Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Stranger than Fiction
Another film I have enjoyed this fall, Stranger than Fiction, follows a writer character named Kay Eiffel, played by Emma Thompson, as she attempts to write the tragedy of a Will Ferrell character named Harold Crick. But Crick inadvertently gains self awareness as a character being manipulated by a writer with a death wish. This self-reflexive film reminds me of At Swim-Two-Birds, Flann O'Brien's tour-de-force on the "opposite and equal reaction" of characters upon their authors. Dustin Hoffman plays a very funny, very satiric, English professor who attempts to help Crick identify the type of story he is in. It is only when Crick accepts that he is in a tragedy that Eiffel wakes up to the possibility of a story not ending in the death of the main character. The playfulness with genres is delightful. And the implications of what makes for more profound literature--tragedy or comedy--and more profound living are truly . . . well . . . profound.
Existenz and Color Me Kubrick
No time to respond in depth, but I need to keep track of good films.
Existenz, with Jennifer Jason Leigh, Jude Law, Ian Holm, and Willem Dafoe, Dir. David Cronenberg. I liked this one much better than The Matrix. The relationship between physical reality and cyber reality is much more complicated. The central characters are implicated in violence to humans, with no clear lines between good and evil. Very complex, very subtle.
Color Me Kubrick was great fun, with smart references to Clockwork Orange, Dr. Strangelove, Barry Lyndon, and other Kubrick films. John Malkovich was wonderful as Alan Conway, the man who passed himself off as Kubrick in London for several years. Dir. Brian Cook.
Existenz, with Jennifer Jason Leigh, Jude Law, Ian Holm, and Willem Dafoe, Dir. David Cronenberg. I liked this one much better than The Matrix. The relationship between physical reality and cyber reality is much more complicated. The central characters are implicated in violence to humans, with no clear lines between good and evil. Very complex, very subtle.
Color Me Kubrick was great fun, with smart references to Clockwork Orange, Dr. Strangelove, Barry Lyndon, and other Kubrick films. John Malkovich was wonderful as Alan Conway, the man who passed himself off as Kubrick in London for several years. Dir. Brian Cook.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Winter Passing, the film, the desire on this winter's day
So cold and blustery this February day, with winds here in Ohio to compete with the gales that chill my family to the bone in Southwest Kansas. A fitting movie for such a day, Winter Passing (2006). I wasn’t sure I would like it as it opened on the central character, Reese Holden (played by Zooey Deschanel, an actor who looks and sounds like Debra Winger), because the focus seemed to be on her self-involvement. I am not impressed by that film genre that presents self-involvement favorably, as in the film with “Eternal Sunshine” and “Spotless Mind” in the title. I couldn’t finish that one, even though I typically like the acting of Jim Carrey and thought Kate Winslet did a fine job in Sense and Sensibility.
But to its credit Winter Passing did not glorify characters with arrested emotional development. In the storyline the self-involvement of Reese was presented in a studied manner . . . as was the self-involvement of her father, Don Holden, a character played very sensitively by Ed Harris. Instead of glorifying self-involvement or depicting it as a mere quirk of personality, these two characters were presented as deeply pained in part by that very state. Their excesses of “self focus” kept these characters from understanding and supporting each other. They were isolated from each other, unable to discuss the suicide of the wife (to Don)/mother (to Reese), unable to comfort one another. Reese was trapped in an angry state of arrested emotional development, her father caught in an alcoholic haze. His grief and guilt over his wife’s suicide was turned inward as he drank his way through each day. Reese’s anger turned both outward—toward her father and the two people who lived with him and functioned as his caretakers—and inward as she snorted cocaine to numb the pain.
Besides the film exposing the self destructive qualities of self-involvement, it set this state in the context of the “artist’s life,” for all three members of the Holden family (the dead mother, Mary, and Don and Reese) are some type of artist. Don and Mary fiction writers, Reese an actor in NYC. The relationship between creativity and madness is explored, especially in scenes with Don and one of his caretaker friends, played by Will Ferrell, hitting golf balls around in a cleared-out bedroom of the Holden house. Don and the Will Ferrell character, Corbit, are outfitted in “body armor” of sorts: the chest and leg padding of an ice hockey goalie and a makeshift “shield” from the lid of a forty-gallon metal trash can. They wield drivers with full force in the room, adding an element of the surreal to an otherwise realist film. The madness, or surreality, are heightened by Don’s choice to move to a new bedroom. He has moved out of the house altogether, leaving the care of it to Corbit and another character, Shelly, played by Amelia Warner. Don is ensconced in his very run-down garage, and all the furniture from his and his wife’s bedroom is situated in the back yard, open to the winter wind and snow. His ramshackle garage and the bedroom furniture in the yard seem expressionistic, revealing the decay of Don’s mental faculties and his inability to face his grief and guilt.
But the surreality is not presented as a mere quirk. It is totally in keeping with a psychologically realist exploration of the artist’s way of coping with the sudden, traumatic loss of a loved one. The realist confluence of artistic temperament, trauma and grief, self-involved guilt, and a writerly interest in every idea ever written about extends to the depiction of the Holden house, for its rooms and hallways are stacked high with books of all sorts. It is the house of people who treasure books and the words and ideas they contain, who can’t throw anything away, who make their very lives out of words.
That theme of being compelled to live in words, especially words of the past, is evidenced by the old books that Don surrounds himself with but also by the collection of love letters that his wife and he exchanged. The collection is the only organized thing in the house, having been paper clipped into sequential sets by Mary some time before she committed suicide. Mary has left the collection to her daughter, and the film’s plot opens as Reese is approached by an editor who wants to publish these very private, very candid letters. Reese’s intention is to go to her parents’ home in the Upper Peninsula, get the letters, and turn them over to the editor for a sizeable sum of money.
Of course she comes to treasure the letters as she reads her parents’ correspondence. And as she comes to understand the complexity of her parents’ relationship, she also begins to work through the grief over her mother’s death. Looking over the plot, I recognize that it is not groundbreaking. The strength of the film comes from its well-developed symbology: scenes of digging up and burying packages of “words,” the Corbit character unable to play his guitar and sing at the same time, the Shelly character remembering Mary’s letters verbatim and caught up in the dead woman’s existence, Reese rummaging through her mother’s dresser drawers for her father’s necktie, the tie used in the suicide.
The strength of the film also comes from the subtlety of the actors. Ed Harris always develops interesting, believable, compelling characters. His range of characters is amazing. And two of the other three matched his performance with their own subtlety of depiction. Zooey Deschanel and Amelia Warner both underplayed their emotional turmoil but it was evident at moments in the face and shoulders. And Will Ferrell, who is better known for comedic roles, decently played a troubled musician, using that flat-affect technique that often works for someone unskilled in subtlety of expression.
The settings of closed-in cluttered rooms of the Holden house are contrasted with the house and outbuildings set in an isolated and fairly open area of the Michigan UP. This exposed rural setting was further contrasted with the closed-in, cluttered New York City apartment rooms, bars, and streets. This textural contrast I liked very much. I don’t know the writer/director, Adam Rapp. I’ll have to see what else he has written, directed.
But to its credit Winter Passing did not glorify characters with arrested emotional development. In the storyline the self-involvement of Reese was presented in a studied manner . . . as was the self-involvement of her father, Don Holden, a character played very sensitively by Ed Harris. Instead of glorifying self-involvement or depicting it as a mere quirk of personality, these two characters were presented as deeply pained in part by that very state. Their excesses of “self focus” kept these characters from understanding and supporting each other. They were isolated from each other, unable to discuss the suicide of the wife (to Don)/mother (to Reese), unable to comfort one another. Reese was trapped in an angry state of arrested emotional development, her father caught in an alcoholic haze. His grief and guilt over his wife’s suicide was turned inward as he drank his way through each day. Reese’s anger turned both outward—toward her father and the two people who lived with him and functioned as his caretakers—and inward as she snorted cocaine to numb the pain.
Besides the film exposing the self destructive qualities of self-involvement, it set this state in the context of the “artist’s life,” for all three members of the Holden family (the dead mother, Mary, and Don and Reese) are some type of artist. Don and Mary fiction writers, Reese an actor in NYC. The relationship between creativity and madness is explored, especially in scenes with Don and one of his caretaker friends, played by Will Ferrell, hitting golf balls around in a cleared-out bedroom of the Holden house. Don and the Will Ferrell character, Corbit, are outfitted in “body armor” of sorts: the chest and leg padding of an ice hockey goalie and a makeshift “shield” from the lid of a forty-gallon metal trash can. They wield drivers with full force in the room, adding an element of the surreal to an otherwise realist film. The madness, or surreality, are heightened by Don’s choice to move to a new bedroom. He has moved out of the house altogether, leaving the care of it to Corbit and another character, Shelly, played by Amelia Warner. Don is ensconced in his very run-down garage, and all the furniture from his and his wife’s bedroom is situated in the back yard, open to the winter wind and snow. His ramshackle garage and the bedroom furniture in the yard seem expressionistic, revealing the decay of Don’s mental faculties and his inability to face his grief and guilt.
But the surreality is not presented as a mere quirk. It is totally in keeping with a psychologically realist exploration of the artist’s way of coping with the sudden, traumatic loss of a loved one. The realist confluence of artistic temperament, trauma and grief, self-involved guilt, and a writerly interest in every idea ever written about extends to the depiction of the Holden house, for its rooms and hallways are stacked high with books of all sorts. It is the house of people who treasure books and the words and ideas they contain, who can’t throw anything away, who make their very lives out of words.
That theme of being compelled to live in words, especially words of the past, is evidenced by the old books that Don surrounds himself with but also by the collection of love letters that his wife and he exchanged. The collection is the only organized thing in the house, having been paper clipped into sequential sets by Mary some time before she committed suicide. Mary has left the collection to her daughter, and the film’s plot opens as Reese is approached by an editor who wants to publish these very private, very candid letters. Reese’s intention is to go to her parents’ home in the Upper Peninsula, get the letters, and turn them over to the editor for a sizeable sum of money.
Of course she comes to treasure the letters as she reads her parents’ correspondence. And as she comes to understand the complexity of her parents’ relationship, she also begins to work through the grief over her mother’s death. Looking over the plot, I recognize that it is not groundbreaking. The strength of the film comes from its well-developed symbology: scenes of digging up and burying packages of “words,” the Corbit character unable to play his guitar and sing at the same time, the Shelly character remembering Mary’s letters verbatim and caught up in the dead woman’s existence, Reese rummaging through her mother’s dresser drawers for her father’s necktie, the tie used in the suicide.
The strength of the film also comes from the subtlety of the actors. Ed Harris always develops interesting, believable, compelling characters. His range of characters is amazing. And two of the other three matched his performance with their own subtlety of depiction. Zooey Deschanel and Amelia Warner both underplayed their emotional turmoil but it was evident at moments in the face and shoulders. And Will Ferrell, who is better known for comedic roles, decently played a troubled musician, using that flat-affect technique that often works for someone unskilled in subtlety of expression.
The settings of closed-in cluttered rooms of the Holden house are contrasted with the house and outbuildings set in an isolated and fairly open area of the Michigan UP. This exposed rural setting was further contrasted with the closed-in, cluttered New York City apartment rooms, bars, and streets. This textural contrast I liked very much. I don’t know the writer/director, Adam Rapp. I’ll have to see what else he has written, directed.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
On Atonement
What is that very disturbing idea behind Atonement (2008), that those prone to fictionalize may fall prey to their own insecurities, their grudges? The child Briiony holds a grudge against Robbie, the worker on the family estate, and lets that grudge influence her interpretation of the scene at the fountain, in the library, and in the “sexual attack” scene. Not having the nerve to seek forgiveness, she atones for her crime (for it is criminal) through her fiction. She is delighted to write before the accusation . . . but she is obsessed with writing as a young adult. And the hand washing. Is she washing away the guilt? Or the blood of the soldiers she tends. Maybe both. She has no stomach for the mangled condition of some of the men. She has more “stomach” for the guilt she carries inside. Otherwise she would have sought forgiveness. It is as if her writing assuages her guilt too, too much. Writing offers respite from her guilt . . . and in the process, aids her refusal of remorse, she stuffing remorse down inside, away from her daily consciousness, she never having to feel the full impact of what she’s done, not just to her sister and sister’s lover but to her own self. She is never compelled to go in person to her sister’s hovel and beg forgiveness . . . because she writes.
The film is intriguing to me because of that idea. The acting by the three females (Saoirse Ronan, Romola Garai, Vanessa Redgrave) playing Briony Tallis was quite good, and James McAvoy, playing Robbie Turner, gave a solid performance. Keira Knightley’s depiction of Cecilia Tallis was weaker than the others, but solid enough, for playing an ingénue cannot be that easy. But it is the writing concept and the way in which the concept of writing is presented—with the constant clicking of the typewriter keys, the omnipresent rhythm of it, overwhelming the musical score in several places, the relentlessness of it—that is so striking. And the fictionality of the two lovers is strong, they being in love “just like in a book,” madly in love, the one repeating “come back to me” over and over, the literary trope flowing through the story line. The story line, also, plays into the idea of the force of writing, for the timing of scenes is perfect, just the right length, never dragging, never moving too quickly, pressing forward but not running, never dawdling, And the settings, too, very clearly filled with the sense of the past, “just like in an old book,” alive with the colors and objects of the past, and especially striking in the clutter of objects in the rooms of the hospital, the dormitory, Cecilia’s apartment, the Dunkirk beach and resort buildings. Joe Wright is masterful in shaping Ian McEwan’s story. The film works on me because of that but also because it speaks to the poet in me. So many of us fill our lives with fiction, with characters, with poetic personae, with the music and décor and ideas of the past . . . just like in a book.
The film is intriguing to me because of that idea. The acting by the three females (Saoirse Ronan, Romola Garai, Vanessa Redgrave) playing Briony Tallis was quite good, and James McAvoy, playing Robbie Turner, gave a solid performance. Keira Knightley’s depiction of Cecilia Tallis was weaker than the others, but solid enough, for playing an ingénue cannot be that easy. But it is the writing concept and the way in which the concept of writing is presented—with the constant clicking of the typewriter keys, the omnipresent rhythm of it, overwhelming the musical score in several places, the relentlessness of it—that is so striking. And the fictionality of the two lovers is strong, they being in love “just like in a book,” madly in love, the one repeating “come back to me” over and over, the literary trope flowing through the story line. The story line, also, plays into the idea of the force of writing, for the timing of scenes is perfect, just the right length, never dragging, never moving too quickly, pressing forward but not running, never dawdling, And the settings, too, very clearly filled with the sense of the past, “just like in an old book,” alive with the colors and objects of the past, and especially striking in the clutter of objects in the rooms of the hospital, the dormitory, Cecilia’s apartment, the Dunkirk beach and resort buildings. Joe Wright is masterful in shaping Ian McEwan’s story. The film works on me because of that but also because it speaks to the poet in me. So many of us fill our lives with fiction, with characters, with poetic personae, with the music and décor and ideas of the past . . . just like in a book.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Of Huck Finn, Breach, and Babel
This is my year for catching up on my reading and film viewing. This past weekend I watched Breach and Babel for the first time and re-read Adventures of Huckleberry Finn for about the tenth time, for a class. Every reading of Huck Finn brings out another subtlety of the text or a question as a critic. Yes, Jim becomes very flat and stereotypical at the end and yet I cannot forget the deep constraints placed on the character, a 13-14 year old boy who has gotten himself into such a quandary over what is moral that he simply stops thinking about the matter altogether except to wonder what his friend Tom’s motives are. Oddly enough, in spite of my disappointment that Huck wasn’t shaped by Mark Twain in those last eleven chapters to continue reporting the complexities of Jim, his voice still rings true these 123 years later. It is as if in becoming so emotionally confused by his moral dilemma in chapter 31 and rebelliously declaring that he’s willing to “go to hell” to save Jim, he draws back, regresses into a less mature state.
Huck’s emotional confusion makes for a still-powerful narrative position. First-person narrative constraints in novels have a way of allowing the audience a great deal of freedom of thematic interpretation. And what about the films I watched this weekend, ones that I should have seen months ago? The narrative positioning of Breach (2007) is, like in Huck Finn, narrow and focused on a character who encounters a complex human being who is always more than he seems. I listened to the commentary by the director, Billy Ray, and Eric O’Neill, the person on which the viewpoint character is based. O’Neill points out that, yes, like the character “O’Neill” played by Ryan Phillippe, he felt the danger. He felt threatened by Robert Hanssen during the time he was his assistant and helping to build the case against the spy. O’Neill and the character based on him both have self awareness of their narrow view of Hanssen, whose motives for treason remain, even seven years after being arrested and convicted, a mystery. In the face of Hanssen’s seemingly moral behavior and his sincere religious devotion, both O’Neill and his character-self feel confused . . . something like Huck’s confusion over his society’s sincere yet flawed morality, with its enduring blind spot, its dehumanization of Black Folk. The white characters of Huck’s hometown and those at the Phelps plantation are good folk, yet blind to their own paternalistic version of racism.
And was that true of Hanssen? I couldn’t tell, for all I have is the characterization of him by Chris Cooper. If the story of Robert Hanssen had been completely fictional, I could hazard a guess that the character Hanssen is blind to his own hubris, a tragic hubris born of the longing to be appreciated as a brilliant analyst of human nature and brilliant technical specialist by the FBI. But that is Cooper’s and Ray’s rendition of Hanssen as a character. What about Hanssen the man and Mark Twain’s version of White Americana of 1885? Something similar here: both multilayered, with paradoxical motives, values, self understanding, and emotional and spiritual sensitivities.
And the other film of the weekend, Babel (2006)? While it does not flow out of a character-based view, its third-person perspective has similar myopic elements. The characters are not particularly articulate in Babel but neither is the “camera” that “shoots” them. The characters and camera both exhibit the flatness of minimalist texts, with densely textured surfaces taking the place of the articulated inner states of characters or articulated inner states of the three cultures involved: U. S., Mexico, Japan. While O’Neill and Kate Burroughs (Laura Linney) are articulate about their motives, concerns, values, questions, etc. in Breach, the Babel characters played by Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett do not reveal their deep passions, their deep motives, their values. Only when the Pitt character breaks down while on the phone with his son does the director, Alejandro González, offer a glimpse of the inner life of the character: his fear, desire, and pain concerning his wife, who has been shot in Morocco. The Blanchett character remains closed. We do not know the nature of her anger at her husband as they drink Coke, nor do we get a clear message as to why she takes his hand in the bus just before she is shot. The Mexican nanny’s inner life is, likewise, closed, as are the two children she cares for. These three characters never move beyond the stereotypes of powerless, innocent Mexican woman and powerless, innocent children.
The Japanese scenes of Babel offer more complexity of story and character, with the father and police officer characters showing signs of emotional turmoil. But even there, the full nature of their distress is not revealed. The filmic techniques focus only on the clash of “surfaces.” Obviously, both male characters are concerned over the daughter who has discovered her mother’s body shortly after she committed suicide, but both male characters remain inarticulate. The teenaged girl, also, is inarticulate about her feelings. It is obvious she longs for her mother and is angry about her mother’s suicide. She refuses to talk to her dad. It is also obvious that in her lonely state she attempts to attract boys and even the police officer in a sexual way. She has confused sexual touch with comfort. Lucky for her when the officer firmly rejects her sexual advances yet holds her in comfort when she breaks down and cries. Like the American character in Morocco who breaks down while on the phone, the Japanese girl collapses emotionally . . . and the officer and her father, while remaining verbally inarticulate, communicate their care for her. These scenes mirror the scene of the Mexican nanny back in her son’s arms after she has been deported.
In all of these scenes, the depths of the characters’ emotional states are revealed but not explored. The audience is given only a snapshot of sorts of the characters. Babel is finally, I think, peopled by allegorical figures in a story about the failure of communication among cultures and the disturbing effect of U. S. influence on the lives of people in other cultures. The fear of U. S. power is a clear theme throughout. This is especially driven home when the Moroccan father of the child who has inadvertently shot the American woman flees with his two sons. In the confusion of the moment and with pressure coming from the U. S. the Moroccan police officers fire on the father and young sons, killing the elder brother of the accidental child-shootist. I think any American watching such a story unfold would have sympathy for the Moroccan family.
And that position, clearly developed by the filmic viewpoint, takes me back to Huck Finn. Readers of Mark Twain’s novel also feel sympathy for the escaped slave, Jim. Here then is a similarity between Huck Finn and Babel: both explore the paradoxes built into U. S. values, positions, expectations, and sympathies. In Babel I see a portrait of the abusive, blind and nonresponsive power of the U. S. on its own turf, but also its fragility in foreign lands. Always, always, is the very human failure to seek out the basic human facts (and truths) of those outside the parameters of White Americana . . . as well as the very human attempts at goodness and connection. The American man may have insulted the Moroccan man who opened his home to the injured wife by offering money as a “thank you,” but the motive was sincere, as was the goodbye embrace between the two men as the wife is being lifted into a helicopter. Likewise, in Huck Finn I see the “turf” of racism being defended and yet also the sincerely warm human relationship that develops between Huck and Jim.
So was there such a relationship between O’Neill and Hanssen? The fictional characters, yes, maybe a concern one for the other. But the real man in prison and the real man who left the FBI to practice law? I can only know their Breach characters, just as I know the deeply textured, deeply complex elements of my culture, my U. S., but not necessarily the “character” of individuals I meet on its streets.
Huck’s emotional confusion makes for a still-powerful narrative position. First-person narrative constraints in novels have a way of allowing the audience a great deal of freedom of thematic interpretation. And what about the films I watched this weekend, ones that I should have seen months ago? The narrative positioning of Breach (2007) is, like in Huck Finn, narrow and focused on a character who encounters a complex human being who is always more than he seems. I listened to the commentary by the director, Billy Ray, and Eric O’Neill, the person on which the viewpoint character is based. O’Neill points out that, yes, like the character “O’Neill” played by Ryan Phillippe, he felt the danger. He felt threatened by Robert Hanssen during the time he was his assistant and helping to build the case against the spy. O’Neill and the character based on him both have self awareness of their narrow view of Hanssen, whose motives for treason remain, even seven years after being arrested and convicted, a mystery. In the face of Hanssen’s seemingly moral behavior and his sincere religious devotion, both O’Neill and his character-self feel confused . . . something like Huck’s confusion over his society’s sincere yet flawed morality, with its enduring blind spot, its dehumanization of Black Folk. The white characters of Huck’s hometown and those at the Phelps plantation are good folk, yet blind to their own paternalistic version of racism.
And was that true of Hanssen? I couldn’t tell, for all I have is the characterization of him by Chris Cooper. If the story of Robert Hanssen had been completely fictional, I could hazard a guess that the character Hanssen is blind to his own hubris, a tragic hubris born of the longing to be appreciated as a brilliant analyst of human nature and brilliant technical specialist by the FBI. But that is Cooper’s and Ray’s rendition of Hanssen as a character. What about Hanssen the man and Mark Twain’s version of White Americana of 1885? Something similar here: both multilayered, with paradoxical motives, values, self understanding, and emotional and spiritual sensitivities.
And the other film of the weekend, Babel (2006)? While it does not flow out of a character-based view, its third-person perspective has similar myopic elements. The characters are not particularly articulate in Babel but neither is the “camera” that “shoots” them. The characters and camera both exhibit the flatness of minimalist texts, with densely textured surfaces taking the place of the articulated inner states of characters or articulated inner states of the three cultures involved: U. S., Mexico, Japan. While O’Neill and Kate Burroughs (Laura Linney) are articulate about their motives, concerns, values, questions, etc. in Breach, the Babel characters played by Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett do not reveal their deep passions, their deep motives, their values. Only when the Pitt character breaks down while on the phone with his son does the director, Alejandro González, offer a glimpse of the inner life of the character: his fear, desire, and pain concerning his wife, who has been shot in Morocco. The Blanchett character remains closed. We do not know the nature of her anger at her husband as they drink Coke, nor do we get a clear message as to why she takes his hand in the bus just before she is shot. The Mexican nanny’s inner life is, likewise, closed, as are the two children she cares for. These three characters never move beyond the stereotypes of powerless, innocent Mexican woman and powerless, innocent children.
The Japanese scenes of Babel offer more complexity of story and character, with the father and police officer characters showing signs of emotional turmoil. But even there, the full nature of their distress is not revealed. The filmic techniques focus only on the clash of “surfaces.” Obviously, both male characters are concerned over the daughter who has discovered her mother’s body shortly after she committed suicide, but both male characters remain inarticulate. The teenaged girl, also, is inarticulate about her feelings. It is obvious she longs for her mother and is angry about her mother’s suicide. She refuses to talk to her dad. It is also obvious that in her lonely state she attempts to attract boys and even the police officer in a sexual way. She has confused sexual touch with comfort. Lucky for her when the officer firmly rejects her sexual advances yet holds her in comfort when she breaks down and cries. Like the American character in Morocco who breaks down while on the phone, the Japanese girl collapses emotionally . . . and the officer and her father, while remaining verbally inarticulate, communicate their care for her. These scenes mirror the scene of the Mexican nanny back in her son’s arms after she has been deported.
In all of these scenes, the depths of the characters’ emotional states are revealed but not explored. The audience is given only a snapshot of sorts of the characters. Babel is finally, I think, peopled by allegorical figures in a story about the failure of communication among cultures and the disturbing effect of U. S. influence on the lives of people in other cultures. The fear of U. S. power is a clear theme throughout. This is especially driven home when the Moroccan father of the child who has inadvertently shot the American woman flees with his two sons. In the confusion of the moment and with pressure coming from the U. S. the Moroccan police officers fire on the father and young sons, killing the elder brother of the accidental child-shootist. I think any American watching such a story unfold would have sympathy for the Moroccan family.
And that position, clearly developed by the filmic viewpoint, takes me back to Huck Finn. Readers of Mark Twain’s novel also feel sympathy for the escaped slave, Jim. Here then is a similarity between Huck Finn and Babel: both explore the paradoxes built into U. S. values, positions, expectations, and sympathies. In Babel I see a portrait of the abusive, blind and nonresponsive power of the U. S. on its own turf, but also its fragility in foreign lands. Always, always, is the very human failure to seek out the basic human facts (and truths) of those outside the parameters of White Americana . . . as well as the very human attempts at goodness and connection. The American man may have insulted the Moroccan man who opened his home to the injured wife by offering money as a “thank you,” but the motive was sincere, as was the goodbye embrace between the two men as the wife is being lifted into a helicopter. Likewise, in Huck Finn I see the “turf” of racism being defended and yet also the sincerely warm human relationship that develops between Huck and Jim.
So was there such a relationship between O’Neill and Hanssen? The fictional characters, yes, maybe a concern one for the other. But the real man in prison and the real man who left the FBI to practice law? I can only know their Breach characters, just as I know the deeply textured, deeply complex elements of my culture, my U. S., but not necessarily the “character” of individuals I meet on its streets.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Thoughts on 13 Conversations about One Thing
Thoughts on 13 Conversations about One Thing: That thing being happiness, this film has a central character whose affect on others is never what he intends until the final scene, when he smiles and waves to a stranger on a New York City train. Alan Arkin’s character, the manager of an insurance agency’s claims unit, fires an irritatingly cheerful employee only to spiral down professionally even as the fired employee moves up. A nice touch that the happiness or unhappiness of these two characters is not related to the events of their lives. The cheerful employee smiles as he leaves the office after being let go, which only nettles the manager further. But other characters in this ensemble movie DO have attitudes about happiness based on their experiences. A lawyer (Matthew McConaughey) who has had an easy life is thrown into depression after he hits a pedestrian with his car. His “hit and run” approach comes back to guilt him. The pedestrian he’s hit lives, but wonder why. She tries, unsuccessfully, to figure out the meaning of her life after the accident. A math professor, played by John Turturro, has an affair that he thinks will change his life . . . but it doesn’t. And so on. The film style is “unadorned realism.” It reminds me of a William Dean Howells’ novel. The director, Jill Sprecher. Sony Pictures, 2001.
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