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I watched the Safdie Brothers’ Good Time in awe of the brilliant stupidity of its main character, Connie (Robert Pattinson). It didn’t take very long to realize the film would end with him either in jail or dead, but it was fascinating to see him conjure up impermanent solutions, to see how deep he’d dig that hole.

Uncut Gems has a similarly impulsive and idiotic protagonist in Howard (Adam Sandler). But unlike Good Time, it had me begging for it all to end.

No, not because it’s bad (it’s fantastic). It’s because I wanted this poor, stupid man’s self inflicted misery to be done with. While 1917 had moments where I nearly yelled at the screen to keep the characters going, I spent the entirety of Uncut Gems begging for Howard to just stop.

Amidst a scene where Howard is dealing with debt, business, and working on a problem with his secured door for his jewelry store (there’s a lot of buzzing and yelling in this scene, as there is in much of the movie), he gets a call back from his doctor about a colonoscopy. When this happened, I actually thought “please, God, just give this man cancer so that it all might end.”

There’s another point (that’s probably only halfway through the movie) where Howard is taking his trash and recycling out after a failed night out with his family. The man is still in plenty of his own stupid debt, but even here I thought “you know what? It’ll end here. Because ending it on this scene of him taking the recycling out would…reflect on it being a cautionary tale…about him ruining his family with his debt, how he didn’t put his family first…yeah, that’s it! That’s why it’ll end for Howard now!”

Ending the story there wouldn’t have done anything for Howard’s plight, but our place in viewing his plight would have ended.

And at this point, I would have taken that. But no, on the movie went.

Towards the actual end of the movie, this process of clinging onto certain thematic and narrative devices as “yeah, the movie can end on this scene” only continued. This is, again, not a knock against the quality of the movie, just wanting it to end in some way for this poor moron.

He’s making amends with his girlfriend that he got in a fight with? Ending it here would reflect on the cyclical nature of their relationship, and thus the cyclical nature of his life.

He has a win? Ending it here would reflect on how this is going to motivate his gambling.

Without getting into spoilers, the movie ends precisely when it needs to. But one thing becomes very clear; no matter what happens in his life, good or bad, he’ll be the same old Howard. If things are bad, he’ll get into debt to keep it afloat. And if things are good, he’ll get into debt out of enthusiasm.

Which is to say that it doesn’t matter how the movie ends. Because it’s all bad.

See it immediately.

Jon Favreau’s Lion King remake received mixed reviews, with its detractors calling it artless, soulless, and meaningless. This quote from David Ehrlich’s review more than succinctly sums up the common criticisms of the film-

“Unfolding like the world’s longest and least convincing deepfake, “The Lion King” is meant to represent the next step in Disney’s circle of life, but this soulless chimera of a film comes off as little more than a glorified tech demo from a greedy conglomerate — a well-rendered but creatively bankrupt self-portrait of a movie studio eating its own tail. In other words, it’s more of the same from a company that’s been all too happy to scavenge new spectacles from the carcasses of its most beloved classics.”

The film’s closeness in narrative and visuals make the assertion of creative bankruptcy an understandable one, but one I disagree with. I don’t think the film’s intent of transforming The Lion King into realism (not merely recreating it with “updated” CG animation) is an artless ambition at all. Comparisons to Gus Van Sant’s Psycho are popular, but misguided; in that film, actors were infamously restricted by Van Sant’s desire to do a shot-for-shot remake. With The Lion King, Favreau’s interest in transforming the story with the new form allows for all sorts of opportunities of giving the original masterpiece a new form of life. With the intent is to recreate spirit with a new cast, technology, and, most importantly, form, there’s plenty of room for not only creative opportunity, but creative ambition, and it gives the original masterpiece a new form of life.

It’s important to note that I referred to what Favreau accomplishes with his film as a “new” form of life. Not better, new. While it may not dominate the critical consensus, the idea that “real” art is better than “fake” art is not without its supporters, and it is an idea I loathe. Throughout this piece, I intend to speak to the merits of both the 1994 film and its remake alike, and establish that the realism creates for new dramatic opportunities and re-contextualizes old ones.

Understanding The Opposition

I will not say that the incorporation of realism into this film is 100% perfect. The majority of the musical set pieces worked for me, especially the wonderful “I Just Can’t Wait To Be King” (which I will briefly touch on), but “Be Prepared” was lacking, and there were a few shots in Hakuna Matata that felt similarly lacking. And while I think the way the film harmonized the emotions of the characters with how animals would realistically express their emotions effectively, I completely understand why people would think them soulless. The film walks a very fine line in that regard.

And I will not, for one second, pretend that Disney funded the $260 million budget for this film out of artistic charity. So when I use the term “artistic ambitions” later, I’m not exactly pretending these were the only intentions behind making the movie. Disney wanted to remake one of their most profitable classics for obvious reasons.

But Favreau’s ambitions with the film are no mere tech demo aspirations, nor is the film some simple HD upgrade. His interest in applying realism to the film not only led to effective translational changes but led to ambitions within the text of the film; the themes, the characters, their dynamics, and so on.

Even if you don’t like the film, I hope I’ll at least convince you of that.

Art within Reality

The closest the film gets to a consistently shot-for-shot remake is the opening sequence, which, barring some brief new moments and removed/reorganized shots, essentially fits the bill. But there are changes, and while they’re not as significant as the ones I’m going to describe later, they help this scene serve as a sort of rosetta’s stone for how the film translates to the new form, as well as reflecting the intentions behind these formal ambitions.

The opening shot of the film is one of many such moments. It’s the only photographic shot in the film, the rest being “filmed” on a virtual reality set. Unlike the original, the sun has not risen yet when the shot begins; we sit in silence overlooking the horizon. Like the original, the music kicks in when the sun rises.

This distinction, however minor, reflects what Favreau is aspiring for; he’s trying to use realism as the starting point and show the spirit and narrative of The Lion King can be found within that realism.

To further establish this point, I won’t analyze every single shot of each of both scenes; I will simply get into a few moments.

The first two animal shots in the original (the rhino shot and then the shot of the antelope) have the heads of the respective animals initially out of frame; it isn’t until they look up that we see their faces. Their heads rising allows for a dynamic value to the shot.

In the remake, the camera is set up as though filmmakers were simply watching these animals, waiting to see how they’d respond to the sun. The rhino is in a simple wide shot, looking down as it eats, and looks up to take note of the sun. The antelope shot is much closer to the animal than the rhino shot was, necessitating the camera to move to follow the action of its head rising.

Just as we saw the horizon before the sun rose, we get a brief glimpse of the animal life inhabiting their own world before they fulfill their action from the original film, and I don’t find this droll or lifeless. I see it as harmonization of narrative and documentary, and it all comes back to that opening shot. Rather than the sun illuminating and giving life to the image, we’re seeing the life a liiiittle bit before we see it in the original, to establish the realism as a precedent and the fact that the art and narrative can be found within it. The narrative is still being conveyed, and a distinct beauty has been formed.

Going further with this idea of “art within the real”, another sequence relatively early in the film that personifies what Favreau is attempting to accomplish with the film artistically, and it’s one of my favorite moments in the entire film. It’s when Rafiki paints Simba’s likeness in his tree.

Like most beats in the film, this is right from the original. But there’s an important distinction. Rather than finger painting as he did in the original, he discovers some insects converging in an area and then organizes them. After he’s finished, he blows some pigment onto them, and after moving them away, Simba’s likeness is there.

I don’t bring up this distinction out of some plot based justification for the existence of the movie; the change is not valuable merely because “Rafiki did the thing differently.” What Rafiki does is both redefined by the realism in a sort of translational sense; he couldn’t “realistically” finger paint, and thus the film had to find a way of him painting Simba’s face within those confines.

But it’s also, again, reflective of the thesis of of the film, of what Jon Favreau’s artistic ambitions with it were.

Like Rafiki, Favreau is using realistic life to create art.

Informing The Drama

The two previous scenes that were mentioned spoke to the sort of translational artistry going on in the film in a more basic sense; they’re significant, but what the film aspires for goes beyond that to the point of informing the drama and the themes.

This is more readily seen in the characterization of Scar. The realism inspires a few changes in his introductory scene, and they fundamentally redefine his character.

Just as in the original film, the scene following the Circle of Life sequence features a mouse minding his own business, only to be interrupted by a hungry Scar. But in the remake, there’s an important difference to be found in the emphasis on the mouse.

In the original film, we get a short little shot of the mouse crawling around, only for him to look up and immediately be caught under Scar’s paw.

(Kinda like the tragic meeting of two pop culture icons in Bambi Meets Godzilla.)

This emphasis on the mouse is slightly disorienting (in a good way). We’re enjoying the scene, but its narrative relevance isn’t clear until Scar’s paw lands. The dramatic function of the mouse essentially amounts to “why are watching this cute mou-oh, OKAY”

But this isn’t the case in the remake. The mouse maintains its own presence in the remake, its own thematic significance. Rather than the 9 seconds of solo screen time he gets in the original, the little guy gets a a lovely little minute long sequence, beautifully accompanied by Zimmer’s score, in which it’s doing its thing. Searching for food, exploring the colorful, world around it, having a grand time.

As with the opening Circle of Life scene, this sequence is utilizing a documentary style as a means of giving life to the world we are inhabiting; it is a life in balance.

This is significant because the upcoming reveal of Scar directly contrasts this beauty and liveliness, and suggests he will contribute to an imbalance.

The mouse is dangling on a colorful flower against a darkness that Scar emerges from, dominating the frame. The pleasant music is gone in lieu of something more horror centric to capture the mouse’s fear of Scar. The little mouse runs around, trying to hide from the monologuing predator.

The rest of the scene plays out closer to the original, with Zazu interrupting Scar’s “hunt”, allowing the mouse to escape. While Scar attempting to eat Zazu in the original is a brilliant comic moment, the image of Zazu’s beak sticking out of Scar’s mouth is, obviously, not something that can be realistically conveyed. But the impossibility of conveying that exact moment in the exact way is not a weight on the new film; Scar attempting to eat Zazu is a more consistently horrifying moment here, with Mufasa’s intervention having higher stakes. His interest in being a hunter and his supposed power earlier in the scene when pursuing the mouse is effectively shut down by Mufasa.

The realism has influenced Scar’s presence in a number of ways. With the documentary exploration of the environment with the mouse, he has an almost metaphorical presence of death. But on top of this, certain moments don’t play out the same dramatically, and they lead to greater tension and stakes in what was originally a primarily playful scene.

Essentially, the realism leads to a greater dramatic emphasis on Scar’s failed meals. The greater dramatic emphasis means they, well, matter more to Scar. This, in turn, leads to Scar having a stronger interest in physical power and being a hunter.

This is very much unlike the original Scar. In the original, he isn’t upset by Mufasa’s interruption; he’s simply playing around in his own, demented way. While he would have been more than happy with killing Zazu, and his attempt still plants the seeds of his coup, it wouldn’t have fulfilled some deeper need of his.

As such, Scar’s response to Mufasa’s aggression in the original, when he says “I wouldn’t dream of challenging you”, has a confidence about it because he’s legitimately uninterested in physical strength. Being a hunter isn’t his endgame. He just wants to enjoy the freedom and respect that comes with being King, and will use his intellect to achieve it.

When he delivers the line in the remake, not only is he essentially cowering, the line “again” obviously signifies that he tried to be king through the “proper” channels before. His failure to defeat Mufasa reflects on his failure at being a tough lion, and his need for his intellect become a means of compensating for that failure.

It’s through this scene that the film’s interest in realism begins to really stand on its own legs. It has implications on the tone, and on the characerization of Scar.

Just Can’t Wait To Show You This Scene

It’s worth noting that the realism doesn’t merely make the film darker as it did with those moments with Scar. I think the most brilliant means of contrasting the original with the remake can be found in “I Just Can’t Wait To Be King”. The original sequence is abstract, beautiful, and full of life, emphasizing on the distinct animal life that overwhelms Zazu and enlightens Simba and Nala.

The same can be said of the remake, minus the word “abstract.” Favreau said he wanted the distinct animal legs to sort of feel like they were trees in an abstract forest, thus allowing for the vibrant beauty of the original to be captured in this new realism. The way Simba and Nala interact with each of the different species are distinctly playful and all bring their own life and vibrancy to the scene.

The Stampede 

Another scene that stood out dramatically in the remake was the stampede and the death of Mufasa. While there are certain dramatic changes in the scene that are informed by the realism, there are elements in this scene that also effectively follow up on ideas I previously mentioned regarding Scar.

First, I want to touch on the brilliance of the stampede sequence in the original. The way that the wildebeest are personified is astonishing; it’s as though they’re a force of nature, a flood of bullets, positively innumerable in their scope and terrifying in their individual danger. This treatment of them like a flood is effectively personified in moments like from 2:54 to 3:05 in in the scene I just linked to; Mufasa is trying to find the right place to run against the current, and is suddenly, violently stopped by a single wildebeest. There’s also the shot at 3:37, where Mufasa is being carried off by the flood.

There’s also a musical cue in between 1:42 and 1:44 that reminds me of cue from a conceptually similar sequence in Snow White, where you have a similar personification of elements through animals and vice versa.

Now. For the remake’s stampede.

The personification of the stampede as a “flood of bullets” is not present here. Per the emphasis on realism, it’s “just” a stampede of wildebeest. But the lack of this kind of personification doesn’t mean that the scene is artless or devoid of its own distinct drama; it’s not from a flood of bullets, but from the fact that this is a massive group of terrified, unpredictable animals, and the madness that ensues from that. The scene has the same musical cue from the original that I thought was similar to the Snow White one, and it’s also used as a means of exemplifying the threat of the stampede. But as the cue seems to be related to the relation of animals as natural occurring elements, and the stampede in the remake is not the “flood of bullets” that I described the original as, the use of nature for this cue is found in the madness, whirlwind and dust flying that results from the stampede. And so we see that weather and animal are still being united with this cue, even if not in the same way.

So, when Mufasa jumps into this group of animals, he’s not bravely traversing a current of bullets, he’s an animal bravely jumping among animals.

Here, he doesn’t find a place to run against the animals in the opposite direction. In this context, that would be foolish. What we instead have is the King of the Pride Lands running among his prey to save his son, and at 2:23 in the remake video, we’re given a still intense but more triumphant score; it’s a key musical theme from both the original and remake (I think it’s Mufasa’s theme but I’m not positive; I just know it’s from both films), and it’s played here on steroids. It’s Hans Zimmer compounded.

It’s also a score that wouldn’t work with the original film’s consistent, overwhelmingly horrific portrayal of the stampede. But in the remake, the theme reflects the bravery of the King as he traverses this stampede of terrified animals, using his place as their predator and King to scare some out of his way with his roar. The shots of Mufasa among the herd are shot with handheld cinematography from Simba’s perspective. 

The scene of Mufasa picking up Simba in his mouth and taking him to safety is also effectively contrasted thanks to the realism. In the original shot, at around 3:22, we see Simba’s small body centered in the frame of the innumerable wildebeest, with Mufasa unexpectedly but smoothly emerging from the background to get him.

When Simba is picked up in the remake, the realism redefines the moment in a few significant ways. Rather than Simba being in the center of an idealized, almost expressionistic personification of a stampede, he’s frozen in the middle of a real one. And Mufasa, rather than smoothly emerging from the background to signify his understanding of the environment, we’re given a handheld moment of vicious desperation as Mufasa violently emerges into the frame and grabs his son, once more roaring in an attempt to frighten off the nearby wildebeest. And when he’s knocked away after getting Simba to safety, he’s not carried off by the river, he’s hit by one unpredictable animal among many.

Now we’re getting back to Scar.

In the original, when Mufasa is climbing the cliffside, the artificial nature of the style permits for Mufasa to be climbing in a way that’s not “realistic” but that we can dramatically buy in the context of the film. As he’s holding on desperately to the cliffside, the drama of Scar’s presence is that he’s standing by indifferently, not helping his helpless brother. And with this “long live the king” moment, Scar grabbing Mufasa’s claws is essential to Scar’s plan to murder him, allowing him to throw Mufasa off the cliffside.

There are many key distinctions in the remake, and these are not simply informed by the realism, but call back to the thematic distinctions that the realism created that I mentioned earlier.

Firstly, the realism of the remake wouldn’t allow for Mufasa to be desperately clinging onto the cliffside the way he is in the original. As such, Scar is not going to be standing by indifferently as his helpless brother pleads for help. Rather, Mufasa is clearly on his way to freedom, and this time, he’s not in genuine need of Scar’s help, but Scar is now standing in his way.

The way Scar stares at him is a different sort of unsettling. I can’t help but be reminded of a school shooter, or of Dylann Roof’s mugshot. And when he grasps onto Mufasa’s claws, this is not essential to his plan to murder him; the only thing he “needs” to do to kill Mufasa is swat at him. So this time, he grasps his claws onto Mufasa’s so he can instead relish in the pain he’s inflicting, because he again, wants to be a “big, tough hunter.” And when he does his pathetic little swat, the only reason this leads to Mufasa’s death is because it disorients Mufasa at a time when he can’t afford to be.

As we see, the realism changes the drama of Mufasa’s presence on the cliffside, and thus changes the drama when he dies. This drama, in turn, calls back to how Scar wants to be (and fails to be) that big, tough hunter, which was informed by tonal shifts in his introduction because of the realism. This interest and failure leads to how he newly murders Mufasa; his swat is pathetic, but that’s sort of the point; we’ve seen his failure as a hunter and for his swat to be anything more than briefly disorienting would contradict that failure.

But that moderately disorienting swat made all the difference. Mufasa may have been on his way to freedom with his own strength, but he still needed every ounce of his strength to get there.

Once more, the realism redefines the drama of the scene while also calling back to themes that were established by it.

Scar and The Hyenas

A scene with Scar and the hyenas once more reinforces Scar’s ultimate failure as a hunter and how his intellect got him to the position of king.

Following Hakuna Matata, we cut back to the Pride Lands and how Scar’s rule is damaging them.

In the original, overhunting isn’t referenced, though obviously implied. But in the remake, given Scar’s interest in being a hunter, we once again see this desire on screen, as well as his failure to achieve it. In the clip I linked to above, starting at about :14, we see Scar hunting among the hyenas, but he’s not really doing his part. He slows down after not very long, letting the hyenas do the deed, and we simply see him relishing in their handiwork at 2:24. He can’t do the actual work, but he loves being in power and the image that comes with it.

Back to Art Within Reality

The exploration of environment in a documentary style occurs again in the scene when Simba’s hair makes its way to Rafiki.  The original journey of Simba’s hair to Rafiki is wonderful, and it’s very simple, not consisting of much more than 3 or 4 shots before Rafiki grasps it.

But this journey becomes its own scene in the remake, being much longer and showing different means of travel in that documentary style, showing that the realism, the life is what is helping Simba’s journey to his rightful place as king.

There are two more moments that I’d like to touch on before getting back to Scar and wrapping up this piece, both of which are found in Mufasa’s spirit speaking to Simba from the clouds.

The primary difference of this scene is that the shape of Mufasa’s face is illuminated inside the clouds by lightning. As with the opening shot and Rafiki painting Simba’s face by way of the bugs, this is again reflective of the art being found within the real.

But there’s also an important distinction to be found in how the scene ends; when Mufasa’s clouds wither away, and he says “I never left you, I never will”, and we see a sunrise that Simba can now see once the clouds have dissipated.

This shot is reinforcing the themes here of Mufasa being found in the Circle of Life, and how just as the sun will always rise, so will Mufasa always be there, even if Simba can’t see him.

Scar’s Failure As A Hunter, Complete

In the original, Scar’s last moment is reflected primarily as a failure of his intellect, with the hyenas not listening to him as he tries to explain his way out of the situation. The shot starts out with him and his voice alone, and both his physical presence and voice are overwhelmed by the number of Hyenas. He’s one lion amidst an army that won’t listen to him, and the failure of his voice to stand out reflects on the final failure of his intellect. 

In the remake, Scar is able to explain himself; his voice isn’t drowned out, and they clearly “hear him out”, still knowing that he’s full of it. This shows that his death is in part of a failure of his intellect that always got him ahead in life.

His last shot, unlike the original, starts out with the hyenas already in the frame. They’re not built up to the way the original did. With the hyenas already in composition in his last shot, it reflects his willingness to fight them physically, and his failure to do so, reflecting on the failure that matters most to him; his failure as a hunter. While we saw Mufasa make easy work of the entire hyena army earlier in the movie, the hyenas finish off Scar in less time than it took Mufasa to finish them off. His failure as a hunter is reinforced as a failure to accomplish what the true king did early in the film.

This concludes an arc that was defined by and complimentary to the realism established in the film. And once Simba has returned to his rightful place as King, the mouse whose scene introduced us more strongly to this style returns as the rest of the Pride Lands returns to its proper glory. The little guy that Scar was trying to nab at is comfortably back. While the film maintained its naturalism even during Scar’s rule, the distinct beauty the naturalism emphasized on, the beauty that Scar sought to snuff out, is once more dominant.

Once More Understanding The Opposition

As I said previously, I completely understand why people don’t like the movie and the issues people have with it. But I also think this film is the most interesting of Disney’s current slate of remakes, the one that took the most advantage of the sense of “real”, and I think it’s far and away the best.

Even if I didn’t make you enjoy the movie anymore, I hope I at least helped you understand that stance.

 

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. 

“So, my sister and Robbie were never able to have the time together they both so longed for… and deserved. Which ever since I’ve… ever since I’ve always felt I prevented. But what sense of hope or satisfaction could a reader derive from an ending like that? So in the book, I wanted to give Robbie and Cecilia what they lost out on in life. I’d like to think this isn’t weakness or… evasion… but a final act of kindness. I gave them their happiness.”

-Briony Tallis, Atonement

Tarantino didn’t use historical revisionism to create a world where the holocaust didn’t happen in Inglorious Basterds; he simply gave Hitler a more violent end. 

He similarly didn’t use historical revisionism to create a United States without slavery in Django Unchained but rather told the tale of a slave who is freed, saves the girl, and gets his revenge. 

This is because those events were of such a large scope that it’s going to mean similar but different things to people. When discussing the Holocaust, someone might think of the grief associated with the death of their grandmother. Someone might think of their own time in a concentration camp. Someone might think of the guilt associated with their grandfather being a nazi. Similar questions and relations can be brought up regarding slavery.

But when dealing with the night of the Tate murders, the smallness of its scale creates an undeniable specificity to the event, and any revisionism to create a historical revenge fantasy that he’s become known for would presumably require an “undoing” of the event itself. This is different from what he did in Basterds and Django. In those films, people weren’t watching their specific relative kill the specific nazi or slave owner responsible for their death and suffering. In Basterds they watched the man who ordered the nazis to kill their relative get shot in the face. In Django they watched a man who was in a similar situation to their relative get their revenge. 

The point is that their scope allowed for a fantasy that didn’t involve the undoing of the event.

While different people may have responded differently to the Manson murders, the fact remains that five specific people were murdered. 

I pray this doesn’t come as me trying to escalate the horrors of that night in 1969 to that of slavery or the Holocaust, or to try and say that the night in 1969 “wasn’t a big deal because only five people were killed.” I’m merely distinguishing the events, and thus distinguishing the approach Tarantino would have to take.  

With all this in mind, from the time I heard about the movie involving the event, I felt uncomfortable. Seeing a world where Sharon Tate got the upper hand and killed her murderers, or a world where she victoriously killed Charles Manson herself, anything so triumphant would remind us of the triumph-less truth. That the night of August 9th, 1969 was not one of victory, but of a violent loss.  

Having seen the movie an embarrassing number of times now, I’ll just say it’s a good thing that Tarantino’s as good with writing as he is with his over the top violence. 

History and Fiction, Stuntman and Actor, Everyday Legends  

In Hollywood, Tarantino explores the contrast of history and fiction (and their unification through historical fiction) with great reverence and fascination, perhaps more than any of his other historical fiction. He goes as far as broadening the subject to the contrast of “real” and “fake”, thus allowing him to embed the subject in the contrast of his two leads, stuntman Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt) and actor Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio). This contrast and unification is everywhere, from their personalities, social status, and the nature of cinema itself. 

This contrast is also found in what they do for the majority of the film. Even the setup of the majority of the film speaks to this contrast; it is a day in the life of a legendary place, making the extraordinary ordinary and the ordinary extraordinary. 

(The title is, after all, Once Upon A Time….In Hollywood.)

The drama of Dalton’s day is found in his villainous role on the pilot for Lancer. As what he is partaking in is fiction, he’s able to be evil without the repercussions (to an extent, one he doesn’t push). So the drama is found then not in the morality of his actions; they’re instead found in his place as an actor going up against a new star, and confronting the insecurity that comes with that. 

The drama of Booth’s day is found in something he has to confront in the “real world”, and is thus based in morality. He’s genuinely worried about the safety of an old friend, and puts his own life in danger out of this concern. Rather than having the luxury of being a bad guy for a job, he has the duty of doing the right thing for its own sake. 

Of course, even this “real world” drama is all fake. Brad Pitt is not actually Cliff Booth, and thus his life is not actually in danger. This speaks to the dilemma found in the portrayal of Sharon Tate and the night she and her friends were murdered. There’s a moral obligation both in the sense of undoing the wrong that was done, as well as a moral obligation in understanding that it is still fiction. Tarantino’s film has to acknowledge the horror of that night, and it has to acknowledge that the victims will still be dead when the credits role. 

And he does. The offscreen history lingers throughout the onscreen fiction. When the leads first drive to Dalton’s house, the camera lingers on the street sign for Cielo drive. It haunts us because we know what happened there. Similarly, there’s an incredible discomfort when Charles Manson first appears in the film. His face is obscured for most of the scene, and the moments when we see it directly practically feel like a jump scare in their brevity and intensity. 

(Poor Damon Herriman). 

And, of course, in one of the more lovely moments, Margot Robbie’s Sharon Tate watches the real Sharon Tate on screen as though watching herself. 

It’s towards the end of the film where the recognition of the history and its distinction from/unification with the fiction really kick into gear. After a time jump of six months, which Dalton and Booth spent in Italy, the two men return home. Having severed their actor/stuntman partnership, Kurt Russell’s narration informs us that the only thing the two men know is that, that night, they’ll have a “good old fashioned drunk.”

Throughout the next scene, Tarantino plays around with our understanding of the history and uncertainty of what awaits us with the fiction. Going back and forth between the night that Booth/Dalton are having and the one Tate and her friends are, not only does the narration treat these fictional events and historical ones with the same objectivity, but the narration is also coming from a place of reflection. When we see Sharon at a restaurant, the narration speaks of how it was “later reported that it was the hottest night of the year, and it made her feel especially pregnant in all the worst ways.” When we see Booth and Dalton drinking, the narration says they “drank so much that when they left, they left the Cadillac there and took a cab home.” 

In both of these moments, the narration is intentionally speaking of everything, both fictional and historical, from a place where it has already happened, informing us of the night’s weather and of Dalton and Booth’s actions with the same objectivity.  Tarantino uses the narration in this way because, again, he knows that we are aware of the history. He even makes us aware of the future of some of the fiction. 

But we do not know where the historical fiction will go. 

And so when we get closer to the actual event, the narration drops out. 

 After the narration drops out, the fictional Cliff Booth walks his dog Brandy down Cielo drive, and when he’s out of the frame, the historically based Manson murderers drive into it. The camera follows only their car, and their faces are obscured, but we know why they’re there. While the film is again contrasting reality and fiction by having the fictional Cliff Booth leave the frame as the historical characters enter it, the film’s place as historical fiction is further cemented by the next scene; the fictional Rick Dalton walks out to the car, the murderers obscured only until he’s close enough to see them. They are illuminated and now in focus thanks to Dalton’s presence. 

Dalton’s scolding of the drivers leads the history on its way to fiction. The murderers decide to kill him, Booth, and his wife Francesca instead. The scene that takes place, again, speaks to the contrast and unification of the real and fictional, and of the nature of Hollywood. The murderers are dispatched of, and the stuntman Booth does most of the leg work. Not only this, but the purpose of the scene is to fulfill the dramatic function of the fictional story at hand while acknowledging the offscreen truth. Booth brutally attacks the would-be murderers because they want to kill him and his fictional friends, but it’s also providing a taste of vengeance based on real world events. 

Once more complimenting the nature of their friendship and how movies work, Booth doesn’t quite finish them all off. An actor sometimes does at least one big stunt for the camera, and Dalton uses a flamethrower he kept from one of his films to finish off the last of them. While serving a “proper” dramatic function in that he’s using something he keeps around his house (like his posters or other memorabilia), it also fulfills Tarantino’s over the top, old testament style justice based on an historical event. 

After all this, though, they don’t reflect on this the way we might. They don’t realize the horrible event they prevented; after all, they prevented it. When speaking to the police, they speak of it as a bizarre story of breaking and entering, attributing the behavior to their own bizarre prejudices as they call the would-be-murderers “hippy assholes.” 

The movie takes these “legendary” killers and reduces them to assholes who broke into the wrong house. 

The “extraordinary” are made ordinary. 

Murder 

No loss of a loved one (or someone you admire) is easy to endure, so I’m not sure I want to say that murder is the worst form of it. But, at the very least, its distinction from other forms of loss cannot be denied. 

Death is, more often than not, against the will of the person dying. And the death of a loved one is when someone you love is hurt, and you can’t comfort them in their pain. 

In the case of murder, their will is denied by a human being who knows of, who comprehends their victim’s will to live.

It’s not pain resulted from disease or accident, but from malice.  

The murderer knows of that will to live, and they respond to it by saying “no.” 

Living in the aftermath of this kind of death is an awful thing to experience for loved ones. People who have are forced to comprehend the loss of their loved one that came about because of the will of another human being. A human who can comprehend what death means and the effects it will have says “that’s fine.”

It is a horrible thing to be forced to comprehend. 

Life

When Cliff is taken to the hospital for minor injuries from the fight, Rick thanks him for being a good friend. 

This moment is a simple pleasure. The type of pleasure this final scene will be full of. 

Rick then stands outside, alone, only for Jay Sebring to speak to get his attention. Sebring inquires what happened, and Dalton fills him in. They seem to bond over the conversation. We then hear Sharon’s voice over the driveway intercom, horrified by what almost happened to her neighbor but delighted to finally meet him. 

While it is obviously not the real Sharon Tate we hear, we hear the actress that played her without seeing her. 

And so the fiction and the offscreen truth are united. As we did with the significance of certain historical moments in the movie, we get to fill in our own blanks, and we briefly get to live in a world where this horrible event didn’t happen. The will of the murderer is denied, if only in a fleeting, brief way. 

In a movie about a day in the life of legends, the movie becomes a legend by giving Sharon Tate and her friends just another day. 

Tarantino had to keep the treasure of this event being undone both bombastic and simple. But the obligation of keeping it simple doesn’t restrict it. It makes it all the more valuable. 

It makes the ordinary extraordinary. 

What Does This Mean?

So

Yeah

What does this mean? 

I’ve wondered that about Briony’s actions in Atonement, and now I wonder it about Tarantino’s revisionism in Hollywood.

This question is, of course, relevant to any and all kind of fiction or fantasy. But in this case, it feel particularly relevant. The night of August 9th, 1969 still happened. Tarantino didn’t undo it. They’re all still gone. Whether or not they can view this kind gesture, this kind fantasy, this kind wish that this is how that night went, I don’t know. 

What I do know is this:

It gave life to a fantasy of life, of another day, that many of us have had, be it for the victims of that night or someone we know. Creating and appreciating this kind of wish for Sharon and her friends seems to only be able to come from a place of love, and that love does not exist in a vacuum. It comes not from a denial of the event, but from an acknowledgement of the life lost, the life they wanted.

The love from creating this fantasy also results in other things, and appreciating it feeds that desire to do these other things, be it in sharing the lives of the loved ones we lost, or in fulfilling their wishes. Taking care of each other. Starting and donating to charities in their name. Telling evil to fuck off. Making art they would love. Making a world they could have lived in. 

In the last, sappy moments of this writing, I’ll say that I hope I’ve done something like that with this writing. If I did, keep it going. If I didn’t, pick up where I left off and make up for my failure. 

And at the end of this writing that uncertainly looked at history, fiction, and remains uncertain about the value of what all this means, I’ll end it with a certainty:

I love you all. 

“Snoke had already turned his heart. He would bring destruction, pain, death, and the end of everything I love because of what he will become. And for the briefest moment of pure instinct, I thought I could stop it!

It passed like a fleeting shadow. 

And I was left with shame, and with consequence. 

And the last thing I saw were the eyes of a frightened boy whose master had failed him.”

I’m not here to try and take down any and all criticisms leveled against Luke’s characterization in The Last Jedi. I’m simply here to say that I couldn’t develop my own appreciation of it until I became sober. 

Isolation 

It’s said that one of the signs of an abusive relationship is the significant other isolating you from friends and family. It feels wrong to characterize my own, personal alcohol consumption as some other being that was hurting me, as it denies my own, personal responsibility in the wrong I had done, but there’s something to be learned from it. 

Alcohol was the lover that isolated me, and it was on its way to being the only friend I had left. 

Isolation is, like most things, fine in moderation of course. Sometimes you need to be alone. Sometimes you need to be alone for a while. Being in rehab and having limited access to the outside world was medicinal, and something I absolutely needed. 

But it’s not difficult for this medicine to become a poison, one that is difficult to stop consuming. In my case, like a shipwrecked man, turning to seawater from uncontrollable thirst, it’s a feedback loop of an awful self pity/loathing. 

“I fucked up and drank last night, therefore I need to isolate myself. I’m isolated, therefore I need to drink.”

Sometimes I’d take out the middle man and just say “I fucked up and drank last night, therefore I need to drink.” 

Towards the end, the middle man was mostly gone.

Kernel of Truth

There are, of course, fleeting glimpses of medicine found in drinking. Unlike giving a dog peanut butter so they take their medicine, think of it more like justifying eating only fast food burgers because of their supposed protein content. 

It’s particularly easy when you’re a male, aspiring writer. The image of the classic American male writer, with glasses, a beard, and a glass of bourbon sitting by a fire as he writes his masterpiece made for easy temptation for this glasses wearing, bearded writer who loves getting drunk. Even now, as I sit here, home alone, 222 days sober on this gorgeous night with a fire brewing, the thought of finishing this sundae with an alcoholic cherry on top does not escape me. 

“You have four hours before Fine Wine and Spirits closes”, I could tell myself. 

“You have no time to poison yourself”, I say instead. 

But this leads to another question; 

“After all you did when you were drunk, and you still want to drink?”

This is one of the sparks that could incinerate those 222 days. 

I could obsess over this, I could dwell on this, and then I could try to drown it. 

Instead, I live with it. I don’t try to run, I don’t try to justify it with self loathing (“I hate it, which means trying to escape it is good”), I acknowledge it and I use it to keep on going. 

Luke’s Lesson 

When I see Luke in his fleeting moment, I’m not upset with him for facing a desire he was supposed to not have anymore, nor do I condemn him for his isolation after Kylo’s retaliation. Thinking you have nothing to do after you’ve so much as wanted to do the thing you’re not supposed to do (or, in my case, doing it) is something I get. I get that the isolation is him feeling like he’s escaping the hole as he digs it deeper, and the deeper you dig it, the sooner you feel you can’t stop. 

But you can. 

You can always stop digging and you can always start fighting again. 

This doesn’t mean you can salvage everything, or even most of everything, but the inability to salvage everything doesn’t mean you don’t save what you can. 

Luke realized this in the end. And that’s why I love his arc. It’s honest, it’s heartbreaking, and it’s redemptive. 

My own personal “arc” may not be as epic as that of a space wizard that saved a galaxy far, far away, and it took me way, way too long to get it started. 

But I did. And I’m gonna keep it going. 

I touch on what the final 30 minutes of this movie consist of 

When hearing about a new Martin Scorsese mob movie that would star DeNiro, Pesci, Keitel and Pacino, my thoughts felt similar to my thoughts on the existence of The Expendables.

I certainly did not think The Irishman would be of the same quality as The Expendables (nor do I). But the “we’re not like other old people, we’ve still got another one in us” attitude of that action movie crossover at the very least lingered in my head. The use of de-aging technology did little to alter this feeling (though, in hindsight, it probably should have).

“I get that they’re old now, but I really want to make another mob movie with the guys, and I’ll use whatever technology I need to make it”, Scorsese said in my head.

….so.

That wasn’t the case.

The Irishman isn’t a movie that’s made despite the place its leads and director are at in their life, but because of it. The de-aging (its use isn’t a game-changer for the technology but it gets the job done) is only here because the movie wants to show us the full adult life of these men. The de-aging helps with the beginning, and the movie doesn’t shy from the middle or the end, going so far as to put the leads in some good old fashioned old people makeup to lengthen their years. 

It’s more than an assumption to propose that they intentionally stretched out the “end” portion. Of its massive runtime, the majority of The Irishman goes by with a quick pace and relative ease; it’s the last 30 or so minutes where you really feel it. And that’s a good thing. Confronting everything from loss to struggling with food to picking out your grave, this final half hour wrings out every last detail. And what’s left after a life of murder, crime, and ladder climbing?

Nothing.

What if it’s a life of murder, crime, and ladder climbing done for your family or because you just had to?

Still nothing. 

It’s probably too soon to call The Irishman a masterpiece, but I look forward to the day I can. This is a rich, bleak, beautiful work that is haunting me, and I am loving every moment of this depressing reflection. 

This post contains Ad Astra spoilers.

I’m afraid of deep, dark water because I think a water monster will attack me.

This fear of deep water is not something that was birthed out of a horrific trauma. It’s a silly fear that was simply the result of watching Jaws and Jurassic Park III at age 8 in the summer of 2001 (the latter when I was on vacation with my family near a lake, making the tubing session the next day less than desired).

But it is a fear. One that I can joke about, but a fear nonetheless. I prefer to not be alone when I swim out 20 feet to the anchored dock on my Grandpa’s lake. I also haven’t gone water skiing in years, but I shudder at the thought of treading water by my lonesome as the boat drifts further away, however short a time period that might be.

There is an underwater scene in Ad Astra. On paper, it sounds like the perfect nightmare for someone with a fear like mine. Roy McBride (Brad Pitt) is making his way to sneak onto a rocket, with limited time before it takes off. To get there, he has to to swim along a wire through quite a bit of mostly pitch black water, with occasional illumination by way of orange lights. This illumination reveals no more than McBride and the wire he’s swimming along; he remains primarily surrounded by water and darkness.

On a purely surface level, there’s little about this particular body of deep, dark water that would have made it more comforting than any body of water that I would come across in real life. The tension surrounding the scene would, also on the surface, not seem to help in one’s appreciation for the beauty of the environment at hand.

And yet, here I was, appreciating the beauty of the moment. I felt a sense of calm in this race against time in a place of horror.

I didn’t think much of my appreciation for this scene until the climax of the film.

Roy has reached his target destination of the lima project and encountered his father Cliff (Tommy Lee Jones) for the first time in decades. The station is malfunctioning (or whatever) and causing dangerous electrical surges on Earth. Roy takes it upon himself to destroy the station and try to save his father.

The goal of the project, Cliff’s life’s work, was to find extraterrestrial life. He has not accomplished this goal, and wants to keep trying.

Time has not been kind to Cliff’s psyche. His obsession with finding extraterrestrial life didn’t respond well to this failure to find any. This, in turn, did not respond well to the insistence of his crew members to abandon the project, and so Cliff killed any dissenters. He insults Roy when they see each other for the first time, saying he never cared about Roy, Roy’s mother, their “small ideas”, none of it.

But as Roy suits his father up for the spacewalk to leave the station, Cliff slightly shifts his tone toward his son. His obsession with continuing the lima project continues, but upon realizing all that Roy did to come and find him, Cliff insists that Roy is just the help, just the ambitious mind he needs to keep the search for alien life going.

Amidst his ranting, Cliff begs Roy to not let him fail.

Roy then provides a comforting smile at his murderer of a father who had confessed to abandoning him not 10 minutes prior.

“Dad…you haven’t.

Now we know.

We’re all we’ve got.”

It was here when I articulated the word “contentment” in my head.

Amidst a vast universe, after decades of building space stations and traveling to other planets, Cliff McBride learned there was a limit to our aspirations and that we’re alone. But we still have other each other.

Roy’s father is an abusive madman, one who Roy knows must pay for his crimes, but he’s still his father, and he still wants to save him.

Deep and dark water is by its nature unsafe, and my mind fills that endless blank with untold, sharp toothed creepy crawlies.

But amidst this horror, and in a scene of tension, Ad Astra helped me appreciate the serene beauty that this previous place of horror can provide.

“Contentment” is also a perfect theme for a movie with flaws like Ad Astra. I think some of the dialogue (particularly the voiceover) is wonky, a certain baboon scene was ineffective, and Liv Tyler’s character is thankless.

But it’s also a brilliantly directed movie, with great performances from Pitt and Jones. And it’s a movie that feels, and it feels deeply.

And that’s damn sure good enough for me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are two instances within this decade, that I can recall, which pertain to predictability and emotional investment that have really stood out to me (not including Infinity War). The first I’ll refer to is Girl on The Train, the second being in Gravity (Gravity is my personal favorite movie, the former is…..not.)

For The Girl on The Train, I won’t get into the nitty gritty of the plot (partially because I barely remember it). I will say that I figured out the twist of the movie before the twist was actually revealed. 

I’m not of the opinion that predicting a twist is the end-all-be-all for a mystery in any capacity. If I’m invested enough I’ll still care because I want to see if and how the characters figure it out. 

But my response to Girl wasn’t one of investment in the characters. I didn’t say to myself “oh man Emily Blunt, are you gonna figure it out before it’s too late?”

My response was “please end this movie and get me the hell out of here.”

The Gravity moment is the Aningaaq scene; desperately looking for help via radio on the adrift Soyuz, she comes across an Eskimo named Aningaaq. They don’t speak the same language, but she manages to find comfort in speaking her mind with him as she confronts the (perceived) certainty of her death. 

As she hears a baby cry, she reflects on the death of her own child, saying “I used to sing to my baby.

I hope I see her soon.” 

She then lowers the oxygen levels so she can drift off slowly into death. 

Even putting aside the set piece the marketing had advertised which hadn’t happened yet, I had an implicit understanding that the movie was not going to end in this way. Such understanding didn’t come out in cynicism, some sort of “well, she’s not going to die, so why should I care” mindset. It instead came out as “this can’t be happening. What are you doing? It can’t end like this.” 

My reaction manifested itself pertaining to the emotional low that Stone was in and the need for her to make it out of this. 

When I watch this movie today, as I have many times, it’s probably my favorite scene during the movie and I’ve cried many times watching it. My response isn’t “oh she’s going to make it out of this low and thus the low doesn’t matter”; it is the presence of the low that makes overcoming it all the more important. 

These responses are not perfectly analogous to those felt by some during Infinity War; the point I’m trying to make is that implicit understanding of conflict-resolution in blockbusters doesn’t in and of itself negate emotional investment, while I also completely understand why people don’t care. 

I’m just making the case for the “caring.”

Expectations in Storytelling 

This piece is not going to change any minds for anyone who is emotionally indifferent to the ending of Infinity War in the sense it’s going to make you emotionally invest in it. I’m making a case for why emotional investment despite the knowledge of them coming back is valid. 

“Why does the ending matter? Do you really think Black Panther is gonna stay dead after he started his 1.3 billion dollar franchise? You can’t fool me, Marvel!” 

This is, without question, the single most repeated criticism of Infinity War last year. The ending is shitty and manipulative because they’re going to come back, there’s no “illusion of stakes” thanks to the Spider-Man: Far From Home trailer, and so on. Here are some articles reflecting such criticisms: 

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/avengers-infinity-war-ending-is-dumb_n_5ae201e5e4b04aa23f20d4a5

http://flavorwire.com/613508/the-big-emotional-ending-of-avengers-infinity-war-is-fraudulent-bullshit

These mentalities bring about all sorts of different supposed issues. Some treat Infinity War as something disposable in the sense that the movie solely exists to set up Endgame. Others treat the ending of Infinity War as a priority in the sense that its only narrative significance resides in permanence, making Endgame little more than Marvel’s cowardly fine print. 

My issue with both mindsets is that, in both cases, the narrative being told between the two films is being ignored. 

For one, conflict is not irrelevant because of the presumption or understanding of resolution. I’ve been going through Star Trek: Deep Space 9 recently and I tried applying the “why does the conflict matter, we know it’s going to be resolved” mentality to almost every episode and in every single case it “worked.” 

“Why does it matter that Quark and Odo crash landed on a planet? We know they’re gonna make it back to Deep Space 9. Why does it matter that Chief O’Brien is deemed guilty for a crime he didn’t commit? We know he’s going to make it back to Deep Space 9.” 

And so on. But going further, I’m of the opinion that two of the previously mentioned mindsets (“Infinity War is bad because it’s just set-up” and “Infinity War is a ballsy ending that is ruined by the fact that it’s going to be ‘slithered out of’”), while I disagree with them, shed light on what these two stories at least strive to accomplish on a basic level, as both films utilize current expectations for their narratives. 

Infinity War utilizes the “group” expectation (created by superhero films). Endgame is utilizing the “swan song” expectation (not created by superhero films but recently embraced by them through The Dark Knight Rises and Logan). 

When it comes to expectation, I’m not against them for superhero movies anymore than I am against the expectation of Sherlock Holmes solving a mystery, or Laurie Strode facing off against Michael Myers. They exist. They’re there. And so an inherent dismissal of the basic expectations embraced by the writers and directors of Infinity War and Endgame makes no sense to me. I didn’t hear anyone who saw Logan saying none of it mattered because we knew it was Hugh Jackman’s last movie as the character and thus he was going to save the day in some redemptive way or another. 

The presence of further MCU films after Endgame doesn’t negate any of this; just because I know Peter Parker is coming back and I know that this is Chris Evans’ last bout as Captain America doesn’t mean I’d simply be content with Chris Evans showing up before Far From Home and saying “hey guys, my contract was up so I won’t be playing Cap anymore, but don’t worry, we kicked Thanos’ ass, undid the snap, and that’s why Peter’s okay! Enjoy Spider-Man” in place of an actual movie.

I’m here to see them stick the landing. 

Fulfilling Expectations Through Narrative

Expectations are, of course, not enough. Really, to say they’re “not enough” doesn’t even begin to establish how insufficient they are. It’s not even fair to call them a recipe; that would be the narrative. 

As many have pointed out and the writers/directors themselves have attested to, Infinity War fulfills its culmination expectation by centering the narrative on Thanos, while highlighting a decade’s worth of characters. It’s this focus that gives the singular nature of each movie some sense of meaning; as opposed to most Part 1/Part 2 blockbusters (or at least Deathly Hallows, the only one I particularly care about), the existence of the two parts, at least thus far with Infinity War, doesn’t feel like the filmmakers saying “alright, we’ve done as much plot as we can for one movie, you’ll have to wait until next time for the rest.” Despite the obvious set-up for the conflict of Endgame (because, yes, there’s no way the characters are going to stay dead), there is a sense of conclusion to the this particular story. It’s a cliffhanger, but there’s no fade to white after Thanos’ snap with a “To be continued………” title card. 

Thanos’ goal was completed. The culmination failed. Even the vast majority of the MCU roster couldn’t stop him. He won.  

Allowing a sense of conclusion would appear to fall back on viewing Endgame as cowardly fine print, but it is this relative conclusion that opens up an opportunity for contrast and symmetry between the two halves. Infinity War is Thanos’ movie, Thanos’ snap; Endgame belongs to the Avengers. Thanos wins in Infinity War, placing the Avengers in a need for redemption in Endgame. 

If you’re going to have two halves, they need to be individual, and they need duality. That Infinity War is telling its own story, which correlates with a second half is, frankly, what we should want from a two-parter. 

Of course, in order for this to mean anything, there has to be a dramatic meaning in Infinity War and a thread between the two films that is notably present within Infinity War. 

This is the most important element. It’s what gives Infinity War it’s singular nature while dramatically connecting it to its successor. 

The initial dramatic meaning for the ending is simple; the effectiveness is in seeing the characters respond to what’s happening around them. The different dynamics between particular characters’ reactions is expressed through their relative emotions, and seeing them thrust into this situation which will motivate their later actions. This is powerful. 

There’s also the correlation between the two films. This can be found in Doctor Strange, Tony, and the latter’s relationship with Steve Rogers, and I’ll establish later that the dramatic significance of the scene (what does it mean for the characters) is directly related to the narrative and understanding of conflict in the second film. I’m establishing here that, once more, Infinity War’s ending is not something to be slithered out of. The ending maintains significance to the characters because of Endgame.

Doctor Strange’s Objective Assertion and Subjective Reflection 

We’ll get Doctor Strange out of the way first. His work is the most obvious, but I’m bringing it up to appropriately set up the discussion for Tony. 

There are four key scenes in Infinity War that correlate with the dramatic set up for Endgame. They are;

A. His confrontation with Tony before they go to Titan, where he asserts that if it comes down to it that he’ll let Stark and Parker die when it comes to the fate of the time stone and universe. 

B. Looking in the future and learning of the 14,000,604 ways they lose and the 1 way they win. 

C. Specifically giving up the time stone to save Tony from Thanos.

B. The last words before his death, where he tells Tony “there was no other way.” 

The first scene is an objective assertion of a theoretical scenario. “If this has to happen, I will do this.” It’s in a tense scene with Tony, at a point in the film where they’re not exactly buddy-buddy. 

It’s easy to say you’ll let someone die to save the universe when you think they’re being an arrogant dick. It’s less easy when you look into the future and know that death awaits him. 

(And yes, this is under the presupposition that Tony and/or Cap are going to die in Endgame)

It’s what makes Strange’s horror as he gives up the time stone and his last words to Tony all the more effective, because in the latter scenario he’s not cowardly falling back on the promise he made to Tony; he’s overcoming his newfound friendship with (and respect for) Stark and putting him on a path that’s going to lead him to death. 

Rather than contrasting Infinity War’s theme of people giving up loved ones for the sake of the universe, the scene affirms it. 

This is what gives the final line of the movie the dramatic relevance to Endgame. When he says “there was no other way” he’s not speaking of the current horror with genocide, he’s speaking of a horror that awaits.

(So, clearly, the filmmakers must have something in mind dramatically if they’re telegraphing the fact that the genocide will be undone as much as they did when they literally had one of the characters tell us it’s going to be undone)

Tony’s Personal Wants and the Greater Good 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hEIexwwiKKU&t=4s

https://youtu.be/dFomwoVngOI?t=109

Infinity War functions, among many things, as a feature length expansion of the seed planted in the opening scene of Iron Man. The former opens with Tony embracing his personal wants, drinking some liquor and reminiscing about his sexual escapades. It concludes with him being surrounded by death and violence, bringing him up close and personal with the violence he’s been profiting from. This plants the seed for his use of technology to fight all this, and his giving up of personal wants for a greater good. 

Infinity War establishes a similar dichotomy, but in a manner that shows growth. But a stunted growth. It’s not dissimilar to Tony’s justification of why he’s allowed to embrace his hedonism at the beginning; “I’m making technology for the good guys, therefore I can embrace my wants.” 

It’s a growth that reflects a desire to deny the need for the growth. His denial of hedonistic desires like drinking and sleeping around with maxim models has been replaced with doing right by Pepper, wanting to start a family, and so on.

“I’ve saved the world a bunch of times, my technology is as good as it’ll ever be, and my personal want is more mature than it was before, therefore I can embrace my wants.” 

Infinity War working as a feature length extension of the opening scene of Iron Man goes further. It’s not just Tony that’s evolved; it’s the scope of the cinematic universe itself. We’ve gone from the first scene of the cinematic universe to the culmination itself. It’s part of why Tony feels content with being able to settle down with Pepper; it’s not just his technology that’s evolved drastically, it’s the presence of other heroes. 

And despite all this, they still lose this battle. 

Tony’s the best man he can be, his technology is the best he can be, and he still ends up where he was when he started this journey.

It’s why he’s in denial throughout his final scene on Titan.

“Steady Quill.”

“You’re alright.” 

It’s his way of saying “This can’t be happening. 

I’m the best me I can be, my technology is the best it can be. 

This can’t be happening.” 

It could be argued that this is all fine and dandy, but ending Infinity War as a singular story without a Part 2 would have been better because it would have been a tragic reversal. Having him lose permanently in this scene would have only complimented the set-up established by the Iron Man scene. This is a fine thing to argue, but, as I will establish, I don’t think it negates what is being accomplished dramatically with the set-up of the part 2, because with that context in mind.

The Civil War Rages On 

This “I can still have what I want and do the right thing” mindset of Tony’s only becomes more pronounced when you compare him with his Civil War counterpart. 

Both he and Cap end their first movies with a presumed sacrificial act. They both survive this act, but between the two of them, only one of them gave up something. Tony started his relationship with Pepper, Steve had to say good-bye to a relationship with Peggy. The absoluteness of this sacrifice, that he actually gave something up (something Tony has yet to do for the entire MCU) is what serves as the foundation for their differences. Steve is an absolute throughout the MCU; his moral foundation and ideals remain consistent. 

Tony, on the other hand, doesn’t take time to think, he just reacts. His stance in the six years between Iron Man 2 and Civil War has shifted from one end of a spectrum to another. It’s indicative of how he feels about everything; 

“A bad thing happened, I must do whatever my emotions tell me to do in this moment.” 

I think this lack of an absolute sacrifice on Stark’s part is what influences this. Because he’s never had to give something up the way Steve has, he’s always trying to run from that possible loss. Every time something bad happens, he needs to find the quickest, easiest, and “best” way to stop the bad thing because there’s always the possibility of him actually having to give up something. Conversely, the presence of an absolute sacrifice on Cap’s part matured him. He already gave something up, so he’s not motivated by the fear of having to give it up again; he’s only motivated by doing the right thing. 

This is what makes the final battle in Civil War so effective thematically. Tony’s all about satisfying his current lust for revenge, whereas Cap is trying to protect his innocent friend. Worth noting is that Cap doesn’t let his desire to protect his friend evolve into a lust for revenge; he’s only trying to cripple Tony’s suit so he can’t kill Bucky. He’s not angry at Tony. He’s sympathetic, and still wants to do the right thing here. It’s not bias, it’s being just. 

The dramatic significance of this is that Endgame will be able to use the relationship between the two men as a means of resolving Tony’s desire to have his cake and eat it too. It can do this in one of three ways:

1. The two make amends with Cap sacrificing himself and Tony appreciating the sacrifice by giving up a life as Iron Man and spending his life with Pepper, acknowledging the life Cap gave up and doing right by Pepper. 

2. Cap sacrifices himself and Tony acknowledges that he’s been a sacrificial character the whole time and, also, sacrifices himself. This is another means of acknowledging the man Cap was the whole time. 

3. Tony sacrifices himself so that Cap can live the life he never had the chance to. (This can be either through the time stone ending that was rumored last year to reconcile with Peggy or starting a relationship with Sharon Carter). 

Tony’s Choice 

I’ve heard it argued that Tony’s death has been telegraphed too hard for him to actually die in Endgame. Thanos almost killing him in Infinity War, him waiting to die in midst of space in the trailer, etc.  

If Tony dies, what I think this telegraphing means is that death is not something that is going to just happen to Tony. 

He’s not going to be killed, he’s not going to just die because he ran out of food and water. 

It’s going to be a choice he has to make. 

He’s going to have to actively make the choice to give up his life. 

It’s gonna be him, or Cap. 

What All This Means

So with all this in mind, what does the ending of Infinity War accomplish dramatically?

It’s a call to arms. 

Tony is watching his friends and his protege die; he’s watching his worst fears brought to life. And as he watches this, he’s reminded of the horror that awaits him. 

It’s the universes way of telling him to “put up or shut up.” 

He still has a conflict and choice that await him. Whether it’s Cap or Tony that dies, at least one of them is going to die, and it’s a choice these characters have to make, and nothing, not the Far From Home trailer, not Chadwick Boseman’s contract with Marvel, nor Scott Derrickson directing Doctor Strange 2 can do a thing to take away from that. 

They can’t answer the question of how the characters are going to get out of this. 

Only Endgame can. 

And I can’t wait to see how it answers them.