Movie Review:
The Adventures of Baron Munchausen
1988 / 2 hrs., 6 min. / PG
Director: Terry Gilliam
“This is precisely the sort of thing no one ever believes,” says Baron Munchausen while climbing up a crescent moon in a galaxy filled with living constellations. That line encapsulates the entire two hours of one of the most imaginative fantasy adventures I have ever seen.
For The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, the third film in his “Trilogy of Imagination,” director Terry Gilliam (Time Bandits, Brazil) adapted the tall tales of Hieronymus Karl Friedrich Baron von Munchausen, a real German cavalry officer around whom a series of absurd fictional adventures centered. I have heard two reports, one which states that a friend wrote the tales to the Baron’s chagrin, and the other which claims that the Baron himself was a grandiose liar in real life. Regardless, the tales became part of German folk literature, and have been made into films twice previously.
Gilliam’s adaptation opens with “The Town” under attack by “The Sultan” – a humorous vagueness that runs throughout the film. The town administrator (Jonathan Pryce) is a legalistic paperwork fiend who thinks everything, even the Sultan’s war, can be solved by science, reason, and signing the right parchment, a theme continued over from Brazil. And the chief civilian divertissement is the local theater, where Henry Salt (Bill Paterson) and Company are performing The Adventures of Baron Munchausen.
At one evening’s performance, the real Baron Munchausen (John Neville) shows up. Incensed at the license the young whipper-snappers are taking at the expense of his good name, the aging soldier interrupts the show, hijacking the stage to correct the injustice.
The Baron claims that he personally is the cause of the Sultan’s war. In a flashback with a beautiful transition shot, the Baron relates how he managed to win the Sultan’s entire fortune of gold and jewelry in a bet. Quite unhappy at losing that wager, the Sultan (Peter Jeffrey) pursued the Baron. Now, decades after the original affront, the Sultan has him trapped in the Town and persists in wasting cannon shot in the hopes of flushing him out. But exploding theater walls and flaming sets do little to dissuade the Baron from his determination to regroup his cadre of servants so that they can defeat the Sultan once and for all.
The Baron’s personal attendants in younger days were Berthold (Eric Idle), who could run thousands of miles per hour; Adolphus (Charles McKeown), who could see well enough to shoot an apple off a tree halfway around the world, and had the gun to do it; Gustavus (Jack Purvis), who could hear a man snoring from miles away; and Albrecht (Winston Dennis), who was strong enough to lift entire sailing vessels and sling them around by their anchors. This collection of fantastic misfits helped the Baron win the original bet, and now they are needed to save the Baron’s head from becoming part of the Sultan’s collection.
The Baron takes off to find his compatriots accompanied by Sally Salt (Sarah Polley), who has just enough childhood innocence and naivete to believe the Baron when he says he is the Town’s only hope. The adventures that ensue are a tremendous joy to watch, and I will not lessen their impact by analyzing them here, except to say that if seeing a man fly to the moon in a hot air balloon bothers you because you can’t help thinking about the impossibility of space travel without oxygen, this movie is not for you.
This film reminds me of such children’s books as The Five Chinese Brothers and The King With Six Friends, in which a bizarre collection of talented individuals pool their abilities to attain a happy ending. Gilliam’s creativity in bringing this particular story to the screen is as thrilling as those books were to me as a young boy. I love watching Berthold chasing a bullet, or Gustavus standing in Turkey gaging the wind speed in Italy just by listening, or the Baron blasting his way out of a whale using a pinch of snuff. And I often tried, as a boy, to lift myself off the ground by pulling up on my hair – the Baron actually succeeds. This wild story is told with energy and flair, and never fails to provide new and interesting wonders for us to behold. Watching the King of the Moon (Robin Williams) literally lose his head as it wrenches itself from his body is both comical and, if you have retained any youthful capacity to dream, amazing.
The theme here is one that Gilliam has presented before: Enjoy Your Imagination. We live in a world that has little patience for people who refuse to keep their feet on the ground, a world that would label someone like the Baron as insane. In one of the Baron’s many death scenes, he grouses to little Sally: “It’s all logic and reason now! No place for three-legged Cyclops in the South Seas, no place for cucumber trees and oceans of wine! No place for me!”
But Gilliam is not telling us to simply abandon rational behavior in favor of our wildest dreams. There is a time and place for responsibility, a fact which Sally must repeatedly remind the Baron of before his imagination distracts him to the point of rendering him completely useless in life.
John Neville (The Fifth Element, Little Women) portrays the Baron with uncompromised zeal, charging into each new adventure with anything ranging from casual aplomb to vigorous enthusiasm. Although the film flopped miserably thanks to some shenanigans in the Columbia corporate offices, it did launch Neville’s North American film career, and his performance makes it easy to see why.
Sarah Polley is an excellent choice as Sally Salt. She is precocious, and has just the nagging tone of voice she needs to break the Baron out of his reveries and get on with saving the Town. Polley has since gone on to appear in films such as Go and the remake of Dawn of the Dead, but I will always remember her as the girl who wanted to hear the end of the Baron’s story.
A handful of character actors fill out the rest of the cast, the most notable of which is Eric Idle (Nuns on the Run, Monty Python and the Holy Grail), who is always likable and has great fun as Berthold. Jack Purvis (Brazil) appears in one of his last film roles, the rock star Sting drops in for about thirty seconds as a wounded soldier, and Winston Dennis finally gets some dialogue after being mute for both Time Bandits and Brazil.
These fine performers work well with a script by Gilliam and Charles McKeown that is generally clever and exciting. Though the story is somewhat episodic in its leaps from one destination to another, thus preventing any real subtext or character arcs, the script doesn’t seem to care; it is too busy having fun.
The film is a very lavish production which looks like it spared no expense. As much as I want to be a film director, I am intimidated by the thought of such huge sets, such broad sweeping beaches filled with soldiers and armaments – all of which was real since CGI crowds were not a possibility at the time. Vulcan’s ornate ballroom is a masterpiece, the belly of the whale is awesome, and the surface of the moon is where the art directors obviously relaxed and got delightfully silly. There are imperfections, to be sure – the scale models and some flying wires are easily detected – but the look is still fantastic.
All this technical artistry was recognized with four Academy Award nominations: Art Direction, Costumes, Make-Up, and Special Effects. (It lost, respectively, to Batman, Henry V, Driving Miss Daisy, and The Abyss. I was ticked.) And yet, I was surprised to learn, the film has earned a place in cinematic history for being the textbook example of what Hollywood calls a fiasco. I don’t have room here, and apparently there is a whole book on the subject if you’re curious.
Having acknowledged its imperfections – and I’ll mention that, due to the Baron’s philandering and an artistic nude scene, it would be more appropriately rated PG-13 – I will say that this is without a doubt my favorite film. The Baron is a vigorous, enthusiastic figure whose laugh alone is enough to urge us to get on our horses, whip out our swords, and charge headlong into life’s challenges. The creativity of the storyline and the many fantastic whims that decorate the film never lose their savor with me, even after the gazillionth viewing. From the opening fanfare (by the late Michael Kamen – one of the most thrilling bars of music I have ever heard) to the triumphant ride into the sunset, my day is always brighter after watching the Baron’s exploits.
Floating heads, a two-dimensional city, a waltz with Venus, a three-headed mechanical bird, a tea party with the god of war, a card game with Death – these are things no one ever believes. But every now and then, just for a moment or two, maybe we should stop and imagine.
My Score: 8
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Lightweight Ballroom Escapism
Film Review:
Shall We Dance
2004 / 1 hr., 46 min. / PG-13
Director: Peter Chelsom
There is something fun about dance movies. The peppy music and vivacious choreography lend a certain attraction, not just to flamboyant comedies like Strictly Ballroom, but even down to the more tepid attempts such as Marilyn Hotchkiss’ Ballroom Dancing & Charm School.
Shall We Dance is somewhere in between. It’s not an “important” movie, and will never be a classic even within its genre – but it is sweet, humorous, and, yes, has me considering taking up ballroom dancing.
John Clark (Richard Gere) is an estate lawyer who spends every workday dealing with people who are preparing for death. He is successful, with a loving wife (Susan Sarandon), two kids who are so clean-cut their worst fault is talking on a cell phone during dinner, a great house, and a well-paying job that isn’t going away until people stop dying. In fact, as I write this paragraph, I am stunned: It has long been my complaint that far too many writers have become lazy, falling back on the premise of a pending or actual divorce to frame their narratives because it’s a quick and easy way to set up tension. In Shall We Dance, we basically have the Cleaver family descendants: Dad works, Mom may have the second job but she does all the cooking, including hand-preparing farm-fresh green beans for dinner. The kids are not Goth-absorbed angry rebels, there are no piercings, tattoos, or swear words. How utterly refreshing: Someone in Hollywood daring to create a film about a healthy family.
What is a problem is John’s growing awareness of a certain stale quality to life. In to work on the train, deal with wills and testaments, back home on the train, on a good night the whole family eats at the same time before Mom heads off to a meeting of some kind. Nothing particularly dysfunctional, just mundane to the point of numbing.
Night after night John’s train ride home takes him past Miss Mitzi’s dancing school, where the contemplative face of a beautiful young woman (Jennifer Lopez) stares out at the world. One night, out of compulsively irresistible curiosity, John disembarks the train early and enters the dance school where he gets railroaded by the beautiful young woman, Paulina, into joining the beginner’s class, taught, not as he had hoped, by the elder Miss Mitzi (Anita Gillette) instead.
Unable to tell his family what he has gotten involved in, but unable to stop going because of the way it begins to dispel the doldrums, John keeps attending the classes. Eventually Miss Mitzi sees in him enough talent to compel him into a local ballroom dance competition, and that’s where I’ll stop.
There is a certain straightforward and commonplace quality about the film that makes it hard to really critique. It is too well done to provide fodder for delightfully caustic sarcasm, and too plain to elicit hyperbolic praise. It’s – it’s – it’s – a nice movie. It is adapted by Audrey Wells from a Japanese script, and capably helmed by director Peter Chelsom so that the experience is as entertaining as it should be: For the duration of the film.
I very much appreciated the rare opportunity to see a movie that did not hinge on heavy, gritty, heart-breaking problems. John has a perfectly harmless mid-life crisis: He takes up dance, but is too embarrassed about this sudden change in his life to tell his family about it. As a bonus from my perspective, I can kind of relate: I recently took up bodybuilding after 20 years of shunning all things Physical Fitness. (I did, however, let my wife know first.)
Richard Gere (The Mothman Prophecies) plays John as the ordinary man he is. This does not seem to be a role that requires intense depth and character study – I imagine he took the part because he had such fun learning to tap-dance for Chicago and wanted an excuse to continue dancing. And get paid for it, no less. (Hey, I’d love to get paid to bodybuild in preparation for a movie role!)
Gere blends well with Susan Sarandon (Enchanted) who plays his wife Beverly as an ordinary woman. Because she is left out of John’s new hobby, her part gets to be more than just the nagging spouse, and she fills it capably. Their most tense moments together do not involve high-stakes shouting matches and broken dishes; the tensions are mostly in the quiet pauses, and in Sarandon’s eyes moving oh-so-slightly askance.
If there was a weak point among the lead performers, I felt it was Jennifer Lopez (Maid in Manhattan). In fact, I almost forgot about her just now. The role of Paulina is a grounding reality to the film’s humor, leaving Lopez with really not much to do. Her performance is functional, but next to the other characters, she feels deficient.
Richard Jenkins (Burn After Reading) shows up as a private detective who eats compulsively; Jenkins has always been good as the side character that is not necessarily off-putting, but which you just wouldn’t want to get too close to. Stanley Tucci (The Terminal) throws himself into his role as a fellow repressed lawyer, unleashing his inner Latin Lover through the dance classes; Lisa Ann Walter (Bruce Almighty) is a sassy dancer looking for a new competition partner; and John is joined in the beginner’s class by Omar Miller (8 Mile) and Bobby Cannavale (Paul Blart: Mall Cop). There are the obligatory scenes of this beginning trio being so inept as to be unbelievable, but eventually the film settles into a more realistic humor that springs naturally from the situation.
Also a bit unbelievable is the obligatory rush to enter the upcoming competition. At least in Strictly Ballroom both dancers were experienced. Here, John Clark goes from know-nothing to poster boy in record time. Maybe that’s possible – I don’t know how long it takes to master ballroom dances – but it feels improbable here. At least give our hero three months instead of two, or something like that. If the film weren’t otherwise entertaining, I would more strongly complain.
In the end, Shall We Dance is a passing piece of fun entertainment that will do the rounds among people who are open to harmless works of amusement, and then it will quietly disappear. But after years of reading high-minded film reviews by elitist professional critics who disdain anything that doesn’t have long-lasting envelope-pushing socio-political resonance, my thought is: What’s the harm in a movie’s being both enjoyable and forgettable? As enjoyable, forgettable movies go, Shall We Dance is a winner.
My Score: 7
Shall We Dance
2004 / 1 hr., 46 min. / PG-13
Director: Peter Chelsom
There is something fun about dance movies. The peppy music and vivacious choreography lend a certain attraction, not just to flamboyant comedies like Strictly Ballroom, but even down to the more tepid attempts such as Marilyn Hotchkiss’ Ballroom Dancing & Charm School.
Shall We Dance is somewhere in between. It’s not an “important” movie, and will never be a classic even within its genre – but it is sweet, humorous, and, yes, has me considering taking up ballroom dancing.
John Clark (Richard Gere) is an estate lawyer who spends every workday dealing with people who are preparing for death. He is successful, with a loving wife (Susan Sarandon), two kids who are so clean-cut their worst fault is talking on a cell phone during dinner, a great house, and a well-paying job that isn’t going away until people stop dying. In fact, as I write this paragraph, I am stunned: It has long been my complaint that far too many writers have become lazy, falling back on the premise of a pending or actual divorce to frame their narratives because it’s a quick and easy way to set up tension. In Shall We Dance, we basically have the Cleaver family descendants: Dad works, Mom may have the second job but she does all the cooking, including hand-preparing farm-fresh green beans for dinner. The kids are not Goth-absorbed angry rebels, there are no piercings, tattoos, or swear words. How utterly refreshing: Someone in Hollywood daring to create a film about a healthy family.
What is a problem is John’s growing awareness of a certain stale quality to life. In to work on the train, deal with wills and testaments, back home on the train, on a good night the whole family eats at the same time before Mom heads off to a meeting of some kind. Nothing particularly dysfunctional, just mundane to the point of numbing.
Night after night John’s train ride home takes him past Miss Mitzi’s dancing school, where the contemplative face of a beautiful young woman (Jennifer Lopez) stares out at the world. One night, out of compulsively irresistible curiosity, John disembarks the train early and enters the dance school where he gets railroaded by the beautiful young woman, Paulina, into joining the beginner’s class, taught, not as he had hoped, by the elder Miss Mitzi (Anita Gillette) instead.
Unable to tell his family what he has gotten involved in, but unable to stop going because of the way it begins to dispel the doldrums, John keeps attending the classes. Eventually Miss Mitzi sees in him enough talent to compel him into a local ballroom dance competition, and that’s where I’ll stop.
There is a certain straightforward and commonplace quality about the film that makes it hard to really critique. It is too well done to provide fodder for delightfully caustic sarcasm, and too plain to elicit hyperbolic praise. It’s – it’s – it’s – a nice movie. It is adapted by Audrey Wells from a Japanese script, and capably helmed by director Peter Chelsom so that the experience is as entertaining as it should be: For the duration of the film.
I very much appreciated the rare opportunity to see a movie that did not hinge on heavy, gritty, heart-breaking problems. John has a perfectly harmless mid-life crisis: He takes up dance, but is too embarrassed about this sudden change in his life to tell his family about it. As a bonus from my perspective, I can kind of relate: I recently took up bodybuilding after 20 years of shunning all things Physical Fitness. (I did, however, let my wife know first.)
Richard Gere (The Mothman Prophecies) plays John as the ordinary man he is. This does not seem to be a role that requires intense depth and character study – I imagine he took the part because he had such fun learning to tap-dance for Chicago and wanted an excuse to continue dancing. And get paid for it, no less. (Hey, I’d love to get paid to bodybuild in preparation for a movie role!)
Gere blends well with Susan Sarandon (Enchanted) who plays his wife Beverly as an ordinary woman. Because she is left out of John’s new hobby, her part gets to be more than just the nagging spouse, and she fills it capably. Their most tense moments together do not involve high-stakes shouting matches and broken dishes; the tensions are mostly in the quiet pauses, and in Sarandon’s eyes moving oh-so-slightly askance.
If there was a weak point among the lead performers, I felt it was Jennifer Lopez (Maid in Manhattan). In fact, I almost forgot about her just now. The role of Paulina is a grounding reality to the film’s humor, leaving Lopez with really not much to do. Her performance is functional, but next to the other characters, she feels deficient.
Richard Jenkins (Burn After Reading) shows up as a private detective who eats compulsively; Jenkins has always been good as the side character that is not necessarily off-putting, but which you just wouldn’t want to get too close to. Stanley Tucci (The Terminal) throws himself into his role as a fellow repressed lawyer, unleashing his inner Latin Lover through the dance classes; Lisa Ann Walter (Bruce Almighty) is a sassy dancer looking for a new competition partner; and John is joined in the beginner’s class by Omar Miller (8 Mile) and Bobby Cannavale (Paul Blart: Mall Cop). There are the obligatory scenes of this beginning trio being so inept as to be unbelievable, but eventually the film settles into a more realistic humor that springs naturally from the situation.
Also a bit unbelievable is the obligatory rush to enter the upcoming competition. At least in Strictly Ballroom both dancers were experienced. Here, John Clark goes from know-nothing to poster boy in record time. Maybe that’s possible – I don’t know how long it takes to master ballroom dances – but it feels improbable here. At least give our hero three months instead of two, or something like that. If the film weren’t otherwise entertaining, I would more strongly complain.
In the end, Shall We Dance is a passing piece of fun entertainment that will do the rounds among people who are open to harmless works of amusement, and then it will quietly disappear. But after years of reading high-minded film reviews by elitist professional critics who disdain anything that doesn’t have long-lasting envelope-pushing socio-political resonance, my thought is: What’s the harm in a movie’s being both enjoyable and forgettable? As enjoyable, forgettable movies go, Shall We Dance is a winner.
My Score: 7
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
The Real American Hero
Movie Review:
Captain America: The First Avenger
2011 / 2 hrs., 4 min. / PG-13
Director: Joe Johnston
In my entire life, I have never read a comic book. I think I thumbed through a page or two out of curiosity, but they were simply never one of my interests. Thanks to Saturday morning cartoons, I did grow up knowing that the Hulk, Spider-Man, and Batman existed, but if you were to ask me which one was the first Avenger, historically, I wouldn’t have known that it was Captain America. I do now. See? – Movies are educational after all.
In Captain America: The First Avenger, we are introduced to Steve Rogers (Chris Evans), a short, scrawny young man who would love nothing more than to join the Army and fight for his country, putting down Germany and the Nazis as his own personal stand against bullying everywhere. (Seventy years later we’d say he needed counseling and a good prosecuting attorney, and that Congress should pass hate crime bills outlawing bullies in movie theaters and back alleys. Somewhere between Captain America and Modern America, we lost our spine. But I digress.)
Repeatedly rejected by the recruitment officers for his utter lack of physicality, Rogers’ patriotic persistence garners the attention of Dr. Abraham Erskine (Stanley Tucci), a German ex-patriot now doing scientific research for the Americans. Erskine has developed a serum and procedure that potentially turns ordinary humans into super-humans – he just needs a lab rat.
Because this movie exists at all, you can already guess that the procedure works. Now a jaw-droppingly buff stud, Rogers can run, jump, and hit with heightened strength and skill. Like most movies involving fantastical characters, the parameters are a little flexible depending on how tight of a situation the writers want to put Our Hero in, but this film is by no means the worst offender.
After a stultifying stint as a war bonds spokesman dubbed “Captain America”, Rogers proves his worth on a daring rescue of some POW’s, and Colonel Chester Phillips (Tommy Lee Jones) assigns him to take on the biggest threat the Nazis have cooked up: Johann Schmidt (Hugo Weaving), the “Red Skull”, one of Hitler’s occult and mythology experts, who has discovered the Ark of the Covenant, a device of such immense power that if the Nazis can harness it, they will be invincible. No, wait: Schmidt has discovered the Tesseract, a device of such immense power that if the Nazis can harness it, they will be invincible. I don’t know how I could have confused the two.
From there I don’t think I need to detail any more. Red Skull races to unleash the Tesseract’s power on America, and Captain America races to stop him. Bet you didn’t see that coming.
But lest a little sarcasm over the predictability of the plot confuse you, I’ll state quite clearly that this is one of the most enjoyable film experiences I have had in the past few years. I am blissfully unaware of how well it relates to the comic book, but by itself the screenplay by Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely is utterly engaging; and its execution by director Joe Johnston is nearly flawless. Johnston’s evocation of Americana that he demonstrated so well in The Rocketeer makes him quite simply the perfect director for this project. Together with the amazing production designer Rick Heinrichs, Johnston immerses us completely in the period: The right people, the right fabrics, the right colors, the right everything.
But a film is more than just its visual setting, and Johnston is equally up to the task of making the story itself work within all that nostalgia. I am rarely drawn in by action movies, because they are usually just studies in the number and lengths of action set pieces the creators can cram into a movie, with a plot and characters which serve as nothing more than an excuse for all those supposed adrenaline rushes. (For example, the subsequent The Avengers.) Johnston and the writers find the right balance, setting up a very calculated and restrained number of action scenes with wonderful character development, so that we are led to care for who is doing the fighting and why.
And I would have to watch it again to be certain, but my first impression is that there was very little to doubt here in terms of the physics behind events. We have a few typical mistakes, like the idea that two people would be able to have a conversation at normal volume while traveling at high speed in an open convertible just a few yards behind jet engines throttling for take-off. But the creative team avoided my biggest complaint, that of objects apparently not having the mass or weight they appear to have because of the slipshod manner in which the special effects department makes them move. For the most part, I was completely drawn in to the fiction behind the science, with little to complain about.
Chris Evans (Cellular) takes on what I consider his best role to date. I can’t argue that he did not serve his previous films decently, but here he makes Steve Rogers a very likable and approachable person. He is handsome without being impossibly stellar; he is humble without being cowardly; he is the same Common Man he was as a diminutive wimp, but now with the physical capabilities of effectively standing up for what he believes in. I cannot imagine anyone else filling out the character (figuratively and literally) any better than Evans, which is the result I’m sure every casting director dreams of.
Hugo Weaving (The Matrix) can always be counted on for tight-lipped straight-laced villainy, so there is not much to say here. Take Agent Smith and add a German accent. Some guys are simply born for such typecasting. Similarly, but with better success, is Tommy Lee Jones (The Fugitive) as Rogers’ supervising colonel. Jones does what he always does: Dry, sarcastic barbs with just enough smirk to let you know he has a heart somewhere under that crust. Maybe it’s the script, maybe it’s who he gets to interact with – whatever it is, Jones manages to take the same personality he has exuded for decades and keep it fresh.
Also supporting Evans are Hayley Atwell (Brideshead Revisited) as the love interest, who is fairly typically drawn but who did make me laugh with her very subtle and funny moment where she clearly wants to reach out and touch Rogers’ amazing new torso; and Toby Jones (City of Ember) who continues to be perfectly typecast as a weasely trouble-maker. Stanley Tucci (The Terminal) defies his short time on screen by making himself almost a loveable grandfather type, to the point where I wish his part had been bigger. Individually and as an ensemble, the entire cast are well-placed.
If I was let down at all, it was in the moment that should have been the grand finale. I hear a lot of people were disappointed in the ending, but my specific issue is with the precise point at which the hero conquers the villain. The moment should have been more theatrical, the villain’s final lament at the thwarting of his plans should have been more operatic. I felt it was surprisingly underplayed, and abrupt in its conclusion. It’s not an inappropriate or wrong ending for this film; its delivery just lacks the final wallop it cries out for. (And don’t tell me I just spoiled it. The thwarting of the villain is in the very fabric of superhero movies. It is a given element by the very nature of this film’s existence!)
Overall, I would easily rank Captain America: The First Avenger as one of the top superhero films I’ve ever seen. To date, it bests just about everything else, including the much-raved-about Spider-Man 2, and (dare I contemplate it?) possibly even Richard Donner’s classic Superman, though that comparison is too close to say for certain at this time. And since I’ve already made this opinion clear on my social network connections, I may as well officially put it in print: It’s a heck of a lot more interesting than Joss Whedon’s The Avengers. Knowing how some of my friends took that news the first time, this may very well be the last thing you ever read from me.
My Score: 9
Captain America: The First Avenger
2011 / 2 hrs., 4 min. / PG-13
Director: Joe Johnston
In my entire life, I have never read a comic book. I think I thumbed through a page or two out of curiosity, but they were simply never one of my interests. Thanks to Saturday morning cartoons, I did grow up knowing that the Hulk, Spider-Man, and Batman existed, but if you were to ask me which one was the first Avenger, historically, I wouldn’t have known that it was Captain America. I do now. See? – Movies are educational after all.
In Captain America: The First Avenger, we are introduced to Steve Rogers (Chris Evans), a short, scrawny young man who would love nothing more than to join the Army and fight for his country, putting down Germany and the Nazis as his own personal stand against bullying everywhere. (Seventy years later we’d say he needed counseling and a good prosecuting attorney, and that Congress should pass hate crime bills outlawing bullies in movie theaters and back alleys. Somewhere between Captain America and Modern America, we lost our spine. But I digress.)
Repeatedly rejected by the recruitment officers for his utter lack of physicality, Rogers’ patriotic persistence garners the attention of Dr. Abraham Erskine (Stanley Tucci), a German ex-patriot now doing scientific research for the Americans. Erskine has developed a serum and procedure that potentially turns ordinary humans into super-humans – he just needs a lab rat.
Because this movie exists at all, you can already guess that the procedure works. Now a jaw-droppingly buff stud, Rogers can run, jump, and hit with heightened strength and skill. Like most movies involving fantastical characters, the parameters are a little flexible depending on how tight of a situation the writers want to put Our Hero in, but this film is by no means the worst offender.
After a stultifying stint as a war bonds spokesman dubbed “Captain America”, Rogers proves his worth on a daring rescue of some POW’s, and Colonel Chester Phillips (Tommy Lee Jones) assigns him to take on the biggest threat the Nazis have cooked up: Johann Schmidt (Hugo Weaving), the “Red Skull”, one of Hitler’s occult and mythology experts, who has discovered the Ark of the Covenant, a device of such immense power that if the Nazis can harness it, they will be invincible. No, wait: Schmidt has discovered the Tesseract, a device of such immense power that if the Nazis can harness it, they will be invincible. I don’t know how I could have confused the two.
From there I don’t think I need to detail any more. Red Skull races to unleash the Tesseract’s power on America, and Captain America races to stop him. Bet you didn’t see that coming.
But lest a little sarcasm over the predictability of the plot confuse you, I’ll state quite clearly that this is one of the most enjoyable film experiences I have had in the past few years. I am blissfully unaware of how well it relates to the comic book, but by itself the screenplay by Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely is utterly engaging; and its execution by director Joe Johnston is nearly flawless. Johnston’s evocation of Americana that he demonstrated so well in The Rocketeer makes him quite simply the perfect director for this project. Together with the amazing production designer Rick Heinrichs, Johnston immerses us completely in the period: The right people, the right fabrics, the right colors, the right everything.
But a film is more than just its visual setting, and Johnston is equally up to the task of making the story itself work within all that nostalgia. I am rarely drawn in by action movies, because they are usually just studies in the number and lengths of action set pieces the creators can cram into a movie, with a plot and characters which serve as nothing more than an excuse for all those supposed adrenaline rushes. (For example, the subsequent The Avengers.) Johnston and the writers find the right balance, setting up a very calculated and restrained number of action scenes with wonderful character development, so that we are led to care for who is doing the fighting and why.
And I would have to watch it again to be certain, but my first impression is that there was very little to doubt here in terms of the physics behind events. We have a few typical mistakes, like the idea that two people would be able to have a conversation at normal volume while traveling at high speed in an open convertible just a few yards behind jet engines throttling for take-off. But the creative team avoided my biggest complaint, that of objects apparently not having the mass or weight they appear to have because of the slipshod manner in which the special effects department makes them move. For the most part, I was completely drawn in to the fiction behind the science, with little to complain about.
Chris Evans (Cellular) takes on what I consider his best role to date. I can’t argue that he did not serve his previous films decently, but here he makes Steve Rogers a very likable and approachable person. He is handsome without being impossibly stellar; he is humble without being cowardly; he is the same Common Man he was as a diminutive wimp, but now with the physical capabilities of effectively standing up for what he believes in. I cannot imagine anyone else filling out the character (figuratively and literally) any better than Evans, which is the result I’m sure every casting director dreams of.
Hugo Weaving (The Matrix) can always be counted on for tight-lipped straight-laced villainy, so there is not much to say here. Take Agent Smith and add a German accent. Some guys are simply born for such typecasting. Similarly, but with better success, is Tommy Lee Jones (The Fugitive) as Rogers’ supervising colonel. Jones does what he always does: Dry, sarcastic barbs with just enough smirk to let you know he has a heart somewhere under that crust. Maybe it’s the script, maybe it’s who he gets to interact with – whatever it is, Jones manages to take the same personality he has exuded for decades and keep it fresh.
Also supporting Evans are Hayley Atwell (Brideshead Revisited) as the love interest, who is fairly typically drawn but who did make me laugh with her very subtle and funny moment where she clearly wants to reach out and touch Rogers’ amazing new torso; and Toby Jones (City of Ember) who continues to be perfectly typecast as a weasely trouble-maker. Stanley Tucci (The Terminal) defies his short time on screen by making himself almost a loveable grandfather type, to the point where I wish his part had been bigger. Individually and as an ensemble, the entire cast are well-placed.
If I was let down at all, it was in the moment that should have been the grand finale. I hear a lot of people were disappointed in the ending, but my specific issue is with the precise point at which the hero conquers the villain. The moment should have been more theatrical, the villain’s final lament at the thwarting of his plans should have been more operatic. I felt it was surprisingly underplayed, and abrupt in its conclusion. It’s not an inappropriate or wrong ending for this film; its delivery just lacks the final wallop it cries out for. (And don’t tell me I just spoiled it. The thwarting of the villain is in the very fabric of superhero movies. It is a given element by the very nature of this film’s existence!)
Overall, I would easily rank Captain America: The First Avenger as one of the top superhero films I’ve ever seen. To date, it bests just about everything else, including the much-raved-about Spider-Man 2, and (dare I contemplate it?) possibly even Richard Donner’s classic Superman, though that comparison is too close to say for certain at this time. And since I’ve already made this opinion clear on my social network connections, I may as well officially put it in print: It’s a heck of a lot more interesting than Joss Whedon’s The Avengers. Knowing how some of my friends took that news the first time, this may very well be the last thing you ever read from me.
My Score: 9
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Deflating Arizona
Movie Review:
O.C. and Stiggs
1985 / 1 hr., 49 min. / R
Director: Robert Altman
This review is part of my quest to see every Robert Altman film available in an attempt to discern what it is that made him a renowned director.
There is a reason that John Hughes lives on as a great writer and director of 1980's teen comedies, and Robert Altman does not. And O.C. and Stiggs is that reason.
O.C. (Daniel Jenkins) and Stiggs (Neill Barry) are two high school buddies who have a general disdain for their middle-class lifestyle in Scottsdale, Arizona, and a more specific hatred for local bigwig Randall Schwab (Paul Dooley). Schwab is the area’s insurance monarch, complete with a low-budget commercial that is almost too painful to even laugh at. And it seems that Schwab has turned down a claim filed by O.C.’s grandfather (Ray Walston), leaving O.C. no choice but to put Gramps in a nursing home and move himself off to a southeastern state to live with another relative. I can’t say exactly how Schwab’s declination topples the string of dominos – the film was a little unclear on that – but that is probably beside the point anyway.
The boys spend their free time – and they pretty much make sure free time is all they have – finding ways to harass, embarrass, and torment Schwab and every member of his extended family. They run up huge overseas phone bills on Schwab’s line, steal his barbequed dinners, crash the wedding of Schwab’s daughter, convert Schwab’s home into a drug rehab clinic fund-raising event, and blow up Schwab’s survival shelter, all with as much gleeful abandon as a couple of malcontent slackers can muster.
The teen comedy genre is capably populated by hits that fans still talk about, like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Sixteen Candles, and Porky’s. Not only does O.C. and Stiggs fail to place on that list, but I can’t even recall anyone ever mentioning this film when chronicling Altman’s list of achievements.
The foundational problem is that Altman didn’t even like teen comedies. He saw in the script a chance to satirize the genre, not complement it; and yet I don’t feel like he even succeeded at satire. Altman would have been wiser to craft his own script with that agenda, or drop the agenda entirely, rather than distort what the studio wanted and what writers Ted Mann and Donald Cantrell handed him.
The result is a meandering series of misadventures with almost no framework holding them together. Some of the pranks seem to have nothing to do with the Schwabs, so far as I could see. A summer river trip down to Mexico has no apparent connection to anything whatsoever, nor do the various subplots involving cheating husbands, bridezillas, or homosexual teachers. The film as a whole has little forward momentum or any sense of drive toward a climactic moment. The last prank, blowing up the bomb shelter, may be the most devastating one; but we are left with the feeling that this was just one of many, and not the grand conclusion of the boys’ scheme to ruin their archenemy.
The experience is made even messier with Altman’s trademark directing style involving overlapping dialogue. It worked in MASH, Gosford Park, and others, but here it feels overused and overmixed – conversations get layered so deeply upon each other that entire scenes are rendered helpless in moving the plot forward because we can’t hear anything relevant to the plot. And if there is indeed nothing relevant to the plot in those scenes anyway, then by the unwritten rules of storytelling, those scenes need to be cut. The wandering, noisy mish-mash makes the film feel even longer than its nearly two hours.
The film is not hopeless, it’s just nowhere near Altman’s best. Daniel Jenkins and Neill Barry are likeable onscreen presences. Barry is particularly charismatic in his attitude and delivery, with body language that is humorous in the way it just doesn’t care. I enjoyed their mutual repartee at several points, especially when they go to purchase a car. I can see where someone like John Hughes could have turned this same plot into a film that would have had Jenkins and Barry fielding larger offers than the sideline careers they both ended up with.
Altman recruits major stars to support our two anti-heroes, with more than a few of them playing parodies of their own earlier roles. Dennis Hopper’s character is lifted straight out of Apocalypse Now, for instance; and according to Altman, cameo performances by Martin Mull (Clue), Ray Walston (Popeye), and Melvin Van Peebles (Jaws: The Revenge) draw on their past cinematic lives as well. Paul Dooley (Strange Brew) and Jane Curtin (Coneheads) as Mr. and Mrs. Schwab are overblown exaggerations, but still manage to draw out some humor. All together, the cast delivers a light-hearted teen hijinx comedy, sometimes believable, sometimes too over-the-top to be at all convincing. If the overboard performances of some of the supporting roles is part of Altman’s satire, he missed and ended up with results that just look bad, not lampoonish.
I have a request of directors: If you just don’t like a genre, then when a studio offers you an opportunity to direct something in that very genre, just turn the offer down. To readers: You’ll definitely laugh more with Revenge of the Nerds, Real Genius, or any of a dozen others. How much more will vary, of course, but consider this warning as your opportunity to save yourself the two hours you would have lost.
My Score: 5
O.C. and Stiggs
1985 / 1 hr., 49 min. / R
Director: Robert Altman
This review is part of my quest to see every Robert Altman film available in an attempt to discern what it is that made him a renowned director.
There is a reason that John Hughes lives on as a great writer and director of 1980's teen comedies, and Robert Altman does not. And O.C. and Stiggs is that reason.
O.C. (Daniel Jenkins) and Stiggs (Neill Barry) are two high school buddies who have a general disdain for their middle-class lifestyle in Scottsdale, Arizona, and a more specific hatred for local bigwig Randall Schwab (Paul Dooley). Schwab is the area’s insurance monarch, complete with a low-budget commercial that is almost too painful to even laugh at. And it seems that Schwab has turned down a claim filed by O.C.’s grandfather (Ray Walston), leaving O.C. no choice but to put Gramps in a nursing home and move himself off to a southeastern state to live with another relative. I can’t say exactly how Schwab’s declination topples the string of dominos – the film was a little unclear on that – but that is probably beside the point anyway.
The boys spend their free time – and they pretty much make sure free time is all they have – finding ways to harass, embarrass, and torment Schwab and every member of his extended family. They run up huge overseas phone bills on Schwab’s line, steal his barbequed dinners, crash the wedding of Schwab’s daughter, convert Schwab’s home into a drug rehab clinic fund-raising event, and blow up Schwab’s survival shelter, all with as much gleeful abandon as a couple of malcontent slackers can muster.
The teen comedy genre is capably populated by hits that fans still talk about, like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Sixteen Candles, and Porky’s. Not only does O.C. and Stiggs fail to place on that list, but I can’t even recall anyone ever mentioning this film when chronicling Altman’s list of achievements.
The foundational problem is that Altman didn’t even like teen comedies. He saw in the script a chance to satirize the genre, not complement it; and yet I don’t feel like he even succeeded at satire. Altman would have been wiser to craft his own script with that agenda, or drop the agenda entirely, rather than distort what the studio wanted and what writers Ted Mann and Donald Cantrell handed him.
The result is a meandering series of misadventures with almost no framework holding them together. Some of the pranks seem to have nothing to do with the Schwabs, so far as I could see. A summer river trip down to Mexico has no apparent connection to anything whatsoever, nor do the various subplots involving cheating husbands, bridezillas, or homosexual teachers. The film as a whole has little forward momentum or any sense of drive toward a climactic moment. The last prank, blowing up the bomb shelter, may be the most devastating one; but we are left with the feeling that this was just one of many, and not the grand conclusion of the boys’ scheme to ruin their archenemy.
The experience is made even messier with Altman’s trademark directing style involving overlapping dialogue. It worked in MASH, Gosford Park, and others, but here it feels overused and overmixed – conversations get layered so deeply upon each other that entire scenes are rendered helpless in moving the plot forward because we can’t hear anything relevant to the plot. And if there is indeed nothing relevant to the plot in those scenes anyway, then by the unwritten rules of storytelling, those scenes need to be cut. The wandering, noisy mish-mash makes the film feel even longer than its nearly two hours.
The film is not hopeless, it’s just nowhere near Altman’s best. Daniel Jenkins and Neill Barry are likeable onscreen presences. Barry is particularly charismatic in his attitude and delivery, with body language that is humorous in the way it just doesn’t care. I enjoyed their mutual repartee at several points, especially when they go to purchase a car. I can see where someone like John Hughes could have turned this same plot into a film that would have had Jenkins and Barry fielding larger offers than the sideline careers they both ended up with.
Altman recruits major stars to support our two anti-heroes, with more than a few of them playing parodies of their own earlier roles. Dennis Hopper’s character is lifted straight out of Apocalypse Now, for instance; and according to Altman, cameo performances by Martin Mull (Clue), Ray Walston (Popeye), and Melvin Van Peebles (Jaws: The Revenge) draw on their past cinematic lives as well. Paul Dooley (Strange Brew) and Jane Curtin (Coneheads) as Mr. and Mrs. Schwab are overblown exaggerations, but still manage to draw out some humor. All together, the cast delivers a light-hearted teen hijinx comedy, sometimes believable, sometimes too over-the-top to be at all convincing. If the overboard performances of some of the supporting roles is part of Altman’s satire, he missed and ended up with results that just look bad, not lampoonish.
I have a request of directors: If you just don’t like a genre, then when a studio offers you an opportunity to direct something in that very genre, just turn the offer down. To readers: You’ll definitely laugh more with Revenge of the Nerds, Real Genius, or any of a dozen others. How much more will vary, of course, but consider this warning as your opportunity to save yourself the two hours you would have lost.
My Score: 5
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Open Invitation
Even before reviewing "Waiting For Godot", I noticed that the praise people have given it has been of a very vague kind: "It's great!" "It's so interesting!" Etc.
After posting my review, the criticisms have been equally vague: "You just don't get it", "You're a loser," etc. Most of those who disagree with me have simply stooped to sarcastic mockery.
Why not take the opportunity to Educate instead of Excoriate? I had a mind open to seeing the play and giving it a chance -- why not practice what you preach and return the favor? Take some time to actually delineate what it is about this play that makes it great (objectively or personally subjectively), and write about it.
Normally I reserve my blog for things I write myself, but if someone actually takes the time to write an informative rebuttal that explains what it is I should be taking home from this play, I will publish it here. (If I get multiple entries, I'll pick the one I feel helps me understand the issue best.)
Now's your chance - rise above petty sarcasm and mockery that does not help in any way, and educate me.
After posting my review, the criticisms have been equally vague: "You just don't get it", "You're a loser," etc. Most of those who disagree with me have simply stooped to sarcastic mockery.
Why not take the opportunity to Educate instead of Excoriate? I had a mind open to seeing the play and giving it a chance -- why not practice what you preach and return the favor? Take some time to actually delineate what it is about this play that makes it great (objectively or personally subjectively), and write about it.
Normally I reserve my blog for things I write myself, but if someone actually takes the time to write an informative rebuttal that explains what it is I should be taking home from this play, I will publish it here. (If I get multiple entries, I'll pick the one I feel helps me understand the issue best.)
Now's your chance - rise above petty sarcasm and mockery that does not help in any way, and educate me.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Fascinating
Here's a tiny little blog read by maybe five or six people a month at most (in a good year), and suddenly it is the talk of the theatrical community because I voiced my opinion that I didn't like a play. I've not-liked previous plays, and my opinion still barely made a blip on the blog's viewer-hit chart. Why all of a sudden?
Now that I've hit the 100-views mark in a single day, a few thoughts come to mind:
* It should be noted that I've never picked on the actual performances of any community theater productions, mostly because there has never been anything to pick on. At least not since I started writing reviews. The direction and delivery of any given script has been anywhere from very good to outstanding. Every negative comment I've ever given for a community theater show has been about the script itself.
* For those concerned that I'm attempting to sway the entire Central Oregon community into not seeing "Waiting For Godot", I repeat that this blog's viewership has been so laughably low that to think I could sway any significant portion of the community is excessive flattery. But thanks for reading and believing I have that kind of vast internet presence! Where were all you readers over the past three years? I was about ready to give up.
* Is the Central Oregon theatrical community so thin-skinned that hearing a negative review brings about a firestorm? Are we all just supposed to pat each other on the back and say, "Good job, I loved the play" even if that's not true? That's what the Oscars are for, and look at the mediocre garbage being churned out year after year from that bunch of back-patters down in Hollywood because everyone's so afraid to say what they think.
* Did you like "Waiting for Godot"? Start a blog and tell the world! It's a fun hobby. If the entire blog is about the performing arts, I'll even be happy to put a link to it in my sidebar! - After all, I now have a hundred readers and they might be interested in your opinion as well!
I'm guessing, however, that after a few days, my blog will be back down to the usual 5 or 6 readers a month, and I'll write for the fun of writing as I have for three years now, and no one will give two hoots about my opinion, as they generally never have unless they are the few folks up here in Redmond who generally already agree with me anyway.
Now that I've hit the 100-views mark in a single day, a few thoughts come to mind:
* It should be noted that I've never picked on the actual performances of any community theater productions, mostly because there has never been anything to pick on. At least not since I started writing reviews. The direction and delivery of any given script has been anywhere from very good to outstanding. Every negative comment I've ever given for a community theater show has been about the script itself.
* For those concerned that I'm attempting to sway the entire Central Oregon community into not seeing "Waiting For Godot", I repeat that this blog's viewership has been so laughably low that to think I could sway any significant portion of the community is excessive flattery. But thanks for reading and believing I have that kind of vast internet presence! Where were all you readers over the past three years? I was about ready to give up.
* Is the Central Oregon theatrical community so thin-skinned that hearing a negative review brings about a firestorm? Are we all just supposed to pat each other on the back and say, "Good job, I loved the play" even if that's not true? That's what the Oscars are for, and look at the mediocre garbage being churned out year after year from that bunch of back-patters down in Hollywood because everyone's so afraid to say what they think.
* Did you like "Waiting for Godot"? Start a blog and tell the world! It's a fun hobby. If the entire blog is about the performing arts, I'll even be happy to put a link to it in my sidebar! - After all, I now have a hundred readers and they might be interested in your opinion as well!
I'm guessing, however, that after a few days, my blog will be back down to the usual 5 or 6 readers a month, and I'll write for the fun of writing as I have for three years now, and no one will give two hoots about my opinion, as they generally never have unless they are the few folks up here in Redmond who generally already agree with me anyway.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Good Godot, That Was Awful
Play Review:
Waiting For Godot
by Samuel Beckett
Company: Innovation Theatre Works
Venue: ITW Main Stage
Run: 3/5/12 - 3/22/12
While I don’t pretend I’m so old as to know everything about myself, I do know what kinds of plays and movies I am likely to enjoy. Upon reading the promotional material for Waiting For Godot at Innovation Theatre Works in Bend, Oregon, my gut reaction was of non-interest. Wikipedia and various essays described it as “absurdist” and “existentialist”, two words that characterize the genre of art for which I have the least appreciation.
However, for a handful of reasons I suppressed that initial reaction and decided to give it a go. For one, it was touted by multiple sources as a pivotal moment in modern theater. As a cinema enthusiast, I have known the trials of getting the uninitiated to understand why Citizen Kane is an essential cornerstone in the foundation of film history. So as a theater hobbyist, I felt I should at least give “the most important play of the modern theater” a chance to speak for itself.
For another, one of the cast members essentially dared me to see it. And third, a friend offered to enable my completion of the dare by purchasing my ticket at a time when I could not afford the ticket price.
Given the script’s lack of forward momentum through a traditional A-line narrative, the play defies a standard plot synopsis. It revolves around two men, Estragon and Vladimir (informally addressing each other as “Gogo” and “Didi”), who are waiting by a dead tree for someone named Godot (“GOD-oh”, not “g’DOH”). Apparently they have been requested by Godot to wait there for him, though neither of them can recall for certain what time Godot will arrive, or if they are by the correct tree, or even whether they will recognize Godot when they see him.
They pass a long and tedious day by talking, sometimes agreeably and sometimes less so. They ponder things like Gogo’s too-tight pair of boots, and whether the nearby tree would support them if they committed suicide by hanging, and other topics I cannot recall because I forgot my notepad. As the day rolls on, a man named Pozzo passes through, along with his tethered lackey Lucky. They stop and join the other two in conversation, pondering such things as why Pozzo keeps Lucky in slavish service to him, and what twilight looks like in that part of the country.
Eventually night falls, and a messenger boy arrives to inform Gogo and Didi that Godot will not be arriving that day after all, but will come tomorrow. The two men head off to find sleep, with the knowledge that they must return the next day and continue waiting.
That’s Act One.
Act Two is more of the same, though the tree has sprouted a few leaves, Pozzo shows up blind, and Gogo has a curious lack of memory regarding anything that happened the previous day. Eventually night falls, and a messenger boy arrives to inform Gogo and Didi that Godot will not be arriving that day after all, but will come tomorrow. Imagine Groundhog Day, only without Bill Murray’s ever finding a happy ending.
And at this point I am not sure how to proceed. Given the bizarre nature of the entire thing, it’s a bit tricky to critique any particular aspect of it. The performances were certainly capable – having worked with cast members Andrew Hickman, Liam Mykael O’Sruitheain, and Alastair Morley Jaques in the past, I expected no less. I can’t even really comment on Brad Hills’ work as the director because, knowing the caliber of three of the four main performers first-hand, I’m quite sure they all brought a great deal of collaboration to the table.
Tim Blough and Hickman, as Gogo and Didi respectively, are well-matched counterpoints. Blough brings out the dour skepticism of Gogo, who is far more ready to give up on ever meeting Godot than Didi is. Ailing from tight boots and foot lesions, Gogo makes many attempts to leave, only to be stopped by Didi; Blough’s deeply resonant voice and long face enhance Didi’s pessimism nicely without being so overtly depressing as to make us want to join him in hanging from the tree.
On the other side, Hickman makes Didi a fraternal twin of Stan Laurel: His hands constantly fidget with his short necktie, he deftly twiddles his hat, and he walks with feet turned way out in a bouncy waddle. Didi seems the more confident in the imminent arrival of Godot, and maintains the sunnier disposition throughout most of the play. Such optimism is brought out by Hickman’s lilting tenor tones and animated physical features.
Liam O’Sruitheain never fails to intrigue me. I have seen him on four occasions now, and he always manages to make his characters far richer than the scripts suggest. Though I cannot for the life of me figure out what Beckett’s script is even trying to suggest and therefore cannot decide whether his performance here was richer or not, O’Sruitheain is watchable as always, pretty much stealing Act One out from under everyone else with his wide range of emotional choices.
Alastair Morley Jaques plays Lucky, who carries around Pozzo’s belongings, and spends every waking moment on stage looking utterly fatigued by the load. Apart from one excessive outburst akin to the Monty Python skit where Eric Idle drove Michael Palin to insanity by complaining about travel agency package deals, Lucky is silent, a character of pure physicality, and Jaques handles it ably.
I started with the performances because I want to differentiate them from the play itself: It is possible to deliver a flawless and expert performance of a script, at the same time that the script itself is not even worth performing. And that is the situation we have here.
The easiest way I can think of to describe what I saw is “doodling”. A person sits and doodles to entertain himself. (I might add that’s why I blog about the theatrical arts, though I do appreciate anyone who stops to read.) It matters not if he doodles anything resembling a decent picture; it’s not really meant for anyone else to look at. And this is the impression I am left with: A play full of doodles.
Samuel Beckett’s script jumps from topic to topic, with or without rational motivation in the dialogue. What portion of page ten requires it to come before page eleven? Would the audience notice if the two pages had been switched? Doubtful. Apart from one hint at an attempt to be deliberately philosophical about the brevity of life (which Beckett also covered in his play Breath), none of the dialogue carries any significant weight or lasting resonance. Some humorous lines are good for a chuckle for their own sake, but they are just chuckles adrift, not serving any larger purpose. There is physical schtick reminiscent of a Mel Brooks film, but it comes and goes with stark inconsistency. Like a child doodling on page after page of blank paper and then throwing them all in a meaningless pile, Beckett doodles out a few dozen theatrical sequences that add up to nothing intriguing whatsoever.
The actors inhabit these doodles consistently and even creatively. O’Sruitheain’s brief discourse on the difficulty of sitting on his stool a second time is delivered with a sly twinkle. Blough and Hickman have volleys of patter that develop a nice rhythm. The list of such individual doodles is long, but doodles they remain: Even when all bundled together, they are still just doodles.
I am told that all this doodling is actually a play wherein Beckett uses the absurd setting to toss out to the audience several thought-provoking questions about the human condition. Indeed, this is the reason cited for the play’s standing as a landmark in modern theater: Never before had a play asked the questions and assigned the audience to ponder their own answers. From everything I have read, it is safe to say existentialism in theatrical form was born right here in Waiting For Godot.
And that is certainly a plausible explanation for my complete lack of enjoyment. I disagree with existentialist philosophy, and with existentialist art. Every play I consider a favorite was written before Waiting For Godot, back when playwrights actually had, you know, something to say. Back before modern art disguised Western culture’s growing relativism and skepticism in a cloak of pseudo-intellectualism.
The director’s program notes invite us to open our minds to the questions being asked. But even disregarding my belief in the presence of absolute truths and the rejection of existential thinking, I still did not even get the impression I was being asked any questions at all, let alone thought-provoking ones I was being burdened to answer. I cannot, a mere two hours after leaving the theater, name for you a single issue about the human condition I am now supposed to be mulling over. If I did not know better, I would say the whole experience felt like a big practical joke by Beckett, who went to his grave laughing quietly about how he duped every producer, director, actor, and receptive audience member into thinking that the play was actually significant. I have no idea what it is about this play that would intrigue any director into staging it, or any actor into auditioning for it. I’m not trying to be snarky, I’m just being honest.
And it’s not that I’m hopelessly shallow: I don’t mind a play or movie that gives me something to think about. But I want to know that the author had a specific assertion in mind, even if I have to dig for it, and even if I disagree with it. Waiting For Godot is none of these. Beckett refused to assign meaning to the play, which makes sense given its existential purpose, but in doing so he completely alienates me.
I think by now I’m beating a dead horse. Waiting For Godot is, for my taste, the worst theater script I have ever seen performed. I would hire any of the performers I saw, who all proved themselves skilled in creating and delivering consistent characters. But the play itself is useless. The fact that Innovation Theatre Works is having a hard time filling the seats for this production suggests I’m not the only one completely put off by its incomprehensible inanity.
When I was a kid who would grimace at some new dish placed before me at the dinner table, my mother would ask, “How do you know you don’t like it? You haven’t even tried it.” Whatever else you may think of my opinion of Waiting For Godot, you cannot say I didn’t even try it.
Basic Ticket Price: $15-$20
Value for Money: Not worth it
Waiting For Godot
by Samuel Beckett
Company: Innovation Theatre Works
Venue: ITW Main Stage
Run: 3/5/12 - 3/22/12
While I don’t pretend I’m so old as to know everything about myself, I do know what kinds of plays and movies I am likely to enjoy. Upon reading the promotional material for Waiting For Godot at Innovation Theatre Works in Bend, Oregon, my gut reaction was of non-interest. Wikipedia and various essays described it as “absurdist” and “existentialist”, two words that characterize the genre of art for which I have the least appreciation.
However, for a handful of reasons I suppressed that initial reaction and decided to give it a go. For one, it was touted by multiple sources as a pivotal moment in modern theater. As a cinema enthusiast, I have known the trials of getting the uninitiated to understand why Citizen Kane is an essential cornerstone in the foundation of film history. So as a theater hobbyist, I felt I should at least give “the most important play of the modern theater” a chance to speak for itself.
For another, one of the cast members essentially dared me to see it. And third, a friend offered to enable my completion of the dare by purchasing my ticket at a time when I could not afford the ticket price.
Given the script’s lack of forward momentum through a traditional A-line narrative, the play defies a standard plot synopsis. It revolves around two men, Estragon and Vladimir (informally addressing each other as “Gogo” and “Didi”), who are waiting by a dead tree for someone named Godot (“GOD-oh”, not “g’DOH”). Apparently they have been requested by Godot to wait there for him, though neither of them can recall for certain what time Godot will arrive, or if they are by the correct tree, or even whether they will recognize Godot when they see him.
They pass a long and tedious day by talking, sometimes agreeably and sometimes less so. They ponder things like Gogo’s too-tight pair of boots, and whether the nearby tree would support them if they committed suicide by hanging, and other topics I cannot recall because I forgot my notepad. As the day rolls on, a man named Pozzo passes through, along with his tethered lackey Lucky. They stop and join the other two in conversation, pondering such things as why Pozzo keeps Lucky in slavish service to him, and what twilight looks like in that part of the country.
Eventually night falls, and a messenger boy arrives to inform Gogo and Didi that Godot will not be arriving that day after all, but will come tomorrow. The two men head off to find sleep, with the knowledge that they must return the next day and continue waiting.
That’s Act One.
Act Two is more of the same, though the tree has sprouted a few leaves, Pozzo shows up blind, and Gogo has a curious lack of memory regarding anything that happened the previous day. Eventually night falls, and a messenger boy arrives to inform Gogo and Didi that Godot will not be arriving that day after all, but will come tomorrow. Imagine Groundhog Day, only without Bill Murray’s ever finding a happy ending.
And at this point I am not sure how to proceed. Given the bizarre nature of the entire thing, it’s a bit tricky to critique any particular aspect of it. The performances were certainly capable – having worked with cast members Andrew Hickman, Liam Mykael O’Sruitheain, and Alastair Morley Jaques in the past, I expected no less. I can’t even really comment on Brad Hills’ work as the director because, knowing the caliber of three of the four main performers first-hand, I’m quite sure they all brought a great deal of collaboration to the table.
Tim Blough and Hickman, as Gogo and Didi respectively, are well-matched counterpoints. Blough brings out the dour skepticism of Gogo, who is far more ready to give up on ever meeting Godot than Didi is. Ailing from tight boots and foot lesions, Gogo makes many attempts to leave, only to be stopped by Didi; Blough’s deeply resonant voice and long face enhance Didi’s pessimism nicely without being so overtly depressing as to make us want to join him in hanging from the tree.
On the other side, Hickman makes Didi a fraternal twin of Stan Laurel: His hands constantly fidget with his short necktie, he deftly twiddles his hat, and he walks with feet turned way out in a bouncy waddle. Didi seems the more confident in the imminent arrival of Godot, and maintains the sunnier disposition throughout most of the play. Such optimism is brought out by Hickman’s lilting tenor tones and animated physical features.
Liam O’Sruitheain never fails to intrigue me. I have seen him on four occasions now, and he always manages to make his characters far richer than the scripts suggest. Though I cannot for the life of me figure out what Beckett’s script is even trying to suggest and therefore cannot decide whether his performance here was richer or not, O’Sruitheain is watchable as always, pretty much stealing Act One out from under everyone else with his wide range of emotional choices.
Alastair Morley Jaques plays Lucky, who carries around Pozzo’s belongings, and spends every waking moment on stage looking utterly fatigued by the load. Apart from one excessive outburst akin to the Monty Python skit where Eric Idle drove Michael Palin to insanity by complaining about travel agency package deals, Lucky is silent, a character of pure physicality, and Jaques handles it ably.
I started with the performances because I want to differentiate them from the play itself: It is possible to deliver a flawless and expert performance of a script, at the same time that the script itself is not even worth performing. And that is the situation we have here.
The easiest way I can think of to describe what I saw is “doodling”. A person sits and doodles to entertain himself. (I might add that’s why I blog about the theatrical arts, though I do appreciate anyone who stops to read.) It matters not if he doodles anything resembling a decent picture; it’s not really meant for anyone else to look at. And this is the impression I am left with: A play full of doodles.
Samuel Beckett’s script jumps from topic to topic, with or without rational motivation in the dialogue. What portion of page ten requires it to come before page eleven? Would the audience notice if the two pages had been switched? Doubtful. Apart from one hint at an attempt to be deliberately philosophical about the brevity of life (which Beckett also covered in his play Breath), none of the dialogue carries any significant weight or lasting resonance. Some humorous lines are good for a chuckle for their own sake, but they are just chuckles adrift, not serving any larger purpose. There is physical schtick reminiscent of a Mel Brooks film, but it comes and goes with stark inconsistency. Like a child doodling on page after page of blank paper and then throwing them all in a meaningless pile, Beckett doodles out a few dozen theatrical sequences that add up to nothing intriguing whatsoever.
The actors inhabit these doodles consistently and even creatively. O’Sruitheain’s brief discourse on the difficulty of sitting on his stool a second time is delivered with a sly twinkle. Blough and Hickman have volleys of patter that develop a nice rhythm. The list of such individual doodles is long, but doodles they remain: Even when all bundled together, they are still just doodles.
I am told that all this doodling is actually a play wherein Beckett uses the absurd setting to toss out to the audience several thought-provoking questions about the human condition. Indeed, this is the reason cited for the play’s standing as a landmark in modern theater: Never before had a play asked the questions and assigned the audience to ponder their own answers. From everything I have read, it is safe to say existentialism in theatrical form was born right here in Waiting For Godot.
And that is certainly a plausible explanation for my complete lack of enjoyment. I disagree with existentialist philosophy, and with existentialist art. Every play I consider a favorite was written before Waiting For Godot, back when playwrights actually had, you know, something to say. Back before modern art disguised Western culture’s growing relativism and skepticism in a cloak of pseudo-intellectualism.
The director’s program notes invite us to open our minds to the questions being asked. But even disregarding my belief in the presence of absolute truths and the rejection of existential thinking, I still did not even get the impression I was being asked any questions at all, let alone thought-provoking ones I was being burdened to answer. I cannot, a mere two hours after leaving the theater, name for you a single issue about the human condition I am now supposed to be mulling over. If I did not know better, I would say the whole experience felt like a big practical joke by Beckett, who went to his grave laughing quietly about how he duped every producer, director, actor, and receptive audience member into thinking that the play was actually significant. I have no idea what it is about this play that would intrigue any director into staging it, or any actor into auditioning for it. I’m not trying to be snarky, I’m just being honest.
And it’s not that I’m hopelessly shallow: I don’t mind a play or movie that gives me something to think about. But I want to know that the author had a specific assertion in mind, even if I have to dig for it, and even if I disagree with it. Waiting For Godot is none of these. Beckett refused to assign meaning to the play, which makes sense given its existential purpose, but in doing so he completely alienates me.
I think by now I’m beating a dead horse. Waiting For Godot is, for my taste, the worst theater script I have ever seen performed. I would hire any of the performers I saw, who all proved themselves skilled in creating and delivering consistent characters. But the play itself is useless. The fact that Innovation Theatre Works is having a hard time filling the seats for this production suggests I’m not the only one completely put off by its incomprehensible inanity.
When I was a kid who would grimace at some new dish placed before me at the dinner table, my mother would ask, “How do you know you don’t like it? You haven’t even tried it.” Whatever else you may think of my opinion of Waiting For Godot, you cannot say I didn’t even try it.
Basic Ticket Price: $15-$20
Value for Money: Not worth it
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Real Hope for Real Change
Movie Review:
Milk
2008 / 2 hrs., 9 min. / R
Director: Gus Van Sant
Anyone who knows me will not even get past this first sentence without wondering if I can review a film like Milk without revealing a preconceived bias. Do my biblical beliefs on homosexuality affect my appreciation of a film about Harvey Milk’s crusade to correct a civil and societal wrong perpetrated on the homosexual community? Of course; and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I have long gotten over the idea that a film critic should not let his bias show; it’s when he’s covert about it that his journalism lacks honesty. If even the loftiest Roger Ebert can drop a star off a film’s score because it doesn’t line up with his liberal, irreligious view of life (and he has), surely this armchair pundit can do the same for a film that does not line up with my conservative, Christian view. And I’ll be honest about it right up front.
I have learned from past public embarrassment not to take a bio-pic at face value. I reviewed Finding Neverland on the assumption that it was reasonably factual, and a college student who had written major theses on J.M. Barrie had to correct me in an online forum. Inevitably, those responsible for producing real-life stories bend the facts for various artistic reasons, not the least of which is to show generosity toward the characters they wish to promote. But as I know nothing of Harvey Milk, indeed had not even heard of him until Milk’s advertising campaign began, I’ll go with the flow on this one.
In that spirit of deliberate naivete, then, I learned that Harvey Milk (Sean Penn) was murdered in 1978 by a very desperate Dan White (Josh Brolin). Who were they and why this was significant is the course of the movie, told by Milk into a cassette recorder in the justified fear that someone might try to assassinate him.
The film traces Milk’s life from his arrival in San Francisco around his fortieth birthday to his death about eight years later. During that time, the Castro district of the city was becoming a mecca for homosexuals, and Milk began to envision a world where gays would not have to live in fear of police brutality, job termination, and other discriminatory practices.
Bolstering support from the like-minded community, Milk became a candidate for office in San Francisco. It was not until the fourth attempt that he was actually elected, in 1977. For the following year, Milk worked to persuade his fellow city supervisors to pass bills extending basic human rights to the homosexual community. As the climax of his career, he was the rallying voice that unified a majority of Californians to defeat Proposition 6, an initiative that would require public schools to fire homosexual teachers.
Along the way, Milk seemed briefly to make a positive acquaintance with fellow city supervisor White, though White was clearly never totally comfortable with Milk. Whether it was Milk’s homosexuality that drove White to shoot both him and Mayor Moscone (Victor Garber) or whether it was White’s frustration regarding his financial and employment situation (a situation much of his own doing) is not made clear; though Brolin’s performance throughout the film would suggest both factors worked together, with the mayor’s refusal to reinstate White on the board of supervisors as the last straw.
At this point I’ve seen three Gus Van Sant films, and Milk is perhaps the most engaging of the three. His Good Will Hunting was, for me, an exercise in tedium unsuccessfully disguised as an inspiring story about finding greatness in humble places. And To Die For was interesting in a quirky way, but nothing I’d spend time watching again. As a piece of cinema, Milk is more focused and better-paced than either of those. I have my usual complaint about hand-held camera work, seen most overtly when Milk is rallying crowds in impromptu speeches on the streets of Castro; and some shots where the characters are so unusually framed as to be distracting. Why put the characters so low in the frame that it looks like a mistake instead of an artistic choice? Assuming the project was a typical artistic collaboration, such decisions fall first on the head of cinematographer Harris Savides, but why Van Sant gave his approval has me befuddled.
The script by Dustin Lance Black is subtle, sometimes witty, and otherwise strong for the film’s purpose. Black and Van Sant also successfully integrate a good portion of actual media from Milk’s life, to the extent that people like Anita Bryant, a spearhead in the effort to pass Proposition 6 and similar bills across the country, appears only in archived news footage and yet manages to upstage Josh Brolin in her role as a self-righteous hyper-angelic menace against homosexual rights. Apparently she was the Fred Phelps of her generation.
Sean Penn (Mystic River) has come a long way from his Fast Times at Ridgemont High – at least as far as his acting ability is concerned; his public appearances still remind me of a hot-tempered high school rebel slacker. I cannot compare Penn’s performance to the real Harvey Milk for accuracy, but his ability here to become someone else entirely is outstanding. Penn had help from the make-up and hair departments, but his whole character is transformed as well. Had I not known it was Penn, I don’t think I would have guessed. I’m not a Penn fan – most of his movies I’m simply not interested in – but here it would be accurate to say that he succeeded in that complete transformation of persona that is achieved by a rare few, most notably Daniel Day-Lewis (My Left Foot).
Penn is supported by a highly capable cast. Josh Brolin (No Country For Old Men) as Dan White finds a careful balance of a civil exterior with just enough edge to reveal that he’s subtly masking a disdain for Milk. Emile Hirsch (Into the Wild), James Franco (Spider-Man), Diego Luna (The Terminal), Alison Pill (Dan in Real Life), and Victor Garber (Titanic) join in as various associates, either politically or romantically or both. As an ensemble, they are well assembled.
The production team delivers quite an achievement in creating San Francisco of the 1970's. Often using the actual buildings where events happened, designer Bill Groom brings back all of the fashions and fabrics my generation ran from in a big hurry once we were old enough. I was only six when the 80's arrived, but the clothing and interior decorations of the film still had me cringing. (This is a compliment to the accurate recreation of the era’s style – I just don’t like the era’s style.)
All in all, the film as a work of art is of a fairly high quality. It is in the film’s motive and message that I have my sharpest disagreement.
As the film progresses, Milk increases his use of the word “hope”. He wants to give the gay community hope. He wants to give hope to young gays throughout the country feeling sidelined at best, ostracized and persecuted at worst. In the script his message of hope prevents one young man from committing suicide, and who knows how many others in real life.
But what hope could Milk really offer any of them? Nothing more than the American ideal of civil rights for the duration of their temporal existence. Milk’s own hope was sorely misplaced, and thus that message of hope sent out to the community was ultimately a very shallow one.
On the other side of the argument are people who only want to see homosexuals repressed. Anita Bryant, John Briggs (Denis O’Hare), and the straight portion of the Castro population are only interested in moralizing the country from the top down through restrictive laws. Dan White is willing to work with Milk when it advances the White agenda, but is tacitly uninterested in cooperating with Milk when it advances the Milk agenda.
Moralists should never be confused with biblical Christians. Moralists think that passing laws which reflect their morality is what makes a country good, even godly. If we can just cleanse all public life of any hint of homosexuality, God will smile upon us, they think.
Christians understand that this thinking is fruitless: Passing and enforcing laws does not make people godly; at best it only makes them act like it. We saw this in Iraq: When Saddam Hussein was deposed, barbershops were suddenly a booming industry, because an entire population of men were finally able to drop their fears about the government edict requiring beards and act in accordance with what they had been silently feeling at heart.
Like many of Hollywood’s modern pieces of propaganda, the film sets up a false either-or situation, where either we side with Milk’s message of hope, or we are accused of siding with the likes of Bryant, Briggs, and Company. But there is a third choice.
I do not advocate firing homosexuals, denying them housing, denying them jobs, denying them entry to businesses or running businesses of their own, relegating them to segregated portions of public or private establishments, and so on. Nor is the solution to shoot them, gas them, hang them, or any of history’s many other exercises of merciless cruelty – Such behavior is inexcusable and worthy of capital punishment itself. But neither can I endorse and encourage homosexuals to exercise their sinful desires. What I do believe is that their greatest need, as with every other person on the planet including myself, is to surrender to Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.
The Bible makes it clear that homosexuality is a symptom of an unredeemed soul; but unlike Fred Phelps and his “ministry” of damning homosexuals without any hope, the Bible reveals God’s offer of true hope to all mankind – a hope that makes the quest for temporal civil rights of any kind pale in comparison. For this one belief I have already been labeled a homophobe and a hater, despite the fact that I have nothing in common with actual bashers and haters, nor have any sense of phobia about homosexuals at all. I am simply one of the multitude of messengers bringing God’s true hope to all humanity.
For its cinematic quality, I give Milk high marks. But I cannot recommend the film as anything more than the sad portrait of the sad end of a man who had no true hope at all.
My Score: 7
Milk
2008 / 2 hrs., 9 min. / R
Director: Gus Van Sant
Anyone who knows me will not even get past this first sentence without wondering if I can review a film like Milk without revealing a preconceived bias. Do my biblical beliefs on homosexuality affect my appreciation of a film about Harvey Milk’s crusade to correct a civil and societal wrong perpetrated on the homosexual community? Of course; and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I have long gotten over the idea that a film critic should not let his bias show; it’s when he’s covert about it that his journalism lacks honesty. If even the loftiest Roger Ebert can drop a star off a film’s score because it doesn’t line up with his liberal, irreligious view of life (and he has), surely this armchair pundit can do the same for a film that does not line up with my conservative, Christian view. And I’ll be honest about it right up front.
I have learned from past public embarrassment not to take a bio-pic at face value. I reviewed Finding Neverland on the assumption that it was reasonably factual, and a college student who had written major theses on J.M. Barrie had to correct me in an online forum. Inevitably, those responsible for producing real-life stories bend the facts for various artistic reasons, not the least of which is to show generosity toward the characters they wish to promote. But as I know nothing of Harvey Milk, indeed had not even heard of him until Milk’s advertising campaign began, I’ll go with the flow on this one.
In that spirit of deliberate naivete, then, I learned that Harvey Milk (Sean Penn) was murdered in 1978 by a very desperate Dan White (Josh Brolin). Who were they and why this was significant is the course of the movie, told by Milk into a cassette recorder in the justified fear that someone might try to assassinate him.
The film traces Milk’s life from his arrival in San Francisco around his fortieth birthday to his death about eight years later. During that time, the Castro district of the city was becoming a mecca for homosexuals, and Milk began to envision a world where gays would not have to live in fear of police brutality, job termination, and other discriminatory practices.
Bolstering support from the like-minded community, Milk became a candidate for office in San Francisco. It was not until the fourth attempt that he was actually elected, in 1977. For the following year, Milk worked to persuade his fellow city supervisors to pass bills extending basic human rights to the homosexual community. As the climax of his career, he was the rallying voice that unified a majority of Californians to defeat Proposition 6, an initiative that would require public schools to fire homosexual teachers.
Along the way, Milk seemed briefly to make a positive acquaintance with fellow city supervisor White, though White was clearly never totally comfortable with Milk. Whether it was Milk’s homosexuality that drove White to shoot both him and Mayor Moscone (Victor Garber) or whether it was White’s frustration regarding his financial and employment situation (a situation much of his own doing) is not made clear; though Brolin’s performance throughout the film would suggest both factors worked together, with the mayor’s refusal to reinstate White on the board of supervisors as the last straw.
At this point I’ve seen three Gus Van Sant films, and Milk is perhaps the most engaging of the three. His Good Will Hunting was, for me, an exercise in tedium unsuccessfully disguised as an inspiring story about finding greatness in humble places. And To Die For was interesting in a quirky way, but nothing I’d spend time watching again. As a piece of cinema, Milk is more focused and better-paced than either of those. I have my usual complaint about hand-held camera work, seen most overtly when Milk is rallying crowds in impromptu speeches on the streets of Castro; and some shots where the characters are so unusually framed as to be distracting. Why put the characters so low in the frame that it looks like a mistake instead of an artistic choice? Assuming the project was a typical artistic collaboration, such decisions fall first on the head of cinematographer Harris Savides, but why Van Sant gave his approval has me befuddled.
The script by Dustin Lance Black is subtle, sometimes witty, and otherwise strong for the film’s purpose. Black and Van Sant also successfully integrate a good portion of actual media from Milk’s life, to the extent that people like Anita Bryant, a spearhead in the effort to pass Proposition 6 and similar bills across the country, appears only in archived news footage and yet manages to upstage Josh Brolin in her role as a self-righteous hyper-angelic menace against homosexual rights. Apparently she was the Fred Phelps of her generation.
Sean Penn (Mystic River) has come a long way from his Fast Times at Ridgemont High – at least as far as his acting ability is concerned; his public appearances still remind me of a hot-tempered high school rebel slacker. I cannot compare Penn’s performance to the real Harvey Milk for accuracy, but his ability here to become someone else entirely is outstanding. Penn had help from the make-up and hair departments, but his whole character is transformed as well. Had I not known it was Penn, I don’t think I would have guessed. I’m not a Penn fan – most of his movies I’m simply not interested in – but here it would be accurate to say that he succeeded in that complete transformation of persona that is achieved by a rare few, most notably Daniel Day-Lewis (My Left Foot).
Penn is supported by a highly capable cast. Josh Brolin (No Country For Old Men) as Dan White finds a careful balance of a civil exterior with just enough edge to reveal that he’s subtly masking a disdain for Milk. Emile Hirsch (Into the Wild), James Franco (Spider-Man), Diego Luna (The Terminal), Alison Pill (Dan in Real Life), and Victor Garber (Titanic) join in as various associates, either politically or romantically or both. As an ensemble, they are well assembled.
The production team delivers quite an achievement in creating San Francisco of the 1970's. Often using the actual buildings where events happened, designer Bill Groom brings back all of the fashions and fabrics my generation ran from in a big hurry once we were old enough. I was only six when the 80's arrived, but the clothing and interior decorations of the film still had me cringing. (This is a compliment to the accurate recreation of the era’s style – I just don’t like the era’s style.)
All in all, the film as a work of art is of a fairly high quality. It is in the film’s motive and message that I have my sharpest disagreement.
As the film progresses, Milk increases his use of the word “hope”. He wants to give the gay community hope. He wants to give hope to young gays throughout the country feeling sidelined at best, ostracized and persecuted at worst. In the script his message of hope prevents one young man from committing suicide, and who knows how many others in real life.
But what hope could Milk really offer any of them? Nothing more than the American ideal of civil rights for the duration of their temporal existence. Milk’s own hope was sorely misplaced, and thus that message of hope sent out to the community was ultimately a very shallow one.
On the other side of the argument are people who only want to see homosexuals repressed. Anita Bryant, John Briggs (Denis O’Hare), and the straight portion of the Castro population are only interested in moralizing the country from the top down through restrictive laws. Dan White is willing to work with Milk when it advances the White agenda, but is tacitly uninterested in cooperating with Milk when it advances the Milk agenda.
Moralists should never be confused with biblical Christians. Moralists think that passing laws which reflect their morality is what makes a country good, even godly. If we can just cleanse all public life of any hint of homosexuality, God will smile upon us, they think.
Christians understand that this thinking is fruitless: Passing and enforcing laws does not make people godly; at best it only makes them act like it. We saw this in Iraq: When Saddam Hussein was deposed, barbershops were suddenly a booming industry, because an entire population of men were finally able to drop their fears about the government edict requiring beards and act in accordance with what they had been silently feeling at heart.
Like many of Hollywood’s modern pieces of propaganda, the film sets up a false either-or situation, where either we side with Milk’s message of hope, or we are accused of siding with the likes of Bryant, Briggs, and Company. But there is a third choice.
I do not advocate firing homosexuals, denying them housing, denying them jobs, denying them entry to businesses or running businesses of their own, relegating them to segregated portions of public or private establishments, and so on. Nor is the solution to shoot them, gas them, hang them, or any of history’s many other exercises of merciless cruelty – Such behavior is inexcusable and worthy of capital punishment itself. But neither can I endorse and encourage homosexuals to exercise their sinful desires. What I do believe is that their greatest need, as with every other person on the planet including myself, is to surrender to Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.
The Bible makes it clear that homosexuality is a symptom of an unredeemed soul; but unlike Fred Phelps and his “ministry” of damning homosexuals without any hope, the Bible reveals God’s offer of true hope to all mankind – a hope that makes the quest for temporal civil rights of any kind pale in comparison. For this one belief I have already been labeled a homophobe and a hater, despite the fact that I have nothing in common with actual bashers and haters, nor have any sense of phobia about homosexuals at all. I am simply one of the multitude of messengers bringing God’s true hope to all humanity.
For its cinematic quality, I give Milk high marks. But I cannot recommend the film as anything more than the sad portrait of the sad end of a man who had no true hope at all.
My Score: 7
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Not Your Traditional Reporter
Movie Review:
The Adventures of Tintin
2011 / 1 hr., 47 min. / PG
Director: Steven Spielberg
Until 2011, I had never heard of Tintin. Even now I know very little except that my son discovered some Tintin books at the library that summer, that he loves reading them, and that this literary find randomly coincided with the news that a film version was on its way. Naturally, a father-and-son outing to the cinema was in order.
Tintin is the creation of French author Herge from back in the 1940's. An intrepid reporter with a shock of red hair, Tintin never has an easy assignment; like the Hardy Boys or Hercule Poirot, Tintin manages to end up in life-threatening adventures just by existing, it seems. The episodic series of books, packed full of mystery and action, therefore lent themselves quite well to another of Steven Spielberg’s grand-scale tributes to the Saturday matinee serials of yesteryear, plainly titled The Adventures of Tintin.
My son informs me that this one is based entirely on the book The Secret of the Unicorn, in which Tintin’s innocent purchase of a miniature sailing ship lands him in the middle of dark and sinister intrigue. Dark and sinister people desperately want a piece of parchment tucked in the model’s tiny mast, and Tintin is naturally not content with letting them have the ship and parchment – He did, after all, pay an entire British pound for it, at the 1940's value. Instead, he pursues the dark and sinister forces, ending up on a steamer bound for some place in the Middle East I have never heard of and cannot now recall.
Along the way, Tintin meets and rescues Captain Haddock, a drunken sod who has a penchant for alliterative expletives like “Blue blistering barnacles!” Together they delve into the mystery of why anyone would care about a model sailing ship and a cryptic scribble on a piece of parchment. Delving, in this case, involves getting lost on the open seas in a rowboat, flying a sea plane into a violent thunderstorm, dying of thirst in the desert, attending an opera, and driving through Arabian city streets on a motorcycle-and-sidecar in pursuit of a bird of prey. In that order.
In directing The Adventures of Tintin, Steven Spielberg returns to a bygone era where kids could run down to the local theater every Saturday and watch their favorite heroes take off on daring new escapades for a quarter. Each film spun off of the one from the week before, creating an episodic series (hence “serials”) of tales. The hero engaged in chases, fights, and high-stakes adventure in pursuit of dark and sinister villains, many of which escaped to antagonize the hero again next week. Spielberg first tipped his hat to this “golly-gee whiz-bang” age with Raiders of the Lost Ark and the ensuing episodes of Indiana Jones’ adventures, and I can only imagine that he fondly remembers being one of those kids plunking down a quarter, because he pulls it off again here quite well. Tintin may or may not become as iconic to American audiences as Indiana Jones, but the homage to Saturday matinees is unmistakable.
Unfortunately for my personal taste, Spielberg chose to present the film as computer animation instead of live action. I suppose the argument could be made that animation is in keeping with the spirit of the books, since they are in graphic form, but my inclination is toward real people and sets, especially for fantasies and adventures. The film employs the motion-capture method of animating, in which real actors perform each shot of the movie wearing special suits that allow a computer to record their movements. From there, computer artists create the characters and locations. While it is probably cost-effective for an adventure like this, saving money on everything from costumes to pyrotechnics, it simply does not draw me in. It is too animated to be real – individual frames do look deceptively photographic, but to this day computer-generated living beings still do not move like flesh-and-blood people on physical sets – and too real to be enjoyed as an animated film. I spent the entire screening being aware of the film, and that is precisely what a film-maker should avoid. When technique distracts from the story, the film is less than perfect.
This is also true with the excessive camera movement. Spielberg is occasionally guilty of succumbing to the “Because We Can” syndrome – don’t get me started on one particularly egotistical shot in his War of the Worlds – and The Adventures of Tintin is no exception. The hypothetical camera feels constantly on the go, swooping in and around and over and through, simply because it can. Throw in some ineffectively simulated “hand-held” motion, and I’m just about ready to vocalize my discontent right there in the theater.
But within the bounds of Spielberg’s personal choice of storytelling medium, I would have to say it was a very enjoyable experience. Spielberg’s senses of wonder, awe, mystery, suspense, and adventure remain keen – and he even gets to throw in his trademark beams of light shining in dark, dusty rooms. On only a couple of occasions does he slip and allow truly cartoonish moments of silliness to interfere; but what can you expect when the hero’s sidekick is a dog with enough cognitive and communicative prowess to make Lassie green with envy?
Tintin is “played” by Jamie Bell (Nicholas Nickleby), assisted by Andy Serkis, renowned for his very physical performances for other motion-capture roles like Gollum in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and Daniel Craig of recent James Bond fame. It is hard to critique anyone’s acting in a film like this, since their performances undergo computer manipulation; but the voice talents are decidedly appropriate, at least.
I cannot speak for how well the screenplay conveys the spirit of Herge’s story, but writers Steven Moffat, Edgar Wright, and Joe Cornish adhere closely enough that my son recognized which book he was seeing; and he sported a big grin on several occasions, particularly when Captain Haddock uttered another of his traditional epithets. He also instantly recognized the bumbling twin police detectives Thompson and Thomson, helpfully informing me of who they were. So as far as an adaptation goes, I guess they did a good job. As a script on its own terms, it is generally clever and consistent.
And I must comment with delight that John Williams is back. I haven’t heard anything truly interesting from him since his scoring for the Harry Potter series, and his recent work for Spielberg’s War Horse was pleasant but unmemorable. The rousing fun of Tintin’s quest allows Williams to rev up an energetic orchestra and really belt it out once again. There’s nothing specific to hum on your way out of the theater, like “The Raiders March”, but the music is in that same boisterous vein.
All told, I enjoyed my time with my son, and he enjoyed his time with Tintin. A few moments were spent cowering behind the row of seats in front of us – my son, not me – during some fairly intense chases and fights. But in general, for a harmless thrill ride through a good old mystery adventure, Tintin awaits you.
My Score: 8
The Adventures of Tintin
2011 / 1 hr., 47 min. / PG
Director: Steven Spielberg
Until 2011, I had never heard of Tintin. Even now I know very little except that my son discovered some Tintin books at the library that summer, that he loves reading them, and that this literary find randomly coincided with the news that a film version was on its way. Naturally, a father-and-son outing to the cinema was in order.
Tintin is the creation of French author Herge from back in the 1940's. An intrepid reporter with a shock of red hair, Tintin never has an easy assignment; like the Hardy Boys or Hercule Poirot, Tintin manages to end up in life-threatening adventures just by existing, it seems. The episodic series of books, packed full of mystery and action, therefore lent themselves quite well to another of Steven Spielberg’s grand-scale tributes to the Saturday matinee serials of yesteryear, plainly titled The Adventures of Tintin.
My son informs me that this one is based entirely on the book The Secret of the Unicorn, in which Tintin’s innocent purchase of a miniature sailing ship lands him in the middle of dark and sinister intrigue. Dark and sinister people desperately want a piece of parchment tucked in the model’s tiny mast, and Tintin is naturally not content with letting them have the ship and parchment – He did, after all, pay an entire British pound for it, at the 1940's value. Instead, he pursues the dark and sinister forces, ending up on a steamer bound for some place in the Middle East I have never heard of and cannot now recall.
Along the way, Tintin meets and rescues Captain Haddock, a drunken sod who has a penchant for alliterative expletives like “Blue blistering barnacles!” Together they delve into the mystery of why anyone would care about a model sailing ship and a cryptic scribble on a piece of parchment. Delving, in this case, involves getting lost on the open seas in a rowboat, flying a sea plane into a violent thunderstorm, dying of thirst in the desert, attending an opera, and driving through Arabian city streets on a motorcycle-and-sidecar in pursuit of a bird of prey. In that order.
In directing The Adventures of Tintin, Steven Spielberg returns to a bygone era where kids could run down to the local theater every Saturday and watch their favorite heroes take off on daring new escapades for a quarter. Each film spun off of the one from the week before, creating an episodic series (hence “serials”) of tales. The hero engaged in chases, fights, and high-stakes adventure in pursuit of dark and sinister villains, many of which escaped to antagonize the hero again next week. Spielberg first tipped his hat to this “golly-gee whiz-bang” age with Raiders of the Lost Ark and the ensuing episodes of Indiana Jones’ adventures, and I can only imagine that he fondly remembers being one of those kids plunking down a quarter, because he pulls it off again here quite well. Tintin may or may not become as iconic to American audiences as Indiana Jones, but the homage to Saturday matinees is unmistakable.
Unfortunately for my personal taste, Spielberg chose to present the film as computer animation instead of live action. I suppose the argument could be made that animation is in keeping with the spirit of the books, since they are in graphic form, but my inclination is toward real people and sets, especially for fantasies and adventures. The film employs the motion-capture method of animating, in which real actors perform each shot of the movie wearing special suits that allow a computer to record their movements. From there, computer artists create the characters and locations. While it is probably cost-effective for an adventure like this, saving money on everything from costumes to pyrotechnics, it simply does not draw me in. It is too animated to be real – individual frames do look deceptively photographic, but to this day computer-generated living beings still do not move like flesh-and-blood people on physical sets – and too real to be enjoyed as an animated film. I spent the entire screening being aware of the film, and that is precisely what a film-maker should avoid. When technique distracts from the story, the film is less than perfect.
This is also true with the excessive camera movement. Spielberg is occasionally guilty of succumbing to the “Because We Can” syndrome – don’t get me started on one particularly egotistical shot in his War of the Worlds – and The Adventures of Tintin is no exception. The hypothetical camera feels constantly on the go, swooping in and around and over and through, simply because it can. Throw in some ineffectively simulated “hand-held” motion, and I’m just about ready to vocalize my discontent right there in the theater.
But within the bounds of Spielberg’s personal choice of storytelling medium, I would have to say it was a very enjoyable experience. Spielberg’s senses of wonder, awe, mystery, suspense, and adventure remain keen – and he even gets to throw in his trademark beams of light shining in dark, dusty rooms. On only a couple of occasions does he slip and allow truly cartoonish moments of silliness to interfere; but what can you expect when the hero’s sidekick is a dog with enough cognitive and communicative prowess to make Lassie green with envy?
Tintin is “played” by Jamie Bell (Nicholas Nickleby), assisted by Andy Serkis, renowned for his very physical performances for other motion-capture roles like Gollum in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and Daniel Craig of recent James Bond fame. It is hard to critique anyone’s acting in a film like this, since their performances undergo computer manipulation; but the voice talents are decidedly appropriate, at least.
I cannot speak for how well the screenplay conveys the spirit of Herge’s story, but writers Steven Moffat, Edgar Wright, and Joe Cornish adhere closely enough that my son recognized which book he was seeing; and he sported a big grin on several occasions, particularly when Captain Haddock uttered another of his traditional epithets. He also instantly recognized the bumbling twin police detectives Thompson and Thomson, helpfully informing me of who they were. So as far as an adaptation goes, I guess they did a good job. As a script on its own terms, it is generally clever and consistent.
And I must comment with delight that John Williams is back. I haven’t heard anything truly interesting from him since his scoring for the Harry Potter series, and his recent work for Spielberg’s War Horse was pleasant but unmemorable. The rousing fun of Tintin’s quest allows Williams to rev up an energetic orchestra and really belt it out once again. There’s nothing specific to hum on your way out of the theater, like “The Raiders March”, but the music is in that same boisterous vein.
All told, I enjoyed my time with my son, and he enjoyed his time with Tintin. A few moments were spent cowering behind the row of seats in front of us – my son, not me – during some fairly intense chases and fights. But in general, for a harmless thrill ride through a good old mystery adventure, Tintin awaits you.
My Score: 8
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Practically Perfect
Movie Review:
Mary Poppins
1964 / 2 hrs., 20 min. / G
Director: Robert Stevenson
The “G” in the ratings system stands for “General Audiences,” as in a film that reaches the youngest children, the oldest adults, and everyone in between. Modern studios don’t seem to understand this – most of their “G” films really need a “K” for kids, since adults will typically find the product mind-numbing. Not so with Walt Disney. Mr. Disney was the Grand Master of true Family entertainment. He knew how to find and produce stories that truly reached all ages: Eye-catching visuals for the kids, humor and poignancy for the adults (something Pixar seems to have picked up on in the wake of the Disney corporation’s floundering after Walt’s death). While I enjoy practically every feature project created during Disney’s lifetime, I have found none that so exemplifies Family entertainment as Mary Poppins.
This is a film that everyone needs to see, first as a child, then as a teenager, then as a young adult, then as a parent – and as frequently as possible in between all of those stages – for it has something to offer at every stage of life, and its offerings get richer the older one gets. Of course, there is the likelihood that the modern cynical teenager will not have the patience for the film’s cutesy veneer, but it is his loss if he does not stick around and learn something about life.
George Banks (David Tomlinson) is aptly named, as he is a banker at a prestigious London bank in 1910. His wife (Glynis Johns) is a strange blend of Vigorous Suffragette and Submissive Housewife. His children, Jane (Karen Dotrice) and Michael (Matthew Garber), look up to him and want ever so much to love him – but George does not see it. Children are to be patted on the head and sent up to bed, educated by a nanny, and generally molded by their fathers and mothers into new fathers and mothers who will then do the same to the next generation. Such is the precision a British home requires.
When the previous nanny (Elsa Lanchester) quits in a huff, George advertises for a new one – but only after tearing up the advertisement his children wrote on their own. Children could not possibly know what is good for them. (Well, I agree on a limited basis, but not to the extreme George Banks believes.) In a fun interview scene, George meets the first and only applicant for the position of nanny, Mary Poppins (Julie Andrews).
The children quickly learn something is not quite ordinary about the new nanny. After all, she literally breezed in by coasting over London using an open umbrella as a sail. She does not deign to walk up the stairs to the nursery, but slides up the bannister instead. And not ten minutes into her new job, she is pulling impossibly large objects out of her carpet bag, cleaning up the nursery with a mere snap of her fingers, and talking to her reflection in the mirror. Yes, we’ve all done that, but who among us has a reflection that answers back with a mind of its own?
From there, Mary Poppins takes the children on an outing to the park, where they meet up with Bert (Dick Van Dyke), a jovial cockney bloke who employs himself with whatever comes to mind (including narrating the film at a few key moments). He is first seen as a one-man band, in the park he’s a chalk artist, and later he’s a chimney sweep. Together, the four of them enjoy an afternoon inside one of Bert’s chalk pictures, complete with animated singing animals.
But it is not my job to tell the whole story here. In short, the seemingly frothy and pointless adventures continue, quietly building to a purpose that leads to Jane’s and Michael’s running away from their father, whom they are sure is out to destroy them. “He’s bringing the army, the navy, and everything!” Michael claims.
And thus we come to the amazing beauty of the film. Yes, all of these adventures are fantastic tales for youngsters to watch. I laughed my pre-teen self silly at the sight of Jane and Michael magically cleaning the nursery, hopping into the chalk picture, and having a tea party on the ceiling with Uncle Albert (Ed Wynn). But it was not until my late teens, perhaps even early adulthood, when I realized what was really going on.
It happens in the scene where George decides to dismiss Mary Poppins. Lecturing her on the importance of raising the children with a certain mind set, Banks is prepared to let Poppins go because of her apparently frivolous methods. But before he knows what has happened, she has pegged his unloving short-sightedness dead on, and has done so in such a way that he has no clue his soul has just been laid bare.
From there, George’s world falls apart. His children inadvertently cause a run on the bank, bringing the terror of the bank’s executives down upon George. He is called to a late-night meeting where he will be sacked, and his walk to the bank in the middle of the night, through the empty London streets, is one of the most powerful moments of the film.
And then, he gets it. He finally gets it! In the midst of the chaos his life has become, the reality of what his life should have been all along strikes him. And isn’t that often the way? When we are rising to the top, our field of vision overlooks the objects of real beauty, joy, and love that surround us. It is not until we are toppled by one of life’s misfortunes that we take time to look around and see what is truly worthwhile to our existence.
But I should back up and do my duty as a reviewer. First, in dealing with the cast, Julie Andrews (The Sound of Music) plays Mary Poppins flawlessly. I mean that. I can’t find anything to quibble about. Apparently neither could the Motion Picture Academy, as Andrews was awarded Best Actress by her peers. Dick Van Dyke (Chitty Chitty Bang Bang) appears to be having an unrestrained blast in his role as the everyman who guides the story along. Linguistic purists will cringe over his version of a cockney accent, but I don’t find it distracting. And watch for his other appearance as Mr. Dawes, Sr., the role he quite begged Disney to let him play.
David Tomlinson (The Love Bug) was Disney’s every-villain for a while, and while he’s not so much a “villain” here, he does a good job as the crusty father. Glynis Johns (While You Were Sleeping) is humorous as Mrs. Banks, one moment bravely asserting that women should get to vote, and the next repeating, “Yes, dear,” to her husband in meek acquiescence.
And then there are the two children, played by Matthew Garber and Karen Dotrice (The Gnome-Mobile). They are self-proclaimed adorable children, and I agree. Matthew is quite funny as Michael, especially when he is hopelessly frustrated by his inability to snap his fingers. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, these two joined the long list of Child Stars Who Failed to Make the Transition to Adult Stars, because aside from one or two other Disney features, they are almost completely unheard of after this film.
The script by Bill Walsh and Don Da Gradi did not win P.L. Travers’ approval, but it is lively, joyous, and in the hands of director Robert Stevenson (Bedknobs and Broomsticks) is told with great enthusiasm, wit, and fun. It also approaches its point with wonderful subtlety. Although there is an episodic nature to the little outings the nanny takes the children on, all of these things slowly and quietly build to the main point without ever stating it.
The songs are some of the most memorable ever written for a film. “Spoonful of Sugar,” the award-nominated “Chim Chim Cheree,” and the immortal “Supercalifragilistic” are among the gems of the music track. Websites that specialize in movie trivia inform me that Disney’s favorite song for the rest of his life was “Feed the Birds,” which I will agree is tender and haunting at the same time. The Sherman Brothers were brilliant in numerous films, and their compositions shine here.
The Disney company has always been a major innovator in new effects, and they are used here extensively. This is not to say the effects are perfect – the wires used to fly Andrews onto the Banks front porch are quite visible – but the sheer joy the film exudes tends to blur over the occasional flaw. Watching Dick Van Dyke dance with four animated penguins is a high point.
This is one of a handful of films I could discuss all day, and I feel like this review only begins to explore its depths. But I won’t do that; I will let you explore it for yourself from here on out. It is a treasure, assembled with care into one of the most touching films I’ve ever seen, with a beautiful life-affirming message about the joys of children, fatherhood, and family. See it often. With the whole family. It’s rated “G,” after all.
My Score: 9
Mary Poppins
1964 / 2 hrs., 20 min. / G
Director: Robert Stevenson
The “G” in the ratings system stands for “General Audiences,” as in a film that reaches the youngest children, the oldest adults, and everyone in between. Modern studios don’t seem to understand this – most of their “G” films really need a “K” for kids, since adults will typically find the product mind-numbing. Not so with Walt Disney. Mr. Disney was the Grand Master of true Family entertainment. He knew how to find and produce stories that truly reached all ages: Eye-catching visuals for the kids, humor and poignancy for the adults (something Pixar seems to have picked up on in the wake of the Disney corporation’s floundering after Walt’s death). While I enjoy practically every feature project created during Disney’s lifetime, I have found none that so exemplifies Family entertainment as Mary Poppins.
This is a film that everyone needs to see, first as a child, then as a teenager, then as a young adult, then as a parent – and as frequently as possible in between all of those stages – for it has something to offer at every stage of life, and its offerings get richer the older one gets. Of course, there is the likelihood that the modern cynical teenager will not have the patience for the film’s cutesy veneer, but it is his loss if he does not stick around and learn something about life.
George Banks (David Tomlinson) is aptly named, as he is a banker at a prestigious London bank in 1910. His wife (Glynis Johns) is a strange blend of Vigorous Suffragette and Submissive Housewife. His children, Jane (Karen Dotrice) and Michael (Matthew Garber), look up to him and want ever so much to love him – but George does not see it. Children are to be patted on the head and sent up to bed, educated by a nanny, and generally molded by their fathers and mothers into new fathers and mothers who will then do the same to the next generation. Such is the precision a British home requires.
When the previous nanny (Elsa Lanchester) quits in a huff, George advertises for a new one – but only after tearing up the advertisement his children wrote on their own. Children could not possibly know what is good for them. (Well, I agree on a limited basis, but not to the extreme George Banks believes.) In a fun interview scene, George meets the first and only applicant for the position of nanny, Mary Poppins (Julie Andrews).
The children quickly learn something is not quite ordinary about the new nanny. After all, she literally breezed in by coasting over London using an open umbrella as a sail. She does not deign to walk up the stairs to the nursery, but slides up the bannister instead. And not ten minutes into her new job, she is pulling impossibly large objects out of her carpet bag, cleaning up the nursery with a mere snap of her fingers, and talking to her reflection in the mirror. Yes, we’ve all done that, but who among us has a reflection that answers back with a mind of its own?
From there, Mary Poppins takes the children on an outing to the park, where they meet up with Bert (Dick Van Dyke), a jovial cockney bloke who employs himself with whatever comes to mind (including narrating the film at a few key moments). He is first seen as a one-man band, in the park he’s a chalk artist, and later he’s a chimney sweep. Together, the four of them enjoy an afternoon inside one of Bert’s chalk pictures, complete with animated singing animals.
But it is not my job to tell the whole story here. In short, the seemingly frothy and pointless adventures continue, quietly building to a purpose that leads to Jane’s and Michael’s running away from their father, whom they are sure is out to destroy them. “He’s bringing the army, the navy, and everything!” Michael claims.
And thus we come to the amazing beauty of the film. Yes, all of these adventures are fantastic tales for youngsters to watch. I laughed my pre-teen self silly at the sight of Jane and Michael magically cleaning the nursery, hopping into the chalk picture, and having a tea party on the ceiling with Uncle Albert (Ed Wynn). But it was not until my late teens, perhaps even early adulthood, when I realized what was really going on.
It happens in the scene where George decides to dismiss Mary Poppins. Lecturing her on the importance of raising the children with a certain mind set, Banks is prepared to let Poppins go because of her apparently frivolous methods. But before he knows what has happened, she has pegged his unloving short-sightedness dead on, and has done so in such a way that he has no clue his soul has just been laid bare.
From there, George’s world falls apart. His children inadvertently cause a run on the bank, bringing the terror of the bank’s executives down upon George. He is called to a late-night meeting where he will be sacked, and his walk to the bank in the middle of the night, through the empty London streets, is one of the most powerful moments of the film.
And then, he gets it. He finally gets it! In the midst of the chaos his life has become, the reality of what his life should have been all along strikes him. And isn’t that often the way? When we are rising to the top, our field of vision overlooks the objects of real beauty, joy, and love that surround us. It is not until we are toppled by one of life’s misfortunes that we take time to look around and see what is truly worthwhile to our existence.
But I should back up and do my duty as a reviewer. First, in dealing with the cast, Julie Andrews (The Sound of Music) plays Mary Poppins flawlessly. I mean that. I can’t find anything to quibble about. Apparently neither could the Motion Picture Academy, as Andrews was awarded Best Actress by her peers. Dick Van Dyke (Chitty Chitty Bang Bang) appears to be having an unrestrained blast in his role as the everyman who guides the story along. Linguistic purists will cringe over his version of a cockney accent, but I don’t find it distracting. And watch for his other appearance as Mr. Dawes, Sr., the role he quite begged Disney to let him play.
David Tomlinson (The Love Bug) was Disney’s every-villain for a while, and while he’s not so much a “villain” here, he does a good job as the crusty father. Glynis Johns (While You Were Sleeping) is humorous as Mrs. Banks, one moment bravely asserting that women should get to vote, and the next repeating, “Yes, dear,” to her husband in meek acquiescence.
And then there are the two children, played by Matthew Garber and Karen Dotrice (The Gnome-Mobile). They are self-proclaimed adorable children, and I agree. Matthew is quite funny as Michael, especially when he is hopelessly frustrated by his inability to snap his fingers. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, these two joined the long list of Child Stars Who Failed to Make the Transition to Adult Stars, because aside from one or two other Disney features, they are almost completely unheard of after this film.
The script by Bill Walsh and Don Da Gradi did not win P.L. Travers’ approval, but it is lively, joyous, and in the hands of director Robert Stevenson (Bedknobs and Broomsticks) is told with great enthusiasm, wit, and fun. It also approaches its point with wonderful subtlety. Although there is an episodic nature to the little outings the nanny takes the children on, all of these things slowly and quietly build to the main point without ever stating it.
The songs are some of the most memorable ever written for a film. “Spoonful of Sugar,” the award-nominated “Chim Chim Cheree,” and the immortal “Supercalifragilistic” are among the gems of the music track. Websites that specialize in movie trivia inform me that Disney’s favorite song for the rest of his life was “Feed the Birds,” which I will agree is tender and haunting at the same time. The Sherman Brothers were brilliant in numerous films, and their compositions shine here.
The Disney company has always been a major innovator in new effects, and they are used here extensively. This is not to say the effects are perfect – the wires used to fly Andrews onto the Banks front porch are quite visible – but the sheer joy the film exudes tends to blur over the occasional flaw. Watching Dick Van Dyke dance with four animated penguins is a high point.
This is one of a handful of films I could discuss all day, and I feel like this review only begins to explore its depths. But I won’t do that; I will let you explore it for yourself from here on out. It is a treasure, assembled with care into one of the most touching films I’ve ever seen, with a beautiful life-affirming message about the joys of children, fatherhood, and family. See it often. With the whole family. It’s rated “G,” after all.
My Score: 9
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