the prose woes

You know what, respectability be damned, I’m just going to go ahead and say: I love commercials. Well, no, not the actual commercials; they all pretty much blow (except for that M&M’s one with the LMFAO song where the red M&M does the helicopter). What I love about commercials is how, under the right creative minds, television moments can go from good to great because of the interruption, not in despite of it.

I say this after watching the season finale of Grey’s Anatomy. Debate the quality of the show all you want, but it knows how to toy with your emotions, crescendoing the sadism right when the curtain drops for a pee break.

So last night, I was like, (highlight to read spoilers and my unattractive freakout) HOLY SHIT THEY KILLED LEXIE WHY DID THEY KILL HER SHE’S NOT DEAD IT’S TOO EARLY IN THE EPISODE FOR A CHARACTER TO DIE BUT SHE MUST BE DEAD BECAUSE YOU’D THINK DOCTORS WOULD KNOW WHEN SHE’S DEAD SHE’S NOT DEAD IS SHE?

Without a commercial break, I would never have had the time for that kind of stroke. A pause between what just happened and what would happen next left me time to accept, deny, bargain, etc. The moment sunk in, it settled, and I had to deal with all my visceral responses to it until the show came back and affirmed or denied what I’d just seen.

Now, some critics and fans might wish for premium cable-style shows where there are no breaks, no interruption of the flow. Commercial breaks aren’t just handy for highlighting huge, dramatic moments; they’re the punctuation at the end of sentences. Question marks, exclamations, ellipses. The break can be about emphasizing came before more so than it’s about what car or detergent not to buy.

The best of television writers just know what has been known in the world of theater for centuries: act breaks are useful.

If you’re still unconvinced, though, well, I have a simple uncontestable counter-argument:

Yeah, just let that soak in.

Over at the Staples website (yes, the office supply chain) there is a little reading speed test. Below are my results.

I am a college graduate. And I read slower than the average one. I cannot articulate how depressed this makes me.

I love the Internet. It’s so seemingly infinite. Without it, I’d never have been able to find an index of Rock Lord action figures or a transcript of the meetings between George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, and Lawrence Kasdan about Raiders of the Lost Ark. It also seems that without the Internet I would never have stumbled upon such a dated but no less insightful examination of Dan Brown’s writing style in The Da Vinci Code.

Written by Geoffrey Pullman in 2004 on Language Log, you’d think we, as a species, would be done finding value in something like Brown’s penultimate novel, but it turns out that it’s actually the aspiring writer’s best friend. It’s easy to say that one will never write as mediocrely as Brown, but it’s another to know what it is about his writing that is in fact so amateurish. Looking at just the first few lines of the novel, Pullman examines how important word choice is to character description, scene setting, and action.

Take for example this line:

A voice spoke, chillingly close, “Do not move.”

Pullman points out 1) a voice is what someone speaks with, and 2) the person speaking is said to be fifteen feet away, so chillingly close is inappropriate. For an eight word sentence it’s at least 25% crap.

To be fair, Pullman does acknowledge Brown’s inexperience (although he’s incorrect in assuming The Da Vinci Code is Brown’s first novel). What is inexcusable, in Pullman’s mind, is the praise by renowned authors on the book’s cover, people who should defend the art and effort of writing.

To be honest, I enjoyed The Da Vinci Code when I read it. I could easily blame my seven-years-younger self for being ignorant of better writing, but the truth is that it was simply an easy, entertaining read. Which is perhaps the one point that Pullman doesn’t touch on; Brown’s writing isn’t unreadable, and for some it isn’t unenjoyable, even if it is indefensible.

ScriptShadow has posted a list of “10 Possible Reasons Your Script is Boring”, which every would-be screenwriter should keep a copy of as a convenient and concise way to remind themselves of all the obvious things they know to avoid but tend to forget.

Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to go burn my last few months of work.

Last week I watched the British film Tyrannosaur. If you haven’t heard of it, and you probably haven’t, you should be asking yourself why, because it was one of the best films from 2011.

I think it’s fair to say, based on box office reports for example, that most people see movies based on ads or what happens to be playing at their local multiplex. They also see movies based on recommendations from Facebook and Twitter , but since most of those recommendations are likely from the same people who chose movies to see based upon the two above methodologies still means that, beyond the major releases, very few independent and lowly-promoted movies get seen. So how do you find about the movies that are as good, but more likely better, than what’s at your local AMC/Regal/Century theater?

Movie Blogs

This is where I get most of my movie news and where I most often learn about a movie that will no doubt get a small or limited release. It was on /Film that I learned about Tyrannosaur. I also regularly check out other sites like Film School Rejects, Bleeding Cool, and Deadline Hollywood for news about what’s getting made, what’s getting screened, and what I should see as suggested by like-minded cinephiles. Since the internet is near infinite is scope and opinion, you might want to hunt down a blog or site that caters to your particular affinities.

Most of the big movie sites have also made it regular habit of attending major film festivals like Sundance, the Toronto Film Festival, Tribeca, and Cannes. Movie site writers tend to be at their most enthusiastic when they’re writing about a movie no one else has seen, surprised them with its originality, and you wouldn’t know about if not for them.

Trailers

Apple Trailers and Trailer Addicts are two quick and easy ways to catch previews for upcoming releases. Apple Trailers tends to be more likely to have previews for smaller releases (check out this awful, why-the-fuck-did-this-ever-get-made trailer for Fading of the Cries), but part of the discovery process relies on one’s willingness to watch random trailer or recognize someone in the poster art to make the trailer worth watching.

Non-Oscars Award Nominations/Critics Polls

Let’s face it, even with the expansion of the Best Picture category from five to ten (nine?), the Oscars tend to nominate heavily in the direction of mid to large release American films. Great, small films sneak in, but since you didn’t see movies like Drive, Shame, or Tyrannosaur nominated, you should be instantly skeptical of how many just-as-great and overlooked films there were.

Though not as indie as it may have once been, the Independent Spirit Awards are a good start for some of the better, smaller movies of the year. The British Academy of Television and Arts is also a good place to start, because, well, British movies are mostly better than American ones right now.

Then, when you’re ready to really start hunting down those lesser-seen, lesser-known, lesser-available movies, start looking at year-end critics lists. Last year’s New Yorker list of 26 best films has only five of the best picture nominees on it (and not even the Best Picture winner, The Artist). In fact, I only recognized 12 of the films on that list and have seen barely a third of that.

It might be assumed that the New Yorker is older, stuffier, and more “artsy” than most, but the youth- and pop culturally-oriented AV Club is just as diverse and esoteric in its own list of the Top 15 films of 2011. As a bonus, you get the individual critics’ lists afterwards that are a little more mainstream, yet just as filled with hidden gems. There are is a seemingly infinite number of critics lists out there, and these are just two of some of the more well known, but once you start checking out a couple, you’ll start to realize that a year’s worth of movies is far more vast than you were aware of.

Reviews

Film critics are in the business of reviewing films, and since they are first and foremost fans of film, checking out online and print movie sections is a consistent way of staying on top of film releases. Reviewers in Los Angeles and New York will have the most wide-ranging reviews as these are both the two hubs of filmmaking and moviegoing, but also because a lot of award competitions base eligibility on a film having screened in one of those two cities. Not all critics are equal, so looking for one that shares your tastes (or doesn’t, if you feel like branching outside your comfort zone) is key to finding the movies you might never know about but will want to see.

Someday... someday.

Beyond the mind-blowing action sequences, box office record breaking, and thirtysomething-bodied/twelvesomething-minded boys catcalling Scarlett Johansson’s leather clad posterior (i.e. and actually heard, “dat ass!”) you might not have noticed the most important thing about this weekend’s release of The Avengers: Marvel Studios has revolutionized storytelling in film.

What’s funny, though, is that this “new” form of storytelling in movies is old hat for Marvel the comic book company. For decades, Marvel Comics has kept a single, sustained universe where all its characters exist and interact, and stories are dependent on what came before and affect what comes after. The comic series have undergone changes in tone, artistic style, storylines but continuity has always been maintained. Marvel Studios is taking a big risk, one not easily undone, by trying to prove this enduring form of storytelling can be done with movies too.

(Attention fanboys and nitpickers: I know there are non-canonical stories and universes by Marvel Comics. Also, I know there are retcons, forget-me-nows, and other Rohipnal-like ways in which Marvel has erased storylines from people’s memories. But there’s still one primary universe, and I still believe we will someday see Peter Parker and Mary Jane’s baby again.)

Upon establishing it’s own movie studio, Marvel established four film franchises leading up to the release of The Avengers: Iron Man, Hulk, Thor, and Captain America. While each referenced directly or indirectly the existence of one or more of the others, there was no direct interaction between the eponymous characters. To some degree, this allowed for any of the franchises to eventually be dropped from The Avengers due to failed expectations, or The Avengers itself from never coming into existence, again if the franchises themselves failed financially, critically, or both. (The Hulk was one such possibility, if you remember the speculation.) By officially uniting its four franchises under one movie, Marvel has definitively stated that the franchises exist in one universe.

Yet, The Avengers does more than just bring the main characters of several major movies together. By bringing all those characters, actors and storylines together, Marvel has established that the Marvel universe of film will never rebooted.

Of course, we are talking about movie studios here, so how can something like this be guaranteed. Well, it’s actually quite simple. Say Marvel Studios’ plans for the Avengers runs its course, and the actors who up until now who have portrayed the main characters move on due to money, boredom, or age. Unless all actors leave at the same time, no other franchises are created and integrated, and the studio is willing to allow for a period of respite before retelling origins, The Avengers prevents any one franchise from being rebooted while the others continue on by virtue of the fact that The Avengers established they all inhabit the same universe.

Essentially, The Avengers is a bold statement saying that each character is bigger than the actor who portrays him (or her, if the Black Widow is to be included). Marvel Studios President, Kevin Feige, said as much when he compared Iron Man to James Bond, an ongoing character that audiences have learned to accept through multiple actor changes. Feige even dropped what is essentially the whole point I’m trying to make:

I think the term reboot has to go.

There’s every reason to expect that Robert Downey, Jr. will eventually stop playing Iron Man or Mark Ruffalo will only play the Hulk once (though that curse might have been broken), but as The Avengers is a franchise unto itself now, it’s finally time for audiences to expect that stories and characters will continue on, despite changes in faces and style, and the only consistent thing will be continuity.

“10 Wonderful Short Stories to Read For Free Online” by Emily Temple @ FlavorWire

12 of the Greatest Movie Roles Almost Played by Jason Bailey @ FlavorWire

12 Great Small Press Books Recommended by Literary Insiders by Emily Temple @ FlavorWire

“Billy Wilder’s Tips for Writers”@ The Uncool: The Official Website for Everything Cameron Crowe

“Grit on wry: A dinner with Elmore and Peter Leonard” by Ann O’Neill @ CNN

I guess it's technically been remade already

Yesterday, when I read that screenwriters Jon Hurwitz Hayden Schlossberg (American Runion, Harold & Kumar) would like to one day, far in the future, redo Back to the Future, I knew I was seeing a prophetic foretelling of the moment when humanity would begin its descent into cannibalistic anarchy.

Now, it was all a joke, but it got me thinking about the nature of remakes. In general, I can’t really blame studios for making remakes (and they’re bedfellows, the reboot and the sequel) with their built-in economic incentives like name recognition and pre-established concepts. But Back to the Future is something sacred, like Casablanca or Raiders of the Lost Ark, and already as good as it ever could be. If you’re going to remake a movie, remake something that is flawed and in need of improvement already. Like Star Wars. (Which George Lucas essentially already has, so it’s up for grabs in my opinion.)

Yet, in Hurwitz’s albeit joking comments, there’s reasonable prediction:

… 30 years from now when Spielberg’s like 90 and those guys are kind of on their way out, and those movies just look really old because we’re watching movies that are old, literally in two dimensions or something, it would be great to have all these classics that you’re able to remake.

All movies—even ones as pitch-fucking-perfect as Back to the Future—will eventually lose their relevance with age and as those who revere them die off. At some point someone will ask why a movie like Back to the Future can’t be remade but with a new present year and a nostalgic look back thirty years for then. In some ways, Back to the Future can only take place in 1985 and 1955 (which Steven Hyden at A.V. Club argues was director Robert Zemeckis’ point when heightening the film design around very 80s and 50s iconic elements), but on the other hand, Back to the Future could end up being the most timeless story ever as future generations simply substitute in their presents and recent pasts into the story.

Whether a DeLorean sustains through all versions is debatable, but it is a time machine, so what the hell.

The point is while there is no reason to remake Back to the Future now, there will come a point in time in which my beloved version no longer holds meaning or the level of esteem it does now. Personally, I hope I’m dead at this point, or at least mentally infirm, but I know that I need to prepare myself for this eventuality in my lifetime regardless, because no film can truly exist apart from the time that it was made. It’s amazing that the story, style, and even special effects have held up as long as they have. But the day will come when Back to the Future doesn’t hold up, and you can bet a studio exec will pounce before the body is cold.

…

Seriously, though, I hope I’m dead at this point, and if I’m not, I beg someone to take me out.

There’s an assumption out there that movie theater audiences should behave a certain way as evidenced by the PSAs that come on before a movie starts telling you to turn off your phones and be quiet. Yet, the Hollywood Reporter conducted a study where they found that the majority of 18-34 year olds would like to use social media while watching a movie in a theater, which assumedly means texting, checking Facebook, and tweeting. Like Germain Lussier over at /Film, my first reaction to this was, “For fuck’s sake, turn off your phones and watch the goddamn movie!” But then I realized something: I’m a right elitist asshole for telling other people how to experience the movies.

Cinema is an inductive art form and has the power to produce the full spectrum of human emotion from an audience. Moviegoing is also as a much a personal experience as it is a social one. Personally, I love watching movies in the company of a full theater and feeding off the energy that a good film can illicit. Contrarily, people talking or playing on their phones cheats my experience and desperately makes me want to choke a bitch.

Yet, I’ve learned my personal preference in moviegoing is not the same as another person’s. While at college in St. Louis, the nearest multiplex catered to a predominately black crowd and oftentimes movies were accompanied by members of the audience talking to the screen. I’m not trying to stereotype here, but this was how the audiences at this particular theater enjoyed their films. It wasn’t how typically wanted to see a film, but when I did go to there, it was always packed despite its reputation.

That’s why a theater chain like the Alamo Drafthouses in Austin are such moviegoing meccas. Their policy has long been silence and respectfulness during film screenings and any action to the contrary can result in expulsion and banishment from the theater. For people like me, this is great. For others, not so much:

I’ve come to realize, though, that a theater like the Alamo doesn’t restore a natural order to the moviegoing experience. Instead it was created by and for people like me who want to enjoy movies a certain way. (Although, to be honest, I even get a little annoyed by the waiters.) Theaters like the one in St. Louis are for those who want another type of experience, one where audiences are allowed to express themselves more openly. And for those who want to text and social network with a big screen in front of them? I’d rather there were theaters for them too than saying they have no place at any.

People are becoming increasingly comfortable staying at home for their movie experiences. Those who venture out to the theaters should maximize their experiences however they wish in places that allow them to do so. (There might just be a theater that allows this in the future.) As long as movies are still for everyone, then theaters shouldn’t be for just one type of crowd.

(I want to preface this post—perhaps an ironic thing to do—to say that I respect and revere director Andrew Stanton and writer Michael Chabon. I really hate being the kind of moviegoer who thinks he knows how to make a better film. All I want to do with this post is dissect a particular storytelling choice, and through my own reasoning, explain why I disagree with it. If I come off as an irate or snooty fanboy, then understand it’s because I failed to explain myself otherwise.)

John Carter is not a perfect film. What it is, though, is an attempt to passionately and energetically adapt Edger Rice Burrough’s novel by honest fans of the Barsoom series. Yet, in the course of bringing any passion project to the screen, compromises and decisions might be made that otherwise would be avoided by those not so close to the source material. Whatever the reason behind its inclusion, the prologue in John Carter prevents audiences from experiencing the fantastical Barsoom the way I have no doubt the creators wanted it to be.

Before we even meet John Carter, the prologue introduces us to Mars. The cities of Helium and Zondanga have been waging war for millennia. For an unknown purpose, powerful beings known as Therns decide to align themselves with the Zodangans by giving the power of the Ninth Ray, a blue energy capable of incomprehensible power hereto unknown on Mars, to its leader Sab Than. The tide of war is about to change against Helium.

The film then cuts to late 19^th century Earth as John Carter begins his tale.

There’s every reason to believe that if an audience member saw an ad for John Carter then they already knew that the main character would end up on Mars. Yet, let’s assume that all one knew was the title, John Carter, before seeing the movie; is the prologue then the best way to start this story?

First and foremost, the main result of the prologue is to tell the audience that Mars is not a dead planet after all and it is where the main story will take place. John Carter hasn’t shown up yet, but we know where he’ll end up. We meet the people of Zodanga and Helium, who are essentially humans but with reddish skin, their flying ships, the Ninth Ray, and the Therns with their ability to materialize out of thin air.

The prologue also tells us who the film’s antagonists are. At first, all we see are two similar air ships attacking each other and Red Men fighting. Then the Therns show up, obliterate the Helium soldiers, and bestow their power upon Sab Than. The callous nature of the killing along with Sab Than’s apparent greed for power sets up long before Carter arrives on Mars who he will be fighting.

In addition to what the prologue provides the audience, it takes away something too: mystery. Because of the prologue, Carter and the audience are not on even ground when it comes to the narrative. We know Carter is going to Mars before he does. We know who the enemy will be and which side Carter will fight for. We also know that he is on Mars long before he, Dejah, and the rest of characters figure it out. While not all is given away by the prologue, the prologue makes us observers of Carter’s journey and not his companions. For a significant part of the movie, we’re watching him learn what we already know.

Now, imagine what the movie would have been like without the prologue. We would have begun with Carter summoning his nephew, Ned, who arrives to find his uncle having just died. As Ned begins to read the journal he was bequeathed, we jump back thirteen years to see Carter excavating for gold and discovering a mysterious cave. Suddenly a pale, robed man appears out of thin air, and the next thing we know Carter’s transported somewhere new. From this point on, we’re experiencing Barsoom as Carter does. We don’t know where he is, but we learn, like him, that it’s not Earth. Without the prologue, we’re allowed to experience Barsoom with the same confusion and wonder as Carter does and never knowing for sure what’s to come.

Stanton said that he changed the movie’s title from John Carter of Mars to just John Carter to make the movie more accessible. It’s reasonable to assume that the same reasoning was behind the prologue. Without the prologue, it’s a good ten minutes before Carter arrives on Mars, and the audience would be just as caught off guard as Carter when he’s suddenly and inexplicably there. Yet, that’s what would make Carter’s journey all the more exciting for us: we would be on it with him. There’s a legitimate storytelling choice to giving the audience foreknowledge versus leaving them in the dark, but just as John Carter of Earth becomes John Carter of Mars, by allowing us follow him rather than watch him catch up, we too would end up wanting to stay on the red planet.