By Dan Cohen, our Santa Monica Reporter
Although more than two weeks have passed since the Oscars were handed out, I still feel the need to fire a few backward shots, through the rear view mirror.
The show itself was mostly engaging, studded with the occasional rude joke, two dynamic music numbers, and a nostalgic look back at the recently departed. There was the average quotient of self-importance about the proceedings, ameliorated by some welcome nastiness, (think Ellen’s remarks on Liza Minelli,) and a handful of stand-out screw-ups. The Academy should mandate the yearly appearance of John Travolta or someone of like detachment from the world, just to add an interplanetary perspective.
It was also good to see a few wonderfully idiosyncratic performers, Cate Blanchett, Jared Leto, and Mathew McConaughey, rewarded for their decades of good work, and to hear them vent. And it was very sad to acknowledge that Phillip Seymour Hoffman is gone.
In previous columns on the 2013 season, I failed to comment on four of the nine nominees for Best Picture, even though I’d seen three of them. I lay part of the blame on the Academy, for its insistence on nine titles in the category, when five had sufficed for at least 60 years.
But the Academy has its reasons. In the last couple decades the major studios have been so outclassed by the indies and the Brits that the larger part of the industry often appeared irrelevant at its own biggest party. By almost doubling the nominees for “Best Picture,” the Academy voted for “inclusiveness,” meaning to recognize its own mediocre output. Since then, with almost comic irony, the major studios have produced even fewer likely nominees. And, had it not been for “Gravity,” two smallish, independently financed films, “12 Years a Slave,” and “Dallas Buyers’ Club,” might have walked off with all the major awards.
Upfront I’ll confess to not seeing “August, Osage County.” I was a fan of the original play, which was a big success in New York and LA, but when the movie adaptation got downbeat reviews—critics made a point of castigating its “theatrical” quality– I took a pass. Of the remaining three, “Philomena” is my favorite, which may seem like apostasy, but that’s my gut response.
In any case, all of the following are now available on home video.
Gravity
Dutifully, I watched “Gravity,” in 3D, even though I have reservations about the third D, which strikes me as better suited for rendering animation than live action. “Gravity” itself struck me as remarkably crafted B-movie, exciting but entirely disposable. More than anything else, it works as a classy thrill ride; speedy on take-off, disorienting, and thoroughly diverting. But as a story, it’s very basic. The plot development that fires up the third act called so much attention to itself that I heard several viewers in nearby seats murmur, “it’s a dream,” before it fully played out. Because the sequence mined a familiar device, (which I will not divulge here) it called for a much defter hand. But the script wasn’t up to it.
At 83 minutes of actual storytelling, (the last six or seven are devoted to credits,) “Gravity” wastes no time creating tension. Even if you haven’t seen it you know that the visuals are jaw dropping. What impressed me, more than the larger scenes of stuff crashing into other stuff, was the visual poetry of the quiet mid sections. A sequence of Sandra Bullock floating through a damaged space station speaks eloquently to the loneliness of the universe and the incongruity of the man-made objects that populate tiny pockets of it.
There have been complaints about the actual conclusion, but I found it no more unlikely than what came before. I just wish that Alfonso and Jonas Cuaron, who wrote the movie, had taken more time to set up the key plot point that begins the third act. Still, it was understandable that the Academy rewarded the elder Cuaron’s direction. He raised the bar for the Harry Potter when he directed the third installment, and his “Y Tu Mama Tambien,” remains a classic coming of age comedy.
12 Years a Slave
I wasn’t enthusiastic about the nights’ big winner, Steve McQueen’s “12 Years a Slave,” at least not as much as I was supposed to be. But then I lost interest in McQueen’s previous two movies long before they ended. McQueen tends to establish a tone or an idea, then to hammer it relentlessly, just in case there was a moment when you glanced away from the screen or took a rest room break. Somehow–for me anyway– he managed to drain the life force out of sex in “Shame,” and to portray the Irish resistance fighter Bobby Sands in one shade of grey in “Hunger.”
The writer/director came to mainstream filmmaking after establishing a reputation as a media artist. During the 1990s his video installations were well received at museums in his home country, the UK, and the US, demonstrating an admirable eye and a strong feeling for film culture. The few of his pieces that I’ve seen, which play in loops, make a point and stand pat. For better or worse his narratives seem to work the same way.
My problems with “12 Years,” started early, when Solomon Northrup, a free, comfortably middle class black man, leaves bucolic surroundings in Saratoga, New York, to work in some kind of travelling show in Washington DC. Why he leaves his home and family to go south with complete strangers is never explained, but let’s grant the film the benefit of doubt since it’s based on a real journal.
Two hours of non-stop horrors follow. Gross abuses of human rights are played out in such detail that at moments, especially during a lengthy whipping, I felt like the director was grinning with relish from behind the camera. I won’t hold that against the film because the medium, a ready canvas for voyeurism, invites its practitioners to indulge their fantasies, both pleasant and unpleasant. But the movie’s timeline is unclear, the movement from one segment to another rather bumpy, and the dialogue spare to the point of irrelevance. You can bet that if someone opens his mouth, it’s only to announce another act of cruelty.
McQueen isn’t much for visual rhythm, either. He gives us a series of tableaus, but few scenes. Once the point of any episode is hammered home, he moves on to another series of similar strikes. He very consciously skirts details that advance relationships, no doubt to prevent us from finding any relief during his depiction of slavery and slave holding. All of this may serve history but it does little to advance the elements of drama.
But then McQueen isn’t much for drama. All three of his features come across as a kind of hybrid between his art installations– brief visual statements stripped down to their barest elements– and the rigors of a certain kind of art house cinema that tend to keep audiences at a distance, in more than one way. Dialogue is used as a means to forward momentum, rarely to cement or reflect character.
The actors in “12 Years” take every opportunity to bring their parts to life. Chiwetel Ejofor, who’s been a strong presence since “Dirty Pretty Things,” in 2002, delivers as much feeling as the script permits. Lupita N’yongo, who, to the best of my recollection, has only one big scene, makes a strong impression, but only briefly. The large cast of evil white men is as heinous a group as has ever appeared on screen. After a while it seemed to me rather calculated.
A few days after screening McQueen’s movie I took another look at Spielberg’s “Amistad.” I found much of it not less disturbing, but with a difference. “Amistad” is engaging both as drama and history. Because it’s mindful of traditional narrative, it continues to evolve as the story proceeds. McQueen’s film single mindedly forsakes any element that might serve as a distraction from the horrors of human bondage.
A side by side comparison of these two films points to a number of issues, but in the interest of brevity I’ll reduce them to a couple observations. Movies are not the best vehicle for reproducing “truth.” Films may represent “truth” on some level, but the attempt to show it is more likely to result in tedium than revelation. Even documentaries are distillations of time and space, and as such, inhabitants of a murky world somewhere between fiction and non-fiction.
Film owes its power to a vast array of elements and is best served when more, as opposed to fewer, are called into play. Because it was so basic, I was less moved than beaten down by the polemics of this lauded award winner.
One more note. I found it interesting that neither John Ridley, the Oscar winning screenwriter, nor Steve McQueen, the Oscar winning producer, acknowledged the other in his acceptance speech. Ridley is a well-regarded veteran writer and producer, with many credits in TV. Turns out that director McQueen, a relative newcomer to the “industry” tried to put his name on Ridley’s screenplay, a move that could have resulted in a shared Oscar, but that was roundly rejected by the Writers Guild. You can see how it could have become a bone of contention between the two.
Philomena
This is a movie that satisfies and entertains on a couple levels. Not only are the two main characters explored in depth, but their interaction is so consistently surprising that they seem to be following their own natures, as opposed to the wills of movie makers.
Every element of the story is freshened up with amusing details or nuances, unctions of a clever script, steady pacing, and Judi Dench’s performance in the title role. But Steve Coogan, who also served as producer, should not be overlooked in the more difficult role, as the ragged provocateur.
The story, about a woman searching for a son who was taken from her at a very young age, sends out familiar smoke signals. But as Philomena and her journalist/companion travel to America the journey turns out to be much more interesting and compelling than we have been led to expect.
“Philomena” is the modestly budgeted dark horse that didn’t come close to winning, but which has grossed nearly 100 million at the box office, world-wide, and will no doubt go on to huge success in home video and TV. It’s perfectly scaled and realized.
