Boogie Nights

We got back eventually, but why such a detour? It felt a little off-the-rails for the young director. I could justify it with a grander return, but the return felt rushed and inauthentic. With any other director I'd call it slave to formula, foolish rising action, conflict, and redemption, but I know even so early in his career that wouldn't explain it. Maybe I don't understand the movie well enough to justify its arc. But I remember feeling this the first time as well -- the arc doesn't pay off for me, for my experience. That's why my second time I stopped halfway in. It plummets, although I can appreciate some great Paul Thomas Anderson premonitions in the wandering section. I'm not sure those moments suit this movie, but it's clear he's honing a craft, which I'll come to love. I value this movie first for its bold energy in the first half, and second for its dramatic foreshadowing of later PTA, largely in the second half. Actually, some final moments were surprisingly poignant for me. But at the end of the day I lose little if the film stops halfway in. It's all about that early energy, fearless to satisfy its patron. It's amazing how unsatisfying movies are. Even after smart folks like PTA and Tarantino reformed the rules, satisfaction still seems hard to come by. As mentioned recently Django ultimately disappointed, though it had boundless liberty and nothing to lose. Therefore PTA reigns as far as I can see in cinematic gratification for the bright and subtle. The dictum for the first half of this movie seems to be "why not?"; I'm not sure what happens in the second half, but the first feels like a revelation in 1997. Some of these actors were probably revelations -- otherwise how could the movie afford such stars, if it didn't launch them itself? I can't imagine this was the most profitable project. Artistically it pays off, for original vision, not necessarily depth. The second half could reward if it added any depth, but I don't think it does. I don't know why he did that. What a powerhouse film if the second half added depth. But it's about style, and it succeeds.

The Hobbit (1977)

Hmmm. Tolkien's book can be seen as fiction for young people... but this film seems like a travesty. It doesn't work to evacuate all intellect and artistry for juvenile accessibility. It's not that kind of fiction for young people. Yet I can imagine loving this movie, in a past or future life. It's interesting how people come to love things. I'd need to generate all the nostalgia I missed never seeing this before age 25... unlikely. Maybe I'll never see it again. I still think I far prefer everything about The Lord of the Rings to The Hobbit, but the latter I love nonetheless, and this movie was truer to it in some ways than Peter Jackson's -- and falser in some. Probably much falser in spirit, indeed maybe a bastardization, lacking true veneration, yet trumping Jackson in many faithful moments. Maybe it was my coincident growth with Tolkien and Jackson, but the spirit of his movies seems true despite gross aberrations. This movie didn't feel true despite sections of formal adherence. Of course, of the three, Tolkien's own is the worthiest work. This movie drew directly from Tolkien yet felt not to come from him at all. There was little of the spirit here. Oh well.

Maybe I can't imagine loving this movie, in any life. It doesn't seem to love Tolkien. I was optimistic and intrigued going in, and can conceive an old animated adaptation that feels true and worthy; but this isn't it. I thought I was in for a real OG Tolkien adaptation; what I found was a real No-G Tolkien adaptation.

Now reading the Wikipedia article...

"...some Tolkien fans questioned the appropriateness of repackaging the material as a family film for a very young audience."

Wikipedia also calls the novel "children's fantasy", which is interesting, but regardless doesn't point to such an adaptation as this. Tolkien wrote for bright children or to make children brighter; this movie panders lame toddlers.

The Hobbit

These movies are obviously near, dear siblings to the earlier trilogy, and I love them for that. What separates them besides a decade is the excessive Hollywood drama of the later. The novel is far lighter than The Lord of the Rings; but ten years and incalculable anticipation after the first three movies, I imagine it didn't make sense to consider a proportionately light film trilogy. Perhaps it's Jackson's fault for tackling The Lord of the Rings first -- by far the greater story. The Hobbit feels like a musical prelude that just teases the motifs of the piece before wandering toward its own end. While it makes little sense to inflate it crudely toward the other's proportions, I guess it was hard to justify a significantly lighter chronological sequel. Though I never knew it, the anticipation must have been incredible around 2012. Jackson had all pathways of epicness mapped already. Movies had blown up in scale. Fandom awaited. Signs pointed to an attempted match of the former. But that was toxic from the start. Serious Tolkien fans could probably hardly stomach the treatment, savory as it was to see everyone on screen again. The adaptation didn't make sense, fractured by intentions of purity and marketability. This is no auteur piece -- everyone knew the treasure and flocked like five armies to Erebor. There's no way to support that conflict, and The Hobbit is valiant if tragic. It does enough to satisfy all layers of Tolkien fan -- though I'd probably feel alienated if I wasn't one.

It's all absolutely excessive. It's as though the writers took sections from the book and, prompted by studio, discussed how to amplify them to 11. Alfrid is a ridiculous amplification of Grima, if you can imagine dramatizing Grima any further. The film's treatment of Alfrid is despicable. As I mentioned in my last post, we have all these people dangling from one arm, and even another in the last film! Are the filmmakers not embarrassed? Inviting Legolas can't have fooled anyone -- it's a cheap Hollywood trick. Tauriel and Kili are simple star-crossed lovers. It's all ridiculous and excessive. The Hobbit was never cut out for this. The novel is a fairytale or a prelude, depending on perspective. It's not an epic. It can't be reconciled into an epic -- it doesn't make sense. The attempt is slightly insulting, though obviously I feel the tug as anyone else. There's just enough purity that I have to love it. Tears must well up when Thorin charges out the gates, or Galadriel banishes the darkness. You can't bastardize the world into ambivalence -- the material is rich, so any good-hearted formulation is rich to the knowing eye. I am inevitably subject to this powerful matter however it manifests, and Jackson's work is not the least true.

But it is offensive. All kinds of subtle beauty lace The Hobbit. The adaptation feels at times like a rape -- not malevolent, but far from the elegance of love. If you love something, you let it be -- it's perfect as is. If it's worth loving, it's perfect, and no more can be asked. These movies pretend to enhance and therefore just corrupt The Hobbit. If you love it, enhancement is neither needed nor desired. Besides, Tolkien already had a hard enough time winning over the stoics. He won me over, but these movies sail far into the realm of sappy, overwrought fantasy. I never loved Tolkien for his fantasy; his work I find transcendently rich and beautiful. I'd have a hard time if these films were the first I saw. They're just absurd. Every trope is satisfied and amplified, for a story that never asked to be more than a hobbit's tale. The nature of hobbits is unassuming, and these movies assume the world.

I found it interesting that Ian McKellen is listed first in the credits. He's the great veteran -- but Bilbo may be Tolkien's first, last, and greatest character, not to mention the centerpiece of this film -- his film. And Martin Freeman doesn't underperform, though I could have used more attention to him. At times the film seemed to forget about him. I thought he was perfect, balancing mild manners and a simple heart with unexpected valor. Hobbits are truly remarkable, as was he. Ian McKellen is of course Gandalf entirely -- and Gandalf means him. Thorin seemed well-portrayed. I can't ask for less of what I got (dark and heavy things, Sauron, the Council, Azog, everything successfully injected for dramatic gravitas), but I can't help wanting more Bilbo. Bilbo seems to be the essence of it all. The earlier trilogy doesn't do his character justice at all, and this one overlooks him at times: he might be Tolkien's most perfect creation, a symbol of all things good in Middle-earth. Bilbo seems to be the real purpose. Martin Freeman, as far as I can tell, was as good as we can hope for. Same Ian McKellen. Frodo on the other hand was an interesting choice!

Of course I love it. It's probably the closest thing I'll ever get to the earlier trilogy. It wasn't actually an intense experience -- it all felt so comfortable, despite just seeing it once, six years ago. I knew the novel well, and I'm actively reading The Lord of the Rings, so nothing came out of nowhere. Nor did I ever cherish The Hobbit like The Lord of the Rings, in any manifestation. I fundamentally care less about dwarves than elves, hobbits, probably men, various maia, etc. Beorn, northern Mirkwood, Esgaroth Dale and Erebor... none of this is of much consequence to me. Especially the final quarter of the novel impacts me little, as it seemed to impact Tolkien little -- I think he rushed through it. I mean I get it and love it but nowhere near like other stuff. I never loved the materials of The Hobbit like The Lord of the Rings. That's why I see it as a fairytale and prelude, and its most exciting moments for me are its teases -- the Ring, Gandalf, the Necromancer, everything is surging albeit quietly now. I know what comes next: the dam breaks. Thorin's end is entirely peripheral. I like it no less than anything else in Middle-earth, but wouldn't give it a whole story, a trilogy of comparable length and grandeur to the other. Tolkien himself admits and everyone knows the events in The Hobbit are ultimately peripheral to the history. The connection is the finding of the Ring, and denying the Enemy a stronghold (Mirkwood nor Erebor). But that's minimal content of the book! It's a story by a storyteller itching to test himself. Maybe at one time he loved The Hobbit best. But it was eclipsed by the great history, culminating in The Lord of the Rings. People seem to consider The Hobbit a classic. I'm not sure I thought it was all that great, and Tolkien soon gets very obsessed with everything else. But The Hobbit is Bilbo's tale, and Bilbo means Tolkien. In all the noise of the book, and especially the movie, Bilbo shines through enough to treasure it.

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey

Need everything be so dramatic? It all goes to the extreme. The company shelters in trees in the book, so in the movie they're in trees which domino to the edge of a cliff. Do trees domino like that? Why did they choose such a precarious location? In the book they're on some delicate heights, so in the movie at least twice someone dangles by one hand, and both times someone else ends up dangling with them. It wasn't enough to be on delicate heights, nor for one person to dangle. But TWO people dangling? That's cinema. Similarly Gandalf+Elrond is insufficient so enter Galadriel and Saruman, plus double-take intimacy between Gandalf and Galadriel -- am I watching the trailer for Mary Magdalene? And I know what's coming -- overwrought Legolas cameo + Evangeline Lily. This is definitely excessive, and a sad admission of the state of things, specifically since Jackson's first trilogy. This drama seems all but mandatory now, for broad watchability. Or did Jackson himself change? Either way Tolkien must be insulted. It's still wonderful, but severely dramatized, and lacking the earlier trilogy's purity. Then again, The Hobbit is intrinsically less dramatic. But that's why people love it. It's lighter on its feet. These movies are so dark! I like the darkness of The Lord of the Rings relative to The Hobbit, in their literary manifestations, but in film the latter darkness is contrived.

Being John Malkovich

Though seemingly concept piece at the end of the day, I found it generally delightful and sufficiently dramatic. But why does this movie exist? Kaufman has attempted grand statements in each of the last several movies. The only grand statement to this one seems to be meta-cinematic. He's always self-conscious -- but his other movies have more diegetic justification so to speak, whereas beyond a pleasant picture, this one needs its commentary and its fourth-wall challenging to be worth much. It is a pleasant picture -- but not nearly worth my consideration if it hadn't influenced film and preceded Kaufman's others. I don't think I learned much here... but now I know, and needn't wonder: Being John Malkovich is a nice and impressive piece that doesn't do much profound for me.

Breaking Bad

Prior to this weekend, of Breaking Bad I'd seen the pilot, maybe twice. Several important people in my life have had close relationships with the series. This first wintry weekend of the year I watched the following in order, with minimal synopses between, on recommendations from one source ordered to provide roughly two episodes per season:

• 1 - 1/7 "Pilot"
• 1 - 6/7 "Crazy Handful of Nothin'"
• 2 - 1/13 "Seven Thirty-Seven"
• 2 - 12/13 "Phoenix"
• 3 - 1/13 "No Más"
• 3 - 13/13 "Full Measure"
• 4 - 1/13 "Box Cutter"
• 4 - 10/13 "Salud"
• 4 - 13/13 "Face Off"
• 5 - 1/16 "Live Free or Die"
• 5 - 5/16 "Dead Freight"
• 5 - 9/16 "Blood Money"
• 5 - 14/16 "Ozymandias"
• 5 - 15/16 "Granite State"
• 5 - 16/16 "Felina"

Many people seem to judge television quality by a series' ability to hook the viewer. I was hooked by the experience this weekend in that I anticipated and rushed into each episode -- though not vigorously. While intensifying the effect by compressed schedule, it was only compensation for missing the momentum of all of those skipped episodes. Still it was an exciting sequence. But beyond all this, I can't judge television without a concept of film, to which I've dedicated much more of my life, or literature and the arts in general. And conscious as I am of how I spend my free time, I can't judge television independent of life. I'm a terrible judge of Breaking Bad for those skipped episodes. But I can't imagine justifying the series end-to-end, gapless. Have I seen enough of it to extrapolate my experience so coarsely? I believe so. Relative to other television, my sequence was artistic and human; but relative to opportunity cost for that time, the artistic and human value was negligible. I can't conceive sufficient gains in all I skipped to justify the time -- the sheer time. I wish time wasn't precious. At the end of the day, one of the most acclaimed television series in history is still television, and not just in format. I saw the first episode, the last, and many in between, supposedly the best, and each was thoroughly television. I wonder whether the medium will ever convince me it's risen above cheap archetype for more than a moment here and there. Breaking Bad may be as powerful as it's ever been, but falls drastically short of what I need out of an experience of this length. For the time invested I need something enriching the soul and teaching the mind. A powerful locomotive experience and mild addiction are not nearly enough. Well, there's a threshold for prioritizing stimulation, and Breaking Bad and television miss it.

The pilot surprised me as riddled with cliche -- typical, probably, for a pilot, but it surprised me nonetheless. As the series advanced this smoothed out, though I still never felt it transcended that framework. The framework is archetype, which keeps it an arm's length from real experience. A series is an interesting medium, but either a priori or a posteriori seems to necessarily depend on addiction to convince us the virtual experience is realer than it is. The pilot is exciting; every episode is exciting, which is non-trivial. Advanced episodes are even powerful beyond exciting; but archetype remains. I'm thinking of films that indulge and subsequently subvert filmic archetype effectively (Mulholland Drive and I'm Thinking of Ending Things); I don't think I've ever seen TV do it so effectively. It seems not self-conscious enough. But I'm certainly a television novice. Still, the opportunity-cost argument observes the extra time poured into a series, even if it does transcend archetype like the best of film. Some might argue the extra time is actually the essence of the medium's value -- we watch TV for the time poured in and its payoff. I've never experienced it like that. First, time is a treasure to me; second, time poured in has never added beauty or learning or personal growth or even truly sensational experience for me. And I give it the benefit of the doubt at least for the sensation, as to modern movies (and a couple modern video games). Come on, if nothing else, I should experience intense stimulation, which these products are engineered to serve, and to overwhelm my luddite tolerance for virtual reality. Why else is everyone obsessed? But every time I'm underwhelmed! Maybe I'm missing something. It's really upsetting to consider! It's alienating to get so little out of what everyone else spins their life around, or forms their life of. Usually it makes me think everyone else is tragically insane, though maybe once I considered they're happy, on the counsel of a friend. Mostly I know stuff like this, like Breaking Bad, doesn't add up for me -- I feel it and know it. I can't feel the value and I can't point to it, so I can't admit it. I appreciate Breaking Bad for an exciting weekend, for some artistic merit, for cunning, for maxing out its medium (for now), and for emotional gravity. I liked it -- I really did. And therefore I lament my sustained criticism, borne of bafflement. Why do people live like this?

The Master

WOW, I mentioned the PSH-Plemons linearity writing about I'm Thinking of Ending Things completely forgetting about this film. Maybe it's obvious, or maybe some causation beyond correlation.

The Master had better be inferior to its predecessor, but the progression makes sense. Filmmaker makes something subdued from which no one can look away, and follows up with something more esoteric and inscrutable, a stylistic sequel and exaggeration of the former. The Master while ecstatic lacks some control of the former. A tired comparison, No Country for Old Men shut up typical Coenisms for a higher cause, and There Will Be Blood similar -- but centripetal auteurs can't but polarize fast, washing in whirlpools of self: The Master loses control a little. Nevertheless, the filmmaker's vision is too dominant not to be exciting. He's fearless without becoming boringly contrary. He's smart enough to indulge himself without snuffing his fire. I said Django was overindulgent ego-flailing. I've never seen a PTA movie like that, but this is his analogue. Yet I think the movie is terrific, a balance of exciting and calculated. That's something about PTA: he's too simultaneously intelligent and passionate about humans to deliver anything but awesome movies for me. I need to watch Phantom Thread, and rewatch/finish Inherent Vice, and rewatch Boogie Nights, and Punch-Drunk Love. I think The Master is totally awesome. I remembered more of it than I wanted, so I'm not jumping out of my seat this time, and anyway it could never join my top top echelon of movies -- but it's up there in the clouds. And with such a mean character!

Troy

Cliches abound, but no more than in Return of the King a year earlier, and anyway the archetype is grand. This film seems like a success. It does about as much as it can on such a basic premise for making a movie, and turns out sufficiently entertaining. I have a weak spot for history and demigods, so I give Troy a pass. For similar reasons I love the Tolkien movies, which this one certainly ripped. It's comforting I can detect the mediocrity of Troy, whereas I'm accustomed to such selectivity with movies, and to such other reasons for watching something than quality, I often doubt my critical abilities. I enjoyed Troy, but it didn't fool me. With cliches worthy of PG-13, I can never call this filmmaking "inspired" -- but again, Peter Jackson cuts a thousand corners. But his virtue is the corners he doesn't cut, which explain and justify the cliches: you can't have all 540 minutes strong, and you'll never say he lacks passion. Troy lacks passion in starkest contrast to its high drama. There's no way the act(or/ress) who played Hector's wife was passionate about her pathetic certainly-man-written character. But hell was she dramatic! If you saw the Tolkien movies and Troy, in 2004 you had the lowest opinion of Orlando Bloom. Anyway Jackson has some Tolkien dialogue to work with. Troy probably steals none of that from Homer. Yet I can't say it's poorly-written, necessarily. It's just basic as hell. It's such a movie. I'm sorry all these kids went to film school to learn how to write like this. They'd never make it in the history of literature. I guess they haven't dented the history of cinema either. But the writing is not bad -- just basic. Like I said, Troy taps me where I'm keen, so I don't hate it. I think I could have written it better, with just a little schooling on the fundamentals. The Jackson movies had some bad writing, beside some perfection. Troy is an all-around C.

I enjoyed it. I liked the Achilles v. Hector scene, especially for the tense bongos. I liked the fighting, the glory of these figures, the grandeur. I loved wise Odysseus -- I don't know why. A great warrior and a wise and noble king -- like Aragorn, but Boromir. I could have used a cheesy allusion at the end to Odysseus's adventure to come. I like all of the conversation on values: Hector says "honor the gods, love your woman, defend your country" or similar; others variously worship conquest, name recognition, romance, filial piety, victory, family, deities, humanism, courage.... and I believe a major victory of the script is each of these is compellingly argued! Each argument on values (among many) was actually pretty interesting for me, with the power to swing my favor between interlocutors. This is why I'm a sucker for genres like this: I love thinking about fundamental values this way. Troy proved fairly interesting on those lines, though hardly unexpected. I don't think it was a bad movie. Just about as entertaining as something so uninspired could be. Good thing it was R-rated, to push the sensory buttons a little.

Fargo

Having not much to say about it, I liked Fargo. I can see why it's a classic, though it's not something that could affect me profoundly. All elements seem to align for a great and likable film. It's good for me to watch great films once in a while -- it's good for me to keep level in universal taste, not digging my ego deeper and deeper. I'm Thinking of Ending Things is the last thing I watched, which affected me intensely, but alienates me. It's good for me to survey sun-soaked land on occasion. Sun shines on Fargo, and many admiring eyes. I'm Thinking of Ending Things was cavernous. It depresses me when someone's favorite movies are all classics. When I hear about it, I feel acute relief I'm not that person.

Marge surprised me. With dim memory of the film I thought she would be primary heel of the parody -- but while she played along and was perhaps even centerpiece, she certainly wasn't heel, but hero. The Coens stitch a universe of drab duncery, leading viewers to conflate the two by repeated association: the drab and the dunce. The virtue is that when Marge enters she embodies form, yet defies the dunce to startling and heroic effect. She enters just like anyone else in the film -- with the most bumbling air. But when she hits the crime scene, she's immediately piecing things together correctly. Then I think the moment that sealed it for me was when she pitched the coffee. She's obviously a leg up on her town. Everyone sharp defected to corruption in the Cities. Later in the film she repeatedly rejects bullshit from all parties. Marge is the ideal individual manifestation of this culture -- wholly conforming, yet sticking up like a beacon. If she's a knife the first rays of dawn quicken to her edge, the first glint in the drab. But the crucial point is she's happy -- thoroughly happy. She's the loving-life version of Sheriff Ed Tom Bell, the latter of whom clearly needs a Norm to fix him eggs and paint ducks. I guess the Midwest is a generally happy place. Whether a viewer finds Marge and Norm depressing or enviable is a razor's edge. Some ambition repels me from rural Midwest, and another draws me back. Unfortunately I don't think I could be happy with Marge's life -- but she's doing it perfectly right; she's exactly where she needs to be. That's why she's the ideal individual manifestation -- she's somehow settled in as the peak of what this could ever be. I call it enviable, and she's my unexpected hero.

Marge's arrest of the criminal at the end is perfect. The first shot misses, questioning whether she has the hand to catch him at all, like her humble air upon entrance in the film. The second shot is perfect, revealing she was going for moving legs, a much harder and calculated, dignified target. The first shot says she's real -- this isn't James Bond -- and the second shot says she's excellent and honorable.

I'm Thinking of Ending Things

This is one of the greatest surprises of my moviegoing life -- and it's the writer I grew up with. This isn't Anomalisa -- this is Charlie Kaufman here and now. It's almost unrecognizable, and nearly inscrutable. I've never experienced a movie so tantalize my predictions and so ruthlessly defy them. Mulholland Drive is the obvious comparison for me, though that felt fantastically alien beside the ever-humble, ever-human writer who was always egocentric enough to penetrate my egocentrism. Mulholland Drive felt like someone else's nightmare, while this wormed itself in cozily. Trite to say I love the lead performance -- Bill could have said it for me, or anyone who ever shared my taste. Finally! a Kaufman character to love. Caden was too grotesque, Hazel too awkward, Joel too pitiful, Clementine too irritating, Michael too egotistic, Lisa too average,... this I love. I wonder whether the novel would grant me any interpretive purchase. I hope not. This is gorgeous, if incoherent. But I'm not sure. Eternal Sunshine and Mulholland Drive both rewarded chronology- or identity-tracing. I really don't have much here, and I hope there's nothing to miss in this sense. I don't like when movies require their companion works. I like when movies are self-contained. I hate adaptations.

As for "almost unrecognizable": Jake almost didn't look like Philip Seymour Hoffman, and the play-within-a-play scene could almost be mistaken as merely coincidental with Synecdoche. There were other small trips, especially in dialogue, plus lyrics I knew were Kaufman's -- he probably needs to stop touching the music.

Tough to say I love a movie I've seen one incomprehensible time, but I am impressed for the effect it had on me. Rarely do I anticipate events in a plot like this -- and fail to foresee the left hook. Nor can I call any of it a left hook, but shades of blows, a march of shadows, cuts to new dreams: no plot-twist; always shifting. This is one the most unexpected movie experiences in my memory.

When I recently reviewed Anomalisa, I asked whether Kaufman would grow up. Here is a massive step forward. I'm listening.

P.S. Can you imagine a more egocentric filmography? In Adaptation he put himself in the film, twice; in Eternal Sunshine he spent half the movie in his head; in Synecdoche he manifested through infinite microcosms; and finally, in Anomalisa, he was actually the only person. In this movie, I'm not sure, though much is along those lines. One would expect Kaufman's psychological horror to be entirely internal, and much of this is, but there's always the question which of the characters is messed up: none, one, or all.

P.P.S. It's also difficult to imagine a homelier career of characters. Think them all through. Even tropey Cameron Diaz is downgraded as much as possible. PSH is famously unfortunate; the whole idea of Lisa is zero remarkability. This movie certainly doesn't blaspheme the idea, but here we have a character who kind of works. There was certainly room to aim higher, but he's not reaching for the bottom of the barrel like he usually does. The barrel of cinema, that is, not the barrel of humanity. It's also really interesting I've never seen this act(or/ress). Anyway, Kaufman developed.

Second watch 10/2

Hannah suggests the following, as I understand:

Jake is certainly central/main/fundamental character. The janitor is older Jake, and most of the movie is his memory or imagined memory. He probably never spoke to the woman, but perhaps saw her once, perhaps at the trivia night. She's mostly imagined, from name to occupation to events. She suggests as much when speaking to the janitor in the school -- they never really met. Anyway, the janitor is mentally ill or severely lonely. He prodigiously fabricates memory and identity. The woman is still our rock, but sadly the movie's not about her.

Django Unchained

While I liked much of this movie, ultimately it flails and lounges too much to be really great. Some of it is great -- but I could never call the movie great with such an aimless ending. An ending seals the envelope, and everything after the climax felt tragically random. Tarantino built far too much tension to flounder. His tacky "frontier justice" is usually satisfying like little else in cinema, but the end here lacked gravity, and it wasn't convincing. I do believe much of this movie is great, which leaves me highly disappointed. Besides the misguided ending, the director's signature self-indulgence often falls short here: for example, the head-bag eye-hole bit. Indulgence with execution is savory, as in most Tarantino, but indulgence without execution puts me off. He loses his wonted control, and while this film is at times heftier than the others, it's occasionally lazy or confused. But I wouldn't complain like this if I didn't like and respect it at the end of the day. It wouldn't have disappointed me so, otherwise.

Magnolia

9/1/20

It's been at least five years. Of old it was stiff competition for first or second place all-time. There was something unfamiliar this time... a distance from the characters. Why did I find such a grotesque population beautiful? Yet I understand it -- with some distance. No one in this movie feels like part of my life the way Caden, Hazel, Joel and Clementine do. No one is worth even a moment's foolish envy. Yet I understand it.

There are still lessons here -- mainly cut through the shit and seek gold. Like Claudia at dinner, like Earl's regrets, Donnie losing inhibition, and the priest from Synecdoche. More than anything these movies challenged me to seek gold and scorn the rest. Even this time I quaked at Earl's soliloquy.

Would that they'd chosen another musical engine than Aimee Mann! These songs' real estate in the film is precious, and squandered by angsty melodrama. The songs are not that bad but fall tragically short of the building grandeur their backdrop suggests. It's amazing I loved this movie so much, with these songs in such crucial positions.

But the piece is still phenomenal. I believe I wrote before it's a powerhouse. There's so much to love amidst so much to hate, and through it all so much to wonder. It's hideous with enough redemption, and each rough character has a moment of perfection. The filmmaking is brilliant. The world is achingly beautiful. I love the great movie -- it is a part of me.

Anomalisa

5/30/20

8/13/16 Review

I haven't re-read that review yet, basically since I wrote it. At that time I anticipated Anomalisa for years before it arrived, then even for a while after it arrived. I partly struggled to get a hold of it, and partly was afraid. I watched it twice that weekend, I believe. I haven't seen it since. So I believe I've seen it twice, around 8/13/16. I forgot about that review, watching it now, until I heard the parallel fifths/fourths during the romantic climax; then I remembered mentioning those. I'll read that review once I write some on this.

I'm not sure about Anomalisa -- is it a masterpiece (Kaufman's ideal actualization) or tragically flawed (Kaufman's real actualization)? Either way it's Kaufman, but is it his noblest expression, or his real? I don't know. I think the difficulty arises from the fractured timeline -- presumably the meat of it existed a while before Synecdoche, but was retrofitted to this film many years later. Many years and career developments lie between conception (for stage?) and execution (on film).... check my facts. I think this explains its dance between mature masterpiece and immature indulgence. So it's hard for me to evaluate -- of course I love it, I can't but, but how much do I really like it? I don't really feel any affection for any of the characters or actors, which makes a difference. It's tough, finding the whole thing sort of ugly. Usually a person likes movies that feel beautiful. But Anomalisa feels painfully unattractive. Of course I love it. It's almost perfect, almost uniformly subtle and mature, relative to his earlier movies. He almost creates a whole movie without his literary rendition of lonely masturbation -- and literal -- but ultimately he couldn't pull it off. For instance, in such a short movie, why do the dream and the speech take so much time? It feels like Kaufman losing control and flailing, like he does -- forgetting his purpose. It's stamina -- like he's almost finished reading The Trial but can't resist the prospect of setting the book down and opening his pants. He's brilliant -- but ever he falters. He's always been gluttonous, and otherwise would create perfect movies. Anomalisa could be perfect, but the timeline is fractured, and he can't quite hold such noble vision for the duration. Maybe someday! I hope he's polishing up, all these years since. Maybe in his 80s he'll create some of the finest films ever. But he still has a little growing up to do. Fortunately his vision is keen, hand deft, heart true. I love this filmmaker. This film is almost a masterpiece.

Synecdoche feels like he's throwing everything at the wall, but it's so true to himself that the vision is consistent. Birdman feels like the most perfect interesting movie (I know, different director). Anomalisa is sort of a smattering, and almost perfect, and it is interesting, so it dances between the peaks of passion and perfection.

Drive (Refn)

8/24/20

I hadn't seen this in years. Last time I recall it felt rapturous: one can easily idolize Gosling's rebranding of cool; the world is simplified, stylized, and idealized; the romance is enviable; the whole thing is sweet escapism. This time I was drier to the fantasy (discomfort when they just stare at each other and smile), but cherished the simplicity. What I recognized as cliche this time didn't bother me -- the movie is a sort of vignette, or parable. The painting is coarse, but the picture is inspired. There's a purity to this film requiring such broad strokes, including lack of character development or even dimension. This is in fact what I requested from films like Under the Skin in earlier posts: awesome style doesn't need rich characters; the latter can dim and displace the former. Drive is a thesis on form, and everything else is better left parabolic.

Avengers

5/23/20

This week I:
1) Scrubbed through The Avengers, perhaps watching its 140 minutes in 70
2) Obtained brief ideas of the middle two films
3) Watched Endgame

I understand this would hardly excuse an intent to "review" the Avengers franchise; but seldom am I interested in qualified reviews on this blog. It's a place for me to practice writing and thinking, specifically about a topic I enjoy, so I am happy to assemble thoughts around these films regardless.

Context: I've rarely watched movies the last few years; I just watched the three new mainline Star Wars; I've maybe seen a film or two in the MCU.

I'm guessing this is trite to say: these movies seem almost perfectly engineered for bank-shattering popularity. Yet I expected more of a soul. The first movie was exactly what I expected, and is probably oft-imitated since. Endgame wasn't really surprising, but lacked the soul and grandeur I expected. Obviously it's monumental in various objective ways, and strives constantly to be epic, and it emotionally burdened many fans. But, disregarding my lack of emotional investment in Marvel due to little experience, still Endgame was not as epic as I expected. I felt the same about The Rise of Skywalker. The mega-blockbusters of my generation have now been around so long, and myself deaf to them, I guess I expected them to melt all watching minds, annihilate all souls. I took years away from video games, and returned for one video game, supposedly a culmination of visual and cinematic artistry in video games; after many years away I expected perfection in the modern gaming experience, and it was so far from it. Similarly after years away from blockbuster films I expected a perfect and annihilating experience, and both Star Wars and The Avengers were relatively mild. Again, I'm not a dedicated fan of either, but I still think I can deduce the situation. I think I can assume emotional gravity in Iron Man's arc, and in seeing all your favorite movies converge into one at the final assembling, and still report failures of grandeur.

It was alright -- I didn't mind the films or anything, but they were exceptionally basic. Formulaic, obvious, artificial. In high school I grew cynical of my society, exaggerating its artificiality. Then over the years my ego shrank and I tried to understand human beings better. Now I'm watching these movies with a smaller ego, expecting to succumb as everyone else does -- and they're failing me. They're supporting my old hypotheses, that my society is depressingly basic and artificial. The people aren't, but the products are.

Star Wars was far more profound to me, though superficially more juvenile. The Avengers was more mature in its presentation, but elementary in its content. The ridiculous discussion of quantum mechanics in Endgame serves as a microcosm -- use mature language to try and justify your childish concept of time travel. It's almost offensive how these films speak to mask their emptiness. It feels intentionally deceptive, almost unethical (though I can't really say that). I have no ethical issue with people making and selling these films, but the deception is gross to me, like gilding. It's a blameless but gross reality. These films pretend to be profound and mature, but they're basic. At least Star Wars had a rumor of something profound. The Avengers was written for the adolescent living in the minds of adults, and not in a good way. Star Wars was written for the adult living in the hearts of adolescents. Star Wars guides children into adulthood, while The Avengers regresses adults back into immaturity.

These movies didn't affect me, though they were fine and sometimes fun to watch. They weren't even that fun though. Obviously they were stimulating, but not emotional. I care very little about Marvel, if Endgame affects me so little. I'm sure it affected those who watched every MCU movie. But if this is supposedly the most profound and grand of them all, Marvel has little for me. Even if they're basic I could expect they'd affect me -- but they don't. Maybe I'll be thankful for that, so I can forget them, and reclaim some old ego.

Star Wars VII VIII IX

Review of IV V VI, Jan 2017


The Force Awakens - 5/10/20

Two people watched movies in adjacent rooms. One watched The Force Awakens, the other watched Parasite. They ended almost exactly the same moment. One emerged like a tree after a tsunami. The other emerged like one who's been chewing a lot of bubble gum, though he was hungry. One was crippled and dripping, a cup spilling, overfull; the other still bounced in his seat for something that never came.

Though I kind of liked it, The Force Awakens was lame. Maybe I'm just not a Star Wars fanatic, but maybe it's not my style. It all seems so trite. How could it provide rich experience to anyone but juveniles and fanatics, being so obvious and vacuous like a light show? I really expected more -- depth, weight, darkness, awe, intrigue, beauty. Was I hoping JJ Abrams would do for Star Wars what Christopher Nolan did for Batman, Martin Campbell for James Bond? Not entirely, but I figured decades removed from the original three would naturally pull the franchise into 21st c. epic gravitas (notwithstanding cheap 21st c. humor alongside, which I expected). But I didn't realize: this is for adolescents and fanatics. It's a good transition for kids into adult movies; and fans savor it regardless, like I would anything Tolkien-related, no matter the quality. Outside these two perspectives, the movie is vapid. Rest assured all tropes are rehashed. The only refreshment is its socially progressive agenda, especially regarding female roles: it may not be very progressive, but at least it's intentional, and anyway all I'm saying is this is refreshing relative to the older ones. At least they got mindful about something, while most else is stupidly obvious. I still like it fine, but I expected more intellect and inspiration. Actually, see Lion King 2019 post.

So there are several ways I can appreciate and respect this movie as a cultural entity, but hardly as a movie in itself. It lacks the beauty and intelligence I seek in all movies, in all things. If it fails to provide beautiful or interesting experience, what more can I say?

I did enjoy it. I wasn't bored. I might even follow up with 8 and 9. But my expectations were high, and it was relatively lame.


The Last Jedi - 5/11/20

Most striking writing moment for me: Luke says reach out; Rey reaches her hand out; Luke says "Reach out with your feelings." This reminded me of Jane Eyre "Am I a machine without feelings?" However, that instance is far more forgivable, being many years before "feelings" became the weakest word to describe any condition of the human soul. I want the Force to be profound. If the Force isn't profound, nothing in Star Wars is profound. And you're telling me the Force resides in your "feelings"? Maybe it does, but was this written by a child? Or are we offending children by assuming they'll only understand this language? Children might have written much of this movie, actually. But if we're writing for children, we can challenge and respect them much better (I keep forcing myself not to mention Tolkien, again and again). And if the Force isn't profound, then stop writing "hell" into the script, because this movie is only for kids. Again, see Lion King 2019 post.

Speaking of profound, I think my favorite element in all of Star Wars is its flirting with divinity. This occurs across several characters and concepts. Nearly all characters are consistently shallow to me except in moments they look almost like deities. I only realized this during The Last Jedi, with its focus on Luke and the developing histories of Kylo and Rey. My most beautiful and profound moments in Star Wars seem almost always to be during confrontation with nebulous divinity, transcendent power suddenly unleashed. This says something broader about myself. It's why Gandalf is one of my favorite characters in all of fiction. His sudden outbursts of power and beauty and depth stun me. Maybe it's the rare humbling of my excessive ego I crave -- it strikes me still with an awe I rarely experience. It humiliates my normally-unappeasable standards for beauty and intelligence, those pillars of experience I mentioned earlier. Maybe the divine is fascinating and beautiful to me, to paralyze my wits and my senses like so little can. Gandalf is the perfect antidote. Even Aragorn shows sporadic outbursts of that Firstborn blood. I understand everyone loves when Luke is shot a thousand times and stands unharmed. But I think it strikes me in a particular way I'm rarely struck. It excites my emotions and veneration, it lights my eyes, like nothing else in Star Wars has been. The same vein is Rey and Kylo turning back to back and fighting the mob with simultaneous strength and elegance, supernaturally endowed. Or when Rey lifts the rocks at the end. I know everyone likes this. But it stands far apart from the rest of the movies for me. I wish Star Wars took itself even more seriously. Sometimes it's very serious, sometimes melodramatically serious, but ultimately the most profound elements are underplayed. I remember years ago I was disappointed with the character arc in Under the Skin. Bill asked "what do you want, just two hours of Scarlett Johansson luring men into the abyss?" Affirmative. I want to feel awe. I don't want to comprehend everything. Comprehension has stolen emotion away from my life. Every game I play is intelligible. I want to see things with natures unfathomably deep. This is what inspires me: gods, with power and intelligence I can't touch. It's what's beautiful to me. This may be all that redeems Star Wars -- its trace of the divine, coursing through numerous entities. It's rarely indulged to my satisfaction. Yes, I just want to sit back and watch the power unleashed continuously. Star Wars tarries in such shallow water 95% of the time. I said the same thing in my reviews of the original three. In fact I may have formulated much of this in different words there -- I don't remember. The mechanics and dynamics of the divine are what make Star Wars interesting and beautiful, when it is.

I still enjoyed the movie, and I especially appreciated awe-inspiring demigod expressions. I'll watch the last, mostly to see how these demigods evolve. I certainly don't care at all about the Resistance winning the galaxy, nor Finn's story. Of many subplots, I care almost universally little, but the sweeping evolution of the semi-divine and the rocking balance of the universe keep me interested. In Tolkien, especially the books, the whole vision for a world is planted in each particular, so that everything has depth and meaning. A major difference is this: Tolkien was crafting his world for solitary decades, with no end besides artistic expression, and while studying and teaching completely different things. He needed to express his vision, and therefore did so with unparalleled authenticity. For these filmmakers, box office billions were guaranteed. Maybe they love their subject and product ecstatically. But they only put a small fraction of the soul Tolkien put into his work into theirs. Maybe it's not their fault. The production companies needed very specific things from these movies. The filmmakers mostly just needed to show up. And maybe that's all they did. Anyway, capitalism set a thousand parameters on these movies. They needed to be something specific, and were created for it, while Tolkien's work simply needed to be created.


The Rise of Skywalker - 5/13/20

Now I am happy. The Rise of Skywalker struck deepest. It's obviously not all I want it to be, but three movies in, I can adopt the rhythm and tone, fall in with the characters, and of course, finales are often most profound. My most emotional couple of moments occurred in this movie. My greatest triumphs, fears, and surprises occurred here. Despite relentless jokes, this one was bleakest. It also confronted high concepts clearest. Perhaps its most exquisite virtue, up against the other two, is that it surprised me a few important times. The writing isn't all bad, if it can surprise me and still make sense.

As before, nothing in these movies can touch the concepts of Jedi, Sith, and Force for me. The powerful incomprehensible is more beautiful to me than anything else here -- far more beautiful than almost everything human happening in these movies. The human aspect is always way too archetypal, such that it doesn't impact me. Only parent/child relationships, perhaps, enriched these movies for me, since that topic is poignant for me right now. Bloodlines, natures, "dynastic imperatives." Obviously Star Wars is significantly involved in these concepts, which I appreciate. Besides that, I cared little about most human meddling here, but was invested in the divine dynamics. Of course I care about humans, but not human figures cut from paper. But my investment in the Jedi, Sith, and Force only ramped up over time, such that by the crucial confrontation (all-Sith meets all-Jedi) my eyes went wide and my heart fluttered. I have to say my sinuses moistened. Rey is a small frame and a sprightly visage to represent all Jedi ever! It's challenging and beautiful to comprehend her significance on sight, like the infant Christ. Whether Rey is written consistently profound is interesting. I'm always surprised when profundity descends. I guess that's significant about Christ's figure in literature -- he's never not profound. But in almost all cases, profundity descends, or appears to. Gandalf selectively reveals his power. Nordic Choir singers are usually ditzy. Bob Dylan eats breakfast. It blows my mind, really. Rey is profound, powerful, and beautiful. This is why I watch Star Wars. It's trite to emphasize repeatedly how much I enjoy the expressions of power. But I'm not in love with this -- it's simply by far the thing I most want to talk about, regarding these movies. I like some of the human stuff -- I like Finn and Poe and the fighter pilots and some of the relationships -- but I'll forget them fast. What I'm going to remember, doubtless, and yearn to see again, are expressions of power from Rey, Kylo, Luke. The moments they rose above everyone else, fought everyone else's fight, bore the whole world's bane.

This brings me directly into my next topic, which distracted me throughout this last film. I regret disrespecting this film by repeatedly thinking and speaking of another, rather than experiencing it in itself, but the parallels were unmistakable. The Rise of Skywalker was nearly directly influenced by Tolkien's War of the Ring, there can be no question. The filmmakers may have watched The Return of the King for inspiration on closing a trilogy. Since this blog is primarily for myself, not readers, I rarely burden myself to provide examples, but I think they're clear, and I'll just mention: they even said "dark throne"! Tolkien's war and world are far more profound to me, but it's no coincidence this film affected me significantly more than the other two. It shared some arcs with Tolkien.

I enjoyed it all, and even got a little emotional near the end. The supernatural dynamics held my interest when nothing else did. I'm a sucker for power and profundity, which turns to beauty in my perception. These things were present enough. Most of the action was really cheap, but sometimes sufficiently tense. Most of the dialogue was childish, but I didn't care too much. I mostly ignored that. I needed rich conceptual backdrop, and Star Wars has always had just enough of that, perhaps in spite of the writers, to hold me here. I certainly don't love it. But I like it, and I almost love Rey. I wanted an even more epic conclusion. One thing I should mention that I seriously appreciate about these three movies, besides the supernatural and the "dynastic imperative" thing, is their respect for the past. As the dynastic imperative thing strikes me personally, and timely, so does indulgence in the past, and these three movies are gluttons. I should have mentioned this earlier, but I remember it now: I would have liked these significantly less without such retrospection. Some would cheaply call it nostalgic, some excessively so, but I find reflection on the past to be beautiful, emotional, and of ultimate necessity. The new three Star Wars indulged me plenty.

I liked it all, I didn't love it, and it was exceedingly lame much of the time. But I like it.


A few days later

I do miss Star Wars already. It's rare I indulge in such escapism, and immersive media in general, which certainly intensifies my pining. But as expected, what am I thinking about? -- just those glorious semi-divine moments. Finn definitely ended up not mattering much, relative to his heroic entrance in The Force Awakens. I guess the writers realized he was peripheral halfway through. His role was primarily straight-man, in a couple senses. I eventually became tense about the galaxy's political battle, just like the strife in The Return of the King. In both cases the bleak odds become devastating, before they are wiped by one supernatural event perpetrated by a small hero bearing the entire bane and burden. Despite all my stoic criticism in this post, I actually became devastated by the odds near the end. It was terribly sad, like fighting before the Black Gate, or at Pelennor, or before the Elves arrive at Helm's Deep. It's crushing. I guess the late arrival of the galactic allies in Star Wars is very analogous to the arrivals of Rohan and the Undead at Pelennor, or maybe the Elves at Helm's Deep, while still the war is never won without our small supernatural hero. But in this sense, I was eventually affected by the human element. Only at the very end, in the devastating situation at Exegol, but I was eventually affected. However, like I was saying, as expected, I miss none of this -- I only miss Rey and Kylo. I only miss the gods. Everything else is forgettable, but I long to see Rey again, I long to see Kylo. As The Lord of the Rings is not about The Lord of the Rings in itself, only in its historical context, nor about any of the company or races involved, but in itself actually largely just the story of a hobbit, that is, in itself, not in its historical context; so these three Star Wars are in themselves not really about the Star Wars, nor the Sith, but are the story of a Jedi. In the greater Tolkien context, The Lord of the Rings is about ending The Lord of the Rings, precipitating the exodus of the Firstborn, and ushering the age of Men we live in today. But to read the books is to experience something completely different -- the story of a hobbit. Obviously The Hobbit does that identically, though its analogy to Star Wars is weaker given its limited historical importance. The Lord of the Rings is of profound importance, so as to define an Age, but still largely feels like the story of a hobbit. These three Star Wars movies are historically important to their world, but feel like the story of a Jedi. My point is, I care far more about the Jedi, singular and plural, than the rest. I already miss these movies, but what do I miss? -- just Rey, Kylo, and the beautiful incomprehensible expressions of the deep and divine. I eventually cared some for the rest of the meddling, but ultimately I yearn for the ecstasy watching the gods interface and evolve, Rey dangerously unassuming like infant Christ, Kylo quivering unto kingship, all tenuously balanced, light and dark caught like a leaf shimmering between sun and storm. I want to see Rey again. I want to see Kylo. I want them to fight opposite, and fight together. I'm tempted to say I love these movies, for these reasons, like hormonally-deprived Jane Eyre loved Rochester so soon. I rarely experience cinematic escapism, or indulgent immersive excessive media in general, so I'm confused into calling this love. I don't think it's love, but I did like it, and I miss it, and it kindled both my affection and my reverence by the end. And I think it's exceedingly lame, but it affected me a little.

Dave Chappelle: Sticks & Stones

December 2019?

I knew before it began that Sticks & Stones would be the last Dave Chappelle special I watch for a long time. I'd completed to my impossible satisfaction the full Dave Chappelle gamut and was achieving with him the kind of artistic/intellectual closure I constantly seek and rarely experience in my insatiable life. But I wasn't prepared for such an intimate and heroic experience as Sticks & Stones and its Epilogue. I dreamt a couple of weeks ago I was hanging out with my friend Dave Chappelle at his Manhattan flat. Today my friend rose in the sunlight amidst a crowd into a hero and an idol and at last a king. His specials are one thing; his Epilogue is deifying. Someday I will watch it all again from the beginning; someday I will feel bewildering distress when he releases something new; someday I won't believe he's dead who was once so alive. He's entered this echelon of icons for me. I don't think I worship him any more than I would a friend -- if I have a friend who's defining an art like this. He's like a very interesting and great friend. The difference is -- that I would speak of his glimmering ascension -- that he has thousands, literally and sometimes simultaneously, looking up at him in this way. I always think of a friend or lover differently who gains an audience like myself but not myself. I venerate that which has been venerated or taken from me. I relish the relished and neglect the neglected, and I plead the treasured trash back. Dave Chappelle is an unequivocal icon as merely the credits after his specials can reveal. A lot of his stuff over the years isn't that great! And it's a relatively small output to the general public. But we love this guy. In 2000 he was phenomenal like a kid genius; in 2019 he's accessible like the best friend you ever had. He must be the sanest great man in show business, flawed and joyous and ultimately beloved. Comedians emanate a fascinating magnetism. I am probably permanently tied now, in my artistic/intellectual soul, to Dave Chappelle's often mediocre comedy. Or maybe someday I'll leave this baggage behind and exit this world of triviality for a purer existence. Until then I love Dave Chappelle.

Les Misérables (2012)

I love Les Misérables. I've seen it thrice in the last year, and never before. I've read small pieces of the novel, which were phenomenally interesting. Without doubt here's a work that explores a greater fraction of human experience than most, and with tremendous empathy and intellect. Even the film, a hasty synopsis of the novel, strikes powerfully, again and again in its 2.5 hours. It seems every ten minutes is a devastating blow. As I have often said, these last few years saw my sensitivity increase and emotional tolerance decrease for all fictions, especially movies. Yet Les Misérables seems to tower above others, for scale, scope, intrigue, impact, power and profundity. The dramatic intensity would be enough, without the empathy, intelligence, and artistry, but the whole creates a singular cinematic experience. How great must be the literary experience.

Components: acting; dramatic narrative of the novel; music; writing; historical interest.

I think the actors' performances are outstanding, almost incredible. It's rare to see vulnerability and magnitude co-achieved like this. Tackling both at once is fearless, and achieving both at once makes the performance among the best in Hollywood. To have several of these miracles converging on one screen is a testament to the musical's impact on actors. At least three of them came and delivered some of the most heroic acting of the century so far. The format is unique (novel to stage musical to musical film), therefore difficult to compare with other performances, save with terms of experience: authenticity and emotion.

The drama struck me as Shakespearean. It's an old breed of drama, like the Old Testament, ancient poets, and Shakespeare, that needn't be believable in our age to get a point across. It's exceedingly dramatic, in all major uses of the word. "Dramatic" is one of the first words I'd use to describe both the film and what I've read of the novel. Impossibly dramatic, larger than life, even indulgent, but always authentic and profound. Hugo writes like a man aware of his extreme intelligence. He is not shy. The game is over, no one is pitching, and he's still hitting home runs on his own little tosses -- and we're still glued to our seats. It's amazing to watch. Each page I read was full of intelligence and fascination. It was a subtle genius whose expression was anything but subtle, and a mad spongey sort of genius, rambling intelligently about virtually anything. Yet he crafted this perfect narrative. The drama is almost excessive, and often incredible, yet never flawed for it, and not only spectacular but brilliant and beautiful.

I appreciate and love the music, though I go here and there with it. It's interesting enough, and embedded well enough in the rest of the experience, that I never criticize it like I do almost all modern music. It's interesting, thoroughly embedded, and beyond that very good. But it's not genius, it's not perfect, it's not fascinating, it doesn't strike my taste precisely like other elements of the film. I love it, and it's excellent, and saying it's not genius/perfect/fascinating wouldn't be saying much if I didn't consider other elements of the film genius and perfect and fascinating. The music is excellent and I love it. But it's not overwhelmingly positive an experience for me, like other elements. The reader should immediately remember: I am not a novelist, not a playwright, not an actor, not a historian, not a filmmaker, but I am a musician. Anyway, the music fits partly with modern popular music, therefore makes sense to the ear, yet strays plenty enough to make it interesting. For someone accustomed to music music and not "musical" music, much of it hardly makes sense. I would definitely be in this camp if I had less sophisticated musical training. My generation doesn't hear music like this anymore, at all, unless they go to the theater. For some reason the theater still breaks the molds of the radio, which is such a blessing. Well, I suppose the musical is from 1980. I have heard quite some basic theater music lately. The '80s were different. This also is not American, importantly. So now I'm defeating my own points. But it's still impressive how the theater continues to spice up our musical culture. Kids instantly become more sophisticated when they listen to theater music, which still delivers that rumor of classical music. Even when it's not symphonic, it has those key modulations, left-field chords, quirky melodies, ambiguous song structure/arc, nebulous rhythms, sort of cadenzas, trained operatic voices, almost a randomness we've missed since classical music became irrelevant. Musical theater may be the only remaining relevant rumor of the old style. And looking forward, musical film may be the only thing keeping musical theater relevant. As we get increasingly basic, impatient, and artistically stupid, everything transitions to TV and radio. Classical music went under a long time ago; musical theater carried a rumor of its spirit; now it's films like Les Misérables that may keep musical theater alive, for a while. Eventually it will all just be mumbling, and the 1% of us will fall upon our swords lamenting the past. Anyway, make no mistake, the apparent randomness of classical music is absolutely precious. It kills ever the mumbling over four-on-the-floor. It is drowning, but Les Misérables enshrines it in one cross-cultural generation-leaping monument. We cannot overestimate the significance of this achievement -- nay, service. The music of Les Misérables blends pop with classical; it is excellent stuff for this age; its pop basis is not exactly my taste, even within pop, but it is still quality stuff, and wonderful to hear; it has many terrific songs, many terrific moments; I love it; it is about as sophisticated as pop-based music gets; and it carries a torch bearing a small resurgence of the old flame. God bless it.

The writing is good. I only noticed this third time how it repeatedly leans on repeated phrases. For example, in four bars 1234 rhyming ABAB or ABCB, it's as though the writers wrote strong firsts and seconds, then strong fourths to rhyme with seconds, and then wrote thirds to fill the gap just rehashing the verbiage of the fourth but with a different final word or two, because they didn't want to think of or couldn't think of a really strong third. It's definitely an easy way out, to be honest, and it works, but it comes across as lazy or weak when you notice it many times in one work. I only remember one example, and it's not a great example: "you can take / you can give / let him be / let him live." It's not a great example, but the first two lines make sense, and the fourth works, so this is something I'm familiar with having written some poetry in my life: you write the first line first, inspired for content; then a second, also mostly for content, without much mind for rhyme, pending how things play out; then you imagine a fourth under rhyming necessity, and all three of these can be good; then you have to fit a third in; it's tough, it's crammed, it's the most restricted, it has to flow rhythmically, it has to flow thematically; and you end up rehashing the fourth in the third, because people pay least attention to the third anyway, and in fact have less attention available for #3 by nature, and repetition is very powerful, and puts greater emphasis on #4. But it's an easy way out, and you remove 25% of potential content, and it's ultimately weaker than achieving a really strong third, though that's often difficult. Ideal would be to add content for #3, without cramming too much content, because #3 is the toughest spot to grasp as the audience, yet subtle simple meaning can still be grasped. The repetition is certainly powerful, but is weak writing when indulged repeatedly. Beyond this I really like the writing. The vocabulary and style is largely simple old-fashioned. It's like a tasteful 20th-c. biblical translation (I wish I knew specifically which one to cite) -- not archaic and not too modern, not ornate and not basic, just a tastefully simple rendering of ageless terms, in fact quite like Tolkien at times, yet simpler. The quotation above ("you can take / you can give / let him be / let him live") exemplifies the simplicity, brevity, and timelessness I consider a virtue of the writing, although this example is too elementary. Better examples are more mature, and abound in the movie, though not in my immediate memory for citation. Tolkien is one of my favorite examples of simple yet profound and mature writing, and obviously Hemingway is the brevity guy, but Dylan Thomas (especially early in the collection) is ultimately my greatest example. If God had 100 English words to talk about human experience, they would be Dylan Thomas's. His words are simple, pointed, rich, and timeless all at once. Les Misérables did a good job with this. It will age better since it stays pretty simple and timeless, it strokes all human experience in general terms. And the rhymes are really nice, often surprising. An elegant rhyme that also surprises is one of the best things in all of writing, for me. They seem easy, almost effortless at times in this movie. Many instances convince one it's easy to write and rhyme. But it's not, and this is the nature of elegance. Effortlessness is one of my old core virtues of art, and lots of the writing in this movie appears effortless, elegantly simple.

As I age I feel myself increasingly interested in history. This reflects my increasing interest in identity, especially my own or extensions thereof, and in humanizing the Other. Often the projects are one in the same -- humanizing the Other entails integrating a broader extension of my identity, which always satisfies me, and all of this is enriched by history. History humanizes, and humanizing identifies, and identity is what I love and need. Histories of all kinds and of all entities achieve this. I can see myself reflected in any entity better if I know its history, because it's the dynamics of entities through time that reveal a universal nature, a universal identity, and not snapshots of entities. If all is Brahman, or all is fire, I can see and love myself as Brahman or fire better not viewing an image of a wave in the ocean or of fire but viewing a wave in the ocean transforming in time or viewing fire in its flickering. History reveals myself to me via revealing myself in others to me via revealing the transforming of others through time which looks a lot like me. The personal history of Jean Valjean, the political history of France, Hugo actually wraps many histories into one narrative; especially reading the novel it is clear Hugo is interested in history; therefore I am interested in Hugo, and his narrative is thrilling to me. Historical context enriches almost anything to me. I didn't love Wisconsin until I read its history; I didn't love math and my Senior Project concept until I read its history; I didn't love many people throughout my life until I heard their histories (seriously); I wouldn't love Les Misérables without its appreciation for history.

I love Les Misérables. I love the characters, the story, the music, the historical interest, and the whole thing was highly emotional for me. Every ten minutes was a profound emotion, each of a different color. The thing is monumental. Every page I skimmed of the novel was extraordinary. I should read more of that.