Never Let Me Go

Alex Garland, who wrote and directed Civil War, adapted the Booker-winning tome the the film is based on.

Written at the time of the film's release...

"Ménage à Triage"
or
"My Clone Sleeps Alone"

"The breakthrough in medical science came in 1952. Doctors could now cure the previously incurable. By 1967, life expectancy passed 100 years."

Never Let Me Go, the film, makes you wonder what all the fuss was about. A slight "Twilight Zone" bit of story, hinging on one theme—the central conceit being the showing of life from the point of view of sheltered, cloned organ donors who will live out their short lives being harvested for spare parts—but taking the concept and going nowhere with it, serving almost solely for the metaphorical revelation that "life is short."

 

I know that. I read the papers.

The book the film is based on, written by Kazuo Ishiguro (who wrote "The Remains of the Day"), was nominated for the Booker Prize for fiction in 2005. It is faint praise to say the film makes you want to read the book, as it must be Ishiguro's writing style that garnered the acclaim, and the majesties and mysteries of his prose and story-telling capabilities that inspired the making of this film that betrays those intentions. Because other than that central conceit, and some interesting acting choices by the participants, the film fails to generate anything other than a melancholy malaise. And whether one wants to use it as a tract against Britain's private school system, a cautionary tale of "science gone wrong," the ultimate pointlessness of Faith, or the horrific extensions of animal experimentation, the fact is that we're all one synaptic event away from becoming a squishy spare parts warehouse, as revealed on our own personal Id's, something done as an act of charity, the giving of our last full measure.

So, the mixed signals sent by the film of the book, and its clumsy way of revealing the particulars of the plot, do no service to its source, merely revealing the surface highlights, and not delving into more meaty psychological or motivational matters, turning the film into merely a digest, a palimpsest, or more appropriately, a cadaver of the book.

It focuses on a trio of children—Kathy (Carey Mulligan), Ruth (Keira Knightley) and Tommy (Andrew Garfield)—raised in a private boarding school, one of many that is, in fact, more of a farm. The children attending know nothing of the outside world, raised in a bubble of perfect manners, good health, docility, and fear of what lies beyond the fence surrounding the grounds. There is no need to prepare them for life as we know it, because they won't be participating in it. Only contributing to it.

They are carefully groomed and kept in the dark about their purpose, and within the cliques that inevitably occur there, rumors and speculation swirl among the kids about what happens when you go outside the fence (nothing good), and eventually, about ways to get deferments from donor status by proving their worth by displaying artistic skill...or, cruelly, falling in love.

They cling to these beliefs, like rosaries, with no basis in fact, but only the strength of their hopes, and in the absence of all evidence. Kathy and Tommy grow close, become empathetic friends, but as they grow older, Ruth becomes the object of Tommy's affections, and Kathy goes her own path, choosing to become a "carer," in service of the donors on the short path of their careers, delaying her fate, watching as those less fortunate are taken away from her, piece by piece. 

It's frustrating watching. Oh, the actors are fine, and actually more than fine, given the material. Mulligan's crooked half-smile speaks volumes of a life only partially lived, and Knightley is completely unafraid of looking sadly decrepit.  But, it is still painful to watch these clueless kids, marginalized and compartmentalized, pursuing fruitless hopes in an effort to live a full life. One would feel more sympathy if they would just be a bit more their own advocates, or even a bit more revolutionary. It is extraordinarily facile to compare this one to other "low shelf-life" movies on the order of The Island, or Logan's Run, sci-fi action films on the theme. Never Let Me Go has the same built-in planned obsolescence of adolescents conundrum—given the acquisition of some knowledge, wouldn't some of them choose to fight it? It doesn't have to be with space-guns and chase scenes, but...something. And despite their role in the food-chain, don't the administrators of these schools (Charlotte Rampling plays the main one here), especially the ones portrayed here, have some sort of empathetic identification with their charges, especially given the revelations they profess (rather hollowly)? That these questions pop up during the viewing of the film, when one should be riveted to the screen and it's reflected situations, only points out that the film-makers haven't done their work perfecting their illusions, in pursuit of their allusions. 

To further extrapolate the somewhat cruel comparison of the film to a cadaver of the original piece, the spirit of the thing is missing, however ardently it is played. Ultimately, one's appreciation of the film lies in its performances in the service of a flawed interpretation and one's own interest in the players, which is as superficial as this film feels.

Don't Make a Scene (Redux): Lawrence of Arabia

I've got a couple scenes in the works—well, one's done but I'm not ready to publish it yet—so here's a scene from Lawrence of Arabia, one of those movies that has to be seen on the big screen. The TCM Film Festival is doing that this weekend. I've seen it that way in 70mm at the Cinerama (it's now called the SIFF Cinema Downtown) and, really, it's the only way to really SEE it. 

"The film academic" I mentioned here is David Bordwell, who, sadly, passed away February 29 this year. Despite my dismissing his point about There Will Be Blood, his writing was always entertaining and enlightening.

The Set-Up: I recently read an article from a film academic extolling a scene from There Will Be Blood, in which its playing-out in one shot, or camera set-up, is praised to the skies as a master-stroke of direction.

Tosh.

While it is true that far too many directors these days are seemingly relying on the craft of montage (editing) as opposed to mise en scene (camera placement),* I would submit that it is not that special an achievement, but, rather "Directing 101." Any director worth his view-finder knows the importance of "blocking," or the arranging of actors in a scene. It establishes relationships, points-of-view, all sorts of sub-conscious signals to the audience about the participants of a scene. And it allows the actors to do what is their natural inclination to do: act in an unbroken line with their fellow-actors, playing off of each other, without the technical interruptions of setting-up for another angle.

A competent director knows when to get out of the way of his actors (just as a competent studio should know when to get out of the way of the director). But to praise a director for letting a scene play out in one shot without cutting? Only understandable from someone who's never been exposed to the process, I guess. Or someone who's just griping on the over-reliance of editing in today's movies (given the dependence on editing to create "energy," especially the false kind as pioneered by the hackers at MTV) and is doing it in a back-handed kind of way.

Anyway, the point is—a director who pathologically doesn't let a scene play out without editing, "couldn't direct traffic if given white gloves and a whistle" (in the words of one disgruntled writer I've met).

Or...are directing for the limited band-width of television. Or...are insecure in the material to keep interest. Or...are being told what to do, as in someone's directing the director (so what does that make him? An employee, not an auteur).

Here's one of many scenes I've found lately, that, with the exception of the opening three establishing POV shots, is done in one shot/one take, and it's one of my favorites. It's the "introduction" to the titular hero of Lawrence of Arabia, and it contains two of my favorite lines in this movie, full of great ones.

The Story: Aside from a sequence dramatising T.E. Lawrence's*** (Peter O'Toole) death in a motorcycle accident, and the subsequent funeral at which we hear many opinions of the man, this is the first sequence in the long flash-back of the tumultuous events of his life presented in the film. The first image shows him as we will soon come to know him: dissatisfied with his station, and re-drawing the map of the Middle East. 

Action!

T.E. Lawrence: Michael George Hartley, this is a nasty, dark. little room.
M.G. Hartley: That's right.

Lawrence: We are not happy in it.
Hartley: I am. It's better than a nasty, dark little trench.
Lawrence: Then you're an ignoble fellow.
Hartley: That's right.
Lawrence: Ah! Here is William Potter with my newspaper.
W.Potter: Here you are, Tosh.
Lawrence: Thanks. (Potter waits)
Lawrence: Would you care for one of Cpl. Hartley's cigarettes?
Potter: Ah! (Potter grandly takes one)
Hartley: Is it there?
Lawrence: Of course. Headlines. But I bet it isn't mentioned in The Times. "Bedouin tribes attack Turkish stronghold."
Lawrence: And I'll bet no one in this whole headquarters even knows it happened. Or would care if it did.
Lawrence: Allow me to ignite your cigarette.
Potter: Sir...
Adjutant: Mr. Lawrence?
Lawrence: Yes?
Adjutant: Flimsy, sir.
Lawrence: Thank you.
(Lawrence takes the burning match and working his fingers up it, extinguishing it while the others watch)
Hartley: You'll do that once too often! It's only flesh and blood.
Lawrence: Michael George Hartley, you're a philosopher.
Potter: And you're balmy!
(Adjutant leaves. Lawrence reads. Potter lights a match tries to put it out with his fingers while Lawrence watches.)
Potter: OH! It hurts!
Lawrence: Certainly, it hurts.
Potter: Well, what's the trick, then?
Lawrence: The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts.
Lawrence: Oh! By the way, should Col. Gibbon enquire for me, tell him I've gone for a chat with the General.
Potter: He's balmy!
Hartley (laughs): He's alright.


Lawrence of Arabia

Words by Robert Bolt and Michael Wilson

Pictures by Freddie Young and David Lean

Lawrence of Arabia is available on DVD from Sony Home Video.**

* I attribute this to studio insistence on "coverage"--over-shooting a scene from different angles to ensure that the film will "cut" (edit in a way that isn't "jarring" to the viewer), and, by the way, gives the studio enough material to work with in case they want to fire the director if he isn't amenable enough to cut it the way the studio insists. It's why having the "final cut" in a director's contract is so cherished a clause (Would you like a list of the names of great directors who've had their movies re-cut against their wishes? We don't have time, but I can make a rough estimate---almost all of them!)

** Movie theater advocate Roger Ebert has written that "Lawrence of Arabia" on video "crouches inside its box like a tall man in a low room." That's a wonderful description. He continues "You can view it on video and get an idea of its story and a hint of its majesty, but to get the feeling of Lean's masterpiece you need to somehow, somewhere, see it in 70mm on a big screen. This experience is on the short list of things that must be done during the lifetime of every lover of film." In Seattle, it happens infrequently at the Cinerama. Next time you see it mentioned, go.

*** That link leads to the general Wikipedia entry, for a better site on the man who's the subject of the movie, go here.

Whatever Works

Written at the time of the film's release...

"And Sometimes, Finally, a Cliche is the Best Way to Make a Point"
or
"Mommy, That Man is Talking to Himself" ("Come Along, Justin")

Boris Yellnikov (Larry David) is a genius. A misanthropic genius, to be sure, but a genius; he's only too happy to tell you that he almost won a Nobel Prize for his work in quantum mechanics, specializing in string theory. He's also only too happy to tell you that you're sub-normal, a microbe!, an inchworm!, a potzer!, a troglodyte!, a mouth-breather!—and in fact, at a couple points during the film he turns to the audience and turns on them...us...to tell us what he thinks of us. A lot of movies choose to insult its audience these days (sometimes directly, sometimes by what the makers think they can get away with), but Yellnikov has the courtesy of treating anyone who chooses to listen to him the same disparaging way. >He has a lot of views about quantum theory, the Heisenberg Principle, but never mentions the Konigsbergian Bubble Theory, in which the world is essentially a sub-set of forty individuals restricted to a single geographical point, 15 of whom have speaking parts.

Whatever Works is a return to Woody Allen's World, and its story of a young girl turning the heart of a beast is familiar ground, coming across as a "Woody's Greatest Hits" film—you'll find bits of Annie Hall, Manhattan, and particularly Hannah and Her Sisters—with its scenes of turmoil in the marriage between intellectual Frederick (Max von Sydow) and sensitive former-student Lee (Barbara Hershey). And Whatever...'s Melodie St. Ann Celestine (Evan Rachel Wood) is the latest in a long string of naive young waifs portrayed by Diane Keaton, Mariel Hemingway, Mia Farrow, Mira Sorvino, Samantha Morton, Juliette Lewis, and Scarlett Johansson. One could make some excuse about Allen returning to themes he explored earlier in order to form a more perfect coalescence of his ethos and it would be as pretentious as it sounds. Allen says that Whatever Works is an early screenplay he wrote in the 70's with the intention of it starring Zero Mostel. When Mostel died, Allen shelved it. So, the truth is Allen has been cherry-picking from this script for years to make some of his earlier, better pictures.

Although this is one stretch of New York City pavement worn a bit thin, there is something unique about it. One thing you can count on in Allen's movies is his autobiographical characters, the passive aggressive smart-asses played by Allen or a surrogate (past stand-in Woody's have been Mia Farrow, Mary Beth Hurt, Kenneth Branagh, John Cusack and Edward Norton). But Yelnikoff isn't passive at all, and David plays him as he does much of his work...at 110%. This should get tiring, but it doesn't, and that's a very tricky thing to pull off. Mostel could do it, with his razor's edge timing and comic flailing, but David doesn't have his gifts as an actor. David merely sends off "vibes" that he could actually be this self-absorbed (he did co-create "Seinfeld," after all), and as with George Costanza, the entertainment value is in watching the train wreck. He's the reason to see Whatever Works (and his character is of the opinion that's the main motivation of the audience).

So, if you're going to go, go already, but understand that you'll see a lot of the same themes that have come before: of the chameleon nature of personality due to environment, of universal impermanence and the embracing of it, that it's a long, long way from May to December, and that it's not such a stretch for a physicist to move on from string theory, and pursue post-doctorate work on the ties that bind.

Civil War (2024)

America "in the Twilight Zone"

or

"You Never Know What's Coming Around the Next Corner."

There was part of me that wanted to write a long preamble prior to watching Alex Garland's Civil War and lead with that. I'm glad I resisted that idea. Because if there's one thing I've learned about Alex Garland is that he never makes the movie you expect he's going to make. That was true of Ex Machina and Annihlation and Men. None of those—two of them sci-fi and one out-and-out horror film—defied expectations and were something completely different from either your expectations or experiences. You may come out confused, or disoriented, but you would hardly be bored.

You might even walk out pissed off.

But, not bored.

But, Civil War is not science fiction, it's speculative fiction (and oblique speculative fiction, at that)...there's no fancy technology—this war is conducted with Humvee's, automatic weapons, and helicopters (there's not even a drone in sight!). It's speculative...but not the way you might think it is...like, with some recognizable political perspective that reflects the fractured state we appear to be in now. There's plenty of things for people to cherry-pick (we'll look at those), but just as many things to confound that perspective (we'll look at those, too).

The President (Nick Offerman) is preparing a speech to the Nation about America's latest victories in the war with the "Western Front"—a group of secessionist states at war with the government. "It is," in his words, "the greatest victory in the history of military campaigns."

That's hardly "The War to End All Wars" language. But, it is enough to raise literal questions among a quartet of journalists embarking to set off to Washington D.C. to try to interview the President, despite POTUS labeling the press as "enemy combatants." The group is Sammy (Stephen McKinley Henderson), a veteran reporter who writes "for what's left of The New York Times" and who labels the President's latest announcement as "nothing, he could have chosen words at random; Joel (Wagner Moura), a war correspondent from Reuters, who seems to have a "jones" for being in the thick of the action; Lee Smith (Kirsten Dunst), a award-winning photojournalist, also from Reuters; and Jessie (Cailee Spaeny), a young up-and-coming photojournalist wannabe, whom Lee saved from getting concussed by a bombing of an Environmental Protection truck at a New York City protest. Sammy walks with a cane and Lee thinks he's too old and too fat to be useful where they're going, and she's pissed at Joel for letting Jessie talk him into letting her go on their journey. She thinks all the "baby-sitting" will get in the way of getting the story.

Their passengers should be the least of her worries. The 857 mile trip to D.C. will be littered with evidence of a country in crisis. Major highways are clogged with abandoned cars, shopping malls appear to be ground-zeros for attacks with crashed choppers in the paring lot and the ubiquitous short-stay high-rise hotels are chunked by missile damage. Tracers dot the skies at night amid the muffled reports of automatic weapons fire. Snipers occupy roof-tops, and an abandoned stadium is a handy, if crowded refugee camp for Americans bombed out of their living quarters. Spielberg tried to depict the concept of "American refugees" in his version of War of the Worlds, but Garland's version has all the verisimilitude of the nightly news, only a bit tidier.

So, what happened to us? Nothing is spelled out—we aren't given a long opening crawl to read at the beginning—we're just plopped down in the middle of the chaos (not unlike Haskell Wexler's Medium Cool) to learn what we can. Some of it sounds plausible: possible questions the group might ask when they reach their destination are tossed around like "Mr. President, do you have any regrets during your third term?" (third term?) "How about your dismantling of the FBI?" "Do you regret ordering air-strikes on American citizens?" When they stop to get gas, the surly militia guys guarding the pumps won't fill the tank for $300...but they will for $300, "Canadian."

But, there are disconnects that take you out of direct parallels: Lee is most famous for "the legendary picture of 'the Antifa massacre'." The "Western Forces" moving into Washington D.C. are a combined unit of the states of California and Texas (with reinforcements from the "Florida Alliance"). Both of those concepts jolt you out of thinking Civil War has anything to do with reality, but its concept of a trigger-happy America with grudges around every corner skews a bit closer to the home we know. As is the section where they drive through a seemingly normal rural town—reminded that there's a civil war going on, a shop-clerk says "we try to stay out of it" while the roof-tops are scouted by snipers.

The civil war isn't really the focus of the movie, either, but the back-drop in which reporters have to thread their way through "unprecedented times" to "get the story." And record truth in the same way they record conflicts in foreign countries. The good and the bad, but mostly bad. And they do it unblinking because someone has to look. And tell the tale. So others can decide. Although Lee admits that when she was covering foreign hot-spots, she was hoping to send home the message "Don't Do This."

 

For all the good it did. Most people ignore it or "stay out of it." Lucky them.

"Where's Joel?"

"Processing..."

For however preposterous the particulars, the general idea is that it can happen here...and might. And then the Constitution starts shredding, as people start to force their own interpretation on others. There is one cracker-jack of a scene—at some point it'll show up as a Sunday "Don't Make a Scene"—that features an un-billed Jesse Plemons as a militiaman in charge of a dubious operation that the quartet stumble upon that quickly escalates to a hostage situation, the "Are you American? What kind of American are you?" scene that is only hinted at in the trailers. He's crossed over where he doesn't need to know particulars ("Reuters? What's that?") nor does he care to learn. He makes decisions cavalierly and unhesitatingly and doesn't care if he makes a mistake—he'll just bury it. Plemons is so good at playing casually dangerous that the scene crackles with the authenticity of a body-cam and with escalating horror. Yeah, it could happen. It could definitely happen.

If there's a fault to be had, it's of the "Chekhov's Gun" variety—things talked about in the opening become significant in the second and third act as the stakes build. But, one can concede the point that this is veterans talking about the dangers and imparting wisdom to uninitiated. They impart that wisdom in the hope that it doesn't happen. But, it's happened before, so they talk about it, knowing full well that what's happened before...

The movie ends when the particular goals are met and things achieved. But like most Garland movies, it leaves you asking "What Happens Next", although the most typical scenario is discussed—as if by order of Chekhov. But, that is not Civil War's concern. It rack-focuses your mind back to the journalists and what has just transpired because at some point the movie has to end, and one is left contemplating the "Who" and the "What" and the "When" and the "How."

But, never the "Why."