jentleman film journal.

The Future of Distribution, Part II: The Theatrical Release

Last week, I laid the table for a discussion of the future of distribution by laying out some of the challenges and opportunities presented by the new technologies of digital media, from the proliferation of devices to the ease of piracy to the lower costs associated with the production of content. In that first article, my focus was on how these emergent technologies have changed our consumption of all filmed narrative (really, all filmed media), and allowed for the proliferation of different formats, such as the short internet video.

Today, I’d like to zoom in more closely on the theatrical release, the traditional model of distribution for feature films and, supposedly, an institution under threat from the development of digital media. Though the theatrical release as our primary channel for the consumption of feature films – and, indeed, its importance in the development of what we understand the feature film to be – may be an accident of history, it has nonetheless made possible the most ambitious and far-reaching expressions of the filmed narrative. Though not appropriate for all such narratives, I believe that it would be an artistic loss to both filmmaker and film watcher were the theatrical release to disappear.

Read More

The Future of Distribution, Part I: New Challenges, New Opportunities

Last weekend, being wholly uninspired by the selection of new movies available to me (how excited did you really expect me to get about Dark Shadows, A Tim Burton Film?), I was pleased to discover that the ArcLight Hollywood was doing a set of screenings of classic movies. I found out about it too late to go to Doctor Zhivago, which would have been my first choice, but was happy enough to make it to a 5pm screening of Stanley Kubrick’s Vietnam drama Full Metal Jacket. It was my sixth of Kubrick’s movies, but only the first that I’d seen on the big screen.

It wouldn’t be accurate or fair to say that, having seen it on the big screen, I now can’t imagine seeing it any other way; great movies are great wherever and however you see them, be it in the theater or, now, perhaps even on the screen of your iPhone, whatever David Lynch has to say about it. Nonetheless, it was a distinct pleasure and privilege to experience it that way, and it’s hard to imagine, for instance, the vividness and clarity of its final set piece, when Private Joker’s squad is trying to track down a sniper in the hell of a bombed-out Vietnamese town, coming across nearly so powerfully from my television set.

Read More

Understanding the Television Star in 2012

It’s become a bit of a fashion lately to declare that television has for the first time overtaken cinema at the vanguard of the most exciting and ambitious filmed narratives. Yes, admittedly we’ve seen an explosion of mind-numbing unscripted series like Survivor and The Real Housewives of Suburban Kansas City, but at the same time shows like Mad Men, Breaking Bad, and Homeland have brought the sort of narrative innovation and ambition to the networks and standard cable that you only ever used to be able to find on HBO. Meanwhile, The Artist was supposedly the best movie of 2011, by popular acclamation.

Whether or not you agree with that sort of judgment, there’s no doubt that there’s some great work being done in television right now, so it’s not surprising that, all of a sudden, actors everywhere are focusing on trying to get themselves a TV show. Increasingly over the last several years, we’ve seen a reversal of the long-term trend of actors eschewing opportunities in television in favor of trying to work in the movies: George Clooney was able to make the leap from ER to the big screen, but his was a rare case. Now, though, an increasing number of recognizable talents have migrated from pictures to television. Zooey Deschanel discovered that her wide-eyed cuteness played better on a half-hour sitcom; Anna Paquin offered up her Oscar to be consumed by vampires; most recently, Don Cheadle and the great Dustin Hoffman have premiered series.

Hoffman is a separate case, because he’s one of the most respected actors around and can do pretty much whatever he wants; his presence on Luck is a testament both to his perception of the strength of the material and a recognition of the fact that it’s an easier sell to have an aging star on a television show than it is in the movies. I’m interested, however, in those others, because they are avatars of a particular aspect of this trend: name actors who’ve never been A-list stars who have nonetheless been able to parlay recognizable work in film into high-profile and high-paying jobs as the centerpiece of a television series. Consider it: Steve Buscemi (Boardwalk Empire), Sean Bean (Game of Thrones), Laurence Fishburne (CSI, though he’s no longer on the show), Claire Danes (Homeland), and Maria Bello (the not-so-dearly-departed Prime Suspect), to name a random cross-section that immediately comes to mind, were all noted supporting actors in movie for years before becoming TV stars.

All of that is a long-winded introduction to the essential question of this article: What is it that we look for in movie stars that we don’t in television stars, and vice versa? And why is it suddenly desirable to work in television – even outside the premium channels like HBO – when for so long it wasn’t?

Let’s take the second question first, because it’s a bit of a straw man question with an obvious answer: money. Monetarily speaking, television is exploding right now in part because the new forms of distribution that have been emerging in the past decade actually help the product: it’s easier to build a following on a series when people have greater access to it, and the internet makes access extremely easy. But when the product is a one-off, as is the case with motion pictures, that access makes them less viable because so much of their success is base on box office performance. At the same time, there are a finite number of screens in the United States, and the cost of putting together a movie is so prohibitive that there can only be so many films made in a given year. Distribution for television, by contrast, is exploding, thanks to the internet and to the ever-growing number of cable channels. That means that there are many more roles in television that have to be filled than ever before, while the number of roles in motion pictures is at best static and perhaps declining. Television, in short, is becoming ever-more-capitalized, and the development of such a quantity of television product means that shows must find more ways to differentiate themselves and develop their brands, just as feature films must. That means that shows need stars, which in turn means that they need to pay for those stars. Television may not offer the ego jolt or prestige of the movie palace, but it does offer big – and consistent – paychecks, and the material is better than it’s ever been.

That being said, we’re left with the more difficult question of what we look for in a TV star that’s different from what we look for in a movie star. There are, I propose, three immediately available lines of interpretation, which may or may not be exclusive.

One possibility, of course, is that, when push comes to shove, there isn’t really, a difference, just an ongoing change in preference. The fact that our most admired and respected actors now are working in film and not in television may have more to do with prejudice than with any fundamental difference between acting for the large or small screens. It’s only because of its historical prevalence that movie stars are bigger than TV stars; if TV does overtake the cinema, then our most talented actors will surely end up working in television and not in motion pictures.

I think that’s a bit of a devil’s advocate argument, though, and doesn’t take into account, or illuminate, any of the essential differences between the formats. Against it I would put what I term a ‘statistical’ argument (though today at least I will incorporate no actual statistics). That is: if movies are, as I contended in a long-ago examination of the idea of the film as a cultural landmark, our last great shared cultural experience, then their stars must be of a caliber to appeal to everyone, or at least to a significant group of people. Television shows, by contrast, can make their mark by appealing to narrower niches. Look at, for example, Zooey Deschanel and Kat Dennings. Deschanel could never quite break out as a movie star, despite repeated efforts to do so – yet she built up a fan base that enjoyed her quirky-cute, hipster-princess vibe, which is the audience that made New Girl a hit. Similarly, when she worked in film, Dennings was relegated to being the second female lead or to toiling in relative (albeit, in some circles, fiercely admired) obscurity.  In a half-hour sitcom format, however, her energy and snarky attitude can draw an audience. Or, perhaps more accurately, in both cases they always could draw an audience, but the audience that you need to make a half-hour sitcom viable is a much smaller one than the one you need for a feature film.

That brings me to the last, and most easily debatable, argument, which is that, past a certain level and outside of a few exceptions (that’s right, I’m talk to you, Daniel Day-Lewis), we as audiences are interested less in a thespian’s acting ability and more interested in some fundamental part of their personality. It’s what separates Old Robert De Niro from Young Robert De Niro. Does it really make sense that De Niro simply became a bad actor overnight? Of course not: he simply lost the intensity that was so essential to his onscreen charisma. Similarly, why is Tom Cruise a movie star and Ryan Reynolds is not? It’s because something about Reynolds comes off as soft, which – however crazy or silly he may sometimes be – is not a way that anyone would characterize Cruise. Depending on the actor, that circumstance of personality may be more or less broadly attractive. Morgan Freeman, for example, is one of the great actors of the last generation, but how wide an array of roles could you really say he played? In his case, though, the archetype that he fills is broad and a crucial element of many stories; he is, to use the monomythical construction, the wizard who guides and teaches the hero on his quest. (This is also why Freeman is almost always cast in a supporting role.) Jon Hamm, by contrast, is great on Mad Men but only so-so in everything else. He can be a television star because he can occupy that role for an extended period of time, and because somehow he fits the mold of that particular character. Yet it’s difficult for him to go beyond that role, no matter how hard Kristen Wiig tries to make him into a comedy star.

I don’t know if this tells us anything useful about actors or acting, but I do think it tells us something important about our first question, regarding why there’s so much more interesting work going on in television than ever before even as the cinema can seem stagnant. It’s that the explosion of television – and the migration of such individuals as Deschanel and Cheadle into their own starring roles – is allowing for specialty, unique work, and the best art is often done where it doesn’t have to worry about getting to a huge audience and can be itself. (Community being a depressing counter-example.) With the ongoing issues facing the cinema, however, there is pressure to make every movie appeal to as wide a base as possible, with the result that the material ends up feeling tired and unoriginal. In other words, the fresh, unique voice of the artist is speaking louder in television right now than in the movies, to some degree because it speaks to a fractured audience. In so doing, it’s laid the template for a new kind of television star.

Why The Oscars Matter

Whether it’s the new voting rules, or tastes affected by the dismal state of affairs at home or abroad, or Harvey Weinstein’s best efforts to rig the system, it’s hard to look at this year’s Oscar ballot and not feel like something went horribly wrong somewhere along the line. Drive, the best movie of the year, got almost completely shut out – it was always a hard sell for Best Picture, but omitting Albert Brooks from the list of Supporting Actor nominees amounted to a slap in the face – while War Horse and, most especially (or offensively, if you want to be extreme), Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close were tapped for the top prize. Hugo, meanwhile, pulled in eleven nominations, which is pretty significant when you consider, first, the general apathy of the public to a film that should have been a blockbuster, and second, that the movie was merely decent.

Clearly, it wouldn’t be that hard for me to turn this piece into a litany of the Academy’s sins. I don’t want to do that, though, for two main reasons. First of all, to do so would be to overlook the things they did get right: Gary Oldman’s nomination for Best Actor, for instance, was richly deserved and at least a small acknowledgment of a film that, though among the best of the year, was probably a bit too dark and a bit too British to register in a year when voters just wanted to feel good. More importantly, though, it’s because contrary to the reams of paper that will be produced this week on the injustices perpetrated and how AMPAS has lost its way, I believe that the Oscars do matter, more than any of the other awards shows and committees that dot the prestige season landscape.

I don’t mean to say by this that winning an Oscar, or even being nominated, necessarily means that a film or performance or technical achievement is the best of the year, or even among the best: film aficionados can always point to instances where a deserving film or performance was overlooked. Again, we live in a world where Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close could be nominated for Best Picture and where The Artist, this year’s front-runner, was nominated for Best Original Screenplay despite having only two lines of dialogue. Should Roberto Benigni really have won Best Actor in 1998? Of course he shouldn’t. Is it embarrassing that Titanic, Crash, and Chicago are among our recent Best Picture winners? Of course it is. But all of that is beside the point: while it’s nice to see great movies and great performances receive validation in the moment, the stuff that’s really good will still be around in twenty years, when The Artist is a historical footnote. (I’m not sure what the shelf life is of a black-and-white silent made in 2011, but my money is on ‘brief.’)

What I do mean to say is that the existence of AMPAS, and of the Academy Awards that are its calling card, is important in establishing and maintaining the idea of film as an art form, that can be good or bad and that must be addressed on its own merits. In theory, that’s a role that film criticism should play. But criticism, especially in this country, is a marginal and self-marginalizing field, restricted to one of two avenues: either you get the sorts of weekly reviews that emerge in daily papers, where films are broken down into component parts and a verdict is ultimately given (‘the actors are great, I didn’t like the story,’ etc), or one finds highly academic articles that talk about such-and-such director’s importance as an explorer of social themes of the 1970s without any consideration for why or how that director’s films are any good. Critics also sometimes seem to be almost willfully uninterested in film as a storytelling medium: keep in mind, as one friend of mine pointed out, that American film critics thought that Melancholia was the best movie of the year. (Readers of this blog, of course, are aware that it was in fact the worst.)

There is not, in other words, a real and developed dialogue in this country about movies, either as our most significant shared cultural experience or as a legitimate form of art. What the Oscars above all, and the awards season in general, do is to create a context in which people can actually talk about the movies in a context beyond “I liked it.” What else is a statement about what should win Best Picture, or what should have been nominated, or what a travesty it is that such-and-such a picture won some award or another, than a realized aesthetic judgment? We go to movies to be entertained, to be moved, to be told something, to be surprised, but rarely do we have an obvious reason to think about what makes one film better than another.

When Oscar nominations came out on Tuesday, however, the Internet was ablaze with, alternately, rage and delight over how things had gone. If nothing else, the Oscars create a cultural moment in which it is in some way necessary to have an opinion about the movies, in the same way that the Super Bowl creates a moment in which you’re almost not allowed to not have an opinion about football. Even if that opinion doesn’t go beyond, “Oh, I don’t care for it,” you’re still forced to acknowledge what it is and how it’s culturally significant, how you have in some way chosen a point of view that runs counter to the ongoing discourse. Similarly, when my friend tells me that he enjoyed The Artist more than any other movie this year and that it should win Best Picture, the fact that I know that he’s wrong isn’t enough: I have to justify why he’s wrong. By forcing us to compare films against one another, we also have to ask questions about what a movie should do and why one is more successful than another.

Even more important than that, though, is the fact that the Oscars – and only the Oscars, since all those other shows only matter because of what they tell us about the shape of the Oscar race – legitimate the pursuit of excellence in filmmaking. For most of the year, the success of a movie is defined not by how good it is but by how much it made: Michael Bay will continue to get work because, no matter how spectacularly uninteresting Transformers 3 might have been, his movies can be relied on to make bucketloads of cash. The Academy Awards, however, are dedicated to recognizing and rewarding excellence in cinema: for one night, at least, cinema culture is centered on the question of what is the best. In making that kind of excellence mean something, the Oscars give filmmakers – producers, directors, writers, actors – legitimacy in pursuing projects not because they think they’ll be big hits but because they want to make good movies.

Cynics will point out that the Oscars are used as another marketing ploy, that the notion of campaigning for awards – as all the studios do – negates the idea that the Academy Awards are really about honoring excellence, and that there is a discernible formula for what an ‘Academy Award nominee’ looks like. But however tempting it is to complain about how out-of-step the Academy is with contemporary taste, it’s worth pointing out that some of the greatest and most commercially successful films of all time were multiple Oscar nominees. Star Wars, The Godfather, Lawrence of Arabia, Shakespeare in Love – all were big hits, all were great films, and all were Oscar winners (okay, Star Wars only won an Oscar in my revisionist imaginary history, I admit). As much as we like to point to the omission of The Dark Knight from the list of nominees in 2008 as an example of voter snobbery (and justly so – does anyone really believe that The Curious Case of Benjamin Button was a better movie?), the fact is that the Academy has historically been pretty open to popular movies – really, to movies of all types – as long as they’re actually good. Even Avatar, which I didn’t really like, got a nod back in 2009. Dispiriting as it is that Bridesmaids couldn’t pick up a Best Picture nomination this year, it says something negative about the state of popular filmmaking in this country that, beyond that film, the best blockbuster that anyone could offer up for awards consideration was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2.

There’s no denying, also, that the Oscars are used as a marketing tool, and that one reason that they’re so coveted by studio types is that they bring a certain bump in box office receipts and DVD sales. The only reason that works, though, is that we accept that winning an Oscar means that a movie is good: Oscars and Oscar nominations raise our interest in a movie because we have some voucher for its quality, from people who should know. And while it’s true that the Oscar ‘formula’ exists – it’s the reason that War Horse and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close could be nominated for Best Picture – the Academy also found room on its slate for The Tree of Life, a movie that couldn’t be further from any sort of formula whatsoever.

I didn’t love that film, but for once that’s not the point. The point is that there is a place for movies like it, just as there is a place for movies like The Artist and The Descendants and Drive, and just as there is a place for that enormous, great movie that didn’t get made this year but which we will see again. The point is that it matters whether or not a movie is any good – and that though not every story will be good, there’s a good story to be told in every style and genre. Without the Oscars, we’re a bunch of cinephiles moaning about how no one tries to make good movies anymore. With them, we get to moan instead about how no one’s paying attention to the movies that are actually good. That may not seem like a very significant difference — but it is.

Love and Undeath: “Twilight,” Misandry, and the Female Blockbuster

With a sense of trepidation and mild disbelief, I bought myself a ticket on Monday to see Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part One, with the idea that I should see what all the fuss is about. I emerged two hours later, rueful, even a little shell-shocked: there really are some things that you’ll never be able to un-see, and Twilight, as it turns out, is one of them.

The important question, though, isn’t “Just how bad is the new Twilight flick?” but “What is it about these certifiably awful films that has captured so many people’s imaginations?” Like so many Michael Bay movies, the Twilight series has overcome generally poor reviews to ride to box-office success, yet it bears little resemblance to Bay-type blockbusters. Beyond its vampires and werewolves, Breaking Dawn has none of the characteristics of a fantasy or sci-fi film, without spectacular set pieces or epic battles or even the darkness of tone that one might expect from something dealing with its subject matter. Its closest cinematic kin isn’t Harry Potter but the Underworld films, which have been reliable, if unspectacular, earners for Sony.

Where Twilight has found its success, of course, has been in its appeal to women: an incredible eighty percent of the opening weekend audience was female, and when I looked around a crowded-if-not-packed Monday night theater I couldn’t have counted more than four or five men, including myself, in the audience. Deconstructing the appeal of Twilight, then, must mean understanding what it is about these films that is so attractive not ‘to people’ in general but ‘to women’ in particular. We’ve all heard of the chick flick, but Twilight isn’t that – it’s a chick blockbuster, something that Hollywood has never really seen before.

Actually, let’s stay with the ‘chick flick’ angle, because I think it is a revealing one. The stereotypical chick flick – the one that husbands and boyfriends groan about when their significant others bring it up, then go anyways – is the romantic comedy, a familiar genre going back to the Golden Age of Hollywood and before. Boy meets girl; hijinks and misunderstandings occur; boy and girl split; boy tries to win girl back; they all live happily ever after. This seems to be, more or less, the storyline of the Twilight movies: they may not be comedy (at least not intentionally), but they are romantic, and with the added bonus that ‘happily ever after’ can be read as ‘happily forever and ever.’ Twilight simply does what any successful genre hybrid does. In reappropriating the tropes of the romantic comedy for a fantasy film, it rejuvenates and re-empowers them. What was in Letters to Juliet a recipe for sentimental schlock suddenly becomes a treatise on everlasting, undying love.

In that vein, there’s much to be said on the film’s portrayal of its male characters. Feminist critics like to talk about how Hollywood reduces women to objects of male fantasy, sex objects that exist to please and titillate their mostly-male audiences. Hollywood has responded to this criticism by trying to insert ‘strong’ female characters into its movies, a la the fight-evil-and-look-good-doing-it female action characters of The Matrix or, most recently, In Time. These characters still end up being hypersexualized, however, either because we are at some point made to see that they look good in a dress (I refer you to the the trailer for the new Mission: Impossible movie, among any number of possible examples) or because they invariably end up taking their clothes off.

Well, turnabout is fair play, after all; Twilight, in my view, is just as much a female sex fantasy as any Lara Croft-type character is a male one. Sure, part of that is in Taylor Lautner’s never-out-of-sight-for-long abdominals, which make an appearance within the first minute of Breaking Dawn: one female friend of mine told me that one of the reasons that she watched the Twilight films was that it gave her a chance to look at bare-chested men. Really, though, the men who figure in Twilight, not just rival love interests Edward and Jacob but even Bella Swan’s father Charlie, aren’t so much sex objects as they are ‘affection’ objects, emasculated adorers whose only function is to make Bella feel loved.

If this seems like an unlikely claim, one need only consider what these three characters do over the course of Breaking Dawn. Charlie Swan puts aside his distrust of Bella’s choice of mate and walks her down the aisle; later on, when she is pretending to be sick on her honeymoon (actually pregnant with a half-human, half-vampire demon child, by the way) he states his intention to fly to wherever she is and bring her home immediately. Okay, but he is her father: perhaps it is to be expected that he would be so protective, though to be so after she has just been married seems mildly overbearing. Edward, meanwhile – the vampire that she weds at the beginning of Breaking Dawn, if you’re not familiar with the story – refuses to touch her after the headboard-annihilating consummation of their marriage because it has left her with bruises on her back and arms, even though such noble submission of the self seems misguided when she herself is unbothered by it. (That said, Edward may be forgiven for not believing it when Bella asks, “Why can’t you see how perfectly happy I am?”, given that Kristen Stewart’s wooden acting comes off making her seem like she isn’t happy at all.) Submission of the self characterizes Jacob’s interactions with Bella as well. His conflicts with the protagonist are never about how what she does affects him but because he worries about what the consequences of her decisions will be for her. Similarly, when Jacob and Edward argue, it is because of their rivalry over Bella, and when they join forces it is likewise because they agree that Bella’s safety is more important than their disagreements.

Admittedly, the I-know-best attitude that all of them take with Bella may smack of misogyny. The problem with such a rebuttal is that it ignores that fact that none of them have much of a personality or identity beyond their love for the protagonist. They really think that they’re behaving in her best interest, and in the end they always let her do what she wants, swearing to support and protect her no matter what. Despite his temper tantrums and his musculature, no character is as emasculated as Jacob, who rejects his tribe for Bella even after she has gone off and married someone else. To the women who had made Twilight a blockbuster, this may be read as the ultimate romantic sacrifice and a testament to some sort of twisted modern ideal of courtly love. Such an idea of romance, however, is one that denies men any interiority except insofar as it is overpowered by their love – some might say obsession – for a particular woman.

The point, of course, isn’t that women (necessarily) desire the attention of such emasculated males but that this form of emasculation works, however meretriciously, towards constructing the movie’s ideal of perfect, undying romance. Crucial to this as well is the fact that this movie has no ambitions to be about good and evil or right and wrong in the way that more male-oriented fare usually is. There are no ‘good guys’ and ‘bad guys,’ not really: conflicts are personal, not political or moral, and so, in Twilight’s romantic ideal, they are insignificant, and therefore resolvable, in the face of the power of love. Twilight is a character-driven movie in a genre and medium that are almost always plot-driven, and women tend to prefer more character-driven fare, as the fact that so many girls (and so few boys) like Pride and Prejudice and stories of its ilk is indicative of. At least part of Twilight’s success is that it’s a cross-genre spectacle that’s aimed at women and that plays its brand of misandryst romance to the hilt.

The reason that that fact alone can overpower its obvious cinematic and narrative weaknesses has as much to do with the scarcity of female-slanted offerings as it does with any actual strengths of the film. I can’t believe I’m writing this, but Twilight isn’t a phenomenon so much as a beneficiary of Hollywood’s almost willful ignorance of half of its potential audience. We could have drawn the same conclusion when Mamma Mia! grossed twelve times its budget back in 2008 and Meryl Streep went off on how Hollywood ignores women, but the sample size at that point was too small. What Twilight has definitively proved is that there’s a huge female audience out there that’s just as willing to pay for schlock as the male audience is. It just wants that schlock to be something that caters to its own interests, not to its boyfriend’s.