Inessentials

Very mild spoilers for 127 Hours and Unstoppable

One of the many remarkable things our brains can do is to relate information received through one sense to information received through another sense. My brain coordinates the sound of my fingers tapping on the keys of my Macbook as I feel the pressure of each finger pressing down as I see the backs of my fingers move slightly. My brain takes these pieces of information, received through different sensory apparati and gives me an all-in-one story about what is happening to me. Pretty cool.

In cinema, two senses are stimulated directly: seeing and hearing. We have our other senses engaged (smelling the popcorn, feeling the pressure of the cushion against our backs), but the filmmaker is limited to two senses to tell her story. But sometimes a really talented (or lucky) filmmaker is able to use our brain’s coordinating ability to use those two senses to engage the other senses.

In the wildly uneven but occasionally brilliant film 127 Hours, Danny Boyle tells the story of Aron Ralston (James Franco) who ventures alone into the Utah desert, slips in a crevice, and has his arm pinned by a boulder. Then begins the 127 excruciating hours as he struggles to survive and free himself. My favorite moment of the film happens shortly before that moment when his arm becomes pinned. As Ralston walks through Blue John Canyon, Boyle shoots Franco’s hand lightly running along the cliffside, scraping his fingers over the hard, grainy surface. It’s one of the really pleasurable moments of the film. It not only uses the close-up style that Boyle favors throughout the film (often to a very different effect), but it nicely establishing the challenge that lies ahead, suggesting the firmness and immobility of the physical location Ralston is entering. I found it particularly thrilling, though, for also giving us that unique moment of pleasure when we become so transfixed by a movie that the feel of a physical object against a character’s hand elicits the sense memory of grainy, rough, hard in us. We are used to feeling emotions that echo a film character’s emotions, but to elicit the memory of how things feel by engaging vision and hearing is truly wonderful.

Tony Scott delivers a similar pleasure in the runaway train thriller Unstoppable. The first act is filled with shots of trains moving slowly, switching tracks, engaging breaks. With some really terrific sound editing, Scott manages to reinforce in the viewer* that these are large, heavy, metallic objects. (*See how naturally we use visual terms for film reception, even when describing sound?) Again, this helps the viewer anticipate not only the magnitude of the future events, but it elicits the momentary pleasure of recognizing the sheer physicality of these multi-ton objects. When a character’s limb gets pinned (more parallels!) by these massive objects, we’ve already established through screeching breaks, thumping metal, and clanging bells the unforgiving, metallic nature of these objects and our own memories of encountering their force. Despite reminding us every 10 minutes that the film takes place in Pennsylvania, Scott does very little to give us a sense of what this place is like, but he does an excellent job of reminding us what these train cars feel like.

Recording images and sound, arranging them, and projecting them back to us in a way that engages our other senses. Yet another way in which movies are, to use the common word, awesome.

As those who follow me on twitter have noticed by now, I’ve been intrigued by the way that Carlos has blurred the lines between film and television. Carlos is a docudrama about Carlos the Jackal, the infamous assassin, terrorist, revolutionary, mercenary, myth, and public enigma. Carlos was produced for French television by the highly respected filmmaker Oliver Assayas. It aired this week on the Sundance Channel over three nights, running over 5 hours in total. Although produced for French television and aired on American television (before a shorter theatrical cut hits a few theaters), it was almost completely ignored by television critics, while being hailed as a masterpiece by many film critics. What’s going on here?

Carlos, it seems, is a mini-series. The Sundance Channel calls it “an epic 3-part miniseries.” The Internet Movie Database calls it a “TV mini-series.” But this television mini-series is being ignored by television critics while being discussed by film critics. For support, notice that Metacritic has Carlos listed as a film, and all twelve reviewers are primarily film critics. Sites that do both film and television criticism, like The A.V. Club, have Carlos filed under film. Furthermore, film critics are largely discussing Carlos as a film, with only a brief mention that it was made for and originally aired on French television. (Andrew O’Hehir at Salon.com is the only film critic I’ve found who calls Carlos a mini-series and the only one to at least attempt to make a connection between film and television.)

Why have television critics ceded this highly praised mini-series to the film critics? I’ve got a few ideas.

1. The death of the mini-series While once a key component of television programming, mini-series have largely fallen by the wayside. It’s been a long time since North and South, Lonesome Dove, and Brideshead Revisited. Television criticism has grown exponentially in recent years, but this has occurred after the demise of the mini-series, so there is almost no precedent for television writers reviewing these sorts of events.
2. The HBO phenomenon And what precedents there are for television critics reviewing mini-series have been almost exclusively historical dramas like Band of Brothers and John Adams on HBO. But HBO has recently been airing a number of made-for-TV films that have been reviewed as films by film critics. Temple Grandin is one recent example. HBO intentionally situates itself apart from television, as in its famous slogan, “It’s not TV, it’s HBO.” That makes it easy for film critics to make forays into television.
3. Oliver Assayas There are also elements of Carlos in particular that make it more attractive to film critics. For instance, the filmmaker is a former film writer turned writer and director, and he is regarded by many as one of the most creative and talented filmmakers working today. So when Assayas does television, it gets film critics’ attention, just as Spike Lee’s HBO documentaries did.
4. Film festivals Carlos did screen at a couple film festivals in its full-length version, including the influential New York Film Festival. So while the theatrical version of Carlos, not yet released, is not the version being reviewed by critics (at least in the current round of criticism), its mini-series version has been screened a couple times in American festivals.
5. Filmic predecessors There is also a precedent for critically lauded films to have their origin in international television. Most famously, Krzysztof Kieślowski’s The Decalogue, made for Polish television in 1988, was screened at some art house theaters in the US, often as a part of film festivals, and then later revivals. More recently, The Best of Youth, made for Italian television, came to US theaters. (I saw it over two glorious nights at the Oak Street Cinema in Minneapolis; it remains one of my favorite film-going experiences.) So film critics have some familiarity with European television that is screened in US theaters.
6. US-centrism of television critics Finally, as the last point suggests, while film critics are decidedly international in their criticism, television critics remain a pointedly US-centric bunch. A few will venture into Canadian television or the highly praised British sit-coms and anthologies, but television criticism in the US remains firmly rooted in the history of television in the US. It is not yet an international effort.

What difference does all of this make? I believe that it matters how we watch television and film, and good criticism address the medium through which the content is delivered. Understanding why Carlos was shown on the Sundance Channel (spun-off of the Sundance Film Festival) instead of on network television or HBO matters. Appreciating how our experience of Carlos can be different if we watch it in a movie theater or on a television matters. Knowing that Carlos is available on-demand on your television before it is released in theaters matters. Placing Carlos in the context of French television as opposed to American television or international film festivals matters. Calling a television mini-series “cinematic” (as a compliment) matters. And, perhaps most importantly, situating Carlos in the context of the television mini-series can lead to a different set of questions and assessments than situating it in the context of French cinema.

When only film critics review Carlos, we miss half of the potential entry points into analyzing an important piece of … television? cinema? art?

UPDATE: In his interview with Sam Adams of The A.V. Club, Oliver Assayas addresses a few of these points. A couple things to note. 1.) He was frustrated that the “film” (his term) could only be shown on French TV. 2) He says it “exists simultaneously” on television and film outside of France. 3) Because it was essentially green-lit as three television movies, he had a larger than usual budget.

If you are on Twitter (like I am) and follow pop culture creators and critics (like I do), you may know about the rebirth of Roger Ebert. If not, then it is worth taking a moment to see why his is one of the more remarkable stories of the last six months.

Ebert is the long-time film critic for the Chicago Sun Times and was co-host and producer of At the Movies, which cemented the “Two Thumbs Up” lingo in our national slang lexicon.

A recent article by Chris Jones in Esquire discussed his battle with cancer, which led to his jaw being removed in 2006. (Ebert talks about why he agreed to give the interview and have his photo taken at his wonderful blog. Also, there is a wonderful piece there on his not being able to eat or drink.) He now has new technology that allows him to speak, as demonstrated on his recent appearance on Oprah. (Here is a clip with Ebert’s wife Chaz.)

Ebert has embraced other technologies, too, becoming one of the most prolific Twitterers around; he has a following of nearly 100,000 people.

And if there was ever a question about whether Ebert is a nice guy, this remarkable story about his mentorship and forgiveness should settle it.

The story of Roger Ebert is not just the story of a remarkable person with a remarkable story, it is also the story of film criticism in America. For decades, people have fretted over the state of film criticism, particularly in America. “It’s dying.” “It’s dead.” “It’s pointless.” “It’s all about celebrity.” Ebert is sometimes seen as the major culprit behind the last charge. Ebert, first with Siskel, then with Roeper, became the face of film criticism in a way that earlier critics were not. He was a minor television celebrity who reached a national audience and whose “thumbs up” could lead any advertisement for a motion picture. The worry is that film criticism, partly because of television avenues like At the Movies, has become more about celebrity and less about the art of criticism.

There is a kernel of truth to this charge, but it’s largely off point. Film criticism serves a number of functions, and Ebert excelled at a number of them. First, he is a film lover. Critics can inspire love for films in us by demonstrating their love for films. And Ebert has always been a champion of film. Second, he is a lover of storytelling. Ebert, more than many critics, is interested in the story of a film more than many of its other artistic aspects. This is partly why he gives such favorable reviews to mainstream Hollywood films. Hollywood films tend to employ certain storytelling techniques, and Ebert is quick to praise films that tell conventional stories in a competent way. Third, and relatedly, Ebert has very populist tastes. One thing we look for from critics is the standard, “should I see this movie that opens tomorrow?” And Ebert is a great barometer of mainstream tastes. For a long time, especially when I first started paying attention to film criticism, I realized that no film critic was as good as Ebert at predicting whether I would like a given Hollywood film. And that is still valuable. Finally, Ebert is a very fine writer, who has an above-average prose style and a good sense of when to connect film reviews to larger truths, which makes his writing even more compelling.

There are other important roles that a film critic performs that Ebert has been less successful at, and I think this is the source of many complaints about him. For instance, his populist taste and preference for classical Hollywood storytelling lead to somewhat bland and predictable grades. While he champions films in his Great Movies series, they are usually films already part of the canon. You’re not likely to find many surprises in there. Also, Ebert has never focused on the close analysis of film. Now, this is moving more toward the domain of academic film studies since it is often not possible to do this in a newspaper review with a set word limit, but film critics also should have an eye for various formal elements of film, and many reviewers find ways to incorporate this into their writing. There is one other complaint about Ebert’s mainstream sensibilities: many of the most interesting films are those that divide critics. Some films deserve both passionate defense and full-on ridicule. (The films of Lars von Trier come to mind here, as well as what appears in Scott Tobias’ New Cult Canon or Manohla Dargis’ defense of Southland Tales.) Which means that we don’t always want critics that we agree with. Sometimes a critic’s job is to defend something we hate or devastate something we love. That makes us better film viewers.

The various roles that critics perform also suggest why we should read many different critics. Sometimes we simply want to know whether it is a movie we are likely to like, articulated very clearly or cleverly. (Ebert and A.O. Scott are good at this.) Sometimes we want consistently sharp or provocative reactions, even when they disagree with our own. (Here I like Mike D’Angelo and Stephanie Zecharek.) Other times, we want more historical and scholarly discussions. (David Bordwell and Matt Zoller Seitz.) A good critic can teach you how to watch film; engaging multiple critics can teach you how to understand film.

There’s been a spoiler-disclaimer backlash happening among television critics. You can read a nicely condensed argument at Monkey See. The even-shorter version of the argument: In TV journalism, “spoilers” applies only to reveals about unaired television episodes. If you time-delay on your DVR or if you are just now finishing season one of Mad Men, it is your responsibility to avoid discussions of what happens later. Journalists and critics can help by not spoiling things in the title of a post or article, but use your common sense: don’t read ahead. And if an article references an old occurrence from a different show, that’s not spoiling.

I am very sympathetic to nearly all of these points. But it’s not the policy I’m following here. Whenever possible, I’ll alert a reader to the television shows and films being discussed by placing a big, bold statement at the beginning of that piece. Even if it means, as it did in the last post, that I’m discussing only the first 30 minutes of the film Wendy and Lucy. Why would I be so hypersensitive? Because I am going to reveal information about a film that I want people to see and discuss, and by informing them of how much of the film I am discussing, they can decide for themselves whether to read on based on how much of the film I will be discussing. It’s just one of the many services I helpfully provide.

By informing the reader of which films or shows I will be discussing, and how mild or strong I consider the spoiler to be, the reader can make a more informed choice about whether to read on. That’s not always possible. If I do an end-of-the-decade discussion like the AV Club’s Best TV Series of the Decade or, more significantly, Best TV Episodes of the Decade, it will be impossible to avoid all spoilers. (Heck, it’s a list spoiler if you see the picture at the top of the latter article and know that shows on the latter list aren’t on the former list. Oh, well.) I’ll try in that case to keep them mild (e.g., talking about “romantic developments” instead of “getting married”), but remember that you proceed at your own risk, even as I try to help avoid big spoilers.