Babel (Alejandro González Iñárritu, 2006)

I want to watch a movie about the calamity that befalls a Moroccan family when they acquire a rifle to shoot the jackals that prey on their herd of goats. Or a movie about a nanny for a well-to-do San Diego couple who unwisely decides to take her employers' small children with her when she goes to her son's wedding in Mexico. Or a movie about a deaf Japanese teenager who suffers from sexual confusion in the aftermath of her mother's suicide. But I don't want to watch them all at once, which is what Babel forces us to do. It's a terrifically ambitious film, with some stunning location work in four widespread countries, and it has some great performances, particularly by Oscar nominees Adriana Barraza as the nanny and Rinko Kikuchi as the teenager. It probably deserved the nominations for best picture and for González Iñárritu's direction, too. (It won for Gustavo Santaolalla's score.) But intercutting the three stories mentioned above and centering them on the plight of the San Diego couple (Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett) severely reduces their dramatic force and interest. Why, I wonder, were Pitt's and Blanchett's characters on a bus tour of Morocco with a bunch of rather unpleasant Brits? If, as the movie seems to suggest, it's to work on their relationship after their loss of a child to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, it's a very odd choice indeed. Their movie-star presence also skews the film away from the performances of the less well-known international stars. Structurally, the Japanese story seems poorly integrated: Its only link to the other stories is that the rifle that turns up in Morocco was originally owned by the Japanese girl's father. What struck me as strongest about the movie was its subtext: the bureaucratic paralysis of the American superpower in the wake of 9/11. Pitt and Blanchett are unable to get the help they need in Morocco because of the paranoia about Islamic terrorism that forces an unwanted and unnecessary caution on the U.S. State Department. American immigration policy also prevents a sensible resolution to the problem of the nanny and the children. Babel is certainly not without its rewards, but a scaling-back of its ambitions might have produced a better movie -- or maybe three or four of them.

Anatomy of a Murder (Otto Preminger, 1959)

Joseph N. Welch, Lee Remick, and George C. Scott in Anatomy of a Murder

Paul Biegler: James Stewart
Laura Manion: Lee Remick
Lt. Frederick Manion: Ben Gazzara
Parnell Emmett McCarthy: Arthur O'Connell
Maida Rutledge: Eve Arden
Mary Pilant: Kathryn Grant
Claude Dancer: George C. Scott
Judge Weaver: Joseph N. Welch

Director: Otto Preminger
Screenplay: Wendell Mayes
Based on a novel by John D. Voelker (as Robert Traver)
Cinematography: Sam Leavitt
Music: Duke Ellington

An exceptional film, far more deserving of the year's best picture Oscar than the bombastic Ben-Hur (William Wyler), Anatomy has a lot of great things going for it: the wonderful courtroom conflict between old Hollywood pro James Stewart and Method-trained newcomer George C. Scott; the tension and volatility of Ben Gazzara as the defendant; the presence of such scene-stealers as Arthur O'Connell and Eve Arden in the supporting cast, along with other character actor stalwarts like Murray Hamilton, John Qualen, Orson Bean, Howard McNear, and Jimmy Conlin. And even the "stunt casting" of non-actor Joseph N. Welch, famous for the integrity he showed in his confrontation with Senator Joseph McCarthy during the Army-McCarthy hearings five years earlier, pays off handsomely, with Welch bringing both gravitas and humor to his role as the trial judge. The soundtrack by Duke Ellington also adds a touch of greatness to the movie, which  David Thomson calls "magnificent." Where I think it falls short of magnificence is in the treatment of the rape victim played by Lee Remick. There is, of course, some ambiguity remaining in the film as to whether she was in fact raped, but the part as written by Wendell Mayes and the performance as directed by Preminger turns the presumed victim into an air-headed sex kitten. It's possible that Hollywood, so long precluded by the Production Code from even treating the subject of sexual assault, hadn't yet developed a grammar and vocabulary for dealing with the subject. Remick was a fine actress, and she does manage to show moments of vulnerability in her performance, but the general impression of the character given by the film verges on the despicable "she was asking for it." Preminger had been taunting the Code since The Moon Is Blue (1954) and The Man With the Golden Arm (1955), challenging the strictures on language (the words "virgin" and "seduce") in the former and drug use in the latter. Anatomy continued the assault on prudishness, though few who watch it today will be shocked by its rather clinical discussion of whether Laura Mannion was indeed raped, or be inclined to sniff daintily, as Time magazine did in its review, that the film "seems less concerned with murder than with anatomy."

Europa '51 (Roberto Rossellini, 1952)

The films Rossellini made during his affair with and marriage to Ingrid Bergman have an everlasting fascination for movie buffs intrigued by the clash of styles: Bergman's Hollywood-style star glamour and Rossellini's gritty, improvisational neo-realism. But they have few real enthusiasts except for hardcore critics inclined toward the auteur theory. For most movie-watchers they seem like failed experiments. Stromboli (1950) has some moments of cinematic excitement -- the volcano explosion, the tuna hunt -- that draw on Rossellini's skill at filming actuality, but the ending, Bergman's epiphany on the side of the volcano, comes out of nowhere and goes nowhere, narratively speaking. Both Journey to Italy (1954) and Fear (1954) end with reconciliations of the conflicted couples that are dramatically unearned. When it comes to dramatic structure, only Europa '51 seems relatively coherent, tracing the journey of Bergman from grief at the loss of her child to a kind of beatific transcendence. But even a sympathetic critic like James Harvey, in his fine discussion of the Bergman-Rossellini oeuvre in his book Watching Them Be, finds the screenplay "Like a play of ideas without the ideas." I don't think that's entirely fair: It seems to me that Europa '51 is crowded with ideas to the point that it becomes a movie about the failure of ideas -- or rather ideology. Nothing suffices to explain Bergman's drive toward saintly service -- she helps a poor family pay for the medical treatment of a child; she befriends a young woman (Giulietta Masina) to the point of filling in for her one day at the woman's job in a horrifying factory; she helps a young hoodlum elude the police; she nurses a dying prostitute -- all of which appalls her husband (Alexander Knox) and her wealthy family. Not religion, not politics, not even psychoanalysis serves to explain or justify her actions, at least in the eyes of the church, the state, and the medical establishment. Or, for that matter, in her own eyes. She doesn't know why she becomes a secular saint, and this of course means she winds up in a mental institution -- where she continues to radiate benevolence even toward the tormented inmates. David Thomson, one of the film's admirers, says, "It's a movie that resonates with the deep-seated urge for moral reform after the war." But ultimately it also seems to me to forecast the failure of any attempt at moral reform. It might be instructive to watch this movie in tandem with a slightly later examination of the moral malaise of postwar Europe, La Dolce Vita (Federico Fellini, 1960).

Saw (James Wan, 2004)

Ned Bellamy and Danny Glover in Saw

Adam Faulkner-Stanheight: Leigh Whannell
Dr. Lawrence Gordon: Cary Elwes
Det. David Tapp: Danny Glover
Det. Steven Sing: Ken Leung
Kerry: Dina Meyer
Paul: Mike Butters
Mark: Paul Gutrecht
Zep Hindle: Michael Emerson
Brett: Benito Martinez
Amanda: Shawnee Smith
Diana Gordon: Makenzie Vega
Alison Gordon: Monica Potter
Jeff: Ned Bellamy
Jigsaw: Tobin Bell

Director: James Wan
Screenplay: Leigh Whannell, James Wan
Cinematography: David A. Armstrong
Production design: Julie Berghoff
Film editing: Kevin Greutert
Music: Charlie Clouser

My daughter was shocked to see James Wan's Saw in the DVR queue, but hey, a movie-watcher can't just limit himself to Rossellini and Renoir. So when I saw this coming up on the schedule, I decided to record it. After all, it's a prime example of an independent filmmaker's breakthrough into success and of a trend in horror movies, spawning numerous sequels. So what if it does have a 48% rating on Rotten Tomatoes? There were actually some reputable critics like David Edelstein and Owen Gleiberman who reviewed it favorably. And anyway, film critics are typically hard on genre pictures. So maybe I'd like it. I'm not averse to horror: I watch Hannibal and Penny Dreadful on TV, and anyway, I know all that blood is corn syrup and food coloring. The truth is, however, that Saw is neither as good as I'd hoped nor as bad as I feared. The central plight -- two men trapped in a grungy bathroom, one tasked with killing the other in order to spare the lives of his wife and daughter -- is a compelling one, much better than those old teenagers-who-must-die-because-they-have-sex slasher movie plots. Gradually, with the help of good actors like Cary Elwes, Danny Glover, and Michael Emerson, the plot thickens. But then it goes haywire: Screenwriter Leigh Whannell (who plays one of the trapped men) and director Wan seem to think that if one plot twist is good, then half a dozen will be great. The result instead is incoherence, and the ending is such an obvious attempt to provide an opportunity for sequels that it feels like a cheat. It's also a measure of how far we've gone in 11 years, too, that the violence seems tamer than what's routinely presented on even commercial television, where the serial killer has become a weary character trope. The only characters for whom I felt much empathy were the bound-and-gagged wife and child played by Monica Potter and Makenzie Vega, clinging together in terror. I'm always uneasy when I see children performing in films that they should under no circumstances be allowed to watch. On the other hand, it seems to have done Vega, who made Saw when she was 10 years old, no great harm: She now has a recurring role on the TV series The Good Wife.

Elena et les hommes (Jean Renoir, 1956)

Like French Cancan (1954) and The Golden Coach (1952), this is one of Renoir's brightly Technicolored entertainments, with ravishing cinematography by his nephew, Claude Renoir, that recalls the rich colors of the paintings by Jean's father and Claude's grandfather, Pierre-Auguste Renoir. And like many of those paintings, the movie opens itself up to criticisms of possessing more style than substance. Elena et les hommes, which was originally released in the United States under the title Paris Does Strange Things, is a giddy, somewhat brainless romp whose chief claim to our attention is that it was the first film Ingrid Bergman made after her break from Roberto Rossellini. I watched it just after having seen three of those films -- Stromboli (1950), Voyage to Italy (1954), and Fear (1954) -- in which Bergman is put to extremes of emotional torment. Making Elena must have been an enormous relief for her, because it shows: She has never been more beautiful onscreen, wearing the opulent finery of 1880s Paris. She has also never been more lively or funny, throwing herself with complete abandon into the nonsense of the plot. It makes me regret that she did so few comedies: Only Indiscreet (Stanley Donen, 1958) and Cactus Flower (Gene Saks, 1969) gave her a real chance to lighten up the way Renoir's film does, although she showed her comic skills by parodying her more glum roles, especially the doughty missionary in The Inn of the Sixth Happiness (Mark Robson, 1958), in her Oscar-winning performance in Murder on the Orient Express (Sidney Lumet, 1974). It's too bad that her leading men in Elena aren't up to her standards: Jean Marais looks like he doesn't understand what's going on (which is understandable when so much is), while Mel Ferrer looks like he gets it but can't quite overcome the handicap of being Mel Ferrer when what is needed is a Cary Grant or a James Stewart to match Bergman's skills.

The Case for Chuck Hagel

Charlie Pierce makes it: 

Ever since that thoroughgoing, bean-counting, soulless bastard Robert McNamara was in charge of it, the Defense Department steadily has moved away from the notion that its primary constituency is the men and women in uniform. Certainly, to name one recent example, Donald Rumsfeld proved to be far more in love with his own brilliant theories on defense policies than he cared about the fact that we weren't sending enough poor sods in inadequate body-armor to carry them out. This is a problem that Chuck Hagel never will have.

Hagel is a grunt. He always has been. He always will be. He's one of the people who has to kick in the doors. He's one of the people who has to look gingerly around the corner. He's one of the people who had to live at war 24-7, and who walked through Indian country and nearly died there.

Read more: Chuck Hagel Defense Nomination - The Hagel Nomination - Esquire http://www.esquire.com/blogs/politics/chuck-hagel-defense-secretary-nomination-010713#ixzz2HM8eFuMf

Separated at Birth?

"To Be Publicly Mean and Stupid"

The reason I value Charlie Pierce's blog so much is the way he has of getting at the essence of things:

One of the last actions of the last useless majority of the House Of Representatives was to allow the Violence Against Women Act to wither and die ....  One of the first actions of the new useless majority of the House Of Representatives was to continue to fund legal actions in defense of the Defense Of Marriage Act. There is no reason to waste money on this kind of thing — The question of same-sex marriage is currently before the Supreme Court — except to be publicly mean and stupid.... This is the kind of thing to keep in mind whenever a member of the new useless majority goes on your electric teevee set to talk about The Deficit. They won't spend money to ease the lives of the old and the sick. But they'll spend it to be mean and stupid. The ignorance subsidy is untouchable.

I mean, has anyone since H.L. Mencken been so skilled at reducing a political stance to such a withering epigram? "They won't spend money to ease the lives of the old and sick. But they'll spend it to be mean and stupid."  

Confrontation

When I first saw this famous faceoff of the Thomases, More and Cromwell, in the Frick Museum, I was very much on More's side, probably because of A Man for All Seasons. But now, having read Hilary Mantel's two novels about Cromwell, I'm beginning to think he was the more agreeable of the two. Still, Holbein seems to have liked More better than Cromwell. In any case, are there two more revealing portraits than these? 

You Lie!

When it comes to language, I side with the descriptivists -- those who acknowledge that the English language is constantly in a process of change -- rather than with the prescriptivists -- those who believe that there are certain rules that must be followed even though hoi polloi have abandoned them. (Notice that I didn't say "the hoi polloi," which I have been taught is equivalent to saying "the the people." There are, after all, a few rules that I cling to, perhaps because knowing them gives me a slight ego boost. Like, I also know that "kudos" means "praise" and is therefore singular, and that there's no such thing as "a kudo." Except that the descriptivist in me recognizes that eventually there will be.)

Anyway, what I'm getting at is that word usage is a slippery thing, and that really it all comes down to what sort of audience you're addressing. For example, I fully accept the use of "hopefully" as a sentence modifier, as in "Hopefully, he will be here soon." But because I also know that there are a lot of people who insist that it's slovenly usage, I tend to avoid it, and write "We hope that ..." or "I hope that ..." instead.

I know, too, that the whole comprises the parts and the parts compose the whole, so I'll never write "John, Mary, and Edgardo comprise the rules committee" -- or worse, "The rules committee is comprised of John, Mary, and Edgardo" -- even though most people don't make the distinction.

I even avoid writing "He was disinterested in the conversation" when what is meant is that he was bored by or indifferent to it. I was taught that "disinterested" meant "impartial" or "unbiased," and not, as is probably meant here, "uninterested." (In fact, "disinterested" used to mean "uninterested," but then the prescriptivists got hold of it and decided the usage was improper.)

So I'm not such a stickler that when I run across a sentence modified by a "hopefully," or a composing "comprise," or a bored "disinterested," or even a "the hoi polloi" or a "kudo," I shudder and flinch. (Well, maybe inwardly, at least on the last one.) But there's one usage change that still grates: the disappearing intransitive "lie," as in, "I am going to lie down." Maybe it comes from having to chant in English class what used to be called the principal parts: "Lie, lay, lain, lying" and "Lay, laid, laid, laying." And from hearing the supercilious question, "Are you a chicken?" asked of anyone foolish enough to say, "I am going to lay down."  

The distinction between "lie" and "lay" is vanishing, and an intransitive "lay" is winning. I was reading a Lee Child Jack Reacher novel today, and read:

Reacher laid down again. 

And later,

Reacher laid back, stayed relaxed, stayed casual.

But oddly, quite a few pages later, a character says,

I've lain awake a hundred nights going over it.

"Lee Child" is actually a Brit named Jim Grant, so apparently the confusion over "lie" and "lay" isn't confined to this side of the Atlantic. And the confusion seems to be so great that the traditional intransitive "lain"  can coexist with the emerging intransitive "laid" within the same author's mind. (I once encountered an otherwise highly literate writer who was so confused on the "lie, lay" issue that he wrote, "I lied down for a nap.")

I wish the confusion didn't exist, and that we could just accept intransitive "lay, laid, laid, laying" at least on an equal footing with "lie, lay, lain, lying." On the other hand, the confusion once led to my employment, in the job that turned me from a failed academic to a moderately successful journalist. After not receiving tenure at the university where I was teaching, I applied to a local magazine for a copy-editing position. What got me the job was finding the sentence, "There is garbage laying in the alleys," and pointing out that it was incorrect. The sentence was in a column written by the magazine's publisher.