Inessentials

Spoiler-filled discussion of the Toy Story and Bourne franchises

I watched the satisfying Toy Story 3 yesterday, which is not only setting box office records (Pixar’s highest grossing opening weekend) but critical ones (one of the highest rated films on Metacritic, for instance). The story follows the further adventures of the beloved Woody, Buzz, Jessie, and the gang, as their owner Andy prepares to leave for college. There are some stunning action sequences (the film’s opening is a highlight) and some emotionally moving moments (a moment when the characters hold hands is especially poignant). But what stands out to me the next day is the rich political messages the film offers.

Firstly, there is throughout the Toy Story franchise an emphasis on the emotional rather than commercial value of toys, most clearly exemplified by the evil collector in Toy Story 2. That gets extended in Toy Story 3 by the film’s final sequence which shows 17-year-old Andy passing on his toys to young Bonnie. In addition to being yet another Pixar paean to imagination it’s a reminder that there is a joy to reusing old toys and passing on those old toys to others when they have more use for them which cuts to the heart of a consumerist aquisition of whatever is newest. Caring for old toys is a recurring theme throughout the Toy Story films, which goes beyond mere nostalgia. In the Toy Story films, imagination plus an old box, a paper plate, and some old toys make a perfectly workable spaceship game that are superior to any video game. (Computer games make a brief appearance in TS3, but the suggestion is that these are best enjoyed as a shared experience rather than a solitary one.) Re-using, sharing, and donating wisely are virtues at the heart of the Toy Story films. Disney may make a billion dollars from TS3 merchandise, but the Pixar folks would rather have you playing with your original Toy Story Buzz Lightyear than replace it with every sequel.

Secondly, and more remarkably, the middle third of TS3 showcases a fascist dystopia from which the toys must escape, The Great Escape-style. The Sunnyside Day Care is run by Lotsa Huggins, who smells like strawberries but rules the toys with an iron fist. In the midst of a Disney-financed blockbuster that will earn hundreds of millions of dollars in theaters, and more than that in merchandising and tie-ins, there is a surprisingly seamless tribute to Animal Farm. Orwell’s novel chronicles how easily totalitarianism can arise within democratic societies and how socialist ideals are easily corrupted. Toy Story 3 runs Animal Farm in reverse, beginning with a totalitarian regime (complete with brainwashing, violence, surveillance, torture) and ends with a benign ruler who encourages everyone to contribute what they can to promote the greater good. Like all Hollywood films, we’re required to have a trauma in Lotsa Huggins’ life that leads him to be such a cold, calloused teddy bear. And it’s not as though Toy Story 3 is running a political allegory of the sort that Orwell offered. My point is simply this: Toy Story 3 is a rich, complex story, and (like all rich, complex stories) it is an imagining of how the world works; such imaginings are inherently political.

It’s become commonplace for film critics to encourage viewers to see a film because it is “apolitical.” This happened a great deal with The Hurt Locker, a film that was praised for being “apolitical.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen a truly apolitical film, but it would be awfully dull. Every film is political because every film says, in some limited way, “This is how the world is or could be.” So, sure, The Hurt Locker was not political in some narrow, crude sense of saying you should vote for a particular political party. But it was a highly political film in saying, this is one narrow glimpse of what war is like. In understanding what war is like for a bomb diffuser, we are better able to make political decisions like whether we should go to war. Now, critics say The Hurt Locker was apolitical in part because they wanted people to see a very good film and didn’t want them to avoid it for fear of getting Michael Moore’d by it. And some films suffer for trying a bit too hard to make a political point, such as Paul Greengrass’ The Green Zone. But every film, from romantic comedies to big war spectacles, contains depictions of human beings interacting with one another that can shape the way we understand the world. And your politics grows out of your understanding of people and how the world works.

Spoilers for The Proposal (but nothing you couldn’t figure out from the trailer)

The problem with romantic comedies today is that they are neither romantic nor comedic.

That’s the attention grabber, the obvious joke, the easy jab. But it’s not quite true.

Of course there are truly unromantic films with no chemistry between the leads that pass as romantic comedies. And of course there are truly unfunny films with stale jokes and unwatchable delivery. After all, Jessica Alba and Dane Cook still find work.

But let me suggest that the single largest problem with the genre of Hollywood romantic comedy is not lack of charisma (Clive Owen, George Clooney, Paul Rudd, and apparently Bradley Cooper; Julia Roberts, Amy Adams, and, given the opportunity, Anna Faris). It’s not that the romantic comedy has been supplanted by the man-as-boy comedy (the Judd Apatow and Adam McKay/Will Ferrell films) or the bromance (I Love You, Man, The Hangover), although that has taken its toll. The biggest problem with the romantic comedy is that it has become mired in a genre convention that it surely doesn’t need: the humorless resolution.

Watching the passable exercise that is The Proposal earlier this summer, I was struck by how few jokes arrived in the final 45 minutes of the film. The first 45 minutes gave us Sandra Bullock (who I find immensely cold and irritating, so her role as a cold and irritating boss was welcome) and Ryan Reynolds (carving out a nice niche for himself with above-expectation rom-coms) getting engaged so she doesn’t get deported. (Don’t worry, she’s Canadian! = Not a terrorist!) Predictably, they have to sell this to Reynolds’ family, who had higher hopes for him. Hilarity (or a passable, low-fat alternative) ensues. With sexy results.

I’m not giving much away to say they end up falling in love (but how will they ever admit it to each other … and themselves?). What was surprising was that the film managed to have a light tone, some funny even though predictable bits, and a not terrible laugh-to-sigh ratio. So why did I leave the film with a sour taste in my mouth? There was absolutely nothing funny about the last 30 minutes, in which we are supposed to be carried along by nothing more than our desire to see these two can’t-admit-it-but-they’re-love-birds make it. We don’t care. We are given no reason to care. But even if we were, why do the jokes have to stop? Where is it written that the comedy has to stop when the romance starts? William Powell and Myrna Loy as Nick and Nora Charles didn’t need to stop the jokes when they moved to the bedroom. That’s where the best stuff happens. Cary Grant, Carole Lombard … name your favorite classic Hollywood comedian who could play a romantic lead and every one of their successes was built upon their continuing the jokes even after they realize they’re in love. When Cary Grant is convincing His Girl Friday that she is still in love with him and not her fiance, the film is just beginning, not ending.

Romantic comedies have too fine a pedigree for us to allow these current incarnations to continue telling us that romance begins when the joking stops. Romantic comedies work when there is romancing through comedy, not romance usurping comedy.