Month: December 2019

In this new adaptation of A Christmas Carol, Scrooge (Guy Pearce) has pressured Mrs. Cratchit (Vinette Robinson) into having “intercourse” with him so he’ll pay for Tiny Tim’s (Lenny Rush) surgery. This is a part of his past, and is shown to him by the respective Christmas spirit.

As she’s uncomfortably undressing, Scrooge monologues about human nature and how anyone can give up on their morals when properly pressured (or whatever). This monologue is a payoff for a conversation he had earlier with Bob Cratchit (Joe Alwyn) about why people bad every other day of the year are only nice on Christmas and wonders why we don’t do the opposite (essentially proposing The Purge).

After a gratuitous ass shot, he reveals that he never wanted to have sex with her. He doesn’t much care about things like intercourse anymore, he simply wanted to have an intercourse with the mind (or, once again, whatever) and wanted to prove that even good people can give up on their morals and that we live in a society.

While this doesn’t get into all of the plot changes in this new Christmas Carol, this serves as an appropriate summary of the adolescent nature of this new adaptation. Priding itself in how much “darker” and more “serious” it is, its ideas and script have all the substance of a Wikipedia plot summary. Characters repeatedly point out their driving themes, motives, all in the most thankless of ways. Beyond the mere fact that they’re explaining their motives, there’s little indication of character in their dialogue, in the way they speak. Everyone just blurts out what they’re thinking and how they feel in ways that don’t distinguish themselves.

To drive this point; if you have a character who thinks robbery is good, and one who thinks robbery is bad, and your only means of distinguishing them in their dialogue is having one say “I think robbery is a good thing” and the other says  “I think robbery is a bad thing”, you are not effectively using the dialogue to distinguish the characters.

This wouldn’t bother me so much if it wasn’t for two things; my love for this story, and my love for Steven Knight’s Locke. The script for that film is brilliant for reasons I won’t be able to get too into in this brief review, but the dialogue beautifully harmonizes character, narrative, theme and location. Given that the film entirely consists of a man’s life going to shit over the series of phone conversations in a car, everything has to be revealed through dialogue, but what they say and how they say it is determined by the dynamics of the different characters and the progression of the story. Even his personal vents to his non-existent father speak to Locke’s own character in a unique way. There’s certainly “theme dialogue” but it’s all appropriate to the previously mentioned dynamics and progression of the story, and it all reveals something about the characters beyond “this is what I feel”.

Going further, the movie has many character details that may be revealed through dialogue that are not specifically called out by dialogue. For example; at one point in the movie, Locke is about to say sorry to his wife, but stops himself short, instead saying “I have behaved not at all like myself.” Later, he speaks to another character to whom he is practically begging and outright, sincerely says “I’m sorry” to the man for intruding on his night. The man listens to him because of this sincerity and apology. At no point does his wife then say “if only you apologized; you were always so bad at it!”, nor does the man he later speak to say “you know….a good apology goes a long way….you must be a hit with your wife!”

It’s a spoken trait that goes unspoken.

There’s none of this in A Christmas Carol, and to see a writer who made a film I love handle a story I adore with such artless dialogue and adolescent aspirations of being “dark” and “adult” is heartbreaking. I’m not against these and other ambitions Knight had with writing this film; A Muppet Christmas Carol may be one of my favorite adaptations of the tale, but I know this story of hope and redemption is a dark one, and I love that it is. I’m also not against his exploration of the afterlife for characters like Marley (Stephen Graham) and adding more stakes to Ebenezer’s change of heart beyond his own fate. And in addition to these conceptual possibilities, the film has its moments, great set design, and many of the performances are strong (Graham’s Marley and Robinson’s Mrs. Cratchit are the highlights here).

But this is nonsense. Just….nonsense. And I hope, rather than making the sequel that the closing shot teases (that’s not a joke), they decide to remake this interpretation with better writing and fewer tasteless implications of rape.

When I was in rehab last year (Eagleville Hospital), one of the speakers t told a story about how he was stupid drunk one night and made a fort in his kitchen. We all laughed, as was his intent. 

Laughing at drunken anecdotes might sound like something you shouldn’t be doing in rehab, but it was one of the most cathartic things that could be done. 

Were we supporting his drunkenness? I certainly don’t think so.

Were we throwing him under the bus? Hardly, we were laughing with him. 

The speaker himself pointed out why we were laughing. He said that laughter is identification. It’s a means of not feeling alone. 

Of saying “I’ve been there man.” 

When it came to Thor in Avengers: Endgame, there was a lot of laughter on my end. 

Weight and Grief

I’ve been on what I call the “Christian Bale spectrum” in my life. 

I was decrepitly skinny up until high school. The summer I graduated, I started working out a little bit, eating a bit more, and put on about 15 pounds in a relatively short period. As my life progressed, so did my weight lifting, and I slowly but surely kept bulking up. My diet wasn’t perfect, nor was my drinking, but I was reasonably muscular from about 2015-2016 with a bit of a belly. When I injured myself right at the end of December 2016, I had to take a break from weight lifting that lasted the year. My diet and drinking still weren’t perfect, and that belly got a bit bigger. 

September 2017 had an inexplicably large impact on why I drank (inexplicable in scope, not in reasoning). My friends and my sister’s friends lost someone very dear to us in an inexplicably horrible way (inexplicable both in scope and reasoning, because there was no reason for it to to happen). 

My processing of the grief was all over the place. In one sense, I was horrified, angry, repulsed, devastated, and I drank because I didn’t want to feel that way. 

On the other hand, my processing of her no longer being with us was confused. Sometimes I didn’t cry because her “not being here” sometimes felt the way anyone else who isn’t in my proximity “isn’t here.” I’m currently typing this paragraph alone in my kitchen. Literally everyone in my life is “not here”, and that’s how it felt like she “wasn’t here.” 

Deep down, when I saw people crying, I’d sometimes be able to join them. But sometimes I would feel a quiet confusion, as if they were crying because she’s “not here”, because she’s gone to the bathroom or something. 

My hatred for this confusion was second to my hatred of the man that took her. 

And so, while I would drink to avoid feelings, I would also drink to feel anything. 

Of course, I dare not say this was the sole motivator of my drinking. To quote Doctor Sleep (which I’m sure got it from elsewhere), “we drink because we’re drunks.” If I had been sober when this had happened, would it have affected my sobriety? I don’t know, I can’t say, and I won’t say, because it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I let it enhance my already heavily drunken state, and the damage in its wake was my fault. 

Getting up in the morning for my scheduled job at the bank was what stopped me from drinking every day (though I was still doing it more than I should have, and called out every now and then because “I have a fever”). 

When I quit the bank to work Uber, all bets were off. My relative weight when I left October 2017 was 210. By early February I was at 226. About a month later I was at 232. As time progressed, so did my drinking, so did my shit diet, and so did the downward spiral that was my life. I killed friendships (both long lasting and the “good to see you” type) like cattle at a slaughterhouse. 

From Rehab to Sobriety to Endgame 

It wasn’t until the end of August 2018 that rehab, which always felt destined to happen, became a reality. For the first time, I was in there for a week, then moronically thought I was a-okay since my hospitalization in 2014 lasted that long. 

I got drunk a week after leaving, started my downward spiral again, and was back in rehab at the end of October. I got out the day before Thanksgiving, and after hitting five weeks of sobriety on the outside (admittedly a record at the time, even without the four weeks of rehab), I started a two week cycle. Rehab had helped with my minor physical dependence, which wasn’t quite at “the shakes”, though it was certainly on that path.

But simply wanting to stop was all on me. 

I’d drink one night, maybe two in a row, then stay sober for two weeks. At one point I realized, unequivocally and finally, that I couldn’t keep doing this. More accurately, that I couldn’t get away with this. I had to be done. 

This brings us to Endgame. 

Endgame came out after I had made this decision but before my first two weeks of total sobriety (no restarting a cycle this time). My initial response to the movie was a positive one that only strengthened to this day. 

But I didn’t much care for Thor’s arc. 

“I’ve Been There Man”

In fact, for at least my first viewing, and possibly the first two (I saw the movie seven times), I outright disliked it. I laughed at a few jokes, but otherwise thought it was a waste. I didn’t like seeing him so pathetic, and I didn’t like seeing one of my heroes, who’s been one of my heroes since 2011, in such a pathetic spot. I didn’t like it because, well, he was a hero. He wasn’t supposed to get that low, he wasn’t supposed to be a joke.

It wasn’t until I realized I was looking in a mirror that I could start laughing heartily. 

Wasting his life away with alcohol? 

Check. 

Obscene weight gain?

Check. 

Improperly (but understandably) dealing with grief?

Check, check, and check. 

Once I recognized myself in all this, I could laugh, and I could laugh because of that recognition. I was also no longer holding one of my heroes to a standard I wasn’t holding myself to (I have this issue with critics of Luke Skywalker in The Last Jedi). 

I laughed at Thor’s reveal, at his Fortnite antics, thinking “I’ve been there man”, and I thought the same thing when his tears arrive at the very mention of Thanos’ name. 

Because I could now laugh at Thor, I could now cry with Thor. 

Sure, I may not have failed to prevent intergalactic genocide like Thor did, but I don’t like Fortnite either. It’s the “drinking to escape the bad feelings” constant that matters. These constants remained throughout the film; I laughed at his behavior during his reality stone “exposition”, I started to tear up when he started talking about his losses, and I started to laugh again when he wanted a bloody mary to escape the bad feelings. 

And the constant throughout the laughter and tears is “I’ve been there, man.”

Where We Are Now

Thor’s still fat when he summons his weapons and dons his suit, and he’s still fat at the end of Endgame. I’m about 20-30 pounds lighter than I was at the height of my weight, back to the “still have a belly but in decent shape otherwise” shape in 2016, roughly. I’m still working on my shape and diet, but I find another catharsis in Thor still being fat.

Stopping drinking won’t magically take off the weight, and he might not even lose it. But so long as he’s actually working on himself, it’s okay to live with the scars that came from the past.

Thor can still be a badass when he’s fat. He can still be worthy. He can still do right. 

Like Thor’s post Infinity War downward spiral, the drinking period of my life lasted about five years. I could have (should have) stopped so many times throughout that period, and the scars I inflicted on myself and others will last. 

But I have to keep going. And laughing at myself in Endgame helps with that. Because to say “I’ve been there” there helps me from going back.

I started this piece with differing ideas. The initial plan was to write about The Irishman as a reflection on Scorsese’s mob filmography, using the comparison between a scene in this and a scene in Goodfellas (which I still write about) as the foundation. I was also recommended to read Melissa Tamminga’s thread on twitter on the subject (which is excellent and will be linked below).

https://twitter.com/oneaprilday/status/1200496073338261504?fbclid=IwAR3qbY1PTUmicSjRIvOfgIiqelxjuGSw7JllFZy5aJ6bWGd9UDeSlI180HA

But in the end, I wanted to focus Peggy. 

The Placement of The Close-Up 

When Henry Hill (Ray Liotta) learns his girlfriend Karen (Lorraine Bracco) was sexually harassed and pushed out of a car in Goodfellas, Henry violently attacks the man.

The tracking shot of him attacking the man starts with him on his side of the street, followed by a pan to the other side of the street, camera holding in a wide composition as Henry knocks him around with a gun, then a pan as he walks back. It’s simple, and the filmmaking does little in terms of complimenting the violence beyond moving slightly when the man being assaulted falls out of frame

The simplicity is important in that it establishes this violence as an everyday thing. Someone being violently assaulted is shot with the same cinematic emphasis as someone turning on a stove. It’s just another thing for Henry Hill.

But what is “just another thing” for Henry (and especially that this is just another thing for Henry) is a revelation for Karen, thus giving us the close-up of her following the assault. The close-up effectively contrasts the wide compositions in the shot that preceded it, and it shows that she absorbed it all. She doesn’t even care about her own earlier assault; when Henry asks if she’s okay, she’s so fixated on the gun he gave her she barely gives him a response. Her narration states “I know there are women like my best friends who would have gotten out of there the minute their boyfriend gave them a gun to hide. But I didn’t. I gotta admit the truth; it turned me on.”

There’s a very similar sequence in The Irishman. Similar context, similar shot with a wide composition, similar close-up. Frank Sheeran (Robert DeNiro) hears his daughter Peggy (Lucy Gallina, later played by Anna Paquin) was shoved by a grocer and takes it out on the grocer. The build up to the violence (Frank walking with Peggy to the store) and the violence itself is all portrayed through a wide composition, the camera again moving minimally to follow the characters when necessary.

We also get a close-up of Peggy. But rather than being at the end of the sequence to emulate Karen’s uninterrupted absorption and approval of the event, it’s in the middle of it, to establish horror. A horror that fragments the violence and establishes how petrified she is of her father. And rather than narration to seal this approval, we get silence.

Peggy’s Comfort 

Peggy’s silence (and brief lack thereof) remains essential to her character and relationship with her father throughout the film, particularly when it comes to her relationship with his friends. Her scenes with Frank’s pal Russell Bufalino (Joe Pesci) show clear discomfort; he’s clearly desperate for the approval of his friend’s daughter, attempting to achieve it through cute jokes and nice Christmas presents (also known as bribery). She barely speaks in response to the joke and reluctantly thanks him for one of the gifts. 

But things are different with Jimmy. When Jimmy gets an ice cream sundae for Peggy, she happily says thank you. She gives a speech about Jimmy’s union for an assignment, and her voice dominates the classroom. 

Jimmy loves Peggy, and Peggy loves Jimmy. 

But she remains uncomfortable around her father. As Frank watches the news one morning, a murder he was responsible for is being reported. Watching it over a bowl of cereal, it’s just another work day for Frank. But, once more, this ordinary daily aspect of Frank’s life horrifies his daughter, and the camera pans to a now adult Peggy standing by the kitchen. Knowing her father was responsible for this, she maintains her fearful silence. 

Jimmy’s Fate

As the film progresses, tensions rise between Jimmy and other characters, leading to some behind the scenes drama at a dinner being hosted in honor for Frank. Jimmy has ambitions for reclaiming his union, and he’s told he can’t. He’s told “it’s what it is.” He has no say in the matter. He either listens, or he dies. 

At this dinner, there’s some nice music being played, and Peggy and Jimmy dance. After all these years, she still trusts and has a soft spot for Jimmy. 

But amidst this nice moment, Peggy catches a glimpse of Russ and some men intently discussing as they stare at Jimmy. She doesn’t need to hear their words; their eyes say it all. 

Her understated discomfort with her unsettling Uncle Russ clashes with her happy dynamic with Jimmy to form a horrifying realization.

From Fear to Loathing in Philadelphia 

The Sheerans all watch the news about the missing Jimmy together. Frank sits in an armchair, and he’s in the same frame as his wife Irene and his other daughters, who are on the couch, when he informs them that he needs to call Jimmy’s wife Jo. 

Irene responds with confusion, wondering why he hasn’t already made the call. She’s upset he hadn’t completed a task. An emotional, necessary task, but she responds to the statement with the same annoyance as though he hadn’t washed the dishes. 

For Peggy, it’s another revelation. 

Peggy is in her own shot separated, from her sisters and mother, and so a shot of Peggy once again fragments Frank’s world.

Paquin speaks her only words in this scene, at first just asking Frank “why”. They’re in medium shots, but in Peggy’s medium shot there’s an out of focus Frank in the foreground. In Frank’s medium shot, Peggy has no presence, and his eye contact is fleeting. She understands him, he doesn’t understand her. 

At last, Peggy asks “why haven’t you called Jo?”

Frank’s can’t even maintain the fleeting eye contact anymore. 

This same framing appears a little later in the film, at Irene’s funeral. They stand with a small crowd of people, facing the Priest as he speaks. Like before, Peggy’s medium shot has Frank in the out of focus foreground, and Frank is in a medium shot with no Peggy. But unlike before, where Peggy stared directly at Frank, and Frank’s eye contact with Peggy went from fleeting to non-existent, the opposite is true.

Well, almost. While Frank looks directly at his daughter the way she looked at him all those years ago, Peggy’s eye contact is non-existent. It doesn’t go from fleeting to non-existent the way Frank’s did during her dialogue scene. It just doesn’t start. 

Frank looking at her without her being in his shot indicates that he misses her but still doesn’t understand her, whereas Peggy understands him all too well and doesn’t give him the time of day. 

After a wide shot showing them standing apart at the funeral, the two are never in the same frame again. 

Oh, they’re in the same shot. Two of them, actually. But never in the same frame. Frank in his older age tries to speak to her at her job at a bank (it’s essentially an ambush), but the camera pans from a composition of Frank hobbling towards her in his walker to a composition of her walking away. 

Same shot, segregated frame. 

There’s a shot of Frank as he begs, saying he just wants to talk, followed by a shot of Peggy walking out of his sight. This shot then pans to over Frank’s shoulder.  

Same shot, segregated frame. 

Peggy’s silence is no longer out of a submissive fear but out of a dominant loathing. There’s an overlap of the two found in discomfort; she’s shaking ever so slightly in the funeral scene, indicating her awareness of his presence. But after having to live silently with his horrific behavior, giving him the bare minimum of responses, she now doesn’t respond to him at all. 

She’s gone.