MOVIES:
Steven Spielberg once said “the only thing better than seeing movies is
reading about them.”
We agree. This month:
Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist,
Miracle at St. Anna, Nights in Rodanthe, In
Memory of My Father,and W.
DVD'S:
Citizen Ruth,
"Sports Night"and I Love Your Work.
MUSIC:
Ben Folds’ Way to Normal. Travis’
Ode to J. Smith and Keane’s Perfect Symmetry.
Jennifer Hudson’s Jennifer Hudson.
BOOKS:
Noralil Ryan-Fores essay "Our Lost Memories
of the Classics." Rick Sayre reviews The Graveyard Book
by Neil Gaiman. Jeanne Lopez reviews Stephenie Meyer’s
Twilight Series.
FOCUS:
A tribute to Paul Newman.
SPOTLIGHT: Rick
Sayre discusses the work of Marc Forster, “one of our most
interesting and eclectic directors.” Forster’s latest film,
the James Bond thriller Quantum of Solace opens
everywhere November 14th.
Cast: Derek Luke, Michael Ealy, Laz Alonso, Omar Benson Miller,
Valentina Cervi, Matteo Sciabordi, Pierfrancesco Favino, Joseph
Gordon-Levitt, John Turturro
Miracle at St. Anna
is the latest in a long line of examples that go to prove that, though
some of Spike Lee’s films are not easily accessible to the mainstream
audience, they continue to strengthen his standing as one of cinema’s
most prolific artists. I have often felt that Spike Lee simply does not
get the credit and respect he deserves for his work, and sadly this film
too seems to be destined for obscurity.
At the
moment, Miracle at St. Anna seems to be known only for the
controversy that has surrounded it; partly for a war of words between
Spike Lee and Clint Eastwood, but more recently because of the protests
of Italian War Partisans who object to the way they are depicted in the
film. The shame of all this controversy is that a truly wonderful piece
of motion picture storytelling is being lost amidst the bickering.
Again
touching on themes that have been explored in his previous films, Lee
looks to the many facets of humanity and the complexities of the human
spirit. He refuses to make his characters one-dimensional. Whether the
African-American soldiers separated from their company or the Italian
War Partisans, the residents of the village trying to survive or Nazi
soldiers, Lee succeeds at painting an honest picture of complex people
who have admirable as well as dislikable qualities. Not everyone, even
our heroes, in this film is perfect, they’re just real.
Miracle at St. Anna is a mystery and character drama, war film and
coming of age story. When a middle-aged postal clerk shoots a customer
in cold blood, a reporter begins to investigate and therefore unravel
the story of the murderer’s past. What follows is a touching tale of a
young Italian boy, the lone survivor of his war-torn village, and the
four U.S. infantrymen who take him to safety.
Aside
from Lee’s masterful direction, Miracle at St. Anna is
highlighted by the terrific camera work of cinematographer Matthew
Libatique (who also shot Lee’s Inside Man, and the extremely
underrated She Hate Me), and strong performances by a talented,
international cast. The true standouts in the film are young Matteo
Sciabordi, in his first film, and the gifted Omar Benson Miller (Things
We Lost In the Fire, “The West Wing”) who gives a beautifully
sensitive and heartbreaking performance.
I’m sorry
to say that I think this film will probably come and go without much
notice, but I thoroughly enjoyed it and will be checking the ‘coming
soon to DVD’ listings over the next few months in anticipation of
experiencing the Miracle at St. Anna again.
Cast:Josh Brolin, James Cromwell, Richard Dreyfuss, Elizabeth Banks,
Jeffrey Wright, Toby Jones, Thandie Newton, Ellen Burstyn, Scott Glenn,
Stacey Keach
Just
in time for this month’s presidential election, Oliver Stone brings to
the big screen his interpretation of the George W. Bush administration,
and how the controversial leader got to Washington. Stone’s film is a
commendable effort primarily because he makes it a movie, not a searing
indictment or a documentary dressed in narrative clothing. I would
imagine there are many moviegoers who are left-thinking liberals or
disillusioned Americans (both of which I would categorize myself as) who
might be disappointed with this picture. Anyone looking to have Oliver
Stone articulate their rage for them better look somewhere else. Stone
is a filmmaker, and a rather gifted one at that, and ultimately his film
is telling the story of a character. Some may misunderstand the picture
and feel that Stone is trying to make Bush sympathetic, but I disagree.
Stone doesn’t go out of his way to demonize Bush, he lets W’s actions
speak for themselves. What the director does give us, is some
insight into the relationship Bush has with his overbearing father and
with God, once W is born again.
Most
of what the film relies on is clever writing by Stanley Weiser to aide
Stone’s masterful non-linear narrative. But what’s really at the center,
naturally, is Bush himself, played wonderfully by Josh Brolin. Brolin is
outstanding as the current president, capturing with precision all of
Bush’s little mannerisms, each gesture and facial tick. Brolin, beyond
the obvious physical aspects of the performance, portrays with great
enthusiasm the emotional ups and downs of the troublesome Texan.
The
rest of the cast is equally terrific. Richard Dreyfuss is appropriately
evil as Vice President Dick Cheney and Toby Jones captures all the
sniveling, sliminess of Karl Rove. James Cromwell and Ellen Burstyn turn
in fine performances as Bush’s parents and Elizabeth Banks gives us all
those recognizable traits of the First Lady. However the real standouts
of the supporting cast are Thandie Newton and Jeffrey Wright. Thandie
Newton, whom I have always found to be particularly extraordinary, is
amazing as Condoleezza Rice. Her transformation is so impressive, it’s
nearly impossible to find the usually charming and lovely Thandie Newton
in there. And anyone familiar with Jeffrey Wright’s work knows that it’s
never news to hear he’s given an impressive performance. Wright’s Colin
Powell is the only true conscience in the administration, particularly
when making the decision to invade Iraq.
Overall, W. is a well-told story that allows you to sit back and
observe the characters, making your own conclusions about what’s right
and what’s wrong. So if you’re interested in seeing a good film about
the rise to power of a controversial leader, go watch W. If you
want to find a way to vent your frustrations about the last eight years,
go vote.
Starring: Michael Cera, Kat Dennings, Aaron Yoo, Rafi Gavron, Ari
Graynor, Alexis Dziena, Jonathan B. Wright, Jay Baruchel.
Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist
could have easily been titled “Nick and Norah’s Infinite Possibilities.”
That is what the film is essentially about—the infinite possibilities
that are seemingly everywhere when you’re 18 and your whole life is
ahead of you, brimming with promise. (This sense of infinite possibility
is also increased if you live in close proximity of New York City, of
course.) Like the popular John Hughes films of the 80s, Nick and
Norah is a love story for this generation, a kind of hipster Say
Anything with an equally great soundtrack.
The Say Anything comparison is
especially appropriate as the film is filled with moments that seem to
be lifted from the beloved romantic comedy: when Nick offers Norah his
wet-nap you are instantly reminded of Lloyd Dobbler pointing out the
shards of glass on the street to Diane Court. (Interestingly enough,
having recently attended a midnight showing of John Cusack’s 1985 cult
classic Better off Dead, I came to realize that the opening
scenes of Nick and Norah are nearly identical to the ones
featured in Better OffDead.) Michael Cera’s Nick and Kat Dennings’
Norah are not quite Lloyd Dobbler and Diane Court, however. The two are
both lonely misfits who find comfort in great music and,
ultimately, in each other’s company. As you travel around NYC with Nick
and Nora, from the Bowery Ballroom to Union Pool, you are reminded of
how rare and special that first love can be, and how wonderfully
nostalgic it is to watch onscreen.
Cera has received some flack as of
late for playing slightly different versions of himself on film, but I
find his Nick to be far more hardened and mature than George Michael
Bluth. One of Cera’s favorite actors is comedian Bill Murray and like
Murray I think that he is best being himself, whatever and whoever that
might be. Regardless, Michael Cera’s charm lies in his simplicity—simple
gestures or awkward turn of phrases that never seem out of place. Kat
Dennings is equally as charming, not to mention—pardon my guy-ism here—smoking
hot in the film. With bit roles in the 40-year-old Virgin and
House Bunny, her face is familiar but this is the first time that
she has really had the opportunity to shine. Her Norah is a perfect
mixture of Some Kind of Wonderful’s Watts and Say Anything’s
Corey Flood, with a little bit of Reality Bites’ Lelaina Pierce
thrown in for good measure. She is edgy and sweet, beautiful and
innocent, and the perfect heroine for the tween girls of today.
If it seems like I’ve mentioned nearly
every great young adult romantic comedy of the 80s and 90s in this
review it is probably because Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist
rightfully belongs in their sacred cannon. Although I am a bit older
than the intended audience of the film, I cannot help but fall in love
with it anyway.
Starring: Judy Greer, Christopher Jaymes, Matt Keeslar and Jeremy Sisto.
The film In Memory of My Father first came to my
attention about four years ago when I saw a listing for it on IMDB. I
was looking up movies with indie actor Matt Keeslar, hoping to get
another fix. I was additionally intrigued after seeing that the movie
also starred two more of my favorites, Jeremy Sisto (I love you Jeremy.
Call me!) and Judy Greer. So I waited to see it. And waited. I’d
occasionally check the site again and think, “Oh right. That movie. Is
it ever coming out?” And it never did.
It has played film festivals and a very limited run in
California, but despite what seems like constant efforts to find
distribution by director Christopher Jaymes, the film has yet to get a
mainstream release. Which is a shame, because it’s a quirky and
interesting film. A Hollywood producer requests that his son (Jaymes)
documents the day of his death, which Chris does, including trying to
catch the moment dad actually dies—in a shockingly irreverent and
hysterical moment. His brothers Jeremy and Matt (Sisto and Keeslar)
spend the evening’s wake in the company of others. Jeremy does ecstasy
with his step-sister/cousin’s boyfriend and obsesses about the other
woman his wife is having an affair with. Matt gets high with dad’s young
mistress (Judy Greer), who admits her attraction to him. Meanwhile,
Chris juggles his 17-year-old girlfriend with the ex he’s still in love
with.
The film is hard to pin down to one genre. Is it a comedy or a
drama? Much like real life, comedy and tragedy intertwine throughout and
Jaymes follows each of the brothers up and down the highs and lows of
emotion. Considering that the film’s tagline is “…but what about me?” it
should be no surprise (although some people may be put off by the fact)
that our three leads are so self-obsessed and steeped in their own
problems that they don’t seem to be too broken up about their dad’s
death for most of the movie. Although, eventually we get the sense that
Dad wasn’t exactly Mr. Brady.
Even as I type this, Jaymes is still seeking distribution for
his film, which recently played San Francisco in a limited run. If you
get the chance to see it, you really ought to. It was definitely worth
the wait.
Starring: Diane Lane, Richard Gere, Christopher Meloni, Viola Davis, Mae
Whitman, James Franco.
Although it features quite possibly
the worst movie title of all time (not to mention unpronounceable—I
actually bought my ticket by saying, ‘One for the movie with Richard
Gere and Diane Lane, please’), Nights in Rodanthe is yet another
example of how much better Nicholas Spark’s film adaptations are
when compared to the actual source material. The Notebook, A
Walk to Remember (two of my favorites) and Rodanthe are all
romantic works of fiction that end in a weepy death, a trademark of the
Sparks-oeuvre. What makes these three films rise above their swoony-5th-grade-level
counterparts however lies in the execution of the stories and the
casting of superb actors such as Rachel McAdams and Ryan Gosling in
The Notebook and Diane Lane and Richard Gere in Nights in
Rodanthe.
I admit that I will pretty much watch
Diane Lane and Richard Gere in anything as long as they are together.
The two of them have an innate and comfortable chemistry onscreen, and
it is this kind of warmth that helps bring depth to what would have
otherwise been one-dimensional characters. Rodanthe is a love
story in every sense as it is about these two people falling in love,
but what I really found surprising is how it also speaks on purpose and
finding a love for life that runs just as deep as their love for one
another. I know that this all seems really hokey and I will readily
confess that it is. Rodanthe is nowhere near perfect (although
James Franco, in an uncredited role as Gere’s son, is) but it is a film
that satiates my appetite (and I don’t think that I’m alone here) for
both hopeful and tragic romance. Plus, it always beats having to read an
actual Nicholas Sparks novel.
Starring: Laura
Dern, Swoosie Kurtz, Kurtwood Smith, Mary Kay Place, Kelly Preston, M.C.
Gainey, Tippi Hedren and Burt Reynolds.
Get ready dear
P&F readers because this month I have a blast from the past. My
story begins a couple of weeks ago when I set my DVR to record Hard
Eight, Paul Thomas Anderson’s first feature film. I finally found
some time last night to watch the movie so I pressed play and to my
surprise the opening credits for Citizen Ruth started to flash on
the screen. I moved my thumb in the direction of the delete button but
decided to let the scene finish before I moved on to something else. Of
course that something else never happened—right from the opening
sequence Laura Dern grabbed me, hook, line and sinker.
After I finished
watching the film I thought to myself, “Well, I guess DirecTV is calling
Citizen RuthHard Eight in order to show the film without
pissing off any customers.” You see, Citizen Ruth deals with the
taboo subject of abortion. There are very few films that deal with this
controversial subject matter and Citizen Ruth accurately portrays
the ridiculous obsession that pro-life and pro-choice fanatics are
caught up in. This is Alexander Payne at his best; if you liked
Election, Sideways and About Schmidt then you will
love Citizen Ruth.
The film begins
right at the moment when everything in Ruth Stoops’ life comes crashing
down. Ruth Stoops, played by Laura Dern, is a poor, indigent, drug-using
mom that loses everything, hits rock bottom and faces jail time for
endangering the life of her unborn child. Yes, so far this might sound a
bit melodramatic, and even I was convinced that Citizen Ruth was
heading for that not-so-comfortable Lifetime channel place.
Surprisingly, right when you think Ruth’s story has nowhere to go but
down, she’s bailed out from jail by a group of Christian fanatics that
call themselves “the Babysavers.” This is the point where the film
switches from a serious drama to a satirical comedy.
After an
unsympathetic judge tells Ruth that an abortion could keep her from
going to prison the Babysavers realize that this is the perfect
opportunity to use his comment and take revenge on the pro-choice judge.
The head Babysavers, brilliantly played by Kurtwood Smith and Mary Kay
Place, take Ruth into their home to try and convince her not to have the
abortion. At the same time they are using her to get media attention and
further their cause. This is when the pro-choice group makes a move of
their own and takes Ruth hostage hoping to convince her to have the
abortion and make a statement of their own. Eventually money starts
being offered from both sides to persuade Ruth to choose one way or the
other. This leads to a surprise ending and the moral to our story: It’s
not always a good idea to try and solve other people’s problems by
selling them some of your own.
“Sports Night” – The Complete Series: 10th
Anniversary Edition
For those of us who have long been fans of the prematurely-cancelled
sitcom “Sports Night,” the release of the tenth anniversary edition was
met with great anticipation. Our first go around with Aaron Sorkin’s
clever behind-the-scenes hybrid of drama and comedy came in 2002. But
back then we proud followers of Casey McCall and Dan Rydell were so
enthused just to have the show on disc that we didn’t grumble too much
about it being completely devoid of supplemental material. So when it
was announced earlier this year that a new set, celebrating the tenth
anniversary of the show’s premiere and including a fine selection of
special features, would be released, I found myself as excited as Casey
planning his first date with Dana.
I’ve found there are two kinds of “Sports Night” fans: those who watched
it on ABC when it originally aired, and those who were late to the party
by discovering it in re-runs on Comedy Central. I belong in the latter
classification. This essentially means that I found the show quite some
time after nobody was really talking about it. So for me, one of the
great pleasures of this edition is to hear Peter Krause and Josh
Charles, Felicity Huffman and the other cast members, as well as the
show’s creator Aaron Sorkin, talk about the pleasures of working on such
a terrific series. The set includes four featurettes about the making of
“Sports Night,” and its comparisons to the real life “Sports Center” (on
which it is loosely based); two gag reels and eight commentaries. Also
included is a booklet that describes the storylines for each episode, as
well as interesting factoids about the show and its cast and crew.
“Sports Night’s” creator and head writer Aaron Sorkin is joined by the
show’s most frequent director Thomas Schlamme for two commentaries
wherein they discuss how the show came to be and, sadly, how it was made
to end. Particularly interesting is Sorkin talking about doing the
second season of “Sports Night”at the same time as the first
season of “The West Wing,” when he would run back and forth from the
Warner Brothers lot to the Disney lot, while writing an astounding
twenty-two episodes for both programs, simultaneously. Also entertaining
is listening to Josh Charles and Joshua Malina laugh their way through
commentaries as they offer suggestions to the on-screen characters and
joke about the unexplored Dan and Jeremy love affair.
For those not familiar with Aaron Sorkin’s first foray into network
television, this is a great set with which to make yourself acquainted.
For those already, and in some cases freakishly, familiar with “Sports
Night,” the set is more than worth the few hours of additional features
that compliment such classic gems as: “Yegveney Kafelnikov… Shoe money
tonight!... Thespis’ special day… ‘The Cutman’ Chuck Kimmel… The Hotel
de Spania being in Spain… Helsinki being in Finland… Happy Birthday
being copyright protected material… and, because we’ve got soccer
highlights, the sheer pointlessness of a nothing-nothing tie.”
Starring: Giovanni Ribisi, Marisa Coughlan, Joshua Jackson, Franka
Potente and Christina Ricci.
You may not know Adam Goldberg by name, but one look at him
and you’d recognize him as the actor who charmed you in Dazed &
Confused or possibly as The Hebrew Hammer. I have sort of
loved him since he carried on an affair with Jane Adams in the
short-lived television series, Relativity. While it has always
been a welcome sight to see Goldberg’s names in the credits, nothing
could have prepared me for his feature film, I Love Your Work.
The movie follows a movie star, Gray Evans (Giovanni Ribisi)
as he finds himself in a downward spiral. Haunted by thoughts of
stalkers and struggling to keep his tabloid-target marriage from
disintegrating, Ribisi is so amazing as Gray that you can’t keep your
eyes off of him as he begins to completely unravel. Joshua Jackson
(looking uncannily like a young George Lucas) and Marisa Coughlan are
wonderful as the couple whose “normal life” Gray covets. Christina Ricci
(before her current scary alien stick insect look) is beautiful and
beguiling as a mysterious woman Gray dreams of, while Franka Potente
seems a bit miscast as his movie star wife. One of the treats of I
Love Your Work is that it is filled with actors we’ve seen on the
sidelines for years: Judy Greer, Jason Lee, Jared Harris, Randall
Batinkoff, Nicky Katt. There are even cameos by Vince Vaughn and Elvis
Costello.
An exploration of the darker side of celebrity culture
(invasion of privacy, potentially dangerous stalkers), the film turns
into a dizzying trip to the borders of hallucination and reality. (In
fact, that aspect of the film reminded me of Marc Forster’s Stay,
which I wrote about in this month’s Spotlight.) Gray’s love for movies
is probably why there are so many touches of classic cinema peppered
throughout. There are moments that recall classics like Rear Window
or Sunset Boulevard. His red jacket in the final scene
practically screams out Rebel Without a Cause. Gray and his
assistant (Greer) even watch a bit of Singin’ in the Rain. At one
point, Gray says, “You can always go back to a film, because it never
changes.” What’s great about films, and particularly about I Love
Your Work, is that we as viewers can bring something new to a film
every time we watch it. Even if we hit the play button again as soon as
the movie’s over. Which is what I’m about to do.
After "American
Idol" Alum Jennifer Hudson won an Oscar for her show-stopping
performance in Dreamgirls, it was confirmed – a true star was
born. She went on to star in two other hit films, Sex and the City
and The Secret Life of Bees. With all of this success in
Hollywood, I have to admit I was concerned (like any other fan) that
we’d never have an album of hers with original material. It seemed music
had taken a backseat to her film work. As she said in recent interviews,
singing and music have always been her first love. She’s the type of
artist who’s committed 100 percent to her career – but only one aspect
of it at a time. If she’s acting in films, she’s going to focus all of
her attention on acting and film. If she’s making music, she’s going to
channel all of her energy into the music. And anyone (fans and peers
alike) should be able to respect and admire that. It’s a healthy way to
avoid spreading oneself too thin and destroying the quality and
integrity of one’s work. And as a music lover (and critic), I take
quality over quantity any day. And Jennifer Hudson’s self-titled debut
album is nothing short of quality.
Jennifer
Hudson is a 13-track labor of love. There are no missteps. The songs
fit together so well, like a quilt. The music is beautifully produced
and arranged (organic instrumentation in many cases). The lyrics are
tasteful. These are songs of love, dealing with devotion, commitment,
trust, gratitude, honesty, respect, faith, infidelity, and loss. After
listening to Hudson, anyone who expected to hear an album full of
songs like “Spotlight” and “And I’m Telling You I’m Not Going” will be
happily surprised. Hudson goes back to her gospel roots on “Jesus
Promised Me a Home Over There.” She gets sassy with Ludacris on the
hip-hop inflected, Timbaland helmed “Pocketbook.” She goes toe-to-toe
with fellow "Idol" Alum and Season 3 winner Fantasia on the soulful duet
“I’m His Only Woman.” Definitely one of the albums highlights, you could
think of this as a grown woman’s version of Brandy and Monica’s “The Boy
Is Mine.” Then again, after a few more listens, “I’m His Only Woman” may
put “The Boy Is Mine” to shame. Hudson delivers heartfelt ballads like
the Diane Warren penned “You Pulled Me Through” and the Robin Thicke
helmed “Giving Myself.” Hudson also delivers some stellar quiet storm
grooves on the Polow Da Don produced “My Heart” and the Underdogs
produced “Invisible."
The main focal
point of this album is undeniably Hudson’s voice. Hudson does not sing,
she sangs! The power, passion, color, and dynamics of her voice
seem limitless. I truly believe she’ll go down with the greats – Aretha,
Patti, Gladys, Chaka, Whitney, Mariah, and Mary. She could sing the
pages out of the telephone book and it would be compelling. Though she
didn’t write any of the songs on the album, you wouldn’t know it from
her performances. She’s a great interpreter of lyrics. She knows how to
tell a story vocally. She knows how to bend notes, when to hold back,
and when to let loose. Songs like “Giving Myself,” “If This Isn’t Love,”
“We Gon’ Fight,” “Invisible,” and “My Heart” are all great examples of
her varied, flexible vocal talents.
Jennifer Hudson
is a splendid album. It’s one of this year’s best releases. I’m glad
that she took her time to deliver a quality album from beginning to end.
She gave her all and you can hear it in each and every song. Hudson is
well on her way to being a legendary entertainer. She’s already made
history. And if this album and her film work are any indication, her
intention is to build a legacy. Hudson already told us that she wasn’t
going. And after listening this album, I guarantee, you won’t want her
to.
Editor's Note:
All of
us here at P&F extend our prayers and thoughts to Jennifer Hudson
and her family during this very difficult time.
Ben Folds, the
man, the legend, the music, quite possibly the greatest songwriter of my
generation. I still remember the first time I heard Ben Folds Five—it
was the video for “One Angry Dwarf and 200 Solemn Faces” (that’s the one
where the band is playing underground underneath a golf course). I
remember thinking that the video was pretty clever and that the song was
very catchy. But it wasn’t until I bought two copies of Whatever and
Ever Amen to sell at the used CD store where I worked that I
realized the genius that is Ben Folds. I remember playing the CD over
and over for months on end. One of the copies came home with me and the
other stayed in the store but never got sold. Not because of the lack of
offers but because I wouldn’t sell it; Whatever and Ever Amen was
my go-to comfort album during shitty days and lonely nights.
It’s been nearly
eight years since Ben Folds Five called it quits but Benjamin Scott
Folds is still going strong. Way to Normal is Ben Folds third
full-length album, his second using the successful trio lineup.
Currently the trio features Ben Folds on vocals and piano, Jared
Reynolds on bass and Sam Smith on the drums. Way to Normal will
forever be known by Ben Folds fans as either “the fake one” or “the real
one.” You see, before the real album was released a month ago a fake
version of the album with the same name was leaked online by the band.
The fake album featured nine new songs which everyone assumed were from
the real album. A month later it was revealed that a couple of the songs
were reworked fake versions from songs on the upcoming album.
These fake
versions on the fake album are just as good if not better than those on
the real album. (So be sure to get both the fake and the real Way to
Normal.) Some of the highlights on both the fake and the real Way
to Normal include: “Cologne,” “The Frown Song,” “Errant Dog,” “Free
Coffee,” “Hiroshima (B B B Benny Hit His Head),” “Bitch Went Nuts,” “Brainwascht,”
“Kylie from Connecticut,” “Dr. Yang,” “Lovesick Diagnostician,” “Way to
Normal” and “You Don't Know Me (featuring Regina Spektor).”
Ever since Ben
Folds went solo he has grown both as a musician and as a storyteller.
Way to Normal,much like Rockin’ the Suburbs and
Songs for Silverman,is a personal album thatuses
both Folds’ real life experiences along with stories taken from the
headlines. In “Hiroshima (B B B Benny Hit His Head)” he tells us about
the time he fell off the stage and landed on his head during a concert
in Japan. In “Cologne” Folds makes a reference to former astronaut Lisa
Nowak who “put on a pair of diapers and drove 18 hours to kill her
boyfriend.” Humor plays a big part in both the fake and the real
versions of Way to Normal. But as Ben Folds puts it, “This new
album is really about me being free, which is why it feels cathartic and
expressive. It’s about me coming back to being myself.” (Hence the
title). I agree with Folds; this is a fun and enjoyable album in two
parts. “The real one” is Ben Folds highest-charting debut ever in the
U.S. reaching number eleven on the Billboard Charts. Personally I still
prefer “the fake one” but both albums really do compliment each other.
Travis - Ode to J. Smith and Keane -
Perfect Symmetry
A caveat: Travis is pretty much my favorite band in the whole
world, ever. Therefore, this review is a bit biased. However, I
adored Keane’s first two albums, Hopes and Fears and the
wonderful Under the Iron Sea. But I don’t think I’m wrong in
saying that if you buy one disc by a British band this month, it ought
to be the new Travis disc, Ode to J. Smith. While both albums are
better than about 80 percent of the crap being played on my side of the
Atlantic, it is the Travis album that I can’t stop listening to. Or
hearing in my head, even when there’s no music playing.
Keane’s disc, Perfect Symmetry, starts off strong. With
a bang even, the amazing single, “Spiralling” which actually sounds
unlike anything the band has done before. (In fact, it sounds like it
could have been on the recent Kylie Minogue album, X.) The second
single, “The Lovers are Losing” is also the second track, equally as
strong. “Better Than This” is the most 80s sounding song on a very 80s
influenced disc. Which is not necessarily a bad thing. (The vocals
actually reminded me of Aimee Mann’s work in ‘Til Tuesday circa 1985.)
The thing is that after those three great songs and the wonderful title
track, there is a lot of filler, including “Pretend That You’re Alone,”
which actually sounds quite a lot like one of the songs from Keane’s
other albums, only with a saxophone.
The Travis album, however, finds the band in an energetic and
highly creative place. Released independently through their Red
Telephone Box label, Ode to J. Smith was written and recorded
over an incredibly short period. The result is something raw and
electrifying. Kicking off with “Chinese Blues” and the quirky “J. Smith”
(which surprises us with a choir singing in Latin), it’s clear that the
boys are stepping outside the box for this one. What’s great is how well
it works. Track number three is the awesome single, “Something Anything”
which is a bouncy song about looking for that one thing to get you
through your day. It’s something I can identify with, but that’s true
for a lot of the album. When I hear “Long Way Down,” “Get Up,” and “Song
to Myself” I hear songs about loneliness, isolation, fear and (most
importantly) trying to find your way. Which makes it seem like the album
is depressing when it really isn’t. In fact, it’s pretty brilliant. But
like I said, I’m biased. Maybe it’s just a matter of the right band
making the right album at the right time.
A few nights ago,
as I watched Todd Rohal’s wonderfully absurd and tender The
Guatemalan Handshake, a line of dialogue struck me with such sweet
force that I stared dumbly at the screen for a few minutes afterward.
“I’ve lost so many things,” an old woman says, her plaintive cry for
companionship. Oddly, the line struck me less for its logical
connections to friends, family and lovers long gone but more for its
relationship to memory, how memory is fleeting, malleable and
consequently unreliable. What thoughts, I wonder, remain etched within
me that I’ve no longer access to? What dreams did I fabricate as a
child? What experiences have I forgotten?
This all reminds
me as well of another poignant line from Switchyard’s jazz-influenced
ditty “Salt of the Sea”: “I’m an attic full of treasures, long been lost
to me/ Salt of my tears, now salt of the sea.” Are we all then lost to
ourselves? How exactly is it that we lose?
Although I’d
credit watching Rohal’s feature as the official inciting incident for
the yet unfinished three-act progression of this stream of questions,
the story itself begins more simply, with a nervous high school student
scribbling literature notes down for her SAT essay:
She asks her
teacher—This is me! I’m the teacher. Wait. I’m a teacher? What an odd
thought. I’ve so much yet to learn for myself, and someone now trusts me
to educate their Ivy League-aspiring child? What if I cannot properly
explain predicate nominatives? Why is it exactly that the sentence,
‘Hopefully, we will go tomorrow,’ is grammatically incorrect? If the
mechanics were taught so long ago, how am I to remember them? I can’t
just say, ‘Well, it just sounds right in English?’ I can’t just say
that. Can I?— she asks me, “What are the themes of The Great Gatsby?
1984? The Crucible? Catcher in the Rye? The Metamorphosis? The
Scarlet Letter?” In my mind, I run through the list, pillaging the
little analysis that remains at the forefront of my consciousness. I’ve
read all these books; that knowledge exists in my mind. Now, where, oh
where, little mind, is it all?
Elaine stares
down at her sheet, a look in her eyes as helpless as the one reflected
in mine. “We’ll take it slowly,” I say, and we do. Here’s some love, we
determine, here courage, here the dictates of a totalitarian government,
here man versus society, here man versus nature and here man versus
himself. It’s all so general, our details, character names, plot points,
narrative twists lost.
“I read this only
a few months ago,” Elaine says. She taps her pencil on the desk. I read that five
years ago, I think. Does that excuse me from remembering? Why, I wonder,
can we not keep our knowledge? Why does it so easily fade away?
On my way home
from work, I compile a list of must re-reads. It’s quite long by the
time my 30-minute commute ends, and I calculate the months of work
ahead. I look forward to it in a way, the studious muscle of my brain
yearning and tugging to be exercised. Yet the philosophical muscle harps
on the questions, produces counter questions, looks for solutions to the
initial dilemma: Where does it all go?
I look up at my
bookshelf and quickly take note of those books I find most memorable—
Carson McCullers’ The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, D.H. Lawrence’s
Women In Love, Jack Kerouac’s Dharma Bums, Ana Maria
Matute’s First Memoirs, Sandra Cisneros’ The House on Mango
Street. What makes these novels so much more present for me? Why can
I remember moments from these works and not moments from others? Is that
what makes these works great?
Philosophical
counterpoint: Can you remember books you dislike? To a certain degree I
can point to both Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead and Atlas
Shrugged. Rand’s writing, character development and plot structure
themselves are potent, riveting even. It’s a near impossibility to
resist seduction by the novels’ equally lovely leading ladies Dominique
Francon and Dagny Taggart. It’s also difficult to cast aside the merits
of uncompromising architect Howard Roark and mysterious mastermind John
Galt. The characters are sometimes harsh, always hard-working and full
up with integrity. They’re to be admired if only from a distance. It’s
easy, however, to claim as reactionary and poke holes in the reason of
Rand’s philosophical offspring, Objectivism. Neither are books I keep on
my shelf, if merely for the fact that I cannot stomach the notion that
man is lowly when he agrees to work within a collective for a collective
effort. This is not to say Communism as a notion appeals to my
sensibilities either. There are always flaws from theory to practice
that make such a strict political system undesirable. Yet, it’s also
difficult for me to support the notion of rugged individuality, for what
happens, as most often does, when the individual is wrong?
See here there is
no struggle. Were Elaine to ask me, ‘What are the themes of Rand’s
work?,’ I’d be quite at my leisure to answer her. What is it in Rand’s
work then that forces me to remember it, even when I chose not to own
it?
Remembrance, I’ve
come to believe, also has little relationship to direct experience. I’ve
no recollections as a child of poverty, as Cisneros’ address in The
House on Mango Street; no notion of the orgies, alcohol abuse or
extensive road tripping in Kerouac’s works; no encounters with the
repression that Matute references in First Memoirs. I find myself
drawn to these works, however, because of the underlying loneliness that
infuses the prose. It’s that loneliness I comprehend even when the
situations presented are so far removed from my own.
Is it true then
that an author’s intent produces an emotional imprint that makes a work
memorable for a particular reader with the same concerns? This I find
more likely than I do remembrance as a consequence of themes and
experience solely. There are many books that deal with issues of
loneliness that I simply loathe, Wally Lamb’s She’s Come Undone
the prime example. On every occasion in which I’ve seen that book, even
in passing a bookstore window, I shudder. This, I conclude, has little
to do with the themes of the book, resonant as they are with the
loneliness in my life, but in fact has to do with the reason, unknown to
me, that Lamb penned the novel in the first place.
Another student I
work with, Sally, in trying to understand mood in literature, drew a
crude sketch that summed up for me a genuine experience in reading. On
one side of the sketch was a stick figure author, in the middle the book
and on the end a rather plump looking reader. Sally drew arrows from the
author to the book and from the book to the reader. “The mood is what
the author puts in,” she said. “The mood is what the reader pulls out.”
It’s rare when I
stop to reflect upon the relationship of author and reader, but in this
moment I was again enlightened about it. “Yes,” I
responded, quite slowly and with more than a bit of agitation.
There’s more in
that rudimentary explanation than either Sally imagines or I care to
admit. It’s that a dialogue exists between two willing participants, the
one who gives and the one who receives. On countless occasions I’ve been
made new by a piece of literature, given at times too much to convert it
all into usable intellectual energy. I, however, am able to give little
else back than a few dollars. Perhaps that is enough though, that I give
the writer my money in return for giving me a new thought. Perhaps
that’s even better in a capitalist society. Here, you know, thoughts are
cheap.
Am I then as a
reader only a pawn of the author’s unconscious? Am I a tennis ball
thrown against a wall, a thump-thump as I hit the ground? Am I the
mediator of a one-sided argument? And, if I am that mediator, perhaps on
certain occasions I am successful, and in that success I transform that
wall into myself. I play tennis with the famous author! I should tell my
friends at home! And, if I do that, then that’s why the novel, now the
tennis ball, is in constant motion! It moves back-and-forth constantly
in my mind, a thump-thump on the ground that resounds now within the
rhythm with my heartbeat.
Even now, I can’t
say that any of these ideas are true. I can’t say that what’s memorable
is what we engage. I can’t say that F. Scott Fitzgerald is only a lone
tennis player for me. I can’t say that J.D. Salinger is the same. But,
then again, when I think of these authors, I try to imagine myself on a
long stroll through the park with them, say now after our tennis match,
and we’re sweaty and tired and sort of in love with each other, and I
can’t say I know I’m walking by their side with ease or grace. I can’t
say, “Oh, yes, we’ll play next week.” Or even the week after. I can’t
say I’ve been overwhelmed. It’s a game I’ll forget, without knowing why
I forget it, and hope—oh, how I hope!—the Elaines of the world won’t ask
me about those matches later.
As someone who has been a fan of Neil Gaiman’s since, oh,
around issue #22 of his now-classic comic The Sandman, I have
trouble admitting that I haven’t been so crazy about the last few books
he has written. His last collection of short stories, Fragile Things
and the novel Anansi Boys were fine diversions, but not at all
what I’d come to expect from the author of the highly amusing Good
Omens or the “don’t-fucking-bother-me-I’m-reading!!” Neverwhere.
(I refuse to acknowledge that he had anything to do at all with the
awful Interworld, which he is credited as co-writing with Michael
Reeves.) On top of that, I probably rolled my eyes when I saw that his
latest novel, The Graveyard Book, was intended for young readers.
What I should have remembered is that his excellent and creepy
Coraline was written for the same audience and had me shivering as I
turned its pages. Despite the title, The Graveyard Book isn’t
incredibly frightening, but it certainly has enough charm and whimsy to
be a worthy addition to my Gaiman library.
A strange man murders an entire family, except for a precocious toddler,
who walks out of the open front door and into a nearby graveyard. The
graveyard’s inhabitants protect the child from the man, Jack, and agree
to keep and raise the child, who is given the name Nobody Owens and the
Freedom of the Graveyard. Throughout the book Nobody (or “Bod”) grows up
among ghosts from all eras, being raised by a mysterious guardian,
Silas. Aside from recounting Bod’s many adventures, the book also tells
the story of the man Jack, still out there and looking for the child
that escaped. My favorite bit of the book is a chapter in which Bod
befriends a girl who was drowned as a witch and sneaks out of the
graveyard, only to run into trouble. A fun read for young and old, it
may even remind some of a young wizard we all know. Sometimes
distractingly so. The novel’s only disappointment arrives with some
incredibly melodramatic, lamely over-sentimental dialogue over the last
three pages. It was enough to make me want to throw the book across the
room, but not enough to make me never pick it up again.
Have you ever been a 13-year-old girl?
Maybe a little goth? Read some Anne Rice? Dressed up as a vampire for
several consecutive Halloweens? Maybe that was all just me but if you
can say yes to any of these then you will probably love this book
series. Even if you can't there's a fair chance you'll at least like it.
Although being a girl may be necessary. I have doubts as to whether boys
will stay gripped by what is essentially a Nicholas Sparks series for
the goth in you.
After being bombarded with the movie
trailer for months and hearing the raves of our Editor, Lily, I was
finally worn down enough to give the Twilight series a try. I
sheepishly snuck through the teen fiction section of Borders to buy the
book and cracked it open on the train with a little skepticism but after
a few pages I was enthralled. I can't exactly put my finger on why I
found the book so gripping— especially since most of the book is just
long conversations in cars, which, I’m sure, will be, edited into hot
vampire sex and/or CGI fight scenes for the movie.
The series is about Bella, a normal,
if slightly on the disgruntled side, teenager who has just moved from
her mom's house in Phoenix to live with her dad in a small town outside
of Seattle. A town that happens to see the least direct sunlight of any
town in the country. Okay, so not everything that Stephenie Meyer throws
out is a gem. Bella sulkily begins attending her new high school and
making regular, annoying, high-school friends but she notices one table
in the lunchroom where a small group of super hot, very pale teens sit
together. They are the Cullen family and, as is always the case with hot
people, they're all vampires.
Bella draws the attention of Edward
Cullen and from there we have a smoldering book of that kind of
passionate, aching love that drove Romeo and Juliet. In fact, Stephenie
Meyer has a nasty habit of trying to casually allude to a piece of
literature, Romeo & Juliet and Wuthering Heights, for
example, at the beginning of several of the books that, of course, the
story then closely reflects.
There were a few other detraction's to
the series. The writing style isn't amazing so you really need to get
hooked on the story, which isn't hard to do, and go from there.
Stephenie Meyer may have lacked a thesaurus so her descriptions of
things sort of stick in a very similarly worded rut. But if you were
ever able to get through an Anne Rice book then you have no excuse.
Also, Bella is very much a "Mary Sue." I feel strongly that she is an
idealized version of the young author. Although Bella sees herself as
plain and mediocre, she excels at school, is pursued by a bunch of the
human boys at her new school immediately (seriously, like three guys ask
her to prom in the same hour! I thought everyone hated the new kid no
matter what) and she's also the only person that unbearably hot Edward,
in his hundred plus years alive, has wanted. So basically, expect her to
always be pretty much noble, desirable, and the one who randomly comes
up with the best plan in a pinch. Oh, and she cooks well and always does
her dishes.
My last criticism is that the story
never seemed as gripping to me in the final three books as it did to me
in the first. There's something in my girl genes that makes me intensely
interested in that kind of deep, passionate "I would die for you" sort
of love. So even long conversations in cars were fascinating because
there was something so compelling about watching these two characters
fall in love. The second book is a jarring contrast to that story line
and, maybe because I'm totally “Team Edward,” it lost me a little.
Although the story line becomes more and more outlandish as the books
continue, which is difficult considering we're already talking living
dead here, it is still worth the read and it comes to a satisfying,
albeit totally unexpected end with the storyline of the fourth book.
Don't let my long-winded paragraph of
criticism divert you from giving this series a try. The things I
disliked are relatively few and very much outweighed by the week of
sneaking away from my office to read a couple of pages during the day,
almost missing my train stop because I'd lost all focus on anything
outside of the story, finishing the second book on Saturday night and
setting my alarm on a Sunday morning so that I could get to Borders to
buy the third book as early as possible, and staying up until 4am
because, even though I kept meaning to stop at the end of each chapter,
I really needed to know what happened next until either the sun came up
or I hit the back cover. I read through the whole series in one week,
which I guess is my way of saying that I endorse these books.
FOCUS:
Paul Leonard Newman
January 26th, 1925 – September 26th, 2008
“Paul Newman seemed to represent the best of what we could hope for. He
was handsome, yes. He had those blue eyes, yes. Helpful in making him a
star, but inconsequential to his ultimate achievement. What he expressed
above all was grace, and comfort within his own skin. If he had demons,
he had faced them and dealt with them. Is this my fantasy? Of course.
That's what movie stars represent, our fantasies.” – Roger Ebert, from
“Roger Ebert’s Journal.”
Although 1954’s absolutely dreadful The Silver Chalice was
technically the very first time that I saw Paul Newman act (courtesy of
my father, the horrible-Biblical-themed-movies lover), the first time
that I really laid eyes on Paul Newman was in 1958’s The Long,
Hot Summer acting alongside his wife, Joanne Woodward. When I think
of Newman I think of him in that film and in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof—his
innate manliness that somehow transformed the screen; those blue eyes
that seemed to always be ablaze; the intensity of his laughter, which
always came loudly and unexpectedly; the charm and sexuality that
brimmed beneath the surface. Before I discovered Cool Hand Luke,
Hud, The Hustler, Hombre, Somebody Up There
Likes Me, The Verdict, The Sting and Butch Cassidy
and the Sundance Kid, I fell in love with Paul Newman, romantic lead
and epitome of all my pre-pubescent desires.
But Newman was more than just a pretty face—or more, I should
say, than a face chiseled by the gods—as I would soon learn through the
films mentioned above. Like all of the great actors of his time—Marlon
Brando, James Dean, Montgomery Clift—and all of the actors who came a
generation before him—Gregory Peck, Jimmy Stewart, Cary Grant—Newman had
the killer combination of talent and good looks, but he also had what
Steve McQueen would one day be defined by: graceful mystery. No matter
the role, Newman always seemed to have another card up his sleeve, a
card that he never revealed, not even once, in his long and fruitful
career. He always left me wanting more and yet always left me deeply
satisfied. Even though he was a hustler, a gambler, a conman and a
prisoner, I never failed to root for him and innately trusted him. There
was something about that face and that laugh that
immediately put you at ease, that let you know that you were watching
something magical and rare, a male actor unafraid.
The phrase “they don’t make them like they used to” was created, in my
mind at least, for Paul Newman. Tom Hanks may get the Jimmy Stewart
comparison; Brad Pitt the Robert Redford; George Clooney the Cary Grant.
But when it comes to Paul Newman, there is no present day match. Watch
any one of his films and you will clearly see the indelible mark that he
made.
I recently came to the realization that director Marc Forster
has not made a single movie I haven’t liked. He has made films that made
me uncomfortable, that have broken my heart, moved me to tears and
caused me to think a bit. What interested me most is how very different
these films all are from one another. The tragic bleakness of
Monster’s Ball, the charm and sentiment of Finding Neverland,
the mystery of his enigmatic Stay and the winking humor of
Stranger Than Fiction don’t seem to have come from the same creator.
However, there is a recurring thread throughout his work: Death. Either
the effect it has on those left behind (Everything Put Together,
Monster’s Ball) or the effect an impending death can have (Finding
Neverland, Stranger Than Fiction) and in the case of Stay,
possibly both sides of the equation. Forster has further exhibited his
versatility with an adaptation of The Kite Runner and will be
making his most mainstream effort ever in November with the latest James
Bond thriller, The Quantum of Solace. I’m hoping that this will
inspire people to revisit these films and recognize Forster as one of
our most interesting (and certainly eclectic) directors.
In Forster’s independent feature Everything Put Together
he explores the effects of SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome) on Angie,
a young mother (Radha Mitchell), and her circle of friends, including
co-writer Catherine Lloyd Burns. They are a group of suburban women
whose lives revolve around pregnancy, motherhood and the home, quite
similar to the group of women that Kate Winslet’s Sarah finds herself
surrounded with in Todd Field’s Little Children. Unlike Sarah,
Angie relishes belonging among these women, attending birthday parties
and being asked to become the godmother to one friend’s child. All seems
fine until her baby dies the day after his birth. Angie’s heartbreaking
scream in the hospital room pushes the movie into much darker territory,
emotionally and visually, as the camera work becomes jittery and
shadowy. In this way, Forster manages to submerge you completely in his
film, even doing outstanding things with the surround sound in one of
the many hallucinatory scenes during which Mitchell’s character is
hearing the cries of a baby, her mother’s voice and even the friends who
have now abandoned her because they are unable or unwilling to accept
her grief.
Radha Mitchell, a truly underappreciated actor, gives an
outstanding performance as a woman who has lost her child and has no one
to go to for support or understanding. Her husband seems almost numbed
over, her friends are gone and her mother is on another continent,
oblivious to the fact that her baby has died. Everything Put Together
is an unsettling film, a psychological drama that occasionally
masquerades as a thriller: Is she going crazy? Is she being haunted?
Supernatural elements are alluded to towards the beginning, when she
imagines a hearse following her home from a party, and there is a horror
movie vibe to a dream sequence, in which a mobile with a stained glass
moon has turned into a mobile with a stained glass fetus. The film was
not widely released. Perhaps this is because, like Angie’s friends,
audiences are made uncomfortable by another person’s grief. However,
Forster is not, as seen by his next film, Monster’s Ball.
Beginning with the execution of a prisoner, death permeates
Monster’s Ball. One of the prison guards, Hank (Billy Bob Thornton),
lives with his racist and disabled father, Buck (Peter Boyle), who also
worked for the prison. In turn, Hank’s son, Sonny (Heath Ledger), is now
working with his father. When Sonny gets sick during the prisoner’s last
walk, Hank turns on him, accusing him of being weak. He even attacks his
fellow guards when they try to intervene, calling his co-worker
“nigger.” Hank’s animosity continues at home until a broken-hearted
Sonny shoots himself after his father admits that he never loved him.
Hank seems to be completely unmoved by his son’s death, and Buck repeats
Hank’s accusation of weakness at the funeral. Meanwhile, the prisoner’s
wife, Leticia (Halle Berry), is trying to raise their son Tyrell. She
drinks and smokes and attacks the boy verbally and physically over his
obesity. After losing her job, Leticia gets a job waiting on tables at
Hank’s favorite restaurant. One night Hank is driving and sees Leticia
and Tyrell, who has been hit by a car, on the side of the road. He
drives them to the hospital, where Tyrell dies. As an act of kindness,
he takes Leticia home and they begin an unlikely relationship. When
Leticia shows up at Hank’s home, Buck goes on a racist rant that sends
her running. Hank puts his father in a nursing home. Finally free of the
influence of his father, Hank pursues Leticia to reconcile. They do and
Hank even saves Leticia from eviction. Then she discovers that he is the
prison guard who threw the switch on her husband. The film ends
ambiguously, with the two of them sitting on the porch, Hank feeding
Leticia ice cream. Will they stay together? Will her discovery come out
or has she decided to make a clean break and have a fresh start with
Hank? Leticia tells him earlier that she needed someone to take care of
her. Hank is willing to. Perhaps she realizes that they can heal one
another. The last line of the movie proves that Hank is hopeful, as he
says, “I think we’re gonna be all right.”
While neither character is particularly appealing or
sympathetic (not even after losing their children), the story of Hank
and Leticia is fascinating. Here are two people who were monsters to
their children and then lost them. Now they have found each other, but
there are so many hurdles in their way. What Forster impressed me with
very much in Monster’s Ball was his ability to bring out amazing
performances from unexpected sources. Halle Berry won a much-deserved
Best Actress Oscar for her work in the film, proving that she is capable
of being more than a beautiful face. Although I liked Heath Ledger
before, it was not until he played Sonny that I saw the first potential
of the tremendous talent he would become, even if only for the shortest
of times. Even more eye opening was the performance of Sean “Puffy”
Combs, who conveyed regret and humility in his scenes as the executed
prisoner. If audiences found Monster’s Ball to be unrelentingly
bleak, they were much more open to appreciating Forster’s next film,
Finding Neverland.
After the gritty realism of Monster’s Ball, Finding
Neverland is like an enchanting fantasy. Telling the tale of writer
J.M. Barrie’s creation of Peter Pan, Neverland is filled with
surreal and dazzling visuals, effortlessly moving between the story of
Barrie’s friendship with a young widow and her sons and dancing bears,
pirate ships and flying sprites. However, once Sylvia (Kate Winslet)
develops that telltale cough, you can take it as a sign that the film
isn’t all fairy dust and big fluffy dogs. A bit like how Hank wants to
take care of Leticia, Barrie wants to take care of Sylvia and her
family. He wants only to bring the children the joy and happiness that
they lost with the death of their father. One of the boys, Peter
(Freddie Highmore), accuses Barrie and his mother of using stories to
distract him, to hide the seriousness of her illness. He’s the exact
opposite of Angie’s friends in Everything Put Together who are
perfectly willing to hide from the reality of death. Peter will not turn
away from the truth. He will face whatever comes with open eyes. It
breaks Barrie’s heart to see Peter and the boys becoming adults far too
soon and this inspires the creation of Peter Pan, a boy who will never
grow up, never stop believing in magic and wondrous things. A boy who
will never have to see the people he loves die.
Finding Neverland
is certainly the most delightful of Forster’s films, filled with lovely
performances. Radha Mitchell manages to bring a heart to Barrie’s wife,
who could have easily been portrayed as cold and distant. Mitchell makes
you understand that she is a woman who has been abandoned by Barrie for
the fantastic other worlds of his stories. Highmore is a revelation,
managing to steal the show from actors as superb as Kate Winslet, Johnny
Depp and Julie Christie.
Forster would have an equally impressive cast in his next
film, Stay. Marketed as a kind of suspense-horror film, Stay
is pretty hard to pin down to one genre. Henry Letham (Ryan Gosling), an
artist, announces to his psychiatrist, Sam (Ewan McGregor), the fact
that he will die on his birthday. Having already witnessed Henry
correctly predict hail on a sunny day and having learned of his
obsession with another artist who killed himself on his birthday, Sam
realizes that he has less than a week to save his patient. What is it
that Henry thinks he has done that is so bad he’s going to kill himself
for? Why is his wall covered from top to bottom with the words “forgive
me”? The more Sam tries to discover about Henry, the more obscure the
truth becomes and the more his girlfriend Lila fears for him.
Incidentally, Lila is played by Naomi Watts, who starred in David
Lynch’s Mulholland Drive, a film that may have influenced Stay.
At least the stories are quite similar—depending, of course, on how you
choose to interpret Mulholland. It even recalls Donnie Darko,
exploring characters on the brink of mortality and the blurry edges of
reality.
If you’re patient enough, Stay manages to engulf you utterly in
its strange mystery. Sound is important in the film. A crying baby, the
voices Henry sometimes hears, the song “These Eyes” which plays
throughout a recurring scene of an ominous car ride, all play a part in
this puzzle. Stay is Forster’s most visually interesting film
yet. Like a delirious illusion, scenes transition from one to another in
unexpected ways and characters are shot through windows, in mirrors,
from odd angles. It is a film full of echoes in which doubles (and
triplets— literally) abound. Beyond the obvious and important recurring
appearance of the Brooklyn Bridge, there are several familiar faces and
repeating motifs. Look closely and you will spot key objects: The silver
balloon, a ring, even a manatee. The whole film is curiously littered
with images of straight lines—squares, rectangles, boxes, vertical
blinds, chopsticks, the aforementioned bridge, even the
scars on Lila’s wrists from an attempted suicide
and the checkered shirts Sam wears. Straight lines are everywhere in a
movie that is anything but straightforward. This is quite definitely the
sort of film that rewards you more with each subsequent viewing. I
didn’t appreciate it until the second time I saw it, and the third time
was simply a hypnotic experience. I noticed incredible facets I had not
seen before (the fingers moving the chess piece like God playing with
the Brooklyn Bridge!) and I know there are even more secrets to Stay
that I’ve yet to discover.
Just as Henry’s impending death haunts him in Stay,
Harold Crick (Will Farrell) is upset by the knowledge of his own demise
in Stranger Than Fiction. One morning, Harold wakes up and
becomes aware that someone is narrating his life. As the day continues
(and after ignoring his watch’s attempt to get his attention), the
mysterious narrator reveals that Harold will be dead in a week. While
Henry seemed to accept his death as inevitable (indeed, he felt he
deserved it), Harold Crick chooses to fight for his life. Forster
demonstrates from the beginning how quiet and simple Harold’s life is,
as well as showing us with onscreen grids and measurements, his love for
numbers and how orderly his world is. Once Harold starts to hear the
voice of this mysterious narrator and misses a bus, causing his
structured world to come undone, the onscreen blueprints become
increasingly less frequent. We discover that the narrator is author Kay
Eiffel (Emma Thompson), who only has to figure out how to kill off her
character, Harold Crick, to finish her eagerly anticipated book. Harold
must find Kay and convince her to let him live. In the meantime, he
manages to find himself in a life worth living and in a romance with a
rebellious baker (Maggie Gyllenhaal).
Stranger Than Fiction
manages to deal with a thoughtful subject, the inevitability of your own
death, while being funny at the same time. We are rooting for Harold in
a way we didn’t feel was possible for Stay’s Henry. Forster keeps
you interested, paying attention to the ticking clock (or in this case,
wristwatch) and wondering whether or not our hero will make it past next
Wednesday alive.
Forster’s most recent film was his adaptation of the acclaimed
novel, The Kite Runner. While there are key deaths in the film,
it’s really more about the redemption of a man who betrayed his closest
childhood friend. It tells the story of Amir as a child in Afghanistan,
his friendship with Hassan and the aftermath of a devastating act of
violence. We follow Amir and his father to America, where he falls in
love with Soraya. Finally, Amir is called back to Afghanistan and has
the chance to balance out his past mistake. The Kite Runner is a
fascinating look at life in Afghanistan, both during the late 70s and
under the Taliban in the year 2000. Forster worked magic with child
actors once again, directing Zekeria Ebrahimi (Amir) and Ahmad Khan
Mahmidzada (Hassan) in a foreign language and in some scenes that would
surely be difficult for even an experienced actor. This film is closer
to Finding Neverland than anything else he has done, something
that seems almost epic in scale.
But what could be more epic than the adventures of James Bond?
The second film with Daniel Craig playing the world renowned secret
agent, Quantum of Solace, is sure to be highly anticipated and
will probably be Forster’s most successful film yet. We can only imagine
what it will bring, but it seems like the perfect chapter in Bond’s
story for Forster. In the last film, Bond fell in love with and then
lost the beautiful spy, Vesper Lynd (Eva Green) and from the looks of
the trailer, her death haunts him still. Man’s relationship with
mortality? Sounds like a Marc Forster film.
