Clowns in my coffee, clowns in my coffee

Kevin explains it's all part of a cosmic pattern and it is.

Jeff, Who Lives At Home (2012) is part of the subcategory of Shaggy Dog Stories in which everything takes place on one magical day after which Nothing Is The Same.  Such conceits carry a high component of whimsy (and as Groucho said when told he was full of whimsy, "Can you tell from over there?") but that is somewhat familiar country for the Duplass brothers, as is stories about battling brothers in different places in their lives and the struggle for meaning and purpose.

But Jeff pulls off a neat trick which I can only analogize to Hitchcock's feat of switching audience sympathy from Norma Crane to Norman Bates in Psycho.  As the film starts, one gets the impression of a nascent stoner comedy, with Jason Segal, as Jeff,  trotting out his pathetic man-child yet again.  But he is not so pathetic as he is poetic.  He is part of the half of the human race which thinks everything makes sense cosmically and in the long run and that everything eventually connects.  I just have to point out that this is a natural bias for an author, who has the power to make his or her universe do just that thing, connect, make sense and explain itself.  I would advise authors subject to that trap to spend some time doing group improvisation, let go of the need for control and see what it does for their writing.

In the book of interviews Hitchcock/Truffaut, Hitchcock discusses his troubles with the part of the audience he calls the "plausibles."  He dismisses criticism about coincidence, asserting that life is full of coincidences, but rejects convenience, by which the creator makes things too easy on himself and gets the snake to swallow its own tail.  I can't accuse the Duplass Brothers of making things easy for Jeff, but they do permit some self-satisfaction on the basis of a single selfless and, indeed, heroic act which does not do a thing to address the serious problems in Jeff's life, and which in fact, he seems to use to justify his continued aimless existence.  Nonetheless, warm fuzzies all around.

And speaking of coincidence, a man was fished out of his car the very day in the very city I saw this film.  As that provided no benefit to me, I guess Hitchcock was right.  Coincidental, but not convenient.

It is interesting to see the way artists like Les Freres Duplass can enter the mainstream partly because the type of actors they need to execute their ideas, actors like Jason Segal, Jonah Hill, Ed Helms and John C. Reilly are available and bankable (at least for Duplass-level budgets).  A nice case of artistic temperament meeting the zeitgeist.

Speaking of the zeitgeist, can we put to bed, the term "mumblecore."  All it means is a low-budget film which is dialogue based.  That defines at least 80% of low-budget films, because the cheapest thing in the world to shoot (and safest) is people talking to each other.  Untrained actors often don't have the most distinct diction, just like actual humans.  And maybe if film writers stop using the term mumblecore, the Duplasses will no longer feel obligated to fool around with the zoom on the camera constantly.  In at least one case in the film, the zoom felt like a "meta" comment on what was happening, like Jimmy Finlayson swinging his head around in a big vaudeville doubletake in a Laurel and Hardy movie.  This zooming doesn't make the film feel natural, it feels just the opposite, constantly saying to the viewer, "Don't get involved, don't get attached.  This is just a movie, it's all fake."

I direct plays with novice actors and I have to teach them that one of the most unnatural-feeling postures on stage, standing straight with your arms at your side looks the most natural on stage, far better than folding one's arms or clasping hands.  Try it.  Try standing with your arms hanging straight down and doing nothing.  Feels weird, right?  Doesn't look weird.  So in film, it seems artificial to take a camera, pick an angle and plonk the camera down on a tripod and leave it alone.  Almost theatrical, setting a frame around the actors and events.  But on screen, it looks natural, just as cutting between opposite angles looks natural.  Perhaps we've grown accustomed to these conventions, or they are inherently natural, but they pass by our eyes without objection or comment.  Shooting hand-held, whipping the camera around to catch the action and fiddling with the zoom and focus ARE natural, but LOOk unnatural.  So, Duplasses, your next movie, however low the budget, get a tripod.  People will start treating you like grown-ups.

Fathers and sons

One of the difficulties of being a young artist is that, while your technique is growing and developing rapidly, you are short on original subjects to address. Most young artists haven't lived long enough to have remarkable experiences or insight. This is probably one of the main reasons that early works are derivative, whether being pastiches of, mash-ups or commentary on the work of other artists. In a way, that's just what Citizen Kane is, a fantasia on the genre of newspaper movies and biopics with a flavoring of German expressionism and Gregg Toland Wizardry sprinkled on top. The only other route is to focus on one's own experience, circle of friends and family to an extent and with a level of detail far beyond what is commonly done -- to put life under a microscope to see what turns up.

The Duplass brothers have made a style out of no style, first making their mark with this short, reportedly made with materials and time left over from a larger project:

But of course, there is a style at work here. There is close observation of both the use of language and the obsession with presentation of self. These are both on display in the very warm and funny feature The Puffy Chair (2005). Ordinarily discussion of this film is framed by the so-called "mumblecore" movement, which seems to me no more than ultra lowbudget filmmaking, which, given the personnel, materials and equipment available without money, focuses on close personal and family relationships as revealed in naturalistic dialogue sequences. Really, this is no different than the original American independent film movement as pioneered by the Cassavetes generation. Mumblecore's status as a distinct genre is more a testament to film reviewer's ignorance of the history of the medium than to any real innovation.

But not being innovative does not negate the value of the work; rather it clears away the clutter of superficial considerations of style to the actual piece itself. The Puffy Chair discards the cliche jokes of "my-parent-as-controlling-monsters" or "my-parents-as-culturally-clueless-idiots" or "my-parents-as-deranged-narcissists" (so egregiously on display in the horrid Four Christmases). Josh really wants to get his father a nice present, and is willing to uproot his life, taking an ill-advised road trip to secure this gift. Moreover, the gift is not as advertised, and a great deal of effort and machinations will be necessary to realize Josh's dream of bliss for his pop. I'm not spoiling anything important to say that, happily, Josh comes to realize (via the agency of his dissolute brother Rhett) that this was all his own projection, and had nothing to do with really making his father happy.

The Duplasses and their friends are only adequate improvisers -- you will never get any of the brilliant mots of the typical Christopher Guest movie. Their real strength is as editors. Rarely is a scene stretched past its real value, and judging from the cut scenes on the DVD, they are ruthless about discarding material that does not land or does not contribute. One can't help wishing they would develop more craft in creating and performing material so that they would not have to go down so many blind alleys, but whatever the process, the result is balanced and well-judged. Their best effects are scenes played against people or things which do not change, despite the pleas and cajoling. The hysterical scene pictured above has Josh issuing ultimatums to an implacably closed door, without any evidence of a human behind it.

And The Puffy Chair should go down in film history for having the best, most logical, dramatically right, heartbreaking and perfectly played break-up scene ever. Instead of dramatics, screaming and psychobabble, there is the sincere mutual acknowledgment that these two people do not really share a future. And then there is a tearful embrace, a moment of mourning for a relationship that should have been, but which could not be brought back to life despite heroic measures. It is so beautiful and sweet, that you have to like both members of the now-sundered couple.

This scene comes shortly after a very simple and true father-and-son exchange about how one knows whether a woman is "the woman." (I must acknowledge that I have now been on both sides of that conversation, so it touches a tender place with me.) The cliche would have been to go on to a fumbling but sincere engagement scene. Instead, the film goes in the direct opposite direction and makes us love it, in a way that is original and satisfying.

And despite his denials, Bobby Dupea, as played by Jack Nicholson in Five Easy Pieces (1970) is also eager to please his father, but unwilling to alter his own path to do so. I don't like to make these blogs too personal, but this film came out when I was a teenager trying to understand adult culture, including books and films, and I was puzzled by the praise for what seemed to me a flat and meandering film, the most famous scene of which, the famous "chicken salad" scene, was completely irrelevant to the film.



For all the originality in conception, the film never establishes a point of view about its protagonist and his choices. It is hard enough for most of us to relate to a guy working an oil rig, and finding out that his family are all pretentious classical musicians doesn't bring him any closer to us. Bobby seems to have escaped from one distant planet to another, and if the alien question wants to be rude, sleep with his sister-in-law or throw a temper tantrum, who cares?

This film was the beginning of Jack Nicholson's Legend as a Great Actor. This has always been mysterious to me. He's occasionally amusing as an eccentric, and he can do regret as in the very fine film The Promise. But his range his narrow and his style is self-regarding and narcissistic. He is the Barbara Streisand of acting: Every Nicholson Performance is about Nicholson Performing. Fooey.

Long story short, the film isn't any more insightful or dramatic to me than it was in 1970. True, it earns some points for avoiding then-contemporary cliches in dramaturgy, borne of theatrical tradition. It boasts greater realism in acting, and a naturalistic shape to the scenes. (The final sequence, in which Bobby disappears into oblivion, feels particularly right.) But it still doesn't say very much about people who are so odd that it is impossible to either feel for them or connect them to our lives. Reviewers describe it as "moody" "thoughtful" and a "study in inner pain" or "fear of the past." So the film is a detailed study of something no well-adjusted person would care about. About as interesting as a highly detailed description of a turd. There are professionals who study such things, but the rest of us can skip it.

Mumblecore for kids?

Where The Wild Things Are (2009) offers a new approach to a problem that has been developing recently in large-scale studio films for kids. More and more films are being based on what essentially are picture books, with narratives that can be summarized--or even read in their entirety--in less than a minute. The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, The Cat In The Hat, The Polar Express, Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs, Jumanji are all examples of brief diversions meant to help pre-schoolers to fall asleep being expanded into full-scale works. There have been many explanations for this, but I believe that the reasons studios finance these movies is that these are the only books that film production executives have actually read. Or actually can read.

So what to do with 90 to 120 minutes to fill up and a one-minute story to fill it with? Some films, such as Cat In The Hat fill it up with production expense and annoying noise. Some tell their simple little story real-l-l-l-l s-s-s-l-l-o-o-o-o-w-w-w. Spike Jonze has come up with a new idea for Wild Things, a book that is only 10 sentences long. Make a mumblecore movie for kids. Mumblecore is the perfect genre for filmmakers with actors, a setting and no story. It was created by young filmmakers with little or no resources--a digital camera, friends for actors, their own apartments for sets, and little life experience to write about, except their own embarkation into the world of adult relationships. So it is dialogue-driven and relationship-oriented. And its worst, it is draggy, self-indulgent and pointless. At its best, it reaches a hyper- or even meta-realism about young adult life.

Surprisingly, this works really well for Wild Things. (The screenplay is co-written by novelist and memoirist, Dave Eggers, who is having a heck of a year, given that his first film, Away We Go was completely brilliant. ) The book told children, it's OK to be angry, it's OK to let the wild things out and let them romp awhile, as long as you learn to let them go back into hiding when it's time. The film expands on that idea. Max's Wild Things have gone out of control and he leaves his home completely to go live with them for a while. But the Wild Things don't know how to live with each other any better than the other people in Max's life. They have some wonderful simple joys--sleeping in a big, warm furry pile (yes, the pile is scary at first, but then it is OK, because you're with your friends). And there is a terrific dirt clod fight and a really cool fort with underground tunnels and a fantastic tower on top and you don't have to let in anybody you don't like--and this voice I am imitating in my primitive way is the voice of the film. The entire film lives inside the head of a kid the way none of the expensive entertainments by Disney or Pixar or their imitators could ever do.

The child entertainers want to make everything all right, to soothe us, to homogenize experience into the formulas of narrative we find so comforting. But even as kids we know life to be formless, erratic, ebbing and flowing without pattern or, it seems, reason. Friends are really close and then they hurt us or leave us and they come back and they want everything to be all right again and we don't ever get to understand it--we just learn to accept it. And all this is stuff is hard, but we gotta learn to do it. So this is not an easy film for kids. But they will get it. And judging from the kids all around us at a matinee show, they will enjoy it.

I confess, I may not be the best possible judge for this film. My son, who grew up entirely in the age of digital animation was not completely convinced by the eyes and lips of the characters, which were evidently digitally grafted onto the actors romping in big furry character suits. For my own part, I was delighted by the low-key, almost improvisational acting style adopted by the voices of the Wild Things, so far from the over-emphatic voice acting that plagues so much animation, as if children could not understand anything that wasn't shouted at them. This movie knows that if kids are good hearing anything, they're good at hearing the stuff that wasn't meant for them. Wild Things is meant for them...and it isn't.