Sunday, April 21, 2013
'Die Hard' Replay
Today's episode of Sounds of Cinema was a replay of the Die Hard retrospective originally broadcast in February. You can find additional commentary on the Die Hard series here.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Why Roger Ebert Matters
Film critic Roger Ebert died on April 4, 2013 at age 70. He was the most visible, prolific, and influential film critic of the last thirty years and his work shaped the way the public thought about movies and the way aspiring critics wrote about film. A writer for the Chicago Sun-Times from 1967 up until his passing, Ebert was also the author of numerous books, contributed commentary tracks to DVDs of classic films like Citizen Kane and Casablanca, and maintained a very popular blog.
Ebert rose to national prominence through the television show Sneak Previews which began airing on public television in 1975. In 1982 the show moved to commercial syndication and was retitled At the Movies. The weekly program was co-hosted by fellow Chicago film critic Gene Siskel and the two men brought serious but fun discussion of the movies into the living rooms of millions and in the process coined the now iconic phrase "two thumbs up." After Siskel’s death in 1999 Ebert continued to host the show with Richard Roeper until the program ended in 2010.
Ebert’s combined impact across a variety of mediums was tremendous but the ultimate value of his life’s work was the way it encouraged listeners and readers to think about the movies. The Hollywood marketing machine would prefer if audiences don’t think and just obediently consume whatever product they thrust upon us. What film critics do, and Ebert was a leader in this regard, is to incite consciousness on the part of the viewer.
The attempt by critics to make viewers think about cinema is mostly carried out through the weekly grind of evaluating new releases. But Ebert went further. He and Gene Siskel used their television program to highlight trends in motion pictures that they found abominable, namely the slasher films of the 1980s and Hollywood’s attempts to market violence and warfare to children. They also highlighted filmmakers that they deemed important and dedicated entire episodes to discussing the work of directors like Stanley Kubrick and Quentin Tarantino. Ebert also took on the film industry itself, criticizing the MPAA’s rating system and critiquing the distribution strategies of Hollywood studios and national theater chains that virtually quarantined independent and art house cinema from most mainstream movie houses. And Ebert offered advice and criticism for his colleagues, writing rules of ethics for movie critics and questioning the usefulness of top ten lists.
One of Roger Ebert’s lesser known accomplishments was his efforts on behalf of independent and minority filmmakers. When Spike Lee’s feature Do the Right Thing was accused of potentially inciting racial violence, Ebert was one of the film’s most vocal defenders. He also was a staunch advocate of the documentary Hoop Dreams and took the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Science to task for failing to recognize it with an Oscar nomination. In the opinion of film critic Wesley Morris, “No major critic did more for black movies than he did.”
Ebert also provided a platform for independent filmmakers. Some of this occurred through his reviews in which he encouraged viewers and readers to go beyond the offerings at the local multiplex. But Ebert took the initiative and began a yearly film festival now known as Ebertfest, which provided a venue for audiences to screen cinematic gems of past and present that they might not otherwise have the opportunity to view.
Ebert was among the most successful film critics for a variety of reasons. First, he was a very good writer with a biting wit and a snappy prose style. Readers often delighted in his negative reviews, which could be very droll, but he was also very elegant about movies worthy of praise. Later in his life, Ebert proved to be equally graceful while writing about other topics from politics to his own health challenges, and in 2011 he published a memoir, Life Itself.
Ebert was also successful because he never condescended to the audience. Sometimes critics get too cerebral or their judgments take on a false pretension. Ebert would have none of this and he liked to quote film critic Robert Warshow: “A man goes to the movies. The critic must be honest enough to admit he is that man.” In other words, Ebert wrote about how he thought and felt about the cinema he watched and he did not contrive excuses for so-called low-brow movies that he enjoyed nor did he apologize for beloved movies that he did not like.
In addition to making him accessible, this approach also made him authentic. Readers never felt as though they were being strung along and Ebert was honest about his own reactions while also making allowances for other people’s tastes and accounting for the purpose of the movie. If he felt that a film was suitable for its intended audience, such as the fan base of a genre, he acknowledged that and reviewed the film relative to equivalent movies.
But maybe the most important reason why Roger Ebert was so respected and so influential was that he loved the movies and it showed in his work. Because he loved cinema and cared about it he demanded greatness. That enthusiasm was recognized by those who read his work and received his criticism.
Perhaps one of the most impressive testaments to Roger Ebert’s legacy occurred in the hours following the public announcement of his death. Tributes and eulogies popped up all over the web and news programs of all sorts set aside time to discuss his impact on the culture. Among those paying public tribute to Ebert were many great and varied directors including Martin Scorsese, Steven Spielberg, Christopher Nolan, Darren Aronofsky, Werner Herzog, Errol Morris, Michael Moore, Spike Lee, Kevin Smith, and Wes Craven. It is difficult to imagine any filmmaker, much less a film critic, receiving accolades from such a wide spectrum of directors.
In reflecting on Roger Ebert’s career I realize that I owe him quite a bit. Some of this is professional. As a writer I have a great deal of respect for his body of work and I looked to Ebert as a role model for what critics can and should do for their audiences.
But what I owe to Roger Ebert is also personal. Movies were always important to me. I think that for a certain segment of the population movies are one of the primary ways in which we learn about the world, both literally through documentaries and historical dramas, but also figuratively through stories and the unique aspects of cinematic art. I learned much of what I understand of politics and power through Planet of the Apes, about heroism from Star Wars, of the destructive power of greed from Scarface, about the dark side of the human heart in Apocalypse Now, of social and community responsibility in Jaws, and of the heartbreak of mortality and the redemptive power of art in The Fountain. Of course movies aren’t everything but they are something and for me they were as much a part of my understanding of reality as any other major influence in my life.
What Roger Ebert did was introduce me to the possibilities of thinking about the movies in a meaningful way. Because when I started to think about films in terms of their form and their meaning I suddenly had the basic tools to start thinking about how I thought about reality itself. For those of us who go through life largely understanding the world through the cinema—and with the proliferation of television and online videos that is nearly everyone in the developed world—this is a critical skill. As Ebert once said, “Film criticism is important because films are important.”
Many of the tributes to Roger Ebert have declared his passing the end of an era. In one sense that may be true, as film criticism has moved from newspapers like Ebert’s own Chicago Sun-Times and onto the web. But the era of film criticism to follow will owe a great deal to the legacy of Roger Ebert. The many online video review programs, whether they are hosted by professional critics or enthusiastic fans, are a direct descendent of Siskel and Ebert’s syndicated banter and the way in which films are reviewed in text and in spoken word will certainly aspire to the wit and insight that Ebert so exemplified.
The balcony may be closed but Ebert’s thumbprint will remain for years to come.
Ebert rose to national prominence through the television show Sneak Previews which began airing on public television in 1975. In 1982 the show moved to commercial syndication and was retitled At the Movies. The weekly program was co-hosted by fellow Chicago film critic Gene Siskel and the two men brought serious but fun discussion of the movies into the living rooms of millions and in the process coined the now iconic phrase "two thumbs up." After Siskel’s death in 1999 Ebert continued to host the show with Richard Roeper until the program ended in 2010.
Ebert’s combined impact across a variety of mediums was tremendous but the ultimate value of his life’s work was the way it encouraged listeners and readers to think about the movies. The Hollywood marketing machine would prefer if audiences don’t think and just obediently consume whatever product they thrust upon us. What film critics do, and Ebert was a leader in this regard, is to incite consciousness on the part of the viewer.
The attempt by critics to make viewers think about cinema is mostly carried out through the weekly grind of evaluating new releases. But Ebert went further. He and Gene Siskel used their television program to highlight trends in motion pictures that they found abominable, namely the slasher films of the 1980s and Hollywood’s attempts to market violence and warfare to children. They also highlighted filmmakers that they deemed important and dedicated entire episodes to discussing the work of directors like Stanley Kubrick and Quentin Tarantino. Ebert also took on the film industry itself, criticizing the MPAA’s rating system and critiquing the distribution strategies of Hollywood studios and national theater chains that virtually quarantined independent and art house cinema from most mainstream movie houses. And Ebert offered advice and criticism for his colleagues, writing rules of ethics for movie critics and questioning the usefulness of top ten lists.
One of Roger Ebert’s lesser known accomplishments was his efforts on behalf of independent and minority filmmakers. When Spike Lee’s feature Do the Right Thing was accused of potentially inciting racial violence, Ebert was one of the film’s most vocal defenders. He also was a staunch advocate of the documentary Hoop Dreams and took the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Science to task for failing to recognize it with an Oscar nomination. In the opinion of film critic Wesley Morris, “No major critic did more for black movies than he did.”
Ebert also provided a platform for independent filmmakers. Some of this occurred through his reviews in which he encouraged viewers and readers to go beyond the offerings at the local multiplex. But Ebert took the initiative and began a yearly film festival now known as Ebertfest, which provided a venue for audiences to screen cinematic gems of past and present that they might not otherwise have the opportunity to view.
Ebert was among the most successful film critics for a variety of reasons. First, he was a very good writer with a biting wit and a snappy prose style. Readers often delighted in his negative reviews, which could be very droll, but he was also very elegant about movies worthy of praise. Later in his life, Ebert proved to be equally graceful while writing about other topics from politics to his own health challenges, and in 2011 he published a memoir, Life Itself.
Ebert was also successful because he never condescended to the audience. Sometimes critics get too cerebral or their judgments take on a false pretension. Ebert would have none of this and he liked to quote film critic Robert Warshow: “A man goes to the movies. The critic must be honest enough to admit he is that man.” In other words, Ebert wrote about how he thought and felt about the cinema he watched and he did not contrive excuses for so-called low-brow movies that he enjoyed nor did he apologize for beloved movies that he did not like.
In addition to making him accessible, this approach also made him authentic. Readers never felt as though they were being strung along and Ebert was honest about his own reactions while also making allowances for other people’s tastes and accounting for the purpose of the movie. If he felt that a film was suitable for its intended audience, such as the fan base of a genre, he acknowledged that and reviewed the film relative to equivalent movies.
But maybe the most important reason why Roger Ebert was so respected and so influential was that he loved the movies and it showed in his work. Because he loved cinema and cared about it he demanded greatness. That enthusiasm was recognized by those who read his work and received his criticism.
Perhaps one of the most impressive testaments to Roger Ebert’s legacy occurred in the hours following the public announcement of his death. Tributes and eulogies popped up all over the web and news programs of all sorts set aside time to discuss his impact on the culture. Among those paying public tribute to Ebert were many great and varied directors including Martin Scorsese, Steven Spielberg, Christopher Nolan, Darren Aronofsky, Werner Herzog, Errol Morris, Michael Moore, Spike Lee, Kevin Smith, and Wes Craven. It is difficult to imagine any filmmaker, much less a film critic, receiving accolades from such a wide spectrum of directors.
In reflecting on Roger Ebert’s career I realize that I owe him quite a bit. Some of this is professional. As a writer I have a great deal of respect for his body of work and I looked to Ebert as a role model for what critics can and should do for their audiences.
But what I owe to Roger Ebert is also personal. Movies were always important to me. I think that for a certain segment of the population movies are one of the primary ways in which we learn about the world, both literally through documentaries and historical dramas, but also figuratively through stories and the unique aspects of cinematic art. I learned much of what I understand of politics and power through Planet of the Apes, about heroism from Star Wars, of the destructive power of greed from Scarface, about the dark side of the human heart in Apocalypse Now, of social and community responsibility in Jaws, and of the heartbreak of mortality and the redemptive power of art in The Fountain. Of course movies aren’t everything but they are something and for me they were as much a part of my understanding of reality as any other major influence in my life.
What Roger Ebert did was introduce me to the possibilities of thinking about the movies in a meaningful way. Because when I started to think about films in terms of their form and their meaning I suddenly had the basic tools to start thinking about how I thought about reality itself. For those of us who go through life largely understanding the world through the cinema—and with the proliferation of television and online videos that is nearly everyone in the developed world—this is a critical skill. As Ebert once said, “Film criticism is important because films are important.”
Many of the tributes to Roger Ebert have declared his passing the end of an era. In one sense that may be true, as film criticism has moved from newspapers like Ebert’s own Chicago Sun-Times and onto the web. But the era of film criticism to follow will owe a great deal to the legacy of Roger Ebert. The many online video review programs, whether they are hosted by professional critics or enthusiastic fans, are a direct descendent of Siskel and Ebert’s syndicated banter and the way in which films are reviewed in text and in spoken word will certainly aspire to the wit and insight that Ebert so exemplified.
The balcony may be closed but Ebert’s thumbprint will remain for years to come.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Dueling Chainsaws
Evil Dead is the newest remake of a horror classic from the 1980s. The original film, directed by Sam Raimi, was a particularly nasty piece of work. The story concerns a group of young adults who gather in an isolated cabin for a weekend getaway and are attacked by demonic forces. The 1983 picture was renowned for its intensity and gore and the film features a lot of mutilation and bloodletting. But despite the violence, The Evil Dead is also a lot of fun; the moviemakers possessed a sense of humor and their film has a mischievous way about it.
The new version, directed by Fede Alvarez, is not exactly a carbon copy of the original film but it retains the tone and basic premise of Raimi’s picture. A new slate of characters face the same situation in an equivalent setting and (occasionally familiar) carnage ensues. The 2013 version retains the gore and recalls many of The Evil Dead’s signature visuals while expanding the narrative and using modern technology (via a considerably bigger budget) to update the presentation to suit the expectations of a contemporary audience.
As with many remakes, Evil Dead was met with skepticism and downright hostility from its fan base. This is understandable. The horror audience has seen many of their most beloved titles abused in half-assed productions like 2003’s The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, 2006’s The Omen, 2008’s Prom Night, and 2010’s A Nightmare on Elm Street. Part of the problem is that many of these films were snared by one of two traps: either the filmmakers deferred to the original picture and created a movie with all the artistic merit of a paint-by-numbers worksheet (see: Psycho) or they strayed too far and lost the essence of what made the original film special (see: The Haunting).
In his review of the new version, David Edelstein dismissed the remake as a mere cash grab. He writes:
There is a charm about low budget and independent moviemaking that glossy Hollywood productions cannot replicate. This is especially true when the story of the production becomes as familiar as the movie itself. Knowing how much time and effort was spent making a film can impact the way we see it and the stories shared on commentary tracks, interviews, documentaries, and convention appearances become fused with the picture. Unfortunately, that does not necessarily make for good film criticism. A lot of people work really hard on every movie, including every horrible piece of shit you’ve ever seen. (I’m sure a lot of people worked really hard on The Host.) Knowing the behind-the- scenes story can elicit admiration or sympathy but it isn’t the job of film critics to show mercy. As critic Sam Adams recently tweeted, “It's not that critics don't know how hard it is to make movies. It's that we have a responsibility not to care.”
Singer’s defense of the new Evil Dead is problematic because it ignores the role of authorship. If a writer transcribed The Great Gatsby word-for-word and then claimed it was his or her own take on the story most readers and literary critics would cry bullshit and rightfully so. That isn’t exactly what Alvarez has done with Evil Dead but it is close. One of the reasons why The Evil Dead stuck out in 1983 was its novelty. There was nothing else like it in the horror film marketplace at that time. That isn’t the case in 2013. Everything about the remake is about replicating the original film and creating a new version of it. Rather than challenging the audience or the medium, the remake of The Evil Dead is intended to recreate, mass produce, and commoditize the original picture. In other words, The Evil Dead 1983 is a piece of art but Evil Dead 2013 is an industrial product.
There is an argument to make that is that none of this really matters or at least does not matter as much as some fans and critics would have us believe. Artists rip off or retell their stories and the stories of others all the time. Books like Beau Geste, Dracula, and The Wizard of Oz were adapted into films multiple times and popular songs like “Yesterday” are constantly rerecorded by new artists. The relationship between the original version and the new version (especially when they are in the same medium) may be a relevant part of our evaluation (we don’t want to condone plagiarism, after all) but film criticism isn’t determined on a single-issue. If a movie—original, adaptation, or remake—is technically accomplished and is an interesting and entertaining piece of cinema—and the new Evil Dead is that—then at the very least the filmmakers have succeed in film making. When we purchase a movie ticket and settle into our theater seats that may be all that really matters anyway.
The new version, directed by Fede Alvarez, is not exactly a carbon copy of the original film but it retains the tone and basic premise of Raimi’s picture. A new slate of characters face the same situation in an equivalent setting and (occasionally familiar) carnage ensues. The 2013 version retains the gore and recalls many of The Evil Dead’s signature visuals while expanding the narrative and using modern technology (via a considerably bigger budget) to update the presentation to suit the expectations of a contemporary audience.
As with many remakes, Evil Dead was met with skepticism and downright hostility from its fan base. This is understandable. The horror audience has seen many of their most beloved titles abused in half-assed productions like 2003’s The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, 2006’s The Omen, 2008’s Prom Night, and 2010’s A Nightmare on Elm Street. Part of the problem is that many of these films were snared by one of two traps: either the filmmakers deferred to the original picture and created a movie with all the artistic merit of a paint-by-numbers worksheet (see: Psycho) or they strayed too far and lost the essence of what made the original film special (see: The Haunting).
In his review of the new version, David Edelstein dismissed the remake as a mere cash grab. He writes:
“The magic of Sam Raimi’s The Evil Dead had everything to do with its time, place, and resources. It was the ne plus ultra of the late-seventies/early-eighties splatter films — only handmade, kicky, exuberant where others of its ilk were plodding. Its technique wasn’t secondary — it was the whole shebang. . . . But the passing of the torch from Raimi to Alvarez is not a momentous occasion. In the end, who really cares? Five years from now, will you want to watch this bloody $14 million extravaganza or Raimi’s shoestring original, which was Amateur Hour elevated to pop art? Evil Dead just bleeds money.”Edelstein’s review provoked a response from Matt Singer at Indiewire, who argues that the new version is superior to the original film:
Alvarez's "Evil Dead" certainly doesn't reinvent the wheel, but it does put a fresh pair of stylish (and quickly blood-soaked) rims on this old jalopy. On a technical level, it's light-years beyond Raimi's version . . . The original "Evil Dead" billed itself as "the ultimate experience in grueling terror," a title the new "Evil Dead" more than lives up to. By the end of the film, you've watched people carve up their own faces, shoot each other at point blank range with nail guns, and saw off their limbs (that's right, guys: limbs plural). It's the ultimate experience in feeling like a wrung-out sponge. If you want an "Evil Dead" movie to scare you, gross you out, and deeply unsettle you, I think you'll be satisfied by Alvarez's version.These two reactions outline the perils of critiquing remakes. Edelstein is concerned with authenticity and original films are usually deemed to be more “authentic” than remakes. Raimi and company were the originators of The Evil Dead and so their film is deemed to be more authentic, and it is assumed that authenticity makes it inherently superior. This also partly explains why, as Singer points out in his article, Evil Dead II from 1987 is not considered with such hostility. The sequel—which is for all intents and purposes a remake—is often regarded as superior to the 1983 film and is a source of admiration instead of resentment. But the sequel was made by most of the same people who created the original and so it is regarded as an “authentic” remake. This would also explain why the promotional materials for the 2013 film took pains to inform the public that the new version was “from the producers of the horror classic.”
There is a charm about low budget and independent moviemaking that glossy Hollywood productions cannot replicate. This is especially true when the story of the production becomes as familiar as the movie itself. Knowing how much time and effort was spent making a film can impact the way we see it and the stories shared on commentary tracks, interviews, documentaries, and convention appearances become fused with the picture. Unfortunately, that does not necessarily make for good film criticism. A lot of people work really hard on every movie, including every horrible piece of shit you’ve ever seen. (I’m sure a lot of people worked really hard on The Host.) Knowing the behind-the- scenes story can elicit admiration or sympathy but it isn’t the job of film critics to show mercy. As critic Sam Adams recently tweeted, “It's not that critics don't know how hard it is to make movies. It's that we have a responsibility not to care.”
Singer’s defense of the new Evil Dead is problematic because it ignores the role of authorship. If a writer transcribed The Great Gatsby word-for-word and then claimed it was his or her own take on the story most readers and literary critics would cry bullshit and rightfully so. That isn’t exactly what Alvarez has done with Evil Dead but it is close. One of the reasons why The Evil Dead stuck out in 1983 was its novelty. There was nothing else like it in the horror film marketplace at that time. That isn’t the case in 2013. Everything about the remake is about replicating the original film and creating a new version of it. Rather than challenging the audience or the medium, the remake of The Evil Dead is intended to recreate, mass produce, and commoditize the original picture. In other words, The Evil Dead 1983 is a piece of art but Evil Dead 2013 is an industrial product.
There is an argument to make that is that none of this really matters or at least does not matter as much as some fans and critics would have us believe. Artists rip off or retell their stories and the stories of others all the time. Books like Beau Geste, Dracula, and The Wizard of Oz were adapted into films multiple times and popular songs like “Yesterday” are constantly rerecorded by new artists. The relationship between the original version and the new version (especially when they are in the same medium) may be a relevant part of our evaluation (we don’t want to condone plagiarism, after all) but film criticism isn’t determined on a single-issue. If a movie—original, adaptation, or remake—is technically accomplished and is an interesting and entertaining piece of cinema—and the new Evil Dead is that—then at the very least the filmmakers have succeed in film making. When we purchase a movie ticket and settle into our theater seats that may be all that really matters anyway.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
A Look Back at Roger Ebert
Roger Ebert passed away today at age 70. He was the most visible, prolific, and influential film critic of the last thirty years and his work shaped the way the public thought about movies and the way aspiring critics wrote about film. Ebert was the author of numerous books, contributed commentary tracks to DVDs of classic films like Citizen Kane and Casablanca, and maintained a very popular blog. A writer for the Chicago Sun-Times, Ebert rose to prominence with fellow Chicago film critic Gene Siskel through their syndicated television show in which the two men coined the now iconic phrase "two thumbs up."
Here are a few memorable Ebert moments:
Ebert Defends Better Luck Tomorrow
At the 2002 Sundance film festival Ebert defended Asian filmmakers against criticism over racial representation in their film Better Luck Tomorrow. This aggressive but practical and fair-minded defense was indicative of the way Ebert approached the movies.
Review of Taxi Driver
Taxi Driver was considered shockingly violent at the time of its release. Siskel did not like the movie but Ebert did. Note how he questions Siskel's judgement, arguing that his partner wasn't really evaluating the movie Martin Scorsese made but the movie he wanted the director to make. That's an important lesson for critics to remember.
"Women in Danger" Special
In the 1980s Siskel and Ebert took a stand against the slasher films that were so popular at that time and dedicated a special episode of their show to examining the trend. Whatever we might think of these films in retrospect (I happen to disagree with some of their arguments), this kind of criticism was and is important as it forces audiences to think about the value of the entertainment being thrust on them by Hollywood.
"Is Hollywood Selling War to Kids?" Special
An interesting companion to their "Women in Danger" special, Siskel and Ebert examined the way that Hollywood depicted combat in the 1980s and how films like the Rambo series glorified war while marketing tie-in products to children.
Ebert Named a Chicagoan of the Year 2011
In 2006 Ebert lost his ability to speak due to cancer treatment but he continued to write for the Sun-Times right up until his death and wrote a memoir, Life Itself, published in 2011. In the last few years of his life he used a computerized voice to communicate. Here is a video of Ebert reflecting on being named a Chicagoan of the Year in 2011.
Update:
Retrospectives on Roger Ebert's life are popping up all over the web. Here are a few worth checking out:
Here are a few memorable Ebert moments:
Ebert Defends Better Luck Tomorrow
At the 2002 Sundance film festival Ebert defended Asian filmmakers against criticism over racial representation in their film Better Luck Tomorrow. This aggressive but practical and fair-minded defense was indicative of the way Ebert approached the movies.
Review of Taxi Driver
Taxi Driver was considered shockingly violent at the time of its release. Siskel did not like the movie but Ebert did. Note how he questions Siskel's judgement, arguing that his partner wasn't really evaluating the movie Martin Scorsese made but the movie he wanted the director to make. That's an important lesson for critics to remember.
"Women in Danger" Special
In the 1980s Siskel and Ebert took a stand against the slasher films that were so popular at that time and dedicated a special episode of their show to examining the trend. Whatever we might think of these films in retrospect (I happen to disagree with some of their arguments), this kind of criticism was and is important as it forces audiences to think about the value of the entertainment being thrust on them by Hollywood.
"Is Hollywood Selling War to Kids?" Special
An interesting companion to their "Women in Danger" special, Siskel and Ebert examined the way that Hollywood depicted combat in the 1980s and how films like the Rambo series glorified war while marketing tie-in products to children.
Ebert Named a Chicagoan of the Year 2011
In 2006 Ebert lost his ability to speak due to cancer treatment but he continued to write for the Sun-Times right up until his death and wrote a memoir, Life Itself, published in 2011. In the last few years of his life he used a computerized voice to communicate. Here is a video of Ebert reflecting on being named a Chicagoan of the Year in 2011.
Update:
Retrospectives on Roger Ebert's life are popping up all over the web. Here are a few worth checking out:
- Six Moments from the Life of Roger Ebert by The Daily Beast
- Roger Ebert's Top 20 Best-and Worst- Reviewed Films at The Hollywood Reporter
- Roger Ebert: Beloved Movies He Didn't Like at The Huffington Post
- The Best of Roger Ebert's Funny, Wise, Cranky Tweets at Buzzfeed
- The Best of Roger Ebert on Television at Buzzfeed
- Filmmakers Remember Roger Ebert at Slate
- Roger Ebert's Most Memorable Reviews at Moviefone
Sunday, February 24, 2013
'Die Hard' Retrospective
On today’s episode of Sounds of Cinema I examined the Die Hard series. Here is a look back at some notable elements of the series.
I. The Original John McClane
John McClane, the hero of the Die Hard series, now ranks with Dirty Harry Callahan, John Rambo, and Indiana Jones among the great characters of action cinema and actor Bruce Willis has become a familiar staple of action pictures. But when the original Die Hard was made this was not the case. In the mid-1980s Bruce Willis was best known for his role on the TV show Moonlighting and this is an element of the original Die Hard that is often lost on contemporary audiences.
The casting of an actor who was not generally associated with action movies was perfect in this case, as McClane was a different kind of hero than the characters that were popular at that time. The heroes played by the likes of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone were indestructible and unflappable supermen but McClane was a man of human dimensions who got frustrated, cursed, and was often injured. The filmmakers of Die Hard pushed their character to physical and emotional limits, making him much more accessible and heroic, and that is at the root of what makes the first Die Hard work. Unfortunately, these elements waned as the series continued.
II. The Craft of Die Hard
The action genre is often derided by academics and critics as stupid or juvenile. It certainly can be; such is the nature of spectacle. But one of the underappreciated elements of the original Die Hard is how well made it is. John McTiernan is a crafty and intelligent filmmaker and with Die Hard the director and his crew proved that action movies can demonstrate as much filmmaking skill as an art film or a piece of Oscar bait. The cinematography makes great use of widescreen compositions, often trapping John McClane in claustrophobic spaces or exposing him and diminishing his stature in the frame. Sound is used similarly well. The bulk of the picture involves John McClane creeping through the corridors of the building and long stretches of tension are punctuated by crashes of action. Sound and image come together in the editing process and the rhythms of this movie play like a piece of music. The periods of tension gradually get shorter and action scenes occur closer and closer together until the film gets to its finale in which action is compounded through cross-cutting.
Although the Die Hard brand is synonymous with calamitous action, McTiernan’s filmmaking skill is best observed in the opening expository scenes. The first twenty minutes of Die Hard establish all the major characters and the geography of the building, laying it out in ways that make spatial relationships understandable. The filmmakers do this while also introducing the characters, so that the audience subconsciously picks up on the design of the building while focusing on the actors. This is smart moviemaking and it distinguishes Die Hard from other action movies and other motion pictures in general.
III. The Music of Die Hard
Michael Kamen composed the music for the first three Die Hard films and his score to the original is among the great action soundtracks. Unfortunately it hasn’t been made regularly available. (From time to time specialty labels release limited editions of the soundtrack album on CD, most recently in 2011when La-La Land Records issued a 3500 unit run that sold out within a few days.) Kamen’s score is an example of a composer who was in on the filmmaker’s joke. He recognized the mischievous and irreverent elements of John McClane’s character and the score reflects this with musical flourishes that recall Loony Toons and Hanna Barbera animation serials, bringing a lot of humor to the action.
Kamen’s Die Hard scores incorporated classical music for a similar purpose. Director John McTiernan steered Die Hard away from a serious story about terrorism and toward lighter popcorn entertainment and so he suggested that Kamen integrate the “Ode to Joy” from Beethoven’s 9th Symphony into the score. Renny Harlin used music to a similar effect in Die Hard 2; since the director is Finnish he had Kamen include “Finlandia” by Jean Sibelius in the finale of the picture. For Die Hard With a Vengeance Kamen used an arrangement of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” as the theme for the villains.
By the time the series picked up with 2007’s Live Free or Die Hard, Kamen had passed away and scoring duties went to Marco Beltrami. The new composer utilized some of Kamen’s signature Die Hard themes and Beltrami’s music is one of the better elements of the newer sequels.
IV. Violence
The regard for violence in the Die Hard films is unique to this series. Hitherto, the presentation of violence in Hollywood action cinema was quite often bloodless. This is consistent with the unwritten compact between an action filmmaker and his audience: violence will be offered up for enjoyment but it will never come at the cost of pain. (This is the opposite of the compact between a horror filmmaker and his or her audience.) But the violence in Die Hard often included blood, both on the part of the villains and the hero. That made the violence startling and added to the visceral nature of the film.
This isn’t to say that the violence of Die Hard and its sequels is not problematic. These pictures raised the bar for the level of violence in action films (Die Hard 2 is said to have the highest body count of any action film released to that point, at least when the victims of the plane crash are figured in.) but as much as they broke from the Schwarzenegger model, they maintained the casual attitude toward killing. Whenever movies come under fire for violence, critics and politicians often target horror movies in which violence is depicted as bloody and painful. Less often criticized are movies like Die Hard in which violence has little or no consequences and the hero is able to kill with legal, moral, and psychological impunity. Die Hard is no more or less guilty of the glorification of violence than most other action films and the moral justifications for violence are firmer in the original Die Hard than a lot of other action movies, including its sequels. However, if cinematic depictions of violence are going to be a matter for debate among critics and audiences then the carefree attitude toward violence exhibited by movies like Die Hard ought to be at the forefront of that debate.
V. John McClane in New York
Die Hard With a Vengeance moves the action to New York City, where John McClane is a police officer. New York City is the setting for (too) many movies and television shows but Die Hard With a Vengeance is one of the better examples. A lot of pictures are set in New York for no apparent story reason; New York is a generic backdrop for big city locations and a lot of pictures set in New York could just as easily be set in Chicago, Los Angeles, or New Orleans without any impact on the story. But the filmmakers of Die Hard With a Vengeance not only set the action in New York City but also capture the local flavor. Distinct New York locations like Central Park and Wall Street come into play in the story and many of the extras and supporting players, especially the New York municipal workers, have a distinctly Big Apple feel. This makes Die Hard With a Vengeance the only picture in the series that has a distinct sense of place.
VI. The Digital Dilution of Spectacle
Twelve years passed between the release of Die Hard With a Vengeance in 1995 and Live Free or Die Hard in 2007. In the interim, the culture shifted into the digital age, radically changing moviemaking technology. In retrospect, Die Hard With a Vengeance was a swan song for a certain kind of action cinema. The first three Die Hard movies were made at a time in which everything on screen had to be done practically, even if it was done with miniatures or film compositing. The limits of technology imposed boundaries on what filmmakers could do and those limitations actually benefitted the movies by keeping filmmakers tethered to reality. The advent of digital moviemaking allowed for unlimited possibilities but that plasticity changed how audiences related to what they were seeing. The sterile look inherent to digital effects eliminates any sense of grit or reality and throughout the action genre set pieces escalated into absurdity. Moments like John McClane destroying a helicopter with a car are undeniably spectacular but they also lack the grit of the first three movies. Filmmakers have outdone themselves to the point of becoming counterproductive. The more outrageous the visuals, the less the audience believes what they see.
VII. An Analog Hero in a Digital Age
The filmmakers of Live Free or Die Hard had a significant challenge. Not only had it been twelve years since the previous film (and almost two decades since the original), but the social context that John McClane sprang from was gone and the character risked being an anachronism. However, the filmmakers smartly turned these challenges into assets by using the technological elements of Live Free or Die Hard to accentuate McClane’s heroism. Throughout the series, John McClane is at odds with the system; in Live Free or Die Hard that becomes literal. Automation can be overwhelming, even for those who are tech savvy. By making McClane an analog hero in a digital age, the filmmakers of Live Free or Die Hard discovered a way to reinvigorate the series and keep the character relevant.
VIII. The 007 of Plainfield, New Jersey
The allure of John McClane is his humanity. This is the lynchpin of the entire series. But with each successive Die Hard sequel that humanity was diluted. Some of this was a matter of stardom. In the quarter century since the first film, Bruce Willis transformed from a primetime TV star and into a Hollywood action hero; Willis became a badass movie star in the mold of Schwarzenegger and Stallone and he eventually costarred alongside them in The Expendables films. The dehumanization of John McClane was also a byproduct of serialization. Conventional wisdom says that sequels must be bigger and louder than their predecessors and as the stunts and set pieces escalated, McClane became a two dimensional, mythological figure. Just as when James Bond launched into space in Moonraker, John McClane and the Die Hard series ceased to resemble the original concept and the charm wilted away.
IX. Why the World Needs John McClane
Examining the decline of Die Hard and the John McClane character between the original picture its most recent sequel may be dispiriting but it is no different from what has happened to virtually every character subject to serialization from Inspector Clouseau to James Bond to Hannibal Lecter. And however John McClane may have ended up at the hands of careless filmmakers or cynical Hollywood executives, there is an important place for characters like him. Academics and film critics sometimes dismiss action films as little more than fluff and quite often they are. But there is a virtue to popcorn entertainment. As Joel McCrea’s character learns in Sullivan’s Travels, there is a value in lifting the spirits of the audience. Life is hard, people need relief, and movies like Die Hard provide that. Viewers also need heroes, someone who represents our ideals and who fights for what is right. Not every hero has to take on a skyscraper full of terrorists. In daily life heroism is small and easy to overlook. This is why stories are so important. As hopeless as life can seem, an inspiring story can restore faith, at least for a little while. One of the virtues of action films is their ability to affirm a positive vision of masculinity in which heroes defend worthy ideals. Whether that hero is Atticus Finch or John McClane, the hero of a good story has value for the audience and the culture.
I. The Original John McClane
John McClane, the hero of the Die Hard series, now ranks with Dirty Harry Callahan, John Rambo, and Indiana Jones among the great characters of action cinema and actor Bruce Willis has become a familiar staple of action pictures. But when the original Die Hard was made this was not the case. In the mid-1980s Bruce Willis was best known for his role on the TV show Moonlighting and this is an element of the original Die Hard that is often lost on contemporary audiences.
The casting of an actor who was not generally associated with action movies was perfect in this case, as McClane was a different kind of hero than the characters that were popular at that time. The heroes played by the likes of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone were indestructible and unflappable supermen but McClane was a man of human dimensions who got frustrated, cursed, and was often injured. The filmmakers of Die Hard pushed their character to physical and emotional limits, making him much more accessible and heroic, and that is at the root of what makes the first Die Hard work. Unfortunately, these elements waned as the series continued.
II. The Craft of Die Hard
The action genre is often derided by academics and critics as stupid or juvenile. It certainly can be; such is the nature of spectacle. But one of the underappreciated elements of the original Die Hard is how well made it is. John McTiernan is a crafty and intelligent filmmaker and with Die Hard the director and his crew proved that action movies can demonstrate as much filmmaking skill as an art film or a piece of Oscar bait. The cinematography makes great use of widescreen compositions, often trapping John McClane in claustrophobic spaces or exposing him and diminishing his stature in the frame. Sound is used similarly well. The bulk of the picture involves John McClane creeping through the corridors of the building and long stretches of tension are punctuated by crashes of action. Sound and image come together in the editing process and the rhythms of this movie play like a piece of music. The periods of tension gradually get shorter and action scenes occur closer and closer together until the film gets to its finale in which action is compounded through cross-cutting.
Although the Die Hard brand is synonymous with calamitous action, McTiernan’s filmmaking skill is best observed in the opening expository scenes. The first twenty minutes of Die Hard establish all the major characters and the geography of the building, laying it out in ways that make spatial relationships understandable. The filmmakers do this while also introducing the characters, so that the audience subconsciously picks up on the design of the building while focusing on the actors. This is smart moviemaking and it distinguishes Die Hard from other action movies and other motion pictures in general.
III. The Music of Die Hard
Michael Kamen composed the music for the first three Die Hard films and his score to the original is among the great action soundtracks. Unfortunately it hasn’t been made regularly available. (From time to time specialty labels release limited editions of the soundtrack album on CD, most recently in 2011when La-La Land Records issued a 3500 unit run that sold out within a few days.) Kamen’s score is an example of a composer who was in on the filmmaker’s joke. He recognized the mischievous and irreverent elements of John McClane’s character and the score reflects this with musical flourishes that recall Loony Toons and Hanna Barbera animation serials, bringing a lot of humor to the action.
Kamen’s Die Hard scores incorporated classical music for a similar purpose. Director John McTiernan steered Die Hard away from a serious story about terrorism and toward lighter popcorn entertainment and so he suggested that Kamen integrate the “Ode to Joy” from Beethoven’s 9th Symphony into the score. Renny Harlin used music to a similar effect in Die Hard 2; since the director is Finnish he had Kamen include “Finlandia” by Jean Sibelius in the finale of the picture. For Die Hard With a Vengeance Kamen used an arrangement of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” as the theme for the villains.
By the time the series picked up with 2007’s Live Free or Die Hard, Kamen had passed away and scoring duties went to Marco Beltrami. The new composer utilized some of Kamen’s signature Die Hard themes and Beltrami’s music is one of the better elements of the newer sequels.
IV. Violence
The regard for violence in the Die Hard films is unique to this series. Hitherto, the presentation of violence in Hollywood action cinema was quite often bloodless. This is consistent with the unwritten compact between an action filmmaker and his audience: violence will be offered up for enjoyment but it will never come at the cost of pain. (This is the opposite of the compact between a horror filmmaker and his or her audience.) But the violence in Die Hard often included blood, both on the part of the villains and the hero. That made the violence startling and added to the visceral nature of the film.
This isn’t to say that the violence of Die Hard and its sequels is not problematic. These pictures raised the bar for the level of violence in action films (Die Hard 2 is said to have the highest body count of any action film released to that point, at least when the victims of the plane crash are figured in.) but as much as they broke from the Schwarzenegger model, they maintained the casual attitude toward killing. Whenever movies come under fire for violence, critics and politicians often target horror movies in which violence is depicted as bloody and painful. Less often criticized are movies like Die Hard in which violence has little or no consequences and the hero is able to kill with legal, moral, and psychological impunity. Die Hard is no more or less guilty of the glorification of violence than most other action films and the moral justifications for violence are firmer in the original Die Hard than a lot of other action movies, including its sequels. However, if cinematic depictions of violence are going to be a matter for debate among critics and audiences then the carefree attitude toward violence exhibited by movies like Die Hard ought to be at the forefront of that debate.
V. John McClane in New York
Die Hard With a Vengeance moves the action to New York City, where John McClane is a police officer. New York City is the setting for (too) many movies and television shows but Die Hard With a Vengeance is one of the better examples. A lot of pictures are set in New York for no apparent story reason; New York is a generic backdrop for big city locations and a lot of pictures set in New York could just as easily be set in Chicago, Los Angeles, or New Orleans without any impact on the story. But the filmmakers of Die Hard With a Vengeance not only set the action in New York City but also capture the local flavor. Distinct New York locations like Central Park and Wall Street come into play in the story and many of the extras and supporting players, especially the New York municipal workers, have a distinctly Big Apple feel. This makes Die Hard With a Vengeance the only picture in the series that has a distinct sense of place.
VI. The Digital Dilution of Spectacle
Twelve years passed between the release of Die Hard With a Vengeance in 1995 and Live Free or Die Hard in 2007. In the interim, the culture shifted into the digital age, radically changing moviemaking technology. In retrospect, Die Hard With a Vengeance was a swan song for a certain kind of action cinema. The first three Die Hard movies were made at a time in which everything on screen had to be done practically, even if it was done with miniatures or film compositing. The limits of technology imposed boundaries on what filmmakers could do and those limitations actually benefitted the movies by keeping filmmakers tethered to reality. The advent of digital moviemaking allowed for unlimited possibilities but that plasticity changed how audiences related to what they were seeing. The sterile look inherent to digital effects eliminates any sense of grit or reality and throughout the action genre set pieces escalated into absurdity. Moments like John McClane destroying a helicopter with a car are undeniably spectacular but they also lack the grit of the first three movies. Filmmakers have outdone themselves to the point of becoming counterproductive. The more outrageous the visuals, the less the audience believes what they see.
VII. An Analog Hero in a Digital Age
The filmmakers of Live Free or Die Hard had a significant challenge. Not only had it been twelve years since the previous film (and almost two decades since the original), but the social context that John McClane sprang from was gone and the character risked being an anachronism. However, the filmmakers smartly turned these challenges into assets by using the technological elements of Live Free or Die Hard to accentuate McClane’s heroism. Throughout the series, John McClane is at odds with the system; in Live Free or Die Hard that becomes literal. Automation can be overwhelming, even for those who are tech savvy. By making McClane an analog hero in a digital age, the filmmakers of Live Free or Die Hard discovered a way to reinvigorate the series and keep the character relevant.
VIII. The 007 of Plainfield, New Jersey
The allure of John McClane is his humanity. This is the lynchpin of the entire series. But with each successive Die Hard sequel that humanity was diluted. Some of this was a matter of stardom. In the quarter century since the first film, Bruce Willis transformed from a primetime TV star and into a Hollywood action hero; Willis became a badass movie star in the mold of Schwarzenegger and Stallone and he eventually costarred alongside them in The Expendables films. The dehumanization of John McClane was also a byproduct of serialization. Conventional wisdom says that sequels must be bigger and louder than their predecessors and as the stunts and set pieces escalated, McClane became a two dimensional, mythological figure. Just as when James Bond launched into space in Moonraker, John McClane and the Die Hard series ceased to resemble the original concept and the charm wilted away.
IX. Why the World Needs John McClane
Examining the decline of Die Hard and the John McClane character between the original picture its most recent sequel may be dispiriting but it is no different from what has happened to virtually every character subject to serialization from Inspector Clouseau to James Bond to Hannibal Lecter. And however John McClane may have ended up at the hands of careless filmmakers or cynical Hollywood executives, there is an important place for characters like him. Academics and film critics sometimes dismiss action films as little more than fluff and quite often they are. But there is a virtue to popcorn entertainment. As Joel McCrea’s character learns in Sullivan’s Travels, there is a value in lifting the spirits of the audience. Life is hard, people need relief, and movies like Die Hard provide that. Viewers also need heroes, someone who represents our ideals and who fights for what is right. Not every hero has to take on a skyscraper full of terrorists. In daily life heroism is small and easy to overlook. This is why stories are so important. As hopeless as life can seem, an inspiring story can restore faith, at least for a little while. One of the virtues of action films is their ability to affirm a positive vision of masculinity in which heroes defend worthy ideals. Whether that hero is Atticus Finch or John McClane, the hero of a good story has value for the audience and the culture.
Friday, February 22, 2013
'Die Hard' on Sounds of Cinema
On Sunday, February 24th Sounds of Cinema will feature a retrospective on the Die Hard series, including reviews and music from all five films. I'll also address some of the side issues to these films, including the appeal of the John McClane character and the ways he evolved over the course of the series.
Check here after the broadcast for a blog post of additional commentary.
Check here after the broadcast for a blog post of additional commentary.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Is ‘Compliance’ the Answer to ‘Zero Dark Thirty?’
In preparation for my End of 2012 Wrap-Up episode, I came across Craig Zobel’s film Compliance. Based on several true incidents, the manager of a fast food restaurant receives a phone call from someone claiming to be a police officer. The caller tells the manager that one of her employees has stolen money from a customer and instructs the supervisor to interrogate the employee in a manner that gets increasingly degrading. Compliance is a tough watch and it has some significant shortcomings, particularly in the ending, but it is also a fascinating dramatization of deference to authority a la the infamous Stanley Milgram experiment.
Compliance makes for especially interesting viewing in light of the controversy over Zero Dark Thirty. Critics of Kathryn Bigelow’s latest film have gone so far as to compare her to Leni Riefenstahl, the director of the Nazi propaganda film The Triumph of the Will. (I would argue that Riefenstahl’s reputation as an apologist for evil is greatly exaggerated, but I’ll leave that for another day.) The attacks on Bigelow hold that Zero Dark Thirty excuses the use of torture by Americans and even suggests that it led investigators to the location of Osama bin Laden. This accusation is not supported by the content of the film. Zero Dark Thirty does depict torture but the plot does not connect torture to finding bin Laden. It isn’t until the prisoners are treated humanely that they provide useful information. That fact has been lost in part because the torture scenes are so strong but also because many of those critiquing the movie haven’t bothered to watch it.
Defending her film, Bigelow remarked that “depiction is not endorsement. If it was, no artist would be able to paint inhumane practices, no author could write about them, and no filmmaker could delve into the thorny subjects of our time.” This statement is true but it is also unremarkable. Of course depiction is not endorsement. If it were, Schindler’s List would be the most anti-Semitic film ever made. For a culture that spends so much time absorbing stories this should not be a controversial idea.
The resistance that Bigelow has run up against is partly rooted in viewing habits. Audiences have been conditioned to expect stories to present overly simplistic moral conflicts and to spoon-feed that simplicity to viewers in unchallenging, bite-sized portions. When a film like Zero Dark Thirty comes along and does not overtly spell out the moral lesson it is sometimes more than mainstream audiences—and critics—are prepared to handle.
Resistance to Zero Dark Thirty is also rooted in liberal frustration with the Obama Administration. Although they ended the use of torture techniques, the president and his associates have failed to close the prison at Guantanamo Bay and chose not to prosecute those who advocated and carried out torture policies. This, and the failure of the mainstream news media to keep torture in the public eye, has left the arts as the only place in which American audiences can reckon with what was done in our name. In the same way that the infamous Nixon-Frost interviews gave the disgraced president the trial he would never receive, art is the only remaining venue to correct the public record.
But the filmmakers of Zero Dark Thirty did not set out to make a film about torture. The topic comes up in due course but the point of Zero Dark Thirty is to immerse the audience in the hunt for Osama bin Laden and capture the frustration, danger, and moral ambiguity of being on the frontlines of a covert war. The filmmakers succeed in doing that and at its best Zero Dark Thirty is a harrowing thriller. The critics and politicians attacking Zero Dark Thirty are not angry with this film for what it is. They are upset with the film for what it isn’t.
And this is why Compliance is such an interesting film. Like Zero Dark Thirty, Zobel’s picture elicited a polarized reaction from audiences, but this may be the picture that critics of Zero Dark Thirty have been looking for. The movie is bleak and uncompromising but more importantly Compliance is about the very thing that Zero Dark Thirty is unable to depict: the way people defer to authority and how a quest for justice can breed unjust behavior. The design of Zero Dark Thirty is, to use Bigelow’s words, a boots-on-the-ground experience. The story unfolds from the point of view of those in the trees of counter-terrorism and so neither they nor the filmmakers can see the forest. More simply, Zero Dark Thirty is about what and how. Compliance, by contrast, is designed so that the audience observes how an otherwise moral person becomes a tool of exploitation and how the victim submits to the illusion of authority. This gives the movie a broader point of view that allows the viewer to ask more fundamental questions about why people act the way that they do.
As a critic I spend a lot of time bemoaning the lack of interesting or challenging films. Especially in the cinematic wasteland that is the first quarter of the year, it can be very dispiriting to sit through movie after movie that was made with cynical contempt for its audience. Whatever the shortcomings of Zero Dark Thirty and Compliance, these films were made by highly skilled filmmakers who sought to challenge their viewers. Attacking these pictures and the people who created them because they make us uncomfortable does a disservice to everyone. It discourages filmmakers from taking on challenging material and it distracts critics and moviegoers from the kinds of discussions these films intend to incite. Part of art’s function in society is to unsettle our collective assumptions. Compliance and Zero Dark Thirty do that and they should be praised for it.
Compliance makes for especially interesting viewing in light of the controversy over Zero Dark Thirty. Critics of Kathryn Bigelow’s latest film have gone so far as to compare her to Leni Riefenstahl, the director of the Nazi propaganda film The Triumph of the Will. (I would argue that Riefenstahl’s reputation as an apologist for evil is greatly exaggerated, but I’ll leave that for another day.) The attacks on Bigelow hold that Zero Dark Thirty excuses the use of torture by Americans and even suggests that it led investigators to the location of Osama bin Laden. This accusation is not supported by the content of the film. Zero Dark Thirty does depict torture but the plot does not connect torture to finding bin Laden. It isn’t until the prisoners are treated humanely that they provide useful information. That fact has been lost in part because the torture scenes are so strong but also because many of those critiquing the movie haven’t bothered to watch it.
Defending her film, Bigelow remarked that “depiction is not endorsement. If it was, no artist would be able to paint inhumane practices, no author could write about them, and no filmmaker could delve into the thorny subjects of our time.” This statement is true but it is also unremarkable. Of course depiction is not endorsement. If it were, Schindler’s List would be the most anti-Semitic film ever made. For a culture that spends so much time absorbing stories this should not be a controversial idea.
The resistance that Bigelow has run up against is partly rooted in viewing habits. Audiences have been conditioned to expect stories to present overly simplistic moral conflicts and to spoon-feed that simplicity to viewers in unchallenging, bite-sized portions. When a film like Zero Dark Thirty comes along and does not overtly spell out the moral lesson it is sometimes more than mainstream audiences—and critics—are prepared to handle.
Resistance to Zero Dark Thirty is also rooted in liberal frustration with the Obama Administration. Although they ended the use of torture techniques, the president and his associates have failed to close the prison at Guantanamo Bay and chose not to prosecute those who advocated and carried out torture policies. This, and the failure of the mainstream news media to keep torture in the public eye, has left the arts as the only place in which American audiences can reckon with what was done in our name. In the same way that the infamous Nixon-Frost interviews gave the disgraced president the trial he would never receive, art is the only remaining venue to correct the public record.
But the filmmakers of Zero Dark Thirty did not set out to make a film about torture. The topic comes up in due course but the point of Zero Dark Thirty is to immerse the audience in the hunt for Osama bin Laden and capture the frustration, danger, and moral ambiguity of being on the frontlines of a covert war. The filmmakers succeed in doing that and at its best Zero Dark Thirty is a harrowing thriller. The critics and politicians attacking Zero Dark Thirty are not angry with this film for what it is. They are upset with the film for what it isn’t.
And this is why Compliance is such an interesting film. Like Zero Dark Thirty, Zobel’s picture elicited a polarized reaction from audiences, but this may be the picture that critics of Zero Dark Thirty have been looking for. The movie is bleak and uncompromising but more importantly Compliance is about the very thing that Zero Dark Thirty is unable to depict: the way people defer to authority and how a quest for justice can breed unjust behavior. The design of Zero Dark Thirty is, to use Bigelow’s words, a boots-on-the-ground experience. The story unfolds from the point of view of those in the trees of counter-terrorism and so neither they nor the filmmakers can see the forest. More simply, Zero Dark Thirty is about what and how. Compliance, by contrast, is designed so that the audience observes how an otherwise moral person becomes a tool of exploitation and how the victim submits to the illusion of authority. This gives the movie a broader point of view that allows the viewer to ask more fundamental questions about why people act the way that they do.
As a critic I spend a lot of time bemoaning the lack of interesting or challenging films. Especially in the cinematic wasteland that is the first quarter of the year, it can be very dispiriting to sit through movie after movie that was made with cynical contempt for its audience. Whatever the shortcomings of Zero Dark Thirty and Compliance, these films were made by highly skilled filmmakers who sought to challenge their viewers. Attacking these pictures and the people who created them because they make us uncomfortable does a disservice to everyone. It discourages filmmakers from taking on challenging material and it distracts critics and moviegoers from the kinds of discussions these films intend to incite. Part of art’s function in society is to unsettle our collective assumptions. Compliance and Zero Dark Thirty do that and they should be praised for it.
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