The Woody Allen Factor

Finally, after much to-do, I got around to seeing Woody Allen's newest entry into the 'Woody Allen Canon', 'Vicky Christina Barcelona', at the Angelika in Greenwich Village.  I have always been prepared to like Allen's films.  Indeed, I am one of the defenders of the less-than-perfect late 90s pictures, such as The Curse of the Jade Scorpion and Small-Time Crooks.  But Allen has truly entered his latest renaissance.  Far from the pessimistic world-view of Match Point, or the screwball-comedy schtick of Scoop, Vicky Christina Barcelona should rank right up there with the vintage Allen films that crop up on 'Best-Of' lists the world over.  It represents Allen's return to a balance of comedy, tragedy, and romantic pathos, an honest examination of love, sex, madness and the artistic mindset.  

The plot happily avoids typical cliches of the 'stranger in a strange land' motif.   This is not, in other words, Under the Tuscan Sun.  Vicky and Christina find their romantic painter in Juan Antonio, played with warmth by Javier Bardem.  But Juan Antonio does not know more than either woman; he merely has a different outlook.  The film avoids endorsing either the uptight and pragmatic Vicky, the passionate and unfocused Christina, or, for that matter, the elegant and fiery Juan Antonio.  The solution to life's mysteries, particularly love and art, evade them all.

Vicky Christina Barcelona also represents a return to a deeper interest in the concerns of women, a la Hannah and Her Sisters.  Juan Antonio may be the catalyst for Vicky and Christina's self-examination, but the film is much more interested in that self-examination than it is in normative heterosexual relationships.  The man provides an outlet for self-expression, but he remains little more than a cipher through which to view these complex female characters.  Even Juan Antonio's muse, his ex-wife Maria-Elena, is more of an artist.  She hands him his art, inspiring it and shaping it, so that there is no great art without her.  Far from being a male fantasy about having two (and eventually three) women at once, the women dominate the film and the man.  This is more about their desire, and their art, than it is about his.    

Allen has made much of his pessimism and his atheism, which appear to go hand in hand.  But ultimately, Vicky Christina Barcelona is a hopeful film, a film about real life.  There is a sense that both nothing and everything has changed.  The return to New York may represent a return to the uptight bourgeois world they at first abandoned, or it may represent a new phase in the lives of the two women.  Juan Antonio and Barcelona has not provided the answer to the central desires of Vicky and Christina, but there is no indication that New York will give them any more closure.  Life will continue to be about searching for what they want, what they need, what gives them fulfillment.  But it is not a fruitless search that will leave them empty.  Both Vicky and Christina experience transitory fulfillment and happiness, both find something they lacked.  All in all, the film is less pessimistic than any of Allen's more recent films.  While it cannot claim to provide answers, it does raise some fascinating questions.      

The Dangerous Lives of Movie Critics

So I, like Lauren, also read the article criticizing film critics, and at the risk of poaching her subject have a little to add, because this phenomenon of people discussing the worthlessness of critics was actually a factor in our decision to start a film blog. I think we might run into it more than most because of our frequent explorations in the venerable halls of the IMDb message boards, but the vitriol aimed at film critics is most of the time even more snobbish than a New Yorker review of a Michael Bay film. So often these people like to think of themselves as David tackling the Goliath of elitism, but in the end they just come across as playground bullies teasing the nerd because he wears glasses.

The fact is that most of the people that complain about film criticism don’t get that they’re not the audience for it anymore than Manohla Dargis of the New York Times is the audience for “X-Men 3: The Last Stand.” “X-Men 3,” like “Spiderman 3” and “Pirates of the Caribbean 3,” was going to make money no matter what the fraternity of movie critics said about it (people also seem to forget that actually the first incarnations of “X-men,” “Spiderman,” and “Pirates of the Caribbean” were generally liked by the critics). Quite frankly I find it hard to pity “Spiderman 3” for its poor reviews when it went to the bank with $336,530,303, and “The Lives of Others,” which I think is the best movie that has come out of this decade, made $11,284,657. When Joe Morgenstern of the Wall Street Journal gets attacked by hoards of crazy Batfans for giving a mixed review to “The Dark Knight,” which was almost universally praised and is the second highest grossing film of all time, one begins to think that these fanboys’ attentions are a little misguided. What do they want? The whole world to agree with them? It basically does, allow Joe Morgenstern to prefer “Tell No One,” “The Dark Knight” doesn’t need him, but a French thriller in limited release does. The same weekend that “The Dark Knight” made a record breaking $151,411,483 “Tell No One” made $400,947. Do you still feel like you’re David fighting the unjust Goliath of film snobbery?

I read articles on the internet tracking the weekend box office results and gleefully reporting that in spite of poor reviews a movie did spectacularly, or that the critics were wrong again. Well let me tell you the critics aren’t there to tell you whether or not a movie will be a success, they’re there to tell you if a movie is going to have anything to add to the medium of cinema. The remake of “Prom Night” might have opened at the top of the box office with more money than “The Lives of Others” made in its entire run, but who cares about that film now? It was a throw away piece of PG-13 horror that I doubt even the director cared about beyond using it as a stepping-stone from TV to movies. But if you can’t decide the quality of a movie democratically by how many people see it what are we left with? Is everyone’s opinion equal, or can we say that Anthony Lane of the New Yorker, who is educated in the history of film and has seen probably more movies than Quentin Tarantino (certainly he’s seen a broader range of movies than Tarantino), is a better judge of whether or not a movie should be added to the canon than Batdude666 who states that a movie sucked because it had character development instead of a knife wielding maniac in it? People who say that film criticism is obsolete in this age of blogs and podcasts don’t understand that reviews maybe dispensable for the likes of “Superman Returns,” but for a small movie like “The Lives of Others” or “Little Miss Sunshine” they can be the difference between a sleeper and a bomb. When was this golden age that people keep talking about where critics had the power to torpedo a blockbuster? It never happened; people will go to those movies anyway, be it 1948 or 2008, but movies that have little or no money for advertising need reviews or they will fail. “The Visitor” was a very fine movie, but I never would have given it a second glance to if it hadn’t been for a positive review from A.O. Scott.

I’m going to be lazy and finish with two quotes, which basically sum up everything I have to say. The first is probably familiar to you as it was intoned to perfection by Peter O’Toole in “Ratatouille,” and the second is by my favorite critic, Anthony Lane of the New Yorker.

“In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations. The new needs friends.”

“At a time when, for many viewers, the value of a motion picture is indicated by the rotation of a chubby thumb through 180 degrees, one should remind them that, of all the duties required of the professional critic, perhaps the least important – certainly the least enduring – is the delivery of a verdict. I am always sorry to hear that readers were personally offended, even scandalized, that my opinion of a film diverged from theirs. I wish I could convince them that I am merely starting an argument, as everyone does over dinner, or in a crowded bar, after going to see a film, and that their freedom to disagree is part of the fun.”

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Embrace My Film Snobbery

I recently read an article about how terrible film critics are.  Out of touch with the general populace, snobbish, obsessed with those ancient films no one wants to see any more, lacking in an understanding of the great narrative intricacies of the superhero film seemed to be the basic consensus.  Whether the author was being serious is a question unto itself, as the article seemed to have been written in faux-teenage parlance and in the form of a top ten list.  But the complaints contained therein are incredibly common.  Whether this author was being serious or not, there are plenty of others who are.  

So, film critics? Do we need 'em? Do we even care? Cinema has long been considered a democratic mode of entertainment.  Everyone has an opinion on the latest new release.  Often it does not go past the 'dude, that was sweet!' point, but every once in awhile some enterprising young person with access to a computer, blackberry or iphone gets on the horn and starts telling everyone in the world just what he or she thought of 'Superman Returns'.  We all do it, we all think our opinion matters, we all want to be heard.  We're the ones the movie is aimed at, we buy the tickets, we love the stars.  So does that mean that our opinion is just as good as, or better than, the professional film critics? The people who don't buy tickets but get paid to give their opinion on Jessica Alba's riveting performance in 'The Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer'?

I happen to be one of those people, apparently in the minority, who do enjoy those ancient films no one cares about.  Forgive me if I cannot see the poetry in Michael Bay's 'Transformers', for I would much rather watch Lang's 'Metropolis'.  Yes, I do refer to 'The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari' as simply 'Caligari' because, well, everyone who matters has seen it.  I am more interested in Antonioni's projections of lost identity and alienation than I am in watching Dane Cook wrestle with Kate Hudson.  Strange, to be sure, but true.  That is not to say that I don't enjoy the everyday.  I laughed all the way through 'Tropic Thunder' and 'Anchorman', and 'The Dark Knight' kept me anchored to my seat for its entire running time.  To like films like 'The 400 Blows' does not mean that one cannot like 'Hellboy'.  Del Toro is as worthy of interest as Truffaut.

I can accept the criticism that professional film critics need to lighten up, that they at times can seem snobby, self-satisfied and, because a film is not non-linear and French, find no value in it.  And there are critics who have made a career out of being curmudgeons.  Lest we forget that the greatest films of yesteryear were, in fact, also the popular films.  'Casablanca' was meant to be a B-melodrama, after all.  We should not, however, overvalue some of the tripe audiences are fed today because they might be classics tomorrow.  I do not foresee a great demand in the future for reissuing 'Pearl Harbor', even as a historical curiosity.  And I will never, though I enjoyed every minute of it, accept the idea that 'The Dark Knight' is of greater cinematic value than 'The Thousand Eyes of Dr. Mabuse'.

And let us also face facts.  Beyond the mere opinions of the professional film critics, they are better writers! Sit and read Anthony Lane's remarkably grumpy reviews in 'The New Yorker'.  Even if you disagree with him (and pray to God that you do!), he writes well.  He's funny.  He's amusing.  And he's intelligent.  

Film is a democratic medium, but that does not mean that the lowest common denominator is always right.  People may flock to see Adam Sandler and ignore Charlie Chaplin but, for those of us who have actually watched a Chaplin film and not just complained about the lack of sound, Chaplin will remain the superior comedian.  Not because Chaplin is in black and white, not because there is no sound, not because so many of his films were made before 1930, but because (brace yourself!) he's funnier! 

Having an education in film does not mean going to film school and being taught about soviet montage.  It means seeing all kinds of film, enjoying all kinds of film, appreciating what is good and laughing at what is bad.  If the professional critics are too obsessed with the obscure and the old, the critics of the critics are too obsessed with how Spiderman is portrayed.  Popular does not equal bad, but save us if it automatically equals good.       

There has been too much 'us versus them' on both sides of the equation.  I sit in my cinema studies classes and talk with people who adore 'Freddy Vs. Jason' AND 'Last Year at Marienbad', all at the same time.  Amazing.  We are the snobs of tomorrow, and the ones who merrily embrace Ben Stiller.  And to those noisy opinionated members of the Imdb message boards who have never seen a black and white film, stop acting like you are in the majority.  For the snobs and the cineastes are part of the public too and know what they like.  If we must forget Chaplin and only have Sandler, if we must reject 'Rear Window' in favor of 'Disturbia', then we have lost the argument that made film into an intellectual medium, something actually worthy of study, something worthy to be venerated.  And with that we have lost some honest expressions of our culture, of our history.  More than that, we have lost some damn fine entertainment.            

Extras, Rain, and Ang Lee

The idea of filming a scene while wrangling 300 inexperienced extras is enough to send shivers down one’s spine – shivers intensified by the fact that the light rain is beginning to turn into heavy rain and the scene that you are filming is supposed to be a beautiful day in August. I cannot imagine what was going through the director’s, producers’, and crew’s collective hive mind as they saw that they had 300 wet non-professionals and a wasted day of filming to pay them for.

The day was last Friday, the film was “Taking Woodstock,” the director was the incomparable Ang Lee, and one of the 300 wet non-professionals was me. The logistics of scheduling, and filming a scene of this magnitude seem almost overwhelming, and even my presence there during the filming cannot lessen my disbelief at how much work goes into the making of a feature film, and how much of that work is unappreciated by the viewer. The day, at least for the extras, started with the production assistants who had to make sure that everyone that had been called for the day was there and was on the bus to wardrobe. Once in wardrobe each extra had to find their costume, dress, and present themselves to the costumers who had to give their approval to each. Authenticity matters for each and every one; nary a bra could be found on the hippies, and low-waisted jeans were proclaimed to be “’90s Woodstock, not ‘60s Woodstock.” Makeup consisted of fake dirt being applied to the legs, hands, necks, and elbows, and the unlucky girls who had highlights in their hair were given an earful and a temporary dye job. All this for 300 people, most of whom would only be glimpsed in the background of the scene. All this on a day where the weather made filming almost impossible after 2PM.

Extras are requested not to reveal details of the movie, but it would be quite difficult to even if I wished. We are not told very much, and the plot, though in the dark to me, is available for any who venture out to buy Elliot Tiber’s memoir “Taking Woodstock.” But the scene we filmed involved the impressive feat of trying to organize a flock of college-aged hippies (most fit that description in real life as well as in the film) along a picturesque dirt road. I was placed in a stall which sold “baked goods” among its other products whose period appropriate names were provided for me by one of the production assistants who had taken full advantage of what the ‘60s had to offer (Panama Red, Hawaiian, Afghani opiated hash?). We were basically left to our own devices and ingenuity to create a convincing, but not distracting setting for the main character to wend his way through. This was fun, but cold as a strong wind was cutting through the woods. I felt particularly sorry for the guy who was buying our merchandise as he was requested to do it without a shirt (remember Woodstock happened in August). We shivered our way between takes, but as soon as “action” was spoken we pulled ourselves together trying to look as authentic as possible, the moment the camera moved on though we collapsed shaking into our chilled bones. By 1:30 our stall had become very popular because our baked goods were real, and certainly welcome to people who had had little to eat since 8AM, lunch it turned out was still 3 hours away. We were given a break at 2:00 to have a snack and sit down a moment. Unfortunately as soon as we trudged back up the hill to the filming site it started spitting, and after putting everyone into place for the scene the rain had become too heavy for filming so we all were sent back to the holding tent to wait it out. Though there was a slight respite an hour or so later everything was already wet, and it is doubtful that the footage that they finally got before the rains returned was usable.

Basically it was a nightmare for Ang Lee, the crew, and the producers (one of whom when I innocently asked if it was possible to film even though everything was wet, came up to me so that we were nose to nose and said definitively in reply “It. Is. Not. Wet.” You don’t argue with a producer), and yet the atmosphere on set remained, though perhaps not overtly cheerful, relaxed and comfortable. This good vibe seemed to radiate from Ang Lee himself. Though I had minimal interaction with him and never exchanged a word, it was obvious that the man has a quiet power about him. He’s in control not because he forces it, but because he’s the type that people want to follow. He passed five feet in front of me making sure that my stall was everything that it should have been. I stopped what I was doing, dumbfounded in his presence, and he smiled at me. I am now convinced that the man must be some sort of demigod, and for another smile I’d do it all again.

The Actor Vanishes

Throughout film history, there have been any number of great actors who, for better or worse, are now forgotten or worse yet, ignored. Actors like Leslie Howard, now better known as the guy who played Ashley Wilkes in Gone with the Wind than for his better, more interesting roles in Pygmalion, The Scarlet Pimpernel, and 49th Parallel, who were not only popular in their time, but quite powerful as well. I don't know what it is that makes us forget men like Howard but remember Olivier, except that Sir Larry had the good fortune to live a long and full life and Howard died tragically at the age of 42. But today, in this post, I am not concerned with Howard, but with another man, very much like him, who is too little regarded as a film actor.

That man is Michael Redgrave.

If you know Michael Redgrave at all, you probably know him from one of several sources: as the father of Vanessa, Lynn and Corin Redgrave and the grandfather of Natasha Richardson; as the third in the trifecta of great British stage actors, alongside Olivier, Gielgud and, at times, Ralph Richardson; or perhaps, if you really like Hitchcock, you may know him as the romantic lead of 'The Lady Vanishes'. In any event, Redgrave is certainly less of a footnote than Leslie Howard, but here is the crux of the matter: how many films have you actually seen him in? Supposing that you have seen The Lady Vanishes, oh Hitchcockian, have you seen any others? The Browning Version, The Captive Heart, Oh! What a Lovely War!, Mourning Becomes Electra, The Dam Busters, Secret Beyond the Door, The Stars Look Down, Kipps, The Quiet American, Dead of Night?

He worked, in his day, with some of the greatest actors and directors: Alfred Hitchcock, Carol Reed, Anthony Asquith. His first film role was as a captain in Hitchcock's 'Secret Agent', which also boasted a cast including Peter Lorre, Madeleine Carroll, Robert Young, and...John Gielgud. He was first and foremost a stage actor, which may account for the lack of films available on DVD, in the US at least. But he was a film actor too, and a damn fine one at that.

Perhaps Redgrave's brilliance lies in the fact that he, initially at least, was not comfortable on film. He did The Lady Vanishes because he 'had a family to support'; he was uncomfortable with the notion that he did not have time to prepare the same as he did on stage. And, in the end, he was dissatisfied with his performance. But turn again to 'The Lady Vanishes' and actually watch the man. He certainly does not look uncomfortable. He looks relaxed and speaks his lines as nonchalantly as his character demands. It is not merely because of Hitchcock's masterful direction that The Lady Vanishes is often ranked as the Master's best British film, and often comes up on Top Ten lists. Redgrave certainly has a better time of it than his friend John Gielgud (thought I adore Secret Agent), who at times looks like he's lost the will to act.

Redgrave in 'The Lady Vanishes' has no such problem. Consider for a moment the introduction of his character Gilbert:

Redgrave's performance is here vital to an understanding of the film, and indeed to its outlook on love. We have just seen Iris discussing, in rather depressing terms, her prospective marriage to what one of her friends describes as a 'blue-blooded check chaser'. When we are given our one and only glimpse of Charles, we are struck both by his similarity to Redgrave, but also the very important differences. That Gilbert is better looking is just the surface; his vitality, classlessness, and association with music and dance puts him in stark contrast to the impression we first receive of Charles, and the physical appearance of the man himself. Far from being the check chaser feared by Iris and her friends, Gilbert is the personification of joy. He dances, he plays the clarinet, he even sings! And he is cheeky enough to walk right into a woman's room and propose that they literally sleep together. Part of the breezy, charming, romantic nature of the film rests securely on Redgrave's shoulders; without Gilbert, his clarinet, and his carefree nature, Miss Froy is never found, the villains win the day, and Iris falls into a loveless marriage. But that would never do.



Redgrave had a tendency to vanish into his roles; very seldom are we aware of the actor himself. Comparing his performance in 'The Lady Vanishes' to his later portrayal of Orin in 'Mourning Becomes Electra' to his staid, understated performance as Crocker-Harris in 'The Browning Version' brings up the great breadth of his ability. A classically trained actor, he nonetheless often embodies qualities we associate with the Method men of the 1950s and later. He vanishes. Vanishes into the character, into the setting. Vanishes not just behind grayed hair or spectacles, flashy white clothes or a loose bow-tie, but vanishes into himself. For all intents and purposes, Redgrave's great quality was in never being Michael Redgrave. Olivier, great actor though he was, could never really say that.