Channel your quirk

We are treated to a lot of quirky cinema these days. There are directors who go out of their way to be peculiar, unpredictable, unconventional… And with good reason too, probably. "What," they probably ask themselves, "is the point in being a filmmaker if I do not bring something new to the world of cinema?" All the stories have been told before, so the only scope for originality lies in the way you tell them. You can’t escape the confines of your love story, your conflict story, your chase story, your trial story or your journey story, so instead you differentiate with weird images and weird actors behaving weirdly.



There is something not quite right about some of the quirky films churned out by the indie studios (excuse the oxymoron). The bone I have to pick is not with mainstream comedy; I can vent my frustration with Mike Myers and/or the Frat Pack another time. No – right now I have a problem with student-friendly quirkmongers Wes Anderson, Zach Braff (who wrote and directed himself in the lead role of Garden State), and David O Russell (who made I ♥ Huckabees).

Some pioneers of weird have entertained us wonderfully. Some of the most memorable moments in cinema are memorable because they are quirky. The frog storm in Paul Thomas Anderson’s Magnolia (1999) is a prime example. Other good quirk includes Napoleon’s day at the chicken farm in Napoleon Dynamite (Jared Hess, 2004) and pretty much the whole of Harold and Maude (Hal Ashby, 1971).

But, while some films use choice moments of quirkiness to sublime effect, others are saturated with quirk and serve only to confuse and irritate. Very little of the Huckabees script contributes to character or to story. As a political film, it doesn’t make (or even seem to try to make) a coherent argument, and as a philosophical piece it has very little to offer, barely scratching the surface of existentialism, which is supposedly the central topic of the film. In fact, most of Huckabees is redundant unless viewed as an exercise in redundancy.

It is quite amusing that, in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (Anderson, 2004), the crew all wear the same bright red hats and blue uniform, but it strikes me that Wes Anderson is more interested in the concept of matching clothes (see also Bottle Rocket’s yellow overalls and The Royal Tenenbaums’ red tracksuits) than he is interested in telling us a story. Too much attention is paid to the micro and not enough to the macro. While I enjoyed the weird imagery in his latest film, that’s practically all that I can remember about it. The audience doesn’t take away anything substantial – just some interesting shots and some peculiar dialogue. You get the feeling that the Portuguese-singing David Bowie-playing acoustic guitarist is a gimmick to distract you from the realisation that the whole movie is empty of truth or meaning.

Please don’t get me wrong… While I think meaning is important, I don’t need it spoon-fed to me. Every filmgoer can bring and take away something to and from a movie that is different to what another filmgoer brings and takes away. There is a difference between ambiguity, where there are different interpretations of meaning, and empty quirk, where there is no meaning at all.



It’s difficult to criticise quirkiness without seeming like a conservative bore, but I genuinely feel that a lot of the quirkiness in modern film is misplaced, and displaces the creative thinking that the filmmaker could otherwise have conceived. In some ways, the ambition to make something quirky stifles the creative process, rather than stimulating it.

Is creativity the process of unleashing the imagination to present a montage of randomness? Or is it the process of viewing situations from different perspectives and connecting ideas to make them whole? I think the argument for the latter is stronger. Creativity needs a framework. It needs to be harnessed, and the results of creative thinking need to be relevant to something. If you let your imagination run loose, it is possible that you will explore some interesting ideas, and maybe even some absurd ones, and while that’s probably good for your brain, and might lead somewhere, it’s easy to lose sight of what you were trying to achieve in the first place.

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Tea and popcorn

A perennial of film journalism here in Britain is the special feature evaluating the success of home-grown talent in the movies. At least once a year, every British film magazine and broadsheet culture supplement has a ‘special’ issue wherein they list the biggest British stars and/or discuss the most successful British films, perhaps with a Ewan McGregor interview somewhere and a few ‘hot new talent’ profiles thrown in for good measure.



The results are invariably depressing for us ‘plucky’ Brits, leaving the reader to conclude that the British film industry is in decline and has been for many years. As a matter of fact, in a recent interview with Empire magazine, The Office star Ricky Gervais cited that all British films are “shit” as his reason for turning them down.

Officially, a British film is one made with British money. Of the few major feature films that are funded with British money, most are filmed in Britain with predominantly British casts and tell stories about British characters. Using this definition, Trainspotting (Boyle, 1996) is probably Britain’s greatest critical success of the last decade. But while Trainspotting was a good film, it’s only life-changing if you’re a reformed junkie or you desperately liked the soundtrack and poster.

Because our little island is often clouded over, our architecture and landscapes far from exotic, and our road infrastructure littered with the graffiti-like excess of our government’s road markings, there isn’t much artistic scope for films made with British money. So we settle for gloomy realism and Mike Leigh films. In the last ten years, we have endured a glut of rags-to-riches tales, usually set in the North of England, which follow a painfully familiar and worn formula: Billy Elliot (Daldry, 2000), Little Voice (Herman, 1998), Brassed Off (Herman, 1996), The Full Monty (Cattaneo, 1997). Perhaps the optimism in these stories is necessary to deter audiences from suicide. When tripe like Love Actually (Curtis, 2003) is considered a British triumph, and Shaun of the Dead (Wright, 2004), an amusing but unremarkable zombie comedy, wins Best British Film at the Empire Awards, it’s easy to see where Ricky Gervais is coming from. British films really are shit.

However, when examining the extent of Britain’s contribution to film, it is a big mistake to overlook how heavily British talent is involved in films that aren’t made with British money and don’t focus on British characters. There is a distinction to be made between screen personalities who are famous for being British (the bumbling Hugh Grant, for example) and versatile screen personalities who just happen to be British (like Helena Bonham Carter and the underappreciated Minnie Driver). Playing American characters, Hugh Laurie – of all people – is striking US television ratings gold in House, and Damian Lewis was the standout of the Band of Brothers cast.



As the Steve Coogan and Alfred Molina segment of Coffee and Cigarettes (Jarmusch, 2003) highlights, the US – and not London – is the place to be for aspiring British actors. Surely it makes more sense to regard Hollywood as the film capital of the world than it does to regard it as the film capital of the US. Its key players come from all over the world. Its locations are international. Its stories span different times, cultures and places that often have nothing to do with the US and its brief history.

Having said that, it should be noted that Britain probably has more to be proud of as a movie nation than any other country. With about a fifth of the population size of the US, Britain has given the world what many would consider to be its greatest director (Alfred Hitchcock), its most prestigious actor (Laurence Olivier), its greatest screen hero (Cary Grant), its greatest performer (Charlie Chaplin), its most versatile actor (Gary Oldman), its greatest villain (Alan Rickman) and, well, Peter Sellers to boot.

We British people complain about Americans stealing our legends and making them American. There are two things that we are forgetting. Firstly, we should be flattered that our stories are the ones worth telling, and that our personalities are the ones worth hijacking. It is a compliment to Michael Caine that Alfie (Gilbert, 1966), The Italian Job (Collinson, 1969), and Get Carter (Hodges, 1971) all received a Hollywood makeover in the last five years, even if all three remakes were practically as feeble as the originals. Secondly, it is with smug self-satisfaction that we can watch this summer’s Batman film: aimed at resuscitating one of America’s greatest franchises, it is directed by a Brit (Christopher Nolan) and stars a Brit (Christian Bale) in the leading role.

Who cares if John Constantine, a virtually unknown British comic book hero, has been corrupted as a Keanu Reeves vehicle? Batman is British! And so are Gandalf, James Bond, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Hannibal Lecter. Who, one wonders, is the rest of the world left with?

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Chaplin on charlie

The other day I saw my very first Charlie Chaplin film. In my ignorance, I had never imagined that his films would appeal to anyone from my generation, or indeed the one that preceded it, so I was pleasantly surprised by the warmth, humour and intelligence that appeared before me on the screen.



I tend to avoid slapstick because most things that a human can do can be tuned to perfection or wildly exaggerated in cartoons or in computer animation. Unless a filmmaker is aiming for realism, or has actors whose faces portray the finest nuances of mood, there is no significant artistic reason – and budget isn’t artistic – why that filmmaker shouldn’t make an animated film. Perhaps an exception can be made for genuine stuntmen and martial artists like Jackie Chan, whose work astounds because he persistently stretches himself to physical extremes.

Most slapstick seems contrived. What’s Up, Doc? (Bogdanovich, 1972) didn’t bring a smile to my face, but then again, there would be cause for concern if a film starring Barbra Streisand did elicit that reaction. Home Alone (Columbus, 1990) was funny, but mainly because the viewer likes to see the bad guys getting punished for picking on a defenceless kid – the punishment was inventive, but the spectacle was fairly straightforward. The work of the Farrelly Brothers amuses me, but more because the dialogue is funny than because the characters do silly things or are put in farcical situations. It’s often best to leave slapstick for the lowbrow morons who sit down to watch home video compilation shows featuring people who hurt themselves accidentally.

But Chaplin can move. There is an elegance to his antics that is missing from most slapstick. In Modern Times (Chaplin, 1936), he roller-skates in a department store, prances balletically around a factory, and runs wild on a generous dose of cocaine (that he didn’t mean to take). The highlight of the film, however, is his famous ‘nonsense song’, the only time in Chaplin’s career that the audience is subjected to the Little Tramp’s voice. It isn’t a triumph for its novelty value alone: his singing voice is funny, the way he moves is funny, and his facial expressions are funny. There is a difference between a performer and a bumbling idiot. Chaplin was a performer, and we need more like him.

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Jack Nicholson

Jack Nicholson is my favourite actor. He might not be the best actor on the planet (De Niro, perhaps?), but he is colourful, he has integrity, and he is far more versatile than most people give him credit for. (Most people just see the eyebrows and the grin, and never explore his more interesting films.)



Out of sheer fanaticism, I have sat through 35 of Jack's films. Of the 22 that I haven't seen, there are very few titles that the layman will recognise. So, with pretension to being something of an expert, I thought I'd list ten that I think everyone should see:

Five Easy Pieces (1970)
Jack’s best role, and because I like Jack so much, it’s my favourite Jack movie, even if the story of One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest has a more obvious appeal. Jack plays the man who doesn’t belong, better than he does in any other film.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975)
McMurphy vs. Ratched is the greatest character conflict of any film ever made. This is a wild and unpredictable Jack, but also one who acts well and brings forth emotional flavour from the source material.

Chinatown (1974)
Intricate plot, cool noir-ish style, attention to detail, Jack being cool and vulnerable at the same time in a serious movie… this is as good as it gets, not that phoney James L Brooks trash he made with Helen Hunt.

The King of Marvin Gardens (1972)
For hardcore Jack fans only, this isn’t crowd-pleasing iconic ‘Here’s Johnny’ hysteria. This is a thought-provoking character-driven art house film that deserves far more recognition than it has received.

The Last Detail (1973)
Combine the wild and unpredictable Jack with a razor sharp Robert Towne (Chinatown) screenplay and this is what you get. Jack is almost as funny and vociferous as he is in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.

About Schmidt (2002)
Character deviation for the great man here, proving he can play an old loser as well as he plays a young rascal. Career-wise, this was a step in the right direction.

The Pledge (2001)
Another good recent role. A solid thriller without any superficial nonsense, this film focuses on Jack in a darker and more subdued role than those to which he is accustomed.

Anger Management (2003)
Stupid and contrived, but extremely funny. Jack lets rip in this one, working his inventive lexicon and facial quirks to full effect. Jack owns this movie: Sandler looks bland by comparison.

Carnal Knowledge (1971)
Male chauvinist slimeball Jack in its infancy. (For more of that, see pretty much any of his eighties movies.) While his character is entertaining on the surface, a sad emptiness lurks beneath. A strong early performance.

The Shining (1980)
The film is as good a showcase of Kubrick’s imagery as any, but it’s not as scary as people make out. The blood in the elevator, the crumbling old woman, and other bizarre images are frightening. Jack is good at being insane, but he’s Jack, so it’s more funny than scary.

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Lame Academy

While I am not surprised that Million Dollar Baby (2004) took Best Directing and Best Picture at the Oscars this year, I can’t conceal my disappointment at Sideways (2004) having to settle for Best Adapted Screenplay, or indeed at Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) having to settle for Best Original Screenplay.

To me, there is no logic behind the Academy’s voting. A screenplay is a blueprint for a film, a set of instructions that, if followed properly, reap the visual reward imagined by the screenwriter. Any director worth his salt – and without exception, all directors who are given millions of dollars to make a Hollywood movie – are capable of using actors, cameras, and editing to execute these instructions, of realising the screenwriter’s vision.

Therefore, for the Best Picture award and the Best Writing award to be won by different movies, the message to the world is that, for better or for worse, the director of either movie did something out of the ordinary with the blueprint. Now, if Best Picture had been won by a film with remarkable special effects, camerawork, and acting beyond the scope of the screenplay, I would be able to follow such a judgement. I would understand, for example, if a Star Wars film ever won Best Picture but failed to win Best Writing. Lucas’s contributions to the visual art of filmmaking are quite astonishing, and should be recognised in this way in spite of his awful dialogue.

But when Best Picture is won by a film that isn’t a spectacular feast for the eyes, where the (admittedly very capable) director was just going through the motions of a character drama, it becomes apparent that logic has escaped the Academy. Of course, Million Dollar Baby is a very good film, but it is no better a specimen of a film than its screenplay is a specimen of a screenplay. It is an insult to Alexander Payne’s ability as a director that Sideways failed to win Best Picture despite having the best blueprint from which to make a picture. It is a huge compliment that Clint Eastwood’s film was considered the better of the two, despite being worked from a blueprint that the Academy considers inferior. Neither the magnitude of Payne’s insult, nor that of Eastwood’s compliment, is logical or deserved.

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Introduction

Welcome to Celluloid Jungle.

This blog is here for me to air and share my thoughts on film. I tend to watch all sorts of films. Even when I find a genre I dislike, I explore it until I learn to appreciate it. Some films, of course, are unlovable, but sometimes it’s necessary to watch them to remind oneself of how good other films are by comparison.



What films do I watch most? The number of times I’ve seen the original Star Wars trilogy is probably in triple figures by now. I realise this is by no means extraordinary given how many young imaginations were claimed by Lucas’s space epic, but the effect this has had on my psyche should be taken into account when reading my blog.

Like most eighties children, I grew up also liking Indiana Jones and Back to the Future. I think directors like Steven Spielberg and Robert Zemeckis are successful because they try to appeal to their audiences on a very simple level. They know the recipe for simple happiness and they keep stirring in the main ingredients – familiar characters, extraordinary events, a sense of good and bad, a sense of adventure – until the credits roll. (I think that approach is fine, providing that the audience comprises children, but I hate films like Chocolat (Hallstrom, 2000) and The Green Mile (Darabont, 1999) that speak to adults like they’re a bit slow in the head.)

A lot of filmmakers have tried and failed to mimic the formula. Roland Emmerich’s Independence Day (1996) is a good example, but I’m not even sure that would have been a great film even if the script had been more than just a flurry of ‘witty’ one-liners.

I think it was the (overrated?) screenwriter William Goldman who once said in an interview that Spielberg knew a secret to storytelling that nobody else does. For some unspecified reason, he didn’t let on what it was. But we could do with some more confidants: there’s too much faux sentimentality preying on the Academy these days. While I don’t think this stifles originality (if someone has a great idea, it will find an audience), I do think it is a shame when creative genius passes us by unrewarded by the big boys. An Oscar can do so much for a career, and for self-esteem.

The widely touted possibility of Martin Scorsese winning Best Director for The Aviator (2004) annoys me intensely. I’ve seen 15 of his films and hold him in very high regard as a director, but the Oscar should go to Alexander Payne for Sideways (2004) because it’s a better film. Marty shouldn’t be upset by the Academy’s poor judgement in the past, nor should he allow them to placate him this year with an Oscar for a project that doesn’t deserve it.

I have tried to enjoy eighties Hollywood film as an adult, but on the whole I find that the high concept decade failed to deliver the goods. Rain Man (1988) and Amadeus (1984) are notable exceptions, the former because it has good characters and acting, and the latter because it’s a serious Milos Forman biopic set in another century.

Instead, I have become obsessed with the Hollywood of the seventies. Like most people who read Easy Riders, Raging Bulls (Peter Biskind), I already had a predisposition to gritty character films like The Godfather (1972), Taxi Driver (1976), and The French Connection (1971), but when I started looking closer I was alarmed at how much better the ‘last golden age of cinema’ was than anything we’ve seen before or since.

It is rare that I watch a film from seventies Hollywood that I do not enjoy. From the irrepressible futility portrayed in Five Easy Pieces (1970) to the sparkling ingenuity of Being There (1979), the decade is one shaped by people who can reasonably claim to be auteurs, who care about telling meaningful stories, who understand the importance of intelligent writing.

What I like most about seventies film is that it provided the unpretentious soil which this meaning and intelligence needed in order to grow. Old Hollywood always seems larger than life, desperate to show the audience something glamorous and dramatic, with all its screen divas and orchestral flourishes, and while people like that from time to time, I am more impressed by a filmmaker who creates a genuine character and gives insight into something that feels real than I am by a filmmaker who creates a snapshot image to be replicated Guevara-style for all eternity. Humphrey Bogart, Marilyn Monroe, Rita Hayworth – I love you, you can act, and you have style, but on the whole your roles were pretty shallow.



Outside the US studios output, I have seen more than the average Joe, but probably less than the average critic. I’m crazy about Ingmar Bergman. Autumn Sonata (1978) is the best of the 23 Bergman films I’ve seen thus far. Although it is probably no coincidence that this, more than any of his other films, has a seventies counterculture feel to it, I am impressed at how Bergman’s films remain socially relevant and intriguing across the five decades they span. To Joy (1950) is a beautiful and delicate reward for those who suffered some of the melodramatic pulp offered in the forties, and The Silence (1953) is endlessly watchable and artistic without pretension.

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