Marley & Me (2008)

Directed by David Frankel

Written by Scott Frank and Don Roos
Based on the book by John Grogan

Owen Wilson...John Grogan
Jennifer Aniston...Jennifer Grogan
Eric Dane...Sebastian
Kathleen Turner...Ms. Kornblut
Alan Arkin...Arnie Klein

Rated PG
Runtime: 2 hrs.

The preview for Marley & Me made me cringe. I can't handle things that are designed to get a reaction out of me. Particularly when that reaction has something to do with how cute something is. It seemed the movie would be nothing more than a series of scenes in which Marley does horrible things and we all, collectively, think "Ooh, look how cute the dog is!" Well, I for one ain't down wit' dat.

I have this thing called a girlfriend, however. (She likes to be called Tracy.) She's fantastic in many ways but still has that stereotypically female weakness for all things...cute. Guess where I was Christmas Day? That's right, butt firmly planted in a seat watching Marley & Me.

Fortunately for all involved, the movie's really good. It's based on the book by John Grogan (here played by Owen Wilson), unread by me. He's a reporter, or wants to be. He and his wife, Jennifer (Jennifer Aniston), move to Florida and get jobs at different papers. In an early scene, they sip coffee as they compare their first stories. His about speed bumps. Hers a bit more important and a bit longer. And a scene in another movie that could have been played broadly for laughs or drama is simply handled as it would be in most households across America: he's proud of her and jealous and she knows it. And that's it.

Locked in careers, John can tell children a coming down the pike, and a bit faster than he'd like. So what better way to distract his wife than with a puppy? Hey, it works. Around this time, at John's paper, a columnist leaves and his editor (Alan Arkin) has him fill in, just for a little bit. John's not to sure, feeling he's giving up ground on his dream to be a reporter. But hey, it's temporary. So he writes a column about Marley. Well, people love reading about dogs almost as much as they love looking at them. So the column becomes a success. Again, never overtly stated. There are no slo-mo scenes of John walking down the beach and people recognizing him. A person references his column and he and his editor discuss its success once.

Eventually kids come, life choices are made, friendships change. Where is Marley in all of this? Right there. As our pets are, bearing witness to our lives. Sometimes ignored. Sometimes chewing on the furniture. But always there. As the movie progressed, I wondered how much I actually cared about Marley. A great deal it turns out.

The movie gets so much right. Male camaraderie, relationships, pets, growing up. There is truth in this movie. It's in the guise of a gaudily wrapped gift, but when you open it up, you won't find anything nearly as cheesy as this metaphor.

Losing Confidence, Gaining Insight

I saw young hands the other day. They weren't mine. I was on the most crowded bus I've ever been on and I saw these hands holding one of the straps. They were the hands of a man not much younger than me. At least I would say. I looked down at my own hands. Are they so much older? Has it been one to many Chicago winters spent waiting on the CTA? Can I blame them?

Christmas Eve, I sat on the el, coming home from work, tired though it was an abbreviated day. I didn't have anything to read, at least not anything that interested me, so I sat and let my mind wander, something I used to spend hours doing. I find it happens all to seldomly. And as my mind went about it's way, it found something lacking. A train of thought I can't quite map brought me to the realization that I've lost touch with the confidence that brought me to Chicago. I've gained new confidence. Perhaps deeper and stronger. But that initial confidence, I don't understand it now. At that point, I had accomplished if not nothing then very little. I had determined two years into my college schooling to focus on acting at which those last two years were catch-up. What? What on earth made me believe I might potentially make it?

I've known this to happen to others, to hear older actors talk about their younger careers and wonder how they did it. To look at their younger selves as other. I guess I didn't think I ever did enough to have that much distance. Apparently for me, I have.

As all do, I have questions about what I'm doing, what kind of success I ever hope to have/will be granted me. Days with these thoughts come around, and I beat myself up. And then I kind of look up and ask myself, "What else would you do?" When that question is no longer rhetorical....

Knute Rockne on Acting

"Why do actors in older movies sound different?"

I and everyone else who watches "older" movies get asked this question a lot. We've all seen older movies and feel that the actors' delivery is a bit stilted. Sometimes you wonder if they even know what the words mean, they come falling out of their mouths. This prevents some people from watching older movies. They can't get around the delivery of the lines.

A reader recently asked Roger Ebert this:

Q. Movies of the '40s and '50s feature actors speaking in a certain clipped delivery that seems very unnatural today. They'd jam all sorts of expository dialogue and plot points in a stilted conversation that had a machine-gun staccato. How and when did the trend to a more natural style of acting start?
Tony Sosa, Providence, R.I.

A. A more naturalistic acting style is generally said to have started appearing in films of the late 1940s, led by actors like Brando (whose acting was stylized in its own way). You didn't ask, but I'll add: Jay Robert Nash, the author of countless books about crime, says American gangsters of the 1930s actually copied their speaking styles from the movies, and that the screenwriter Ben Hecht is in a sense the creator of a speaking style heard even now in movies, on TV and during congressional hearings.

I buy this. If there's one thing that I'm sure has been a desire since the dawn of creation, it is the desire to be cool. Ben Hecht wanted to write cool. And crooks wanted to sound cool. And so one begat the other.

Or did it? As soon as I read this, I remembered a famous old speech I had seen of a coach rousing his team. Took a while, but I found it. It's a speech by Knute Rockne.



It certainly reminds me of the delivery mentioned. The interesting thing about Knute Rockne? Well there's a lot that's interesting, but for the purposes of what we're discussing here? Knute died in 1931. This speech took place in 1928. Ben Hecht's first credit on IMDb? 1926.

So which begat which?

And who cares?

People bemoan the acting of this time, but I've found that it's usually called for. Film noir, screwball comedies. These aren't about natural people sounding natural. And if the script asked for more, the best actors (Stewart, Hepburn, Grant) were able to bring what was needed. Brando came along (or brought about) a time when greater emphasis was placed on psychological truth. So the writing reflected this, or the actors reflected this and the writing followed, or both followed society.

And don't think this "unnatural" style has completely disappeared. Aaron Sorkin is a direct descendant of this style. Everyone likes to think real people talk like they do on The West Wing or SportsNight. They don't. I promise you, when my roommate and I went on a SportsNight marathon, our speech (badly) mimicked Sorkin's patter.

What we're talking about is aesthetics. They changed when Brando came along. And they've changed since. After Brando, every actor adhered to the Method. Wouldn't think of doing otherwise. Now, we make fun of Method actors. You've probably notices it too: Method acting is usually a bit overwrought. The actor is more concerned about his own emotions rather than the people he's acting with. So, instinctual acting has become the norm. To simplify, you go in, let the scene happen, and let it carry you whither it may.

So what's next? Well, I'm not so concerned about that. I'm more concerned about the past. I'm concerned about the people who turn off any movie in black and white because they don't like the acting. There was bad acting back then just like there's bad acting now. Follow the greats: Katherine Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant. If you need a recommendation, start with The Philadelphia Story . There are other actors and you'll find them, but these three won't often lead you wrong. If you too turn off any Jessica Alba movie, you should probably go back and give it another go.

Like a Flan in a Cupboard

Like the Cubs in October...

Like Texas Stadium...

Like Star Wars Episodes 1-3...

Like a snowman in March...

...my fantasy football team collapsed. Oh goodness did it collapse. The Cardinals decided to suck. Brian Westbrook decided to cross his arms and not play in retalitation for not playing him when he went off. And the Oakland Raiders didn't want to feel left out so they decided to show up and shut down a running back the first time all season. Yay.

The Karma Police arrested me and didn't read me my rights.

Slumdog Millionaire (2008)

Directed by Danny Boyle & Loveleen Tandan (co-director: India)

Written by Simon Beaufoy(screenplay)
Based on the novel Q & A by Vikas Swarup

Dev Patel ... Jamal Malik
Saurabh Shukla ... Sergeant Srinivas
Freida Pinto ... Latika
Irfan Khan ... Police Inspector
Azharuddin Mohammed Ismail ... Youngest Salim
Ayush Mahesh Khedekar ... Youngest Jamal

Rated R
Runtime: 2 hrs.

Lacking words to describe this movie. It comes at you. Assaults is not the right word. It is driving but sweeping. It rarely lets up, but never allows the pace to outstrip the story. It uses many cuts and herky-jerky camerawork to tell its story, but it's necessary. It's vital to the telling. At every moment, this movie knows who its main character is. Every camera angle, every color, every effect, tells us who we are following and how they are feeling. The cinematography absolutely shimmers.

I've thrown about words describing Slumdog's technical achievements. They are many. More than listed above, but for those concerned, they do not the movie make. At least not completely. They are all in service, as all technical aspects should be, of the story, in this case the story of Jamal, the slumdog who becomes an overnight celebrity as he keeps giving the right answers on Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

Jamal is played by Dev Patel. Thus far, it's the performance of the year. My friend Jake has said the movie takes you through the spectrum of human emotion. True. Therefore implying that Jamal must go through the same. Also true. Take a look at Dev Patel. He's young, tall in the way that makes you believe his body's still growing into itself. His ears, let's be honest, they stick out a little. He's endearing. We expect him to feel out of his element, and when he is, it's pitch perfect. However, when he's interrogated because they believe he's cheating, after all, how could a slumdog know all these answers, the gravitas he brings is reminiscent of the best noir actors.

And when he is defending his love....

The movie leaps, from the interrogation room, to the stories that gave him these answers. Here we learn that Jamal and his brother Salim grew up in the slums. In a tragic turn, they are forced to fend for themselves. A young girl, Latika, comes along with them. This is the trio that forms the body of the movie and Jamal's love for Latika the spine.

I'm retracing in my mind where they all end up, go, arrive. A friend saw the movie and thought it was "AWESOME" (his text) but later said it was long. It is only two hours and feels longer, not because it drags, but because of the breadth of the story and the range of emotions you experience. And all the time we come back to Millionaire and watch as these stories now inform the scene, enriching what for us and for the viewers in the movie had only been a gameshow.

I've praised the cinematography. The movie is also a triumph in casting. I've also mentioned Dev Patel. But we see these characters grow and each is played by three different actors, all exceptional. And the actor playing the youngest Jamal is about the cutest kid you've ever seen.

The movie is vibrant. That's the best word. I think you need to go see it.

I Worry I'm Too Late

This is a brilliant commercial (not an oxymoron)entitled "Fate" directed by David Fincher. I've had the idea for a similar story for quite some time. Not specifically about two football players, but showing the circumstance that lead people to a meeting and then departure. It would be a movie basically about that moment in which two lives meet. Or don't. This is not to say that I can't make this movie that I've got in my head. In under 2 1/2 minutes The Beatles' "Eleanor Rigby" does what it takes Magnolia 3 1/4 hours to do. There are no original stories.

But through my life I've had ideas and these ideas have been confirmed as good because I've seen them other places. Here in this commercial. A sweeping camera shot in Finding Neverland. And perhaps my greatest confirmation by Hitchcock himself as a woman screaming becomes a trainwhistle. Others.

It's always a thrilling and disheartening experience. Thrilling to be told these thoughts/ideas have worth. Disheartening because...they're only ideas. They live in my head and nowhere else. I used to think it would be horrible to be a composer and leave behind an unfinished symphony. I want everything from artists that ever were. Even their 8-year-old sketches. Who cares? I want to see how this artist worked through their talent. And how awful, I thought, to die with something still gestating.

I don't think this anymore. How wonderful to be able to simply create something, anything, that will affect, affirm people. I've said that my goal in life is to make one person sit forward in their seat because of something I've done. It's my highest compliment; I'd like to receive it.

I may have done that, who knows, but these ideas I reference above, they are larger. They aren't meant for the stage. So they won't be realized until I can make a leap.

I'm a patient person. It is a quality that allows me great freedom from stress and guilt, things that I see eat away at others. At the same time, I can sit still for far too long. This brand of patience I have does not inherently include drive. I look at Orson Welles' career and all that he had accomplished by the age of 24, or even Paul Thomas Anderson dropping out of school and using his tuition money to make his first film. I am not jealous of their success; I am jealous of their drive. Their ability to pursue something to the extent they may have nothing left at the end but what they create.

I've never been able to live there, the fringes. I don't think I'll start now. But I still wonder, am I too late? Have my best ideas passed? Is the well running dry? Are any further ideas at risk of being tame? At my church, Tracy is directing Proof this year. I finished reading it again this morning and one of its themes is how aging can affect creativity. The worry that the best ideas are past. This seems to be particularly true in mathematics. Einstein's best work was done in his 20's.

Film can be a different beast. Though I would say Scorsese and Spike Lee are becoming more tepid as their careers role on, Clint Eastwood in his late 70's is at perhaps the greatest artistic height of his life. At the same time, I watch his movies and I don't respond to them as much because they are made with an older aesthetic. Not as in elderly, but the language of the film hearkens back to the 70's and before. I appreciate that they allow for moments to develop and trust the audience, but, well, his films don't make me sit forward in my seat. Ah, well. He doesn't care. Jean-Luc Godard, though I haven't seen his current films, seems to be even edgier than in his heyday, if not quite as loved by critics. He's striving.

Striving. I'd like to strive. To my own credit, when opportunity presents itself, and it does, I seize it. But can I count on that?

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. The germ was to simply show this awesome commercial and relate my own feelings. Those feelings quickly developed into a rather revealing blog. Which I will let stand on its own. I don't believe in apologizing for how one feels, only how one acts. Perhaps that's what all this is about. The desire to spur myself on so I don't have to apologize to myself anymore.

I'll have to sit and think about it.

Did You Hear...?

...who's hosting the Oscars?

OK, I was going to make you guess, but you've probably already heard.

Hugh Jackman.

How do you feel about it?

I kind of went, "Oh." And then I thought about it. I like it. It's different, yes. But I think in a good way. I don't know, I guess I feel he might bring a more regal quality to the Oscars? Not necessarily because he's Hugh Jackman but more that he's an actor. That the ceremony won't be based on how many jokes are landed/missed but rather by the awards themselves.

In the end, I'll probably be way off. It'll just be like any other Oscars with bad jokes and probably a song and dance number at the beginning. But I appreciate that they're trying something different.

That Thing That's Going On Here

So you may have heard that Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich is in an eensy-beensy bit of trouble. He asked people for money for things that aren't actually his to sell. Like Obama's Senate seat. Oops.

One of my personal favorites involved the Tribune company. See, they're in need of some money (who isn't?), so Blagojevich thought he could offer them some...if they would be so kind as to fire some people who were writing mean things about your hero and mine, Blagojevich.

This story broke on Tuesday, the Tribune Company filed for Chapter 11 (I don't know what that means, but maybe someone does) bankruptcy on Monday. Wednesday morning, as I'm watching TV to keep up-to-date on the goings-on (basically what Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert had to say), a commercial comes on consisting of clips from Tuesday's press conference. The clips are of U.S. Attorney General Patrick J. Fitzgerald and others praising the Tribune Co. for their conduct. The end of the commercial? "Chicago Tribune: We're There for You." and the number you can call to subscribe.

Blagojevich just may be able to bail them out after all.

Winter Light (1963)

Directed by Ingmar Bergman
Written by Ingmar Bergman

Ingrid Thulin..............Märta Lundberg, Schoolteacher
Gunnar Björnstrand.........Tomas Ericsson, Pastor
Gunnel Lindblom............Karin Persson
Max von Sydow..............Jonas Persson

Runtime: 1 hr. 21 min.
Rating: UR

I haven't yet "gotten" Ingmar Bergman. You probably think me a contrarian. After all, I haven't written all that many movie posts recently and both begin by dissing esteemed directors. But, heck, it's true. The only comment I've really responded to in regards to Bergman was on a commentary for Fanny and Alexander when the speaker said that Bergman was known in his native Sweden more for his stage direction than his films which were considered overwrought. My own private "a-ha!" moment occurred. I wasn't alone.

However, I'm not giving up. Even if I don't go ga-ga over someone as much as the majority does (Scorsese), I at least want to be able to appreciate what it is that they do. In other words, I would never say of Bergman that I don't like him. I will say, as above, I don't get him.

I felt the door open a crack, however, after watching Winter Light. I'm already being honest so why stop now: Bergman films often seem to me to be about people crying about things I don't understand. There's always so much emoting going on, and I can often tell you what they're worked up about, but I can't always tell you why. It's this disconnect that I'm trying to bridge, though I guess I sometimes have this reaction in life, so maybe I shouldn't be so surprised. This is perhaps the reason I understood this film a bit better as it follows a man who is working through this same disconnect.

The man in question is Pastor Tomas Ericsson. We meet him as he leads a service in a small church that is still a bit large for the congregation. We watch the entire communion and begin to sense the relationship between all those in attendance. One of these is Marta (Ingrid Thulin), a schoolteacher whom we discover later is Tomas's lover.

Their relationship is fascinating. Bergman's films are about relationships. Between people. Between God and man. But they seem to exist on a plain that I've never experienced. But here was a true relationship. A woman so in love with a man and a man who cannot accept this love. Who denies it time and time again. We learn of her love in a letter that is addressed directly to the camera. There are no cuts, just a single, unflinching direct presentation. There is nothing but her face and her words to occupy us, much as Tomas must feel.

In a later scene, she once more confesses her love once more, this time in person. It's not a letter this time; she must be considered. We watch as he grows colder and more distant. He feels cornered and he decides to answer honestly. The words that he utters are devastating. Yet she simply sits there and we watch her heart break and his grow harder.

Jumbled in the midst of this is Tomas's crisis of faith. Early in the film, a man comes to him searching for meaning in a world that he feels is going to destroy itself and Tomas is able to offer no comfort. He begins talking about himself, stops himself, apologizes and begins again. Perhaps another reason I probably responded to the film, the implication seeming to be that crises of faith have very little to do with our relationship to God. They more often stem from a concern about our relationship with others.

I feel like I haven't done this film any justice. I mean, the performances are all very good. Gunnar Björnstrand as Tomas is never better than when he shuts down. Ingrid Thulin as Marta conveys so much in being so still. Max von Sydow has a brief role as the man seeking comfort from the pastor and it's interesting to see an actor who has come to be known for his regal air and power inhabit a character who is so full of fear. The camera work by frequent collaborator Sven Nykvist is simple and stark. A shot of Ingrid in silhouette, light from behind just gracing her nose is stunning.

Have I conveyed whether you should see it or not? You should. Perhaps the problem is again one of disconnect. Sitting here, I went through all the major plot points in the film feeling as if I was missing something. Nope, it's pretty simple. Yet I feel as if I've covered nothing. Perhaps that's what I'm trying to get at. It always feels like there's always more than I feel I'm getting, as if Bergman decided to film a novel and did. Every last word of it.

Perfection Not Always Perfect

I've been listening to MPR (Minnesota Public Radio) fairly often, trying to regain my passion for classical music I didn't so much lose in college as have taken away from me. Strong words, I know. I'll tell that story sometime.

Anyway, they've played Camille Saint-Saens's Danse Macabre fairly often recently. Mostly because Halloween was not too long ago. I guess it would be classified as a tone poem which essentially tells a story through music. At their best, tone poems evoke a story. At their worst, they can sound like a movie score, not evoking so much as trying to pound visuals into your brain with the hammer of music. Listen to some Richard Strauss tone poems. You'll wonder why anyone listens to this schizophrenic music and then you'll read the story he's trying to tell, nod, and never listen to it again. Or maybe not. I seem to be alone in this.

I digress. Let me tell you the story of Danse Macabre as I remember it from those single slide projectors they used when I was in school. You know, the kind that you actually dreaded was coming out because it was actually more boring than the teacher teaching. Basically, as I recall, it begins with a ghost tuning his fiddle. When he starts to play a furious melody, other ghosts come out and dance around the graveyard. It's a really neat piece and I had forgotten about it. It's one of those that you can enjoy even if you're not into classical music.

So I used the word fiddle above. The difference between a fiddle and violin? Structurally, nothing. Honestly, I'm sure a Stradivarius can be a fiddle in the right hands. Stradivariuses very rarely find their way into those hands. But that's where the difference is, the spirit in which a violin is played makes a violin a fiddle. Now the recordings I've heard of Danse Macabre are played by professional orchestras, i.e. violinists. And it's all just a little too precise. All the notes are hit, and accurately. No sliding between pitches. No flourish. A simple playing of the notes on the page.

This is one of the excuses I gave as to why I left classical music (I majored in French horn Performance in college). A wrong note in a concert is nothing more than a mistake. On the stage? Wrong, but salvagable. Sometimes amazingly. And sometimes missed by the audience. Theatergoers don't generally have a play memorized or are seeing a new play. If you go to an orchestra concert, I'd bet half the audience knows the program inside and out and has favorite recordings. They know when a mistake is made. And have opinions about the interpretation of the pieces they're hearing.

Now, I think it's cool that people can develop tastes to such an extent, but that it has so invaded the entire classical music culture is a little disappointing. I would love, LOVE, to hear a recording of Danse Macabre with fiddle players. You know, all the Nashville session musicians and Alison Krauss as the soloist. That would be awesome. I feel like when this piece is played, strings should break. It should sound dangerous. Not like you're impersonating the ghosts but you are conjuring them.

Would Camille Saint-Saens approve? I don't know of any apochryphal stories about Saint-Saens like I've heard about Beethoven. A violinist complained that the notes in Beethoven's 9th Symphony were too difficult to play and he responded, "Do you think the muse in my head worries about what you can and can't play?" But hey, they're both dead, so, who cares? Maybe the playing would raise him from the dead.

Maurice Ravel's Bolero is another piece that often suffers from this same sense of perfection. It's another great piece. You've probably heard bits and pieces, but I strongly recommend you sit down and listen to it in one sitting. I think it's about 9 minutes long. I believe Ravel himself has described it as one long crescendo. It just drives from the beginning right to the very end, but you need the whole piece to really get caught up in it. I have a recording by a lesser orchestra that I love because they come the closest to letting themselves go. Essentially, the piece is a driving rhythm over which a melody is played continuously, given to different instruments. Toward the end, the trombones get the melody and in this recording, they really just let themselves slide into every note. Not hit it precisely. And it sounds, well, slutty. And it's great! I hate hearing it played cleanly.

And don't get me started on the vocal recitals I heard in college that included Stephen Foster songs. You haven't heard anything so utterly wrong as hearing some warble through "Camptown Races." Hey, I'm all for operatic singing...in operas! But simple songs? Come on. Don't kid yourself. I'd love to hear a recording of Stephen Foster songs sung by popular musicians. You know, the aforementioned Allison Krauss, Bruce Springsteen, Bruce Cockburn, Steve Earle, Bill Mallonee, Tom Waits, John Mellencamp. That would be a good album.