You don't like me very much. See, I'm a comic book nerd, one of those people whose purchase of movie tickets enables you to make lots of money. I've seen a bunch of your movies, and enjoyed most of them. I wonder, though, if I've enjoyed them because of or despite you. I wonder this because I'm not sure that anyone as arrogant, dismissive, and intellectually in-curious as you seem to be is capable of writing a movie I'd enjoy. It occurs to me that all of your best work (Blade 2, the Batman films), has come when you're paired with a director who's an immensely powerful personality, someone who re-writes all of the things I'm increasingly certain you'd fuck up if left alone. You've been solely responsible for one movie, Blade Trinity, and, well, we know how that went.
I thought for two days before sitting down to write this piece. I went through lots of words, lots of phrases, looking for the right ones. And, ultimately, I came to realise that arrogance, my first choice, is indeed the right word. You're a writer, so I'm sure you understand this struggle. Or do you? I ask because someone who knows how to choose words probably wouldn't have referred to She-Hulk as a sex fantasy designed so that Hulk could have someone to fuck. Likewise, a person who considers before speaking might not have chosen to insult the people who, quite literally, contribute ticket by ticket to his oversized paychecks. I know I'm not a Hollywood insider, but that seems like poor business practice.
Let's be honest, you and I. You have a superiority complex the size of Godzilla. You wrote a movie about an alien, very nearly the last of his race, arriving on Earth and growing up to be a superhero. And yet, the Martian Manhunter stories, which revolve around an alien, very nearly the last of his race, arriving on Earth and becoming a hero, are "goofy." Why are they goofy? Well, clearly, because David S. Goyer didn't write them.
I don't give a rat's ass if you hate comic books, even as I question whether someone who's just in it for the money is even capable of doing your job well. People have different tastes, and you've every right to form an opinion. I don't care if you change a hero's origin story to fit a movie. They're your movies and you have the artistic license to make changes. Go nuts. But what you need to understand is that these stories, these goofy stories, are important to some people. I am 25 years old. In my childhood bedroom is a stack of comics a foot thick. Martian Manhunter is in some of those books, She-Hulk and Hulk in others. As a boy, I was shy and lonely, and often angry about those things. So was Bruce Banner. And in time, I came to realize that his anger, the rage I took to be a symptom of his isolation, could be channeled into productive and heroic pursuits. Do you understand what a powerful lesson that is for a pissed-off teenager?
If you need to change a story to get it on film, go right ahead. But show a little fucking respect for something that's truly important to much of your audience.
Quick lesson: She-Hulk is Bruce Banner's cousin. There's zero sexuality in that relationship. None. Zip. Bruce feels horrible, crushing, guilt every time he looks at her. What a turn-on, no? Oh and….. I'm 25, don't live with my parents, have a girlfriend, worship the Martian Manhunter, and am quite thoroughly not a virgin. You, Mr. Goyer, are the one who can go fuck himself.
Sincerely,
Chris
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Gain through Pain
"My name is Daniel Lugo, and I believe in fitness."
So begins Michael Bay's small, personal, deeply felt film about large men, drugs, lamborghinis, explosions, and sex toys. It takes a rare director to bestow something like this on the world, and frame the critical conversation around it being a palette cleanser between Transformers flicks. Ah well, the bounds of good taste have never been an impediment to Bay, so why start now? What I will say is that the film has a certain shaggy, good natured appeal. It isn't as agressively ugly as most of his ouvre, and Bay's camera follows his characters with a bemused affection.
And, oddly enough, there's a germ of a good idea rolling around in here somewhere. Bay is interested in the nature of work and entrepeneurship, and especially in the competitive root of capitalism. We all take it for granted that businesses big and small commit morally questionable acts in the pursuit of profit. I think we can also agree that many laws of this great nation are arbitrary constructions of history and convention (note: I am NOT advocating kidnapping people and stealing their property). So where do we draw the line? What is an acceptable strategy for getting ahead in the world?
We celebrate, and rightly so, creators who introduce disruptive ideas, dream big and relentlessly pursue every goal. How is Daniel Lugo different? Well, first off, he's an idiot. There's nothing particularly new or disruptive about the concepts of kidnapping and blackmail. There's an interesting thread running through the movie, showing that the theoretical antagonist (calling someone a "hero" or "villiain" in this cast is just silly), Victor Kershaw is actually the smartest, hardest-working character in the place. At one point, in a classic rant that Tony Shaloub delivers with scorn dripping from every word, he explains something of how he rose to his wealth and influence, and all the reasons that Lugo will never be able to suceed on that level. He's right. An asshole, but he's right.
Lugo & company fail because they aren't trying to create anything. They're observing a ruthless, intelligent, businessman, and trying to get rich by adopting the first quality without using the second. That never works. There's an old saying that if you don't like the leaderboard, just change the game. The Sun Gym Gang isn't changing anything. They're just trying to cheat, and they're terrible at it. Of all the things I expected when sitting down to watch a Bay joint, sound business advice would never have been on the list.
Look, Pain and Gain is not a good movie, even grading on the curved surface of all the fireballs in the Michael Bay canon. It's too long, wildly misogynistic, gleefully juvenile. But the acting is stellar, especially from Dwayne Johnson, who has rarely been this relaxed and self-mockingly playful, and a scenery-shredding Tony Shaloub. Bay remains a dynamic and exciting craftsman, intoxicated by the power of bodies in motion and the roar of engines across crystalline waters. Interestingly, the constraints of a lower budget (fewer cameras, little-to-no cgi), seem to free the director from some of his more spastic tendencies. The film is visually coherent and spatially aware, and seems more-or-less certain of where everyone is in relation to everyone else at any one time. There's also a degree of male fetishism on display here that verges on the meta. I almost wonder if Bay, who has frequently and correctly been accused of using his female characters in a way that borders on the pornographic, is thumbing his nose at the audience, just a little. Listening to him in interviews, it's apparent that Bay is much like the movies he directs; Big, lound and brash, but intelligent and self-aware in a way that makes one hesitant to dismiss him. I've long thought that he's capable of directing a great movie, even if he hasn't gotten around to it just yet. Consider this one evidence for the defense.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
The Wolverine
Jame's Mangold's The Wolverine is perhaps the best of the modern superhero movies, a singular achievement in a genre that seems designed to reward mediocre repetition. It is a small story, of brutal focus and vast temporal scope, grappling with issues of life, death, and the endless experience of pain that might be called immortality.
That Logan is a primal, instinctive man is well-established. What the audience often misses is his intelligence and the adamantium-hard sense of honor. Japan, in all its contradictory glory, is a perfect setting for his adventure. The Samurai, warrior-aristocrats whose shadows loom large over this film, were known for embodying the best and worst of Japanese society. Generals, nobles, creators and patrons of the arts, many were also savage killers who mistreated those under their rule. This, of course, is where Wolverine differs. He can kill without mercy or hesitation, but carries always the guilt and rage of his past actions. The Wolverine is a haunted film about a traumatized man, adrift in a world where his enemies match his skill and double his savagery, all in the name of honor.
Does Yashida realize that he's a villain? There is an undoubtedly selfish element to his quest for immortality. But, I wonder if he doesn't see his actions as nessecary. He is a man to whom honor and family, and the honor of his family, are literally everything. Notice the endless talk of his legacy. I wondered, on first viewing, why he insisted on bringing Mariko to his evil layer (the real reason is that the producers wanted her present for the finale). In character terms, though, I think he means for her to act as a witness. Yashinda's triumph will come in immortality, but more importantly in the glory of his family. Mariko, his favorite, must be there to bask in his radiance.
And what about Logan? This is Hugh Jackman's best performance in his defining role. Much has been written about the preposterous lengths to which the actor will go in preparing his body, and indeed his dedication is stunning. But it's his face I find fascinating. Jackman was in his late twenties, shooting the first X-men. That was fifteen years ago. His physique is unaffected by time (more shredded than ever, if anything), but there's a gravity and a maturity now that have only come with age. Listen to Wolverine speak, through the movie. On first arriving in Japan he's coarse, brash and rude. By the end of the film his voice is softer, the words better-chosen. We realize that the "obnoxious American" early in the film was an act, a mannered performance meant to cover uncertainty. At the end, we're seeing the real thing. That's Jackman's evolution, over seven films and many years.
Many critics hate the finale, Logan vs Silver Samurai. I disagree. It's imperfect, certainly, too neat and tidy, with every character given something significant to do. James Mangold, though, seems more concerned with photography than filmmaking in much of the sequence. We see many wide shots of Wolverine and the Samurai, standing ready with blades out. The Samurai is an evolution and a regression, the worst of Japan's past brought forward in time and equipped with the best of modern technology. Logan, similarly, is something old, animalistic, given shiny sci-fi claws. Is it an accident that he triumphs after losing the adamantium blades?
Clearly, Wolverine learns…. something, in the course of this movie. What, we aren't sure. Could he and Mariko have a future together? Even aside from the fact that he's immortal and she isn't, I doubt it. Logan refuses Yashida's offer because he has something left to do, a purpose as yet unfulfilled. I'm reminded of the great joke about a man to whom Logan owes much; "Chuck Norris does not sleep, he waits." Wolverine, at the beginning of this adventure in the mountains, is waiting. Waiting for a call from the world, a sign that those parts of himself he fears and hates are needed once again. By the end of the movie, he's out looking for it. Searching, a soldier ready to return to his battle. As any good immortal knows; Eventually the end becomes a new beginning.
That Logan is a primal, instinctive man is well-established. What the audience often misses is his intelligence and the adamantium-hard sense of honor. Japan, in all its contradictory glory, is a perfect setting for his adventure. The Samurai, warrior-aristocrats whose shadows loom large over this film, were known for embodying the best and worst of Japanese society. Generals, nobles, creators and patrons of the arts, many were also savage killers who mistreated those under their rule. This, of course, is where Wolverine differs. He can kill without mercy or hesitation, but carries always the guilt and rage of his past actions. The Wolverine is a haunted film about a traumatized man, adrift in a world where his enemies match his skill and double his savagery, all in the name of honor.
Does Yashida realize that he's a villain? There is an undoubtedly selfish element to his quest for immortality. But, I wonder if he doesn't see his actions as nessecary. He is a man to whom honor and family, and the honor of his family, are literally everything. Notice the endless talk of his legacy. I wondered, on first viewing, why he insisted on bringing Mariko to his evil layer (the real reason is that the producers wanted her present for the finale). In character terms, though, I think he means for her to act as a witness. Yashinda's triumph will come in immortality, but more importantly in the glory of his family. Mariko, his favorite, must be there to bask in his radiance.
And what about Logan? This is Hugh Jackman's best performance in his defining role. Much has been written about the preposterous lengths to which the actor will go in preparing his body, and indeed his dedication is stunning. But it's his face I find fascinating. Jackman was in his late twenties, shooting the first X-men. That was fifteen years ago. His physique is unaffected by time (more shredded than ever, if anything), but there's a gravity and a maturity now that have only come with age. Listen to Wolverine speak, through the movie. On first arriving in Japan he's coarse, brash and rude. By the end of the film his voice is softer, the words better-chosen. We realize that the "obnoxious American" early in the film was an act, a mannered performance meant to cover uncertainty. At the end, we're seeing the real thing. That's Jackman's evolution, over seven films and many years.
Many critics hate the finale, Logan vs Silver Samurai. I disagree. It's imperfect, certainly, too neat and tidy, with every character given something significant to do. James Mangold, though, seems more concerned with photography than filmmaking in much of the sequence. We see many wide shots of Wolverine and the Samurai, standing ready with blades out. The Samurai is an evolution and a regression, the worst of Japan's past brought forward in time and equipped with the best of modern technology. Logan, similarly, is something old, animalistic, given shiny sci-fi claws. Is it an accident that he triumphs after losing the adamantium blades?
Clearly, Wolverine learns…. something, in the course of this movie. What, we aren't sure. Could he and Mariko have a future together? Even aside from the fact that he's immortal and she isn't, I doubt it. Logan refuses Yashida's offer because he has something left to do, a purpose as yet unfulfilled. I'm reminded of the great joke about a man to whom Logan owes much; "Chuck Norris does not sleep, he waits." Wolverine, at the beginning of this adventure in the mountains, is waiting. Waiting for a call from the world, a sign that those parts of himself he fears and hates are needed once again. By the end of the movie, he's out looking for it. Searching, a soldier ready to return to his battle. As any good immortal knows; Eventually the end becomes a new beginning.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Prequelitis
I already know the last shot of the last episode of Gotham, Fox's spectacularly ill-concieved new show. Picture this: Young Bruce Wayne, aged perhaps 25 and just returned from years training in the mountains of Tibet with a goateed, spottily accented mentor, has returned to find his beloved city in ruins from organized crime. He decides to act, calling upon the very particular set of skills learned from the mentor, and chooses as a symbol the bat that haunts his dreams. The first suit is crude, the weapons unrefined. Yet he rises, soaring through the city, to stand atop a majestic skyscraper framed against the coming night. Aaaaaannnnd cut.
How do I know this? Well, because I already saw it. The year was 2005, and I sat in an Imax theater watching Batman Begins.
The show's trailer really isn't bad, seen in a vacuum. The show appears stylish, slick and expensive with excellent production values. A lot of very good actors stride around in swirling trenchcoats and intone ominous bullshit about the future of the city. The kids, who I'm sure will be dicey in the way that all child actors not employed by HBO are, at least have the correct look and don't fumble their lines. Were this a show about an idealistic young cop and his orphaned foster son, making their way in a Gothic wreck of a city, I'd watch in a heartbeat. But it isn't.
Does anyone actually feel a sense of danger, seeing Bruce on that ledge on the roof of Wayne Manor? Anyone? It occurs to me that a show about the young Batman probably isn't going to hurt the hero much beyond a paper-cut until he puts on the suit. Which, as the producers have said, will be in the last episode of the series. So, anything between now and then is…. completely pointless. Yay? And yes, I'm aware that James Gordon, not yet Commisioner, is supposedly the show's protagonist. All the things I just said about Bruce apply flawlessly.
We know this story. We know how it ends. We know the people these characters will grow into, because the audience for this show has lived with them for years, and myth-making entertainment like this doesn't have the balls to make radical changes. I suppose there's some mild interest in seeing the adventures of young Catwoman or whatever, but ultimately what is the point? We don't want to see Selina Kyle as a half-formed, unskilled child thief. We want Anne Hathaway, purring seductively as her hips sway. We want the Cat at the height of her powers, the legendary ruler of Gotham's roofs, the only woman who's ever truly been worthy of Bruce Wayne. The process of becoming, which will nessecarily be the primary thread of this show, is by its nature small-scaled, humanized. We've seen these characters at their peak. Anything less, and we're sitting at the kiddy table eating mac and cheese while the adults carve filet.
Prequels are boring, they just are. We know the ending, and so there's no dramatic tension. You know what isn't boring? Genuine, unfettered creativity. Which is not, as is the fear of studio exxecutives everywhere, as profitable in the short term. Batman is among the most iconic characters in modern fiction. Brand recognition couldn't be stronger, and this show will a season or two of decent ratings as a result. Until it doesn't, when audiences realize that brand recognition is literally the entire driving impulse behind its creation.
Quick pop quiz: How much money did Pacific Rim lose? The answer is (drumrolllllllll) none. It made money. The riskiest box-office play of the past decade was profitable. The sequel, if it gets made, will make more money (I happen to think a lot more), simply through stronger recognition and audience goodwill. And that, friends, would be an excellent example of how to build a creatively essential, financially strong franchise. Hire an amazing filmmaker with a vision and a story he needs to tell, then give him budgets and release dates and cut him loose. That's it. When the filmmaker runs out of those vital, urgent stories, the franchise ends and everyone moves on to the next idea.
Gotham is precisely how not to do it. Nobody needs this section of a story we already know. It comes from a place of fear, not creative passion. We can do better. We need to demand better.
How do I know this? Well, because I already saw it. The year was 2005, and I sat in an Imax theater watching Batman Begins.
The show's trailer really isn't bad, seen in a vacuum. The show appears stylish, slick and expensive with excellent production values. A lot of very good actors stride around in swirling trenchcoats and intone ominous bullshit about the future of the city. The kids, who I'm sure will be dicey in the way that all child actors not employed by HBO are, at least have the correct look and don't fumble their lines. Were this a show about an idealistic young cop and his orphaned foster son, making their way in a Gothic wreck of a city, I'd watch in a heartbeat. But it isn't.
Does anyone actually feel a sense of danger, seeing Bruce on that ledge on the roof of Wayne Manor? Anyone? It occurs to me that a show about the young Batman probably isn't going to hurt the hero much beyond a paper-cut until he puts on the suit. Which, as the producers have said, will be in the last episode of the series. So, anything between now and then is…. completely pointless. Yay? And yes, I'm aware that James Gordon, not yet Commisioner, is supposedly the show's protagonist. All the things I just said about Bruce apply flawlessly.
We know this story. We know how it ends. We know the people these characters will grow into, because the audience for this show has lived with them for years, and myth-making entertainment like this doesn't have the balls to make radical changes. I suppose there's some mild interest in seeing the adventures of young Catwoman or whatever, but ultimately what is the point? We don't want to see Selina Kyle as a half-formed, unskilled child thief. We want Anne Hathaway, purring seductively as her hips sway. We want the Cat at the height of her powers, the legendary ruler of Gotham's roofs, the only woman who's ever truly been worthy of Bruce Wayne. The process of becoming, which will nessecarily be the primary thread of this show, is by its nature small-scaled, humanized. We've seen these characters at their peak. Anything less, and we're sitting at the kiddy table eating mac and cheese while the adults carve filet.
Prequels are boring, they just are. We know the ending, and so there's no dramatic tension. You know what isn't boring? Genuine, unfettered creativity. Which is not, as is the fear of studio exxecutives everywhere, as profitable in the short term. Batman is among the most iconic characters in modern fiction. Brand recognition couldn't be stronger, and this show will a season or two of decent ratings as a result. Until it doesn't, when audiences realize that brand recognition is literally the entire driving impulse behind its creation.
Quick pop quiz: How much money did Pacific Rim lose? The answer is (drumrolllllllll) none. It made money. The riskiest box-office play of the past decade was profitable. The sequel, if it gets made, will make more money (I happen to think a lot more), simply through stronger recognition and audience goodwill. And that, friends, would be an excellent example of how to build a creatively essential, financially strong franchise. Hire an amazing filmmaker with a vision and a story he needs to tell, then give him budgets and release dates and cut him loose. That's it. When the filmmaker runs out of those vital, urgent stories, the franchise ends and everyone moves on to the next idea.
Gotham is precisely how not to do it. Nobody needs this section of a story we already know. It comes from a place of fear, not creative passion. We can do better. We need to demand better.
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