12/7/12

Film Lawless an Entertaining Prohibition-era Drama

LAWLESS (2012)
Directed by John Hilcoat
Weinstein Company, 115 mins,  R (violence and brief nudity)
* * * ½

Lawless probably flew through a mall near you with the speed of a Black Friday markdown. It’s hardly a masterpiece, but this Bonnie and Clyde-meets-Matewan-meets-The Godfather Depression-era drama is surely worth a rental. It features solid performances, a superb soundtrack, and a tense, taut screenplay, the latter of which may surprise as it comes from Australia’s Nick Cave, who also did much of the music.

Lawless follows the trial-by-fire of the Bondurant clan, a trio of brothers making moonshine in Franklin County, Virginia, during Prohibition. As most know, Prohibition was a huge failure in which the good intentions of self-appointed guardians of public morals clashed with the profit motive, individualism, and the gap between principle and desire. Its main accomplishment was to make ordinary people into outlaws, and to transform two-bit hoodlums such as Floyd Banner into crime moguls. The Bondurants lived in what Sherwood Anderson called “the wettest county in the world,” one in which nearly every resident had some connection to illicit liquor production, sales, or transportation. When locals encountered a roadblock, they knew it was local law enforcement stopping them to buy moonshine, not put the collar on them. Some of the best homemade hooch came from brothers Forrest (Tom Hardy), Howard (Jason Clarke), and Jack Bondurant (Shia LaBeouf). Forrest is the head of operations, partly due to local legends that cast him as indestructible; Howard is the half-civilized enforcer; and Jack is the younger brother who wants to be a player, but has a greater moral compass than stomach for violence.

All is tidy in Franklin County until an ex-Chicago cop, federal agent Charlie Rakes (Guy Pearce) shows up. Rakes is an oily dandy—and Pearce plays him with a delicious despicableness—who lived down to his name. He wants to extort the locals and rake in graft, not clean up the county. All of the locals cave in for the sake of staying in business, except for the fiercely independent Bondurant clan. Rakes’ ruthlessness amorality eventually touches off the Franklin County Moonshine Wars—think the showdown in John Sayles’ Matewan. Toss in two love interests—Maggie (Jessica Chastain), a tough cookie fleeing the city and developing a thing for the brooding, monosyllabic Forrest; and Jack’s hots for Bertha (Mia Wasikowska). Add a crippled-not-too-bright neighbor lad, Cricket Pate (Dane DeHaan), reminiscent of Michael Pollard’s C. W. Moss in Bonnie and Clyde; and toss in for good measure Jack’s battles with his conscience (like Michael Corleone in The Godfather saga, and you have the arc of this story.

Is Lawless on the derivative side of the ledger? Yes. As I said, it’s no masterpiece. Still, the performances are very good. Tom Hardy has to convey nearly every emotion physically, as his vocabulary seldom extends beyond grunts and growls; LaBoeuf rockets between cowardice, charm, and resolve. Gary Oldman shows up in a cameo as bloodthirsty Floyd Banner, but you’ll probably prefer him to Pearce’s take on Charlie Rakes, whom he plays with the sort of (metaphorical) black-hat paste-up air of villainy we usually associate with bad guys in John Sayles pictures. Chastain is also sublime as Maggie, who is equal parts unflappable and vulnerable. Kudos also for a terrific soundtrack featuring Cave, Emmylou Harris, Ralph Stanley, and Willie Nelson. A word of caution: some of the violence is quite graphic.

The film is based on a historical novel written by Matt Bondurant, Jack’s grandson. Some of the movie is, of course, exaggerated for cinematic impact but, yes Virginians, there was a Franklin County Moonshine War. I’d recommend this film and you happened to take away from it the message that moralists cause more social problems than they solve, well who am I to say you’re wrong?—Rob Weir

12/5/12

Sense of An Ending Deserving of Praise

THE SENSE OF AN ENDING (2011)
By Julian Barnes
Vintage, 166 pp. ISBN 978-0307947727
* * * * *

This short book—more of a novella than a novel—won Britain’s Man Booker Prize (the equivalent of the National Book Award) in 2011 and, for once, I applaud the committee’s choice. It is a book about time, aging, memory, and regret. It is also a work that explores not only endings, but our senses as well. As anyone over 50 knows, aging and memory aren’t the most compatible of bedfellows. We worry about memory loss (or trivialize amidst a welter of bad jokes), but do we also reify youth in ways we should not? Is aged memory any worse than the shallow perceptions of youth? Did we really “see” the things we claim to have “seen” during the callow days of youth? What decisions did we make oblivious of their impact? What consequences did we dodge?  

The novel opens in an English public school which, for reasons only Brits understand, is actually an expensive private school. It’s the sort of snooty place where young boys are taught how to become members of the upper crust, as well as the proper way to look down their noses at social inferiors. Our protagonist, Tony Webster, is an elite-in-making, though his family background is more humble. He hangs out with two other lads and all three like to pretend they are brilliant and clever. Enter the new kid, Adrian Finn, who really is brilliant and clever. Tony quickly befriends him, partly in the hope that Adrian’s intellect is a contagion he’ll catch. He doesn’t. Adrian eventually goes off to Cambridge and Tony to middle-of-the-road Bristol University, where he meets Veronica, his first serious love. Alas, like Adrian, she’s slightly out of his class. The relationship quickly unravels after an awkward weekend spent with Veronica’s parents. In the next several months Tony receives several other shocks, the news that Adrian wishes to date Veronica, and then the news that Adrian has committed suicide.

What happens to the promise of youth?  Was it ever promising in the first place? What really happened in the past? Pay attention to Adrian’s line that history is where the inadequacy of memory intersects with the insufficiency of evidence. In part two of the book, Tony is recently retired, a divorced father in his 60s, and of the type the British often call a “putterer,” the sort who drift through life ding this and that. Tony was not clever; he became the one thing neither he nor his schoolboy friends ever wished to be: ordinary. Tony lived more as an object than an actor in life’s drama. And so he probably would have spent his final days (an “ending”) had he not mysteriously received a small bequest from Veronica’s recently deceased mother, plus transference of ownership of Adrian’s diary. The fact that Veronica has possession of the latter and refuses to turn it over leads Tony to contact her.

No, this is not one of those trashy spring-love-renewed-in-autumn romances; it’s more compelling than that. The question of why Veronica won’t turn over the diary is met with another important but ambiguous line: “You don’t get it, Tony, and you never did.” What is “it?” Tony has several meetings with Veronica, each as awkward as their country weekend forty years earlier, and Tony still has no clue about “it.” Somehow, though, Tony thinks that “it” might be the “sense” that makes “sense” of his life. Memories come flooding back, but can he trust them? And can we, as readers, trust the explanations he imposes, Veronica implies, and other story characters reveal? Why is Tony so fixated on a single uncomfortable weekend from long ago? What really happened between Tony, Adrian, and Veronica? What does a man who has for decades lived beyond desire want from Veronica? And where is Barnes leading us? Is it a real ending, or merely a “sense” of an ending?

I suppose cynics might dismiss the questions Barnes raises as analogous to the pretentious- masquerading-as-profound forays into existential philosophy that Tony and his vacuous mates once pondered. Not me. I admired Barnes’s ability to make me care about such self-absorbed characters, and that he found weighty ideas to contemplate amidst the wreckage of their lives. It is a beautifully crafted book, elegant in its prose, and balanced between pathos and humor. Warning: If you need definitive resolutions, you may have to impose one. I have mused over this book for days and I’m still not sure if it’s a British version of That Championship Season, Chinatown, The Graduate, a mash of all three, or something else entirely. I’d love to hear what you think happened.—Rob Weir  

12/3/12

Vote for Putz of the Year



Vote on who gets this year's (dis) honor.


We’ve reached the last month of 2012 and it’s time once again for the annual Putz of the Year Award, given to the individual or group that manages to look dumber than a horse’s patootie. The rules are quite simple. One must have been a complete jackass within the given calendar year. I do not claim that the nominees below are the most evil or ridiculous characters on the planet, only that they’ve engaged in particularly galling behavior during 2012. Off the list are  Lifetime Lack of Achievement Awards for those who make a case for retroactive abortion: Eric Cantor, Ann Coulter, Rush Limbaugh, Karl Rove, Pol Pot, Kim Jong Il, Bud Selig…. I am happy to consider new lifetime nominees, but the 2012 nominees are:

1. Mitt Romney: If there was any doubt of the man’s absolute and utter inability to lead a nation, his classless comments after the election should remove all doubt. Why did he lose? He blamed it on “gifts” President Obama bestowed on “special interest groups.” The 47% remark was bad enough, but Mitwit went on to ID the special interests: women, young people, African Americans, and Hispanics. Let’s do some math here. Granted there are those who fall into multiple categories, but Bubba Romdum just dissed 96.9% of Americans! Yep. That’s how many fall into at least one of those categories. The week after the election some people were urging Obama to consider approaching Romney for advice. Don’t do it, Barack. Let the Toxic Mormon ooze back under the rock from which he came.  

2. Scott DesJarlais: Romney isn’t the only tone deaf Republican. Take Tennessee Representative Scott DesJarlais (please!). He’s a leading (dim) light in the anti-choice movement. But it seems that (Don’t-Beam-Me-Up) Scotty only thinks po’ folks need to keep their babies. All the time he was pounding the piety pulpit, DesJarlais found nothing wrong with pro-choice if the cradle threatened to rock his way. DesJarlais urged his now ex-wife to get not one, but two, abortions. He also counseled his pregnant mistress to get one. Apparently the hypocrisy barrier has been lowered to the point that it lies (operative word) with the underground cables.

3. Jeffrey Loria: Baseball always seems to produce its share of world-class jerks, but Snake-oil Loria takes the cake. First he blackmailed Miami officials into underwriting a new ballpark to the tune of $640 million ($1.4 billion over the life of the bond), and then he promised he’d spend money on the team. He did–for ten months. After spending a king’s ransom to sign players such as Mark Buerhle, Jose Reyes, and Heath Bell at higher-than-market prices, he surrounded them with bums that led to Marlins to a last-place finish. This after years of pocketing money plundered from the luxury taxes of so-called “big market” teams such as the Yankees, Red Sox, and Dodgers. Loria held a fire sale and traded away all the good players so that next spring’s payroll is projected to be around $34 million, nearly 40% below the next lowest pay roll. This is extortion, pure and simple. Several things should happen. First, rich teams should sue Major League baseball to recover monies that went to the Marlins. Second, the city of Miami should rescind the bond and offer it to Loria; if he refuses to assume it, bring in the wrecking ball and level the damn stadium. That would still leave the city on the hook for construction costs, but it would be sweet vengeance. (It would also cover the mistake of building it in the wrong part of the city in the first place.) Barring that solution, jack up Marlin fees for everything–impose a surcharge of tickets, parking, and concessions; install toll gates on access roads to the park; raise utility rates to the site; and pass an “occupational privilege tax” that impacts every Marlins’ player, worker, and official. If this drives Loria out of the game, MLB will be the better for it. Ditto if MLB folds the Marlins.

4. David Petraeus: I couldn’t care less that he was having an affair. Petraeus, from all I can tell, was a decent general, and his personal life would be his own business–were he not the head of the Central Intelligence Agency. What galls me about Petraeus isn’t his morals, it’s his stupidity, arrogance, and complete ignorance of history. What the hell makes top public officials think that their dalliances will remain secret? If you don’t wish to be scrutinized, do what most people do and stay the hell out of public life. But when a man is in charge of secrecy and can’t keep a secret, it gives pause as to whether he should be in that position. To top it off, it looks as if his mistress had classified documents in her possession. Maybe national security wasn’t compromised, but under what set of logic does one entrust classified documents to a paramour rather than the spooks at Langley? The Petraeus scandal is on par with the philandering dolts who left their Little Black Books open to public view whilst trying to impeach Bill Clinton for lying about his dalliance with Monica Lewinsky.

5. The Anti-Choice Movement: The moralizing band of Neanderthals that refuses to STFU…. Most aren’t as openly hypocritical as Scott DesJarlais-–who earned his separate nomination–but what a band of misogynist jerks: Richard Murdock, Todd Akin. Rick Berg, Paul Ryan…. In Georgia, we got State Rep Terry England, who co-sponsored a “fetal pain bill” in which he compared American women to pregnant livestock such as pigs and cows. The Commonwealth of Virginia produced the idea that women seeking abortions should have to undergo an invasive IUD procedure; Oklahoma declared that fetuses were “persons” as did Missouri, Mississippi, and Michigan. (Does this mean they are also “corporations?”) There’s so much zealotry in this coterie of self-appointed guardians that I suspect it might be a cadet branch of the Taliban.

6. Gary Bettman: The National Hockey League’s Gary Bettman may be the most incompetent commissioner ever of a “major” sport. We must use the word “major” with caution, as Bettman seems hell-bent on destroying all interest in hockey and reducing its status to something on par with the Little League World Series. If you wanted to sabotage a sport, how would you do it? Move teams from places where people care to where they don’t? Check. Try to play a winter sport in places where the only ice rattles in mint julep glasses? Check. Shut down play three times in 17 years? Check. Align yourself with union busters, scabs, and robber barons? Check. We’re talking a figure so vilified that even some of the robber barons want his bones boiled down for pucks. Name one good thing Gary Bettman has done since he became NHL commissioner in 1993? Take your time… you don’t need to rush off to watch a hockey game. 

11/30/12

In a Better World a Portrait on How Hard it is to Turn the Other Cheek


HAEVEN (English Title: In a Better World) [2010]
Directed by Susanne Bier
Sony Pictures Classics, 119 mins. R (for child violence).
 In Danish, English, and subtitles
* * * *

How many religious and humanitarian traditions have versions of the injunction to “turn the other cheek” when confronted with violence? How easy is it to do? And how much harder is this for children to understand? These are questions that Susanne Bier poses in an intriguing little film that scarcely made a dent in English-speaking lands (perhaps because only New Zealand and Canada make lists of least-violent nations), despite winning the Best Foreign Language Oscar in 2011 and some Golden Globes prizes as well.

Bier not only asks these questions, she ruffles some feathers while doing so. She’s Danish and, according to most measures, Denmark is the 2nd least violent nation on earth (after Iceland) and its people are the world’s happiest. By setting Haeven in Denmark, Bier signals that not everyone is content in the land of Hans Christian Anderson, and that includes the children for whom Anderson fashioned fairy tales. Bier also blows the lid off of Denmark’s reputation for tolerance by centering the violence on unaccepted outliers. The film opens in Africa, where Anton (Mikael Persbrandt) is on a Doctors Without Borders mission. He’s Swedish, but he now lives in Denmark, near his estranged wife Marianne (Trine Dyrholm) who has custody of their son Elias (Markus Rygaard). Elias is the target of bullies at his school, an object of scorn for his accented Danish and Swedish features. School is a nightmare for the passive Elias, until another new kid, Christian (William Tøhnk Nielsen), shows up. He’s rejected also, both for his time abroad and for fear he might be psycho. But when he puts the fear of sudden demise into Elias’s main attacker, he and Elias become best friends even though Christian is everything he’s been warned to avoid.

Christian is indeed a mini mite of rage. He and his widower father, Claus (Ulrich Thomsen), have just returned to Denmark from London, where Christian’s mother died of cancer. The pre-teen Christian cannot come to grips with the unfairness of her death and he’s sullenly taking out of his anger on whomever gets in his way. He’s also very attracted to fantasy, the ledge of a towering grain elevator, and Internet bomb-making sites. Add to this a hard-to-take lesson in cheek turning from Anton when he is confronted by a loutish auto mechanic, and the potential for pyrotechnics is high.

Are we priming for a Danish version of Columbine, or will peace reign in the end? Watch this gripping little drama and find out. All I will say is that the plot is further seasoned with an interesting twist involving an African warlord.

Haeven–available on Netflix–falls into a category of films aptly labeled “hidden gems.” It’s no masterpiece, but it’s taut, tense, and provocative. It’s also very well acted. Both Persbrandt and Thomsen are well known in Europe, hence they’ve garnered praise there, but the hands-down stars are the two boys, Rygaard and Nielsen, who remain steadfast in their 12-year-old logic systems and never sully their performances with mawkish cuteness. This one is well worth a rental, but be prepared for some eye-shielding tension.
   

11/28/12

Lincoln: Spielberg's Middle-of-the-Road Biopic

Big ideas. big performances, and downsized script. 

LINCOLN (2012)
Directed by Stephen Spielberg
Touchstone Pictures, PG-13, 150 minutes
* * *

When rumors surfaced that Steven Spielberg intended to direct a biopic of Abraham Lincoln, historians worried that he would turn the 16th president into Indiana Jones, while action movie fans fretted he was going to make another didactic film in the spirit of Amistad (1997), Saving Private Ryan (1998), or Munich (2005). Lincoln will throw some raw meat to be both howling packs, though it won’t slake the appetite of either. The first thing you need to know about Lincoln is that it’s neither a masterpiece nor a bomb; it’s a most uncharacteristic Spielberg film–a middle-of-the-road effort that, were it not for several sensational performances, would probably be forgotten very quickly.

Spielberg and scriptwriter Tony Kushner wisely opted to forego a Lincoln biography and concentrate on the five-month period between November of 1864 (Lincoln’s reelection) and April of 1865 (his assassination). They truncated the story even further by concentrating of the battle to pass the 13th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, which officially banned slavery. Kushner’s script was based on Doris Kearns Goodwin’s Lincoln biography, Team of Rivals, an intriguing but flawed book from one whose scholarship is not always as careful as it should be. But Goodwin isn’t the problem here; Kushner is. He provides a script that’s long on quips and zingers, but devoid of pacing. The first half of this two-and-a-half hour film feels epic, and not in a good way. Virtually every character in the Congressional debate is introduced, even though most end up making little more than cameo appearances. One might applaud an attempt at thoroughness, or one might conclude that this level of detail is the job of biographers and that there are just too many players to keep straight unless you are a history junkie. (I am a historian, but I come down on the “too many” side.) Nor can we dimsiss Kushner’s plodding pace as being true to the historic record; prior to the publication of the Congressional Record after 1873, there was no verbatim account of Congressional debate, just notes. (And even today members can “edit” their remarks prior to publication.) This means that nearly every scrap of dialogue in Lincoln is imagined rather than literal. This includes Lincoln’s own words and thoughts; he was a deeply private man who did not keep a diary and from whom precious few private letters exist. Most of what we think we know of the man comes from secondhand accounts from friends and foes.

At the end of this review I will append some scholarly observations but first, back to the film. Everyone is talking about the performance of Daniel Day-Lewis as Lincoln, and well they should. I can’t imagine that Day-Lewis won’t win the Best Actor award for this performance. He looks the part­–right down to unkempt hair, the unwashed clothing, and the haggard ashen face of a leader whose vitality, like the flower of male youth, was drained by four long years of bloody warfare. Even the voice is right; Lincoln had a high squeaky voice, not the sonorous tones we hear in plays and heroic film bios. Day-Lewis also humanizes Lincoln to the degree that Spielberg allows him to. Like the president he plays, Day-Lewis is in command. Just wrap the Oscar now and spare us the long ceremony.

While we’re at it, reserve one for Tommy Lee Jones as Thaddeus Stevens, the leader of the Radical Republicans and one of the few white men in North America who believed in African-American equality. Jones is a volcano whose explosion is being (barely) contained by a pot lid, the hope that the 13th Amendment is the first step in racial justice. Shout-outs also for James Spader as Republican Party “fixer” William Bilbo, and for Jackie Earle Haley’s wily-meets-oily portrayal of Confederate Vice President Alexander Stephens, the head of a delegation hoping for a last-minute ceasefire and appeasement that might preserve slavery in the South. As always, David Strathairn is emotive and strong, this time as William Seward, Lincoln’s Secretary of State.

Other good things include the crisper pace of the second half of the film, one which actually made Congress’s deliberative ways seem exciting; the film’s humor; and the story it tells. If you thought the Emancipation Proclamation freed slaves, you are the victim of a very old myth. (See below) As the film shows, it took the 13th Amendment to end slavery, and it was vital that it be done before the war actually concluded. Kudos to Spielberg for deciding to cut to the chase of what the Civil War was really about.

The weaknesses? The film is too long, Kushner’s script stripped of its witticisms is pretty ordinary, and there’s still a bit too much deification of Lincoln–aides looking up with doe-eyes, diaphanous lighting that presages angelic transformation, and brass fanfare from John Williams. The soundtrack is cloying, as if Williams was trying to outdo Aaron Copeland’s A Lincoln Portrait in solemnity or Fanfare for the Common Man in anthem-like majesty. This is especially noticeable in the film’s telescoped coda that takes us from the amendment’s passage in December of 1864, to Lincoln’s murder less than four months later. Spielberg is also ham-handed in this section as he covers events in lightening speed that could have dispatched more cleanly by either a voiceover or a rolling text scroll. Parts of the film also feel too modern, as if Spielberg was trying to slip in some of those Hollywood liberal values that the political right so despises. I was happy that Spielberg presented slavery as an intractable problem that only government could arbitrate, but I also half expected an impromptu soliloquy on the virtues of strong central government.

Grade this one a low B. Shows promise, demonstrates rudimentary understanding of events, and has moments of insight, but could use some greater fact checking, often makes speculative leaps, and needs a stiff edit for clarity, flow, and continuity. In movie terms, that’s three of five stars.--Rob Weir



Addendum for History Nuts

Let’s give Spielberg credit for some things he got (mostly) right. These include:

·      Buying Congress: People love to say that today’s politicians are crooked, and so they might be. But they are pikers compared to those of the 19th century. Congress was so corrupt that money was handed out openly and most principles could be compromised if the price was right. All manner of political bribes were used to get the 13th Amendment through the Senate. It didn’t unfold exactly as shown, but deals were made.
·      The Overrated Emancipation Proclamation: In the film, Lincoln called it a “war measure.” That’s right (it also had the purpose of helping dissuade the British Parliament from giving aid to the Confederacy, as it would appear that Britain was supporting a practice-slavery-it had outlawed). The Emancipation Proclamation was of dubious legality and it freed almost no slaves as it was confined to “those areas under rebellion,” not those under federal control or those that has surrendered. It is one of history’s great symbolic documents, but it did not free slaves.
·      Victory was still in doubt: No, the Civil War wasn’t just a mop up after the Battle of Gettysburg. The biggest threat to the Union was always political, not military; it was never a question of which power was stronger, but whether the Union had the political resolve and public support to win the war. The Southern strategy was to wage a war of attrition and many Northerners had had enough by 1864. Lincoln faced strong pressure to negotiate an end as late as the opening months of 1865.
·      Not all the Democrats were in the South: Lincoln feared he might lose the election of 1864 and that was not paranoia. The Democratic Party remained strong in the North, especially in the Mid-Atlantic States. Many Democrats­­–including the execrable Fernando Wood of New York–were “Copperheads” who sympathized with the Confederacy. 
·      The Republicans were a nest of vipers: Southerners stereotyped the Republicans as a party of fanatical abolitionists and social levelers, but that was not the case. Only the party’s extreme left wing (typified by Stevens) believed in equality. Not even Lincoln was an abolitionist until 1864; he supported gradual emancipation prior to then. More to the point, the GOP was so faction-ridden that it would have won the presidency in 1856 if the party had united behind one candidate. Lincoln was that one candidate in 1860, solely because he was the least objectionable to the factions. Lincoln was surrounded by men who felt they, not he, should rightfully be president, and some were openly disrespectful.
·      Most whites were racist: Right again. Anti-slavery was not the same as pro-equality. Many (probably most) Northerners hated African Americans, a large number disliked Lincoln for changing the war’s purpose to one for black emancipation, and very few of those seeking to end slavery felt that whites and blacks could live in harmony. (Many wished to deport freedmen to colonies in either Africa or Latin America.)

The Dodgy Stuff!

Spielberg also took liberties that make a lot of historians cringe, including:

·      The cracker-barrel president: Lincoln, by most accounts, loved stories and jokes, but Spielberg/Kushner give us a president who, whenever things were toughest, trotted out shaggy dog tales filled with uncommon wisdom that cut through the crap. The president does stand-up? No. 
·      Mary Lincoln was no Sally Field: “Lovable” is not a word used by many to describe Mary Todd Lincoln. She was known for being vain, cantankerous, and quite probably bipolar. Some of her critics even accused her of being a Confederate spy! Granted losing one’s child and (later) her husband could drive one to despair, but the film’s suggestion that Mary had a temporary nervous breakdown is probably too optimistic; she might have been nuttier than a Snickers bar well before Abe was felled.
·      Thaddeus Stevens and his ‘black’ mistress: This was a story told by his enemies to slander Stevens, but it’s more complicated. Lydia Hamilton Smith, his housekeeper and lover, would indeed have been viewed as “black” by the standards of the day, but she was a quadroon who, by outward appearances, looked white, not like S. Epatha Merkeson, the African-American actress who played her in the film. Which came first, Stevens' belief in equality or the affair? Unclear.
·      Congressional capers: The caper-like pacing of recruiting supporters for the 13th Amendment is surely cinematic invention modeled on Keystone Kops hijinks. 
·      Lincoln wasn’t Lincoln yet: Did two soldiers, one white and one black, recite the Gettysburg Address to the president from memory? Call it a Hollywood moment! Like John Kennedy, Lincoln was more beloved in death than in life.
·      Congress isn’t a courtroom: But Kushner and Spielberg played it like one for the final vote on the 13th Amendment. Roll call voting was done alphabetically, not by state. This scene is pure TV courtroom in its staged drama.
·      Word up: A final reminder that most of the dialogue, except when documents are being quoted, is imaginary. Don’t quote this film and think you’ve quoted Lincoln lest first you verify. Especially if you’re in my class!

11/26/12

Ken Burns’ Dustbowl Blows Too Long


The Dust Bowl
Directed by Ken Burns
Public Broadcasting System
November 18-19, 2012
* *

If Ken Burns were an undergraduate student, his professors would take him to task for padding his work. Last week’s Dust Bowl would have made a superb one-hour show; alas, at four hours it’s redundant and tedious. Even more unforgiveable for what Burns rightly called “the greatest man-made environmental disaster” in U.S. history, it ultimately bores its viewers. And this isn’t my assessment, rather that of the students in a university course I teach titled “From Roosevelt to Reagan,” who have studied the Dust Bowl and were primed to view it. Just two of twenty managed to get through all of it, which put those two one up on me; I feel asleep for about 15 minutes the first night.

Burns is a nonpareil researcher and, once again, has unearthed several personal narratives that had the potential to humanize the tragedy. For a ten-year period between 1929 and 1938, every state in the union except Vermont and Maine experienced periodic drought conditions. Higher-than-normal temperatures, winds ripping across prairies that should have sported grass rather than plowed fields, unscientific farming, and no water made for storms analogous to Hurricane Sandy, except that they were made of dirt, not rain. Soils blown from Montana routinely blocked out the noonday sun in Chicago, Buffalo, Boston, and Washington days later. Burns focuses his attention on the Panhandle region of Oklahoma, where it intersects with Texas, Colorado, Kansas, and New Mexico.  Through diaries, interviews, and newspaper accounts he further refined his study to a handful of families that he uses as avatars to propel us through the “Dirty Thirties.” Not a bad idea. Nor is there any faulting his historical data.

Burns’ problems are threefold. First, he’s been recycling the same filmmaking techniques for decades, so there’s very little we don’t see coming from across the metaphorical prairie. Second, he steadfastly refuses to work with editors that would pare his work. Third, he knows how to research, but not how to draw conclusions.

If you’ve seen anything Burns has done since his Civil War series, you know how The Dust Bowl looks. iMovies has a special application in which a still is displayed in tight and then the camera pulls back; it’s called “The Ken Burns Effect.” Add some talking heads (Dust Bowl survivors, grandchildren of survivors, and some academics), and an omniscient narrator—Peter Coyote in this case–and you pretty much have the film’s structure, look, and modus operandi. There is some archival film footage, but it’s not in the best of shape, hence the screen in static for most of the time. And for God’s sake, if Burns uses Stephen Foster’s “Hard Times Come Again No More” as the soundtrack for one more film, I will dig up Foster, reanimate him, and underwrite his lawsuit to recover royalties from Burns!

The repetitious filmmaking methods wouldn’t be nearly so noticeable if Burns didn’t repeat everything else. The film feels like it was made by a hoarder afraid to let go of anything. Here’s what the film tells us: the Dust Bowl was preventable and man-made; it was bad; people struggled to survive and some didn’t; it was really bad; children’s health was adversely impacted more than that of adults; it was really, really, really bad; the government tried to help, but met with limited success; things were just awful; the Dust Bowl transformed the region; oh-my-God it was terrible. Burns is so enamored of his human sources that he allows them to say the same thing over and over again. I admired the attempt to personalize the tragedy, but once we get the scope of it, what more is there to say, really? Is there any point to comparative catastrophes?

The inability to think like a scholar is what ultimately trips Burns. First, by choosing the hardest-hit region of the country, he gives us a view of the Dust Bowl that is both skewed and myopic. It looked quite different, for example, in the Cotton Belt, where many of those blown out were black sharecroppers. (Burns doesn’t have a clue on how to do Black history; nearly all of his work is lily white.) Burns is certainly right that the Dust Bowl was very, very, very bad, but it didn’t last ten years in most of the nation. Second—as several students pointed out to me—Burns truncated government actions. We hear informants tell us about how President Roosevelt tried to help but, oddly for such a long film, he crunches all of New Deal into a recited litany that occupies just a few minutes and does so in a manner that elides programs that occurred in 1933 with those that take place five years later. He also gives the same weight to programs that delivered direct aid with spectacular failures deemed overly radical (like resettlement villages and attempts at collective farming). What we don’t get from this is why farmers continued to idolize FDR even though nothing seemed to work.

The other thing we never see is what really happened: small farmers were destroyed by the Dust Bowl and corporate farming took over the prairies. This was already underway dues to forces that contributed to the Dust Bowl that Burns ignored: technological change (hybrid seeds, the internal combustion engine), post-World War I government farm policy, corporate tax breaks…. Draw a straight line (the first dot of which was first drawn in the 1870s) through the 1920s, into the Dust Bowl, and to the final destruction of family farming that occurred in the 1980s. Burns doesn’t tell this story because he has a Whiggish view of history—one in which some mystical indomitable human spirit triumphs over potentially soul-crushing adversity. Would that it were so. Burns confuses history’s actors with its forces; usually the latter are more powerful. Reality: the Dust Bowl was so awful that what came next looked very little like what went before. One could almost say, “From dust ye came and to dust ye shall return.”—Rob Weir