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The End

I see a lot of movies. Despite all evidence to the contrary in this series, I do see new movies all the time, but mostly I get mired in random phases where I’ll watch anything and everything I can get my hands on starring a singular actor or actress, by a certain director, or in a specific genre. At other times, if I’m just in the mood for something, but not anything in particular, I’ll just go and pick things out at the video store and try whatever strikes my fancy. Because of this, I wind up seeing a lot of crap, but nearly as often I find gems that I would have never come across otherwise. So with this last meme on the 31st and final day: “A Movie That More People Should See,” I have lots and lots of movies I’d recommend which may have passed a lot of you by. Therefore, I’m just forcing myself to pick one, but if anyone ever wants suggestions… well, you know where to find me.

There’s this delightful movie called A Walk on The Moon, starring Diane Lane, Viggo Mortensen, and Liev Schreiber. It doesn’t really break any new ground in film-making, or illuminate about any particular subject, but it’s a very human drama, and its brilliance is all in the telling. Pearl is married with children and in her early thirties. She got pregnant at seventeen, and she and her husband, Marty, grew up and old way too fast. They’ve been happy, they’ve done what was expected of them, and they’ve been living their pleasant, ordinary lives just fine until now. But it’s the summer of 1969, the retreat they visit every year in Upstate New York is very near Woodstock, and the Apollo 11 mission is rocketing closer and closer to the Moon. As her daughter reaches the age of fourteen and begins her first steps toward womanhood and independence, Pearl walks her own path toward reclaiming the youth she lost.

It could be a story filled with pathos and histrionics, with the characters selfishly going after what they want without a care for others and becoming monsters in their anger. What happens instead is that the main players, Pearl, Marty, her lover, and her mother-in-law, all unfailingly act like adults. There is confusion and hurt, of course, and there are painful moments of striking out and times where you don’t agree with everything everyone does. But there is a tremendous amount of love and respect that runs in this family, and they don’t just chuck it all because it would be understandable for them to.

It reminds me of what I remember being taught years ago at Atlantic Theatre Company; founded in part by David Mamet, predictably the message was that the playwright has created the conflict, so it’s your job as an actor to solve the problem. People don’t go into a fight trying to escalate it. In real life, we (most of the time) don’t abuse people just because we can. What we do, however, is maneuver our ways through life trying everything each situation requires to get what we want. Depictions of drama in film and literature can sometimes drive me just batty with the way characters interact, where the writers have created big scenes just because they think the moment calls for them without justifying anything. Maybe it would be dramatic to have one character say something hideous to the other, but are you then going to be able to reason what they accomplish with it? As much as we’ve been dulled into a stupor by sloppy writing in popular film, there’s still something that sticks in our craw when the motivations and relationships of characters just don’t make sense to us. We feel it deep down to our bones, and we’re disappointed. We should demand more.

A Walk on the Moon is a picnic, a beautifully complex look at how a family can grow and change and pull away from each other and then… maybe, come back together. There’s power in a shared history, and there’s love and affection in a life lived together. We don’t have to feel stuck with the lot we’ve been given; we can find a way to make it the life we choose.

So… that’s it! This was a much more fun project to contemplate than execute, and writing all thirty-one of these babies has worn me out. Thank you to everyone who has read and commented and given support. I hope I’ve inspired some of you to see something you wouldn’t have, or to revisit an old favorite.

 

The Rescue

I’m a bit anal and I like things neat and tidy, so I’ve tried to maneuver this series by giving equal time to different types and eras of film. There have been a few times where the same film or filmmaker would have sufficed for more than one topic here, but I’ve been trying to give more of a range and not repeat myself. Therefore, I was trying to avoid using my second Tarantino film as an answer today, but I just can’t honestly say that there is any “Scene That Made Me Stand Up and Cheer” more or as literally than today’s featured from Reservoir Dogs. If you’ve not seen the film, be warned that I’ll be discussing a very crucial climactic moment, so SPOILERS shall henceforth commence.

I saw the movie about a year after it came out, finally renting it because there had been such buzz about it from friends and acquaintances at UCSD. I knew almost nothing about it going in, just that there was some intense imagery and a lot of cleverness and violence (mustn’t forget the violence… I was warned). I thus had the pleasure of experiencing the movie as one rarely does; with no preconceived notions. Since half the cast was largely unknown to me, it wasn’t clear on whom I should be setting my sights or to whom I should give my attention. I watched it in the middle of the afternoon, alone in my little apartment in Solana Beach.

There’s a funny opening, a quick and dirty transition to a frantic getaway, followed by a long passage of… talking. There’s another burst of action as the rest of the heist’s survivors make it to the meet-up place, and when they bring in the cop taken hostage in the process. We’ve heard that Mr. Blonde was the one who went a bit nuts in the middle of the robbery and made everything go south by opening fire. We already know from the flashback that he took a fall and served time for the boss man, and he may or may not be harboring a grudge or suffering from psychotic aftereffects. So, when Blonde is left there with the cop while the others scatter to do clean up, and he begins to cheerfully and sadistically “interrogate” him, we’re not feeling too good about where it’s going to lead.

By this point, I’d forgotten all about Mr. Orange, lying there in an ever-growing puddle of his own blood. Tim Roth was unknown to me at the time, so beyond feeling sorry for the scared, squealing guy who is terrified of dying and begging to be taken to the hospital, I’d just sort of relegated him to the background. My attention was of course on Mr. Blonde, so by the time he had done his little dance, cut off poor Marvin Nash’s ear, and doused him with gasoline, my hands were hovering at the ready to cover my eyes. When, out of nowhere, shots ripped into Blonde just as he was about to drop the lighter and set the cop aflame, there was a millisecond where I didn’t quite understand what I was seeing. It was the cut to Mr. Orange, pale, half-dead, but deadly and sure in his aim and intent, that made me gasp, giving me the ultimate feeling of relief and satisfaction.

After finding that Orange is the rat-undercover cop who set them up, and that the seemingly sweet and innocent cop is actually a balls-of-steel hero who knew and didn’t give him up under duress, and after the movie cut to the white-on-black title: “Mr. Orange,” I realized that I was actually standing in the middle of my living room, clutching a throw pillow. I was so enthralled by the action that I don’t even recall when I leapt to my feet. I didn’t exactly cheer, but it was a pretty thrilling movie-watching experience nonetheless. It’s suddenly a completely different movie from that point on, and it’s amazing to introduce our hero halfway through. It makes you think that the story is going to take some fabulously different turn, and that more amazing rescues are to come. The fact they they do not occur, and that saving the cop’s life was ultimately futile, doesn’t negate the thrill of that moment.

Movies that make me gasp have my undying affection and adoration. I love this movie, and treasure that moment where I was transported and purely entertained. It’s those experiences that make me love film.

 

The Dead

Let me just say upfront that today’s meme is “Saddest Character Death,” so with a topic like that, all who read these lines should assume SPOILERS from here on out. (I’ll still be subtle about some things, but you’ve been warned and my conscience is clear.) I’ll put some minds at ease by saying that, though tempted, I have decided to not write this about HP5, but the idea makes me think of why some deaths hit me harder than others. For instance, if one has lived a short, happy life but dies suddenly and without pain, or if at the end of a long and full life one is prepared to die, I will view those passings with sadness, but not see them as tragic (as in Capital “T” Greek Tragedy-level tragic). But when one has had a hard life and a bitterly unfair death, my heart breaks, and in literature and film, those are the ones that stick with me. (For the HP fans out there, you’ll probably get where I was going with those examples… I like to ask people which death in the series is most upsetting to them personally; it can be an interesting character study.)

All of the above brings me to The Departed and Leonardo DeCaprio’s wonderful performance in it as Billy Costigan. He’s an amazing protagonist; very human, but put into impossible situations that he maneuvers with integrity and bravery. Deep, deep undercover and essentially set adrift from the very law enforcement for which he labors, there is no safe harbor for him. He’s between the cops and the gangsters for what feels like forever, and throughout he just seems… so tired. He’s suffering from great anxiety and stress, and he needs more than just those sleeping pills from therapist Madolyn. Watching him, I longed for him to have a good long rest, to feel safe, to feel cared for and loved. But all that he needs and deserves goes to our antagonist, Colin, and that’s the point; what Colin needs is Frank Costello’s approval and adoration, and that goes to Billy; the neglect each suffers makes them more and more desperate. When Billy gets the better of Colin we rejoice. He’s earned this victory, the bad guy deserves his punishment, and our hero will now have the comfort he’s sought for so long.

It’s so unexpected and random, Billy’s death so near his moment of triumph, and it’s just heartrendingly unfair. The rest of the film can only be partially absorbed in a state of shock, until the brilliant conclusion when the hellfire of vengeance in the form of Marky Mark balances the books the only way possible with these people; there will be no judge or jury, but justice and honor nonetheless between cops and robbers. Billy’s death hangs over the end of the film the way the lives and deaths of both his and Colin’s father cast shadows over their sons’ lives and choices. They were both put on paths that lead them to Costello and this face-off before they were born. Throughout the picture, each’s motivation comes from either trying to live up to or live down their dad’s memory, and the reputations that precede each of them both open doors and limit choices.

Naming the movie The Departed as well as having an early mention and a number of allusions throughout to James Joyce is, I think, deliberate. The characters are mostly Irish, so there’s a natural inclination in that direction I suppose, but to me it calls to mind “The Dead” from Joyce’s Dubliners. In it, the death of the young, sensitive Michael Furey years ago hangs over the joyful atmosphere and on the mind of the narrator’s wife, thwarting his desires. But when Gretta says, “I think that he died for me,” we understand her melancholy and the plain fact that her heart is and always will be completely unreachable to her husband. It isn’t the death, but the suffering that precedes it that is tragic, and a tender heart will ache for the tortured soul that can never now be soothed. The pain is taken by those left behind, connecting us forever with the departed.

The lives and deaths of those who came before inform and drive The Departed, and we’re given no balm or trite conclusion after the events of the film. Our heart stays with Billy, because there’s nothing to give it rest. We presume Madolyn will move on and go forth, but there is no true and final closure beyond whatever revenge she sought or enacted. The child she carries, regardless of whether Billy or Colin fathered it, will be born also into a world where the weight of history falls upon all the living and the dead.

 

The Old Friends

And now we’re back to one of those who on earth thought up these topics moments, because today’s meme is: “Movie Seen More Than Ten Times.” I can safely say that I’ve seen about two-thirds of the movies I’ve discussed in the last month more than ten times each. It’s something I do, watch a movie I like so much again and again, usually something like every day for a week or two until I’m finished with it. Now, usually it’s mainly the highlights; there may be some awesome action scene, an incredible dramatic moment, or a brilliantly funny comedy sequence that I just have to dissect and absorb until I’ve had my fill. You can mock me if you feel it’s necessary, but then we probably won’t be friends.

Thus, picking a movie to talk about here isn’t a slam-dunk. I decided instead to highlight the two most favored of my favorites (that is, after His Girl Friday), to which I return year after year, and the first is the movie which has probably been a favorite for the longest, The Sure Thing. It’s been said that John Cusack is underrated, but this movie is too, relegated to the status of other 80′s teen-romp comedies. To be fair, Cusack did in fact make a few of those, and they’re definitely varying degrees of lame, but The Sure Thing is far out of that league, as well as out of the confines of the decade that spawned it. I’m not saying there aren’t some cringe-worthy fashions in it, along with the requisite pop music from the time, but it’s as timeless as any of those movies can get, and it’s mainly because the story itself is. This is likely because it is in fact a remake-slash-homage to the other film that rounds out my top three favorites, It Happened One Night.

It actually took me years of loving both films to notice the connection, because it really is subtle. It Happened One Night was a pioneer in the realm of the Romantic Comedy and is one of the greats to which hundreds of movies that followed have aspired. Panned by critics at its release but driven to box office success by the star-power of Gable and Colbert, it was the first film to sweep the top five categories at the Academy Awards. Reportedly, many of those same critics took a second look once they saw how it was resonating with the public, and to their credit, most changed their tune. It was the little movie that could, and the masses knew something good when they saw it. Many people now claim it’s one of the early Screwball Comedies, but regardless, it spawned imitators for decades to come.

The Sure Thing hearkens back to the time when two strong characters could drive a story and come together in the end without losing parts of themselves. Both are road pictures, and both deal with what happens when the world-wise meets the educated and refined, but they’re great love stories too, demonstrating the learning experience that is every relationship. The message of both is that a fulfilling relationship is one where each challenges the other and neither stops growing. In both, the two have to rely on each other to get through the obstacle course that leads back to where they were going, separately, at the beginning of the story. But somewhere along the way what they want changes, and they begin to love the journey for the company they’re keeping.

Both films have fantastically episodic structures that can be broken down into a series of “bits.” There’s the Show Tunes Scene and the Bar Scene in The Sure Thing; likewise, there’s the “Walls of Jericho Scene” and the Piggy-back Ride Scene in It Happened One Night. In the latter, Peter instructs Ellie on the correct method of dunking a doughnut, while in the former, Gib teaches Allison how to shotgun a beer. Both pairs hitchhike hilariously, get disastrously caught out in the elements with no shelter, and each of the men saves their companion from the lecherous attentions of a fellow traveler. Both Allison and Ellie loosen up in the process, but Peter and Gib refine and soften their hard edges too.

But neither film is presented in a romantic comedy vacuum. It Happened One Night is not just set against the backdrop of the Great Depression, but informed by it. We don’t forget that the disparity between the backgrounds of our hero and heroine mimics the very real class warfare and struggle to survive that was going on outside the movie theater. The Sure Thing is not so serious in contrast, but book-ended by the creative writing course they share in college, it’s a compelling look at how life experiences inform one’s art, and an argument that one of the basic functions of school is to find just who we really are. Gib finds out what kind of girl is really his type, and Allison chooses adventure over the five-year-plan.

Believe me when I say that these two make the best double-feature ever. I highly recommend you try them together with the yummiest of munchies close by. You’ll probably find yourself returning to them, as I do, again and again.

 

The Fatigue

I haven’t really paid attention to popular culture as a whole since around 2001, which was when I stopped watching television. There are reasons for that (mostly socio-polito-emotio-spiritual), but when I say “as a whole,” I mean by not having an eye on the big picture that TV provides, there are huge trends and phenomena that simply pass me by. What I experience I have to seek out or get online,  so I frequently have no idea whatsoever who the hell is on the cover of People magazine, and I’m pretty much okay with that.

I bring this up because today’s topic, “Most Over-hyped Movie” was giving me quite a bit of trouble. I don’t get overwhelmed with things that make everyone else crazy (coverage of the Royal Wedding, Michael Jackson’s death, celebrity trials, etc), because I’m not tuned-in to any of it. Therefore, though other people mentioned Avatar in this slot, I have to admit that I hadn’t really heard of the movie until it was nominated for a Golden Globe. Likewise, while I’d certainly heard of The Dark Knight long before its release, it wasn’t to the point where my expectations were so high that they would be dashed no matter what. So you see my trouble here. I don’t have enough experience with hype to have a movie that fits, so… how have I decided to twist this meme to fit my egocentric needs? By making it, essentially, “Movie That Was Most Obscured by Hype Surrounding The Film.” Hence, we’ll be talking about Mr. & Mrs. Smith.

I’m not going to belabor the point, but Brangelina vs. Aniston was tiresome to me almost before it began. I’d like to quote the brilliant Jessica (of Heather and Jessica) over at Go Fug Yourself just today, in fact: “[W]e’re going to all be 90 years old and Us Weekly’s hologram (or whatever) will pop up on our forehead to wonder if Aniston is mad because Angelina stole her plot at Forest Lawn.” Indeed. Every bit of publicity for the film was all about whether or not Brad and Angelina were together. If they were together, when did it happen? Is dear Jen-Jen devastated? Is Angelina the bitch femme-fatale we always knew she was? Is sweet little down-to-earth Jenny going to lose it over this and accidentally consume some calories in a fit of depression? And oh… are men ever even remotely responsible for their actions, or does everything all come down to it always being the women’s fault?

It was infuriating and exhausting, and it completely overshadowed what is a truly fantastic flick. I can’t say it actually hurt the movie’s box office, because I’m not sure if 90 million profit is considered good enough, but I only saw the damn thing a year or so later, since I’d heard nothing about how good it was over all that noise. And really, it’s freaking great; somewhere in the first half-hour or so I realized that what I was watching was the closest thing to my favorite genre (as I’ve mentioned twice before), the Screwball Comedy, as I’d seen since the forties. It’s not exactly the perfect fit, but you’ve got contentious leads who will neither give an inch to the other, whose battle is really a stylized mating dance. There’s heightened emotion channeled into action, snappy dialogue, and brilliant supporting characters. There’s a huge dramatic arc on which the big, damn action movie rests, but underneath it is the through-line of a couple coming to a crisis in their marriage. Will they make it through or kill each other in the process? We know what’s going to happen, but it’s the ride that makes it thrilling.

I have a theory that the filmmakers (or at least the screenwriter) were deliberately paying homage to the beloved genre with the title. Alfred Hitchcock loved the Screwball Comedies of the thirties and tried one on for size in the early forties with a movie titled… Mr. & Mrs. Smith. It starred such towering comic actors as Carole Lombard and Robert Montgomery, but it was, in truth, a bit of  a dud. It’s fine, it’s just neither very funny nor particularly screwy. It has nothing to do with the 2005 film; that’s not a remake as some have thought. But what I find very interesting is when pondering, “just what would a Hitchcock Screwball Comedy be like,” the Brangelina version comes much closer to what you’d think you’d get from him. I think it was intentional, and I think that they were trying to infuse movie comedy with something it’s lacked for decades. I love them for it and I love Mr. & Mrs. Smith. Try it on yourself, and just pretend you don’t know the minutiae of the stars’ lives. Or, better yet, just tune it all out, and you can live in a blissful state where you don’t have to care.

 

The Professional

On AFI’s list, “100 Years, 100 Heroes and Villains,” the latter group seems to be sub-divided into two main categories. One is that of the madman, whose behavior is generally violent and erratic, such as Annie Wilkes, The Joker, and Freddy Krueger. The second, however, is comprised of the cool, calculating antagonist, along the lines of Harry Lime, Mrs. Danvers, and Hannibal Lechter. It’s always been these that are the more fascinating to me, as they function far more as counterpoints to the protagonist. We can frequently see their points of view, or at the very least enjoy the way in which they go about getting what they want. They’re sociopaths, usually, but a little part of us dies if they do, since we can’t help but admire them. Most who know me probably already know where I’m going with this… for today’s “Best Villain,” there’s never been one more appealing to me than Hans Gruber in Die Hard.

There are many reasons why I think Die Hard is one of the greatest action films of all time, but it’s best explained by discussing its adherence to the Aristotelian Unities. I’m being absolutely serious when I say this: Die Hard is mostly structured according to the classic rules for drama demanding unity of time, space, and action. It takes place in one night. The main part of the action all occurs in one building (yes, and its parking garage, and the street below, but still). There is one focus of the plot, and that’s the terrorist takeover of the building and its thwarting by John McClane. It’s this simplicity that makes the action so breathtaking; we don’t have to worry about any complicated reasoning by the characters or understand anyone’s motivations to know where it’s all going, so each sequence is heightened in importance, and ultimately more satisfying.

But back to the subject at hand. Gracefully sweeping through the center of this simple structure is a complex and businesslike mastermind in Gruber. He’s European chic, dashing, well-spoken, dressed to the nines, and his scheme is meticulously planned. He’s seemingly a terrorist who has some shadowy goal in mind, the sincerity of which we doubt from the very beginning. At first it seems as though the liberation of whosits and whatever-they’re-called is going to be a MacGuffin – a primarily Hitchcockian term for some plot device or object about which the characters care a great deal, but the audience couldn’t care less – but, have no fear, the simplicity is not actually at stake. He’s there to steal a great deal of money, of course, and what could be more comfortingly ordinary? What could be more fantastically impressive than his doing so on the scale at which he’s operating? What could be more brilliant than: “I am an exceptional thief, Mrs. McClane. And since I’m moving up to kidnapping, you should be more polite.” We know the movie is going somewhere with Hans Gruber. He’s in charge, and a part of us wants to see him brush aside any and all of the idiots standing in his way.

Of course, he’s the perfect foil to John McClane, the nearly-everyman New York cop, an everyday hero who you could say was as American as apple pie, but you’d risk an eye-roll from him at the sentimentality. We don’t actually care about McClane’s relationship with his wife as much as we do that which he has with Hans; there’s real chemistry there. Alan Rickman has had a long and glorious career playing the smartest, most sophisticated man in any room, whose exasperation knows no bounds. Hans can kill without emotion, his only qualm whether or not doing so will put the money he seeks further out of reach. He’s as sane as you or I, with the capacity for sheer annoyance at his plans being derailed and having to break a sweat that will surely ruin his suit. When that safe opens at the culmination of all his efforts, we’re thrilled at the wonder and satisfaction on his face.

I happened to have the pleasure of meeting Rickman once, and my idiotic, unsophisticated twenty-three year old self breathlessly asked him about this movie (seriously, it’s a blur exactly what I said, but I somehow asked Alan Rickman about Die Hard to his face). He was terribly gracious about it, and talked to me for a few minutes about how the script had sucked at first, and he’d not agreed to do it until they’d expanded the part of the wife, etc… It was clear that he knew he was the best part of the movie, and that confidence was incredibly refreshing and appealing. It’s that which infuses Hans and makes us truly disappointed that he and McClane can’t both succeed in the end. I remember seeing the sequel and gasping at the mere seconds showing his final fall in flashback. Just the specter of Hans Gruber in that film (which was no comparison to the original – but then, they’d abandoned the unities!), was enough to thrill.

 

The Bait-and-Switch

I’m not a fan of the “It was only a dream” method of story-telling. Having said that, I can’t imagine who would be, as it’s essentially a big practical joke perpetrated on the audience by the screenwriter. I’m not referring to movies such as The Sixth Sense or The Fight Club, where you can go back and watch it a second time, seeing things you’d never noticed before (though I should add that I think the latter of the two does this far less consistently), because those are ultimately very satisfying. It’s movies like The Usual Suspects that leave us at the end of the film having no idea what’s even happened, wondering if we’ve just been lied to the whole time and if anything we’ve seen was actually real at all. I wind up walking out of those flicks irritated, feeling as though the filmmakers were expressing contempt for the audience.

So, when pondering today’s, “Freakishly Weird Ending” – which is irritatingly vague, as that could mean the most freakishly weird or my favorite of such – I began thinking of American Psycho. (It should go without saying from here on out that one should assume SPOILERS for the film.) This movie is more akin to The Usual Suspects, as the end leads you to wonder just what the hell you’ve been doing with the last two hours of your life. But don’t get me wrong; it’s quite marvelously entertaining, so you don’t really care. Throughout, it seems as though you’re witnessing blistering social satire, as the protagonist, Patrick Bateman, gets away repeatedly and (seemingly) literally with murder. Set in the eighties among the fabled yuppie class of New York City, it seems likely that we’re to take from this that very little matters to these people other than money, drugs, status, and the next trend, and that they simply just don’t notice that there’s a monster in their midst.

But then things get more and more outlandish and fantasy-like as Bateman goes on a killing spree through the city, complete with police chases and sentient ATMs, landing himself huddled under his desk confessing to his lawyer by phone (a scene, by the way, which is one very good reason why Christian Bale is a beloved cult actor). In the end, it seems as though the people he’s killed just might not be dead, as bodies he’s stored are no longer where he put them and people claim to have lunched with another just days before. So, this could be the “Protagonist is Crazy” variation of the “It’s Only a Dream” theme, but for the fact that the filmmakers themselves claim that was not their intent; it seems the book, by Bret Easton Ellis, is rather ambiguous about the particulars, and they wanted to come down strongly on the side of Bateman actually being a killer, with the point being to send-up the shallow society that surrounds him.

Those filmmakers admit to and bemoan the fact that they failed in this by making things far too outlandish, but I think the story goes wrong by including a sort of “control” character by the name of Jean. She’s his secretary, clearly has a crush on him, and is the only one who he seems to allow to see behind the facade. She’s wholly unlike the others, and Bateman is the most sincere and genuine with her. He comically tries to bring himself to kill her before giving up and very brokenly asking her to leave, saying, “I think if you stay, something bad will happen. I think I might hurt you. You don’t want to get hurt, do you?”

Inter-cut with the revelation in the final scene that no one believes he’s killed anybody (either because they are blind and don’t care or because he actually didn’t), is Jean flipping through his planner back at the office, seeing it riddled with progressively more and more graphic doodles by Bateman. She’s disturbed and heartbroken to see it, but if the idea was supposed to be that he’s going to get away with it all because of society’s apathy, they’ve failed to take into account that Jean is not a part of the drugged and compromised clique otherwise surrounding him. If he’s killed anybody, she’s going to let people know. Thus…

It was all just happening in his head: the protagonist is crazy. Unfortunately, the film happened to just get away from a sincere effort to head for an entirely different theme (if only just to those of us who don’t buy the alternative), making this possibly the most unintentional ending in film. Either way, it’s social commentary, because none of his peers seem to care that he’s crazy and thinks he’s killed a lot of people. Either way, it’s freakish, but it is an enjoyable ride nonetheless.

 

The End of an Era

The death of Elizabeth Taylor was, to many, the death of the Golden Age of film. She’d been in ill-health for a long time, so her passing was not a shock, but it was still something that hit me harder than I thought it would, and I wanted to mark the occasion. As Richard and I get together periodically for day-long movie fests involving fattening food and drink, it seemed natural to toast to Liz with him. We’d been discussing how much we each wanted to see A Place in the Sun for years, so it’s of course the answer to today’s, “A Movie I Plan on Watching.” This is another one of the silly questions, as there are dozens upon dozens of movies I plan on watching in my lifetime, but how this film has eluded me is the real story for today.

Being that Richard is crazy-busy at all times, I had to book his time about a month in advance, and we were agreed we’d be watching A Place in the Sun and Giant. Since there is usually a noticeable run on the movies of stars who have recently died, I kept thinking I should have the movies in hand. I have the unlimited Netflix account that means I periodically let movies sit for months and months unwatched, and I just never got around to sending those back to trade for Liz. No problem though, enough time will have gone by for something to be available at the neighborhood Blockbusters. Surely they’d stock enough of Taylor’s films… after all, I live in Hillcrest.

Still, I left it too late. On the day before we were to celebrate Liz, I checked availability online at the local Blockbusters. At first, I thought there must be something wrong with the search feature, because for every movie I got the same “Not at this location” result for the nearest ten to twenty stores. It occurred to me then that though they hadn’t closed their doors, the company had filed for bankruptcy, and this was probably a sign of their stock being liquidated. Depressing though it was, I still had my ace in the hole: Kensington Video.

If you’ve never lived in San Diego, you have no idea of the wonder that is Kensington Video, so allow me to explain; it’s a utopia for movie-philes. They have a stock numbering in the neighborhood of 50,000, specialize in silent and foreign films, and still rent VHS. Owned and operated by three generations of the same family of movie buffs, it’s one of my favorite places in the world. They have no computer system, write the movies you’re checking out down on a simple receipt to be filed in what looks like a recipe box, and are always packed and busy. Long may Ken Video live in San Diego! The problem for my purposes, however, is that I knew they would have Taylor films, but I also knew that everyone else would be going there too.

One of the owners that day confirmed that they hadn’t kept any of her movies in stock over the past month, though they thrillingly had Giant, so at least four hours of our day was set. Being that the woman has a vast knowledge of film, she kept suggesting things and going back to look to see if they had them, only to come up empty each time. It was frustrating, but Ken Video is never anything but a comforting experience for me. On the way home, It occurred to me that I could just go and buy A Place in the Sun! After all, it’s a movie I’d wanted to see for a long time, it was made by one of my favorite directors, and it would be worth it to not have the day of tribute ruined.

So I stopped at Borders in Mission Valley, remembering that they too had filed for bankruptcy (since then it’s been announced they’re closing all stores for good), but I was undeterred. I went directly to search their system by computer… and nothing came up. Again, I thought there must be something wrong with their search feature and tried movie after movie, only to find that there were simply no Elizabeth Taylor movies at all in the system. Let me repeat; there was not even anything listed that said “Not at this location” or “on back order” or “will take 1-2 weeks for delivery.” Just nothing was there. And then finally it occurred to me that though not all stores had closed, they were probably… liquidating their stock.

Was the economy that bad? Was this the twenty-first century’s equivalent of the boarded-up business, the blinking cursor and the stark “not in stock?” Was this a sign of worse to come? My friend, Shalico, thought that it was probably not so dramatic, but that it was merely a sign of changing times. The move to on-demand and streaming video, coupled with DVDs delivered right to your door, is making the video store obsolete. Though I was mainly thwarted here by neglecting to plan ahead, I often spontaneously rent movies. Just a month before all of this I’d been looking something up on imdb, saw the ad for X-Men, First Class (which was cool, by the way) wound-up on James McAvoy’s page, and then read about The Last Station from there. That got me up, out, and to the video store within the half-hour, and I loved the film.

I fear that the days of being able to have any movie in your reach within an hour or so and a drive are over, and I’m saddened by it. There will be more and more easy ways to get new releases to you with no effort whatsoever, but if it’s more obscure and a Saturday (and you’re not within reach of Ken Video – long may it reign), you’re out of luck. It’s the end of an era, indeed.

 

The Camberwell Carrot

Of my least favorite character in one of my favorite books, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh by Michael Chabon, is said: “Phlox, recognizing early that she lacked a strong sense of humor, or rather that she lacked the ability to make up jokes, had memorized thousands of bizarre passages from books and from here and there, and had developed, in place of humor, an ability to drop these bombs into conversation, sometimes with incongruous, killer accuracy.” I do not aspire to be like Phlox in any way, but I do try, when cleverness fails me, to at least have the right thing to say in every situation, even if the words are not my own. I always cite my source, however; conscientious footnoting is essential for the habitual quoter.

Today’s topic, “The Quote I Use Most Often,” was an incredibly difficult one on which to decide, as there just isn’t any one quote I use much more than any others. That is, unless people want to hear about the bizarre need I have to randomly evoke Ghostbusters with “You don’t think the sign’s too subtle, Marty? You don’t think people will drive down here and not see the sign?” It’s a bit of a sickness, but one I can always count on J.T. and my dear brother, Robert, to recognize each time. But never mind that… I was about to explain that I’ve decided to cheat yet again and change today’s meme to “Most Quotable Film,” because it’s my blog and I feel like it, and frankly, because no one’s reading these anyway. Changing it thus gives me the opportunity to talk about the brilliant cult-favorite Withnail & I, which is arguably one of film’s great cornucopias of witticism.

It’s about two drugged-out, boozer actors in 1969 London who decide to get away from their fuzzy life of sloth and have a week in the country. Written and directed by Bruce Robinson, semi-autobiographical and made in 1987 with relatively little nostalgia, it’s given to the culture some of the best responses to all the crap that life can fling. Have a headache? It’s very satisfying to cry, “I feel like a pig shat in my head” and “There must and shall be aspirin! If I do not get some aspirin, I shall die, here on this fucking mountainside.” Try it yourself and you’ll feel that much better already. If you’re hungry and in need of protein, “I want something’s flesh” is a highly effective way of articulating it. If you ever find yourself in the middle of God knows where and you’re not quite sure how you got there or how to get home, “We’ve gone on holiday by mistake,” will be an almost soothing sentiment. Take a test-drive:

 

The screenplay is not just clever in circumstance, however. There’s a fantastic rhythm to it and a singularity to each character’s voice that makes even the most inane conversation amusing. After all, neither Withnail nor “I (Marwood, according to the script)” are the brightest bulbs in the marquee, and they’re not doing anything particularly interesting, but Robinson somehow keeps us riveted. To wit:

Marwood: What about whatshisname?
Withnail: What about him?
Marwood: Why don’t you give him a call?
Withnail: What for?
Marwood: Ask him about his house.
Withnail: You want me to call whatshisname and ask him about his house?
Marwood: Why not?
Withnail: All right. What’s his number?
Marwood: I’ve no idea. I’ve never met him.
Withnail: Well neither have I. What the fuck are you talking about?

It’s delightful through and through, but like every film made in that time period that was about the late sixties, it’s got its undertone of sadness and paradise lost. Setting a film in 1969 is akin to placing a story at the cusp of the outbreak of war, or of famine or recession; the audience knows what’s coming. It’s a representation of that moment where a generation has to grow up, and there are always characters who ride that tide and those swallowed up by it. There’s depth and pathos to Withnail & I, but the sparkling moments of hilarity are all the better for it.

 

The Happy Accident

He didn’t make number one on AFI’s 100 Heroes and Villains - that went to Atticus Finch, and no one’s gonna argue that - but it’s a very, very close second for Indiana Jones. It’s hard to think of an action hero who could be more universally beloved, for he truly fits the cliche of one whom men want to be and women want to be with. There’s such a balance of extraordinary and ordinary in Indy that it’s impossible for men to resent him, or for a woman to write him off as the too-perfect matinee idol. He’s brilliant, devious, cantankerous, and fearless (except when it comes to snakes). That’s what’s perfect about him as a character; he displays super-human abilities, but mixed in with all of that is always something that reminds us how very human he is.

It’s just this quality that makes my choice for today’s “Best Action Scene.” It’s of course from the best of the series, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and it’s the part where he’s desperately chasing after and fighting off the baddies in the marketplace in Cairo. His love match, Marion, is abducted and winds up in a basket, and he’s just sure he knows where she is. He’ll find her any moment,  just around the  next corner… if these natives and their swords would just get out of the way. He’s fought them off with his fists and his whip, and he’s done his best to get his girl far from harm’s way, but when the crowd parts and he is confronted with some black-clad cross between an Eastern Knight and a ninja, he’s just suddenly and sincerely done. It’s one of the most iconic moments for Indiana Jones; he takes one look at that swashbuckling and sword-twirling that promises he’ll not go down easily, and just decides to save time and energy and shoot him instead.

 

Now, I’m not arguing that this is the most exciting action scene of all Indiana Jones’ considerably amazing sequences to choose from, because it’s nothing compared to the marathons of abuse he puts himself through again and again chasing what he’s after. It would probably be better described as the action scene that wasn’t, but it best shows character of any I can think of, and what a lovely thing for this genre. Why shouldn’t everything inform character and story? Why shouldn’t things make sense in context? So many action films forget this, and it’s why these (yes, even the second and the fourth films) are such towering examples of the best of movie-making. We love Indy because we never forget that he walks this earth; he gets bruised battered tired, and annoyed, and he bleeds just like the rest of us. Where other heroes never hesitate to leap into the fray, Indy can always appreciate the sense in saving his strength and giving his all only when strictly necessary.

However, the real beauty of this moment is that it wasn’t supposed to happen. Spielberg has famously revealed that the original plan was for a long fight with the swordsman in which Indy would naturally prevail with his whip and superior wiles. But Harrison Ford was struck with dysentery and was very ill on the day they were to shoot it, and it was his idea to scrap the whole thing and go for brevity, injecting a comedic moment into the film at the same time. It must be said that Ford has terribly good instincts and knows his characters well, but his director had a history of stumbling into greatness by going with the happy accidents that passed his way. In Jaws, Spielberg had planned to show the shark far, far earlier in the picture, but the damn mechanical beast just wouldn’t work properly. He shot around it and thus created a textbook example for building suspense.

There are dozens of such moments of providence in film history, and I love them because they remind us that the magic of film can come from very humble places. It’s not only action heroes who are human deep down - filmmakers are too.

 

The Glorious Bastard

I have a fascination with the unlikable protagonist. By this, I don’t mean the “antihero,” because I feel that their striving and emotional arc are still close enough to being heroic as to be worthy of being compared to one. However, when the main character is so far off that spectrum, when their personalities are irredeemable in any way and yet you still care about what happens to them, I find myself spellbound. Of course, usually these characters work because they’re surrounded by others that are equally reprehensible, so we cling to our protagonist just to get through. I’ve always thought of Trainspotting as being like this; it’s a movie I love to watch, and I love everything about it… except the actual people who populate it.

I bring all of this up to introduce today’s meme, “Favorite Final Line,” because it’s in that final line in Trainspotting that we’re smacked in the face with just what we’ve invested in for the past ninety minutes. We’ve backed the best horse in the picture, there’s no doubt about that, but when the morally corrupt Renton walks off, smiling broadly, and in voice-over says: “The truth is that I’m a bad person,” there’s a feeling not of betrayal or disappointment, but of relief. We’re relieved that we don’t have to hope for the best for him, and we don’t have to worry about him being victimized or carried away by his demons. Whether or not he’s in the middle of  a vicious cycle of addiction to sobriety and back again, he’s a bad person, and that sort is always going to be fine. I’m cheating a bit with this final “line” thing, as it’s really a speech, but it’s that first line of it that packs the punch.

The truth is that I’m a bad person. But, that’s gonna change – I’m going to change. This is the last of that sort of thing. Now I’m cleaning up and I’m moving on, going straight and choosing life. I’m looking forward to it already. I’m gonna be just like you. The job, the family, the fucking big television. The washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electric tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisure wear, luggage, three piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing gutters, getting by, looking ahead, the day you die.

Because we’re all going to be fine, we know it. The song “Jane Says” expresses this beautifully in the repetition of “I’m gonna kick tomorrow… I’m gonna start tomorrow…” We, all of us, are going to be better, healthier, skinnier, wealthier, happier in our jobs, closer to our families, more generous in our charity, and kinder to small animals… tomorrow. It’s the first day of the new, improved us. No one plans on being fucked-up, and everyone is always sure nothing bad is going to last. There’s a reason that director Danny Boyle has Renton smiling into the camera for that whole speech; he can see us out there in the dark, thinking we’ve just sat through something so far removed from our experience as to be comfortingly foreign. But we’re just like Renton, and what he’s going to do now is start looking and acting just like us.

It’s why I think we care about what happens to Renton though we don’t really like him; we recognize ourselves in the choices he makes. Regardless of how at fault he is or what shocking things he does, something in us is satisfied by his getting away with all of it. We all want to. We’ll be better people tomorrow.

 

The Matched Set

For today’s meme “Favorite Romantic Couple,” let me start by saying that I like my pairs evenly matched. They’ve got to be able to fight fairly, meet on common ground, and each keep the other on edge. My favorite Shakespearean couple is Beatrice and Benedick; out of all classic dramatic movies, I love Scarlett and Rhett the best; and for comedies (which means my most beloved of all), it’s Lucy and Jerry Warriner of The Awful Truth. I seem to have brought us inevitably back to Cary Grant, but it’s probably going to be the final time, so bear with me. I love this movie nearly as much as His Girl Friday, and they both deal with a favorite trope; as Stanley Cavell called it, the “Comedy of Remarriage.”

This sub-genre allowed movies to get around another piece of the aforementioned Production Code; since adultery was outlawed by it, they could do the next best thing and have a couple break up, move on to others, and then reunite at the end of the picture. This convention also allowed for far more risque dialogue and situations, as it was understood they’d had legal carnal knowledge of the other, and thus a darker, more sexual vibe was acceptable between them. Some of my favorite parts of the four of Grant’s “remarriage” movies (additionally, The Philadelphia Story and My Favorite Wife) involve him cheerfully announcing some intimate fact or anecdote about his wife or their life together in front of his replacement. It’s a sly and manipulative, “Remember, I was there first” that he smoothly stabs through the other guy’s heart.

But of the four movies, it’s only The Awful Truth that focuses on nothing else but their relationship and whether or not they’re going to mend it. We see them break up because of suspicion; Jerry catches Lucy coming home after a night out and doesn’t believe her story. Meanwhile, he’s just returned from a vacation heaven-knows-where, because he sure as hell wasn’t where he said he was. They’ve gotten complacent with each other, and whether or not Lucy is intentionally trying to make him jealous to get his attention back, it backfires and one fight leads to them calling the whole thing off. The most fun couples to watch are those who never stop challenging each other, and that’s exactly what Jerry and Lucy do best. Once they’d stopped trying, however, it was time to either take a break or chuck it all for good. There are naturally a number of twists and turns, and each of them wind-up for a time with other people. They’re in genuine danger of not working it all out, and you can see in a number of moments that there is real affection between them. If they lose their marriage, they’ll both regret it.

What I love most about Jerry and Lucy is that they are reminded of how much they love each other when each makes the other laugh. They’re quick-witted, clever, sophisticated people, and probably very few mortals can keep up with them. It’s difficult for folks like that to keep entertained, so when they each found someone who could hold their interest, they held onto them. Now, without that perfect other half, they’re each facing a life of ordinariness, and what could be worse than that? It comes down to the wire on the last day before their divorce is final. Jerry is about to be engaged to a vapid heiress, and Lucy got him tangled in a lie to the hapless woman earlier in the evening. It’s clear in this scene with whom he really belongs; Grant and Dunne are marvelous at showing us the very real and genuine connection between the two of them.

 

Marvelous. There’s more that has to happen between them before lights out, but she’s ensnared him again, and he’ll follow that crazy girl anywhere.

 

The Homefront

It’s been well documented that movies got a bit tame after 1933, once the Hays Code was consistently enforced. Prior to that, film had become a tawdry sex, drug, and crime riddled pleasure-spree. The films of that period were titillating, but it got to a point where some were aiming for little more than one-upping the shock value of whatever came before it. Thus, the enforcement of the code is given credit, initially, for ushering in the Golden Age. It takes far more creativity to tell a story in subtle ways, and all that sex and angst was redirected into suspense and Screwball Comedy. Of course, the code went a bit too far, and it’s also blamed for the fifties being considered the weakest decade in film history (with exceptions, of course). But somewhere in between, and within the code itself, there were things that were circumstantially permitted, such as anything that had to do with our brave fighting men during World War II.

Every genre of film tackled the drama of a soldier shipping out, returning, on leave, or a stranger in a strange place, etc… and everything that involved those situations was generally given more permission than usual. I bring this all up in introduction of today’s meme: “Favorite Kiss,” because the 1943 movie, The More the Merrier has one of the most sensual of such moments as you’ll find in the entire decade. The situation is a bit racy, as it involves an affianced girl with a man she’s recently met. Of course, she just met him the other day in her hallway, coming out of the shower, because there’s a housing shortage in D.C., and she’s trying to do her part for the war effort… Did I mention this was also a Screwball Comedy? The film rather remarkably makes light of the heightened emotions surrounding the early days of the war and how that made for fast relationships and hasty decisions.

But these leads are very appealing, and we would allow them a lot of latitude regardless. Jean Arthur is darling per usual as the girl trying to maintain her dignity and composure as she gets increasingly in over her head. She was indispensable in the thirties and early forties for this sort of role, and this is probably my favorite of her performances. Joel McCrea is actually more than a soldier shipping out; some sort of secret mission or office is alluded to, and of course, he can’t talk about it. There is something very upright about McCrea as an actor; he’s a strange cross between Gary Cooper and Jimmy Stewart, but with a very ordinary masculinity thrown in. I didn’t at all expect to like him, but in this and the brilliant The Palm Beach Story, he’s got this rather warm manliness that makes for some sexy moments.

So the permissiveness of the scenario and the appeal of the players combine to give us this fabulous scene between Connie and Joe. It’s perfectly alright with the audience that she’s about to throw-over her fiance; after all, there must be something wrong with a guy who’s not going off to fight (there are a number of movies I’ve seen with the same: soldier steals girl from man who isn’t enlisted). It’s also absolutely fine that Joe is sneaking his hands all over Connie, and is essentially seducing her on her stoop. It’s also fine that she’s showing a bit of skin, because it’s all the better for him to take advantage of, and he’s a good guy. He’s also Joel McCrea, and for some reason, the Code just let him have his way with women. Jean Arthur is a good girl though, so everything is going to be fine.

 

Oh, and did I mention that this film was directed by George Stevens? I could (and who am I kidding, I probably will someday) write a whole blog just about my love for him and the sensitive eye of his camera. He loves to give his actors long shots, and doesn’t use close-ups indiscriminately, but there’s also a feeling in his films that he’s giving the characters their privacy. There are a number of movies where he’s had kisses taking place behind doors nearly closed or from long-distance. He’s not shy here though, and thank goodness Connie stops being coy too. It’s one of the most purely sensual kisses ever, and I think these two kids just might have a shot… once that damn war is over.

 

The Pictures That Got Small

I had a difficult time deciding what I would write for today’s meme, “Best Movie Cast.” The topic brings to mind a great ensemble, something that has a large and varied group of actors telling a tale in which they’re essentially equally featured. Films like Magnolia, Little Miss Sunshine, and Glengarry Glen Ross were mentioned in the subsequent answers I read in other series online, and I agree with all of them, but I just couldn’t think of a flick in that vein about which I wanted to write. Then I thought of Sunset Blvd and about how I had been trying to think of which of these memes I could twist to accommodate it, and I realized that I wouldn’t have to make any adjustments at all. Well, except changing the connotation of the meme to something more like, “Best Movie Casting.”

It’s hard to imagine any of the principals being played by anyone else, but the lead roles were intended at first for very different actors. For Norma Desmond, Billy Wilder considered Mae West, Greta Garbo, Pola Negri, Norma Shearer, and Mary Pickford, who were at turns wrong for it, shocked by the script, or insulted at the prospect. It was George Cukor who suggested Gloria Swanson, and when she balked at the screen test, he told her that it would be the role for which she would be remembered and that: “If they ask you to do ten screen tests, do ten screen tests, or I will personally shoot you.” And thank God, because she’s perfect. She has an extraordinarily huge presence for all of her 5’1″ frame, and though she was aging really very well, she gives a bravely bare and ugly performance. Wilder said in a 1975 interview: “There was a lot of Norma in her, you know.” The dozens of photographs from Swanson’s own past strewn about as props for Norma blur the line between the character and Swanson’s own history.

I have never found whether Erich von Stroheim was cast before or after Swanson, but his presence is so satisfyingly appropriate. He plays Max, the servant devoted to Norma, the one who stands by her and is actually responsible for the fantasy world in which she lives. The fact that Max was her director and the one who made her a star is terribly ironic historically. Swanson and von Stroheim made a film together at the end of the silent era called Queen Kelly which was not finished, though a version of it was released in 1931; only seventy minutes remained of what had been planned as a five-hour picture. It was Swanson herself who put an end to the shooting, as her production company was partly financing the behemoth, and the project effectively ended the career of its director. In Sunset Blvd, the film they’re screening at the Desmond home is Queen Kelly, and von Stroheim as Max is the one running the camera. There’s such a delicious undertone of resentment and ego-destruction in the relationship between the characters Swanson and von Stroheim play, and Billy Wilder had enough of a sadistic sense of humor to purposefully exploit it.

And then there’s beautiful, doomed William Holden. Signed by Paramount at the tender age of nineteen, starring opposite Barbara Stanwyck at the age of twenty, and by the age of thirty languishing in boy-next-door parts he’d outgrown, Holden was just itching for the chance to show something more onscreen by the time he was given the chance to put in for Sunset Blvd. The part of Joe Gillis was originally written for Montgomery Clift, who eventually backed-out, and the picture is far, far greater for it. Clift was an incredible actor, a sensitive performer who laid himself bare for each role, and who had the haunted look of a tortured soul. Though the casting of Norma and Max are brilliant as such, the casting of Clift as Gillis would have been disastrously on-the-nose.

What’s so effective about Holden in the part is that he’s a golden boy, a glorious, robust presence that we can see brought low by his failed career as a writer and the financial ruin that’s followed. Holden knew about compromise and cynicism and rationalization, and it’s all the more poignant written on the same face that carries Hollywood’s most dazzling smile. His delivery and narration is suitably light and wry, bringing the energy that carries us through the dark piece, and the movie would not be half as good without him. Super-stardom was at last his with Joe Gillis, and his performance ushered in a string of anti-heroes for himself and a generation of actors who followed.

I could write about William Holden all day and about Sunset Blvd for probably at least a few hundred words more, but I’ll try and wrap this up. Beyond the main casting (and I know I’ve skipped over Nancy Olson, but… wouldn’t you?), there’s the matter of Old Hollywood so brilliantly represented, with C.B. Demille, Buster Keaton, Hedda Hopper and others playing themselves, lending an air of authenticity that’s chilling. At its screening for the industry elite, Louis B. Mayer chastised Wilder saying, “You have disgraced the industry that made and fed you!” He may have, but in so doing, he breathed life into it that kept it running, and this movie has been beloved for decades since. If you see no other movie I’ve written about, see this.

 

The Misdirection

Projects like this series (which we’re now halfway through!) are actually perfect for me, as my mind already organizes things into categories like “My Favorite…” or “The Very Best Of…” I arrange things thus all the time on the fly, but it’s also what my brain refuses to stop doing when I’m trying to fall asleep. (It’s not a pretty place, the inside of my head.) The point is, I’ve pretty much had the answer to a number of these memes at first read, and that’s definitely the case with today’s, “Favorite Title Sequence.” There isn’t even another I can think of, so well have I remembered the credits from My Best Friend’s Wedding since I saw the movie in the theater years ago.

Four young women, one dressed as a bride and the other three as her bridesmaids, dance about lip-synching to “Wishin’ and Hopin’.” The backdrop is a solid hot pink, the costumes and hairstyles evoke the early sixties era of the song, and the fresh faces and retro choreography are simple and precious. The girl who plays the bride is bubbly and adorable, and the whole sequence is nothing short of delightful. The only thing that all of this has to do with the movie it’s introducing, however, is that it also features music by Burt Bacharach. If you thought from this that you were about to see some fluffy Doris Day-type flick, then you would be in for a bit of a surprise.

Because the movie is as far from the innocent boy-meets-girl, fall-in-love-and-get-married story as you could get in a nineties romantic comedy. There’s no flattering and buttering up of men in this plot, waiting for the day when “you will be his.” The only character who resembles that sort of attitude is the actual bride, and though she’s not a villain or caricature in the end, she’s still not our protagonist. And it’s the heroine, Julianne - the messed-up girl who is hopping on a plane to break up the wedding of her best friend - with whom we identify.

Because for a generation (or two or three) of us, relationships are not as linear or simple as the song describes. Instead, we meet and make friends for awhile and then maybe something grows out of that before growing back into friendship. Sometimes, we hook-up after meeting at a bar or club and we somehow weave our way into each other’s lives from there, in whatever capacity we choose. Or, we build a life without a relationship at its center, having a network of people on whom we rely and with whom we form a family.

The original ending of My Best Friend’s Wedding had Julianne meeting a hot stranger at the wedding, tying the plot up in the neat little bow of romantic love and the fulfillment that comes from being half of a couple. Test audiences hated it. They wanted more of Rupert Everett (who can blame them), and they probably felt that it rang false. Because the movie is about giving up the dreams you have as a young adult and readjusting them to fit what you actually need now. It’s about being happy and fulfilled with the kind of life Julianne has at the end of the picture, even though one’s teenaged self had fantasies that were far more wishin’ and hopin.’

 

It’s ridiculously charming, no? It puts us in a brilliant place to receive the movie that’s to follow. To love the movie, you don’t have to disdain this incredibly romantic view of relationships that prefaces it; it’s got a great beat and it’s fun to dance to, and everyone loves pink.

 

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