Sofia Coppola Friday #5 – The Bling Ring

Today, we’re discussing Sofia Coppola’s fifth film, The Bling Ring. Following on from her previous film, Somewhere, she’s getting even more loose with her techniques. This film, I’m sure many of you know, is based on a true story. A few years ago, a group of Los Angeles teens were breaking in to celebrity homes and stealing their belongings. I can see why Coppola would be drawn to this story as many of her previous work has been rooted in tabloid, celebrity, and celebrity culture. This is no different and feels like a companion piece to Marie Antoinette, albeit told from the opposite perspective. She loosens her grip on the camera and more importantly, her dialog — it’s still natural but much less impactful. This isn’t a knock on the film because it’s required as Coppola chose to tell this story using a more documentary styled approach. Her camera is often handheld which makes us feel like we’re right there with these teens. This creates a voyeuristic effect and the film would not work without it.

The film itself is all about feeling, about vibe. The camera helps create this and once again, Coppola’s choice in pop music is spot on. We always feel like we are in this world, in these clubs the teens cherish so much. More than this though is the question it causes us to ask. Why would these kids do these things? Okay, this is why. Coppola is a master at linking her camera to the music to the dialog and so on. She is nothing if not supremely confident and assured in her vision.

Digging into these kids, we see similarities to the Lisbon sisters from The Virgin Suicides. Coppola is cycling back to feelings from her feature debut, this time with an extra sense of entitlement. These kids are obsessed with celebrity and celebrity culture — obsessed. They’re all also positive the world is out to get them — desperate to grow up.

In fact, desperation is a main running theme throughout the film. They are desperate to be noticed, liked, declared beautiful, etc. They want and need all eyes on them. Through their actions, they actually achieve a small level of fame, even if it is actually infamy — they don’t care, attention is attention. It is all so ugly in its desperation. You feel bad for these kids but at the same time, you want to punch these kids and their ineffectual parents. The kids have life-sized holes inside them and nothing can fill them — not the drugs, the booze, or even the stolen goods. Instead, their sadness, angst, self-loathing, and entitlement mix together into one hell of a destructive cocktail. We also see them run out of rope as their desperation breeds compulsion and then spin itself into paranoia and their relationships begin to fray.

And at last, we begin to see the real point here. Sure, the film makes us feel unsafe. It points out how social media can and often does make us more susceptible to people wishing us some level of harm. This is not the main point. What Coppola is really driving at is the short-sighted nature of youth. When we’re young, we have an inability to see correctly what is right in our face. The youth are too busy searching for instant gratification that they will grow willfully ignorant to what is really going on all around them. I know I was guilty of this when I was younger and I am sure many of you can share the sentiment. This creates a never ending cycle that can be difficult to break. It’s like a tiger eating its tail. It is cannibalistic. But then again, so is celebrity, so is business, so is life in America.

The Bling Ring can be a tough watch because there is literally nobody to root for. The film leaves the viewer cold, numb if you will, but that is the point. We are not a part of the club, either club depicted, and our feelings about the film can say a lot about the work each of us still has to do with our own selves.

Next week, The Beguiled. Until then, love each other.

Sofia Coppola Friday #4 – Somewhere

This week, we’ll be discussing the fourth feature film from Sofia Coppola, Somewhere. It tells the story of Johnny Marco and his daughter Cleo. He is a superstar actor currently living in the famous Hollywood hotel, Chateau Marmont while Cleo is his eleven year old daughter who surprises him with a visit.

From the first moment, Coppola is hitting us with a big metaphor as we are shown nothing but a black Ferrari driving around a remote racetrack. Johnny is directionless at the onset of this film. Here, he’s in an expensive sports car and doing nothing but going around in circles. We move on to the Chateau with Johnny, drunk, stumbling down the stairs with an entourage. He falls and breaks his arm. Coppola is pulling no punches in showing Johnny’s nothingness. She uses natural light and unadorned settings. He pays for a striptease with twins but falls asleep before they’re done. He wakes the next morning and we see Xanax and Propecia sitting on his bathroom sink. It’s telling. Johnny is worried about losing his hair which equates to his movie star looks which connects him to his youth. He’s depressed and constantly looking to fill the void inside with anything. He hires the strippers again, remains awake but it is no less sad.

This film feels like a sister to Lost In Translation because Johnny resembles a younger Bob in many ways. He is able to do whatever he wants but never has anything to do or anyone to do it with. Johnny is always surrounded by people and is always receiving free, various offers of anything from almost anyone he meets yet it is all so ineffectual. He is alone in a crowd — alone with his own demons.

Johnny wakes the next morning to see his daughter Cleo sitting on the edge of his bed and drawing on his cast. His face immediately lights up. We see the hint of a spark in Johnny’s eyes for the first time. He takes his daughter to her ice skating lesson and right away, the film strikes us with another of its lessons. Johnny is watching his daughter skate and Stephen Dorff’s face morphs from love and amusement to a troubling recognition. The realization of the similarities between his daughter skating and the dancers/strippers he hires for himself washes over him. He is now a man beginning to reckon with his own treatment of women. I have always loved Dorff and this is easily his best performance. Again, Coppola has impeccable taste in who she chooses for roles. There is nobody else who could portray Johnny with the rough, lonely care that Dorff displays. The same goes for Elle Fanning as Cleo. She is an astonishing talent.

The film then follows Johnny alone for some time as he has a press junket to attend for his new film. Coppola is sure to show us the box he must stand on in order to be as tall as his female co-star. The co-star in question is also quietly and constantly reminding him how much she doesn’t like him throughout the whole process. We finish with Johnny’s stop at an fx studio for a plaster mold of his head. They then apply serious aging makeup and we watch Johnny study himself as he takes in what the future likely holds for him. It is all very vain and illustrates this particular side of the Hollywood game with brilliant clarity. He so desperately needs to feel good about himself and for others to show him similar admiration.

Johnny then receives a call from one of his exes, Cleo’s mother, and she explains that he needs to take care of Cleo for awhile because she needs time to herself. Johnny has a prior engagement in Italy and takes Cleo along with him. We get to witness and experience the absurdity and surreal nature of celebrity during this sequence. The point of view switches to Cleo as she takes it all in. It’s also here where Johnny, in the midst of staying in a lavish suite, begins to take stock in the ridiculousness of what he does.

As the film goes on we watch Johnny begin to figure out what is truly important in his life. He loves and cherishes Cleo more than anything else and it’s wonderful to watch him figure this out for himself. Where in the beginning his car was a vessel for restless nature and an aimless life, with Cleo it’s a tool used for specific purposes. His whole life has direction when with his daughter. I love the scenes where it is Johnny and Cleo alone. Their late night gelato binge in Italy. The knowing smirk he gives her on stage in Italy. Playing cards, eating burgers, being serenaded in the Chateau’s lobby. Playing ping-pong. The underwater tea party and subsequent poolside lounge session. Johnny is fully alive like he hasn’t been in a long time.

The time finally comes for Johnny to take Cleo to camp for the next several weeks. She is afraid for her mom and as they say goodbye, we see Johnny is afraid to be without his daughter. He knows the hole that is inside him and it’s grown too big and unkempt due to his negligence. He turns to his daughter and tells her, “Cleo! I’m sorry I haven’t been around.” The helicopter rotors drown him out. Cleo smiles and waves and she’s gone. Johnny swipes at a rogue tear. This is important because he needed to own this failure. He needed to admit this out loud. Where in the beginning of the film, Somewhere meant nothing, it now means something. Johnny could have gone anywhere but he was stuck and trapped by his own fame and the shackles that come with that lifestyle. This is perfectly illustrated by his final night at the Chateau. He looks out over the city of Los Angeles and there is nothing there for him. The Chateau and his fame have acted like a prison, keeping him where it wants him to be. A hotel acting as a sort of prison is the second big similarity to Lost In Translation.

Johnny checks out and drives straight out of the city. He leaves his Ferrari on the side of a remote road and walks away from it all. The look on his face is a mix of relief, happiness and determination as he finally leaves his trappings behind. He once wandered, searching for a map to life but now he finally has somewhere to go.

Next week, The Bling Ring. Until then, love each other.

I’ll Be Gone In The Dark and White America’s Obsession With True Crime

Reading Michelle McNamara’s book and then watching the subsequent HBO series has set my mind ablaze. First of all, both my wife and I are big fans of true crime. Second of all, there’s actually no second of all, we devour true crime in various formats (documentaries, tv news programs, books, podcasts, etc.). This has led me down a path of what I think is self discovery. My biggest takeaway whenever I consume true crime is a question: Why?

To put it another way: what is it about true crime that fascinates me to such a degree?

I cannot speak for everyone, not in great depth but I can say this: as a white man in America, I think it has something to do with guilt. It’s no secret that Americans are obsessed with true crime. Adding to that, specifically white America is obsessed with it. Adding a bit more, women in general (and again specifically white women) are drawn to tales of sordid reality. I think there are a few reasons. Speaking generally, white America is drawn to these stories because we are the most likely candidates for living lives of privilege. We understand, even if we don’t acknowledge it, that our privilege comes with a price. That price is the blood and forced struggle of minority Americans and the downtrodden. I for one am beginning to reckon with the awful history this country and our ancestors have created to make my life as easy as it is. I empathize and sympathize with those who are fighting back against the system, only asking for equality. It strikes me as terrifying, more than ever, that asking for equality and justice has caused such a rift in this country. But with the rift comes self-reflection. I suggest more people try this. It’s hard, I know — much easier to ignore the problem and carry on but carrying on has helped contribute to the misery of others. What white America has chosen to do is take those feelings of guilt and enabling and then exorcise them with true crime media. We say to ourselves: hey, at least this got squared away. Even when the crime in question is still unsolved, we look at the victims with pity, from our perch on high and say: these poor people, I wish I could help. Sometimes, people actually do help and sometimes the jolt of adrenaline we get from these true crime stories fades to nothing and we carry on. It is a way for us to organize this world into categories: Our lives and the horrible shit that happens to people who are not us.

As far as white women are concerned, I cannot directly speak for them but I do think I have a small amount of incite into the why of it all. I think white women are ALMOST as privileged as white men except white men will never willingly share their perch with anyone, not taken as a whole. The above statements ring mostly true for them but women also identify with the victims, which is an important distinction to make. Women in general live their lives automatically as a minority citizen, despite being in the majority. This just illustrates how dominating and demeaning the ruling class of men has always been and continues to be. Things are changing for the better but we should be much further down the path of progress than we currently stand. White women get more out of true crime than their male counterparts because they don’t consume these stories through a filter of pure pity and observation. Many women, far too many, have suffered at the hands of men and there is a camaraderie with the victims that permeates all.

This finally brings me to this week’s discussion on the brilliant mind of Michelle McNamara and her hunt for the Golden State Killer. For the record, this post is specifically about the HBO doc series that aired earlier this year.

The doc does a tremendous job conveying McNamara’s excellence as a writer. Her words come through like a loud speaker blaring morning announcements in school — you cannot escape their power. The doc somehow gives equal time to McNamara amidst her dogged pursuit of the truth, the survivors and victims of GSK/EAR’s attacks, and GSK/EAR himself. By the end of the series, and the tragic death of McNamara before the boogeyman was ever caught, we’re given even more to chew on. The doc is unafraid to dive in to McNamara’s obsessive nature in chasing the truth which led to a failed hubris with prescription drugs that ended in tragedy. This obviously ties in with our current opioid epidemic, so we’re getting four docs in one.

As each episode unfolds, we fall further down the rabbit hole on the trail of a serial killer and rapist. We become part of the hunt. We’re shown brilliant tidbits and ideas like McNamara’s thought to use genealogy sites like 23 and me in order to track and trace the dna in a different way. This was ultimately the successful method in catching GSK/EAR.

It’s in the bits sprinkled throughout the doc, chronicling the survivors, that separates this doc from most others in its genre. There is immense humanity here. In fact, as the doc wraps up, post McNamara’s death, the survivors come to the forefront. This gives us the a peak into their lives and shines a light on how a single, horrific incident can shatter a person’s life to unrepairable bits. But these survivors have more in common than simply being victims. They all, individually, possess an extraordinary amount of inner fortitude. They’ve suffered and some of them have struggled to form lasting romantic relationships in the wake of their attacks yet they are still here and still walking forward. It’s undeniably hopeful.

The last thing this doc shines a light on is GSK/EAR himself. This is a man who hid in the shadows his entire life. The title, I’ll Be Gone In The Dark, is taken from something he told to his victims. McNamara wrote about and threatened GSK/EAR with bringing him into the light.

And that is exactly what the doc does.

It brought this despicable motherfucker in the light for all to see.

We get so much detail on who he was. There are interviews with his family members who are catastrophically distraught by who their kin really was. To some, he was Uncle Joe, and that thought is fucking crazy. I was particularly struck by two stories the nephew told. The first was his recounting of what he was told about his mother’s rape at age seven — SEVEN. His Uncle Joe, his mother’s brother, was a witness. The second story was him recounting an event that happened to him. He woke up one night, as a child, to see a man in his bedroom, shrouded by a ski mask, watching him. He now realizes this was his Uncle Joe. Monsters as we learn of them in stories, aren’t real. Monsters help us to organize good and evil into categories. Monsters only exist wearing the skin of men. Shine a light on them and the illusion breaks, leaving in its wake nothing but a pathetic husk emulating a human being.

That’s all I have for this week. Next up is the HBO series, Perry Mason. Until then, love each other.

Sofia Coppola Friday #3 – Marie Antoinette

“Holy shit! Was that a monkey?” – me while watching Marie Antoinette

Have I properly expressed my love and adoration of Sofia Coppola yet? I love this project because great art opens doors. If you’re willing to engage in self-reflection, you can learn a lot about yourself and the world around you. I was struck, several times throughout the runtime, by revelations. I make notes when consuming various forms of art and media and afterward, I graze my notes and begin the process of asking myself questions about why certain things stand out to me — why I interpret things the way that I do.

Watching Marie Antoinette hit me in different ways than when I first saw the film, fourteen years ago. I like it a helluva lot more now than I did then, placing it firmly in my “I love this film” category. What hit me the hardest, watching Kirsten Dunst expertly play this historical figure trying to navigate a world of excess, inconvenience, and rigid adherence to ridiculous custom, is about the fragile nature of our personal identity. I don’t think anyone ever knows who they truly are. We are constantly searching for it. If not, we’re giving up on the mysteries of life, instead settling into a depression by realizing who we are not. Great art helps us decipher the type of artist we want to be and for the record, everyone is some kind of artist. It’s in there somewhere, in each of us, we just need that spark to light the way.

So, how does Coppola manage to pull these musings from us? She employs several tactics to get her point across. This, her third film, shows incredible self-confidence and it makes our journey easier. First, Coppola uses pop music to set a tone in her films better than anyone. Yes, she’s better than QT, better than Wes Anderson, and better than Martin Scorsese. Using pop songs in a film set just before the French Revolution in the 18th century sounds like an anachronistic gimmick but Coppola’s choices are deliberate and perfect. They add a layer to every scene — evoking the despair and ennui of isolation and then the wild debauchery of youth gone wild. Next, the production and costume design are sublime. Coppola even leaves in modern fashion flourishes to further embellish this tale. She then uses subtle camera movements and expert scene blocking to provide us a specific feeling toward her work. The cinematography and shot composition combine to make the film resemble an oil painting come to life. She does more with this later as it all reverses and she literally tells a portion of the story through actual oil paintings. It’s an incredible reverse technique and when that pin drops, it injects the viewer with an extra dose of dopamine. It’s akin to the film becoming a silent film and then changing back — simply awesome. Early on, her storytelling is extremely visual, sparse dialog allowing the music, score, and camera to tell the story. The dialog increases and it’s full of gossip, back-biting, and royal fuckery creating an atmosphere that is gloriously bitchy.

What I’m getting at is that Coppola found a way to un-stuff the period piece.

The film spends most of it’s first half chronicling Marie Antoinette’s isolation inside this royal family. She’s different and everyone knows it. She doesn’t fully understand their ridiculous customs and finds herself surrounded by vapid enemies all searching for a crack in her armor. Everyone wants what she has and her standing is on precarious ground. MA feels this pressure but through sheer will, she begins to bend the royals to her will. The shot of her signature on the marriage certificate is incredible. Where everything else is done with precision, her signature is messy and crooked, ending with a splotch of misplaced ink. She is the dominate force here and everyone else will have to catch up. In fact, I could make the argument that she is us. Nothing makes sense to her in this new life and while she will adapt to a degree, she will fight to maintain her own identity. It all comes to a head when she convinces everyone to sneak out of the royal palace in order to attend a masked ball. The scene is amazing — reminiscent of the Lisbon sisters at homecoming and Bob and Charlotte’s big night out in Tokyo. These kids are breaking free of the rigid confines of their societal and royal obligations. Their lack of adherence to the rules, put simply, rules.

We could try and tackle the actors in their specific roles but Dunst blows everyone else off the screen. She owns every single frame of this film. The only other actor who even comes close to matching her electricity on screen is Rose Byrne. She is pure spunk as MA’s number one co-conspirator.

Instead of specific performances, everyone works in concert to create a vibe. This is what Coppola wants here above all else — put the viewer in the story. As the story progresses we become unable to tell the difference between everyday life and pageantry. It’s something that wears people out and drags them down. Nothing is ever quite like the first time. It’s here where Coppola’s ultimate intent becomes clear. Sure, she is telling an expert story about a woman attempting to break free of the shackles placed upon her by a male dominated society but it’s also about celebrity and tabloid. We can draw direct parallels between 18th century French royal society and that of Hollywood today. We are obsessed by the magnitude of their charisma and hang on their every whim while also reveling in their downfall. It sucks but it’s also a symptom of our frail relationship with our own egos. Coppola even finds time for the famous “let them eat cake” line with a clear rebuke to its attribution to MA. She never said it. In fact, MA was blamed by the poor and downtrodden for many things that were not her fault. Just like today, it’s easy for us to overlook the true villains, instead focusing on others.

By the end of the film, MA is forced to flee her home. The final image is one of her bedroom, now destroyed by rioters. It’s an interesting choice in that the decor at its peak is so ornate and gaudy, it doesn’t look all that different once destroyed. This is life full circle. A girl comes to France alone, wills the country to view her in her own way, creates a tight circle of vibrant friends, and watches it all fade away like old laundry until she is alone again. If you watch closely, you’ll see the use of color in increasing intensity until it fades to more subdued tones. Our birth. Our life. Our death. The only thing we can control is who we strive to be.

Next week, Somewhere. Until then, love each other.

Ryan Murphy’s Hollywood Is A Mess Worth Visiting

Ryan Murphy is a kitchen sink storyteller. Nothing is ever enough for him. The Netflix show, Hollywood, is a perfect example of this. He cannot simply just tell a story through to the end. It’s not enough for the story to be a version of Rock Hudson’s early career, or a black screenwriter, or gay in Hollywood, or closeted in Hollywood, or a black actress, or women in power, etc. — it must be about ALL of these issues. This leads to a story that is scattershot and never lands on level ground. With that said, it’s still a fascinating show full of amazing production design and great performances. Sure, the writing tends to let everyone down but the sheer balls of this undertaking and the full commitment by everyone involved still creates a show better than the sum of its parts.

On the technical side, Hollywood is as good as anything you can watch right now. The production and costume design are top notch and go a long way toward immersing us in the world. I love Murphy’s visual take on early Hollywood, warts and all. It was also interesting to see just how quaint the Oscars ceremonies once were.

Moving on to the actors, they are mostly very good. The standouts for me were Jeremy Pope, playing the screenwriter Archie. He was full of an earnest spirit that I loved — my second favorite character and performance. Next, Samara Weaving and Darren Criss. These two actors could do just about anything and I’d be there for all of it — the camera adores the two of them. Dylan McDermott is also awesome as Ern, the owner of a gas station that doubles as a prostitution ring. McDermott gets better and better each project he takes on — what a marvelous actor. However, I do find the glorification of Ern as this loveable scamp a little troubling. He’s a pimp and a bully who is forcing these guys into working for him — not very loveable if you ask me. This brings me to the character of Ellen Kinkaid, a loyal servant to her studio who grows into a major power player by the end of the show. Holland Taylor’s portrayal is extraordinary, adding in layers of despair and hope in equal measure. She bosses the screen around and it’s terrific to behold.

Now onto the subtext of the story. Murphy and his crew choose to weave in historical figures with fictional ones and the storylines blend in the same way. The show is very, very dark in tone — unafraid to show the nasty, seedy side of Hollywood. It’s grimy and makes the viewer feel gross at times. Hollywood is also very much about the #metoo movement — a noble statement if a bit out of place in early Hollywood. Lastly, Ern’s gas station prostitution ring is apparently based on something that took place in real life. That is absolutely insane to think about.

This all leads to an extremely ham fisted finale where all of the good guys win and all of the bad guys either lose, die, or see the error of their ways. I did not like it because it is simply not true. It’s fun to think about but none of this is happening right now, let alone eighty years ago. My biggest issue is how in the last fifty five minutes or so, Murphy crams in eighty years of Hollywood history and progress into a story that took place over the course of a couple of years in the early days of Tinseltown.

Like many Murphy projects before it, Hollywood is a slick, gorgeous production that is held back by way too many ideas for only seven episodes. It’s a valiant effort and pure of heart but ultimately leaves us feeling worn out and hollow, just like some of the players under the foot of the machine.

Next week, we’ll discuss the HBO doc series, I’ll Be Gone In The Dark. Until then, love each other.

Sofia Coppola Friday #2 – Lost In Translation

Lost in Translation. This is a film I recently ranked as the third best film of its respective decade. Sometimes, depending on my mood, it is absolutely number one. It is a masterpiece but first, a story.

It was late September of 2003 and temperatures were cooling off in the evenings as my wife and I loved. To this very day, autumn is still our favorite time of year. We were in the city for a couple days to celebrate her birthday. My wife had recently given up her apartment in the city in order to move about an hour north and marry me. This sacrifice on her part has never been lost on me and we would continue to make frequent trips back to the city. This particular weekend, I had secured tickets to see Wicked on broadway (even more lucky to see the show when Idina Menzel was still Elphaba). We had purchased a bottle of Veuve Clicquot to celebrate and after a satisfying dinner and wonderful broadway show, we felt this evening still held more treasure. Going into the weekend, we knew that Sofia Coppola’s new film had recently opened in New York and it was already on the docket. I had seen The Virgin Suicides and was a fan of Coppola thus far and we both considered Bill Murray our favorite actor (still true for both of us) — a can’t miss proposition. The decision was made to catch the late show at Lincoln Square but what to do with the champagne? My wife made a quick, executive decision as she grabbed two empty coke bottles, rinsed them out, filled them with the champagne and then hid them in her purse. Off we went. I still think of this night often, the two of us, still young and recently married, sitting alone in that balcony watching absolute magic on screen. The entire night was something out of a storybook and I still consider it one of the very best nights of my life.

What we understood about that night and subsequently, the many nights that would follow, is that none of them last — not the great ones, the merely good ones, or even the bad ones. We’re left with the memories that help shape the future we’ve yet to see. It’s up to us to hold on to the special moments without dwelling and use them as fuel to propel us forward.

Onward to the film.

Coppola opens on Charlotte in bed, alone without being alone. This sets an early tone for the story she is going to tell us. We quickly move on to Bob, arriving in Tokyo, jet lagged and being jettisoned through the neon lit streets and on to the hotel. Murray’s face is telling us his story without a word. We see the exhaustion, both mental and emotional. He is a man at sea and the lights catch him off guard for a moment before he allows them in to further confound himself. It strikes the viewer within moments that there was no other actor on this planet that could have portrayed Bob with the precision of Murray. Bob is awash in a never ending sea of neon while being so desperate for rest. Coppola adds in ethereal synth-infused pop songs, at once dreary and peppy, further complicating matters. Music plays such an important role in this film by providing peeks inside the characters in certain moments. I love filmmakers who have a firm grasp over how music relates to our moods and daily lives. Sofia Coppola is one of these filmmakers and she infuses her films with music that feels like it came from the page of a diary. The film carries on switching between Bob’s and Charlotte’s independent lives. Thus far, we’re seeing separate stories from two different people who are both searching for their place in this world. What connects them to us is they both suffer from a near paralyzing bout of loneliness. Bob is at the end of his career and wishing to feel needed or wanted again. Charlotte has yet to begin her career and she’s restless while waiting for her husband to take an interest in her that could come close to matching his interest in his own work.

The film builds on these feelings while infusing everything with little bits of humor. There are so many minor annoyances experienced by Bob, adding to his insomnia. He’s also the butt of nearly every early joke as he struggles to understand this new language and culture. His commercial shoots both go hilariously off the rails. The hotel concierge mistakes his request for a masseuse to mean a prostitute. The jacket clips on the back of his tuxedo which we see he’s still wearing while trying to look cool at the bar. Bob’s futile exercise attempt that nearly kills him and leads him to walk with a limp for the next few scenes. This provides levity for us because Charlotte’s story is one emotional hit after the other. Her husband is obsessed with everyone and everything else other than her. It hurts us to watch him act like a fool in front of a vapid actress and then admonish Charlotte for pointing out how stupid it all is. This leads to an awesome, cathartic moment where Bob and Charlotte first officially meet at the hotel bar. They both don’t belong there and they both not only know it but recognize it in each other. They are kindred spirits. This scene is perfection, right down to the opening conversation Bob is having with the bartender only to realize the guy hasn’t really been listening this entire time. From here, the film takes off like a rocket ship.

Both of these characters want to be wanted or, even better, needed. Bob is constantly reminded that he may be casually wanted by his wife but he is certainly not needed. Charlotte gets the same treatment, albeit a bit more cruelly ignorant, by her husband. She is calling out to him in a desperate attempt to save their relationship but he is too busy being wrapped up in his own shit to notice. Coppola lets these scenes breathe and infuses every single scene with wonderful, cutting dialog. Everyone is saying a million things at once. This is easily one of the best scripts of the past two decades — a simply marvelous feat. Finally, Bob and Charlotte break free of the hotel and their shackles to enjoy a night out in Tokyo with friends. This is when the neon and bustle of Tokyo becomes obvious and appealing. Their restlessness flakes away like beach sand on a windy day. They are alive again, we feel it as much as they do. It’s a flawless sequence. The evening ends in a karaoke bar where again, the music comes to the forefront as their choices are telling stories to each other. They’re coming clean and baring their souls. In particular, the scene where Bob and Charlotte are sitting outside of the karaoke room and sharing a cigarette is my favorite scene in the entire film. It contains a perfect shot that gives away the entire film in mere seconds. Exquisite.

This brings me to the title, Lost in Translation. It holds so many meanings. There are the obvious choices of language and culture. Bob has so many encounters with locals who either don’t understand him or him them. The culture is a shock to both of them. But the title refers to so much more than that. Both Bob and Charlotte are seeking understanding from the people they hold dearest. Their respective break downs in communication are sad and all too typical. Still, they try and they find that understanding in each other.

And the point Coppola is helping us arrive at is that living in the moment is life at its purest. We get these perfect moments — perfect mini lives. We will always have them. They don’t erase. They are there, always, in the lights and sounds and signs — in the smell of a city street, of tar, of fried food. Life carries us away but it is these moments that tether us to each other and this world. Embrace it all.

Next week, Marie Antoinette. Until then, love each other.

Dark – A Slice Of German Perfection

Dark is a German science-fiction show brought to the United States by Netflix. It involves time travel and the end of the world. During its three season run, it was easily the best show in the world. I’ll die on this hill, especially if that were to happen on this show where I could somehow be resurrected to continue, either in this world or another. I have wanted to write about it for a long time but I find it difficult to articulate exactly why this show is so special.

I’ll give it my best shot.

Dark began with a suicide. It would take a long time for us to understand the ramifications throughout time and space of that action but we would eventually get there. Shortly following the tragic event, a group of teenagers would go exploring a secret cave in their small town. Strange sounds would scare the teenagers away, sending them fleeing until they realized that the youngest of them was missing. This is where things really jumped off. A search would return no results. The viewer is than shot back in time to the 1980s where the missing boy has turned up 27 years in the past. This boy would grow up to be the man who committed suicide at the onset of the series.

It only gets crazier from here.

We soon learn that there are three distinct time periods where children either go missing or are murdered. People begin popping up in various timelines, changing things in the other timelines on a constant basis. A new mysterious figure emerges and is eventually revealed as one of the main characters back from the far future. The timelines begin to expand. The plot becomes more intricate and alliances are formed. It appears we’re getting something superfluous and really only about good versus evil — we are not. This entire time, we are shown that the local power plant will explode and cause the apocalypse. Two distinct sides form, trying to either prevent the apocalypse or create it. Throughout the many different characters we meet and plot lines we follow, there is one main thread — love.

Our two main characters we follow throughout the three seasons are the two teenage star-crossed lovers: Martha and Jonas. Their story is initially sweet and full of young, blossoming love. Ultimately, it’s a story full of tragedy, consequences and sacrifice. In fact, the entire story is one of sacrifice.

The way the writers layer the plot with character is extraordinary. There is so much intricate plotting done here but the overall story is always character first. This is a rare feat and one that should be applauded. I have never seen a show quite like Dark. It gave me flashbacks to LOST, another plot heavy show that ultimately ended up being a multiple character study on our highs and lows as human beings.

With that out of the way, season three was launched worldwide on the exact date of the show’s apocalypse — nifty. Where season one was largely contained, season two expanded the timelines and who travelled between them. Season three introduces new worlds. If you don’t recap or rewatch beforehand, it will be easy to get lost. Two new worlds emerge: one made of Jonas’ creation and one of Martha’s. The two, through their time travels, form opposing factions and in Martha’s world, Jonas does not exist. They find it hard to trust anyone as they are constantly being manipulated by versions of people they once knew and trusted. No matter what they have ever tried, the apocalypse still happens. There is a knot that binds everything together and one faction is desperate to undo the knot, believing the end of all things will be their salvation. The other side seeks to preserve the knot and let the world be as it will. These are wonderful ideological debates to have during a final season as everything around them is ramping up.

I’m now realizing that writing any further about this amazing show and even more amazing final season will require complete spoilers and I don’t want to do that. What I will say is that a third world is discovered and the origin it represents is heartbreakingly beautiful. We fully understand the motivation behind its creation and I totally empathize with its creator.

Where the show ends begins with amazing cosmic imagery and descends into harrowing simplicity. There is no true happy ending to this story but the ending we receive is justified. Strike that, it’s not only justified, it’s perfect. How a show so crazy can stick a perfect landing is beyond my comprehension but the entire crew behind Dark did the impossible.

Love can create and it can destroy. Simple. Beautiful. Perfect.

Next week, a show I struggled with a bit but enjoyed overall, Hollywood. Until then, love each other.

Sofia Coppola Friday #1 – The Virgin Suicides

We begin our new project with another filmmaker I hold in the highest regard: Sofia Coppola. I am even willing to state that I love her films more than the films made by her father. Today, we’ll discuss her feature film debut as a director, The Virgin Suicides. It is based on the novel by Jeffrey Eugenides and was released in 1999. I was twenty years old when this film released and I remember the trailers giving me vibes of Dazed and Confused — another film I was obsessed with back then and continue to be obsessed with this very day. Those initial vibes are mostly inaccurate because where Linklater’s film was about trying to hold on to your youth and freedom while staring adulthood in the face, Coppola’s film is about the youth pining for adulthood. I really dug this film twenty years ago but with age comes wisdom and now I can see this film for the masterwork it truly is.

The Virgin Suicides is such a confident debut. It comes as no surprise that Coppola has gone on to be one of the world’s most vibrant and fresh voices in cinema. She makes great use of every single thing in the film. Every frame, every shot, every lighting choice, it is all perfectly placed to tell this story. Her choice in music for the soundtrack is spot on and helps envelop us further in the lives of those who reside in this town. It becomes not only the story of these girls and the boys who obsessed over them but a story of the era. Specifically, Trip’s needle drop, with the literal sound of needle touching vinyl is chef’s kiss. Even little touches like the bronzed baby shoes on the side table near the front door and the father’s shoulder grab of one of the protestors at the cemetery, are magic.

More important than all of these little things is Coppola’s script. It is immaculate. Her dialog is so natural and realistic, it lends a documentary feel to this story. She mirrors this by creating scenes with one of the boys grown up, reminiscing of this particular time period, while in rehab. This is a story very much about these five sisters but it’s told through the eyes of the boys who were vexed by them. What Coppola does is important, she reframes things by still managing to put the girls front and center. It is no longer a story about women told by men, it’s now a story about women told by men while informing us of the women’s perspective at every turn. This creates a story so much more rewarding for us.

The actors all do great work in the film as well. James Woods is great (seriously, what happened to this guy?) as the father of the Lisbon sisters. He’s a math teacher in their high school and ignorant to the plight of his girls. He cares more about helping the boys who lust after his daughters than he cares about helping his daughters. He is a clueless, intellectual too busy with his own work and feelings as a man to be a good father. The sisters fare no better with their mother. Kathleen Turner is someone I’ve adored my entire life and she delivers a knock out performance here. She is a shade of who she once was when she was younger and she wears this on her sleeve. Everything she does to “protect” her daughters is actually causing them harm. Her fear drives her and infects everyone around her. She is so desperate to hang on to her daughters so they don’t make the same mistakes she made when she was younger. None of this is said out loud but through the performance we can infer it all. The young cast is excellent as well. Kirsten Dunst and Josh Hartnett the obvious standouts. No wonder they’ve gone on to fruitful careers. They have great chemistry together full of nervous energy. Giovani Ribisi’s narration is terrifically human and Michael Pare is phenomenal in his few scenes as an older Trip.

The constant sun-drenched visuals give us the constant sense that we’re watching a childhood memory and provides an ethereal vibe throughout. Coppola pairs this with ancillary dialog between other citizens of this town to give us that feeling of living in a gossipy small town — again, so so real.

What really kicks this film into gear is Coppola’s depiction of the intoxication of teenage lust — of uncontrollable hormones. She honestly portrays a teenage boy’s infatuation with how girls live compared to their own lives. It perfectly captures adolescence. I can speak for boys, once being a teenage boy myself, and tell you that we tend to obsess over girls at this age because they seem so confident, even if they’re actually lacking in confidence. We’re too dense and selfish to notice that part at all. No, we focus on the mysterious and uniqueness of girls and we are so insecure ourselves that we are constantly and desperately seeking answers and understanding.

The film feels like a commentary on how male-dominated society views women as possessions and/or trophies. This is perfectly executed in the section dealing with the homecoming dance. The girls are raffled off because it’s the only way Trip can convince the Lisbon’s to allow Lux to go. What Coppola focuses on at first, again, is important. She shows the girls with each other, forget the opportunistic boys, these girls are finally free. They are in a fairy tale and free from their prison and life could not be better. It’s awesome. Of course, this spirals into devastation when Lux fails to return home that night and the girls are locked away completely by their parents. There’s a cute sequence involving the girls and boys sending coded messages back and forth, over the phone via vinyl records. This too ends in tragedy as it leads to the girls all freeing themselves for good by committing suicide.

The film now shifts solely to the perspective of the boys and how they’ve been marked their entire lives by the Lisbon sisters and their unseemly end. This is what men do: they make every story about themselves somehow. It is the male ego in its purest form. Trip even trying to say how much he loved Lux is utter bullshit aiming to resolve himself of any guilt. No, he’d rather wallow in self pity even though he’s the one who ditched her after they had sex on the football field. The film closes with the citizens throwing a big summer bash for a graduate, the Lisbons a recent yet distant memory for most. It highlights the toxicity of “civilized” society in all its debutante glory.

Sofia Coppola came out swinging from minute one. Delivering a film that mesmerized me at age twenty and now, twenty one years later, has helped me gain a great amount of perspective on my own teenage years — failings and all. I couldn’t ask for more from a work of art.

Next week, Lost in Translation, a film I listed as the third best film of its decade. Until then, love each other.

The Storm – A New Poem

I tried to write a folk song
but I didn’t know enough people.
Now I’m left with broken strings
and a mangled, strangled heart.
*
Love should be the wings that rise us
above the muck and the mud.
But sometimes it carries us too far
and we are singed by the sun.
*
If my words have caused you harm
know that my intentions were pure.
But sometimes the only way forward
is to be baptized in the fire.
*
Perhaps it’s me who is wrong
and my hill is a lonely hill —
devoid of the olive trees
that once served us so well.
*
And sometimes the maze pops up around you
with walls so high they blot out the sun.
And you think to yourself that things will get easier
but in the darkness, you don’t know where to turn.
*
Still, change is necessary —
progress, the will of the world.
Those who block the path before us
must be shown the way.
*
And when you find yourself herded
by gatekeepers keeping score only they can see,
trust in the ones who know you best
but fight for the ones underfoot.
*
Heroes were created by the downtrodden
as a way to organize this life.
The real ones are not as they are in stories
because everyone has blood on their hands.
*
Silence is for the privileged
and something too expensive for most.
Our voices are our unique statement,
etching our souls onto the unfinished blueprint.
*
Our gazes will again meet
but will we still see ourselves in others?
Or will our eyes be glued shut,
handicapping us to what is real?
*
Yet, I would still wish to hear the song of songs —
of nature and life resilient.
The drums of war fading,
as that marching band is dismantled.
*
And this leaves us on shaky ground —
waiting and hoping and wishing and praying,
for the path to present itself
and rescue us from the storm.
*

Color Out Of Space – Two Cages For The Price Of One

Sometimes everything clicks in a film — the stars align in the exact right way and you’re left with a cosmic masterpiece. Richard Stanley’s adaptation of the H.P. Lovecraft story, The Color Out Of Space is exactly this phenomenon. It is a film firing on every single cylinder, providing the viewer with an out-of-body experience like no other. Stanley has always been an interesting writer and filmmaker but I have no qualms with declaring this effort as his greatest to date — it knocked my socks off.

It starts innocent enough, like many other smaller budget horror films before it, spending its early runtime easing us into the lives of a family fleeing life in the “big city.” Seriously, Cage describes their previous residence as just that, and it’s a howler of a line. In fact, after fifteen minutes, I wasn’t sure I was even going to like this film much. The family dynamic was hokey and Cage himself was fine — nothing special. What kept me going was how beautifully shot this film was. It is gorgeous. Soon, a meteor of sorts crashes right near the farmhouse the family now lives in and from here, the film gets weird — like, really weird. The meteor is of some unexplained cosmic design and begins to produce colorful flowers all around. These aren’t normal run-of-the-mill flowers or colors — everything is heightened. Soon, strange insects begin to appear and soon after that, people begin to get infected by this new strangeness. The film takes off like a rocket from this point.

We’re treated to a few extraordinary scenes with Tommy Chong as a local whose had strange visions of what is to come. He’s the harbinger and he’s magnificent in his small role. The slow burn of the film is over and the fire is raging. Nicolas Cage quickly goes from fine to odd in the way only Cage can. It’s here where we begin to see Cage’s character fighting his own infection. It’s taking hold of him and in the process, Cage has created two distinct characters. Not many actors can go over the top like Cage can and it’s become a bit of a recent joke in his career. Here, he is in top form. Two Cages for the price of one is only the beginning.

From a technical standpoint, Richard Stanley takes off as an artist as well. The sound design is impeccable. He focuses on all of the little things, helping us to sense the horrors that await us. The shot composition and cinematography pull every last ounce of feeling from each scene. The score, for its part, is equally wonderful. You add this up and include a central Nicolas Cage performance that truly requires a buy-in and you have something unique on your hands.

For the record, this film won’t be for everyone but it was definitely for me.

Back to Cage because this film requires him to go as big as possible and at about the seventy minute mark, Cage goes completely supernova. I’ve seen Cage do this before, sometimes much more effectively than others (most recently in the awesome, Mandy) but he has never been more effective with it. It is an astonishing performance from him. And shortly after this Cage all but winks at the audience and proceeds to go super-supernova because why the hell not? I stood up and clapped. The audacity of the performance is one for the ages. The craziest aspect of Cage this time out is how necessary his Cage-y-ness for this story. Stanley requires it from his leading man and Cage delivers in spades. What they created together is a horror film for the ages, one of the best, if not the best Lovecraft adaptation, and a film destined for my year end best list.

I loved it. Loved it, loved it, loved it.

Next week it’s time I tackled my thoughts on my favorite show on Netflix, Dark. Until then, love each other.