Distant Relatives: The Graduate and Fish Tank

Robert here w/ Distant Relatives, exploring the connections between one classic and one contemporary film.

Sedentary and Sex

So what do a rough and realistic look at poverty in London and a comedy set in the suburbs of California have in common? Well at first glance both are about the events that lead up to and follow an inappropriate relationship. For many reasons, the cinematic arts naturally drift toward stories of forbidden sex. They allow filmmakers to explore the human condition in areas that lend themselves to lack of control. They're filled with all kinds of drama and conflict. And of course sex gets people to sit and watch. But there's more to it. After all, with all of these films about forbidden sex out there, why these two that seem so different? In both The Graduate and Fish Tank, the inappropriate relationships aren't really the problem. Well, they are eventually, but initially they're just a symptom of something greater. Both films have protagonists filled with agitation, ennui, longing, and the desire to do something, anything greater than what they're doing now. And both films postulate that this puts them on the easiest possible path to seduction.

In 1967 The Graduate became a hit because as all we all know, it spoke to an entire generation. But it didn't speak to a generation because every young person in the 1960's was familiar with boinking their parent's friends. Ben Braddock, the titular character came back from school to a safe suburban existence where everyone had unique opinions on what he should be doing with his life. Yet all of these opinions came from people with lives to which he did not aspire. Benjamin's potential seemed endless yet all paths pointed to an undesirable future. Fish Tank's Mia (Katie Jarvis), although an ocean and a continent away and on the opposite spectrum of the class divide finds herself in a similar situation, however she doesn't have the benefit of unlimited prospects. At fifteen, Mia doesn't have much of a future at all. She doesn't like her mother and doesn't want to become her mother, but there doesn't seem to be too many other options. She's not one for academic pursuits and mostly dreams of being a dancer in a non-specific way.

No Someday. No Rainbow.

With Benjamin and Mia adrift, the idea of a promising future slipping further and further away, they turn their attention to the possibilities of the present. Enter someone older, desirable, representative of impulsiveness and rebellion. Both Benjamin and Mia have a need that requires filling. Love and affection? Maybe. But more so a desire to be distracted from their hopeless future, perhaps even a need to be destructive, to have some ownership over a future already in shambles by being careless and responsible for its destruction themselves.

Then there are the seducers. The Graduate's Mrs. Robinson (Anne Bancroft) is the epitome of aggressiveness. Fish Tank's Connor (Michael Fassbender) is more subtle. Then again he has to be. A movie about a fifteen year old girl being seduced by an older man has to be handled differently than a film about a male college graduate being seduced by an older woman. An aggressive Connor would have immediately upped the suspense and diminished the realism. But in both films, it doesn't take much for the deed to be done. Yet once Benjamin and Mia realize that their older suitors are still representatives of their ugly futures, they realize that they can't be a part of them. Ambiguous endings abound, though there is the sense that our protagonists have learned something. Been used to be sure, but reset onto a better path? Or do they, in the words of The Graduate director Mike Nichols "become their parents?"

If you still think the comparisons are a bit trying, consider the title of our modern film: Fish Tank. It suggest being both submerged and imprisoned at the same time. It's a clear effective metaphor, and one that The Graduate would know something about too.

 

Other Cinematic Relatives: Lolita (1962), Beau Pere (1981), Fat Girl (2001), Notes on a Scandal (2006)

Distant Relatives: Make Way For Tomorrow and Away From Her

Robert here w/ Distant Relatives, exploring the connections between one classic and one contemporary film.

Like your dear old Ma and Pa

Since it's Thanksgiving week and many of us are spending time with family, an activity that pop culture tell us should leave us mostly frustrated and annoyed, I thought I'd present an entry that might get us thinking about our parents or grandparents. It's the film Errol Morris has dubbed "the most depressing movie ever made, providing reassurance that everything will definitely end badly" and one if its close descendants. Films about aging people are a rare breed. Hollywood doesn't much care for stories about anyone over the age of thirty-five. When on rare occassion it does, they're almost definitely stories about "old people" whose defining characteristic is that they're old. If they're romances, they're about old people coming together and finding love. There's a cute "even grandma can fall in love" sentiment to it that presents a happy ending. Nobody likes movies with sad endings.
 
Away From Her tells the story of Grant and Fiona (Gordon Pinsent and Julie Christie), a metropolitan couple, many years into a rocky though ultimately happy marraige. When Fiona is diagonised with Alzheimer's, their active and cultured existence is traded for one of long parting, nursing home visits, and the promise of a long hard trip into a black hole with no light on the other side. Make Way For Tomorrow follows Barkley and Lucy Cooper (Victor Moore and Beulah Bondi) an elderly couple who are split up to live among different children when their home is forclosed on. After time, their presence becomes a nuisance in their childrens' homes and their residences are jumbled again, Barkley all the way to California, Lucy to a retirement home, but not until they spend one final romantic afternoon together. And if that summary doesn't break your heart into a thousand little pieces, you should see the movies.

Such sweet sorrow

While it's understandable that no one want's to make a film about the end of a relationship at the end of life, it's interesting how much more effective it is than standard industry fare. The couples in Away From Her and Make Way For Tomorrow have real weight behind their relationships. They have a history and it shows. In movies where a young boy meets a young girl, there's no weight of time. The act in love has to be presented not as a process but as a moment, one that's magical but ethereal. But when boy loses girl, it doesn't always feel like that big of a deal. When Grant and Fiona and Barkley and Lucy lose each other, it really hurts. Tellingly, in both films, our characters present a positive attitude, though clearly it's a front. They talk often of how things turned out okay, or will, or could. They talk about how their situations are manageable, when they know better. In moments of honesty they find themselves hurt yet composed. Fiona tells Grant that if he doesn't go agreeably she may cry so hard she never stops. When told by her granddaughter to "face facts" Lucy explains that the only joy she gets anymore is pretending there aren't any facts to face.
 
Portraying them as dignified against insurmountable odds, you might get the idea that these films sentimentalize their characters of a certain age. You'd be wrong. All four of these people are flawed. Fiona is perhaps a bit too eager to transition to the nursing home against Grant's wishes, Grant too ambivalent toward the hurt he's caused Fiona in the past. Barkley is too much of a push-over, and Lucy pesters her children and granddaughter more that she should when she lives with them. It's true. You probably wouldn't want to live with her either. And while the film could easily paint the younger generation as villainous, it portrays a reality more complex than that.
 
It's fascinating that Away From Her feels no need to introduce children into the equation, where the children in Make Way For Tomorrow play a significant role. It's almost as if Make Way For Tomorrow is saying "these could be your parents one day," while Away From Her is saying "this could be you one day." Both films start their characters on the path to an unhappy ending, but avoid ending on any puncutation as definite or cliched as a death. Both films end on an elipses. You could infer a "be thankful for what you've got while you've got it" message, and indeed the lovers in these films are genuinely happy in each other's company until they're parted. But finding any such silver lining, any joyousness to take away from the experience would be futile. These are two brilliant films about how everything will definitely end badly. No wonder Hollywood doesn't make them like this.

 
Other Cinematic Relatives: Tokyo Story (1953), On Golden Pond (1981), Iris (2001)

Distant Relatives: Five Easy Pieces & Greenberg

Robert here with Distant Relatives, which explores the connections between one classic and one contemporary film.

Growing up is Hard to Do
Hollywood has always been interested in man-children, and they've gone through a variety of manifestations through the years. During the silent era they were innocent clowns filled with the insecurities and curiosities of children. During the age of the screwball comedy they were flailing baffoons unable to compete with their strong professional female counterparts. In the 1950's they were dark brooding rebels looking for causes and that lead the way to the serious sixties, where young men were similarly angry (though lighter on the melodrama, heaver on the realism) painted as victims of a combination of social indifference and their own unambitions. Though if you called them "victims" to their faces, they'd probably punch yours. This contingent was fronted from Britian by the likes of Finney and Harris but soon found plenty of eager representatives in the US, not the least of whom was snide, sarcastic, and so-damn-cool Jack Nicholson. In Five Easy Pieces, Nicholson plays Bobby Dupea, a man meandering through life, trailed by the shadow of his lost potential, trying to understand who he is as adulthood passes him by.

 Almost forty years later, Ben Stiller, a man who has made his living playing the goofiest kind of man-child plays the dark and cynical Roger Greenberg, a man also trying to figure out his life in the face of shattered potential. He has a lot in common with Bobby Dupea. In both cases, the impetus for our characters' confrontations with their immaturities comes in the form of a move. But while they're both going west, they're actually heading in two different directions. Bobby is going to his family's house in Seattle, where his person will be juxtaposed against their culture and civility. Even if we want Bobby to get his act together and take his place in the world of his family, we feel as out of place there as he does. Roger meanwhile has just moved to Los Angeles where his cynicism is juxtaposed against an even greater immaturity; immaturity as an accepted state of Nirvana. He asks while at a child's birthday party "Why are all the grown men dressed like kids and all the kids dressed like super heroes?" It's a beautiful symbol for a world in which dreaming for great power and great responsibility evolveds into longing for no power and no responsibility.

 

As much as a misanthrope as Greenberg is, we feel for him at times, if only because we get to experience the horrors of L.A. through him. [more after the jump]

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Distant Relatives: Citizen Kane and The Social Network

Robert here with my series Distant Relatives, which explores the connections between one classic and one contemporary film. This week a request from Ryan M. Feel free to make your own requests in the comments.

 

Tell me how you remember it

Last year I compared Citizen Kane and There Will Be Blood as two films about the consequences of achieving the American Dream. Later I compared The Social Network with Raging Bull as two character studies of antisocial overachievers. But all four of these films belong to a sizable sub-genre, the drama about a man who gets everything he wants and nothing he needs. Of the four, the two that go together most closely are Citizen Kane and The Social Network. Citizen Kane, written, directed by and starring Orson Welles as Charles Foster Kane, a newspaper magnate (and fictionalized version of William Randolph Hearst) follows the life of this giant, his friends, his marriages, his successes and failures, his ascension and fall. The Social Network stars Jesse Eisenberg as Mark Zuckerberg (a fictionalized version of Mark Zuckerberg) as he too rises to great heights and how this affects his friendships, relationships and life.

The natural comparisons are obvious. Both are films about men who set out to do something great, accomplish it, and lose something even greater in the process. They're films about how lonely it is at the top. But, with many films in this mold, the devil is in the details. Structurally the two are centrally related. Neither of them has a single narrator, nor do they have necessarily reliable narrators. Both are told in flashback in mostly but not always chronological order. Both stories are told by individuals attempting to answer a question after the fact. In Citizen Kane the question is the meaning of Kane's last words "rosebud" for a news story. In The Social Network, the question is Zuckerberg's intent to steal the idea of Facebook and force out his partner for the sake of a lawsuit. Now we come to our first juxtaposition of the good old days against the new. But it hardly matters. The point is the device which gives a sense of immediacy and relevance to things already past.

Love and Money

Both of these films are certainly about immediacy. These two men make their living not through oil or sport or some old established profession but through media, new media. They influence the world they control and control the world they influence. In their work they shape public opinion, yet ultimately they cannot find a way to shape it in thier favor. There's an irony to the fact that their talents have won them extensive influence, but that extensive influence cannot convince anyone to love them. And love, and acceptance are what these two men are truly after. Kane's friend Jed Leland says as much, that what he really wanted was to be loved. Zuckerberg too demonstrates his desires through his continual search for approval from Erica, the girl who got away. And perhaps it's just a slight bit of spite toward the Winklevoss twins, members of the crew team, the epitome of Erica's "type' in a mere throwaway comment, that motivates Zuckerberg to be the jerk that he becomes. Much in the same way Kane's initial pure intentions are tainted every so obviously by the way the newspaper business allows him to expose and punish his foster father.
 
Yet we've barely scratched the surface of these two films. Within these worlds there are also smaller tales of ego-driven misogyny, domination over and objectification of women, of friendships terminated with a termination, of defiance in the arms of authority, of paths never taken. That last one may be a key too. To many, the most memorable moment in Citizen Kane doesn't involve its star at all. It comes in a brief monologue by Everitt Sloane's Mr. Berenstein who speaks of a pretty girl with a parasol he saw once and has never forgotten. These are films about memories, the remembered lives of men who build empires to compensate for the shadows of their pasts. And those pasts are forged by regret of actions not taken or actions not possible (like Mr. Berenstein's lost girl), and the desire to rise above them, take control of a life and become a giant. Citizen Kane and The Social Network are films about men who are giants who can't escape the small truths of their lifes.

Other Cinematic Relatives: Giant (1956), The Godfather part II (1974), The Aviator (2004), There Will Be Blood (2007),

Distant Relatives: 8½ and Synecdoche, New York

Robert here w/ Distant Relatives, exploring the connections between one classic and one contemporary film.

Portrait of the Artist as a Confused Man

Perhaps the idea of a filmmaker making a film about himself, his fears, his hopes, his life, is inherently self-indulgent. It's hard to argue otherwise though self-portraits have always been a staple of art. Perhaps Da Vinci and Rembrandt were self-indulgent too. Still, something about the self portraits is so necessary. Someone has to explore the life of the artist. Biopics, whether celebratory or critical, are often too structured and viewed from outside looking in. Only autobiographies allow the filmmaker the ability to really explore their internal rot. The cinema this creates may not always be compelling but it always feels essential. Federico Fellini's career is saturated in self-exploration, from the continual casting of his wife Giulietta Masina (La Strada, Nights of Cabiria, Juliet of the Spirits), to his reminiscence on his childhood (Amarcord) to his contemplation on the de-evolution of social ascencion (La Dolce Vita). Fellini's career is a tribute to himself, and never more than in 8½, a film so self-referential that its title is devised from the number of films Fellini had made to that point. It is his eighth and a half. Charlie Kaufman's career too is filled with expressions of his own desires and anxieties. He sees his life as that of the impotent artist, and they appear throughout his films in one form or another. The fact that Kaufman had already written a film, Adaptation that featured himself as the lead character (writing a film that featured himself as the lead character) shouldn't detract from the fact that Synecdoche, New York's Caden Cotard is very much a Kaufman stand-in. In fact, Adaptation's use of Kaufman as character may have even freed up the real Charlie Kaufman into a more subtle (if that's possible) cypher for the later film. Adaptation feels a bit like a warm up for Synecdoche, New York with its musings on love and death and the meta-realities of art. Both titles refer to the artistic process as well (self-referentially like Fellini's). Adaptation is obvious. As many of us learned only upon the relase of the film, a "synecdoche" is a part of speech where a part of something is used to represent a whole, such as saying "threads" to mean "clothes" or "set of wheels" to mean "car." And so it is with art, the attempt to use one small story to represent some truth about the whole of existence.
 
In both films, 8 1/2 and Synecdoche, New York we begin with a misanthrope, unwell in health and heart, about to embark on the ultimate boondogle of his career, whether he knows it or not. Continue...

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