September 8, 2003

As it progressed, this weekend in Toronto felt more and more like a weekend of broken dreams ...

The troubles come in various degrees. The least problematic being a small backlash against Lost in Translation, which had been nearly unanimously praised until the last couple of days. It's not that there is any less love, in perspective, for the film than before. But somehow, the opportunity to dissent turns some people on. (And of course, there are those who simply like movies with more of a storyline ­ a whole separate issue.)

THE NEXT SMALL STEP towards the negative is for Love Actually: The Work In Progress, which screened here Sunday night for an enthusiastic and appreciative audience. The film, whether they change a single frame (or byte, since we saw the film projected digitally) or not, is going to be a success. There is no question. Richard Curtis is the current master of this form of film comedy - as a writer. Four Weddings & A Funeral, the adaptation of Bridget Jones's Diary, The Tall Guy, Notting Hill and now, Love Actually. A great run of films. And all the charm of those pictures is on display here.

However, he is also a first-time director here and it does show. There are not a whole lot of overt problems in his direction, but there are a number of occasions where his work as a writer is less successful than it deserves to be because his director just doesn't have the tools he will, I'm sure, some day have. But the bigger problem is the room that one tends to get as a writer-director. Watching Love Actually, one gets the feeling that Curtis heard a lot of "yes" and not nearly enough "no."

There are eight concurrent stories in ". That makes it by far Curtis' most ambitious piece of writing. And I can well understand why he would be so ambitious. After all, every one of these stories is smart, clever and full of promise. He could have done any one, two, three or four of them in his sleep. And that would probably have been a much better idea for someone attempting to direct a film for the first time. Because one of the things that happens in a good writer/director relationship is the creative tension between the person of words and the person of the bigger visual and written picture. Yes, as a writer, you have a visual sense of your script. But there is something to filmic language that demands a different set of tools. People are touting Sofia Coppola's screenplay for Lost in Translation for awards, but as good as the words are, I can't really consider separating them from her visuals.

I'm not going to get into too many details about Love Actually. You don't need to know and I don't need to tell you. But the trouble telling eight concurrent stories is that while they can all have great beats and special moments, any traditional screenwriter - which Curtis certainly is - eventually looks to create a second and third act for each storyline. Second acts are often the hardest, since you have neither the freshness of the new nor the thrill of the completion of the journey to work with. And having 8 second acts is a pretty tall order for one movie - especially when half the stories are really not three act stories, but rather just elongated punchlines extended into "complete" stories. The problem is, all eight stories are treated in the same way.

To be a little clearer, the Keira Knightly, the Liam Neeson and the Kris Marshall sequences are really set-up, punch-line, sweet conclusion pieces. There is nothing inherently wrong with them. I quite like them all. But they don't have the depth, in particular, of three of the other segments and there is no signal of that to the audience. In the middle is the Colin Firth sequence, which has more build that those three, but is still a bit of set-up, punchline, resolution. Finally, the Hugh Grant, the Emma Thompson/Alan Rickman and Laura Linney sequences are built to carry a complexity and richness that the others are not. The problem there is that none of them have enough time to really develop fully. And, in fact, both the Rickman/Thompson and Linney storylines are left hanging just as they get to the emotional vein that screams for significant additional screen time. I mean, they literately stop dead in their tracks. There may well have been more to them, but I would not be surprised if extended sequences damaged the pace of the film and the decision was made to stick with the happiness.

The one sequence I haven't mentioned, which is one of my favorites, is the Bill Nighy stuff. It is really funny and really smart and deeply honest. But it is also feels like the rubber cement of the piece, flowing all over the movie, but concentrated only in a few special spots. But again, it isn't used that way now.

The effect of all of this is the difference between a good movie and a truly great, perhaps legendary, romantic comedy. Every story works, but they are stuck together the way a nine-year-old does a woodshop project. The sharp edges of nails and the unbalanced angles and splinters hang out all over the place. But you forgive it all because you like these people so much.

If I were in Working Title's shoes, I would reexamine the cut. I would unbalance the various storylines. I would open with the wedding and the chorus singing "All You Need Is Love" and let that play on through credits, somewhat like The Big Chill. I would consider dumping a few of the music cue gags, which are a Curtis signature, but displayed here to excess. I would be more careful about doing fat jokes in a movie that devotes a lot of time to being sensitive to the beauty of a woman who is not rail thin.

And then there is the third act, which may be unfixable with what's been shot. The sense that there is true genius in this film would come, I think, with a closer that truly brings all eight stories together without making it feel like an absurd unreality. It is a huge request and I am not sure that I have ever seen any movie come close to making it happen. Even the frogs in Magnolia were more thematic than about story. But indeed, that was what would have satisfied me.

If all eight stories were not compelled to come together in the third act, the load would be lightened enormously - because it may be impossible to do all eight. So instead, we get four of the stories just kind of petering out, three coming to a head in one joined sequence, one having its own stand-alone close. The result is that the film kind of stumbles at the finish line instead of coming in super strong.

Again, Love Actually is a good movie that will do strong business and be well liked if they don't change a frame. But in the back of my mind, I know that Harvey Weinstein would unquestionably ride this movie to a Best Picture nomination. Though it has sickened me in the past, his hard ass attitude about cutting his movies would be welcome here. All the elements are there. But somehow, I don't see that happening here. And as a result, I saw a movie that I really like, but am having a hard time loving, actually.

THE NEXT STEP DOWN gets a little tougher, but mostly on the Awards level.

21 Grams is a remarkable movie. Critics will praise it to high heaven and as indie films go, it is very, very strong.

It is also one of the most unusual films you will ever see. Its story structure depends on taking the audience in unexpected directions over and over again. But that's not a clear enough comment. There is no real three-act structure unless the audience creates one in their own heads by believing that what you are seeing in the story means one thing - and then, the act change is really when you come to believe that you believe something else completely. We have all been told that 21 Grams is the weight of the human soul, but in the first act of this movie, 21 Grams seems to be about the weight of cocaine. And that's how it is meant to be. In the second act, it means something else again.

There is a downside to this - after the audience realizes that they are experiencing this kind of cleverness, it starts to anticipate and have expectations, most of which are fulfilled. And what seems fascinating at first, suddenly feels repetitive and becomes irritating. I would suggest cutting 20 minutes out of the film, but unlike most examples of films that feel like they need a trim, I have no idea what to suggest to editors from just one viewing. The film's structure is way too complicated to make a quick determination about what is expendable. All I know is that the thinning is not a time issue, but a request that it gets to its point a bit sooner after we figure out the movie's game.

As for the performances, Benicio del Toro is, for me, the master performance in the group of three. I think this is his best work. But comparisons to Traffic are inevitable, in no small part because of Rodrigo Prieto's spectacular, but familiar cinematography. Others are touting Naomi Watts. The consensus on Sean Penn is that it is not his toughest performance, though it is pretty much perfection, and that he will be nominated for Mystic River.

What struck me about Watts, besides the fact that she is good, is that she is far more a re-actor that an actor. She reacts. When I thought of Nicole Kidman or someone like that in her role, I thought that they would all be wrong. Part of Watts' unique personality as an actress is that she never drives her stories. She would never make the tape (see: The Ring), but she takes action when she finds out people are dying. Here, she reacts to tragedy in powerful ways. But they are reactive, not proactive. And I think that is part of who this woman and actress is. (More on Actor/Re-Actor when I have more time.)

Despite the flaws I've mentioned, I really like 21 Grams and expect it to battle with Lost in Translation for the biggest prizes at the Independent Spirit Awards. But I don't see Academy members making it all the way through it. It is a tough movie. It involves on-screen drug use. It involves sex. It involves unhappy people. It involves religion. I would be shocked if the film does not land in the Top Five in MCN's year end critics list count. But is it an Oscar movie? I don't think so.

ONE STEP FURTHER one the road to heck is Stephen Fry's Bright Young Things. Acquisition execs looking for an English-language, narrative film to make some real money on had put their faith in this title. But as bright as the performances and as young (and mostly unknown in this country) as the actors, by the end, most people were thinking of the movie only as the "Thing."

In what seems to be a recurring theme in this year's festival, writers and directors are making the daring choice to attempt a mix of showy comedy and poignant drama. Unfortunately, there are very few directors who do either well, with farce being the more challenging. In fact, a number of the directors who have left us suffering up here in the lovely late summer glory of The T.O. are quite capable of the drama. Fry is one of them. But his apparent obsession with the joys of period has gotten in his way.

Here is a basic rule of film: Movies are not theater. The reason theater does not transpose well to film is not usually because of the visual disconnect, but because of the performance style.

As one film that I was surprised to like - Dogville - showed (as does the animated The Triplettes of Belleville and the doc that eats like a feature, Touching The Void), form need not overwhelm function. However, a period movie that is too engaged with its period charms to realize that it is not doing its basic duty as drama, is always going to be trouble. And indeed, such is the problem with Bright Young Things.

The movie is based on Evelyn Waugh's Vile Bodies, which apparently was also the basis for Bret Easton Ellis' Less Than Zero, which reflects much of Waugh's narrative and the foundational ideas. (I have not read the Waugh and I haven't read the Ellis in many years. But the best Waugh at the festival this year remains an exchange in Lost in Translation, in regards to a woman who uses the name to protect her anonymity, without any cross gender irony.) Bright young rich kids rage vainly the face of the conflict in the rest of the world, one of their own returns after some travel with a new point of view, he gets pulled back in against his better judgment, the truth of the uglier sides of the bright young things' lives starts to show from beneath the veneer. (Not to be confused with the Vermeer - a whole different movie.)

Besides the young cast, which is led in degree of fame by the always glowing Emily Mortimer, Fry has enlisted a who's who of great characters actors acting like characters. Particularly outstanding is Jim Broadbent, who plays a sputtering drunk with easy stagger. Also turning up is Peter O'Toole, who sadly seems to be delivering some of his best work from behind a fog of poor health - or perhaps, let's hope, it is just his characterization.

There are bright moments and both Michael Sheen and Fenella Woolgar give you so much that you want to see what they will do next. But the story just doesn't balance out and one ends up without the pleasure of either the fluffy whipped cream or the weighty plum pudding underneath.

FINALLY, there is a movie that just plain stinks, in spite of some strong performances and a director who I really respect. The film is Human Stain. And anyone who has tried to tell you that this is an Oscar movie of any kind is, with due respect, just plain wrong.

Someone had told me weeks ago that this adaptation of the Philip Roth novel completely removed the element of Anthony Hopkins character hiding his race. This was both true and false. The film I saw is two films in one. There is one about a young black man who decides to hide his race behind very fair skin. Then there is the one you have seen advertised, about an aging man who has an affair with a young mysterious beauty. The first film is, in my eyes, a better one than the second. But it has no movie stars in it. The story of Anthony Hopkins and Nicole Kidman simply makes no specific reference to him as a "closeted" black man until a coda at the end. Hopkins' character gets Jew-baited repeatedly. But how this secret affects him, as an aging man, remains more faint than any stain.

But that is only part of the problem. Gary Sinise does a voice over right out of the "Worst of Miramax" desk drawer. Ed Harris does a game job as The Psycho, but he deserves more to work with. Kidman actually does some really nice work here, but it is wasted on the nonsensical screenplay. And Hopkins does nothing to embarrass - or distinguish - himself here.

A LOT MORE FILMS: There are a lot more films to tell you about. On the positive side, there is Touching The Void (which is probably the best narrative drama I've seen here, even though it's a documentary), The Fog of War, Dogville, Noi Albinoi, Gunshy, The Mayor of the Sunset Strip and I'm Not Scared. On the negative side, The Event.

On top of that, I had a sit down with Sir Ridley Scott & Mister Yaphet Kotto that I want to write about. But it will all have to wait for another day.

On tomorrow's schedule, Robert Altman's The Company, Lars Von Trier' The Five Obstructions, Young Adam, Aileen and Underworld. And that's the short list ... see you tomorrow.

E ME: Tell me about the real reel world.