The Not-So-Secret Life Of Words

On Christmas Day, my parents needed something a little more uplifting than Atonement, and for some reason, my mother just wouldn't see Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story. My father declared the following film "the perfect movie for Christmas."

The Great Debaters is a love letter to language. Naturally, this Oprah-produced drama about the award-winning 1935 Wiley College debate team features passionate arguments backed by quotes from Thoreau and Gandhi. But it's what Denzel Washington does as both actor and director that helps this true story overcome its formulaic structure to please a linguist.

Actor Denzel plays English professor Melvin Tolson, who preps his pupils to face opponents on and off campus. He references Langston Hughes and Gwendolyn Bennett, challenges a student to ponder the irony of "Bethlehem Steel" and makes etymology a thrilling topic. In area barns, “farmer” Tolson exercises his freedom of speech by encouraging sharecroppers to unionize.

The great debaters include 14-year-old D.H. Lawrence-citing James Farmer Jr. (Denzel Whitaker); Samantha Booke (Jurnee Smollett), who wants to be the third black female lawyer in Texas; and reckless but literate Henry Lowe (Nate Parker). Robert Eisele's screenplay uses a horrific lynching scene as an obvious method to power the last third of Debaters, although it undeniably shapes the students' attitudes and future activism.

In the director's chair, Washington focuses on worn texts and depicts James' father (an understated Forest Whitaker) lost in a manuscript or hunting a phrase. As the students prepare to debate Harvard (USC in reality), the camera revels in pages turning, papers flipping and pencils scribbling.

The debates could have been longer, and I wish Wiley didn’t always argue the politically correct position. Still, the supremacy of words wins the day for The Great Debaters.

Funny Ha-Ha and Funny Sad

As Juno has been out for more than two weeks, and everyone has raved about Ellen Page (and rightfully so), I needed to take a different angle with my review. The first time I saw Juno, it was opening weekend and I was in a packed theater with two of my friends. We all laughed hysterically, and Amy cried. The second time I saw Juno, it was two days before Christmas with my parents in a less-than-crowded theater. This gave me more time to ponder, and to let my personal life bleed into my thinking. ...

If you’re going to be knocked up at 16 - a condition I certainly wouldn’t advocate - you couldn’t ask for better parents than Juno’s Mac and Brenda MacGuff.

When Juno (Ellen Page) tells her father and stepmother (the great character actors J.K. Simmons and Allison Janney) she’s in the family way, director Jason Reitman’s comedy goes from a bordering-on-tiresome cool to a bracingly sweet slice of life. Until then, the quips in Diablo Cody’s script - “this is one doodle that can’t be un-did, home skillet;” “Phuket Thailand!” - come fast but perhaps too furious. After fingernails and flavored condoms deter Juno’s plans to “procure a hasty abortion,” she sits Dad and Brenda down for the baby news - and the film's heart shows amid its hipster swagger.

Mac and Brenda don’t swoop in and offer to raise the child. They’re funny (“I didn’t know he had it in him!”) but disappointed, repeatedly referring to Juno as “irresponsible.” Yet they love her and stick up for her - Mac insists he accompany Juno to meet the adoptive parents she located in a pennysaver and, in a particularly biting exchange, Bren stares down an uncouth woman in authority: “What do you do?” “I’m a ultrasound technician.” “Well, I’m a nail technician, so why don’t we stick to what we both know.”

Juno knows she’s not parent material, but she's found people who are: Vanessa and Mark Loring (Jennifer Garner and Jason Bateman), McMansion yuppies about an hour away from the MacGuffs’ working-class Minnesota world. At first, we mock Vanessa, a brunette Martha Stewart, while digging the overgrown adolescent Mark. But Garner aches as a woman pained by an inability to be a mother, no more so than when Vanessa and Mark discuss the color to paint the baby’s room. Garner cuts through the ludicrous cheesecake/custard talk with sad eyes and tremulous voice.

Reitman previously directed the snarky 2005 satire Thank You for Smoking. In Juno Reitman, and Cody, let humanity emerge through the sarcasm. An encounter between Vanessa and Juno at the mall produces one of the movie’s loveliest moments, and Reitman allows the camera to linger on Garner and Page as the scene fades to black.

Page finds such complexity and openness underneath the wise-cracking Juno. Whether by tugging at an unfamiliar skirt when she visits the Lorings or looking searchingly at baby daddy and best friend (Superbad’s Michael Cera) in spite of herself, Page helps us see past the flippancy to find a soulful young girl who really wants to make the best of a bad situation. Juno’s also a very real pregnant teen, scorned by outsiders and uncomfortable with being a “planet.” Cera is adorable in his awkwardness, wanting to do something but clueless about how to behave.

But as endearing as Paulie is, and as well as he and Juno complement each other, the relationship bothered me. A year ago, my 15-year-old mentoree was in a situation similar to Juno’s. Her ending was more realistic - and a lot less feel-good. What would she think if she were to watch this movie today? Juno should have ended along with the titular character’s pregnancy, not in a summer coda. Cody and Reitman have tried to tie too big a bow on their cinematic gift.

The birth and its resulting emotions have poignancy, and we see Juno’s truth when she does break down, curled in the fetal position. Our tears fall just before that, though, thanks to dear old Dad: “Someday, you’ll be here on your own terms.” Is it too late to nominate Mac MacGuff for Father of the Year?

I Heart New York. But Do I Finally Heart Woody Allen?

Confession: I do not understand the appeal of Woody Allen films. I didn't laugh once during Annie Hall. Manhattan did not sweep me off my feet. I wanted to smack people in Bullets over Broadway and Manhattan Murder Mystery. Mighty Aphrodite inspired swearing at my television set. However, to be a well-rounded reviewer, I have to expand my film base, even to auteurs who make me cringe. So when Film Forum revived Hannah and Her Sisters this week, I decided it was time to try Woody again.

Manhattan may be the easy choice for the quintessential Woody Allen New York film, but I’d argue it’s 1986’s Hannah and Her Sisters. Hannah (Mia Farrow), sisters Holly and Lee (Academy-Award winner Dianne Wiest and Barbara Hershey), and their men really interact with the city. They listen to Bobby Short at the Café Carlyle and buy artwork in not-yet-gentrified SoHo. They cram into an Upper West Side apartment for Thanksgiving, meet their soul mates at Tower Records and find the meaning of life watching movies at the Metro. (Sadly, the Metro, Tower and Short are no more, and the artists scattered to Chelsea or Williamsburg.)

Allen’s Oscar-winning script features bon-mots aplenty, most of which Allen utters in the guise of television producer Mickey Sachs. During his latest midlife crisis, Mickey, born Jewish but never really a believer in God, explores other faiths. First stop: Catholicism. “I know - sounds funny,” Mickey tells his horrified father. “But I’m going to give it a try.” A few months later, Mickey chats with the Hare Krishna because he didn’t like the Catholic policy of “die now, pay later.” He’s also not a Nietzsche fan: “He said that the life we lived we're gonna live over again the exact same way for eternity. Great. That means I'll have to sit through the Ice Capades again.” Mickey is one of Allen’s warmest creations - still anxious, still Woody, but you can understand how fellow neurotic Holly eventually falls in love with him.

While Mickey and Holly have developed arcs over the two-year span of Hannah and Her Sisters, Holly’s siblings don’t fare as well. We see Hannah as a stable doer, a warm mother, the peacemaker in her parents’ marriage. (Mom is Maureen O’Sullivan, Farrow’s real-life mother.) But other than a nonsensical line about Hannah’s overly giving nature, we don’t understand what makes Elliot (Michael Caine, another Oscar winner) stray from his wife - to Lee, no less - nor do we see change in the titular character.

Lee remains an even greater enigma. The thirtysomething flits through life with no discernable direction. She’s drawn to older men such as Elliot and dour live-in boyfriend Frederick (Max von Sydow) - unexplored father issues? (Hannah said their parents didn’t know how to raise them.) Furthermore, in the last quarter of the movie, we mostly hear others talk of Lee’s experiences; we never hear her speak about them.

But go back to what makes Hannah and Her Sisters so special: the city. The most enchanting moment comes when architect Robert (a pre-Law and Order Sam Waterston) takes Holly and friend/rival April (Carrie Fisher) on a driving tour of his favorite places. Most - Pomander Walk, the Mount Vernon Hotel Museum and Garden - are sights only a local would recognize. When Allen does focus on an icon such as the Chrysler Building, he doesn’t zoom to its recognizable spire; instead, just by shooting its ornamentation, he captures the site’s essence. This is a New York to love.

Why the Red Sox Can't Trade Jon Lester

I did say that from time to time, I'd post about topics that weren't related to film.
I'm having a hard time with my latest review (Hannah and Her Sisters), so I decided to read some other things I've written to unlock my creativity. As many of you know, my father was diagnosed with throat cancer in April. My mother and brother started a blog of their own, but then my mother resorted to monthly emails to keep everyone in the loop about my father's health. I added my own thoughts to her early-November update, and several people had nice things to say. I tried to expand that email to a length appropriate for a Newsweek essay, but apparently my employer has beaten an ability to be wordy out of me! Concise really is better.
Nevertheless, here's the longer version of that November email. Now, back to movie thinking ...

Many commentators said the Boston Red Sox’ 2007 World Series title doesn't mean as much as the curse-breaking 2004 one. But for me, this year’s win was personal.

On April 10, my father was diagnosed with Stage IV laryngeal cancer, and baseball’s regular season was a week old. That spring, I repeatedly told my friends I hoped the Red Sox would do well this year, so my baseball-loving father - OK, family - would have something to enjoy. My father worried for my safety when I went to a Boston-New York matchup at Yankee Stadium at the end of that month, but of course he wanted to hear every detail about the fights … and, oh, the game itself, which the Red Sox won 11-4. Three days later, he giddily listened to the hoopla surrounding a David Ortiz book signing in New York; in fact, it was the most excited I’d heard him since his diagnosis. A week later, he called to squawk about Roger Clemens’ high-priced return to the Evil Empire, and we argued over whether the Red Sox really even needed him.

The Red Sox and the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, where my father received his treatment, have had a partnership dating back to the 1950s, a history detailed in a photo gallery in Dana-Farber‘s basement. Even as the seven weeks of radiation - which included three weeks of twice-a-day treatment - progressively weakened my father, he still made sure to encourage people to see the display. After all, my parents had to find something to like about being at Dana-Farber! We spent Father’s Day there, my father with an IV through his arm to receive hydration. He sent me to learn Red Sox history.

During my visits to Boston in July and August, my father was at his sickest. The radiation had fried the vocal cords of this garrulous bear, leaving him able to communicate only via paper and hand gestures. Still, he managed to muster up some strength to watch at least parts of the Red Sox games. At this point, after its blistering run during the first two months of the season, the team was playing .500 ball, so sometimes he may have been better off sleeping. In August, despite his best efforts, my father was unable to attend the Futures at Fenway minor-league doubleheader or a card giveaway for the Pawtucket Red Sox, Boston’s AAA affiliate. Both are usually the high points of his summer, and he was so sad I wondered if baseball no longer would serve as a refuge from the cancer and its aftermath.

Then my father started to talk more and to read again, so we chatted about articles in the sports section of the Boston Herald, ruminating on Manny Ramirez's latest hairdos and happenings. A month later, my father had his first nighttime outing, a Toronto-Boston game at Fenway Park. We stayed until the seventh-inning stretch, as a trip my mother and I anticipated would last an hour somehow became three. (The Red Sox were winning at the time but ultimately lost. My father chooses to believe the game ended with Boston winning 4-3, just as he saw it.) By the playoffs, my father was watching at least parts of all the games, and we were dissecting them during and after.

Perhaps the most important thing in the Red Sox season was the return of cancer survivor Jon Lester in late July - and, more importantly, the game he pitched in mid-September against the Orioles that prompted manager Terry Francona to say, "So, this is the stuff I've been hearing about." To me, THAT was the game in which Lester was back - not just as a cancer survivor, but as a top-notch pitcher. It was 13 months after his lymphoma diagnosis.

My father has made so much progress this fall, returning to work on a part-time basis and even driving a little. Still, as swallowing and eating remain a struggle, he expresses frustration that he can't do more. I told him that if a 23-year-old baseball player like Lester needed more than a year to be himself again, my 59-year-old non-athletic father was going to have be more patient. "Patience? You're talking to me about patience?," my father scoffed. On Oct. 28, Lester won Game 4 of the World Series, and the Red Sox celebrated their second title in four years. The next night, I heard my father chatting with my mother, comparing himself and his recovery to that of our pitcher. “If it takes Jon Lester time to recover and then he can win the World Series, then I can be more patient,” he said. Maybe a World Series title was what my father needed to understand?

At the “rolling rally” victory parade the next day, I celebrated and cheered as I saw Manny, Papi, Mikey Lowell, and many others, but only when Lester rode by did I scream "Thank you!" Lester didn't just win a game - he gave my father hope and a point of reference. That is the ultimate trophy.

Not So Graceful

Judging from box-office receipts, most moviegoers have ignored so-called Iraq films this year. I don't know if it's fatigue with the subject matter, an overload of options, a desire for film frivolity, or some other reason, but I think the general disregard is unfortunate. Yes, flicks are great for escapism, but it doesn't hurt to learn something, too. Maybe it's why I enjoy documentaries (and along those lines, everyone should rent the best one from 2007, No End in Sight). Rendition was an utter mess, but In the Valley of Elah made both my parents cry. So where did Grace Is Gone fall on my spectrum? Read on.

James C. Strouse tries to convey a different war tale in Grace Is Gone, that of Minnesota widower Stanley (John Cusack) unable to tell his daughters (Shelan O’Keefe, Gracie Bednarczyk) their mother died in Iraq. However, the enterprise feels forced: Count chain stores as Dad impulsively drives to a Great Adventure-like park in Florida! (Ignore this is avoidance behavior at its finest.) Watch former soldier Stanley interact clumsily with his girls but muster enough spirit to debate his burnout-liberal brother! (It’s nice that Grace doesn’t present conservatives as naïve idiots, but everyone's arguments still sound like stump speeches.) Listen to the plinky-plucky score from Dirty Harry himself, Clint Eastwood!

The normally sharp Cusack (Say Anything, High Fidelity) strains to mute his vibrancy, relying on glasses and awkward gait. Fortunately, O’Keefe saves the Sundance-winning drama from maudlin overkill. With Grace gone, 12-year-old Heidi has become the real household head; she monitors her father’s emotional state and reports her sudden absence to her school. Actor and character are reminiscent of the eldest daughter from In America, holding their families together amid tragedy. O’Keefe sees all and smiles warily, even in an arcade, which makes her late-night solo huddling that much more affecting.

Get a Map!

Since I now have a film blog, I ought to post reviews of films that have nothing to do with my class. Based on the buzz for Frank Langella (remember, I'm an awards hound), I went to see Starting in the Evening on Tuesday. Besides that any hint of a sexual relationship between a Grandpa-age man and someone a wee bit younger than me makes me squeal "ew!," I have some geographical complaints with the film.

Script inconsistencies plague Starting out in the Evening, marring the memory of achingly vulnerable Frank Langella as an aging writer.

For one thing, as a Jersey City resident with a best friend on West 75th Street, I know Hoboken is not that far from the Upper West Side. But the way the characters speak of the town’s location - four times, no less - you'd think it was in Connecticut.

Of course, the much-remarked-upon distance may be a metaphor for relationships in Starting out in the Evening. Langella plays Leonard Schiller, an author whose time has past - or hasn't come yet, according to brash grad student Heather Wolfe (Lauren Ambrose). Heather writes her thesis on Leonard and thrusts herself into his life - literally. Ambrose leans into Langella whether she’s sitting in a diner or touching him with honey. (Don’t ask.) Heather’s intensity vividly contrasts with Leonard’s shuffling, dignified manner. Langella’s eyes convey someone who has seen a lot, not without some amount of pain, and his tone is cautious and measured. It’s as if Leonard fears feeling.

Heather’s agenda feels muddled: Is she pretentious? An earnest book lover? A seductress? Fred Pardus and Andrew Wagner’s script, based on Brian Morton’s novel, remains frustratingly obtuse. We know little about Heather; in fact, she disappears for almost the last quarter of the movie.

Simultaneously, Wagner, who also directed, looks at the life of Ariel (Lili Taylor), Leonard's pushing-40-year-old daughter. The two share a frank, loving bond, although we hear references to tension over the years.

Therein lies yet another discrepancy. For someone who supposedly shows emotional constraint, Leonard astutely comments about Ariel's relationship with re-ignited flame Casey (Adrian Lester). A blocked father couldn’t observe that his child compromises herself and her familial dreams for someone who doesn‘t put her first.

Starting out in the Evening also spends more of the second half on Ariel’s arc - a moving story, but one belonging in another movie.

No Movie for Old People (a nod to my friend Jeff)

After our class ended, David suggested we meet up twice a month to see movies and then review them. That's the ultimate reason I started this blog. No Country for Old Men was our first "assignment."

It's the silence that gets you.

Halfway into No Country for Old Men, the 12th directorial effort by Joel and Ethan Coen, Vietnam vet Llewelyn Moss (Josh Brolin) is hiding out in a West Texas hotel with $2 million in a bag he snatched. That money, the remains of a drug deal gone bad, doesn't really belong to Moss. Nor does it belong to Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem), but the sadistic Chigurh has been stalking the money - and Moss. In the darkened Room 213, Moss bolts awake, realizing how Chigurh has been trailing him. He sits and waits, Chigurh on the other side of the door, as light streams through a crack.

All this occurs with nary a bit of music. The only sound is the occasional creak of a floorboard until a first shot shatters the disconcerting quiet.

In adapting Cormac McCarthy's novel of choice and chance, the Coen brothers marry noir and Western to create the most gripping, unsettling release of the year. They immediately establish the film's uneasy tone, with only the wind and an occasional passing car breaking the stillness of the endless landscape. The minimalist music by longtime Coen collaborator Carter Burwell takes a back seat to the real score: the swirling breeze, the buzzing flies and the crunching sand under cowboy boots. The characters use words sparingly, leaving us to brood in fear of what's next. When death comes, it's often very sudden.

No Country for Old Men features a sight even more unnerving than Fargo's wood chipper: a pale man with a Dutch Boy haircut and something that looks like an oxygen tank. That would be Bardem's Chigurh, the most charismatically evil character this side of Hannibal Lecter, a man who takes off his boots to sneak up on his unsuspecting victims. But Chigurh's not a blustery, badass villain from a summer blockbuster. He's that old standby: (nearly) silent but deadly.

Chigurh, and Bardem, wouldn't be as interesting without a foil, and that would be the man with the bag, Moss. Brolin's mustachioed welder lives in a trailer park and just wants to improve life for himself and his wife. Of course, he's too taciturn to say that aloud - the film is set in 1980, not our emo-male present - and he doesn't always realize how dire his situation really is.

No Country for Old Men also showcases vivid characterizations by Tommy Lee Jones and Kelly MacDonald as a weathered sheriff and Moss' worried-but-brave wife. As Ed Tom Bell, Jones serves as the film's increasingly disillusioned ethical compass. A world where "kids have stopped saying 'sir' and 'ma'am'" has left Bell ready to retire; as he remarks casually on newspaper stories of crime, we wonder if he's funny, ineffective or simply drained. For Jones, it's his second wise and wearied performance of the year, following In the Valley of Elah.

The Scottish-born MacDonald, in her most prominent American role to date, shows courage as Carla Jean amid her own faceoff with Chigurh. Resigned - "I knew this wasn't over yet" - yet calm, Carla Jean stands tall in an almost otherworldly light, while her opponent hunches in a shadowy corner.

After the fluffy romps of Intolerable Cruelty and The Ladykillers, the Coen brothers have delivered a tightly wound package of anticipation, action and ambiguity with No Country for Old Men. In doing so, they surpass themselves and even recall the Master of Suspense himself, Alfred Hitchcock.