Other Stuff

Of Cats and Men

Many a pet owner knows the sensation of getting up in the night and stepping barefoot into a "gift." No, not that kind of gift. A gift from the great outdoors. To avoid getting up seven times a night to let the cat in and out, one must allow free-flowing access to the house through an opening of some sort. Though it isn't just the cat that can come in. Reaching for a towel to dry my face first thing in the morning and blindly grabbing a visiting opossum hanging from the towel rack just doesn’t do it for me. Depending on my need to sleep through the night, I sometimes choose to leave the damn balcony door open and hope for the best.

Most nights I'm very vigilant about what comes in. This particular night, the cat had stayed in on our request, because a mountain lion had killed a cat nearby. As I made my way in the dark night to the bathroom I was not expecting to step onto something small and squishy. I could determine through tactile foot sense the species and hair colour of the poor victim. Now, since the cat was in for the night, this really sucked: it meant the rodent had to be in the house when the cat nabbed it.

But lo, when I turned the light on I saw the “gift” was orange. An orange earplug. Tending to bolt upright and violently out of a sound sleep if a piece of dust lands too close to the bed, I’ve become a user of earplugs. Now, what the hell was this one doing on the floor? Had I sneezed in my sleep and sent it spewing from my ear, ricocheting from the wall, onto the ceiling and down to the carpet? Realizing it didn’t matter, I put it back on my night stand and went into the bathroom—checking the towel racks for opossums on the way.

The next night it happened again. Same orange earplug. Same place on the carpet. My wife suggested I might have brushed it off while stumbling to the bathroom in the dark. Yeah, okay. But every night? And having it fall in the exact same place?

Then one night, I was shedding my clothes for slumber when I noticed the cat was on the bed. Since his idea of a good time is waiting until I am fast asleep and then climbing onto my chest and purring loudly into my nose, everything was right on schedule.

Then it happened.

He stepped onto the nightstand and started chewing one of my earplugs. (It was a new one so don’t be grossed out.) I watched him pick it up and jump to the floor. He dropped it in the magic spot where I’d been finding them every night. He batted it a few times, then wandered off. So I put the plug back on the nightstand. He stopped. He turned. He jumped right back up and put the earplug back on the floor where it belonged.

So what does this have to do with running GRAN TORINO at the Darkside? Gimme a minute and I’ll see what I can come up with.

I liked Clint Eastwood’s film GRAN TORINO, in which The Man Himself stars as Walt Kowalski--a redneck veteran who happened to fight in a war against an Asian population. Guess who moves in next door?

Now, this is Clint Eastwood. This guy can play whatever he wants in any movie he directs. If this were you, wouldn’t you make a movie you can star in where you can just have a good time? Welcome to GRAN TORINO. The story will not blow you away with its originality and plot twists. But, you know it’s Clint and you know what’s coming and you can hardly wait for it, ‘cause you know it’s gonna be good. Remember these words: “Get off my lawn.”

GRAN TORINO is a simple story about a man who has to deal with the world changing around him. What makes this movie work is Eastwood's cinematic currency. We’ve seen that look on his face before, in a dozen different movies, and we know what it means. Even if that face is not peeking out from behind a .44 Magnum, we have a good idea about how this is going to play out. We also get to see the character evolve into a better man than he was when the movie started. The end is exactly what you’d expect in a Clint Eastwood movie, but different.

The story is not perfect and the acting could have used, well, some actors, but what we see is Clint’s version of neighborhood diversity. This is the same man who made FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS, which scored the Academy's Best Picture Oscar. Though you will not find that depth, or anything remotely resembling the depth of FLAGS in GRAN TORINO, you have to trust there is something there, and see it through. It may not change your life, but it will not fail to entertain.

Seeing THE CHANGELING, a film Clint directed this year, makes it obvious that Clint was having some fun when he made GRAN TORINO; it's the simplicity. THE CHANGELING was a huge production with big talent. Clint knows better than to squeeze as much glamour and pizzazz as he can into every frame of film. Sometimes it’s better to let the characters tell the story.

Just like most of us, Clint doesn’t live in just one world. GRAN TORINO tells that story in yet another way.

And now, an incomprehensible segue.

I hadn’t planned on going, since my days of doing the group rides with other bikers have been over for a while. It's not that I don't love what it feels like to be in a pack of a dozen or so Harleys, with exhaust notes in the higher decibel range. But, some years ago, after a very close call instigated by a newbie wanting to ride like they did in CHiPs: side-by-side, I gave up group rides. Then, at another event, a rather nasty fight broke out. That pretty much did it for me. No thanks, gonna pass on the group ride scene.

I felt my resolve dissolve when I heard Monty’s voice on the phone telling me—not asking—but telling me where everyone was meeting for the ride. I figured I’d show my face at the rendezvous, then bail. Well, that’s not quite the way it worked out. Very soon I was bringing up the rear of a group that had more than a few new riders, all trying to get their sea legs atop $25,000 machines. So, now the plan was that I would help escort the newbies to the park, and then do a touch-and-go at the gathering.

Arriving at the park, I saw that this was a little more than a couple dozen people taking a ride in the country. When you encounter 150 motorcycles jockeying for parking spaces on a one-lane road, smart people just park and wait for the smoke to clear. People were arriving from all over the state. The barbeque was lit and the beer coolers were opened. I was told later that this was an event called the Spring Thaw—a celebration of the beginning of the riding season, and it always attracts a lot of riders. This was information Monty conveniently hadn't shared with me earlier.

I knew a lot of these people standing around eating red meat and drinking bad beer. I'd ridden with many of them. Some of them I’d spent hours with, out in cold garages getting a bike back together so they could ride to work the next day. Some of them rode with me the first time I got a new Harley. Some of us did things we don’t discuss in polite company—and express gratitude to have lived through 'em. We spoke of those who had died, going down hard and not getting up. No matter how much I love cinema and movies, a huge part of my heart still lives in motorcycling and the people who love it too.

Sure as hell, as soon as I had decided to stay for a while, work beckoned. When I announced I was going to head out, someone wrapped his arms around me from behind, and picked me up off the ground. More than just a few inches. I knew who it was—the only person it could be. When he finally put me down, I knew leaving the party was really, really going to suck.

People who I had just met hugged me goodbye, and old friends left the macho bullshit at the door and hugged me like a long-lost brother.

I got out of there before they saw me crying.

The next day I traded oil spots on the pavement for oil paintings on the walls of the Portland Art Museum. For hours I walked the floors and corridors of that wonderful building. I saw sculptures and paintings that cut to my very soul and left no choice but to realize there is such a thing as perfect beauty in the world. Perfect brush strokes done with what had to be only one hair provided a glint in the eye or on the sword, showing a patience and commitment Photoshoppers may never emulate.

The audio tour devices looked frighteningly like cell phones. When one of our party walked up to me, I covered an imaginary mouth-piece and said, “I'm ordering a pizza. I can’t remember: do you like pepperoni?” The security guy looked at me like I was only the 5000th person to do that joke that day. I never imagined a man in a bad polyester jacket could make me feel like such an idiot.

We ate lunch and later had coffee at the same café down the street, with outside tables in the radiant sunshine. The perfect spot to watch the various mini dramas playing out in the park across the street. It was as good as it gets. Still, every time a motorcycle went by, I damn near broke my neck to look at it. Call it reflex.

So this is how I see GRAN TORINO. I imagine that Clint is not a man of one mind. He dabbles in the DIRTY HARRY side of his personality, even when unbuckling the budget belts on a star-studded production. GRAN TORINO is a bit of that vent. He can visit his roots with the knowledge that life has changed and he is no longer making spaghetti westerns. That doesn’t mean he must turn his back on them. Sometimes great art comes from looking back at who you were. It is important to know how much of who you were makes up that person you see in the mirror every morning. I think a movie like GRAN TORINO allows Clint a chance to look at the person he used to see in the mirror. It might help him remember that not all his movies were polished and sanitized for the mass market.

I was lying comfortably in bed when something woke me up. An earplug had been plucked from my ear. Well, this is annoying. I head Lainie’s voice say, "Kiwi did it." It wasn’t Kiwi. It was Lainie, who wanted me to get up and make coffee. As I swung my feet over the side of the bed I stepped on something squishy. It was another earplug. Kiwi was across the room looking at me innocently, pausing in an act of personal hygiene that involved a paw raised like he was about to give a high-five.

Not at all relevant to GRAN TORINO, is it? How's this: just because Clint Eastwood makes Academy Award winning movies with A-list actors—like, two a year—doesn't mean he can't have fun with a simple story and actors who haven't seen a lot of time in front of a camera.

And just because I run an art house cinema doesn't mean I don't love my friends who don't know Truffaut from a truffle.

And just because the cat was in all night doesn't mean I won't be "gifted" with something soft and squishy underfoot.

Technically Emotional

Everyone has a different way of watching movies, and different people expect different things from movies, to take the bridge over the River Obvious. It often depends on why the viewer comes to the movies. Are they here for an emotional experience, or an intellectual experience?

It might seem a little sophomoric to try to divide moviegoers into two groups: emotional or technical. It's a little like saying there are two types of people: those who like bacon in their ranch dressing and those who do not. However, we are not talking about something sitting out on the picnic table for a few hours that, 45 minutes after consumption, initiates a thundering stampede to the Port-a-Potty.

WENDY AND LUCY has proven to be a surprisingly useful litmus test to single out the emotional from the technical viewer. People who loved the movie tended to be satisfied with the way the story was told. It was a bare-bones tale rendered without splash and coyness. The purity of purpose and the raw acting of Academy Award nominated actress Michelle Williams gave the film a living pulse. There are other viewers, perhaps more emotional, who focused on how the movie made them feel. In WENDY AND LUCY, a young woman is trying to get from one place to another. The obstacles that roughen her road are very real--not some contrivance from a screenwriter whose only life experience is through the conduit of TV, where everything ends with a neat bow no matter who lives or dies. WENDY AND LUCY lives in the reality that everything is a journey with an indeterminate beginning and end. Those who appreciate scripting outside the Hollywood box will appreciate this movie. Meanwhile, for some emotional viewers, this tale is rendered so well it becomes a bit of a downer. The genius of the film is in the scarcity of information that leads to such an emotional response. No car chases. No dramatic outbursts. No volcanic sobbing. The story is told with the lilt of a word or a certain deadness in the eyes. The reaction to WENDY AND LUCY seems to be divided between those who took the story to heart and found it a bummer, and those who loved the way the movie was built.

Meanwhile, SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE used every emotional trick in the book to make one fall in love with the story and the characters. As local reviewer John Ginn said, "It's a foreign film for those who have never seen a foreign film." He suggests that viewing films from other parts of the world might be a little too much work for the average American viewer. SLUMDOG is a British production replete with labyrinthine chases, hammy drama, volcanic sobbing, and violence. To be fair, it's a good script rendered masterfully by a veteran director, Danny Boyle. The masses loved it--even those who resisted foreign films. How could they not? Those who did not embrace it might have felt bludgeoned by the glaring emotional manipulation. Yes, the characters are in love. Got it. In the movie THE WRESTLER, the look in Marisa Tomei's face as she watched The Ram walk away said more than a mountain of special effects, fast editing, and the characters' doey eyes IN SLUMDOG.

THE WRESTLER was not an easy movie to love, due primarily to its subject matter. Professional wrestler The Ram is watching the grains of sand filling the bottom of his hourglass. Rendered flawlessly by Mickey Rourke, we can feel every broken bone and injury this wrestler has endured and inflicted. It is an old story, as they all are. But such a story with such a director as Darren Aronofsky (REQUIEM FOR A DREAM) saves THE WRESTLER, making it into something accessible--a story that could have easily become pornographic. How he did this will be of interest to those who watch movies for the "how." Those who watch the movies for the "why" may not come away with the same appreciation.

Rourke can generate nostalgia among those who have been following him and his tumultuous career since his breakout film, 9 1/2 WEEKS. The fact is, he was a real ass, to the point where he harpooned his career. He surfaced from that life to be the actor he is today. Having access to the darker parts of human existence doesn't hurt when rendering a character such as The Ram. Having his demons under control, yet to being able to call on them for the part, adds texture to his performance. The story was full of anger, strippers, drugs, testosterone, and blood. Are these things tools, or is this the real story of the film? It depends on the viewers' ability to put up with distasteful things to get through to the soul of the movie. THE WRESTLER dips deeply into the seedier side of the pool of humanity. People who choose to live their lives outside of that arena might not care how the shot of The Ram walking into the ring is mimicked beautifully when he is walking down the corridor to his dehumanizing job dealing with the public at the deli counter. Strippers are easy targets for bad jokes and sexual assumptions. But watching them work on the big screen can fail to titillate. This intentional failure adds to the story. Tomei has made more than one recent screen appearance without her clothes. She will be 45 this year. In the hands of director Aronofsy she can compare nicely to the other strippers half her age. But her character really shines when she is clothed and out of the darkened club. Her place on the pole on stage is not how she defines herself, and the line between work and life is broad, and not easily permeated. This allows her to pay the bills and feed her kid by appealing to men offering money in exchange for the fantasy of making her into whatever they want. As with most people who do this for a living, it erodes her soul. Tomei's character staves off this erosion by maintaining two identities-eventually learning that who she is on the stage does not have to define her real life.

THE WRESTLER sent some people out of the auditorium before the film was over. Some viewers do not separate the craft from the story. This movie was arguably one of the most finely crafted films of the year, yet the subject matter eclipsed that for some viewers. This is not to judge those who can desensitize themselves from the gore and inhumanity, or those who cannot see the art through the story. People view films through their own lives. If a viewers' emotional baggage is too heavy, it can make or break their experience.

Often viewers have little choice about whether their reactions to a movie will be emotional or technical. Viewers predisposed to the technical often see the story as secondary. Right up until the story becomes about them. Aronofsky's earlier work, REQUIEM FOR A DREAM, is a work of genius. If a viewer has issues with substance abuse, this film can either be unwatchable or speak to them with a voice of understanding.

The reason for independent cinema is to give voice to films that do not land in one camp or the other-technical or emotional. Most studio movies are calculated to make the most money in the box office. Independent films lean toward the filmmakers' vision rather than toward what the market will bear. It is the purity of this vision that appeals to the viewers less encumbered by multiplex expectations. There is a place for both emotional and technical viewers in independent cinema. This mixture generally will not be determined by focus groups.

Then again, there is a rather large segment of the independent/foreign movie-going population that chooses movies for neither technical or emotional reasons. They choose the movie based on whether it has subtitles. Since their hearing is not that great, it is a way of seeing a movie in a theater without having to make out the dialog-they can read it. As with any group of people, dividing them into two groups doesn't really work, no matter how fresh the ranch dressing.