A few words about Frost/Nixon

So I was watching Frost/Nixon the other day, having seen it once before, and I couldn't shake this odd feeling.

Sure, the movie's good. It's a compelling story, well acted, well directed, and mounted with seriousness of purpose. But still, you know, something was missing.

Too soon?

Then, when the movie was getting closer to the end, and much of the action was taken up by verbatim recreations of the actual Nixon interviews, it finally hit me:

This. This interview part. This is the most interesting part of the movie. It's the only reason you give a shit. It's about these two men talking, sparring, fighting verbally with each other. Why can't the whole movie just be this?

I mean, sure, the backstory is interesting. I know quite a lot more about Richard Nixon than I really care to, to be honest with you, having read at least somewhat in depth on, you know, that whole plumbers/CIA/Cambodia/Ellsberg/break-in/cover-up thing.

But that really gets to the heart of what's wrong with Frost/Nixon. By being made now, when most people have no fucking clue who David Frost is and a the only thing people know about Richard Nixon is that he had to resign the presidency because of something called Watergate.

Not the most attractive man, either.

By having to give all the background, Frost/Nixon robs you of some of the story's essential power -- these two men talking to each other. One, a venal interviewer stepping up to the plate for the first (and it must be said, only) time in his career (even though Frost himself admits that the "interviewer beating down the interviewee" aspect of the mythology about the interviews is totally overblown, giving primary credit to the behind-the-scenes prodding of Nixon's handlers for Nixon's confessions). And the other, a fallen president, trying desperately to stop himself from going down in history as a cheat, liar and failure, before finally admitting, yeah, he was kind of a cheat, liar and failure.

So as I've said, the interview recreations are the most interesting part of the movie. And though Michael Sheen and Frank Langella do a fine job as Frost and Nixon, respectively (though I'm personally more partial to Anthony Hopkins' portrayal of Nixon in Oliver Stone's, uh, Nixon), the truth is it's just not as good as the actual interview.

I mean, how could it be? What could live up to the actual pain and anguish on Nixon's face as he describes what went on in his last days in office? Or the way he skirts on the razor's edge of, well, truthiness, in his claims that obstructing justice must have a criminal intent, and, well, he had no criminal intent, only political intent, and that makes everything OK (no really, if you listen, that's pretty much what he's saying).

Anyhow, the point of all this is that I actually found a 97 minute feature condensing the Nixon interviews into their most interesting and gripping sections (which I think is part of the DVD release, though I could be wrong about that).

Apparently, I'm too internet stupid to link this video -- which looks like it's on a Web site in someplace like Bulgaria -- without cropping half of it, so just click here.

Anyhow, I found this version to be more interesting than the movie, especially if you already have the basic idea of what happened. So enjoy, those of you with 97 minutes to spare, and enjoy Thanksgiving.

The Trouble with Creating Harry

One of the first things you learn as you go through all of these books on writing is that there really are no rules. Some people will argue you've got to start with a hook -- the plot, the situation. Others say you've got to start with character -- the people, their motivations.

Some people even say that character and plot are the same thing, which sounds all well and good right up until you look at the blank page and realize this leaves you with nowhere to start.

Anyhow, at the end of the day the truth is you've really got to do a good job with both phases, since the results when you don't are... well, bad.

So the other day I stumbled upon this character checklist from Done Deal Pro, a movie business/screenwriting web site. Basically, it's a (long) series of questions that, according to them, you should be able to answer about any (major) character you're creating.

Go ahead, check it out. I'll wait.

Long, isn't it? It's 58 questions, with numerous sub questions ("numerous" being code for: I didn't feel like counting 'em).

And all sarcasm aside, it's actually a pretty comprehensive list, so I've started using it. And I can report that while some of the questions are valuable, some of them are just, well, stupid.

Example:

What animal would they (the character) choose to be?

Now, I can understand how this might be an important question to answer if the character you're trying to create is, you know, Bambi (or a 12-year-old girl, in which case the answer is almost certainly "pony"). But it's pretty clear that certain questions appear suited to only the most specific kind of character, while to everyone else they're just goddamn irrelevant.

For instance:

When and where was their first sexual experience?

Good character to ask this of: John Holmes

See what I mean? The first time Holmes got his wang some action is a particularly important part of his character. Did the woman run away in sheer horror, afraid of internal injuries? Or did she, you know, keep a line of erotic bowling pins under her bed and was unimpressed?

Either way, it contributed significantly to his life and character, and if you're going to write about him, it's probably something you should know about him.

On the other hand...

Bad character to ask this of: Ellen Ripley (from the Alien series)

Right. I mean, who gives a shit? When you think about it, Ripley really isn't much of a character, particularly in the first movie. Her function is to be practical and resilient (meaning she lives), and to just be stupid enough to search through a spaceship that's about to explode for a fucking cat.

But her first bang? Does it matter? No. And the writers didn't, either.

How do I know that? In the initial drafts of the script (and I'm not making this up), the character of Ripley was a man (baby).

Are they smart? Intelligent? Savvy? Slow witted?

Good: Forrest Gump

I mean, this is the whole goddamn banana. Forrest may not be a smart man, but he knows what love is, right? His I.Q. is so low his mom has to bang a horny school administrator so he won't have to ride the short bus. The whole story is about this good and decent (and stupid) man whose goodness and decency trump his complete inability, for example, to comprehend the rules of football.

Bad: Topper Harley

Or, you know, any character in a broad spoof like Hot Shots!. Topper is a fighter pilot with daddy issues and a history with an Air Force psychiatrist. Everything else is just for fucking laughs. I mean, it's sort of like that scene from Who Framed Roger Rabbit when Roger gets out of his handcuffs.

Eddie Valiant: Do you mean you could get out of those handcuffs at any time?

Roger Rabbit: No, not any time. Only when it was funny.

The characters in spoofs are very much like cartoons. The only rule that matters is if it's funny. If need be, Topper could do calculus. Or he could accidentally take a dump in the sink. Either way.

What is their health like?

Good: Kanji Watanabe

Ok, this one requires a bit of explanation. Watanabe is the lead character in the great Akira Kurosawa movie Ikiru -- the story of a bureaucrat who discovers he has a fatal stomach cancer. The prognosis makes him realize how valueless his life has been, and he sets off to on a journey to find some meaning. This hokey sounding story actually becomes quite powerfully meaningful as Watanabe first tries hedonism, but finding that lacking, is inspired by a woman he meets who makes toys for children.

So, getting back to the question. His health, as you can imagine, is pretty important to the story. It's what sets him off. Like the rest of his life, he's been ignoring it, going day to day in a kind of mindless fog. The sudden diagnosis that his life will soon come to an end brings his day-to-day life to an end, and sets him upon the story of the movie.

Bad: Everyone else

The truth is that the health of a main character very rarely is an issue in a movie, and when it is, it's usually for the plot rather than character.

Consider this cliche:

The main character, a talented but troubled youth, spins his wheels in frustration until one special day, when he meets a wise and powerful master of the talent the youth has. The master mentors the main character for a while, teaching him life lessons. When the main character has almost fully matured, the mentor starts to suffer from headaches.

Uh oh, right? We know what's coming. The mentor is going to die, leaving the main character to use what he taught him to defeat his Archenemy and dedicate himself to the pursuit of truth, justice and the American Way (credits roll).

So all in all I think it's still a fairly good questionairre. Except for one particular question:

What is the most traumatic thing that ever happened to them?

Oh, man. As a writer, whether it be for the screen or stage or whatever, you're in the job of creating conflict. A movie without conflict is totally impossible (or totally boring). And if that's true, the answer to this question -- especially for the main character, if not everyone of value in the story -- better be "THIS MOVIE!" (or play, or radio show, or mime act).

If it isn't, my friends, you'll probably find that you're writing the wrong story. And if you're doing that, shame on you. You asked us to pay attention. We deserved better.

The Worst Movies... Ever

You generally only have the misfortune of watching a truly terrible movie once. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you're able to figure out what you're watching is a mangled pile of rhinoceros shit in time to turn it off and do something valuable.

But then there are movies like this one, the kind of movie you loved as a kid and one day saw coming up on TCM and went "awww" and decided to record and watch. Well, I did this recently. And the result?

So yes, today's unendurable shit fest, hate crime to celluloid and embarrassment to Volkswagen Beetles everywhere...

Herbie Goes Bananas (1980)

Right up here at the top, I would like to mention that to both my and my brother's credit, this was our least favorite of the original four Herbie movies (the others being The Love Bug, Herbie Rides Again and Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo).

But, you know, to our not-so credit, we probably watched the movie 10 or 15 times anyway.

This particular entry into the history of the irascible, anthropomorphic Beetle and former race car focuses on two dimwits (played by Stephen W. Burns and Charlie Martin Smith), who've inherited the car from Burns' uncle and original owner, Jim Douglas (Dean Jones).

Quick tip that the movie you're watching probably sucks: they couldn't get Dean Jones to be in it.

Anyhow, our two dimwits have traveled to Mexico to retrieve the car, since as we all know, Mexico is where all legendary and magically "alive" race cars eventually end up. There they meet street urchin stereotype Paco (no really, that's his name), who cheerfully steals their wallets while snorting cocaine, eating a taco and vomiting violently from food poisoning (okay, so not those last parts).

Paco also manages to pick the pockets of a few bad guys (played by Animal House's John Vernon and The Godfather's Alex Rocco, humiliating themselves), one of which contains microfilm that is important to the plot, though don't ask me how.

Herbie Goes Bananas educational traveling tip: When traveling in Mexico, don't keep your secret microfilm in your wallet.

In a sequence that should be more legendary than it is for being, you know, fucking stupid, Herbie and Paco cause a lot of trouble on the cruise ship bound for Buenos Aires. In response, the captain (a desperate looking Harvey Korman) sentences Herbie to walk (well, slide) the plank.

That's right. Herbie Goes Bananas expects us to believe that if you cause trouble on a cruise ship, you can be fucking executed.

Or sort of. Herbie is rescued from the ocean by Paco and drafted into service as a taxi.

Thereafter follows the Inca gold stealing portion of the movie (no seriously, there is one, featuring those microfilm guys from before), a sequence where Herbie gets into a bullfight (!), and Herbie being covered in bananas as a "disguise" to hide him from the microfilm guys, who are still pretty mad at Paco.

No, really, it's a great disguise. Nothing suspicious here.

This leads to the final sequence of the movie, when Herbie foils the Inca gold stealing by flinging bananas at the bad guys, who slip and fall down (seriously). Then, when they try to make their escape, Herbie repeatedly smacks into their plane until it's left with no tail or wings. This leads to a chase between Herbie and the tail-less, wing-less plane.

Don't believe me?

I'd give a lot to have been at the story meetings where they dreamed all of this up.

So at this point I know what you're thinking:

"Dude, it's a movie about a car that thinks and can drive itself. Since when does it have to be logical?"

And I get what you're saying, even though you're kind of being a douche about it. But the fact is that while the universe of the movie is one in which Herbie can be "alive", the rest of this shit is just stupid and ridiculous.

I mean seriously. The car gets in a bullfight. If you're asking people to sit there for two hours, do better than that.

Either way, Herbie Goes Bananas proved to be the end of the line for Herbie. At least for 17 years, when Bruce Campbell starred in a TV remake of The Love Bug, and then in 2005, when booze professional and acting enthusiast Lindsay Lohan starred in the almost certainly horrible Herbie: Fully Loaded.

In case you're wondering: no, I haven't seen those movies.

Watching Herbie Goes Bananas so many times growing up taught me my lesson.

Allow me to explain myself, part 2

By now, I have been writing about this subject -- movies about the movies -- for more than a month, and if there's anyone more tired of it than you people out there in the dark, it's me.

So I suppose it's a good thing that this will be my last entry on the subject for a while, and that instead of having to be effusive in my praise of this brilliant movie or that, I'll get to do what I do best: rip someone a new asshole.

So with that, here's a movie that didn't make the cut:

Barton Fink

On paper, Barton Fink would appear to be just my kind of movie. After all, it's the story of an idealistic screenwriter (John Tuturro), who is lured to Hollywood to write a movie, only to find a horrific world of compromise. Add to that the fact that it was written by one of the great filmmaking teams of all time -- the Coen brothers -- and you can guess I was understandably excited to watch the movie the first time.

And, you know, it was alright for a while. Tuturro's playright character is an idealist, sure, but he's also a hypocrite and a boob. He talks constantly about his love for the "common man," but when he actually meets a common man -- his salesman next-door neighbor (John Goodman) -- all he talks about is himself.

Tuturro's character struggles with writer's block, meets a William Faulker stand-in, and battles with studio types. All standard stuff, sure, but with one major difference: the strangely inappropriate tone, which instead of being a) light and comic, or b) strangled and dramatic, is actually c) freaky and ghoulish.

Tuturro's character hears things. His room seems haunted. His hotel, the rundown Hotel Earle, has the creepy sliminess of an infected wound. He learns the John Goodman character is actually a serial killer.

All of this is wrong for the story and the characters, and sort of inexplicable. And then this happens.

Ugh.

You want to write a story about a barely talented Broadway playwright who goes to Hollywood and falls on his face because he didn't have the talent he thought he did, fine. You want to write a horror movie, you know, also fine. But shuffling back and forth like this isn't cute or clever. It's just annoying.

In the above clip, the Goodman character is trailed by fire and shoots down two policemen while shouting "I'll show you the life of the mind!" over and over again. So, you know, what does that mean? Is this a fantasy sequence in the head of Tutturo's character, meant to represent the tumultuous inner life of an artist? Who knows? Is the Goodman character, then, even real? Is the Hotel Earle?

Barton Fink apologists point to these unanswerable questions as proof that it's completely open to interpretation. Well, what's good about that? Despite what a legion of surrealistic movie fans will tell you, confusing does not mean good. It means confusing.

In a very real sense, a movie is a contract between it's makers and it's audience. When the movie starts, it tells the audience what it's going to be like, and it's duty, as William Goldman said, is to "give the audience what it wants, but in a way it doesn't expect."

Surrealistic movies like Barton Fink (and 8 and 1/2, which was left off my list for similar reasons) are an affront to that idea.