Author: jandersen

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Movie Review: American Fiction

American Fiction has two objectives. First, to parody the exploitation of Black artists by White people hungry for garish, insulting stereotypes. Second, to provide an alternative to these stereotypes by telling the nuanced story of a Black intellectual grappling with family troubles. Combined, that’s a lot for one movie, so it ultimately has to choose which objective is the priority. It chooses the latter.

Wrong choice. Unfortunately, the life of author Thelonious “Monk” Ellison (Jeffrey Wright) isn’t all that compelling on its own, although it’s well written and acted. It’s only compelling when juxtaposed with Monk’s newest output: an intentionally exaggerated, phony novel of Black hardship and violence. But as American Fiction progresses, the farcical half of the plot—the key to the other half’s significance—fades into the background. Therefore, the movie becomes increasingly ho-hum and forgettable.

The result of the failed balancing act is a very good movie in parts, but not as a whole. There are scenes of first-rate satire, such as a White interviewer fawning over a popular Black author whose dumbed-down new novel (“We’s Lives In Da Ghetto”—hilarious) features two characters arguing in heavy vernacular about a trip to the pharmacy. On the other hand, there are scenes of laudable realism, such as Monk’s arguments with his wayward brother, Cliff. These two aesthetics are awkward bedfellows. Imagine if “South Park” had attempted to reshape itself into an Oscar contender.

Perhaps the film’s tonal inconsistency is why its narrative eventually disintegrates, unable to reach a conclusion. Caught between satire and realism, between sharp-edged humor and subtle drama, it can only peter out, shielding its own exit with tired postmodern games. This final indecision may be a meta-commentary on the impossibility of writing (and existing) as Monk Ellison. But even so, the smell of a cop-out is unmistakable, and this ending reeks. Given American Fiction‘s jumbled concept(s), one last disappointment may have been inevitable.

 

-Jim Andersen

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Movie Reviews

Movie Review – The Holdovers

The Holdovers is a quiet, thoughtful film, a worthy entry in the New England artistic tradition of contemplative musings. Like a Robert Frost poem, its action is minimal, its setting is poignant, and its conclusions remain unspoken.

Its success hinges on three excellent acting performances, any of which could have sunken the film had a lesser effort been made. In fact, the three stars, especially Paul Giamatti, routinely rescue cliché lines and situations with offbeat, surprising deliveries. In other words, while the screenplay itself is sometimes too cute for my liking, the cast (mostly) finds enough credibility in it to retain authenticity. There’s no doubt that the film, because of its plot, exists in the shadow of Good Will Hunting (1997), so I waited in terror for it to eventually assume the painful corniness of its predecessor—but the moment never came.

The Holdovers is about breaking free of the past and setting a new course for oneself. It’s also about a particular moment in time—the Vietnam War era—in which the mid-century American optimism had begun to fade, and greed had taken hold of the country in new, alarming ways. The movie’s three main characters reject this new normal: they’re the “holdovers” who still strive to find nonmaterial fulfillment with the help of family and friends. A story that will resonate for the foreseeable future.

 

–Jim Andersen

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Movie Review: Past Lives

Past Lives never quite has its feet on the ground. It deploys moments of relatable awkwardness—stuttering hellos, clumsy goodbyes—to assure us that this quirky love triangle is the real deal. But I hope we’re too clever for that. These moments aren’t difficult to execute, as any TV commercial demonstrates. In fact, the first section of Past Lives resembles an extended ad for a Macbook Pro: loading screens; ear buds; pixelated laughing; worldly locales; hip, goofy friends. A fluttering musical score of whirling, discordant chimes. Oscar nominations are now available at your nearest Apple store.

Life is unpredictable. Even the most passing stranger has a unique story. Love takes many varied forms. Our paths are ever-changing, endlessly tangled, often crossing with those of people we’d least expect.

If you feel that the above statements are profound, you’ll likely enjoy Past Lives. But I don’t, and they aren’t. While this movie might land well with audiences by virtue of its heartfelt sincerity, it lacks the substance of a classic romance.

–Jim Andersen

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Commentary and Essays

The Twelve Movies of Christmas

‘Tis the season for Christmasy movies, so let’s discuss twelve holiday classics and where they fall in the definitive rankings.

BONUS – Worst Christmas Movie: The Polar Express

This film has its advocates. Why, I can’t explain. My top eleven Christmas films emphasize the value of family, the joys of generosity, and the importance of looking past commercialism. You know, Christmasy themes. On the other hand, The Polar Express argues that the real priority—so crucial as to determine the health of one’s very soul—is to actually believe in Santa Claus.

The problem with this message, identifiable by anyone over the age of nine, is that Santa Claus is not real. He’s only a symbol, a representation of childhood innocence and the spirit of giving. He isn’t a deity who requires and rewards literal belief in himself (with implied dangerous consequences for those who step out of line). The film’s ending, in which an adult version of the protagonist proudly reports his continued belief in Santa despite others’ lapses, leaves a strange aftertaste: is he mentally okay?

That’s to say nothing of the failed animation that looks worse with each passing year. But bad effects can be overcome by true aims. When a towering Santa in The Polar Express holds a contest to reward the child who believes in him the most—a terrifying spectacle straight out of the Old Testament—we know director Robert Zemeckis has shot well wide of the mark.

The Best Christmas Movies
#11: Die Hard

I’m giving Die Hard a token placement on this list. It’s a great movie, and it takes place during Christmas, so there’s that. But Christmas doesn’t have much to do with its plot or even its setting, so I don’t feel it warrants a high placement compared to others on this list. I’ve already written at length about Die Hard‘s ingenious script and direction here, so if you want a more in depth commentary on its successes, check out that piece.

Die Hard does have some semblance of a family drama, with NYPD detective John McClane seeking to reconnect with his estranged wife during the holiday season. For this reason, some viewers remain adamant that Die Hard is a legitimate Christmas classic—maybe even the Christmas classic. I don’t agree, but I’m including the movie here in deference to them.

#10: National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation

A somewhat more cynical vision of Christmas cheer compared to others on this list, Christmas Vacation highlights the trials and tribulations of the holiday season: the difficulties of coexisting, even briefly, with family who live very different lifestyles. But it’s all in the name of a good time—especially when the never-ending mishaps are juxtaposed with the determination of Clark W. Griswold, who insists that it’s all worthwhile. And although he’s wrong about nearly everything else, on this particular topic, he’s right. Even his evil boss joins the fun and turns out to be not so evil, a welcome suggestion that good times together can melt away material differences.

I dock points, though, for the movie too frequently crossing into bad taste. Griswold is Chevy Chase’s best character, but even here, his flaws as a comedian occasionally show through. One subplot involves the married Griswold ogling an attractive retail worker and later fantasizing about her. Maybe this was more of a knee-slapper in 1989, but I have a feeling that, even then, it was one of a few flashes in this otherwise heartwarming comedy of the trait that would eventually tank Chase’s career: that he’s kind of a jerk.

#9: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (1964)

Rudolph is the longest running television special in history, so it must’ve done something right. I’ll admit, however, that, watching it recently, I had some difficulty discerning what that might have been. Although the dated claymation adds a silly charm, the special is dragged down by goofy antics and annoying supporting characters, and it ends on an odd note: bullied and rejected time and time again, Rudolph finds acceptance only when he does something useful for Santa. In this scenario, jolly old Saint Nick comes off as… quite transactional.

But the intended message of Rudolph does shine through more successfully at other moments. The highlight is Rudolph landing on the “Island of Misfit Toys,” where assorted playthings bewail their Christmas exclusion due to various defects. The toys’ direct plea for empathy—“How would you like to be a bird that doesn’t fly?”—summarizes the theme in a way that children can understand. And unlike Rudolph’s suspicious happy ending, in which he resolves his problems simply by becoming popular, the misfit toys find happiness by discovering that Christmas has a place for everyone, even the weirdos. That’s surely a message worth airing for sixty years straight.

#8: Elf

Elf is a crowd pleaser. It doesn’t break much new ground, and it risks overstuffing on silliness, but never quite goes over the top. I think that’s because of its sneakily realistic portrayal of a jaded New York City.

Nearly everyone who interacts with Buddy the Elf assumes the worst. His eventual love interest, Jovie, accuses him of stalking her in the shower. His boss interprets his handiwork as evidence of corporate sabotage. His dad pegs him as a bad practical joke sent to humiliate him. And their cynicism isn’t just Christmas humbug; in fact, the movie goes out of its way to suggest that the characters’ pessimism is justified. Jovie, for example, was only showering at work because her landlord cut her water off. Buddy’s dad has to give a presentation on Christmas Eve, and when he refuses, he loses his job. So there’s no sugarcoating it: greed and cruelty are alive and well at Christmastime in New York.

That might lead us to expect the worst, but might there also be reasons to expect the best? That’s where the fun of Elf comes in. Don’t sleep on this movie as a healthy argument for optimism alongside—not in place of—being realistic about troubled times.

#7: How the Grinch Stole Christmas! (1966)

Dr. Seuss’ immaculate rhymes and Boris Karloff’s perfect narration make this whimsical story a deserving holiday staple. Its ending is a legitimate challenge to young children, who likely doperceive Christmas as a primarily material event and who might be just as shocked as the Grinch to learn of the Whos celebrating “without packages, boxes or bags.” And for adults, the Grinch is a surprisingly relatable character: his conversion upon realizing that Christmas “doesn’t come from a store” implies, contrary to the catchy musical ode to his odiousness, that his grumpiness and isolation stemmed from dislike of consumerism rather than inborn nastiness. Even the Grinch’s most evil episode—deceiving Cindy Lou Who to escape detection—resonates for adults, most of whom, facing interrogation by kids, have, by necessity, “thought up a lie” and “thought it up quick.”

The 2000 live action remake would later butcher the character, the tone, and all of Seuss’ themes, offering a terrible Christmas viewing experience perhaps exceeded only by The Polar Express. If you want a trashy version of Edward Scissorhands, then good for you, because it exists.

#6: Home Alone

Macaulay Culkin’s turn as Kevin McCallister is one of the great child acting performances. I think the key to the character’s enduring popularity is how the film simultaneously conveys the dueling truths that 1) kids are far more capable than we give them credit for and 2) despite this, they still need grownups around.

The movie’s best moment, very overlooked, is when Kevin reacts to his mother’s return by looking away, pained, until she apologizes for leaving him behind. At this point, he’s made no mention of what he understands about his parents’ mistake or how he feels about it. But these two seconds tell us all we need to know. More than anything, they reveal how emotionally vulnerable Kevin really is. Sure, he playacts at adulthood. However, this is perhaps only to compensate for the overwhelming dependence of childhood: egregiously overlooked by his family, he’s reliant on them to set things right. Such is life as a kid.

In the film’s notorious finale, Kevin lays waste to two small time crooks—smashing them with a steam iron, shooting their testicles with a BB gun, setting their heads on fire, and terrorizing them with a live tarantula, among other tactics. Is this sadistic streak compatible with the spirit of Christmas? (The cops, portrayed as capable defenders, were a mere phone call away.) Apparently, in the opinion of most Christmas moviegoers, it is. I abstain.

#5: A Christmas Carol (1951)

Charles Dickens’ original novella has inspired, in some way, about half the entries on this list (including, sneakily, Home Alone). So it may justifiably be named the best Christmas story of all time. In my view, though, it’s a story somewhat better experienced through reading or onstage.

Having said that, the classic 1951 version starring Alastair Sims stands the test of time as a faithful adaptation of Dickens’ intentions. When other movies borrow from A Christmas Carol, they tend to cherry-pick the happiest element: the joyous turnaround of a bitter, wayward grouch. They often omit the darker sides of Dickens’ tale—for instance, the heavy portrayal of working class suffering and the harrowing projection of a life of greed.

This latter aspect is actually pivotal to the original story. Scrooge, unlike his many spinoffs, repents early on. He doesn’t vow to change, though, until witnessing townspeople celebrating his future death. In other words, there’s nothing like being scared straight. These days, nobody has the guts to send that message—which is maybe why A Christmas Carol keeps getting remade. This way, filmmakers can harness the original’s power while maintaining plausible deniability. That was Dickens, not me!

#4: Miracle on 34th Street (1947)

I consider this the beginning of the top tier. In other words, the films from here on have a legitimate claim to the #1 ranking. The claim for Miracle on 34th Street rests on its superior filmmaking: its production, script, and acting stand out from other holiday favorites. Because of this, it holds up extremely well: watching it this year, I was startled at how modern it felt. It’s thematically similar, in fact, to Elf, dampening any idea that the urban malaise portrayed in the latter film is new to the 21st century.

Kris Kringle—if that’s really his name—is not Santa Claus. He has no magic abilities, notwithstanding the movie’s final shot. He doesn’t even make toys; he only knows where to buy them. By all indications, he’s just an old man living on Long Island.

But he has made the conscious choice to assume the identity of Santa Claus. He’s a sort of holiday season Don Quixote, diving into a role with such aplomb that others begin to struggle to separate his fantasy from reality. Kris tips his hand when he gives young Susan a lesson in “pretending,” advising that using one’s imagination enables infinite possibilities. Indeed they do, since, as Kris shows, pretending to be Santa Claus has much the same effect as actually being him: in both cases, Christmas principles—generosity, kindness, love—inspire others, not the man himself.

The takeaway from Miracle on 34th Street is interesting and leaves much to ponder. Essentially, the film argues that Santa is effectively real because, well, we can’t do without him. Department store executives intervene for Kris because he boosts their bottom line. A judge rules in Kris’ favor because voters in the next election will reject an anti-Santa outcome. Parents acknowledge Kris as Santa because they sense their kids’ innate need for optimism and hope. In summary, we all need to play pretend: commercially, politically, parentally, even psychologically. So, by democratic inevitability, if not factual truth, Santa is real. Again, an interesting, thought-provoking statement—certainly worthy of a yearly Christmas watch.

#3: A Charlie Brown Christmas

There’s a melancholy to Christmas that only A Charlie Brown Christmas really taps into. It opens with a dreary jazz tune, bringing forward the Christmas blues that Charlie Brown just can’t shake. “I know nobody likes me,” he complains. “Why do we have to have a holiday to emphasize it?”

When Charlie Brown, inspired by Linus, leaves his commercial-minded friends behind on the theater stage, they shuffle after him. Why? After all, they make extra clear that they don’t like him or enjoy his company. Do they follow him out of sympathy? Guilt? Worry? It’s open to interpretation, but in my opinion, it must be that Charlie Brown, by openly pining for a deeper Christmas experience, has given voice to a spiritual hollowness that, really, they’ve all been feeling. They’re just too cool to say it themselves. (Remember that they’re all “actors” in an upcoming Christmas play.) With a big smile as he carries off his tree, Charlie Brown has suddenly become the one that, deep down, they’d all like to be. They follow him because they want what he’s got.

Of course, he falters soon afterward. But the group comes to his rescue, and their assistance is interesting, too. They steal the flashy trappings of Snoopy’s campy, prize-winning doghouse and use them to turn Charlie Brown’s tree into a tasteful Christmas centerpiece. To me, this is a reminder of the purpose of Christmas ornamentation: to bond through experience and show affection. Christmas does have an external component, but, to land meaningfully, it needs a proper foundation. The Peanuts gang had mastery of the former, but had neglected the latter until the neighborhood blockhead showed them the way. The takeaway: we make the holidays pretty not to attract attention or win prizes—but to rejuvenate the ones who, like Charlie Brown and his tree, need “a little love.”

#2: It’s a Wonderful Life

This movie’s soaring high points justify its silver medal performance on this list. True, an abundance of overly folksy scenes and dialogue may rightly turn off highbrow critics and confer It’s a Wonderful Life to the status of holiday classic rather than all-time great. But at other moments, the film veers back toward realism, creating some of the most memorable and inspiring scenes anywhere, let alone in the Christmas canon.

Chief among those inspiring moments is the finale, maybe the happiest in Hollywood history. It comes after a fun but somewhat cliche chapter detailing George Bailey’s glimpse of a world in which he was never born, courtesy of Clarence the Angel (himself a spinoff of Dickens’ Ghost of Christmas Future). The horror that George witnesses in this altered universe leads him to re-value his own life, even despite the certain financial ruin and imprisonment that await him.

Certain—but, in fact, not forthcoming. While Clarence may show George the value of life, even he can’t bring George (or us) to anticipate what’s to happen next. In an earlier conversation, Mr. Potter had gleefully imagined the scenario of George asking his working class friends to cover his shortfall: “They’d run you out of town on a rail!” It’s the genius of this movie that George had accepted this as the sad truth, and so had we. But what are the holidays for, if not looking after the ones who’ve looked after us? Valuing our own life is only the first step; the second is realizing that others value it, too—even in dollar terms, if necessary. Clarence knows enough to let George’s friends and family reveal that for themselves. For me, the ultimate tearjerker.

#1: A Christmas Story

If anyone wants to know what Christmas is all about, this movie, in my opinion, is it.

Christmas is for everyone, but most of all, it’s for kids. And A Christmas Story, more than any other movie, is concerned with how kids actually experience the holidays. It’s especially concerned with the thrill of Christmas: the barely bearable anticipation of wondrous, mysterious gifts. In fact, A Christmas Story is the only movie on this list (and possibly the only movie ever) to authentically celebrate the receiving of presents. While the other films and specials—not without wisdom—largely dismiss presents as a superficiality, A Christmas Story alone knows that for kids, it’s not. Ralphie, in desperately wishing for a Red Ryder BB gun, isn’t seeking material gain. He’s seeking a means by which to become skilled, important, and formidable—in other words, an adult. The gun, to Ralphie, is the vessel of childhood’s universal promise: that life in the future will be so much better.

Grownup Ralphie concludes by acknowledging that this promise doesn’t last forever: “It was the greatest gift I had ever received or would ever receive.” In other words, this was the most exciting time of his life. But by finally hinting at a tinge of sadness, Ralphie has only acknowledged the obvious. Because the truth is that all meandering childhood tales—of schoolyard bullies, quirky teachers, overprotective parents, etc.—are about loss: the loss of the magic of being new to the world. We tell these stories in the first place because we want to recapture that magic. And if we’re honest in our recounting, we might just succeed. Like in a seance, we can conjure up some of those long-departed sensations: the trepidation of the classroom, the alarm of family squabbles, the humiliation of the uncool, and even the euphoria of Christmas—what was once, and can still be, the best time of year.

 

–Jim Andersen

 

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Movie Reviews

Movie Review and Analysis – Killers of the Flower Moon

“I do like money,” admits Ernest Burkhart (Leonardio DiCaprio)—thereby joining the Martin Scorsese tradition of dimwitted, mercenary protagonists. Like his predecessors, Henry Hill of Goodfellas and Jordan Belfort of The Wolf of Wall Street (also played by DiCaprio), Ernest can’t resist the temptation of the green. But Killers of the Flower Moon takes a gloomier survey of American greed than those other two films because not only does Burkhart commit greater evils by far than his parallels, but, unlike them, he never attains the dream of wealth that motivates him in the first place.

Scorsesean violence has always allowed a glimmer of amusement: like Tarantino, he enjoys the suffering of the crooked. But what about when the violence is one-sided, and the victims are faultless? That’s the new territory of Killers of the Flower Moon. And perhaps surprisingly, Scorsese proves apt in supplying the appropriate tone. Absent is the humor of Goodfellas; absent is the clinical eye of Taxi Driver; absent even is the cynicism of The Departed. Pervading the film instead is a sense of elegy, of personal pain; for better or worse, the movie’s true precursor may be Schindler’s List. (Not accidentally, Scorsese imitates his peer with a late, Spielbergian cameo.)

Much of the pain is felt through the great performance of Lily Gladstone as Ernest’s Native American wife, Mollie. In the movie’s most memorable shot, Mollie wails in despair after the death of her sister. Gladstone’s acting gives the moment dignity and power, while Scorsese’s framing of the scene from above, with the characters huddled in a pitiful basement, conveys their helplessness in the face of unmoored scheming and violence. Bringing both truths to the screen has often stymied directors: Spielberg, for example, couldn’t strike the balance.

An even more interesting duality in the film has to do with Scorsese’s portrayal of the American everyman. Typically, blue-collar, plain-speaking types are sympathetic characters. Their lack of cleverness serves as a virtue, a promise of honesty. But Scorsese, in Killers of the Flower Moon and his previous film, The Irishman, has illustrated a darker side to ignorance. In those two films, witless simpletons commit unspeakable horrors because of their witlessness: easily manipulated by tyrants, they become unnaturally malicious. Ernest is aptly named, as he’s indeed “earnest” in his love for simple pleasures and for his family. But Scorsese shows us that earnestness isn’t enough: while the character sincerely mourns the declining health of his beloved wife, he injects her with the very poison causing her infirmity.

Overall, Killers of the Flower Moon is another variation on classic Scorsesean themes. If I had to summarize his body of work, I would describe it as an examination of money, stupidity, and violence—and their repeated confluence through American history. His newest output follows that track exactly. Nevertheless, with each new release, he brings a slightly different approach, challenging himself in a new way, even at 80 years old. He’s one of the masters, and his remaining work deserves to be cherished.

 

–Jim Andersen

For more reviews, see my thoughts on Oppenheimer.

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Commentary and Essays

Justice League and the Approaching Age of AI Screenwriting

A hot topic during the recently-ended Hollywood writers’ strike was artificial intelligence. Apparently, we’ve reached the point at which the industry legitimately believes that artificial intelligence is capable of providing tangible benefit to screenwriting, and the industry is turning its head toward the possibilities of the future.

For instance, some have speculated that AI programs like ChatGPT could be trained to produce a first draft of a screenplay, which would then be scrutinized and redrafted by human writers. This, of course, poses a threat to the importance of those humans’ jobs, since, in such a scenario, they become relegated to proofreaders rather than the crucial originators of cinematic ideas. Their role in the creative process becomes significantly less valuable.

The question for viewers, though, is whether, if AI were involved, such a process would be truly “creative.” And the answer, to me, is fairly obvious: no.

ChatGPT and similar AI programs do not create, nor do they claim to. They function only as “learning” models that rely on feedback from humans to build proficiency in producing suitable language responses. In other words, they merely learn (with extreme efficiency) what their masters deem “good,” and they spit it out flawlessly.

Most viewers likely have a negative reaction to the notion that film dialogue and plot lines may be computer-generated in the near future. But I posit that large studios have already adopted an essentially AI-like approach to their work. Therefore, the dawning age of AI-written cinema is less a paradigm shift than a fulfillment of what mainstream audiences have already embraced.

Consider a notorious example of troubled blockbuster production: 2016’s Justice League. The Warner Bros. superhero film was originally directed by Zach Snyder, but in post-production, Snyder stepped down to grieve death of his daughter. Following his departure, Warner Bros. hired Joss Whedon, who had directed The Avengers (2012) and The Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015), films very different than Snyder’re prior releases. Whedon, at Warner Bros. behest, rewrote and reshot large portions of the film. His contributions had the predictable effect of fundamentally altering Snyder’s vision.

In all cases, Whedon’s modifications resulted in a more sanitized, safe product. We know this because in 2021, Snyder’s director’s cut was released, and it’s laughably different from the theatrical cut.

Of course, the reasoning behind Warner Bros. onboarding Whedon is easy to follow. Snyder’s previous DC-based films had met polarized responses. His characteristically dark and brooding style had turned off many viewers and critics, and his most recent output, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice (2016), was a full on flop. On the other hand, Whedon’s “Avengers” films had enjoyed enormous box office and critical success due in large part to his implementation of a light, comedic tone. Warner Bros. got cold feet after reviewing Snyder’s footage and brought in Whedon to save the film by Avenger-ifying it.

But I don’t care whether Warner Bros. makes logical corporate decisions. I’m interested in whether a movie has any creative value. If it doesn’t, why am I watching it?

Whatever you think of Snyder’s abilities—I certainly don’t claim to be a fan—the kind of studio meddling that affected Justice League is antithetical to anything resembling a “creative process.” That might seem obvious, but…did anyone care? Was anyone rankled that what they were watching was a blatant ripoff of the “Avengers” series? Were audiences offended that Whedon had near-exactly aped the plot of Avengers: Infinity War and had even digitally reimagined the villain, Steppenwolf, to visually resemble Thanos? Were they disturbed that Whedon had reworked the main expository sequence into a flagrant duplicate of the opening to Lord of the Rings?

Maybe some were. The reaction to Justice League was mixed, and the movie fell below box office expectations. Nevertheless, the film has an audience score of 67% on Rotten Tomatoes, and critics mainly called the film an improvement over most of its fellow DC-inspired movies—although still weaker than the Marvel movies that Whedon had tried so hard to copy. In summary: copy harder next time.

That brings us to artificial intelligence. AI, after all, is the king of copying. It can copy far better than Joss Whedon or any other human intelligence. Using its “learning” algorithms, it can do exactly what Warner Bros. hoped Whedon could: regurgitate components of previously successful content without indulging in risky stylistic ventures. It can process our tastes—or, more accurately, our purchasing patterns—and cater to them flawlessly.

Mainstream audiences have already proven willing to cede originality for familiarity, as long as it comes with the degree of quality control that Marvel, for example, has perfected. Will audiences, then, also be willing to sacrifice the literal possibility of originality, by seeking out movie and television content that has been, by definition, processed from the material they’ve already seen?

If they rebel, it will be only against the optics. The age of algorithm-generated screenwriting isn’t approaching: it’s already here. And it has been for quite some time.

 

–Jim Andersen

For more analysis, see my review of Oppenheimer.

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Movie Reviews

Movie Review and Analysis: Oppenheimer

It’s fair to call me a Christopher Nolan hater. I’ve criticized Memento, ripped Tenet, and even disparaged the Batman trilogy. I haven’t written about Interstellar, but I assure you, I’m no fan. On the other hand, I’ve offered reserved praise for Inception and lauded The Prestige, which, in my opinion, had been Nolan’s strongest work.

Until now. Oppenheimer is a tense, complicated tale of science, ethics, and politics. It’s a landmark of Hollywood cinema—the kind of American epic that supposedly doesn’t get made anymore. Stuffed with characters and bursting with contemporary implications, it sustains comparison to its great predecessors: The Social Network (2010) and There Will Be Blood (2007). By a wide margin, it’s Nolan’s masterpiece to date.

As with many of his prior films, Nolan employs nonlinear storytelling in Oppenheimer. But unlike in those prior films, especially Memento and Tenet, the fractured storytelling doesn’t disorient. Rather, it carries crucial thematic significance. In the first storyline, physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer (Cillian Murphy) leads the successful project to develop and test an atomic bomb. In the second, Oppenheimer’s reputation and influence are sabotaged by shady forces from inside the government. Telling these two halves simultaneously rather than sequentially conveys that the second half was preordained—that Oppenheimer’s rise and fall were intertwined. They comprised a single government endeavor: to use and, by necessity, discard a great mind.

This underscores the cynical vision of Oppenheimer: a vision of administrative power run amok. And the United States government in this film isn’t only greedy and ruthless; it’s petty and egoistic, too. One official plots Oppenheimer’s destruction for embarrassing him in a trivial committee hearing. Harry Truman mocks Oppenheimer for expressing guilt over Hiroshima—not based on ethical disagreement, but because Oppenheimer, in feeling any responsibility at all, has, in the president’s view, overestimated his contribution. In both cases the takeaway is clear: the government will not be upstaged. Not by a great scientist, not even by science itself. Truman’s rebuke to Oppenheimer functions as the United States’ position toward every American citizen: “This isn’t about you.”

I don’t often take time to praise actors, but Cillian Murphy’s performance in this film is something special. Like Peter O’Toole in Lawrence of Arabia (1962), Murphy conveys the increasing torment of a would-be hotshot navigating the twisted modern world. His Dr. Oppenheimer, forced to confront the morality of his work, can’t draw firm conclusions, nor can he even explain his own actions. Multiple characters remark on his persuasive abilities, including self-persuasion. So has he been duped? And if so: by others, or by his own self? Murphy’s sensational acting in late scenes animates these impossible reflections. Watching him, we feel the historical genesis of a new state of moral confusion: used as pawns, how can any of us judge the game?

After Tenet, I’ll be honest: I thought Nolan was done. I thought he, like the magicians in The Prestige, had lost his way amidst the pressure to startle and impress. Gimmicks had overtaken his films’ characters, style, and even basic logic. But now I have to revise my view. Because with Oppenheimer, Nolan has vaulted himself into a new sphere. Formerly a mere showman, dependent on dubious slight-of-hand, he has proven himself a legitimate commentator on history, morality, and modern life. This movie must be seen. The best magic trick, after all, is a good story—prepare to be amazed!

 

–Jim Andersen

For more, see my review of Barbie.

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Movie Reviews

Movie Review and Analysis: Barbie

Barbie is a glitzy and ultimately suspicious barrage of feminist gender politics. Storywise, it’s the latest of many, many movies to feature a fictional character experiencing the “real world” for the first time, having left a cheerful, cartoonish utopia. But it changes the playbook somewhat, because rather than the character helping out humans by bringing some of that cheer into our gloomy world—as in Elf, The Smurfs, Alvin and the Chipmunks, Paddington, etc., etc.—in this film, the character brings the gloominess back to her own. And the results are…odd.

We’ll get back to that.

There’s no questioning that this film is sold on the ideals of contemporary feminism. Women can do or be anything. Men often try to stop them. Still, nothing can erase that the movie’s hero is, by any reasonable accounting, the modern feminist antichrist. In one scene, a teenage girl dresses down Barbie as a “bimbo” who promotes “consumerism” and threatens female empowerment and mental health. Well, she’s right, isn’t she? So why is a feminist blockbuster celebrating this villain?

Therein lies the inherent discomfort. Talented director Greta Gerwig has made a deal with the devil, so the movie guiltily wants to undo itself, to atone for existing. It accomplishes this, but what was the point of it all? The marketing team pumped up Barbie, and now the movie has deflated her again. (She spends much of the film crying about how disliked she is.) It’s over, and we’re back to where we started.

Part of the problem may be that feminist doctrines, like all doctrines, don’t lend themselves well to being filmed. For instance, multiple characters in Barbie emphasize that women should be able to choose any path they like. That’s a great principle, but the movie has to be about somebody. It can’t be about every woman living every kind of life. Pure equality can only be spoken about, not shown onscreen. Thus, Barbie grinds to a halt in its second half, as various characters give speeches about female empowerment. These motivational diatribes belong on TikTok, and luckily, there’s no shortage of creators who have obliged us. But movies have to get on with the business of storytelling.

Prior to this, Barbie does tell a story, although it’s a strange one. The gist is that Ken, having learned about patriarchy during a brief visit to Venice Beach, brings it back to Barbieland. This causes the previously hyperfeminine paradise to become a dude haven, complete with…fur coats? And…mini-fridges? And…pull-up bars? And…the music of Rob Thomas?

My doubts about this vision of unchecked masculinity aside, the choices made in this section will date the movie rapidly. But then again, that may be inevitable for any social justice-oriented film. What’s progressive today is regressive tomorrow. Piss off conservatives in 2023, feel the wrath of liberals in 2028.

I’m analyzing because I want to provide good content. But to be honest, I was skeptical from the first act. Because the movie’s central conceit is that although, yes, Barbie has damaged society, Barbie herself doesn’t know that, so she’s still sympathetic.

I don’t buy it. Look at those eyes.

She knows.

–Jim Andersen

 

For more reviews, see my review of Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part 1.

Categories
Movie Reviews

Movie Review: Mission Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part 1

Do you like action movies? If so, you have to see Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part 1, and you have to see it in theaters.

Action franchises are supposed to get lamer over time. They’re supposed to increasingly struggle to generate coherent plots and character arcs. They’re supposed to lose their grit and lean on uninspiring CGI. “Mission Impossible 7” sounds like a made-up movie in a joke about the decline of cinema.

Yet the franchise has only improved with time. Tom Cruise is now over 60 years old, but he continues to perform the most impressive stunts in Hollywood—no double required. And director Christopher McQuarry has proven again, with his fourth consecutive must-see installment, that he’s the modern master of action set pieces. Amidst all the adrenaline, the character development doesn’t fall apart.

This film has a leg up over its fellow impossible missions by virtue of its antagonist. Ethan Hunt’s nemesis in MI7 is a godlike AI that has weaponized our digital world against us. It’s threatening to use its limitless influence to dismantle truth, hijack the world economy, and manipulate the masses for inscrutable ends. (As Benji quips, “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”) So deistic is The Entity that it speaks through a messenger named Gabriel and foretells a disciple’s imminent betrayal.

These campy touches are welcome in a franchise that has always been a little less fun than it could be, thanks in part to Cruise’s relentless intensity. And don’t overlook that, like every good villain, The Entity reflects some of the hero’s qualities. Like Ethan, The Entity has gone “rogue” and has proven impossible to “control” by traditional means. Various governments greedily jockey for the key to The Entity’s power, just as they’ve tried to subdue Ethan time and time again. A true rival, indeed.

Plus, a digital adversary is a natural fit for a character played by Cruise, given that he’s become arguably the leading skeptic of the digital era of moviegoing. My showing of Dead Reckoning Part 1 opened with Cruise and McQuarry appearing onscreen to thank viewers for watching in a theater. Clearly, they don’t want their special craft subsumed by the vast, all-knowing algorithms of the digital platforms. Relatedly, at one point, The Entity demands that Benji feed it personal information, presumably to use to manipulate him later on. Is this a rogue supervillain? Or is it Netflix?

On the negative side, there are moments during which the movie’s action feels somewhat familiar. And it doesn’t only borrow from its series forerunners. In fact, I noticed similarities at various moments to: Speed (1992), The Lost World (1997), Spiderman 2 (2004), Casino Royale (2006), and even, at one uncharacteristically silly moment toward the end, Aladdin (1992). But when MI7 borrows, it does so only when it knows it can improve on the original. Its train-top tunnel brawl outdoes Speed‘s. Its Italian car chase outmatches Casino Royale‘s.

And no cinematic precursor features anything like the jaw-dropping motorcycle leap that marks the film’s most memorable moment. In every new installment, it seems, Cruise pulls off a showstopper, and this is one of the best.

So again, for an adrenaline-filled fun time, I highly recommend this movie. I wish it weren’t a two-part installment, but when you keep delivering the goods like Cruise does, you can do what you like. I can’t wait for the finale.

 

–Jim Andersen

For more recent releases, see my analysis of Asteroid City.

Categories
Movies Explained

Asteroid City Explained

Wes Anderson has released another postmodern masterpiece, and it demands some serious explanation. It only came out this weekend, so I don’t have repeat viewings or a pause button at my disposal, but I still think an extended analysis is in order.

In summary, Asteroid City is a complex reflection on Anderson’s own contradictory artistic impulses—and how they combine to produce honest, emotional filmmaking. I’ll support that statement by going through the various layers of the film, starting with the events that take place in the fictional town of Asteroid City.

1. Asteroid City

The “Asteroid City” storyline criticizes technological progress and champions human emotions and irrationality. Consider that Asteroid City sits, both proximally and chronologically, adjacent to the testing of atom bombs. It’s a literal witness, therefore, to technology’s bleak dead end: the devastating culmination of “progress.” Likewise, it hosts a Junior Stargazers’ convention, and the stargazers’ inventions (which are owned by the government) seem likely to promote greed and destruction. One contestant has invented a war-ready particle destroyer. Another has made a breakthrough in “interstellar advertising.” Meanwhile, a savvy motel owner (Steve Carell) sells sham real estate loans through a soda machine.

In other words, advancement abounds—but to what end? Perhaps the answer lies in the town’s most memorable feature: a ramp leading to nowhere.

But the ethos of Asteroid City begins to change when an alien descends during a stargazing and steals the town’s famous meteorite. This moment is typical Anderson: an inexplicable event that ties characters together through shared wonder. (Recall the jaguar shark in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou and the lightning strike in Moonrise Kingdom.)

After the alien’s appearance, the town’s cult of technology begins to weaken. An expert astronomer (Tilda Swinton) can’t make sense of the alien or its space path. Genius contestants Woodrow (Jake Ryan) and Dinah (Grace Edwards) forget about their nerdy inventions and fall in love. A cynical, abused actress (Scarlett Johansson) opens up about life and heartbreak to a photographer (Jason Schwartzman). A group of kids, preoccupied with the alien, can’t focus on science lessons, so a cowboy (Rupert Friend) steps in to meet their need to know: who—not what—is this mysterious being?

Overall, it appears that the alien, by virtue of its mysteriousness, spurs the characters to forgo rational thinking and act instead on their emotions. When the alien appears a second time near the end of the film, this budding rejection of pure logic explodes into a frenzy: the crater, once a site of dutiful, rote learning, now houses exuberance and absurdity. Typifying the change that has taken place, Woodrow’s invention, previously purposed for “interstellar advertising,” now serves to commemorate his adolescent crush on Dinah.

This tale’s optimism doesn’t run too deep, though. In the film’s epilogue, another atom bomb goes off in the distance. It seems that despite the unshackling of the characters’ deep feelings and silly quirks, technology moves along in the background, climbing up the ramp to nowhere.

2. The Making of Asteroid City

So that’s the thematic drama of the “Asteroid City” timeline. But in an even more challenging layer of the film, a gruff TV host (Bryan Cranston) introduces these events as a fictional play and narrates a “making of” documentary about the play.

What is this all about?

Firstly, I would encourage viewers not to take these documentary scenes too seriously. At one point in the “Asteroid City” timeline, the host accidentally wanders on to the set. This makes clear that the entire production—both the Asteroid City events and the “making of” documentary”—is meant to be seen as one unified fictional work. In other words, the documentary isn’t a commentary on the play, although it claims to be. Rather, the documentary is part of the play, and the artist who created both components is never seen.

That artist, of course, is Anderson. The documentary footage, after all, features Anderson’s signature tight framing and deadpan deliveries. In no way does it feel “real” as an actual TV program; stylistically, it’s just as artificial as the colorful Asteroid City events. This is all one show.

Therefore, the true question is: why did Anderson include this black-and-white portion? What does the documentary thematically contribute to the Asteroid City events that we’ve just analyzed?

We can arrive at the answer by examining the character of Augie. In the beginning of the “play,” he tells his children that their mother has died three weeks earlier. Clearly, he has struggled to process the event: not only does he deliver the news inappropriately late, but he does so with an awkward, robotic delivery, and he later admits to his father-in-law (Tom Hanks) that he isn’t okay.

Based on our earlier analysis, we should expect that, following the alien’s appearance, Augie should increasingly embrace his painful emotions and allow himself to grieve his wife’s death. But strangely, this never quite happens. Augie remains fairly stoic and inward, in contrast to the obvious arcs of other, more minor characters, like Woodrow. Something seems off.

This is where the documentary portion of the movie becomes valuable. Via the black-and-white scenes, we see that the fictional “Asteroid City” play was written by Conrad Earp (Edward Norton), an eccentric playwright. Earp, according to the documentary, was a solitary, passionate artist, as well as a closeted gay man who had an affair with the actor playing Augie. Given this portrayal of Earp, it makes sense that his play would emphasize human-centric themes. The dismissal of technological progress and the prizing of releasing concealed emotion are consistent with Earp’s appearances in the documentary.

But the director of the play, Schubert Green (Adrien Brody), demonstrates different qualities. A manic womanizer, he’s about to be divorced by his wife (Hong Chau) “for an All-Star second baseman;” however, he receives her disdain with outward indifference. He also pens contradictory, rambling letters to the actress playing Midge, underscoring an inability to organize his feelings and communicate them maturely.

These scenes set up Earp and Green as opposites. And in accordance with their clashing personalities, we later learn that Green has cut a pivotal scene from Earp’s script in which Augie dreams of his wife (Margot Robbie) and shares an emotional goodbye with her. This scene appears to have been the missing piece that would have completed Augie’s character arc.

We can infer that Green cut the scene because he himself reacts this way to negative events. For example, he has failed to properly process the imminent end of his marriage. The final product of the play therefore reflects the visions of both the exuberant playwright and the stoic, pained director.

A combination of festive vitality and troubled inwardness—what could be a more suitable representation of Anderson’s artistic style? Thus, the documentary layer of the film is a meta-metaphor for the competing impulses that define Anderson’s cinematic work.

After all, the story of Augie attempting to grieve for his wife with ambiguous results is a fairly typical Anderson character arc. In The Royal Tenenbaums, do the characters find closure for their various regrets? In Moonrise Kingdom, do Stan and Suzy grow up, or do they retain their youthful fervor? We get clues, but Anderson never tells us for sure. His characters are too inward for the answers to appear onscreen.

Why does he make films this way? Why does he channel Earpian passion, then temper it with Greenian stoicism?

The “making of” portion of Asteroid City addresses this question. The actor playing Augie wants to know why his character’s actions seem so inconsistent. But both Earp and Green tell him to simply play his part and forget about the inconsistencies.

The takeaway is that an artist’s job is to be authentic, even when his varied instincts don’t make obvious logical sense. Just as Augie photographs the mysterious alien and distributes his work for the world to see, allowing others to draw their own conclusions, Anderson merely records and commemorates mysterious human behaviors. He has no pretense of being able to explain them.

In a late scene, actors burst forth with the mantra: “You can’t wake up if you don’t fall asleep.” This recalls Earp’s vision of the play as a story about a “slumber” that brings people together emotionally. It also recalls the cut scene in which Augie says goodbye to his wife while asleep during a dream. Both moments indicate that falling asleep is associated with emotion and irrationality, while waking up is associated with logic and intellect. The mantra repeated by the actors, then, means that logically interesting art is only possible when human emotion is embraced. In other words, “You can’t make intellectual art if you don’t embrace the irrational.”

So the actor playing Augie, in protesting the illogic of his character’s actions, has only stated a redundancy. People are illogical. Their actions don’t make sense. They, like Anderson’s characters, display both outward zest and inward torment. Explaining them intellectually is for scholars and critics (and bloggers). The artist isn’t interested in such things.

But he is interested in sharing honest recordings of humanity. Sending photographs to the newspaper. Releasing movies at the box office. Producing authentic work and letting the pieces fall where they may. After all, Augie’s prideful catchphrase recalls Anderson’s own fecundity:

“My pictures always come out.”

 

—Jim Andersen

(Note: Contributions to this analysis were made by Sharan Shah, film actor, see: A Simulation of Trendelenburg Gait (2016).)

For previous Wes Anderson reviews, see my piece on The French Dispatch.