Storytelling

The Goldfinch

The Goldfinch movie is like watching paint dry, but if the paint were REALLY trying to dry. Like, if the paint’s parents paid to have it attend a Drying School…and there’s enormous pressure for it to dry well, and it’s trying REALLY hard. But when people are watching, it gets shy and can’t exactly do it. There’s simply too much pressure.

The film is too much bullshit and too many clichés. I’m a pretentious New England cunt, and even I’m thinking, “Honey, please…I need more vapid bitch and less ‘I don’t know how to use my butter knife.'” Donna Tartt is friggin’ wonderful, but this adaptation is forced and poorly rendered. And it’s SO fucking BORING.

I felt nothing for anyone, and no plot ever develops. It’s a ridiculous amount of exposition covered through talking and voiceover.

Shit-eating Pointless Person #1: “In case you weren’t aware, Theo’s father left the family six months ago.”

Shit-eating Pointless Person #2: “I wasn’t aware.”

Right. Me neither, bitch. Who does fucking care? Oh, here’s more pointless information about a character you don’t care about at all. I mean, shit, I got more emotional from the trailer for “Honey Boy” than I did after 30 minutes of this garbage.

Hard pass, and may all of these people die horrible, pointless deaths…just like the mom in this movie…. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

The Notebook

Although “chick-flicks” generally get a bad rap, there are plenty of solidly romantic works that don’t need to be diminutive to women or psychotic in their portrayal of relationships. Try L’Atalante, for example; Roger Ebert gave that film 4 stars.

I’d heard good things about this film, it was something I hadn’t seen since it came out in 2004, and felt like I should see it because it’s referenced a lot in popular culture. The cinematography was incredible; I was immediately pulled into the film – even despite the pandering, drivel-spouting voiceover. But holy abusive relationship, Batman!

There’s a lot wrong with this film, and can speak to a bit of the technical pieces that drive me nuts, but mostly I’d like to focus on the nature of Alli’s dementia, as well as the saccharine sentimentality that disguises nefarious behaviours.

Identity as love-currency.

As someone who has personal experience dealing with a loved one suffering from dementia, it’s a goddamned terrible idea to forcibly plant your memories. Even though dementia patients may not remember you, it doesn’t invalidate their positive experiences with you. You can still have a great time while not ruining their fucking day by criss-crossing their wiring and trying to GET them to remember. Jesus, dude…you get all emotional in that scene when she has a fit, and has to be sedated; did you ever think of, I don’t know, NOT TAKING HER EMOTIONALLY HOSTAGE FOR YOUR OWN SELF INTEREST, you selfish piece of shit?

Obsession as infatuation.

One article describes that women, universally, see “a man in love with a woman, who carries a torch for her even though she has apparently forgotten all about him and moved on to some rich guy. They also see a guy who spends all of his money and time rebuilding a house which to them is a symbol of his everlasting love. Women also see a man who is carrying around in his heart a quiet but sure flame for his true love…” Let me tell you why that’s bullshit.

Is he in love or is he obsessed? If you can’t tell the difference, maybe that explains a lot about your relationships…. The scene where he threatens self harm on the Ferris wheel for a date isn’t clever and doesn’t paint him as innocently persistent. It’s psychotic, and inconsistent with the character development of someone who cares. “But he’s driven to act inconsistently BECAUSE of her–“–Shut the fuck up. Just stuff it. This movie isn’t “Twilight” for God’s sake…people should know better.

Tropes…tropes everywhere.

So the rich white people are evil because they are rich white people. Anything more archetypal and I would’ve shat myself unconscious. I mean, the father could be blood-related to fucking Dastardly Whiplash. “But their love was one that couldn’t–” Couldn’t what? Couldn’t work? Because he’s just a summer romance? Oh trust me, I know…they remind me every 10 minutes. But in what fucking world is that a thing?

Am I just supposed to assume it can’t work, like I’m supposed to just ignore time travel altogether when watching “Looper”…’cause the director certainly did…Bazinga! Heh heh heh, ahhhh, good times…. Anyway, he had a raging hard-on for her before she even spoke to her; so what is he basing her beautiful personality on?

We deserve better romance films.

Look, we all want love to some extent. But if dreaming about it must involve swallowing a vapid, tastelessly drafted story crafted by men and aimed predominantly at women, can we get one with far less misogyny and objectification? It’s the popularity of movies like this and the 50 Shades franchise that perpetuate destructive media schemas. Can we get some three-dimensional female leads up in here? Please? And preferably ones whose evaluations of worth don’t depend on the men to which they’re supposed to “belong.”

Death Note

Although I’ve seen this show many times, I feel like it deserves a review in light of the American bastardisation that lives on Netflix – like a disease completely immune to “cerebral” antibiotics – and that the original show ALSO resides on Netflix in a quality, subtitled form with the better, Japanese voice acting. The original “Death Note” show represents near-perfect drama. If you haven’t seen it, carve out a few days to watch it. When I started it, I couldn’t stop: I spent the three, consecutively sleepless nights binging the entire series. I regret nothing.

The story is simple: a guy named Light finds a notebook that has instructions on the back. If you write someone’s name in it, while imaging their face, they will die. It’s ludicrous, and he dismisses the premise only to later test his morbid curiosity. The book works! From this moment, we already have a sense of who this character is, and he goes on a purge. It’s a believable shift and a tragic character flaw that plays itself out through the whole show. The sequence of him drafting names, followed by their subsequent deaths, is the most riveting rendition of handwriting I’ve ever seen.

Using a power like this is not without repercussions. Light is visited by a Shinigami (roughly, “god of death”) named Ryuk who tells him more about the power of the book. Ryuk also explains how Light came upon the book – by sheer chance. He had dropped the book from the realm of the dead just to see what happens…. What’s curious is that I think Ryuk is the actual protagonist, and he resembles us as the audience – he may have judgements, but he holds them close, and he merely wants to see where things go. He just wants to be entertained, as do we.

This is just the first episode. It is loaded with dramatic tension that links you to the next episode. You HAVE to watch, you HAVE to know. It’s an unstoppable force of dramaturgy.

What follows is a perfect relationship between anti-hero and antagonist that I’ve ever seen, in the form of Light’s nemesis and necessary other half: a genius crime consultant named L. I think they are so perfectly balanced that it often goes unappreciated. We take for granted the beauty of the mental and emotional weighting, and their cat-and-mouse interactions play like two chess masters exchanging pieces at rapid speed.

And unlike other anime that force us to assume ridiculous premises (like the Devil getting a part-time job at a burger joint to bide his time and recover from a battle in Heaven, or a 15-year-old high school student gaining access to a secret soul society where he amasses unimaginable power), the characters in “Death Note” are unassuming. The book isn’t mentioned, and despite hearing the phrase “shinigami,” they just think it’s code.

But they rationally and believably discern that something is happening, that people are dying en masse, and that some agent is responsible. They just don’t know how. For whatever reason, this fact is important to me because the writers have to lead themselves (and us) to solve the puzzle with the detectives that defies logic, yet logic is their only tool. It sucks you in and you are having your mind blown right alongside them.

One thing to note is that these shows are short (about 20 minutes), but the dramatic tools are similar to those of a movie or a long-form show. I saw a video where someone counted the dramatic beats throughout an episode; he came to 42 beats. That’s a major shift of character objective every 30 seconds. And you feel it.

The other piece of this is that you rarely experience a show where the stilted visuals are part of the point. There is endless inner dialogue, and it works because the entire point is what you show of your intent and to whom. The show is still visual – and exquisitely so – but it’s nuanced. In the first episode, where Light is visited by Ryuk, he is startled off of his chair. But he reaches out and there’s a shot of his hand gripping the edge of the chair to lift himself up.

It is a simple insert, but it tells the story of Light’s resolve – he was spooked, but not truly surprise. This is something the Netflix film completely misses and changes to cringeworthy comic effect. Light is a piece of shit, he isn’t a coward. He’s a version of Raskolnikov from “Crime and Punishment,” he’s a dictator, he’s a morally repugnant soul, but – just like Ryuk – we reserve our judgement. We just want to see where this goes….

Go watch it.

David Mamet’s On Directing Film

What a marvelous breath of fresh air! I mean, Jesus, he goes through so many issues I have with modern, American movies and he does so with great humour and startling intellect.

This book is more of a transcript from a class Mamet taught at Columbia University, where he workshops the dramatic ideation process with students. It’s really helpful to read him work through film ideas with them on the fly; identifying generic troupes and pushing them past what is average, what he calls “inflected” visuals.

What’s great about his workflow is that it feels wonderfully organic but follows the logical syllogism of dramatic, dialectic story argumentation. Often, when dramatists talk about dramatic structure, students tend to get dogmatic – or they completely reject the notion that there is any order to the storytelling process (both of which are dangerous).

Mamet does a fantastic job of drawing an analogy to these “rules,” recounting a conversation with a ship captain and a passenger. The passenger asks, “With all the possible canals and twists and turns and pitfalls along this sea route, how is it that you can avoid crashing?” The captain replies, “The route is marked.” And that’s the question: why risk it haphazardly? While I think it’s important to question any rules, it’s helpful to know why they’re there to begin with.

I think the concept of juxtaposing images to compound meaning is lost on filmmakers today. They may know what the Kuleshov Effect is, but they don’t effectively use it over the entire course of their narrative. As you stack images together, the meaning gets magnified and the significance grows alongside your character. This is the first filmmaking book that has overtly stated that, in the concept of “uninflected” shots.

Most American movies, and other mainstream movies, are produced under a system that doesn’t understand how life works – and they have little perspective to offer that’s of value. Writers explain away nuance with ridiculous backstory: “Hey, I need to sit down because I just got back from Vietnam….” What the fuck? 

One example I liked in this book was the following exchange: a guy calls up a buddy to demand money back that he lent his friend. With the usual backstory approach, you’d have the guy answer the phone like, “Hello, Johnny, this is Cal. I’m calling to let you know that I’m coming over to get that money you owe me, so you better be there when I arrive.”

But dialogue isn’t supposed to just fill in the spots that the visuals can’t; the dialogue is what people use to get what they want. So a more accurate phone call would just have “Cal” bark into the phone, “Where the hell were you yesterday!?” It’s that simple.

Most American movies, and other mainstream movies, are produced under a system that doesn’t understand how life works – and they have little perspective to offer that’s of value. Writers explain away nuance with ridiculous backstory: “Hey, I need to sit down because I just got back from Vietnam….” What the fuck? 

What’s great about his workflow is that it feels wonderfully organic but follows the logical syllogism of dramatic, dialectic story argumentation. Often, when dramatists talk about dramatic structure, students tend to get dogmatic – or they completely reject the notion that there is any order to the storytelling process (both of which are dangerous).

Reading this was serendipitous, as David Mamet’s On Directing Film is actually coming out with his own Masterclass – in which I’ve already pre-enrolled. I’m absolutely thrilled about it, as I think he’s one of the few remaining artists that has a core philosophy about drama that is erudite, time-testing, and fascinating to witness.

Mother

More appropriately titled “Take A Passive Journey Through A Privileged White Woman’s Struggle To Get Disadvantaged People Out of Her Suburban Home,” this quasi-Biblical, quasi-cautionary relationship and anti-fame tale drudges through an endless array of Snorricam shots and “Rosemary’s Baby” references that lead you to a forced conclusion that any rails-based game would envy. While there’s a lot this movie does very well, it was simply too vague to make the kind of impact it sought to make.

Bad Moms

Sometimes, I’ll treat myself to an absolutely shitty film. I mean the kind of rubbish that would send others to line up shots of bleach. But the world is a meaningless void of despair and anguish, and the only way I can fill the existential hole in my life is to reaffirm my mission through the sweltering rage that foments during these choice showings. I chose Bad Moms. Oh ho HOOOO, boy…you’re in for a treat.

Oddly enough, this pile of giraffe dung was penned by two men, not to mention all the Executive Producers were men. The only women in major, executive roles were the Production Designer and one of the two editors. Ay, fuck me Jerry!)

I’ve always thought that American comedy movies lacked any of the visual power of foreign films in the same genre – or even movies made here much earlier. This film depends almost exclusively on the dialogue, which in all fairness isn’t terribly sufferable – if you were to remove Mila Kunis’s hammy, wink-at-the-camera performances. There were a handful of funny moments, but the quality of performance embarrassed ME, and I didn’t even have a hand in this wangshaft shit-storm. I’m surprised Kunis’s career remained intact. This entire film was the acting equivalent of Harrison Ford’s voiceover in the Producer’s edition of “Blade Runner.” I’m not joking.

And while I get that this is a moooooovie, that it’s supposed to be unrealistic, there’s a limit. In theatres, I remember viewers who were unfamiliar with other wuxia-genre films (“Wire-Fu” action movies) laughing during Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon when the characters started flying through the air. It’s because they didn’t readily understand the story world, and Ang Lee didn’t set it up correctly (typical of that little bitch). He erroneously depended on the prior knowledge that a niche fan base would have (one familiar with the fantastic elements involved in this sect of Gung Fu movie lore). For some reason, he didn’t feel the need to address it to new, unfamiliar American audiences. It’s the reason that no one laughs when magic is cast during a Harry Potter film – they understand HOW MUCH belief to be suspended.

Bad Moms, however, boggles the mind, to the extent that you start asking odd, unrelated questions throughout – like, how the fuck are some of these broke-ass bitches paying for stuff? What do they and their husbands do for work? How many hours are in this day? What time is it that they having evening cocktails? Because it looked like they were watching a movie in afternoon (hopefully not some piece of shit like Bad Moms), then jumped to what looks like brunch. Fucking sunlight streaming in you sacks of fucking biowaste! If your marriage counsellor is telling you all marriages can be fixed, but then proceeds to tell you this one is hopeless after witnessing a single interaction, do you call out your therapist for being stupid and worthless at her job? (Please, Wonda Sykes, I never thought I’d say this, but if your only occupational options were therapist or comedian…puhhhlease go back to comedy!)

Ultimately, what this lack of realism does is make the relationship between everyone unbelievable and dumb. So, when the formulaic “drama” appears, you’re just like, “Eh, the dudes who wrote this will figure it out.” And, surprise, they fucking do, but not before long stretches of pointless, gratuitously overshot sequences of faces mobbing the camera – nearly winking at your stupid ass for having to sit through this mess – and an editing style that resembles a film student trying his hand at cutting his first music video.

I’ve heard about films that shoot excessive slow-motion footage to pad the runtime, and never fully believed the myth. Well, I’ve found my cinematic cryptid, and apparently this kind of crap flourishes within the chick-flick category. The Director of Photographer has an ASC credential (the equivalent of a cinematography PhD) and yet he shot a movie in the least-inventive way possible. There were even shots borrowed, inappropriately I’ll add, from movies like The Fast and The Furious. I get that there were references to this particular movie, but come on. You mix that shit in with greenscreen footage of the family in a muscle car pretending to swerve back and forth? Jesus.

One sequence of all the neighbourhood moms partying, which I thought was just to establish that they had a good time, went on for nearly 15 minutes. I’m not sure what the point was; we get it, it’s a fucking party scene. I gleaned that from the hordes flooding their oversized suburban home and dancing to loud music, what more would you like to add? Early in the sequence, they insert a couple quick visual jokes – unfunny, but clearly an attempt at joking: people pouring booze down their gullets (not really funny), a pair of women I’m presuming were straight but that started making out because they were inebriated (not really funny), and an occasionally goofy expression passed between characters. But what was the point of the LENGTH of this shit? And people give the driving scene in Solaris shit….

I don’t even need to tell you how the story ends. You know how it ends, because every movie like it ends in exactly the same way. So I’m not really sure what the point is in watching these films. Some critics compared this to Bridesmaids. This is no Bridesmaids. This is a sloppy, lazy, self-indulgent pile of shit that isn’t even intelligent enough to be called a “cash-grab.” It appeals to the lowest form of life and was so mundane that I had to pick up a book and read to keep my heart from slowing to the point of cessation due to the sheer boredom. The best part of my watching it was having the pleasure of writing about how fucking terrible it was.

AH! bad momsI feel refreshed! Life is now worth living again!!! Maybe I’ll take a walk. Maybe I’ll volunteer at an animal shelter. Maybe I’ll take up learning Japanese and do some travelling. Anything is possible; the world is my oyster! My day is brighter and clearer for this experience, like having a deep bad moms, emotional, artistic enema. Enjoy the day, beautiful people!

The Night of the Hunter

This film is the precursor to the slasher genre. Much of what it did was the very first, and Robert Mitchum’s portrayal of the psychotic preacher influenced media ranging from David Lynch’s filmography to “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” I understand all of this and recognize its place in film history. But as unpopular as the opinion may be, there’s just so much about the film that doesn’t work. I’ll start with the good.

The music is incredible. It’s one of the things that stands out the most, and the use of it throughout the film is startlingly brilliant. The theme song Mitchum sings is both beautiful and terrifying – it is a celebration of the holy and an announcement of the arrival of evil.

Stanley Cortez, who shot “The Magnificent Ambersons,” did a ridiculous job; the photography is some of the best I’ve seen. It’s staged so well, and the mood lifts right off the screen and pierces your subconscious.

The acting works, in a bizarre way – matching well with the jarring editing style – but some actors are better than others. Oddly enough, the drunk “uncle” is the most believable and well-rounded out of everyone in this film; most of the characters behave inconsistently and in ways that diminish the film.

The setup is awful. Truly terrible. Mitchum literally talks to God for exposition and I hate every second of it. “How many women did I kill again, God? Was it six or 12?” Fuck right off, dude.

I actually think a great exercise would be to rewrite this shit-heap so that you get an exclusively visual setup. The story could be compelling! It’s about a pastor who’s in gaol with a man that stole $10,000. The man is hanged, and the pastor seeks out his family to recover the money.

The storyline works great and could be easily achieved through better means. But they force this stupid exposition on you and have this scene were you find his car has been reported stolen in order to justify the pastor (Mitchum) getting arrested. It doesn’t solve anything, however, and only makes it more confusing. Why would a petty thief be in the same gaol cell as a man on death row? Just have Mitchum already in prison, and he’s up for release.

We don’t need to know about the bullshit backstory. Hell, he could be in there for months plotting how he’s going to recover the money – getting more and more stir-crazy. Also, are you really going to do the whole talking-in-his-sleep gag to reveal that there’s $10,000? Stupid.

There’s also a significant bit at the end that, because of the disjointed narrative, seems misplaced. The kids end up in the care of a woman who just takes kids in. I think the scenes could work, but it feels like there was a lot more in the script that was cut – so the transition feels abrupt. And in thinking about the end state of our characters, this new addition dilutes the power of the dramatic premise.

The boy is most likely the protagonist, and he’s subjected both to the cruelty and kindness of adults. That there are kind adults in this world is not enough to wrap up this otherwise bleak view of humanity. There are a lot of open story loops that don’t necessarily close; and of all the available options, the kind-but-tough surrogate mother choice seems the weakest.

I don’t give points to a movie for being old or deemed a classic; that doesn’t make it good. Neither does it being the first of its kind. While it’s important to see these things within their historical contexts, we can still be critical of how they’re executed. I read somewhere that this movie was second place to “Citizen Kane,” and I think that’s a travesty.

This movie is nowhere near the same league as Welles’s masterpiece. This isn’t the same as when ancient Greek audiences loved the Deus Ex Machina technique but we’ve grown to now hate it. The film came out in 1955, and there are countless examples of masterful storytelling before, during, and shortly after this period. Watch it for the music and the photography, and toss out the rest.

Bird Box

I don’t know why I expect films that set up a difficult “Why” premise to ever answer it. It never happens. Why did aliens from Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977) arrive, and what did they look like? Why did the hitmen in Pulp Fiction (1994) feel so adamant about protecting the briefcase? What was in it? And while these two examples use this restrictive technique to great effect, Bird Box (2018) fails to achieve the same impact. And miserably so. This film is a lazy piece of shit that caters to people with the fucking IQ of a baked potato.

Follow Sandra Bullock in a discount A Quiet Place (2018) scenario mixed with a Tarkovsky premise. This film is a pinata filled with manure. You expect that after beating a dead horse for the eternal length of a kid’s birthday party that there’d be some candy payoff, but you’d be wrong. It’s just more shit. There are some natural dialogue moments that I appreciated, but the obvious and overused tropes were so goddamned tiresome that I eye-rolled myself into an altered state. You have the casual mythology expert for no fucking reason explaining aspects of a doomsday scenario that, ultimately, is never resolved for the viewer. Trim the fat, you pieces of shit. Stop ramming square pegs into round holes. Did they have an obligatory news broadcast montage explaining an end-of-the-world phenomenon? You bet your ass they did!

I genuinely thought there would be some interesting, symbolic purpose for a creature (originating in Russia for some obscure reason) affecting you because of what you SAW. But it doesn’t. And not because it’s esoteric, but because it’s fucking LAZY!

I think about Tarkovsky’s Stalker (1979), which had a similar premise (and the book is even more similar). But Tarkovsky positioned the arrival of the aliens in a way that was entirely plausible, so you didn’t bother asking questions about their motivation. They just showed up and that was that; the real questions were about the familiar, human reactions to their arrival (and immediate, subsequent departure). It didn’t require further explanation.

By contrast, I constantly found myself asking questions during this film that resulted from their laziness. “So I guess we’re just assuming they made it back from the blind drive without issue? Have any of the writers ever canoed? Do they know the impossibility of blindly rafting? So the creature affects anything visible, but isn’t allowed indoors – except through those it’s touched? Why are these rules important to know and do I give a shit…no…I don’t.”

It started off well enough, even though the obvious comedic relief was obvious, with the mom giving this emphatic, serious speech which we ALL knew was going to be revealed as directed at children. But as the film went on, it’s obvious twists got lazier still (not even sure how that was possible), with minor stressors injected into an already trite plot: kids doing stupid kid shit that’s inherently stressful. The little girl leaving the boat to find the surrogate mother…fucking stressful. But I’ll tell you: watching that little shit eating spaghetti over a white carpet would’ve been MORE stressful.

For the scale and budget of this movie, their lack of effort is inexcusable. This film was a waste of my time and I am going to file a class-action lawsuit against Sandra Bullock for this bollocking film. See what I did there? No worries, I’m going to have an obligatory black character explain the fucking joke to you before he unnecessarily sacrifices himself to serve my agenda….