Comedy – AFTERFILM

Vengeance (2022)

“SURPRISINGLY FRESH FOR ITS AGE”

Vengeance (2022; synopsis; trailer; cast & crew; rating) is a surprisingly fresh entry, for a movie that so thoroughly and intentionally belongs to, and wants to address, the moment to which it belongs (our current age, that is). The movie was written, directed, and stars B.J. Novak, most known from acting and writing on The Office. Now, what this particular piece of information would have augured for Vengeance is unclear, given that The Office used a number of writers (and writer-actors), each with their own tastes and sensitivities. My initial expectation, nonetheless, was that B.J. Novak would be a creature of his time – and, knowing the subject of the movie, that did give me some pause, when pondering whether to watch this solo effort. But, with encouragement from Rotten Tomatoes’ aggregate audience score (which I find to be a much better guide to whether one should look into a movie, or not, than the critics’ score), I did sit down to watch it, and I did not regret it.

What I discovered was indeed a product of its time, but also, unexpectedly, a surprisingly fresh product, which, while talking about the ideological clichés and prejudices of the day, manages to not talk about them on their own terms. In other words, while dealing with said clichés, it is nimble enough to not give itself completely over to them. And this is no mean feat! – and hence the aforementioned freshness. But what do I mean by all this?

Well, one of the ways to deal with the “ideological detritus” of the day, is to take one of the “ideological sides,” and use it to attack (undermine, critique, deconstruct) the “other side.” However, even if accurate in its critique, this would only be a job half-done, and a hypocritical one, as well – given that one’s own “side” would be equally vulnerable to a similar critique from “the other side.” So this is simply a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

Yet another way to navigate said ideological detritus is, while being caught in this binary ideological framework, to have the “heroic” courage and (ahem!) “magnanimousness” to show that, notwithstanding their pervasive wrongness and stubborn evil, those on “the other side” are still human.

Fortunately, B.J. Novak takes neither of these paths – at least, not as far as I can tell. While not ignoring the trappings of ideology, but actually living amidst and with them, and even being partially their creature (a creature of his time), Novak is light-footed enough to hop about them, while not allowing himself or the movie to be weighed down by this garbage. And I think that this light-footedness (which has a lot to do with the aforesaid sensation of “freshness”) comes from the satirical, self-deprecating, and (in a positive sense) postmodern and ironic tone and perspective cultivated by both the author of the movie (B.J. Novak), and by its main protagonist (played by B.J. Novak).

Key here is the self-deprecating tone. Why? Because this movie seems to have a strong autobiographical core – if not in terms of the story, then of reflecting the author’s own existential quest. Being self-critical and self-deprecating, then, is key to building an effective relationship (that includes both similarity and distance) between the author and the main character. This is especially necessary for the genre of satire (to which this movie belongs), and for a satirist like B.J. Novak. What we have here, then, is an author of his time, who is depicting (and acting out!) the struggles of a character also of his age; and what we get in the end is a story about the character, and also about the author (and yet the two stories are not identical, nor are they completely distinct).

Another key to the “freshness” of the movie is the fact that its guiding light (or point of reference) is not one or the other of the dominant ideological frameworks (and it wouldn’t matter which one), but the author’s (and the character’s) search for what one might call “existential truth.” Again, this goes to the core of what humor actually is – namely a revelation of the absurd that results from the clash between appearances (e.g. lies, ideology) and (existential) truth (see The Firemen’s Ball). That’s what the court jesters revealed (the emperor has no clothes!), and that’s what any true humorist does. I don’t know if Novak did this consciously; however, a true artist always tries to be truthful to his craft, and in his craft – so a humorist trying to be truly what he is, will inevitably be led in the direction of the truth (yet he also has to allow himself to be led that way).

One should also note that it’s a dangerous dance, the one in which Novak seems to be engaged: of being thoroughly immersed in his age (and at its densest, in Hollywood!), swimming right through the treacherous currents of immediacy – while also trying to not be completely “of” the age and of the moment, in order not to betray one’s craft, and/or one’s existential quest. We can only wish him luck with this endeavor, with this high-wire act – while retaining a healthy skepticism as to its long-term chances of success (survival). (And this skepticism does not come from undervaluing, in any way, his talents or his good intentions; but even the best sailors would succumb to a continuous exposure to the raging storm.)

All this is to say that popular culture, especially as it emerges from what we call “Hollywood,” is currently in a dire state, being suffocated by ideological strictures of the kind last seen under the ideological regimes of the past century. The typical “opposition” that tends to emerge in such a situation usually comes from the opposite ideological end (and thus is not essentially different from the ideology it contests). And yet, at first sight (or as a first step), even that is good, because at least it creates options – or the appearance thereof. However, from a long-term perspective, ideological strictures, whether of the “left” or of the “right” (whatever those terms might mean), will always be the enemies of the artistic endeavor (and of the existential truth reflected through art).

This being the current state of affairs, most cultural products that appear to thoroughly belong to “the age” – and, even worse, to intentionally talk about the age – will inevitably raise the suspicions of the wise member of the audience. But, although such suspicions turn out to be true, more often than not, they can also impede us in stumbling upon some rare gems, upon the exceptions to the rule (i.e. products of the age that transcend, or bypass, in one way of the other, the ideological narrowmindedness of the field). As already mentioned, the “audience score” on Rotten Tomatoes can be a useful tool in helping us bypass – or confirm – those initial suspicions; at least, as an initial guide in that regard. And one of the reasons why this aggregate vox populi score seems to work might be that people (in their aggregate, at least) are inherently and intrinsically attracted to the truth – even if they would not be able to explain or justify this feeling. And thus I think that one of the reasons why Vengeance received a high audience score on RT, is because the public inherently sensed the “freshness” of the product – and liked what it found. And thus I am very glad that I followed vox populi‘s original guidance, and that I did sit down to watch this slightly dark satire about a guy who is thoroughly in and of his age, but who also struggles to remain truthful to his age-less self.

The Firemen’s Ball (1967)

one of the great comedies in cinema history / on art vs. ideology

Firemen's Ball 1 Miloš Forman’s The Firemen’s Ball (synopsis; clip; cast & crew; rating) is a great comedy, which works on several levels: as a direct, accessible, “popular” piece – and as a satire on the (ideological-totalitarian) Communist regime of Czechoslovakia (of 1967). And, while it works very well on the first level, and while one can learn a lot from it about comedy-making, in general, it is the second aspect that elevates it to the level of greatness – indeed, (for me) to being one of the great comedies of the history of cinema. However, it is on this very account (i.e. given the artistic richness that arises precisely from its nature as a satire on an ideological-totalitarian regime) that one wonders whether a specific “experiential” background (namely having personally experienced, or knowing indirectly about, life under ideological-totalitarian regimes) might not be needed in order to fully and thoroughly enjoy all the comedic dimensions of this film.

At the same time, however, we ourselves are also living during highly ideologized times (and things seem to only be getting worse, in that regard); so, sooner or later today’s artists might also have to learn how to speak the special language of hints, allusions, and allegories – which is the language that all artists who tried to remain truthful to art itself had to learn how to speak, under ideological (e.g. Communist) regimes – and which is the satirical language of The Firemen’s Ball. So, as said, there is a lot to learn from this movie – both about how to make a swift, funny, and universally-accessible comedy, and also about how to create art (and how to make humor) in times of ideology. But these are the very reasons why I thought that this would be a timely movie – to re-watch and to discuss.

But let us start with the general, universally-accessible “comedy” dimension of the movie – and in that sense let us appreciate the swift and light-footed pacing of the movie, as befits a good comedy, or a farce. Let us also mention here (because it has to be mentioned) the ever-so-slightly bawdy, even libertine, humor (and spirit) characterizing Forman’s works (see also the films that he made after emigrating to the US), a style and tradition of humor that I would call specifically Bohemian (as in, pertaining to a specific strand in the cultural history of Bohemia / today’s Czechia). Indeed, going back to (for example) Jaroslav Hašek – and to other artists as well, of course – one will observe a certain shared language and attitude, which one could call very worldly (or very secularized), and which is also peppered with accents ranging from bawdy to rowdy; but which is also, and at the same time, lighthearted; and universally mocking; and somewhat cynical; and also light, and playful (a language and attitude which might go back to the experience of the religious wars of Bohemia, and the resulting, generally disabused attitude toward religion, and toward all “hard rules”; see also the fact that Czechia today is one of the most a-religious countries in the world). And yet, let us not get bogged down by epithets that might sound too sour and dour; because, from Hašek to Forman, this is also the language of what one might call (with another famous Czech author, Milan Kundera) of “the lightness of being” (and yet, contra Kundera, not “unbearable”, but making existence bearable, by mocking its self-seriousness). So, overall, quite a “human”, even humanistic – and also quite enjoyable – artistic attitude (Hašek, for example, uses this attitude and this kind of language to counterpose the needs and requirements of basic human life, to the absurdity of war).

So this is a comedy that works on several levels – one using a comedic language of Laurel and Hardy-esque simplicity and universality, and the other functioning as a satire poking fun at the ideological regime (i.e. at “them”) – and also at ourselves, at us all. And, regarding this last item, there is indeed a kind of deep humanity (or humanism) in this capacity to see the comedic in our very condition, in our everydayness, in our failings – in our both incredibly annoying, but also somehow endearing, quotidian humanness and fallibility.

And at this point another aspect would need to be discussed, as well – in order to be able to make sense of the “satire” dimension of the movie; namely, the issue of art vs. ideology. To give a bit of context: this movie was made at a time of relative “thawing”, during the (otherwise oppressive) times of Communist rule in Czechoslovakia; a period of “thawing”, then, during which a kind of “Communism with a human face” (i.e. a more “humane” ideological regime) was attempted, and was still thought possible. The problem, though, with such attempts at “relaxing” regimes based on coercion and control is that, once you crack open the door of the totalitarian system, just a bit, and once you allow a little freedom, a tsunami of free expression will immediately form and try to get through; and, unless you bolt the door again, quickly, through coercion and violence (as it happened in Czechoslovakia in 1968, not long after the making of this movie – when Soviet and Warsaw Pact troops invaded the country, to end this attempt at a “thawing”), that tsunami of “free expression” might end up washing away the very regime (as it happened, at the end of the 1980s, in the USSR, after Gorbachev’s attempts at a kind of “thawing” – at glasnost and perestroika). One should also mention here, just as a bit of context, that the Communist regime in Czechoslovakia was forcibly imposed on that country, under pressure from the “liberating” USSR troops, at the end of WWII; and that, while Czechoslovakia remained a “sovereign” country, it also kept that Communist regime, under the imminent threat of Soviet intervention; and that the Communist regime lasted in Czechoslovakia, as many of you might know, until 1989. Remember, then, in this context, that this movie was made in… 1967.

But, getting back to the issue of art versus ideology – let us begin the discussion by clarifying that for ideological regimes, art is always one of the first targets that they want to take over and control. Without going into too much detail, let us just say that the reason why this happens is that ideologies, being universal and exclusive meta-narratives, which claim to both explain and to fix the world itself, and the entirety of existence, can not bear having to compete with alternate narratives (stories) about reality. At the same time, what is art but a reflection – or narrative – about reality; and what is true art (at least in my conception), but a truthful and poignant reflection of the truth of existence, and of the human condition. However, and as said, ideologies can not bear this – can not bear the existence of competing, even contrary narratives; which is why they (ideologies) always try to censor and to control art, by “cutting out” and “purifying” it of all content that is deemed contrary to the ideological narrative. Of course, once “art” is thus controlled, censored, and “purified”, it ceases actually being art – which is also why “ideological art” always comes across as fake, inauthentic, risible (see “propaganda”; or see the artistic direction that used to be called “Socialist Realism” etc.).

Which is why the true artist, when working during ideological times or under ideological regimes, in order to still be able to create and to express himself, will only have a few choices of action at his disposal: to “write for the drawer” (i.e. to work in secret, without hope of being published in the here and now); to compromise with the regime (or even to become its obedient mouthpiece – in which case art, of course, ceases); or to develop and use (and here we get to The Firemen’s Ball) a specific language of hints and allegories, which will allow for one’s works to still be published, and which the public will recognize and understand, but which the censors will try hard to suppress, albeit encountering difficulties in this process, given its indirectness (although they did ban Forman’s movie, eventually); or simply to leave (to emigrate; which eventually Forman had to do). This movie, then, is an example (and exemplar) of how to do satire on ideological regimes, while living within such an ideological regime – an example that has perfected said language of allusions, hints and metaphors, through which one can say poignant and recognizable things, without spelling them out (and risking losing access to the public).

Firemen's Ball 2 Without going into too much detail about the specific ways in which the movie achieves this type of communication (because that would spoil the fun), I will however point out some aspects, or moments, just for the sake of clarification, and to be able to discuss the “satire” dimension of the movie. Take, for example, the “fire brigade” – which works as a perfect metaphor for the “Communist Party”; starting from the casting, with the “president” of the brigade looking exactly like a Party Leader from any Central or Eastern European Communist country; to the very modus operandi of said brigade: secretive, behind closed doors, and more concerned with appearances, than with true achievements; referring to “the people” as a “them”. vs ”us”; and always making sure, without daring to admit it, that they collect the material spoils; but being keen on maintaining the appearances, for example by organizing a ball “for the people”, and also an “official ceremony” for a “respected” (but in fact ignored and neglected) former “president” of the brigade; and clumsy and incompetent and haphazard in all that they actually do, as it always happens, in such party-states; and abusive and exploitative toward the public, in fact, as evidenced by how they “recruit” (or, rather, “snatch”) the girls for the beauty pageant etc.

But, as mentioned above, and in line with the Bohemian artistic tradition I mentioned, the satire is not directed only at “them” (at the regime) – but also at “us”, at “the people”; because it would be just as hypocritical (as the Party itself is) not to admit that we, too, are also complicit in the system (as another Czech, Vaclav Havel, explained it in his famous essay, The Power of the Powerless) – as without our silent acceptance, or complacency, the regime and its veil of lies would not survive. Thus, in the movie (and quite hilariously) the people partake equally in “the game of appearances and of spoils-getting”, in which the Party )sorry: fire brigade) is also engaged. And this, by the way, is a very accurate reflection of what happens in all ideological regimes, after the initial – and most bloody – period of ideological-revolutionary fervor; namely, that there comes always a period of “settling down”, of a mutually and silently accepted status quo, within which “we pretend that we do not know that they are lying, and that they are out to get their spoils; while they pretend that they believe the we believe them, and try to ignore our own spoils-getting”. A generalized lie, and a merry-go-round of foolery – indeed, but do not forget that the first requirement and demand of life is simply to survive – and most human beings will first of all try to do that; so, “spoils-getting”, perhaps, but that can also be just another name for “the people” doing their best to simply live (survive). Yet this is what great satire does – it penetrates through the veil of appearances, to reveal the truth – and points out both that the emperor is naked (and he is, and most egregiously so) – but also that we ourselves have holes in the bottoms of our pants, as well. And when satire reaches this level of poignant and expressive truth telling, it becomes true and high art (not art with a message – but art as truthful depiction of existence, and of the human condition).

And there are some genuinely laugh-out-loud moments of this kind – of anti-ideological satire – in the movie; that is, moments in which the truth, reality, penetrate through the cracks in the carefully-painted façade; and our laughter comes both from recognizing both the accurate depiction of the ridiculous “façade” that such a regime puts up, and from the contrast between these appearances, and the actual truth of existence, as we know it from our daily experience. Examples of such moments are, for example, the scenes with the one “honest” fireman (and with his wife…) “guarding” the table with the tombola prizes; or when the lights are switched off, so that “the people” can return the prizes that were stolen; and, of course, the scene with the conferring of the “award” on the former president of the fire brigade (who, by the way, comes across like one of those old-guard, true-red, first- generation Commies – who is now stored away, and forgotten, being dragged out only for meaningless ceremonies). Ah, all the hypocrisy, the make-belief, the incompetence, and the generalized profiteering that always – always and without fail! – become the characteristics of ideological regimes – and that constitute such rich fodder for satire!

But there are also some more serious, even moving, moments, in the film (not gloomy, but serious in their humanity) – moments when the “carnival ride” grinds to a close, and the tragic dimension of existence (and of life under such regimes) comes through. Examples would include, of course, the scenes with the old man’s house catching fire, and what happens (with him and with the house) afterward. Indeed – even while instances of pettiness and “small-mindedness” abound even in these scenes (like the buffet manager making sure that they continue to sell drinks, even to the people gathered around the house fire) – there are also some solemn, even spiritual moments; like, for example, when the crowd starts intoning a song, while keeping a sort of vigil around the fire; or with the old man reciting, while watching his whole life burn down, a stammered, half-remembered, “Our Father”. And there should be such moments, as well – because human existence is also tragic – and because underneath this typical Bohemian humor there is also a sense of the “tragedy of existence”.

But at this point the same concern that I stated earlier comes to mind – namely, about the ability of the “average” Western viewer (who has not experienced, or who has not realized that he has experienced, life under ideological regimes) to “recognize” and to “perceive” this satirical (anti-ideological) language. Of course, anyone who is not familiar with the existential experience of living under ideological regimes, can easily address that – and I am thinking of the quasi-experiential means of movies and books on the subject (and there are so many of them; from, for example, Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago, which itself is pervaded by irony, and thus by dark humor – to, for example, a more recent movie like Tales from the Golden Age etc.).

At the same time, I also wonder if said Western viewer should not actually be in a hurry to do so – to familiarize himself with the nature of ideologies, and of ideological regimes; and, as a corollary, with the means of (still) making (and consuming) art under such regimes. I say this because, as mentioned before, we do live during highly ideologized times – and the situation, far from relenting, seems to be only intensifying. And one needs to remember that under such conditions – namely, if the false narrative of ideology takes over – the challenge, both for the artist and for the public, will be to learn how to still hold on to what they know to be the truth – and reject the falsity of ideology – while still “surviving”, if possible (still having a job, or even surviving physically). As discussed, there are only a few options available for the artist (and for the public, in fact), in such conditions: (1) compromise, or even active collaboration; (2) resignation to being “cancelled” or “deplatformed”, and to making art “for one’s drawer”, with the hope for a possible future audience; (3) developing a special, subversive artistic language, that can still get published, but which tries to still speak the truth, through hints and allusions; (4) or exile.

And, remember, ideological regimes come in many shapes and forms, in that the false narrative of ideology can be imposed through various means, whether hard (the brute power and institutions of the state) or soft (cancellation; ostracism; peer or crowd pressure; economic pressure etc.). And this is why it is important to remember, especially in such soft-totalitarian contexts (in which the frog is more easily boiled), that the first and foremost duty of the artist (and of every human being with a conscience) is to have the internal courage and awareness to hang on to what they know to be the truth – and to trust that what feels hypocritical and false, is actually so (no matter the moral pretenses or apparent motivations of the ideological narrative). In other words, for such satire (and for such a language of metaphors and allusions) to work, both the artist and (a part of) the public need to still be able to hang on to – and thus to internally recognize – the truth. And there will always be people who can still recognize the truth; because ideologies can do many things (through coercion and violence) – but they can not change the truth.

To conclude, The Firemen’s Ball is a thoroughly enjoyable and hilarious film – which works both as a general, universally-accessible comedy – and as an existentially reinvigorating satire on ideological regimes. And this is why (today’s) artists and filmmakers can learn a lot from it – on both accounts.

Dead Snow (2009) & Dead Snow 2: Red vs. Dead (2014)

“reckless, hilarious, and violent camp / a double feature”

Dead Snow large Tommy Wirkola’s two movies, Dead Snow (synopsis, trailer, cast & crew, rating), and Dead Snow 2: Red vs. Dead (synopsis, trailer, cast & crew, rating), stand out as some of the most entertaining films (funniest, and most fun) that I have seen in the last two decades; and what truly sets these movies apart is the unbound creativity and wild sense of humor that drive them. From the filmmaker’s perspective, the quest at the heart of these movies seems to have been, how to find the comedic in a horror-type movie (a genre, by the way, that does not really interest me); well, it takes a particular kind of imagination, kind of like the one at play in Sam Raimi’s (and Bruce Campbell’s) Evil Dead movies (especially 2 & 3).

Dead Snow 2 large It is not by chance, then, that Dead Snow makes reference, both textually and filmically, to those movies. However, these are not some Evil Dead “wannabes”; no, these are original works, while also being fully aware of the cinematic universe that preceded and that surrounds them (and not only within the genre; thus, in DS 1 one of the characters is a cinephile who often references or quotes from other movies; while in DS 2 the clash between the Nazi zombies and the Soviet ones is informed, visually, by the choreography of the battle scenes from Braveheart – for example).

Nazi zombies, you say? What, Soviet zombies? What is this? What this is, is camp, and of the best kind; and in these two movies a lot of the entertainment comes from taking these ridiculous premises to their “natural” conclusions, while in the process also allowing for the outrageous violence inherent in the genre (and in these premises) to play out – without inhibitions. Not grimly, mind you; and the best way to explain how this works would be to say that violence (and action), when played in a ruthless and camp manner, results in slapstick; slapstick that has weight (these are real characters, we even care about them – especially in DS 2), but that is also unbridled and wild and unexpected. This is why I mentioned “unbound creativity,” as a defining trait of Wirkola’s work in these films (he both wrote the scripts and directed them) – because while working within a defined genre (“slasher,” maybe – in DS 1), or even “creating a new genre” (as one character says, tongue in cheek, in DS 2), what sets these movies apart is the wild recklessness (and yet, also artfulness) with which violence, gore, accidentally resurrected zombies, evil Nazis, and a possessed arm create a mix of mayhem and humor that plays freely through the realms of camp, kitsch, action, and – even – war.

But here one must make a distinction between Dead Snow, and Dead Snow 2: Red vs. Dead, in the sense that, in the first movie, that aspect that I mentioned as setting these movies apart and making them tremendously enjoyable – namely that wild reckless violent camp – only really kicks in during the last third of the film. Taken as a whole, the first Dead Snow is an enjoyable romp, really in the mold of Evil Dead 2 – a group of students, in a cabin, in the snowy mountains of northern Norway, who accidentally resurrect (or draw the attention of) Nazi zombies. As said, the bulk of the action starts around the middle of that movie, and then really accelerates and devolves into excellent and juicy mayhem, in the last third (or thereabouts). The sequel, however (Dead Snow 2) – which also benefited from a higher budget (not that the first did not have good production values) – takes what was the best from the first one, accelerates it, and starts with that – with a reckless abandon of fun and violence, and then keeps it up throughout (yet never in a monotonous way), culminating in a final, most enjoyable battle between the “Red” and the Nazi (un)dead.

Recklessness is a word that I mentioned several times – and this is, in many ways, where the humor comes from. What do I mean? Well, why are so many comedies or even horror movies actually… boring? Because their humor seems canned and pre-planned; mediocre sit-com like, they say funny (or do scary) things, but none of those words or actions actually takes us by surprise, is unexpected. Well, in the best parts of DS 1, and in most of DS 2, Tommy Wirkola pushes the pedal to the floor exactly in the right spots – because, let’s be honest, this is a ridiculous premise, and zombies are ridiculous in themselves, and gore and mayhem is inherently funny, if played out with ruthlessness both toward the principal characters (some surprises there), and, of course, toward (all) the bystanders. Yes, because nobody is spared; for a long time, in DS 1, I did not even know who was supposed to be the main character, whom I should be rooting for – and who, if anyone, should I expect to survive, at the end of the movie (well, do any?); while in the second – well, nobody, no category of population, is spared – with the most hilarious consequences.

Because where does the hilarity come from, in fact? Where does the humor come from? Well, from the clash between our regular, tame expectations, and what actually happens; from encountering the paradoxical and the contradictory, even the absurd; but, here’s the thing, within the context of these scenarios, none of what happens is actually “absurd” – only that the other movies of the genre do not dare to go “out there” and to swing so wildly (for comedic effect). This is why while watching these movies I have laughed more, and more heartily, than probably at any other movie that I have seen over the past two decades (and this is no exaggeration). In addition, I always find it so very rewarding to encounter a truly creative mind, and freely roaming artistic creativity.

There are some wonderful individual touches, as well. The way the first movie starts with the image of a girl being chased by (what turn out to be) zombies, through the snowy mountains of Norway, on the soundtrack of music from… The Nutcracker (music that keeps accelerating, ever so slightly). The hilariously “aesthetic” framing (positioning) of the zombie Nazis, lined up artistically around their leader, at various moments – for example, while preparing to attack. And how the movie plays on our expectation for the heroes to truly become heroes, and to bring a much deserved comeuppance upon these nasty zombies – with chainsaw and machine gun and so on. And the rewarding scene of the Soviet zombies rising menacingly from the frozen ground, to compose an army for our hero, in order to fight the Nazis! And the relentlessly and unfailingly funny – and continuously amplified – running gag with the “pet zombie,” in DS 2. And DS 2 culminating with that side-splittingly hilarious and truly outrageous scene – with references to Titanic (!), and set on the soundtrack of a famous, kitschy pop ballad; and yet also, somehow, rewarding – because Wirkola also manages to insert, amid all the mayhem and chaos, a central emotional thread, going throughout the second movie, and tying it together, to a degree, and making us care (!) even more for the main character.

Of course, there are less than successful moments, as well. I think that the “guts” gag is a bit overdone (used too much), in DS 1; also in that movie, I find the mauling scenes somewhat underwhelming, neither scary nor shocking; however, also in DS 1 there are two jump scares (which, by the way, do not abound, thankfully) that are very effective (while there are none, really, in DS 2 – because it does not need them anymore). In DS 2, which is overall most enjoyable, some weaker parts come from the presence of the American characters – mostly because of the characters of the two girls, in fact, which do not feel as realistic and as grounded as the rest of the characters in the movie (Norwegian ones). Perhaps this is because these American actors bring a bit of that canned, clichéd approach to what is otherwise a grounded, dirty, very realistic (!) (within the conventions of this ridiculous plot) Norwegian story. But I think that the American “guy” does a good job, overall – playing it adequately campy, but not unserious.

And this takes me to another aspect that is worthy of being discussed – that in order for humor (or horror) to work, it needs to be played straight; comedy results when we see reality clashing with appearances or with expectations; but for this to happen, we need to feel that the characters are real people, in real situations, acting fairly realistically (as we would, in their stead). If the story and acting feel artificial, then the comedic effect is lost; because that unexpected discovery of the clash between appearances and truth does not take place (and what is “truth” in a given narrative is what corresponds to its premise and conventions, no matter what those might be, and what the genre is – be it fantasy, horror, sci-fi etc.).

For example – speaking of taking the premise to its natural conclusions, and of Wirkola’s free and funny imagination – how about that scene with the Nazi zombie “MASH” unit, “treating” the “wounded” zombies, during the battle with the Soviet undead… I mean, seriously!

All in all, then, a mix of violence, horror, camp, wild imagination, and a wicked sense of humor, recklessly and ruthlessly following the story wherever it takes us, make these movies an exceedingly entertaining double feature. Because I would insist, indeed, that these two movies are best watched as a double feature, as DS 1 truly sets up and grounds DS 2 (while also being, in itself, an entertaining little gem of a movie, within its genre) – and while DS 2 is thereafter an unbridled and free-roaming adventure that hyperdrives the camp and the action, while also constructing a fairly rewarding narrative.

As a side note, I would recommend that you watch DS 1 in the original Norwegian (there is also an unlikable version dubbed into English, which I avoided like the plague); the second movie, however, seems to have been released both in Norwegian, and in a version in which the Norwegian actors dubbed (ADR’d) themselves in English; well, since most Scandinavians speak English well, and since this approach keeps their natural voices and their accents – and also since DS2 has some actual English dialogue, as well, due to the presence of the American characters – I would recommend the “naturally dubbed” DS2, as an authentic and very enjoyable version.

(Speaking of releases and versions, I should also note here that the trailers to these movies do not do them justice, exactly because they do not seem to understand what actually sets these movies apart, and because they try to present them as fitting into the usual horror or slasher clichés – which they do not, and which they are not.) Speaking of genres, I would not even classify these movies – well, at least DS2, as a horror movie; instead, I would rather call it an action-adventure comedy with a horror premise. Because this is how one can best enjoy it – kind of like Evil Dead 3.

Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood (2019)

“grand cinema – and an ode to classic Hollywood”

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Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood (synopsis, trailer, cast & crew, rating) is a most pleasurable fare; it might just be my favorite Tarantino movie, or at least ranking at the same level as Pulp Fiction (or Reservoir Dogs), while being quite different from those. But what makes it so appealing?

First of all, its atmosphere. Clearly the intention was to capture and to reproduce a specific time and place: the classic Hollywood of the 1960s (the end of an era, and the transition into a new era – from the TV and films of the 50s and of the 60s, into the culturally very different decades of the 70s – and of the 80s). In the process of reconstructing this world – which Tarantino does, clearly, with care and affection – the movie also reproduces what could be best expressed as “Americana” – or, “Californiana” (for many around the world, the image of California, especially as learned from the movies, is emblematic for what and how the US is supposed to be). It is a sunny, affectionate, but also in many ways blunt reproduction of a world (or of several worlds: of movie and TV production, of working actors, of “civilians” living in Hollywood, of rich people, and of decrepit people). But it all revolves, of course, around the world of film, of movie-making.

That, indeed, is the center of Hollywood (or used to be), so we encounter and see people living at various degrees of closeness or distance from that center: from the up-and-coming starlet (Sharon Tate); to the actor anxiously negotiating the transition of the industry, and of himself, from the 60s into the 70s, who is worried about his future (Rick Dalton); to the crew (stuntman Cliff Booth, who lives “around” Dalton); to the child actress who exhibits an endearing seriousness about the craft, but also an understandable naivety about the working life of an actor; and even to the young girls of the hippy/cult commune of Charles Manson (who live from the crumbs of Hollywood, literally and figuratively, as they take tourists to famous people’s houses, and also pick through garbage containers). In the middle of the narrative, traversing it and giving it direction, are the two parallel stories of Dalton and of Tate (who also “happen” to be neighbors) – which is a good vehicle to showing us the everydays of the actors’ lives – their highs, and their lows; from partying, to doubt and agony about their career or their craft; from being on the way up, to being – or being afraid of being – on the way out etc. One could (and probably should) also add here the Booth storyline – but one can also qualify it as a “satellite” narrative, around and along that of Dalton.

(Speaking of Cliff Booth, and of living on the fringes of Hollywood, it is symbolic how Booth, who is formally Dalton’s stuntman and double, but nowadays works for him as his daily factotum and amigo, and who thus spends his days within the gravitational pull of Rick’s career and life – how he at night goes home to a trailer parked somewhere on a lot behind an open air cinema.)

And this Hollywood – and, in fact, this entire world – is depicted as having two opposite but complementary sides: the glamorous, seductive, fleetingly attractive one, and the dark, dangerous one, of human misery, of evil. This duality characterizes the entire movie – see the apparently fresh young things of the hippy / cult commune (e.g. Pussycat): at first sight alluring and attractive, with the promise of youth and beauty, and quickly turning into something much more dubious, ugly, scary even (the scene of Pussycat climbing unto that car and yelling and gesturing at Booth, after having been so friendly and behaving even childishly toward him, is a perfect expression of that flip of a coin; or see the appallingly dirty, unkept conditions inside Spahn’s home; not to mention the really troubling scenes at the end, when these “freedom-and-lovey” hippies are getting ready to kill.)

(As a side-note, this is the same duality that one sees and perceives in Vegas, or in Atlantic City – one just has to step off the main strip, to see the undergirth, the seamy underbelly, of the glittering surface; all those “occupations” and endeavors that grow like a dark fungus around and under money, fame, appearances.)

But back to our initial question – why did I find this movie attractive, pleasurable? Besides the atmosphere (the Hollywood of the 60s), which is so well captured, the film is also very well (and thus enjoyably) structured. As said, the main thread goes along two (three) parallel narratives, of Dalton (and Booth) and of Tate, and that constitutes, as it were, the middle of the movie; which is preceded by an aesthetic-emotional and informative introduction into the world and the momentary status of each of these characters; and is followed and concluded by a coda about their paths, which itself ends with an egregious (but also egregiously enjoyable) finale.

Speaking of the finale – when I first saw the movie, the ending was definitely not what, or how, I expected it to be. Not having read much about the details of the plot of this movie (I never do), I still knew that it featured or made reference to Sharon Tate (who, as is well known, was brutally murdered – in real life – by Manson’s followers). Knowing that much about the movie, while I was watching it for the first time I kept getting tense and nervous, at various moments throughout the film, when I expected – every moment now! – for something bad to happen, for violence to erupt; in a way, the threat of evil hung above the movie throughout, during the first watching (such a tense, expectant moment in the movie was when Booth visited the hippy/Manson farm). And yet, nothing happens… well, not until the end.

Speaking of the ending, then, I must say that, when I first watched the movie, I found it somewhat disappointing, or underwhelming, simply because I could not make sense of why Tarantino had chosen to deviate from the historical facts. I simply could not understand the reasoning behind the choice (although one could say that it is a metaphor for Tarantino “saving” that classical Hollywood that he lovingly recreates and displays in this movie – but I am not terribly interested in metaphorical explanations.) When watching the movie the second time, however, since I no longer expected that the actual, historically accurate story of Sharon Tate would be depicted (at least in its actual denouement), and since I was thus freed from the ongoing tension of not knowing when evil would break through, and when violence would erupt, I was also able to watch the ending in a more detached state, and to find satisfaction in it. Mind you, even when watching it the first time, I found that concluding festival of violence (oddly) satisfying and rewarding (perhaps also as a much deserved comeuppance for those evil hippy/cult members).

Except, perhaps, for that rather prolonged shot of the carbonized body of the woman in the pool – and not because I was in any way repulsed by that image – by no means; to the contrary, I found that lingering on it actually took away from the “realism,” and thus from the impact, of those scenes of violence. and that it took us out of the moment, at least to a degree. And this takes us to another aspect that I would like to note, regarding this movie – namely, a certain degree (or a streak) of self-indulgence, which I have noticed in other Tarantino films, as well, after the great successes with Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction; and which I also noticed, for example, in Martin Scorsese’s The Irishman, as well (another great movie, by the way). What is all this about? Well, it seems that once the “general verdict” about a director (or about an artist, in general) is that they are a “genius,” or something “extraordinary” – and once, as a result of that, they are put on a sort of pedestal, being given (to a large degree) free rein, and being thus excluded or sheltered from the grind of the daily negotiations with the studio or with the producers, or from having to cope with very tight limits of time and budget – it seems that, once all these happen, what also comes with this is a certain slackening of artistic self-discipline, on the part of said artist.

This can manifest itself in various ways – for example, in this movie I would classify under such a heading the random use of indicative or explanatory text on the screen – random, because it happens in fact only two times: in the scene with Steve McQueen, at the party, and in the one with the car jumping between the two elevated ends of a bridge, while filming that Italian mock-Bond movie. Now, why use these superscripts? Why introduce them, randomly, and only in those two moments? In other words, if the use of such text would be an integral part of the “language” and visual style of this movie (like, for example, the trippy multicolored images interspersed in Punch Drunk Love, or the silent film-like intertitles in The Sensation of Sight), then nobody would mind; but doing something just because one is able to do, even if it comes across as incongruous with the overall tone or style of the movie – well, that I would classify as self-indulgent.

But this is not a new issue, or question, for art and the artists; namely, what is best, for the artist to have complete free rein, or for him to have to deal, and thus to enter into a conversation, with certain limits (which can be limits of style, as in certain “formal rules;” or of means at one’s disposal, or of time etc.). There is the Romantic (uppercase, as in the historical current) notion of the artist soaring unencumbered, as being the best and most desirable state and condition, as he then can attain to the highest realms of aesthetics and of truth. Appealing image, which is also related to another underlying modern idea, that freedom is a value in itself – instead of being only a condition, that gives us the possibility of choice – a choice that can be good, bad, at least imperfect etc. After all, in this very movie aren’t the young hippies of the Manson commune “free,” practicing free living and free loving – and yet their “free choice” turns out to be for deepest, darkest evil?

Without going too far away from our discussion of the movie, one should remember that all (or at least, the overwhelming majority) of Michelangelo Buonarotti’s works were commissions – where he was given a clear task, a certain “surface” or location, and a fairly clear commission – within which he then was able to manifest his soaring creativity and, in fact, genius. But am I arguing for the necessity of outer constraints, of having to fight with obtuse studio executives, and so on? No, never. But I am arguing for the necessity of inner constraints, by which I simply mean an inner artistic discipline, which translates into a certain unity of style, into a coherent artistic language. And sometimes the need to engage a fixed outer framework (necessities and constraints) – be it only in terms of money and of time – helps develop that internal discipline, which results in a more aesthetically balanced and harmonious artistic act. In other words, just because one may use free rhyme (which I actually prefer, or at least I delight in), does not mean that, automatically, his poems will actually have a higher artistic value.

But back to our movie; other instances which I would identify as manifestations of a similar lack of aesthetic self-discipline (i.e. coherence), would be, for example, the overly long scene of Dalton filming a Western; the same thing could have been achieved in a much more concentrated and focused (yet not rushed) manner. Or even the fact that Kurt Russell (who also plays a character in the movie) narrates, here and there, parts of the movie; why Russell? Clearly, it is not the character whom he plays in the movie who actually does the narrating – or is it? So why confuse the planes? And why narrate only at certain (random?) moments, and not more consistently, throughout the film? Again, this – and similar instances – feel like moments of decision which went broadly along the lines of “I can do it, so I’ll do it.” And this is where the studio guy (not that I like them, or want them to meddle – but just as an example) would come in at the end of the day, see the rushes (or check later on the editing process), and ask – why? Or someone, anyone, would ask, why?

Because another problem with artists being put on a pedestal, and receiving, as it were, a sort of a carte blanche, is that the critics as well tend to be possessed by a sort of a feeling of inferiority toward these declared geniuses, so that when they see something that they do not understand, they feel that it is probably their fault (or at least, that it is gauche) that they do not understand, and thus will not question the artist’s choice (and thus would not begin a dialogue that might just help clarify and thus elevate the artist’s own craft). (Not that I am on the “side” of the critics, generally speaking; if anything, you will find me on the side of the artist, most of the time, almost always; but this is a question, as said, of actually helping the artist develop and practice a coherent aesthetics – which is what, I guess, I am half-reproaching, or at least bringing up, when talking about this so-called self-indulgent moments, in the later works of people like Tarantino or Scorsese). But enough of this: I did not bring up these aspects because they would be crucially important aspects of the film – in fact, these are relatively minor, and clearly not decisive, details; I just enjoy such occasions of picking up on issues that can then lead to broader discussions about the condition and the craft of the artist; so this is what this was, a useful divagation – accompanied by a relatively small criticism.

But speaking of criticisms – another aspect that I did not fully understand, nor entirely appreciate – was the way in which scenes from movies and TV shows “of the 60s” (real or imagined) were (re)created and integrated in this movie. First of all, Tarantino used a variety of means for doing that – he either shot a whole scene (or set of scenes) for an imaginary 60s TV show, or he used CGI to replace the original actor with DiCaprio, within real footage from a real ‘60s film. However, the quality (or the style) of these efforts was uneven – compare the less-than-convincing footage with DiCaprio in The Great Escape, replacing Steve McQueen, with that of Leo in the FBI TV show (of course, this might be a conscious choice, as the first one was Dalton imagining himself playing the role in The Great Escape, while the second was a show in which Dalton “actually appeared”). But, more importantly, I would mention here the different “western TV show” scenes filmed by Tarantino, which did not come across as entirely veracious, for me, not because of anything having to do with the set design or other externalities (of course not), but mostly because the actors themselves did not behave (read: act) in that same mannered, formalized, even somehow uncanny way that was characteristic for the acting style of that age, in those movies and TV shows. My point here is not about “mistakes” or “faults” – but about questioning the reasoning behind these choices. In other words, if Tarantino wanted to actually recreate (“with his own hands”) mock-60s westerns – then do it all the way, paying attention to every little detail, and being faithful to a T! And, if you want to insert current actors into old footage – then do it in the same way, whether ultra-realistically, or with some inherent awkwardness – it does not matter, but let the efforts be coherent. Otherwise, I simply do not understand these variations in approach or quality – are they accidental, or are they intended – and, if so, why? I guess that the issue here is not about the actual choice – of doing it this way, or that way; but, again, of using a coherent and unified style and cinematic “language.”

But, although I seem to have spent long paragraphs on these “qualms” – these are, in fact, minor issues, which I see worthy of discussing only (or mostly) because they allow me to raise broader questions of aesthetics and style. Overall, these do not affect in a notable way the overwhelmingly positive qualities of this movie.

And now on to the next issue – let’s talk a bit about the acting in this movie. I must confess that I found Leo DiCaprio’s work in this movie quite excellent, as he created a character – and embodied a person – that was truly different: somewhat rough, and somewhat of a simpleton; anxious, but also arrogant; rich but afraid – it was all good. Margot Robbie as Sharon Tate was exquisitely delightful, as well – a masterclass in showing that you do not need to talk, in order to act – what you need to do is be; yes, most enjoyable. And this takes us to Brad Pitt – who has recently received several accolades (awards) for his work in this movie, but by whose performance I must confess that I was in no way impressed. Not that he did anything wrong – to the contrary, he carried the role very well, did a perfectly fine job; but, for me, nothing that he did was in any remarkable way different or “other” from previous Brad Pitt characters and personae. This is why I emphasized the fact that DiCaprio embodied a character who was markedly different – both from him, and from his previous roles (in my estimation). For me, DiCaprio was the stand-out – and Robbie – in a field of otherwise uniformly superior performances (including that of Brad Pitt). I just don’t see why all the accolades (unless they were conferred for his overall acting career – as it often happens). Finally, it was also good to see Al Pacino doing a very different character himself (a small-ish, but impactful and delightful part); and I also found the presence of, and the scenes with, “Bruce Lee” (played by Mike Moh), funny and refreshing.

Speaking of Bruce Lee, in the tagline to this discussion I mentioned that this film is “an ode to classic Hollywood;” yes, but in a broad sense – that includes movie-making, but also the TV shows of the 50s and the 60s; and the (then) newly-arrived Asian martial arts genre; and the fascinating world of Italian spaghetti westerns (and spaghetti movies in general). All these styles and “worlds” have been, of course, perennial points of reference and personal favorites of Tarantino himself… And this is how and why this film is quite the personal paean to movies – to cinema – to the medium and world of film, itself. An imaginary story about a medium that is, essentially, imagination made visible and real.

I also mentioned earlier that this movie has become one of my favorites – if not my absolute favorite – of Tarantino’s body of work. I am using the word ”favorite” consciously, because it implies a subjective relationship with the movie – which would be accurate, as I find myself “liking’ this movie, in the sense of a personal attraction and enjoyment which is not the same with the somewhat cooler (in both senses) and more intellectual enjoyment of (and admiration for) Pulp Fiction (or Reservoir Dogs). In other words, this movie appeals to my aesthetic and personal leanings, in ways in which the other two do not. And why is that? Well, perhaps because of the actual world it describes – of the classic America of the 60s and 70s; of sunny California – that is, Hollywood etc. It turns out that I might have if not similar, then at least parallel warm feelings towards these times and images (toward this Americana), as Tarantino has. So, the coupé driving down a Hollywood boulevard, on that street lined with classic American neon signs, under a blue or dusky, ink-colored California sky, with palm trees (which, if they’re not seen, are felt) – well, aesthetically and personally, I find all this very appealing.

(We do like movies because we do like to dream. There’s an inherent romanticism – lowercase – in the medium of cinema; even if it depicts the most terrible events.)

Overall, therefore, Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood was a most pleasant experience, and a movie that I thoroughly appreciated, on several levels.

***

Footnoted minutia: for some reason (but I wonder why?) this movie was banned in China (!). Well, discuss among yourselves.

The Disaster Artist (2017)

“Hollywood comes for Mr. Wiseau”

The Disaster Artist (synopsis; trailer; cast & crew; rated R) is the natural companion to the movie The Room; natural, because it is a movie about the making of The Room, and about the maker of that movie, the (by now legendary) Tommy Wiseau. Accordingly, I would also suggest that you read our companion discussion on The Room, as well, before – or after – perusing this one.

The movie The Disaster Artist is the brainchild of James Franco, who directed and also stars in it (as Tommy Wiseau); and it does fit his peculiar taste and sense of humor, as evidenced by other movies in which he took part – such as The Interview (a comedy about Kim Jong Un, directed by his friend, Seth Rogen, and which was the target of real-life attacks from the government of North Korea) or This Is the End (directed by Rogen, as well). In fact, Seth Rogen appears in The Disaster Artist, also – as does James Franco’s younger brother, Dave Franco. In short, The Disaster Artist can be considered as part of a “universe” (since the term has become so popular) of movies (comedies, mostly) which are made by and with – broadly – the same group of artists (although this movie, as mentioned, is specifically James Franco’s project).

As an actor, Franco does a very good job playing Tommy Wiseau; once you’ve seen The Room, you are struck by his uncanny recreation of the mannerisms (bodily, facial) and even (to a good degree) of the accent of Tommy Wiseau – and also, what is key, of the infinite awkwardness of Wiseau’s very existence (for a discussion of that see again our companion discussion on The Room). One also appreciates the care and meticulousness that went into recreating actual scenes from the movie The Room, itself (and it is a pity that not more of these scenes made in into the movie, but are only shown during the final credits).

All the other actors who, in The Disaster Artist, play the actors who were featured in the original The Room, deliver ok performances (the standard being not their acting, per se, but their capacity to recreate the other actors, from The Room). Dave Franco (James’ talented brother) also does a good job as Greg Sestero; not necessarily by producing a close imitation of Mr. Sestero (although enough of that is present), but by bringing forth quite a magnetic performance, which involves us and which holds our attention. And he needs to be able to keep our attention, because the entire story is told from the perspective of Greg Sestero (Wiseau’s friend and somewhat unwitting partner in crime), being based on Sestero’s book about his experience with making The Room.

The Disaster Artist is a comedy – and this is both good news (because both the story itself, and the movie, are actually entertaining – so it works as a comedy), but also not so good news; not so good, because at times Franco is looking for comedic “effects” (joke-like) – when, in fact, the comedic in this case does not lie in this or in that joke, but in the characters and in the human story itself. Because Wiseau himself, as a person, is a deeply comedic character (which the viewers of The Room understood instinctively, which is why they reacted so positively to it, and why it became the cult movie that it is), and so is his existence (with its essential awkwardness etc.). And the fact that he is a comedic character, as a person, does not mean that we are laughing at Wiseau, mockingly; no, there is a deep humanity in a deeply comedic character – because, from a certain perspective or angle, we are all quite hilarious, quite laughable (in an endearing way, if you will).

This endearing dimension, of the likable humanity of these characters, is also present in The Disaster Artist; even its title expresses that – because Wiseau is both an “artist” (in his own way) and a “disaster” (as an artist). And I think that people responded well to The Disaster Artist because it was made through such a prism of understanding and empathy toward the guy – toward Tommy Wiseau; of laughing, but also of finding genuine value in the idealism and determination with which Wiseau did follow (as few do) his dreams. There is in fact a speech, at the end of the movie, from “Greg”, in which he tells Wiseau this much: “You made a movie! Do you know how few people in the world can actually say that about themselves?” There is no need, therefore, to find “jokey” moments – just let the character and the story itself reveal and express their inherent, awkward, lovable comedic nature.

But there is a deeper “failing” to this movie, as well – although the quotation marks are there because this is not actually a failing, from the point of view of what Franco intended to achieve. From my point of view, however, there is one – namely, that The Disaster Artist looks, feels, and works (structure, beats, ending) too much like a typical “Hollywood movie”. Quite ironic, isn’t it – that Wiseau did his utmost to create “the typical Hollywood movie”, and yet made a “bad movie”, that nonetheless enchants through its genuineness and its inadvertent humor; while The Disaster Artist, which purports to tell the “real story” (“based on a true story”) of The Room and of Wiseau, ends up as an idealized, Hollywood- (or VH1’s “Behind the Music”-) style product. In other words, Wiseau tore himself apart (“Lisa!!!”) to “be” Hollywood – and most amusingly failed; and then, Hollywood came for him, and made him – into Hollywood.

Instead of this “Hollywood-style” approach I would have much preferred a more realistic, grounded, deeper one – truly telling (while also underlining the humorous in it) the story of Wiseau and of The Room. For example, at the beginning of The Disaster Artist, different actors and filmmakers are asked about The Room; and one of them (Adam Scott, I believe) says that he would have loved to have been on that set of The Room, just to partake in what must have been a uniquely strange and peculiar experience. Well, recreating that experience – in all its real-ness – would have been a great idea; and, trust me, it would also have had its inherent hilarity, due to the clash between its realness – and its inherent absurdity. Instead, The Disaster Artist comes across, at the end of the day, as a “commercial-artistic” product (very Hollywood-like!) – although one made with good intentions, genuine empathy, and evident talent.

This brings to mind, though, a broader question – whether Hollywood (by which I am referring to a specific “cinematographic culture”, that has its own codes and norms of storytelling and of character-building) actually knows how to tell reality, how to depict it, as it is (whether it knows, anymore; or did it ever?). And this question is not about “making movies about real events” – that, of course, has been done, is done, and will be done, in “Hollywood”. But even if we take these movies “about real events” – we see that they are still, in fact, not “real”; instead, the story is constrained into a certain narrative straitjacket (in terms of story trajectory and structure); and the characters, instead of being flesh-and-blood, real-life people, exist and act according to our pre-existing ideas about how such characters should act and behave, in some situations. It is all quite “schematic” – which is why most people raised on this manner of story-telling and character-modelling find it really hard to even begin to make sense of – well, more “natural” manners of storytelling and character-building. I am referring here – as counter-examples – to movies from other “cinematographic cultures” – such as, for example, Italian neo-realism (e.g. The Bycicle Thief); some of the Russian cinema (see Moscow Does not Believe in Tears, for example – flesh-and-blood characters, if there ever was one); or the movies of a Otar Iosseliani (where one encounters life, as it is “on the streets”) or of a Nuri Bilge Ceylan (an everydayness that is also deeply poetic).

What is, then, the major difference between these narrative and character-building styles – the Hollywood-style, vs. the “natural”-style? I think that the answer lies in the fact that most of what we are, of how we behave, of how we relate as human beings – most of our very existence – cannot in fact be expressed in words, conceptualized, schematized; and it is these unspeakable depths, this ineffable swoosh of existence, all around us, that goes missing, when narratives and characters are schematized, intellectualized, forced to fit certain mental models about how human beings should be and should behave. There is more to be said on this matter – including the fact that there is a specific value to the Hollywood narrative style (think of the fact that there is an inherent and very appealing simplicity of narrative and characters in fairytales, or in fables – no wonder Hollywood are so universally appealing) – but this is not perhaps the best place to do that; however, such a discussion is worth having, and will be had in the near future.

Returning to The Disaster Artist, we can conclude that James Franco has produced a “Hollywood version” of the Tommy Wiseau (and of The Room‘s) story; a version that is entertaining, made with heart, but also idealized and a bit formulaic. The movie is also well anchored by strong central performances – from James Franco (an exquisite re-creation of Tommy Wiseau) and Dave Franco (who is appealing and relatable as the lead – and main perspective-giver – of the movie).

At the end of the day, I would call The Disaster Artist (not in a negative sense, but more as a way of categorizing it) a “small” movie – in terms of its sweep and ultimate ambition; and I would also call it a very entertaining, delightful, and well-made movie – and thus the perfect companion piece to the cinematographic phenomenon that was The Room.

The Room (2003)

“Tommy Wiseau is a German engineer”

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The Room (synopsis; trailer; cast & crew, rating), written, directed, and starring Tommy Wiseau, is a very popular movie; it has become the standard, in a way, of what a “bad movie” – or, more precisely, of a “so bad that it’s good” movie. It has even been called the worst movie of all times. Is that accurate? Of course not. Out of the hundreds of thousands of films made in over a century of cinema, around the world, this movie is clearly not the worst. Let’s just take into consideration some of the more hilarious productions from the emerging Nollywood “film industry”, or the entertainingly bad action movies coming out nowadays from Uganda, Ghana etc (I mention these examples just because they have become more prominent in the US, recently). Every movie industry has its own lower rungs, and the lowest rungs of filmmaking are probably not even part of an “industry”; The Room, however, does not belong to that lowest rung.

One could even say that The Room is surprisingly solid from a technical point of view; just compare it with Birdemic, or with any of the Neil Breen movies. One of the reasons why this movie is competently made (from a sheer technical, albeit not artistic, point of view), is because it was crafted with the help of a professional crew, and by expending a very considerable amount of money. As described in the very entertaining movie The Disaster Artist, which documents the saga (see our companion discussion of that movie), Wiseau himself financed the movie, spending about 6 million dollars (!) on it. Well, the money he spent is visible in the decent quality of its technical execution. What, then, makes this movie so “bad”, yet also so “entertaining”?

Well, to a large degree, the answer lies with Tommy Wiseau himself, namely with him being both the creative mind behind the film (writer, director, producer), and its main protagonist (actor). Speaking of acting, one could say that the quality of the performances varies somewhat widely; there are quite a few fairly competent ones, including from Wiseau’s friend and project partner, Greg Sestero (“Mark” – nothing special, but competent); or, what I would consider the most grounded and constant performance, from Carolyn Minott (playing the mother in law, “Claudette”). There are however some noticeably poor performances, as well – really noticeable ones! – such as, for example, from the actress who plays the wife (Juliette Danielle as “Lisa”), or some of the famous scenes featuring Mike Holmes (“Mike”). But the standout (in a number of bad and strange ways) is the performance from Tommy Wiseau himself (who plays “Johnny” in the movie).

There is an ongoing mystery, that has never been solved definitively, regarding Wiseau’s ethnic origin (nationality of birth). At the end of the day, this doesn’t matter; in fact, this just adds to the mystique of the movie and of its creator. So why then the introductory statement, that “Tommy Wiseau is German”?

What sets Wiseau apart, as an actor in this movie, and even among the weaker performances, is the curious, awkward nature of his very presence within the movie. Throughout the film, there is a strange detachment exhibited by his character, in rapport with the situations in which he finds himself. Of course, he “acts”, and he “reacts”, very visibly, and sometimes loudly, as well. But, at the same time, we see and feel that the “person” (Wiseau’s personhood, in fact) remains curiously remote, and emotionally detached, in every situation; in other words, while Johnny acts, Wiseau remains uninvolved, absent even. And nothing shows this better than Wiseau’s eyes – whose expression is unchanging, inert, inscrutable, throughout the movie, and throughout the story. The eyes, this essential tool of an actor, the true window into the personality of the character, in this case reveal nothing, as if there is nobody there (or nobody there whom we could solidly grasp and see). Their expression is constant, opaque, even monotonous, while the rest of the face and of the body act and interacts in the scene… it is truly fascinating to watch.

Then, there is the awkwardness of Johnny’s reactions to the various situations, and of how he interacts with other characters – his reactions almost always managing to surprise us, which make him the most fascinating character (and actor) in the movie (!). Yes, he exhibits a strange sort of alienation (“alien” being the key word) from what would be the normal, human ways of interaction and behavior. Watching this is simultaneously mesmerizing (his performance grips and keeps your attention) as well as highly entertaining (because of the incongruity, absurdity that results).

The plot is fairly nonsensical, going this way and that, with dead-ends and unexplainable sideways; but, at the end of the day, the plot is irrelevant. It seems (like others have noted) that the script is essentially biographical, being a splattering unto the pages of a sum of Wiseau’s personal experiences and, even more dangerously, of “deep thoughts” – about life, relationships, the world – while the main character (played of course by Wiseau) is this unimpeachable “good guy”, self-sacrificing, driven only by good intentions… Oh, it’s true drivel, exhibiting all the worst things: it’s in bad taste, puerile, sentimental, self-involved… but it is also highly entertaining, for the exact same reasons. (In these aspects, the script resembles all of Neil Breen’s productions, which exhibit the same things, only increased thousandfold.)

A lot of the details noted above are also deftly touched upon (and explained, or contextualized) in The Disaster Artist, which is why I would recommend watching these two movies back to back, as a double feature – both are highly entertaining, and they complement each other perfectly. This is why The Room fits the “so bad that it is good” category so perfectly – although it is bad, it also really gets a hold of the viewer’s attention, and never lets go; the viewer is constantly fascinated, amused, and also incredulous, at what is going on. Overall, then, the movie is highly entertaining, and comes across as fresh – which is an epithet that few Hollywood movies actually deserve.

But the salient element in this whole affair is Tommy Wiseau himself, who remains an enigma – as an actor, as an auteur, as a person. Who is he? What does he want to say to us? How aware is he, actually, of the ridiculousness of all this? It is his remoteness, the unbridgeable distance that seems to separate us from Wiseau the actor / character / author / person, that made me state at the beginning that, even if one does not actually know for sure his national origin, “Tommy Wiseau is a German Engineer”.

Yes, because the aloofness, the lack of outward emotional expression, the seemingly unpassable distance to the core of the other person – is what one encounters, when meeting Germans – and engineers. They’re strange, those creatures; they relate awkwardly to life; they seem to have a strange misapprehension – or lack of understanding – about how normal, flesh-and-blood human beings act and live; they are strangely robotic… Of course, I mean all this … only half in jest.