Ty Burr commented in his review of Tom Hooper’s ‘feel good’ film of the year and Oscar favorite, The King’s Speech, “this movie wallows in its royal privileges, and its superficial message is that a little kick in the pants from an Aussie speech therapist is all a king needs to connect with his subjects and lead them stalwartly through World War II (and then lose the colonies, but never mind).” This is a lovely American perspective on the film, but as Roger Ebert noted in his review of the film, “Americans aren’t always expert on British royalty,” or for that matter British culture. In fact, for the most part, Americans know very little about their former rulers. Disgusted by Britain’s supposedly arcane constitutional monarchy and buttressed by their own vibrant, pluralistic, republican democracy, Americans often throw scorn at their backward allies across the pond.
    The irony of that observation is that the monarchy’s political and economic sway in British culture pales in comparison to the ‘democratic’ American Presidency. And while two political dynasties, in the Bushs and the Kennedys, have run the show in the states for half a century, the Windsors have sat on the sidelines and had almost no political influence. They are, for all intensive purposes, apolitical beings, serving as cultural reference points and symbols of cultural continuity and fluidity rather than oppressive power hungry rulers.
    In fact, in last conversation in the film, George VI exclaims to Logue, I am a King and I have no power. He also says fuck a lot.
    This film is not about the monarchy. This film is about a man conquering his inner demons on the national stage. This film is about a human being living up to his obligation to his country. This is a film about a country that stood up to Hitler, when no one else would, not even the land of the free and the home of the brave.   

Robert Altman once remarked to Dick Cavett, “no one has ever made a good movie.” About forty years have passed since that irreverent comment, and now I believe I can amend his statement slightly, for in those forty years, at least three ‘good’ movies have been made. They are McCabe & Mrs. Miller, Nashville, and The Long Goodbye.
    The word ‘Genius’ is thrown around without much discrimination in modern times, so I try to save it for those who really stand apart from the rest. Altman most definitely deserves this distinction. In his case, by the rest, I mean all the films ever produced. I predict that in three hundred years, our descendents will still be discussing nuances of Altman’s collective work while that of Steven Spielberg and James Cameron will have been cast aside as only relevant to their generational zeitgeist. Indeed, Altman’s sheer ingenuity gives his films a timeless quality. It is probably possible to receive a new message from the above films after watching them forty times each.
      The Long Goodbye was stubbornly unappreciated upon its release. Time Magazine’s Jack Cocks idiotically stated, “Altman’s lazy, haphazard putdown is without affection or understanding … it is a curious spectacle to see Altman mocking a level of achievement to which, at his best, he could only aspire.” In fact, the reverse is true.  Elliot Gould’s portrayal of the legendary Philip Marlowe is without parallel in the private eye genre; just a year later in 1974, Roman Polanski would make a huge splash with the release of Chinatown. That splash has kept on splashing while The Long Goodbye has fallen back in relative obscurity – I think this phenomenon has more to do with an epic low point in general human history from 1980 – 2011 than has do with the actual merit of the respective films.
    Gould’s Phillip Marlowe is a far superior character to Jack Nicholson’s Jack Gittes. Indeed, whilst Gittes cloaks his lack of morality in a wrath of wit, Marlowe evidences his surplus of morality in his above-the-fray attitude. Moreover, Marlowe can be above the fray, and yet still make moral judgments on the fray.
    And, in the same way that Marlowe trounces Gittes as a character, Altman trounces Polanski as director. One only needs to view the final scene of each film in order to understand that whilst Polanski denies humans the right to agency, Altman allows humans that right. Gittes walks away from Lou Escobar like cynical coward, and Marlowe shoots Terry Lennox like a moral paladin.

There has never been any debate as to whether Terrence Malick delivered an aesthetically moving experience in his second film, Days of Heaven. However, many have struggled to answer the question, which the viewer and the critic seem obliged to ask: “what was the film about?” Or, alternatively “what was the point – moral, political, or otherwise – of the film?” And, there is reason Days of Heaven presents such a challenge in this department.
    Perhaps, Malick is implicitly asking us not to ask those questions by not providing clear or coherent answers in his film; perhaps, he is asking us to do or not to do something else. Perhaps, he is asking us to watch and listen but not to think and analyze.
    If we, as an audience, are obliged to ask the above questions, then I believe the best course of action is to listen to the narrator, Linda. We resist this task because, in our society, we refuse to listen to the youth and children; and instead, the adult population patronizes the young ad nauseum. Always sure that their age and experience equate knowledge and wisdom, adults have made a habit of inoculating the youth with their propaganda in order to solidify their outdated modes of morality and philosophy. This is why this film makes little sense to those like Harold C. Schonberg, who in 1974, pronounced, “Days of Heaven never really makes up its mind on what it wants to be.” The question presupposes that people, places, and things have to decide on an intractable identity and ignorantly ignores the transience of our existence.
    In the last line of the film, Linda epitomizes the simple yet profound wisdom of the young by stating quite matter of factly, “I was hopin’ things would work out for her. She was a good friend of mine.” I can dig that kind of goodwill.

The BBC reporter, Opal, whose “Received Pronunciation” is the most dissonant sound to come out of Robert Altman’s epic musing on America, Nashville, is the character who seems to dismay most members of the audience, but I have a particular affection for her. Growing up with listening to BBC Radio Four and BBC one, I am more familiar than most with that particular type of reporter and personality. While definitely not the spitting image of the late BBC reporter Jill Dando who was tragically shot dead in 1999, Opal does evoke that same sense of journalistic justice that Dando did at the height of her career as the presenter of Crimewatch. Indeed, it says much about Altman’s genius that in a film dedicated to examining the soul of America, he managed to create character in Opal who accurately resembles a quintessentially British institution. I have heard, both in class and in Roger Ebert’s review of Nashville, that because of Opal’s lack of visible credentials and camera crew, she is an “imposter,” a charlatan. However, the very fact that her character resonated so well with a half British citizen (me) illustrates her authenticity and legitimacy.
    As many others have observed, this film is about the characters more than the plot. By examining these characters with such commitment, Altman creates a width of narrative rather than the more normative length of narrative. What I mean by this is that unlike Robert Lee Zemeckis’ Forrest Gump, which examines the American soul primarily through one character, Forrest, in chronological narrative that spans decades, Altman dismisses ‘time’ and ‘chronology’ in Nashville and creates a community and a country that feels authentic. The result is a film that leaves you shaking and stirred.  The state, character, and history of United of America are brought to their collective knees, but don’t worry Altman loves these characters and this country and so can we.
   
   
   

In some ways, the 21st Century viewer is at a serious disadvantage when he or she comes across Roman Polanski’s supposed finest hour, Chinatown, for if that viewer had the displeasure of viewing Jack Nicholson’s less than spectacular output in 2003 (Anger Managament and Something’s Gotta Give), they are well aware that Mr. Nicholson has become a caricature of both himself and Jake Gittes. The witty and embittered character that he was first honing in 1974 has become stale and repetitive, and its recurrent manifestation on the silver screen leads one to believe that rather than acting, Nicholson has scripts written specifically for him and he reads them as he would act in any other walk of life. I am sure it is quite a pleasure not have to act and being paid millions to do so; I guess some people are just blessed.
    Even when I put my Nicholson baggage to one side, I do not like this film. I know of (but naturally could never truly understand) the tragic and traumatic events of director Roman Polanksi’s life: holocaust, murder of his second wife, Sharon Tate, by Charles Manson, and his fugitive status. So, I can empathize with his cynicism, but I still do not accept his overriding philosophy that we as individual humans do not have any agency in this world. He argues that we are simply at the mercy of fate. I accept that some of us are dealt harder hands than others, but you can still play a bad hand well. In fact, that is exactly what Polanski has done of the course of his career by producing renowned art despite his inherent disadvantages. However, I disagree with the message of his art. We do have agency, and Gittes should have shot his partner in the final scene. And, it is all very well for Polanski to critique capitalism and make his audience depressed about the state of the world, but he has been living the high life in France for last 30 odd years while some people suffer without any money or food. Mr. Nicholson and Mr. Polanski, something’s gotta give.
Nashville

Robert Altman’s anti-western, McCabe and Mrs. Miller, is nothing short of a masterpiece. The ethereal cinematography and the Leonard Cohen score sets an the tone from the opening scene, which is pointedly described by Salon.com’s Charles Taylor when he remarked “it looks like old photographs lit from within, as though the subjects had created a sort of afterlife by finding a way to project their essence onto the film.” This “afterlife” then takes on an almost timeless quality, as it does not bare a particular resemblance to the historical time period it purports to depict. Furthermore, its feminist and ironic critique of capitalist oppression is both effective and humorous. However, for me, it is the purity and honesty of the dialogue that take the cake; it as if every character, except of course the agents from the Harrison Shaughnessy, are speaking in candid and lucid way. Indeed, it is almost as if every sentence that comes character’s mouth is a double-entendre of sorts. These lines, often delivered with rare aplomb by Warren Beatty and Julie Christie, reveal the innermost essence of the characters on screen in way that gives them a rare and profound authenticity.
    As is often the case with a masterpiece, it is hard to fully analyze and react to this film. All I will say is bravo! Bravo!

In Sam Green and Bill Siegel’s documentary, Weather Underground, it is not the mythical organization, the acts of violence, or the moral efficacy of the group’s actions, which take center stage. Instead, it is the personalities - Bill Ayes, Mark Rudd, Brian Flannagan, and David Gilbert - who take that stage. Interestingly many of these weathermen and weatherwomen are still active in various political and cultural circles in the United States (with exception of Flannagan.) Despite convincing performances from those mentioned above, it is Bernardine Dohrn, in particular, who steals the show. Both the youthful good looks of her seventies’ image as well as her forlorn and depressed modern persona leave one wondering what exactly is this women’s essence? From where does her radical commitment to social justice through radical action come, and how does it still prevail despite her current lack of active radical involvement? An upper-middle class girl from a suburb of Milwaukee who excelled at the University of Chicago, who then ran the most radical, leftist, ‘white’ revolutionary group in modern times. So, Dohrn is fundamental product of the establishment but has made a living of trying to tear it down. 
    Her later history is much more fascinating to me than her earlier work with the Weather Underground. She comes out of hiding and decides to work for Sidley Austin, the sixth largest corporate law firm in the world, and then goes on to use her contacts at Austin to gain a job on the faculty at University of Illinois Law. It is not that I object to using your privilege as a mechanism to gain power in the establishment in order to affect change, but her reason for leaving the Weather Underground was her commitment to her children does not hold now. They have grown up, but Dohrn continues to ‘palling around’ with the establishment in Hyde Park, which is all well and fine. However, I do not see how she can maintain her commitment to radicalism while she profits from the capitalist establishment. In this vein, I urge her to challenge Senator Dick Durbun in Illinois Democratic Primary in 2012!

Milos Forman’s adaptation of Hair is most notable for the year in which it was released: 1979. In his 1979 State of the Union speech to Congress, President Jimmy Carter opined “we cannot resort to simplistic or extreme solutions which substitute myths for common sense.” From the vantage point of the late seventies, the late sixties seemed to be such a time of “simplistic” and “extreme” solutions to the political, cultural, and social problems that the United States faced. Indeed, this cynical perspective of the popular movements for social justice, which pervaded Forman’s adaptation of Hair, irked the original authors of the play, James Rado and Gerome Ragni who remarked that “any resemblance between the 1979 film and the original Biltmore version, other than some of the songs, the names of the characters, and a common title, eludes us.” They were particularly perturbed by the film’s characterization of hippies as “oddballs,” for this characterization belies the hippie movement’s connection to the wider peace movement. And while Hair is a pleasure for the auditory and visual senses, I would have to agree with the sentiments of Rado and Ragni.
    By portraying the sincere spiritual and political struggle of the hippies as some ‘cheesy’ feel good acid trip, Forman frames the movement in cartoonish and tragic terms. In some sense, the ironic twist at the end of the film in which Berger is mistaken for Claude symbolizes the supposed failure of the hippie movement to end the war in Vietnam. However, Forman’s metaphor seems to have a short memory, the war ended in 1975.  Furthermore, the legacy of the hippies has had extraordinary effect on future generations; they have served as example of what is possible if one takes the risk that future can be more just, loving, and happier than present and the past. And for that, I am truly grateful.