Books to Films: Drums Along the Mohawk, Making History Feel Real

Moving on from Arthur Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes...

This list examines movies based on books. The books are chosen from A-Z List 2. 

Drums Along the Mohawk by Walter Edmonds was a bestseller. Its movie was made three years later. 

The movie raises a great many book-to-movie issues that I will address in many of these posts: 

Is the movie as complex as the book?  

The movie here was criticized at its release for lacking the depth of the book. Generally this is an issue that I am willing to give a pass on, not because I think movies can't be deep but because I think they are deep in different ways from books. 

Should the movie focus on a few characters or take the epic approach?

Drums Along the Mohawk sticks to a limited perspective. Not only does it remain focused on Henry Fonda and Claudette Colbert's characters, it sticks to the homefront, what is happening to New York settlers in the Mohawk valley during the Revolutionary War. 

Is it accurate? is a problem that haunts all historical films. 

For this post, a separate related problem rears its head: 

Does it feel accurate? 

I confess, I approached the movie with a degree of skepticism. Colonial Revivalism (end of the nineteenth century) had produced a great many architecture changes as well as numerous dioramas at museums and theme parks using the Precious Moments Dolls' cutesiness version of history; that cutesiness was still going strong in 1939. 

The opening scene of Drums Along the Mohawk didn't help. Although it shows a wedding taking place accurately in a home rather than a church, Claudette Colbert's Vegas-meets-Civil-War wedding dress made me gasp.

However...other than the shiny wedding grown, the movie avoids cutesiness. Not only are some of the violent scenes surprisingly graphic, everything is kind of messy and dirty. Grime may not be the best indicator of authenticity but it helps (I feel the same way about classic police procedurals versus brand spanking new ones. I take Blue Bloods more seriously than the final years of Law & Order, precisely because Danny Reagan's desk is kind of a mess.) 

In addition to the mess, the dialog and interactions emphasize the impact of war on everyday life. My favorite scene is the preacher who uses the pulpit to denounce a specific neighbor's behavior, discuss a specific neighbor's medical condition, preach politics, and do the equivalent of a commercial. 

Between Henry Fonda and Claudette Colbert, I found Colbert's performance far more inviting. She delivers feminine toughness with body language and a low, husky voice. However, Fonda has an impressive scene where he delivers a nearly three to four minute monologue about what he saw during a battle. It is quite modern in tone yet at the same time captures the reality of the historical situation.

The movie feels like it is trying to pay tribute to the book and the time period it covers, a point that will come up again and again: Did the producers even read the book?! When they do--when they at least appear to care about what they read--I generally applaud their efforts, even when I don't entirely agree with their interpretations.

Books to Movies: Clancy & Crichton, How to Handle Technical Information

I primarily like Jurassic Park

for Neill and the gentle music.

From A-Z List 2, I chose Crichton and Clancy. 

I read Crichton's Jurassic Park and parts of Clancy's Hunt for Red October around the same time their movies came out. 

The problem: How does a scriptwriters translate highly technical material to the screen?

The Hunt for Red October is more technical than Jurassic Park. Jurassic Park, the book, does include more exposition on evolution and mathematics than in the movie. However, it is mostly an action book and was turned into a mostly action film.

Regarding the movie, the explanation for how the dinosaurs came about is cutely and effectively presented by the 1950s-style film during the "ride" (gotta keep things moving!). And the mathematician's explanation of chaos theory is surprisingly straightforward and effectively used throughout the film. That is, small events (such as the sign to the boat pointing in two different directions) lead to larger ones, the largest unforeseen consequence being the dinosaur eggs ("life finds a way"). 

Moreover, the movie makes clear that the grandfather, played by Richard Attenborough, is the quintessential arrogant Dr. Frankenstein, a man whose hubris--and rush to prove his vision--is largely responsible for most of the conflicts. The animals, dinosaurs, are simply obeying natural instincts (though I love how T-Rex is the hero in the end). The script pulls back from holding the grandfather fully responsible, likely to achieve a happy ending. 

The Hunt for Red October, which I discuss in more depth here, was popular before its movie, in part because of the highly technical approach. I knew at least one reader who told me the movie didn't live up to the book, precisely because it was turned into a purely action film--and because it didn't star Harrison Ford, as later Jack Ryan movies did. 

I think the movie does a remarkably good job but then I was far less invested in the technical aspect. But I think the scriptwriters took the right approach. Technical information is conveyed in scenes where Ryan collects information. And it remains fairly limited--not, How was the entire submarine constructed? But, What's up with these doors?

When faced with highly technical material that could derail a scene or character or entire movie, the most successful approach appears to be to either (1) present the "explanations" upfront, then just let them be, as in The Matrix (the first movie) or (2) stick to the main character's point of view, immediate problem, and immediate conflict. 

That is, the most successful approach is to stay focused! The viewer will tolerate a tremendous amount of blah-blah-blah (see Star Trek and every mystery show ever) if the characters don't swerve too far off-topic--if the blah-blah-blah doesn't become the center instead of the plot.

Reflections on the Nice Superhero and The Last Airbender, Part II

The question raised by The Last Airbender and other action/superhero films is--

If a superhero truly intends not to harm people, how responsible is the superhero for the consequences when the venial and evil people continue to live and carry out their venial and evil deeds? (The question, Does anyone truly believe that death won't result from the superhero's actions? is an important but separate question. Tony Stark and Hancock alone appear to address the issue of collateral damage.)

The issue of unintended consequences--or fully intended consequences--deserves to be answered in either direction. And it deserves to become a haunting question. Reece poses it in Person of Interest. Bren poses it in C.J. Cherryh's Foreigner series when he deliberately sends a human back into an imprisoning environment to avoid the man's appearance upsetting the planet's delicate diplomatic relations and potentially leading to all-out war. Bren fully accepts what he has done and its moral implications.

For that matter, Christianity rests on one answer to that question, followed by an eucastrophe, but its followers don't necessarily answer the question in the same way, and I'm not saying they should or shouldn't. 

The point is: the problem must be faced. 

I think a fair answer would be: My people do what they do, but I have absolute power, so I refrain as far as I can. (This is the answer Aang appears to settle on--though stripping another human being of that being's inherent nature presents its own moral quandary.) 

But the cost of refraining (therefore, some of my people must fight and die and/or suffer) still should be addressed/faced. 

There's a reason Dune has such a complicated anti-hero at its core--because Paul is trying to balance impossible forces without resorting to the use of absolute persuasion. And he knows there is no pure answer. 

In many ways, a superhero/deity who accepts the lack of a pure answer is preferable: mercy on a day-to-day basis rather than an increasingly narrow definition of "pure" (determining who deserves to live) until no one is left (see Ono Fuyumi's handling of legalism and current-day university culture regarding the problems of increasingly narrowed definitions). 

But even the fall-out of the merciful decision is part of the problem. Aang's previous Avatars advise him to act quickly and without compunction in part because they regret their failure to do so. But their individual perspectives are skewed due to their regret. In reality, they can't  know how things would have turned out otherwise any more than they can foretell the end result for Aang. Aang must eventually make the decision alone.

Difficult moral problem. Good stories when it is faced! 

 

Speaking of Zootopia--Mafia Moments

I'm reposting this earlier Votaries post because I have one to add. 

In the sitcom Barbara, a horse's pantomime head ends up in the bed of one of Barbara's friends. (It's a very British joke...of an American phenomenon.)

Just looking at the picture makes me laugh. 

Original Post

I'm not a fan of mafia-focused entertainment. I've never seen The Godfather movies and my desire to see the series lies somewhere between Go Bungee Jumping and Eat Snakes.

I suppose if I was trapped on an island . . .

What's amazing, however, is my utter familiarity with Godfather jokes from Zootopia's Mr. Big to Robin Hood: Men in Tights' Dom Deluise to Ballykissangel's horse saddle in the bed (rather than the head).

What's even more amazing is how hard I laugh at these jokes. Often, satire depends on a thorough appreciation and knowledge of the thing being satirized--like the "countdown" in Galaxy Quest or, also in Galaxy Quest, Sam Rockwell's marvelous riff about being the disposable guy (not to mention his fantastic reality check: "HEY! Don't open that! It's an alien planet! Is there air? You don't know!")

But I have no interest in mafia stories. I have less interest in The Godfather. And I only know about Al Capone from reading Bill Bryson's 1927.

And yet, I fall out of my chair laughing at Dom Deluise.

Is Marlon Brando truly that pervasive? Is our culture that inculculated with Godfather imagery?

Possibly.

Or is it that watching a man pull cotton balls out his mouth would be funny no matter what?

When Did Plinkett Become a Snob?

Plinkett reviews Titanic. He does a more than impressive job of explaining--in his crass, monotone way--why the movie is a better big picture/epic film than Lucas's Star Wars I, II, and III: Cameron knows how to put together an action flick! I came away from Plinkett's review with a slightly better appreciation for why the film did so well.

Plinkett then does an equally impressive job explaining why people like me hate the film: the dialog is wooden; the characters are simplistic (rich people=bad; poor people=good!).

He mostly ignores the extreme historical inaccuracies, like Murdoch shooting himself, concentrating instead on the accuracy of the ship and praising Cameron for at least bothering to work hard on the film and create actual models and special effects. However, at the very end, he inserts a 1-minute clip about what "really" happened on the Titanic, complete with a U.F.O. It is very funny and underscores his main point that the film is a love story, not a historical-action movie.

The only thing that bothered me about the review was the cliche-ending argument that people-liked-this-film-because-it-was-aimed-at-dumb-people.

Possibly the best movie ever made--

it was popular enough.

RedLetterMedia--well, Plinkett, really--has always struck me as something of a populist. He does such a stellar and hilarious job in the Star Wars reviews (and in various Star Trek reviews) explaining the attraction of popular culture. At the beginning of the Titanic review, he does a fairly decent job explaining the populist elements that make that movie attractive.

This explanation didn't need to be harped on--except he does. His reasoning is the same reasoning I get from people who think that I'm supposed to prefer Twin Peaks to, say, Columbo because Twin Peaks is "artsy" and "challenging" and "outside-the-box." It's very tiresome.

I prefer Columbo, and I have an IQ higher than 100.

Yes, Plinkett is right: many people don't go to movies to be intellectually challenged, but that isn't because--as Plinkett implies--they are mass-culture zombie drones who prefer shopping at Walmart and going to Applebees; they can't think for themselves. Enjoying Titanic, shopping at Walmart, and eating at Applebees may be the favorite choices of many people--that's okay! These people usually find enough challenges in their work or their schooling or their home lives. They don't expect their entertainment to satisfy them in the same way that entertainment-buffs do.

And I like this!

Like me (an entertainment-buff), they expect different experiences from different things. I kind of hate Titanic but I did see it about 5 times in the theater because I got fascinated by the (inaccurate) history (I'd sit on the edge of my seat, armed with my latest set of factoids, waiting for the ship and the iceberg to collide). When it comes to popular movies, I happen to like Tangled and Toy Story. I also like The Man Who Never Was. I also like Moonstruck. I also watch stuff by Hayao Miyazaki. And sometimes even European foreign films, like Bread & Tulips.

When I go to see the equivalent of Titanic, I may or may not like it, but I expect it to be what it is: a fun, populist story. Sure, I've avoided Avatar as much as a person can avoid a movie. But I know outside-the-box thinkers who loved it. And I really enjoy, and occasionally rewatch, Jurassic Park as well as the first Pirates of the Caribbean; I adore Jackson's Tolkien series.

I rewatch all seasons of the Golden

Girls once a year. Oh no! Another

popular thing I like--oh, the shame!

When I go to McDonalds, I want McDonalds, not steak sirloin. Cause steak sirloin would be weird. I like Hershey's chocolate bars despite knowing that by "real" chocolate standards, they are the essence of average.

By the way, I've eaten at Applebees. And Lobster Shack. And fancy hoity-toity restaurants. And Mom and Pop places. And Indian food at home. And I shop at Walmart. And local stores. And Bullmoose (dangerous place for the wallet).

Plinkett makes the same mistake at the end of the Titanic review as Cameron does with his Titanic characters: all people of a certain class/genre fit into one category, or people-who-like-this-average-movie=dumb=like-all-this-other-dumb-average-stuff-too-all-the-time.

Since it is Plinkett, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and suppose that maybe his anti-populist attitude was on purpose. But he doesn't undermine his snooty attitude with a joke (like usual). So I'm afraid he has revealed himself as more snob than populist.

Too bad.

Die Hard and Topsy-Turvy: Part III, Writing Character

Immediate friends--which is also believable

The third reason that Die Hard and Topsy-Turvy are such fine films is that both films present characters who never stray outside their parts.

A difficulty that all narrative writers encounter is needing a character to do something at a certain moment in the story. If the thing-that-needs-to-be-done is not within the character's character, the thing-that-needs-to-be-done will ring false. Speaking as an editor, this entails informing the writer, "The action seems a tad contrived." Speaking as a writer, this entails gnashing of teeth as one laboriously works backwards to alter the character to fit the requirements.

The best outcome is when character and thing-that-needs-to-be-done mesh so smoothly, they seem inevitable--and the writer can brag, "Oh, yes, I always intended that to work!"

Die Hard and Topsy-Turvy both have characters that act exactly as they have been created to act. So--*spoilers*--when Gruber doesn't immediately shoot McClane at the end of the first movie, the non-shooting is not only a useful plot point, it is also entirely within Gruber's character. His reason for pausing isn't simply because he wishes--as Booth would say--to deliver his "rambling psycho-speech." The man is arrogant, not stupid. Neither is he the sort of man to act without considering all possibilities. He is wary of McClane, unsure what he will do next: maybe the guy has rigged himself to explode: who knows?! He has every reason to be wary based on McClane's (characteristic) behavior throughout the film. The confrontation is utterly natural.

The remarkable Shirley Henderson

Topsy-Turvy likewise delivers honest portraits of Gilbert, Sullivan, and the Savoy performers. There are so many examples, I'm hard pressed to limit myself to one: Miss Sixpence Please's bewilderment compared to her companions' amusement; the performers' entirely nineteenth century attitudes about current events; Shirley Henderson's coy shamefacedness as Leonora Braham; the excellent Lesley Manville as Gilbert's supportive, unshakable yet still pained wife.

One of the finest examples supports Christopher Hibbert's analysis of Gilbert and Sullivan. He points out that although Gilbert was known as an in-one's-face director, Sullivan could be equally demanding: he just went about his demands differently. But both men were perfectionists and both pushed performers to meet their exacting criteria. Jim Broadbent and Allan Corduner capture the main characters' styles:  Gilbert's loud, boisterous, rude, occasionally kind, larger-than-life persona (Broadbent) alongside Sullivan's more refined, soft-spoken, yet sardonic professionalism (Corduner).

Nobody mugs at the camera--with the one exception of Jim Broadbent in one shot. And he's Jim Broadbent, so he's allowed.

The delightful Jim Broadbent

Die Hard and Topsy-Turvy: Part II

The first similarity between the two movies is that both stay focused on the core story.

The second similarity is that both movies are devoted to "show don't tell."

Die Hard obviously already has a leg up here, being an action movie. Action movies, by default, are reckoned to focus more on show than tell. Still, even in comparison to later Die Hards, the movie is commendably free of forcing ideas or character development onto the viewer. Alan Rickman's character is never diagnosed; he simply is. Likewise, while Powell eventually explains his demotion (why he is driving around in a squad car answering routine calls) to McClane, the character's essential personality is already well-established. Likewise, although McClane's wife knocking over his picture proves a lucky plot point, it is also entirely within character.

In addition, all the bad guys have distinct personalities without anyone ever pointing this out.

Likewise, Topsy-Turvy is entirely free of editorial comments. The underlying theme is that Sullivan without Gilbert (and Gilbert without Sullivan) were never as good as their supporters might have claimed. (The two men themselves were well-aware of their "joined at the hip" success.) In the movie--and on the CD--this is made apparent through the music. Nobody ever says, "Boy, Sullivan, your 'Broken Cord' sure is popular, but it in no way compares to any of The Mikado's music," mostly because, at the time, nobody believed this. "Broken Cord" was a hugely popular Victorian song--and one of Sullivan's sole efforts that made him immensely wealthy.

Leigh doesn't forget that Victorians loved "Broken Cord"--and he does it justice. However, on the CD, in what I can only assume was a fit of mischievousness, the lovely and well-sung "Broken Cord" comes directly before the The Mikado's boisterous finale. "Broken Cord" is soothing and sweet. "The Finale" takes the roof off the top of your head. What more needs to be said?

Two Scenes

In Die Hard, a great "show don't tell" scene occurs when the FBI helicopter gets blown up. "Well," says Powell's captain, "We're gonna need some more FBI guys, I guess."

At this point, the captain has demonstrated exasperation with Powell, who tells him off; exasperation with McClane, who tells him off. Yet all of his exasperation is in keeping with his fundamental personality of dry irritation. So he gets one of the most memorable lines in the film--because he is the character who would say it.

In Topsy-Turvy, one of my favorite "show don't tell" scenes occurs when Helen Lenoir (Carte's assistant) sits down with Gilbert and Sullivan to try to work out their differences. I love this scene for many reasons. One is that Helen Lenoir really did assist Carte to this extent--this is not Leigh imposing a feminist interpretation on to the past (he consistently avoids imposing modern attitudes onto the script). She and Carte would marry three years after the triumphant The Mikado, after which rather than retiring into Victorian wifeliness, she would continue to help run (and eventually run entirely) the D'Oyley Carte Opera Company.

In the scene, Gilbert and Sullivan are at odds; Gilbert is producing the same type of plot/lyrics as ever; Sullivan is sick of them and feels pressured by his friends to do something "serious." Both men are contracted to the D'Oyley Carte Opera Company to write more operas together. D'Oyley Carte, a smooth operator in his own right, has tried speaking to both of them, specifically Sullivan. Now he turns the matter over to Lenoir who takes his desk while Carte sits on a nearby couch. Both Gilbert and Sullivan are present. Lenoir speaks bluntly yet diplomatically to both of them. She lays out the problem. Nobody will give in:

Gilbert: Every theatrical performance is a contrivance by its very nature.
Sullivan: Yes, but this piece consists entirely of an artificial and implausible situation.
Gilbert: If you wish to write a Grand Opera about a prostitute, dying of consumption in a garret, I suggest you contact Mr. Ibsen in Oslo. I am sure he will be able to furnish you with something suitably dull.

Carter protests, upset at the "offense" to Lenoir (Gilbert mentioning prostitutes). Gilbert apologizes. Lenoir waves away the "offense" as immaterial. She's a businesswoman. She wants a resolution. There is no resolution. Everyone very politely bids each other adieu, Gilbert and Sullivan collecting their hats.

It is an amazing scene because it digs to the root of the two men's disagreement, yet remains absolutely civil. It is fierce conflict clothed in dialog, all of which is conveyed without misstep by the involved parties.

Show me, don't tell me--I can fill in the rest.

Die Hard and Topsy-Turvy: Part 1

If Die Hard is the best action movie ever (which it is), Topsy-Turvy is the best historical drama ever.

It may seem odd to compare such content-different movies, but they share three remarkable similarities (other than both being rated "R"):

1. Both movies focus on a single story.

Die Hard is about a guy who rescues a building from terrorist-like bank robbers. Topsy-Turvy is about two guys who put on a comic opera, specifically The Mikado.

Neither movie loses sight of its central concept and both are nearly seamless in delivering that main concept/idea despite other stuff impinging on the plot: husband and wife having marital troubles, artisans wanting more money per performance,  composer wishing to write a grand opera, fellow cop scarred by shooting an unarmed civilian.

Topsy-Turvy is especially impressive here. Topsy-Turvy is about as meta as a historical drama can get without breaking the fourth wall. It is a modern director telling the biography of a historical composer and librettist while having said historical personages put on a nineteenth-century version of a nineteenth-century-created comic opera using modern actors and actresses who are playing real personages as well as characters.

So Martin Savage is playing Grossmith playing an admiral, a sorcerer, and a Japanese executioner (amongst other roles).

On top of all the meta, Mike Leigh is also exploring Gilbert's and Sullivan's personal lives, the technological advances of the nineteenth century, class in the nineteenth century, the life of the actor/actress, how to rehearse lines, and the running of the Savoy Theatre.

Leigh directing actors whose characters are directed by

Jim Broadbent as Gilbert.

Movies that attempt to do story-in-a-wider-context often collapse under their own weight OR skimp on everything, producing a "huh" reaction from the viewer. Invictus, which I quite like, doesn't entirely succeed in conveying the life-of-Nelson-Mandela-through-the-eyes-of-rugby (but comes close and is fun to watch anyway). The Imitation Game partly succeeds at World War II-(or computers? or being gay?)-through-Turing's-experience but loses sight of its thesis (note the question marks) at about the 2/3rds mark (it is worth watching for the sake of Cumberbatch).

And yet Topsy-Turvy, like Die Hard, never loses sight of its objective. Topsy-Turvy goes every so slightly wobbly maybe twice but  its wobbliness is barely noticeable. Like in Die Hard, the ultimate point is never sacrificed to more alluring possibilities like scandal or domestic troubles or news reporting, however much those things touch on the plot. Getting The Mikado produced from the initial inspiration to the final achievement (or getting the hostages rescued and the bad guys stopped) is the point, and the point never faileth.

Narrative and the Problem of Hero-Worshipping

I recently watched The Missiles of October, a fictionalized docudrama that I've seen several times, and Thirteen Days, which I have now seen twice. Both tell the story of the Cuban Missile Crisis, mostly from the point of view of the Kennedy Administration.

Whatever one thinks of the Kennedys, and who doesn't, The Missiles of October is far better in terms of writing than Thirteen Days. This is disappointing since Thirteen Days makes interesting choices regarding point of view; however, it largely undermines itself by its hero-worshipping attitudes.

The Kennedys are the main protagonists of The Missiles of October. William Devane plays Jack while Martin Sheen plays Bobby. William Devane specifically creates a powerhouse role--the tough, stern, no-nonsense president who plays fair, looks at all the options, and makes the tough calls. I can't say whether that's what really happened. I can say that Devane sells the part.

The main protagonist of Thirteen Days is not the president but his special assistant Kenny O'Connell played by Kevin Costner. The movie is told almost entirely from his perspective, a fascinating idea and one that I am (generally speaking) quite partial to (I've always enjoyed Star Trek episodes that are told from a peon's perspective).

Unfortunately, although Costner sells his part as far as it goes, he presents O'Connell not as an objective outsider but as a worshipping member of a boy's club. The Kennedys are SOOOO cool and awesome and smart and, well, cool. He is SOOOO lucky to be part of their coterie. They are SOOOO amazing.

If this was done critically or, even, ironically, it would be sad yet interesting. Unfortunately, it is done with utter seriousness. As a viewer, I am supposed to believe--without question--that these guys (Jack and Bobby) were American saviors.

And maybe it would work--except the audience never sees what O'Connell supposedly sees! Since O'Connell is the hero of the movie, he has to do heroic things, which means he spends more time telling the Kennedy characters that they are awesome as well as shoring up their confidence than actually witnessing their awesomeness.

Steven Culp as Bobby Kennedy

The problem is not the actors. Bruce Greenwood plays Jack and Steven Culp, one of my all-time favorite actors, plays Bobby. To be frank, Devane and Sheen are better, but still, the problem is in the script, not the performances. By the end of the movie, if I didn't know better, I'd think Kenny O'Connell single-handedly prevented the Cuban Missile Crisis from escalating into World War III.

I think Kevin Costner, who was one of Thirteen Days' producers, found himself in a bind. He wanted the movie to be about his character; he wanted the movie to be about the Kennedys. And he might have been able to pull off both--if hero-worshipping had been excised from the picture. A narrative that tries to tell you how great characters are rather than showing you how they grow and struggle often ends up staggering under the weight of adulation--or lack of evidence.

Anti-War or Anti-People's Ideas About War? Reflections on The Dirty Dozen

Where two of the tallest men in Hollywood and Telly

Savalas walked towards a tank.

I recently watched Kelly's Heroes. It came with The Dirty Dozen, so I watched that too.

Kelly's Heroes is a heist romp with tanks (there are few things in life as satisfying as watching tanks roll over stuff).

The Dirty Dozen left me nonplussed. I'm still trying to figure out what I think. I completely disagree, however, with the reviews that claim it is an anti-war movie. Despite being the most intensely iconoclastic film on record, its message (if it has one) seems more Kipling-esque than anything.

Kipling believed that  (1) the British Empire was worth saving; (2) it would only be saved by mavericks like Stalky, not Eton-breed boys who dressed up in uniforms and ran war according to accepted "rules." He foresaw--and sadly endured--the utter destruction of World War I that was largely caused by the Eton-breed, boy mentality (for an excellent movie on the stupid yet practically inevitable series of events that preceded WWI, check out 37 Days). In Kim, he created the ultimate maverick--just civilized enough to be trustworthy yet not enough to undermine his usefulness.

Wladislaw (Charles Bronson) becomes Reisman's 

second in command. Here they are infiltrating

a Nazi-occupied chateau.

Hence The Dirty Dozen with John Cassavetes (Franko) as the Kim figure. The convicts with the most military training, such as Wladislaw (played flawlessly by Charles Bronson), are the most trustworthy. Except all the convicts consider the U.S. Army to be their enemy as much, if not more, than the Germans (in fact, the convicts show more empathy for the enemy in the end sequence than does Reisman, all of them balking slightly at their final orders). Yet they are absolutely loyal (except for Maggott) to each other and, in the end, to Reisman (or is he absolutely loyal to them?). They also quickly adjust to change; their killings (except for Maggott's) are specific, localized, and reluctant. Although they are temperamentally hostile and anti-authoritarian, the violence of their criminal acts is essentially unlike the violence of soldiering (not better or worse, simply unlike). Everybody's violence is unlike Maggott's, and Posey's violence belongs in a separate category altogether (Reisman intelligently places him on demolition duty rather than in the house).

There is no X marks the spot. Out of all the movies I've seen in the last two years, The Dirty Dozen reminded me most of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. As I mention in the linked post, The Rocky Horror Picture Show presents its alternative culture completely indifferent to whether its audience approves or not. The Dirty Dozen feels like that. If there is a theme (and there probably isn't) it would be, "This is what war is. What, you think it's pretty? You think people don't do stuff like this?" To say this is "anti-war" doesn't seem to capture the narrative's detachment that lasts right up to Wladislaw's final indifferent response to the generals.

With less detachment and more joie de vivre, Kelly's Heroes carries a not totally dissimilar attitude. The most remarkable thing to me about Kelly's Heroes is the honest (and true) appraisal that as a motivator, money is more moral than ideology.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles & Cognitive Dissonance

I recently watched the 2014 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie.

I enjoyed it.

And I have no idea why.

I'm a proponent of the idea that humans largely like things due to personal taste--then rationalize their likes (and dislikes) after the fact. An over-thinker like me can create a rationalization in no time flat.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles leaves me blank. I have wanted to write about the phenomenon on my blog for years now. I was waiting until I understood my interest. I still don't. So I'm writing about it anyway.

Why do I (and others) like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?

I was a teen when the Turtles hit the big time. I vaguely remember the animated series. I saw the completely ridiculous live-action 1990 movie more than once. I even had a favorite turtle (and still do): Leonardo.

But turtles? I mean TURTLES? I don't even like reptiles. (They're not exactly cuddly--and since Splinter would chew off someone's arm to save his sons, the rat is out too.)

Possibilities: Maybe it's an evolutionary psychology thing--I'm hearkening back to some atavistic memory of evolving from a fishy thing.

Or maybe it's the whole animals-talking attraction thing, but I'm not typically a fan of animal heroes (I never got into Brian Jacques' Redwall series, for example). In general, I prefer humans. (It would be interesting to have a movie where the turtles temporarily become human, just to see who would be cast as whom.)

Another possibility: in the 2014 movie, the turtles are HUGE, making them comparable to the Hulk, (except they talk more). And the Hulk is cool, so that could be one explanation. Yet I enjoyed the 2007 animated film where they are more svelte and lithe. So, now that explanation is out too.

If I had to explain all this to aliens--Humans enjoy this show because...

I would give up.

But I will continue to ponder--and maybe the answer will come to me. For now, this post will have to do.

Evil Computers: But They Don't Act That Way In Real Life

McClane and a lighter: how low-tech!

Eugene recently reflected on the overuse of the "mainframe plot" (networked computers about to take over the world). As part of my Christmas traditions, I recently rewatched Die Hard, the original, and was impressed all over again by how a non-computer plot can keep an audience on the edge of its seats.

This year, I managed to see Die Hard on the big screen for the first time (part of a cult classic series in a nearby movie theater). The theater was about 2/3rds full, which is impressive for a non-new release! The audience audibly gasped when McClane limped into the bathroom, his feet full of glass shards--even though we'd all seen the movie more than once and one guy even knew the name of the novel on which the movie was based (there was a trivia game beforehand).

In other words, it is McClane's physical and mental endurance plus Alan Rickman's urbane villainy that holds the movie together, not some amorphous, omniscient big bad.

Low-tech tension.

And I must say that Alan Rickman holds up impressively well. Bruce Willis does, of course, but that's because Bruce Willis has been acting John McClane for years. Unfortunately, villains from older movies often come across as hokey as the dialog references to VHS (that got people chuckling). Yet Alan Rickman is still as scary and suave and deadpan now as then.

While contemplating the impressiveness of Die Hard's non-computer plot and Eugene's post about the lack of plausible motivations (what could the computers possibly want?), I decided that part of the problem with "mainframe plots" is the "nothing ever ever glitches" syndrome.

For example, in response to Eugene's post, Dan comments on Live Free or Die Hard: "There is a state of emergency in DC and yet a large semi-truck housing the bad guys' command center is driving around unmolested (and again are not the roads congested?)." I view Live Free or Die Hard as pure fun fantasy (that plane!), but I think Dan has pinpointed a big problem with the mechanics of "mainframe plots."

It's a problem that also occurs in murder mysteries. In Dial M for Murder, the character, Mark Halliday, a mystery writer, restates the problem in writing terms:

Margot Mary Wendice: Do you really believe in the perfect murder?
Mark Halliday: Mmm, yes, absolutely. On paper, that is. And I think I could, uh, plan one better than most people; but I doubt if I could carry it out.
Tony Wendice: Oh? Why not?
Mark Halliday: Well, because in stories things usually turn out the way the author wants them to; and in real life they don't... always.
Tony Wendice: Hmm.
Mark Halliday: No, I'm afraid my murders would be something like my bridge: I'd make some stupid mistake and never realize it until I found everybody was looking at me.

I complain in my comment to Eugene's post about Bones, Season 8. In general, I think that season's episodes are well-written. However, I dislike Pelant, the season's villain (who luckily only shows up for 3 or 4 episodes) since he is "one of those 'bad for the sake of being bad' villains," more interested in getting attention than in his own self-interest. I consider this boring.

He is also a computer mastermind who uses the computer to do everything. I consider this implausible.

I don't mind when Root and Finch do fantastic things with computers in Person of Interest because the show is built on the premise that The Machine is (1) possible; (2) partially sentient. Of course the people who created and understand it would be masterminds!

I also don't mind because within the structure of the show (I finished Season 2, haven't yet started Season 3), the machine and its creator are still fallible.

What amazes me with Pelant is that he uses the computer to move people around, get people out of jail, get people moved into different facilities, get evidence planted, blah, blah, blah and nothing ever goes wrong with his plans.

Superman can type really fast; that doesn't mean that the computer can handle his speed. There's a great line in Stargate SG-1 where super-speed Carter
complains, "I’m writing a book on wormhole physics but this damn computer isn’t fast enough. When the buffers are full I have to wait for it to catch up!" In the video, she complains that she is stuck on a glacier with "Macgyver," and even he can't rescue them!

Pelant's masterminding also doesn't take into account that people do not always do what the computer says. 

Believe me--I can't tell you the number of times my students have failed a quiz, print or on-line, because they did not read the instructions.

At one point, Pelant creates a second identity for himself--voila, he is now an Egyptian citizen, and that government comes to get him out of U.S. jail.

But governments are slow. And bureaucrats play games. And higher-ups like to throw their weight around. Isn't it far more likely that the request to release Pelant would end up in a crazy, swampish quagmire of red tape as convoluted as this metaphor? Isn't it more likely that Bureaucrat 1 would decide to trade favors with Bureaucrat 2, and Pelant would languish in some extradition hole for months on end?

In the NCIS episode "Broken Bird," the Afghani ambassador feels compelled to take seriously the accusation against Ducky for war crimes. While sitting in the Afghani embassy, Ziva quietly points out to Gibbs that the man is in a difficult position. He doesn't want to be responsible for creating tension between the United States and Afghanistan, but he can't ignore the issue. He is waiting to make the call home, which gives Gibbs time to play a "I'll give you information for a favor" game with Trent.

All this is far, far, far more likely than that Cause A will automatically lead to Effect B.

"Did you know?" Finch to The Machine. He didn't check!

I haven't even addressed the following in detail: computers break; many computers--especially those in government (healthcare.gov, anyone?)--are slow, unwieldy, and stupidly programmed; nothing is instantaneous, not even Amazon's sales or PayPal (there is a process): stuff has to be downloaded; someone has to look at the stuff; someone has to print it out or forward it to the correct authorities. In addition, information on-line can be corrupted by viruses or the computer crashing; it can be hacked, which means the information is often double-checked against eyewitnesses and/or written information; information on-line can also be wrong because it was wrongly entered in the first place. AND, ultimately, people have to turn the machine on, i.e. check it, to get the information at all.

All the stuff that drives us responsible, everyday citizens crazy when dealing with, say, healthcare.gov is all the stuff that keeps even Finch grounded (and Finch's occasional inability to see the human side of a problem is part of his personality, charm, and inner conflict).

I'll take the clever but fallible villain/hero any day over the computer masterminds who never, never mess up.

Bring back Han Gruber!

Chicago in the Movies (and One Television Show)

Possibly the best proposal scene of all romantic comedies!

A surprising number of my favorite films take place in Chicago:

I recently rewatched While You Were Sleeping. It utilizes the same core concept as The Proposal, another Sandra Bullock film, which I watched for the first time on DVD this fall. The Proposal is a cute film; however, While You Were Sleeping is better, and I figured--after watching The Proposal--that I might as well go back to the source.

The similarity: in both cases, Sandra Bullock's character pretends to be engaged to a man whose family takes her into their hearts. The man, or his brother, subsequently realizes that she is the best thing that ever happened to him and proposes.

Sweet, cute, and with Bullock in the heroine's role, surprisingly believable (by romance movie standards). Bill Pullman is 10 years older than Bullock and Reynolds is 12 years younger but Bullock pulls off the role of vulnerable ingenue in both cases while the heroes convince us that they are utterly smitten (personally, I prefer Pullman, simply because I think Pullman as a romantic hero was totally underused in his youth).

Besides, with While You Were Sleeping, you get all those great Chicago landscapes and references!

The same is true in The Lakehouse, one of Keanu Reeves best romantic movies (in general, Reeves should stick to action). It helps that he is paired with his Speed partner, Bullock! The Lakehouse is a sweet romantic comedy, reminiscent in tone more of You've Got Mail than Sleepless in Seattle (I  greatly prefer the former to the latter).

Gerard and team members

The Fugitive is one of my favorite action films (not as great as Die Hard, of course, but pretty far up there). It was my introduction to Tommy Lee Jones, who steals the movie, not to mention to the city of Chicago! Although The Lakehouse uses the imagery of Chicago to bring the romantic leads together, any beautiful city would have done. The Fugitive relies on Chicago to supply the clues and solve the mystery:

Marshal Henry: I may be crazy but that train sounds like an el.
Cosmo Renfro: St Louis doesn't have an elevated train. Deputy Marshal Samuel Gerard: How do you know it's an elevated train?
Marshal Stevens: I think he's right. I lived under an el for 20 years.
Deputy Marshal Samuel Gerard: Then you can explain the difference in the sound of an elevated train as opposed to a train that's running along the ground. You must have ears like a eagle: play that back; I wanna hear the sound of an elevated train.

And for a Chicago-based television show, check out Due South. I own all seasons of Due South and adore them all (I also wish more 90's shows were as readily available). Paul Gross plays the Mountie straight man, Benton Fraser. David Marciano excels as his first partner, and Callum Keith Rennie shines as his second partner:

Fraser: I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father and, for reasons which don't need exploring at this juncture, I have remained, attached as liaison to the Canadian consulate. [Later, Fraser adds the line, "A story that takes exactly 2 hours to tell," referring to the pilot.]

Delightful show--with the perfect setting!

If I had to live away from the ocean, Chicago would be my go-to choice--even with all that snow!

Ah, look at the cute liddle cars . . .

To find Booth and Brennan's car, follow the arrow.

I don't consider myself to be much of a car person, but there are a few television and movie cars that amuse me to no end.

I thought of this recently after watching the Bones 3.5 episode "The Yanks in the U.S." The scene where an exasperated Booth drives a liddle tiny car the wrong way through a London intersection got me laughing. It's way up there with Chevy Chase (of whom I am otherwise not a fan) in European Vacation driving round and round and round the round-a-bout: "Look kids, there's Big Ben! Look kids, there's Big Ben!"

Columbo's car and Dog.

And then there's Columbo's car. In "Death Lends a Hand," Columbo (and his car) are stopped for a spot inspection. The scene has absolutely nothing to do with the plot. It is totally hilarious, especially since it is completely understated. Every time I watch the episode, I think, "Okay, I know what's coming next. The windshield wipers don't work. That just isn't that funny." And then Columbo sets the (partially broken) windshield wipers going, and I fall out of my chair laughing.

I'm also a big fan of the Bourne cars--mostly because I learned to drive in a standard, and I like watching Bourne prove his superior skills through downshifting. I always felt more in control in my standard cars although my automatic Toyota Yaris has a similar cozy feel.

However, the first action movie car chase scene that I remember liking (keeping in mind that I didn't see the semi explode in Terminator until 10+ years later) was the tank scene in Goldeneye. I realize Pierce Brosnan is not held up as a great Bond by Bond fans, but I thought the tank rolling over cars (completely altering the definition of "chase") to be totally hilarious--which it still is, even when JAG does it.

Sometimes It's Okay to Make Exceptions . . . Avengers, Stargate, and Person of Interest

To start with, three plot approaches that I deem completely stupid:

1. Death
2. It's just a dream.
3. The lady or the tiger

However, now and again, a writer/director/actor uses these approaches to good purpose.

*WARNING: Spoilers appear in each section below.*

DEATH

In general, I think death is the ultimate writing cop-out. It's High School Writing 101: I don't know how to end my story, so I'll kill someone! When in fact, it is far more difficult to "solve" the plot problem by keeping characters alive, kicking, and intrusive than by making them disappear.

It's also easy profundity. Kill off a character: get a pass for life. If anyone dares to criticize, well, that person is a pollyanna who can't accept harsh realities, blah, blah, blah.

Face it: lazy writers kill characters out of sheer laziness.

And yup, I am including Joss Whedon. In fact, I hold him more responsible than I do your average HS Freshman because (1) he should know better; (2) he's a good enough writer not to fall back on death as a solution.

The exception: Coulson's death in Avengers (which Whedon actually claims he didn't plan!).

I was a fan of Coulson from the beginning. I got such a kick out of that guy in Iron Man who kept bothering Pepper Potts. I liked his cool laid-back attitude and the easy way he marshaled reinforcements at the end of the movie.

So I was sad about his death in Avengers (I do realize that technically, he is still alive). But it was such a remarkable pay-off for a total bit part, a small character who grew throughout the films, got his own short, and then got us to giggle over his Captain America obsession. He may have been Avengers' red shirt, but for fans of the franchise, he was the one consistent character who could make us feel a need to avenge. He was beloved, so the death actually mattered--it wasn't just a throw-away.

IT'S JUST A DREAM

Nope, I'm not going to talk about Inception.

Usually, the "it was just a dream" approach makes nonsense of the viewer/reader's investment. Oooh, we got you to care, but guess again!

Exception: "Changeling," Stargate SG-1, Season 6. Teal'c dreams that he is a member of SG-1, then that he is a member of a firehouse. The viewer knows--or thinks she knows--that SG-1 is the reality even though Teal'c as a fireman makes a good deal more sense in the "oh, I don't have to suspend my beliefs or disbeliefs" sense.

Except it turns out that both are dreams. The reality is that Teal'c is dying as he shares his symbiote (or, in the fireman sequence, his kidney) with his mentor. The dreams are a coping mechanism.

What makes the dreams even cooler is that Daniel Jackson--as an ascended being--plays a role in helping Teal'c cope. The Stargate writers did an excellent job not closing themselves off to the possibility of Daniel's return. It is sometimes hard to remember which season he was technically not in--his name and guest appearances are used so effectively in Season 6, he is as omnipresent as a regular.

By showing up in the dream sequences, Daniel makes the dreams real; they may be Teal'c's imaginings, but they occur while Daniel is present--and although he is present as a "psychologist," his last line to Teal'c ("I haven't left your side") clarifies that he has been present the entire time as his ascended self. It makes the dreams much more than "oops, we never really meant that to happen" events. They matter.

THE LADY OR THE TIGER

The Lady or the Tiger refers to a short story by Frank Stockton. Like many people, I read it in high school.

I hated it! The story basically revolves around a choice: will the princess provide her ex-lover with a beautiful lady or condemn him to death by tiger?

At that precise point in my life, I decided that I would never, ever, ever end a story in such a way.

Since then, I've learned the wicked truth: as the writer, I know what my character chose, but that doesn't mean I have to tell the audience: hee, hee hee.

Still, I dislike open endings in general. "Oh, do your job and just tell us. Why leave us wondering?"

Exception: And then I saw the end of "Cura Te Ipsum," the fourth episode of Person of Interest, Season 1.

Here's the final exchange between Reese and a serial yuppie rapist:

Andrew Benton: Please, you y-y-you don't want to do something that you're going to regret.
John Reese: Which do you think I'll regret more - letting you live or letting you die? [Insistently] Andrew, help me make a good decision.

Actually, the entire dialog is well-worth reading as Benton and Reese discuss the possibility of change, the use of fear to control behavior, and the meaning of "good."

The episode ends on Reese's line. We are never told what he decided (I'm assuming; I haven't seen beyond Season 1 yet: the first disc of Season 2 will arrive from Netflix soon!). Reese leaves the viewer with a true philosophical problem, not some simple-minded "either/or" issue. What does one do with evil? What can be prevented or helped when an evil person (Benton isn't merely bad) is eliminated? On the other hand, what unintended consequences might be thrown into motion? What about the good guy? What might this action do to him? Reese has taken charge of Benton to protect the innocence of the good doctor who intended to kill him herself. Reese didn't want her to taint herself:

John Reese: I lost that part of myself a long time ago... not sure if I can find it... not sure it matters anymore. Maybe it's better this way, maybe it's up to me to do what the good people can't. Or maybe there are no good people, maybe there are only good decisions.

Not every rule may be made to be broken. But literary rules certainly can be. Stargate, Avengers, and Person of Interest broke the rules right. 

Thoughts on Fellowship of the Ring, Extended Version

The masterly Sean Bean quoting one of my

favorite lines: It is a strange fate that we should

suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing.

Such a little thing.

I have moved this review forward since I am FINALLY, after 5 years, going to be reviewing Return of the King, the Extended Version.

Following are my thoughts on Fellowship of the Ring, Extended Version:

1. Extended scenes--The extended scenes do add a lot. However, the one editing choice I have never understood--in both the theatrical and extended versions--involves Moria. There's an extra scene in there (that's not in the book) with a collapsing bridge. It goes on for about five minutes, and it is completely unnecessary. Jackson left it in the release-to-theater version and cut out almost all of the extra Lothlorien scenes.

I think this was a huge mistake. Most of the women I've talked to, both those who like Tolkien and those who got dragged to the theater, wish there had been more Lothlorien stuff in the release-to-theater version. It would have been very easy for Jackson to cut the completely unnecessary bridge scene and add a little more of Lothlorien.

Yes, I know the movie was probably aimed at young men, but studies show that most successful movies attract both sexes, and it would have been such an easy substitution to make.

2. Lighting--Jackson's lighting is the weirdest thing in the world. I actually like it; it has a staged/picture quality to it. But it is strange. One minute everything is dark with cool, glowing lights all over the place. The next minute everything is in full sunlight with everything glinting. The whole thing is like watching CSI episodes over and over and over. Cool. But startling.

3. Casting--I consider The Lord of the Rings movies the best cast trilogy of, oh, the last 100 years or so. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but there are few book-to-movie films I've seen that completely and totally and without misstep cast the characters exactly the way I picture them. Except for Elrond, and I like Hugo Weaving so much, I don't care.

Interesting note about Hugo Weaving. Pre-Jackson, Tolkien's elves are portrayed much the way the Vulcans used to be portrayed before Enterprise came along: good and pure and wise and wonderful. And then Hugo Weaving showed up, and suddenly the elves (like the Vulcans) got edgy and a little annoyed and somewhat sarcastic. Which is frankly more interesting.

The glasses were added by a blogger!

About the hobbits: I know people confuse Merry and Pippin. I never did although that could partly be because I ran across Dominic Monaghan before Fellowship came out (Hetty Wainthrop mysteries). He isn't portrayed exactly as Merry is in the book, but he is given enough lines to clarify that he is the more perceptive and mature of the Merry and Pippin duo.

Sean Astin and Elijah Wood are perfect. I happen to think Elijah Wood's range of emotion was greater than Jackson pulled out of him. By the end of the first film, Frodo has been reduced to (1) scared and (2) more scared. If you watch the beginning of Fellowship, Wood displayed a much broader range. Frankly, I don't think Frodo interested Jackson much OR Frodo represented a type to Jackson. He gave all the ambiguity to Aragorn and Boromir.

I quite like Viggo Mortenson as Aragorn. The book makes clear that Aragorn is supposed to be completely unattractive at first glance--a rangy Ranger with absolutely no appeal to civilized folk like Butterbur, the Prancing Pony owner. I think Viggo pulled this off. He isn't as fine an actor as either McClellan (hard competition) or Sean Bean, but like Keanu Reeves, he knows how to act physically (which is pretty important). The scene at the end of Fellowship where Mortensen walks down the hill towards the cast of thousand-De Mille crowd of orcs is very, very cool.

McClellan of course occupies his own class of perfection. And Sean Bean is so phenomenal that I hold him personally responsible for the cohesiveness of the latter half of the movie.

Which brings us to subplots.

5. Subplots--This is the third or fourth time I've seen the movie, the second time I've watched the extended version. The subplot with Aragorn is a lot clearer after that many viewings, but I don't think it was as clear as it could have been. The tension between him and Boromir, the (real) issue of Aragorn's allegiance, Boromir's (legitimate) concern for his people, and Aragorn's reluctance to test his rights to leadership are great themes and could have been emphasized. Not expanded because, okay, the movie is really long, but pointed to more clearly. There's lots and lots of implied dialog on these issues, delivered mostly by the masterly McClellan and Weaving, and the last scenes between Aragorn and Boromir are very effective, but the release-to-movie version really fell down here. (The extended version makes these themes much clearer. Even with the extended version, though, I think they could have been emphasized. I think Jackson, who I like, is rather like Shyamalan, who I also like: throw enough stuff at the screen, and you get a good movie. Which is sort of true. But sort of not.)

6. Speaking of the final scene--First of all, I never thought the Boromir being shot full of arrows scene funny. I can see why some people rolled their eyes, but I've got a C.S. Lewis-medieval knights-Beowulf fan inside me, and I've always thought it utterly chivalrous and honorable and gosh darn heroic! I also don't find it improbable. The human body can take an amazing amount of damage before it shuts down, as one realizes when one watches Civil War documentaries.

In fact, that whole last scene is one of my absolute favorite battle scenes in all the trilogy. It's exactly like a Civil War documentary, only with the added bonus of really old statues and much cooler armor.

And I love the chivalrous, heroic stuff. I don't think anyone but Sean Bean could have pulled off that last scene, but he is Sean Bean, and he did. His confession to Aragorn and his plea for his people, Aragorn's promise and his kiss on Boromir's forehead all hit a note of high medieval romance. It's better than King Arthur because stupid Launcelot isn't there to drip excuses all over the place.

Tangent-time: Questions have been posed (many by my brother) about why teenage girls get into stuff like yaoi and vampire gangs and such--that is, why do teenage girls and women like me get into male to male dedication/loyalty/devotion? And I think the reason is that these types of relationships don't imply subordination in the sense of weakness (Boromir is not weak for, finally, professing loyalty to Aragorn) and also because the relationship allows for objectivity. It isn't oh-now-I'm-in-love-I-must-immediately-lose-my-ability-to reason (and therefore get together with a guy who will beat me because I luuuuuv him so much). Both parties are allowed to retain their dignity. I think this is possible for female/male relationships, by the way, there just isn't a whole set of classical literature out there that deals with it. (Dorothy Sayers and Jane Austen all by themselves do not constitute a class; George Eliot wrote about the desire of women for this type of relationship, but she didn't actually try to create one on paper: Dorothea marries a gasbag and then a self-promoting politician--a nice self-promoting politician but still--)