Looking Back on “Past Lives”

Not long ago I saw on Facebook two brothers exchanging their views on Celine Song’s 2023 indie film, Past Lives. Both brothers are successful writers, and I worked with one of them (Hi, Lee Goldberg!) in my Roger Corman days. Lee’s brother, Todd, was praising to the skies Song’s writing and directing debut. Many of his friends (both male and female) agreed with him, calling it one of the year’s best, and describing how the ending had them in tears.  Lee countered, though, that he had found Past Lives extremely dull. For which he was accused by brother Todd of having no heart.

 I don’t know about Lee’s lack of a heart, but I’m basically on his side. Not that I found Past Lives boring, exactly. But for me it was remarkably unmemorable, a small and sensitive movie about people I could barely recall once the lights came up. This story of a thirty-six-year-old man who travels from Seoul, Korea  to New York City to reunite with the young woman who won his heart when they were both 12 sounds interesting enough, especially because she’s now married to a loving, and lovable, Caucasian American. And I was pleased that, for a change, the emotions in the film were low-key, with none of the characters on the brink of committing mayhem when they couldn’t get their heart’s desire. I like the internationalism of the concept, and (as someone with experience living in Asia) I’m always pleased to see that part of the world recognized on screen.

 Still, I was and still am surprised at the ecstatic reaction that Past Lives has garnered. I can see it as a Sundance success, but I’ve been stunned at how often it shows up these days on Top Ten lists. As of Tuesday morning, it is now officially one of ten films up for a Best Picture Oscar, along with such masterworks as Oppenheim and Killers of the Flower Moon. Radio commentators were lamenting on Tuesday that Celine Song was not included by Oscar voters as one of the year’s five best directors. (Hey, I’m more concerned about the snub to Barbie’s Greta Gerwig.) I doubt Song herself is much lamenting her omission, because she also authored the Oscar-nominated original screenplay. Several commentators also seem a bit bummed that lead actors Greta Lee and Teo Yoo were overlooked by the Academy. (I’m more inclined to regret the omission of Margot Robbie and Willem Dafoe.)

 Don’t get me wrong—I like small, sensitive movies. And it’s nice to applaud female writer/directors  (especially women of color) who do something good their first time out. But I also understand why the big prizes generally go to those connected with ambitious projects, films that try something brand-new and gutsy. (That’s why I’m pleased with all the acclaim for Poor Things.) I also tend to root for projects that have something highly important to say. (That’s why my very favorite film of the year is Killers of the Flower Moon.) I guess Past Lives has taken the “sensitive indie” slot on the Oscar Best Picture list. Good for Celine Song and her team! What I really want to see, though, is what she does hereafter.

 Not that everyone who wins an Oscar needs to be a Hollywood veteran. There’s room for the occasional dazzling newcomer,  especially when their achievement strikes a chord with national and international audiences. (Yes, I’m thinking of Lily Gladstone.) But I’m  not a fan of overpraising good, modest work, and I believe that when prizes are handed out, a track record should count for something.

 

Not Caught Flat-Footed Regarding Barbie

I was the right age to play with Barbie dolls when they were first introduced to little girls. But my mother wanted no part of these “teen” fashion dolls with their garishly painted faces and highly exaggerated proportions, and I tended to agree with her. Personally, I remained content to continue building my “family” of 8-inch Madam Alexander cuties who looked more like me.

 Still, I’ve been unable to ignore all the hype surrounding the new Barbie movie. I’d hardly be interested in a flick that simply exalted the plastic pal of so many girls of my era. But I was certain that writer/director Greta Gerwig—whose off-center take on Little Women (2019) is a worthy addition to the Louisa May Alcott canon—would have something interesting to say. And, hey, I was right.

 Gerwig (and her writing-and-life partner Noah Baumbach) can’t be accused of lacking ambition. The film’s early scenes are an hilarious re-creation of Barbieland, where all the buildings are pink and all the important jobs (doctor, judge, astronaut, President) are filled by Barbie clones who are simultaneously brainy and beautiful . . . and of course very well dressed.  Ken is here too: amiable, not too bright, and generally outfitted for the beach. Before the role-reversal joke can wear out, Stereotypical Barbie (a perfectly-cast Margot Robbie) finds herself starting to feel actual human emotions, and heads to the Real World to figure out what’s going on. Her trip to Southern California  puts her in contact, for the first time, with male misogyny, while the tag-along Ken (Ryan Gosling) discovers that toxic masculinity—complete with cowboy duds and horses—might improve his lot in life. (A column by Jean Guerrero in yesterday’s Los Angeles Times focuses on the film’s quiet recognition that the rules for today’s men, as well as today’s women, might be overdue for a makeover. She urges that we all adopt “Kenpathy” for guys who would rather not be male chauvinists but know no other path.)

 There are many details in this film that are genuinely funny, like the fact that Barbie’s moment of truth comes when she discovers she can no longer habitually perch on the balls of her feet, the better to model stilettos. I also loved the presence of Weird Barbie (Kate McKinnon), whose hacked off hair and grotesquely painted features show her to be the victim of some sadistic little human girl’s lurid imagination. The candy-colored enticements of Barbieland should win art-direction love at Oscar time. But I was also amused at the fact that Barbie’s native habitat is set against my own hometown, Santa Monica, which in the film looks equally idyllic and—Gerwig suggests— almost equally plastic. There’s a hilarious moment when narrator Helen Mirren suddenly bursts into the story to comment on a casting matter, and Robbie’s film-ending line is both provocative and smart.

 Speaking of smart, there’s the interweaving in the plot of a sympathetic human mother (America Ferrera) and daughter (Ariana Greenblatt) with strongly mixed emotions about the Barbie world. And I loved the acknowledgment of Ruth Handler, played in the film by a delightfully appealing Rhea Pearlman, as both Barbie’s original “mother” and a strong businesswoman with a billion-dollar idea. The film, in addition to all its ideas about female empowerment, is open to acknowledging the sheer goofiness of the Barbie empire, which once briefly included a pregnant friend for Barbie, as well as a little-girl doll who grows before your eyes into an adult body, and a Barbie with a television screen embedded in her posterior. Oh well, back to the drawing board.

 

Tonya Harding Rolls with the Punches

I, Tonya, which explores the public perception of this country’s most notorious ice queen, could not be timelier. These days—when image is everything and a future president once bragged that his great popularity would allow him to get away with murder—the story of figure-skater Tonya Harding seems right on the money in terms of the way we Americans look at crime. What happened backstage at a Detroit ice arena two decades ago definitely has legs, and this new film brought it all flashing back to me.

I’m a fan of competitive figure-skating, especially when the Winter Olympics are drawing near. So I absolutely remember the build-up to the 1994 U.S. Figure Skating Championships, which would determine the American skaters who’d vie for Olympic gold. The ladies’ event pitted Nancy Kerrigan, a slender, fragile-looking young lady from Massachusetts who was known for her grace on the ice against Tonya Harding, a solidly-built wild-child from Portland, Oregon, renowned for her athleticism. (She was the first American female to successfully land a triple-axel in competition.) Unfortunately for Tonya, who came from a working-class background, she never fit neatly into the genteel world of ladies’ figure-skating. In an arena where it helped to seem delicate and demure, she was a powerhouse on the ice. The product of two bad marriages (her mother’s and her own), she projected an image that was tough as nails, and she had the mouth (as well as the swagger) to turn judges against her.

On that infamous evening in Detroit,  Nancy Kerrigan—following a practice session—was felled in an arena hallway by an assailant wielding a metal police baton. The assault badly bruised her leg, but it could have been far worse: her kneecap was the apparent target. The news reports that quickly flashed across the nation featured Kerrigan on the ground, writhing in pain, moaning “Why me?” It didn’t take long to locate the “masterminds” behind the senseless attack: Tonya Harding’s ex-husband and his goofball friend, who was Tonya’s self-anointed body-guard. The question of Harding’s own culpability has never been settled. She has always denied that she knew of the plan, but her innocence is far from certain. In any case, she (so obviously a bad-girl), was quickly declared guilty in the court of public opinion. Today there are those still convinced that SHE was the baton-wielder, striking down her toughest competition for a spot on the Olympic team. The press happily went along with this scenario, which pitted a trailer-trash vixen against a sweet little swan, (Nancy’s big number used music from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.)  

I, Tonya doesn’t exactly set this misperception to rights. Instead, it does something far more interesting, using a documentary format to conduct on-camera interviews with Tonya (Margot Robbie) and the dominant figures in her life, including abusive ex-husband Jeff Gillooly (Sebastian Stan), and her gorgon of a mother, LaVona (the unforgettable Allison Janney). Those interviews give us pieces of the story, but also show us what a rare thing it is to be able to nail down the facts of a notorious public event. Characters contradict one another, and talk back to the camera. At one striking moment Tonya even blames us in the audience for the prurient attention that encourages reporters to run with half-truths. 

The real Tonya Harding was interviewed extensively for this film. In Robbie’s spirited portrayal, she comes across as an often infuriating but ultimately sad figure. Still, she’s a survivor. What did she do after being banned for life from the figure-skating world? In 2003, she debuted as a professional boxer. Ouch!