Review: The French Dispatch

There was a moment when I was in a Westwood theater watching L.A. Story where the plot amiably loped toward a weekend getaway at an upscale resort hotel. The hotel's name slipped out of Steve Martin's mouth so stealthily that, when the establishing shot showed the name "El Pollo del Mar", I exclaimed out loud, "Chicken of the Sea?" And the entire audience erupted. The French Dispatch is full of moments like that, and even though I have much less experience with French than Spanish, it's a big part of the buffet of little comedic moments that constantly wash over you.

The action centers on Bill Murray, who plays mainly a supporting role as Arthur Howitzer, Jr., the publisher of The French Dispatch; around him is one of the most talented ensembles I've seen in years, including Benicio del Toro, as the homicidal painter Moses Rosenthaler who eventually seduces his prison guard Simone (Léa Seydoux, who somehow manages to be naked and funny at the same time). Frances MacDormand gets another typically dissolving character role as the crusty Lucinda Krementz. The third act utterly belongs to Roebuck Wright (as Jeffrey Wright) and Steve Park (as Nescaffier, one of the film's many punning names) in an absurdist kidnapping and culinary caper. I laughed almost the entire way through it, and harder than any film of the last decade that I can immediately recall. Run and see this one.

Review: The Two Popes

At the opening of The Two Popes, things are going badly for Cardinal Bergoglio (Jonathan Pryce), so it comes as something of a surprise when Pope Benedict XVI (Anthony Hopkins) summons him to Rome. They are opposites, Bergoglio a reformer, Benedict a conservative, but what unites them is something we discover over the course of the first half of the movie: both wish to resign their posts, but only one can. Benedict, we learn, has run out of options, no longer able to hear God, and so he has invited his harshest critic to take over the Holy See from him. Bergoglio won't have it at first, and so much of the balance of the movie is about Benedict convincing the future Pope Francis to step in.

Another large part of it is finding Bergoglio's catastrophic failure to protect his priests in the aftermath of a 1976 military junta in Argentina. The euphemistically named "National Reorganization Process" murdered and tortured tens of thousands, rounding up anyone who might have even been near a Peronist or uttered a socialist thought. Joe Morgenstern's review in the Wall Street Journal notices that virtually all of the film (or its most important parts, anyway) are "mostly the luscious fruit of [screenwriter Anthony McCarten's] imagination", so it's not to be taken too literally. But it's a visual feast, and a fantastic character study by two actors at the top of their craft.

Review: Harriet

The hazards with Harriet are many, and start with the casting; Julia Roberts at one time was suggested as Tubman (rilly?). This having caused a stir and subsequently rejected, the film eventually got made on what passes for a shoestring budget in Hollywood these days ($17M), quickly earning that back and more (currently at $33M).

The more obvious hazard is that of any telling the story of any larger-than-life figure, and that is the temptations of hagiography. Tubman is in some ways a Joan of Arc figure in that she represented a woman embodying the virtue of action who also had a strong religious component to her motivations. Having grown up on a farm in slave-holding Maryland with the nickname Minty, she learns she is about to be sold further south, never to see her family again. With help from a preacher, her father, and an abolitionist, she eventually reaches safety in Philadelphia (though not before narrowly escaping her former master, and almost drowning along the way).

In Philadelphia, she sheds her given name of Araminta Ross, and takes her free name from which we know her today, Harriet Tubman. After a year, she goes back to fetch her husband (who refuses to follow her, having given her up for dead and remarried), and ultimately, 70 slaves, losing none along the way, as one of the most prolific conductors on the Underground Railroad in its history.

The scenes of slavery and its consequences are horrifying, the movie an unstinting witness to the terrors slaves lived under every day: the beatings, the family dismemberments, the hundred petty cruelties. Where it really falls down — and this seems a common theme among detractors — is that it is so afraid of doing anything wrong it doesn't ever take any big risks. (As Adam Graham in Detroit News wrote, "Harriet often feels in awe of its subject, like it's staring at her through museum glass.") The film slips too often into Joan of Arc mode, with Tubman drifting into religious delirium as a (confusing) way to advance the plot. She's not made out as a plaster saint, thank God, but neither is she fully formed in this telling. Still, I never once felt the urge to check my watch, and as history lessons go, this one's a keeper.

Review: The Post

Is there a movie Tom Hanks has been in that truly stank? I don't pretend to encyclopedic knowledge of his career, but I expect a lot of people might point at Forrest Gump as one. And as much as I enjoyed that film, there could be an argument for such a low rating: it's schmaltz married to some very slick (for the era) CGI, conjured up from an impenetrable, windy novel.

But you would have to press harder, in my estimation. In any case, I'm in no mood to search for examples, coming down as I am off the high of watching Hanks and Meryl Streep chase down Nixon in The Post. Streep, playing the role of publisher Katherine Graham, has only recently taken on that role (as we learn, following her husband's suicide), and needs an infusion of cash from Wall Street to expand what had been a sleepy regional paper. Hanks, as editor Ben Bradlee, gets down the grizzled J. Jonah Jameson act with aplomb and not a little parrying with Graham. The principal actors of the Post, you see, have personal connections to power: Graham knew Robert McNamara, who commissioned the Pentagon Papers and then suppressed them, as a close personal friend and someone with deep ties to her board of directors. Bradlee went drinking with the Kennedys and Johnsons.

These conflicts of interest form the nucleus of the film's drama when Daniel Ellsburg, a former employee of the RAND Corporation, secretly copies and sends to the New York Times McNamara's study. Comprising a history of lies through multiple administrations dating back to Truman, the material makes plain the deceit behind the folly of Vietnam. The Post gets a copy of some of the pages. but before they can publish, the Times scoops them again. Nixon sues the Times and for a time silences that paper. Then Ellsburg slips Post reporter Ben Bagdikian (Bob Odenkirk) a (partial?) copy of the papers — and the tension builds. Does Graham want to publish and invite the wrath of Nixon? What about the institutional investors? If they get buyer's remorse in the week following the offering, the whole deal is cancelled, and the Post is in deep financial trouble.

Of course you know that Bradlee and Graham won the showdown with Nixon, and got an ironclad First Amendment pillar, New York Times Corp. v. United States, written into the Supreme Court's legacy of press freedom. For Oscars voters, it is convenient that Nixon was who he was, and Team Blue largely (if unevenly) sat on the opposite corner. But many partisans must still be reminded that corporations do in fact have First Amendment rights, and that the Obama administration prosecuted and jailed more leakers than any other administration in history under the Espionage Act. If this movie is meant to rhyme with our own Trumpian era, it has a little catching up to do with the previous administration first.

The Importance Of Holding The Right Opinion About Louis C.K.

The general proscription against reading the comments on Internet fora are well-founded, but often enough wrong, as when I was passing through Manohla Dargis' reconsideration of the now-disgraced Louis C.K.'s I Love You, Daddy. As one commenter pointed out, it looks very like she's elected to blunt the praise in her glowing, earlier review, where she wrote, "At heart, the film is a multipronged debate that circles, again and again, around the question of whether it is possible, permissible and morally justifiable to love the art and loathe the artist. Yes, no, maybe so." But clearly, once Mr. C.K.'s apology came to light (one which many simply weren't having), it became necessary to reconsider that calculus.

Mostly, that reckoning spins on the axis of what she calls his "provocations": the character Leslie "even defines radical feminism for China, a scene that mirrors another in which Glen delivers a more generalized feminist lesson." Later, she laments

... how the movies see women. How they use and use up young women, at least until they turn 18 or 20 or so when some moviemaker or some suit deems her no longer desirable and turns her putative lack of desirability on her, as if she were responsible for this lack of interest in her.

These, particularly, appear as so much virtue signaling. Anyone with eyes can observe that half the moviegoing audience is male, which has concomitant effects on female casting. Men having opinions about the contours of sexual equality — that, also, is not allowed. If Leslie's speech was sexist in some way, she never makes the case for it or even bothers to quote it. The charge itself is now adequate to sustain it, apparently. What is important is having the Right Opinions, and being seen doing so.

I'm Entitled To Your Opinion Dep't: Mehera Bonner Reviews Dunkirk

The meat of her criticism is actually apt; the film doesn't appear to have an actual plot, but instead is a series of pastiches of interwoven stories: the older man (Mr. Dawson) piloting a private pleasure boat to rescue Tommies on the Dunkirk beach, the outnumbered fighter pilots taking on relentless Luftwaffe adversaries hectoring ground troops and sinking transports, the young soldier separated from his unit trying against the odds to make it home (Tommy), the commanders in charge of moving the men off the beach and onto the absurdly small (and shrinking daily) numbers of available military transports. That is, she's not wrong in this specific complaint.

But the film itself has earned a great deal of praise, and deservedly so, despite the overall failing of lacking apparent narrative. Part of that is because we already know the outcome: Britain's fathers came to the rescue of her sons, and even a significant number of French troops as well. It is beautifully photographed, flawlessly acted, and rippling with dramatic tension from the opening until almost the close. None of these virtues apparently appeal to Bonner:

But my main issue with Dunkirk is that it's so clearly designed for men to man-out over. And look, it's not like I need every movie to have "strong female leads." Wonder Woman can probably tide me over for at least a year, and I understand that this war was dominated by brave male soldiers. I get that. But the packaging of the film, the general vibe, and the tenor of the people applauding it just screams "men-only"—and specifically seems to cater to a certain type of very pretentious man who would love nothing more than to explain to me why I'm wrong about not liking it. If this movie were a dating profile pic, it would be a swole guy at the gym who also goes to Harvard. If it was a drink it would be Stumptown coffee. If it was one of your friends, it would be the one who starts his sentences with "I get what you're saying, but..."

How terrible — someone makes movies that appeal to men? Her reaction isn't quite "THIS MUST STOP NOW", but you can hear her mentally outfitting anyone who actually likes the film with an invisible fedora (the universal headgear of the MRA). The idea that men died in battle so that someone like Bonner could spout narcissistic and childish opinions is itself cringe-worthy, but as Kyle Smith ably answers in National Review Online, the problem is really a branch of the Annie Wilkes model of culture (emboldening mine):

In a moment of clarity I understood what the two main imperatives of higher education were to Absurd Feminist and to so many of her peers: First, instead of broadening her horizons and taking her outside herself to discover the world, she demanded the educators filter all knowledge through her own experience to make it relatable to her. Second, all learning was to be valued in proportion to how effectively it could be made into a cudgel in the identity-politics war. Dispatches, with its virtually all-male cast, represented a pernicious advance for the patriarchy, even if it was about the agonies suffered by men.

It seems unlikely that Marie Claire’s reviewer, Mehera Bonner, has before her an exceptionally bright career of writing about film. As for a career of writing about feminism, though, the sky, for Bonner, is the limit. Her essay could plausibly have appeared on any number of bristling feminist sites. What is her reasoning except feminism taken to its logical extreme? Feminists often declare to the world that they stand merely for an entirely reasonable proposition — say, that women’s lives are as important as men’s. Who would dispute that? Yet feminist writing usually continues far past this point into a need to prove women and men have been equally important in every context, even in history. If women turn out to be mostly irrelevant to an incident, then it is the moral duty of socially conscious creative artists to ignore the matter. They should retrain their sights on something that will give absurd feminists something they can relate to, something that will advance the cause of feminism in general.

 She doesn't like the movie; fine, we get that. But as Smith observes, "Feminism means constant maintenance of an imaginary set of scales, and she fears Dunkirk adds weight to the masculine side, tipping the culture away from women." What could be more absurd?

The Apple Watch: Married In Haste, Repent At Leisure

I open this piece by noting I have had three other fitness trackers, all Fitbits:

• I started with the Flex, which was then at the price point and functionality the best available unit on the market. It suffered from horrible mechanical defects, particularly in its charging port, which became less and less stable over time. This was made even worse by the incredibly tiny cable that came with the unit. If the distance between the outlet to the nearest horizontal surface was larger than that, you could be assured the Flex would sooner or later (the older it got, the sooner) it would fall out.
• The second Fitbit unit I owned was a Force. Again, mechanical issues with the charging port caused me to abandon it, unlike a number of owners who had contact allergic dermatitis with the surgical stainless steel bezel.
• The third (and last?) unit was a Surge. Shockingly, it wasn't actually issues with the charging port that caused me to abandon it, but the wristband. The thing simply broke in two, and because of the nonstandard, single-piece construction, could not be replaced.

Thus Fitbit. Since Apple had previously given me a number of products I have used and enjoyed dating back to the Apple II days, I finally broke down and decided to get an Apple Watch. Also, because the Apple Watch had (so they claimed) fitness functions mirroring the more popular ones available in the many fitness tracking devices now available. Mainly, I looked forward to Apple's superior history of making mechanically bulletproof devices. It's been a mixed bag.

• There's really no way to change step count or other fitness-related targets outside the watch's tiny user interface itself. This is, to put it mildly, extremely annoying for those of us with big man fingers. On the Fitbit, you had the option of making these changes on either the iPhone or website interfaces, but Apple doesn't even offer an iCloud web interface for their fitness functions.
• The limited touchscreen size means a great deal rests on various gestures. Unfortunately, it is too easy to accidentally engage one of them and change something inadvertently. I have several times turned on my watch, only to discover that the watch face has changed, or some other app has randomly taken over the display (because it was engaged accidentally last).
• I had a worst case scenario of this happen yesterday when my Watch made an unwanted 911 call for me! I had my wrist bent at 90°, and next thing I know, the phone's making a call to the local emergency dispatcher! This apparently is some kind of default, something I had to shamefacedly explain to the woman from the dispatcher's office who called me back because I hung up after making the call. (I have since disabled the default dial-911 state.)
• Those glaring flaws notwithstanding, it's got some nice features. Particularly, the ability to answer calls (with lousy sound quality) is useful, especially if you don't immediately know where your phone is. Likewise the ability to control your music, if the phone must be somewhere else than on your person, the best thing if you're using Bluetooth. (The low power Bluetooth interface can be spotty if there's any large enough physical thing between transmitter and receiver... like a human bent in half, say.)

By far, it's not a good replacement for the Fitbit, and in fact is so weak in this area it probably shouldn't be on anyone's list for this purpose. Since launch, Apple has treated it like an afterthought, especially in the way it interacts with apps. A disappointment, especially at the price, which may be one reason Apple has materially dropped the price for its entry level watch to well below $200.

Instant Review: Star Wars Episode VII [Spoiler]

The first three are two and a half good movies; to that, we can add this one, which expels George Lucas from the management of his brainchild to the franchise's apparent betterment. J.J. Abrams has, somewhat unexpectedly, managed to produce the third best Star Wars film. It's unsatisfying in ways already outlined by Reason's Peter Suderman (incoherently, at Vox):

... as much as I enjoyed the acknowledgement, I also found the movie’s near-total reliance on elements recycled from the original somewhat disappointing. At times it felt like I was watching the cinematic equivalent of a very polished Star Wars cover band — playing all the old favorites, but without adding anything beyond a few clever riffs.

Tascha Robinson in Vox argued that Rey's arrival means we've already reached Peak Strong Female Character, which, having seen her, wasn't the annoying, Didactic character I figured she might be, given the itch To Teach All Of Us About Strong Female Characters. Other remarks:

• Somewhat surprised to see Carrie Fisher in this one; she looked terrible, like a bad combination of botox and obvious plastic surgery. I would have preferred she keep herself honest.
• Harrison Ford pulled the escape chute to get out of future episodes, with Han Solo dying in this film, and just as well.
• So it's interesting that the two actors with, shall we say, shallow resumes since Star Wars concluded have both the possibility of future roles within the franchise. Good business move.

Review: Into The Woods

I will come out now as an unabashed Stephen Sondheim fan, which immediately aligns me in the anti-Andrew Lloyd Webber camp. As all loves, it is not absolute; I can walk away from Company or Follies (though individual songs still catch my ear, as "The Ladies Who Lunch"). Still, Sondheim at his acme is among the best tunesmiths this or any other country has put on the stage, Gilbert & Sullivan included. The best of his canon — the three foremost in my heart include A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum, Sunday In The Park With George, and Into The Woods — set an unequaled high water mark in American musical theater.

The Bernadette Peters-starring 1991 American Playhouse version of Into The Woods has remained my benchmark for that piece, so I had a high bar for the new version; and yet, with James Lapine, the book author, as the screenwriter, I needn't have worried. There are choices here that mark a concession to current tastes, most particularly Johnny Depp as the Wolf (and his costuming), but overall, the film stays true to the play, even though the limitations of film become more obvious in this work. Meryl Streep's Witch is vastly darker than Bernadette Peters' in the show's first run, which saps some irony from her introductory song.

Overall, the casting is good, and in places (as with the princes, Billy Magnussen and Chris Pine) inspired, though everywhere, the focus is on acting rather than singing. This is nowhere more visible (or audible) than in Cinderella, Anna Kendrick, whose vocal limitations at times are quite obvious yet forgivable (her nasal tones belie less-than-formal training). I found myself wanting more from Little Red Riding Hood (Lilla Crawford), but couldn't tell, in the end, if it was her or the editing or direction. And there's the sense that both the sets and the CGI accumulated to so much visual distraction, in a way a stage play could never be. Still, if this is your introduction to Sondheim, they've done him proud. You'll still want to see the 1991 version, but this is a worthy adaptation.