Bande à part (1964)

Back in late 1950s France, there came La Nouvelle Vague, or the “New Wave” of filmmakers. It was a term used to describe a group of French critics-turned-filmmakers who, taking influence from the Italian Neo-realist movement and classical Hollywood fare, sought to question and reject the accepted form of film grammar as it stood. One of the most radical members of this group was Jean-Luc Godard, whose own filmic output was amongst the most iconoclastic and challenging on offer, possessed of a deep-rooted political and philosophical point of view. In 1964, Godard released what is generally seen to be his most approachable and accessible film, based on the pulp novel Fool’s Gold by Dolores Hitchens - Bande à part.

Franz (Sami Frey) meets Odile (Anna Karina) in an English class, where she casually mentions that she lives with some wealthy benefactors, and that one of them keeps a pile of money in his room, unguarded. Franz tells his friend Arthur (Claude Brasseur) about this, decide to rob the house. As they put pressure on Odile to assist them in their heist, they also both attempt to romance her, leaving her torn between resistance and defiance.

As well as being the most radical member of La Nouvelle Vague, he is also one of the most endlessly quoted. Like most people who write about film (hello there), he had some very resolute opinions on cinema and its potential for major cultural influence, and he would often share them in a manner most concise. Here’s a selection of some of his better-known quotes:

• “Cinema is the most beautiful fraud in the world.”

• “Every edit is a lie.”

• “I don’t think you should feel about a movie. You should feel about a

woman. You can’t kiss a movie.”

• “It’s over. There was a time maybe when cinema could have improved

society, but that time was missed.”

• “A story should have a beginning, a middle and an end, but not necessarily in

that order.”

Just look at some of them. There’s the clear love of cinema and what it can do, but it’s tempered with a rather abrupt cynicism. A kind of ‘yeah, it’s good, but what’s the point’ attitude. He was often accused of being too cynical in his critical work, once getting into a feud with François Truffaut because Truffaut believed Godard was too harsh on other people’s work simply to put more attention on his own. This all speaks to the kind of filmmaker Godard was: an outspoken rebel, an iconoclast, someone who questions and challenges the standard way of doing things. Take a look back at that last quote again, which is a pretty concise way of showing his feelings on standard narrative construction. It’s also a favourite line of every film school in the world, trying to make students think outside of the proverbial box when it comes to film structure. Another one of Godard’s oft-quoted remarks on film is “All you need to make a movie is a girl and a gun.” Bande à part is something of an exercise in whether or not this is true… and it kind of is.

More specifically, though, it’s an adaptation of a 1958 pulp novel, Fool’s Gold, by Dolores Hitchens, an American mystery writer. Godard took a great deal of influence from such books, and the whole American pulp sensibility in general. For example, his male characters were often petty criminals who consciously affected the look and demeanour of characters from American noirs and B-movies. Bande à part featured two such characters that set out to rob the home of one of their classmates after she mentions a large sum of money that’s kept in the house. However, Franz and Arthur aren’t career criminals; they’re essentially two wannabe tough-guys and fantasists who figure that this kind of score will set them up for life. Along the way, each of them vie for the attentions of Odile, the girl whose home they plan to rob. Naturally, they try to bring her in on it, making her their spy in the house, bringing them details about how much money there is, where it is, and whether or not anyone will be home for the robbery. Odile herself seems to be getting pulled by different feelings: some guilt over accidentally initiating proceedings; a hint of happiness about the possibility of escaping her dull life; and attraction to the two would-be thieves, though she often fluctuates as to who she likes more. The plans for the robbery get complicated further when Arthur’s uncle finds out about his plans and decides to pull the job himself, forcing the three to go ahead with it before they’re ready.

It’s a rather intriguing premise, and the plot does unfold nicely, however it’s clear that Godard has little interest in this. The plot is really just an excuse to let him follow three young people around Paris a bit, and offer some of his less contentious perspectives on film. There are three moments in the film that everyone talks about, all of them pure Godard. The first is in a café when the three decide to have a minute silence and the film itself joins them, with all sound completely cutting out. The second is in the same café, immediately after the silence, when Franz puts on some music and the three dance together for a while. The third is the scene when they decide to try and beat the record for going through the Louvre, which they go tearing ass through, despite some protests from a guard. I’ll come to my thoughts on these scenes in a bit.

The three main players in this film do their work admirably enough. Both men offer quite restrained performances, in keeping with the influence of Hollywood genre anti-heroes. Sami Frey is the more stylish, but cold Franz, who wishes he could be warmer for the sake of getting closer to Odile. Claude Brasseur is Arthur, a more masculine presence, and more comfortable in his exchanges with Odile, though he is actually the more ruthless of the two. Anna Karina, though, does give something more. A gorgeous girl with big eyes and nice smile, she brings out the awkwardness of Odile very well, projecting this sense of vulnerability that’s in a near constant state of ebb and flow. It’s a downright enchanting show from Karina, who was actually Godard’s wife at the time.

There are things that I do struggle with in Bande à part, though. The continuity is off every now and then, such as Odile’s socks and stockings, which seem quite inconsistent. And there are a few edits that seem to be screw-ups, with the cut going back on the previous few seconds. As such, you’ll get a moment where Franz and Arthur start to cross the street, the camera cuts to a different position, and the two are back where they started, about to cross the street again. Another instance comes in the classroom, where a student’s response to a question is shown from one angle, but repeated with the camera now on the teacher. Moments such as these are simply too big to go unnoticed, which would make me think that it was done on purpose. As I mentioned before, Godard was someone to challenge ways of working, so this could be something in this vein. I say this because the alternative is that Godard and his three editors had a collective moment of crass amateurism and never noticed the problem. However, if this really were intentional, what would be the point? It doesn’t add anything. The only thing I can think of is that Godard left these mistakes in as a message that we all make mistakes, and it’s no big deal… yes, I agree, that’s a bit thin. Even taking into account his “every edit is a lie” concept, it still just amounts to him saying to us “remember, it’s all a lie”, which I’ve never really appreciated. All of this points towards a more general problem I have with Godard.

Honestly, I find that, nowadays, whilst Godard’s work is still interesting to me, it is only in a purely theoretical sense. I can’t really say that I enjoy his films as much as I used to, and Bande à part is included in this. You look at all the words written about the film and the adjectives in most constant use are “accessible”, “charming”, and “enjoyable”. However, there are also a few qualifiers in there, like “weirdly” and “peculiar”, as if the people found themselves enjoying the film against their better judgement. As for me, after viewing the film today, I think it’s lost some of its charms. The famous dance scene that spawned a few imitators does nothing for me. Neither does the Louvre sprint scene. The minute of silence I still find a little funny, but largely just because of the faces of the trio as they sit there. As it is, I just spend some of these moments wanting to get back to the story, which I doubt Godard would appreciate.

I think that the reason I feel this way about Godard’s work in general comes simply from the fact that I’ve grown up. I don’t mean to say that Godard’s work is juvenile, because it’s absolutely not. He was, and still is, a serious man with serious opinions about the filmic medium. What I mean is that the things Godard is trying to make the audience think about (narrative, editing, intertextuality, etc.) hold less sway as you grow as a viewer. As you get older and you see more films or read more books, your opinions on what makes them work become more solidified, depending on your own tastes. Of course, it is important that you challenge yourself every now and then, question your own standards of what you think works and what doesn’t, so to this purpose Godard’s films will always be important and always have their place. I just find that I have grown out of the questioning nature of Godard’s work because I have considered what he talks about and made up my mind on the subject, one way or the other.

I think that Godard’s filmic sensibilities are best experienced at a younger age than I am now, back when his musings and questions about the medium have a more profound impression on the viewer because they seem new. As I am now, I am less inclined to be bowled over by his radical tactics in narrative trickery or editing rhythm. I have seen his points, and how they have evolved, and I have decided whether or not I think they work for myself.

Bande à part is a good film, and part of the body of work that should be seen at least once. The story is intriguing and the acting is very good, especially from the wonderful Karina. However, I just can’t say that it had too much of an impact on me as I am now. I do believe that Godard is still an important filmmaker for people to see, particularly those who are serious about their films, like film students. So, if you’re looking to expand your filmic horizons, starting with Bande à part would be a wise move.

Bad Boys (1995)

WHATCHA GONNA DO?

We all know about the buddy cop movie formula, right? That thing where two mismatched individuals get put together to solve a crime within an allotted time limit, where their initial hostility towards each other is overcome by working together on a common problem. Both don’t even have to be cops for it to work. It can be Cop/Cop (Lethal Weapon), Cop/Criminal (48 Hrs), Cop/Child (Cop and a Half), Cop/Dog (Turner & Hooch), Cop/Alien (Alien Nation)… as long as they have two conflicting personalities, then it’s all good. For the feature debut of Michael Bay, he turned his hand to this type of story. Two cops: one family man; one playboy. For this, they brought together two of the hippest comedy actors to let the bullets and cool quips fly.

When a massive amount of drugs is stolen directly from police headquarters, Detectives Marcus Burnett (Martin Lawrence) and Mike Lowery (Will Smith) are given 72 hours to find those responsible and get the drugs back before the Internal Affairs division steps in. When a friend of Mike’s winds up being killed by the very people responsible, a witness comes forward, Julie Mott (Téa Leoni), but she’ll only deal with Mike. When Mike isn’t around, Marcus is forced to pretend to be Mike to secure the witness and find their way to the bad guys.

There’s something of a weird journey as to how Bad Boys came to being. The legendary producer partnership of Jerry Bruckheimer and Don Simpson was working on a property called Bulletproof Hearts, a cop buddy movie comedy set to star Dana Carvey and Jon Lovitz, who were both riding high on their popularity on Saturday Night Live. Both actors were all ready to get things rolling, but before they got started, Simpson wanted to take them both to Las Vegas for a celebratory blowout, a big party to mark the beginnings of their journey. Now, for those that don’t know, Don Simpson was renowned for his wild excess and hedonistic extravagance. Believe me, if only a quarter of the stories I’ve read about him are true, the guy was a lunatic. Such was his apparently wild ways that Carvey backed out completely, wanting nothing to do with Simpson. This threw the project back down again, leaving Bruckheimer and Simpson to begin searching for their lead pair again, since Lovitz had already begun to lose some of his popularity by this point. As it is, they weren’t exactly broken up about the experience. They had similar problems with another project about 10 years before with Sylvester Stallone… but we’ll get to that one on another day. So, they went on the hunt for new stars, and to find a director to bring them a big box office smash - enter Michael Bay.

This was indeed Michael Bay’s first feature film, although he wasn’t exactly struggling to break into the industry when someone decided to take a chance on an enthusiastic youngster. Bay was already a very successful director of music videos and television commercials when Bruckheimer and Simpson tapped him for the job. Likely they were both very impressed with his visual style and flair (it’s the one thing even the most avid Bay-hater must concede), though I imagine it was Simpson who felt most drawn to Bay’s talent for heavy stylisation and excess. However, it’s clearly in film that he wanted to work, the place where everything can be bigger. When Bay came aboard, he became quite instrumental in assembling the right pieces for the picture, and helping to point things in the right direction. Yes, for all of his inanity, he really can set a fine table before blowing the merry hell out of it. For example, it was Bay’s choice to bring Will Smith on board, which automatically increased the cool credibility and style of the film by about 42%. When both Smith and Martin Lawrence were solidified as the new leads, the script was rewritten to reflect the new talent on offer. However, that’s where things fall flat.

The script is either stupid, dull or just by-the-numbers. As I mentioned before, Bad Boys is a buddy cop movie, but never strays from this formulaic approach. This could be because it had to be rewritten for a whole new approach and new actors, so they simply fell back on cliché and stock characters to pad things out and get it finished. And it’s so unnecessarily complicated and stupid. Go back up and read that plot synopsis for a second… Drugs stolen directly from police headquarters, which required someone to dress as a cop only to be killed as a distraction? Why? The murder attracts one helicopter and a few patrol cars, which is hardly representative of a whole police force. The actual robbery itself is complete bullshit. For example, when the thieves want to get into the evidence cage, it’s locked with a padlock and chain. As such, they spray the padlock with a freezing substance and shatter it. However, the thing they use to shatter the lock is a bolt-cutter, which could have broken the padlock just as easily. Later on, a hooker friend of one of the investigating detectives is murdered by the same people responsible. When the bad guy, Fouchet, shoots her, he does it through a cushion to muffle the sound. However, he then orders one of his own men shot, but no cushion is used. When the gang spot Julie hiding in the balcony above, they all start blasting away, sans silencers. If you didn’t care about the noisy gunfire, why bother with the cushion in the first place? And why leave such clear evidence of the drugs heist in the room when you leave? When Mike discovers his friend’s death, he has a more personal motivation in finding the killer, because it’s not enough that he should just want to do his job. But then why have his whole speech about how seriously he takes the job? Surely this would be the golden opportunity to prove, once and for all, that he is more dedicated than anyone to catching criminals. This personal angle is unnecessary, formulaic and compromises this earlier scene. Giving him his due, though, even Bay hated the script, telling both Smith and Lawrence to improvise around the gist of what the film needed rather than follow the dialogue they had been given.

The characters themselves are all straight out of the handbook on hack writing. Comically mismatched partners? Check. Gruff, angry Captain who yells a lot? Check. Foreign bad guy? Check. Internal Affairs breathing down everyone’s neck? Check. One cop always going on about how he sees so little of his wife? Check. If it weren’t for the strong and energetic performances from Will Smith and Martin Lawrence, this would be one dry film. However, one of the biggest crimes is the character of Julie Mott, played by Téa Leoni. She is skull-crushingly stupid. After having just seen her best friend murdered in front of her eyes, she calls the cops to say that she will only testify if she deals exclusively with a detective she has never seen (though he has been vaguely described to her), and if she doesn’t get this, she’ll run… I’m sorry, what? I understand the need to find a safe place, but she just said she’s basically letting her friend’s murderer get away. Considering she spends the rest of the movie crying about how she loved her friend, or trying to get people to acknowledge the tragedy, or trying to get her own revenge, deciding that she’s going to up sticks unless she gets her way is just bizarre. In the scene where she decides to follow the detectives into a bar where the bad guys hang out and kill them herself is idiotic on its own, but to then spend the ensuing gunfight and car chase screaming about how ‘this isn’t safe’ is a stupidity that is just jaw-dropping. She actually yells at Mike and Marcus, who are busy dodging bullets and other cars at the time, “You call this protective custody?” No, they don’t call this protective custody. They told you to stay safely ensconced at Mike’s place. Just stay there, that’s it. You decided to steal a gun and follow them into the crowded, noisy bullet-fest. And every time they tell her to stay put, she wanders off, complaining that’s she being treated more like a prisoner than the one that's responsible for the death of her best blah blah blah blah… goddamn, I’m sick of it. And there’s such a weird ambiguity to some parts. There are times where you think that perhaps she knows that Mike and Marcus have swapped places, but this occasionally gives the feeling that she’s not exactly the nicest of people. Back at Mike’s place with Marcus, post-gunfight, she alludes to the whole endeavour making her feel a bit horny, which then segues into her talking about how Mike’s “wife” will likely be getting satisfied by such a strong, take-charge kind of man. Now, it could be that she honestly doesn’t know, and is just babbling about all this, in which case she really is an idiot. Or, as the slight smirk on Leoni’s face would suggest, she does know, and is just messing with Marcus’ mind because… she’s kind of a cruel bitch. The guy has literally just saved your life and got you to a safehouse, and your reaction is to suggest to him that his friend is having sex with his wife? What the hell is wrong with you?

I could go on, but I’ll stop now to make my more general point. All of these details - the crappy characterisation, the idiotic plotting, the abysmal dialogue, the overall desire to make things look good rather than make sense - go towards establishing something rather common in Michael Bay films, which I harped on about quite a bit in talking about Armageddon. Bay’s films only work if you disengage your brain completely from what you’re watching. Now, I’m fine with big silly entertainment, but there is a big difference between silly and stupid. I know that, sometimes all you want is for something to wash over you, go boom-bang-zoom-splat and that’s the end of it. However, with Michael Bay’s work, by using even a little common sense or a modicum of logic on proceedings, you end up completely unravelling everything. The best you can hope for are some nice visuals and a heavy dose of onscreen charisma. If you get it, great; but if you don’t, it’s a hollow, disposable nothing. You can get some entertainment from these films, but they ultimately take from you much more than they give.

Bad Boys is sort of enjoyable enough as a dumb action movie, but it really can only exist as such. Despite a great show from the two leads, as well as a handful of good supporting turns, particularly from Joe Pantoliano, the whole thing is blitheringly stupid. The story is unnecessarily convoluted, numerous shots and actions make absolutely no sense, and the character of Julie is so unbelievably brainless that it’s amazing to believe that such a character made it onscreen without at least one person raising concerns. Once again, it’s a Michael Bay movie that requires the absolute least amount of cerebral activity. Just watch, laugh, and smile giddily when things go boom and we’ll see you all for Bad Boys II… oh Christ.

...And Justice for All. (1979)

THIS MAN NEEDS THE BEST LAWYER IN TOWN. BUT THE PROBLEM IS... HE IS THE BEST LAWYER IN TOWN.

Today we continue our filmic look into the world of the law, and it continues to be a sad and sordid world for those in the legal profession. For all the idealism of justice being served, the guilty being locked up and the innocent protected from the criminal element, the reality seems to be a far cry from this. The legal system is a maelstrom of legal jargon, bureaucratic jumbling, back-room deals and raging egos. The system is there to dispense justice, but to serve the people who can play the game the best. Here, the guilty get off on technicalities and the innocent get unjustly locked up because their court-appointed attorney couldn’t care less about them. Ethics? Morals? These are bad things for a lawyer to hold onto.

Arthur Kirkland (Al Pacino), an idealistic defence attorney in Baltimore, cares about his clients more than any other lawyer, which frequently puts him at odds with others in the legal system. His rough caseload is weighted further when Judge Fleming (John Forsythe), a by-the-book tyrant Arthur hates, demands that Arthur defend him when he is accused of sexually assaulting on a young woman.

Writers Valerie Curtin and Barry Levinson paint a vivid picture with the script to …And Justice for All. The world they’ve created is populated with a varied swirl of characters, perfectly designed to tell their story. Almost all of the lawyers are amoral sharpshooters, who only want to win the case to keep their game alive; the judges are lunatics and tyrants, given to revel in the amount of power they hold over people; the police are incompetent bullies, taken to making fun of the obviously weaker elements that cross their path. How exactly can justice be won in this kind of environment? It’s almost like a reworking of Kafka’s The Trial, only this time Josef K is represented in Arthur Kirkland, the one honest guy in town. The depth of the legal woes befalling system are directed towards Arthur, who spends virtually all of his time trying to help an innocent man who’s been stuck in jail for over a year, trying to defend a transvestite who’s too afraid of the system to survive in it, trying to defend himself in front of an ethics committee. He’s forced to yell, beg and cajole people into getting help when he needs it. That so much is packed into the film is a testament to the writing on show.

Honestly, Norman Jewison’s direction isn’t really his best work. The opening credit sequence, a short montage of courtrooms and buildings with the American pledge of allegiance as recited by some, no doubt, very cute little kids, sets things up badly. Its cuteness just makes the film seem like a crossover between Law & Order and Sesame Street. The music for the film is also something of a tonal misfire. It’s too jaunty, too whimsical, too much like a lighter episode of Cagney & Lacey. This level of inconsistency is rather obvious throughout. At times, it seems like the hard-bitten legal drama that’s expected, but other times it feels more like a romance of sorts, and other times make it seem like a flat-out comedy. The scene in which Judge Rayford takes Arthur for a helicopter flight is really funny, but is nevertheless a bit out of place in the overall effort. Also, look back up at that tagline at the top, which utterly mis-sells the nature of the film's story. It doesn’t leave you feeling as battered as some other films with the same problem do, but it still compromises the full intention of the piece. And the film itself ends badly, with a rather bizarre bit of humour that completely defuses the big moment of catharsis from only a moment before.

That we are able to really the feel the journey of these characters is not because of Jewison’s direction, but the talent of the superb cast assembled. John Forsythe’s Judge Fleming is a smug, nasty piece of work. He has the look of someone who enjoys the position of power, the ability to dominate those weaker than him. Forsythe is damn good. Jeffrey Tambor, here in his feature film debut, is hilarious and tragic in equal measure. The scene where he arrives drunk at Pacino’s door at two in the morning is played beautifully by Tambor. Jack Warden is great as Judge Rayford, a guy straight out of the Wild West, but utterly suicidal as well. Lee Strasberg and Sam Levene make for superb watching, both of them wonderfully affecting and heartfelt. However, it’s Pacino’s show all the way. In fact, it’s the power of Pacino’s performance that really directs this film, not Jewison. In the hands of someone less capable, the film would feel much more episodic, like a series of legally-themed vignettes. As it is, Pacino is able to play each scene so very well, but is also able to maintain a consistency throughout. It’s superb work from the man.

If there is one thing to hobble the film somewhat, beyond the problems with the direction, it’s the feeling that some people may get that it’s just a bunch of liberal wailing. To be fair, they would have a point. So much of the time is spent saying that there’s something wrong with the system, the system is broken, “You’re out of order! You’re out of order! The whole trial is out of order!” However, there’s little in the way of addressing anything like a solution. Now, of course it’s the point of the film to highlight a serious societal problem in the hope of making a change for the better. That’s what most art tries to do. However, many people watching will find this unwelcome, and more than a little biased. For a film about justice, there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of balance. Cops here are only incompetent; judges are only insane; committees are only useless; only the innocent are imprisoned; only the guilty are freed. Yes, okay, something is clearly wrong here… but only in this world that you’ve created for the film. In reality, not all cops are incompetent, not all judges are insane. You may feel like cheering when Arthur makes his big speech at the end, decrying the system and how it gets used, but some people will just feel like they’re on the receiving end of an unwelcome sermon. If you’re looking to push for change in society, you’re not going to get much done if you instantly alienate half of the audience. The spirit is commendable, but the tactics may backfire.

…And Justice for All. is a rather uneven picture, with Jewison occasionally losing focus on just what kind of picture he’s making. Also, the script, though otherwise a fine work, will turn some off with the rather confused “liberal” bent. However, it’s the acting that really drives the picture, and Al Pacino is on stellar form here. The performances and the genuinely good moments of drama in the picture are enough to warrant the watch, so long as you overlook the tonal shifts.

Anatomy of a Murder (1959)

Otto Preminger is a man who is no stranger to controversial subject matter. Scourge of the Legion of Decency, Preminger directed several films that pushed the boundaries of what was considered taboo and generally okay to talk about in film, many using novels and stage plays as the source. Many said his 1953 The Moon is Blue treated sex in too light-hearted and frivolous a manner; 1955’s The Man with the Golden Arm was one of the first Hollywood films to deal with heroin addiction; and 1962’s Advise & Consent put a light on the subject of homosexuality. However, one of his best, most adult and controversial films came in 1959 with the release of Anatomy of a Murder.

Paul Biegler (James Stewart) is a small town lawyer with few clients. When a murder takes place on the outskirts of town, he is asked to defend Lt. Frederick Manion (Ben Gazzara), who admits to having killed the man who allegedly raped his wife Laura (Lee Remick). It quickly becomes a prominent case, and Biegler must now find a way to win the case despite, or even because of the ambiguity of events.

It should be noted from the beginning that Anatomy of a Murder does not ever really seem to be a film that seeks to be controversial for the sake of doing so. What really lies at the heart of the film is a considered, intelligent, slightly uneasy deliberation on the realities of the legal system. It does so by looking at a case that is, at once, both simple and complex – a man brought to trial for murdering the man who raped his wife. In such a case, certain things will be discussed, certain words will be used. Controversy is simply a by-product of the project. Much of the controversy surrounding the film arose from the fact that it was amongst the first to freely and frequently use words like “rape”, “panties”, “bitch” and “sperm”. The filmmakers even have the foresight to see and address this potential for offence. Some characters seem uneasy using the word “panties” in open court, opting to talk around it with vague references to “undergarments”, somewhat short-circuiting the need for concise testimony. The judge has an aside with the lawyers present as to whether or not they know of any other word that could replace the word “panties” that so many find uncomfortable. It’s a rather well known exchange:

Judge Weaver: What exactly was the undergarment just referred to?

Paul Biegler: Panties, Your Honor.

Judge Weaver: Do you expect this subject to come up again?

Paul Biegler: Yes, Sir.

Judge Weaver: There’s a certain light connotation attached to the word

“panties.” Can we find another name for them?

Mitch Lodwick: I never heard my wife call ‘em anything else.

Judge Weaver: Mr. Biegler?

Paul Biegler: I’m a bachelor, Your Honor.

Judge Weaver: That’s a great help. Mr. Dancer?

Claude Dancer: When I was overseas during the war, Your Honor, I learned

a French word. I’m afraid that might be slightly suggestive.

Judge Weaver: Most French words are.

After this, the judge makes his announcement to all present in the court that the word “panties” shall be used during proceedings. The court erupts into a light, mildly embarrassed laughter. The judge addresses them again, telling them that their laughter is neither welcome nor appropriate, considering the seriousness of the case. Director Preminger and writer Mayes see the potential for offence here and get their point in – we’re all adults here, so let’s damn well act like it.

That’s something that comes through from many aspects of this film. Preminger seeks to tell a grownup story in a grownup manner and, as such, expects his audience to be grownups about it. At one point during court proceedings, Biegler protests that “this is a cross examination in a murder case, it’s not a high school debate.” Indeed, only a grownup will be able to fully appreciate the building complexities of the case, the sly dual nature of many of the characters on show, the relationships between each of them. A juvenile mindset simply won’t get it. Most people will recognise the small-town quaintness of Biegler, but those of the more mature temperament will be able to pick up on the sneakiness of his tactics, the cunning of his mind, the importance that he always be seen as just a simple small-town lawyer. Much goes the same for Laura Manion, whose sweet face and pretty eyes belie how self-aware she is in her ability to attract men, and thus bringing into question her account of the night in question. Likewise for Laura’s husband, Frederick, the man on trial for his life. A soldier, a genuine war hero, but someone who always wears a mild look of disgust on his face, and who’s not exactly mild-tempered.

The intelligence and skilfulness in the handling of the legal aspects being discussed also require a degree of focus to truly understand the thrust of the film’s thematic concern, and that is the reality of the legal system. Early on in the film, when Biegler first discusses the case with Manion, he is told that Manion hoped to rely on the “unwritten law” as justification for his crime. Biegler tells him, “The unwritten law’s a myth, Lieutenant. There is no such thing as the unwritten law, and anyone who commits a murder on the theory that it does exist has just bought himself room and board in the state penitentiary, maybe for life.” The film acknowledges the need in the law for something to be written down, for there to be a precedent set. In fact, there is a small moment of real triumph when Biegler and McCarthy happen upon an old case history, which gives credence to their best defence theory. However, the film also knows that the real backbone of any trial such as this one is in the testimony of its witnesses. It is also here that the film shows this to be its great weakness. Witnesses are expected to be honest and forthcoming and without any hint of deception. However, as we see throughout the film, witnesses can be carefully coached (a violation, but something we do see happen). They can also be discredited, their memories be fuzzy, their own motives unclear, or they can simply lie. Even expert witnesses, like doctors or psychiatrists, can be contradicted by other experts. How can juries be expected to extrapolate the true circumstances surrounding the murder and deliver a clear verdict when the evidence they are given is questioned at every turn? A major tactic of Biegler is to make unfounded, but damning statements about the credibility of a witness for the prosecution, which the judge then instructs the jury to disregard. “How can a jury disregard what it’s already heard?” asks Manion. Biegler answers, “They can’t, Lieutenant.”

What is a very interesting point about the climax of the trial is the feeling one has by the final verdict. I won’t say how it swings, but there is the undeniable sense of uncertainty as to whether or not justice has really been served. Evidence has been entered and questioned, witnesses have been presented and scrutinised, experts examined and cross-examined so much that even we, who have much more information than the jury, are genuinely unsure as to what really took place. The nearest we ever come to being sure of the truth is our initial feelings when we first hear about the case, with little to no evidence or context. If this is really how it is, if the most comfort we feel can be found before we learn more about the case, then how much faith can we really have in the legal system? If the trial, with all its evidence and witness testimony and expert opinion and legal pontificating, serves no purpose beyond bamboozling a potential jury, then what good is it?

It’s not just in its concerns with legal fallibility, or the subject matter being discussed, that the film asks a degree of maturity and sophistication of its audience, but within the craft of the filmmaking on show, too. Preminger’s direction is superb, his predilection for letting important stuff happen in the background, or the other side of the frame, leaves it to the audience to choose where they look, who they side with. There is also a wry degree of whimsy there, too. Look at the scene where McCarthy and Bielger have lunch outdoors, an industrial crane in the background. Notice that, as the pair converse, making points to one another, the crane in the background echoes their back-and-forth discussion. Also, look at the actual trial, itself more of a performance from the lawyers. Preminger picks up on the point, wonderfully illustrated in Mayes’ script, that lawyers must be more like actors in the courtroom, since it’s the best story that usually wins out. The cinematography from Sam Leavitt is also excellent, comfortably subtle with no sudden shifts of light and shadow. Here, black and white is a difficult thing to find. The music is superb, a jazz-soaked score from Duke Ellington that remains catchy and fun, but with the characteristic nuance of the genre, dropping hints as to where the drama and danger lie.

The acting throughout is superb, and a testament to great casting. Only James Stewart could pull off Paul Biegler, the humble small-towner with all the hallmarks of typical James Stewart character. Yet, underneath that is a sharp and devious mind. Lee Remick is great as Laura, effortlessly conveying the feeling of sweetheart and tramp (just watch her bat her eyelids at Stewart on their meeting in his office). Ben Gazzara’s Frederick Manion is someone you feel like you should respect and believe, but you still nevertheless feel like there’s something off about him. Arthur O’Connell is really quite affecting as Biegler’s friend and partner, a former lawyer and still a brilliant legal mind, now trying to drag himself out of the bottle he’s been resting at the bottom of for years. George C. Scott brings with him all the weight and stature of his considerable presence to the role of the big city Assistant State Attorney General Claude Dancer, though this would be only his second feature film. A real treat in the film is the presence of Joseph N. Welch, who plays Judge Weaver, and is an absolute delight to watch. Welch is most famous for the fact that he was the lawyer who took on Senator Joseph McCarthy during the Communist witch-hunts in the 1950s, defending the US Army against McCarthy’s interrogations. Welch, sitting not six feet from him at the time, lambasted the Senator’s conduct, famously asking of him “Have you no sense of decency, sir?” You can find the footage of that and watch it for yourself. It’s bracing stuff. Especially since McCarthy himself says, in court and on film, that Welch is a fine actor who likes to play to a crowd in his work, just like Paul Biegler.

Just as an aside, this perhaps is not the only swing that Preminger takes at McCarthy in the film. Arthur O’Connell’s character is Parnell Emmett McCarthy, who is a recovering alcoholic. Joseph McCarthy himself was an alcoholic, which many believed contributed greatly to his death in 1957, just two years before the release of this film. Also, an early scene has Parnell remark on a brown paper bag that Biegler has just brought in, which clearly contains a bottle, hence his interest. Parnell smilingly says, “I’m everlastingly suspicious of, and/or fascinated by, the contents of brown paper bags.” A famous incident in the early days of the indictment of US soldiers by Joseph McCarthy had him declare that he had evidence of wrongdoing in a brown paper envelope that he would not let others inspect, leading many to believe he either had none or was stalling for time until he got some. That Parnell sobers up turns himself around for the good of the law makes him some reflection of the real life Senator McCarthy.

Anatomy of a Murder is, quite possibly, the best trial film ever. It’s not so much an attack on the legal system as it is a meditation on its inherent flaws and fallibility, and the filmmaking behind it is excellent on all fronts. From the direction to the acting to the script to the cinematography, it’s all woven with rich subtlety and delicacy. If you’ve ever had any consideration on the nature of law, this should be seen.

Almost Famous (2000)

EXPERIENCE IT. ENJOY IT. JUST DON'T FALL FOR IT.

Cameron Crowe is someone whose teenage years should be envied by everyone. When he was young, still in school, he became a music journalist for Rolling Stone magazine, and went on tour with The Allman Brothers Band. He was almost in a plane crash with The Who. He wrote the liner notes for Lynyrd Skynyrd’s live One for the Road album. And for all of this, he was still only about 15. Eventually becoming a filmmaker, Crowe would make many a film that concerned itself with the lives of teenagers, but it wasn’t until 2000 that he tackled his own. As such, he made his story into the film Almost Famous.

It’s 1973 and 15-year-old William Miller, a high-school boy and aspiring music writer, is given the chance to write a story for Rolling Stone Magazine, joining up with Stillwater, an up-and-coming rock band on their concert tour. Along the way, he tries to be a professional, but gets caught up in the world of the band and band aides, led by Penny Lane (Kate Hudson).

There are two things that shine through Crowe’s script for Almost Famous, and the subsequent film he shot. The first is an unbelievably rich and detailed account of the events as remembered by a young writer in a world others could only dream of. There are so many small moments, looks and minutiae throughout the film. The specific albums that William’s sister gives him, the band’s leader singer using shaving cream as hair gel, the pre-show rituals. This gives things a sense of authenticity to the moment, a rich feeling of legitimacy. The second thing that comes through is the sheer love of the people that made it possible for him to be involved in it. She may be over-bearing and severe, but there is nothing but love for William’s mother. He may be distrustful and rather self-centred, but there is such awe for Russell Hammond. He may be blunt and have a taste that borders on the oppressive, but there is deep respect for Lester Bangs. And she may be spacey and lonely, but you can still feel the pangs for Penny Lane. Crowe’s script is, at its heart, a road movie, and road movies are about self-discovery and change. You really can see and feel the change in William because of his journey, and you know it’s the same change that Crowe felt in his. As a man looking back on his younger years, Crowe has the wisdom to know that without these people, he would not be the same person. It's actually rather touching just for the sheer gratitude that comes through. The script is occasionally so personal that it would feel uncomfortable if it weren’t for the fact that it’s told with such affection and joy.

There is no one else that could have directed this film but Crowe. Not even just because of its personal nature, but because another director may have missed out on the small things that make it so wonderfully textured, or even because they may have changed things to reflect their own personal feelings on the subject or the time or the characters. Only Crowe would have remembered to show the tape on the floor used to mark a pathway to the stage, or known the simple power of having the band reconcile on the bus by singing Tiny Dancer. And he has such a great ear for the music of the period, so the film is positively soaked through with such great stuff. As much as the film is a love letter to his youth and the people that made him who he is, it’s a love letter to the music that inspired him to want to become who he is. The soundtrack is awash with greatness, from Sabbath to Zeppelin to Elton John to Joni Mitchell to Cat Stevens to Yes to Jimi Hendrix to the Beach Boys… even the stuff from the film’s fictitious band, Stillwater, is great.

The cast for the film are superb, and done with a great sense of stature. William is played by newcomer Patrick Fugit. This was really his first feature role and he does great. With his boyish looks and his mildly self-conscious air, he totally sells that he is new to this world of egos and hedonistic fun. Frances McDormand is excellent as William’s intellectual mother, a firm presence of authority, but not so domineering that she smothers her son in something he truly wants to do. It’s kind of a tightrope walk, but McDormand can certainly handle this kind of thing. Philip Seymour Hoffman is, as expected, great as Lester Bangs, William’s writing mentor. Bangs exudes the snobbishness of a real music lover, but also the sincere and firm belief that to be good at what both he and William do is to be “honest and unmerciful.” Jeff Bebe is played with great passion by Jason Lee, who brings Jeff’s swagger and frustration to life beautifully. Billy Crudup is equally great as Russell Hammond, a role that also something of a tightrope, since one slip and he would lose that spark that makes him so compelling. The casting of these two is superb, since Lee is the one people may be more familiar with, that we recognise more, thus being the band’s front man. However, Crudup is the one people, including William, seem to lock on, partially because we don’t know him as well. He really is the guitarist with mystique. The real triumph is Kate Hudson. She may have spent her career since wandering aimlessly through the world of mediocre romantic comedy, but here she is a gem. There are many times where she seems like a girl playing dress-up and hanging with the grown ups, but that’s precisely what rests at the heart of Penny Lane. Rock stars are the friends she plays with, and she has such a great connection with their music, but at the same time she is looking for a deeper connection to them. She constantly refers to some other place, somewhere else, “the real world.” Her world is a place of fantasy, of constant playtime with fun people. So when she gets reminded of the artifice of it all, or the lack of solidity in her relationships, it hurts. When William tells her how she was literally lost to another band in a poker game, along with a case of beer, her reaction is heartbreaking. The smile disappears, there’s a slight confusion, some tears, and then she puts on a brave face and asks, “What kind of beer?” She tries to make it fun again, but you can see the damage is done. Hudson really is the best thing on show.

Almost Famous is a great movie, and exudes such a genuine affection, and gratitude, for the people and the world it looks at. There is such warmth from the film, such great detail from the script, and such superb performances throughout that it’s almost impossible not to be taken by the spirit of the whole. The love of the time and the music is so infectious that I suppose the real test of how much the film succeeds is down to whether or not, after watching it, you feel the need to listen to some music of that era… in my case, success. And in case you wanted to know, I listened to Focus’ Moving Waves whilst writing this.

Ali (2001)

FORGET WHAT YOU THINK YOU KNOW

Muhammad Ali is already a pretty familiar subject in the movie world. In 1996, the documentary When We Were Kings took a look at legendary bout between Ali and George Foreman fight, the Rumble in the Jungle; the 1970 documentary A.k.a. Cassius Clay looked at his career up to that point; two 2000 TV movies, King of the World and Ali: An American Hero… Muhammad Ali actually even played himself in the 1977 biography The Greatest. The real big screen treatment was the 2001 Michael Mann film, Ali.

We follow Muhammad Ali (Will Smith) from 1964 to 1974, from becoming champion, through converting to Islam, refusal to fight in Vietnam, being stripped of his title, facing a five-year prison sentence, two marriages and winning back his crown.

As a biographical film, there should be two concerns at the heart of the project: teach you about the character; and make you care about them. Ali certainly succeeds in the first part of this goal, but struggles with the second. Ali’s story is huge, expansive, complex and filled with controversy and charm. As such, the filmmakers didn’t seem to want to leave anything out. Rather than follow the man himself constantly, there is a lot of focus given to the period and other big figures that feature. Admirable, but fraught with pitfalls. On one side, by taking in all of the various elements that went towards making the man, you get a greater sense of his place in the world and the things he had to fight against to become the man he was. On the other hand, there is a degree of distance that is created between the viewer and the subject, which hurts the overall venture in the long run. For the first hour of the picture, we seem to be developing more of a connection with Malcolm X, until his assassination. After that, the camera seems to settle a little more on Ali. Clearly, the decision was made to try and make the audience empathise with Ali by trying to make them be as affected by things as him, rather than through him like some sort of emotional conduit. However, this does somewhat cheapen the project as a biopic, undercutting the stature of the man and the efforts of the actor playing him.

Michael Mann’s direction is, frankly, a little hit and miss, too. His quasi-documentary approach adds a better texture to the picture, but invariably keeps us from being involved in the story as much as you know you should. There are moments of real magic on screen - Smith’s scenes with Jon Voight positively glow with warmth - but it’s not all smooth sailing. The fight scenes, though handled with a great visceral sensibility, feel lacking in emotional punch. Another problem in the film comes from simply having too much material to work with. Events and figures in Muhammad Ali’s story are so huge, so important, that trying to cover them all can make the whole feel rather flabby. There are entire subplots that could have been comfortably excised without much detriment to the film, such as Ali’s first marriage to Sonji Roi, played by Will Smith’s real wife, Jada Pinkett Smith. It may be important to the man, but it’s not really to the audience. We simply don't feel the depth of this importance. We’ve seen documentaries on the man, but this is a dramatic work. We should be much more focused than this. Overloading with characters and storylines can only take our attention away from the man that gives the film its title and central focus. Weirdly, it leaves Ali fighting for control of his own picture.

Will Smith does a fine job in the lead role. It’s not altogether flawless, but I lay this more at the feet of the script and direction than the efforts of the actor. Smith capably handles Ali’s confident bluster and his rhythm of speaking, as well as the physical prowess of the famous pugilist thanks to Smith adding 35 pounds to his frame. Smith tries for subtlety in Ali’s quieter moments, but is generally eclipsed by others with more standout parts. Jon Voight is utterly unrecognisable under prosthetics, but he gives an equally immersive performance as sports journalist Howard Cosell. The scenes between the two are a true gem. With them, you can feel the respect and fondness, the importance, in their relationship. Mario Van Peebles’ performance as Malcolm X is also rock solid, and Jamie Foxx seems to be able to carry an entire arc in very little screen time.

Ali is a good biopic of a very interesting man, though it does fall short of being great. The script and direction, though wonderfully filled with details and odd moments, are too laden with characters and stories to allow to the film to be as focused as it could be. The acting, though, is of a great standard and Will Smith ably carries his weight in the lead. It does a great job of evoking period, but ultimately feels a little too emotionally distant for us to really care as much as we know they want us to.

Air Force One (1997)

What do people want in a leader? According to actioner Air Force One, what people want is someone willing to take action. In a world of terrorism, extremism and atrocity, many have lost faith in the diplomatic process. They long for the days when justice was swift and resolute… when all it took to restore order to the little town, overrun with bad men and fear, was a single man. A man who could look the do-badders square in the eye, unphased by fear or other such concerns. One guy to shoot first and never ask questions because he already knows the right thing to do. Wouldn’t it be great if the person holding the most powerful political office in the free world was such a man?

Whilst travelling back from Russia, Soviet terrorists hijack the Presidential plane, Air Force One. When everyone is taken hostage, James Marshall (Harrison Ford), current US President and former soldier, escapes into the baggage deck and then begins to fight back against his aggressors.

Andrew W. Marlowe’s script is one painted with thoroughly broad strokes, and is soaked through with cliché. Honestly, there’s barely an ounce of brains in the whole thing. Characters are, for the most part, wafer thin and seem to have been ordered straight from a catalogue for all of their complexity. This doesn’t necessarily get in the way of enjoyment, as such, because Air Force One doesn’t seek to bowl you over with originality. It’s the B-movie western transposed to the sky, the plane taking the place of little township under threat. Good guys are good guys, bad guys are bad guys and there’s little in the way of surprises. There are some holes that come from all this simplicity. Some character motivations are left completely untouched, which does affect the logic of the whole piece somewhat. For example, Secret Service Agent Gibbs’ actions are without any explanation, which is odd considering he’s a pretty big linchpin in the plan. Apparently, they did have an explanation for it, but decided to remove it for the sake of pace. A wise move (the film is already two hours long), but it’s still a hole in things.

Really, the whole film rests not on how clever the idea is or character depth, but on the technical capability of those bringing it to life. If they can do the film hard enough and fast enough, no one will notice the basic nature of the script… and even if you do, hopefully you’ll enjoy the ride enough to not care. Wolfgang Petersen directs proceedings, and seems to be somewhat at home with the concept. Having directed the superb 1981 war film Das Boot, he has shown himself very capable in evoking that sense of claustrophobic tension of high stress situations in confined spaces. In Air Force One, he’s got a full on action flick with gunfights, fistfights and hostages to play with. He does a fine job in setting the scene, much like he did in Das Boot. The camera follows characters as they walk the plane, establishing the geography and the closeness of the quarters. We do occasionally leave the plane, going to the White House and observing the Vice President’s efforts to help from the ground. Also, we get some aerial dogfights later on between the US F15s and Russian MiGs, which are very effective, too.

The real work, though, comes from the cast. If you don’t believe that this President can rise to the challenge, the film is lost before it gets started. Fortunately, they’ve got Harrison Ford. It seems so obvious for him to be Marshall, it’s a bit strange that the first choice was Kevin Costner. Ford carries himself with the kind of stature and charisma that’s served him so well all these years, and it easily translates to Presidential authority, and when it’s time to become the action guy, he’s more than up to the task. One of Ford’s great gifts in these kinds of roles is that he looks like he’d be good in a fight, like he can take a hit. In fact, when he had to fight with Gary Oldman, he told his co-star to actually hit him. How can you not respect that kind of dedication? He’s every ounce the guy to fill these shoes.

We’re in equally good hands with Gary Oldman’s Communist bad guy, Ivan Korshunov. His character suffers as much as anyone from the kind of weak stereotyping inherent in the script, but Oldman is an unrivalled master in the realm of bad guys. In the hands of someone else, Korshunov’s words would probably feel quite hollow, but Oldman imbues them with intensity and vitriol, which forces you to take them seriously. Oldman makes everything of his big villainous moments, and he’s also got that cold, hard, unyielding stare. He could win a staring contest with a rock. Korshunov’s just as much a man of action as Marshall, and Oldman carries this off beautifully.

The supporting cast is also solid as a rock, particularly from the female contingent. Glenn Close gives her role a great strength, with just a little vulnerability peaking through occasionally; Wendy Crewson holds a great defiant dignity and presence onscreen; and Liesel Matthews, who could so easily have just felt annoying, actually does very well, especially considering her scene partners are mainly Harrison Ford and Gary Oldman. Other roles are filled with people who you will recognise from other films or TV shows, so there is a nice game of ‘What Was He In Again?’ to be had, too.

I know I shouldn’t really, because it’s not exactly the brainiest of movies, but I will talk a little about the politics of the piece. Again, this is an example of me looking into something a bit harder than is really necessary, but it is something that occurred to me during the watching. Just how much would people really want this kind of a leader? He certainly ticks all the right boxes as an action hero – soldier, family man, strong-willed, determined – and these can be attributes that go towards being a great leader of a country. However, look at other parts. When he gives a speech at the beginning of the film, he talks about how they can no longer sit behind the easy tactics of economic sanctions and diplomacy until their own concerns are threatened, that they must act immediately when they know the right thing to do, even if it doesn’t sit well with the rest of the political world… does this sound familiar to anyone else? This is the kind of broad political language that sounds like it’s impossible to disagree with, but has gotten people in a lot of trouble of late. And it’s probably not great for the President of the United States, or any democratic nation for that matter, to regard diplomacy as a kind of stall tactic or something to resort to when you don’t really want to get involved. The job of diplomat is tough, much more so than simply deciding to run in guns blazing. Sure, you want someone who can make that really tough call and send in the troops, but he does make it sound like it should be the first place to go, and that’s a little disquieting.

I don’t think the film is trying to make any kind of political assertion one way or the other, at least not intentionally, especially since we never actually know what party President Marshall represents. And again, the script is rife with this kind of broad-minded sensibility, so you can’t really take anything too seriously. The good guy says generally good things; the bad guy says generally bad things. The film is really just trying to be anti-terrorist or anti-bad-guy in order to establish a villain. If it speaks to anything, it's the idea that people are tired of a world in crisis. They watch the news and see the constant feed of atrocity, death, famine, economic downturn and other such miseries and they just want it to stop. They want someone to come in and solve everything because it's getting to be a bit much. I understand this, and so do you. And if this film offers some kind of escapism from these woes, that's fine. My concern comes if people start wanting the world to be more like the movies, and that's rarely a good idea. Anyway, I’ll end my minor political ponderings there, largely because I’m one of the least politically-minded people I know, and it’ll just devolve into ramblings… if it hasn’t already. I’ll let you all make up your own minds.

Overall, Air Force One is big and it’s pretty dumb, but it is very enjoyable. The action scenes are good, the pace is good, and the leading pair are absolutely spot on. There are some aspects of it that some may find disagreeable in light of what’s happened in the world since the film’s release, but that’s taking it more seriously than it really warrants. Just sit back and watch the big dumb movie play out its bangs and booms and such. The real world will be waiting for you when you’re done.

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.

Accidental Hero (1992)

ONE SELFLESS ACT OF COURAGE CAN REALLY MESS UP YOUR WHOLE DAY

What makes a person? Specifically, what drives them to be self-centred shmucks as opposed to selfless do-gooders, or vice versa? Is it possible for someone to step outside of his or her own character and, more importantly, will anyone believe it if they did? Such is the central concern to Stephen Frears’ comedy-drama Accidental Hero. Part media satire and part morality play, the action surrounds three disparate individuals – a selfish conman, an almost jaded news reporter and a destitute war veteran – as they find themselves thrown together by circumstance and opportunity in the shape of a plane crash.

Bernie LaPlante (Dustin Hoffman) is a cynical hustler whose life is quickly falling in on itself. Whilst on his way to his son’s birthday, he witnesses a plane crash right in front of him. He begrudgingly goes on board to help, and rob, some people, including television reporter Gail Gayley (Geena Davis). It’s too dark to see who it is, so Gail starts a campaign to find the hero, offering one million dollars reward. In steps John Bubber (Andy Garcia), down-and-out nice guy, to claim the credit and reward. Media attention grows as Bubber’s conscience starts to creep in, and Bernie wants his money.

Right from the off, Frears tries to evoke a sense of the olden days, with the stirring music of Auld Lang Syne playing over the opening credits. Not the real olden days, though. The olden days as filtered through the haze of nostalgia and filmic memory. A time when many who saw Accidental Hero when it came out were young, when life was simpler, when there was no real complexity to moral questions and problems. There was right and there was wrong and you didn’t need any kind of moral compass to know which was which. God, if only it could all be this simple.

Things are then dragged into the here and now with a resolute introduction to two of our main characters and the world in which they live. Bernie LaPlante is in court, being defended by a young lawyer fresh from school, watching proceedings with a look of both bafflement and cynical resignation. Whilst the judge and lawyers work out the terms of his case, Bernie, noticing his lawyer’s unguarded purse, snatches it up, empties it of all cash. After they leave, he then gives the money back to his attorney as a repayment for a loan she gave him the week before… and then takes it right back again because, you know, he needs some gas money to go see his kid. His family life is, as you’d expect, not exactly glowing either. Long since split from the mother of his child, he’s a part time dad at best, and given some of the advice he dispenses to his son when they do get together, you get the feeling that maybe the boy would be better off without his father’s influence. In a single trip to a diner for lunch, he ditches the bill, keeps a wallet that his son found (and tried to return himself) and tells the youngster that he should try to avoid feeling bad for homeless people because most of them have plenty of money anyway and are just looking for more. In Bernie’s worldview, everyone’s like him… a hustler, a conman, someone just looking to take advantage. As far as Bernie’s concerned, being honest about dishonesty makes him the honest one… what a scumbag.

Our introduction to Gail Gayley isn’t exactly a shining one, either. We meet her as she interviews a man, a respectable man, with a nice suit, nice hair and something of warm smile on his face. When their interview concludes, he promptly turns round and jumps off the ledge he was standing on. Turns out that Gail was there, standing right on the ledge next to him, to get the final words of this man’s story before he leapt to his death. She is shocked that he actually does it, of course, but she’s clearly in conflict with herself about the situation. The second the poor sap lands, she says to her cameraman, “Did you get that?… Did I just say that?” She knows it’s her job to get the story at all costs, because there’s nothing worse than being scooped, but she is aware that this need to get the story is having an adverse effect on her personality. So, from the start, we’re shown that our protagonists (for now) are both at some stage of moral compromise.

Later that night, when Gail is flying back from a ceremony where she was given an award for her tireless pursuit of truth (where her acceptance speech is a rather frank dissemination on the nature of the media’s propensity to reduce individuals to stories than human beings), a disaster strikes. Gail’s plane crashes, trapping everyone on board. At just this moment, Bernie is driving along nearby, and sees the plane go down… but he doesn’t want to help out. Why would he? It’s wet out there and it’s dangerous and he’ll end up ruining his $100 shoes. Eventually he relents, swims through the muddy water the wreckage and opens up the emergency hatch. After a little boy begs him to save his dad, Bernie heads into the flaming fuselage to drag people out. When he stops to help the attractive redhead (Gail) from her seat, he can’t help but steal her purse and award, too. Well, he should get something for all his trouble. After all, he does end up losing a shoe in the process. When everyone’s safe, Bernie gets out of there because he’s late for his son’s birthday.

After the crash, the media are all over it, with everyone trying to find out who the mystery rescuer was. A massive campaign is started, headed by Gail, to find him. When they offer a $1,000,000 reward to the hero, every crazy person comes out of the woodwork, claiming to be him. Bernie can’t make it, though, because he gets arrested trying to sell Gail’s credit cards to some undercover cops. In court, he hears news that the mystery hero has come forward… John Bubber, an impoverished war veteran whose sincere eyes and humble words make him an instant hit. Bernie now has to get himself out of jail as soon as possible so he can get what’s coming to him. Sadly, he’s such a parasitic low-life to all that know him that his cries fall on deaf ears. Meanwhile, as the world, and Gail, become more enamoured with their new media sensation, John begins to feel the strain of being so loved for something he doesn’t deserve.

David Webb Peoples provides a wonderful script, with intriguing characters that oppose and parallel in equal measure. There’s a concern with legend or notoriety versus fact that Peoples used to near perfection in the same year’s Unforgiven. Bernie deserves the attention, but doesn’t want it; John doesn’t deserve the attention, but thinks he can handle it; and Gail knows that the attention is, for the most part, fleeting and all just a matter or perception, but it's her job to give that attention. It’s a fascinating dynamic, and pulled off very nicely. Peoples has also got a great sense of the dialogue for his players, giving Gail a media-savvy air to her words; lending John an eloquent, old-time corny manner of speaking honestly about life; and distilling Bernie’s cynicism into a few choice, occasionally profane, phrases… his simple rules of cutting through bullshit with even more bullshit. At some point during proceedings, when John wants to come clean and tell the world of Bernie’s heroism, Bernie tells him, “I don’t take credit, I’m a cash kinda guy.” Tell me you don’t get a sense of this man just from that one line.

Whilst it never just comes out and says it (which would be a bit much), Accidental Hero plays on the notion of morality, not just in the heavy maelstrom of a media blitzkrieg, but more when it actually counts. No one believes Bernie is capable of such selflessness, except for his son. John doesn’t think he could have done that, though everyone is positive it’s within him, including Bernie. Perhaps these guys are representative of the struggle within every person when faced with any kind of moral decision – John is who we want to be, with his humble nature and desire to do good and inspire good in others; Bernie is who we really are, with his more self-centred and cynical ways, wanting to be sure that he never gets taken advantage of. And within all this is the consideration that, when crisis comes knocking, we know we can depend on Bernie… we’re not 100% sure of John.

As previously noted, Stephen Frears does a nice job in bringing about the feel of an old screwball comedy from the 40s, as if Preston Sturges or Howard Hawks were in the director’s chair. Even the musical underscore echoes this kind of throwback, with it's play on songs by Gershwin and the patriotic stirrings of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. Within this, though, he doesn’t lose sight of the contemporary concerns of the film, like the satirical take on the modern media’s hysterical propensity to deify and manipulate, creating their own stories that can be mined as long as the star player holds out. It almost feels like Network if it were directed by Frank Capra.

There are maybe some points where this approach seems to contradict itself. Capra was a master at emotional manipulation, but for a good cause. With Accidental Hero, there are some times where you will watch the careful deification of a hero in an editing suite, the emotional manipulation to create an idol for a news story, only to have yourself be on the receiving end of a different form of emotional manipulation for the film. Fortunately, Frears is savvy enough a director to be aware of this. At a key climactic scene, he turns his camera away from the moment and points it at another camera, which just stares right back at you. Some moments are too personal to be shared with the world. Sometimes they’re just for those involved.

The cast handle themselves beautifully, too. Andy Garcia brings such a humble, ‘aw shucks’ quality to the role. A soft-spoken, wide-eyed charm that makes John Bubber, who could so easily have been too saccharine or preachy, feel like such a genuinely nice guy trying to do good. Geena Davis is equally charming, capably handling the role of a woman divided between being the battle-hardened journalist and the caring human being. Each has its draws and drawbacks, and Davis works it well (although her last conversation with her boss may be a bit too sob-filled for some). As it would be, it’s Dustin Hoffman who’s the standout. He’s always had that downtrodden sad-sack look about him, but tempered by a fierce emotionality that he can focus into a single look, which is ultimately what sells Bernie. For all his indignation and ranting and speeches about a terrible world, one look in his eyes and you can see that he’s not the soulless misanthrope he thinks he is. His biggest con is against himself. He’s just as vulnerable as anyone; only he’s got himself a much better shield.

There’s great support throughout, too. Joan Cusack is always a treat, particularly when you watch her react to other people in the scene. She’s a goldmine of comedic twitches and inflection. Chevy Chase, in keeping with the old-time feel of the piece, channels some of the great screwball comedy bosses, all sharp tones and staccato sentences, and Stephen Tobolowsky is a great partner for these moments. Kevin J. O’Connor is also a light joy as Gail’s cameraman, Chucky, a guy who can’t help but give a running commentary on the visual poetry he tries to create with every shot, convinced that each one is a prize-winner. Even James Madio does well as Bernie’s son, Joey.

Accidental Hero is a great, and surprisingly overlooked, little film. Performances are strong, the direction and script are great, and it’s a genuinely affecting piece of work. The message it holds may not be anything new, but it is a worthy one. Even if you don’t come away with the desire to give a helping hand to some poor bugger in the street, or be a better person to those around you, it’s still warm, funny and well worth the time you give it.