Tag Archives: movies

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Friday Films: Western Double-Feature

"That'll be the day."

We stopped off at Mr. Chicken first, ordering our roasted half-chickens with pommes. We came back and chowed down to the bones, bared the wall and plugged the laptop into the projector. Up went the Duke, with a blaring soundtrack at his back, riding toward us alone across a vast southwestern prairie. We were on the porch with the rest of the Edwards family, waiting for Ethan to climb down from his horse and amble in for his close-up, all stoic and macho and lionhearted.

For all the fun we poked at it, it’s hard to deny that The Searchers is a classic of classics.

We took a bathroom break and then sat back down for a classic Eastwood flick, Unforgiven, choosing arguably one of that icon’s best as well. I’ve already written plenty about that one here.

It was a good time to be men, and to realize how different we “men” are from the men in these films. I’ve always wondered if I could make it in the late 1800′s, with all its stark frontierism, horses and guns – a place and time so devoid of entertainment opportunities that the whole family is abuzz with exhilaration at the arrival of a poorly written letter. Passing the days slogging through mud to separate feverish pigs, digging holes for fence posts and gathering firewood so the family won’t freeze to death is a far cry from my list of chores growing up (mow the yard, skim the pool, recycle the cans, etc.).

One thing that I do recognize as remaining constant is the desire to sit and… be. In Unforgiven, Gene Hackman’s dream is to build his little house with a porch where he can sit out in the evenings and smoke his pipe and watch the sunset. In The Searchers, John Wayne relaxes on the porch steps of his brother’s house and muses upon his travels while the sky turns from yellow and blue to orange and indigo. All the Tivo’s, DVR’s, high-speed Internet connections, and Netflix envelopes in the world don’t hold up in comparison to the desire I have to enjoy the same. To sit out on a porch of my own, smoke my pipe and watch the same sun that set in 1868 set over me… That’ll be the day.

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Friday Films: Wonder Boys

Today’s Film:

It was only a matter of time before I mentioned this one – Wonder Boys is one of my all-time favorite films, and one of the few films I’ve ever appreciated equally to its book predecessor. Sure, there’s a lot more going on in Michael Chabon’s novel, but director Curtis Hanson (L.A. Confidential, 8 Mile) keeps in all the best parts – the quirkiness of the characters, the off-kilter literary references, and the ridiculous plot that comically stumbles along unsure of where it’s going but going anyway. I enjoy the rare movies that focus on writers – not the Secret Window‘s, Ask the Dust‘s, and Alex and Emma‘s, but the ones that pull back the curtains of mystery to reveal all the humor that is connected to such angst-ridden creativity. Wonder Boys does this deftly, almost poignantly, and as I write those completely unnecessary adverbs, I can see Professor Grady Tripp (Michael Douglas) and Terry Crabtree (Robert Downey Jr.) roll their eyes. This is one of Douglas’s most unappreciated characters; he plays the “blocked” writing professor with a curmudgeonly grace, and he is flanked by a beautiful mess of supporting characters, including Downey Jr.’s bi-sexual editor, Tobey Maguire’s compulsive liar/young genius, Frances McDormand’s wearied, not-getting-any-younger “girlfriend,” and the hilarious Alan Tudyk’s stoner custodian. Between these weirdos, Poe the blind dog, Vernon the hood-jumper, Q the best-selling prick, and Katie Holmes in what may have been her last sweet role before she went over to the dark side, I never get tired of this film or its treasure trove of high-brow gems. I could go on and on, but here are five more reasons to watch this film:

#1

#2 – James Lear’s (Tobey Maguire) alphabetical articulation of the famous Hollywood suicides. Great stuff for parties.

#3 – The Academy-Award winning song, “Things Have Changed,” by Bob Dylan, not to mention the rest of a pitch-perfect soundtrack.

#4 – Vernon and his pregnant “cupcake.”

#5 – A movie that, in its own strange way, perfectly captures the irresistible drudgery of the writing craft. “I don’t believe in writer’s block.” … “No kidding.”

p.s. – What are your favorite films about writers?

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Friday Films: True Grit

Sometimes, the easiest way to catch sight of the wonder in life is to immerse yourself in a great story. Given a choice of how to be served one, I’d pick a good novel over anything else. But as much as I enjoy reading, I am also a fan of the cinema, and if a quality novel isn’t within reach, a movie will do just fine. Whether I’m planting myself in the center of the center row of a theater or settling down to a DVD on the laptop, a good film thrills me as much as a good book. I’m not one of those readers who spurns film – in my opinion, they’re family. The film is the scrappy nephew to Uncle Novel.

Thus, each Friday, Wonderstuff will celebrate a film. Unlike today, most of these will be movies you can snag for yourself on Netflix or the Redbox (my theater-going is limited in Germany). Nevertheless, I highly recommend each film. If you have yet to experience it, I’ll give you five good reasons why you should delay no longer.

Today’s Film:

Visiting the States for Christmas meant that I could catch a couple of Best Picture Academy Award contenders (’tis the season, you know). The first one I caught was the Coen Brothers’ remake of True Grit. The purists and traditionalists alike will cry foul on the Coens for tampering with the classic western that nabbed John Wayne his only Oscar, but Joel and Ethan compose the two-man genius machine behind such new classics as Fargo, The Big Lebowski, O Brother, Where Art Thou?, and No Country For Old Men, not to mention the brilliant A Serious Man. I’m not a fan of this trend of remakes either, but I was willing to give the Coens the benefit of the doubt. I’m glad I did.

Five good reasons to go see True Grit:

#2 – A phenomenal supporting cast, including compelling turns by Matt Damon and Barry Pepper.

#3 – The music. Old-timey variations on “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms” and other traditional hymns provides a gorgeous background to a rough-and-tumble story.

#4 – The old-timer in the bear fur. This is what makes westerns so fun.

#5 – A deftly drawn Old West narrative in the capable hands of the Coens – a oddysey that lightly and fearlessly explores issues of vengeance, purpose and belonging. This is what makes westerns so beautiful.

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Tears

So there we were, the family gathered around the ol’ plasma flat-screen, Toy Story 3 spinning on our trusty Blue-Ray player. Could there be a more idyllic, Rockwellian scene?

I’m sure that this particular Toy Story story will find its way into one of the next 363 days of this project; it truly is the best Pixar film I’ve ever seen. Very dramatic, very moving, and attentively capturing aspects of the human experience on several different levels.

However, what struck me tonight was not the emotional power of the story and its characters, but the reactions the family had to it. I will not ruin the film for those of you who haven’t seen it, so don’t worry. Those of you who have seen it, I think you will recall the specific closing moments that brought about our collective response. On the floor sat my two nieces, Lizzy and Ruthie, rapt with attention, following every movement and every word even after the intense action at the landfill had given way to Bonnie’s house. The rest of us – Leigh, myself, Norm, Omi, Papa, Gramma – were as glued to the screen as they were. And it was then that I felt that old, familiar warmth welling up beneath my cheekbones, that twitching of whatever it is behind the eyes that says, “Looks like some rain’s a-comin’.”

The extraordinary thing that drew me deeper into the mystery of this life was in that exact moment, I heard five-year old Lizzy sniffle. Then she sniffled again. Then a third sniffle, followed by a small gasp. Lizzy was crying, too. I don’t know why this surprised me, but it did. I guess I figured that a five-year old didn’t possess the maturity to grasp the emotional weight of what was transpiring on-screen. But she did. And while I was swallowing back the lump and erecting a dam behind my eyes, tears flowed freely from hers.

Tears are a rarity for me these days. I don’t cry as easy as I did when I was a kid, and even when I am moved to the verge of tears, I do the best I can to stifle them. Maybe it comes from keeping my sensitivity in check, I don’t know. But what God intended as a natural release for bottled-up emotion, I’ve cheapened into embarrassing proof that I can’t keep my cool. Somewhere along this road I’ve traveled, tears have become an unwelcome thing, whether they are born of sadness, exasperation, joy or pain.

I would do well, instead, to welcome a little rain now and then.

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A Theology of Movie-going

Movies have been on my mind lately, much more than normal. Those who know me might laugh, because it seems I always have at least one movie quote or recommendation readily available for any given situation. This is not because I have traded away the living of life for staring at a screen. Rather, movies have always helped me interpret my surroundings and my relationships. I will admit, sometimes they have gotten in the way, messing with my perceptions of people and places so that I must eventually be broken of false realities. However, I have found them an invaluable part of life on earth. And lately, they are everywhere – and in everywhere – I look.

In addition to seeing several movies lately, as well as engaging in a few conversations with new friends about our favorite films, I am reading Walker Percy’s wonderfully strange and existential novel, The Moviegoer, a novel that is as much an argument for the power of movies in our lives as it is a defining novel of the 1960′s South. There is much I relate to in the life of Percy’s main character, Binx Bolling, especially as he undertakes his “search,” an existential quest to find meaning behind definitions, value of life behind fickleness, these societal traditions that capture people behind veils of order, class, and repetition of lifestyle.

I can see I have undertaken my own search of sorts, and indeed every time I step into a movie theater – be it for a comedy, a drama, a mindless summer action flick, or even a horror film – there is something inside me somewhere that is hoping to receive from these characters, this plot, these themes, a kernel of wisdom, some small something that will help me more efficiently interpret the big Something. This is why I love going to movies by myself more often then with friends. I have the freedom to focus on the film without any distraction, stoically drinking in the problems, interactions, and resolutions, and afterward free to let the story nest in my mind, to let it attempt to build a bridge of understanding somewhere inside. If it is unsuccessful in doing this (and I often know quite soon if it will succeed or not), I expel it, seeking to replace it with the next film. This is how I determine a bad film from a good film. 

I believe God can reveal himself to us through film, and not just through the Narnia movies, or those poor excuses for films made by Cloud Ten or Kirk Cameron. Like music and books, I believe movies are not simply a medium of entertainment. I believe they are (or, at least, they can be) an interpretation of our times. We can learn a lot about our country and our world from the films we are making and the films we are shelling out ten dollars a pop to watch. Maybe cinematic turds like Transformers or the Scary Movie franchise will not succeed in building bridges to the Something in our minds, but we cannot deny that, for some people, they deliver an experience worth their time. We can learn a lot from moviegoers themselves. What are they searching for? Mere entertainment? A particular emotional experience: fear, adrenaline, sorrow, remorse, self-righteousness? A place to make-out?

The other night, in the middle of a crowded theater noisily viewing Shyamalan’s latest offering, The Happening, two men got into a fist-fight. Yes, an actual Mama-said-knock-you-out fist-fight. A friend who was sitting close to the action claimed it was because one of them was cracking wise about the film (which was, in the vernacular of this post, “unsuccessful”) and the other did not take too kindly to it. After all, that kind of thing is reserved for sardonic robots and guys held captive in space. Nevertheless, as soon as the angry verbal exchange escalated into actual fisticuffs, about half the theater stood up, not in panic, but in salivating interest at seeing some real action. Was this distraction the mark of how little the film had engaged us up to this point? Or was it because these days in movies theaters, tensions are higher than people realize. 

Despite not enjoying that particular film, in light of how much stock I place in movie-going, I have to side with the latter.