“Nickel Boys”: Style Over Substance

I was looking forward to seeing the cinematic adaptation of Colson Whitehead’s acclaimed 2019 novel about two young Black men stuck in a brutal reform school in 1960s Florida. (The Nickel Academy is modeled on an actual Florida school, now thankfully closed, at which students—especially those of color –were long badly mistreated, sometimes sexually assaulted, and even murdered.) 

The story of Nickel Boys seemed an important one, and I was fascinated by reports that the film was shot entirely through what filmmakers call POV (or point of view), so that the world of young Elwood and Turner was shown exclusively through their eyes. In other words, the audience would see precisely what the characters themselves were seeing, as a way of drawing us into their lived experience. Movies have included this technique almost from the beginning: when the hero is gazing at a lovely vista, or a pretty girl, or a herd of bison, we briefly glimpse these things as though we shared his exact perspective. But, under the direction of RaMell Ross, Nickel Boys pushes this conceit a great deal further, telling virtually his entire story subjectively.

Clearly, Ross’s goal is to pull us in to the lives of two unfortunate young men by immersing us in the sights and sounds of what they experience. Critics have responded to his attempt with enthusiasm, nominating Nickel Boys for many awards. The Film Academy too was suitably impressed, placing the film among its ten nominees for Best Picture. I gather that—for whatever reason—the Directors Guild was less admiring. Ross was not among the five nominees for the Guild’s top award this year, nor was he chosen by the Academy’s directors branch as one of the five up for the Best Director Oscar. 

I saw Nickel Boys in the company of three other moviegoers. One had read the novel; two had not. Though I had not read Whitehead’s work, I did have a sense of what the novel was about and what the filmmaker was trying to accomplish. All of us came away frustrated, feeling that we’d been bombarded by visuals that didn’t always make sense, and that the basic storyline had eluded us. Yes, there were things to admire, particularly in Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor’s sympathetic portrayal of Elwood’s grandmother. And I see why it was an attractive challenge to show Elwood bombarded by the world around him, including televised shots of freedom riders and Martin Luther King’s soaring speeches. Mostly, though, I found myself constantly aware of the camera’s tricks, of how the film relied on mirrors and shiny surfaces to occasionally let us see the two Nickel Boys of the story rather than just hearing them speak. Frankly, it all made me a bit dizzy. 

There’s a major scene near the end, one that’s setting up what is going to be a key revelation. It takes place in a bar, and the two characters in conversation are both older now—and both survivors of the hellish Nickel Academy. They’re surprised (and not entirely glad) to recognize one another, though both seem to be painfully making their way in the outside world.  For reasons that come clear only later, one has his back to the camera throughout the entire conversation. Was I paying attention to what they were saying? Or to the emotion beneath their words? Well, I tried to. But I kept being distracted by struggling to figure out whose point of view we were sharing, through whose eyes we were seeing this. That’s what happens when a movie puts style ahead of substance.  

 

 

Everything But the Bathroom Sink: “The Brutalist”

You can’t say that writer/director Brady Corbet lacks ambition. During the three hours and thirty-five minutes of screentime that make up The Brutalist, he shoehorns in such pressing topics as racial and ethnic bias, religious intolerance, drug addiction, sexual perversity, and what it feels like to be an artist in thrall to a wealthy businessman. I’d heard that The Brutalist is the story of a Holocaust survivor, and so it is. But for the Hungarian architect László Tóth, a proud product of Bauhaus training before Hitler came to power, America is not much of an improvement over Nazi Germany. In fact, the movie as a whole turns out to be an unrelieved diatribe against American life disguised as an immigrant saga.

Brutalism, as the film never gets around to explaining, is a school of design that became popular in the postwar years, one that features massive forms and heavy, raw materials like concrete. This is the style of the building project that dominates the film: Tóth’s design for an elaborate community center complete with library and chapel. The ideas are his (and a brief laudatory moment in the film’s epilogue finally makes clear to us how impressive they are). But the money comes from an impulsive and irascible tycoon who likes to be viewed (when it suits him) as a champion of modern art. He’s Harrison Lee Van Buren, and the name itself seems a ham-fisted way of reminding us that he’s American to the core. And, especially in a late-in-the-film scene where he’s truly—and unconvincingly—vicious to his protégé, he can be considered a brutalist too. 

The two main actors in this epic drama deserve praise. Adrien Brody, who won an Oscar back in 2002 for portraying a Polish Holocaust victim in The Pianist, is the ideal choice to play the long-suffering László. Tall and thin, with unkempt hair and a wild look in his eye, he seems about to cry even in moments when he’s genuinely happy. I was also impressed by Guy Pearce as the proud, mercurial rich man who holds László’s future in his hands. (I recall I first discovered Pearce, in a very different mood, as a drag queen in Australia’s 1994 hit, The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.)  But in the key role of László’s wife, an invalid who is unable to reunite with her beloved spouse until the film is half over, the usually reliable Felicity Jones struck me as unconvincing. Her accent, for one thing, seems effortful. But she’s also been asked by the script to behave in ways that seem well outside the range of what’s possible for her. 

That’s my number-one problem with The Brutalist. The central characters in the film quite often behave not like human beings but like symbols I could cite many examples: moments of extreme love and extreme hate appear in the story not because they’re consistent with a character’s inner workings but because they make a point that the director (who’s also the writer) deems important. For instance, while I can understand László’s ardent natural sexuality coming to the fore at inappropriate times, what we see on screen always seems to be a message from Corbet to the viewer. 

My moviegoing companion— someone who shared my experience of this long, drawn-out, rather lugubrious story (thank heavens for that intermission!)—commented later that it was much more enjoyable to discuss the film afterwards than it was to sit through it. Yes, The Brutalist can’t be faulted for the strength of its ideas. But I couldn’t get past the clashing of all those symbols.  

 

Dancing through Time: “Wicked”

Time marches on? Time dances on? I only know that I seem to have become too grown-up to thoroughly enjoy Wicked. Yes, of course I still love watching what happens to Dorothy and her pals when they journey from Munchkinland to the Emerald City in the classic 1939 film. It’s a movie I’ve adored since childhood when, months before I actually got taken to see it, I pasted a newspaper photo of Glinda and Dorothy in my scrapbook. The screening I was so excited about was, of course, an encore presentation. The film’s debut occurred long before I was born—and long before the movie industry had adopted basic safety practices to protect actors from harm. I strongly recommend Aljean Harmetz’s The Making of the Wizard of Oz, first published in 1977 and now available in an illustrated anniversary edition, to anyone who wants to read hair-raising stories of the dangerous conditions on that set. 

The 1939 production was hardly the first attempt to film L. Frank Baum’s classic children’s tale. I’m told there’s a silent version dating back to 1925. But after the success of the Judy Garland vehicle, Hollywood tried several times to film other of Baum’s Oz books, with mixed results. (Does anyone remember Fairuza Balk in 1985’s Return to Oz?) More inspiring was the screen version of the Broadway hit, The Wiz, in which the familiar story of Dorothy and her friends is re-imagined in an African-American context, with such stars as Diana Ross (Dorothy), Michael Jackson (as the Scarecrow), Lena Horne (Glinda), and Richard Pryor (The Wizard of Oz) giving an urban twist to the saga, which starts on the mean streets of Harlem instead of on the Kansas prairies.  

I’ll say this for Wicked: it’s a thorough rethinking of Baum’s original story. Wicked began as a 1995 novel by Gregory Maguire, subtitled The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West. I found its prose rather ponderous, but it cleverly explores the nature of evil by looking at the evolution of a young woman named Elphaba from pathetic misfit to incarnation of all things witchy. The novel became a 2003 hit musical, thanks at least in part to Stephen Schwartz’s songs, with a big assist from the performances of Adina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth. (Both get nice little cameos in the film version.)

The new movie, which is certainly doing its share of saving the financially precarious film industry, is actually Wicked, Part I. It’s also, I trust, introducing a new generation to the joys of movie musicals. Under the direction of Jon M. Chu, who had previously scored with Crazy Rich Asians and the Lin Manuel Miranda musical, In the Heights, it is visually impressive, with the palace of Oz, the complicated hair-do of Madam Morrible, and the frilly all-pink wardrobe of Galinda all given loving attention. The singers really sing; the dancers really dance. And Chu’s openness to casting actors of many backgrounds—especially Cynthia Erivo as the green-skinned Elphaba—adds a nice subliminal message about society’s scorn for those whose skin is a different shade. 

So what’s not to like? I guess for me (but not for the younger folks with me, including a starry-eyed ten-year-old) the movie felt overly long and overly effortful. The very earnestness of the film’s social issues (which get tangled up with a subplot about the mistreatment of animals) seemed overwrought to the point of dullness. Yes, I loved Ariana Grande’s rendition of the show’s best song, “Popular,” But I’m not counting the days until we get to see Wicked, Part II. 

 

Whatever Happened to Vera Miles?

Vera Miles? Whatever happened to her? And who was she, anyway? Miles, who’s alive and well at 95, was an Oklahoma-born, Kansas-bred beauty pageant winner who found her way to Hollywood in 1949. She played key supporting parts in films directed by John Ford (The Searchers) and Alfred Hitchcock (The Wrong Man, in which she was the wife of Henry Fonda, playing a real-life jazz musician falsely accused of robbery). She also was several times cast by the Disney folks as a lovable wife and mom, often in tandem with Fred MacMurray or Brian Keith, perhaps reflecting her own real-life role as the mother of four children. She also regularly appeared in featured roles on television. Despite all this, in her forty-five year career she never truly moved beyond second-tier stardom. 

Things might have turned out differently in the late Fifties if Miles, who was then under personal contract to Alfred Hitchcock, had gone through with Hitchcock’s plan to star her as the female lead in Vertigo. Hitchcock favorite Grace Kelly had moved from the soundstages of L.A. to the throne of Monaco, and Miles was singled out as a suitable replacement. Said the Master of Suspense, “Miss Miles is going to be one of the biggest stars of Hollywood because she has understanding and depth and ability and lovely legs.”  To that end, he ordered a fabulous wardrobe for Miles, and cranked up the Hollywood publicity machine. But life intervened. Hitchcock’s need for gall bladder surgery delayed the production, as did time-off requested by the hard-working male lead James Stewart. And then Miles had the nerve to become pregnant with her third child, a move that Hitchcock considered something of a personal insult. (He was to say in later years, “I hate pregnant women because then they have children.”)  So Kim Novak got the plum dual role of Madeleine Elster and Judy Barton instead, though Hitchcock did feature Miles in his television dramas and in a key supporting part as Marion Crane’s sister in Psycho.

I know all the above because of Christopher McKittrick’s new biography, Vera Miles: The Hitchcock Blonde Who Got Away, coming in March from University Press of Kentucky. There’s no question that McKittrick has done his homework. Though he never had the opportunity to speak to Miles directly, he seems to know everything there is to know about her life and times, and in passing fills us in on everyone with whom she ever connected. Though it’s interesting seeing her on the set of masterworks like Ford’s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, I was most impressed with Miles’ evolution in later years into a woman who knew how to stand up for herself, one who clearly saw the lack of meaty roles for women and became determined to do something about it. (I’d love to know what she thinks about the current crop of films like Anora, The Substance, and Emilia Pérez—as well as last year’s Poor Things—whereby today’s actresses are coming to dominate the industry in which she once played a significant part. As someone always considered ladylike, she might not be pleased by the outrageous roles Hollywood’s women are now undertaking.) 

McKittrick considers it refreshing that Miles, far from becoming a burned-out Hollywood cautionary tale, largely ran her career on her own terms. As he puts it, “If opportunities like that of Vertigo passed her by because she chose other, more personally fulfilling paths for her life, those were decisions she was happy to make and has continued to stand by in her retirement.”  

 

The Fire Next Time: Roger Corman and Disaster Movies

I haven’t wanted to write about the terrible conflagrations in my part of the world because it just makes me too sad. Life in West Los Angeles right now seems, in bizarre and tragic ways, to be mirroring the climactic Burning of Los Angeles as depicted in The Day of the Locust. (This 1939 novella was made into a 1975 John Schlesinger film, but for me its on-screen finale doesn’t match in any way the power of Nathanael West’s original prose.)

 I’m lucky, at least, to be in a Santa Monica neighborhood that’s currently not being threatened, though of course anything’s possible. But friends (some of them elderly) have lost everything, and the heartbreak around here is overwhelming. Still, with stiff upper lip I’m turning away from the tragedy here to write about my late boss, low-budget filmmaker Roger Corman, and how he tried to turn disasters to his advantage.

 While I was Roger’s story editor at Concorde-New Horizons, in 1989,  there was a major earthquake in the vicinity of San Francisco. It’s almost impossible to photograph an earthquake, since (believe me!) quakes happen without warning, so capturing the actual shaking on film wasn’t a consideration. Still, Roger dispatched a small film crew, which came back to L.A. with some unimpressive footage of cracks and rubble. Then there was the matter of a script. At first Roger got caught up with the issue of shoddy infrastructure, and wanted to make the villain of his piece a bureaucrat beholden to private interests who ignored safety protocols when issuing building permits. For this (with my encouragement) he hired a very good writer of prose fiction, Madison Smartt Bell, in hopes that he would become the next John Sayles, a man who could graduate from page to screen.

  Unfortunately Roger’s concept was too thorny for what was intended as an action flick larded with sex and violence. So the thoroughly-baffled Madison was canned, and Quake was ultimately written in-house by my colleague Rob Kerchner, along with Concorde regular Mark Evan Schwartz. Someone (probably Rob) had the good idea of using the post-quake chaos as a backdrop for a variation on a popular John Fowles novel called The Collector. In 1965 it had become a film starring Terence Stamp as a warped young man who abducts a beautiful woman (Samantha Eggar) and keeps her as a specimen for his “collection.” Our film, directed by Louis Morneau, starred Steve Railsback as a warped young man who abducts a young woman in the aftermath of the so-called Loma Prieta quake.  And what about that rubble footage that Roger had sent his minions to shoot? Quake (aka Aftershock)  was advertised as capturing the actual earthquake on film for the audience’s viewing pleasure.

 It didn’t always take a natural disaster to inspire Roger. The Los Angeles riots of 1992, sparked by the beating of Rodney King, led him to propose another “ripped from the headlines” film, to be called (prophetically, I now realize) Night of a Thousand Fires. He quickly gathered three eager young screenwriters (at least one of them brand-new to L.A.) to create a hard-hitting story that would take in the disparate perspectives of Black rioters, Korean shop-keepers, and the entrenched white hierarchy. With great fanfare, he held a press conference to announce the project. But then, in typical Roger fashion. he quickly lost interest . . . because he realized that with Spielberg shooting a cinematic version of Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park it was high time for a quickie dinosaur movie, one that would beat Spielberg’s film into theatres.  And so 1993’s Carnosaur was born. 

 

“A Complete Unknown”: Bob Dylan Finds (and roars away from) Fame

Watching the Bob Dylan biopic, A Complete Unknown, was like returning (yikes!) to my college years. Though never a hardcore Dylan fan, I attended a Hollywood Bowl concert that took place soon after Dylan shocked his fans at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival by playing a plugged-in electric set with members of the Paul Butterfield Blues Band. As at Newport, there was booing at the Bowl, with audience members showing their fury that a man they regarded as an earnest young folkie (a poet and an one-man band, in Paul Simon’s terms) was turning toward rock-and-roll.

 Back then, as an atypical Sixties kid more interested in literature than protest, I didn’t quite see what the fuss was about. But in watching A Complete Unknown I was surprised how much I responded to those oh-so-familiar tunes: the wistful “Blowin’ in the Wind,” the ominous “A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall,” the jaunty "Subterranean Homesick Blues." And I realized, via the film, how much Dylan—a man who liked to be inscrutable—revealed about himself in his songs.

 It was smart of the filmmakers to focus on the very young Dylan, arriving in New York’s Greenwich Village in 1961 but then—feeling the burden of fame—lighting out for the territory in 1965. In Timothée Chalamet’s sensitive portrayal we see how much he owes to the friends he made along the way, but also how badly he wanted to cut ties that were all too binding.

  According to the film, perhaps the most important relationship he built was that with Pete Seeger, played by an excellent Edward Norton. They meet in the dismal hospital room where Pete is watching over the dying Woody Guthrie, a longtime Dylan hero. From the first, the two veteran folksingers are impressed by Dylan’s original ballads, and see him as the potential messiah who can bring young people into the folk music scene, with its emphasis on social awareness and the beauty of the acoustic guitar. Having survived two Dune films, Chalamet is clearly used to playing messiahs-in-the-making, but the point of A Complete Unknown is that he doesn’t want to be one.

 Nor does he want to be part of a permanent romantic couple. This lesson is ultimately learned by the women in his life. Elle Fanning’s Sylvie Russo (a re-naming at Dylan’s own request of the real-life Suze Rotolo) introduces him to social action, but is unable to penetrate his self-imposed inscrutability. Joan Baez, beautifully portrayed by Monica Barbaro, partners him on the stage and sometimes in bed, but can’t get him to play nice while on tour and refuses to be merely his occasional sexual conquest.

 Which brings me to the Dylan songs that explain it all. “It Ain’t Me, Babe” (a duet by Dylan and Baez in the film, while a stricken Sylvie looks on from the wings) makes clear he rejects any long-term romantic connection: “It ain’t me you’re looking for.”  The lyrics of “Don't Think Twice, It's All Right” seem to justify an itch to cut ties and hit the road. Most apt of all is the tune whose lyric gives the film its title. “Like a Rolling Stone” is the song of a loner “with no direction home,” one who is ultimately heading out on his motorcycle to points unknown. But perhaps the lyric that stays with me most is Guthrie’s own ditty as sung by Pete Seeger, depicted here as the gentle Mister Rogers of the folk music scene: “So long, it’s been good to know yuh . . . I’ve got to be driftin’ along.”

  

 

A (Semi) Golden Evening at the Golden Globes

Who votes for the Golden Globes, anyway? The top-of-the-year awards ceremony used to be hosted by the Hollywood Foreign Press, a small cadre of foreign journalists known for their eccentricity, their snootiness, and their willingness to be bought by the highest bidder. (A “new star of the year” statuette for Pia Zadora? Really?)

 After an outcry a few years back about the group’s ongoing racist inclinations, there was a complex reshuffling of the Globes’ voting bloc, and I don’t pretend to know who’s in charge now. I do know, though, several key things. First of all, that the event still tries to present itself as the awards season’s best party, with attendees served a festive dinner and booze flowing like water. Secondly, that awards go to both movie and TV bigshots (crafts categories are pretty much ignored). And, thirdly, that best picture and best actor awards are divided between dramas, on the one hand, and comedies or musicals on the other. This divvying up of films by genre perhaps made sense at one time: at the Oscars great comic performances have often been overlooked in favor of actors playing dead-serious roles. But the categorizing at the Globes often leads, as it did this year, to some head-scratching choices. Take the Best Motion Picture—Musical or Comedy category. It’s easy to see that Wicked belongs there. But what about Anora,  A Real Pain, The Substance, and the ultimate winner, Emilia Pérez?  Yes, they might contain hilarious moments, but films in which the heroine suffers a ghastly fate don’t strike me as fundamentally funny. Nor does a movie whose climax is a visit to a Polish concentration camp.

 Host Nikki Glaser, who’s been receiving major plaudits for her performance, got off some good lines in her opening monologue, which nicely skewered Hollywood pomposity. I enjoyed her intro of “two-time Holocaust survivor” Adrien Brody, but particularly appreciated her canny reference to “the hardest-working actors in the room,” the ones that were busy serving the meal on which celebrities in tight outfits were cautiously nibbling. In the later innings, though, Glaser didn’t seem to have much to say. She DID show up in a series of glamorous gowns, each designed to show us she has two breasts in working order.  (Breasts were definitely star attractions among the ceremony’s female contingent.) At one point Glaser started in on a song mashing up Conclave and Wicked’s “Popular.” I had high hopes for comedy gold, but her “Pope-ular” stopped almost as soon as it started. As for other great funny moments, fuhgeddaboudit . . . except when an impish Seth Rogen and a priceless Catherine O’Hara admitted to the awards they’d supposedly won (like The Golden Antler and The Beaver) in their native Canada. Theirs was the only appearance that had me laughing out loud.

 What about the winners? The prize for most emotional definitely went to Best Female Actor in a Supporting Role (yes, that’s how they put it), Zoe Saldaña, who seemed overcome by her win to the point of choking up, and then couldn’t stop talking. Having seen Emilia Pérez, I agree that she earned her award. Almost equally emotional (and equally voluble) was Adrien Brody, Best Male Actor in a Motion Picture--Drama for another much-honored flick, The Brutalist. Demi Moore was articulate and touching in explaining how The Substance (a comedy??) gave her a new lease on her professional life, in keeping with the film’s own themes. But the #1 surprise was Fernanda Torres of Argentina, for the Brazilian I’m Still Here, beating out some of Hollywood’s finest. This I’ve gotta see!  

 

A Change for the Better: “Emilia Pérez”

A friend with a strong interest in movies has chosen not to see Emilia Pérez.  He said he just couldn’t get excited about a film that focused on a Mexican crime lord’s sexual transition from male to female. The fact that it is a musical made it seem, to him, even odder. And I admit I had something of the same feelings. I’m a bit overwhelmed, right now, regarding movies (and other art forms) that focus intensely on gender dysphoria.

 But then Emilia Pérez showed up on Netflix, which meant I could watch it for free. And I was certainly curious (though not yellow) to see why this film set the Cannes Film Festival abuzz, and won a Best Actress prize to be divided among its featured female ensemble. The actresses included Latin American stars Zoe Saldaña and Selena Gomez, along with Karla Sofía Gascón, a Spanish performer who transitioned from male to female in 2018. Gascón has been mentioned as a possible Oscar nominee, and I can see why. In the film’s early going, she is featured as a gruff, tremendously fearsome cartel boss who is not in the least feminine. As Juan "Manitas" Del Monte  she summons a talented but underappreciated female attorney (Saldaña) and forcefully explains her desire to leave her current life—whatever the cost—and become a woman. There follow several rather goofy musical segments in which Saldaña travels the world, looking for doctors who are both discreet and adept at sexual reassignment surgeries. For the right price, it’s amazing how many services are available. An add-on procedure to remove the “Adam’s apple”? Sure.

 I enjoyed all of the above, but couldn’t see why French writer- director Jacques Audiard was racking up major honors for this film. But once Manitas becomes Emilia, the film radically changes its tone. Whereas Manitas was imperious and cold, Emilia is warmth personified. In her new and quite attractive body, she’s positively glowing. But she’s no longer just interested in self-satisfaction. Now, with Saldaña’s Rita as her lieutenant, she’s started a major charity to help mistreated women. (Rita’s mixed emotions are striking. When Emilia suckers a large group of drug lords into showing up at a banquet to support her group, Rita acts out her contempt for these potential benefactors in a remarkable fantasy number that shows off her stunning dance moves.) 

 The film’s musical numbers have the virtue of reminding us that this story is built on fantasy. But the fantasy co-exists with some tender moments that are deeply felt, like Emilia’s growing longing to be with the young children she once sired, and her little son’s hunch that his newly arrived “aunt” is somehow closer to his absent father than she might seem. Love is in the air in all its iterations: Emilia forms a romantic bond with a needy young wife who’s glad to be rid of her abusive husband. Meanwhile, Selena Gomez’s Jessi, believing herself the widow of the absent Manitas, falls for the slimy Gustavo and helps hatch a desperate plan that will dominate the film’s last section. Alas, surprises await. 

 What’s this movie saying? That women are better (if not necessarily stronger) than men? That seems much too simplistic a conclusion. And Gomez’s Jessi, for all her moments of self-reproach, is hardly saintly. Let’s just say Emilia Pérez is about the value of being true to your authentic self. Manitas was once hated and feared. But Emilia, at film’s end, is recognized as a hero, even a saint. As a woman, she brings her community together, instead of tearing it apart.