Features
Madonna (New York, NY â July 25, 2001)
The obligatory Cowgirl segment falls a bit flat if only because it follows the high-drama and acrobatics of the Geisha storyline. However, it found Madonna at her most talkative on this particular evening.
Standing in the center of Times Square (literally, balanced on the thin curb dividing northbound and southbound Broadway with walkman and cellphone in hand), I thought of the now-middle-aged Madonna, 20 some-odd years earlier, ordering her cab driver to drop her off “in the middle of everything.” Had it really come to this? Failed attempts at securing guest-list status through industry connections for the pop iconâs invite-only Roseland gig in September of 2000 had led me to days of torture-by-radio and pathetic group strategery. The DJ finally disclosed the location of the giveaway and somewhere downtown Madonna fans were falling all over themselves, scurrying across streets and getting hit by cars, all while Z100âs street team secretly (and deviously) handed out tickets to random passersby, oblivious to the chaos. There was something unclean about the whole situation, but hey, it had been seven years since the performer had taken the stage proper, so it was worth a little blood and tears, right?
Thatâs what Madonna does best: the hunger she creates in the public is often more palpable than the art in her pop. Most new Madonna fans (a.k.a. Britney fans) probably canât even remember the last time she went on tour, let alone recall the groundbreaking theatrical tour-de-force that was 1990âs Blond Ambition, a show that bulldozed the boundaries of pop music and substantially raised the bar for its live interpretation. But itâs more than anticipation fueling the hunger for the epithet-denouncing Material Girlâs new Drowned World Tour. At this rate, weâll have to wait until lilâ Rocko starts dabbling in the new-new coke before Madonna puts on another show. (On second thought, that might not be too far off, but even then, sheâll be well into her fifties.)
So itâs not exactly a “farewell tour” but itâs certainly being treated as such (tickets priced at an unusually lofty $250 are going for thousands on eBay). Once again, critics and fans alike have sneered at the lack of classic tunes, and while complaints seemed unwarranted in the past (more than half of the material from 1993âs the Girlie Show pre-dated 1991), “La Isla Bonita” and “Holiday” are the only â80s-era songs to make the cut this time around. Always the most non-conformist of capitalists, Madonna fills the spaces between hits with edgier numbers like “Candy Perfume Girl.” In fact, album cuts comprise 50% of the showâs material. This show is for true fansâcritics (and hits) be damned. But who still cares about “Like a Virgin” anyway? Much more criminal is the omission of the brilliant “Like a Prayer,” the dramatic “Vogue,” and even, dare I say it, “Take a Bow.” Instead, the bulk of Drowned World is culled from last yearâs Music and 1998âs Grammy-winning Ray of Light (the tourâs name is lifted from the opening track of that album, inspired by J. G. Ballardâs apocalyptic novel, The Drowned World).
Like many icons before her, Madonna calls New York home (though she was born in the Midwest). When her show landed in the Big Apple on July 25, 2001, there was a certain sense of bittersweet “arrival” in the airâor maybe it was just the brutal humidity or the pre-show mist of dry ice that summoned more screams than your average afternoon at TRL. (Nonetheless, it was opening night in the biggest city in the world and Madonna later dedicated the very personal “Secret” to its residents, who, she informed the audience, “inspire the fuck outta” her.) After a dramatic and well-sung (albeit demure) entrance, Madonna and her gas-masked entourage moved into the high-energy thump of “Impressive Instant.” The simple ode of devotion is transformed into toxic infatuation thanks, in part, to a virulent and possessive dance routine.
And “Instant” only gives one a taste of the yarn Drowned World ultimately unravels. Like every satisfying trip to the theater, the show aims to convey a message while it entertains. Madonna is every ounce the performance artist, and her shows are as much about visuals as they are about the music, with exclusive videos, images, and montages littered strategically throughout five themed “segments.” The second segment opens with a stunning video performance of the track “Paradise (Not for Me)” while several nude dancers hang cocooned and writhing upside-down from a minimalist, gothic treescape. The interlude was no doubt designed to give the singer time to assemble her Geisha costume (full with 26-foot sleeves) in which sheâll emerge for the song “Frozen.” From there, she sinks forsaken at the foot of her lover/master during “Nobodyâs Perfect,” an act of penance and humility. The cycle of songs tells the tale of an abused woman and her indignant retaliation (the frenetic “Sky Fits Heaven” techno-battle incorporates martial arts and harnessed flying) and the characterâs ultimate liberation. “Mer Girl” dramatically interweaves her motherâs death, her daughterâs birth, and her fear of the man she “cannot keep,” while an image of her bruised face finally cracks a smile as the on-stage Madonna sings: “I ran and I ran…I keep running away.”
The obligatory Cowgirl segment falls a bit flat if only because it follows the high-drama and acrobatics of the Geisha storyline. However, it found Madonna at her most talkative on this particular evening. She had been, for most of the show, distantly down-to-business. The performer sang a quaint mock-country western tune (convincing accent and all) about “taking lifeâs lemons and making lemonade” (she debunked press reports that the ditty was about cannibalism). A French-techno/acoustic revamping of the powerful “Youâll See” segued into the final, hit-heavy portion of the show. Not surprisingly, charged-up versions of “Music” and “Holiday” were the biggest crowd-pleasers of the evening. An amazing video montage of Madonna throughout the years distracted from the actual on-stage antics of “Music,” but her level of enthusiasm for being in front of an audience once again was never in question. Having the distinction of being the only song performed on every one of the pop starâs five tours, “Holiday” (updated here with a sample of Stardustâs “Music Sounds Better with You”) has seemingly become an old friend to Madonna and her longtime backup singers, Niki Haris and Donna DeLory. Itâs in these final, all-too-brief moments that Madonnaâs message comes in loud and clear. You know the words: something about coming together and having a celebration.
By the end of the night I realized I was witnessing one of the greatest performers of our time during the peak of, perhaps, one of her last great tours. Yet it wasnât difficult to play objective critic. Seeing pop royalty wield an electric guitar seemed bizarre yet oddly natural, and while her vocals were emotive and on-pitch throughout the show, she often seemed trapped in her head voice. The singerâs Spanish-inflected performances both on-stage and in the studio have always seemed authentic (or at the very least, genuine), but an electronic-infused Spanish version of “What It Feels Like for a Girl” and a stripped-down acoustic version of “La Isla Bonita” felt anticlimactic. Yet from its futuristic techno-lighting to a breathtaking black-and-white montage that recalls Ron Frickeâs cultural journey Baraka, the show was technically flawless, further evidence of the Big Mâs perfectionist blond ambition.
Though her cowgirl image is easily her least significant incarnation to date, Drowned World proves that Madonna is still unmatched in her ability to lift cultural iconography into the mainstream. The Geisha cycle is epilogued with hard techno beats and violent imagery taken from the groundbreaking Japanese anime film, Perfect Blue. The storyâs main character, Mima, a former pop star haunted by ghosts from her past, dreams of becoming an actress but resorts to porn gigs in her search for success. Those who thought Madonna hung up her handcuffs along with the notorious Sex book should look again closely. With its themes of chaos, dominance, and, ultimately, celebration, Madonnaâs Drowned World explores her ever-fervid intrigue with both imposed and pious restraint.
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Features
Interview: Eddie Redmayne on The Aeronauts and Accessing Physicality
Redmayne discusses everything from calibrating his physicality in rehearsals to cultivating his imagination on a barren set.
âI canât believe you wrote your dissertation on Les MisĂ©rables,â Eddie Redmayne says in a complete non sequitur midway through our conversation. I had a feeling it might come up at some point, so I had to lead with telling him that he featured prominently in the video essay portion of my senior thesis on how Tom Hooperâs 2012 film adaptation collapsed boundaries between stage and screen. As legend has it, Redmayne made a suggestion in post-production that led to the filmâs close-up-heavy editing, a choice which sparked intense discussion around the aesthetics of the musical genre.
The episode captures something about Redmayne that sets him apart from other actors who operate in a similarly demonstrative, showy register. Heâs genuinely thoughtful about the full cycle of how a performance gets created and transmitted to audiences, in everything from the rehearsal process to the editing bay. After winning an Academy Award for 2014âs The Theory of Everything and another nomination for 2015âs The Danish Girl, Redmayne took a turn toward blockbuster fare with two outings playing Newt Scamander in the Fantastic Beasts series. But now heâs back to the period dramas that made his name with The Aeronauts, an old-fashioned movie adventure that reunites him with his The Theory of Everything co-star, Felicity Jones. As scientist James Glaisher and pilot Amelia Wren, Redmayne and Jones, respectively, spends the majority of the film confined to the tight space of a gas balloonâs basket as they rise to 37,000 feet in the air in an attempt to make meteorological breakthroughs in 1860s Britain.
Redmayneâs role is a fitting lens to discuss not only The Aeronauts, but also his recent career. His craft is just as much a science as it is an art. Our conversation got into the weeds of technical details as he discussed everything from calibrating his physicality in rehearsals to cultivating his imagination on a barren set. But, first, we had to discuss Les MisĂ©rables, given the pivotal role his behind-the-scenes behavior played in my academic career.
During post-production on Les MisĂ©rables, I read that while in the editing room you encouraged Tom Hooper to hold longer on the close-up of Anne Hathaway during âI Dreamed A Dream,â setting into motion the film relying on them so heavily.
Because of the way that Les Mis was shot with live singing, you couldnât get between different tracks because of the variation. What Tom did was make sure that you could always have the whole scene cut from one setup: a wide, a mid, [and a close-up]. There were three cameras on at the same time. He was editing the film, and the studio had put out a trailer they edited themselves that was more of the close-up. Tom and I had a discussion, and I think I mentioned that it could hold. What I find so interesting is that everyone has a specific opinion on Les Mis, whether it workedâand, of course, the close-ups are something people bring up a lot. But the live singing process dictated the way it was shot. We couldnât shoot outside a lot because, when you shoot outside, the voice disappears. So, we had to build the barricades in a studio.
What you did with Les Misérables speaks to just how much a performance gets remade in the editing room. Are you still actively involved in that final step of the process?
Whatâs weird about making films is you create so much of it in a vacuum. Itâs not like theater, where actors get together for months and work things out. Often you meet the person playing your mother or father two hours before [shooting]. Often you donât know the director, meeting them a day before you start working with them. You have an idea of what the characterâs arc is, and, of course, part of the joy of making films is giving over that. You put that down and hope the director observes that. But a director can often observe something different thatâs more interesting! What I like to do, and Iâve been lucky enough to do, is make work and, if Iâm allowed into the editing process, have a dialogue with that director. Provided you know they see what you intended, whether they use that or not is obviously their choice.
I do find that dynamic really interesting, and Iâve been lucky enough with James Marsh on The Theory of Everything, Tom Hooper, and [director] Tom Harper and [screenwriter] Jack Thorne on this. Felicity and I worked together with Jack and Tom for a couple of months beforehand working through the intricacies of the script, and Tom allowed us that bit because itâs so intimate between the two of us, almost like [working on a play] with the writer and director. He allowed us the intimacy in the process the whole way through. The reason I do it is because, as an actor, youâre never happy with what ends up in the finished product. But while you can still shift and change things, I enjoy being a part of that process.
As someone who came up through theater, where you have so much less mediation between your performance and how an audience receives it, have you found comfort in the editing process?
It was a massive adjustment because I got into acting through theater. For many years, I couldnât get cast in TV or film because I was playing to the back of the stalls in my audition. When I did start working, itâs all been a massive learning curve.
How do you approach acting out of sequence? In both The Aeronauts and The Theory of Everything, youâre tasked with building a full and continuous character arc, but that seems tough youâre stopping and restarting.
Quite often, directors will try and keep as much in chronology as possible. A lot of the stuff we did in the basket in The Aeronauts was shot chronologically. Itâs the other bits that arenât. What you have to do is see how the director is filming it, what their process is and work out whatâs best for you. For example, on The Theory of Everything, all the exteriors we were shooting in the first two days in Cambridge when all the students werenât there. That meant that any time Stephen was outside in the entire film, we were shooting in the first two days. Which meant we had to do all different physicalities at different moments of his life in the first two days. Which meant [I] had to be able to access those different physicalities very quickly, which in itself dictated the process. I wasnât going to spend hours getting into the zone, I have to slot into these. For me, I said, I need months to rehearse, and I need to rehearse the movement like a dance so that [I] can access it quite quickly. Itâs all about the stuff you do beforehand so youâre ready when youâre working the other actor to be completely free.
You shot some of The Aeronauts outdoors in the gas balloon and then some on a soundstage against a blue screen. How did you all work to keep the authenticity consistent in your performances?
We were lucky that the first thing we shot was the real stuff. We went up in the real balloonâwe had this accident, it was really terrifyingâand the notion of the stakes were weirdly embedded with us from day one. Ultimately, it always feels horrendously fake when youâre in a giant basket surrounded by blue screens, but they did things like [freezing] the studio for our breath. We were shooting in the summer in the U.K., and then you had cast and crew in jackets because we were in a giant refrigerator. They also gave us freezing buckets with ice to plunge our hands into beforehand. The director really gave us everything he could to make it feel [right]. Because they had gone up in helicopters and shot the skyscapes beforehand, they had very clever technology on an iPad that lets you look at the balloon to see where the sun was and what the weather was. They spent a long time working in pre-production about how to not make it look fake, and one of the things was that it could look real, but if your eyes are totally open, the fact that thereâs blinding sunlightâŠof course, you can look at a big, bright light without it being a stretch. It was to learn to squint a bit [to avoid] the giveaway.
Between The Aeronauts and the Fantastic Beasts series, youâve been doing quite a bit of acting in synthetic spaces.
[laughs]
Thatâs not a value judgment! How do you go about using your imagination to bring the surroundings to life in your head while maintaining the same specificity as if you were there?
I try and do a load of research, so even if itâs on Fantastic Beasts, itâs talking to the animators, going and looking at drawings and set designs. Trying to do all of that early so itâs not in your imagination. The other process I tried to learn from Dan Fogler, whoâs in Fantastic Beasts and very free. Heâll try lots of different things, and I watched him on the first film and thought he was brilliant. Itâs a mixture of doing your research, then throwing it away and trying things.
Has it gotten easier over time? Like a muscle that has to be trained and toned?
Yeah, it definitely does. For example, with Pickett [a small plant creature his character keeps as a pet] on Fantastic Beasts, I was so concerned with talking to something thatâs not there and make it feel real. I would over[act]. [Reenacts staring intently at the creature on his hand] You never normally look at people when you talk to them. You can have a conversation with Pinkett on your hand and not really look at him.
Youâve mentioned that the basket became like another character in the film because you and Felicity shared such tight quarters with it. How do you make spaces feel natural for your characters to inhabit?
That is rehearsals. Thatâs why we did them. What I love about this film, hopefully, is that itâs this thrilling adventure on a big scale. At the same time, itâs also an intimate little drama. That space is the size of a sofa. We had weeks working of thinking how to make things visually interesting for an audience. Each time the camera comes back to it, it needs to have transformed or changed. We rehearsed on it so we could find different ways: whether it was sitting on the floor or one of us up in the hoop, different angles, getting rid of carpets or some of the tools. They add character to this battered, bruised vessel thatâs been pummeled.
Does that mean you all were really working out specific shots and angles within the rehearsal process?
When we were rehearsing the scenes over and over again, Tom would have suggestions and ideas from watching with the cinematographer. One of the things he found is that, early on, if the camera was ever outside of the balloonâeven centimeters outâit doesnât feel real. Any moments that are caught inside the balloon, apart from a few moments where drones fly and take close-ups, the cinematographer was always inside the balloon. He was moving with the movement. The camera, similarly, was like another character in the piece. Because just one centimeter outside, since we canât suspend ourselves in mid-air, felt unreal.
Do you find it liberating to work within such tight confines like the basket? Does it force you to be more precise and conscious of your movement and blocking?
Yeah, it does. Because youâre confined, the freedom is in the minutiae. You canât be making big, bold gestures. I think the intimacy plays to its favor in some ways.
The Aeronauts has a theme of looking up for inspiration amidst troubling times. The last few films youâve made generally have some kind of optimistic feeling about them. Is that a conscious running thread running through your filmography?
I never relate my films to each other, but what I think is interesting is that the only way I choose work is by reacting to it. So maybe thereâs a sense of that [optimism]. The reason I wanted to do The Aeronauts is because I got to that last passage where Felicityâs character is standing on top of the world, and I just thought I would love to see that. I loved the idea of working with Felicity again. I loved this old-school adventure thrill to it. I felt like youâve seen space investigated, but I hadnât seen the sky. Sometimes, on a cold, horrendously miserable day, thereâs something ecstatic about a break through the clouds. And whether you can retrain an audience whoâs so used to seeing the sky from planes to make it feel like something new, all those things were curious to me. I donât specifically go looking for optimistic pieces, although there was a period in my career when I was playing incestuous teenagers and schizophrenic psychos, so maybe I need to go talk to a therapist about that!
I know some actors like Meryl Streep or David Oyelowo, just to name two that come to mind, say that they deliberately only put work out into the world that they think can make it a better place.
Thatâs really interesting. I havenât read that, but Iâm probably not thatâŠselfless. It tends to be something I just react to. Thereâs a weird moment when you read a script and suddenly feel a bit sick. Thatâs when you transfer yourself from imagining it to imagine yourself doing it. Thatâs the reality of the responsibility.
Features
Interview: Jessica Hausner on Little Joe and the Ways of Being and Seeing
Hausner discusses wanting to sustain the tension of the first act of a Body Snatchers production over the course of an entire narrative.
With Little Joe, director Jessica Hausner reinvigorates an Invasion of the Body Snatchers-type premise by boldly suggesting that modern humans donât have any identities left to lose. The true body snatcher, rather than the beautiful, manipulative red flower at the filmâs center, is a corporate culture that stifles our individual thought with double-speak and other subtly constant threats to personal status.
The challenge of such a premise, then, is to reveal the private individual longings that are suppressed by cultural indoctrination without breaking the filmâs restrictive formal spellâa challenge that Hausner says she solved with co-writer GĂ©raldine Bajard during a lengthy writing session. Little Joe is so carefully structured and executed that one is encouraged to become a kind of detective, parsing chilly tracking shots and flamboyant Wes Anderson-style color schemes for signs of a characterâs true emotional experience.
Ahead of the filmâs theatrical release, Hausner and I discussed her obsession with boiling societies down to singular metaphorical places, a tendency that unites Little Joe with her prior features, including Amour Fou and Lourdes. We also talked about the notion of social coding and pressure, and how the filmmaker was interested in sustaining the tension of the first act of a Body Snatchers production over the course of an entire narrative. For Hausner, such tension is certainly fostered with a rigorous devotion to sound and composition, which her actors found freeing, perhaps in the ironic tradition of her own characters.
Little Joe evinces a strong understanding of that staid, subtly restrictive office culture.
I think in all my films I try to find a closed space. Sometimes itâs a company or, in Amour Fou, itâs bourgeois society. I made a film called Lourdes where it was very clear it was that place in Lourdes. Iâm trying to portray the hierarchies of a society, and I think itâs easier to do that if you have one place. Then you can show who are the chefs, the people in the middle, and the ones who just have to follow. Sometimes you can even see these statures on the costumes.
The brightly colored costumes are striking in Little Joe. It seems as if theyâre expressing emotions the characters arenât allowing themselves.
Yes. Well, they donât allow themselves, or maybe Iâd put it slightly differently: No one really shows their true emotions [laughs]. We all play a role in our lives and weâre all a part of some sort of hierarchy. And no matter what kind of life we live, weâre living within a society, and we do have to obey rules most of the time. My films focus on that perspective, rather than saying, âOh, everyone has a free choice.â My experience is that free choice is very limited even in a free world. We are very much manipulated in terms of how we should think and how we should behave. Social codes are quite strong.
One of the lovely ironies of this film is that itâs difficult to discern which enslavements are caused by the flower and which are already inherently in place via society.
Absolutely. Thatâs the irony about it. When we worked on the script, it wasnât so easy to build up a storyline that suggests a change that you never really see. Over the process of scriptwriting, we decided that the validity of feelings was invisible. We also had conversations with scientists, and we considered which part of the brain was responsible for emotions.
Iâm curious if any singular story element led you to this premise.
Iâm a big fan of science-fiction and horror films, and I do like those Invasion of the Body Snatchers films, but only the beginnings. I like the setups, those scenes where someone says, âOh, my uncle isnât my uncle anymore.â I had this idea to prolong this doubt about who people really are over the whole length of a feature film. Because itâs a basic human experience: You can never really understand what another person is thinking or feeling.
I love that thereâs no overt monster in Little Joe. Thereâs no catharsis exactly.
No, there isnât. The catharsis takes place on a very strange level, which leads to one of the other starting elements of the film. I wanted to portray a single mother who loves her job. So, the catharsis in the end is really very much centered on Alice as she finally allows herself to focus on her work and to let her son live with the father, which is okay.
Youâre right that thereâs a catharsis, from the fulfillment of the final line of dialogue.
Absolutely.
This is whatâs hard to reconcile: Despite the loss of self that debatably takes place over the course of the film, Alice gets exactly what she wants and the flower does exactly what itâs supposed to do.
Yes, Iâm glad to hear you say that. I do get a lot of questions about the dark, dystopian perspective, but thereâs no such perspective in this film. Itâs a very friendly, light ending. If we all change, perhaps itâs for the better.
Iâm curious about the visual design of the flower. It seems to me that itâs both male and female at once, which I think is an achievement.
What do you mean male and female? The design?
The shape seems phallic. Yet the color scheme almost has a lingerie quality.
I think the basic idea is that itâs a male plant. I wanted that basic juxtaposition between the boy and the plant. The film suggests that itâs a male plant, but yet, of course, when the plant opens and is exhaling the pollenâŠwell, I would say itâs a very male plant. [both laugh]
The release of the pollen, especially for the first time against the glass of the lab, does feel like an ejaculation.
Yes. That was very much a part of the idea. The plant is trying to survive.
Itâs like a revenge of the sex drive.
Yes.
Which parallels how the humans are repressing their sex drives. Itâs a lovely reverberation. What was the collaboration with the actors like? Such a careful tone of emotional modulation is maintained throughout the film.
I enjoyed the collaboration very much. the actors understood what the filmâs style was about. You do have actors sometimes who are used to the fact that the camera is working around them, but in my films itâs always the other way around. The camera is determining the image and the actor has to fit in. The actorsâEmily Beecham, Ben Whishaw, Kerry Fox, and the othersâwere able to cope with that method very well. I remember especially Ben Whishaw even liked it, becauseâif you donât feel suffocated, if youâre strong enough to fight against the styleâit can be a joyful way to work. The collaboration with the actors also focused very much on the undertone of what theyâre saying. A lot of scenes have a double meaning. Iâm always trying to show that people normally lie. So, everything thatâs said is also said because it should be said, I donât know if you know what I meanâŠ
Yes, social coding.
Iâm trying to make the actors act in a way that makes us feel a characterâs position rather than any individuality, so that we know that the characters are a part of something larger and have to say whatever theyâre saying now. We try to reveal the typical codes of a society.
Features
Interview: Céline Sciamma on Redefining the Muse with Portrait of a Lady on Fire
Our talk ranged from the personal to the political, her singular work to the cinema at large.
My experience talking with directors leads me to informally sort them into three categories based on what element of their work they can speak most eloquently about: theory, emotion, and technical execution. Few have straddled all aspects of the filmmaking process quite like French writer-director CĂ©line Sciamma, the mind and muscle behind Portrait of a Lady on Fire. Sheâs able to deftly answer questions that address the end-to-end process of how a moment germinates in her head, how an audience will interpret it, and how theory can explain why they feel the way they do.
Sciammaâs latest directorial outing relegates her minimalism primarily to the screenplay, which revolves around the interactions between a painter, NoĂ©mie Merlantâs Marianne, and the subject, AdĂšle Haenelâs HĂ©loĂŻse, that sheâs been commissioned to covertly paint. The deceptively simple contours of Portrait of a Lady on Fire belie the ambition of the film, which sets out to achieve nothing less than a complete deconstruction of the artist-muse relationship. What Sciamma proposes in its place is a love story between the two women rooted in equality and artistry rather than in domination and lust.
I spoke with Sciamma after the filmâs premiere at the New York Film Festival in September. Our talk ranged from the personal to the political, her singular work to the cinema at large, our present momentâs liberation to the centuries of patriarchal influence over our shared historical narrative. In short, a full spectrum of conversation that few directors can match.
Youâve placed Portrait of a Lady on Fire in conversation with discourse around the subject of muses. Does the film suggest that we need to dispense with this ideal altogether, or that we just need to update and revise our notions of what it means?
Well, itâs a contemporary conversation, and even though the movieâs set in the past, it definitely could be something that could have been set in 2019. Itâs been a long [journey] for me, because itâs been five years from my previous film, and I thought about this for years. Within these five years, a lot happened. [The time] gave me confidence and new tools and ideasâalso less lonelinessâto be radical and without compromise. It gives you strength and structure to be radical with all the ideas. The movie is full of them.
Women artists have always existed. Theyâve had more flourishing moments, like that time in the mid-18th century when there were a lot of women painters. Thatâs why we set [the film] in that period, of course, but mostly women were in the workshop as models or companions. That was their part in artistry, so thatâs how theyâre told [in cultural narratives]. The real part they took in creation isnât told. Something is happening in art history because there are women researchers on the other side. Dora Maar was the muse of Picasso, but actually, she was a part of the Surrealist group. Thereâs a lot of them we know now. It was a way to tell the story again to reactivate this nature of art history. But Iâm sure itâs true; itâs not this anachronistic vision.
You hired an âart sociologistâ to help develop Portrait of a Lady on Fire. What did you learn from this person, and how did that affect the film?
It was a woman who [studied] that period when there were a lot of women painters. The fact that sheâs a sociologist and not a historian actually was really important for me because, as we were inventing this character, sociology was really important to make her true to all of these women. Whereas if weâd picked [one historical figure], it would be about destiny. She read the script, and [determined that] there were no anachronisms. What I learned is that it gave me confidence to trust this character all the way. It was something I could hand to NoĂ©mie on set.
Is the notion of the âmuseâ inherently incompatible with equality?
The fact that you could be inspiring just by being there, beautiful and silent, thereâs definitely domination. The fact that itâs told as something that always has to do with [being] in a relationship, even the love in creation in the museâyou have to fall in love with your actresses or modelsâis a fantasy that allows abuse of power. Even the possessive, sometimes Iâm asked about my actresses. Theyâre not asked about their directors; theyâre asked about the director.
When I wrote the part for AdĂšle, she was the model. When I talked about the film, and not much because Iâm very secretive, people told me, âSo, AdĂšleâs going to be the painter?â And I said, âNo, AdĂšle is going to be the model!â People were like, âWhy? She should be the painter.â And I was like, âOh, so you find that the model is too narrow for her? You find that this isnât the dynamic of power sheâs entitled to. She should be the painter.â She and I laughed and thought, âOf course, [AdĂšle] should be the model because Iâm the actress.â So, what are they saying? That itâs too small for her? That was also very nourishing, the idea today that she shouldnât be in that position. It would be a weak position. And it isnât.
I was surprised to learn that you didnât write Marianneâs character from the start as someone assigned to paint HĂ©loĂŻse covertly. What did that discovery in the writing process unlock in the story for you?
When I got the idea, I was like, âNow the movieâs got a chance.â The movie is very full of ideas and has some theory of cinema, but thatâs why it should be strongly dramatically charged. The fact that we embodied these problematic [ideas] really is important. The journey of the gaze, the fact that itâs stolen at first, then consensual, then mutual, thenâŠwe donât even know whoâs looking at who. It makes it really physical and organic. And also, itâs true that all my films are [thematically] bound with a character having a secret. Usually it lasts until the end, but this time itâs only half an hour of being secretive. The secret becomes this reservoir of whatâs going to be said and whatâs going to unfold, which felt different.
Unlike Tomboy, where schoolyard bullies embody the antagonistic forces of transphobia and heteronormativity, the villain in Portrait of a Lady on Fire seems to be time and the reality of HĂ©loĂŻseâs marriage on the horizon. Was this always your intent to write a story with a more abstract foe?
Yeah, because I really wanted not to go through the same negotiations and conflicts. I wanted it to be a new journey for the audience. Their love dialogue relies on a new ideal thatâs equality. Thereâs no gender domination because theyâre two women. Thatâs practical. But thereâs no intellectual domination. We didnât play with social hierarchy, either. We know their love is impossible, but we arenât going to play with that. We arenât going to try and project them into the future. Some people, the old culture, wants you to do that. Show the taboo, the impossibility, the struggle, the conflict with yourself. And we didnât want to do that.
Because itâs about what you put in the frame. Weâre just looking at whatâs possible, that suspension of time, and we know very well the frame. We donât have to tell you the prospects for these women, especially because itâs set in the past. Theyâre shitty. Lousy. Weâre not going to waste time and put you in that position where you will go through this conflict to tell the same thing, that itâs impossible. The real tragedy is that it is possible, but itâs made impossibleâby the world of men, mostly. Thatâs also why there are no men in the film. It would mean portraying a character whose sole purpose is to be the enemy, which isnât something that interests me at all. I donât need to take time to portray that. Itâs not generous enough.
Are we to take the shot of HĂ©loise on fire literally? That scene seems to enter such a representational, abstract realm, and then weâre jolted back into the reality of her walks with Marianne with that match cut of her extending a hand.
That [says] a lot about the film. It wants to be very embodied in a very simple but kind of brave [way], not just purely theoretical. Sheâs really going to be on fire! That was one of the key scenes I had in mind as the compass of the film. If youâre really setting her on fire, youâre setting the bar for the other scenes. They have to be in dialogue with this [moment]. It shouldnât be this unique thing out of the whole language of the film.
I was so struck by the shot toward the end of the film where Marianne sketches herself in a mirror placed over HĂ©loĂŻseâs nether regions. Itâs a masterly composition that also feels like a real thematic lynchpin. Can you describe both how the shot developed intellectually and how you executed it on set?
Itâs about where you put the focus. In the mirror, sheâs blurry. Itâs about trust, about being playful, about going all the way with your ideas. But also, itâs fun. Itâs a fun thing to do. Even the difficulty of it makes you think about cinema and how weâre going to do this. Itâs a way to always be woke about your craft and having new challenges, solving old questions with new ideas. Really trying to harvest most of the situation of people looking at each other. Itâs a very simple [way to] access ideas. Sheâs portraying herself with this mirror, this woman is naked, and her head is where her sex is. Itâs really overt, so you donât have to think about it. But, still, itâs this idea thatâs given to you through a sensation. It should always be about this, I think.
I didnât think it would be possible to top something like the âDiamondsâ scene in Girlhood, but here you have a three-minute scene that features AdĂšle Haenel reacting to music. How do you go about shooting these scenes in a way that allows the audience to understand the impact the music has on the characters?
For Girlhood, I really tried to think of [the scene] as if it were a scene in a musical. When they start to sing in a musical, [theyâre] very strong moments within the charactersâ relationships. Theyâre saying things to each other, and, if theyâre dancing, their bodies are expressing themselves. Itâs about the music not being the commentary, but really thinking about it like, âOkay, if there was a Fred Astaire film, when would this thing happen? What would it say?â Itâs always about the intimacy between the characters and what their bodies can express.
But this is kind of different because itâs the final scene. It unveils the fact that itâs cinema. Itâs a shot-reverse shot. At first, youâre looking at HĂ©loĂŻse and Marianne looking at HĂ©loĂŻse. But, at some point, itâs about you the audience looking at AdĂšle performing. Itâs about cinema. It leaves room for you. Itâs the same in the âDiamondsâ scene in Girlhood; it doesnât become a clip if suddenly thereâs room for the viewer. When we talk about the female gaze, of course itâs about not objectifying women, itâs also about mostly how you experience the journey of the character. You experience it with your body and mind. Youâre fully aware. Itâs not about you being fully inside the film; itâs about the film being inside you. I think thatâs what we can offer.
Youâve talked about needing to develop a new grammar to tell the story of Portrait of a Lady on Fire. Now that you have developed it, do you think it will be applicable to other films? Or will you have to reinvent the wheel again?
Portrait of a Lady on Fire is my fourth film, and it felt like a departure. But itâs also a growing of a lot of decisions and myself as a 40-year-old woman. So next time, I never know what Iâm going to do next. I really feel like Iâve said all I have to say right now. I feel relieved of something also. And now that we are having this discussion around the film, it puts it in the world. Itâs something we share. When you craft a film, itâs really your secret for so long. Now I feel like Iâm going to have to find a new secret for myself.
Features
The 12 Worst Christmas Songs of All Time
Here are 12 of our least favorite holiday songs, one for each day it took the three wise men to reach the baby Jesus.
Itâs that time of the year again. Black Friday sales. Last-minute treks to the gym to absolve your guilt over that third slice of pecan pie. And Mariah Carey playing on every radio station and in every shopping mall for the next 26 days. Unfortunately, weâll also have to endure a litany of ill-conceived and poorly executed Christmas songs that are inexplicably resurrected every year, and will likely be until time immemorial. Here are 12 of our least favorites, one for each day that it took for the three wise men to reach the baby Jesus after he was born.
Editorâs Note: This article was originally published on November 28, 2011.
12. Jimmy Boyd, “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”
This Saks Fifth Avenue potboiler from 1952 about a child catching his mother being sexually assaulted by an elderly home invader only becomes even creepier when you realize the kidâs mom isnât cheating on his dad, but that Mommy and Daddy have a Santa fetish.
11. Sia, âPuppies Are Foreverâ
A track from Siaâs 2017 collection of holiday originals, Everyday Is Christmas, âPuppies Are Foreverâ is a reggae-vibed public service announcement about, well, how puppies are not forever: âTheyâre so cute and fluffy with shiny coats/But will you love âem when theyâre old and slow?â The repetitive wannabe-earworm is, at best, an admirable message about the responsibilities of pet ownership. And it comes complete with the sound of barking dogs. (Earplugs not included.)
10. Lou Monte, “Dominick the Donkey”
Lou Monteâs 1960 holiday jingle about Saint Nicola outsourcing his Christmas present deliveries in the Italian mountainside to a dim-witted donkey feels more prescient than ever. But that doesnât make it any less irritating.
9. Dan Fogelberg, “Same Old Lang Syne”
The concept is touching enough: Fogelberg runs into an old flame at the grocery store on Christmas Eve and they grab a drink and reminisce. But melodramatic lyrics (âShe went to hug me and she spilled her purse/And we laughed until we criedâ) and gratuitous details (âWe took her groceries to the checkout stand/The food was totalled up and baggedâ) make âSame Old Lang Syneâ a cloying annual annoyance.
8. Neil Diamond, “Cherry Cherry Christmas”
In this addition to the schmaltzy, nonsensical holiday song canon, Neil Diamond wishes you âa very, merry, cherry, cherry, holly-holy, rockinâ-rolly Christmas,â before idiotically exclaiming, âCherry Christmas, everyone!â at songâs end.
7. Cyndi Lauper, “Christmas Conga”
Holiday cheer has always been all-inclusive. Hell, even the Jewish Neil Diamond has released three Christmas albums. But Iâm going to go out on a limb and say a Latin house anthem with lyrics like âBonga, bonga, bonga, do the Christmas conga!â probably wasnât necessary. But we still love you, Cyn.
Features
Los Cabos Film Festival 2019: Workforce, The Twentieth Century, Waves, & More
There was plenty of merit to the connections being made at Los Cabos between filmmakers and audiences.
Martin Scorsese recently sparked controversy by stating in an interview with Empire magazine that Marvelâs superhero movies, which have become indispensable moneymakers in a Hollywood system increasingly beset by pressures to build or renew popular tentpole franchises, are ânot cinema.â The conventional wisdom in film marketing terms is that each new contribution to an already recognizable franchise requires such minimal effort at garnering public awareness compared to the type of cinematic ventures that Scorsese would argue, as he wrote in the New York Times in explanation of his interview comments, âenlarg[e] the sense of what was possible in the art form.â These more original offerings require ground-up campaigns for the attention of moviegoing audiences who are increasingly comfortable ignoring altogether the existence of films not actively targeting mass consumption.
The opening-night film of the eighth annual Los Cabos International Film Festival happened to be Scorseseâs highly anticipated epic crime drama The Irishman. The film is only being granted a minimal theatrical release in the U.S. before its arrival on Netflix on November 27, because, according to Scorsese, âmost multiplexes are crowded with franchise pictures.â Robert De Niro, who stars in the film, was on hand in Cabo to walk the red carpet and represent a cinematic community founded on principles of âaesthetic, emotional and spiritual revelation,â in Scorseseâs own words. This was the kind of audience primed to appreciate his latest effort.
The audience was primed for greatness, even as oblivious vacationers guzzled tequila just outside on the streets and sidewalks of Cabo. When I told my seatmate on the plane about the screening of Scorseseâs film later that evening, she furrowed her brow in confusion. âIâm staying at the Hard Rock,â she said in explanation. And as I later walked from my own hotel toward the theater, I passed by countless tourists wielding Tecate tallboys and squinting behind cheap sunglasses who were no doubt completely unaware of the film festival taking place inside the giant mall at the north end of the downtown harbor. Many of them even wore T-shirts and tank tops that might easily have been emblazoned with the visages of Marvel characters.
As I drifted between the incessant buzz of the party atmosphere outside and the quiet engagement with contemporary filmmaking taking place within the theater throughout the festival, I couldnât help but notice that several of the films that screened at Los Cabos seemed similarly concerned with liminal spaces between two very different worlds. The characters in these films learn to navigate the borderlands between class differences and racial divides, fleeting flirtations with freedom dashed by constant threats of persecution. These characters know their place, but even the brutal reality of their circumstances isnât enough to prevent them from trying to get somewhere else. And nowhere is this more apparent than in Mexican filmmaker David Zonanaâs mesmerizing Workforce, a tightly shot and richly layered film documenting the rise and fall of a group of construction workers in Mexico City who dare to dream beyond their otherwise meager means.
The film begins with the sudden death of Claudio, a member of a construction team putting the finishing touches on a swanky new house in a posh district of the city who falls from a rooftop in the opening shot. Workforce then quickly pivots and takes on the perspective of Claudioâs brother, Francisco (Luis Alberti), whose search for justice following his brotherâs death becomes all-consuming and destructive. Claudioâs death has been deemed by officials to be caused by irresponsible alcohol consumption while on the job, even though Claudio had been a known teetotaler, and the wife (Jessica Galvez) and unborn child heâs left behind are thus denied compensation following the accident. And after the homeowner (Rodrigo Mendoza) waves him away from inside his fancy car when Francisco makes a plea for compassion, he becomes obsessed with the other man, following him through the streets and monitoring his every move. And after the homeownerâs mysterious death, which we learn about after witnessing Francisco surreptitiously enter his apartment building the night before, Francisco begins occupying the now dormant construction site as if it were his own home.
The shift between Franciscoâs life in a tiny, rain-drenched apartment to his fresh start in the sprawling home that lays unclaimed in the wake of its ownerâs deathâcomplete with furniture still unwrapped, appliances yet to be installedâwill ring familiar to those whoâve seen Parasite. Bong Joon-hoâs film operates in a more satirical and less tragic register than Zonanaâs but still narrates the kind of violently enacted class mobility that lays bare the stark differences between the kinds of lives that are lived on either side of the poverty line.
Francisco eventually moves several members of his former construction team into the abandoned house, along with their families, in an effort to lay a more legitimate claim to its ownership. The film briefly soars with the ecstasy and sudden privilege that its characters feel as they inhabit a space representative of those from which they have historically been excluded. But problems quickly mount: the small indignities of overcrowding, persistent struggles over limited resources, cringe-inducing abuses of power on the part of those currently in control. And the final high-angle shot of the house, its inhabitants now expelled and powerless against the forces of the state, is notable for how the film has until then been heavily anchored at ground level, a powerful demonstration of the universal struggles of the Mexican working class.
The Body Remembers When the World Broke Open, a Canadian film written and directed by Kathleen Hepburn and Elle-Maija Tailfeathers, is another story of an invisible divide whose boundaries are nonetheless palpably felt. Two women from differing indigenous backgrounds, and from opposite sides of the class spectrum, are thrown together one late afternoon on the streets of Vancouver. A very pregnant Rosie (Violet Nelson) has fled her abusive loverâs apartment and is barefooted, bruised, and in obvious need of help when the lighter-skinned Aila (Tailfeathers) happens upon her and decides to shelter her. Aila has just had an IUD inserted earlier in the day, and the availability of advanced methods of conception is just one of the many marks of privilege that the film will subtly deploy. And the encounter between the two women is fairly straightforward from the start, but the subtext of their interactions is what gives the film its thematic weight and its staying power.
The differences between the women are played out with racial signifiers as well as those of relative affluence, and Hepburn and Tailfeathers make the bold formal decision to film their story in real time, by and large foregoing traditional scene structures and editing techniques and instead lingering in the quiet, interstitial moments between narrative transitions. The choice of indulging in the long take allows for moments of silence and digression as the audience infiltrates the scene as a third party. This uncomfortable intimacy is felt most acutely in a devastating, mostly silent shot late in the film of the interior of a taxi as Aila accompanies Rosie back to the apartment complex where her abusive lover awaits after Rosie has rejected a place in a womenâs shelter, both of their faces in the frame as they quietly contemplate their very different futures.
The impending crisis of motherhoodâurgent on Rosieâs part, delayed indefinitely on Ailaâsâremains unspoken until that final taxi ride, in which both women tell the other that they believe they will be good mothers. And the city of Vancouver itselfâand with it the ghost of Canadaâs colonial past, specifically its systematic erasure of First Nations cultureâhaunts all of The Body Remembers When the World Broke Open, glimpsed mostly through car windows as it passes by unremarked upon while the filmâs characters grapple silently with how the present has been irrevocably troubled by the past. The film demonstrates the power of simply inhabiting a tension and absorbing its complications, rather than demanding a resolution.
An image from The Body Remembers When the World Broke Open. © Array
Another Canadian film, and the winner of the festivalâs competition award, Matthew Rankinâs The Twentieth Century is an alternate history of the rise to power of Canadian Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King (Dan Beirne). Funny and daringly experimental, the filmâs overtly oddball aesthetic, redolent of Guy Maddinâs work, often feels borrowed from the silent era in terms of how particular objects take on greater significance because of their necessity to move along a narrative otherwise hindered by constraints, deliberate or not. And the plot unfolds erratically, difficult to synopsize due to its incredulity, as well as its reliance on a more than cursory knowledge of Canadian history for its most sophisticated jokes and cultural observations to be understood, as explained to me by a Canadian film critic on our way to the airport at the close of the festival. I may not have understood the film as cultural commentary, but Iâll never forget the ejaculating cactus.
Following the trend of delightfully strange films populating the festival slate is Greener Grass, written and directed by Jocelyn DeBoer and Dawn Luebbe, who also star. The film is a color-saturated romp that presents a suburbia recognizable at first but then made bizarre by an accumulation of unexplained oddities that ultimately become understood as an ingenious form of worldbuilding. All of the adults, soccer moms and dads donning bright pastel outfits, wear braces. Everyone inexplicably drives golf carts. Characters make impulsive, culturally inappropriate decisions, such as in the catalyst to the filmâs action when Jill (DeBoer) literally gives her baby away to her friend Madison (Luebbe), after Madison acknowledges, while sitting in the bleachers at an outdoor soccer game, how cute the infant happens to be.
Later, Jillâs only remaining child, the nerdy and bespectacled Julian (Julian Hilliard), frequently seen struggling with the traditional expectations of boyhood, falls into a swimming pool and emerges as a golden retriever. Jillâs subsequent psychological decline is mostly tied to her inability to accept her sonâs new corporeal form, as well as her insistence that her infant daughter must be returned to her, despite her reluctance to offend Madison with the request. Meanwhile, a serial killer is on the loose. Greener Grass is a mash-up of genresâsatire, mystery, dark comedy, horrorâthat may not ultimately cohere as deliberately as some viewers might have wished, but the feeling of witnessing something truly new and unique is as addictive as the swimming pool water that Jillâs husband, Nick (Nick Bennet), seemingly canât stop drinking.
The American slate of films at Los Cabos includes Scorseseâs The Irishman among other likely Oscar contenders such as Noah Baumbachâs impeccably written and performed Marriage Story, Rupert Gooldâs Judy, and Taika Waititiâs Jojo Rabbit. But Trey Edward Shultsâs slick and stylish but ultimately detached Waves is a frustrating contribution. The film tracks the rise and fall of Tyler (Kelvin Harrison Jr.), a black high school athlete pushed toward success by a domineering father (Sterling K. Brown) who, in a scene definitely not written for a black audience, makes plain how the color of his skin predisposes him to a life spent working harder than everybody else for a seat at the same table. But after a series of setbacks, poor choices, and personal failures culminate in a desperate act of terrible violence on Tylerâs part, the second half of Waves investigates the aftermath of his abrupt downfall through the eyes of his family, focusing mostly on his younger sister, Emily (Taylor Russell), and her own journey toward some kind of peace after the family tragedy.
For all its intensely scored set pieces and dramatic camerawork, Shultsâs attempt to stylize an interior life through a deliberate connection between form and contentâwhile Tylerâs section is frenetic and loud, Emilyâs is almost jarringly languid and mutedâisnât enough to deliver to the audience the kind of realization about family and responsibility to one another that the filmmaker seems at times so close to achieving. The possibility of transcending its aesthetic and arriving at any kind of epiphany is ultimately drowned out by a cinematic style more distracting than illuminating.
A more revelatory film about fathers, sons, and the lasting effects of our emotional wounds is Honey Boy, directed by Alma Harâel and written by Shia LaBeouf, in whatâs clearly an autobiographical account of the actorâs childhood in Hollywood with an overbearing father whose profound influence still haunts him today. LaBeouf plays James, the now-sober father of a child actor, Otis (Noah Jupe), who stars in a popular television show while bearing the brunt of the erratic behaviors and sudden violence of a lifelong addict. The film centers in flashback on a period of time in which father and son lived together in a seedy and downtrodden hotel, the close quarters intensifying the seething undercurrent of resentment, jealousy, and yet still ever-present heartbreakingly rendered familial love that perseveres in spite of everything else.
An image from The Twentieth Century. @ Oscilloscope
James ultimately passes down his own struggles to his son, who we see as an adult (Lucas Hedges, who also stars in Waves) in therapy reckoning with his childhood, his addiction, and his predilection toward other self-destructive behaviors. The film also explores the ways in which his traumas might have also served as reference points for his own obvious skill as an actor, artistic success inextricably linked here to emotional wounds that have clearly never properly healed. The relationship between James and Otis is marked by a tenderness undercut by rage, and Harâelâs careful staging of the power struggle between the two charactersâa give and take based alternately on the currencies of masculinity and the literal exchange of money, as Otisâs earnings subsidize his fatherâs existenceâis both compassionate and unflinching.
A film festival is always a hopeful affair, a chance to look into the future and see what awaits us as the contemporary film discourse continues to evolve. Unlike the flashy slate of American films that draws non-industry viewers to the theater, many of the entries at Los Cabos have yet to land wider distribution deals, and a festival like this one is a chance for these films to impress audiences enough to secure a position in a cinematic landscape where the âart houseâ or non-Marvel film will always struggle to keep up, as long as success continues to be measured by per-screen earnings and the numbers of views on popular streaming sites.
LaBeoufâs careerâfrom his early success in the tentpole Transformers franchise to eventually writing and starring in a film as complex, poignant, and quietly ambitious as Honey Boyâis perhaps a worthwhile microcosm through which to demonstrate the shift in priorities that must take place in order for success to be redefined in terms that align with artistic merit rather than profit, personal connection rather than consensus. And there was plenty of merit to the connections being made at Los Cabos between filmmakers and audiences, a festival that continues to deliver quality international cinema to eager viewers who wander out of the theater each evening to join the throngs of partiers who might in daylight be clamoring for the next Marvel movie. Scorsese may mourn the diminishment of character-driven, risk-taking filmmaking in favor of easily digestible products that are âcloser to theme parks than they are to movies,â but itâs still there if you know where to look.
The Los Cabos International Film Festival ran from November 13â17.
Features
The 25 Greatest Beck Songs, Ranked
For all his humor, Beck is consistently thoughtful and earnest in building his checkered monuments.
Beckâs breakout hit, âLoser,â represented the sound of the nationâs youth wearing their slackerdom as a badge of honor. Itâs a rather dubious fate for the workmanlike track, considering that if Gen X ever âhadâ a sound, it was the slow, snarling grunge roiling out of the Pacific Northwest, a genre far too self-possessed and clumsily aggressive to match the decidedly goofy appeal of Beckâs patchwork style. If anything, âLoserâ was a middle finger to the self-serious headbangers, Beckâs own shrug at the angsty masses before ignoring them altogether and staking his career on offbeat lonerism.
The lonesomeness that results from possessing such an individualist streak is explored rather profoundly on albums like Sea Change and Morning Phase, but regardless of the personal costs, heâs become a folk hero, having built his legacy on championing near-forgotten strains of Americana at every turn. Constructing a list of his best tracks can thus be likened to assembling a mosaic pieced together from several generations of music. The songs themselves arenât simply attention-starved amalgams strung together randomly though: For all his humor, Beck is consistently thoughtful and earnest in building his checkered monuments, empathetic to the point where his creations often cease to be facsimiles at all, but heartfelt creations born from the same cultural conscious that inspired them. You canât write if you canât relate, indeed. Kevin Liedel
Editorâs Note: Listen to our Beck playlist on Spotify.
25. âDebraâ
Midnite Vultures exists largely as satire, but it also serves as an opportunity for the usually cryptic Beck to let his freak flag fly. On the epic, cheesy âDebra,â he hoists it way, way up, further establishing the absurdity of the albumâs seedy narcissism by attempting to pick up sisters. The greatest moment here, however, is the supreme elasticity of Beckâs voice, sprinting from husky whispers to erotic falsettos with the kind of joie de vivre worthy of Prince. Liedel
24. âSoul Suckinâ Jerkâ
Beckâs sense of humor has always been prevalent in his music, but whatâs less well-established is how his absurd, juvenile setups often dissolve into black-hearted non sequiturs. âSoul Suckinâ Jerkâ is one such reversal, a slacker tale that traces Beckâs working stiff from the food court into the edges of civilization just as its verse descends from quiet basslines into raucous drum stomps. âFor 14 days Iâve been sleeping in a barn,â Beckâs suburban drone-cum-backwoods anarchist observes, right before a guttural, bottom-heavy font of distortion hammers home the desperation in his wisecracks. Liedel
23. âHollywood Freaksâ
Beck lays claim to legitimate skills on the mic, and theyâve never been stronger or more precise than on âHollywood Freaks.â Of course, this being Beck, the rhymes come with a twist, delivered in a lisping, nasal drone thatâs part Truman Capote and part Sylvester the Cat. All the better for it, considering the slick, springy track boasts the weirdest combination of allusions Beckâs ever concocted: Ripple, No Doz, Norman Schwarzkopf, tricked-out Hyundais, and the songâs ubiquitous, drunken tagline, âHeâs my nun!â Liedel
22. âForcefieldâ
Given Beckâs recent lavish productions, itâs easy to forget that in the early- to mid-â90s he was a lo-fi master. This is nowhere more evident than on 1994âs One Foot in the Grave, a barebones album steeped in folk and blues. Its centerpiece is âForcefield,â a song built on three simple yet haunting acoustic guitar notes and intertwining vocals by Beck and Sam Jayne of the sadly unheralded post-hardcore band Lync. The lyrics are largely enigmatic, but the chorus poignantly summarizes the necessity of a metaphorical forcefield: âDonât let it get too near you/Donât let it get too close/Donât let it turn you into/The things you hate the most.â Michael Joshua Rowin
21. âRowboatâ
âRowboat,â from 1994âs Stereopathetic Soulmanure, is a gently strummed, classically constructed ballad of rejection and loneliness that features Beckâs early penchant for lyrics that alternate between deadpan melancholy (âRowboat, row me to the shore/She don’t wanna be my friend no moreâ) and humorous non sequitur (âDog food on the floor/And I’ve been like this beforeâ). Late Nashville legend Leo Blancâs stunning steel pedal work provides just the right amount of additional sorrow, and, as if to give it the country stamp of approval, Johnny Cash covered the song in 1996. Rowin
Features
Interview: Michael Apted on 63 Up and the Changing Face of a Nation
Apted discusses his relationship to his subjects, and his own transformation over the years.
The Up series began in 1964 as a Granada Television International documentary special, entitled Seven Up!, touted as âglimpse of Britainâs future.â Fourteen British seven-year-oldsânine boys and five girlsâfrom different backgrounds and classes were interviewed about their lives. Paul Almondâs film set out to prove a motto usually attributed to a founder of the Jesuit order: âGive me a child until he is seven, and I will give you the man.â
In 1970, director Michael Apted, a researcher on Seven Up!, took over the helming of the series with Seven Plus 7. âThe series was an attempt to do a long view of English society,â the filmmaker told me in a recent conversation. âThe class system needed a kick up the backside.â Every seven years, Apted dropped in on the lives of his subjects, with the goal of revealing the changing face of a nation through the words, and faces, of a generation of Brits.
The series is a fascinating sociological experimental, about how matters of class, education, and opportunity in Britain have transformed over the decades. After Seven Plus 7 came seven more films, including the latest, 63 Up. Inevitably, this entry in the series is fixated on issues of aging and retirement, given that the subjects are all mostly at the tail end of their careers.
During our conversation, Apted discussed his initial involvement in the Up series, his relationship to his subjects, and his own transformation over the years.
Do the subjects see the previous installments before filming the new episodes? Do you find a theme from past interviews to follow up on in the next installment?
I decide what I want to ask and talk about. If they want to talk about something that changed [in their lives], then they can. If something new or important happened privatelyâŠI use bits of history, but I donât tell them what I want to ask. I see if their opinions or the atmosphere changes. I donât want to talk about their past or do an update. I start from scratch.
Do you recall the criteria for finding the subjects, and the number of subjects? Theyâre all likeable, which is so gratifying.
It was accidental. We wanted to look at England in 1963, â64. It was loosely done. We were looking at a big picture. I had no idea it would go on as long as it did. We didnât plan the second [entry] until five years after the first. When we decided to do it again and again, it was [about] what aspect of change in their lives or the countryâs life was important.
What about issues of diversity? Thereâs class diversity, but the series features more men than women, one minority, and no one whoâs gay.
We missed the point about the increased [engagement] of women in jobs and politics. Women became central in society. Female leadershipâThatcher, a female prime ministerâhappened quicker than we thought. Thatcher was unique in a way. We didnât get enough women [in the series] when we started, so I brought wives in. Women were adjacent to the people we were interviewing, so we were able to put different female voices in the film. We were keen to have the wives and husbands [as co-subjects] and use them as if they had been there since the start.
Thereâs a question raised about the value of the series, generally from the subjects who find it âemotionally drainingâ to do the interviews. What observations do you have about the value and impact of the series?
I canât speak highly enough about the impact of the series. No one had done it, and it was an original idea. It couldnât be done like this again. We had inspiration and luck to keep going. People copied it. We tracked major events and progress in society. Iâm glad we did it when we did it. We couldnât have chosen a better period.
There are thoughts on aging, marriage, children, opportunity, education, and, now, Brexit. How have the subjectsâ opinions dovetailed or differed from yours?
Iâm not interested in using the film [as a mirror] for my own views. Itâs what they think. I donât compare how I lived my life to them. Iâm quite different from them. I went through different things in life. I spent much of my time in America.
Jackie takes you to task in one of the programs about your questions toward women, suggesting youâre treating the women differently. Peter dropped out for a spell, and Suzy passes on participating because of all the baggage associated with making the program. What are your feelings about the subjects who donât cooperate?
Iâm thrilled that they opened their hearts and souls as much as they did. There were areas not to be discussed. I did not want to alienate them. If things got controversial, fair enough. I pursued the things they pursued in what they said. I didnât say, âWhy not be a doctor?â
Symon lacks ambition in his younger years. Neil struggled with homelessness in his youth. Tony makes a perhaps bad business decision. Some of the subjectsâLynn and Bruce, in particularâmake efforts to give back to society. What can you say about the opportunities the subjects had being in the series? Did you ever help them?
I would help them in small ways, but I didnât change their lives. They had opportunities that came from being on the program. But they couldnât take advantage of [their participation], like getting a job because they were in the project.
You will primarily be known for this series, but youâve also made classic films like Coal Minerâs Daughter, a Bond picture, even a Jennifer Lopez vehicle. What observations do you have about your career and how this program shaped your life and work?
I think it helped me a lot. The films I like best are hybrids. Coal Minerâs Daughter was a sociological film and an intimate story. I can get real performances out of people from doing documentaries. I cast well, and hope people trust me having seen these films. There has been no backlash. That was my ambition. The series kept me oriented to do what I wanted to do. Granada kept it ongoing. I convinced [executives] that if I wanted to do Gorillas in the Mist with real gorillas, then I could make that because I was a realistic documentary storyteller.
The theme of the series is âShow me the child when he is seven, and I will show you the man.â Do you think thereâs a truth to that, given that you have at least one counterexample in 63 Up? What were you like at seven?
I was shy and didnât say much at that age. I thought things, though. I went to a good secondary school in London. You would be surprised if you saw me at seven. I had lucky breaks and good luck. I was 21, 22 [when the series started in 1963]. It was a good thing that the program was embraced. I was lucky to be at the right place at the right timeâthe year after I left Cambridge. I made a good decision even if I wasnât aware of it at the time.
Will there be a 70 Up? Would this series continue without you?
I donât know if everyone will be alive, but if they are, yes. You never know. Iâd like to go on for as long as I am above ground. Iâd like it to continue.
Features
Interview: Marielle Heller on Mr. Rogers and A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood
Our conversation led us into discussion about how far Mr. Rogersâs philosophy can extend into todayâs world.
Fred Rogers had no shortage of simple yet beautiful sayings pertaining to countless people and professions, including, it appears, journalists. In a nugget from the recent New York Times profile of Tom Hanks, archival documents revealed that Mr. Rogers had laid out the principles that he hoped his Esquire profiler, Tom Junod, would adhere to when writing about him. Among them were âjournalists are human beings not stenographers, human beings not automatonsâ and âbe aware of celebrating the wonders of creation.â Junodâs piece did, ultimately, become a tribute to the life-altering power of Mr. Rogersâs empathic power and serves as the inspiration for the new film A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.
âWasnât that so beautiful?â remarked the filmâs director, Marielle Heller, when I broached the subject of Rogersâs journalistic pillars with her. I admitted that I could not feign the impartiality of an automaton in our conversation given how deeply the film moved me. After delivering two films where tenderness broke through the facades of more hardened characters, 2015âs The Diary of a Teenage Girl and 2018âs Can You Ever Forgive Me?, Hellerâs third feature fully embraces sincerity and rejects cynicism without ever feeling cloying or corny.
Unlike Lloyd Vogel (played by Matthew Rhys), the filmâs fictionalized avatar of Junod, I couldnât pretend to be unmoved or skeptical of a creation that made me feel such profound emotion. Hellerâs chronicle of how Mr. Rogers (embodied here by Tom Hanks) changed one person picks up and continues the television iconâs work by allowing his message of love and forgiveness to reach, and thus transform, more lives.
I spoke with Heller over the phone ahead of her sending A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood out into the world, a process she claimed would be the hardest part of the filmâs journey to screen. Our conversation began with how Mr. Rogersâs legacy loomed large over the shoot and led us into discussion about how far his philosophy can extend into todayâs world.
Iâve read that you attached quotes from Mr. Rogers on the daily call sheet. Was there a sense that this set and production needed to be infused with his personality and grace?
Oh my gosh, totally. I think we all felt like we were so privileged getting to work on his own story, and we were filming it in his hometown of Pittsburgh on the stage where he originally filmed the program. We were walking among the ghost of Fred Rogers the whole time, and we were trying to invoke him whenever we could.
The way Tom Hanks portrays Mr. Rogers is less of an impression and more of an inhabitation, particularly when it comes to portraying his patience and stillness. Those moments must be like walking a tightrope, so how did you find the right balance, be it in directing Tomâs performance on set or finding the rhythm in the editing room?
Truthfully, we tried to get the rhythm right on set. Part of that was because Jody [Lee Lipes, the cinematographer] and I had devised a way of filming this that wasnât really meant to be edited super quick with lots of cutting. It was meant to sit in shots for longer and let things play in two-shots or single shots that moved. We got to rehearse, which is something I always hope to do with movies, and part of the rehearsal is about trying to find the rhythms in the script and have the actors find their pacing. I tend to approach things like theater in that way where you sit around, do table work, work through the bigger emotional beats of a scene, ask questions, comment on it and really play with it. By the time weâre shooting it, we know what we need to be hitting in a bigger emotional way and can be focusing on other things as well.
But every day, I was constantly pushing Tom to go slower and stiller than he could possibly imagine because Fred really was incredibly still and listened so intently. And Tom would say, âReally? I thought I was so still and so slow! Really, still slower? Okay!â I would say, âI want you to sit and listen and wait as long as you possibly can before you respond to this question. Sit, take him in and wait so much longer than you expect to.â We were really trying to build that pace into the actual filming. Luckily, Tom loves to be directed. Heâs an actor who loves the relationship with the director. He never minded that I was nitpicking him.
How did you approach the big moment of silence in the film? Was it actually a minute long like Mr. Rogers says?
Itâs a little more than a minute! [laughs] Just over a full minute. I actually held myself back from timing it when we were editing it, just because I was trying to feel it. Tom and I were just talking about that scene in a Q&A. He was saying that while we filmed it, he thought, âAre you really going to do this? Are you serious right now?â And I was like, âYeah, that was the scene I was clearest about when I signed onto the movie.â Itâs the moment that the audience becomes an active participant in the film, and thatâs what Mr. Rogers does with his program. He asks the kids whoâre watching the show to be active participants. He asks them, âCan you see the color green here? What do you see when you look at this picture?â And then he waits for them to respond. Thatâs the moment where weâre waiting for our audience to respond.
The film unfolds, to use your words, like âa big episode of Mr. Rogers for adults.â Was all of that baked in at the script level, or were there elements you added in when you boarded the project?
It was part of the script when I came on board. That was the bigger, larger conceit of A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, and then figuring out how to actually make that integrate and work cinematically was our job. How do you make an episode of Mr. Rogers that can feel both bigger than an episode of Mr. Rogers, because itâs a film after all, but how do you take these elements that are very small and handmade and make them integrate with a real-life world that can feel grounded in reality and emotionally resonant? How do you take this world of Mr. Rogers and Lloydâs world of New York and find a way to travel between them that both points out the dissonance between the two of them and the ways in which theyâre connectedâand become more and more alike as we go through the movie. Or get more and more confused with each other, is maybe a better way to say it. That was part of the joy of it, figuring out how this bigger conceit, which is great on paper, can actually work.
How do you thread that thin needle of returning an adult audience to a state of childlike innocence without infantilizing them?
I think itâs a fine line, and we just tried to make it with every choice and tried to be as truthful as we could. Trying to portray taking you back in time to watch episodes of the original program, we tried to recreate them in such an authentic way that they didnât feel like we were making fun of them in any way. Trying to find truth within it. Lloyd is a very helpful conduit for bringing us into that story because his cynicism steps in for all of our cynicism. Having somebody there going, âCome on, who is this guy? He canât be real!â is sort of helpful for those of us who come into a story with a certain amount of neurotic cynicism. And I thought that was something so smart about the script, we have this guy who can speak for the part of us thatâs outgrown Mr. Rogers. And as his cynicism gets chipped away, so does ours. I was also very aware that Mr. Rogers couldnât be the protagonist of a movie because heâs just too evolved. But he makes a really good antagonist.
You wrote the script for your first film, but then have used other peopleâs for your next two. How do you make these screenplays your own when bringing them to the screen when the words donât originate from your own mind?
Even when Iâm directing a movie I havenât written, because Iâm a writer, I always work on the script. For Can You Ever Forgive Me?, I worked on the script for a long time. For this film, I worked together with Noah [Harpster] and Micah [Fitzerman-Blue], who are just incredible writers, to bring in the parts of it that felt personally connected for me. Itâs about finding a script that you can find your way into from an emotional point of view and know inside and out. Then itâs many, many months of going through every single scene and feeling if thereâs any line, word, or phrase that isnât quite feeling like how I would have written it, and then us working through it! We went through the script pretty meticulously, and the script evolved and changed when I came on board. It was a beautiful script to begin with, and it made me cry many times when I read it the first time, which is why I signed on.
The script kicked around for many years but really began to take off in 2015 or so. Do you think thatâs because the film serves as such a tonic for our troubled times?
I think it was a year or two after that, but I canât quite remember. Whatever you believe, I think projects happen when theyâre meant to happen. Itâs really hard sometimes when youâre working on a project that takes ten years to come to be and believe that because you start to think it will never happen. But, ultimately, I have a similar philosophy about casting: Youâll lose an actor, and whoever is meant to play that part, it will work out. I feel that way with when projects came to be. I think this project, yeah, it could have been made ten years ago. But it was meant to be now. This is when we need it, for whatever reason.
What challenged you the most about A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood and where did you see yourself growing as a director?
I donât know what challenged me the most about it. The truth of the matter is that itâs been a pretty joyful experience making this movie. Itâs been a gift, and I just feel really lucky that I got to make it. I feel like it gave me so much, and as you said, the reverberations of Fredâs lessons have been with me now for years. Iâve gotten to live with his voice in my head, and it changes my life. Itâs been a total gift, and I feel unworthy. And the challenge is now, truthfully, putting this out into the world and deal with people [laughs]. Living up to their expectations, itâs not how they would make a movie about Fred Rogers, but up until now, itâs been a privilege and something I feel incredibly proud of. Now I just have to let it go, like a child out into the world.
Photo: TriStar Pictures
Iâm a sucker for a good Mr. Rogers quote, but I did come across a provocative perspective from The Atlantic suggesting a âfetishizationâ of some of his aphorisms. It got me wondering if thereâs a point where relying on advice designed for children prevents us from fulfilling more adult responsibilities. I think weâre both true believers here, but as someone whoâs been much more steeped in his philosophy and teachings, Iâm curious if you have a perspective on the potential limitations of Mr. Rogersâs advice.
I donât think there are limitations to his advice. I think he knew that you had to give children bite-sized versions of the truth. You had to give them the amount of the truth they could handle. But I think he had that wisdom for adults, and there was a period of time when he did a series for adults. The thing about him is that he didnât shy away from the harder stuff. He did an episode on assassination after RFK was shot. He did a whole episode on divorce when people werenât really talking about it on television. The darkest things, fear of deathâŠ
Fear of going down the drain!
Or going down the drain, which is apparently a very real fear! My kid was afraid of that.
Really?
Yes, itâs a very common fear! But I know what you mean. I think itâs taken out of context if someone is letting people off the hook with one of his quotes. The truth is, Fred was doing the tough work of being a person part of our global community. He was connecting with humanity in a deep way. He was present with people and helping people truly. It wasnât just phrases.
I do truly feel like the film has encouraged me to be more empathetic, understanding, and presentâand the effects have lasted far longer than I anticipated. Yet I do still struggle with the idea that Iâm barely making a dent in the worldâs problems given the magnitude of what weâre facing.
I think we all do, and I think Fred struggled with that too. Thereâs something that was touched on in the documentary [2018âs Wonât You Be My Neighbor?], where he was asked to come back and do a special after 9/11, and he thought, âCould it possibly be enough? How could I possibly do enough to help in this moment? Why would anyone need to hear from me right now?â I donât think that feeling like you canât do enough is a bad thing to be connected with.
I was talking about this in our Q&A today where I was in prep for this movie and went to hear a talk at Brooklyn Buddhist Zen Center. I think I was thinking of Fred as a Buddha-like figure. I had something in my head that the Buddha must be at peace at all times, that somehow if you reach that level of enlightenment or come to a point that far along in your emotional journey, you would feel happiness all the time. This woman who was giving this talk said, âNo, youâd feel all the pain of the world. Youâd actually feel it more. Youâd feel everyoneâs suffering. And the goal is not to not feel the suffering. The goal is to feel it even more deeply.â And it made me think about Fred because I think thatâs what he did. I donât think he was walking around with a smile on his face all the time. I think he was feeling the pain of the world.
Itâs my understanding that you werenât filming in Pittsburgh at the time of the Tree of Life synagogue massacre in Squirrel Hill, where Mr. Rogers lived, but did come back and do some pick-ups in town as they were still grieving and processing.
We had just left. We had left three days earlier to do our last days of filming in New York. We were in Pittsburgh for five months and left three days before the shooting happened. Actually, we wrapped principal photography in New York at four in the morning at Port Authority and then the shooting happened in the morning. It was so right on the heels, and then we returned to Pittsburgh two weeks later to do our miniatures shoot, which was always planned.
Did that weigh on the film at all?
Oh my gosh, are you kidding? It was so present for all of us. We felt so embraced and loved by the Pittsburgh community. Being in Pittsburgh making a movie about Mr. Rogers, we were like the most famous people in town. Everyone knew who we were and where were filming and come by to say hi to us and making sure we did Fred proud. My kid was going to school at a JCC in Squirrel Hill while we were there. That was our community. Bill Isler [former president and CEO of the Fred Rogers Company] lives there. It felt so, so close to home. When we returned to do our miniatures shoot, Tom Hanks came back too, and we all went to the cityâs unity celebration. We spent a lot of time mourning together.
Features
Interview: Rian Johnson on Knives Out and Bringing the Whodunnit to the Present
Johnson discusses his affinity for the whodunnit, his love of Agatha Christie, Star Wars, and more.
Whether paying homage to the golden age of noir in a high school setting (Brick), exploring a world in which time travel has not only been invented, but commodified and outlawed (Looper), or crafting a more intimate narrative within a beloved franchise (Star Wars: The Last Jedi), Rian Johnsonâs adoration of his cinematic predecessors is undeniable. Of the multitude of career feats for which the Silver Spring native is known, redefining genres remains, arguably, his most impressive.
And this year, the filmmaker has done it again with Knives Out, a modern, politically conscious take on the whodunnit. Though infused with the staples of this class-conscious genre, from the magnanimous detective, though one of the Southern-fried variety, to the coterie of potentially guilty parties, the film is also shot through with a distinctly modern sense of meta self-awareness and sociopolitical commentary.
Johnson recently sat down with me to discuss the film, and as we exchanged niceties, he pointed out my Girls on Tops shirt, noting he has âthe Jamie Lee Curtis one.â Evidently, even directors geek out on their favorite actors. During our chat, we discussed the philosophical differences between film noir and the whodunnit, Johnsonâs love for Agatha Christie, some of his other genre inspirations, the brilliance of Ana de Armas among Knives Outâs seasoned cast, Steven Sondheim, Skywalker Ranch, Star Wars, and more.
Brick is a neo-noir, and Knives Out is a whodunit. To you, what are the differences between the genres?
The key difference is almost a philosophical one between fiction film noir, which is [Dashiell] Hammett and [Raymond] Chandler and [James M.] Cain, and the whodunnit genre of Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, John Dickson Carr. And the basic difference between the two of them is moral clarity, which is very interesting. The whodunit genre is a very morally unambiguous genre. Thereâs a crime. Thereâs moral chaos. The detective comes in, whoâs usually the benevolent father, and he, through reason and order, sorts everything out and figures it out at the end and solves the crime and puts the universe back to sorts.
Whereas, obviously, with Chandler or Hammett, itâs the morally murky antihero, and nothing is put back right at the end of it. And everything is just as terrible as it always was. Itâs fascinating, the comforting fairy-tale aspect of the whodunnit, but itâs also why I do describe the genre as comfort food for me. Itâs something I keep coming back to over the years. And, goddamn, especially recently, the notion that reason and order could restore anythingâthe idea that goodness can bring anything back to being okayâwould be nice [laughs].
No kidding. You spent 10 years developing Knives Out, and it subverts expectations until the very end. How many drafts did it take to make sure that the math and science of the script didnât show?
Thatâs a good one. I [write] very structurally. Ten years ago, what I had was this very conceptual idea. It wasnât like, âOh, this person did it, and they did it this way with this weapon in the conservatory with the knife.â It was the very conceptual idea of taking a whodunnit, which is typically a genre thatâs built on a big buildup to a surprise. Just, âWho done it?â Thatâs the name of the genre. And so you figure out who done it. âOh my God, Iâd never guess that,â or, âOh, I guessed that.â And âWho cares?â Thatâs why Hitchcock hated whodunnits, famously, because drama built on surprise isnât great drama. So, taking a whodunnit and putting the engine of a Hitchcock thriller in the middle of it and almost using that Hitchcock thriller as misdirection in a way so that we tell the audience very early, âDonât worry about who done it. Donât worry about solving this puzzle. Thatâs not whatâs going to be entertaining for the next two hours. Hereâs a person you care about. Theyâre threatened. Letâs all go on this ride together seeing if they can get out of this impossible situation.â
And the idea of doing that and yet still having all the pleasures of a whodunnit, basically, was the big-picture thing 10 years ago. And then I zoom in from there, and I figure out maybe itâs set in a big house with this family, and that means itâs this type of character who has this relation to this character, and this is how the detective functions in it. And I start putting the pieces together bit by bit, basically. And then the writing is where it really hits the road. Like you said, thatâs when all the work goes into making the math feel like it isnât math. I actually just sat down to write it last January. We had wrapped the movie by Christmas. I wrote it in like six months. And I still did a bunch of drafts. I did a lot of revisions to it. But when it was ready to come out, it came out very quickly, which I recently learned Christie wrote her books very quickly also. She was a big proponent of you think it, and you think it, and you think it. But then, especially with something this dense, thereâs a value to not getting lost in the weeds. Thereâs a value to just pooping it out all at once. And I get it. It makes sense, especially if youâre trying to retain that very simple shape while itâs there.
This film is one of, if not, the funniest film that Iâve seen this year. Was it always your intention to have comedy be as much of an aspect as everything else?
I knew I wanted it to be funny. And I love all Agatha Christie adaptations. Iâm a junkie. But I feel like a lot of the recent ones tend to go very serious in their tone. They tend to go dark. And that always loses me because the adaptations I grew up loving are Death on the Nile, Evil Under the Sun, the ones with Peter Ustinov as Poirot. And they all have this sense of self-aware fun, and they have all-star casts. Itâs a big show that theyâre putting on, but it never tips into parody. Itâs not Clue. Itâs not Murder by Death. Itâs a real whodunnit with actual emotional stakes that rides that line of still being incredibly fun and being aware that itâs putting on a show.
That was the target for me, were those Ustinov-based adaptations. It was always something I wanted to really clearly communicate, both to the studio when we were starting and then the actors when we were casting. Every step of the way, it was, âWeâre going to try and have a lot of fun with this. This, hopefully, is going to be very funny, but itâs absolutely essential that we all know that weâre not making a parody about whodunnits, that weâre making a whodunnit about something else.â And whatâs on the screen, if thatâs successful, itâs the actors. It takes really good actors to be able to walk that line and give performances that are this big and this on the verge of caricature, but then to never lose the grounding so much that they disconnect from planet Earth.
And that âsomething elseâ is a staple of the whodunnit genre: class. Many of the characters share unsavory opinions about immigration and take other offensive stances toward minorities while Marta is working for them. Much of their careless spitting out of Fox News soundbites signifies a cold detachment. And while his own family is so dysfunctional, the grandchild searches for another family to call his own, unfortunately finding one in the annals of internet white supremacy.
Annals or the anals, yeah, one of the two [laughs].
Exactly. Would you say that this film is just as much about upper-class American decay as it is about a murder mystery?
For me, whatâs always fun about using genre is how one thing can engage the other. And itâs every movie. I canât start making a movie until I know what itâs really about for me, and that thing itâs about is never the genre itself. Itâs always got to be something else, obviously, that I care about or Iâm angry about or thinking about. And itâs not trying to insert a message into a genre or trying to hide a message under a genre. For me, the âmessageâ canât be a message at all. Itâs got to be something that every single scene in the movie engages with in some way. Itâs got to be tied into the very shape and mechanics of the genre itself. And class is something that, like you mentioned, this genre is particularly good at.
Gosford Park is a brilliant example of using it to talk about class. Whatâs interesting to me is itâs usually done in the context of Britain, and just because of Christie. And we have this thing in America where we like to pretend that class doesnât exist. We like to pretend weâre a classless society, so the idea of applying the genre to America in 2019 seemed like fertile soil. But if Iâm doing my job right, itâs a fun whodunnit. And everything thatâs fun and whodunnit-y about it is also serving the thing that this has on its mind.
Not to throw anyone under the busâ
Throw them.
With such an incredible cast of actors, who were you most excited about working with?
Iâm not dodging it when I say every single one of them. I know I kind of am. But Iâll say this. For me, the person Iâm most excited for audiences to see and discover in it is Ana [de Armas]. Sheâs great. Of a cast full of huge, amazing actors and movie stars, [she] is maybe the least known, and she plays the central part in the movie. And itâs a really tricky part because she has to bring so much to it for it to actually work. And for her to confidently step into the middle of a cast like this and carry the movie to the extent that she does, sheâs absolutely extraordinary.
Yeah. She was amazing in it.
Isnât she great? And sheâs been working forever. She did Spanish TV. She was in Blade Runner 2049 and a couple other American films, but I have a feeling youâre going to see a lot more of her over the next couple of years. My casting director, Mary Vernieu, brought her to my attention. Iâd seen her in Blade Runner 2049, but I wasnât really familiar with her work. Sheâs really something special. And sheâs playing Marilyn Monroe in Andrew Dominikâs Blonde, which is crazy because she was camera testing for that while we were shooting. She would show me these video tests of her done up as Marilyn in the middle of shooting this with her as Marta. Like, de-glamorized Marta. And then she shows me, and Iâm like, âWow! Who are you?â
Photo: Claire Folger
Iâm looking forward to that one. The Assassination of Jesse James wasâ
A fucking masterpiece. Incredible. Heâs an amazing director. So, so good.
It was interesting that you had the cast spend time in the filmâs gothic mansion for three weeks ahead of shooting in order to allow for âfamily bonding.â Do you have a fun story to share from the set?
There was one day where Frank Oz did a cameo, so he was on set. And it was really fun because everyone would just hang out in this little basement rec room down in the basement of this house. It felt like summer camp for movie stars. It was crazy. But the day Frank was on set, it was amazing seeing all these movie stars just gathered at his feet. Everybody was just in awe of him, and rightly so, trying to get stories about him doing Miss Piggy and Yoda. But Frank is a fantastic director: Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, What About Bob?, The Little Shop of Horrors, which is one the all-time great movie musicals. Heâs an extraordinary, multi-talented guy. So that was an amazing day, just seeing all these actors bow down to the mighty Frank.
Are you planning any Agatha Christie-esque Knives Out sequels?
I would be thrilled, man. Yeah. Weâll see how this one does. You never know with an original thing. But god, I hope it does well because it would be so much fun to get together with Daniel [Craig] every few years and make a new one. You can tell how much fun heâs having doing this [laughs]. And itâs such a malleable genre. You can do so many different things with it, so that would be really, really fun.
Speaking of fun, the Sondheim song that Craig sings in the car was such a great scene [laughs]. You both must have had a blast shooting that.
Yes! Oh my god! âLosing My Mind.â That scene was so good.
Does Craig play F on the piano throughout the film? Because âLosing My Mindâ is in the key of E.
Oh! Is that the song thatâs going in his head while heâs doing it? I forget what note it is. Next time Iâm watching, Iâm going to look, and Iâm sure we can see which one heâs hitting. Shit, where were you on set? I can claim it. I will retroactively claim it. I could have actually had it be a slightly different note heâs chiming, playing the tune of âLosing My Mind.â Shit! I have to go back and redo it [laughs].
Shall we do some last-minute reshoots?
Yeah. Letâs get back in, man. Weâre going up to Skywalker this afternoon. We can do a remix. Weâll get [Daniel] up there.
Speaking of Skywalker, youâre still planning on writing and directing a Star Wars trilogy, correct?
Iâm still talking to Lucasfilm about it. They havenât announced anything. Theyâre still figuring out what theyâre doing.
You confronted Reyâs parental lineage in The Last Jedi, seemingly putting an end to the many fan theories, while subverting expectations for a portion of toxic fans. Has any further information on Reyâs family been shared with you since The Rise of Skywalker began production, and are you concerned what J.J. Abrams might do with Reyâs lineage?
Iâm not concerned at all. Iâm 0% concerned. Iâm thrilled. I cannot wait to see Episode IX. Iâll preface this by saying Iâm going to be going in clean. Iâve tried to stay out of the process as much as possible. I can just be a Star Wars fan and sit down and watch. And I want to be thrilled. I want to be surprised. I cannot wait to see what happens next. Iâve never really understood the attitude that some people come at the movies with of, âI have my very specific list of things I want to see, and if those donât happen, Iâm going to be upset.â That I donât get. And just in terms of movies, in general, I donât know why you would sit down to watch a movie and feel like that and want that. So, to me, itâs all storytelling, man, and so push the story forward, have it make emotional sense, and take me someplace Iâve never been. And I know J.J.âs going to do that. I canât wait.
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Interview: Todd Haynes on Dark Waters and Being in the Crosshairs of Everything
Haynes discusses how the film quietly continues some of his aesthetic trademarks and thematic concerns.
For more than 40 years, Todd Haynes has made fiercely challenging, experimental, and idiosyncratic films that have left an indelible mark on both independent and mainstream cinema. But thereâs no single Todd Haynes style. Sometimes his films are complexly structured and narratively polygamous, as with his trifurcated, genre-subverting feature-length debut from 1990, Poison, and Iâm Not There, his 2007 anti-biopic about Bob Dylan in which six different actors play the iconic musician. At other times, Haynes works within the conventions of genres that allow him to question social and cultural values: Far from Heaven, his HBO miniseries Mildred Pierce, and Carol use the period melodrama template to examine racism, womenâs independence, and queer desire, respectively, and all to stunning emotional effect.
But never before has Haynes more directly and unostentatiously confronted centers of power than with his latest project, the legal thriller Dark Waters. The film germinated with actor Mark Ruffaloâs interest in Rob Bilott, a corporate defense attorney who made partner in 1998 at the storied Cincinnati law firm of Taft, Stettinius & Hollister, commonly known as Taft. Taking on the case of Wilbur Tennant (played by Bill Camp in the film), a West Virginian farmer whose land is contaminated from toxic run-off dumped near his premises by DuPont Company, Bilott (Ruffalo) quickly encounters the gargantuan machine of corporate disinformation, negligence, cover-up, and strong-arm tactics that allow the company to shuck responsibility for causing devastating environmental destruction and an unprecedented human health crisis.
In directing Dark Waters, Haynes employs subtle, unobtrusive camerawork to complement a linear and character-centered narrative, showing with controlled objectivity Bilottâs discovery that speaking the truth and taking on corporate power comes with a major price in modern America. I spoke with Haynes last week about how the film marks a departure from his past work while quietly continuing some of his aesthetic trademarks and thematic concerns.
How did you get involved with Dark Waters?
The first draft of Matthew Michael Carnahanâs script came to me from Mark [Ruffalo] in 2017. This is all incredibly fast for the world of developing movies because Nathaniel Richâs piece [about Bilott] had appeared [in the New York Times Magazine] just the year before. Already it had been optioned by Mark at Participant [Dark Watersâs production company], and he had decided to join forces with Matthew Michael. Then, for some reasonâand I genuinely say this with modestyâMark thought of me for it, because Iâm not exactly the person one would think of for this movie right off the bat, however much he likes my other films. And Iâm such an admirer of Mark on the screen, as well as his activismâand Iâve always wanted to work with him. What he didnât know is how much of a secret fan of this genre I am. The story is gripping and enraging and shocking to me, but it also has this human component because itâs told through the narrative of Rob Bilott, an unlikely person to take on DuPont. The circumstances presented themselves to him and forced him to rethink what he does and what kind of practices he was protecting as a defense attorney.
At first, I had a busy schedule and didnât think I was going to able to do it. But then some room cleared up about a year later and I thought I could do the film. But the first writer was busy at that time, so I thought, âOkay, letâs bring someone else in and start working on the script some more, get in deeper.â
Did you know the screenwriters, Mario Correa and Carnahan?
No, but I got to know Mario from samples of his work. I really like what I read and brought him in. There was a real urgency to get this moving on the part of Participant and Mark. And I saw why, but I wanted to see where things would go; I canât start shooting a movie thatâs not ready to be shot. So I searched for a writer and found Mario. We all got freed up by the end of May 2018 and went to Cincinnati for the first time with Mark then. And I met the entire world of the film in Cincinnati, the whole cast of characters, through the Taft law firm. Then we went off to Parkersburg [in West Virginia] and met those peopleâvisited Wilburâs farm and met Jim Tennant and his brother. All this is to say that Mario and I had to start fresh in talking about the script and experiencing the research together and talking with people [who were involved in the real events] together. And so we embarked on a very different version of the script together.
How did you collaborate with Mario? Did you base your work together on the scenes and moments from the article you wanted to include in the script? And how did you figure out how to make complicated legal issues and jargon and processes dramatically compelling?
Those were precisely the challenges and questions we had. The focus initially was to find the darker and more conflicted parts of the story than what weâd been introduced to in the New York Times Magazine piece and the first draft of the script. Thereâs a tremendous amount of pain and terror involved in challenging systems of power. And the more you learn about a story like thisâand this is true in films like this that I dig, like All the Presidentâs Men, The Parallax View, Silkwood, The Insiderâthe bigger the story gets, the more haunted you are by the repercussions. Youâre kind of like, âHoly shit, look what Iâm on to.â You feel this in All the Presidentâs Men, when [the reporters] canât believe how the storyâs growing, and the more the story grows the more your life seems to shrink. You become more alienated, your safety is more fraught, thereâs less ease to your movements. It affects all the people involved: your family, your friends, your community. People begin to turn against you; they alienate you and besmirch your reputation. All that stuff, thatâs all true to these experiences. And itâs all incredibly dramatic and itâs how you relate emotionally to these stories.
Truth-telling in movies is a slippery prospect because movies have a hard time telling the truth. And itâs important to question deliberate truth being told to you from any source, particularly one thatâs based on entertainment and moneymaking. Iâve been really interested and uncomfortable making movies my whole life. But thatâs why I wanted to make them, because they intersect with culture and commerce and identity and desire. So, youâre really in the crosshairs of a lot of contradictory forces. And thatâs an exciting place to be when youâre not just interested in replicating a sense of well-being or escapism or affirmation of the system. And I guess thatâs where this kind of genre is so great, because even if weâre following a lot of its conventions in ways that I donât always follow for the conventions of the other films Iâve made, I believe this genre is fundamentally unsettling. Thereâs a stigma attached to the truth-teller that you also donât necessarily expect. You think that, well, righteous truth is on your side, what do you have to fear? Well, everything.
I was just thinking of your past films, especially Safe and the suffocating environment of that film. How did you collaborate with Edward Lachman in achieving a similar atmosphere in Dark Waters? All of the themes and ideas you just described, how did you want to express them through the filmâs cinematography?
I felt that a kind of restrained, observant camera and a kind of emotional coolnessâboth literally and figurativelyâto the subject matter was apropos, especially in regard to Rob Bilott. Thereâs a kind of festering subjectivity in a movie like The Insider that I love, that works really well for that film and is pure Michael Mann. Itâs laid on very thick, that aggressive subjectivity and myopic camera with a focal length that keeps shifting so you canât really tell whatâs going onâit links the 60 Minutes journalist and Jeff Wigand. In this movie, I was more drawn to cooler frames and a more restrained camera and proximity, like Gordon Willisâs cinematography in those â70s films. Because this felt more like Rob, it felt more cautious and pulled back. And it also allowed more movement from his world to the people he has to connect with, so you can move from one place to the next in the movie with more dexterity and not be competing with an intense subjective experience. Robâs subjectivity is something that he learns in the course of stumbling onto this story. He learns how to see and then how to speak about what he sees in ways that he had never known before. So, I didnât want to anticipate that point of view. I wanted that point of view to be something we watch ourselves. Thatâs something that for todayâs culture and audience, I know that that was somewhat risky.
Why?
Well, because itâs asking an audience to be patient, and itâs asking an audience to find whatâs important in the frame and not hit them over the head with it. Thatâs why those films from the â70s feel like theyâre regarding the audience with a great deal of intellectual respect, to kind of figure out what the attitude is here. Whether itâs the case of the paranoia films of Alan Pakula or the first two Godfather movies, that doesnât mean that they donât have a strong point of view because of the way theyâre shot and lit. But thereâs space to interpret whatâs going on. Thatâs the choice that I made for this film. And Ed and I just liked the corporate spaces where much of the action takes place, these hollow spaces. I loved what the real Taft offices looked like.
It was shot in the real Taft offices?
Yeah, and where we built sets, the conference room and Robâs office, we built them 10 floors up in the same building looking out over the exact skyline and with the exact same parameter of the architecture of this 1980s building. We used all the design elements from Taft: those striped frosted glass walls, the floating walls over the windows and under the ceiling, the 45-degree corridors that he sculpts through, the fact that there was no uniform size or shape to the windows across the entire parameter of the floors, and that they looked out onto these beautiful landscapes of skylines of downtown Cincinnati with flanks of interrupted space in architecture in the foreground and little surprising peaks all the way through the Ohio River if you just cocked your head a couple of inches one way or another. So, the whole sense of [Bilottâs] discovery of obfuscation was mirrored in the architecture and design of this space. You also have these surprising pockets of incredibly dark shadows and then sudden appearances of light from the windows. That was so visually informative and specific and I found it so beautiful. Some of my favorite shots of the film are these big, wide window shots with the snow falling, and a wide shot of Tom Terp [a senior partner at Taft] and Rob Bilott talking to each other from a distance. The weather contributed heavily to the look and feel of the movie; it was a bitter cold winter that we shot through. We tried to apply the same visual language to shooting at Wilburâs farm and in Parkersburg, so you could feel these worlds were linked, that they werenât separate.
Were you going for an Antonionian thing like in Safe, where the environment is both an influence on and reflection of the charactersâ experience?
Yeah, a manifestation of their experience. And a place where you can get lost in the corridors and then places where youâre isolated in big, open spaces. Itâs a place that felt both big and small intermittently, and that would sometimes alternate according to whatâs going on emotionally or in the content.
Thatâs similar to how I felt in the scenes that take place in Parkersburg, where itâs this small, rural town and yet, from the way you capture it, it feels like it represents the entire world and its destruction from pollution. What decisions did you make in the cinematography of the film when you shot there?
Ed and I tend to favor this sort of dirty palette in almost any of my movies if you look back at them. But it shifts in tonality based on what the story is and what the time period of the story is and what the temperament of the movie is. For Dark Waters, we favored way more of a cool spectrum in the color timing, which gave the warmer interiors always this cool shadow. That meant that beige walls, you couldnât tell if they were a warm or a cool color. Hannah Beachler designed the film, and we were all sort of in sync with picking design elements for the interiors that could move between warm and cool temperatures easily, depending on whether itâs light from outside coming in or Tungsten light from inside. You just never feel a relief of tensions and of a little bite of rigidity that invades these spaces. We certainly didnât want to make Wilburâs farm a place of rural pleasure orâ
ârustic beautyâ
Yeah, and it gives you the sense that even truth is corruptible. So, Wilbur, whoâs attached more to a notion of truth, heâs living in this contaminated space. Truth almost becomes a kind of toxin because it undermines the status quo and business as usual.
How did you work with some of the real-life players in the story, especially in gauging the accuracy of the film in relation to the real events?
We relied on them as much as we could. They were really eager partners in contributing to the film, and they all had to agree to that. Nobody on the DuPont side, of course, agreed to have their real names in the movie. Everyone else did and were advisors on the movie. And it was really lovely to have them come and join us on set and be pictured within scenes.
In Iâm Not There, you had Heath Ledgerâs version of Bob Dylan proclaim, âThereâs no politics,â but only âsign language.â Throughout your career, youâve often examined the signs and symbols through which people communicate individual, political, and cultural meaning. Was that also your concern in Dark Waters, even though the politics and social significance of the story are very much up front and center in the film and not imparted through metaphor?
I havenât thought about that line and applying it to this movie, but I did feel with this story that the massiveness of this contamination, the fact that [C-8, a toxic chemical manufactured by DuPont] is in 98% of creatures on the planetâŠwhat can you say that about except for things as invasive and all-present as, I donât know, capitalism or patriarchyâthings that never asked for our permission for them to invade us. And so, in a way it makes us linked by these pernicious systems. We participate in them, we enable them, but what do you do? Do you pretend they donât exist? Do you wish they could all disappear with one legal action? No. You get as knowledgeable as you can, you try to identify what they are, and you push back in certain ways. You develop a critical relationship to life and to social power, and how the individual is always the product or target of it.
The material through which systems work.
The material or outgrowth of it. I like that this movie reveals this, but thereâs also no solution except how we interpret, how we stand up to small issues, bigger issues, how we engage with our system politically and culturally, and in how we live imperfectly between knowledge, ignorance, and despair. Itâs a complicated and imperfect series of choices that we have to make. But what do you do instead? Do you put your head back in the sand? Do you go back and cook on Teflon [for which C-8 was manufactured]? Do you pretend that patriarchal systems donât still function and distinguish between men and women and white people and black people? No, we need to be aware, and thatâs what this film helps us do.
What are your upcoming projects?
My real passion project is a piece on Freud. Thatâs going to take a while to figure out because it needs to be a multi-part, episodic experience. Thatâs where my heart and soul are anchored, but Iâve just been busy elsewhere, as you can imagine. And thereâs a Velvet Underground project; I just said yes when they came to me from the Universal Music Group that controls their music and half of all the other music thatâs been recorded. Iâm so into it, Iâm so excited. We did 20 interviews. My decision was to only interview people who were there, band members, anybody of the surviving people who were around at the time, who really saw it up close, directly. So that meant getting Jonas Mekas on film right before he passed away, and getting John Cale, of course, and Maureen Tucker. Weâve just put together this insane archive of material, historical stuff, clips of the band, and pieces of Warhol films of the band that people have never seen before. Itâs a real well, and I want to summon that time again. I want to immerse in it as much as possible. Thatâs our goal.
They deserve a major movie. Theyâre one of the greatest and most important bands ever, period.
Yeah. Itâs going to be crazy good.
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