“One is always considered mad when one perfects something that others cannot grasp.” – Edward D. Wood, Jr. “Back in the 1970s, it was mostly all-black audiences coming into the theaters. So, we presented stories they could relate to.” – Rudy Ray Moore While many critics, cinephiles, and cinema lovers often focus their time and energy on turning peoples’ attention to the work of who they consider to be the best, I think that we often forget how any art form (including moviemaking) attracts people with less-than-exceptional tastes and talents to its studios. But in recent years, the institutions that honor movies, such as the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (AMPAS) with Oscars and the Hollywood Foreign Press Association with Golden Globes, have been joined by the likes of the Golden Raspberry Awards Foundation to bestow recognition on the flip side of the world of cinema who mainstream critics and audiences consider to be the worst of the worst.
Why does this matter? Why should be look back at the heritage of bad movies (almost) as much as that of good ones? I think this is an important question for movie lovers to ask, and I’ve noticed that in recent years filmmakers have decided to share the stories of some of the most maligned artists in an effort to both educate the general public about their travails in making the art they believe in. And maybe—just maybe—some people have come away from these movies finding a renewed appreciation for those creators who never lose zeal for making their art in the face of relentless shaming from viewers, critics, industry people, and fellow artists alike. As I find these types of “failing forward” stories quite fascinating, I thought what better way to honor January as the stereotypical “dumping ground” for the studio’s worst films than examine the stories of those whose art has been met mixed (or universally negative) reception yet did not let that stop pursuing their dreams and creative passions. So, without further ado…LET’S GET STARTED!! [NOTE: This blog contains spoilers for several movies. You have been warned.] Ed Wood (1994) The idea for a biopic about Edward D. Wood, Jr., considered in the world of cinema to be one of the worst filmmakers of all time, began with screenwriting team Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski (The People vs. Larry Flynt, Man on the Moon, 1408) during their tenure as roommates studying film at USC School of Cinematic Arts. However, they knew that the idea was far-fetched from the get-go and thus wrote a ten-page treatment based on interviews of Wood’s family and colleagues and pitched it to director Michael Lehmann (Heathers), who they had gone to school with. Lehmann presented the treatment to producer Denise Di Novi (Batman Returns, Little Women) who brought in director Tim Burton (Edward Scissorhands, The Nightmare Before Christmas) into the fold as another producer. Once involved in the project, Burton read some of Wood’s letters and was taken by how he viewed the movies he was making with such genuine pride “as if he was making Citizen Kane.” Around this time, he was in the works to direct the gothic horror flick Mary Reilly when he dropped out of that project for various reasons. Now free, his interest in directing Alexander and Karaszewski’s treatment spiked. Luckily for Burton, who wanted to make the film quickly, Lehmann was busy making the comedy movie Airheads and thus relinquished his directing duties over to Burton while retaining credit as an executive producer. In six weeks, Alexander and Karaszewski finished a 147-page screenplay which Burton agreed to shoot without any rewrites due to his excitement for directing a more character-driven movie compared to some of his prior work that was more style-driven. Furthermore, Burton’s decision to shoot in black-and-white turned off Columbia Pictures who put the project into turnaround which sparked the interest of several major Hollywood studios. Ultimately, Walt Disney Studios agreed to finance the film under the Touchstone Pictures name due to its perceived minimal financial risk. Not because of the film’s low budget, Burton refused a salary for his work on the film. Principal photography took place for three months in the summer and fall of 1993 in and around the Los Angeles area. In a diversion from his six movies before, Burton hired Canadian composer Howard Shore (The Silence of the Lambs, The Lord of the Rings, Spotlight) to write the score for the film as opposed to Burton’s frequent collaborator Danny Elfman (Batman, Good Will Hunting, Spider-Man). This put strains on their working relationship, in addition to their collaborations on Burton’s other films Batman Returns and The Nightmare Before Christmas. Released on September 30, 1994, Ed Wood did not manage to recuperate its costs by earning just under six million dollars on an eighteen-million-dollar budget. However, the film received mostly positive reviews from critics who particularly appreciated Johnny Depp’s and Martin Landau’s performances as Ed Wood and Bela Lugosi, respectively, as well as Burton’s sincere approach to telling Wood’s story rather than mocking or parodying him. Not only did Ed Wood make it onto several critics’ top-ten lists for that year, but it also won both of the Oscars that it was nominated for: Best Makeup, and Best Supporting Actor for Landau. However, some took issue with the lack of historical authenticity of some of the elements of Burton’s depiction of Wood’s life and the people involved therein. Notably, several people (including Bela Lugosi’s son) took issue with Landau’s portrayal of Lugosi as a profane, cryptic individual whose acting ability waned with his age. To Burton’s credit, he openly admitted that he did not make Ed Wood to be “a completely hardcore realistic biopic.” Conversely, Burton aimed to celebrate Wood’s spirit as a cult filmmaker and American dreamer as opposed to satirize or document his life and legacy. When Burton has said in the past that he made Ed Wood with an undeniable bias in favor of its eponymous protagonist, he’s by no means underselling what this movie is. After watching it, I came away deeply appreciative that a person like Wood walked on this Earth and graced those alive at the time with his cinematic trash fires. And this is perhaps the movie’s greatest quality: it made a determined artist lacking in both self-awareness and creative merits not only charming but an unexpected hero in his own right worth rooting for. Of course, this wouldn’t work without Johnny Depp’s exceptional central performance that gives Wood enough humanity to ground the character in reality while also inviting the audience into his psychosocial outlook on the world in all of its excessive optimism and unabashed pride in his work. Despite the apparent lack of quality in Wood’s movies, you simply can’t help but admire his gall and ambition for making his visions reality with the help of mix of easygoing, tolerant, or outright antagonistic actors and producers that surround Wood’s movie sets. But what I think makes Ed Wood more than just an unashamed tribute to one of the worst filmmakers of all time is the friendship between Wood and an icon of classic horror cinema, Bela Legosi (Martin Landau). His chemistry with Depp and how it evolves throughout the film makes for that “special something” which separates it from other films like it (including the ones that I’ll be discussing later in this blog). As someone who lacks any extensive knowledge about either of these people in real life, I felt the vibrant back-and-forth of their professional and personal relationship in every scene they were in. Furthermore, I truly don’t believe that the movie works if Wood doesn’t go through quite the turbulent journey with Lugosi from his initial fawning admirations to seething hatred to sadness, built and ultimate respect and love for his favorite star performer and friend. All in all, Ed Wood accomplishes more than simply celebrating the cinematic legacy of the man named in the title. It highlights the complex intricacies of working relationships in the artistic world while never shying away from reminding us that, at the end of the day, the art itself isn’t worth forsaking those relationships. For that reason and others, Ed Wood is both one of my favorite Tim Burton movies and (in my humble opinion) one of Johnny Depp’s best lead performances. If there’s one movie about a “cult artist” you’re going to watch, you wouldn’t go wrong with this one. Big Eyes (2014) With the critical success of several of their screenplays following Ed Wood, such as Miloš Forman’s biopic The People vs. Larry Flynt and Mikael Håfström’s psychological horror film 1408, Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski reunited with director Tim Burton in the 2010s on another film centered on the life of painter Margaret Keane. By the mid-2000s, they had completed a spec script and were in negotiations to direct the film with Kate Hudson (Almost Famous, Deepwater Horizon) to star as Keane. However, development stalled until 2010 when Burton was confirmed as a producer. Hudson was then replaced with Reese Witherspoon (Walk the Line, Wild) and Ryan Reynolds (Buried, Deadpool, Free Guy) signed on to play Keane’s husband Walter. It took another three years for filming to begin, at which point Burton had taken over directing duties and Amy Adams (The Fighter, Arrival, Vice) had secured the role of Margaret Keane and Christoph Waltz (Inglorious Basterds, Django Unchained, Spectre) was chosen to play Walter. Released on Christmas Day in 2014, Big Eyes proved more commercially successful than Burton’s previous film Ed Wood by earning just over 29 million dollars on a ten-million-dollar budget. Critics were also generally positive, specifically noting Adam’s and Waltz’s performances as the highlights of the film. However, some critics took issue with the film’s uneven tone and pacing. Nevertheless, Adams ended up winning a Golden Globe for Best Actress (Musical or Comedy) that year. As the second Tim Burton film being examined here today, it’s virtually impossible to not compare Big Eyes to Ed Wood in terms of how Burton approaches telling the story of a vagabond of the art world. Easily the most noticeable difference in approach is the story being told. Whereas Ed Wood grounded its tale of a bad filmmaker in a genuine friendship, Big Eyes is more dramatic by highlighting the mental and emotional duress that its protagonist Margaret Keane (Amy Adams) experiences at the hands of her abusive husband Walter (Christoph Waltz) and the journey she goes on to gain the public recognition for her artwork that she deserves. Not only does this make the film distinct from Ed Wood, but it might just make it a better movie in my book. The star of the show, undeniably, is Adams who injects a homely yet believably innocent quality into Keane as a character. As a mid-20th-century housewife who balances family life with her passion for painting, she feels like a character who is both stuck in her time and one who transcends it. And when enveloped in the drama of Keane getting out of her husband’s abusive household only to show him up in the third act during the fantastic “courtroom painting” scene, Adams never strips the film of its lightheartedness nor diminishes Margaret’s struggles as unrelatable or unbelievable. Simply put, if you’re gonna watch Big Eyes for one reason only it’s to see Adams’s great performance. While (in my humble opinion) outshined by Adams, Waltz pulls off a tricky balancing act as Margaret’s manipulative and selfish husband Walter. He could easily have made Walter an over-the-top, cartoonish kind of villainous patriarchal figure which would take away from some of the down-to-earth nature of Margaret’s story. Instead, he elevates Adams’s portrayal and Margaret’s story by always ensuring that Walter’s motivations are grounded while also morally corrupt. But what about Big Eyes as a celebration of a “cult artist?” Honestly, it’s not really about the art itself. This both helps and hinders the film. While I did appreciate Burton not simply redoing Ed Wood by unabashedly celebrating Margaret Keane’s underrated creativity, it doesn’t work quite as well as that kind of story. But, that by no means detracts from the film’s quality. In fact, I’m sure many people will enjoy this movie more than Ed Wood because it tells a different kind of story about a woman overcoming domestic abuse and earning the recognition for her paintings while putting her husband in his place via publicly shaming him. So, if you’d rather see that kind of a movie, than Big Eyes will almost certainly be for you. The Disaster Artist (2017) Ten years after the release of Tommy Wiseau’s independent drama film The Room, what is considered by many film historians and cinephiles to be the worst movie ever made, his co-star and former roommate Greg Sestero published a novel entitled “The Disaster Artist: My Life Inside the Room, the Greatest Bad Movie Ever Made.” In the book, Sestero shares his struggles as a young actor, how he met Wiseau, and the troubling behind-the-scenes production of The Room. The book was well received upon release, winning for Best Non-Fiction from the National Arts & Entertainment Journalism Awards. Less than six months after its publication, Seth Rogen’s production company successfully acquired the film rights to Sestero’s novel with James Franco (Spider-Man, 127 Hours, The Ballad of Buster Scruggs) set to direct and star as Wiseau while his brother Dave Franco (21 Jump Street, Now You See Me, If Beale Street Could Talk) had been cast to play Sestero. Within a year, Rogen signed on to play Sandy Schklair, the script supervisor for The Room, with the rest of the cast being revealed by the end of 2015. Filming took place in Los Angeles from December 8, 2015 to January 28, 2016. Released in December of 2017, The Disaster Artist grossed just under 30 million dollars on a ten-million-dollar budget and was largely praised by critics. Franco’s lead performance as Wiseau and direction was repeatedly singled out as the core of the film’s strengths, with some critics expressing how impressed they were that the film could be appreciated by someone who has never seen The Room. In addition to Franco winning the Golden Globe for Best Actor (Musical or Comedy) that year, the film’s screenwriters Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber (500 Days of Summer, The Fault in Our Stars) were nominated for the Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay but lost to James Ivory (Howards End, The Remains of the Day) who wrote Luca Guadagnino’s Call Me by Your Name. As someone who knew very little about The Room or the “cult of personality” that is Tommy Wiseau, I had virtually no expectations going into The Disaster Artist. But within the first scene, I was very much sold on this movie. And, unsurprisingly, the allure of this story is largely captured by the direction and lead performance of James Franco as the eccentric and enigmatic, foreign-born actor Wiseau. Within the first quarter of the film, it is evident that Franco recognizes that the charming heart and soul is Wiseau’s character. Without that, I imagine that The Room would not have the cult following it has earned over the years. To that end, without Franco understanding what this role needed I cannot imagine The Disaster Artist being as good as it is. (NOTE: My appreciation of Franco’s role in this movie is by no means a commentary on the accusations against him regarding his personal conduct). Of course, Franco’s portrayal of Wiseau is not the only thing to like about the film. Similar to Ed Wood, Wiseau’s nearly-unbelievable presence is balanced out by and rooted in his mentor-like friendship with another hungry actor Greg Sestero (Dave Franco). From their initial meeting and time rooming together to them working together on The Room, I found their relationship always enjoyable and unpredictable. Mostly due to whatever Wiseau’s whims told him to do next, but I think the Franco brothers’ chemistry makes for a more dramatically hefty dynamic than Johnny Depp and Martin Landau had in Ed Wood. And with Sestero’s presence in the film, it never feels like Franco is excusing Wiseau for his behavior towards the cast and crew of The Room but instead contextualizing and humanizing it by showing us a man who wanted to make a great movie. That balancing act is pretty commendable for a story like this. Aside from the two leads, the movie also has some great supporting and cameo performances. My personal favorite is Seth Rogen playing Sandy Schklair, the script supervisor of The Room who also worked as the first assistant director in an unofficial capacity. He brings an ability to call out Wiseau for his absurdities on and off set in a way that Dave Franco as Sestero struggles to do. Aside from the celebrities in the film portraying actors from The Room (notably Ari Graynor, Alison Brie, Zac Efron, and Josh Hutcherson), my favorite unexpected appearances came from the cold open involving excerpts of interviews with several big Hollywood names showering praise for Wiseau’s “Citizen Kane of bad movies.” From Kevin Smith and Kristen Bell to Keegan-Michael Key and J.J. Abrams, this was a great choice to set the tone for what The Disaster Artist set out to do. But what I appreciated most about this movie was how it told the story of the making of The Room by tailoring it to people who have never seen The Room. I am among them, and hope to live out my days without ever seeing that movie. Yet, watching The Disaster Artist made me feel like I grew up with The Room due to its uncanny ability to show the audience enough of the moviemaking process to grasp what The Room is in a nutshell. To be clear, I really like all of the movies I’m blogging about today. But The Disaster Artist, while not necessarily being my favorite, I think is the best made and does this kind of story the most justice from start to finish. If that doesn’t convince you to check it out, then it’s your loss. 😊 Dolemite Is My Name (2019) As early as 2003, Eddie Murphy (Beverly Hills Cop, Coming to America, Shrek) began collaborating with Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski on a biopic about the life of comedian and filmmaker Rudy Ray Moore. Prior to Moore’s death, in 2008, Murphy actually arranged meetings between him and Alexander and Karaszewski so that he could share many life stories as inspiration for their screenplay. It was not until ten years after Moore’s passing that the film was officially greenlit by Netflix, with Craig Brewer (Hustle & Flow, Footloose) attached to direct and Murphy signed on to star as Moore. Filming took place during the summer of 2018, during which time Nicholas Josef von Sternberg, the cinematographer of Moore’s film debut Dolemite, visited set and shared additional stories about both Moore and the filming of Dolemite. After a limited theatrical release, Dolemite Is My Name came to Netflix on October 25, 2019 and was met with overwhelmingly positive reviews from critics who felt that Murphy’s performance as Moore in the film served as a successful “comeback” to the big screen. Some also saw it as a return to form to his roots in adult comedies earlier in his career such as Trading Places. The film also earned positive comparisons to other films about cult artists, with one critic referring to it as “a blaxploitation answer to The Disaster Artist” while another likened it to Ed Wood due to its “tribute to an entrepreneur.” Despite being nominated for the Golden Globe for Best Actor (Musical or Comedy), Murphy did not win despite some viewers deeming him worthy of an Oscar for his performance. Akin to my lack of knowledge of Tommy Wiseau and The Room, I had never even heard of Rudy Ray Moore, his character “Dolemite,” or any of the blaxploitation movies that Moore had been in. But after watching Dolemite Is My Name, I think it’s best if you know very little about Moore going into it because the film does such a good job immersing you into his personality, his world, and the eclectic cast of characters that surround him. Without question, Murphy makes the film work at its core. He brings an endearing level of sass, drive, and energy to Moore that captures an essential amount of humanity while also ensuring the audience fell in love with Moore from the get-go. I’ve seen a number of Eddie Murphy movies, and undoubtedly Dolemite Is My Name ranks among his best performances. Period. Some credit must also go to the handful of standout supporting actors who don’t let Murphy steal the whole show. I particularly appreciated Da’Vine Joy Randolph as Lady Reed, a female comedian in the South who befriends Moore, whose presence alongside Murphy made the movie more than just about a “cult of personality” in the Dolemite character but also about a group of people caring about each other and wanting to make art for people like them. Additionally, Wesley Snipes surprised me in how enjoyable he was playing D’Urville Martin, the director of Dolemite. The director, Craig Brewer, did an exceptional job juxtaposing Martin’s easygoing nature with Moore’s zany personality in a way that never diminished either character. While I wish both Randolph and Snipes had more screen time, I enjoyed time every time they were in scenes. Going into watching this movie, I was somewhat familiar with the contemporary and historical criticisms of the blaxploitation genre and was curious how the creative team behind Dolemite Is My Name would handle these in a 2019 movie. And I was pleasantly surprised at how the film handled it. Perhaps most similar to Johnny Depp’s performance in Ed Wood in this respect, Murphy plays Rudy Ray Moore as a self-starter and enthusiastic artist but never as someone who is perfect. Furthermore, numerous characters in the movie (notably screenwriter Jerry Jones, played by Keegan-Michael Key) that call Moore out for some of his ridiculous ideas or commitment to aspects of Dolemite that don’t quite play as well anymore. To be clear, Dolemite Is My Name is certainly a celebration of these important yet controversial roots of black cinema. But Brewer, the cast and crew retain self-awareness in both the more problematic elements of blaxploitation movies as well as the sillier ones. By placing them in a specific historical context, the audience can enjoy the story being told while also understanding why a movie like Dolemite (and others like it) was made at the time that it was. Ultimately, for Moore and the people around him, blaxploitation was about seeing people from their ethnic and cultural background represented on screen. While the finished product might be flawed, the intentions are undoubtedly noble enough to warrant attention to this day. All in all, films that bring attention to storytellers and artists like these are worth your time. From filmmakers like Ed Wood, painters like Margaret Keane, and performers like Tommy Wiseau and Rudy Ray Moore, the stories of determined creative minds making themselves incredibly vulnerable deserve great storytellers to share with us their lives, dreams, flaws, and legacies to laugh at and with forever. Which of these “cult artists” do you think is truly the worst one? What are some other “cult artists” do you think deserve some reappraisal? What opinions of mine do you find absolutely ridiculous? Let me know in the comments below. Until next time, this has been… Yours Truly, Amateur Analyst
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“…[The] word epic refers not to the cost or the elaborate production, but to the size of the ideas and vision.” – Roger Ebert Within the first couple decades of the realization by inventors like Thomas Edison and the Lumiére Brothers that movies can be forms of mass entertainment, filmmakers were conceiving of and crafting movies with a massive scale and scope so as to differentiate themselves from the three-to-fifteen-minute flicks that were common back then. In this sense, the “epic” is arguably one of the earliest film genres and one of the first styles of moviemaking that showed the world the immense potential that cinema had to capture peoples’ imagination unlike any other storytelling medium.
Having seen many of the well-known epics of cinematic history over the past year-and-a-half, it seems clear to me that one of the preferrable avenues that a filmmaker can go down is setting these larger-than-life tales in wartime. The typical scale, complex politics, and sheer spectacle nature of military conflicts lends credence to this particular version of the epic. Of course, war epics have been around since the earliest years of cinema (D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation and Victor Fleming’s Gone with the Wind being two notorious examples). Even epic movies that aren’t specifically classified as war movies, like Stanley Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon and Kevin Costner’s Dances with Wolves, rely on elements of warfare for their spectacle. In an effort to better understand the epic film in all its glory, I will dissect four war epics to figure out what about these types of movies is both appealing and timeless. I have chosen films spanning decades from very different filmmakers in an effort to have a crop of diverse movies to pick apart. So, without further ado…LET’S GET STARTED!! [NOTE: This blog contains spoilers for several movies. You have been warned.] Spartacus (1960) After losing a bid for the lead in William Wyler’s 1959 epic film Ben-Hur to Charlton Heston, Kirk Douglas (Champion, Paths of Glory) was encouraged by the vice president of his film company, Bryna Productions, to read Howard Fast’s 1951 historical novel “Spartacus.” Douglas was impressed by the book, and was inspired to purchase the film rights from Fast with his own studio’s financing (ultimately, Universal Studios agreed to finance the movie). However, Douglas and Universal were forced to enter a bidding war because Russian-American actor Yul Brynner (The King and I, The Ten Commandments) and United Artists were already in the development stage of their own adaptation of “Spartacus.” Since the screenwriter that Douglas had chosen to adapt the novel, Dalton Trumbo (Roman Holiday, Papillon), finished his script first, Douglas had his way and Universal won the rights to adapting the novel. Trumbo’s involvement (at Douglas’s insistence) became significant in ending the “blacklisting” that had scarred Hollywood during the “Red Scare” of the late 1940s and 1950s. Initially, Laurence Olivier (Rebecca, Hamlet, A Bridge Too Far) was attached to direct the movie after being convinced by Douglas to join the production (which coincidentally helped to convince Universal to financially back the project). This changed during pre-production, as British filmmaker David Lean (The Bridge on the River Kwai, Lawrence of Arabia, Doctor Zhivago) which then led San Diego native Anthony Mann (Winchester ’73, The Naked Spur) to be hired. However, after one week of principal photography in which he filmed the opening scene of the movie, Douglas fired Mann as he perceived him to be overwhelmed and intimidated by the scope of the project. Mann was replaced by then-30-year-old relative newcomer to Hollywood Stanley Kubrick (Dr. Strangelove, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Full Metal Jacket) who had only directed four feature films before being hired to direct Spartacus. Compared to the under-one-million-dollar budget of his previous film, Paths of Glory (which Douglas also starred in), this project had a production budget of twelve million dollars (approximately 109 million dollars when adjusted for inflation) and involved tens of thousands of cast and crew. That being said, Kubrick was quickly establishing himself as an uncompromising creative tour-de-force on his sets. For example, he scuffled with the president of Universal Studios Edward Muhl over filming the movie in Italy versus exclusively in Hollywood (they ended up compromising, with Kubrick being permitted to shoot the battle sequences in Spain). Furthermore, the film’s cinematographer Russell Metty, who had established himself through his work with acclaimed directors like Howard Hawks (Bringing Up Baby) and Orson Welles (The Stranger, Touch of Evil), frequently complained about Kubrick’s meticulous directions for the camera movement. At one point, Metty threatened to quit in front of Muhl, to which Kubrick replied: “You can do your job by sitting in your chair and shutting up. I’ll be the director of photography.” All of this, however, did not change the fact that Spartacus is the movie that discouraged Kubrick from ever working in Hollywood again. This was the result of lacking complete creative control over the film (which he retained for all of his future projects, from Lolita to Eyes Wide Shut), from Trumbo’s screenplay (Kubrick disliked the fact that the film’s protagonist lacked any faults or quirks, in his opinion) to the final cut. Released in October of 1960 (initially in major cities such as Los Angeles and New York), Spartacus ended up grossing 60 million dollars after playing in less than 200 North American theaters for over a year (becoming the highest-grossing film in the U.S. that year). Needless to say, the film was a financial hit as it was also Universal’s most profitable film for a decade (surpassed in 1970 by George Seaton’s Airport). The film was also mostly praised by critics, with particular admiration for the performances of Olivier and Peter Ustinov (Quo Vadis, Topkapi), Kubrick’s direction, and the production value such as the set design and battle sequences. The film won four of the six Academy Awards that it was nominated for, including Best Supporting Actor for Ustinov, Best Art Direction, Best Cinematography, and Best Costume Design (the latter three specific to color films). Upon winning the Oscar, cinematographer Russell Metty ceased complaining about Kubrick’s hands-on oversight of his work. 😊 Admittedly, I am not the biggest fan of Kubrick’s work but there are a handful of his films that I really like (Paths of Glory being one of my favorite movies of all time). His 1960 Hollywood epic Spartacus happens to be one of those handful. Not only is it an older movie that actually holds up today (largely thanks to the political subtext evident in Trumbo’s script), but it also (in my humble opinion) represents some of the best that the epic and war genres of film has to offer. To begin with the latter, I firmly believe that some of the best war movies center their story on a protagonist who is personable and sympathetic and whose journey represents the larger actual and/or thematic struggle (i.e. Matthew Broderick in Glory, Tom Hanks in Saving Private Ryan). Kirk Douglas delivers a stunning performance that carries the film even in its quieter, less action-oriented parts. Knowing Douglas’s acting chops from Paths of Glory, my belief in his ability to carry this kind of story was happily reinforced in this movie. Of course, any good war movie needs compelling action to justify its quieter moments. And while Spartacus is not my favorite war film, I greatly respect the extent to which it achieves its ambitions of being a mid-20th-century war epic that offers an incredibly satisfying massive battle in its third act. Unfortunately, both films of its era (from Lawrence of Arabia to Sergei Bondarchuk’s War and Peace) and more recent additions to the genre (like Braveheart and Saving Private Ryan) upstage the battle scene of Spartacus. But, given its place in Kubrick’s filmography I think it largely holds up in spite of its relative lackluster nature to those other movies. Regarding its place in the epic genre, the human-driven drama and poignant, relevant themes of Spartacus make it still relevant in cinematic history despite its aged nature in other aspects. As the eponymous prideful slave who goes on to lead a revolt against the corrupt Roman government only for him to die a symbol of what happens when such rebellions fail, Douglas offers us a very personal yet powerful examination of the morality of war, the nature of corruption, and the necessity to stand up against oppression despite the risks. Unsurprisingly, Kubrick oversees a top-notch film production in terms of its attention to creating a vibe and atmosphere in Spartacus that is glamorous and glorious without causing my suspension of disbelief to dissipate. For me, historical epics like this (especially ones set in ancient times) are very susceptible to Hollywood sensibilities. However, I think Spartacus avoids those pitfalls and pulls off a distinct style for putting Rome and its many inhabitants on the silver screen. Simply put, Spartacus is by no means by favorite war epic that I’m writing about today. However, it certainly deserves recognition as both a highlight of Kubrick’s career and a shining example of this awe-inspiring genre of movies. Lawrence of Arabia (1962) There were efforts to make a film about the story of British archaeologist and army officer T.E. Lawrence as early as the 1940s when Laurence Oliver was lined up to play the role and be directed by Hungarian-British filmmaker Alexander Korda (The Thief of Baghdad, The Third Man). In 1952, David Lean was approached for the first time to make a T.E. Lawrence movie but this initial project fell through. After completing his first major war epic, the 1957 Alec Guinness-starring The Bridge on the River Kwai, Lean revisited his interest in telling Lawrence’s story for the silver screen and began collaborating with Austro-Hungarian-born producer Sam Spiegel (The African Queen, On the Waterfront). After rigorous negotiations with Lawrence’s younger brother and literary executor, Columbia Pictures won the film rights to Lawrence’s 1926 autobiography “Seven Pillars of Wisdom” and development was officially underway. The first draft of the screenplay for the project was written by Michael Wilson (A Place in the Sun, Planet of the Apes), but Lean was disappointed with Wilson’s work which he felt was too politically hefty. Thus, the second draft was written by Robert Bolt (Doctor Zhivago, A Man for All Seasons), who crafted much of the dialogue that made it into the finished screenplay. Even though Wilson’s overall story remained in the final draft, he was not officially given credit as a writer on the film until over thirty years after its release. Principal photography spanned from May of 1961 to September of 1962. Prior to filming, Lean studied John Ford’s critically-acclaimed 1965 Western The Searchers in an effort to develop an aesthetic for the project. The production also received much government assistance from King Hussein of Jordan, from assisting with location scouting to providing extras, however he required that an imam be present for the scene where Henry Oscar (The Man Who Knew Too Much, Oscar Wilde), who played a servant to King Faisal (Alec Guinness) in the film, recited verses from the Qur’an. Despite receiving assistance from the Jordanian government during production, the film ended up being banned from the country (Egypt ended up being the only Arab nation where it was widely released). While many of the desert scenes were filmed in Jordan and Morocco, production eventually shifted to Spain to keep down on costs and in response to an outbreak of illness among the cast and crew. Shooting was frequently delayed due to the script not being finished before principal photography had officially begun. During production, Bolt was arrested for participating in an anti-nuclear weapons demonstration and Spiegel convinced him to sign a recognizance of good behavior in order to be freed from jail and finish the film’s script. Produced on a budget of fifteen million dollars, Lawrence of Arabia premiered in December of 1962 with a seismic runtime of three hours and 47 minutes. The film ended up grossing 70 million dollars (becoming the second-highest-grossing domestic release that year, behind The Longest Day). It was universally acclaimed by critics and audiences for its cinematography, musical score, screenplay, and central performance from Peter O’ Toole (The Lion in Winter, Ratatouille) as Lawrence. It won seven of its ten Oscar nominations (including Best Picture and Best Director), and is said to have inspired the filmmaking sensibilities of several directors from George Lucas and Steven Spielberg to Martin Scorsese and Brian de Palma. The film has cemented its legacy in cinematic history. Not only has Lawrence of Arabia been consistently listed as one of the best British films of all time, but it was selected for preservation by the Library of Congress less than thirty years after its initial theatrical run. I truly did not believe that I would like Lawrence of Arabia. For how old it is and at nearly four hours long, I went in assuming I would turn it off halfway through without it making any real mark on me. Thankfully, I was gravely mistaken. This movie truly fits the definition of a war epic for so many reasons. First and foremost, I LOVE the way that it handles the historical setting. Not only is the cinematography capturing the deserts of the Middle East top-notch, but David Lean’s handling of the powerful contrast between old and new styles of warfare. I will always demand more great films about World War I, and while my general preference of modern movies causes me to like War Horse and 1917 more, I greatly admire what Lawrence of Arabia accomplishes in this regard. As an epic given the time that it was made, Lawrence of Arabia is very hard to beat. Similar Kirk Douglas in Spartacus, Peter O’Toole excels at bringing the grandiose nature of T.E. Lawrence’s larger-than-life story down to Earth in a way that allows the audience to ingratiate ourselves to him without ever forgetting whose story it is. By contrasting Lawrence’s journey as a hero of the British Empire with his personal confrontation of his morally ambiguous legacy as an aid to Britain’s imperialism was so refreshing for me to see. I tend to find many of these big-budget Hollywood epics of the mid-20th-century to lack such engrossing and relevant political and social commentary due to their preference for glorifying and romanticizing history. As such, I greatly appreciate Lawrence of Arabia going against the grain in this respect. Overall, I remain somewhat stunned by how much I really like Lawrence of Arabia in spite of its age. While it is long and can at times feel tedious, the journey is more than worth the investment of time and energy—especially for a film that is nearly sixty years old. Ran (1985) By the 1970s, Japanese filmmaker Akira Kurosawa (Rashomon, Seven Samurai) was struggling to secure funding for his films as he was considered too “old-fashioned.” Between 1943 and 1963, he directed over twenty feature films. However, by the mid-1960s his work became more sporadic: between 1965 and 1990, Kurosawa directed only six movies spread five years apart between each other. The late 1960s and early 1970s were a difficult time for Kurosawa both personally and professionally. In 1968, Kurosawa was fired by 20th Century Fox from working on the World War II epic Tora! Tora! Tora! because of what the studio perceived as a nearly-insane perfectionism on the director’s part. His next feature film released two years later, Dodes’ka-den, was his first feature film since 1965’s Red Beard and was both a critical and commercial failure. As a result of Dodes’ka-den bankrupting his production company, many of his younger contemporaries were saying that Kurosawa’s career was finished. In 1971, Kurosawa’s physical and mental health deteriorated eventually culminating in him attempting suicide. In the mid-1970s, around the time of production starting on Dersu Uzala, his co-production with the Soviet Union, Kurosawa came across a parable about Mōri Motonari, a famous “daimyo” (warlord) from the 16th century who had three loyal sons. As Kurosawa began to wonder about how history could have been different if Motonari’s sons were bad people, the seeds for his final epic film were planted in his mind. He began writing the script for this project shortly after filming on Dersu Uzala was completed, but it would be another ten years before the film was made. Kurosawa spent the intermittent time storyboarding every single shot for the movie by painting them, and making the 1980 historical epic Kagemusha, which he would later refer to as a “dress rehearsal” for this film. It was the success of Kagemusha that convinced French producer Serge Silberman (Gibraltar, Diva) to fund Kurosawa’s next movie. While the project’s story became heavily inspired by William Shakespeare’s “King Lear,” Kurosawa only became aware of the play later in the pre-production process (evident by the several notable changes in Kurosawa’s reimagining in the film). Notably, the roles of characters such as the Fool, Kyoami (Shinnosuke Ikehata), an expanded role in the story and giving many of the characters a past (Kurosawa felt that the characters in “King Lear” lacked a history worth exploring). Filming took place over the course of two years, beginning in 1983, and was largely shot in the mountains and on the plains of Mount Aso, the largest active volcano in all of Japan. Kurosawa was also given permission by the national government to shoot at the ancient castles of Kumamoto and Himeji, two of the country’s most famous historic landmark. Two of the other castles in the film, were custom-built by Kurosawa and his production crew on and near Mount Fuji. There were 1,400 extras employed for the movie, and Kurosawa designed the uniforms and suits of armor worn by all of them with the help of costume designer Emi Wada (Hero, Mongol). By the end of post-production, with a budget of 11 million dollars, the film was the most expensive film of Kurosawa’s career and the costliest Japanese production at that time. Many of the battle sequences in the movie were heavily influenced by Kurosawa’s political ideology (specifically around nuclear war). Specifically, Kurosawa viewed the film as an extended metaphor for the anxiety of the post-Hiroshima age induced by the fact that 20th-century technological advancements had only made it easier for people to kill each other. A specific tool of this metaphor of apocalyptic-style destruction is the introduction of the arquebus, a matchlock firearm introduced to Japan in the 1500s, that Kurosawa had previously shown as a device of mass destruction in his movie Kagemusha. Tragedy struck the production more than once. Not only did Kurosawa’s recording engineer Fumio Yanoguchi (Ikiru, The Hidden Fortress) pass away, but one month later Yōko Yaguchi, his wife of nearly forty years, died in February of 1985. Kurosawa suspended production for one day to mourn before resuming work. Released domestically in Japan on May 31, 1985, Ran was critically and commercially successful earning approximately nineteen million dollars at the global box office. It was nearly universally praised by critics, and won an Oscar for Best Costume Design. Infamously, Kurosawa skipped the film’s premiere in Tokyo which angered the Japanese film industry to the point that the movie was not chosen as Japan’s entry for the Best Foreign Language Film category at the Academy Awards. However, due to the efforts of a campaign organized by Sidney Lumet, Kurosawa received his only Oscar nomination for Best Director in his career. Ran is now considered by many cinephiles and film historians to be one of the greatest movies ever made. Akin to my feelings about Kubrick’s filmography, I am by no means a fan of many of the movies of Akira Kurosawa. Rather, I respect and appreciate his place in cinema history, from Rashomon and Ikiru to Seven Samurai—with one notable exception. In my humble opinion, Ran is not only Kurosawa’s best film but a prime example of the war epic done right. First off, Ran excels as a war movie. Not only do the battle sequences stand up with some of the best large-scale battles ever shot for the silver screen—both before and after—but they excel better than most movies do at capturing the utter chaos that war brings to everything it touches. Without question, the most poignant example of this in the movie is when Hidetora (Tatsuya Nakadai) is allowed to leave the Third Castle alone after it has burned to the ground. Looking at everything from the look on his ash-covered face to the burning buildings in the background, it is clear that the war that has ensued between his three sons has nearly destroyed all of the land that was once his. One cannot understate how majestic and breathtaking Kurosawa’s cinematography is in this movie. Being the first color film of his that I saw, it really struck me about halfway through Ran how much Kurosawa’s very picturesque style of shooting comes out with nature’s color scheme as his backdrop. While it may not be my favorite war epic that I’m writing about today, it certainly might be the prettiest. In terms of being an epic movie, Ran balances excessive violence and well-staged, large-scale combat with political intrigue and compelling family drama surprisingly well. Nakadai’s heartbreaking performance grounds Hidetora so as to be relatable. At the same time, however, the story of this arrogant but caring elderly father whose trust in his three toxic, dangerous offspring leads to the downfall of both his family and his legacy is a suitable and fitting tale to be made on this scale and scope for the silver screen. While all of the actors for the three sons played their parts well, I found the most interesting supporting performance to be Lady Kaede (Mieko Harade) whose role as a vengeful spouse makes the non-Hidetora-centric scenes just as engaging. Ultimately, my research of the making of Ran has greatly increased my appreciation for it. While it exceeded expectations as a war epic later in Kurosawa’s career, thinking about the film as a meta-approach to Kurosawa’s introspection on low points in his life makes the strong parallels between him and Hidetora all the more emotional. Indeed, Ran is by no means by favorite war film or epic movie. But, for those who want to see a very well-done movie of this kind, I cannot recommend it enough. Braveheart (1995) In an effort to reconnect with his Scottish roots, screenwriter and Tennessee native Randall Wallace (We Were Soldiers, Secretariat) took a trip to Scotland and there was first exposed to the legend of famed Scottish warrior William Wallace (no relation). Wallace’s screenplay came to the attention of producer Alan Ladd, Jr. (The Brady Bunch Movie, Gone Baby Gone), who took it with him upon departing MGM in 1993. After initially coming across the script, Mel Gibson (Gallipoli, Lethal Weapon, Dragged Across Concrete) liked it but passed on it. Eventually, he came around to directing the project (although he did not want to star). For a number of years, the project faced difficulties getting funding. After turning down an offer from Warner Brothers due to his refusal to agree to another Lethal Weapon sequel, Gibson managed to oversee a deal in which Paramount Pictures and 20th Century Fox would co-fund the project in exchange for North American and international distribution rights, respectively. While Gibson initially conceived of the starring role being played by Brad Pitt (Fight Club, Inglorious Basterds, Moneyball), he ended up reluctantly agreeing to star in the film as well as direct. Principal photography took place in Scotland and Ireland from June to October of 1994. The major battle sequences in the movie were shot with up to 1,600 members of the Irish Army Reserves as extras (who were given permission to grow beards for the film). Due to threats of receiving an NC-17 rating from the Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA), Gibson toned down the violence in the battle scenes in order to secure an R rating. Premiering in the United States on May 24, 1995, Braveheart earned over 213 million dollars on a budget of less than 70 million and earned praise from most critics who applauded Gibson’s direction and performance, the ensemble cast, production values, action sequences, and musical score by James Horner. Some critics, however, noted the extensive historical inaccuracies that practically make the movie a piece of historical fiction. Nevertheless, the film earned ten nominations at the Academy Awards and won five (including Best Picture and Best Director for Gibson). In the immediate years after the film’s release, there was a significant spike in Scotland’s tourism industry due to the film generating increased interest in Scottish history both abroad and in Scotland itself. For example, in 1996 Scotland earned anywhere from seven to fifteen million pounds due to tourism as a result of what was described as the “Braveheart effect.” I loved Braveheart the first time that I saw it, and on a rewatch much of my love for it originally held up in terms of what it does as a modern epic war film. As an epic, director and star Mel Gibson expertly grounds the grandiose surrounding protagonist William Wallace in human attachments (namely, his secret romance and marriage to Catherine McCormack’s character Murron). By initially basing Wallace’s rise to power as a rebel against the English crown in a primal thirst for vengeance, the audience can empathize with him as a husband and lover first before siding with his political cause for Scotland’s freedom. As a heroic protagonist, Gibson’s Wallace encapsulates much of the archetype necessary for a likeable hero. His ideals of courage, loyalty, and faith in humanity bring him the success he wants while also eventually leading to his downfall at the hands of England’s punitive criminal justice system. The approximately two-and-a-half hours we spend with Wallace struggling to achieve what many around him believe is impossible only to suffer being hanged, drawn, and quartered before a taunting (but ultimately sympathetic) crowd of English peasants brings out the tragedy of his story while also uplifting all he contributes within the story to Scotland’s ultimate victory under the leadership of Scottish nobleman Robert the Bruce (Angus Macfayden). As a war movie, Braveheart arguably does better than all the other films that I have written about today in terms of capturing the gritty, bloody, and intimately horrifying nature of warfare. Specifically, the movie’s setting of medieval Europe makes for a thoroughly entertaining environment for showing the brutal aspects of up-close-and-personal combat. Additionally, one of the more underappreciated elements of the story is equally important to the film’s epic nature: the political intrigue. On this rewatch, I found myself enjoying the internal conflict between Wallace’s rebellion, Robert’s desire to maintain order, and the treachery of many of the Scottish nobles more than on my initial viewing. So, are epic war movies just about big battles and politicking? To an extent. However, films like Lawrence of Arabia and Ran that explore universal themes of imperialism and greed (to name a few) through the personal journeys of characters like T.E. Lawrence and Hidetora within a broader context that truly fits my understanding of “epic.” Of course, there are other takes on the epic film (the epic romance/disaster like Titanic and the epic superhero films Infinity War and Endgame, to name a few). Could I explore these in the future? Perhaps. 😊 What are your thoughts about epic war movies? Do you think the “epic” is a dead genre, evolving for changing times, or something else entirely? What opinions of mine do you find absolutely ridiculous? Let me know in the comments below. Until next time, this has been… Yours Truly, Amateur Analyst Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay “Better to be king for a night than schmuck for a lifetime.” – Rupert Pupkin (played by Robert de Niro) “Dark comedy is very difficult. You have to bring the audience in and push them away at the same time.” – Pierce Brosnan I tend to have a rather dark sense of humor. I don’t know exactly when I realized this, but throughout my life I have observed that I generally find movies that can be classified as “dark comedies” or “black comedies” thoroughly more enjoyable than other people in my life. As I’ve grown older, I have struggled to discern where my love of “black comedy” comes from or why this subgenre of storytelling interests me so.
So, today’s blog is dedicated to exploring these questions in an effort to better understand why “black comedy” is so appealing as an approach to comedy in cinema. But first, we must define what exactly a “black comedy” is. To begin with what a comedy film is: a film that emphasizes humor and is designed to induce laughter in the audience through amusement and exaggerating characteristics for comedic effect.[i] Based on that definition, is “black comedy” all that different from most comedic films? I would argue no, but most cinephiles and film historians feel differently and thus differentiate it as its own subgenre with distinctive qualities. Specifically, a “black comedy” film is a film that makes fun out of ordinarily taboo subjects in order to amuse by presenting something shocking and unexpected.[ii] While not always the intention of films in this subgenre, “black comedies” can sometimes also have the purpose of provoking critical analysis and discussion of specific political and social issues. This mode of storytelling traces its roots back to ancient Greek playwrights (notably Aristophanes), but was not part of the popular American zeitgeist until the mid-1960s when several popular authors, from Edward Albee and Joseph Heller, became associated with using what was then called “black humor” in their literature. Some famous black comedy films include Stanley Kubrick’s 1964 political satire Dr. Strangelove, Mel Brooks’s 1967 directorial debut The Producers, and Bong Joon-ho’s Best Picture winner Parasite. Before diving into the films that I chose to talk about today, I want to be transparent about my mindset going into this. I am framing my analysis of these five black comedy movies around the premise that comedy is a tool by which meaning can be discovered, explored, and understood. Thus, I have subtitled each section about a specific movie around the following question: how does the movie’s particular brand of black comedy strive to provoke some deeper meaning? Let’s find out together, shall we? 😊 [NOTE: This blog will contain spoilers for several movies. You have been warned.] Finding Purpose in Nihilism One of the earliest (and more controversial) examples of a black comedy film is the 1971 coming-of-age drama Harold and Maude directed by Utah native Hal Ashby (Last Detail, Coming Home), whose initial name in Hollywood was earned from editing some of Norman Jewison’s films including In the Heat of the Night. This film focuses on the aimless life of Harold Chasen (Bud Cort), the son of a rich, neglectful socialite (Vivian Pickles) whose halfhearted attempts to flesh out his troubled psychoses only form some of the many darkly comedic beats of the film. Harold, simply put, is obsessed with death. From driving around a hearse and attending funerals of people he doesn’t know as a hobby to staging over-the-top, fake suicide attempts to get attention, Harold lacks any drive in and passion for life. That is until he meets a kindred spirit in Maude (Ruth Gordon), an upbeat septuagenarian who shares Harold’s fascination with death and funeral-hopping hobby. Over the course of the movie, Harold and Maude develop an innocent yet odd friendship centered in their mutual interest in each other’s polar opposite perspectives on life. It is through spending time with Maude that Harold begins to open up about his relationship with his mother and the motivation behind his habit of faking his own death. When I watched Harold and Maude for the first time, I struggled to know what to make of it. Throughout much of the runtime, it felt tonally off as if Ashby and his creative team struggled to balance comedic beats about murder and suicide with the increasingly sentimental friendship between its two eponymous protagonists. As a result, the emotional moments intended to be overwhelming and moving fell a little flat for me. For most of the movie, I wasn’t sure if I would end up liking it. Until the climax, when Maude reveals to Harold that she has overdosed on sleeping pills in an effort to kill herself. This was an absolute gut punch that confirmed in my mind how much I empathized with Harold as a character. His initial, but failed, outcries for help and attention were out of a deep-seated craving for connection with another human being that he did not have in his isolated life with his ignorant, pompous mother. And by Maude accepting for who he is with open arms, he not only develops that much-needed connection with someone but also finds purpose for his life. Arguably the most effective retort against the philosophy of nihilism is not that people should discover some inherent purpose of life itself, but that people must make for themselves a purpose for their lives. And that is the deeper meaning of Harold and Maude that its douses of black comedy seek to flesh out. Is it always effective in this regard? No. But, as Pierce Brosnan said in the opening quote of this blog, towing the line between inducing laughter and pushing the audience away with dark humor is never easy for any film. Finding Sincerity in Insanity Most cinephiles would not argue that Martin Scorsese (Taxi Driver, Goodfellas, The Irishman) is one of the greatest filmmakers from the “New Wave” generation of Hollywood. But not all of his films were generously received upon release, and arguably the most damning example of this is the 1983 black comedy film The King of Comedy. This cult classic from Scorsese stars Robert De Niro (The Godfather Part II, The Deer Hunter, Raging Bull) as Rupert Pupkin, a struggling stand-up comedian living in his mother’s basement who suffers from (presumably undiagnosed) mental illness in the form of delusions of grandeur. One such delusion is that he is best friends with the successful comedian and famous talk-show host Jerry Langford (Jerry Lewis), and it is Pupkin’s fixation on breaking into the business with Langford’s help that pushes him to try over and over to meet with Langford. Eventually, Pupkin kidnaps Langford as ransom in order to get what he wants: a primetime slot on Langford’s talk show so that he can do his comedy set. Before watching The King of Comedy, the only Scorsese movie I had ever seen was his 1990 gangster flick Goodfellas. Thus, I wasn’t sure what to expect in terms of the story. All I was sure of was that I would at least appreciate (if not really enjoy) De Niro’s central performance. But I was blown away by how much I loved it from the get-go. He is incredibly infectious yet simultaneously disturbing and pitiful: De Niro manages to pull off the tremendously difficult balancing act of making Pupkin both charming and despicable—often during the same scene. When it comes to the film’s sense of humor, I have yet to discover a movie that better encapsulates the goals of “black comedy” than this one. Scorsese is constantly bringing the audience into the increasingly ridiculous life of Pupkin while also pushing us away from his personality due to his incessant obsession with fame and celebrity. By doing so, Scorsese not only made a great comedy movie and star vehicle for De Niro but, when watching The King of Comedy, provokes critical thought about the revolting aspect of American culture that is celebrity. While the film largely relies on Pupkin’s disquieting charm and absurd antics for its comedy, it is the narrative built up by the funny situations Pupkin involves himself in that reveal the film’s deeper truths. In highlighting Pupkin as an archetype of the fame-hungry artist yet to have his spotlight, he shows that such a desire is deeply human yet surrounded by a popular culture so racked up in making celebrities what they are that said desire is no longer pure at heart. One could say that Pupkin’s motives for fame are purer than most in the real world: his ego is front and center, unabashedly so, and he puts no effort towards concealing it like so many public figures in our country do. Ultimately, The King of Comedy is a tour-de-force of social commentary that transcends its seeming B-movie trappings to make for an incredibly funny film that still remains relevant to this day. Finding Levity in Mundanity Television guru Mike Judge, the creator of Beavis and Butt-Head and co-creator of King of the Hill (alongside Greg Daniels), has directed four feature-length films (including a film adaptation of Beavis and Butt-Head and the increasingly relevant cult comedy film Idiocracy). However, none of his other films (in my humble opinion) top his directorial debut: the 1999 black comedy Office Space. A relatively tame comedy film from the late 90s, Office Space centers on the unfulfilled life of Peter Gibbons (Ron Livingston) whose mundane life as a computer programmer at Initech is largely concentrated around commiserating with his co-workers Samir (Ajay Naidu) and Michael Bolton (David Herman) —NOT THE SINGER! 😊 However, his outlook on life is changed forever when he visits a hypnotherapist Dr. Swanson (Mike McShane) who puts Peter in a trance that relaxes him and boosts his self-confidence. However, Swanson suffers a heart attack before being able to snap Peter out of the trance. With his new outlook on life, Peter puts off his professional responsibilities and seeks new avenues of fulfillment such as pursuing a new relationship with local waitress Joanna (Jennifer Aniston). Upon returning to work, his raw honesty about Initech’s problems with two men (John C. McGinley, Paul Wilson) Initech has hired to downsize the company gets him promoted. And the film just gets more absurd from there. Office Space is such a delight. I have yet to see a sharper critique of modern American work culture that is equally funny and light as it is relatable and melancholic. As a movie, it does feel a little disjointed since the second half feels like a very different movie from the first half. So, in this blog, I’ll be largely focusing on the elements of its first 45 minutes but if you’re interested, I highly recommend watching the move in its entirety. Most of the socially and culturally relevant humor is in the film’s first half and surrounds Peter’s transformation into a blissful, easygoing guy that forgoes his responsibilities at work in pursuit of something more out of life. In showing the audience that journey, Judge offers earnest insight into the frustrating, depressing malaise of corporate work culture in America. He highlights how the “shit-shooting” between Peter and his two co-workers/friends is strongly associated with a psychological need to expel our misgivings about such a 9-to-5 existence. And he offers a brilliantly comical employee-boss dynamic with Peter and his relationship with the smug Vice President of Initech Bill Lumbergh (Gary Cole). Based on the brief plot summary I gave earlier, I’m sure many of you are thinking, “A film like this can’t possibly have some deeper meaning, can it?” In my humble opinion, not only is there potential for such deeper meaning but it’s actually there. After re-watching Office Space about a year ago, I found that—beneath the movie’s overtly zany comedic atmosphere and hyperbolic caricatures that are the characters—is a surprisingly poignant core intended to teach us the importance of not working all the time. Specifically, this is a movie that resonates with me as someone who constantly strives—but sometimes fails—to keep a work-life balance and encourages those around me to put effort towards maintaining that balance. If Office Space teaches us anything it’s that we work so we can live and not the other way around. Given the fact that the oppressive work culture portrayed in the film has only been made worse in recent years, there is perhaps no message more relevant to 21st-century Americans than that. Finding Kinship in Tragedy Some black comedies excel at transcending the subgenre and crossing over into other genres (i.e. Harold and Maude is also a pretty good coming-of-age movie), but many that purport to be dramas either aren’t all that funny or lack any gripping drama to feel satisfying. One of the rare exceptions to this trap is Martin McDonagh’s Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. While impossible to summarize the plot of this movie without oversimplifying it, I will say that Three Billboards centers on the actions of a middle-aged mother Mildred Hayes (Frances McDormand) whose teenage daughter (Kathryn Newton) was raped and murdered and has yet to learn the true identity of her killer. In order to pressure the local police chief Bill Willoughby (Woody Harrelson) to refocus on her daughter’s case, Mildred rents the advertising space on three billboards along a road into town with the message: “RAPED WHILE DYING. AND STILL NO ARRESTS? HOW COME, CHIEF WILLOUGHBY?” It is Mildred’s provocation of the well-liked Chief Willoughby that serves as the catalyst for the character-driven drama that ensues among the various residents of Ebbing, from the hotheaded and unsubtly prejudiced police officer Jason Dixon (Sam Rockwell) to the well-intentioned and passive little person James (Peter Dinklage) that befriends Mildred over the course of the movie. The tension between these characters is fueled by the town’s susceptibility to gossip and blackmail, which ultimately serve as distractions for what many of them ultimately want: for Mildred’s daughter’s killer to be found and receive justice for his crimes. This may be the most specific plot summary that I can give without giving any details of the actual story away, and that is because Three Billboards is a movie that MUST be experienced with as little knowledge of the plot as humanly possible. Mostly because of its ability to teeter between a drama, a black comedy, and a crime film. Its subversive approach to making the search for the identity of Mildred’s daughter’s assailant secondary to the character-driven plot of the movie is very refreshing, and thus works as a unique crime drama. That being said, much of the drama of Three Billboards comes from the sardonic nature of the interactions between our core cast. McDormand is at the center of much of this. Her varied relationships with the townspeople are one-sided in terms of who holds the power over whom. This makes for some fantastic comedic beats to alleviate the tension between Mildred and the people she mocks, taunts, and aggressively confronts to get what she wants. In many respects, however, this is the least funny movie of all the black comedies I’ve talked about in this blog thus far. While on a recent rewatch I wished for a few more gut-busting laughs, I also appreciated how intensely human the film is because it does not rely on comedy merely for laughs but for fleshing out characters and their relationships to other characters and to themselves. [NOTE: If you have seen the movie, feel free to read further. But if not, I highly recommend you watch it beforehand so that one of the emotional and thematic cores of the plot is not spoiled for you.] But how does the film’s comedy serve a deeper meaning? I think that the cynically wit in the screenplay of Three Billboards serves two specific characters the most: Mildred and Dixon, specifically the unlikely bond they form over seeking fulfillment over eliminating the scum of the Earth from the Earth. In many ways, they are foils to one another: they both suffer tremendously for their actions (or inaction), and both are ultimately driven by their loyalty to and love for people in their loves they have lost. It is this unforeseen yet perfectly sensible bond between McDormand and Rockwell’s characters that makes Three Billboards not just a good black comedy, but a great one. I challenge anyone to prove otherwise. 😊 Finding Love in Antipathy Flower is a movie that I had never heard of until listening to a podcast where someone listed it as their fourth-favorite film of 2018.[iii] I looked up nothing about it, and just decided to go in cold when I watched it. And, without a shadow of a doubt, it was one of the most laugh-out-loud viewing experiences I have had in a while. So once I decided to write this blog I just knew I had to include this movie on the list of ones to talk about. A stripped-down synopsis of Flower goes like this: teen vigilante Erica (Zoey Deutch) commits acts of delinquency with her friends involving blackmail so that she can save up money to bail her father out of jail. After meeting and developing an unlikely friendship with her mom’s boyfriend’s mentally-ill son Luke (Joey Morgan), the two end up hatching a plan together to get revenge on the schoolteacher (Adam Scott) whom Luke claims molested him when he was younger. Arguably, Flower is the most flawed black comedy out of all the ones I’ve written about today. It’s structure is somewhat disjointed, its pace feels arrhythmic at times, and I personally found the resolution of the narrative something to be desired. But I still love this movie for so many other reasons that make me recommend it as a prime example of what black comedy can do. First off, the characters are incredibly likeable in spite of being flawed and misguided. Much of this charm comes from their age; I find teenagers in movies generally more sympathetic than adults (especially when their actions are based on questionable ethics) because a defining element of adolescence to be navigating the moral complexities of adulthood. In that respect, the “Bonnie & Clyde”-esque journey that Erica and Luke go on throughout the movie is both entertaining and enticing because their genuine struggle to decide on what to do about their predicament is relatable in spirit (though not in practice since I’ve never attempted the things they do). Unsurprisingly, Deutch is the center of attention for good reason. Not only is she charming, warm and sensational, but her personality and attitude feel fresh and unique in spite of how so many other teenage girls are written in other movies. In some sense, I compare her to the eponymous protagonist of Juno in which Elliot (formerly Ellen) Page is written not as a stereotype of a teenage girl but as a real human being who is smart, clever, and feels emotions in an honest way. Perhaps less than any of the other black comedies discussed in this blog, Flower also lacks an incredibly profound message. But it does have a universally inspiring one: love conquers all. Cliched? Sure, but it’s executed so well that (in my humble opinion) my investment in the two main characters’ evolving relationship overcomes any hesitancy about the essence of their story. Comedies can unashamedly be simpleminded, laugh-inducing affairs without seeking to flesh out grounded or powerful themes. I have no problem with those types of movies. But I really enjoy when a comedy makes me think, too, and I’ve found that—more than any other subgenre—the “black comedy” is very effective at this. Whether it be portraying an unorthodox romance to explore the meaning of life in Harold and Maude or the day-to-day misadventures of office workers to highlight the oppressive nature of corporate culture in Office Space, these kinds of comedies will never stop fascinating me due to their ability to make me laugh and think at the same time while enjoying both of these elements in equal measure. What are some black comedies that you feel are worth watching? What style of comedy is your favorite and why? What opinions of mine do you find absolutely ridiculous? Let me know in the comments below. Until next time, this has been… Yours Truly, Amateur Analyst [i] https://www.filmsite.org/comedyfilms.html [ii] https://www.studiobinder.com/blog/what-is-black-comedy-definition/ [iii] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GyFkhAArnP0 Image by TANATOS 330 from Pixabay “I’m tired, boss…Mostly, I’m tired of people being ugly to each other.” – John Coffey (played by Michael Clarke Duncan) “One person's craziness is another person's reality.” – Tim Burton As a teacher, I always love when my English students choose a novel like Sherman Alexie’s “Flight” to read because I thoroughly enjoy exposing them to the subgenre of “magical realism.” Not only do I love explaining to them what it is, but why it can be such an effective approach to storytelling.
That being said, there appears to be a lack of analysis and dissection of “magical realism” as a subgenre of film. And this saddens me. So why not add to the endless abyss that is the Internet by diving headfirst into several movies that (in my humble opinion) fit the definition of “magical realism” in an effort to better understand how this type of storytelling can make a good movie great. Of course, we have to start with laying out a definition of “magical realism” as a type of fiction. Unlike past blogs where I have relied on others’ definitions, such as the anti-war film and the neo-Western, I want to put forth my own idea of what “magical realism” is. Simply put, a story that is “magical realism” is a story that incorporates fantastical or supernatural elements to explore themes and convey ideas that are, in contrast, realistically universal. It is a story that relies on the seeming contradiction of using a lack of realism to come off as very grounded. I tend to be fascinated with subgenres of films like this that utilize inherent contradictions of storytelling in an effort to both captivate the audience and effectively tap into some universal moral or truth. But the apparent lack of devotion to understanding how effective “magical realist” movies can be motivates me to explore the question: Why? So, without further ado…LET’S GET STARTED!! [NOTE: This blog contains spoilers for several movies. You have been warned.] Field of Dreams (1989) As someone who is not a fan of sports as a medium of entertainment, I tend to be skeptical before viewing any sports movie new to me. With Field of Dreams, I was not only hesitant because of its heavy focus on baseball but also due to what I feared would be an overly sentimental, “mushy” kind of movie that just never made me feel anything by the end. For the uninitiated, Fields of Dreams tells the story of Ray Kinsella (Kevin Costner) who lives a simple life as a corn farmer in Iowa with his wife and daughter but is tormented by his troubled relationship with his late father and is concerned he will never amount to anything in life. But when he hears a disembodied voice in the middle of the night telling him, “If you build it, he will come,” followed by a vision of the deceased baseball player “Shoeless” Joe Jackson (Ray Liotta), Ray is compelled to turn his cornfield into a full-scale baseball diamond. Later on, Ray seeks out famed-author-turned-recluse Terrence Mann (James Earl Jones) whom the voice he believes is referring to, and he learns of Mann’s childhood obsession with baseball (as Ray’s father was). Ultimately, Ray’s baseball diamond comes to represent peoples’ desire to relive their innocence from childhood that has since been lost. That alone could have played well enough for a decent supernatural fantasy story. But it offers a much deeper, and universal, message about forgiveness and rekindling frayed relationships. The film resolves with a younger version of Ray’s father appearing on the diamond and agreeing to play catch with his son as people show up from all directions to watch long-dead baseball stars play the game that is often called: “America’s pastime.” This was such an unexpected joy of a viewing experience for me. Going on dreading the excessive sentimentality and lack of forward momentum, Field of Dreams defies such expectations by successfully offering a compelling story about a man seeking to make amends with his past through achieving a dream of his father’s (which, ultimately, becomes his own dream as well). And I was certain that the protagonist seeing dead baseball players and hearing a voice in his head (arguably the voice of God) as storytelling devices would come off as cheap and absurd, it actually worked with the emotional payoff of Ray spending time with his father. As an example of magical realism, Field of Dreams may not be the best of the best. But it does a really good job of blending fantastical elements into a grounded story that puts human emotions and experiences at its core. Furthermore, its metaphorical use of baseball as a microcosm of American culture and an exploration of dreams versus reality was ultimately satisfying (if not entirely necessary). Edward Scissorhands (1990) While I am certainly not the biggest fan of Tim Burton’s cinematic style and sensibilities, I appreciate his approach to storytelling and understand why some people do love so many of his movies, from the superhero progenitor Batman to the horror musical Sweeney Todd. But for me, the standout of his filmography is the 1990 fantasy drama Edward Scissorhands. The story of Edward Scissorhands is essentially a more creative and subversive retelling of the “Frankenstein” story. In this film, the eponymous protagonist (Johnny Depp), whose hands were made into scissors by his creator (Vincent Price) and is left alone to fend for himself in a hilltop castle outside a quasi-1950s suburban neighborhood. While selling Avon door-to-door, one of the town’s residents Peg Boggs (Dianne Wiest) discovers Edward and offers to bring him to her home. It takes very little time for Edward to acclimate into suburban life, despite some ridiculous mishaps and awkward first meetings, but eventually the townspeople start to feel threatened by Edward and his sharp hands (despite his gentle and kind demeanor). While trying to successfully assimilate into the community, Edward develops a romantic bond with Peg’s daughter Kim (Winona Ryder). Perhaps this isn’t obvious to other people, but to me the plot of Edward Scissorhands should not work one iota. For one thing, it is a blatant homage to Frankenstein that constantly teeters on the line of becoming a straight-up parody. Also, the central performance from Depp is uncharacteristically reserved given some of his more recent leading-man outings from Pirates of the Caribbean to Alice in Wonderland which, for some fans of his, will find disappointing. And yet, within the first twenty minutes of the film, I was hooked and kept wanting to see the ways in which Burton would ground the “Frankenstein” tale into a 20th-century culture of suburbia. For me, that is what works about the movie both as a smart and innovative homage to Frankenstein and an excellent example of magical realism. Notably, the story’s highlighting of Edward using his deformed hands to try and gain acceptance among the neighbors of the Boggs family is very fun and a great device for characterization. Not only is it the catalyst for much of the good and bad things that happen to him in the movie, but how the scissor-hands serve as an incredibly effective metaphor for Edward’s evolving view of himself and his potential for both graceful connection with other people and utter destruction. At its core, however, Edward Scissorhands is a story about tolerance. By making Edward an actual character rather than a pale comparison to the mute, emotionless Frankenstein, his presence in the suburbs and how its various residents react to him show the moral complexities of this kind of American culture regarding how people adapt to changes in their home environments. While initially well-received by many of the townsfolk, a few missteps on Edward’s part (but mostly misunderstandings) are all that are needed to reveal peoples’ deep-seated fear of the unknown that can so quickly and viciously transform into hatred, prejudice, and a desire to commit violence on that which they fear. Am I taking the story of Edward Scissorhands too seriously? Perhaps, but I don’t care! Not only is it my favorite Tim Burton flick, but it’s also one of my favorite 90s movies and (in my humble opinion) one of the best showcases of how films can utilize magical realism to impressive effect. The Green Mile (1999) Similar to some of my favorite films of all time, from Star Wars and The Shawshank Redemption to Titanic, every time I rewatch Frank Darabont’s The Green Mile it feels like I am watching it for the first time. If that’s not a sign of a fantastic movie, I don’t know what is. This film, based on Stephen King’s 1996 novel of the same name, tells the story of Paul Edgecomb (Tom Hanks) and his time as a death row corrections officer in Maine during the Great Depression. Specifically, he relates his experiences with a particular inmate: John Coffey (Michael Clarke Duncan), a black man wrongly accused of raping and murdering two white girls. But there is much more to Coffey than meets the eye. I wish I could reveal nothing more about the plot of The Green Mile, but in order to flesh it out as an excellent example of magical realism I must spoilt the movie. So, if you’d rather watch the film first to avoid knowing anything else, I highly suggest you do. This movie is special enough to deserve not being spoiled for you. If the supernatural elements were removed from the story entirely, The Green Mile would still be (in my humble opinion) one of the best film adaptations of King’s writing and one of the best films of the 1990s. For one thing, it works very well as an ensemble character study highlighting the complex relationships between the prisoners on death row (Michael Jeter, Sam Rockwell) and the guards charged with their care and discipline (David Morse, Doug Hutchison, Barry Pepper, Jeffrey DeMunn). Easily the standout performances in both of these groups are Rockwell as the insane psychopath “Wild Bill” Wharton and Hutchison as the sadistic, power-hungry prison guard Percy Wetmore. The Green Mile also works very well as a social commentary on the moral efficacy of the death penalty. Sure, the film includes a character “Wild Bill” to offer a defense of its necessity. But as the audience we get to know Delcroix as a decent man who perhaps deserves to be in prison but not death. And Coffey’s innocence makes it all but obvious that he in no way should have the hand he has been dealt. And yet all of them meet their end, either by the electric chair or on death row itself. The film’s narrative never focuses explicitly on this moral conundrum until the climax that is Coffey’s execution, and thus serves as a great example of social commentary done right. In other words, if the narrative can be enjoyed without paying attention to the exploration of this sociopolitical controversy, then it is effective commentary in that respect. Needless to say, the film works well without Coffey revealing himself as an angel of God. But this extra, supernatural layer onto his character and the overarching narrative makes The Green Mile more than just a compelling, character-driven drama. Rather, it is one of my favorite examples of how film as a medium can adopt the conventions of magical realist storytelling to incredible effect. With this added layer, the moral depravity of Coffey’s execution is so powerful that it serves as a great metaphor about how a society that claims to be just can earnestly legitimize the government-sanctioned killing of someone like Coffey. Set aside his innocence; he is a good person. For a movie to make the existence of an angel on Earth both palpable and relevant to social commentary, there can be only high praise for it. Of course, this plays into Paul’s story as well. For Paul is shattered by having to oversee Coffey’s execution to the point that he resigns from death row. But the life that Coffey gave him may not be a gift at all, he believes, but a divine punishment for allowing Coffey to die per his command. Thus, not only is Coffey’s supernatural benevolence an effective device for exploring the death penalty, but the double-edged sword that is Paul’s existence serves as a compelling examination of how we pay for the wrongs in our life no matter how much we regret them. I could dedicate an entire blog to The Green Mile, but I would rather leave the beauty of its details to the eye of the beholder. If you haven’t seen this film, please take the time to do so. You will not be disappointed. Stranger than Fiction (2006) I honestly did not know what to expect when I decided to watch Marc Forster’s fantasy dramedy Stranger than Fiction. While I have enjoyed various comedic performances from Will Ferrell (Talladega Nights, The Other Guys), I was quite nervous about him starring in a more dramatic role. Furthermore, I was unsure of how this film would pull off such a meta-concept as the main character in a story becoming aware of the falseness of his reality. Simply put, Stranger than Fiction is the journey of everyman Harold Crick (Ferrell) slowly coming to the realization that he is a fictional character in the newest work by famed author Karen Eiffel (Emma Thompson) whose claim to fame is killing off her protagonists. In the process of trying to prevent his seemingly inevitable demise, Crick seeks out the help of literature professor Jules Hilbert (Dustin Hoffman) to figure out who the author is and try to convince them to save Crick’s life. If it sounds trippy and strange, that’s because it is. Stranger than Fiction is such a great example of metafiction because it addresses the questions: “What if the main character of a story learned who they were?” and “What if this realization caused that character to have an existential crisis and interact with people in the real world?” However, this immediately allows the form of storytelling to be just as affected by Crick’s actions as the narrative itself. Once Crick realizes the essence of his existence, the film blends reality and fiction to the point of provoking a new question: “If Harold can interact with real people, including the author that created him, then what is real and what is not?” Of course, this question is the foundation of the concept known as “suspension of disbelief.” For when we consume any story, from novels to films, we as the audience subconsciously reject our instinct to question the reality of what we are reading (unless the story is bad, in which case the reality that the story’s creator has made begins to crumble and fall apart). Therefore, Stranger than Fiction takes magical realism to a different and challenging level of not just being about storytelling but exploring what storytelling is through puncturing the fragile boundary in our minds between reality and fiction from the get-go. And what ideas is it exploring through this unique form? At its core, the film is about people (in this case Crick) appreciating their place in a larger world and being inspired to live life to the fullest. In many other movies that tackle this message, it can easily succumb to the temptations of camp or overt sentimentality. But the brilliant approach of the creative minds behind Stranger than Fiction avoid such traps to tell an earnest story about one man learning to enjoy the little things that life offers without taking them for granted. On the basis of its creative premise alone, I recommend this movie. But more than that, it pulls off its themes gracefully and powerfully. Midnight in Paris (2011) While by no means a diehard Woody Allen fan, I have come to enjoy several of his movies since watching them over the past year-and-a-half. I was thoroughly impressed by 1977’s Annie Hall, and enjoyed the ride of 1985’s The Purple Rose of Cairo and 1987’s Radio Days. But, for me, his best film without question is the fantasy comedy Midnight in Paris. The film follows screenwriter Gil Pender (Owen Wilson) during his vacation in Paris with his wife Inez (Rachel McAdams) and her parents. While choosing to spend time alone in the city one night, Gil is magically transported to the 1920s and begins interacting with famed “Jazz Age” artists from Ernest Hemingway (Corey Stoll) and F. Scott Fitzgerald (Tom Hiddleston) to Gertrude Stein (Kathy Bates). He finds that he prefers the company of these deceased creative minds over his wife in the modern world, and his repeated journeys into the past force him to confront the underlying problems in his marriage as well as his nostalgia-fueled fixation on the past. By no means is Midnight in Paris a masterpiece. But it is a great example of magical realism as it utilizes time travel in a way that so many movies of the past few decades have not. It’s less plot-focused and more character-driven since the nightly journeys into the past that Gil takes are about escaping to a time that he feels better suits him. But they are also about leaving his problems behind in an effort to ignore them out of preference for living for nostalgia rather than being in the moment. Gil’s character arc in the film is centered on these ideas, and Allen’s use of traveling into the past for this kind of story is both enjoyable and thematically fulfilling. Even if you’re not a huge fan of Allen’s other movies (or Allen himself), I think that Midnight in Paris is still worth the watch. If nothing else, it’s fun to see Owen Wilson give a great performance while interacting with famous dead people. Birdman (2014) To end with a truly great film, we have the dramatic black comedy Birdman. Directed by the supremely talented Alejandro González Iñárritu (Biutiful, The Revenant), this movie is about the efforts of a middle-aged struggling actor Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton) to prove himself a true artist by directing and starring in his very own Broadway production. However, the specter of his past Hollywood career as the superhero “Birdman” hangs over him (literally) as many obstacles cross his path. Needless to say, things go anyway but smoothly. Whereas Stranger than Fiction was a meta-approach to storytelling, Birdman employs meta-casting with Keaton in the title role. Due to his past career being largely defined by his portrayal of Bruce Wayne/Batman in two flicks directed by Tim Burton, Keaton’s raw, emotional performance is captivating from start to finish. What he is able to do with displaying a near-psychotic dual conscience wherein he is constantly trying to push away his “Birdman” alter ego makes for such an engrossing character study. For what makes Birdman a prime example of magical realism is how it examines the existential nature of acting. Thomson’s inner struggle throughout the film is one defined by a powerful fear that his play will fail and that his career will be over. But it’s even more than that; it is Thomson’s fear that his failure will prove he is not―and never will be―a real artist. And having to fend his inner demon that is “Birdman” symbolizes his struggle with this existential crisis about what it will take to succeed and how much he is willing to risk for his art and his reputation. So, what is it about “magical realism” that fits so well with film as a medium of storytelling? I think its essence as a subgenre that uses the fantastical to hook the audience in for a story about the realistic is what makes it such fun. We’ve seen movies that fit within this subgenre tackle some pretty serious topics and big ideas, from the death penalty in The Green Mile to the price of success in Birdman. Anytime a storyteller can provoke critical thinking and self-reflection by subverting the audience’s need to suspend disbelief, you tend to be in for one hell of a story. What is your opinion about magical realist cinema? What magical realist film that I did not write about is worth watching? What opinions of mine do you find absolutely ridiculous? Let me know in the comments below. Until next time, this has been… Yours Truly, Amateur Analyst Image by Haris imran from Pixabay “I think movies…are going to become long-form storytelling…the audience’s appetite for storytelling is evolving…people want to spend time with characters for many years.” – Joe Russo Over the past several weeks, I have delved into the history of the “blockbuster movie” from some of the inceptors of the style to the best blockbusters of the 1980s, 1990s, and 2000s. Today, I bring this multi-part series to a close by examining how the blockbuster has evolved in the past decade…and ask where it might be going in the next decade.
So, without further ado…LET’S GET STARTED!! Toy Story 3 (2010) During the mid-2000s, when the working relationship between Disney and Pixar was up in the air, other animation studios created story treatments and scripts for a threequel to Pixar’s first film Toy Story. Two of these scripts involved a whodunit-style plot about finding missing toys and Buzz meeting recalled toys from around the world, respectively. However, once Disney bought Pixar in January of 2006 these scripts were cancelled and John Lasseter (Toy Story, Cars) was put in charge of the studio. Not long after, Lasseter met with fellow Pixar employees Andrew Stanton (Finding Nemo, WALL-E), Pete Docter (Monsters, Inc., Up, Inside Out), and Lee Unkrich (Coco) over a weekend at the house where the story for Toy Story was conceived and concocted the narrative for this threequel. Unkrich, the film’s chosen director, felt immense pressure to avoid making Pixar’s “first dud” and thus aimed to create a completely original story that none of the scripts from other animation studios had already conceived of. After a few years of voice recording and animation, Toy Story 3 was released on June 18, 2010 and received near-universal praise from critics due to its ability to invoke such powerful emotions from the audience with computer-generated toy characters. Reviewers particularly spoke to the strength of the dynamic between the main characters and its exploration of universal, mature themes such as impermanence and loss. Toy Story 3 ended up grossing over one billion dollars and became the highest-grossing animated film of all time (until being surpassed by Disney’s Frozen in 2013). The film also won two Oscars for Best Animated Feature (Unkrich) and Best Original Song (Randy Newman’s “We Belong Together”). Notably, it is one of only three animated features to be nominated for Best Picture (the other two being Beauty and the Beast and Up). I vividly remember seeing this Toy Story 3 in theaters when it came out. At a mere fourteen years old, I had grown up with the beloved characters of the Toy Story franchise and was excited to see how their story came to an end (at least at the time). And sitting in the theater with my mother, we both went on an emotional rollercoaster from start to finish with this movie. Seeing these amazing characters, from Woody and Buzz Lightyear to Jessie and Bullseye, confront the prospect of eternal loneliness and lack of purpose with their owner Andy heading off to college is both heartwarming and tragic. Watching them try to adapt to life at Sunnyside Daycare under the tyrannical regime of Lotso is intense. And living through what the characters believe are their final moments, holding hands as they stare at death before them, is arguably the biggest gut-punch that I have ever experienced in a movie theater. Of course, their journey culminates in a bittersweet ending with Andy donating all of them to a new child owner, Bonnie, and the toys must say goodbye to their past while embracing their future. If any film perfectly captures the mixed emotional experience that is growing up and moving on, it is Toy Story 3. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – Part 2 (2011) Initially, Warner Brothers was going to adapt J.K. Rowling’s seventh entry in the Harry Potter fantasy saga into one film. However, producer David Heyman insisted that “creative imperative” demanded they split the final book into two distinct movies: the first being a gritty “road movie,” while the second being more “operatic” with “huge battles.” Similar to other two-part cinematic events in recent memory (Hunger Games: Mockingjay and Infinity War/Endgame come to mind), these last two Harry Potter movies were filmed back-to-back from February, 2009 to June, 2010. The films’ shared budget was 250 million dollars. Released on July 15, 2011, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – Part 2 raked in over 1.3 billion dollars becoming the highest-grossing film in the Harry Potter franchise and the thirteenth-highest-grossing film of all time as of now (above Star Wars: The Last Jedi and below Black Panther). It also received widespread praise from critics and audiences alike who praised the performances, action sequences, musical score, and its ability to serve as a satisfying conclusion to a journey ten years in the making. The film also received three nominations at the Academy Awards for Art Direction, Visual Effects, and Makeup, but won none. Every time I begin watching the Harry Potter film franchise, I always question whether or not the hype of seeing Deathly Hallows – Part 2 in theaters for the first time can be recaptured. And yet every time I have rewatched these eight films that were central to my childhood, I find myself loving the journey concluding with this film. I am not sure exactly why this is, but I think I’ve narrowed it down to a few key elements. First and foremost, the payoff of Harry Potter’s hero’s journey. Seeing him both physically and mentally mature from a feeble, ignorant and rather incapable wizard in Sorcerer’s Stone to a strong, intelligent leader and powerful sorcerer in this movie remains quite fulfilling. Suffice to say, there are plenty of other hero’s journeys in cinema that it has to compete with (notably Luke Skywalker in the original Star Wars trilogy and Frodo Baggins in The Lord of the Rings trilogy), but this one holds up as a great example of this mode of storytelling with suck a likeable character and a pretty strong supporting cast helping him on his way. Furthermore, the kinetic action that was sprinkled throughout the film saga (from Harry in the Triwizard Tournament in Goblet of Fire to Dumbledore’s duel with Voldemort in Order of the Phoenix) is front-and-center in Deathly Hallows – Part 2. The obvious standout set piece is the Battle of Hogwarts with its multifaceted structure to the many hype moments (I particularly enjoy Professor McGonagall commanding the stone army to defend the school). Ultimately, however, I think what makes this film special for me is the emotional payoff of Severus Snape’s character arc. As an audience, we saw so many scenes of Snape expertly concealing his true allegiances only to (supposedly) confirm his genuine loyalty to Voldemort during the tragic climax of Half-Blood Prince. Yet we feel sadness watching him suffer a painful and understated death at the hands of Nagini, only to give Harry the key to understanding both of their roles in this journey as his final act. And the reveal of his backstory as a man who loved and lost but did everything in his power to protect his love’s only child (despite how much he reminded Snape of his childhood nemesis) is such a powerful character turn. It is that kind of payoff that makes Deathly Hallows – Part 2 a special movie for me (if not a full-blown masterpiece). Marvel’s The Avengers (2012) As far back as 2003, Marvel Studios was bouncing around ideas for a film based on the superhero team the Avengers with the intention of introducing the main heroes in their own solo films before bringing them together in a crossover adventure. Once their first film Iron Man proved a success, the studio set a release date for their Avengers film (initially July of 2011 before being pushed to May of 2012) and began the casting process. Over the next few years, Robert Downey, Jr., Samuel L. Jackson, and Scarlett Johansson, among others, became attached to the project (along with Iron Man director Jon Favreau as an executive producer). In July of 2010, Joss Whedon (Serenity, Much Ado About Nothing) was officially hired to direct the film and he began reworking the script written by screenwriter Zak Penn (The Incredible Hulk, Ready Player One) back in 2005. He aimed to focus the emotional core of the film around the fact that these heroes “shouldn’t be in the same room let alone on the same team,” thus making them a true family. He cited films such as The Dirty Dozen for inspiration for the misfit family dynamic between the film’s heroes. Around this same time, Mark Ruffalo (Foxcatcher, Spotlight) was signed by Marvel Studios to replace Edward Norton as Hulk (even though Norton claimed years later that he made the decision to not return to the role, not the studio). Principal photography lasted from April to September of 2011, spanning locations such as Albuquerque, New Mexico, Cleveland, Ohio, and New York City. The decision to include Thanos in a mid-credits scene was Whedon’s, who wanted an even more powerful Marvel villain to be behind Loki’s invasion of New York. Furthermore, the Avengers-eating-shawarma post-credits scene was filmed one day after the world premiere and was partially inspired by a real-life experience between Whedon and two actors on an episode of the television show Angel that he wrote and directed. In total, the film cost 220 million dollars making it the most expensive Marvel Studios film at the time (and the fifth overall as of now, behind Captain America: Civil War and all subsequent Avengers films). Released on May 4, 2012, The Avengers became the third-highest-grossing film ever at the time by grossing over 1.5 billion dollars (it currently ranks eighth, above Furious 7 and below 2019’s The Lion King). The film was well received by critics and audiences, who particularly enjoyed Whedon’s direction and screenplay, the visual effects and action sequences, and the central performances (particularly Mark Ruffalo). Some critics even referred to it as the epitome of blockbuster filmmaking. The film received a nomination for Best Visual Effects at the Academy Awards, and its success served as the foundation for the future of Marvel Studios leading up to three sequel films and the birth of one of the most profitable film franchises in cinematic history. I will keep my thoughts on this film brief as I have already written about them in last week’s blog about the “Infinity Saga” as a whole. Having just rewatched The Avengers about a month ago, it is clear that this movie holds up so well for so many reasons. First and foremost, the writing and characterization here is top notch as Whedon does a great job mixing all of these heroes’ disparate personalities into a fun-filled cocktail of witty banter back and forth as well as genuine conflict. By doing so, Whedon services the film’s overall narrative structure and makes the third-act payoff of the team finally coming together that much better. Of course, the writing cannot be pulled off without the devotion of the cast here. I particularly appreciate the strenuous relationship between Downey’s Tony Stark and Chris Evans’s Steve Rogers: while the former’s resentment for the latter works well to divide the two obvious leaders of the team, their ultimate respect for one another creates a solid foundation for the teamwork exemplified during the Battle of New York. I will also side with the critics with regards to Mark Ruffalo, who exceeds expectations as a paranoid yet subtly in-control Bruce Banner despite the tall order he had of taking over for Edward Norton. As I said in my “Infinity Saga” blog, The Avengers contains one of the best third acts in modern cinematic history. Full stop. And while it has been topped by one of its three sequels, I struggle to believe it will not be remembered in due time as deserving the credit I’m giving it as on par with the likes of Return of the Jedi and Aliens as a great conclusion to a memorable blockbuster action flick. The Force Awakens (2015) Despite talking about making a sequel trilogy for years after the release of 1983’s Return of the Jedi, George Lucas (American Graffiti, Star Wars) ended up selling Lucasfilm to The Walt Disney Company in October of 2012, thus allowing the Star Wars franchise to live on without his direct involvement (Lucas did, however, serve as a creative consultant on Episode VII which involved attending early story meetings). Early on in the writing process, screenwriter Michael Arndt (Little Miss Sunshine, Toy Story 3) realized that introducing Luke Skywalker anywhere except for the end resulted in his character becoming the dominant force of the narrative and therefore overshadowing any other protagonists. Thus, the decision was made to Skywalker serving as a plot device that would only appear at the very end of the movie. Despite several notable directors being considered for the project, from David Fincher (Fight Club, Zodiac, Gone Girl) to Jon Favreau (Iron Man, The Jungle Book), before (at Steven Spielberg’s suggestion) Lucasfilm president and film producer Kathleen Kennedy hired J.J. Abrams (Star Trek, Super 8) in 2013. After Arndt requesting an additional year-and-a-half to write the film’s script, Abrams took over screenwriting duties alongside Lucasfilm veteran Lawrence Kasdan (The Empire Strikes Back, Raiders of the Lost Ark) who were able to complete the first draft in six weeks. Now-infamously, Kennedy admitted that the sequel trilogy was not intricately planned out despite claiming that Abrams was collaborating with Episode VIII’s director Rian Johnson (Looper, Knives Out) as was Johnson with Episode IX’s then-director Colin Trevorrow (Jurassic World). Later reports from cast and crew have confirmed that Abrams had written at least story treatments (if not full-on drafts) for the rest of the sequel trilogy. Ultimately, Abrams viewed Episode VII as needing to feel familiar (thus mandating the use of plot elements from previous Star Wars movies). It was not initially confirmed that Carrie Fisher, Harrison Ford, and Mark Hamill would be reprising their roles from the original trilogy in Episode VII. Many actors and actresses reportedly auditioned for the film, from Saoirse Ronan (Lady Bird, Little Women) to Michael B. Jordan (Fruitvale Station, Creed), before the official cast was announced in April of 2014 which included Fisher, Ford, and Hamill, as well as Daisy Ridley, John Boyega, Oscar Isaac, Adam Driver, Andy Serkis, Domhnall Gleeson, and C-3P0 himself Anthony Daniels. Principal photography commenced in May of 2014 at Pinewood Studios in England, however some landscape cinematography had already been done in April on location in the deserts of United Arab Emirates. Location shooting occurred in Abu Dhabi, Skellig Michael of Ireland, and in English forests. Infamously, Ford fractured his leg while filming in studio when the hydraulic door to the Millennium Falcon set fell on him. While Ford ended up recovering pretty smoothly, there was a lawsuit involving a subsidiary of the Walt Disney Company for apparent health and safety breaches and a nearly two-million-dollar fine. Filming wrapped up in November, the same month that the first teaser trailer for the film was released online. Also, the film’s official title was announced. Star Wars: Episode VIII – The Force Awakens was released on December 18, 2015. Made on a budget exceeding 259 million dollars, it ended up grossing just over two billion dollars and thus became the third-highest-grossing film of all time upon its release (currently ranks fourth behind Titanic). The film was also universally praised by critics for its ability to rekindle fans’ love for the franchise’s past while also injecting it with new energy and fresh talent. However, some viewers found The Force Awakens to be excessively derivative of the original trilogy. In many interviews since the film’s release, Abrams has expressed regret in response to several direct criticism of the film’s derivative nature and other elements of the plot (notably fans’ disappointment in Leia not embracing Chewbacca on Takodana after Han’s death on Starkiller Base). Nevertheless, the film received five nominations at the Academy Awards (notably Best Original Score for John Williams). The two sequels that came after The Force Awakens grossed over one billion dollars each, and together they form what many fans refer to as the “sequel trilogy.” As a diehard Star Wars fan, I can appreciate elements of all the movies of the franchise (although it is pretty difficult with some of them). When it comes to the newer movies of the “Disney era,” my personal enjoyment of them seems to lack consistency with most fans of the franchise of my generation. Specifically, I find The Force Awakens to be the post-1983 film of the franchise that comes the closest to recapturing the magic of the original Star Wars film from 1977 while also being a thoroughly enjoyable movie in its own right. Is that because it’s highly derivative of the narrative structure of the original film? Perhaps, but I think it’s equally important to point out how it differs and is therefore unique within the greater lexicon that is Star Wars. For instance, the character of Finn (John Boyega) as a deserting stormtrooper who lacks strong allegiance to either sets of institutional morals established in the film, but rather an admiration for the protagonist Rey (Daisy Ridley). Are there some echoes of Han Solo in that description? Sure, but I think Finn’s inherent optimism and desire to do good for the sake of others, rather than himself, make him (slightly) more likeable than Han (if only they paid off Finn’s arc in future movies ☹). But, I also really love The Force Awakens because of how much it reminds me of the original trilogy (specifically A New Hope). Less so for it’s specific easter eggs and homages and more for its tone, action, pace, and emotional core. From the chase with the Millennium Falcon through a wrecked Star Destroyer on Jakku to Han confronting his son Ben (Adam Driver) on Starkiller Base (leading to his death at his son’s hands), the disparate elements of the movie come together so well to serve as both a great invigoration of modern sensibilities for the franchise and a very entertaining reminder of why I love Star Wars (and why you should, too). Avengers: Infinity War (2018) and Avengers: Endgame (2019) In October of 2014, Marvel Studios announced a two-part sequel to the soon-to-be-released Avengers: Age of Ultron that would be released in 2018 and 2019, respectively. The next spring, brothers Anthony and Joe Russo (Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America: Civil War) were announced as the directors for both films which would draw on the 1991 comic “The Infinity Gauntlet” by Jim Starlin and the 2013 comic “Infinity” by Jonathan Hickman. Initially referred to as “Part 1” and “Part 2,” producer Kevin Feige clarified that the films would be two “distinct” stories and thus would be retitled: the first would be called Avengers: Infinity War and the second would be called Avengers: Endgame. The films were shot back-to-back, with principal photography kicking off in late January of 2017 and spanning multiple locations from England, Scotland, and the Philippines to New York and Atlanta. With the budgets of both films exceeding 300 million dollars each, they rank #3 and #4 on the list of the most expensive films ever made (behind Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides and Avengers: Age of Ultron). Avengers: Infinity War was released on April 27, 2018 to impressive box office returns and largely warm critical reception. Specifically, the writers and directors received praise for ably juggling such a large cast of superheroes while Josh Brolin’s motion-capture performance as Thanos received the most direct acclaim. The film was nominated (but did not win) for Best Visual Effects at the Academy Awards. Its sequel, Avengers: Endgame, was released approximately one year later on April 26, 2019 to even greater box-office success and critical approval, with particular attention being paid to the performances of the original six Avengers (Robert Downey, Jr., Scarlett Johansson, Chris Hemsworth, Jeremy Renner, Chris Evans, Mark Ruffalo) and it serving as the prime example of blockbuster filmmaking. Both films currently rank in the top-five highest-grossing films of all time (Infinity War at #5 and Endgame at #2), with the latter overcoming 2009’s Avatar as the highest-grossing film ever until Avatar was re-released overseas in recent months. For my extensive thoughts on both Infinity War and Endgame, click here. I will not rehash the points that I made in that blog about these two movies, but instead simply highlight my favorite moments from both films. First, to comment on Infinity War. In line with the theme of the Avengers being divided contributing to their loss against Thanos, I appreciate how our various heroes are split up throughout the entire runtime and never fully reunite (the closest to that is the Battle of Wakanda where four of the six original Avengers are present, along with several other heroes). In many ways, the narrative structure of Infinity War tends to have a breakneck pace as it jumps from one group of heroes to another thousands of miles away which makes for a super intense and engaging thrill ride with non-stop kinetic action. With my recent rewatch of the movie, I think that my favorite mini-fights are Thanos beating Hulk on the Asgardian ship (a great way to introduce Thanos’s physical prowess), Tony working with Dr. Strange, Wong, and Spider-Man against Ebony Maw (Tom Vaughn-Lawlor) and Cull Obsidian (Terry Notary) which does well to introduce the hyperinflated ego competition between Robert Downey, Jr. and Benedict Cumberbatch, and Tony, Dr. Strange and Spider-Man leading some of the Guardians of the Galaxy against Thanos on Titan (a super-fun combination of several different power sets that also showcases some great one-on-one battles). Of course, Infinity War is not without its hype moments. I particularly enjoy Thanos throwing a moon at Iron Man on Titan for its dramatic intensity, and Thor, Rocket Raccoon and Groot traveling on the Bifrost to Wakanda to wreck shit for its exhilarating euphoria. All in all, though, I appreciate Infinity War most for how it serves as the tonal and narrative tragedy for the Marvel Cinematic Universe at large: the heroes lose, the villain wins, and the audience has to accept that (at least for a little while). Now onto Endgame, which has its own plethora of amazing franchise-defining moments. First and foremost, the set-up and pay-off that is the “Time Heist.” Thanks to Scott Lang’s amateur understanding of quantum physics, the newly-formed, post-Thanos team of Avengers devise a method to travel back in time, retrieve the Infinity Stones at various times and places in the past, and using them to bring those dusted by Thanos back to their future. Of course, the film’s theory of time travel breaks most peoples’ brains as it does not line up with the rules of this fictional concept established in films like Back to the Future. (I love the scene of Professor Hulk explaining this to Lang and Rhodey who feel betrayed by their favorite 80s sci-fi movies). Admittedly, the emotional core of the film is focused on the original six Avengers. However, there are two smaller character moments that I want to point out. Every time I watch Endgame, I nearly choke up at seeing Scott Lang reunite with a now-young adult Cassie due to the sheer strength of their relationship as built in the first two Ant-Man films. The other moment is Nebula killing her past self, not only to save Gamora but also the Infinity Stones (and thus the universe). I appreciate the arc she has in this movie and look forward to seeing more of Nebula in Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. 3. While not the most hype moment of Endgame, I have renewed appreciation for when the Avengers plan the “Time Heist” (particularly the comedic beats involving Lang and Thor). But then the “Time Heist” itself, which offers the best moments in 2012 New York with Captain America tricking the undercover H.Y.D.R.A. agents in the elevator and his fight with his younger self in Avengers Tower. Undoubtedly, however, the greatest hype of this film (and arguably in the whole Marvel Cinematic Universe) comes in the third act when 2014 Thanos arrives on present-day Earth to kill the Avengers. From Captain America finally lifting Mjolnir (much to Thor’s appreciation) and Sam Wilson/“Falcon” showing up by informing Cap that he’s “on your left,” this third act outdoes most third acts in modern cinematic history. Not to mention all the team-ups and reunions that just offer up all the excitement and emotion (I particularly love Iron Man and Pepper Potts/“Rescue” in aerial combat, Star-Lord’s less-than-ideal reunion with Gamora, and Captain America throwing Mjolnir for Spider-Man to catch and escape on). While certainly forced, I do respect the power-move of all the female heroes (in honor of Scarlett Johansson’s Black Widow) teaming up in one shot to show what the MCU has built over the past decade. If Infinity War is the “Empire Strikes Back” of the MCU, then Endgame is its “Return of the Jedi”―and I am more than okay with that. At the end of the day, the legacy of the “blockbuster” is (mostly) an impressive one. Certainly, there are some black spots early in its history with films like The Birth of a Nation and Gone with the Wind. However, as sensibilities evolved starting in the 1970s, audiences sought out action-oriented entertainment for their big-budget, summer flicks. From Jaws and Star Wars, E.T. and Indiana Jones to Jurassic Park and Titanic, The Lord of the Rings and The Avengers, the blockbusters of the future have a hefty legacy of solid entertainment to compete with. Where does this style of filmmaking go? Does it continue down the road of franchise-oriented flicks, or will we see the successors to Titanic and Avatar appear in the 2020s with identities of their own? Will they go the way that Joe Russo says in the quote that opened this blog: will blockbuster movies adopt the best attribute of television to become long-form storytelling? It’s hard to say, but whatever the case I am very excited to see what blockbusters show up over the course of the next decade and beyond. With all that being said, below are my top-five blockbusters that I have written about over the past couple of months spanning (almost) all of the decades that I discussed:
Which of these 2010s blockbuster films is your favorite? What other 2010s blockbusters that I did not mention here do you think are important? What opinions of mine do you find absolutely ridiculous? Let me know in the comments below. Until next time, this has been… Yours Truly, Amateur Analyst |
Austin McManusI have no academic or professional background in film production or criticism; I simply love watching and talking about movies. Archives
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