iTunes catch of the day: Cassandra’s Dream and “The River in Reverse”
Few have ventured to see the new Woody Allen movie, so most are unaware that Allen has, for one of the few times in his career, commissioned a score for his soundtrack, from an actual living composer, Philip Glass, no less. And what a corker! I buy all of Glass’s soundtracks whether I’ve seen the movies they’re in or not, and this one has quickly vaulted to the top of my list of favorites. Stormy, melancholy, brooding and propulsive. If you like Glass or have an abiding interest in soundtrack music, this is a real treat. Can’t say I like the cover. You can listen to little bits of it either at iTunes or Amazon.
Meanwhile, Elvis Costello has knocked off a handful of his songs in solo settings for the iTunes market. I enjoy all of these renditions, they are some of my favorites of his songs, but the new recording of “The River in Reverse” is just stunning. I enjoyed the album of the same title when it came out, but to hear Costello snarl his way through this searing, scathing reading is a remarkable experience, even coming from this longtime snarler. His insistent, plangent solo guitar sets lyrics like “In the name of the father and the son/in the name of gasoline and a gun” in bold relief and elevates this song to a classic to stand with “Pills and Soap” in its withering social criticism.
Today is Super Tuesday
Which means that if you, like me, are a citizen of the United States, there’s a good chance that you live in a state with a presidential primary. If you, like me, are a patriot, I urge you to perform your civic duty and vote. If you, like me, are a registered Democrat, I urge you to vote for Barack Obama.
I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about the campaign. I don’t listen to the speeches, I don’t watch the debates. I know from long experience that a candidate will say and do whatever it takes to be elected and that the various media outlets will spin all that to their own ends. I know it’s all a big circus, so I don’t pay it that much attention.
I’m voting for Obama tomorrow because, of everyone who has stepped forward to claim their place in the spotlight, he’s the only one who doesn’t make me sick to my stomach when I look at him.
McCain and Romney have given the United States their solemn oath to continue down the disastrous trail that George W. Bush forged, and Clinton, although more in my ideological arena, has run a brutal, vicious campaign that, to my mind, has shown her to be an oily, cynical political animal, willing to stoop to whatever level necessary to gain power. I think we’ve had enough of that.
Finally, if you, like me, can occasionally be influenced by a cheesy, sentimental music video, I urge you to watch this:
How good is No Country For Old Men?
It’s now apparently winning golfing trophies, that’s how good.
Screenwriting 101: The Gap
One of my favorite terms that I got from reading Robert McKee’s Story is The Gap.
The Gap is simply the distance between what the protagonist thinks is going to happen and what actually happens. The wider The Gap is, the more interesting your story will be.
Example: you’re at the water cooler, and a fellow employee says “Let me tell you about my morning.” He goes on to tell you about how he ate some toast, watched Good Morning America, got dressed, checked his email and then went out to get the bus. This is a protagonist with no Gap at all, and thus his story isn’t very interesting.
(On the other hand, if you are the protagonist in this story, your Gap is a teeny bit wider because what you expect to happen is that your co-worker will tell you a worthwhile story and what actually happens is he’s a crashing bore.)
If your co-worker says that he bit into his toast and discovered there was a dead mouse baked into the bread, his Gap just got appreciably wider. If he says that he turned on the TV and started a fire because he has too many appliances plugged into his outlet, his Gap is wider still. If he says that he sat down to watch Good Morning America and found they were broadcasting his obituary, his Gap is about as wide as it’s probably going to get.
Since Cloverfield happens to be on my mind, and has an exceptional example of The Gap, let’s look at that narrative for a moment:
Rob in Cloverfield is in love with Beth but can’t bring himself to tell her so. He’s moving to Japan soon and doesn’t want to deal with his newfound emotional detour. What Rob expects to happen is that he will move to Japan, as scheduled, never deal with Beth again, and eventually get on with his life. What actually happens is that Rob’s friends throw a surprise going-away party for him, Beth shows up with another guy, Rob finds all his feelings for her coming to the surface, and then a giant monster comes along and destroys Manhattan.
That, speaking as a professional, is some freakin’ Gap.
Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs is an FBI trainee who is asked by her superior, Jack Crawford, to interview Famous Creepy Guy Hannibal Lecter, in the hopes that she will get him to shed some light on a serial-murder case that’s troubling him. What Clarice expects to happen is that Lecter will creep her out, but ultimately help her in her pursuit of her goal, which is to curry favor with her superior. What actually happens is that Lecter creeps her out to a level far beyond what she would have thought possible, and draws her into a web of intrigue so personal and disturbing that it turns out that Clarice, and Clarice alone, is able to capture and kill the serial killer that’s troubling Jack Crawford.
Richard Kimble in The Fugitive comes home one evening to find his wife being murdered by a mysterious one-armed man. That’s a pretty freakin’ wide Gap right there, but that’s not really the Gap of Richard’s narrative. What Richard expects to happen is that he, sober, bearded vascular surgeon, will simply tell the police what happened and the police will then diligently pursue his wife’s killer. What actually happens is that Richard finds himself accused of his wife’s murder, and is thrown into jail, tried and convicted.
Marion Crane in Psycho steals some money from her employer and high-tails it out of town to make a new life for herself. What she expects to happen is that she will probably be arrested, but almost certainly she will calm down, return the money and get her life organized. What actually happens is she gets so murdered by a guy in a dress that the rest of the movie isn’t even about her, which is probably the widest Gap in the history of movies.
The Ticking Clock is one of the most celebrated of all plot devices, but The Gap is sometimes overlooked, which is a shame. Take Alien for instance, a brilliant motion picture which, brilliance notwithstanding, not only takes its sweet time announcing a protagonist (you would be forgiven for thinking it’s Tom Skerrit for the first half of the movie) but, until the goddamn thing bursts out of John Hurt’s chest, The Gap between what the protagonist expects to happen and what actually does doesn’t seem that wide to me. The team is called to a desolate planet to investigate a distress call, and nobody wants to do it, because they all expect to find something horrible. Which, indeed, is what happens. The Gap comes later, when they think they’ve figured out what the nature of the thing they’ve found is, figuring which turns out to be dreadfully, dreadfully inaccurate.
One way to successfully install a Gap in your screenplay is to have a good idea about who your protagonist is, and a good idea of where you want him to end up, and then look at that protagonist and that ending and see if there’s a way to tweak it so that the protagonist is expecting anything other than where he’s going to end up. If Richard Kimble came home to find his wife being murdered by a one-armed man, and immediately thought “I’ll bet my best friend Pharmaceutical Industry Guy is behind this!” he wouldn’t have much of a Gap. And if Clarice Starling was asked by Jack Crawford to go interview Hannibal Lecter and thought “Aha! I’m going to hijack this case from my superior and kick this guy’s ass!” her character wouldn’t have anywhere to go. And if Rob had just gone ahead and told Beth he loved her that day in Coney Island, he probably could have saved everybody a great deal of trouble.
Some more thoughts on Cloverfield
A Great Cinema Fan has taken the time to write a long response to my post on Cloverfield. As he has done me the courtesy of articulating his thoughts, I decided to take the time to further articulate mine. As GCF does not choose to be affiliated with one sex or another, I will use the traditional “he.”
I could not disagree more with you regarding this film. It’s baffling how you can compare this to Godzilla and the Posiedon Adventure…both those films had a disaster that the storytellers at least attempted to explain. It is true that the writers of both The Poseidon Adventure and Godzilla attempted to explain the disasters central to their narratives. For the record, the explanation of the disaster in The Poseidon Adventure is “an underwater earthquake” and the disaster in Godzilla is caused by a very large lizard, awakened by an h-bomb test in the Pacific ocean.
Here’s the thing about “explaining the disaster”: the audience doesn’t care. We don’t care what caused the tidal wave, we don’t care why Godzilla is awake. The explanations have absolutely zero dramatic impact. The scenes in both Poseidon and Godzilla where serious-looking men furrow their brows and discuss the science behind their disasters are not only the least interesting scenes in their respective movies, they are some of the least interesting scenes in all movie history. And that goes for King Kong (including the remake), The Towering Inferno, The Day After Tomorrow and especially the American remake of Godzilla. These are the scenes any child skips over to get to “the good parts,” and any Great Cinema Fan would be embarrassed to be caught watching.
Let me ask you this; which do you think is more plausible; That the studio execs greenlighted this because of some high minded notion of introducing NY post 9/11, or, that they said “let’s throw the statue of liberty around and put a monster in the film and not explain how it got there, because that would take too long and we want a small runtime to run more screenings per day and up our box office take”
I don’t think either of these scenarios are remotely plausible. The studio greenlit Cloverfield because they thought it would make money, true, but “throwing the statue of liberty around” and “not explaining how the monster got there in order to cut down on the running time” were not factors in their decision.
However, if the studio made a decision to make Cloverfield a half-hour shorter than a conventional action-horror movie by cutting out the scenes where scientists and military commanders stand around in a dramatically-lit room and discuss, with furrowed brows, the science of the thing that’s wreaking havoc upon Manhattan, I congratulate the studio for their acute cinematic acumen. But I suspect that these decisions were made by the moviemakers.
Godzilla was a dinosaur. This was a minotaur on steroids. My powers of suspension of belief are strong, which is a help because I enjoy sci-fi films, but this is another monster altogether.
It seems that the makers of Cloverfield have frustrated GCF by creating a monster with little basis in known morphology.
No explanation of what it is that’s destroying NY. No explanation of how it got there. Nothing. Just disaster.
I’m sorry that Cloverfield didn’t work for GCF, but the movie’s mysteries surrounding the creature and the reasons for its appetite for destruction are exactly the reasons the movie works so well. It explores “just disaster” in exactly the same way that most people experience it — frightening, chaotic and completely meaningless.
What I have learned from this film is not that the majority of people are extremely easy to please, it’s that a great many of the movie going public who like this rubbish are representative of a potion of American cinema today; a true lowest common denominator film.
I’m not sure what most of this sentence means, but I do agree that Cloverfield is a “lowest common denominator film” — anyone can enjoy it, no specialized knowledge is required.
It saddens me to learn that you as a screenwriter praises this film in the way that you have. I can only imagine other screenwriters feel the same.
This happens to be true — many other screenwriters do feel the same.
From a technical delivery point of view the movie treads water well, but from a screenwriters point of view it is absolutely atrocious.
This depends, I suppose, on one’s definition of screenwriting. The ambitions of the screenplay for Cloverfield may be modest, and it delivers no wisdom greater than “hold on to the ones you love,” but it achieves its goals with great skill and dexterity, and that, on any scale, is no atrocity.
I can at least take comfort from the fact that it is experiencing 60% plus drops weekend on weekend, which in movie business parlance means that it has no worthy word of mouth to help this “high point of American cinema” pass the hundred million dollar mark.
I thank GCF for his insights into “movie business parlance,” but in current marketing schemes, a 60% drop indicates only that the marketing people did their job well — everyone who wanted to see the movie in the first weekend was able to. The movie business, to a large extent, is driven by opening weekends, which are engineered for maximum hugeness. Even with its relatively precipitous drop, Cloverfield has managed to make back almost three times its budget in three weeks, which, in movie business parlance, is a big, big hit.
Hopefully it’s ineptitude to perform well at the box office post it’s advertisement laden initial release will serve to remind Hollywood that making movies is about storytelling, the true foundation of great cinema.
As noted above, Cloverfield has performed just fine at the box office. GCF is correct that movies are about storytelling; it seems that I have a broader definition of storytelling than him. I find the storytelling in Cloverfield compact, efficient and streamlined — the moviemakers tell us what we need to know, and leave out everything else, and tell their story in a way that’s stylish, surprising and keeps things moving at a breathtaking clip.
Releasing a movie absent of any story should reveal what these studio execs really think about you the viewer.
I have seen movies with weak stories. I have even seen movies with nonexistent stories. Stan Brakhage’s Mothlight, for instance. Cloverfield‘s story is simple, but it is not weak, nor nonexistent.
By the by, I’m not quite certain of the stats to date but if I remember correctly this will be the lowest grossing film at the box office as a function of its opening weekend, in the action genre, in over 25 years. Check out HSX.com or boxofficemojo.com for the stats if you’re so inclined.
I believe I will.
Box Office Mojo, the site I find most efficient for these things, lists Cloverfield as “Action Horror,” but does not have a list of Action Horror grosses that I can find, nor plain Action (which strikes me as odd). Cloverfield currently ranks #117 of all opening-weekend grosses in history ($40 million), ahead of such comparable movies as Alien vs. Predator ($38 million), Armageddon ($36 million), Minority Report ($36 million), Lethal Weapon 4 ($34 million), Live Free or Die Hard ($33 million), Lethal Weapon 3 ($33 million), Blade II ($32 million), The Sum of All Fears ($31 million), Saving Private Ryan ($30 million), Constatine ($30 million), and about ten billion other action/adventure/horror titles. So “lowest grossing film at the box office in the action genre” seems to be a pretty poor description of Cloverfield. It is also the biggest January opening in history. With a well-spent budget of $25 million (I shudder to think what the marketing budget was), it will most likely end up being one of the most profitable movies of the year, if not the most profitable.
I understand that some people don’t like Cloverfield, and its hard for me to believe that a movie this simple and direct went “over their heads,” so once again I have to assume that there is something else about the movie that does not sit well with this rather vocal minority.
Attention Variety
I am available for writing post-Oscar-ceremony headlines.
Here are some examples:
QUEEN CATE APPROXIMATELY
Blanchett wins for two historic roles
NO OSCARS FOR “OLD MEN”
Surprise shut-out for Coen pic
THERE WILL BE OSCARS
WGA reaches agreement in time for broadcast
DEPP DRINKS DAY-LEWIS’S MILKSHAKE
Surprise upset for Blood actor
LINNEY “SAVAGES” CHRISTIE
Takes Oscar “Away From Her”
Screenwriting 101: Pop Quiz, 2001: A Space Odyssey
The protagonist of 2001: A Space Odyssey is:
a) Moon-Watcher
b) The Monolith
c) Dr. Heywood R. Floyd
d) Dr. Dave Bowman
e) Dr. Frank Poole
e) HAL 9000
f) The frozen astronauts
g) None of the above
Congratulations to RJWhite, who, although he is confused as to the character’s name, correctly identifies the protagonist of 2001 as “whomever was trying to propel the human race forward.”
2001 is, essentially, an education drama, not unlike Blackboard Jungle or Dangerous Minds. There is a wise teacher who has been put in charge of a bunch of wild students in the inner city, with their gang wars and primitive ways, and the teacher must show them the beauty of learning and betterment while hoping they don’t use their new intelligence to kill each other. Kubrick’s bold stroke was to make an education drama where the “wise teacher” goes unseen. If you can imagine Stand and Deliver with a big black slab instead of Edward James Olmos, that’s pretty much 2001.
“Humanity” is, in fact, the antagonist of 2001. The protagonist is trying to teach them, and while humanity is capable of learning, their “background” continues to “keep them down.” The drama of 2001 is, “can the protagonist change the antagonist, given that the antagonist is probably evil to its core?”
“Dave” is indeed a “main character,” but his story is, basically, a subplot. Dave is the student who advances to the State Finals and must “prove himself.” The movie, essentially, ends when the student walks out onto the stage to prove what he’s learned, how far he’s come — but then doesn’t show us the speech.
Eronanke supplies a mind-blowing answer to a mind-blowing movie and suggests that “destiny” is the protagonist, which is an intriguing idea, if “destiny” is indeed what the movie is about — which I don’t think it is. But I also think that “destiny” is no kind of protagonist to hang a 2-hour, 20-minute movie on — even if that movie’s prime directive is to blow one’s mind.
Mr. Noy correctly identifies the four large-scale story chunks that give the movie its shape. I’m going to go ahead and call these chunks the acts of the movie, even though they don’t really function as acts in the traditional sense. This is typical of Kubrick’s approach to story structure — three or four very long sequences instead of three acts made up of short scenes — and is, to me, the thing that makes AI such an odd movie-watching experience; Spielberg made Kubrick’s script his own, but kept the decidedly Kubrickian structure.
Here is the plot of 2001, as told from the protagonist’s point of view.
_____
ACT I
There is this bunch of extraterrestrials. They have a machine that makes creatures smarter. Let’s call them the Invisible Extraterrestrials (the IET).
They spot Earth. Earth has relatively intelligent creatures on it called apes. The apes are doing okay but they’re eating vegetables and living in caves and getting into fights over resources (plus ca change). The IET, for reasons unknown, decide to help the apes along in their evolution.
They uncrate three of their smart-making-machines — small, medium and large. They leave the small one on the planet Earth, in the middle of the ape community, they bury the medium-sized one beneath the surface of the moon, and they put the large one out in space, somewhere near Jupiter.
The scene we don’t see is the IET discussing their plan: “So, we’ll put the small one in the middle of the ape community, and the machine will do its thing, and the creatures will either become smart or they won’t. If they do become smart, we know that they’ll eventually fly to their moon and discover the one we bury there. We’ll stick a light-sensitive device in the second one, so that when it gets hit by sunlight it will send a radio signal to the big one next to Jupiter, and if the creatures are smart enough to make it to the big one, then we’ll give them all the intelligence in the universe, and if that doesn’t totally blow their minds, they will evolve to the next step.”
So they leave the small monolith in the middle of Apetown. The apes wake up in the morning and see the monolith. Moon-Watcher (the lead ape) touches the monolith, the monolith does its thing, makes Moon-Watcher a little bit smarter, and the first thing Moon-Watcher does with his new intelligence is to pick up a bone and beat his enemy to death and use his new intelligence to stop eating vegetables and start eating meat.
So, here we have the central conflict of 2001 — the protagonist (the IET) want to make humans intelligent, but humanity (the antagonist) has this thing where their nature is, at its root, homicidal. The question of the movie, which is left unanswered, is “can people evolve to the point where they don’t kill each other any more?”
(The novel, in my opinion, answers “no,” but that is not the concern of this journal.)
But that’s it — that’s the whole movie. There’s a bunch of invisible extraterrestrials who want to educate humanity but humanity may just be too homicidal to survive the process.
(Each one of the four acts dramatize this central conflict in different ways. In Act I, we see that an ape, given a little intelligence, kills another ape. In Act II, we see that humanity, given a few million years of evolution, has advanced to the point where they can destroy all life on the planet with atom bombs and every bit of human interaction must be rife with suspicion, secrecy and coded language. In Act III, we see that humanity has gotten smart enough to create a machine capable of killing people on its own, and in Act IV we see that a man, even after gaining all the knowledge in the world, still has to eat and still spills his wine. So the answer to the question “what happens after the end of the movie,” it seems to me, is a very pessimistic one — and indeed, Kubrick once said that he wanted to end the movie with a scene showing the world destroyed by atom bombs but decided it was too much like the ending of Dr. Strangelove.)
ACT II
It’s the year 2001 or thereabouts (the rest of the movie covers an 18-month time-span, so obviously the whole movie doesn’t take place in 2001). Dr. Floyd goes to the moon. And we see how sophisticated people have become, and how boring — they glide across the surface of the moon and can talk about nothing but what kind of sandwiches they have. (Intelligence and food again, stuck together. No matter how smart you get, you still have to eat, and something still has to die for that to happen.)
And there’s a bunch of hugger-mugger about “The Russians” and so forth, but the whole act is basically a bunch of “plot” about uncovering the second monolith and getting it exposed to the sunlight — once that happens, the act ends abruptly and we never hear about any of those people again.
ACT III
A lovely subplot on the spaceship Discovery about Dave and Frank and the frozen astronauts and the murderous computer. There are more scenes with food, and more scenes showing how, no matter how intelligent humans get, no matter how bloodless and dispassionate, they are still animals who eat and piss and shit and sweat. HAL 9000 doesn’t have those problems, of course (and here Kubrick points toward AI — machines as the final evolution of humanity) — he is more bloodless and dispassionate than any of the humans on board, although we find that that only enables him to kill more bloodlessly and dispassionately, leading to Dave having to take matters into his own hands and kill HAL.
At the end of Act III, just after Dave kills HAL, the video comes on and Some Guy on the video tells us the story of the movie. The scene comes after so many mind-blowing visuals one is forgiven for missing it, but the guy on the video actually takes a few minutes to sit there quietly and patiently explain the plot of the whole movie to us.
ACT IV
Dave takes his pod to go investigate the extra-large monolith out in space. His encounter with the monolith gives him all the intelligence in the universe (that’s the big famous mind-blowing psychedelic freakout scene), but he’s still human. He still has to eat and his body will still decay.
That’s okay, as it turns out. The IET give Dave a place to relax and grow old. The scene where Dave “sees himself” getting old is a misdirect — all that’s happening is that Dave is growing old, over a period of years, and Kubrick is trying to think of an interesting way to shoot that bit of exposition. The fact that the inside of the monolith looks like some kind of postmodern French hotel suite is just the IET’s way of trying to think of something to make Dave comfortable while he grows old and dies.
Finally Dave dies and, because he’s obtained all the intelligence in the universe, he is reincarnated as the “Star-Child,” the big green fetus who is seen approaching the Earth at the end of the movie.
Now that the IET have given humanity all the knowledge in the universe, what will humanity do? Will the Star-Child do good works and teach the world to sing, or will it use its super-intelligence to wipe out all of humanity? That is, will the protagonist’s goal be reached or will it be frustrated by the antagonist’s inherent self-destructiveness?
(This, of course, assumes that the protagonist’s goal is for humanity to better itself. For all I know, the IET’s goal is to get us to wipe ourselves out so they could come and steal all our resources. That would make the monolith not an intelligence-generating machine but a homicide-generating machine.)
I predict
I predict that, in the movie that gets made about the historic 2008 presidential campaign, John McCain will be portrayed by Bill Paxton.