Casablanca

Roger Ebert says he's never read a negative review of Casablanca, and that he really never hears anything disparaging about this film, and that even people who don't like movies, who don't like old movies, who don't watch movies...they like Casablanca.

I like movies. I like old movies, new movies, middle-aged movies, independent movies, studio movies, summer blockbuster movies, classic movies, all sorts of movies.

I've seen Casablanca four times. Here's what happened:

1.) Watched Casablanca on television circa 1990. Bored me to tears. So much talking, nothing happening. Gave up halfway through and changed the channel. I was 15 years old. My tastes have changed somewhat.

2.) Rented Casablanca from the Muncie Public Library circa 1995. Bored me to tears. So much talking, not much happening. Didn't care about any of the characters, but I did finish the film. I was 20. My tastes have changed somewhat.

3.) Bought a used copy of Casablanca on DVD — the one shown above — and watched with the soon-to-be-wife, circa 2008. Boring. Talky McTalkerton. However, Bogart's expression toward the end when he thinks Captain Renault is going to turn him in is a thing of beauty, a real suspenseful moment. Peter Lorre is excellent and slimy. But yeah, I was still bored. I was 33. My tastes have not changed all that much.

4.) Watched same copy of Casablanca by myself, here at home, with an upconverting DVD player connected over HDMI and a 37" HDTV. Saw some things. Saw lots of things, actually. Still, though, I find the whole enterprise a little boring. The script is extremely well written — works almost like a clinic for screenwriters. Every detail in the early going pays off later, and that I can appreciate. This is a great piece of writing. Without that script, this film is a piece of shit.

Lots of people loved Casablanca the first time. Lots of people hold this film up as the gold standard for filmmaking. This is #2 on the AFI 100. So why do I get bored? Theories:

1.) I am spoiled by modern Hollywood, and therefore a philistine. Maybe I need more explosions or fart jokes or fart explosions? Maybe I need more gunfighting or a car chase or...something. The plot seems razor thin to me. I'm not saying it is. I just don't find it all that...surprising? Maybe? I can't figure everything out right now.

2.) Bogart is not very interesting or good looking. Also he spits when he talks, and Billy Wilder had to light him accordingly. Put the light in the wrong spot, and you're looking at a shining spit-spray. I wonder if Michael Curtiz had the same issues. Bogey doesn't swallow and he smokes a lot and I bet his breath is terrible. And when he pounds his fist on the table in rage and sadness, that moment just rings so hollow to me. However, he does rock the stick-my-neck-out-for-nobody-ness.

3.) Peter Lorre and Claude Rains are not in this film enough.

4.) Sam isn't really playing the piano, and I can't help but look at his hands.

5.) You really, really have to be listening to the dialogue. Stop paying attention for even a line or two and you lose the map. The film is best when you hang on every word. As I get older, I get better at this. I'm sure young people can hang with this film, but I've always had trouble.

I KNOW THIS FILM IS GOOD.

This is a critically bulletproof film. Everything I've said above is in no way a negative review. I own this film, like a lot of others, for the day that I'm ready. I'm almost there. Sometimes even beautiful friendships start a little rocky.

Carnival of Souls (1962)

Last night, I finally sat down and watched Herk Harvey's director's cut of Carnival of Souls, his cult classic, creepy flick. I'd tried a time or two to get through it, but the time wasn't right.

A while back, I found the Criterion Collection DVD at my local Half Price Books. I'd never seen the film, but upon seeing the Criterion lettering down the spine, I wasn't able to leave it alone. (I have no problem blind-buying Criterion DVDs.). The cashier said he'd been eyeing it for some time, so he was glad I'd snapped it up. Saved him some money that way.

Carnival of Souls has a simple premise: A young woman and two of her friends drive off a bridge and crash their car into a river, and when she surfaces three hours later, strange things (and people) start to appear in her life. Here's the girl:

And here's the weird dude who follows her around:

The concept is cool. The effects aren't terrible. The score is downright creepy. There's a lot to like here.

Yeah, this one is rough around the edges. The dialogue and sound effects are badly looped, which is distracting. The actors aren't professionals, and their weaknesses can be glaring. As for Harvey's direction and shooting style, it's just a few degrees north of amateurish.

Despite all the flaws, though, Carnival of Souls was well worth the blind buy.

As for Criterion's set, you get the original cut of the film and Harvey's director's cut (5 additional minutes). The set is chock full of documentaries and other goodies, including a look at the films from Centron Corporation, which was an industrial film company where Harvey worked for many years. Carnival of Souls is Herk Harvey's only real, full-length narrative film.

Took me a long time to get to this one. It's not as if the film is lengthy and requires an entire afternoon, or as if it's incredibly complex or depressing or any of the usual reasons that take me forever to watch something. Sometimes, it's just easy to get away from watching movies, or just hard to sit down with something and devote full attention. Gotta try to do better.

The Captain's Paradise

The Captain's Paradise is a lesser known British film starring Sir Alec Guinness, who plays a ship captain in love with two women who live across the sea from each other.

The film opens with Guinness facing a firing squad, and urging them to "Get on with it." We soon learn that he was executed not long after failing to find the key to "happiness." He had traveled the world, from Persia to Australia, but never found it. Or did he?

Sounds depressing, but the film is a great one for a Sunday morning. It's a talky, character-driven film with manic music that seems a little anachronistic for the story at first, but maybe there's more to it than that. The captain himself appears to be in a manic search for what makes him happy. Even when he seems put together and seems buttoned down and stately, there's a lot going on under that.

I can see why this film isn't that well known in the states -- there's a lot of Spanish and Arabic that isn't subtitled. Guinness' character spends quite a bit of time teaching people English, correcting his cab driver's language, his girlfriend's, etc. It's as if he's trying to make the world his own, shaping those with whom he comes in contact — but only certain people. He has to scold his crew entirely in Spanish. Certain things are beyond his control. Most things are beyond his control, actually.

When the captain is untethered by the constraints of job and life, it is when his ship is moored. He can travel, stay in hotels, drink, and womanize. Well, that's when he's away from home. He's got a lover in North Africa, and when he goes to see her, he whistles for her upon entering her apartment, gives her flowers, and celebrates two years with her.

When he returns home to his wife (I figure it was a bit of a shock to audiences that he had a wife all along), we learn that he has a truly ordinary life — sensible, practical, and not the standard definition of "romantic." But the scene of his returning home is striking in its similarity to when he visits his lover. He enters, whistles for his wife, gives her a vacuum cleaner, and celebrates three years with her.

Guinness' character has found the perfect scheme -- two women who, together, fulfill all of his needs, from the practical to the romantic. But they must never meet.

Then the scheme starts to unravel.

I'm a big fan of Sir Alec. Unfortunately, he was frequently bothered late in his life because Star Wars fans, fond of his Obi-Wan Kenobi, forever pestered him and disregarded the rest of his career. I'm sort of glad that I got out of that phase and started appreciating his earlier work.

Caddyshack

I've written before about the guy in my high school who recommended a list of classic comedies. Caddyshack was on that list. As such, I've probably seen this film 50 times, and I still catch new things.

Chevy Chase owns this film. So many great lines. "I feel like a hundred dollars." "Don't sell yourself short, Judge. You're a tremendous slouch."

But Ted Knight is, in fact, no slouch. "Are you my pal?" "How about a Fresca?" The poem he recites at the christening of his sloop...my god. Mmm? Mmm? I wonder which one I quote more: Chevy Chase or Ted Knight? Close race.

Rodney Dangerfield: "Somebody step on a duck?" "What's this, Hell's Angels?" "Called me a baboon! Thinks I'm his wife!"

By the way, Bill Murray is in this film too. "Great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts."

My wife won't watch this film with me for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that she hates golf. I don't play, luckily. Still, she's not joining me for this viewing, and is working on a sewing project in the other room. So I've invited my boss over. A film like this requires company.

So here we are, with gin and tonics, chips and salsa, and the occasional pretzel, laughing like a couple of dorks on a Saturday afternoon, forgetting about work for a while and hanging on nearly every word uttered by Ted Knight or Chevy Chase. Maybe that's because we're both a couple of smartasses.

We're sitting here, and we can't understand half the stuff they're saying in the film, so I keep having to rewind and turn on the subtitles. Finally, we've just decided to watch the rest of the film with subtitles, laughing at the stuff that isn't in them. The "Big Bob Marley joint"? Not in the subtitles. "Stoned to the bejeezus?" Nope. Various racist remarks? Nothing. The subs are some of the worst I've ever seen.

In one moment, a Baby Ruth candy bar works as a sight gag for a turd. In another moment, we get a reference to Jean Paul-Sartre. A few moments later, Spaulding is picking his nose and eating it. A dancing gopher. Weird sight gags. Social commentary. Billy baroo. The 1812 Overture?

From the other room, I can hear my wife sewing and running her serger, and for some reason her activity sounds all the more frustrated. Two grown men, downstairs on a Saturday afternoon, drinking and watching Caddyshack. I'm sorry, honey.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid

William Goldman may be a blowhard. He may write too many cutesy one-liners (and entire scenes), too many reversals, and the occasional exchange of dialogue that makes no sense whatsoever and has nothing to do with the plot.

He may, some years later, turn around and write a book called Adventures in the Screen Trade: A Personal View of Hollywood and Screenwriting, and then, some more years later, write another book called Which Lie Did I Tell? More Adventures in the Screen Trade. Both books are full of equal parts bullshit and wisdom from experience. This guy might be the greatest screenwriter who ever lived. Go look. I'll wait.

(Actually, Goldman himself points to Ernest Lehman, whose resume is admittedly much more impressive.)

Both of Goldman's books are required reading for aspiring screenwriters, or really anyone who has the big, irrational dream of "making it someday." I'm not sure I have that dream anymore, or if I ever really felt that way. Reading Goldman's books did more to confirm why I didn't want to go west than underscore anything I wanted. I learned more about screenwriting (and Hollywood in general) from Bill Goldman's books than virtually anyone or anything I read before or since. His books helped me realize that writing a blockbuster or learning "the Hollywood way" wasn't really what I wanted. I guess I wanted to write something different. And if I never make a dime, at least I never wrote a critical disaster or a punchline to a film snob's joke. I could've made a conscious effort to write formula, to write pabulum. But I just don't want to do that.

Goldman includes the entire screenplay for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in Adventures of the Screen Trade, and then he spends 20 pages on the strengths and weaknesses of the screenplay, uses examples, and generally rips himself apart and pats himself on the back at the same time. Still, at no point do I feel like he's self-aggrandizing.

This DVD is like film school, which is interesting because I was watching this film a lot when I was in film school. Having a piece of that is nice. Two commentary tracks — one with director George Roy Hill, cinematographer Conrad Hall, and a few others. The second commentary track is William Goldman talking about the film. Much of what Goldman says is in his book(s), sometimes word for word, but watching the commentary track is a good way to get the distilled version of Goldman's reflections.

Goldman was a teacher before he wrote this film. He immersed himself in his job and wanted to be the best teacher his students ever had. One day he looked up and realized three years had passed since the last piece of fiction he wrote. I hear that and think, man, I've been teaching for ten years, off and on, and in that time I've written exactly two screenplays, plus some scattered shorts, sketches, and pieces of fiction. Should I feel bad at my lack of output? Should I be upset that my teaching job takes up so much of my time? Because some days I do feel bad, upset.

But most days I don't. Most days I just feel like I'm living a life of quiet desperation, and I'm not dead yet.

Burn After Reading

When we went to the theater to see Burn After Reading, we were warned at the ticket counter: "The projector bulb is burning out, so the movie might be a little dark, but you'll still be able to see it."

Yeah, if they tell you as much, don't believe them.

We sat down and the film started. Immediately, I noticed the right side of the screen was darker than the left. A few minutes in, my eyes started to hurt — straining to make out what was on the right. Fifteen minutes in, we gave up and walked out. We got tickets to see a later show, which turned out to be some other movie neither of us remembers. I was really disappointed.

A few months later, we rented the film and watched with the in-laws. We were not expecting the dildo chair or The Liberator Ramp. However, the in-laws are not the uptight sort, and neither are we.

I wasn't sure how much I liked the film, but I knew the Coens deserved another shot. I picked up the DVD a few months later when the price was right. Watching again, I started to enjoy the film a bit more, but I'll admit this isn't the first Coen brothers film I'll reach for — in fact this is one of the weaker Coen efforts overall.

That doesn't mean the film stinks; the film is actually quite good as a dark spoof of spy films and a comment on the weird combination of post-Cold War, aimless paranoia and plastic obsession of modern America. Burn After Reading is an informed, merciless funhouse mirror that I enjoy a little more each time. We need a film like this to help dilute the sea of overhyped blockbusters. That alone sells me.

Bullitt

Everybody talks about the car chase.

When I started teaching screenwriting, I had a couple of mentors. One pointed me to the famous car chase in Bullitt and described it as the "perfect 3-act structure." He was right. We have an introduction of the characters, then a slow build, then a commitment, then escalation, then further commitment, then even more escalation, and then a climax and resolution. Plus 6 hubcaps fly off the same car!

Set in an alternate universe in which 1968 San Francisco contained no hippies, Bullitt might be Steve McQueen's finest hour. I've since shown the film to my classes, and each time, the chase still works as a tool for teaching 3-act structure, as well as showing how one can tell a story in short form without the rest of the film, and without regard for hubcap counting.

Over the years, I've probably watched that chase 30 times, which is certainly enough for anyone, but I enjoy the sequence every time. The Foley work is extraordinary. Those cars roar in a way that no modern film has captured. Bullitt makes me want to take my Civic out for a drive. My Civic is my Mustang.

McQueen (Beech Grove, Indiana's own, by the way), had a string of films between 1960 and 1980 that stand as some of the best, most realistic thrillers of all time. I've not seen all of them, but I did go on a McQueen binge a few years ago, which got me through The Great Escape, The Hunter, The Getaway, Junior Bonner, and The Cincinnati Kid. I still need to see the rest of his films, including The Sand Pebbles and Papillon.

Sure, the effects in Bullitt look dated. There are jump cuts, and sharp-eyed viewers will spot the same green VW Beetle several times. Oh, and did I mention the Charger loses like 40 hubcaps?

Despite the warts, though, the chase still works. I can't remember the plot (who can?) but I remember that chase. Everyone remembers that chase.

McQueen's birthday is next week. He would've been 80. If he were still with us, I'm sure he'd still be driving some great muscle car like a bat out of hell, and he'd be cooler than anyone around.

Bull Durham

[Note: Tonight's showing of Bull Durham features a special guest: my colleague Heath, who brought over a six pack of Miller High Life, The Champagne of Beers, which players consumed several times during the film. Thus, this sixer will not survive the evening.]

I was 13 years old when I heard of Ebby Calvin "Nuke" LaLoosh. But this isn't really about him.

Like a lot of adolescent males, I wanted to play professional baseball. When I figured out I couldn't hit, I decided to learn how to pitch. Problem: No coach. Problem Also: No catcher.

So I spent hours outside, alone, almost year-round, throwing a ball against a dog kennel made of cinder blocks. If I threw the ball hard enough and hit the wall square-on, I'd get the bounce-back. Rain? Didn't care. Snow? Didn't care. Drought of 1988 bringing inferno-like temperatures? Didn't care.

Two young maple trees, maybe 12 inches around, stood in front of the dog kennel wall. The tree on the right was roughly where a right-handed batter would stand, while the other tree was just out of the way. I used the one on the right as a kind of reference, and luckily the one on the left was far enough away so as not to be a factor.

I used to hit the fuck out of those trees.

I've only been clocked once, at some county fair. My non-warmed up arm threw a fastball clocked at a scorching 52 mph. I never learned how to throw a proper curveball, but for some reason I figured out a screwball, changeup, split-finger, knuckle, and the occasional eephus.

So when I wasn't hitting the bark off the trees, I was trying really hard to become the next...I don't know. Four cinder blocks were my strike zone. Sometimes I threw a strike. Sometimes I threw the ball completely over the building. One time, I reared back and threw the ball so hard, I found the thing in the front yard.

(Once, in a fit of frustration, I threw the ball over the kennel, over the house, over the front yard, and into the cornfield across the road. This is roughly a 300 foot throw on the fly. I never saw that ball again.)

Baseball movies were the next best thing to getting to hang out with a team, which no kid gets to do. Bull Durham, Major League, The Natural, Field of Dreams, Eight Men Out, Major League II, and a little-known made-for-TV movie called Long Gone were like church to me. (Long Gone never came to DVD, sadly, and VHS copies are harder and harder to come by. A guy can get a VHS copy on eBay for about $18. Screw that. If somebody knows of a good torrent out there, I'm interested.)

I pitched in exactly two games. The first game, I came in during a blowout and struck a guy out, then got a fly ball out to end the inning. Somebody else pitched the next inning. The second time I pitched, I started a game, and I've not experienced more humiliating moments. Walks, line drive hits, beaned batsmen, wild pitches...I don't know what happened, but you would've thought I'd never thrown a pitch in my life. I don't really feel like writing about that right now. I own other baseball movies. That shit'll come back.

Bull Durham is one of those films that reminds me of when I used to have dreams bigger than myself — dreams that were always out of reach, but I didn't know that at the time. I miss that innocence.

Mostly, though, I miss the sound a baseball makes against a cinder block wall.



p.s. The sixer is gone.

Bubba Ho-Tep

Ten years ago, I worked at a Borders in downtown Chicago for several months. I was an "Assistant Community Relations Coordinator," which meant I helped promote in-store events like book signings and performances. That meant I got to meet a lot of famous people, so I got some good stories out of the deal.

I met the late Sydney Sheldon. During a book signing for The Sky Is Falling, a fan asked him, "Where do you come up with such great stories?" He said, "Well, first I think of a character, and then I tell my writers, and they do the rest!"

Sheldon's handlers went sort of white. The fan seemed confused and crestfallen. I couldn't really say or do anything. I just handed Sheldon another book to sign.

I met Ted Nugent as well, and bought four copies of his book (at discount) so he'd sign them for friends and relatives. I had them mailed out, and a few days later I started getting these surprised phone calls and e-mails from people. That was a trip.

The Nuge...well, in person he was exactly who he is all the time. Loud, funny, and the largest personality in the room. I don't agree with anything he says, but he was a fascinating, hilarious dude who was so gracious. I took my nametag off at one point, but he remembered my name anyway. He put my boss and I on the list for his show at The House of Blues that night. Oh, and he signed my Damn Yankees CD and gave me a guitar pick emblazoned with a raised middle finger, like this one. He's a class act, unless you get him talking about politics.

I also met Stephen J. Cannell, the guy who created "The A-Team" and a bunch of other great shows. During a lull in the signing of his book, The Tin Collectors, he asked me where I was from, and I told him Indiana, but I'd just finished my master's in Ohio. He asked about my degree, so I told him I'd studied screenwriting. He seemed surprised, and took a real shine to me. We chatted off and on during the signing, and then he asked if I'd hang out for a while and talk writing as he was packing up.

So, for about 30 minutes after his book signing, Stephen J. Cannell and I hung out in the green room and talked about screenwriting. Most of the time, Cannell did the talking, but I didn't care. I learned more about screenwriting in 30 minutes of talking to Cannell than in an entire year of graduate study. As we were saying goodbye, Cannell looked at me and said, "Well, if you're ever out in Hollywood..."

He trailed off and seemed to change his line of thinking. Then:

"Best of luck to you!"

I'm not sure what he was about to say. I like to think he was about to invite me to work for him, but I'll never know. I'd also like to think that he'll read this, remember the conversation, and drop me an e-mail inviting me to L.A. to work for him. Hey, my blog, my fantasies.

In short, Chicago chewed me up and spat me out. I was always broke. I developed a nasty case of acid reflux disease and was drinking a bottle of Gaviscon a week, and my digestive system is forever fucked. After several months of this shit, in the summer of 2001, I realized that I would be just as broke whether I went to work or not. So I stopped going to work. I quit without notice. A few weeks later, I was packing to leave Chicago.

But before I left, I got wind that Bruce Campbell was doing a book signing of his new memoir, If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor at my former place of employment. Because I quit without notice and disappointed some people, I hadn't been back to the store since I left, but when I heard about Bruce Campbell, I had to go back.

My then-girlfriend and I went that day, where we found no fewer than 2,000 people waiting to meet Bruce. At the time, this was by far the most successful in-store event since the store opened. One of my former co-workers came over and gave me a hug, and then she messed my hair a little — complimenting my haircut or something. My then-girlfriend got all pissed off and jealous, and that led to yet another of our stupid fights, and that eventually led to a mercy breakup a few months later. I digress.

If I hadn't quit Borders, I might've been able to meet Bruce Campbell. However, on the day, I was just another one of the thousands of people who showed up, and I knew I wouldn't get to meet him. We just listened to the Q & A and left.

I didn't make enough money to really survive Chicago, but I worked with a lot of great people, most of whom I've found on Facebook or elsewhere. I met quite a few celebrities and some great co-workers.

But I never met Bruce Campbell.

The Brothers McMullen

Edward Burns used to be my favorite director. Funny, that.

I was 21 when I started admitting that I wanted to write scripts, and Edward Burns was the first director with whom I really identified. His films were preoccupied with romance from a male perspective and all the insecurities and questions that ride along. At 21, that was pretty much all I thought about all day, every day.

As such, Burns seemed more "grown up" than his contemporaries — say, Kevin Smith or Quentin Tarantino, who were too busy dropping F-bombs, telling dick jokes, cutting off ears, and shooting people in the face. That's not to say those two guys didn't raise good questions or explore interesting characters, but mostly I just saw films like Clerks and Pulp Fiction as great entertainment or whatever, and not really the kinds of films I wanted to write. Burns made films about people who could be right next door (well, if I lived in New York), and I thought those people were fascinating.

Burns' first three films — his "Long Island Trilogy" — were everything I wanted to do even then: quiet, simple character pieces that were both honest and rough around the edges. My favorite of the three is the one I haven't mentioned yet: No Looking Back, which I don't own on DVD. That one's been out of print for years, and though I can rationalize paying out the nose for other movies, for some reason I could never pull the trigger on this one. (Edit: I'm on eBay right now, bidding on a copy.)

I remember going to Borders and finding the published versions of Burns' first three scripts. They were the first scripts I read. My first screenplay is, at least in part, painfully derivative of Edward Burns, except without all the Irish Catholic preoccupations.

I figured a little film would be the best way for me to get something done. I still feel that way, though the indie film landscape has changed so much, I've probably missed the window. With no money, anything I do now would have to be HD, using school equipment, and edited on my Mac. That's more than what Burns had to work with, so I have no excuse.

I'd never even heard of The Brothers McMullen until after I saw She's the One in the theater, which I would've missed completely if not for the excellent soundtrack by Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers. Burns made The Brothers McMullen on a shoestring budget of about $25,000 according to his commentary track.

Burns shot on 16mm, didn't pay the actors or crew, shot when he had days off from working at "Entertainment Tonight," and somehow got this thing in the can in an 8 month period. Besides Burns, the only actor you'll recognize is Connie Britton, making her debut here. She went on to a pretty successful film and television career, most notably "Friday Night Lights," a favorite here at Chez John.

Burns' commentary track is inspiring. He tells about how the film was shot in his childhood home on Long Island, using available light (mostly), and points out continuity errors that I'm not even noticing. They had no permits, no product placement, and did stuff like use actual dinner leftovers as prop dinner leftovers. He had incredibly thorough shot lists, which he used to conserve film stock. He cast himself in the lead role and his girlfriend in the supporting role, because he knew he and his girlfriend would show up for no money. He used his dad's car. He did everything he could to make this film for as little money as possible because he really wanted to make this film; he had this singular vision and was willing to go all guerrilla and get this done. All told, this film was shot in about 8 days, spread out over 8 months.

I think somewhere along the way, I forgot about the passion, the singular vision. I used to be convinced that I could do something like this. All I had to do was get everything together. I don't know what happened. I lost the map, took my eye off the ball, and other applicable cliches. I'm still convinced. I just need a film like this to remind me of the possibilities and kick me in the ass every now and then.

Anyway, I was about 21 when I saw The Brothers McMullen on VHS. I'm not sure what I was expecting. What I got was a cheap looking, poorly lit, sometimes out of focus, craptastic sounding, great little character piece that made me want to make movies.

I still like this film, rough as it is, because, well, if this film could win the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance, then hell, my friends and I could do that, right? We never did.





But I'm not dead yet.

Broken Flowers

I blind-bought Broken Flowers because I didn't feel like waiting forever for the new release. I watched the film once. That was four years ago.

The trouble with 500 DVDs is gems like this one disappear into the stacks, even though they're right here. I could've put this on at any time.

Since buying this film, I've moved three times, meaning I've packed this film and the rest of my DVD collection into boxes or totes and carted them across Indiana on three occasions. As much as I'm attached to my physical media and enamored of these shiny discs, maybe Tyler Durden had it right: "The things you own end up owning you."

That doesn't mean I'm going through some crisis that will only end with me purging worldly possessions. This isn't a Buddhist awakening. Actually there's a sense of security in having a physical, digital copy within reach. They'll wait.

Thing is, Broken Flowers isn't the kind of film you reach for to re-watch, like a Caddyshack or Ghostbusters, but it's exactly the kind of film you need to re-watch for the nuances. There aren't that many laugh-out-loud moments, if any. This is a Jim Jarmusch film; he doesn't do comedy. He makes these little, existential films that don't tell a story so much as meditate. A Jim Jarmusch film takes time, and the time must be right.

I'm not fussed that I took four years to see Broken Flowers again. Jarmusch films look simple, sound simple, and they're not. They take effort. They explore characters. They're imbued with this fine taste in music — jazz, rockabilly, grunge, punk, whatever Tom Waits is, etc. They make you earn your understanding. Maybe I needed a project like this to come along, so I'd force myself to process Broken Flowers again. I'd almost forgotten about this film.

Seeing Bill Murray as the aging Don Juan, I defy most men of a certain ilk to watch this and not see an alternate version of themselves in the far-flung future, wearing track suits, living alone, in sort of an empty life, and maybe being okay with that, or maybe just settling for being okay with that because...well what else is there?

Until something jars us loose, forces us to contemplate, takes us out of our comfy little self-involved existences, we just have our habits to keep us company. I've lived alone before and been alone before; I didn't like that. I filled my life with stuff, and that made the days interesting (albeit shallow), but when the house got dark at night, the stuff didn't matter. The walls seemed to talk, and I never liked what I heard.

Murray's character takes a road trip across the country to revisit old flames because he receives an anonymous letter telling him about a 19-year-old son he has never known. With no idea who sent the letter, he seeks out a series of former lovers, all of whom receive him differently. So this is sort of like High Fidelity but with different motivations and results, and like Elizabethtown, but with fewer fake, precious moments and less Bono.

I have a weakness for these little, quiet films. I want to write stuff like this. I'm drawn to films with long, meditative shots, slow dissolves, hard cuts, good music, and simple, human stories...and no pyrotechnics.

I just want to walk away from a film better than when I started. I want to have my own arc, but...maybe not a resolution just yet. Not a clean one, anyway. Leave something raw, unresolved, cracked, and let the audience handle the rest.

...

p.s. When Don visits the "Animal Communicator," he passes a man with a rabbit. The man is soothing the rabbit, saying, "It takes a lot of courage to say what you said." In 2006, when I bought this film, we didn't have Rufus (see profile pic), but now I can't see a house without him. He has crap for courage though.

The Bridge On The River Kwai

I can't get the whistling out of my head.

I went through a David Lean phase a few years ago, picking up this, Dr. Zhivago, and Lawrence of Arabia. In short order, Lean became one of my favorite directors. His films breathe. He doesn't rush to fit some false, studio imposed two-hour time frame. He doesn't blow stuff up all the time — but when he does, the earth trembles.

The Bridge On The River Kwai is Sir Alec Guinness' finest hour (though as a child of the '70s, I can't help but hear Obi-Wan every time he talks, which I'm sure has Guinness spinning in his grave). William Holden is no slouch here, either, and let's not forget Sessue Hayakawa was nominated for Best Supporting Actor for his role as Colonel Saito, the prison camp commandant.

This film won seven Academy Awards in 1957: Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor, Best Writing (Adapted), Best Music, Best Film Editing, and Best Cinematography.

In light of another war film, The Hurt Locker, winning the 2009 Academy Award for Best Picture, Best Original Screenplay, Best Director, Best Editing, Best Sound Mixing, and Best Sound Editing, I can't help but draw comparisons.

The Hurt Locker depicts war as "a drug" and a main character who leaves his family behind because he loves his job more than his family. Duty? No. Adrenaline addiction. Look at what modern warfare has done to this Ranger. Sure, this film has an undercurrent of duty and pride, but that's all buried under the "adrenaline junkie" angle, which oversimplifies the character.

The Bridge On The River Kwai, set in 1943, is about duty, honor, principles, and pride, and the downfall of British Colonel Nicholson who, while serving time in a prisoner of war camp with his soldiers, is forced to build a bridge across the river Kwai. Nicholson makes his enlisted men build a "proper" bridge for the Japanese, even though this will give an obvious advantage to the enemy. Nicholson pays the price for his pride and insistence on principles, and he doesn't realize his folly until he dies. Fortunately, as he expires, he falls on the detonator, which is wired to blow up the bridge. Though this, Nicholson finally achieves atonement. Too little, too late? Maybe.

In a straight-up comparison, The Bridge On The River Kwai contains the more thorough exploration of characters, from William Holden's Navy Commander Shears to Sessue Hayakawa's Colonel Saito, the sadistic Japanese camp commandant who, underneath, worries that the bridge project will not meet deadline and he will be forced to commit suicide. The Hurt Locker tries to explore characters thoroughly, but seems to fall short in a side-by-side comparison.

Whereas Kwai gets to breathe — all three main characters get fully developed arcs and resolutions, and Lean lets the film run nearly 3 hours — The Hurt Locker seems stifled and cut up — a little underdone. The only character who gets a full arc and resolution is Jeremy Renner's character, SFC James, and when I say "full arc," I'm forced to use that term generously. The film ends so loosely and abruptly, with little dramatic flourish, that I'm left wondering too many things about what happened to the other characters.

A few big name actors make cameos in The Hurt Locker, but their characters are snuffed out a few moments later in each scene, which gets a little predictable. I'm not a huge fan of this casting technique, with one exception: Steven Seagal in Executive Decision. I can play that over and over.

I liked The Hurt Locker, but is this the best war film ever made? Not even close. Best film about Iraq? Meh. If anything, The Hurt Locker owes its popularity in part to the complicity/ignorance of the audience, who fail to call bullshit because most of the stuff in The Hurt Locker would never happen. The common response to this angle is "this is a movie, not a documentary." Well allow me to retort in advance — with Kwai, I'm never doubtful, even though plenty of scenes in Lean's film are total bullshit.

After 53 years, of course The Bridge On The River Kwai shows some age, bad acting, and underwhelming effects, but perhaps this film will get the full-on Blu-Ray treatment soon — a better transfer would address a lot of my complaints: jerky dissolves, telecine shake, etc. Until then, I can live with the flaws in Kwai, but I wonder how the flaws in The Hurt Locker will look in half a century.

Brick

I should find Brick offensive. I should be annoyed at the gimmick of a film noir set in a high school. I should find the whole thing contrived. I don't.

Much has been written about Brick, calling it everything from an homage to film noir to a parody of high school melodrama and all things emo. Indeed, Brick feels written from the outside looking in, like someone unpopular, uninformed, and uninvited watched too many movies and used them as a reference to fill in what he/she did not know about what popular people keep secret.

I remember many Mondays in high school, when I'd hear vague references to what happened or who did what with whom over the weekend at so-and-so's house (I wasn't invited). I grew up in a very protective, overbearing household, and we didn't have much money. I wasn't nearly cool enough to run with the cool people. Most weekends, I wasn't allowed to go anywhere, so invitations wouldn't have mattered. Much of that changed during my sophomore year, when I sat down next to a guy I knew named Josh in geometry class, and we soon found a kinship, a mutual appreciation of comedy, and we spent the rest of high school making each other laugh.

Josh's family is well off, and his dad is a car collector of sorts. On nice days, Josh would pick me up in a Ferrari or an Acura NSX or a Jensen Interceptor and we'd drive around Muncie. I thought I was hot shit for a time, riding around Muncie in some bitchen car, rednecks craning their, well, red necks to see who was in the kickass vehicle running up and down McGalliard, but that hot shit feeling faded when Josh dropped me off at home, mostly because if I acted like hot shit around my family after someone in a Ferrari dropped me off, I'd soon find myself with the hot shit knocked out of me.

I don't give a hot shit about cars now and I don't really know why I did then. Most likely, girls had something to do with me not acting like myself and instead spending half of high school envying the son of a doctor because I thought that having his life would've made me cool. I went to my first party with Josh, had my first whiskey, and ate my first entire box of orange Tic-Tacs to mask the whiskey smell from my parents. (There's no way that worked, but they never said anything.) I grew up a lot, had a lot of cool experiences, and laughed all the time. But I always sort of felt like I was living outside my own bubble, often acting like someone I wasn't. I hated that feeling.

Josh had this other life, and other friends, and some weekends he didn't call, or he'd say he would and wouldn't. Then on Monday I'd hear about things that happened at so-and-so's and I wasn't invited. He was more athletic, dated more, and had other things going on. I cared a lot more about all of this at the time. Everything mattered.

Even then, I knew that who I was and where I was from didn't amount to a hill of beans to Josh and his family because they were good people. Their possessions, which they worked damned hard to get, were not everything. They still ate dinner as a family, and they still punished their kids when they screwed up. Though time and distance has separated us and we're not as close as we used to be, my guess is Josh and I could pick right up where we left off last time, whenever that was, and probably be laughing at the same old jokes and some new ones within a few minutes.

But I still never really found out what was going on at all those parties I missed. Probably nothing, but I had the time to let my imagination run wild during all those weekends cooped up in my bedroom in my parents' house, sorting through baseball cards, reading comics, and really only coming out for food or when Dad came home with a stack of movie rentals. I never came up with an elaborate story like the one in Brick. Typically I just wrote silly, postmodern comedy that I'm now embarrassed to let anyone read.

Brick is a "teensploitation" film. Teens lead such serious, important lives, and everything matters! (Why don't you understand this, Mom and Dad?!?!?) This is a film, unlike teen comedies, that appeals specifically to those teens for whom life is deadly serious, not some big joke full of high school archetypes. I mean, Richard Roundtree, the blaxsploitation actor who played Shaft, appears here as the vice-principal. Coincidence?

Call Brick what you will; people love or hate this film. But there's a definite angle toward a specific type of audience — maybe one I was once in, or wanted desperately to be among, or just sort of got into along the way, or maybe never found at all.

Braveheart

I have a Braveheart poster somewhere. Once, in need of motivation, I took a Sharpie and wrote, "Thanks for all the screenwriting tips. Mel Gibson." I hung the poster on my bedroom wall.

Friends used to come over and comment on the autograph. "You met Mel Gibson? Wait...you gave him writing tips?" I tried, but I could never keep a straight face.

Mel's fake autograph and personalized note are funnier now than then, because Mel didn't actually get a screenwriting credit until The Passion of the Christ, which came nearly a decade after I signed the poster, and I assure you, had nothing to do with me.

As a badge of honor and an assertion of my own manly, emotional fortitude, I used to keep a list of only five movies that made me cry. Yes, only five. Braveheart was on the list. I had a sixth, E.T., which also made me cry, but I don't count that one; I was 6 years old when I saw E.T. in the theater, and that's not fair.

[I bawled my eyes out on the car ride home from E.T.. I mean, cry-until-you-hurt crying. I was 6 and I still remember that hurt.]

Thing is, Braveheart never made me cry that much. Sure, I shed a tear when he cries out "Freedom!" while the torturer disembowels him. But I don't have to lean forward in my seat to sob out the lump or something. I can't explain everything.

Last year, I married an English woman. Occasionally, England's bloody history comes up, especially with regard to films like this, but no more than America's, and I have plenty of those films on DVD too.

We hail from countries with dark pasts, but I think we'd be the same people regardless of where we were born, and I like to think we would've found each other anyway. We'd probably still cry at the same movies, and I'd be the guy with the fake autographed Braveheart poster, and she'd be the woman who wouldn't let me hang it in the house.

The Bourne Ultimatum

Matt Damon Week continues here at Little Round Mirrors, where I assure you we're not fucking Matt Damon; we just have a lot of his movies.

The Bourne Ultimatum is the one I've seen the fewest times, but I think I like this one the most. The fight scenes still hold up, unchallenged by the new 007 films, and I admire Julia Stiles' work. However, I still do not understand how a simple dye job can throw off the C.I.A., but in these films that's how to elude them. I'd at least go for a fake beard or Groucho glasses.

There are a few other unbelievable elements here. How does he get into a C.I.A. deep cover facility undetected? Well, because everyone in the building left. How did that happen? How did Landy get into a building with a C.I.A. training facility and send a fax with classified content while the building was being raided? Just...never mind. Play along. This is a Hollywood blockbuster, designed for your entertainment. If I can borrow a phrase from another film: "And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude..."

Sometimes you just need a film that will take you on a ride so you can forget about life for a while (thank you, Billy Joel). Sometimes you need something to spin after a long day at work so you can put things away in your mind. There's nothing wrong with that — as long as the entertainment is well done — and though they're not perfect, the Bourne films all fit the bill.

The real trouble is I find it hard to watch one of the sequels without watching the previous film(s). I forget things. I like the feeling of continuity. I want to see the story in full.

I enjoy these films for the same reason I'm drawn to the Bond films: the traveling. I've been stuck in Indiana most of my life; we went to England once and I've been around the country on a few vacations to maybe 18 states. I went to Canada when I was a kid and don't remember a thing. I sort of live vicariously through his travels, except no one shoots at me.

Finally, I love how the trilogy bookends. When we first see Jason Bourne, way back in The Bourne Identity, he's floating in the Mediterranean, unconscious but tethered to a life he can't remember. When we see him for the last time, he's floating in the East River (ew), barely conscious, but free.

I like a good bookend, so here you go.

The Bourne Supremacy

Matt Damon Week continues here at Little Round Mirrors with The Bourne Supremacy, the sequel to The Bourne Identity. Like the first film, this one is not perfect, but is still an intelligent action film. Sometimes I just want big, dumb fun, and intelligent, big, dumb fun is even better.

As I re-watch, though, these films seem to be losing steam. Maybe I'm gauging them unfairly, comparing them to other films. Since Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace have rebooted the Bond franchise, the Bourne films just don't seem as exciting or as well done.

They're still well written, solid entertainment, but EON Productions has upped the ante. The Bourne films seem a bit quaint, and I wonder how they will age considering the Bond franchise has entered a new era of kickass.

Bourne seems soft compared to Daniel Craig's Bond. Bourne spares people — even the heavies who chase him across continents sometimes get free passes. Bond really doesn't spare anyone. Cross him and he'll shoot you over and over until you fall dead. Bourne doesn't always do that. Softie.

Like the first film, this one is based on the Ludlum novel by the same name, which I never read because Robert Ludlum (or his editor) uses italics too much, among other quirks. I'm superficial. I have too much time on my hands. I worry about stuff. Then again, you're reading a blog. Shouldn't you be working or watching your kids or something? I bet your house is on fire or your boss is monitoring your computer. Maybe both?

I preach to my students about telling your story visually rather than verbally. Show me don't tell me. Sloppy storytelling bothers me, and for the most part the Bourne films are good in that department, but for my liking, there are still too many shots of loving photos, elegantly doodled journals with phrases like "WHO AM I?" and lists of stuff the audience should remember from the first film.

Hollywood thinks we're stupid. I always resent this kind of stuff. I don't mind doing some work to keep up with the film. Tony Gilroy, the Bourne franchise screenwriter, also wrote Michael Clayton, a film that really seems to trust the viewer. I like when a film doesn't give me every answer and assumes I'll still figure things out and keep up.

Maybe my complaints with this film aren't so much with the film as they are with Hollywood in general. Films out of Hollywood typically don't challenge viewers as much as I think they should, but then again, what do I know?

I forgive much of this because the Bourne films are enjoyable popcorn flicks. Sometimes that's all I want. Sometimes a movie is just a movie. Trouble is, when I want an intelligent action film, I'm liable to reach for the new 007 films instead of the Bourne trilogy. That's a bigger issue than the occasional clunky visual.

My tastes and moods are always changing. Ask me again in five years and I'll probably tell you something totally different.

The Bourne Identity

Okay, get it out of your system and come back. I'll wait.

...

Back? Good.

This is the first time I've watched The Bourne Identity since attempting — and failing — to read Robert Ludlum's novel on which this film is based.

I picked up the book in a shop in Oxford, England, because that's where you buy crap novels. I tried reading while we were in England in 2008 (and on the flight back), but mostly I couldn't get past how much I hated Robert Ludlum's writing style.

His plotting isn't bad (for mass market fiction, anyway), but the thing I remember most about the book is how important passages were always in italics, and he (or his editor) would do that over and over, sometimes a few times on the same page. I mean, I use italics sometimes, but all the time? If everything is important, then nothing is important, Bob. Some little annoyance like that is enough to get me to stop reading, even on a transatlantic flight.

I gave up on the book, but I still love the films, warts and all. They're paced well, plotted pretty well, and really do a great job of redefining the genre. Ludlum's writing still drives me nuts, but the concept is fine, and in the hands of worthy screenwriters to adapt (Gilroy was here), you've got a hit.

Also, the Bourne films are imbued with this awareness of how action heroes and excess have been intrinsically connected over the years, and how that's not what a self-conscious America wants to watch. This article articulates some of those ideas better than I'll attempt here.

But let's be fair. Films like The Bourne Identity always remind me of what I'll tolerate and what I won't. A spy who can remember everything about his training except, conveniently, his own identity and who trained him? Okay, I'll bite. A spy who can get into fight after fight and still not have a bruise on his face despite mauling dozens of adversaries? Sure, fine. A spy who drives a little, red Eurobeater at whiplash-inducing speeds all over Paris, outrunning authorities, crashing through stuff, and driving down staircases without so much as losing a hubcap? Okay, now I'm just smiling and playing along, like when Grandpa tells the grandchildren a story no adult in the room believes.

The Bourne Identity has some real holes, and I notice more every time I watch them, and I get a little more critical when I see more, but nothing is so annoying that I can't enjoy the film for what it is — the post-9/11 action film that forced a 007 reboot and led us to the best James Bond since Sean Connery.

I've gotten more critical of films as I've gotten a bit older, and having my wife in the room doesn't help, because we spend a lot of time in front of the television making fun of what we're watching. Example: We watch "Jeopardy!" a couple of times a week while eating dinner, and we wait for Alex Trebek to say something in French so we can make fun of him. This is what we do because we're too poor to go out. You should've seen our faces when the category was "Uranus" a few weeks ago.

We're a couple of critics, but when I'm alone, I can get absorbed in The Bourne Identity. When she comes into the room? This.