Let's be clear: I thoroughly enjoyed this movie. A great movie experience. Thoughtful and wholly unique. Rousing effects and chase scenes. Great directing, writing, editing, etc. Thoroughly enjoyed watching this movie.
But like any good book I enjoy, I find weaknesses in them. Points and plot direction that fail to work. And I realize with Inception that I am in quite a minority. So though I enjoyed the movie, it didn't resonate to me as being one of the great movies of all time (And mind you I'm hedging that category to blanket movies of this nature: with sci-fi bends and twists, action and philosophy. Matrix-y type movies.) I also didn't think it was even one of the best movies of the year. So let me tell you why....
Sure the plot was intricate. But it wasn't tough to follow. Nolan, much to his credit, realized the nuances and took the time to explain them. And he did so rather eloquently with the Architect. So much so that I could have tolerated an entire movie about the designing of dreams via the Architect. That was fascinating to me. But the movie didn't stop to enjoy the view, instead opting to climb higher (or lower as it was) to get a 'better view'. The nature of dreams explained, our belief wonderfully and subtly asked to be suspended to allow for the merry-band-of-dream-invaders to easily parade in and out of dreams, the movie then veers to nothing more than a heist kind of movie. And this is where Nolan truly lost me. He had this wonderful, amazing idea and then degraded it into a heist flick. Making the Fischer character completely one-dimensional as the villain/target/mark by his easy acquiescence to everything Cobb told him. Sure there were too many other twists and turns to have Fischer be anything but easy to convince. But if I can't feel the catharsis for Fischer's character then how can I be expected to feel rewarded as a patron.
This leads me to other character problems because this is where the movie disappointed me. Arthur, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, was too shallow and gave off an air of discontent without every truly allowing him to rebel like his character needed too. Ariadne was also too shallow. We are introduced to her with the promise of genius and then nothing. At all. And I am still not clear on exactly how she was so easily allowed to challenge Cobb. What right did she have? I know it's movie-making, but it's also story-telling. And there was more story that needed to be there for that to work. Characters were way to shallow for a movie as literally deep as this. Way too shallow. Even Cobb didn't quite work out. Almost. But not quite. The only character truly penetrating and real was Mal. You felt her anguish. Her isolation. Her rage.
All this said, Inception did challenge some ideas. Like how memories and dreams are different. And how memories can penetrate dreams. Also about ideas. How they are solely unique if they are truly ideas -- I could've used a lot more on this concept.
As for that controversial last scene: eh. It was an utterly shameful break from the narrative. An outright challenge to the viewer. And that. never. works. You can't break from the Voice in the final shot. You can't issue a challenge, a talking point completely out of context within the movie, the only commentary on that challenge being a lingering shot of the top and the scene going to blank. It's shameful and it left me viscerally upset as a story-teller. Like the time I immediately put down "The Shack" on page 63 because the narrative broke completely as the author clearly interjected his own voice and commentary into the scene devoid of any of the other characters present in it. I'm not a perfect writer myself, I do similar things sometimes. And it never, ever works.
For what it's worth, I would've written that last scene to show Cobb pulling the top out of his pocket, look at it and contemplate spinning it, look at his kids playing, look back at the top and then put the top back in his pocket. Because whatever was real at that point truly didn't matter to Cobb. And so it shouldn't matter to us whether it actually was real or not, because to Cobb all that mattered was that he was with his kids, wherever he was. We still could've debated it like it's been done, but the narrative wouldn't have been broken and the scene would've been more poignant. In my mind.
Still a very good movie. At one point I found it better than Memento. Now I'm not so sure. Both will need repeated viewings. And in my book, a movie I must return to means it's something special, even if flawed -- which maybe the only way it can be special. Who wants perfections anyway? That's a crazy idea...
For further reference on EXCELLENT movies dealing with mind, philosophy, dreams, love, loss, memories: see Charlie Kaufman (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind; Synecdoche, New York)
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
On A Weekend Of Mary Poppins
For the most part I like musicals -- provided the music is good. This idea that life suddenly is so that you just break into song... well I am infatuated by that. Life is a lyric. Sometimes a good lyric. Sometimes a not-so-good-holy-crap-did-we-just-lose-to-the-Jets-at-home bad lyric (in those moments it helps to flip on the previous night's SNL which included a particular musical performance by Cee-Lo Green). But life is sometimes best described in song. And so that much of Mary Poppins I expected to love. As a kid I watched the movie almost every time I went to Nana and Grandpy's house. But I hadn't seen it in 20 years.
The music is just great. Simple and yet rich lyrics. Catchy. Melodic. And just plain fun to sing. Already Isaac is singing "Spoonful of Sugar" and "Step in Time" and "Let's Go Fly A Kite". Lucy was bee-bopping around the room to "Step in Time". Now Isaac's not a fan of the "Feed the Birds" song. And I admit that one is a little out of place in the narrative of the movie. Too predictive of the future even for someone as magical as Mary Poppins. And mildly creepy, eerie sounding.
But where I didn't expect this movie to get me was in the idea of it all. In the magic of it. Quite simply it is an absolutely marvelous movie. Acted. Written. Directed. And the magic. Oh the magic. So inspired. So beautiful. And so seems to just creep in on you from the corners of your mouth, like that smile the Edwardian Mary Poppins can't ever keep from emitting, or tapping her foot too. It's just there. Just hidden enough and yet ready to explode, to overwhelm the reality. Like her smile. The magic in Mary Poppins is restrained just enough to not be overwhelming. To not be about the magic of Mary Poppins but about the magic of life. Of living. Of celebrating moments with family, with each other. Even between Bert and Mary I was overwhelmed by their relationship that existed, clearly, but was still on the periphery. Hidden, but curling at the corners. These things I didn't see as a child viewer but see them now as I watch it with my children beside me.
I'll admit to crying when the father has his awakening moment. I'm a dad. I'm not always a good dad. I have faults and I'm not perfect. But it's something always worth all my time. The father in Mary Poppins realized this. And it just floored me. Caught me way off guard only moments after dancing along with Isaac and Lucy to "Step in Time". How is this movie about that too? They don't make movies like this anymore.
The magic in Mary Poppins is that it's a really, really good movie. It's pure fun and pure ingeniousness (it had to improve off of Travers' book according to what I've read of it). It's Disney's crowning achievement still. Almost 50 years later. It's also profound. Simply, utterly profound. And magical. I can't say that enough because I felt it in every scene. Felt that grand sense of "what if" we could jump into a painting; "what if" we could laugh until we floated away; "what if" we could snap our fingers and watch our toys all be made right.
That's the thing about the right, good magic in books and movies. The magic that leaves you asking, "What if". When I can't help but wonder not only "what if". That it's somehow, in some way, because of something, possible.
The music is just great. Simple and yet rich lyrics. Catchy. Melodic. And just plain fun to sing. Already Isaac is singing "Spoonful of Sugar" and "Step in Time" and "Let's Go Fly A Kite". Lucy was bee-bopping around the room to "Step in Time". Now Isaac's not a fan of the "Feed the Birds" song. And I admit that one is a little out of place in the narrative of the movie. Too predictive of the future even for someone as magical as Mary Poppins. And mildly creepy, eerie sounding.
But where I didn't expect this movie to get me was in the idea of it all. In the magic of it. Quite simply it is an absolutely marvelous movie. Acted. Written. Directed. And the magic. Oh the magic. So inspired. So beautiful. And so seems to just creep in on you from the corners of your mouth, like that smile the Edwardian Mary Poppins can't ever keep from emitting, or tapping her foot too. It's just there. Just hidden enough and yet ready to explode, to overwhelm the reality. Like her smile. The magic in Mary Poppins is restrained just enough to not be overwhelming. To not be about the magic of Mary Poppins but about the magic of life. Of living. Of celebrating moments with family, with each other. Even between Bert and Mary I was overwhelmed by their relationship that existed, clearly, but was still on the periphery. Hidden, but curling at the corners. These things I didn't see as a child viewer but see them now as I watch it with my children beside me.
I'll admit to crying when the father has his awakening moment. I'm a dad. I'm not always a good dad. I have faults and I'm not perfect. But it's something always worth all my time. The father in Mary Poppins realized this. And it just floored me. Caught me way off guard only moments after dancing along with Isaac and Lucy to "Step in Time". How is this movie about that too? They don't make movies like this anymore.
The magic in Mary Poppins is that it's a really, really good movie. It's pure fun and pure ingeniousness (it had to improve off of Travers' book according to what I've read of it). It's Disney's crowning achievement still. Almost 50 years later. It's also profound. Simply, utterly profound. And magical. I can't say that enough because I felt it in every scene. Felt that grand sense of "what if" we could jump into a painting; "what if" we could laugh until we floated away; "what if" we could snap our fingers and watch our toys all be made right.
That's the thing about the right, good magic in books and movies. The magic that leaves you asking, "What if". When I can't help but wonder not only "what if". That it's somehow, in some way, because of something, possible.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
On Looking Out At The World
In lieu of the recent Derek Webb brou-ha-ha on the Internets, maybe it's about time I joined the fray. Not so much because I really feel the need to opine about one of my favorite musicians and his HuffPo interview. But more because something Webb frequently says via Twitter that troubles me. And not the "troubles me for his soul" kind of troubles me -- let's be clear on that point: I'm not attacking the man at all -- just exploring something he says that has me thinking. Webb frequently says that he only "looks at the world and tells you what [he] see". It's led me to question the objective of the artist.
As I writer -- or trying-to-be-writer -- I have placed two tentative footsteps into the world of the artist. So I have pondered my new role. And Webb's outlook has certainly not been my own. While I am in agreement that an artist does look out at the world, I'm not sure that's the complete story. It seems, at least in the snipped contexts of Twitter, that Webb's response on behalf of himself the artist feels like a cop out. A way to end rather unseemly discussions -- that do, in actuality, need ending. But still. To me being an artist necessitates responsibility -- to the art form, to the subject matter, to the people we aim to transmit the art to. And merely looking and telling seems to prevent that responsibility from occurring.
It's as if the artist (and not necessarily Webb here -- I don't know him at all, just exploring his expressed position in terms of my own thoughts) is saying -- don't blame me, or don't fault me, it's the way the world is, judge for yourself. There's merit there, of course. It gets people talking. Promotes a level of discussion -- sometimes healthy, sometimes unhealthy. But how can an artist -- musician, writer, painter, etc -- remain inside his room with a view and not subject himself to the art he expresses? How can he only look and tell and not feel? Or not what to feel? Or not want to be scarred forever by it? Am I missing something? Am I not far enough inside the doorstep? Am I the young ER doctor who weeps after losing his first patient while the older partners hardly blink and look down at me?
Perhaps I'm being too nuanced about it. But it's got me asking about the life of the artist-- That it's only a look and tell approach? Not trying to bring Jesus into this, but that's not the approach He took. He added the feel. He added the "be affected by your art" when He stepped into the painting.
Tonight I stumbled across a line from the book My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok, "An artist is responsible to his art. Anything else is propaganda.” That summed up what I've been thinking in my own head. Art burdens a weight of responsibility upon the shoulders of the artist. I want my art to bear something of the Artist. I want to step inside it, to feel it, suffer it's sufferings, joy in its joys, smudge in its smudges. I want to emerge from one of my stories affected, to have the taste of it remain in my mouth long after I moved on to other stories.
Where does this leave me? Where does it leave those I hope to also be affected by my art? What position does this leave me to defend my future art to critics? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.
As I writer -- or trying-to-be-writer -- I have placed two tentative footsteps into the world of the artist. So I have pondered my new role. And Webb's outlook has certainly not been my own. While I am in agreement that an artist does look out at the world, I'm not sure that's the complete story. It seems, at least in the snipped contexts of Twitter, that Webb's response on behalf of himself the artist feels like a cop out. A way to end rather unseemly discussions -- that do, in actuality, need ending. But still. To me being an artist necessitates responsibility -- to the art form, to the subject matter, to the people we aim to transmit the art to. And merely looking and telling seems to prevent that responsibility from occurring.
It's as if the artist (and not necessarily Webb here -- I don't know him at all, just exploring his expressed position in terms of my own thoughts) is saying -- don't blame me, or don't fault me, it's the way the world is, judge for yourself. There's merit there, of course. It gets people talking. Promotes a level of discussion -- sometimes healthy, sometimes unhealthy. But how can an artist -- musician, writer, painter, etc -- remain inside his room with a view and not subject himself to the art he expresses? How can he only look and tell and not feel? Or not what to feel? Or not want to be scarred forever by it? Am I missing something? Am I not far enough inside the doorstep? Am I the young ER doctor who weeps after losing his first patient while the older partners hardly blink and look down at me?
Perhaps I'm being too nuanced about it. But it's got me asking about the life of the artist-- That it's only a look and tell approach? Not trying to bring Jesus into this, but that's not the approach He took. He added the feel. He added the "be affected by your art" when He stepped into the painting.
Tonight I stumbled across a line from the book My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok, "An artist is responsible to his art. Anything else is propaganda.” That summed up what I've been thinking in my own head. Art burdens a weight of responsibility upon the shoulders of the artist. I want my art to bear something of the Artist. I want to step inside it, to feel it, suffer it's sufferings, joy in its joys, smudge in its smudges. I want to emerge from one of my stories affected, to have the taste of it remain in my mouth long after I moved on to other stories.
Where does this leave me? Where does it leave those I hope to also be affected by my art? What position does this leave me to defend my future art to critics? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Why Do I Make Lists
I didn't grow up making lists. I resisted lists the first five years of my marriage. I still resist them. Why? They help me make sense of the world. They help me make order and help me progress and get things done and finish things through. I've always compiled lists of my favorite things: teams, movies, books, music. Why not make lists for everyday tasks. For the non-esoteric things that actually need getting done. So I find myself more and more making lists. It's helpful. Unbelievably helpful. Things suddenly get done. I feel better. Life feels better. But it's still not in my nature to make lists. Maybe I resist them because it diminishes some creative impulse, or could squash that impulse. The impulse I hold as tightly as I do my kids in a crowd. But it doesn't. If anything it frees up that impulse. Keeping to from drowning among the maelstrom of things that need to get done and the best and most orderly way to get things done.
I suppose that's the whole idea behind limitations. Behind the freedom that exists from coloring within the lines. It may seem like it's inhibiting. It may seem stifling. But it's not. Boundaries. Borders. Lists. Order. It's necessary. It's better. It avoids the foggy haze of being unsure if I can color something blue here, or red here. And if I use yellow or brown or black will it still look right. If the lines are drawn, if the lists are made, a natural order of things progresses. Leaving me more time to focus on using the right colors in the best places.
More than I can remember I've resisted lists. But I've always been a staunch purveyor of maps. It being inherent within me to plan the direction I will take from point A to point B. Lists. Maps. It's all the same thing.
I'm finding that my Art is too. That I benefit greatly from setting aside definitive times of day to focus on writing. And to make lists and maps of things I need to accomplish. Maybe my writing is nothing more than a coloring within the lines, something a child could do. But I assure you, though I aim to work within the set and fixed borders, the creativity that emerges paints some pretty wonderful pictures.
I suppose that's the whole idea behind limitations. Behind the freedom that exists from coloring within the lines. It may seem like it's inhibiting. It may seem stifling. But it's not. Boundaries. Borders. Lists. Order. It's necessary. It's better. It avoids the foggy haze of being unsure if I can color something blue here, or red here. And if I use yellow or brown or black will it still look right. If the lines are drawn, if the lists are made, a natural order of things progresses. Leaving me more time to focus on using the right colors in the best places.
More than I can remember I've resisted lists. But I've always been a staunch purveyor of maps. It being inherent within me to plan the direction I will take from point A to point B. Lists. Maps. It's all the same thing.
I'm finding that my Art is too. That I benefit greatly from setting aside definitive times of day to focus on writing. And to make lists and maps of things I need to accomplish. Maybe my writing is nothing more than a coloring within the lines, something a child could do. But I assure you, though I aim to work within the set and fixed borders, the creativity that emerges paints some pretty wonderful pictures.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Some Thoughts On Two Great Books
In the past few weeks I've finished "Life of Pi" by Yann Martel and "Let The Great World Spin" by Colum McCann. Both made my top five list of the year. Not that that means much or anything. But I consider these books, already, to be among the best works of fiction I've ever read. Both were invariably page-turning, eminently readable, prestigious-ly award-winning. Yet they varied a great deal in why they were so good. McCann's book I know was better. Every part of me knows it was the better story, the better writing. And in lieu of "Life of Pi" I find that laughingly ironic.
Life of Pi
The prose was good. Not memorable. But it couldn't really be memorable. It couldn't sweep you away to a bustling, rumbling India at the time of The Emergency like Rohinton Mistry's "A Fine Balance" could. It couldn't wrap you in warm smelling perfumes of India like Rushdie's "The Moor's Last Sigh" could. Inevitably it was limited by it's narrator. The limitations of the young narrator in any story are always glaring. Words are smaller. Places smaller. The sense of the past, history, is weaker. Adult narrators and voices carry much more weight than that of a child or teenager (perhaps why I ended up not liking "The Lovely Bones" as much as a I thought I would). The young narrator just gets old. Their voice, their views, the words they use. But Martel doesn't succomb to that at all. He rises above it. Often some passages reading like diary entries or how-to manuals or mere lists; ending like it does with a transcribed interview.
Where Martel gets you I can't say if you haven't read it. But it grabs you. Chokes you and makes you well up with the need to inhale quickly, to turn every page faster and faster, breathless, because you can't quite grasp that the story was about that until it's over and you're left breathing, finally, among the stale air over a closed book with nothing to do but think. To take inventory. To value it's worth. It was a remarkable book. And I am better for having read it.
Let The Great World Spin
McCann's book on the other hand was some of the best prose I've ever read. His language, his words, his descriptions of 1970s New York City swept around me like a breeze through the city. Over buildings, around corners, through drain gates, through sound and bustle and noise and decay and life and death. It was a strong breeze, his language. A good, steady, soul-cleansing breeze. Where the story gets you, because it's not really about anything other than New York City, is it's characters. It's exquisite portrayals. The Irish, the African-American, the priest, the hookers, the artist, the judge, the Park Avenue bourgeois, the Vietnam vet, the computer nerds. I'm not sure where it left me because it left me at a completely different place than "Life of Pi". Not at some mountaintop contemplating. But dropped, breathless, awed, over-stimulated on the streets of NYC where I need to keep moving so I don't get hit by a cab. I'm not better for having read it, certainly not that type of book. But having read it, I sense something is better. Something is better.
Life of Pi
The prose was good. Not memorable. But it couldn't really be memorable. It couldn't sweep you away to a bustling, rumbling India at the time of The Emergency like Rohinton Mistry's "A Fine Balance" could. It couldn't wrap you in warm smelling perfumes of India like Rushdie's "The Moor's Last Sigh" could. Inevitably it was limited by it's narrator. The limitations of the young narrator in any story are always glaring. Words are smaller. Places smaller. The sense of the past, history, is weaker. Adult narrators and voices carry much more weight than that of a child or teenager (perhaps why I ended up not liking "The Lovely Bones" as much as a I thought I would). The young narrator just gets old. Their voice, their views, the words they use. But Martel doesn't succomb to that at all. He rises above it. Often some passages reading like diary entries or how-to manuals or mere lists; ending like it does with a transcribed interview.
Where Martel gets you I can't say if you haven't read it. But it grabs you. Chokes you and makes you well up with the need to inhale quickly, to turn every page faster and faster, breathless, because you can't quite grasp that the story was about that until it's over and you're left breathing, finally, among the stale air over a closed book with nothing to do but think. To take inventory. To value it's worth. It was a remarkable book. And I am better for having read it.
Let The Great World Spin
McCann's book on the other hand was some of the best prose I've ever read. His language, his words, his descriptions of 1970s New York City swept around me like a breeze through the city. Over buildings, around corners, through drain gates, through sound and bustle and noise and decay and life and death. It was a strong breeze, his language. A good, steady, soul-cleansing breeze. Where the story gets you, because it's not really about anything other than New York City, is it's characters. It's exquisite portrayals. The Irish, the African-American, the priest, the hookers, the artist, the judge, the Park Avenue bourgeois, the Vietnam vet, the computer nerds. I'm not sure where it left me because it left me at a completely different place than "Life of Pi". Not at some mountaintop contemplating. But dropped, breathless, awed, over-stimulated on the streets of NYC where I need to keep moving so I don't get hit by a cab. I'm not better for having read it, certainly not that type of book. But having read it, I sense something is better. Something is better.
Best of 2010
Twitter doesn't quite allow me to extrapolate on any type of "best of..." lists. 140 Characters is not enough. Not that I've got anything to say. It's just not conducive to lists. So, here's my list of best and some worst of 2010. Of note is that these elements may or may not have been made last year, it's just that last year was when I encountered them.
Best Books Read in 2010
1. Blood Meridian
2. Let The Great World Spin
3. Life of Pi
4. Everything is Illuminated
5. (tie) Harry Potter 1-7
Jayber Crow
Worst Books Read in 2010
1. The Shack
2. The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon
Best Albums of 2010
1. Mumford & Sons
2. The Trumpet Child & The Long Surrender by Over the Rhine
3. The Suburbs by Arcade Fire
4. Messenger by Joe Pug
5. In Feast or Fallow by Sandra McCracken
All totaled I think I read or attempted to read more than 40 books (42 exactly. I didn't finish 7 books and I only regret one of those). As for albums I lost track but imagine that total to be close to 40 as well as I added numerous albums based on others' top ten lists, like Mavis Staples and the Avett Brothers. Sometimes I can't even keep track.
Best Books Read in 2010
1. Blood Meridian
2. Let The Great World Spin
3. Life of Pi
4. Everything is Illuminated
5. (tie) Harry Potter 1-7
Jayber Crow
Worst Books Read in 2010
1. The Shack
2. The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon
Best Albums of 2010
1. Mumford & Sons
2. The Trumpet Child & The Long Surrender by Over the Rhine
3. The Suburbs by Arcade Fire
4. Messenger by Joe Pug
5. In Feast or Fallow by Sandra McCracken
All totaled I think I read or attempted to read more than 40 books (42 exactly. I didn't finish 7 books and I only regret one of those). As for albums I lost track but imagine that total to be close to 40 as well as I added numerous albums based on others' top ten lists, like Mavis Staples and the Avett Brothers. Sometimes I can't even keep track.
Short Neck Giraffe
Back to blogging. Back to blogspot.
The blog, the quote, all came about after digging through some G.K. Chesterton for a bible study I'm participating in. I found the quote startlingly appropriate to my life. To me as a person, husband, father, writer. It's true of all of us, in some way, I suppose. We all try to make something fit some frame. To squeeze it, shove it, shave off the edges of something to make it fit. Only when we do we find that the picture has changed completely. That what has fit is not what it once was and is thereby unfit. A giraffe with a short neck. I do this all the time.
Mostly as a writer. As I struggle with stories and ideas, trying to make them work when they're not at all what I'm trying to make them out to be.
For my son, Isaac, I worry often that people will make him out to be a short-necked giraffe. That they will try to mold him into something he is not.
What I consider to be good music or movies or books.
My view of God sometimes.
If Art is limitation. If a giraffe can only have a long neck. Maybe it's about time I figure out what the hell I've been drawing.
The blog, the quote, all came about after digging through some G.K. Chesterton for a bible study I'm participating in. I found the quote startlingly appropriate to my life. To me as a person, husband, father, writer. It's true of all of us, in some way, I suppose. We all try to make something fit some frame. To squeeze it, shove it, shave off the edges of something to make it fit. Only when we do we find that the picture has changed completely. That what has fit is not what it once was and is thereby unfit. A giraffe with a short neck. I do this all the time.
Mostly as a writer. As I struggle with stories and ideas, trying to make them work when they're not at all what I'm trying to make them out to be.
For my son, Isaac, I worry often that people will make him out to be a short-necked giraffe. That they will try to mold him into something he is not.
What I consider to be good music or movies or books.
My view of God sometimes.
If Art is limitation. If a giraffe can only have a long neck. Maybe it's about time I figure out what the hell I've been drawing.
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