Yes, I said it. Two things y'all should know before we get started in earnest; I have a degree in English Lit, and I've spent the past year-ish reading every word on every page of the entire Wheel of Time series. I began this slightly insane project because the books have been a huge part of my life since randomly seeing the cover of The Fires of Heaven in a bookstore fifteen years ago. When I was about sixteen, having devoured all the novels that had then been published, I was convinced they were the greatest thing ever. Now, at the cynical age of 25 and after much study, I'm….. mildly dissapointed. Here's why:
The Wheel of Time didn't reinvent any wheels (nerdy pun completely intended). Instead, it's an extraordinarily well and complexly executed example of a familiar type. Rand Al'Thor is, to put it mildly, archetypal. He's young, has mysterious powers, messianic destiny, and is attractively brooding / troubled. In the early stages of the story, he is presented with a problem. In the last book, he solves that problem. He follows the same basic journey arc as is found in LOTR, Dune, Foundation, and pretty much every other example of what might be considered "classic" genre literature. And therein lies my disappointment.
Finishing The Eye of the World all those years ago, I quite honestly couldn't imagine the power and scope of the journey on which I was embarking with so many other readers. Jordan seemed to have created an entire world, fully imagined, richly characterized, filled with people whose lives carried the heft of genuine experience. True, nothing really world-shattering happened in that first book, but it didn't need to. This was shaping up to be an enormous story, one that would fill many books, and such a story doesn't kill its best characters too early. Consequences come at the end, all debts called due.
And now I ask; Of the characters we meet in that first book, which of them doesn't get exactly what they want in the last? Anyone? I'll wait…. Ok, yes, one of them dies. I didn't forget. May even have had something in my eye when first reading that particular passage. It is a heroic, profoundly felt sacrifice. Which she gives happily, to protect the people and institution she has come to love. It's a good death, made better because she's going to join…. Well, y'all know. I'm trying to tread around spoilers here.
In that last book, the culminating book, a loooooot of people die. This is as it should be. A Memory of Light is a war novel, and war has casualties. If Jordan, and his sucessor Brandon Sanderson, had allowed the entire main cast to survive, readers would have correctly lambasted it as a copout ending. But really, is what we got so different? Yes, there are plenty of deaths. How many, at least of the non-redshirt variety, are anything other than exactly how the character would have wanted to go, given the choice?
It is unfair, and inevitable, that the ending of a story overshadows all that has come before. But this is the function of a novel, even what is probably the single longest novel in the English language. The ending is where debts are called, where we see that to which the author has chosen to build, to focus energy and time and intention, to hold in the back of the mind as a goal. Jordan and Sanderson reveal their goal as one of massive wish-fulfillment for many beloved friends.
I can't blame them for it. Jordan was defined, professionally and to some extent personally, by the Wheel. Sanderson is an admitted fanatic from childhood on. They wanted a happy ending, and so moved pieces into place to achieve it. The problem is, much of that ending rings false. After so many years and so many miles, few of the characters are truly forced to make hard choices and sacrifices. There is some suggestion, even, of a happy afterlife in this particular cosmos. Now, I'm not saying that the journey is invalidated by a weak ending. But consider that the greatest criticism of WOT ha always been that Jordan lost control of the story, allowed it to get too big and too wheel-spinny. For a long time, I hoped that he had a grand endgame in mind, and that all the deux-ex-machina would lead to something extraordinary. The ending we got is just a little too…. neat, too perfect. Jordan built the most complex world in all of fantasy literature, and at the end revealed that it really only followed the whim of its creator. And that can't help but be a little disappointing.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Thoughts on Dr. V…..
Grantland screwed up. You know it, I know it, Bill Simmons certainly knows it. To recap: Two weeks ago, Grantland ran a story about the inventor of a so-called "magic putter." This woman turned out to be a massive fraud, as well as a transgendered individual who had begun life as a man. The latter bit of information was handled, let's call it, less than tactfully in the resulting story. While conducting an interview, the writer outed her, deliberately if not malicously, to an investor. Not long before the piece was published, Dr. V committed suicide. Grantland then made the regrettable choice to run the story, and has since experienced massive backlash focusing on a lack of empathy within it, the superfluousness of Dr. V's gender identity to the entire journalistic enterprise, and the supposed link between Caleb Hannan's reporting and Dr V's death. In response, Bill Simmons wrote a long, thoughtful letter giving Grantland's side of the story, and offering an unconditional apology and acceptance of blame for issues in the piece. Now, to offer my completely unwanted take on a few elements here….
First off, blaming Caleb Hannan for Dr. V's tragic suicide is preposterous. He messed up (badly), but threatening his life and posting his private info online is utterly insane. He is guilty of naivety, a lack of journalistic ethics, and serious failings of intellectual curiosity. That doesn't make him a terrible or malicious person. So, to all the people treating him as a cross between Bin Laden and Hitler, stop. Just stop. Online reaction to the piece shows how fundamentally defensive we've become as a society. Anytime we percieve the slightest hint of intolerance, the source of that disruption needs to be hunted down and flayed. We've become so obsessed with equality and fair treatment for all that we're actually intolerant of dissenting and/or non-PC viewpoints. Dr. V. was a conartist who repeatedly and knowingly defrauded investors. She deserved to be exposed, ridiculed, and possibly arrested. Now, I'm not saying that her gender identity was an intrinsic and necessary part of the larger narrative. But I don't think you can say that it wasn't, either. The article and line of enquiry are legitimate, and Hannan asked important questions. Yes, his delivery and packaging of the information sucked, but the thought-process behind his work is sound.
This story is about lies. Dr. V pretended that she had invented a magic putter, using scientific skills and credentials she never had. She pretended to be a certain person, and Hannan's reporting revealed her as someone else. Lots of people do that, regardless of gender identity and sexuality, and she obviously didn't need to reveal the most unique aspects of her past experiences. But the thing is, she chose to invent much more of her past than being born male. If she'd said, for example, that she was a former mechanic who'd stumbled onto an amazing new putter, then that story would be entirely true, and there's no need to write a word about her gender. But the entirety of the story is so deeply tied to Dr. V's self-invention that I don't think there's a way to write it without touching on the fact that she's transgender. Bill Simmons, in his excellent explanation for Grantland's editorial thought-process, seems fairly confident Hannan's reporting is worthwhile, and he's right.
But, and this is the big question, should the story have been pitched in a more empathetic and emotionally present fashion, especially when dealing with Dr. V's suicide? In a word, no. Imagine, for a second, that Hannan had closed the story by interjecting his own emotions, mentioning how shaken he was by the entire episode, and how sorry for any role he'd played in the tragedy. Would this ring true? Or would it sound like a young, up-and-coming writer desperate to not let this episode torpedo his career? Hannan found himself in an impossible situation, and so did what all reporters should default to doing; he reported facts and let the reader draw conclusions. Insensitive? Yes, perhaps. But also making the best of a terrible situation.
Hannan made one, truly glaring, mistake: He outed Dr. V to an investor. That action was entirely indefensible. But he's a young guy who screwed up, not a bad person. We all do that, and hopefully use those mistakes as opportunities to learn and grow. Like his subject, Hannan had the misfortune of making his mistakes in the public eye. Dr. V chose to compound her errors with more lies, while Hannan seems to be doing his level best to improve as a writer and person. Shouldn't we be willing to give him the chance?
First off, blaming Caleb Hannan for Dr. V's tragic suicide is preposterous. He messed up (badly), but threatening his life and posting his private info online is utterly insane. He is guilty of naivety, a lack of journalistic ethics, and serious failings of intellectual curiosity. That doesn't make him a terrible or malicious person. So, to all the people treating him as a cross between Bin Laden and Hitler, stop. Just stop. Online reaction to the piece shows how fundamentally defensive we've become as a society. Anytime we percieve the slightest hint of intolerance, the source of that disruption needs to be hunted down and flayed. We've become so obsessed with equality and fair treatment for all that we're actually intolerant of dissenting and/or non-PC viewpoints. Dr. V. was a conartist who repeatedly and knowingly defrauded investors. She deserved to be exposed, ridiculed, and possibly arrested. Now, I'm not saying that her gender identity was an intrinsic and necessary part of the larger narrative. But I don't think you can say that it wasn't, either. The article and line of enquiry are legitimate, and Hannan asked important questions. Yes, his delivery and packaging of the information sucked, but the thought-process behind his work is sound.
This story is about lies. Dr. V pretended that she had invented a magic putter, using scientific skills and credentials she never had. She pretended to be a certain person, and Hannan's reporting revealed her as someone else. Lots of people do that, regardless of gender identity and sexuality, and she obviously didn't need to reveal the most unique aspects of her past experiences. But the thing is, she chose to invent much more of her past than being born male. If she'd said, for example, that she was a former mechanic who'd stumbled onto an amazing new putter, then that story would be entirely true, and there's no need to write a word about her gender. But the entirety of the story is so deeply tied to Dr. V's self-invention that I don't think there's a way to write it without touching on the fact that she's transgender. Bill Simmons, in his excellent explanation for Grantland's editorial thought-process, seems fairly confident Hannan's reporting is worthwhile, and he's right.
But, and this is the big question, should the story have been pitched in a more empathetic and emotionally present fashion, especially when dealing with Dr. V's suicide? In a word, no. Imagine, for a second, that Hannan had closed the story by interjecting his own emotions, mentioning how shaken he was by the entire episode, and how sorry for any role he'd played in the tragedy. Would this ring true? Or would it sound like a young, up-and-coming writer desperate to not let this episode torpedo his career? Hannan found himself in an impossible situation, and so did what all reporters should default to doing; he reported facts and let the reader draw conclusions. Insensitive? Yes, perhaps. But also making the best of a terrible situation.
Hannan made one, truly glaring, mistake: He outed Dr. V to an investor. That action was entirely indefensible. But he's a young guy who screwed up, not a bad person. We all do that, and hopefully use those mistakes as opportunities to learn and grow. Like his subject, Hannan had the misfortune of making his mistakes in the public eye. Dr. V chose to compound her errors with more lies, while Hannan seems to be doing his level best to improve as a writer and person. Shouldn't we be willing to give him the chance?
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Sex, Death, and the Dark Brilliance of The Hunger Games
Hollywood has a problem with sex and killing. In our filmic world (at least the one designed and marketed for true mass consumption), there is little of the former and much of the latter. This is puzzling, given that sex is a frequent occurence among many productive and worthy members of society; Murder, not so much. The why of it is difficult to parse. I think a large part of the situation is precisely because sex falls in the range of what we consider normal behaviour, with the caveat that it is perhaps the most profoundly private of the activities to be found on that hypothetical list. We are bombarded, daily and indeed constantly, with reminders of sex, and yet we rarely discuss it in public. Hollywood is nothing if not a reflection of societal currents (market research teams are really, really good), and so the movies shy away from sex mostly because we do. John McClane jumping down a 10 story elevator shaft and spraying a bunch of faceless Russian goons with a machine gun is clearly recognizable as fantasy, so we allow it in our blockbusters, secure in the knowledge that this could never happen in real life, so it doesn't much matter anyways…… Except that yes, it does matter. It matters a great deal. And, fortunately, one woman is taking great care to point out exactly how much it matters, and how dumb our current system truly is. Who? Glad you asked.
Before we get started in earnest, I need to say that this piece is not about how violence in movies and video games is corrupting our youth, destroying all sense of morality, creating gun violence, blah f-ing blah. That is a silly and reductive argument that masks the true root of these issues. Lunatics are lunatics, regardless of how many times Taxi Driver plays on late-night cable. Nor am I here to preach about the (absurdly pathetic) state of sex-education in our country. While it's an enormous problem worthy of great attention, this isn't the time or the place. What I really want to do is talk about movies and books. So….
In Mockingjay, culminating book of The Hunger Games trilogy, a popular and prominent character is torn to pieces by a pack of ravenous lizard mutations. The scene, if it can be called that, is handled in approximately three lines on the page. Later in the same book, a teenaged girl is killed, onscreen, when bombs are parachuted onto a group of innocent non-combatants who happen to have gotten stuck in the middle of a warzone. At the very end of the book, the protagonist Katniss reveals that she has had children with one of her suitors. It is phrased thusly. "He was there to comfort me in the night. With his words and, eventually, his lips."
His lips. So, basically, there was some PG kissing (which is the extent of the sex in those books), and then some kids popped out. This, from an author who is second only to George RR Martin in the graphic ingenuity of her death scenes. Now, I'm not expecting Collins to write "He comforted me in the night, then we had intercourse and I became pregnant." I'm certainly not expecting a blow-by-blow, pornographically precise detailing of said interourse. But still, doesn't it seem a little too…. tame? We've followed Katniss through true horror, watched her kill and scream and sob, seen her firends die horribly. And…. His lips?
I'm not in Suzanne Collins' head, but I have to think this is intentional. Her series is a vicious condemnation of, among many other things, the exploitative nature of American media culture. Violence, in her books and the later adaptations, plays very rough. Yes, the movies are constructed quite carefully to meet the restrictions of the much more profitable PG13 rating. That is well and good, and an economic necessity for big-budget films with a youthful fanbase. Even so, the films are remarkably blunt about the fact of violence, often between children and teens. Gary Ross, the first director, hid the worst acts in clouds of shaky-cam. Francis Lawrence, the second and final director of the quadrology, is a classical stylist and examines these moments with a cool, removed intellectualism. In so doing, he creates in the audience a rage that is much more true to his source-material.
Film, as I've said before and will again, is a more visceral medium than literature. This is largely because the sensory onslaught of image and sound creates an effect close to that of genuine experience, or perhaps memory. Literature requires an imaginative leap on the part of the reader, and so carries somewhat less of an immediate impact. That said…. Books take the reader inside the head of the characters. We feel Katniss' pain, know her fury, feel every stab and scream with her as friends die. Books can make it hurt. And Collins is very much out to hurt us. With the movie, the effect is simpler, achieved by the nature of the experience itself. We are voyeurs. We are the Capitol, watching Katniss suffer for our own entertainment.
And that, I think, is the root of why there is no sex in the books or the movies. The audience doesn't want it. The Capitol isn't interested in joy among their tributes, just as the real media doesn't want happy endings and easy answers and life among the white-picket fences. We want the finality of blood on the grass. Collins gives it to us, exaggerated just enough for us to recognize the black absurdity of our own enjoyment.
I've read these books three times, and seen both movies twice. At the end, when it's over and the lights come up, the image in my head isn't from that world at all. It's from Gladiator, General Maximus in the arena, blood on the sand and blood on the sword and snarling "Are you not entertained?"
Before we get started in earnest, I need to say that this piece is not about how violence in movies and video games is corrupting our youth, destroying all sense of morality, creating gun violence, blah f-ing blah. That is a silly and reductive argument that masks the true root of these issues. Lunatics are lunatics, regardless of how many times Taxi Driver plays on late-night cable. Nor am I here to preach about the (absurdly pathetic) state of sex-education in our country. While it's an enormous problem worthy of great attention, this isn't the time or the place. What I really want to do is talk about movies and books. So….
In Mockingjay, culminating book of The Hunger Games trilogy, a popular and prominent character is torn to pieces by a pack of ravenous lizard mutations. The scene, if it can be called that, is handled in approximately three lines on the page. Later in the same book, a teenaged girl is killed, onscreen, when bombs are parachuted onto a group of innocent non-combatants who happen to have gotten stuck in the middle of a warzone. At the very end of the book, the protagonist Katniss reveals that she has had children with one of her suitors. It is phrased thusly. "He was there to comfort me in the night. With his words and, eventually, his lips."
His lips. So, basically, there was some PG kissing (which is the extent of the sex in those books), and then some kids popped out. This, from an author who is second only to George RR Martin in the graphic ingenuity of her death scenes. Now, I'm not expecting Collins to write "He comforted me in the night, then we had intercourse and I became pregnant." I'm certainly not expecting a blow-by-blow, pornographically precise detailing of said interourse. But still, doesn't it seem a little too…. tame? We've followed Katniss through true horror, watched her kill and scream and sob, seen her firends die horribly. And…. His lips?
I'm not in Suzanne Collins' head, but I have to think this is intentional. Her series is a vicious condemnation of, among many other things, the exploitative nature of American media culture. Violence, in her books and the later adaptations, plays very rough. Yes, the movies are constructed quite carefully to meet the restrictions of the much more profitable PG13 rating. That is well and good, and an economic necessity for big-budget films with a youthful fanbase. Even so, the films are remarkably blunt about the fact of violence, often between children and teens. Gary Ross, the first director, hid the worst acts in clouds of shaky-cam. Francis Lawrence, the second and final director of the quadrology, is a classical stylist and examines these moments with a cool, removed intellectualism. In so doing, he creates in the audience a rage that is much more true to his source-material.
Film, as I've said before and will again, is a more visceral medium than literature. This is largely because the sensory onslaught of image and sound creates an effect close to that of genuine experience, or perhaps memory. Literature requires an imaginative leap on the part of the reader, and so carries somewhat less of an immediate impact. That said…. Books take the reader inside the head of the characters. We feel Katniss' pain, know her fury, feel every stab and scream with her as friends die. Books can make it hurt. And Collins is very much out to hurt us. With the movie, the effect is simpler, achieved by the nature of the experience itself. We are voyeurs. We are the Capitol, watching Katniss suffer for our own entertainment.
And that, I think, is the root of why there is no sex in the books or the movies. The audience doesn't want it. The Capitol isn't interested in joy among their tributes, just as the real media doesn't want happy endings and easy answers and life among the white-picket fences. We want the finality of blood on the grass. Collins gives it to us, exaggerated just enough for us to recognize the black absurdity of our own enjoyment.
I've read these books three times, and seen both movies twice. At the end, when it's over and the lights come up, the image in my head isn't from that world at all. It's from Gladiator, General Maximus in the arena, blood on the sand and blood on the sword and snarling "Are you not entertained?"
Saturday, January 11, 2014
On Criticism...
What is the purpose of a professional critic? No, really, what do these people do all day? This question is a little harder than it seems it should be. We've all read and seen professionally produced criticism, most commonly of movies, but also of literature, music, television, opera, dance, restaurants, and about a hundred other things. Some critics, the late Roger Ebert most notably, have risen out of the fairly insular world they inhabit, and reached the level of beloved cultural institutions. This is, possibly, because we are a society that greatly values experts and the opinions of experts. We like being told things by people who know what they're talking about, or are at least skilled in pretending that they do. We are also a nation with unlimited access to entertainment and media in many forms. Time being limited, we seek the blessing of experts before comitting that most valuable of resources to the consumption of something that, by its definition, is supposed to be free from the pressures of making wise and informed choices (whole 'nother rant right there).
The critic, therefore, is an arbiter and shaper of popular taste. He is widely recognized as being well-informed in his chosen field, and as such is able to pass judgement on whether a piece of art is worthy of the public's time.
Now, let's talk about Armond White. If you don't know the name, I congratulate you. My chief hesitation in writing this piece revolved around my distaste for giving Mr. White additional publicity. True, this is somewhat mitigated by the fact that nobody reads this blog anyway, but the principle remains. This case is sufficiently fascinating, though, that the discussion is worth having, even if its with myself and a bunch of empty pixels. So….
Armond White is a film critic. He is intelligent, educated, and writes about cinema with nuance and considerable insight. He is also boorish, contrarian, and dismissive of most artists. At a recent dinner for the New York Film Critics Association, of which he is a prominent member and former president, White heckled the director Steve McQueen by shouting a number of drunken insults. Again, this is in the middle of a formal dinner meant to celebrate the year in film. I think we can agree that Armond White, for all his skill as a writer, is perhaps not the nicest of people. If that were the extent of it, I wouldn't be writing this. He's a jackass with a soapbox, so what? Well, back to that definition of a critic…
The thing I've always been confused about, when it comes to critics, is whether they have a responsibility to celebrate and/or champion the artform to which they're dedicated. I don't mean this on a case-by-case basis; Certainly, each review needs to contain fair consideration of the piece being discussed, in both its positive and negative qualities. But doesn't a critic need, at the core, to be a fan of what they're devoted to pontificating about? I only ask this because, after reading quite a bit of his work, I'm not certain if Armond White even likes movies.
Look, I really, really don't care about Armond White. He's a jackass with a soapbox. But he's a symptom. To repeat, this man became president of the fucking critics association in New York City. Twice! And he hates most of the movies he reviews. Why do we listen to this guy? Well, part of it is our sick fascination with negativity in all its forms. Part is that we like being told that wealthy celebrities really suck at all the things that've made their money. And part of it is the usual can't-look-away-from-carcrash aspect of it all. Which is pretty messed up, if you think about it.
Critics don't exist without having things to criticize. Their existence, as a societal subset, is created and necessitated by the existence of art. We consume art because it brings us joy and intellectual growth, hopefully in that order. Now, there are many terrible movies released in any given year (Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters, anyone?). These can certainly be castigated for our amusement, and there's nothing wrong with reading a scathing review and chuckling to oneself. Ebert, as great a movie-lover as has ever lived, was famous for fricasseeing willfully stupid films. But, and here's the key difference, he did so from a place of love for the form. Ebert trashed movies because they wasted time, money, and talent, becuase he saw in them too much squandered potential. Armond White trashes movies just to, as the Joker puts it "watch the world burn."
I have no answers here, mostly because I'm not even certain I've asked a question. The conclusion, though, is this; Critcs are a product of their environment, and something in our environment is creating a need for someone like the sleazeball Armond White. Perhaps we should work to focus on the greatness our artists can create, and weep when they fail, instead of simply waiting to laugh when they trip over their own ambition.
The critic, therefore, is an arbiter and shaper of popular taste. He is widely recognized as being well-informed in his chosen field, and as such is able to pass judgement on whether a piece of art is worthy of the public's time.
Now, let's talk about Armond White. If you don't know the name, I congratulate you. My chief hesitation in writing this piece revolved around my distaste for giving Mr. White additional publicity. True, this is somewhat mitigated by the fact that nobody reads this blog anyway, but the principle remains. This case is sufficiently fascinating, though, that the discussion is worth having, even if its with myself and a bunch of empty pixels. So….
Armond White is a film critic. He is intelligent, educated, and writes about cinema with nuance and considerable insight. He is also boorish, contrarian, and dismissive of most artists. At a recent dinner for the New York Film Critics Association, of which he is a prominent member and former president, White heckled the director Steve McQueen by shouting a number of drunken insults. Again, this is in the middle of a formal dinner meant to celebrate the year in film. I think we can agree that Armond White, for all his skill as a writer, is perhaps not the nicest of people. If that were the extent of it, I wouldn't be writing this. He's a jackass with a soapbox, so what? Well, back to that definition of a critic…
The thing I've always been confused about, when it comes to critics, is whether they have a responsibility to celebrate and/or champion the artform to which they're dedicated. I don't mean this on a case-by-case basis; Certainly, each review needs to contain fair consideration of the piece being discussed, in both its positive and negative qualities. But doesn't a critic need, at the core, to be a fan of what they're devoted to pontificating about? I only ask this because, after reading quite a bit of his work, I'm not certain if Armond White even likes movies.
Look, I really, really don't care about Armond White. He's a jackass with a soapbox. But he's a symptom. To repeat, this man became president of the fucking critics association in New York City. Twice! And he hates most of the movies he reviews. Why do we listen to this guy? Well, part of it is our sick fascination with negativity in all its forms. Part is that we like being told that wealthy celebrities really suck at all the things that've made their money. And part of it is the usual can't-look-away-from-carcrash aspect of it all. Which is pretty messed up, if you think about it.
Critics don't exist without having things to criticize. Their existence, as a societal subset, is created and necessitated by the existence of art. We consume art because it brings us joy and intellectual growth, hopefully in that order. Now, there are many terrible movies released in any given year (Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters, anyone?). These can certainly be castigated for our amusement, and there's nothing wrong with reading a scathing review and chuckling to oneself. Ebert, as great a movie-lover as has ever lived, was famous for fricasseeing willfully stupid films. But, and here's the key difference, he did so from a place of love for the form. Ebert trashed movies because they wasted time, money, and talent, becuase he saw in them too much squandered potential. Armond White trashes movies just to, as the Joker puts it "watch the world burn."
I have no answers here, mostly because I'm not even certain I've asked a question. The conclusion, though, is this; Critcs are a product of their environment, and something in our environment is creating a need for someone like the sleazeball Armond White. Perhaps we should work to focus on the greatness our artists can create, and weep when they fail, instead of simply waiting to laugh when they trip over their own ambition.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
My 2013 in Film
In which, oddly enough, I list my ten favorite movies of the just-concluded year. Weird, right? First, a quick disclaimer; I didn't go to the movies as often as I would've liked last year. The usual things got in the way, specifically a lack of free time, and enjoyment of human contact that doesn't involve sitting in a darkened theater for 2 hours. This is by no means a definitive list, and I imagine I'll still be catching up on 2013 movies for a few months to come. Second disclaimer; I have very little use for silly terms like "best" when it comes to ranking distinct pieces of art. These ten films gave me much joy, and I recommend them all without hesitation, albeit for very different reasons. They're presented in no particular order. Without further ado…..
Spring Breakers, dir. Harmony Korine. How on Earth does anyone think this film is celebrating the insane lifestyle it depicts? Korine is savagely angry at these dumb, wasted kids. His film draws blood. It is our nightmare twin hiding in a closet, a dark mirror held up to the instincts we don't talk about in polite company. The movie is an astonishing technical achievement, as beautifully shot and hypnotically edited as anything I've ever seen. Come for the cinematography, stay for the best satire since Thank-you for Smoking. Perhaps the definitive portrait of a lost, sad generation.
Pacific Rim, dir. Guillermo Del Toro. The most fun I had in a theater this year. Pure adrenaline, constructed with immense skill and presented with joy. Yes, this is a silly film. So is Star Wars. Much of it reminded me of the famous scene set in Mos Eisley, which is known for the crude, misshapen, just-odd-enough-to-be-real creature designs. Del Toro has considered every aspect of what it might mean to live in a world under attack from Godzilla's younger, less considerate siblings. To watch this film is to smell the smoke of the Bone-Slums, to shiver as horns sound and we know exactly what's coming. The fights are something wholly unique in the history of cinema, huge and apocalyptic and utterly gorgeous. Del Toro has long been one of our great artists, and Pacific Rim is his most personal work, a hymm of praise to the monster-mashes that rocked his world as a kid. Better acted and more thematically resonant than it has any need to be, this is a movie that will gain a huge following as it ages. And in a time when genre fiction digs itself futher and further into darkness, it delivers the passion and hope and joy we all so desperately need.
Side Effects, dir. Stephen Soderbergh. Now this is a nasty one. A vicious little bear-trap of a movie, spring loaded and left for us to trip over by the great Soderbergh. To discuss the plot would be unfair to anyone who has yet to experience it (judging by box-office numbers, quite a lot of people). A future cult classic, made with immaculate technical chill. Strongly acted, giving us characters whose actions shock us, while still seeming like the most natural thing in the world. On Soderbergh's "retirement" I can only say this; Make it quick, Stephen. We need you.
Ender's Game, dir. Gavin Hood. A deeply flawed film, lumpily paced and structurally inelegant. It makes the classic adaptive mistake of not understanding which characters in its source material are worth preserving, and which can be left on the editing-room floor (why does the book spend so much time with those pesky Wiggins siblings?). Nevertheless, a sensitive and deeply nuanced exploration of what it means to be young, troubled, and brilliant. Made with a crisp sense of craft, and presenting unusually complex action sequences with admirable clarity. A film that resists easy conclusions and safe endings, to its considerable benefit.
The Wolf of Wall Street, dir. Martin Scorsese. I love reading reviews that begin with some variation on "So-and-so has made the best Scorsese movie since Scorsese himself was in his Goodfellas era prime…." Guess what, kids? There's only one master, and he's baaaaaaaack. The Wolf of Wall Street is visually dynamite, riotously funny, and a razor-edged filleting of the American greed-culture. Like Korine's film above, this one has been misinterpreted so many times it makes my skull hurt to contemplate. Scorsese doesn't celebrate the scumbags he shows us. He does not admire these people, want to be them, or hope to convince some impressionable young tyke to choose Jordan Belfort as a role-model. To recap: Scorsese stages a scene in which one of our brightest, most beloved movie-stars crawls on his fucking knees in the middle of a drug-haze, before scraping his fancy car to shit on the way home. This isn't a feting, it's a bio-hazard sign.
Iron Man 3, dir. Shane Black. How'd they sneak this through? Iron Man wanders into a goddamn Shane Black flick, and it's the highest grossing film of 2013. I wouldn't call it a truly great movie (too meandering, too faithful to the Marvel form), but it's something more careful, more structurally ingenious, and much more thoughtful than any blockbuster entertainment has a need or a right to be. It's also very funny, written with Shane Black's signature dark wit, filtered through RDJ's legendary quicksilver verbiage. It gives me great hope for the future Marvel films. The company has shown that it can produce competent, wildly profitable product, with the overrated Avengers as the current crown jewel. Now, with the audience hooked and the brand established, hopefully Marvel will hire more genuine auteurs and unleash them to produce unique, elevated art.
Fast and the Furious 6, dir. Justin Lin. Old-school shot of badassery laced with testosterone, cooked in the furnace of an iron V8 big block. Deceptively simple, with an economy and structural clarity that should be taught in film-writing classes. Yes, seriously. People describe this film as a guilty pleasure. Screw guilt. The Fast and Furious movies (#'s 4-6 at least) are really, really good. A surprisingly poignant exploration of loyalty, family, and faith. Annnnnnd then there are those action scenes. Beautifully shot and taughtly edited, these are the antidote to Michael Bay-style pukeycam. The cars have real weight and heft, and Justin Lin lays out his astonishing stunts with the choreography of a Russian Ballet. A film of exquisite craft, with well-cast actors looking like they're having the time of their lives.
Gravity, dir. Alfonso Cuaron. Pure magic. This is a film that rewrites all the rules. There has been much bullshit written about its structural simplicity and the weakness of its screenplay. Stop, just stop. Film at its best is a visceral medium, an instinctive experience. To see this movie on a big screen is to know awe, terror, and ultimately hope.
The Great Gatsby, dir. Baz Luhrmann. I hated this movie when I first saw it. The original novel is one of my favorite pieces of art. It is small, careful, deeply felt. The film is big and brash, a lush evocation of a wild time in our history. But it has the emotions right. Look at DiCaprio's face standing at the high window. See the beauty of Luhrmann's images, the wild parties and near-naked women and fountains of champagne. Then ask yourself why nobody ever seems to be smiling.
The Lone Ranger, dir. Gore Verbinski. ….. Just kidding.
The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, dir. Francis Lawrence. An immense improvement over the (pretty good) first film. Avoids all the usual middle-child issues. Emotionally satisfying even as it ends mid-scene. Jennifer Lawrence is an astonishing actress, but is more than matched by a cast chock-full of veteran stars. Donald Sutherland does smart and brutal like a cobra flaring its hood. Visually innovative, and directed within an inch of its life by Francis Lawrence. The devil, as always, is in the small things. Lawrence is at his best when showing details of life in post-apocalyptic Panem. He gives us an entire world, in all of its terror and beauty. That we come to love the characters and fear for their fate is a smal miracle. Also functions as a brutal indictment of voyeurisitic media culture.
Spring Breakers, dir. Harmony Korine. How on Earth does anyone think this film is celebrating the insane lifestyle it depicts? Korine is savagely angry at these dumb, wasted kids. His film draws blood. It is our nightmare twin hiding in a closet, a dark mirror held up to the instincts we don't talk about in polite company. The movie is an astonishing technical achievement, as beautifully shot and hypnotically edited as anything I've ever seen. Come for the cinematography, stay for the best satire since Thank-you for Smoking. Perhaps the definitive portrait of a lost, sad generation.
Pacific Rim, dir. Guillermo Del Toro. The most fun I had in a theater this year. Pure adrenaline, constructed with immense skill and presented with joy. Yes, this is a silly film. So is Star Wars. Much of it reminded me of the famous scene set in Mos Eisley, which is known for the crude, misshapen, just-odd-enough-to-be-real creature designs. Del Toro has considered every aspect of what it might mean to live in a world under attack from Godzilla's younger, less considerate siblings. To watch this film is to smell the smoke of the Bone-Slums, to shiver as horns sound and we know exactly what's coming. The fights are something wholly unique in the history of cinema, huge and apocalyptic and utterly gorgeous. Del Toro has long been one of our great artists, and Pacific Rim is his most personal work, a hymm of praise to the monster-mashes that rocked his world as a kid. Better acted and more thematically resonant than it has any need to be, this is a movie that will gain a huge following as it ages. And in a time when genre fiction digs itself futher and further into darkness, it delivers the passion and hope and joy we all so desperately need.
Side Effects, dir. Stephen Soderbergh. Now this is a nasty one. A vicious little bear-trap of a movie, spring loaded and left for us to trip over by the great Soderbergh. To discuss the plot would be unfair to anyone who has yet to experience it (judging by box-office numbers, quite a lot of people). A future cult classic, made with immaculate technical chill. Strongly acted, giving us characters whose actions shock us, while still seeming like the most natural thing in the world. On Soderbergh's "retirement" I can only say this; Make it quick, Stephen. We need you.
Ender's Game, dir. Gavin Hood. A deeply flawed film, lumpily paced and structurally inelegant. It makes the classic adaptive mistake of not understanding which characters in its source material are worth preserving, and which can be left on the editing-room floor (why does the book spend so much time with those pesky Wiggins siblings?). Nevertheless, a sensitive and deeply nuanced exploration of what it means to be young, troubled, and brilliant. Made with a crisp sense of craft, and presenting unusually complex action sequences with admirable clarity. A film that resists easy conclusions and safe endings, to its considerable benefit.
The Wolf of Wall Street, dir. Martin Scorsese. I love reading reviews that begin with some variation on "So-and-so has made the best Scorsese movie since Scorsese himself was in his Goodfellas era prime…." Guess what, kids? There's only one master, and he's baaaaaaaack. The Wolf of Wall Street is visually dynamite, riotously funny, and a razor-edged filleting of the American greed-culture. Like Korine's film above, this one has been misinterpreted so many times it makes my skull hurt to contemplate. Scorsese doesn't celebrate the scumbags he shows us. He does not admire these people, want to be them, or hope to convince some impressionable young tyke to choose Jordan Belfort as a role-model. To recap: Scorsese stages a scene in which one of our brightest, most beloved movie-stars crawls on his fucking knees in the middle of a drug-haze, before scraping his fancy car to shit on the way home. This isn't a feting, it's a bio-hazard sign.
Iron Man 3, dir. Shane Black. How'd they sneak this through? Iron Man wanders into a goddamn Shane Black flick, and it's the highest grossing film of 2013. I wouldn't call it a truly great movie (too meandering, too faithful to the Marvel form), but it's something more careful, more structurally ingenious, and much more thoughtful than any blockbuster entertainment has a need or a right to be. It's also very funny, written with Shane Black's signature dark wit, filtered through RDJ's legendary quicksilver verbiage. It gives me great hope for the future Marvel films. The company has shown that it can produce competent, wildly profitable product, with the overrated Avengers as the current crown jewel. Now, with the audience hooked and the brand established, hopefully Marvel will hire more genuine auteurs and unleash them to produce unique, elevated art.
Fast and the Furious 6, dir. Justin Lin. Old-school shot of badassery laced with testosterone, cooked in the furnace of an iron V8 big block. Deceptively simple, with an economy and structural clarity that should be taught in film-writing classes. Yes, seriously. People describe this film as a guilty pleasure. Screw guilt. The Fast and Furious movies (#'s 4-6 at least) are really, really good. A surprisingly poignant exploration of loyalty, family, and faith. Annnnnnd then there are those action scenes. Beautifully shot and taughtly edited, these are the antidote to Michael Bay-style pukeycam. The cars have real weight and heft, and Justin Lin lays out his astonishing stunts with the choreography of a Russian Ballet. A film of exquisite craft, with well-cast actors looking like they're having the time of their lives.
Gravity, dir. Alfonso Cuaron. Pure magic. This is a film that rewrites all the rules. There has been much bullshit written about its structural simplicity and the weakness of its screenplay. Stop, just stop. Film at its best is a visceral medium, an instinctive experience. To see this movie on a big screen is to know awe, terror, and ultimately hope.
The Great Gatsby, dir. Baz Luhrmann. I hated this movie when I first saw it. The original novel is one of my favorite pieces of art. It is small, careful, deeply felt. The film is big and brash, a lush evocation of a wild time in our history. But it has the emotions right. Look at DiCaprio's face standing at the high window. See the beauty of Luhrmann's images, the wild parties and near-naked women and fountains of champagne. Then ask yourself why nobody ever seems to be smiling.
The Lone Ranger, dir. Gore Verbinski. ….. Just kidding.
The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, dir. Francis Lawrence. An immense improvement over the (pretty good) first film. Avoids all the usual middle-child issues. Emotionally satisfying even as it ends mid-scene. Jennifer Lawrence is an astonishing actress, but is more than matched by a cast chock-full of veteran stars. Donald Sutherland does smart and brutal like a cobra flaring its hood. Visually innovative, and directed within an inch of its life by Francis Lawrence. The devil, as always, is in the small things. Lawrence is at his best when showing details of life in post-apocalyptic Panem. He gives us an entire world, in all of its terror and beauty. That we come to love the characters and fear for their fate is a smal miracle. Also functions as a brutal indictment of voyeurisitic media culture.
Friday, January 3, 2014
Where I Stand….
Say it with me; Opinions are like ————, everyone’s got one. (Yes, I’ll be attempting to run a family-friendly type of blog. Everyone is online these days, up to and including (gulp) my mother). I’m not exempt from the having-of-possibly-stinky-opinions rule, and this is my new place to air things out (so to speak). So, here’s what I think:
I like talking sports with anyone who will listen, as long as they root for the Pats, Celts, B’s, and Sox. Or the Jets. I love Jets fans. They make me feel so much better about myself.
I think that people who worry about being politically correct are part of the problem, and nowhere near being the solution. There is a lack, in this world, of intelligent, respectfully contentious, intellectually engaged discourse. Being afraid of words like “race, religion, Republican, Democrat, homosexual, marriage etc etc” does little to alleviate this issue.
I believe that competitive drive, when tempered with a healthy sense of morality and fair-play, is the fuel that makes the world go around. No, kids, participating should not earn you a medal. Sorry.
I’m fascinated by books, movies, narratives of all kinds in fiction and culture. This is going to be most of what I write about.
I’m probably running a Spartan Race in a few months. Details to follow.
If there’s one thing I want to accomplish by writing this blog, it’s to encourage people in chasing their own white rabbits, even as I’m not quite certain if I’ve found mine.
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