Of strange folks and folk songs

I’m going let you as readers in on a little secret. There are lots of films that I’ve seen that I haven’t bothered to review. There are myriad of reasons behind this: Perhaps there were too many films released in the same time frame, or maybe it was a film that has nothing worth saying anything positive about, which hurts to write about, because even if it wasn’t very good, there is a lot of time, effort and money put into it, and so to completely tear it down feels like bullying.

But more often, it’s a matter of locale. Because yes, even though we have an international respected film festival, we still get the short shrift on releases, missing out on some gems such as James Gunn’s Super or Bobcat Goldthwaite’s God Bless America. And then there’s the matter of what’s screened for critics. In a major market area like Chicago or San Francisco, pretty much any film slated for release is screened for critics. Here, we’re lucky to get one screening a week. Add to the fact that nobody in the film criticism world makes Roger Ebert money, real life and real jobs often interfere with writing reviews. I try to post a condensed version of a review of anything I watch on social media sites like getglue.com, but even that falls by the wayside occasionally. But there’s a bigger reason, which I learned way back when I was working for an independent print medium: relevance. Working for the now-defunct Honolulu Weekly, I remember being yelled at by the upper echelon of editors as I waited for a review of The Dark Knight to get submitted. The reasoning (which was a fair one), was that there wasn’t a single person who would be persuaded to go or not go based on our local reviewer.

That chastising I got always stuck with me. My editor was mostly correct; I don’t think there were many, if any, people who said, “Let’s see what that guy from the local paper thinks before we bother to go.” But what you have to remember is that reviewers are also excited about certain directors, actors and screenplays. Sometimes we geek out as much as the rest of you over comic book adaptations, or films that are based upon certain works of literature. But the nature of criticism, for those who read it, builds a certain amount of trust between author and reader, and that trust will change opinions and minds. I experienced this first hand when I wrote a favorable review of Toy Story 3 and made a throwaway flippant comment on the link that my opinion wouldn’t change who was going to see it or who wouldn’t. I got a lot of private mail from people, who stated they weren’t planning on seeing it and went based on my recommendation (and loved it as much as I did! Influence!).

Anyhoo, this is a very long roundabout way to mention that I never reviewed Peter Jackson’s fourth collaboration with the New Zealand’s tourism board with The Hobbit. I wrote what could be called a very truncated review by saying “Walk. Fight. Fall. Repeat. For three fucking hours” on various social media sites, but never bothered to write a full review, mostly because I felt after nearly nine hours of short people fighting for The Lord of the Rings trilogy, I thought the general public would have their minds made up whether they wanted to see the film or not.

But here’s the thing: As far as I can tell, The Hobbit trilogy seems destined to follow in the footsteps of many other respected trilogies, wherein the first one was pretty good, The second was amazing, and the third one falls short of expectations, mostly because of wallowing in its own opulence. The original Star Wars is the most obvious example, but the list goes through the gamut of geekdom. X-Men, Spider-Man, Alien, Evil Dead, The Dark Knight, The Godfather, Night of the Living Dead, Mad Max, Terminator… the list goes on. (And yes, there are exceptions to the rule. No need to write in. But hell, feel free to write in.)

Moving back to the original subject with The Hobbit, the infuriating factor was because the source material was so much smaller, with the book being slimmer than any one of the three books from The Lord of the Rings. And we get it; even the least cynical moviegoer knows that these films are more of an event—a vacation once a year to distant lands, and yet you’ll still be home in time to feed the dog. But that’s where The Hobbit felt so hollow, because, fine, if you want to make three movies from a book that is only 300 pages, but when you stretch out the running time to encroach on the three-hour mark for each film, well… you’re spreading the source material pretty thin. And it showed. Ike I said: Walk. Fight. Fall. Repeat. Sure, sure, there was a semblance of plot development, and the literary purists even got a song, but essentially, that’s all that happened. For three hours. Nobody show him George Orwell’s Animal Farm; he might turn those 170 pages into something that rivals the run-time of Band of Brothers.

That being said, I’m pleased to note that the second installment, The Desolation of Smaug, is a huge improvement. Yes, it is more of the same, essentially playing like a road movie, where our height-challenged protagonists journey along and meet a variety of characters (and then fight them), but we’ve done away with all the introductory crap and can finally move into a realm where their actions seem to have more consequences (like they’re going to have to walk some more, har, har.) 

I should probably attempt a summary for those not entrenched in the book or the films, especially since returning director Peter Jackson has taken so many liberties from the source material in this outing. As set up in the first film, the Dwarves, stout of heart and hairy of chin, hope to reclaim their place amongst the ruling class, but can’t do so without the help of a Hobbit. Bilbo Baggins, specifically (Martin Freeman… or Ian Holm in 
The Lord of the Rings trilogy). Last time around it was all setup: The Dwarves don’t like Hobbits, Hobbits don’t like Dwarves, Orcs don’t like anybody, and Dragons will steal all your money and stash it away in a fortress, which nobody is very found about (except the Dragon, of course). This time we’re a little more invested in the characters, even if their names don’t resonate. (As far as I could make out from my notes, there was Grumpy and Dopey, then we moved on to Hairy and Fatty, along with three others who wouldn’t get Disney lawyers in a frenzy.)

Of course, the reason we bother to come back is that the first installment hinted that it was time to release the dragon, so to speak. But don’t get too antsy, there’s still a lot of walking, fighting and falling that has to happen first. We get a good two hours of a Bob Hope Road movie with CGI first, meeting a cast of characters, some from the book, others invented for the film and a few callbacks such as fan favorite Elven warrior Legolas (Orlando Bloom) who’s really just around to liven up the fight scenes. But then, finally, Smaug the magic dragon shows up.

And it’s glorious.

One of my complaints with the first Hobbit film was that it looked fairly identical to the trilogy previous, and those were ten years ago. But as Freeman tiptoes through the treasure and Smaug shows himself, there are some astounding visuals and the dragon (voiced by Benedict Cumberbatch), makes the heart race. At least, until it’s shown that he’s a distant relative of Dug, the Dog from Pixar’s UP, as he seems to lose his focus anytime another squirrel… sorry, dwarf… passes by his peripheral vision.

But still, as impressive as it is, it’s too much, too late, and as the film fades to black, the biggest audience reaction came when they realized we were all going to come back next year for any resolution. That’s the Hollywood machine: Sucker us in and milk us dry. When it’s done right, we hardly notice. Here, the third film may as well be titled The Hobbit: Sit Down, We’re Not Finished.

The antithesis to such crass commercialization comes once again from Joel and Ethan Coen, the two wunderkind brothers whose only de rigueur seems to be the inevitability that they will follow a commercially successfully film with another that will only play at the arthouses. Here in Hawaii, we can thank Kahala theaters for being the lone theater which booked Inside Llewyn Davis, despite it already appearing on many critics Top Ten lists for the year. I’m not sure I would be included in that clan, but I will say this. I finished the film with a sense of appreciation and yet remained a bit confused. But, I also haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Set in New York in 1961 just prior to the commercial viability of folk music, the titular character (played masterfully by Oscar Isaac) perfoms in smoky coffee houses around the Greenwich Village area. There’s no denying he has talent, starting from the opening of the film where we see him playing “Hang Me, Oh Hang Me,” which the Coens let play in its full-length melancholy. In fact, working again with executive music producer T-Bone Burnett, this could be viewed as a companion film to their other musical (for lack of another term), O Brother, Where Art Thou?, though it’s more like a distant, dour relative than a companion. Nearly all of the songs filmed are shown in their entirety.

This makes it amusing that Inside Llewyn Davis is in limited release, while pop culture curiosity Justin Beiber has his film open at the megaplexes. Anyway.

But of course, there’s no way this movie is palatable for the mass audiences. Folk songs are traditionally awash in sorrow, tinged with a bit of self-loathing and a dab of rebelliousness. And that’s Isaac’s character in a nutshell. He plays his songs and then sponges off those who appreciate his talent, until there isn’t any more generosity that his friends are willing to expend. He’s judgmental and jealous of others who seem to be moving up the musical ladder with more ease and less talent. And his decisions are never thought out for the long view. In short, he’s kind of a shit, even being told as such by his best friend’s girlfriend (played with a vulgar zeal by Carey Mulligan), whom he might have impregnated. “You’re like King Midas’ idiot brother,” she shouts at him between obscenities.

From there it’s a journey for Davis and us as audience members, as he tries to keep up with the indignities he faces in a week’s time. More road movie than character study, we meet various human oddities along the way many appropriated from real-life characters from the music scene at the time, the best with John Goodman, the only retuning actor from the Coens oeuvre. Shot with a brilliant eye for detail by French cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel (best known in the States for Amelie), it’s an impressive, dour, romantic and melancholy character study masquerading as a period piece. If you’ve seen enough Coen Brothers movies, particularly as of late, you know closure isn’t really their style. When you truly get inside Llewyn Davis, you wouldn’t expect him to know what to do with it either.