September 17, 2004

What's so funny 'bout pace, less and understand'ble?

In closing out the Hot Button coverage of Toronto (more to come on MCN and The Hot Blog), there could be no larger targets than Ray and Beyond The Sea. Both films came into Toronto with big aspirations. Both films left both shaken and stirred.

I have thought and rethought Beyond The Sea after seeing the first hour and change and then the entire film within a few days. What shocked me (most) about the second viewing was the extraordinary third act shift from nearly-effective-as-parody gay camp - not that any self-respecting gay man would be caught dead in Bobby Darin's banana yellow Sandra Dee wooing suit - to maudlin love-me/award-me drama.

But what keeps bringing me back to my instinctual urge to roll my eyes and mime a finger in the throat each time this title comes up, is a story structure that just seems beyond comprehension. You start with the movie within the movie within the movie, as Spacey as Darin appears to be heading for a nightclub performance, but is inexplicably heading to a movie set for a film of Darin's life that Darin is directing where they play live, not to prerecorded tracks as 99% of musical films are shot. As the fourth wall is broken and this logic-stretching structure is exposed, we see it for the last time in the film. Darin is confronted with himself as a child, though the kid seems to be an actor, but soon that blur is forgotten. The kid will be a recurring character, even if Bobby making a movie about Bobby is never referred to again.

Catch that?

The next big problem with the film is the women. Brenda Blethyn plays Darin's mother (of record) with an American accent almost as broad as her performance. This is a great actress. But here, she is reaching. But at least she's not screeching, which is what Spacey The Director does to Caroline Aaron ("You dumb wop!") and Greta Scacchi, both playing shrews. Or is it better to be a pretty slice of cardboard, which is what Kate Bosworth plays, again, because that is what is on the page.

Then there is this one… Kevin Spacey can sing like a bird, but he dances like a pantomime horse. He just doesn't make for a dynamic nightclub performer. And with Darin, who was in many minds a mediocrity, we need to see the magic that made him more than that mediocrity. And Spacey just can't deliver much more than the voice.

The age thing is a problem, but I, for one, am willing to suspend disbelief. But as this 45-year-old man (Spacey) attempts to seduce this 20-year-old actress (Bosworth) while in the story - it is a 25-year-old Bobby Darin seducing a 17-year-old Sandra Dee - you do get a little queasy. After all, the age difference between Spacey and Bosworth is the same as Darin's total age when the movie he made with Dee was released.

And the third act, which brings us into Bobby's world after he broke up with Sandra Dee (lousy with virginity), is virtually a direct plea to awards voters to show Kevin the gold. He performs, as I recall, three straight songs to close the film. And he can sing! But the political material, the loss of the toupee, and the general deterioration feels as real as the Corman beach movies of that era. Moreover, Spacey doesn't deliver the closing grace note of Darin's career… a series named after the performer, which played on NBC after his death to great critical acclaim.

In many ways, those who would argue that the film is watchable, if not excellent, remind me of the early supporters of Down With Love - a list that included Ebert & Roeper, NYT, NY Post, NY Daily News and EW. (Let it be said that Ms. Dargis, then of the LA Times, panned the film, while Mr. Scott praised it.) Down With Love was not a festival film and one major critic, who BTS supporters suggested would be coming out in support of the film, went on to express his plan to see the film again in his usual screening haunts, fearing that enthusiastic festival audiences, wowed by the in-person charms of Mr. Spacey (one of the few Oscar winners I have even seen use "motherfucker" in front of Canadians), had skewed his sense of reality.

Because, you know, Down With Love was a pretty daring and interesting idea. Trying to reconnect with the kitsch of late 1950's sex comedies is an idea that really appeals to me. But it is the execution that fails, despite a great, great performance by Ewan McGregor, inspired production design, and a clever effort at direction by Peyton Reed.

But the movie just didn't work. And neither does Beyond The Sea.

That said, I still expect Kevin Spacey to be a serious awards contender throughout the season… a mortal lock for a Golden Globe nomination in Comedy/Musical.

And what about Ray?

Ray is a much, much better movie than Beyond The Sea. Taylor Hackford is a far more experienced and significantly more talented director than Kevin Spacey. Jamie Foxx gives an unassailable performance as Ray Charles. You never feel that you have to make excuses for the nature of the musical events. And the time frame of the film, roughly 15 - 20 years, does not require leaps of aging make-up faith.

That said, Ray does suffer the same problem that Kinsey - the best of the Toronto bio-pics and a clear win since The Sea Inside is taking the "based on" route rather than attaching to the specific history of the case - in its failure to maintain context for the brief slice of history. This is not a fatal flaw for either film, though the genuine thrill of the clock - so much happens in such a short period of time in a period so challenging to both men - is unfortunate for its absence. Until you say something later, people don't seem to think about the fact that everything in Kinsey happened before the pill, Cosmopolitan, Jim Morrison and Vietnam. The story is that much more fascinating in that light.

The same with Ray, though his story here is more clear in historical context. But when a biopic decides to tell a story that is so familiar to audiences going in (not a problem for Kinsey), finding a way to deliver on audience expectation of the story's timeframe is really important. It's not the same situation as Ali, where the movie seemed to swoop in on a period for which audience definition was untenably elusive. Ray starts at the very beginning of Ray Charles Robinson's life and it ends… well, that's a good question… where did it end? There is a coda of Ray being honored in Georgia, where he was once "banned for life," as they made his "Georgia On My Mind" the official state song. But before the time-jumping coda? I have no recollection, outside of certain elements of the story being resolved, just before that point. And usually that would embarrass me. But the fact that it didn't stick with me is, I sense, a show of the weakness of that end point. And, of course, there was 30 more years to Ray's story… covering the period of most of my conscious memory… during which I preferred Ray Charles to any other male pre-rock performer, with a few others holding about the same place for me. (See Nat Cole, Sinatra, Louis, Torme at times… none of whom were man enough to keep up with Ella… but that's another movie.)

And then there is the biggest problem with Ray… its length. At around two and a half hours, it is at least 30 minutes too long. I gather that it was even longer before Universal bought the film. I also gather that Taylor Hackford has steadfastly refused to cut it shorter. But in doing so, he has cut his own throat. Ron Meyer, Stacey Snider and the Universal team suffered through this with Martin Brest on Meet Joe Black, a film that could have been a lot more successful were it 30 to 45 minutes shorter. It is too easy to dismiss Brest based on Gigli, an overly abused film with many things to abuse, but an interesting idea at its core. But a pared down version of Meet Joe Black would have its strong elements - and it had many - highlighted far more effectively.

They also suffered the overlong problem on The Hulk, delivered impossibly late, but which, in my opinion, was a good 20 minute edit from being a $200 million movie. (It is now fashionable to laugh at the notion that the elements Ang Lee & Co. created could have led to a bigger success, but that is very in-the-box thinking for a 2 hour and 18 minute comic book movie.) Audiences, even critics, don't usually understand the power of an edit. In the case of The Hulk, the angst was bothersome to action lovers and the action was too silly for arthouse patrons. But 20 minutes less angst, in my opinion, would have gotten a lot of those action lovers over the hump, since they wouldn't have to wait as long to get to what they liked. Few would be able to communicate or anticipate how that relief would affect their overall experience. (Of course, I am just projecting, based on experience and instinct.) But that's what test screening is for.

Universal is not alone in this problem, of course. New Line went through this with PT Anderson and Magnolia, another strong filmmaker who lost sight of the ultimate goal of making the strongest film possible and not just foisting every idea he had onto an unexpecting audience. The classic other side of the story is Miramax and Gangs of New York, when Harvey Weinstein cut the film into something that was neither fish nor fowl… okay, it was foul. Almost Famous is a classic example of cutting a film into an Oscar non-contender. I'm sure that Hackford, like Brest and Anderson before him, feels that further cutting would hurt the lyricism of his film. And Walter Parkes did cut some of the lyricism out of Almost Famous, as we can now see on the director's cut DVD. It is only, really, 10% better. But I would argue - as I just did - that that sliver of difference can be as important as that last couple of gallons that linger just below the red line of your gas gauge while you are driving through the desert in the middle of the night, 20 miles from the next gas station.

Don't misunderstand. I like Ray. Jamie Foxx is still a lock for a Best Actor nod. He is likely to win the Golden Globe for Comedy/Musical, though Spacey is a great, great campaigner, not black (which I hate to have to mention, but would be foolish to leave out of the equation… I'm not sure if there is a single black member of HFPA), and willing to suck a golfball through a hose to take home a fresh statue as he tries to fight his career out of its recent funk.

But Taylor Hackford, who has been, in my eye, brilliantly economical in emotional, time-jumping films like Delores Claiborne and Everybody's All-American, is hurting himself and his film badly by not tightening it to the pace that Ray Charles himself would. Even in concert, Ray Charles knew just how much the audience wanted and needed. He was never the indulgent "I'm Ray Charles, here's my 20 minute solo" type. And I have to say, if Ray was alive to see this film - which is, you have to know, how he would describe the experience - I bet he'd say the same. You don't need so much of each song. You don't need to repeat experiences in as great a length as is done here. The audience gets it… the man had four lives… his music, his addictions, his family and his mistress, pretty much in that order. Move along.

Most everyone likes Ray. But almost everyone I spoke to, critic and civilian, offered reservations. All those stories about Jamie Foxx were great (and well deserved) for Jamie, but were also gentle back-handed slaps at the movie. It is the difference between like and love. "Love Jamie, liked the film." And I wish I could be brazen enough to say that a 30 minute clipping of the film would guarantee big box office and a Best Picture nomination. I can't. I wouldn't be able to guess at that until after seeing the cut. But I do know, to my core, that when you get to the 1 hour, 45 minute mark of the film, it feels like you are at the end. And you still have 45 minutes to go. I have had no less than three other intellegent movie lovers volunteer that same thought about the time of the film without any prompting from me.

It was always going to be a hard slog for a musical bio-pic about a black man, beloved or not, to get to a Best Picture nomination. But Universal has the troops, especially Tony Angellotti of seven nominations for Seabiscuit fame, to make it happen. But not with this cut. And that is a shame, because so much good work, from Foxx to Regina King to Curtis Armstrong to Denise Dowse to pretty much everyone in the cast to the excellent work by the crew - especially the sound guys - to the near-perfect trailer and on and on. The puzzle pieces are there. They just need to be rearranged a bit.

I guess this must be the end of this piece… the music in the restaurant I am writing this in (Grub) just arrived at "Georgia on My Mind." It's not Brother Ray's version. It's big band with a white woman singer… maybe Dinah Shore… but someone upstairs seem to be watching… and shouting "Wrap it up, bub!" right in my little ear.

E ME: I'm most curious to hear reactions to Sky Crap.. uh, Captain.