Posts Tagged ‘Film’

Thank God it’s over.

But wasn’t it fun.

I have to admit it was though it goes to show that political correctness and inclusivity go further than absolute merit. For an organization that has to bring forth nine contenders for Best Picture award because it keeps the audience tuned in—why not 16? Oh, college football already does that one—you can expect anything but rigorous honesty. Still, political correctness and inclusivity have a place and, for some like my brother and my girlfriend who tied for the forecaster’s prize (16/24 correct), are readable commodities. What do they tell me on the morning after?

  1. Despite the hype and promotional fortune spent pushing Gravity as a great, well-acted film, it was denied but one of the Big Six (Best picture, actor, actress, director (which it won), and supporting roles). Because of the hype and promotional fortune spent pushing Gravity as a great, well-acted film, it was granted eight “minor” awards – all earned, but who cares? Well, Gravity’s loss in Best Picture category frees me from my vow to boycott George Clooney films. And where was he last night?
  2. Best picture? 12 Years a Slave deserves the award, but the choice—over American Hustle and, especially, The Dallas Buyer’s Club—shows how P.C. and the big I work.  The voting may have easily gone to The Dallas Buyer’s Club but AIDS and sexual identity play less well (as do sexy shysters) than does the plight of Blacks in America, a condition far graver for the numbers and persistence of their difficulties. There is little argument there. So, to remain correct and open, spread the joy around: 12 Years a Slave gets Best Picture and Supporting Actress awards; The Dallas Buyer’s Club gets Best Actor—let M.McC. thank God—and Supporting Actor (a hands down favorite, earned). What about American Hustle? Go to the box office.
  3. P.C. and I., again. How can you give awards to someone whose agoraphobia and arrogance will not let him leave the Big Apple? You cannot. But how can you deny, hands down, the best performance by an actress? You cannot. Cate Blanchett had no real rivals and presented herself as the consummate actress she is.  (Applause).
  4. Now for the screen play, which Ms. Blanchett touted. No doubt Woody Allen wrote it, but am I alone to decry the so obvious, shameful, and deceitful “borrowing” from Tennessee Williams’s A Street Car Named Desire? Do so few Americans read from their literature or pay attention in high school English classes that they do not recognize this unacknowledged literary debt? Does the Academy know the difference between Original Screen Play and Adapted? This is no allusion. This is not just influence. Mr. Allen has taken, and taken liberally, without a word of credit I know of, from an original, iconic work. Now, what do we call that?  No one says a word. I hoped Ms. Blanchett at least would acknowledge her inheritance from Blanche DuBois, but nothing. Well, those who complain about the Genius of 42nd Street have to be classed with the Farrow clan, shrill detractors to the modesty and integrity of an American icon.  Please, at least, when you set San Francisco, do it, not New York. (Apple sauce).

Last word? DeGeneres: let’s have her back again.

What is it that happens to Adele and Emma? Well, who are they to begin with?

Adele enjoys eating, comes from a static and work-oriented family, is not in command of her sexual desires nor really aware their importance to her. She is certainly aware of her own lapses, intellectual shortcomings and inarticulate social skills.  She can barely say “Merci.” Her dreams are mundane: to become what she knows – a teacher. If she were American, she would be suburban.

She is lovely, awash in physicality, slyly shy, open.

Emma is the temperamental artist, comfortable with ideas and artistic society though she has her issues with the art establishment.  Her pursuit of her art leads her away from her voluptuous ardor of Adele to the sophisticated but cool relationship with Lise. Somehow this paves the way for her success. Her parents – step-father and mother – are, too, sophisticated art lovers and epicureans.  The two families could hardly be more different – one lives to eat, the other eats that they may talk about it.

Much of the criticism focuses on sex and length.  Most of the criticism of “the sex scene” centers on the lesbian duo, Emma and Adele. The film’s length 179 minutes is unusual enough to attract attention.

About length: please, we can all tell time. Only Remembrance of Things Past in the book world is more criticized for length. The question is not what to do with a restive viewer, but what about this film would make a viewer restive. Little, very little. This story thrives on its length. It takes three hours not to tell the story but to bring the viewer into, along, and through the story. It is an emotional journey that must not be rushed. It is the story of a young love turning slowly older with the prospect of lasting, as Emma says, “my whole life.”  Anyone who has loved – it goes without saying that he or she has also lost – knows that is true. Love may not be as long as suffering.

About sex. The scene all will refer to – they say it is eight minutes long –is extended, hot, and uncovered. It is enough to remind anyone of the best sex they have enjoyed or to wish that they had enjoyed such. No matter that critics of the film like to quote Julie Maroh, the author of the graphic novel (Le bleu est une couleur chaude) on which the film is based, as calling the scene “pornographique,” and also like to stir the pot by asking the actresses Adèle Exarchopoulos and Lèa Seydoux how it was filming the scene which, they say, occupied many uncomfortable hours over ten days. No. It is not pornographic and it is not about how the filming felt, at least not for the story. It is about love and bodily delight.

If the scene were alone in the movie, it would be open to those criticisms. But the scene is one of many most of which are about love: the dream-sequences and masturbation scene (self and other love), the scene itself (I consider the several love making scenes between the two women as one), the park bench scene, the hetrosexual Thomas-scene, and the restaurant scene. Only the last two are not about love. The Thomas-scene is about exploration and, perhaps, exploitation. In the restaurant scene Adèle more tries to seduce Emma than to express her love.  That scene is about sex and might be considered pornographic though it is not skin-filled.

In the early dream-sequence, Adèle sees Emma close up. The “love at first sight” her teacher refers to during their in-class reading is now embodied in Adèle’s attraction to the blue-haired girl she saw on the street.  In a sense it is herself, her own body, she is in love with that allows the attraction to spark into something more substantial. Her sensual radar are out and working. This is where the direction and story are so well done: How to express the physical in the emotional and the other way round?  Abdel Kechiche’s direction builds from the “eating metaphor” to the sexual acts as metaphor for love. Adèle eats like she loves like she cries. It is all oral, physical, and emotional, very little intellectual. She cannot discern. She cannot express in language. She can only act.  And the blunt act can never be enough in human society. Therein lies the tragedy. Adèle cannot fulfil Emma’s intellectual needs, and those needs are as palpable as the need for food, the need for affection, the need for sex. So? Adèle has to go.

In her bumbling, thoughtless way, Adèle affords Emma the easy way out. Infidelity. Adèle is not sure who was unfaithful first – Emma and Lise are repeatedly shown in enamored conversation, not all intellectual by the look on Emma’s face – and neither should the audience be so sure either. Emma is quick to finish it. And the rest is ennui and suffering.

Where do they go from there – there being the art opening where Emma portrays “suave” itself. She has clearly “arrived.” Adèle, too looks good, dressed in the blue of the title, the blue Emma has now forsaken in her success, but she is not, of course, good. The world of the intellect is still a foreign land. She is rooted in the physical. That is where she will remain. But wait . . .

That failed actor appears – Sir Galahad? Adèle has turned the corner. Is he going for his car? Will he find her? Well, if he does, she may sell out as has Emma to something less fulfilling but more livable than what she’s had. Being a French film that is where it stays. There will not be a sequel.



Salvador and F. Scott

Posted: November 26, 2013 by Jollymore in On Films
Tags: , , ,

Let me get my impressions and thoughts down while the images are fresh in my mind. The latest screen version of Fitzgerald’s Gatsby excited my imagination and feelings in ways that I don’t clearly understand but was able to make the viewing of the story at once a sparkling review of the story I know well and was able to make it a story I came to as if for the very first time.

Who was to know that The Great Gatsby was a surreal work of art? Certainly, Fitzgerald lived amongst surrealists, had a life that perhaps could be called surreal in many ways and wrote in Gatsby sections that now seeing this movie I can look back on and call surreal though they have to my recollection only been before called symbolic.  The sign featuring the eyes of Eckleberg certainly is the foremost of these. But the very valley of ashes, the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock, the glitter of the parties at Gatsby’s, perhaps the odd meeting with Wolfsheim in New York, and a scene I have always admired and loved the shearing of the wheel in the drunken, horn-honking fest after one of Gatsby’s parties. Drunkenness may very well be the mother of surrealism.  Had I thought any of this prior to the release of this film, the Literature-Police would be pursuing a warrant for my arrest.  But now? I say with certainty, and will certainly offend lovers of the book, that Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby is a surreal book.  I like, have always admired and been fascinated by, surrealism. But that is not all.

I went to see Carrie Mulligan.  Her performance was at once more compelling, less a veneer, and sympathetically cleaner than Mia Farrow’s Daisy. Though presented, as all the characters were at some time in the film, in something like an odd cameo performance, Mulligan’s Daisy reached me on an emotional level. Perhaps the film goes too far building sympathy for Daisy – Tom Buchannan also comes out a more decent buffoon and bigot than in the Redford movie, or than in the book. Maybe since that earlier film, what 30 years ago, we have all worn a bit, become more of what we feared and perhaps hated, and so can forgive people like Tom and Daisy even when they go about smashing things up and retreating into their money. Aren’t they like reckless bankers uncowed by their recession inducing activities that smash lives of millions. Don’t we understand and forgive them? Aren’t we rooting the stock market upwards? Despite the character herself, Mulligan plays a sympathetic Daisy.  She is less a siren, than enraptured in her siren’s song of love.

Tobey McGwire brought me in as well. I was not disappointed. Even Luhrmann’s confusion of Caraway with Fitzgerald (though there is undoubtedly some truth to it) and with Holden Caulfield of Catcher in the Rye fame cannot depose McGwire as credible and wonderful to watch. The peak is reached early: his honest, friendly assurance to Gatsby that he will do him the favor of inviting Cousin Daisy to tea is both a high point of film acting and confirmation of correct, wise casting. There are many other times when McGwire’s Caraway is wonderful for embarrassment, gullibility and sophomorism, as well as moral rectitude, but that friendly assurance to his neighbor – a simple, smiling gesture after Gatsby’s clumsy machinations to position his request –  is the best. He convinced Gatsby and the audience, too. I suppose the therapy sequences dramatize Carraway’s suffering more than do his scruffy, unshaven looks at various points of the narrative, a definite mistake, but I have to say it isn’t true to the book though it – again – may be true of our society in what has become since the publishing of the book a truly empty, draining and debauching chase for the “American Dream” which Gatsby has always been said to represent. Luhrmann may have the outsider’s eye to see more clearly what we have become since Fitzgerald wrote the story.

Another word or two about outsiders. The Australian crowd in this film may be responsible for the feeling of newness I experienced even after “teaching” the book several years running. The new but not unknown faces of Egerton’s and Clarke’s Tom and Wilson, respectively, did make the vision fresh. Tom was more human, not more humane. Wilson turned into a more pitiable and less an idiotic dupe through Clarke’s compelling portrayal of suffering. Clarke reveals Wilson’s dementia but also his humanity. By head count of the top five billed actors 2 Americans, 2 Australians, 1 Brit, foreigners win; add the director and site of shooting, Australia as I understand, and you wonder if the Americans are simply window dressing for the Hollywood-followers. Well, that cannot be true.

This time Gatsby is played by an actor capable of internal acting and played on by a director capable of squeezing more from the background story and script than is written on the page. All the irritating discomfort of Redford’s performance and the unsettling disparity of Fitzgerald’s character himself present themselves in this film. But to no avail. The interior strength of DiCaprio’s Gatsby is show through restraint, by what is just barely there, more than through emotive disclosure. Redford stayed so, well, Redford that you couldn’t get farther away from the character if you tried. At least by comparison.

In DiCaprio’s Gatsby, tension is the man, the character, the force of the dream. It is hard to believe that in such an extravagant movie, though, that understatement carries the day. It is clearest in the post-accident scene outside Daisy’s house when Nick discovers it was Daisy, not Gatsby driving the car. It is not what is said, at first, but left unsaid – and the way the unsaid is portrayed by DiCaprio – that tells the story. Even at his fiercest, Gatsby attacking Tom at Plaza Hotel, DiCaprio convinces us there is more underneath than is shown on the surface. By what was behind, underneath his grimace, I was convinced he could kill a man.

To tell the story of The Great Gatsby the director and actors had to go beyond the story itself. It is not the adding of “modern music” or camera angle or Aussie-speech so much that carries the day, but the practice of going deeper than the story to the human struggle Fitzgerald wanted to represent that allows us to see what he hoped for us to see, what Nick Carraway could see most of the time, that which is beyond the glitter, that which we can have even when it is past.