...caught the last five minutes of this today
...that's like a disclaimer
So…at the end of this film Meg Ryan is on a date with her fiancé and they see on the Empire State Building red lights forming a heart. The fiancé says, “It’s a sign.” She agrees and ditches him for Tom Hanks.
So…after all the hugging and kissing the film concludes with a computer-generated image of the NYC skyline, the Empire State Building and its red heart. In fiction, we might call this shift in “tone” problematic. For ninety minutes, the screen has had a “realistic” tone, and then we get a computer-generated tone. SS illustrates the jarring effect a tonal shift can have.
…However, I’m one who doesn’t necessarily consider “jarring” a pejorative critique.
…However, sometimes jarring works and sometimes jarring doesn’t. To measure its success, we might ask: Is the fiction conscious of the sudden shift in tone? And, what is the lasting effect? In SS, we can’t answer these questions, as this computer-generated image is our last until the credits roll. SS changes its visual tone more out of convenience (how else than a computer can we make the image of a heart on the Empire State Building?) than for artistic effect.
…To all of which, you might reply: “It’s just a movie, Scott.”
…Fair enough.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Revolutionary Road (2008)
Perhaps your fiction has stalled…perhaps you want your audience to see something your character cannot… perhaps you want to emphasize what your character cannot see without “telling”…perhaps you want a moment where your character metaphorically looks into the proverbial mirror but you don’t want to use a mirror because that would be too damn obvious…
RR is a tragedy very much in the vein of Shakespeare.
A common technique of Shakespeare, which RR borrows, is the fool. In Shakespeare, the fool is often a vessel of knowledge whose contents are disregarded simply because of his appearance. In RR, John Givings, a patient in a mental institution, plays the role of the fool. RR, however, doesn’t use the fool without its own invention.
Throughout King Lear, the fool brings advice to Lear, and Lear continually fails to see.
Fool: …The sweet and bitter fool
Will presently appear;
The one in motley here,
The other found out there.
Lear: Dost thou call me a fool, boy?
Fool: All the other titles thou hast given away.
In RR, John Givings expresses to Frank and April Wheeler many sentiments with which they agree and which we’ve previously heard them express. Rather than speaking in puns and double-entendres as a Shakespearean fool might, Givings speaks bluntly. Rather than speaking unheard as the Shakespearean fool might, the Wheeler’s openly agree. Although Givings doesn’t act the fool, the validity of his ideas appears compromised to both the Wheelers and the audience because of his “social status,” much like a Shakespearean fool.
Alterations to the appearance and manner of the fool as seen in RR are easily contrived (they function to disguise the trope of the fool); however, the force of the alterations stems mainly from Givings’s bluntly insulting disapproval of the Wheeler’s decision to remain in America and not to move to Paris, which leads to a fight, which leads to (insert spoiler here). The tragedy then is amplified: in contrast to Lear, who is simply blind to the truth due to old age, the young Wheelers choose to blindfold themselves, continuing to live under a banner of truth they know to be false.
RR is a tragedy very much in the vein of Shakespeare.
A common technique of Shakespeare, which RR borrows, is the fool. In Shakespeare, the fool is often a vessel of knowledge whose contents are disregarded simply because of his appearance. In RR, John Givings, a patient in a mental institution, plays the role of the fool. RR, however, doesn’t use the fool without its own invention.
Throughout King Lear, the fool brings advice to Lear, and Lear continually fails to see.
Fool: …The sweet and bitter fool
Will presently appear;
The one in motley here,
The other found out there.
Lear: Dost thou call me a fool, boy?
Fool: All the other titles thou hast given away.
In RR, John Givings expresses to Frank and April Wheeler many sentiments with which they agree and which we’ve previously heard them express. Rather than speaking in puns and double-entendres as a Shakespearean fool might, Givings speaks bluntly. Rather than speaking unheard as the Shakespearean fool might, the Wheeler’s openly agree. Although Givings doesn’t act the fool, the validity of his ideas appears compromised to both the Wheelers and the audience because of his “social status,” much like a Shakespearean fool.
Alterations to the appearance and manner of the fool as seen in RR are easily contrived (they function to disguise the trope of the fool); however, the force of the alterations stems mainly from Givings’s bluntly insulting disapproval of the Wheeler’s decision to remain in America and not to move to Paris, which leads to a fight, which leads to (insert spoiler here). The tragedy then is amplified: in contrast to Lear, who is simply blind to the truth due to old age, the young Wheelers choose to blindfold themselves, continuing to live under a banner of truth they know to be false.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Brothers (2009)
In Brothers, a lesser talked about film this holiday season, the fiction writer might pay attention to the parallel storylines which arise from a familiar film technique: montage. Montage works on film because humans have a propensity to not look away from frenetic images. Frenetic images in fiction (or whatever technique may come closest) are not often successful (or labeled experimental) because a piece will feel non-sequitur, unfocused, and/or haphazard.
Brothers is inventive because it uses montage and then slows the montage to parallel storylines. We move between small town USA and worn-torn Afghanistan at slower and slower rates. The scenes feel progressively drawn out. Initially, the montage pulls at our heartstrings, juxtaposing images of a soldier at war with images of his wife and kids at home. Then, the film raises the stakes by slowing down. I won’t spoil how it raises the stakes (because I want you to see it) but the important thing is that the storyline slows down.
Parallel storylines is a popular, if not overused, technique of fiction. An issue I have with the term is that often the storylines are not parallel but converging. We know the two lines will eventually come together. Brothers is inventive because it makes its converging storylines feel like diverging storylines.
As montage becomes parallel storylines, the fiction writer should note how much its success relies on opposition. Foremost, there is simply the contrast in atmosphere between the US and Afghanistan. A more pointed example, however, comes when Captain Cahill is captured. He instructs his fellow captive to forget everything he knows. He tells him he no longer has a family as Afghanis rummage through his belongings, which include pictures of his wife and son. Meanwhile, Cahill’s wife sits on her couch watching home videos. While the husband is forgetting, the wife is remembering.
I think the use of opposition coupled with the slower rate at which the story progresses works to heighten tension—in a novel with converging storylines, it’s easy to see how progressively longer chapters might achieve the same effect. While parallel storylines is certainly not inventive in fiction or film, what is inventive (and counterintuitive) in Brothers is that the parallel storylines seem to suggest that the family will not reunite, the storylines will never converge. When they do, we’re relieved; but, we’re also eager to see how the film will resolve conflicts developed through the parallel storylines.
Brothers is inventive because it uses montage and then slows the montage to parallel storylines. We move between small town USA and worn-torn Afghanistan at slower and slower rates. The scenes feel progressively drawn out. Initially, the montage pulls at our heartstrings, juxtaposing images of a soldier at war with images of his wife and kids at home. Then, the film raises the stakes by slowing down. I won’t spoil how it raises the stakes (because I want you to see it) but the important thing is that the storyline slows down.
Parallel storylines is a popular, if not overused, technique of fiction. An issue I have with the term is that often the storylines are not parallel but converging. We know the two lines will eventually come together. Brothers is inventive because it makes its converging storylines feel like diverging storylines.
As montage becomes parallel storylines, the fiction writer should note how much its success relies on opposition. Foremost, there is simply the contrast in atmosphere between the US and Afghanistan. A more pointed example, however, comes when Captain Cahill is captured. He instructs his fellow captive to forget everything he knows. He tells him he no longer has a family as Afghanis rummage through his belongings, which include pictures of his wife and son. Meanwhile, Cahill’s wife sits on her couch watching home videos. While the husband is forgetting, the wife is remembering.
I think the use of opposition coupled with the slower rate at which the story progresses works to heighten tension—in a novel with converging storylines, it’s easy to see how progressively longer chapters might achieve the same effect. While parallel storylines is certainly not inventive in fiction or film, what is inventive (and counterintuitive) in Brothers is that the parallel storylines seem to suggest that the family will not reunite, the storylines will never converge. When they do, we’re relieved; but, we’re also eager to see how the film will resolve conflicts developed through the parallel storylines.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Miller's Crossing (1990)
If there’s one thing my creative writing students have learned this semester, it is the need to begin a story in the middle of the action. They easily recognize (and call each other) when a fiction begins with too much exposition, or flat out begins in the wrong place.
Gran Torino begins with the death of Eastwood’s wife. As I watched the film, I thought: "how nice. We begin the story in a significant moment."
But, the death of Eastwood’s wife, unfortunately, turns out to be an insignificant moment. Pretty quickly, we realize that this man doesn’t act any differently now that his wife is gone. Secondly, we realize that the conflicts that later arise are in no way complicated by the fact that this man has lost his wife. My creative writing students recognize that this funeral may not be “dropping us into the action.”
Miller’s Crossing is a good example of a story dropping the reader / viewer into the action. It begins with an intense conversation between two rival crime bosses, while an adviser to one boss is in the room. Later in the movie, one boss encroaches the other’s territory.
The opening of Miller’s Crossing performs double duty. Not only does it focus our attention on the rival crime bosses, it also focuses our attention on a second major conflict: The adviser is sleeping with his bosses girl.
Often, writers confuse “dropping the reader into the action” with “begin with a scene of intensity” (a la Gran Torino). It is critical (and difficult), however, to place the reader / viewer in a moment of significance. The intense opening needs to speak to the larger action, the overall storyline. If we think about Gran Torino and where the opening directs our attention—the belly buttons, short skirts, gossip, and cell-phones—we see that this focus does not become the focus of the movie. (The focus of the movie is actually a Korean War Vet and his relationship with his immigrant neighbors.)
So, rather than intending to “drop the reader into the action,” focus the reader’s attention. While it helps to remind yourself that you control the camera’s gaze, it also helps to think of your opening as a stage. A stage has limits. Set the limits of your story in the opening. Say to your reader / viewer: “You think this is intense? Wait until you see what happens when we go sniffing around the stage.” Or, like Miller’s Crossing: “This stage ain’t big enough for the three of us. Someone’s got to go.”
Gran Torino begins with the death of Eastwood’s wife. As I watched the film, I thought: "how nice. We begin the story in a significant moment."
But, the death of Eastwood’s wife, unfortunately, turns out to be an insignificant moment. Pretty quickly, we realize that this man doesn’t act any differently now that his wife is gone. Secondly, we realize that the conflicts that later arise are in no way complicated by the fact that this man has lost his wife. My creative writing students recognize that this funeral may not be “dropping us into the action.”
Miller’s Crossing is a good example of a story dropping the reader / viewer into the action. It begins with an intense conversation between two rival crime bosses, while an adviser to one boss is in the room. Later in the movie, one boss encroaches the other’s territory.
The opening of Miller’s Crossing performs double duty. Not only does it focus our attention on the rival crime bosses, it also focuses our attention on a second major conflict: The adviser is sleeping with his bosses girl.
Often, writers confuse “dropping the reader into the action” with “begin with a scene of intensity” (a la Gran Torino). It is critical (and difficult), however, to place the reader / viewer in a moment of significance. The intense opening needs to speak to the larger action, the overall storyline. If we think about Gran Torino and where the opening directs our attention—the belly buttons, short skirts, gossip, and cell-phones—we see that this focus does not become the focus of the movie. (The focus of the movie is actually a Korean War Vet and his relationship with his immigrant neighbors.)
So, rather than intending to “drop the reader into the action,” focus the reader’s attention. While it helps to remind yourself that you control the camera’s gaze, it also helps to think of your opening as a stage. A stage has limits. Set the limits of your story in the opening. Say to your reader / viewer: “You think this is intense? Wait until you see what happens when we go sniffing around the stage.” Or, like Miller’s Crossing: “This stage ain’t big enough for the three of us. Someone’s got to go.”
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Gran Torino (2008)
In the introduction to Hitchcock Truffaut, the French critic cites Hitchcock’s rule of counterpoint between dialogue and image. Truffaut writes, “If we observe any [dinner or cocktail party], it is clear that the words exchanged between the guests are superficial formalities and quite meaningless, whereas the essential is elsewhere…The rule of counterpoint between dialogue and image achieves a dramatic effect by purely visual means. Hitchcock is almost unique in being able to film directly, that is without resorting to explanatory dialogue, such intimate emotions.” (I’m puzzled by the phrase almost unique.)
We see this technique in Gran Torino at the very very very beginning. Clint Eastwood, scowling, stands alone next to his wife’s casket at the front of a Catholic church. A man approaches and expresses condolence. Eastwood says, “Thanks for coming, Al.”
Then, the movie falls apart. I groan when Eastwood growls at the idiocies of youth—belly buttons and cell phones at funerals—pointed out to me by the camera as it cuts to another rude person or son or granddaughter fidgeting in a pew, waiting for the funeral to end. As if Eastwood’s anger needs provocation.
My problem with the film concerns this kind of heavy handedness, something I discuss as "in your face directorial decisions" in Rachel Getting Married. The film cares more about racisms than racism. The drum roll every time Eastwood touches a firearm.
So, here’s a thesis against heavy handedness: if something is constantly in your face, eventually you’ll want to push it away. With the alternative, subtlety, you never feel irritated at what’s in your face, because it’s never in your face. One could argue, that you could be irritated by what’s not in your face. But if there are enough subtleties, you’ll find something. So, you can never have enough subtlety. Viewers and readers building connections keeps fictions from falling apart.
We see this technique in Gran Torino at the very very very beginning. Clint Eastwood, scowling, stands alone next to his wife’s casket at the front of a Catholic church. A man approaches and expresses condolence. Eastwood says, “Thanks for coming, Al.”
Then, the movie falls apart. I groan when Eastwood growls at the idiocies of youth—belly buttons and cell phones at funerals—pointed out to me by the camera as it cuts to another rude person or son or granddaughter fidgeting in a pew, waiting for the funeral to end. As if Eastwood’s anger needs provocation.
My problem with the film concerns this kind of heavy handedness, something I discuss as "in your face directorial decisions" in Rachel Getting Married. The film cares more about racisms than racism. The drum roll every time Eastwood touches a firearm.
So, here’s a thesis against heavy handedness: if something is constantly in your face, eventually you’ll want to push it away. With the alternative, subtlety, you never feel irritated at what’s in your face, because it’s never in your face. One could argue, that you could be irritated by what’s not in your face. But if there are enough subtleties, you’ll find something. So, you can never have enough subtlety. Viewers and readers building connections keeps fictions from falling apart.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
The Great Debaters (2007)
When I can accurately describe a movie as logical, illogical, predictable, unpredictable, serious, subtle, light-hearted, heart-warming, hysterical, sickening, heart-breaking, ugly, disgusting, and beautiful, I tend to like it.
The marketing / packaging of this movie led me to believe producers strapped it into a formulaic straightjacket, whereas vitality and versatility better dress The Great Debaters. I blame the title.
The careful sequencing of shots impresses. Each scene ends with an unexpected watcher, or an unexpected smile, just enough twist that makes every scene feel worthwhile. It’s an idea for us fiction writers to take note of it. Offering the reader a gift—a reward—in each scene keeps a reader hooked. It's like a cliffhanger, but more subtle and genuine.
The climactic example of this comes in the final debate scene, which is broadcast across the country. Mister Tolson, black-listed for his extreme politics (more on the politically incorrect English teacher later), is not in the sequence of shots that contain all the characters of the film either attending the debate or listening next to a radio. The debate begins, still more cuts, ups and downs, and finally a cut to a man in a dark suit and dark hat making his way to the auditorium. We knew he’d come eventually, though.
If someone had told me that Denzel plays an inspirational, politically incorrect, poetry quoting English teacher, I doubt I’d give this movie a chance. (No one did.) Mr. Tolson, however, is more of a hardass than a Romantic poet, more discipline than liberation. The writers dealt with the characterization of Mr. Tolson carefully, undoubtedly aware of the type character they needed to avoid to make theirs interesting. Mr. Tolson is introduced to us while dancing at a backwoods whiskey fest. In the next scene, he, in suit and tie, lectures to college students. He also leads a movement to unionize local sharecroppers .
The story ends weakly, unfortunately. It’s hard to believe a movie that references warrants and logical fallacies would fall into its own trap. Weasely wins the debate against Harvard when a Crimson debater declares, “Nothing that erodes the law can be moral.” But, this is far too easy. Who better knows laws can be absurdly and violently unjust than Southern African-Americans circa Jim Crow?
But I pardon the movie because it reinforces many ideals that I hold true: the power of language, racism is wrong, the need for unions, the power of education, David can slay Goliath. I accept the movie because I accept its stance.
What’s got me hung up is that put another way these ideals are also clichés: the pen is mightier than the sword, all people are equal, power to the people, reading is power, and Go underdog Go.
Here is my update to Defiance, which also reinforces ideals I take to be true: 1. Love your family 2. Holocaust was horrific. 3. Go underdog Go.
Defiance masks the clichés of plot and ideology in illusion. The Great Debaters hardly masks the predictability of its plot.
The marketing / packaging of this movie led me to believe producers strapped it into a formulaic straightjacket, whereas vitality and versatility better dress The Great Debaters. I blame the title.
The careful sequencing of shots impresses. Each scene ends with an unexpected watcher, or an unexpected smile, just enough twist that makes every scene feel worthwhile. It’s an idea for us fiction writers to take note of it. Offering the reader a gift—a reward—in each scene keeps a reader hooked. It's like a cliffhanger, but more subtle and genuine.
The climactic example of this comes in the final debate scene, which is broadcast across the country. Mister Tolson, black-listed for his extreme politics (more on the politically incorrect English teacher later), is not in the sequence of shots that contain all the characters of the film either attending the debate or listening next to a radio. The debate begins, still more cuts, ups and downs, and finally a cut to a man in a dark suit and dark hat making his way to the auditorium. We knew he’d come eventually, though.
If someone had told me that Denzel plays an inspirational, politically incorrect, poetry quoting English teacher, I doubt I’d give this movie a chance. (No one did.) Mr. Tolson, however, is more of a hardass than a Romantic poet, more discipline than liberation. The writers dealt with the characterization of Mr. Tolson carefully, undoubtedly aware of the type character they needed to avoid to make theirs interesting. Mr. Tolson is introduced to us while dancing at a backwoods whiskey fest. In the next scene, he, in suit and tie, lectures to college students. He also leads a movement to unionize local sharecroppers .
The story ends weakly, unfortunately. It’s hard to believe a movie that references warrants and logical fallacies would fall into its own trap. Weasely wins the debate against Harvard when a Crimson debater declares, “Nothing that erodes the law can be moral.” But, this is far too easy. Who better knows laws can be absurdly and violently unjust than Southern African-Americans circa Jim Crow?
But I pardon the movie because it reinforces many ideals that I hold true: the power of language, racism is wrong, the need for unions, the power of education, David can slay Goliath. I accept the movie because I accept its stance.
What’s got me hung up is that put another way these ideals are also clichés: the pen is mightier than the sword, all people are equal, power to the people, reading is power, and Go underdog Go.
Here is my update to Defiance, which also reinforces ideals I take to be true: 1. Love your family 2. Holocaust was horrific. 3. Go underdog Go.
Defiance masks the clichés of plot and ideology in illusion. The Great Debaters hardly masks the predictability of its plot.
Watchmen (2009)
...I wish there were more films / literature as outraged with contemporary morality as Watchmen.
...At 2 hours, 40 minutes, I wish more films to be a lot shorter than Watchmen.
...I wish I had time to read the graphic novel. I'm an outcast in the English department because I haven't. And, it seems Watchmen fans and movie critics agree that "prior knowledge" enhances the experience of the film.
...At 2 hours, 40 minutes, I wish more films to be a lot shorter than Watchmen.
...I wish I had time to read the graphic novel. I'm an outcast in the English department because I haven't. And, it seems Watchmen fans and movie critics agree that "prior knowledge" enhances the experience of the film.
Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008)
I think it's fun the way this film uses clichéd actions to create an explosive plot. In this film, clichéd actions are earned by the absurd amount of clichéd actions. The collision of absurdities is what keeps the viewer interested. The film doesn't ask the viewer to believe in its realism, so much as asks a viewer to ponder "what if?".
...I appreciated the runtime, as well--96 minutes.
...I appreciated the runtime, as well--96 minutes.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Inglourious Basterds (2009)
I was lucky to have caught this interview the other day so I thought I'd share, especially because Mr. Tarantino reveals himself a "novelist" and "poet."
"Pulp And Circumstance: Tarantino Rewrites History"
"Pulp And Circumstance: Tarantino Rewrites History"
Monday, August 3, 2009
Summary Judgments
For those of you wondering if I ever planned to write about those movies in queue..
The Wrestler (2008) -- This is a nice case study for the “open ending.” I was indifferent at first about the success of The Wrestler’s end. But, the more I think about it, the more I focus on that final shot. A lasting final image is evidence of a powerful ending, right?
Revolutionary Road (2008) -- If I could adequately articulate my thoughts on this film, I would have done so (I’m still trying). I think the film is fantastic.
I read this while doing some homework on Richard Yates (author of Revolutionary Road, the novel (which is the final book of my summer reading list)): “And I think it's a curious thing, maybe a significant thing, that good novels - let's say great novels - have almost never been adapted into good movies.”
Read the full interview, here: http://www.pshares.org/issues/article.cfm?prmArticleID=128
Choke (2008) -- I think this is what Forrest Gump meant when he said “Stupid is as stupid does.” But, I’m still trying to figure out what Gump meant.
Changeling (2008) -- The first time I sat down to watch it, I drank too much and fell asleep before it ended. The second time, I fell asleep before it ended and I regret not drinking. Sorry, Mom.
Blindness (2008) -- I didn’t take too much away from this film, either. DP (my roommate) sat down in the middle of it and after a few minutes asked, “Are we supposed to be blind, too?”
…But DP has me thinking about the relationship of free and indirect style to film…and the limits of free and indirect style…
The Wrestler (2008) -- This is a nice case study for the “open ending.” I was indifferent at first about the success of The Wrestler’s end. But, the more I think about it, the more I focus on that final shot. A lasting final image is evidence of a powerful ending, right?
Revolutionary Road (2008) -- If I could adequately articulate my thoughts on this film, I would have done so (I’m still trying). I think the film is fantastic.
I read this while doing some homework on Richard Yates (author of Revolutionary Road, the novel (which is the final book of my summer reading list)): “And I think it's a curious thing, maybe a significant thing, that good novels - let's say great novels - have almost never been adapted into good movies.”
Read the full interview, here: http://www.pshares.org/issues/article.cfm?prmArticleID=128
Choke (2008) -- I think this is what Forrest Gump meant when he said “Stupid is as stupid does.” But, I’m still trying to figure out what Gump meant.
Changeling (2008) -- The first time I sat down to watch it, I drank too much and fell asleep before it ended. The second time, I fell asleep before it ended and I regret not drinking. Sorry, Mom.
Blindness (2008) -- I didn’t take too much away from this film, either. DP (my roommate) sat down in the middle of it and after a few minutes asked, “Are we supposed to be blind, too?”
…But DP has me thinking about the relationship of free and indirect style to film…and the limits of free and indirect style…
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