Ash Wednesday (2002)

STAY ALIVE

Edward Burns grew up as part of an Irish-Catholic family from New York, and the second child of three. As such, his distinct New York sensibilities, his siblingness and his Catholic upbringing have very much figured themselves into his work. Prior to 2002, his films were all romantic comedies, which gave him some moderate, if not overwhelming success. Naturally, as his career grew, so did his ambitions. For his fifth film, Burns tried a different approach. He did away with the easy, albeit blunt romantic comedy stylings and took aim at something else. Still maintaining his focus on sibling relationships and an Irish-Catholic influence, he tried his hand at something darker, replete with atmosphere, tension and religious metaphor.

Hell’s Kitchen, Ash Wednesday, 1983. Rumours have begun to circulate that Francis Sullivan (Edward Burns)’s younger brother Sean (Elijah Wood) has been seen around the old neighbourhood, despite him being dead for three years. Believing him to still be alive, the people that wanted him dead in the first place start asking questions. The local mob boss also starts to feel the pressure, since he’s acting as protector over Francis… and Sean. As the weight slowly builds, Francis has to organise a way for Sean and his wife Grace (Rosario Dawson), who doesn’t know he’s still alive, to get out of the city before they all get killed.

I first saw Ash Wednesday not too long after it first came out on DVD. A friend and I were having a movie night, so we got some pizza and hit the rental place to see what we could find. Honestly, neither of us knew anything about the film, but it sounded intriguing enough to warrant the renting price, so we got that (and likely a couple of others) and headed off for our watching. I still remember it, because by the end of the night, both of us really liked the film. So much so, that we both became minor fans of Edward Burns, seeking out his other stuff to watch. Now, the rest of his work at the time was nothing like Ash Wednesday, but we liked them well enough. Today brings the first time I’ve really watched any of his stuff for a long while, during which time I’ve learned a few things. One of those things is that Ash Wednesday was a colossal flop, and I mean colossal. I have no idea what the budget was to begin with, but the distributors clearly were not hopeful for the film, giving it an incredibly weak run of one week at two theatres. Just two. The total cinematic box office for Ash Wednesday is less than $3,000. I have no idea as to whether or not the film made its money back on DVD sales or rentals, but to do so would have been a hell of an uphill struggle.

This must have been especially galling for Burns, since this was clearly a very big risk for him as a filmmaker. Since he had made his name from making romantic comedies of sorts, Ash Wednesday was an attempt by Burns to experiment, to try his hand at a new genre, to stretch beyond the limitations that he had worked himself into. It was a very ambitious project for the man, and the fact that it failed so spectacularly must have been a serious blow to his creative ego. In fact, we know that this is the case, since he has made five films since then, all of which return him to his romantic comedy roots. I have to say, I do respect this kind of risk-taking. It takes serious balls to ignore, even potentially alienate your existing fanbase to satisfy a personal creative venture. Sure, there’s the chance it could backfire horribly, but there’s also the chance that it could pay off and open up new doors for him. It’s a gamble that many others would simply have felt too much to follow through. However, much like the character he plays in the film, Edward Burns seems to be a bit of a gambler.

In this particular filmmaking gamble, Burns draws heavily on his religious upbringing as a source of thematic concern and allegory. Notions of guilt, sin, repentance and redemption flow freely through the piece. Francis was an enforcer for the mob, a role given to him by his father. Between this often messy work and his gambling problems, he offends the wrong people, who now want him killed as a message to others. However, the men that have been brought in for the job discuss the details in the bar where Francis’ brother Sean works. When Sean overhears their plans, he kills the would-be hitmen in the bathroom. Sean tells his priest, who tells Francis and the three get Sean out of town with the help of the local mob boss, Whitey. Three years later, the trouble resurfaces when Sean comes home to be with the wife he abandoned, though she believes him to be dead.

Yes, admittedly, it is a little unnecessarily convoluted. Honestly, the script is a mixed batch of good and bad. However, the themes do remain present and strong throughout, particularly the old Catholic standby - Guilt. Everyone in the film feels guilt for something, which is generally codified by the ash cross on various characters’ foreheads. Francis wears his as a sign of his guilt over his past deeds with the mob, as well as what his brother was forced to do for him. Grace wears hers because of the guilt she feels over the fact that she took solace in the arms of Francis after Sean’s disappearance. The priest, Father Mahoney, played his part in the deception, too. That Sean does not have a cross on his forehead just shows that he feels no guilt for what he did, simply acting in the best interests of his brother. It’s perhaps not exactly a subtle indicator, but it works very nicely, both in terms of dramatic signification and spatial legitimacy.

However, all of this genuinely interesting stuff is rather undercut by several aspects of the film that just let things down. Burns has completely dropped his old visual sensibility, opting for a new one of longer takes, canted angles and a grittier film texture shown by Russell Lee Fine’s cinematography. These would actually work well, if not for the fact that it all feels somewhat put on. It feels more like Burns trying to be Martin Scorsese, so there’s a sense of affectation, of pretence. It’s really something that runs through the film as a whole. So often, there’s the sense that Burns is consciously trying to make his own Mean Streets, but without the effortless artistry or the simmering power that Scorsese can draw out. There’s also a scene that is basically a flagrant lift from Raging Bull, with Sean asking Francis whether or not he had sex with Grace. Burns also mimics Scorsese’s eclectic musical influences, drawing from various periods to suit the film. Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with that in itself, but beside the other evidence, it’s difficult to see it any other way. Hell, several of the songs used in the film (Radar Love by Golden Earring, Catch Me Now I’m Falling by The Kinks, Let It Ride by Bachmann-Turner Overdrive) actually come from 1973, the year that Mean Streets was released. Add to this the parallels with Scorsese’s own concerns with religion and New York… even though Burns already uses these aspects regularly, you see how all of this mounts up, right? I admire the spirit of artistic experimentation, but it feels too much like Burns copied someone else’s homework.

The acting in the film is often rather off, mainly from the leading roles. Francis is meant to be a tough guy, but one struck through with deep regret and guilt. Burns carries off the former trait, but does less well with the latter. One of the reasons I like Burns as an actor is the deadpan sarcasm in his delivery, but it really gets in the way here. You should feel that all he wants to do is say he’s sorry, but can't. Instead, it’s more like ‘yeah, but what are you gonna do?’ He never plays it like it’s meant to be funny, and it never comes across that way, but the idea that he’s all torn up with guilt is lost. Both Elijah Wood and Rosario Dawson, two fine actors on their own, seem to be giving performances that seem stuck around Week Two of rehearsals. There’s a lack of conviction in their readings, with little real emotional development, so it seems like they’re just going through the motions. They’re in the right area, but they haven’t nearly gone far enough. I attribute this more to Burns’ direction, though. Others do better, with Oliver Platt and James Handy giving the best work in the film.

There is an issue with the editing, too. It feels blunt, often quite amateurish at times. One of the film’s few moments of action, a gunfight, sees one character hit in the arm. Perhaps there was no money for a squib pack or some sort of effect, but it’s been left to David Greenwald’s editing to construct the hit, and it looks a little shoddy. It reminds me of the gunfights you see in student films, with shots too static and a bad pace to them, so it's very unconvincing. Frankly, it’s a little ugly to look at. And some conversations that should be down to simple 'shot-counter shot' dynamics are cut too close to the beginning of lines, making the words feel like they’re being punched out rather than spoken. If this was an intentional effect, it doesn’t work. It breaks the cardinal rule of invisible editing: it draws attention to itself.

A note on the score from David Shire. It’s a simple piano piece that gets repeated at various points, with the occasional change here and there. Personally, I like it. It’s got a subtle atmosphere about it, which works well for the apprehension of the film. Saying that, I am aware that many people really dislike it, precisely because it’s a simple piano piece that gets repeated. It’s also very memorable, a sort of moody earworm. Again, I like it, but I know that I’m likely to be in a minority on a lot of this.

Whilst I can see the many flaws of Ash Wednesday, I still can’t say I dislike it. Whether or not I’m still holding on to the memory of a good night watching movies, and thus have more of a blinder on the faults as a result, I still rather like it. The faults are many and rather inexcusable, but the one thing that shines through for myself is the ambition behind the project. This is Burns trying to test his borders, find out if he can really offer the world more than just romantic comedy. I'd like to see more people give this one a try, just be aware that most people don’t care much for this film.

Adaptation. (2002)

CHARLIE KAUFMAN WRITES THE WAY HE LIVES... WITH GREAT DIFFICULTY. HIS TWIN BROTHER DONALD LIVES THE WAY HE WRITES... WITH FOOLISH ABANDON. SUSAN WRITES ABOUT LIFE... BUT CAN'T LIVE IT. JOHN'S LIFE IS A BOOK... WAITING TO BE ADAPTED. ONE STORY... FOUR LIVES... A MILLION WAYS IT CAN END. 

In Googlewhack Adventure, when Dave Gorman tries to describe his attempts to write a novel, he rather succinctly puts it, “Ooooh, it’s hard work.” It’s difficult to argue with that. There may be some out there who can knock out a bestseller in the space of six months without beading their brow, but for most people, it’s a real struggle, particularly when you want it to be good, to make sense, to mean something to people. When you know the power that a book or a film or any piece of art can hold in people’s lives, the weight of responsibility is a heavy one. More so, then, when the artist already has one huge success under their belt and there’s the expectation from others for another one. If you take on the task of adapting someone else’s work into another medium, the pressure becomes even greater. The responsibility to yourself, the audience and the original author to make something great is enough to cripple some people with anxiety and depression. Such is the world of Adaptation..

Screenwriter Charlie Kaufman (Nicolas Cage) is struggling to adapt the novel The Orchid Thief into a film script. He wants to keep the spirit of the book alive, but its lack of a real story is causing him problems. At the same time, he’s facing a mid-life crisis, made worse by his twin brother Donald (Nicolas Cage), a much less talented but much happier person, who wants to write screenplays like his brother. Amongst this, we see the book’s author, Susan Orlean (Meryl Streep), as she researches her book and her relationship with John Laroche (Chris Cooper), the title character and main focus of her writing.

Just so we’re clear, Charlie Kaufman is a real guy. After spending some years in the world on TV comedy writing, he finally dropped into the world of film in 1999 with his first feature script, Being John Malkovich. I’ll eventually get to reviewing it somewhere down the line, but suffice to say that it was a huge hit. It was fresh, creative, clever, kind of mean, and very funny. Above all else, it was clearly the product of an original mind. Kaufman was nominated for an Original Screenplay Oscar and he became one of those ones to watch in the future. At the same time, one of his other projects was to adapt a novel, The Orchid Thief by Susan Orlean. However, Kaufman had problems with it. He clearly loved what the book was about, but the big concern was that nothing really happens. The book is about flowers. He wanted to get this across, but he didn’t know how to do it without forcing some artificial premise onto it. He doesn’t want it to be a romance or a thriller or something that would feel dishonest. Why can’t there just be a film about flowers?

Well, because no one wants to see a film about flowers. They want to see a romance or a thriller or something that has an actual premise or story. Kaufman’s struggles with the project clearly took their toll on him. He suffered for himself, for Susan Orlean, for the movie-going public, for his craft, for his art, for flowers… the guy was in a bad way. However, this is still Charlie Kaufman. Rather than relenting to the pressure and giving his principles a rest, he wrote Adaptation., which effectively tells the story of his difficulty with adapting the book. He wrote himself into the script, not just once, but twice. There’s Charlie, all sweaty and racked with awkward tension, and there’s Donald, Charlie’s identical twin brother, who is neither burdened with Charlie’s talent or his self-consciousness.

Just so we’re clear, Donald Kaufman isn’t a real guy. Within the context of the picture, Donald is the living example of what Charlie would be like if he was less concerned with what other people thought. If Charlie would just ease up on himself, his professional and personal life would go so much smoother. Within the context of the real Charlie Kaufman’s head, Donald is a sounding board for ideas, or rather an anti-sounding board. Donald doesn’t care about what makes good art, and this is precisely the kind of self-contained influence Charlie needs to go in the other direction. As valuable as he is, Donald may as well be a real guy. In fact, not only is the script for Adaptation. credited to both Charlie and Donald Kaufman, but the film is dedicated to him, too.

So, we’ve got the real Charlie Kaufman (and his imaginary brother Donald) trying to adapt a book with no real story into a movie, and it ends up being about Charlie Kaufman’s struggle to turn that very book into a movie, whilst his now flesh and blood brother Donald is showing him the easier route to go by writing a screenplay about three people who turn out to be the same person… got it? That in itself is a lot to work with, but the real Charlie Kaufman still wants to adapt the original novel, so the film becomes interspersed with moments from the novel about the writer Susan Orlean and her interaction with her book’s protagonist, John Laroche. As Charlie struggles with the right way to tell the stories, each of them becomes more affected by conflicting advice until they each devolve into the more standard fare he wanted to avoid in the first place – the romance, the thriller. And as these storylines go on, nowhere near each other, they progressively start to run parallel, and then intertwine. As movie Charlie says himself, “I’ve written myself into my screenplay. It’s eating itself. I’m eating myself.” Both he and his script have become the Ouroboros, the symbol of the snake eating its own tail. By eating, he lives; by eating himself, he is doomed. Goddamn, can you imagine the knot he worked himself into to get to this point? Well, you don’t need to imagine it, cause it’s right there on the screen for you to observe.

There’s an interesting consideration that’s hinted at throughout the film, though not directly addressed. Books are clearly a great inspiration within this film. Laroche is somewhat inspired by Darwin and his On the Origin of Species; Charlie Kaufman is inspired by Susan Orlean’s The Orchid Thief; and Donald Kaufman is inspired by Robert McKee’s screenwriting bible Story. The consideration comes from the lessons of two of these books and how they can be applied to the treatment of the third. Put more simply: Which book is more valuable in the interest of adaptation – On the Origin of Species or Story? Think about it. One may be a scientific text, but it posits the notion of change and growth as the way forward. Set within the restrictions and confines of pre-set rules, how can something truly flourish? In order for something, anything to grow, it has to be allowed to be free of restraint. I’m pretty sure this is (kind of) what the second law of thermodynamics is about. However, from this method, the process of growth could be a long, slow, painful ordeal and the end result may be something that only a few will like or appreciate. On the flipside, the other book, one that deals specifically with the writing process, is filled with rules and directives that actually do yield results, and quickly with the right amount of effort. However, by applying the standard method of conventional narrative drive to a story, you rob it of its unique nature and the less chance it has of being something worth surviving. Which do you go for? The more artificial, but effective process of standardisation; or the long, drawn-out method of natural evolution? It’s machine versus nature… “like technology versus horse.”

Spike Jonze, who also directed Being John Malkovich, is a great partner for Charlie Kaufman. Given the absolutely hectic nature of the script, it would be so easy to lose track of plot lines or shift focus one way or the other in the interest of making a more coherent story for audiences to follow. Fortunately, he doesn’t. He keeps it all in check, capturing the odd moments of humour and frenzy and drama without losing the overall picture. He even manages to make the difficult subtle shift in tone as the picture comes closer to its end. It’s a light touch, but it’s absolutely resolute in its capability. Not only does he capture every aspect of the script that Kaufman gives him, but, with his final shot, he gives Kaufman what he seemed to want from the beginning. It’s about flowers.

In the roles of both Charlie and Donald Kaufman, Nicolas Cage is outstanding. There’s often been a degree of duality or mental fracture going in some of Cage’s roles, like he’s in a state of constant inner-conflict, but here he’s given the chance to just run with it and play opposite himself. He certainly doesn’t do the chalk-and-cheese approach to the characters either. Charlie and Donald may be very different people, but there’s also a sameness to them. A less skilled actor would have had Charlie be the flannel shirt-wearing sad sack, soaked in sweat and self-doubt, while Donald would be slick as hell, from his nice shoes to his leather jacket to his shit-eating grin. Cage’s approach is different. By showing how alike they are, it highlights the very fine line that separates them. The whole crux of their relationship is how easy it would be for one to become the other, but for their own inability to change. Neither do we care more for one than the other, which is a real feat. We respect Charlie for his principles and the value he places on art and writing and the beauty of flowers, but he’s still kind of a dick, particularly to Donald. Equally, Donald is everything that good art should be against, with his lack of real effort or thought or feeling going into his work, but Donald is so likeable because of his carefree nature and the fact that he clearly and very genuinely loves his brother. Having one great and nuanced performance in a movie is something; having two in the same movie is almost just showing off.

Chris Cooper, always one of the most dependable character actors going, gives a great turn as John Laroche, too. Laroche is a character marked by great contrast. As far as appearances go, he looks like a toothless hick. However, he’s incredibly intelligent. So intelligent that, twice in the movie, he refers to himself as “the smartest man I know.” Further to this, he’s a man of great passion, fierce passion. Passion for orchids (he’s the thief of Orlean’s book), for turtles, for tropical fish… but just as profound as his passion is for these things, he can just as easily decide that he wants nothing more to do with them and cut them from his life. He’s a man of contradiction and confrontation. It seems his passions are selected, not for their depth of meaning for him, but for their potential to get him in trouble, because when he gets in trouble, he can show off just how smart he is to a new group of people. He wants people to be wrong just so he can be right, and he doesn't much care for it when people prove themselves his equal. He’s utterly fascinating, and Cooper gets this wonderfully. He gets the temperament and the sly hint of smug that rests just under the surface of Laroche. As it is, Cooper got himself an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor for this role.

Meryl Streep is, well, Meryl Streep. The woman is almost incapable of doing a bad job. The Susan Orlean of the film (no idea what she’s like in real life) is, like Kaufman, a writer in crisis to some degree. A journalist by profession, down to do a story on Laroche’s latest escapade, she finds herself drawn to him by his passion. A passion that she feels she lacks in her own life. Sure, she has a comfortable life and a husband and friends, but she’s missing something… or at least she thinks she is. Her life is spent reporting on the adventures of others, she believes she is without that thing in her life that she values above all else. When she meets Laroche, she sees something attractive, something that draws her in. So strong is his devotion to orchids that she gets pulled along, wanting to share in his zeal, wanting to lose herself in his world, in him. Streep sells this so well that when it turns out she can’t be reached by the transcendent beauty of a rare orchid, we’re just as surprised as she is. In a role that could feel at times a bit stock or like the kind of thing that would feature some over-acting, the whole performance is anchored by a great subtlety instead.

And I can’t talk about performances without giving a mention to the brief, but great turn by Brian Cox as screenwriting guru Robert McKee. In Adaptation., McKee is a blitzkrieg of abuse and helpful advice. He’s established himself as an expert in the field of writing and he will cut you a new asshole if you should question his methods. Cox does this opinionated aggression so well. Kind of like Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross, he shows up, explodes as a force to be reckoned with, and then leaves again. It’s thoroughly amusing.

Adaptation. is a film that is wonderfully rich and alive. It’s alive with ideas, with characters, with observations, with conflicts, there is nothing wasted in the pursuit of something. Kaufman’s script is equal parts novel adaptation, original creation, psychiatric journal and documentary work, and Jonze’s direction is suited beautifully to the task. Each performance is superb, with particular credit going to Nicolas Cage work as the brothers Kaufman. It may be best to see this film after watching Being John Malkovich (much of it relies on a kind of recall to that film), and some of the finer points may be lost to those less familiar with the world of filmmaking, but it is an absolute delight from beginning to end.

About a Boy (2002)

GROWING UP HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH AGE

As many of you are no doubt aware, there was a time that Hugh Grant was the very embodiment of the charming, bumbly Englishman in the movies… and then he got arrested with a hooker. I’ll skip over the details, but Grant was able to handle the whole thing so well, that his career actually managed to go up a notch or two. Now that he had some kind of dirt on him, he was freed up to take roles that may not have been open to him before. One such example is this, About a Boy, adapted from the second novel by Nick Hornby.

Will Freeman (Hugh Grant) is a hip 30-something guy whose friends pity him because of his shallow, immature and philandering ways. He responds by passing himself off as a single father so he can meet single mothers, who are much easier to shag and dump. However, Will’s life is interrupted when he meets 12-year old Marcus (Nicholaus Hoult), a boy who is his complete opposite.

There is a rather nice sense of restraint that comes through About a Boy, which is allows it to be quite refreshing and fairly free of cliché. There’s no big emotional scenes with characters tearfully stating their troubles or intents. Instead, directors Paul and Chris Weitz (probably best known for American Pie) have opted for a more controlled and subtle effort to come through. From the framing, the use of colour and the positioning of the actors, taking a single frame from any scene between Will and Marcus in Will’s place and you can sense the kind of relationship between them. Will clearly belongs here; Marcus clearly doesn’t. Will fits in almost anywhere, even if it’s because, as he says himself, he’s blank; Marcus doesn’t fit in anywhere. This is probably the most focused film the Weitz brothers have made.

The Oscar-nominated script (by the Brothers Weitz and Peter Hedges) also captures Hornby’s sarcastic sense of humour wonderfully. The voice-over can be a little hit-and-miss, but it’s worth it for the moments it works. For example, when Marcus’s mother is being taken to hospital in an ambulance, and Will is following behind with Marcus as his passenger, his voice-over informs us that, “It was terrible! Terrible!…but driving really fast behind the ambulance was fantastic!” Between that and Grant’s barely suppressed smile, you know that you’d be thinking the same thing.

Hugh Grant gives a superb performance here. There’s really quite a lot to dislike in Will’s character. He’s arrogant, shallow and seems to have a pathological aversion to anything that requires any emotional connection that lasts over two days. That said, Grant still manages to give him a likable charm. It would be so easy to find him repellent, his immature nature being too overwhelming for the audience to connect, but Grant is (despite the opinions of some) a much better actor than that. Hell, he’s even able to make you feel sorry for him at times, and considering the self-involved nature of Will, that’s quite a feat. There really aren’t many actors who could be so believable as a complete dick, and yet still give him a much-needed sense of depth and get across his sense of humour.

There is also able, if sporadic, support given by Toni Collette, as Marcus’ suicidal mother, and Rachel Weisz (or as I tend to refer to her, Academy-Award-winning-über-lovely Rachel Weisz), who are, frankly, two of the most consistently excellent actresses going.

One of the defining characteristics of Nick Hornby’s books is the relationship with music as part of the character’s lives (for example, see the novels for About a Boy and High Fidelity). Even some of his non-fiction work is about how much music plays a part in his life and work (31 Songs). Fittingly then, one of the greatest things about this film is its soundtrack, written and performed by Damon Gough, aka Badly Drawn Boy. It’s an unreserved joy to listen to and it beautifully accents each scene without vying for the attention of the audience over the film itself. Even if you haven't seen the movie, just buy the soundtrack. It's wonderful.

I’ll be honest, though; there is an element of About a Boy that I don’t particularly like. I’ve always found Marcus to be such an annoying little bugger. He’s a tragic case, sure, and it’s his complete lack of self-awareness and his willingness to put his mother’s happiness before himself that makes him the good influence that Will needs. That said, I can’t help but dislike him for a fair portion of the movie’s running time… and it’s precisely because of his complete lack of self-awareness. The whole thing about him being so lost in his own head that he will start singing in class without realising it just irks me, and the way he forces his way into Will’s flat and his life is incredibly off-putting. And Nicholaus Hoult’s performance doesn’t exactly downplay these aspects. He always seems so genuinely confused as to why Will finds him annoying, despite the fact that he basically blackmails him into hanging out with him. I do want to feel bad for the kid, but Hoult really doesn’t make it easy.

Perhaps the real root of this dislike comes from me identifying a bit too much with the character of Will. Not the lying, womanising dick part of him; the I-just-want-to-be-left-alone-with-all-my-cool-stuff part of him. If I’m honest, I think I see quite a bit of myself in Will Freeman, and that’s really why I don’t like Marcus, and by extension Hoult. In exactly the same way that the entrance of a child (or at least this particular child) irrevocably alters Will’s life, mine would probably be thrown off just as much because I’m just as self-involved as him. I maintain that Hoult’s performance emphasises too much of the bad side, but I think that my own self-centred nature probably has a little to do with it, too.

In the end, I actually do quite like About a Boy. It’s not perfect by many standards, but Hugh Grant gives a fine performance, the music is absolutely sublime and there is enough character and sentiment to allow the film to be the funny, warm and rather sweet film it sets out to be.