On Superman Returns Vs. The Man Of Steel

Now for something completely irrelevant to anyone and anything. One of my best film teachers always said "No Disclaimers" before screening our work, but I'm disclaiming here: I found myself musing on the whole Superman reboot thing and starting writing this... and forgot about it for awhile, and then remembered it and so here it is. Enjoy! Ignore! Avoid the Green Lantern at all costs!

With the cast of  Zack Snyder's Superman reboot (now officially titled Man of Steel, and while we're on the subject, don't miss this highly entertaining account of Michael Shannon's casting as General Zod) officially in place, it's tempting to completely forget Bryan Singer's initial attempt at rebooting Superman for our generation. It's even more tempting to dismiss Singer's Superman Returns as a terrible film. I'm here to argue that, in the wake of the chilly reception of Snyder's Sucker Punch, we movie freaks might find ourselves wishing we'd stuck with Singer's vision. Let's explore why.

Bryan Singer is a great director. Let's just get that out of the way. His second feature The Usual Suspects, which launched the second major wave of Witty Crime Flicks (after Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction), won Kevin Spacey and screenwriter Christopher McQuarrie their first Oscars and became (and remains) the benchmark for modern-day, Rashomon-esque mysteries.

After following that film with his underrated Stephen King adaptation Apt Pupil, Singer invented the modern comic book tentpole movie (for better or mostly worse) with X-Men. That film, along with its even-better sequel, X-Men United, has directly influenced every major comic book film made since. If you doubt that (and if you're reading this at all, I'm guessing you probably won't), watch Christopher Nolan's Batman Begins and note the similarities: both took a grounded approach to the world of the comic book superhero. As Roger Ebert noted, Nolan's film is not realistic, but it thinks it is. So does Singer's X-Men, which parallels the prejudice and hostility those mutants face with primary villain Magento's experience during the Holocaust.

This is the major break with comic book movies of the past, the "gritty" approach.  Even after the wild success of Richard Donner's Superman: The Motion Picture in 1980, Hollywood remained skeptical about the future of comic book flicks. Studio executives - flighty by nature, since they know they're about to fired any day for helping run the company off a cliff - remained unwilling to delve into that strangely fascinating alternate reality comic books presented. This was a world of amazing powers and larger-than-life personalities, of storylines that wouldn't work nearly as well in a novel or short story... these are colorful, violent, wondrous Thrilling Wonder Tales, best suited for a visual medium. Is any wonder that they adapted Superman for television in the 1950's or first tried Batman for the screen in the 40's?

Zack Snyder and Christopher Nolan's involvement seem to promise a "grittier" Superman. I know the approach worked for Batman, but Superman has always been a much more colorful and upbeat hero, which the world of his comics generally reflects. Richard Donner's original film kept that color palette firmly in mind, and while Richard Lester's inane follow-up (let's just forget about Superman IV: The Quest For Peace, okay? I mean, watch it if you want, but even when I saw it at age 10, I though it sucked), over-played the candy-colored thing, Superman's universe should be a little bright and other-worldly.

Still, if Zack Snyder and Christopher Nolan have balls, they'll color Supes with the Americana shades of Frank Miller's The Dark Knight Returns, which has Superman ordered by the U.S. President to take out his pal Batman for good. Superman bows to the man, illuminating the blindly obedient dark side to a life committed to Truth, Justice and the American Way.

Further still, I may be completely wrong. After watching the Green Lantern flick with Ryan Reynolds (read my review on The Film Stage), I have to say maybe Nolan's approach to Superman will be the best way to do things, after all. Green Lantern was preposterous, (as is all comic book-related stories) and uneven, clearly fragmented from all the different script revisions this potential franchise was forced through.

The lesson of all this (for those of you still with me), is that these types of movies benefit from the focus of a singular vision. Christopher Nolan once said that as a director he's more of a human lens, focusing the hard work of hundreds of people into a unified whole (paraphrased). We can all argue that any fucking movie benefits from a unified vision, but Nolan's and Singer's films are successful because the studios footing the bill trusted the intelligence and confidence of these filmmakers and trusted their vision. Can Zack Snyder match that? Visually, he's got a dynamic style - but after seeing Sucker Punch, which is the first of his films he's written, I'll say he needs a goddam writer. Either way, I'll still see Man of Steel because the hope for a good, escapist popcorn flick is never a waste of time. I think.

Don't Go To Film School

Seriously. Don't bother. I'm so far in debt from student loans that it's ridiculous to even think about. I was 27, and literally doing nothing with my life. I'd spent my 20's in a drug-fueled personal odyssey of utter bullshit, thinking that by emulating my literary heroes (Kerouac, Ginsberg, Kesey, etc.), I'd have something to write about.

What I didn't understand is this: you cannot and should not try to live someone else's life. I tried that for too long and woke up one morning stinking of gasoline with the cops at my door. I was living in my grandmother's house, wasting my time with losers who I thought were my friends, got stinking drunk on Wild Turkey and set someone's car on fire. After two months in jail and then a year of doing odd jobs without any notion of what to do with myself, I signed a student loan deal and moved to LA.

I was from a small town and Los Angeles overwhelmed me. The school I chose was not UCLA or USC or even Loyola Marymount - it was a jack-of-all-trades school which offered no Master's degrees and has probably lost its accreditation.

I was desperate to get the fuck out of my town and I wanted to make movies somehow, so I jumped on the first wagon I could find. That was a mistake, and even if James Joyce did say "A man of genius makes no mistakes," it was still a fucking mistake because I'm no genius. If I was, I'd probably have stayed in my hometown and learned to make movies on my own and then moved to LA on my own terms.

I learned a lot in film school - the nuts and bolts of filmmaking, the basics on navigating the oceanic mass of Los Angeles - but my advice for anyone planning on taking out a massive debt for the rest of your lives based on a hope and dream: stop and think it through. Like I didn't.

There are a whole mess of books about filmmaking I wish I'd read before taking that leap. The best are IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE by Walter Murch, REBEL WITHOUT A CREW by Robert Rodriguez, and SHOT BY SHOT, by Steven D. Katz. Read these, my hypothetical neophyte filmmaker. Get your hands on any kind of camera and shoot something. Anything. Find something to edit on - most Macs come with iMovie and there are ways to get Final Cut Pro or Adobe Premiere that aren't strictly legal, but they work. Work on scoring your little film. Screen it somewhere, even if it's just your parents' living room. Get it seen. Get some feedback. Then do it again... and again and again... when you're ready, find some kind of on-set or in-office film job, learn the hands on mechanics of how it works. Keep making movies. Write a few scripts. THEN go to Los Angeles.

Learn from my bonehead mistakes. I moved back to Northern California with my tail between my legs, and now I regret it. I should've stayed. I'm going back, though. I'm 32 now and I'll have to start from scratch, but I've learned that wasting away in a cubicle is no way to live, not when what you really want to do is make movies.

I Met Tom Sizemore In An Elevator Once...

Want to hear the story? I thought so.

It was May of 2008, and I'd just gotten back together with my girlfriend (we're now married). She was living in big loft in the Easter Columbia building in downtown L.A. and I'd been living there too until we broke up for awhile... why did that happen? Let's save that epic melodrama for when we're in dire need of a telenovela plot to drown with beer and tears.

Anyway, the Eastern is a big, green, Thirties-era building. It's one of those gorgeous, old-L.A.-style joints right out of Chinatown. The lobby looks like it was designed by Salvador Dali if he'd been obsessed with Art Deco.

Anyway again. You need one of those magnetic key-fob things to get in and out of the building and access the elevator... I had forgotten mine... well, no, see I didn't have one anymore because my girlfriend (now my wife) hadn't given me my old one back because at the time her mom wouldn't give it to her.

So I asked the nice but intense lady behind the lobby counter to let me back upstairs. She knew I at least used to live there and since I never made any kind of fuss and was always polite (suspecting that she was some kind of Krav Maga expert or something since she was a little scarily calm), she agreed.

So I'm the elevator and about to hit the 10 button when someone calls, "Hey, wouldja hold that thing, man?" So I do so. Because that's the kind of person I am. I hold elevators for people. I don't just pretend I don't see them and ram the CLOSE DOOR button like many of the fucks who work in my building.

Anyway. A stocky white dude gets in (wearing a bright orange shirt underneath a cream sport coat - don't ask me why I remember this), joined by two sketchy-looking black dudes... I'd been in L.A. long enough by that point to know that these guy might as well have had the words COKE DEALER stamped on their skeevy leather jackets.

The stocky white dude turned out to be Tom Sizemore. He didn't have a fob on him either, so the lady at the reception desk had to let him up.

"You ain't got a fob fucking thing?" Tom Sizemore asked me.

"Well, my girl's mother owns the apartment and she's not too happy that I'm back in her life," I said, trying to sound too stupid or insane or nervous while images of Sizemore in Natural Born Killers ("MICKEY! I'M COMIN' TO GET YA!") or Heat (that scary look he gives that trucker dude in the diner near the beginning when they're planning on killing that long-hair psycho for fucking up the armored car heist), "So I don't have another one yet."

"She took you back, though, right?" Tom Sizemore said to me.

"Yeah. We're good now."

"Well," Tim Sizemore said, "I'm kinda in the same situation. I don't have one because my girl just let me back in, you know?" Then he grinned - that charming, half-mad grin of his and said, "Just be yourself."

Then it was the 8th floor, and they all got out. The black dudes were huddled in the corner of the elevator, perhaps hoping I wouldn't remember their faces. Not too long after that, Tom Sizemore was pinched for possession.

That was how I met Tom Sizemore.

Death Is Not The End

My mother's mother died this past weekend. She was seventy-something, a lifelong drinker, a horrible woman. I'm going to be a pallbearer at her funeral tomorrow, and I was asked if I wanted to say a few "not-mean" words at the church service.

Having already performed this duty at two different funerals, I declined. My brother will read some form of the pleasant eulogy I composed for the occasion:

Jean Moran, was not your typical grandmother. My childhood memories of her do not include home-made apple pies, a cozy kitchen, and treats. No, I grew up around my grandparents' hillside pool, spending holidays with my wide range of Moran cousins at the end of the exclusive cul-de-sac in Moraga. The journey there from my hometown of Rio Vista was always a strange trip for me growing up, a metaphoric and literal jaunt from my little river town to landscaped suburb beyond Lafayette.

Indirectly, Grandma Jean taught me how to be tough. How to survive, by any means necessary. She had an edge to her, and could be abrasive, but she was caring, overall. I'll miss her, but her last days were filled with pain, so I think she's finally at peace now. Would she want the rest of us to be at peace? You knew Jean, you tell me. All I can say is: I love you, Grandma, wherever you are.

Here's the optional content:

Jean Moran was widely despised and I'm sickened to remember that I am related to her. She boycotted my parents' wedding, made my mother's childhood a living hell, and reigned as the drunken matriarch to a spineless, equally drunken Irish fool. I am glad she's dead, and I'm not sorry that I never visited her. Good night, and good luck.

Does that seem cruel? I'm sure it does. I'm sure I don't care much, either way. I hate funerals and don't want one when I'm gone... even if I ultimately leave fonder memories that my grandmother did, there will undoubtedly be those out there who loathed me in life, hate the fact that I'm dead and they can't get to me, and I just don't want to subject my wife to those people. I'm fortunate in many ways, and I love my life and my wife, but I'm still angry.

The funeral will be a disgusting charade, with a parade of people looking morose and pretending that Jean Moran wasn't a hideous person, someone who oversaw her children's abuse at the hands of their father, who saw to it that only a handful of defiant relatives attended my mother and father's wedding (my mom was pregnant with me at the time, her parents didn't approve of my dad, who is a genuine and decent person, etc.), and who only accepted my mom back into her life after I was born. I'm the oldest of her grandkids, and I stopped talking to those people long ago. 

But I'm going. I'll pretend, like the rest of them. But I'm not saying a goddam thing.

Fierce Invalids Which Sound Poorly Adapted

So I'm blogging for The Film Stage when I come across this entry on the 2008 Black List - for those of you just in from distant lands (the second time today I've used that phrase, which I cribbed from William Goldman because it's funny), the Black List is a compilation of the best unproduced screenplays currently floating around Hollywood. This one made me want to scream:

FIERCE INVALIDS HOME FROM HOT CLIMATES by Eric Aronson
“Based on the novel by Tom Robbins. An irascible, world-weary CIA operative is duped by his boss into helping re-place a listening device back in Russian hands that is vital to spying on them.”

If you are a fan of Tom Robbins and that very fine, wild-ass book of his, I hope you're saying What The Fuck? right now. Come on, all together: WHAT THE FUCK?

I know, I know. I'm calm. It's just... the premise up there is not even remotely close to what the book is actually about. Like most Robbins novels, Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates (the title taken from an Arthur Rimbaud poem) is equal parts sprawling, funny, sexy and profound - and profoundly silly. Here's what the book is really about:

Plotwise, Switters is a CIA agent and bon vivant who finds himself in South America on a routine, tedious assignment. He ventures up the Amazon River and meets a tribal shaman with a pyramid-shaped head who gives him a hallucinatory elixir. The next morning, Switters is convinced that a group of cosmic overlords he saw in his revelries have exacted a price for all the truth poured into his noggin: his feet must never again touch the earth on pain of death.

He spends the rest of the book in a wheelchair, observing life from an inch and a half off the ground, which summarily astounds his grandmother, Maestra, as well as the sixteen-year-old stepsister he pines for, a middle-aged defrocked nun in the middle of an Arabia desert who he finds equally alluring, and his wingnut CIA pilot best friend.

That's just the "what happens" part of the story. Robbins has said that he writes another book when he feels it's been too long since he read a book that makes him think, make him laugh, and makes him horny. Switters is total contradiction, a man of action and former rugby star who is so squeamish about bodily functions that he imagines his digestive system as a kind of light-radiating crystal which magically transforms his food into a substance he doesn't like to think about. He wants to de-virginize his stepsister and then becomes fascinating by a fifty-year-old nun. He is as drawn to center stage as he is to the hermit's cave, and "the more advertising he sees, the less he wants to buy."

I know the nature of adaptation is change, and that you cannot and should not be literally faithful to the source material. But you should keep to the book's spirit. I admit I haven't read the script by Eric Aronson, so maybe he manages to pack in the novel's humor and Robbins's ever-present voice.

We'll see. The one other film adapted from a Robbins book is Gus Van Sant's Even Cowgirls Get The Blues, starring Uma Thurman as a free-spirit with enormous thumbs who decides she was born to be a hitchhiker and ends up on a lesbian commune. That film was a total failure... and the book wasn't that great, either. There are other, more cinema-friendly Robbins books that should be explored (like his great Jitterbug Perfume, which features the Great God Pan, a thousand-year old janitor, and history's greatest bottle of perfume) and while Fierce Invalids has the potential for a great movie, the plot described above probably does not.

Oh well. Why do I let these things bug me?

Win Win - A Dramatic Comedy That Floors You

Paul Giamatti and Alex Shaffer

A "dark comedy" is usually a tough sell with audiences, and typically manages to find a niche crowd at best. It's a shame, then, that writer/director Thomas McCarthy's new film is being marketed that way. Win Win is an acutely observed and flawlessly acted drama, with another terrific performance by Paul Giamatti as an ordinary man forced to make a series of difficult decisions to keep his family going. That the film is also seamlessly funny is a testament to director McCarthy's skill with his actors. (This from a guy best known to audiences as Dr. Bill, Ben Stiller's obnoxious brother-in-law from Meet The Parents.)

Giamatti is Mike Flaherty, an honest lawyer and high-school wrestling coach in small-town New Jersey about to lose his practice. When he realizes that he could make an extra $1500 a month by assuming guardianship of his elderly client Leo (Burt Young), Mike takes advantage of the man's beginning stages of dementia, places him in a home and collects the check.

He shares this plan with his best friend Terry (the scene-stealing Bobby Cannavale) but not with his wife Jackie (Amy Ryan). Mike's little arrangement is technically against Leo's will, since the old man just wants to go back home – Mike simply can't work, tend to his family and give Leo the proper care. So the old guy is cared for in the home, Mike keeps his head above water, with no one the wiser. Win-win, right?

Then, one day, Leo's 16-year-old grandson Kyle (the amazing Alex Shaffer) shows up, looking for the old man, who he's never met. Kyle's mother hasn't spoke to Leo in twenty years, and is in rehab in Ohio. Now Kyle wants to live with Leo, and Mike has to begin spinning a web of delicate lies to keep this arrangement going. He and Jackie take Kyle in. When the boy proves to be a gifted wrestler, Mike recruits him and his team starts to win. The talented new kid infuses Mike with new confidence and a sense of purpose. Everyone around him benefits, including Terry, who needs an outlet to keep from staking out his ex-wife's house and makes himself an assistant coach.

Talented or not, Kyle is troubled – and pretty heavily tattooed for a teenaged kid – but unlike other movie runaways, is respectful and gracious toward Jackie and Mike. He is straightforward and unpretentious, probably because he has no real influence, parental or otherwise. Kyle has to decide his own personality – luckily for everyone, he's a decent person. Everything starts looking up – and then Kyle's mother appears, with a lawyer in tow.

Win Win is a rare film, balancing an increasingly tense, complicated narrative with a comic buoyancy that never intrudes on the story. The recent Cedar Rapids tried for something close to this, but too often went for the gross-out. As Mike's scheme threatens to spiral out of his control, we empathize, partly because it's Giamatti, whose characters are so effortlessly lived in. Partly because – well, what would you do if it were your family and home on the line? McCarthy's film lets the other characters judge Mike, but allows us to see his situation as it is, as most of ours tend to be: complicated and beyond a simple right or wrong choice. McCarthy is also the director of the almost-universally acclaimed The Station Agent and The Visitor, both of which feature characters who act in refreshingly unexpected ways when faced with life's curveballs.

Any judgment of Mike from the audience is a reflection of how we judge ourselves when forced to make moral decisions like those in the film. The fate of the world may not hinge on the outcome, but the fate of our mortgage might. The central question of Win Win is worth asking, since the rest of us do anyway: can't we have it both ways? Usually not, but that doesn't stop us from trying.

Grade: A

That Mean Old Evil Train Took My One and Only Friend

Upon reading Roger Ebert's Great Movies essay for Jim Jarmusch's Mystery Train, I realized that the notion that all three of the stories - the Japanese couple obsessed with Elvis, the three hoods (with at least Joe Strummer clearly obsessed with Elvi), the weird Italian lady-con man tale with at least one of them obsessed with Elvis - occurring at exactly the same time never came up in my mind while watching it. I haven't seen it in a long time, but I recall thinking it was one of the better Jarmusch films.

See, as much as everyone seems to love Stranger Than Paradise, I can live without it. I do love Broken Flowers, though, and wasn't too crazy about Coffee and Cigarettes. Although I did love Dead Man and am fond of Down By Law.

So the point of this is: I'm soon going to watch Mystery Train again and try to rip off some of Jarmusch's story-telling techniques and apply them to a sci-fi spec script I need to re-write. It's called PATHS and the first couple of drafts shifted dramatically back and forth in the timeline, which left every reader who's tried it completely lost.

Good?

Good.