Reality Distortion

November 30, 2015

51LNqvt+3oL._SX328_BO1,204,203,200_I’ve just read Neal Gabler’s definitive biography of Walt Disney, only a few weeks after seeing Danny Boyle’s movie STEVE JOBS, itself loosely based on the magnificent bio by Walter Isaacson. The confluence is striking: before the Gabler, I knew more about Jobs than about Disney, but there are so many similarities between these two pioneers that it’s actually amazing.

It has taken me nine years to get to WALT DISNEY. I bought it at pub in 2006 and knew I would eventually read it, but the hefty spine width kept dissuading me. I’ll bet you have books like that on your own shelf. Then a nice one on Bob Hope came out, and after that I was hungry to learn about another American institution. That’s the beauty of definitive biographies: they remain relevant no matter how much time has passed. I’m now going to dive into one about Charles Schulz, because I’m kind of revved on pop culture icons at the moment. But back to Jobs and Disney.

Both men were visionaries. Both could see where others couldn’t. Both were disruptors, game-changers, rebels, utter enemies of The Man. But Steve Jobs will always be remembered as the kid in the turtleneck, and Disney as the avuncular mustachioed host of a tv show, the harmless guy your parents felt safe leaving you with in the afternoon. Jobs died a “young man” at 56. While Disney lived only nine years longer, he came from two generations prior, when 65-year-old men had really earned their senior citizenship. We remember Walt older and Jobs younger, frozen in time like Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, James Dean, John F. Kennedy, David Foster Wallace and Edgar Allan Poe. Imagine all those people living into their sixties and beyond. Think about Keith Richards while you imagine.

“Disney” has become a word of scorn in some circles, denoting a family-friendly worldview, vaguely sinister in its insistence on order, punctuality, and wholesomeness. (For a funny, creepy depiction of this point of view, see the ingenious “guerrilla indie” ESCAPE FROM TOMORROW, which was surreptitiously shot at Disney parks.) Times Square has, thus, been “Disneyfied,” though Walt’s company’s only genuine footprints are one retail store and some popular and lucrative Broadway musicals. But this reputation was scratched out over decades by dint of vision and hard work, and in case you think Walt was some kind of Organization Man pansy, allow me to re-hip thee. Once he decided animation would be his vocation, Walt Disney was actually a major-league badass, and he had a real problem with authority. In a sleepy industry that fed movie theaters cheap filler, he pioneered dozens of innovations including sound, color, realistic rotoscoping and, most impressively, full feature length. With the arrival of the majestic SNOW WHITE in 1937, a “cartoon” didn’t introduce the feature; a cartoon could be the feature.

Walt could mesmerize (some would say manipulate) his colleagues by the force of his personality. He matched Jobs’s “reality distortion field” with what longtime animator Ken Anderson described similarly: when Walt was pitching an idea, Anderson said he exuded a “magnetic field.” He knew the entire picture in such detail that it took him three hours to tell the story of SNOW WHITE, and his audience was not only rapt, it was insanely motivated to create something transcendent, something that would change the world. I heard echoes of Jobs while reading about this. For his adaptation of Felix Salten’s BAMBI, Walt insisted on the tragic early death of the title character’s mother against all advice, thus raising the power of animated drama to another vaulting (and child-traumatizing) level.

In the movie, Seth Rogen as Steve Wozniak confronts Jobs and asks him just what it is that he does. “You’re not a coder,” says Woz, you’re not this or that, what exactly do you contribute? In response, Jobs likens himself to a musical conductor, and that’s what Walt was too. “He’s a genius at using someone else’s genius,” griped an animator, complaining that Walt was sucking up too much personal credit. But without him, there would have been no credit to apportion. Like Jobs, Walt saw what people wanted before they even knew they wanted it. To deliver, he invented a method of labor distribution that is still used in animation today, even when it’s being realized on a computer.

Steve Jobs lost his company and was hired back as a returning hero; Walt Disney slogged through one existential crisis after another. It is excruciatingly difficult and expensive to produce an animated feature (just ask the folks at Jobs’s Pixar), and one or two so-so box-office returns could threaten Walt’s leadership and make bankers so sour that the studio was reduced to making propaganda films during World War II just to stay afloat. Walt’s brother Roy was the money man and tried his best to rein in his sibling, but the dreamer always asked for forgiveness rather than permission. It’s heart-rending to read that such gems as FANTASIA and PINOCCHIO almost cost Walt his business, since the fullness of time has revealed them to be masterpieces. But he lived on the brink of insolvency, time and again.

Like Jobs, Walt was self-absorbed and had few real friends. He was a doting and loving father to his two daughters, but he was married to his studio, and was paternalistic even there. He became a notorious union-buster after “my boys” broke his heart by striking, and as the company inevitably got bigger, so did the distance from his staff. Ever prescient, Walt realized that he needed to find an easier, quicker method of production, and nature documentaries became “True-Life Adventures.” Before he knew it, live-action was at the helm, culminating in the mega-smash MARY POPPINS. But Walt’s mind was already off in the distance.

Disneyland wasn’t just an amusement park to Walt, any more than the iPhone was just a telephone to Steve Jobs. Walt’s “Happiest Place On Earth” was a callback to the town of Marceline, Missouri, where he briefly lived as a young boy and which he lionized for his entire life. In homage to Marceline, Walt willed Disneyland into being (and Walt Disney World some years later). He played his tv network, the lowest-rated ABC, like a violin, and the resulting cross-promotion was so intense that by the time the park officially opened on July 17, 1955 (the best day of his life, said his family), with Walt riding a horse alongside Fess Parker in his “Davy Crockett” coonskin cap, a capacity crowd already awaited at Minute One. Ray Kroc, then just getting started, had wanted in on Disneyland; Walt palmed him off on a minion, and Kroc went away to build McDonalds.

The book is full of examples of Walt’s exceptionalism. People frequently thought he was crazy. People frequently resented him for pushing them too hard. He was not a perfect man, or even a perfect boss. But when the Chiat/Day ad agency created a series for Steve Jobs called “Think Different” (in the movie, I was delighted to see Jobs’s daughter correct the grammar in a fit of pique), it honored such Different Thinkers as Einstein, Dylan, Branson, King, Edison, Ali, Gandhi, Hitchcock, Picasso — and Jim Henson. Dude, Henson wouldn’t even be there without Walt Disney, and chances are, given the ubiquity of Walt’s creations, neither would you. Walt Disney should have been up there in your pantheon too, and if you couldn’t recognize that, Steve, then he wins the vision thing.

12/18/15: The organization that Walt built just opened its latest flick. They’ve still got that cross-promotion thing down, man.

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My NYFF 2015

October 11, 2015

Unknown-2Had to miss some second-week movies this year due to a temporary ailment, but I did manage eight, including all the ones I was really, really anticipating. The weather again cooperated, but not the Pope’s visit, for which FSLC had to postpone the fest opening by one day. It was the cusp of autumn, maybe a little warmer than usual. Some friends and I went inside for DE PALMA in almost mild-summery conditions, and when we came out two hours later, the temperature had dropped 20 degrees. My fest, on a five-point scale:

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MIA MADRE**** (U.S. Premiere) That rarest of avises: a heartfelt, human-sized, accessible drama made by and for intelligent adults. A film director in Rome (Marguerita Buy) tries to cope with both her latest shoot, featuring a comically imperious American actor (John Turturro, hilarious even in Italian), and the fading health of her beloved mother. Nanni Moretti’s beautiful film juggles these stresses and points of view in a non-linear fashion that gradually reveals itself to be impressionistic. Inspired by the passing of his own mother, Signor Moretti (who personally takes a crucial role) provokes moments of quiet recognition amongst many belly laughs, affirming that our lives are really more similar than they are different, each personal journey strange and beautiful in its own way.

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DE PALMA**** (U.S. Premiere) The complete career of one of our most fearless, most unpredictable directors, an illustrated monologue which takes us from Brian De Palma’s short student films (featuring a very young Robert De Niro) to his latest pictures, made in Europe to escape the studio system, with nothing omitted in between. Unlike most film retrospectives, there are no talking heads except De Palma’s: co-directors Jake Paltrow and Noah Baumbach are skilled and confident enough to get out of the way of a great storyteller while beautifully curating the clips and memorabilia that engage us visually. Because of this one-note format, DE PALMA is probably not for everybody — no aspect of the filmmaker’s wide-ranging career, including projects that went nowhere or were eventually made by somebody else, is left uncovered — but catnip for anyone with a deep interest in movies. It’s an ideal festival film. De Palma’s artistic breadth is remarkable: the same man has dipped into blade-wielding thrillers, space science fiction, searing war stories, L.A. noir, even a pioneering rock musical. My main takeaway was how capricious the American movie business really is: De Palma careers from project to project in a series of happy (or otherwise) accidents and keeps going from chump (THE BONFIRE OF THE VANITIES) to darling (MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE) and back again. You have to be devoted to your craft to withstand the many indignities wrought by a constantly shifting cultural landscape, and though his wild career has toughened De Palma, he remains gracious and warm (he charmingly expresses surprise as, “Holy mackerel!”). He has thus earned the love and respect of the next generation, exemplified by the two young Turks who honor him here.

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WHERE TO INVADE NEXT**** (U.S. Premiere) That populist provocateur Michael Moore is at it again, but his new film feels more playful, hopeful and uplifting than usual. Armed only with an American flag, Moore “invades” European countries and Tunisia to plant Old Glory on their soil and steal their best ideas. In France he discovers vacation/parental policies that would make the greediest American union member blush, yet companies are doing just fine and French workers are happier and more productive than we are. In Iceland, scene of the worst banking catastrophe of the 2008 financial crisis (every bank failed except the one run by women), all the big shots were prosecuted and are now in prison. He examines female empowerment, incarceration policies, health care and education, and finds real-life solutions demonstrated to be effective by others. And the thing is that all this progress is based on American ideas; even the banker prosecutions were aided by a veteran of the S&L scandal hired by the Icelandic government. (Y’know, he was available here too…he lives here.) Time and again, the interviewees demonstrate the natural state, a concern with the welfare of others alongside oneself, which is sorely lacking in the US. One Icelandic executive — where by law all corporate boards must have no less than 40% representation by the minority gender — says she wouldn’t live in America if they paid her, and our lack of devotion to our larger community is the reason why. These people are flabbergasted that there exist poverty-level Americans in the richest country on earth. After the screening, ushers handed out Faber-Castell pencils from a factory we’d just visited and a genuine application form from Slovenia that allows even non-nationals to study at the college level, in English, tuition free. Here’s a new aspect of Michael Moore: not sniping, just presenting time-tested solutions that work because labor and management — who have been at each others’ throats, to be sure — or the general citizenry which insists on proper education and health care want them to work. It’s constructive, not polemical, unless you stop for a moment to consider that solutions to many of our societal ills are right at hand, if only we could rouse ourselves to demand them of our elected leaders.

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STEVE JOBS*** (Festival Centerpiece) A dedicated and assured effort by all concerned, but considering the pedigree, I felt a little deflated. You have red-hot Danny Boyle directing a script by rock-star screenwriter Aaron Sorkin, a stellar cast led by Michael Fassbender, and most of all, the mercurial personality of the subject, a zen visionary who still had to learn to care about other people. Though it’s assembled from Walter Isaacson’s biography, the creative point of view seems one-dimensional. I blame the screenplay. Yes, it’s boldly distilled into three long scenes, each taking place backstage just before a Jobs product launch: for the Macintosh in 1984, the NeXT workstation in 1988, and the iMac in 1998. It’s nifty the way Sorkin makes us infer outward each time at all the inspiration and bullying that brought us to this place, while Jobs does the patented Sorkin “walk-and-talk” from one crisis to the next. But the throughline of the movie is Jobs’s relationship with his daughter Lisa (he originally denies paternity and that he named an Apple computer after her), not his effect on the broader culture. Furthermore, although a mellowing in Jobs is treated as a denouement at the iMac launch, we don’t get to see the achievements of his happier and more peaceful third act, including more traditional fatherhood: the coming iPod (though he briefly alludes to it and to the concept of a touchscreen), iPhone and iPad, which have arguably changed the world without any parallel competition from Bill Gates. Some of Jobs’s younger devotees may be disappointed, even puzzled, by the early stopping point. The acting is uniformly top-notch, although Ashton Kutcher put up a better physical impression than Fassbender does here. Jeff Daniels as John Sculley stands out among many good players; of contemporary actors he is probably Sorkin’s best motormouthpiece. But the summed-up whole was far from what I expected, which was a great movie. This is merely a good one.

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MICROBE & GASOLINE**** (U.S. Premiere) A wonderful laugh-out-loud coming-of-age/road picture/fantasia by the inventive Michel Gondry. It’s based on his childhood memories, but only up to a point. Two loners who are too hip for the classroom become friends, tax the system a bit, and then decide they’re going to split their oppressive school and family scene by building a car (actually not much more than a go-kart powered by a barely heavier engine) and sputtering through the French countryside; they solve all lodging issues by attaching a garden shed to the contraption. Here Gondry vaults into fantasy, for the movie boys go beyond his real-life dreams: they actually build their vehicle and head out into a picaresque series of adventures. The goading, teasing relationship between young actors Ange Dargent and Theophile Baquet is delightful, and Audrey Tatou as Dargent’s long-suffering exasperated mother is particularly fine. There is an undercurrent of sadness and danger, but Gondry means this as a loving toast to boyhood passions of several different kinds. You feel better just for watching it.

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BRIDGE OF SPIES**** (World Premiere) A tense, period-rich story about the famous 1962 swap that returned U-2 pilot Francis Gary Powers to the West at the jittery nuclear-terror height of the Cold War, the first time the U.S. had been caught red-handed spying on the Reds. In exchange, the Soviets got Rudolph Abel, who had spent twelve years in America (though he was never actually proven to be a spy, key to what takes place after his kangaroo-court trial). Mark Rylance as Abel is the real discovery: he’s a quirky stage actor who hasn’t been seen much on screen, and here he creates the most hated man in America with an oddball humanity that radiates in every scene. His public defender is Jim Donovan (Tom Hanks, today’s Jimmy Stewart) who thus becomes the second most hated man: these are serious Commie-fearing, rule-of-law-ignoring days. He resists the nearly unanimous calls for execution by pointing out that some day Abel might be useful in a trade for our own spy. Soon that very situation arises and Donovan himself is tapped as the negotiator in Berlin, since the governments can’t be officially involved (that would require officially admitting that Powers and Abel were in fact spying). Donovan and Abel develop a real respect for each other, for each man serves with honor in his way. All this is tossed together by Steven Spielberg, who displays his natural affinity for storytelling and for the joys of moviemaking. To some directors, the set is a workplace; to Spielberg, it’s a playground. For example, after one volatile press scrum the floor is littered with flash bulbs, and the photographers scrunch them with their shoes as they fly to the next opportunity — a great way to show frenzy. We learned in the q&a that this shot was unplanned, caught on the fly. Period detail in Brooklyn and Berlin is perfect: everybody smokes, everybody wears a hat. The script by Matt Charman and Joel and Ethan Coen (!) is very sharp and manages to nail the era of paranoia without tiresome exposition: Donovan’s own children have learned atomic-war drills in school, and they come in handy when a vigilante takes aim at their home. Only time will tell how many viewers will want to relive this remarkable period, but they will find lush detail and a propulsive story: it’s another adult-oriented feather in Spielberg’s fedora.

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CAROL**** Todd Haynes’s lovely adaptation of Patricia Highsmith’s second novel, in which a mousy salesgirl and would-be photographer (Rooney Mara) meets a wealthy, assured socialite (Cate Blanchett) and falls madly in love. Their chief problems include the fact that Blanchett is married with a daughter, and that they live in New York in the early Fifties, when so much as a stolen glance is suspicious. The picture belongs to the two leads: their erotic chemistry never wavers during storms of tribulation, even as their relationship mutates with changing fortunes. The design and photography are superb. Sets, costumes, coiffure and lighting utterly transport us to the days when the Forties reluctantly give way and Eisenhower ascends, but the look is muted, darker, a world away from the hyper melodramatic Fifties of Haynes’s FAR FROM HEAVEN. Every buck is up there on the screen. Longtime Haynes watchers know to expect the unexpected (his previous film, I’M NOT THERE, is probably the wildest reach since his notorious Karen Carpenter short), but this intense yet gentle piece plays as the kind of surprise you’d been waiting for without even knowing it.

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MILES AHEAD*** (World Premiere, Festival Closing Night) Making a movie about Miles Davis is a tall order. Don Cheadle tries it as a quadruple threat — co-producer, co-writer, director and star — with mixed results. The film finds Davis in one of his hated interviews, swatting away questions with hipster grumbling and faux-zen pronouncements. He’s later revealed to be holed up in his Manhattan apartment, unsettlingly near madness, toward the late-Seventies end of his self-imposed five-year artistic silence. The MacGuffin is a reel of self-recorded audio tape that could reignite his career: everybody wants it, including a sleazeball from Davis’s label (played by Michael Stuhlbarg, who was also great as put-upon engineer Andy Hertzfeld in STEVE JOBS). The historic information is presented in a series of flashbacks that are intentionally jarring: a downbeat on Miles’s trumpet shock-cuts to a car chase, the rear of an elevator magically opens like a doorway onto the next scene. There is a backstory — we see Davis’s early Village days, the wooing and winning of wife Frances (the ethereal Emayatzy Corinealdi), and the roots of a rage that both buoyed and tortured him — but too much of the movie is basically an unwelcome heist caper and chase, all for that golden tape reel. Cheadle’s acting interpretation is likewise jagged and uneven: his vocal performance is monochromatic whispered anger, but unlike most music biopics, he does look like he’s actually playing his instrument, even in the tightest shots. Some Miles fans may insist the staccato form does indeed mirror his life, and his estate certainly cooperated with this project. But I still felt underfed after spending two hours with this game-changing musician. However, Cheadle does manage to bring the music front and center — there’s plenty of tremendous Miles Davis trumpet throughout.

WISH I’D SEEN: EXPERIMENTER, MAGGIE’S PLAN, THE MARTIAN (a quickly added surprise screening), NO HOME MOVIE (sadly, director Chantal Akerman passed away on October 5, two days before her U.S. premiere), THE WALK

ALREADY SAW: BROOKLYN****, THE FORBIDDEN ROOM***

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