The Measure of a Man (or a Woman)

There is a movie that I love despite the fact that it has very little of good quality to offer. The movie is called Hero, and despite a brilliantly comical performance by Dustin Hoffman, its only gift to its audience is the central premise, which is so intriguing that I can't help but watch this movie over and over.

The two stars are Hoffman and Andy Garcia, who both play characters who are best described as "down on their luck." Hoffman is Bernie LaPlante, a sleazy small-time hood who earns his meager living by selling stolen credit cards and welching on his bills. He's cynical, dishonest, unreliable, and generally unpleasant. He is not evil, but he is far from good.

Garcia plays his moral opposite, homeless man John Bubber, who lives out of his car and earns his even more meager living by recycling cans. Bubber is charming, friendly, gentle, and, in Bernie's words, "a goddamn saint." He lives by a moral code fueled by an optimism and love for humanity.

The movie tells the story of how Bernie risks his life to save dozens of strangers by pulling them from a crashed and burning airplane, leaves before anyone can figure out who he is, and then watches helplessly as Bubber takes the credit for his heroism when a TV station offers a large cash reward for the Hero to reveal his identity. Bubber feels guilty about this miscarriage of justice, despite the fact that he uses his new-found fame to inspire hope and goodwill in the community, and his money mostly for charity. By contrast, even Bernie admits that if he were able to claim the reward, he'd spend it on personal debt and probably end up blowing the rest.

What we have here is a flawlessly virtuous man performing a selfish, vile deed, and a thoroughly despicable character acting heroically and selflessly. Neither personality, at their core, is changed by the events of the film. The movie itself is more interested in exploring the "comical" results of the mix-up, but there is a fundamentally astounding question that the movie asks, implicitly but unavoidably: How do you measure a man, by his everyday life choices, or by his major actions that more directly affect others?

This question is more than a purely intellectual exercise, it is relevant in our everyday lives. I, for one, have known people who have been kind and good to me, only to betray and disappoint me when I most needed them -- but conversely, I have known some real jerks who, when the chips were down, pulled through and proved their secret kind-heartedness in ways I never could have predicted. How can I feel about these people? How should I feel about these people? It's a question that deserves much thought despite its lack of a clear answer.

The Brothers Bloom

The Brothers Bloom is not a great film in the sense of leaving a powerful impression, like Star Wars or Pulp Fiction. Nor is it a very original film, covering ground that is well-trodden by the likes of David Mamet, Dale Launer, and Stan Shapiro. It is, in fact, a very minor film, in and out of theaters in a flash, and likely to be forgotten even by its admirers. But while not wholly original in its subject matter, it is original in its presentation, and while its significance may be no more than fluff, it is very, very good fluff.

The film stars Adrien Brody and Mark Ruffalo as the Brothers Bloom. They have polished their confidence games into an art that grows ever more entertaining for Ruffalo and ever more wearying for Brody. After years of threatening to do so, Brody finally calls it quits and retires to a coastal villa in Montenegro. After a few months of allowing Brody his requested solitude, Ruffalo tracks him down to recruit him for One Last Job.

If you've seen any movie about career criminals, you know that One Last Job always, always leads to trouble, and the "con artist" subgenre always presents the audience with questions that have become cliche. Who's conning who? Is the budding romance between the con artist and his mark sincere, or just a part of the game? What's real and what's a double-cross? When things start to go wrong, how far can the tricksters continue their scheme before things get too dangerous?

The Brothers Bloom knows it's identity as a con artist movie, and so presents us with a storyline in which all of these dilemmas fight for attention until the audience has to shrug and realize they'll never outsmart the movie so they might as well just go along for the ride.

Before I get into how much fun that ride is, I have to get a couple of nit-picks out of the way. I enjoyed the movie so much, I almost hate to mention relatively small complaints, but The Brothers Bloom has two problems that are so unnecessary that they do deserve mention. First of all, what's the point of having two different narrators? The prologue, a charming vignette about how the Brothers Bloom became con artists as young children, is narrated by Ricky Jay, who is, famously, not only an actor but also somewhat an expert on confidence games. Yet Jay's narration sets the tone perfectly by relating the origin of the Brothers Bloom as if it was a fairy tale. Then, we have an opening (and later, a closing) scene narrated by Brody's character. But why? Brody's narration is not only completely pointless, but it's also confusing to suddenly switch to first-person narration for no reason whatsoever.

My second complaint is the names of the characters. Both the title and the dialogue refer to the brothers as "the Brothers Bloom," and yet their names are Bloom and Steven. This is pointlessly confusing. Is Brody's character only referred to by last name -- even by his own brother? Or is his full name actually Bloom Bloom?

Yet I must emphasize that these are mere nit-picks. The Brothers Bloom, for all its lack of originality and unnecessary minor confusions, is highly entertaining, and often quite magical. Almost every single shot in this movie is worthy of artistic admiration equal to that of any painting in the Met. Part of this is due to the beautiful exterior and interior locations, which are uniformly a joy to look at. Yet two of the actors also deserve credit for the film's wonderful visuals. As the brothers' sidekick, Rinko Kinkuchi expresses a subtle yet undeniable erotic undertone with every expression, while still conveying a range worthy of a silent film actor. Adrien Brody's slighty Munchesque face, accompanied by a body language that balances the contradictory notions of grace and gangliness, is even more expressive. There is a moment when Bloom looks at an apple cart that is worthy of Rene Magritte at his finest.

All of this is accompanied by a delightfully old-fashioned score by Nathan Johnson, who claims to have been equally inspired by orchestral composer Nino Rota and rock group The Band. If you think about it, you can detect the influences of both, but I advise you not to think about it and just accept the score for what it is, a musical enhancement of the story's timelessness. Visually, there is very little evidence to pin this film down to any specific time period, and one can easily imagine the film taking place in the 50s or 20s with almost no changes whatsoever (with Rachel Weisz's modern-day cars the only real clue to a contemporary setting).

More than anything, there is a refreshing innocence to the film. While the subject matter may be that of a David Mamet script, the dialogue certainly isn't; it lacks the cynicism and foul language that Mamet and his imitators (both good and bad) revel in. These characters, for all their surface dishonesty, care about each other. Even Steven's Philosophy of the Con depends on making sure that each mark walks away happy. Yes, they have been conned of their money, but in their happy oblivion, they feel themselves to be better off for it.

I highly recommend The Brothers Bloom. You'll never mistake it for a great film. But sometimes "very good" is enough.

The Mysterious Night Noise

We've all been there. It's late at night, and you're alone in bed. Maybe you've had trouble falling asleep, or maybe you woke up in the middle of the night. And you're fine. You're not too thirsty, you don't have to go to the bathroom, your alarm is still hours away from going off, it's nice and quiet, and all is right with the world. Then you hear a noise. It's a quiet noise, of something, you don't know what, but something either falling or moving or shuffling. You have no idea what, exactly, it is, or where exactly the noise came from, but one thing's for sure: It came from somewhere in the room. You heard it, it was quiet, yes, but not quite quiet enough for you to get away with telling yourself it was just in your imagination. You heard it. And although you know that, in the daylight or lamplight, the exact same noise would barely warrant a curious glance, it is now consuming every thought in your head. What are these thoughts? You rarely worry about anything concrete, like whether you remembered to lock the front door, or whether a squirrel somehow found its way into the house and is now in a vain search to find a way back out. No, in these circumstances, the same five thoughts occur to everybody:

1. "Is a part of my body dangling over the side of the bed?" The only positive aspect of this terrifying notion is that you'll never have to dwell on it for long, because you will be aware of it immediately, and whip your arm or leg onto the bed almost fast enough to break a bone from the sheer g-force. Here's something interesting: My bed rests directly on the floor, meaning that it's not held up by legs. There is absolutely zero room for any Under the Bed Monsters. Hell, not even any room for Under the Bed Tapeworms. But guess what? If I hear the Mysterious Night Noise, the knowledge that there's no room down there doesn't help me one bit. I'll still yank my arm or leg onto the mattress fast enough to break mach 2.

2. "Am I adequately protected by my blanket?" Ever notice how, even on the hottest night of the year, as you're lying in bed, miserably soaked in sweat, you'll still have a blanket? We all know it's not there in case you get cold. It's in case you hear the Mysterious Night Noise. Logic tells us that if there really is someone (or something) in the room that wants to do you harm, a blanket couldn't possibly provide any protection, but a knowledge more powerful than logic tells us that this is bullshit, that even the thinnest sheet carries with it a magical force field that will protect us from any creature, ghost, or intruder. "Oo, someone helpless in bed!" the evil force thinks, "An easy prey! Wait -- Damn, he's got a blanket! I am powerless!"

Different people will need different parts of their bodies covered to feel safe. For a lot of people, it's their feet, but for me, it's my knees. Why my knees? I have no idea. Apparently, the Mysterious Night Noise Monster that lurks in the fear center of my mind hates people who don't cover their knees with a blanket. As long as my knees are covered, I'm usually all set. It's only when the terror of the Mysterious Night Noise has been amplified by a nightmare or the memory of a horror movie that I'm required to cover everything up to and including my shoulders.

Here's a tip: No matter how scared you are, never, ever bring the blanket high enough to cover your head. Just don't cover your head, no matter what. Why? Because no matter how cold it is in the room, it is too hot to put your head under there, which means in a matter of mere seconds, you'll be dying to stick your head back out, but now you've got a new fear to worry about: "what will I see or (shudder) feel once I stick my head out from under this blanket?" And quickly you realize that whatever fear originally motivated you to stick your head under the blanket pales in comparison to this new thought. Trust me, whatever temporary relief you may have gained is not worth it.

3. "Should I look around in the dark to try to figure out what made the noise?" No, you shouldn't. I understand that your curiosity will make you want to take a quick, reassuring look around, but trust me, this is the wrong thing to do. Depending on your bedroom set-up, all you'll see is either pitch blackness or a lot of shadows. Neither view will do anything to allay your fears, and, in fact, it will only incite your imagination even further, because now you'll be wondering what you can't see.

4. "O.K., it's too dark to see anything, so should I turn the light on?" Maybe. Sometimes this works, but sometimes it backfires, because once the light is on, you can't turn it off again. You know that the fear will return with the darkness, stronger than ever, because now you've admitted to yourself that you were scared. You've given up the luxury of denial. In either case, turning the light on means you have to reach out to do so. Is it worth it? Do you really want to stick your arm out there? Who knows what lurks in the darkness?

5. "I'm too scared to reach out and turn on the light, but I have to do something." What's the natural impulse in this situation? If your impulse is to hum, laugh, speak, or whistle, fight this impulse with every ounce of your being. Why? Because as soon as you do this, you'll realize that the scariest thing in the world is the sound of your own voice in the absolute silence of a dark and still night. This shouldn't be, I know. It's your own damn voice, what could be more familiar than that? But trust me, speaking out loud is the last, last, last thing you should do if you're already scared of the darkness. I think a part of it goes back to the instinctual protection we all feel from denying our own fear. Yes, we are taught that denial of our own feelings is frequently destructive, but the cold reality is that when we are alone and scared in the darkness, the denial of our fear is the only thing that keeps us sane. Think all the comforting thoughts you want, but once you open your foolish mouth to utter an inane comfort like "it was probably just my coat falling off the chair," you're screwed. The denial of fear is gone, and all you've got left is the acknowledgment that yes, you are scared, and somehow that's the scariest thought of all.

You think is this is just an amusing "slice of life" blog entry? Try reading this just before you go to bed. Wait for everyone else to go to sleep, turn off the lights, lie down, and think about this blog long and hard. Pleasant dreams.

movie review: Loose Cannons

I can't remember the last time I saw a movie with so many missteps as the justifiably forgotten 80s buddy movie Loose Cannons. In a way, the movie's first big mistake occurs before it was even made; Richard Christian Matheson and his father, the great Richard Matheson, Sr., have written some of the best horror and science fiction of the past several decades, but that doesn't mean everything they churn out is gold, and I'm not sure what made them think their experience writing about starships, vampires, and shrinking men made them think they were qualified to write an action-comedy cop movie. Come to think of it, when you thrive as a writer of great imagination, why bother trying your hand at stale Hollywood formula? Maybe they lost a bet.

In any case, the movie is all kinds of wrong from the very first scene. The film starts out with a group of characters trying to navigate a boat through an eerie, ominous fog. "This is scary!" one of the characters whines. Note to writers: If you have to be that explicit in telling your viewers how to feel about a scene, you may be in trouble.

The characters bicker in a manner that makes you instantly dislike them. They are supposed to be sympathetic, but by the time they encounter a group of bad guys on a yacht, you're already hoping the bad guys will kill them all, just to end the inane dialogue -- and this is still the prologue of the film!

We are then introduced to our main characters. First up is MacArthur "Mac" Stern, played by Gene Hackman, who brings talent to a tired role. Mac is a plain-clothes vice cop introduced in a painfully unfunny scene in which he refuses to cite a couple for disturbing the peace when their insanely loud love-making disturbs the entire neighborhood. Instead, he oddly poses as a public health inspector and gives the guy a hard time for not wearing a condom. Yeah. The scene is as bad as it sounds.

Then there's Ellis Fielding, played by Dan Aykroyd. He's been living in a monastery for months, and the foreshadowing begins with the revelation that the monastery doubles as a mental health institution. There's talk about Ellis returning to police work after a hiatus of months living with the monks. Will Ellis's mysterious mental illness eventually result in wackiness?

After the obligatory "meet your new partner" scene (which actually does contain that exact phrase) we get to know Ellis and Mac better. There's a lot of dialogue about how Mac is a maverick cop, and over the course of the film, we'll realize that the only real way we know he's a maverick cop is because people keep talking about how "crazy" he is. This point is worth emphasizing: We never really see him act crazy or mavericky, we're just told to accept that's how he is because the characters say so. Also because every cop film needs a maverick cop, so the writers feel that if we're told that's what Mac is, maybe we'll start to believe it. Actually, I have to amend this line of complaint, because the movie, significantly, provides one example of Mac's "maverick" attitude. I'll get back to this.

Ellis, meanwhile, turns out to be a forensics genius, and in one of his first scenes, he takes one look at a crime scene and reconstructs exactly how the crime went down -- and then, in a moment worthy of Sherlock Holmes, also explains how easily missed details led him to his conclusions. It's a well-written scene, and Aykroyd shines as the brilliant detective, so naturally, the film never again examines this aspect of the character. This is by far the best aspect of the film, but after this one shining moment, the film completely abandons, and seems to more or less forget, Aykroyd's character trait as a genius. What kind of incompetent screenwriting is that?

The character trait that the movie is really interested in exploring is that Ellis, it turns out, has multiple personality disorder. This has great comic potential, especially at the hands of a talented actor. Aykroyd is a talented actor. But you'd never be able to tell from this movie. In a stroke of laziness, the writers decided that instead of giving Ellis some actually interesting personalities, they would have him do broad caricatures of TV and movie characters. This isn't an original screenplay, it's more of a game of "spot the pop culture reference." It comes across as the writers' cheap excuse to pepper the film with dialogue from other movies, in lieu of writing their own.

Furthermore, what little humor the audience can find in watching Aykroyd act like Captain Kirk, the Cowardly Lion, and such, is defused even further by Ellis's backstory, which is so tragic that every moment of Aykroyd's silliness is poisoned with sorrow. It seems that Ellis used to work undercover in narcotics, until his cover was blown. Drug lords captured him and tortured him for days -- and that's when his multiple personalities emerged.

Now, why, in God's name, would the Mathesons provide Ellis with such a disturbing, cringe-inducing back-story -- in a comedy? What were they thinking? "Hey, for a comedy, this movie sucks pretty bad, but Ellis still might get some laughs. How can we make his comical scenes a lot more funny? Ah, we know -- let's constantly remind our viewers that he's had a mental breakdown brought on by brutal torture!"

The case Ellis and Mac are partnered for is equally mishandled. The proverbial MacGuffin of the film is a highly valuable film canister. It contains a "Nazi porno film starring Adolf Hitler," an idea equally absurd (but not comically absurd) and offensive. The Nazi porno, we are told, has great historical value (for putting Hitler in a new light) and also great political value, as it contains footage that proves that current German politician Von Metz (Robert Proskey) was once a member of the Nazi party, and in fact, a member of Hitler's inner circle.

O.K., first of all, why Nazis? Hey, I think they're a valid subject for cinematic stories, even action movies and comedies (see Benigni, Chaplin, Spielberg, etc.). But the subject is so uncomfortable, why use them as bad guys if there's no reason for it? The film could have just as easily said, "hey, this guy Metz was in the inner circle of a mafia boss/ corrupt politician/ convicted murderer, and the footage in this film canister proves it!" But no, the Mathesons decide to go with Nazis.

Second of all, why porno? Honestly, there is simply, unequivocally, no reason to make the secret film a porno, other than a cheap attempt to make the subject matter more risque. It's an awkward detail that adds absolutely nothing of value to the film.

Third of all, look at the character whose job it is to explain the Nazi porno film's significance. He's Harry "the Hippo" Gutterman, played by the gifted comic actor Dom DeLouise. Aside from exposition, DeLouise is given nothing to do. He's certainly not permitted to be funny. All he does is declare himself as a murder witness and ask for police protection, so he can spend the entire film making the same two complaints over and over again: "You call this police protection?" and "You guys are crazy!" It's not a running gag, it's a broken record.

I said I'd get back to my complaint about Mac's "maverick" attitude, so here it is: About midway through the film, the FBI shows up. They're suddenly interested in the case, but Mac doesn't want to hand over the film or his witness. The FBI agent played by Ronny Cox admittedly does come across as a little sleazy, so Mac develops an instant disliking toward him and refuses to cooperate with the feds. Now, Ellis, Harry, and Mac have to run not only from the neo-Nazis who want to destroy the film, but also from the feds who want to confiscate it. But wait a minute. Why is any of this happening? Why doesn't Mac cooperate with the FBI? Is it just because Cox rubs him the wrong way, or does he suspect a cover-up? What possible motivation could the FBI have in covering up a foreign politician's involvement in the Nazi party? None of this is ever explained. At least we now start to understand why the movie went to so much trouble to describe Mac as a maverick: it serves as the only explanation of why his character would refuse to cooperate with a federal investigation.

I've tried to illustrate how truly terrible this film is, but perhaps the best illustration is how the movie screws up its own punchline.

"You know why we make such good partners?" Ellis says at the end. "Because you're crazier than I am!"

"I knew that!" Mac chimes in. End of scene, end of movie.

Oh, how many ways can you screw up the delivery of one line? First of all, Mac has been described as "crazy" so many times that one more repetition of the line doesn't carry any punch to it at all. Second of all, the line is even less funny because, as I've observed, it's just not true. Mac never acts crazy, so why the heck does everyone keep saying that he does? Third of all (and I could list more reasons, but I'll stop at 3, for brevity's sake), the punchline is "you're crazier than I am." That's the punchline. It's not a funny punchline, it's flawed, it's tired, it's ineffective, but that's obviously, inarguably, the punchline. What's with the pointless "I knew that" comment? Anyone with any sense of comedy knows that you stop after the punchline. That's how the line gets its punch. You don't end a comical storyline with "to get to the other side -- that's why the chicken crosses the road!" or "you didn't come here to hunt did you -- you came here because you like gettin' it on with a bear!" or "take my wife, please, because I bet you thought I was going to say to take my wife for example, but I guess I fooled you, ha ha!"

How incompetent can you be to write a comedy and not understand how punchlines work? What a sad reflection of the movie as a whole.