My Favorite Movie Books

It’s embarrassing to admit, but in many respects I didn’t become aware of film criticism until I went to college. By that time, I’d long been a passionate movie fan. And I’d already started writing about movies myself – in letters to my film fanatic uncle, if nothing else. But I was – and to some degree remain – terribly underexposed to the world of print criticism. I would read the reviews of my local newspaper’s film critic, and I knew that there were versions of him writing for other outlets across the country. (Let me pause for the obligatory moment of silence as we remember those paid criticism positions that have left us in recent years …) But what was that awareness worth? I was in Oregon. Those other critics were everywhere else.

Then came college. More importantly, then came the Internet. More specifically, then came the Internet via an Ethernet connection instead of crummy dial-up, which was still acceptable at the time. Suddenly I could read any town’s newspaper critic just-like-that. Suddenly my awareness of criticism went beyond my local reviewer, Siskel & Ebert on TV and the stuff I’d find on the magazine rack. Thus, when I think of my most cherished source of film literature, it’s the Internet. No question about it. That was true before the blog movement, and so it’s certainly true today. Still, there’s something to be said for holding a piece of movie writing in your hands. And, so, as inspired by a terrific post at The Dancing Image, here’s a tribute to some of my favorite movie books.

I’ll list five, in no specific order:


Roger Ebert’s Video Companion (1997 Edition)
Over the years, I have grabbed this tome off the bookshelf more than any other, which is saying something, because technically the book belongs on my mom’s bookshelf. See, I gave it to her as a birthday gift. Or maybe it was Mother’s Day. In any case, I bought it because I was away at college, which meant my mom didn’t have me coming home with something from the video store a few nights a week. I figured Ebert’s book could be helpful in that regard. I thumbed through the book at the store, noticed that it provided full-length reviews and easy star ratings, and I bought it. My mom thanked me, and then it sat on the shelf mostly untouched for about a year. The following summer, I grabbed it from the shelf and – gasp – started to read it. Then I kept reading it, regularly. A summer later, I stole the book for my own. (Sorry, Mom.)

At that point I’d already discovered Ebert’s written reviews online, but this was the first time I really enjoyed Ebert’s essays as a collection of criticism. Previously, I’d used Ebert’s reviews to help me relate to movies I’d just seen. Thus, I typically focused on all the ways we agreed or disagreed, and I overlooked the larger artistic merits of film criticism itself. Thanks to the Video Companion, however, now I was reading about a 1970 film on one page and a 1995 film on the next. Some of the films I cherished. Some I’d forgotten. Some I had no plans to see until Ebert’s review piqued my interest.

Today I can get (almost) any Ebert review online, but if the film predates 1997, I always hope I’ll find it in the Video Companion. Once there, I tend to read more than I’d planned. Even today, it’s a book I struggle to put down.



Easy Riders, Raging Bulls
I love this book because it’s full of legends about a period in which cinema was transitioning into a new era – an era of auteurs, an era of blockbusters. Peter Biskind’s Easy Riders, Raging Bulls is the story of Bonnie & Clyde, Star Wars, Apocalypse Now, Chinatown, Taxi Driver, M*A*S*H and more. It’s the story of the American Graffiti preview that thrilled the audience and turned off the studio execs. It’s the story of Pauline Kael raving about Nashville based on a private screening with Robert Altman. It’s the story of the Charles Manson murders rocking Hollywood, and Steve Spielberg finding ways not to get laid and Martin Scorsese losing his mind. Do I take all these stories as absolute fact? Of course not. But it’s a hell of a story.



For Keeps
Pauline Kael was the kind of critic the blogosphere often tries to imitate: provocative, tough, argumentative. If sometimes she was guilty of being a cheap bomb-thrower, for the most part Kael seemed to write from the heart. That’s why her criticism soars above that of her imitators. That, and the fact that she was a hell of a writer. There’s not much to say about For Keeps beyond this: it’s 1,250 pages of Kael! (Teaser: More on Kael tomorrow at The Cooler.)



The Conversations
Yes, the title for my series of exchanges with Ed Howard is (for me, at least) a tribute to this book, the title of which is of course a tribute to The Conversation. This book is a series of discussions between Michael Ondaatje and Walter Murch, the film and/or sound editor of Apocalypse Now, American Graffiti, The Conversation and others. Throughout the book, Murch provides interesting observations on those films, plus The Godfather, Touch Of Evil and others. One of my favorite anecdotes is provided in the introduction, describing how Murch added a beat and a line repetition to Caravaggio’s interrogation scene in The English Patient to make it more dramatic. Murch isn’t looking to pat himself on the back. Instead he plays the role of instructor, demonstrating how editing can be used to subtly yet significantly alter a film’s impact. If I had to recommend one book that would make anyone a smarter movie watcher, this would be the one.



Conversations With The Great Moviemakers Of Hollywood’s Golden Age
This is the book I’m going through currently, so I suppose it’s too soon to call it a favorite. But I’m a sucker for interview transcripts, as they have a way of cutting through the bullshit, so it might be a favorite before too long. More than 30 filmmaker interviews (originally conducted at the American Film Institute) are provided here, featuring names like Fritz Lang, Howard Hawks, Alfred Hitchcock, John Huston and Elia Kazan. As a sampling, here’s David Lean discussing the challenges of adapting a novel: “I think the thing is to not try to do a little bit of every scene in a novel, because it’s going to end up a mess. Choose what you want to do in the novel and do it proud. If necessary, cut characters. Don’t keep every character and just take a sniff of each one.” Amen to that!

What are your favorite film books? Bloggers: Make your list and link them back to The Dancing Image.

Exhibitions of Modesty: The Girlfriend Experience

Before he played Hawkeye in Last Of The Mohicans, Daniel Day-Lewis reportedly spent several months living in the wilderness. Before he portrayed Gerry Conlon for In The Name Of The Father, Day-Lewis endured solitary confinement. Before he played Danny Flynn in The Boxer, Day-Lewis laced up the gloves and trained in the ring for 18 months. And before he starred in There Will Be Blood, Day-Lewis spent a year consuming nothing but milkshakes. Okay, so the last one isn’t true. But would it surprise you to learn that it was? Day-Lewis’ experiments in Method acting are both legendary and notorious, the kind of stuff that makes one want to applaud uproariously and then recommend that the actor spend some time in a padded cell. Yet if you’ve ever found Day-Lewis’ Method methods a bit extreme, just wait until you hear about Sasha Grey. All she did to prepare to play a high-end prostitute in The Girlfriend Experience was star in more than 150 porn films.

Okay, so that’s not quite true either. I mean, yes, Grey has “gone all the way” on camera – in fact, from what I can tell, she’s gone all the way in multiple ways simultaneously. But Grey’s porn career launched her mainstream Hollywood career, not the other way around. Filmmaker Steven Soderbergh cast Grey for this picture precisely because of her sex industry background, not in spite of it. And if that makes you suspect that The Girlfriend Experience is full of nudity, (simulated) sex and flirting with the pool/pizza/cable guy, you’re on the wrong track. Sorry boys and girls: Grey gets naked only once in Soderbergh’s film, and it’s brief and dimly lit. If you’re looking for tits and ass on the big screen, find a recent Marisa Tomei movie. If you’re obsessed with genitalia, rent something by Judd Apatow. Grey isn’t in this picture because she’s comfortable with her body. She’s in this picture because she’s comfortable with her body of work.

If you believe in the Method process even a little, Grey’s casting is inspired. It only makes sense that the 21-year-old would have an intimate knowledge of what it would mean to be Chelsea, the escort at the center of Soderbergh’s film, who provides “girlfriend experiences” for her johns – going on dates, listening to their babble, laughing at their jokes and, yeah, sometimes having sex – for quite a bit of money. It only makes sense that Grey would understand what it’s like to be both worshiped and ignored, and what it takes to fake it and how protective walls can become prisons. If Day-Lewis’ stunts inform his performances, then certainly Grey’s professional background makes her an apt choice for this role. Regardless, it works. Grey’s Chelsea exudes confidence in the call of duty, where she is in control, and wariness elsewhere. She is effortlessly enticing, with a sharp Keira Knightley jaw, bold angular eyebrows that suggest constant curiosity and supple undulating lips that could teach Mona Lisa a thing or two about ambiguous expressions. To look at Chelsea is to see someone quite comfortable with who she is – just like a restaurant hostess, carpenter or doctor would be – even if her lifestyle is incomprehensible to most of us.

Also, there’s the fact that Grey is a porn star. Knowledge of that detail allows the experience of Soderbergh’s film to transcend its actual drama. As we watch Chelsea, trying to determine which moments are professional fabrications and which ones reveal the personality of the real woman within, Soderbergh hypnotically tempts us to ask the same questions about Grey. If Grey’s pedigree suggests that she has to do little more than show up and play herself in order to portray Chelsea, the illusion is that some of the real Grey is shining through here. If so, that makes this glimpse of an adult film star arguably more intimate than any pornographic one. In any case, it’s certainly more interesting to ponder whether Grey is speaking from the heart when Chelsea says, “If they wanted you to be yourself, they wouldn’t pay you,” than it is to watch a porn film and speculate about how often (if ever) an orgasmic actress is truly moaning from the genitals.

Why does all this meta deliberating add to The Girlfriend Experience rather than distracting from it? Because the film itself is about our efforts to create reality from perception. Chelsea creates illusions of nondiscriminatory companionship and high-class elegance. Her boyfriend (Chris Santos), a personal trainer who refuses to wear his gym’s uniform, creates an illusion of non-conforming hipness. A slimy prostitution critic (played by film critic Glenn Kenny) creates an illusion that his evaluations are as trustworthy as Consumer Reports. Meanwhile, in a film set in 2008, Barack Obama and John McCain create the illusion that they know best how to bring about positive change in America. In turn, the American citizen, as exemplified by Chelsea’s johns, struggles to create the illusion that he/she is somehow special – special to Chelsea, or special enough to know which candidate will save us, or special enough to know how to navigate the economic crisis.

These themes aren’t in boldface. Nothing in The Girlfriend Experience is. This movie, like Bubble before it, is a minimalist Soderbergh experiment sent straight to DVD and subscription TV in time with its theatrical release. Cuts and camera movements are few. Lighting is natural – or suggestive of it. And theatrics are nowhere to be found. Cinema often serves up stories about ordinary people thrust into extraordinary situations, but this isn’t one of them. None of these characters experiences anything resembling a defining moment, at least not in the short-term view. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t interesting. Soderbergh’s film begins ominously, with about 10 minutes of clumsily-staged scenes, yet thereafter it continually draws us in toward its modest but legitimate emotional core. To call this film, or Grey’s performance within it, mostly inert wouldn’t be entirely unfair, but there is vigor to be found in the stillness. Other than during the repeatedly obnoxious scenes set on a private jet, which feature a group of overgrown frat boys captured by a hand-held camera in jiggling closeups awash in ambient light, I never wanted this film to “get on with it,” which is more than I can say for the energetic films in which Grey usually appears.

I know what you’re thinking: out-doing a porn film is hardly high praise for an Oscar-winning director. No argument there. Indeed, just like it’s impossible to forget Grey’s pedigree, it’s difficult to ignore Soderbergh’s. To recall a line from Dangerous Liaisons, one doesn’t applaud the tenor for clearing his throat. That said, for all its reserve, The Girlfriend Experience makes a more profound emotional impact at 78 minutes than Soderbergh’s 257-minute, two-part Che epic, which features heart-pounding cinematography (the camera is always in the right place) but only a faint emotional pulse. Is that still merely a backhanded compliment? Maybe. But to spend too much time analyzing this movie against Soderbergh’s capabilities is to overlook the movie itself. Yes, like Day-Lewis in the wilderness, Soderbergh seems to be testing himself, playing with his craft. In this case, at least we get to watch, even if it’s from a distance.

The Conversations: Werner Herzog

Even as my hectic schedule has made posts here at The Cooler scarce of late, I’m pleased to announce that the fifth edition of The Conversations is live over at The House Next Door. The topic of discussion this time is director Werner Herzog. Ed Howard and I don’t go through Herzog's entire oeuvre film-by-film, but along the way we discuss Signs Of Life, Land Of Silence And Darkness, Aguirre, The Wrath Of God, Lessons Of Darkness, Bells From The Deep, Little Dieter Needs To Fly, Grizzly Man, Rescue Dawn and Encounters At The End Of The World, with at least passing mention of several others. If you’re familiar with just two or three Herzog films, you’ll have little trouble following along.

Check it out! And please add to the conversation by leaving comments at The House Next Door.

Previous Editions of The Conversations:

David Fincher (January 2009)
Mulholland Dr. (February 2009)
Overlooked - Part I: Undertow (March 2009)
Overlooked - Part II: Solaris (March 2009)
Star Trek (May 2009)

Punch-Drunk Love: Tyson

Great storytellers know when to tell the story and when to get out of the way and let the story tell itself. In his latest film, director James Toback does the latter. His documentary consists of little more than two or three camera angles of one stationary subject – a man, sitting in a chair, talking about his life – with some archival B-roll mixed in. Visually speaking, it isn’t much to look at, but dramatically speaking, there’s no better place to look. There are few individuals capable of holding us rapt for 90 minutes of autobiographical rambling, but Toback’s film features one of them: Mike Tyson. In Tyson, the former heavyweight champion provides impassioned tales of his childhood, boxing career, love life and prison sentence that are interesting but nowhere near as fascinating as the spectacle of the man himself. Here, Tyson isn’t just the storyteller. He’s the story.

That’s the long way around to saying that whenever a camera is tightly focused on Mike Tyson’s tattooed face, it’s in the right place. Who else is so fearsome and so docile? Who else is so enchanting and so terrifying? Who else is so repugnant and so sympathetic? Who else is all of those things at the same time? Tyson is easy to read and yet impossible to comprehend. He’s vulnerable and yet elusive. To borrow a phrase from Winston Churchill, he’s a riddle wrapped in mystery inside an enigma. To watch Tyson is to have your opinion of the man challenged and then affirmed and then challenged again. Never has a man with so much history, so much baggage, so much lore, seemed so undefined as if new, malleable and ever-changing. When Tyson says in his typical blend of idiocy-cum-poetry that sometimes insanity has been his only sanity, it’s a fitting contradiction, because the most familiar thing about Tyson is his foreignness.

Toback’s film invites us to understand Tyson in a way we haven’t before, without ever pretending that Tyson is easy to understand. Toback’s occasional use of split-screen, while also refreshing the visual palate, effectively suggests the fractured state of Tyson’s spirit and psyche. Indeed, in the course of one long interview, the notorious boxer runs a gauntlet of emotions. He weeps over the 1985 death of trainer and father-figure Cus D’Amato. He curses boxing promoter Don King, who manipulated Tyson for his own financial gain. He speaks of ex-wife Robin Givens with both wistful affection and jaded disappointment. And so on. That Tyson does all these things with the intensity of someone visiting these emotions for the first time is what makes Tyson – and Tyson – so provocative. This is a man who has moved on but never forgotten, who is forgiving and resentful, who is both victim and victimizer.

With Tyson, there are always contradictions. An interesting case study involves his relationships with women. Tyson claims in this film that Givens lied in their famous 1988 Barbara Walters interview in which the actress painted her husband as at least emotionally abusive if not physically so, and he claims that he never raped Desiree Washington, which earned him a three-year stint in prison. But at another point of the film, Tyson talks about wanting to “physically dominate” women. And when referring to the 1992 rape conviction, Tyson makes a remark suggesting that, well, even if he wasn’t guilty that time, he was probably guilty of forcing himself on women on other occasions. To watch this film is to see a man who has been punished too much and maybe not enough.

That Tyson’s victims don’t have the opportunity to plead their case or otherwise defend themselves will make Tyson, for some, a crime against documentary journalism. It isn’t. Toback’s film, while one-sided and undoubtedly sympathetic, is also unmistakably straightforward in its methods. This is Tyson on Tyson. Nothing more. Nothing less. No, you won’t hear from Washington or the officers who arrested Tyson for rape (who, let’s not forget, might have selfish motivations of their own). But you also won’t hear anyone come to Tyson’s aid, to validate his depiction of events. All we have is Tyson’s word and our gut instincts. Sure, there are plenty of reasons to doubt Tyson. Then again, it’s also worth wondering: When else has Tyson been this free to speak his mind? When else has our access to the man been so unfiltered?

Personally, I don’t believe everything Tyson says in his interview with Toback. If he isn’t a calculated liar, Tyson is almost certainly a delusional one. (I think it’s possible he genuinely believes many of his mistruths.) Then again, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a sports figure speak from the heart the way Tyson does. His ringside interview moments after his final bout, in which he admits that he’s boxing solely for the payday and long ago lost his taste for fighting, reveals a man as candid as they come. As a boxer, Tyson was adept at creating a monstrous image that would intimidate his opponents while attracting audiences, increasing his share of the purse. But when not portraying Iron Mike, Tyson is almost defenseless. It’s as if he feels too much and lacks the ability to manage his reactions, which sometimes leads to touching moments, as when he reached up to wipe blood from Lennox Lewis’ cheek, and other times leads to horrifying ones, as when he bit off a piece of Evander Holyfield’s ear.

It’s easy to label Tyson a psychopath, a mindless thug, a heartless beast. His rape conviction supports that image. His cold stare supports that image. His pure physicality in the ring (and out of it) supports that image. But that’s not what you’ll see in Tyson, and the disparity deserves to be taken seriously. Yes, this is Tyson as witnessed by one of his friends. But how many friends has Tyson had? Over the years, he earned celebrity, money and infamy, and yet in so many ways he’s still the young kid he was in Brooklyn, all alone, fighting to stay alive. We have repeatedly ogled him, but we’ve never allowed ourselves to feel for him, never given him a chance to be anything other than the monster we wanted him to be. Toback’s film dares audiences to look into the fighter’s eyes and not care. I, for one, went down for the count.

Puzzling: The Da Vinci Code

[Because seeing Angels & Demons isn't on the list of things to do this weekend, The Cooler offers the following review, written upon the film’s release in the author’s pre-blog era.]

After more than two decades unveiling letters, Vanna White no longer holds the easiest job in showbiz. This year, at least, that title goes to the publicist for The Da Vinci Code, a film starring Tom Hanks, directed by Ron Howard and based on a Dan Brown book that – as of the movie’s May release – has spent more than three years (and counting) on The New York Times bestseller list. In hardback! Only toilet paper sells itself better.

Trouble is, a marketer’s dream can be a filmmaker’s curse. The Da Vinci Code is destined to ride its wave of consumer awareness to huge box office numbers, but in the meantime the film itself will almost certainly drown in unrealistic expectations. For a filmmaker, the only thing worse than no one wanting to see your movie, is everyone wanting to. Howard may be the guy yelling “action,” but this picture’s true director is Brown’s novel, which has inspired so many fans – some 40 million, at least – that altering the story would be tantamount to, oh, say, debating the Bible.

In this way, the success of the novel holds the film hostage. When the movie fails to impress, book fans will cite the differences between the two, ignoring that when most adaptations tank it’s because of all the ways they try to replicate books, not the ways they deviate. Film and print are different mediums, after all. But people forget this, often repeating, as if it’s canon, that films “never” live up to their textual inspirations. This is entirely untrue, of course, as adaptations of Nicholas Sparks books seem destined to prove. But the belief exists just the same.

And sometimes it’s true, as is the case with The Da Vinci Code. Or, so I think. Having not read the book, I’m just guessing, but the signs of literary superiority are there: In the film’s 149-minute running time, which while bloated with plot is anemic in excitement; in the utter unimpressiveness of Hanks, who seems to have been asked to do little more than occupy space; in the way The Da Vinci Code (meaning the movie) comes off like a poor man’s National Treasure, when two years ago National Treasure was accused of being a knock-off of The Da Vinci Code (meaning the book).

The film’s principal problem is pacing. The story is packed with so many twists that you can feel the breeze coming from the fast-turning pages of Brown’s novel, yet on screen the rapture is lost in translation. Moving ahead like a tourist more interested in getting passport stamps than in actually exploring other countries, the movie’s adventures are checked off hurriedly. Each action sequence is followed by a pause just long enough for some cursory character development and plot exposition, and then, whoosh, another trapdoor opens, and down the chute we go.

But to what? Well, for starters, to a rather absurd hero in the form of Hanks’ Robert Langdon. A professor of symbology at Harvard, Langdon begins our adventure as a brilliant stiff nervous to step on an elevator. He ends the story, somewhere less than 48 hours later in story time, as some kind of Indiana Jones. The key difference is that Indy lived for adventure. Langdon? In the course of one seemingly interminable night he goes from signing books, to seeing a former friend’s corpse, to being involved in three high-speed car chases while fleeing at least one person apparently out to kill him, and it hardly fazes him.

For a Hanks movie, the adrenaline seems misapplied. We’re meant to be drawn to Langdon because of his smarts, chiefly his unique ability to solve complex puzzles. Yet whereas the book probably romanced readers with Langdon’s mental heroics by providing a view into his thought process, in the movie we only just begin to understand each puzzle by the time Langdon has solved it, often benefiting from luck, other times using logic that doesn’t require an advanced degree in cryptology so much as solid Scrabble skills. Granted, Langdon is crazy-fast when code-cracking his way through the Louvre. But how suspenseful is it, really, when the one policeman who could nab our genius is a flunky too inept to join his fellow officers on a wild goose chase?

Even more perplexing than Langdon is the henchman out to get him, Paul Bettany’s Silas, a religious extremist on a murder mission to protect the darkest secrets of the Roman Catholic Church. Silas goes on his 9-milameter errands wearing a monk’s robes, but it’s unclear whether his outfit is a sign of religious devotion, an effort to conceal his self-inflicted wounds of penitence, or merely protection for his sensitive albino skin. Regardless, I’d bet a T-shirt and jeans would arouse less suspicion than this gun-toting Obi-Wan Kenobi get-up.

Actually, I think this gets to the heart of what’s wrong here. The Da Vinci Code isn’t an awful film, and the benefit of its frenzied format is that we never settle long enough to get entirely bored. But the story takes too much pride in its examination of the microscopic to have so many blunders in logic that are visible to the naked eye. The cast is outstanding, the premise is intriguing, but the loopholes are overwhelming.

Are we really to believe that the Louvre doesn’t have security cameras? And what happened to the bulletproof glass protecting the Mona Lisa? Was it removed when she suddenly doubled in size? Also, what good is it to have an army of secret protectors for the Holy Grail, if said army is willing to let the treasure repeatedly fall into enemy hands? And what’s the point of an elaborate code system to guard Christianity’s sins if the vault holding the evidence is left unlocked? And, finally, doesn’t it strike you that the one person who doesn’t know the “big secret” is the one who most needs to know?

The Da Vinci Code needn’t be airtight. It’s a fantasy, remember. It has dramatic license. But it also has the authority to go its own way, and there’s no sign that it does. Structurally, this film probably passes as a visual stand-in for the novel. But to succeed the way the book did, to thrill millions, what it needed to do was stand on its own.

All Shook Up: Star Trek

It’s a shame that the first feature film of the Star Trek franchise embellished the name of the TV series that inspired its creation. Thirty years removed from Star Trek: The Motion Picture, we finally have a film worthy of that title. J.J. Abrams’ origin story-meets-Twilight Zone episode – simply called Star Trek – is by far the most action-packed adventure in the franchise’s history, turbulent enough to make a hit of Dramamine recommended if not required. With its rapid cuts, rampant lens flares and rambunctious dolly shots (trust me, it’s possible), Abrams’ film is as tranquil as an 8-year-old on a sugar high. Whereas the original Star Trek films had a habit of throwing the crew of the Enterprise around the bridge, Abrams’ Star Trek seems intent to rock audiences from their seats.

It works; presuming, of course, that the intent is to make the beloved but oh-so-dated series seem modern again. Abrams’ Star Trek is fashionable to a fault, utilizing every accessory from the 21st Century blockbuster wardrobe. Camera gymnastics? Check. CGI spectacles created not out of dramatic necessity but because the technology exists? Check. Overly choreographed hand-to-hand combat scenes that are balletic instead of gripping? Check. Excessive face-planting close-ups that make it seem as if the director has something against collarbones? Check, again. Against a landscape of Terminator Salvation, Transformers and G.I. Joe, Star Trek blends in like a hippie at Woodstock, which is why I suspect that the effects-dominated flick will age about as well as bellbottoms or that 1979 feature film debut, now often derisively referred to as The Motionless Picture.

But that’s all concern for another decade, or at least another day. For the moment, bemoaning the digitally-dependent boilerplate of the modern blockbuster is as pointless as complaining about how Twitter is ruining the English language. Abrams’ Star Trek is precisely the film it aims to be: a creature of the times. And while the trend away from Gene Roddenberry’s humanistic focus toward George Lucas’ faster-and-more-intense brand of entertainment is surely an effort to attract a newer (younger and less nerdy) audience, the remarkable thing about Star Trek is that it puts equal effort into satisfying its Trekkie faithful. Abrams’ film, from a screenplay by Alex Kurtzman and Roberto Orci, is littered with references to films and TV episodes past. And lest there be any doubt about the reverence that this series-regenerator holds for its source material, Kurtzman and Orci actually bend time (or something like that) to ensure that the franchise’s most iconic character has a chance to pass the torch.

What we have then is not your daddy’s Star Trek. At least, not solely. But if Dad can adjust to the fact that Abrams provides about four different views of the bridge per second, whereas the TV series used about that many camera angles for its entire three-year run, he’s bound to get more out of the experience than a Star Trek newbie. It was guaranteed that there would be a new Kirk, Spock and Bones in this picture, and that the series’ catchphrases would be spread about like Easter eggs, but few could have imagined that the new cast would capture the iconic characters’ spirit so convincingly that the signature dialogue would feel like a natural byproduct of the drama. From top to bottom, the new crew is tremendous: Chris Pine nails Kirk’s swagger. Zachary Quinto brings an inner torment to Spock untapped since the TV series. Karl Urban as Bones has the same emphatic delivery as DeForest Kelley. Zoe Saldana makes Uhura something close to a full character, rather than just a full-figured gal. Anton Yelchin finds the perfect blend of buffoonery and dependability as Chekov. John Cho is a familiarly determined Sulu. And a scene-stealing Simon Pegg adroitly captures Scotty’s boisterous spirit, if not quite his cranky attitude.

(Spoiler warning.) Veteran Star Trek fans get all that, plus several scenes with the still wonderful Leonard Nimoy as, yep, Spock. Confused? So am I. It has something to do with a black hole and time travel. Nimoy’s Spock clarifies the mindfuck in a mind-meld with Pine’s Kirk, but it was all Vulcan to me. I’d try to explain it now, but I’m afraid I’d end up sounding like Quentin Tarantino. (So there’s this Romulan ship, alright? And the captain’s all pissed off because Spock fucked up and allowed Romulus to be destroyed, okay? So this Romulan dude takes his ship shaped like a fucking medieval torture device, travels through time and waits 25 years for Spock to join him on the other side, so he can get medieval on his ass, alright? And on the other side of that black hole there’s this alternate universe, okay?) Truth is, unless you’re planning to attend Comic-Con next year, the details don’t matter. The bottom line is this: Abrams’ characters are entirely new versions of the same characters you know and love. Thus they aren’t beholden to past exploits of the Enterprise. So you should expect a sequel, certainly, but you shouldn’t expect to see Khan again.

That last part stings just a bit because there’s something lacking in Eric Bana’s Nero that had me longing for Ricardo Montalban, Christopher Plummer and even Christopher Lloyd (Great Scott!). Star Trek episodes (and I’m including films here) tend to be as inviting as their character dramas, and yet they are as memorable as their villains. A less J.K. Rowling-ish, more Shakespearean bad guy could have tipped this film from very-good popcorn fun to something close to great. Still, considering all the expectations heaped upon it, Abrams’ film is a tremendous achievement that’s almost guaranteed to please everyone, even if it doesn’t please everyone all the time. Personally, my fondness for the original crew is unshakeable, but Pine, Quinto and the rest have made exploring the final frontier seem like a bold adventure again. The Shatner and Nimoy cast defined Star Trek, no question, but they never perfected it. To expect Abrams’ film to be flawless would be illogical.

Surprisingly Gifted: The Soloist

Preconceptions are dangerous. This is what I learned from The Soloist, a film about a Los Angeles Times reporter who meets a homeless man playing a two-stringed violin and finds out that the Skid Row inhabitant used to be a Julliard cellist. Jamie Foxx plays the homeless musician, Nathanial Ayers, and Robert Downey Jr plays Times columnist Steve Lopez, whose discovery that a muttering, shopping-cart-pushing Ayers was once a musical prodigy is merely surprise No. 1. Based on a book by Lopez and adapted for the screen by Susannah Grant, The Soloist is less about Ayers’ one-time musical promise than about his even-harder-to-believe contentment with his hard-knock life. Yet if you’re assuming that my aforementioned lesson on prejudice comes from the drama of The Soloist, you’ve guessed wrong. Sure, the story of Lopez and Ayers reminds us to be cautious with our first impressions, but my tutorial on the riskiness of bias comes directly from Paramount Pictures.

See, it was Paramount that began promoting The Soloist last summer in preparation for a nationwide theatrical debut in late November 2008. Armed with a heavy-hitters-only release date, The Soloist was going to be an Oscar contender. At least, Paramount thought so, and with the film’s Oscar-caliber stars, its based-on-a-true-story hook and its socially conscious theme, it was hard to disagree. (Heck, the film is about a mentally ill character – an Oscar mainstay if there ever was one.) But a funny thing happened on the way to the Academy Awards. Weeks before the scheduled premiere, Paramount cancelled The Soloist’s November debut, not for reshooting or re-editing but simply so it could release the film in the far less competitive (and far less awards-friendly) month of April. The implicit message of the postponement was so explicit that it might as well have been tacked on to the front of the film as a disclaimer: “Warning: What you are about to see won’t be nominated for any Oscars.” And on that point, Paramount is correct. And on that point, Paramount is responsible.

To be clear, The Soloist is far from perfect. This is, after all, a film that regards flapping pigeons with the reverence that John Ashcroft reserves for soaring eagles. This is a film that includes not one but two pointless gross-out scenes involving urine. This is a film about a man’s emotional connection to Beethoven that never quite uses Beethoven emotionally. This is a film that splashes colors across the screen ala 2001: A Space Odyssey to questionable effect. On the other hand, The Soloist possesses more grace than The Reader and more realism than Frost/Nixon (two Best Picture nominees in last year’s Oscar race), not to mention two incredible performances by Foxx and Downey that are superior to any of the Oscar-nominated turns in Doubt. Seriously. In fact, Foxx and Downey might just give the best performances of their careers here. Yeah, seriously! But good luck getting folks to say that, now that Paramount’s handling of the film has left it branded it with a scarlet letter.

The Soloist is a hamburger first touted for Spago that became relegated to the drive-thru window at McDonald’s. We’d be fooling ourselves to pretend that the context doesn’t shape the content. And so on that note, let me go no further without pausing to offer that perhaps The Soloist isn’t as impressive as I’m making it sound. Perhaps, at this point, Joe Wright’s film is the beneficiary of my low expectations, because after the November-to-April switcheroo, I expected mediocrity. But you’d have a hard time convincing me that The Soloist fails to clear that bar on the strength of its lead actors alone. Performing opposite Downey, who earned a Best Supporting Actor nomination a few months back for playing a method actor who warns against going “full retard” when portraying mentally handicapped characters, Foxx demonstrates both tremendous commitment and impressive restraint. His schizophrenic Ayers is impressively consistent and convincingly unsettled. He’s a colorful character, yes, by costuming alone, but one only needs to imagine Robin Williams’ interpretation of the role to appreciate Foxx’s subtlety. Foxx plays Ayers as a man, not as a condition or as a caricature, which is something I wouldn’t say about Best Actor nominees Brad Pitt (The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button) or Frank Langella (Frost/Nixon).

Then there’s Downey, whose performance is notable at least because it’s so rare to see him playing the straight man. Downey’s Lopez doesn’t possess the brilliant dialogue of his Kirk Lazarus (Tropic Thunder), or the uber-swagger of his Tony Stark (Iron Man), or the effervescence of his Paul Avery (Zodiac), which means that as far as Downey performances go, this one isn’t much fun. But the innate magnetism that we’ve come to expect from Downey is there, and then some. Through Lopez’s exasperation turned desperation when Ayers goes missing, or in scenes in which Lopez quietly considers his responsibility (or lack thereof) in Ayers’ wellbeing, we get a precious glimpse of Downey beyond his trademark smirks, and it’s a sight to see. The character might not be wonderfully drawn, but Downey’s embodiment of the character is nothing short of perfect. Same goes for Catherine Keener in a small but significant part as Lopez’s ex-wife.

Of course, purists will note that the real Lopez doesn’t have an ex-wife (he’s married), and I have no doubt that Grant has taken other liberties with the facts. But from an outsider’s perspective, The Soloist rings true. Grant is to be commended for realizing that the very genuine friendship between Lopez and Ayers is remarkable in its own right and needs no perfect ending – not for Ayers, whose mental illness is no magic trick, not for Lopez, who learns that good intentions have limits. Shot on L.A.’s inimitable Skid Row, which feels dangerous even in broad daylight, The Soloist has authenticity where it counts. And, yeah, better films have been ignored by the Oscars. But worse films have been buried in an avalanche of golden statuettes. The tragedy would be for The Soloist to be ignored altogether. So before you take Paramount’s suggestion of all that The Soloist is not, give it a fair chance. See it with open eyes. See it for what it is. It’ll probably surprise you.

Final Thoughts on Star Trek (Until I Have More)

J.J. Abrams’ Star Trek hits theaters tomorrow, and I’m modestly but undeniably excited. Remarkably, I’ve been extremely successful at avoiding trailers, advance reviews and gossip about the movie, so while everyone else is probably feeling Trekked out, my enthusiasm is peaking at just the right time. I hope to see the flick Saturday, at which point I expect to get answers to questions I never actually pondered, like, “When did Kirk and Spock first meet?” and “Who was the first girl Kirk kissed?” and so on. Alas, I suspect that some actual mysteries will remain unaddressed.

For example …

Why is it that crewmembers of the Enterprise only talk to the computer operating system when captured in close-up? In wide shots of the bridge, ancillary crew members are always seen pushing buttons in the background, yet whenever Kirk wants something it’s “Computer, do this…” and “Computer, do that…” If the computer can respond to voice commands, shouldn’t the entire crew be mumbling directions at their assigned stations?

Speaking of which, just how many people does it take to make the Enterprise run? In The Wrath Of Khan it appears to take a small army of experienced crewmen, but in The Search For Spock things seem to go okay with just Scotty, Sulu, Chekov and McCoy operating in front of Kirk.

And what’s the rule on beaming? If Kirk and crew can beam from the Enterprise to any planetary surface, why is it necessary to beam from one transporter room to another transporter room when traveling ship-to-ship? Why not beam straight from the transporter room to the bridge (or wherever), or vice versa? Also, while in space dock, why would someone take a little shuttle to the ship when it’s faster and easier to just beam aboard?

More questions …

How is it that the Enterprise always visits planets with upright-walking bipedal aliens? And was the Star Trek creative team having a bad day when they decided that Romulans and Vulcans would look nearly identical?

Is McCoy’s retirement beard in Star Trek: The Motion Picture the worst fake beard in cinema history?

Seriously, how many times does the captain a ship have to get thrown from his seat before he decides that the 20th Century seatbelt is a good invention?

Finally, can anyone identify the mystery man who helps save Kirk from exposure to radiation in Wrath Of Khan, when Kirk wants to rush in and tend to the ailing (and doomed) Spock?


Apparently the filmmakers decided Kirk is far too manly to be held back by McCoy and Scotty alone, so they had this other guy jump in there, too …



… saving Kirk while being careful to keep his head down so as not to upstage him …


… and then holding Kirk …


… holding Kirk …


… holding Kirk …


… and then quietly slipping out of the way.

I’m guessing that was the actor’s career highlight, but maybe not. Think he's excited for Abrams' film? I wonder ...

Spinning on That Dizzy Edge: Adventureland

It’s difficult for me to imagine Kristen Stewart bound in a corset and hiding under a powdered wig for a period piece. Likewise, I don’t see her as the heir to Milla Jovovich’s Resident Evil throne. Nor can I picture her as the object of eroticism in a sexual thriller, or as the femme fatale of a noir, or as the girly girl who won’t be complete without her dream wedding. Stewart has decades to prove me wrong, and maybe she will. Or maybe she’ll continue along the path that has served her so well of late. Through last year’s Twilight and now this spring’s Adventureland, Stewart has established herself as the anti-Bond girl, the enchanting yet attainable quasi-beauty next door who unwittingly casts spells on sensitive, well-meaning misfits – guys who are all too easily shaken and stirred.

The misfit in this case is James, a smart, sweet but hardly suave all-around-good-guy played by Jesse Eisenberg who is so reminiscent of Michael Cera’s Evan from Superbad that 15 years from now we’ll struggle to keep them apart. Eisenberg’s character is four years older than Cera’s, but save for the fact that James can buy alcohol the characters are essentially interchangeable. Both are shy, stammering, clever, warm-hearted and completely without game when it comes to the opposite sex. Both are reminiscent of their ages and yet younger than their years, particularly James. (It doesn’t help that Adventureland’s titular amusement park is curiously staffed by college students instead of high schoolers.) And yet amidst trappings that would suggest that Adventureland is a teen movie in disguise, know that it isn’t. Whereas films like Superbad give us characters trying to figure out who they are, Adventureland gives us characters trying to figure out how to be who they are.

It’s a subtle yet significant difference in a subtle yet significant film. Written and directed by Greg Mottola, Adventureland has a modesty and earnestness that matches its 1987 setting, stirring memories of the Brat Pack era when teen movies could be naughty without being obscene. Whereas American Pie’s iconic scenes involve fornication with dessert and musical instruments, Adventureland shows no desire to push the envelope of crassness. The film’s rudest scene involves a goofball urinating on a window at a party; a small and pleasantly goofy moment that lightens Adventureland but hardly defines it. While Superbad succeeds because of all the truly hilarious and hilariously true things that the characters dare to say (“No one has gotten a handjob in cargos since Nam”), Adventureland is defined by things unsaid, by the effective performances of Eisenberg and Stewart as youngsters who find mature relationships even harder to come by than adult relations.

Inarguably, Adventureland is James’ story, but a good number of scenes belong solely to Stewart’s Em. That’s what sets Mottola’s film apart from The Graduate, or Say Anything, or Garden State, or any number of other films in which an aimless and melancholy young man finds rejuvenation through his attraction to a vibrant young woman. Unlike Elaine Robinson, Em is more than just an object of affection. She’s mourning the death of her mother, she’s adjusting to her father’s new wife and she’s struggling to determine whether her sexual affair with an older married man (Ryan Reynolds) is the thing keeping her sane or the thing tearing her apart. Look closely and you’ll note that in fact she’s the Benjamin Braddock of this story, the one going through a quarter-life crisis who never dreams that loving companionship might be part of the answer. James, meanwhile, takes on the role so often assigned to the female of the romantic comedy, allowing his lack of success in love to serve as the prism that colors his self-identity.

Eisenberg’s performance is filled with warmth and charm, but James isn’t much more than a cipher through which we (re-)experience the almost excruciating emotionality of youth. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Wearing its 1987 setting like a comfortable pair of acid-washed jeans, Adventureland isn’t about a historical time period but an evolutionary one. Bill Hader’s mustache, Kristen Wiig’s navel-high denim and Falco’s “Rock Me Amadeus” all contribute to the film’s effortlessly 80s mise-en-scene while Adventureland saves its nostalgia for the innocence and fragility of early adulthood. Thus the titular amusement park where James and Em meet and (clumsily) fall in love is the perfect location for this story, evoking visceral sensations of childlike joy, sugary sweetness and warm summer nights.

When the fireworks explode over the skyline of the amusement park rides and tents, and James and Em gaze longingly at one another, you’ll likely find yourself remembering a time from your youth when you were scared-shitless in-love or scared-shitless out-of-love. Maybe both. One way or another, Adventureland is guaranteed to make your heart ache. Its true genius is its ability to make early adulthood seem like both the best and worst of times simultaneously. Whether James and Em are right for one another is almost irrelevant. What’s clear after spending time in Adventureland’s world is that everyone needs someone, especially in their early 20s.

Stewart’s ability to make Em vulnerable without turning her into a blubbering target for feminist scorn is what makes her performance so welcoming, not to mention noteworthy. Even the best Hollywood screenplays have a habit of painting their female characters into the victims’ corner, but Stewart refuses to go there. Em’s strength of spirit remains evident even when she’s wracked with insecurity, and while it might seem like a slam dunk for the teenage Stewart to emote angst and nervous energy, keep in mind that in 2002’s Panic Room she did what most child stars from Jodie Foster to Dakota Fanning are wont to do: exhibited maturity beyond her years. With downcast eyes and hair-tugging ticks, Em comes off like someone with some growing up to do while Stewart proves she’s grown up already. It’s a painfully honest performance that defines a piercingly sincere film.