those techniques and trying to make a very tight movie. Even though it has a very serious subject and comes out of this family’s mourning and depression, it was a challenge to have fun with it. Our first film, A Horrible Way to Die with AJ Bowen, was similar in that the villain is also the hero of the story.

That’s the exciting challenge with The Guest, too, in creating a character that would conflict its audience. You know he’s trouble, but there are good things, entertaining things about him. Even when the shit really hits the fan and goes past the point of no return, you still can’t help but enjoy the stuff Dan’s doing.

To do that we accelerated the genre elements and the acting and had a lot of fun with the performance, while still keeping it grounded. We knew we had to earn it to get to that point. I would never say The Guest takes place in reality, but there is a consistent reality that we create. It was important to set that up and be able to knock it down.

Dan, how did you flesh out David, balancing his charm and intense menace?

Stevens: “Charm” is a word that came up a lot early on in terms of how we play the audience’s sympathies. I certainly enjoy sitting down with a movie that says, “I’ve got a crazy thing to show you. It’s the freakiest thing you’ve ever seen.” So we needed to establish that from the get-go and not lead you down any dead ends. The charm has to get David in the door and win over the family. Then how far can you run with that charm before people start questioning what you’re up to?

Wingard: We didn’t want to beat around the bush. You know going in that there’s something off about this guy, so there’s no reason to disguise it. We want to assure you that we’re gonna take it slow at first, but as soon as we get it going it’ll be non-stop. That’s always interesting to figure out—how much to show early on. I really feel you have to earn those insane scenes later.

Barrett: You have to respect your audience’s intelligence, too. Know that they’re savvy enough to get where you’re going, so you can skip some of that stuff, do some shorthand, and get to the fun stuff. We always wanted Dan’s character to be likable in a movie way rather than a real-world way. In the real world, he’s terrifying. So it’s about exploring that tension and transforming it as the film goes on.

GuestThere’s also that sociopathic aspect to how David behaves differently with each of them.

Barrett: One of the original goals with the story when I first started coming up with it is that David would find what was missing in people’s lives and become that.

Wingard: We talked about “The Monkey’s Paw” early on.

Barrett: Bob Clark made the film Deathdream, which is a more literal Vietnam-war interpretation of “The Monkey’s Paw.” Wishing for something and getting it, but then your wish is fulfilled in a violent, dark way that’s ultimately horrific. That’s a universally appealing story.

This is often a full-on action film—was that fun to do?

Wingard: The thing that I was really looking forward to doing was to finally do a major shootout sequence. Growing up, the real reason I wanted to make movies was mainly action films. I didn’t get into horror until I was 18 or 19. I had watched a lot of horror when i was younger, but it wasn’t my thing until later.

I grew up idolizing people like Robert Rodriguez—his book Rebel Without a Crew is my Bible—I read it many times in high school. That book influenced my approach to directing, where you gotta learn every aspect of filmmaking, because why not be the best that you can be? I’ve always loved John Woo movies too, and I’d never had the chance or the budget to be able to do a big shootout, so that was really exciting for me.

Stevens: Getting the action-comedy beats as well, bringing it back to the funny as a performer. That’s something I wish we had gone a little further with and hopefully will in future projects, but that sense of having a big action sequence that has those little “aw, fuck!” beats.

Wingard: That’s what a lot of action is missing nowadays. You don’t have enough close-ups of characters, getting their reactions to what is going on. We had a lot of fun when Dan gets shot in the middle of a shootout, and he acts just totally annoyed by it.

Stevens: It’s more of an inconvenience than an injury.

Wingard: I always loved that in the Indiana Jones movies. Those close ups of Harrison Ford looking terrified at his impending doom in those little moments really sell the action more than the spectacle does. I have a lot of big problems with major action films—you look at the Iron Man movies—they feel like these well-orchestrated [computer graphic] animatics that have been brought to reality. But they’re so overly complicated, I just don’t connect with them at all.

Barrett: It never feels like anything’s really at stake.

The GuestYou’ve mentioned taking an ironic approach to violence. How do you differentiate between violence in the service of horror versus heroism?

Barrett: I think that’s one of the themes of The Guest. Initially when you see Dan’s character be violent, it’s giving authority figures and bullies their comeuppance.

Stevens: It’s in the service of good.

Barrett: It’s very movie-likable violence; it’s very entertaining violence. But some of the violence later in the film is much darker in tone. We wanted to show a violent character and that his behavior later in the movie, when he is killing characters you like as opposed to characters you dislike, is entirely consistent from the start. For David, it’s the same motivations.

Stevens: It’s context and also the vocabulary of violence and the different application of it. We say yes it’s fine to get revenge on high-school bullies, but there are things that happen later in the movie that really stretch the audience’s sympathies in quite an interesting and challenging way.

Barrett: That’s the idea; to show the consequences of violence, even in a heightened, ridiculous way. There’s a humor to it, but the humor comes from pathos, and we needed to play that correctly. We show that Dan’s character is so formidable and so powerful… For example, I’ve always liked that in The Terminator, Arnold Schwarzenegger is so much more intimidating than Linda Hamilton in that movie, and he still is using this massive firearm against her, and it feels almost cruel and terrifying.

I’m so tired of people cheering a “cool” death.

Wingard: That’s just fan service pandering. It goes beyond just the deaths; I don’t like the idea of pandering to your audience in general. Everything should be based on story and characters, it should never be based on cool ideas and concepts. That comes later; that’s what you fit in after you’ve structured everything correctly. And that’s what separates a parody from a real movie.

The Skeleton Twins: (Sad) Funny Bones

hr_The_Skeleton_Twins_1The Skeleton Twins feels so clichéd “indie” that it almost folds over into meta. That’s not entirely a bad thing—at least we’ve reached the point where delicately essayed indie-feelin’ films about human people not wearing superhero costumes or trying to blow each other up are created and appreciated often enough to be criticized for familiar sameness.

As directed by Craig Johnson from a script he co-wrote with Mark Heyman, the hyped hook for the quirky dram-com The Skeleton Twins (there’s much more dram than com) is that it reunites former SNL cast mates Kristen Wiig and Bill Hader as formerly estranged twins Maggie and Milo—except now the comic actors are super-mopey instead of super-funny!

Sorry, that came off much more dismissive than I intended. Fact is, Wiig and Hader are both terrific in The Skeleton Twins, as are Luke Wilson and Ty Burrell as their supporting, “complicated” love interests. The film itself chronicles the melan-comic emotional mishaps that befall Maggie and Milo as they’re forced back together in adulthood by their mutual suicidal tendencies, and it’s all plenty enjoyable in a nice rainy-afternoon-with-Morrissey way.

Skeleton-Twins-WiigWiig has proven her dramedy chops before in films like All Good Things, Friends With Kids, and even the more emotionally honest bits of Bridesmaids. Hell, her 2012 SNL farewell, serenaded with “Ruby Tuesday” by Mick Jagger, is one of the lovelier bittersweet moments in the show’s recent history. If anything, Skeleton Twins reminds you that Wiig’s eyes’ default setting is a sad and weary skepticism—like many Wiig characters both comic and dramatic, Maggie’s long since seen through the “happy princess” lies of real life, but chooses to cling to them out of an emotional survival instinct.

So this time it’s Hader who’s getting the big “who knew he could really act?!” huzzahs. I suppose we’re still at the point—at least in the land of this sort of semi-lazy Indie film—where the gayness of gay characters is considered a “character trait.” Hader will no doubt score Oscar-buzz points for playing the sassy, self-deprecating, self-loathing complexities of Milo’s flamboyant, sometimes flailing homosexuality. (If a little Stefon outrageousness occasionally slips through, Hader deftly weaves the camp into the character.)

theskeletontwins1But under all the irony, the achievement of his performance is in playing a complicated human being opposite Wiig’s equally complicated straight human being. Because American pop culture primarily feels, accurately or not, that depression is best defined through romantic failings, The Skeleton Twins spends much of its narrative time and energy on Maggie and Milo’s broken and dysfunctional romantic relationships. Maggie serially self-shames by cheating on her loving, doting dolt of a husband (Wilson); and soon after Milo’s melodramatic, self-pitying cry-for-help suicide attempt, he revisits a former high-school English teacher (Burrell) who he was involved with as a teen.

But it’s in the brother-sister scenes between Maggie and Milo that the film finds its best moments and its strongest emotional beats, showing how, as youth, Maggie and Milo developed a symbiotic survival system in the wake of their father’s own suicide. Most of that survival system centers on making each other laugh, as evidenced in scenes of them collapsing in mutual giggles while snorting nitrous or of Milo coaxing Maggie into joining him in lip-synching to Starship’s super-cheese Mannequin theme “Nothing’s Going to Stop Us Now.”

140911_MOV_SkeletonTwins.jpg.CROP.promo-mediumlargeThat last bit is probably the film’s most memorable, not just for the joyous silliness it (cheaply) milks out of stubborn sadness, but because if as a culture we can agree on little else, we still share a not-so-ironic love of ridiculous ‘80s pop anthems. (The scene also gives Wiig a near-transcendently sweet moment as Maggie first resists then finally, gloriously gives into Milo’s relentlessly earnest stupidity.) But it also helps us see how the siblings helped each other built walls of snarky humor around their pain and how fragile and weak both of them are when those walls crumble.

The problem with The Skeleton Twins is that all that sweetness and sadness and those nicely essayed performances are served up in a formulaic script that never met a modern Indie-film cliché it didn’t embrace and render trite. With quirky emotional awkwardness as its driving aesthetic, the film paints its themes with a mighty broad brush. For example, given that their father killed himself jumping off a bridge, the film’s use of water and skeleton metaphors would elicit eye rolls from a seventh-grade Language Arts class. (Whenever someone’s really upset they break an empty aquarium, leaving goldfish to literally die out of water.)

The-Skeleton-Twins-bill-hader-kristen-wiig-3As good as the film is at showing how Maggie and Milo survived by stitching their broken selves together with morbid, self-cutting humor, it has little genuine or insightful to say about the actual broken parts. Too often substituting cliché for emotional complexity, The Skeleton Twins leaves Wiig and Hader to spin their characters’ darker struggles from whole cloth. The actors succeed to an admirable degree, but ultimately the film seems to use suicidal depression as a plot device, an expression of frustration rather than honestly exploring the subject.

Like the skeletons of its title (and its persistent visual motif), the film feels like a collection of parts—even if several are meaty ones for its actors.

Interview: Love is Strange Writer-director Ira Sachs

Ira+Sachs+Love+Strange+Portraits+2014+Sundance+egz9I3z81frlLOVE-IS-STRANGE-final-smallAt first blush, Love is Strange, independent writer and director Ira Sachs’ sixth feature, feels Woody-Allen familiar:

Gentle piano music plays; a nattily dressed couple (Alfred Molina’s George and John Lithgow’s Ben) lovingly bicker; and diverse but attractive characters gather to sing songs in a perfectly appointed New York apartment.

But Love is Strange quickly reveals itself to be so much more than those initial, surface impressions, becoming a beautifully observed and nuanced character study that weaves its way honestly and often humorously around issues of love, marriage, and family.

Soon after George and Ben are finally legally married after 40 years of partnered “marriage,” their cozy life together is upended by the institutional narrow-mindedness of George’s employer (a Catholic prep school) and the vicious financial realities of NYC rent.

Unable to find new, affordable housing together, George is stuck on a neighbor’s couch while Ben moves in with his nephew’s family (Darren E. Burrows, Marisa Tomei, and Charlie Tahan). As George struggles to find quiet and sleep amid hard-partying younger couples, Ben’s presence further upsets his nephew’s already strained marriage and his grand-nephew’s adolescent angst over love and sex.

I spoke with Ira Sachs a few weeks ago about Love is Strange.

Love is Strange opens Friday, August 29 at select theaters.

__________

love-is-strange_612x380The film pleasantly surprised me by going in different thematic directions than I anticipated. Did you purposefully set out to defy the audience’s narrative expectations?

Ira Sachs: No. My job is to be a good storyteller. I’m always interested in good characters, good drama, and humor—stuff about the way we live intimately with each other.

My modus operandi is when you make a film you’re actually on some level a personal historian–you’re documenting something. You want to get the details right and you want to be sensitive and timely. More deeply, I hope it’s about things that are very personal to an audience.

It’s about both realistic and idealistic notions of love, but also about love and relationships between friends and family members.

Sachs: “Love” is a very big word. I started writing this in the spring of 2012 with my co-writer Mauricio Zacharias. At the time I was moving from living alone in an apartment to living with my husband, our two kids, the kids’ mother, and occasional visiting family members. So I was in a perfect spot to consider the ways in which love and family intertwine within a household.

9To me, the film is very much a multi-generational story about love from a variety of perspectives. You have this older couple, Alfred and John, and you have Marisa Tomei, who is very much a woman in the middle of her life trying to figure out what she is allowed and what she should expect in terms of herself and her relationships, and then you have this kid, Joey played by Charlie Tahan, who is experiencing love for the very first time. So I think people find different points of identification in this film that touch them in different ways.

Given the change in your living situation while writing it, are the sections with Marisa Tomei’s character trying to write with Ben always around based on semi-autobiographical frustrations?

Sachs: Certainly, but Marisa talked to two friends of mine who are novelists but also mothers and wives, and who are trying to keep that creative balance. I think balance is something you struggle with. What was nice and lucky for me was to have these actors who are also sometimes comic actors, so they had skills other actors who might have played these roles may not have had. It’s to the advantage of the film that these people see the humor in life.

That’s the beauty of the film—there’s a buoyancy to the performances that keeps it from getting pulled down into melodrama.

LOVE-IS-STRANGESachs: That’s a good word, buoyancy. It helps to create an atmosphere. I don’t actually rehearse my actors before we start shooting. I want to create theater, so it’s strategically helpful to have them know their lines and the script, but then at the same time allow a level of emotional improvisational happening on set that leads to unexpected reactions.

It’s such a character-driven film—I was impressed by how Ben and George are such very different people. Often in film, long-married couples get blandly written as “twins,” two mirror halves of the marriage, with few deep emotional differences.

Sachs: The last pass of the script really refined the differences between these two characters. George is more of the caretaker while Ben is less aware of stuff. There is a kind of airy quality to Ben—his head is in the clouds, but he’s also super connected to his work and creating art. We refined these elements in that process.

And then you add in Alfred and John who are very different people. The film tries to pay attention to their differences while looking at what they’ve created historically with each other over a 40-year marriage, which is really what the film is centered on–it’s the story of marriage; not the act, but the thing itself. As John says, it’s a film with one lead: the marriage.

George is more inward and comfortable in quiet, solitude, where Ben is social and chatty.

love-is-strange-john-lithgow-600x400Sachs: But Ben’s also self-aware, which is a really nice quality. In certain ways he’s seemingly unaware, but what Lithgow reveals is that Ben’s actually paying really close attention.

A lot of us do that in terms of how we look at our families, particularly our parents. We sometimes see them as characters that are not actually the centers of their own marriages. As a parent and a child, it’s very hard for any of us to accept that other people are writing their own stories–we think they’re part of our stories.

At one point, George warns a music student of over-romanticizing an already Romantic piece. Did you deliberately try to avoid romantic and “Romantic” tropes in the film?

Sachs: I just try to be attentive to how the world is and what I observe in human relationships. At the same time, it’s cinema and you want to make something that’s exceptional in a creative way. My goal is that of the neo-realists: to make the ordinary extraordinary. There’s something very epic about all our lives, but you need to channel that in a very detailed way. It’s done by being accurate and precise with your tools–you can do both those things; create something that is very real but also has beauty.

Without giving anything away, I just love the film’s closing shot—that’s a place where you did seem to nicely tip over into a more epic, larger-than-life idealistic statement.

molina21f-2-webSachs: I really love films that have an open quality. Music has that quality, which is why I chose Chopin for the score. It’s an art that tells you enough but not too much. You want the conclusion to be something the audience can take with them and reflect on. That last moment of the film is a point of reflection.

It’s funny, there’s a story about that final scene. I had hired a girl who said she could skateboard for that shot, but when she got to the set that day, it was clear she couldn’t. And we were standing on the street trying to work this out when I saw a pony-tail go by really fast on a skateboard.

I pointed her out to our producer Jay Van Hoy, and he ran after her, followed her for three blocks in the West Village, caught up with her as she was going down the stairs to the subway, and tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Hey, you wanna be in a movie?” That’s the girl in the film. That’s the kind of accident you hope for when making a movie, especially in New York, where you’re trying to capture the ineffable and magical.

It’s also a nifty metaphor for love and how it ignores any rational plans.

Sachs: You have to know yourself very well to take advantage of those shifts. That’s something I really admire about Ben and George. I think I understand that more personally in my life now then I did the past 30 years. By knowing who I am, I have a better sense of how to love

embed-ira-sachs-love-is-strangeThat’s let me create a movie that has a real optimism about it and about being open to other people, to each other, and to connecting in deep ways. That’s a really impressive way to live your life; to have both humility and confidence. That’s what makes people want to be around Ben and George.

There’s also that sense of the idea of love—and all its complexity—being passed to the next generation. There’s a sense of education, of George and Ben teaching through example.

Sachs: Yes, to me the film is about education. We all are teaching somebody something. What do we impart as institutions, as educators, as parents, as lovers, as part of a family? That collective education is partly what the film is about.

Who Guards Against the Guardians of the Galaxy?

hr_Guardians_of_the_Galaxy_46Let’s be clear at the start: I enjoyed The Guardians of the Galaxy. Quite a bit, thank you. I had much of the good-times happy smiles with it, and I laughed a whole lot, often heartily and with great joy. It’s a totally entertaining lark (with a bit of heart), and if you like fizzy, funny, sci-fi action and you haven’t already, you should probably go see it—you’ll have a nice late-summer blast.

Keep that in mind, because later in this piece, it’s going to increasingly seem like I did not like Guardians of the Galaxy; that I blame it for some very bad things. Not true. Remember: Liked it. Had fun.

Of course you knew I was going to have a big “But…” However, after catching a second viewing of Guardians last night, I will say my “But…” is smaller than before.

I don’t think I need to tell you guys that I increasingly have issues with big-studio, big-budget, big-action, big-CGI, big-franchise, big-box-office blockbusters. Often that’s because the films that get shoved off that particular production line start to all feel the same: all just slightly above mediocre, all carefully packaged so you don’t so much notice the mediocrity but instead smile contentedly, dazzled by all the sparkly familiarity.

But several times a year there are big, expensive, VFX-laden, hyper-marketed tent-pole genre films that frustrate me more because as they suffer for their formulaic bloat, I see down inside them the smart, compelling films they could have been if they weren’t birthed through a studio-committee process intent on sanding off any edgy or unconventional originality that might hurt ticket sales in a key demographic. (Last year it was World War Z; earlier this summer it was Godzilla.)

la_ca_0415_guardians_of_the_galaxy_006In that respect, Guardians of the Galaxy bothers me more than most, even as I delighted in watching it more than most. Seeing it the first time, I could almost literally feel the two halves of my conflicted film-going soul separating and floating out to each side, like Angelic Pinto and Demonic Pinto on Tom Hulce’s shoulders.

I watched in utter, giddy glee as Chris Pratt’s “aw jeeze” space-rogue Peter Quill danced and lip-synced to Redbone’s “Come and Get Your Love;” I laughed constantly at the non-stop bickering between Quill and his misfit bad of cosmic screw ups as they fly around… um, fighting some bad people to keep them from getting a thing that does something something purple energy.

I was charmed by the film’s sweet idea of found family; I marveled (no pun intended at all) at the comedic, anarchic drop-ins director James Gunn and his co-writer Nicole Perlman peppered the film with (delivered almost perfectly by Pratt and his co-stars Zoe Saldana, Dave Bautista, Bradley Cooper, and yes, Vin Diesel in his best performance since The Iron Giant).

But through all that summer cinematic party time, a part of me was frustrated that I had to dig all those happy moments out of what still felt like a big, dumb, lumbering franchise film weighted down by all the usual unnecessary CGI and over-long action scenes that studios insist mainstream audiences want, must have in their “blockbusters.”

guardians_of_the_galaxy_02In a film as effervescently irreverent as Guardians, all that extra… stuff… feels all that more intrusive so I resent it even more. This is a film about anti-authority types, made by an anti-authority director, but within the confines and sometimes stifling weight of big-studio, franchise blockbuster machine.

Director James Gunn—whose past films include the grinning B-movie gross-out Slither and the much darker, meaner costumed-hero satire Super—is a silly subversive at heart. (Not for naught did he get his start writing for Troma Films.) But while I give Gunn (and Pratt) much of the credit for everything I loved about Guardians, it feels like he had to push his way into and through the film, asserting his winning style through whatever chinks in the proscribed formula he could find.

(In the same way, Joss Whedon had to force himself around all the sharp structural corners and clunky narrative barricades of The Avengers—a film I once loved and still adore, but one that, with each subsequent viewing, works best as a strung together series of great and often hilarious character moments rather than an entire film.) (And given his experience with writing scruffy crews of space outlaws—Browncoats unite!—I wouldn’t be surprised if Joss took an un-credited swipe or two at the Guardians script.)

guardians_of_the_galaxy_01Lest you think I’m over-romanticizing the plight of the original-minded writer-director working in the new Marvel/Disney super-verse, remember that earlier this summer Edgar Wright (co-creator of films like Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, Scott Pilgrim Vs the World, and last year’s World’s End) was dismissed from his writer-director duties on Marvel/Disney’s Ant Man mere weeks before shooting was set to start.

The exact dynamics of that parting remain cloaked in “he said/they said” legal non-disclosure-land, but the gist of it was that Wright, working for the first time with a major studio on a blockbuster franchise property, had turned in multiple drafts of a presumably Wright-ian script that did not conform closely enough to what is now Hallowed Marvel/Disney Superhero Blockbuster Law. Marvel/Disney wants creative voices, but those voices better stick to the hymnbook.

Gunn, like Whedon before him, walked the line, or rather he, like Quill, charm-danced his way down it. For example, there’s plenty of ‘80s fizz coursing through Guardians, from Quill’s treasured Walkman (filled with “Awesome” ‘70s pop rock) to Gunn’s clear affinity for Buckaroo Banzai, Big Trouble in Little China, and the animated Heavy Metal feature.

guardians-of-the-galaxy-Chris-Pratt1After all, who’s Pratt’s Peter Quill but the sad, lonely little boy who gets swept up into a world of space adventure and emerges 26 years later a grown-up cross between Jack Burton, Han Solo, and Andy Dwyer? What geek child didn’t dream of such a thing? (And yes, Chris Pratt is lovable, lunk-headed comic wonder, but then Parks and Rec fans have known that for years.)

There’s plenty more good stuff in Guardians, from hilarious performances by Saldana and Bautista to the endless soft-hearted charm of the Diesel-voiced tree creature Groot. And Marvel fan-boys and –girls can revel in a huge haul of comic-continuity nods: we meet the Kree, Ronan the Accuser, the Collector, Thanos, the Nova Corps, the Infinity Stones/Gems/Gauntlet, and even Cosmo the Russian Space Dog, and we take a stunning tour inside Knowhere, the outpost inside a dead Celestial’s skull. (We even see a little flashback to a Celestial in action.) Oh, and yes, there’s a certain foul/fowl Cleveland denizen who’s trapped in a world he never made.

gaurdians-of-the-galaxyBut if you want to see where Guardians both succeeds and shows its seams, where my Angelic Self hoots loudly even as my Demonic Self grimaces, look to its two most crowd-pleasing, non-Pratt elements: the CGI character of Rocket (voiced by Cooper) and the steady use of Quill’s beloved ‘70s tunes to create kitschy-cute ironic-earnest moments.

Rocket, a genetically engineered space raccoon with seriously sociopathic self-loathing identity issues, is the film’s buzz-hook: A cute, smack-talking critter that favors big guns and bigger bombs. And most of the time, with Cooper giving him a bit of a New Yawk ‘tude, he’s the riot he’s intended to be.

But as you watch Rocket’s antics, they can’t help but feel somewhat forced, stilted, as if to say, “Here you go; we know you’re gonna love this fuzzy little nutcase because we’ve carefully built our marketing campaign around the obvious, hilarious visual incongruity of a raccoon with a machine gun.” Yes, Rocket is amusing, but eventually you start to feel as though you’re laughing more at the idea of him, as if he’s more pull-string action toy than character.

Guardians-of-the-Galaxy-Trailer-Groot-Rocket-PrisonThe same dichotomy plays out with the toe-tapping ‘70s pop songs that spring up for musical-visual interludes every 10 minutes. I love ‘em—I’d gladly watch a 45-minute version of Guardians that’s just the song scenes. But I’m also aware Gunn goes to that well over and over and over again. It always works, but by the end you can’t help but warily feel a little manipulated for easy effect.

Lighter on its feet than most superhero action flicks, or at least as light on its feet as it can be while wearing the clunky anti-grav boots of big-studio franchise, Guardians of the Galaxy would have been twice as good if it were 20 minutes shorter, spent half as much on CGI, and cut down its action beats by two thirds. It doesn’t need all those things—the film’s greatest strengths are its cast and characters and their quips, and in its loose, lovably irreverent tone. All those charms are only slowed and diluted by extra-long fight and chase scenes. Except none such austerity in the face of two-hour overkill is allowed under the current blockbuster paradigm, currently executed most effectively by Marvel/Disney.

XXX GUARDIANS-GALAXY-MOV-JY-0704.JPG A ENTAs far as marketing and box office, as usual you have to stand in open-mouth appreciation at how well the Marvel and Disney hype machinery works. Over the course of the past year and especially the past few months, with a series of irreverent trailers set to those grin-inducing ‘70s tunes, they’ve made everyone—not just the fan-boys and geeks—not just want to see Guardians asap, but feel as if they had to.

Much about Guardians feels constructed to tap directly into fan-boys’ and -girls’ excitement not so much about Star-Wars-type space-adventure movies, but about their nostalgic memories of being excited about new summer action movies. And we are more than happy to participate in that symbiotic relationship. We love feeling like we have to be there opening day—yes, it takes us all back to the Good Old Summer Days when you arrived half a day ahead of time to stand in line for hours to see a Star Wars, Indiana Jones, or Batman movie. A part of us jumps at the opportunity to participate in the hype, no longer entirely sure how much of our enthusiasm is genuine and how much is being artificially goosed by the studio marketing department.

guardians_of_the_galaxy_03(I’ve heard a lot of praise tossed at Marvel/Disney for taking a “risk” on a film starring characters of which only a sliver of comics fans were previously aware. First, what does that say about “big” films these days? It’s a “risk” to make a movie that isn’t based on an already well-known property, franchise, character, game, or toy?

(Second, with the success of Marvel’s whole Avengers Phase One plan, they and Disney have a mammoth publicity platform on which to play. Sure, few people knew who the Guardians were a year ago—Dan Abnett and Andy Lanning rebooted the current comic-book version around the same time of the first Iron Man film—but once Marvel/Disney green-lit the project, they made sure to pre-sell it with furious purpose. It’s like a cupcake maker deciding to try a new cherry-licorice flavor, but first getting a guarantee to stock it from every 7-11 in the country.)

I know the main argument for Guardians—half of me makes it to my other half: Hey, we all had a wonderful time. What’s the problem? Why can’t we just have a little fun for a change? Because that’s not how it works in the real world. In the real world, every time Marvel and Disney’s impeccable movie-making process turns out another product (ranging from watchable to enjoyable); every time their marketing armies crank the fan-boy and –girl anticipation up to 11; and every time one of these films hits another box-office home run, the machine gets stronger, more determined, less flexible, more unstoppable.

And every time that happens, the fighting chances decrease of there being another Big Trouble in Little China or Buckaroo Banzai or Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World; of truly original and joyfully idiosyncratic genre films making it to big screens.

guardians_of_the_galaxy_ft-17415_r-dad80a6264839a6d7f064aac3a35b296eb13b545-s6-c30It’s easy to forget, nearly 40 years and five sequels and prequels and billions of merchandising sales later, that the first Star Wars was an independent film, rejected by nearly every studio, and—for better or worse—made with nothing but passion and blind devotion by a singularly obsessed creator.

Of course, the next Star Wars film is being currently made by Disney, which paid an Emperor’s sum to own the entire franchise for one reason and one reason only: The property potentially adds massive riches to the 2015 shareholders’ report.

I like Guardians of the Galaxy overall. I absolutely love many specific things about it. And that part of me is glad James Gunn made it. But that other part of me wants to believe that maybe James Gunn had—still has—his own even more subversive, more irreverent Star Wars-type obsessive film idea kicking around somewhere inside his creative mind. Something odd and original and full of rough edges and strange, satiric corners that don’t fit into a corporate franchise formula.

Two summers ago, director Colin Trevorrow and his writing partner Derek Connolly made a terrific little low-sci, low-budget quirkedy called Safety Not Guaranteed. When I talked to Trevorrow about the film, he was buzzing with ideas for future projects. Next summer (after having been on the short list to direct the new Star Wars sequel), Trevorrow is helming Jurassic Park 4, Jurassic World, co-written by Connolly, and starring none other than Chris Pratt.

I’m happy for Trevorrow’s big opportunity, and I hope it’s a terrific film and a great success for both him and Pratt—I have plenty of faith it can be. Maybe it’ll be the best Jurassic Park film yet. But if given a choice, I’d much rather have seen the small, personal, weird indie sci-fi film Trevorrow, Connolly, and Pratt might have made.

guardians_of_the_galaxy_04I can’t help but worry that the success of Guardians of the Galaxy further strengthens not just the Marvel/Disney factory but the studio-agreed-upon financial and creative blueprint for summer blockbusters, making it that much more unlikely that we’ll see Gunn’s quirky, passionate dream project—or Trevorrow’s, any other genre director’s.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go listen to “Come and Get Your Love” and picture Pratt’s joyous space sashaying for about the umptieth time today.

Interview: I Origins Writer-director Mike Cahill and Star Michael Pitt

i-origins-poster1Michael+Pitt+Mike+Cahill+Origins+Screening+2odjSkySYh8lThree years ago, writer-director Mike Cahill and his collaborator, writer-actress Brit Marling, helped lead a new sub-genre of science fiction with their breakout film Another Earth: intensely thoughtful and intelligent, smaller-budget films that aren’t afraid to raise complicated existential issues.

Cahill’s sophomore feature I Origins may have a somewhat larger budget and more expansive locales (including India) and an even richer visual palette, but Cahill, writing solo this time, doesn’t back off the Big Questions–instead, he dives in even deeper.

I Origins is the story of Ian Gray (Michael Pitt, Funny Games, The Dreamers, Boardwalk Empire), a molecular biologist specializing in ocular evolution. Around the same time Gray falls in love with Sofi, a highly spiritual young model (Astrid Bergès-Frisbey), he and his research partner Karen (Marling) also make a huge scientific breakthrough.

But a series of tragedies and coincidences eventually lead Gray down a path that challenges his adherence to scientific fact over spiritual faith and could change humanity’s understanding of its very existence.

Two other writers and I sat down with Cahill and Pitt a few weeks ago in Chicago to talk about the challenges they faced in making a film that enthusiastically and earnestly tackles tough fact vs. faith questions.

I Origins is playing now at select theaters.

_________

i-origins-image-michael-pitt-astrid-berges-frisbey-2[Michael Pitt joins us a few minutes late, just back from the gym.]

Michael, you were boxing? Is that something you do all the time, or is it preparation for a film?

Michael Pitt: I try to sweat a little bit. Sweating is good for the brain, I think. I’m a little addicted to it.

Cahill: How long does it take you to start sweating?

Pitt: If you know what you are doing, about three minutes. I can get you drenched. I’m lazy, so the reason I box is that I can get to that sweating in a few minutes. I don’t have time to work out for an hour and a half. Jump rope for three minutes and you will sweat.

I Origins asks and wrestles with some big questions about science, faith, love, and death. 

Mike Cahill: We ask questions, but we try to frame them in an interesting way. Since the dawn of civilization, humans have been trying to construct narratives that make us feel peaceful. We don’t ask questions with our films and leave it wide open—it’s very precise in that the audience members put themselves there, and put their beliefs on the table as well. That’s part of the experience.

The film makes you start to see art, religion, and science as organizing metaphors for the human condition.

Cahill: Totally. It’s how we understand it all. The existential task is that it’s our responsibility to give meaning to life, otherwise it’s fucking chaos. Whether that meaning is true or not, who cares?

3033077-inline-i-2-iris-scans-and-reincarnation-filmmaker-mike-cahill-spills-origins-story-for-i-originsThe film deals with those weighty subjects but never feels heavy-handed or pretentious.

Cahill: When wishing to tackle ideas that are universal, you are dancing on the delicate edge of pretension; right on the border. Post-modernism has taken hold of the arts; painting, photography, music. I think that since Warhol, postmodernism has defined a generation of hipster-ism and young people and cynicism and irony and cool in an ironic sense.

It’s very untouchable and delicious and wonderful—and it’s also a dead end. If you as an artist are interested in going to something sincere, earnest, and emotional, it’s risky.

Pitt: It takes a lot of courage, especially in my generation and the generation coming up right behind us. It’s like, have the balls to care about something and take something seriously. At the end of the day, what are you holding onto?

I feel everything is about being ironic. And a lot of times when I sit face to face with an artist who is doing that, I see someone who is afraid to be real. Do you know what I mean? It’s a scary thing to put yourself on display. It’s an easy thing to say you don’t care. It’s a brave thing to say, “This is important to me.” Because people are going to challenge that. And that’s okay.

film-review-i-origins-cee5fb04ad66884bCahill: You might have that breakthrough, where you make someone feel. It’s like gambling. You risk it to go there. It is dangerous. You’re saying, “This is meaningful, this endeavor is important.” Hopefully.

It’s captured in that difficult dance that one does. In the scene where Ian says, “Have you ever met someone who fills that hole inside of you and when they are gone, you feel painfully vacant,” and he’s being fucking sincere, and gets caught up in that moment and he gets knocked down. For me, that was important that he goes there, so that we can go there. If we just ended on that, we would not have gotten away with it.

When Karen says, “Maybe the eyes really are the window the soul.” And he says, “Soul? Is my wife really using the word ‘soul’” Again, if you ever allow your characters to step over the edge into earnestness and sincerity and something that means something and opening their hearts and are vulnerable, we allow them to do it with a chain so that we can pull them back quickly.

Pitt: With the Internet, like Twitter and Facebook, it’s about making comments, it’s all a joke, and no one is taking it seriously. And I have smart friends who are doing all of this silly stuff; making comments that don’t mean anything, and that is why they are interested—it’s stupid, or a joke.

You are spending hours of your time doing something that is kind of a silly thing that you don’t take seriously, like watching a silly reality show. I catch myself in it, too. And it becomes about watching a train wreck.

tumblr_mxl94k1ZxA1stf63po1_500I just think that a little seriousness is in order. I don’t think you should take yourself too seriously, but I am very interested when I see someone who is passionate about an idea and is going to put themselves out there knowing that it is going to be criticized. And that’s okay.

Sarcasm and irony is best when it is intellectual. There is definitely a place for that. And a lot of stuff that I did- you can reach a dead end where it is like, “What do you believe in? What are you talking about?”

Or are you just doing it to make a point or just score cheap, easy points.

Cahill: Like that scene in Children of Men where they carry the baby out in that long shot. It’s beautiful. That’s an earnest moment in a film. It’s so easy to quip at that. But (Alfonso Cuaron) is risking to get us to feel the power of birth and newness and a new soul and what that means and how essential that is.

Ian is rational to a fault, yet still searching for something, or at least open to it. It’s fascinating to watch him balance faith and fact, spirit and science. 

Cahill: I have to give it to Michael for constructing that character. Ian is a guy who believes in facts and the scientific method and testing things, and only at the end of that process will he believe in something. Yet he follows a bunch of numerical elevens to get on a bus. That doesn’t seem to make sense as a person on paper, but it somehow resonates with real life about a person who is 95% one thing and 5% something else.

013_aIO_02664.JPGIn constructing that character, we talked about it a lot; how there’s something itching at him, and there’s a resistance to it, but he knows it’s there. And part of his attraction to Sofi was that she saw that, and like a string coming out of a suit, she started pulling on it and the seams started unraveling.

So that’s engaging for me—the idea of taking a Dawkins-esque, resistant person who believes that religion is dangerous and putting them in a situation where love and fate are the only things they hold onto.

Michael, how did you prepare for the role on both the scientific and spiritual sides?

Pitt: Normally I’m a big fan of researching and the throwing it away. We were talking about boxing. When you train as a boxer, you’re practicing a punch in super slow motion. And you’re getting that muscle memory, so that when you get in the ring you don’t think about it.

Acting is very similar to that—repetition, repetition. Get those things inside of you, forget about them, so that when the director pushes you into this world, you react. Hopefully you’ve done your work before. It’s usually the best when it’s second nature. It’s very time consuming.

Cahill: I got to witness Michael go through that process. We went to Johns Hopkins University and learned how to extract DNA and whatnot. There is a rhythm to it and mannerism to like pipetting saline solution, and Michael said to the real scientists, “Don’t show me how to do it, just do it and let me observe you for a while.” And he just watched and sucked it up like sponge. So all the scientists who watch the move are blown away by that mannerism.

_MG_2508.CR2Michael, you’ve acted for an impressive list of directors, including Bernardo Bertolucci and Michael Haneke. How does working with Mike fit into your experiences?

Pitt: I’ve been blessed to be able to work closely with some great directors, but I’m now trying to actively work with filmmakers who understand where film’s going and are changing things. Mike definitely is a filmmaker like that—he’s trying to do difficult things. I don’t see that very often with new filmmakers.

Less experienced filmmakers, I find, either they get so tied to the script that they get lost and forget that cinema is about capturing the moment, or they are so loose that they have no vision. Whether Mike is aware of it or not, it’s amazing that he’s got both.

The two love stories in this film are very different. One is emotional and passionate, the other more pragmatic and mature. Did you intend the film to advocate one over the other?

Pitt: People usually think one or the other.

Cahill: It’s more revealing about yourself. Because the movie doesn’t take a side. It just presents them as two valid, beautiful types of love. And maybe it’s something that many of us potentially have experienced; those different shades.

13901-1Do you think it’s possible to have both in one person?

Pitt: In my opinion is that there is someone out there with both, but it may take you forever to find them.

Cahill: My wife’s like that!

Transformers 4 is the Greatest Film Ever Made About 21st Century America

MV5BMjEwNTg1MTA5Nl5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwOTg2OTM4MTE@._V1_SX640_SY720_No, I’m not being facetious. This isn’t winking satire. I’m stone cold Steve Austin serious: Transformers: Age of Extinction is quite possibly the single most important cinematic document so far about how America fever dreams itself into continued existence in the 21st Century.

For the most part, critics have been baffled and stymied by Michael Bay’s seemingly never-ending Transformers action-toy film franchise. Each entry feels bigger, louder, longer, dumber than the last; each one earns more than the last worldwide; and each time out, critics, pundits, fan boys, and anyone concerned about the death of cinema, the death of culture, or just the death of alien space robots that turn into cars has repeated sounded off about the movies’ spastic visual cacophony and narratives that—to the extent they exist—weave in and out of logic and coherence.

And yet, the films keep coming back. Unwavering, unrepentant. We can make snarky jokes about plot holes, and pacing problems, and product placement, and the fetishizing of both girls in jean shorts and American muscle cars until we’re blue in our intellectualized faces and it will make no difference.

Transformers director and maestro of Bayhem, Michael Fucking Bay—the perpetual bad-boy idiot bro-savant—didn’t become Michael Fucking Bay because he stays up at night worrying about what critics and fan boys think of his movies. No, he stays up at night banging hookers on the hoods of solid gold sports cars filled with cocaine because his films have become giant temples of crazed cash-making wretched genius excess. Read more »

Interview: Third Person Writer-director Paul Haggis

Paul+Haggis+Third+Person+Premieres+LA+IAVDNomvzOYl third-person-posterPaul Haggis spent two decades in the trenches writing for sit-coms like Diff’rent Strokes, One Day at a Time, Who’s the Boss, and Facts of Life and TV dramas such as LA Law, thirtysomething, and Walker Texas Ranger.

But ten years ago, Haggis broke out big as a film writer, with back-to-back Best Original Screenplay Oscars for Million Dollar Baby and Crash (which he also directed).

Since then, he’s written more scripts for Clint Eastwood (Flags of Our Fathers and Letters from Iwo Jima) and the rebooted James Bond franchise (Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace) as well as written and directed In the Valley of Elah and The Next Three Days.

Haggis’ latest film, Third Person, returns to the multiple plot-line structure of the Oscar-winning Crash, with three seemingly separate stories unfolding in three cities:

  • In Paris, an author (Liam Neeson) tries to write while juggling the emotional needs (and tragedies) of his ex-wife (Kim Basinger) and current lover (Olivia Wilde).
  • In Rome, a shady businessman (Adrien Brody) is drawn to a gypsy woman (Moran Atias) and her dark (and sometimes darkly comic) quest to ransom her daughter back from a crime lord.
  • And in New York, a once-popular actress (Mila Kunis) struggles to find even menial employment and regain custody of her son from his artist father James Franco.

I spoke with Haggis a few weeks ago in Chicago about writing about the writing process in Third Person; his own approaches as a writer and director; and writing about broken, “impossible” people struggling with love, forgiveness, and redemption.

Third Person opens today at select theaters. Read more »

Edge of Tomorrow: Cruise, Again and Again

edge-of-tomorrow_tom-cruiseI once reveled in mocking and deriding Tom Cruise for the obvious reasons: the shallow All-American Super-Jock swagger; the intense self-deprecatingly positivity; the mish-mash of film choices from soggily pretentious Oscar-lickers (Born on the Fourth of July, Rain Man, The Last Samurai) to cloying, image polishers (A Few Good Men, Jerry McGuire) to silly popcorn pandering (The Firm, Mission Impossible, and of course Interview with the Vampire).

Even when the actor took otherwise admirable steps to try something relatively daring with Eyes Wide Shut and Vanilla Sky, it still felt like the ridiculously handsome and charismatic quarterback slumming it in the theater department’s avant-garde spring production. (Like Glee’s Finn, without all the overdosing.) (To be fair, Kubrick reduced Cruise to a prop, but Kubrick reduced nearly all his actors to props.)

In the midst of this came the one truly brilliant Tom Cruise performance—the only post-Risky Business role that shows actual acting ability, as opposed to the usual wind-up charm masquerading in dress-up costumes as “Serious Acting!”

That was in P.T. Anderson’s Magnolia, and of course the irony there is that Cruise is so genuinely good in it because he appears to show us a glimpse of what I suspect is the Real Thomas Cruise Mapother IV: A vicious, insecure huckster constantly attacking at full speed to hide the dark emptiness within. In other words, his best came from simply letting slip the carefully constructed mask for a moment.

(The Runner Up would be his hilarious–and once again, I suspect self-revealing–Tropic Thunder cameo as a profane mad-dog studio exec.)

And of course there was the whole Scientology thing that frankly became so entwined with Cruise’s career and persona that it was impossible to tell if he was an actor who benefited from a made-up, sci-fi, long-con “religion” or a made-up, sci-fi, long-con “religion” spokesman posing as an actor to boost his sales of L. Ron’s starter kits. Read more »

“While all the other arts were born naked, [film], the youngest, has been born fully-clothed. It can say everything before it has anything to say. It is as if the savage tribe, instead of finding two bars of iron to play with, had found scattering the seashore fiddles, flutes, saxophones, trumpets, grand pianos by Erhard and Bechstein, and had begun with incredible energy, but without knowing a note of music, to hammer and thump upon them all at the same time.”

--Virginia Woolf
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