Hollywood's Severe Disconnect In This Economy

I like to think that films may be judged solely on their merits, within the four corners of the screen without reference to externalities. Seldom, however, is a film wholly separated from its place in history. History is often an interesting sideshow for films, and current events surrounding a film's release can make or break films that are objectively good (or bad, for that matter). 

Examples include Donnie Darko, which came out in late 2001 but never saw wide theatrical release in the U.S. due to its story involving a plane crash and 9/11 still an open wound on Americans.  Just a few years before that, The Boondock Saints suffered the same fate, as a story with two men dressed in black coats toting guns and wrath was not seen as commercially viable after two kids in black coats murdered over a dozen students at Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado. Both films went on to achieve cult status, commercial success on home video, and eventually mainstream acceptance (though I personally have no love for The Boondock Saints anymore).

But these examples--and the most interesting stories of such cinematic history--arose from unforeseen circumstances.  In short, bad timing.  Recently, however, some films are revealing a severe disconnect between Hollywood and the rest of America. It is the result of a failure to recognized and acknowledge the times we live in.

One of last year's flops, one that flopped so bad I would not have heard of it but for its appearance on Netflix in recent months, was Take Me Home Tonight. The comedy, set in 1988, features Topher Grace playing a recent MIT graduate who cannot figure out what to do with his life, so he passes his days working the counter at Suncoast Video. A night of craziness and 80s cliches follows, completely void of the charm of the quintessential 80s-throwback comedy The Wedding Singer. It culminates with a cliche moral. (It has its moments, but they are few and far between.)

A comedy released this month, American Reunion, appears to be barely inching toward profitability after a month in theaters. This is, of course, the fourth installment in the American Pie series. Each of the original players returns for this, and each of the main characters is suffering from the going-on-30-middle-class-blues. They have jobs (with one exception), relationships, responsibilities, and boy does it stink compared to the carefree days of high school.

In fairness, Take Me Home Tonight was produced in 2007 and sat on the shelves for years before it was finally released. But the timing of its release was still imprudent. It's difficult to expect much of anything out of the American Pie series: it was born a gross-out comedy with a modicum of heart and remains there, now competing with series like The Hangover that make the original American Pie installments seem tame. 

Nevertheless, the disconnect behind these films kills them: history is not their friend.  It stems from the fact that the problems of the characters in both of these movies are problems a huge number of Americans can't currently relate to: ennui and middle class angst are the problems many Americans long to face, or long to face again. 

For young college grads--perhaps not quite from MIT but from many other highly regarded schools--working at a Suncoast Video (or the remaining FYE stores) is not a symptom of killing time or not living up to potential: it's all that's available. Even most slightly older Americans approaching their 10- (or 13-) year high school reunion are not basking in the mundane drudgery of the workplace: if they are employed, they're very thankful to have a job, benefits, and perhaps the chance to advance. Even then, the future's not looking so bright. American Reunion's characters are no longer in the 1990s, or even pre-2008, so how did their problems stay there?

One might counter that escapism is what it's all about. Indeed, since we might miss the carefree days of the late 1980s and its excellent economy (with exceptions), that's all Take Me Home Tonight is going for. Likewise, one could see the ennui addressed in American Reunion as a place we'd all like to be, and not bitterly at that. But ultimately I don't think that works: while we can easily suspend disbelief for fictional alternate realities like The Hunger Games (still going strong at the box office, with one friend of mine having seen it almost a half dozen times), being reminded again and again that yesterday's problems of the American middle class are looking strangely aristocratic is not going to win over audiences. It really hasn't: they're not even showing up to watch.


Hollywood fell on hard times even before this economy. When the best audiences can hope for in the mainstream is a decent remake or a semi-faithful adaptation of a tried-and-true comic book, it should come as no surprise that comedies can't seem to find anything new to work with. So, perhaps it falls to the independents to deliver something fresh and funny: given the earnestness of our economic calamity, it's actually ripe for a good laugh.

The Hunger Games: Who needs substance, anyway?

One cannot escape hearing about The Hunger Games any more than one could escape The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo ten minutes ago, the Harry Potter franchise before that and The Da Vinci Code before that. The Hunger Games broke box office records this weekend and the book it's based on remains #1 across the board on Amazon at the time of this writing. It's certainly making a lot of people a whole lot of money, and more power to them.

But what's all the hype about? Beats me, frankly.

Sometimes movies are just supposed to be fun and don't need a message to be enjoyable. I get it. Seriously. But The Hunger Games masquerades as a film that does, in fact, have a message. If not deliberately written that way, that's certainly the opinion of popular culture. And it does indeed have one, it's just dangerously shallow, or at best incomplete. (I cannot opine on quality of the film's adaptation of The Hunger Games novel since I have not and do not intend to read it, but this saves me the risk of superimposing messages that might be in the book into the film. The film is an adaptation of--not a supplement to--the book, so it must stand on its own merits.)

You probably know the plot, and it really is that simple. In a bad future, the world (or country, whatever) is divided into 12 districts. Each district must offer up a yearly sacrifice of one adolescent male and one adolescent female to duke it out against each other and the kids from other districts in a winner-take-all battle royale (oops) to the death. This is broadcast to the populace. It's called the Hunger Games, and despite that not making a whole lot of sense I do have to admit it sounds pretty cool.

The purpose of these Hunger Games is, to put it mildly, ridiculous: the districts rebelled around 74 years prior, and the games are an eternal punishment and reminder to the districts of the futility of standing up to the Man. As dictator-for-life (?) President Snow (played to a tee by Donald Sutherland) informs "game master" Seneca Crane (Wes Bentley), the games are meant instill fear, with only the smallest batch of hope, because too much hope will override the people's fear of government. (Deep.)

Although this has somehow worked for 74 years, this time one Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence), from the poor backwater District 12, has brought not only A-game bow and arrow skills to the games, but virtue and appeal that somehow wakes up the rage of the populace by bringing sudden awareness to the fact that they are sacrificing their children to the government.

This political backlash is only a sideshow: the focus of The Hunger Games is on the actual Hunger Games and the toils of teenagers being forced to survive by killing one another off. The acting is excellent, as are the makeup and special effects, and the action is exciting. But the heroism of Katniss Everdeen (a name that remains very hard to say with a straight face) is not how well she plays the game without succumbing to beastly human nature, but how she sticks it to the Man and turns the Hunger Games on its head. This just happens, without us knowing exactly how she's accomplishing this (read: why no one figured out the problem of the Hunger Games before) or what change she intends to bring.

To be sure, tyranny is tyranny; sic semper tyrannis and all that. Tyrannical governments like those in The Hunger Games are evil and should be overthrown. But it begs the question: what do we replace them with? What ideals and virtues would young Katniss (and whoever else might support her) seek to instill in the new regime besides, well, other better stuff?

This is not only a necessary question, it's one of the most important questions to mankind: how shall we be governed? To make a film that illustrates how bad things can get with government is fine, and it's a noble thing to promote the destruction of such regimes, but it seems an oh-so-unimportant afterthought to ensure the protagonist will not set up a government that is just as bad, or worse.

Again, I'm not against fun films (bah humbug), and The Hunger Games did not need to add to its 2 1/2 hour running time with a discourse on natural rights (though Woody Harrelson would have been one to deliver it), but I'm concerned that its empty Fight-the-Power grandstanding reinforces for American teens (and far too many adults) that they are to be guided merely by their own consciences with no need for study, dialogue or reflection. Basically, when you're right, you're right, and you're right!

Sci-fi has done far better. There is no better example than Norman Jewison's Rollerball (1975). (Not to be confused with the horrible, horrible remake.)

While the Hunger Games are meant merely to instill fear, the game of rollerball was designed as propaganda to reinforce the very structure of a tyrannical state. As the insidious Mr. Bartholomew, John Houseman describes this regime succinctly:

So now we have the majors and their executives. Transport, Food, Communication, Housing, Luxury, Energy. A few of us making decisions on a global basis for the common good. The [rollerball] team is a unit. It plays with certain rhythms. So does an executive team, Jonathan. Now everyone has all the comforts, you know that. No poverty, no sickness. No needs and many luxuries, which you enjoy just as if you were in the executive class. Corporate society takes care of everything. And all it asks of anyone, all it has ever asked of anyone ever, is not to interfere with management decisions.

Another dastardly conversation illustrates just why Jonathan E (James Caan), an expert rollerball veteran, threatens the regime by staying in the game instead of retiring:

No player is greater than the game itself. It's a significant game in a number of ways.The velocities of the ball, the awful physics of the track. And in the middle of it all, men playing by an odd set of rules. It's not a game a man is supposed to grow strong in, Jonathan.

The absolute authority of the collective over the individual (although, not so ironically, governed by but a few individuals)? Now that's some serious business.

And, so, the triumph of Jonathan E far far surpasses that of Katniss:


And, yes, today's soundtracks don't hold a candle to Bach.

Movies I Should Loathe, but Instead Love: Predator 2

It takes a lot to follow up The Wraith. 

(It's way old news by now, but I thought it quite prescient that I would cover Charlie Sheen's most awesomest (if not best) movie a whole two months before he went batpoop crazy.)

But, yes, there are others. Movies I should loathe, but love. I'm a man of refined cinematic tastes: Blade Runner, Rear Window, Ikiru... but then there are some. These films I cannot objectively defend to anyone. Yet, on the 17th viewing along with some special friends (read: cocktails), I enjoy them nearly as much as the Scotts, Hitchcocks and Kurosawas. Am I slumming it? Perhaps. Or maybe there's some redeeming qualities. We shall see.

Predator 2
(That's right-- Two.)"Don't hate."

Do we have to include another reference (this time specifically!) to the defunct (or at least re-formatted) WXYZ TV-20 in Detroit? Where else was I going to see Predator 2 as a wee eighth grader in all its edited-for-content glory? Does this mean every movie I should loathe, but love, has some Rosebud-like tie to my childhood? What's next, Red Dawn? Maybe so, friends, maybe so.

Predator 2 is not just bad, it's a pretty darn terrible follow-up to John McTiernan's classic action/sci-fi of the mid Ahnold Renaissance period (for those keeping record: this begins with Conan the Barbarian (1982) and ends with True Lies (1994)). I don't necessarily know what the filmmakers were thinking, but the marketing department definitely biffed when they decided to introduce the trailer with short clips (however brief) from the original:

Talk about setting yourself up for disaster. I mean, I realize director Stephen Hopkins was hot off his timeless cinematic jewel Nightmare on Elm Street: The Dream Child, but you think they might have just considered tempering the audience a bit.

Anyway, where to start? Well, perhaps with the bad, or the worst, part about Predator 2: it's based off of a comic book. No, there's nothing wrong with this at all, but for the fact that the comic book was better in every way. All that ended up making the transition was the Desert Eagle pistol and this manly pose:

Okay, that's not entirely accurate, but if it comes between seeing Predator 2 and reading the first run of Predator Dark Horse Comics (available in full-color trade paperback!), go with the latter.

Did I say I love this movie? Well, I do. Bear with me.

The plot, in brief: Predator, or, well, another Predator has come to Earth to hunt. This time, instead of the jungle, he's chosen the hot, sweltering Los Angeles metropolitan area, in the dark future of... 1997. Things aren't pretty in the future: drugs rule the west coast, and the cops just can't hold off the gangs and cartels. And what are they to make of this sudden crazy rather invisible killa who's suddenly offing these gangstas like it's going out of style?

Enter Danny Glover. That's right, hot off of two Lethal Weapon installments (playing the straight-shootin' cop who's "gettin' too old for this [poop]") and serious fare like the American Playhouse production of A Raisin in the Sun, Danny's agent thought it would be a good idea to try and be an action star. Well, you know what? B- for effort, and following up Arnold that's not too shabby. Danny, as the rebellious Lt. Mike Harrigan, doesn't take no for an answer, or any answer for that matter: he's now in the Mel Gibson role of Lethal Weapon, but instead of funny, he's 100% t.u.f.f.

And it's not just the Predator he's got to face down. Hey, speaking of Lethal Weapon, look who's also back!

"Infa. Red." Two words.

Mr. Gary Busey. As Peter Keyes, he leads a group of nefarious federal agents, and he's not only out to trap the Predator and get all his technological goods, but--far worse--is willing to tramp on Harrigan's turf to do it! As this is the oldest conflict known to all Hollywood fare featuring law enforcement, you know what's up: these dudes will not be getting along anytime soon.

The film's first half is investigative, with Harrigan basically figuring out all the same stuff that Arnold had to figure out in the first one:

1. Predator hunts people for sport.
2. Predator only hunts people who are armed.
3. Predator likes to find someone to stalk in a creepy fashion, kind of like a role model... wait, what?

Well, that last one does happen, and it's a bit weird, especially since it serves nothing in the plot save for establishing, again, the same juvenile honor code that came through in the first.

But enough of that! Once Harrigan and Keyes meet up at the mid-point, it's an hour-long game of cat-and-mouse with the Predator, that really does make the film.

Is it time for another tangent? I think so! What is it about even certain well-budgeted Hollywood films of the '80s and '90s that tried to get away with being set "in the future" by upping a few props? Unlike, say, Blade Runner (how many references can I fit into one post? Oh, many, friends), which admittedly bankrupted a few companies and municipalities (yes, I jest) to make a fully textured dark future, it seems like the audience is supposed to just focus in on the "futuristic" mis en scene while ignoring the fact that everyone is driving 1990 model Chevrolets:

Yup.

Anyway, the whole future aspect of the film really only ends up being there to include some nifty gadgets to figure out... well, no, foreshadow, that the Predator is not of this world. So, perhaps the lack of effort is forgivable.

But oh, that chase sequence! Building to building, hand-to-hand, mano a mano! Harrigan is angry, and he's out for justice, revenge, and everything in between!

Whew!

I feel like I've been too negative in this review, or perhaps too sarcastic. Indeed, there are other bright spots that I won't delve too much into: the movie also stars Bill Paxton and has a bit part for Adam Baldwin. The special effects are quite passable for the Predator himself and still hold up over time. The score is ported over from the first film, and that's solidly memorable. And... oh, come on, who can forget King Willie?

"I don't know who he is, but I know where he is: dee udder side."

Say what you want about Predator, it's King Willie who's going to scare the kids. Doing his creepy voodoo bone-rolling. I, for one, as an impressionable 13-year-old, was quite pleased to see Predator show up and off this drug-pushing dude, believe you me.

So, there it is, Predator 2. I love it. For no good reason at all.

In closing, for anyone who thinks I should be watching bona fide Christmas fare like, say, Die Hard, go ahead and re-watch that trailer above. When did Predator 2 come out? I rest my case.

On Netflixification

I read an article not too long ago-- but long enough ago that I cannot remember where and thus cannot provide a link (or remember anything quotable to retrieve it from the Google)-- that tried to make Netflix out to be a cultural problem. Basically, the gist of the argument was that because Netflix's streaming offerings are largely made up of junk that's either been long forgotten or quite quickly forgotten after a not-so-successful theatrical run, people are watching more junk instead of cinematic morsels. The author also threw in the dangers of having Netflix as our cultural feeder, or big brother deciding what we're going to watch. Finally, I believe the article ended with a tear about this is somehow hindering connoisseurs from digging up early '90s experimental films with someone crying in the wrong end of a saxophone as the soundtrack.

To this, I say: hogwash.

I'm certainly sympathetic to complaints about Netflix's recent service hiccups (i.e., the big price increase for DVD/BluRay rentals and its abandoned move to separating streaming and mail service, both resulting in a noticeable loss of customers), but the author flailed from the outset, and failed entirely to see the other side of the coin.

Although the streaming offerings have a long way to go to match Netflix's disc-by-mail offerings (which, by the way, I still happily pay for, plus extra to get BluRay discs), the streaming offerings are still among many options. Instead of working through 50-100+ channels, it's on-demand. And it's great. So, while I agree that far too many people went "Ooo" when they saw The Siege or A Knight's Tale pop up on the "New Movies to Watch Instantly" line this weekend, isn't this nevertheless miles ahead of basic cable, which kept both of these movies alive for years and arguably drew more viewers because the only other offerings were, well, basic cable?

But it's the options themselves that are the clincher: Netflix streaming is growing in quality, and the alternatives to Bruce Willis on autopilot are already many. The other week a friend asked for a list of good movies on Netflix streaming, and I was quickly able to come up with quite a long one-- long enough to know there were things he definitely had not seen.

For serious: Whit Stillman's Metropolitan is now streaming on Netflix. Why are you reading my blog when you could be watching this?

But why limit the joy to my friend? Here's the list, trimmed down to 25:

1.) Downfall (2004)

2.) Chinatown (1974)

3.) The Thing (1982)

4.) Trainspotting (1996)

5.) The Lost Boys (1987)

6.) This is Spinal Tap (1984)
7.) The Way Back (2010)

8.) Escape from New York (1981)

9.) La Femme Nikita (1991)

10.) The Last Emperor (1987)

11.) Mad Max (1979)

12.) To Live and Die in L.A. (1985)

13.) Chariots of Fire (1981)

14.) 21 Grams (2003)

15.) Lust, Caution (2007)

16.) Metropolitan (1990)

17.) A Man for All Seasons (1966)

18.) Kagemusha (1980)

19.) Doctor Zhivago (1965)

20.) Nowhere in Africa (2001)

21.) The Twilight Samurai (2002)

22.) The Long Good Friday (1980)

23.) The Kid Stays in the Picture (2002)

24.) Zero Effect (2002)

25.) 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days (2007)

And this is just feature films. I cannot begin to praise what Netflix has done with current and past television: the first season of Upstairs/Downstairs (1971) is streaming right now, as is more recent (and excellent) fare like the first four seasons of Mad Men.

Like all things Netflix streaming, the availability of these movies is not guaranteed to last, but I've confirmed that they're all still up there at the time of this posting.

Perhaps a lot of this is being lost amidst all the junk that's available on streaming but, again, these distractions are nothing worse than what they always were. The fact remains that for about 10 bucks a month (on top of internet and/or phone service) one can now stream excellent films on demand right to one's home. No fighting over the only copy at the library/video store. No worries about risking your Criterion copy as a loner disc. There's still room for improvement, but Netflixification is as right as entertainment gets.

(It's also worth noting that for the uber independent types, that's what YouTube is for.)

Ryan Gosling, the Meditative Visage, and "Drive"

I wanted to like Drive. I still want to like Drive. I just don't see it working out.

There is a certain timelessness about films featuring a nameless driver. Clive Owen broke into American films in large part because of his role as the Driver, or "The Hire," in the BMW Films, a series of short films released almost a decade ago. (My favorites are Guy Ritchie's and Tony Scott's, both of which make very creative use of pop stars as actors.) Even just providing a good car chase with a named driver (or drivers)--as seen in Bullitt (1968), The French Connection (1971), Ronin (1998), and Gone in 60 Seconds (and this is one of the few films where I appreciate the original and the remake)--can make an otherwise decent film iconic.

Drive features two great car chases, with Ryan Gosling's nameless driver at the wheel. Both of these chases win points for realism and the second sets a new bar for intensity. Especially with accurate use of sound (namely, making it cringingly loud when it needs to be), director Nicolas Refn achieves energy that even the back-and-forth of machine guns (even rocket launchers) in Ronin cannot match.

This does not just apply to the car chases. The first gunshots that ring out in Drive are, with theater surround sound, as loud as real gunshots. Sound also defines what I really loved about Drive, namely its score by Cliff Martinez and soundtrack including electronic artists Kavinsky and College. Featuring a distinctly '80s font in the title sequence along with Kavinsky's "Nightcall" is an effective homage to the work of Michael Mann and William Friedkin: as a fanboy of both (especially To Live and Die in LA and Manhunter), of course I loved this.

But remember what I said about making an otherwise decent film iconic with a good car chase? Well, it's the "otherwise decent" part that's missing here.

It took me awhile to warm up to Ryan Gosling, namely because of an independent film called The United States of Leland from 2003. Admittedly, looking down his filmography on IMDb I have not seen many of his films other than largely forgettable (dues-paying?) fare like Murder by Numbers (2002). This does not mean I don't respect him: he was outstanding Crazy, Stupid, Love earlier this summer. His talent, though, does not include what I call "the meditative visage."

In my last post I gave credit to George Clooney at the closing of Michael Clayton. In that scene we're privy to a man absorbing all he's just been through (including an attempt on his life) for a good few minutes of silence (with a score behind it, of course). And it works. In one of my favorite movies that I don't watch often enough, The Limey, Terence Stamp spends much of the movie in silence, the look on his face conveying a character carrying too much remorse, guilt, and other baggage. The audience shares it with him. Sofia Coppola is regarded (or should be) as the master director of the meditative visage: she treated us to ensembles Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson in Lost in Translation and, more recently, Stephen Dorff and Elle Fanning in Somewhere. The characters in these films keep silence individually and with one another, and not only keep our attention but further evoke our sympathy, empathy and--somehow--understanding.

Gosling tries this in Drive, along with his sort-of love interest Irene, played by Carey Mulligan. To borrow a phrase, it's like watching paint dry. Gosling is a mysterious driver who's looking for more out of life. Irene got pregnant at a young age by a recently released convict who she does not love. That's. About. It. It's laughable and boring to watch these two stare at one another with somewhat-but-not-quite longing, and it happens again and again in far too many scenes. It doesn't look like they're carrying anything more than the desire to not start cracking up in front of the camera.

I don't remember much about United States of Leland other than far-too-long shots steadied on Gosling's face as he thinks things over. If this is only the second time Gosling has taken a shot at meditative vision, fine, but to me he's run out of ammo. He can do better than this--as can Carey Mulligan.

Much like character studies, what works and what doesn't is not going to be set apart by a formula, and that's why film making is more art than engineering. But if one is going to look for examples for pulling off meditative vision, Drive is one that screams what not to do.

Feel-Good End Credits

They don't make them like this very often. Alas.



The Last Days of Disco (1998). Director Whit Stillman said goodbye to film making for for 13 years, and he could not have done it better.



The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension (1984). We're still waiting for that much-anticipated sequel that's mentioned here, but given the way it's wrapped up all is forgiven.



Ferris Bueller's Day Off (1986). Poor Rooney. Almost.

Honorable Mention: Michael Clayton (2007). Alas, the only good YouTube capture I could find was disabled from embedding, but is available here. Not exactly feel-good per se, but pretty darn moving, even understanding George Clooney's pretentiousness.

Love / Hate Character Studies

An individual character study is a difficult cinematic feat. Especially when facing an American audience, directors seldom have a prayer of pleasing both moviegoers and mainstream critics. The result is often polarized, and that's not going to do directors any favors come awards season.

The right ensemble piece can be almost as magical as an individual character study: so it goes with standouts like Whit Stillman's Metropolitan, Kevin Smith's Clerks, and even (I daresay) Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs. (It's worth noting that all of these are independent films.) Given that just about any movie with more than one recognizable character could be called an "ensemble," I should clarify that my definition should only encompass character-driven stories. That definition is still more broad than I'd like, but it should keep Independence Day and Transformers out, which is about all I'm concerned with. Despite the effort required for a good ensemble piece, an individual character study--whether running 90 minutes or a 2+ hours--is far trickier, and often turns out flawed.

Americans played little or no part in crafting early cinematic character studies. We loved our epics, and we loved our ensembles, and no one thought better of it until the 1970s. By then, Kurosawa's Ikiru (a still from which adorns the upper left corner of this blog) was almost two decades old, and French New Wave was away to the races with everything from The 400 Blows to Le Samourai.

The '70s set the standard for America, a high bar that I personally haven't seen reached since. I've posted previously about Dude (not to be confused with Bro)-films, and two of these might fit the bill for character studies: High Fidelity and About Schmidt, mostly the latter. But even a good chunk of Warren Schmidt's journey is driven more by events in his life, not deliberate introspection or meandering. We leave that to one of Jack Nicholson's early defining performances in Bob Rafelson's Five Easy Pieces. (Oddly enough, a bright shining star in the career of a director who otherwise did little but help Nicholson pay for the Learjet.)

What makes Five Easy Pieces work? To be frank: beats the heck outta me. But comparing it to a similar and more recent film, Greenberg, helps to clear it up.

The individual-driven story is rare today, so rare that Noah Baumbach made a rather big deal out of trying it when he wrote and directed Greenberg just last year. In Greenberg, Ben Stiller plays Roger Greenberg, a musician who never made it. He had the opportunity to sign a record deal with his band, but turned it down in the name of artistic purity. Now he's a misanthrope, and has returned to L.A. after a long residence in New York to house-sit for his more grounded and successful brother.

Juxtapose this with Five Easy Pieces: Jack Nicholson plays Robert Dupea, a musician who could have made it, but walked away from being a pianist. He's a misanthrope, and returns to his home in the Pacific Northwest to visit his dying father and see his more grounded and reasonably successful siblings.

The tones of the film are entirely different-- Ben Stiller has yet to break into a truly dramatic performance-- but the characters themselves are not. They look the past with a good amount of disdain, have little regard for their futures, and cannot seem to figure out why. Plenty of decent people would like to see either of these aged adolescents taken to the woodshed, yet their aimless yearning (or yearning aimlessness?) draws enough sympathy-- I say empathy-- to be likeable, even loveable. We all have these existential crises, these men have simply embraced them.

Nevertheless, Greenberg's story wanders far too much and settles into a romantic angle that fails to enthrall, much less convince. Rather than grow out of his funk or far beyond a few petty realizations (e.g., that he owed it to his band mates to consult with them before turning down the record deal), Greenberg finds Florence (Greta Gerwig) and they fall into a cliche "I'm OK / You're OK" relationship that will of course fail, but since the movie ends before this can happen it's not supposed to be too much of a concern. If Baumbach had made this film on the heels of Kicking and Screaming, he may have had more success, but to make such a dated film a clear decade after the '90s ended hints that a biography of Baumbach himself may be more compelling than his contrived Roger Greenberg.

Five Easy Pieces suffers no such flaws. The weight Robert Dupea carries-- a never-quite-articulated combination of guilt, fear, and anger-- burdens him throughout. Instead of a fake band-aid to treat the bad feelings, the audience never even gets the full diagnosis. We're treated to a pretty good idea, capped off with this monologue (God bless YouTube and fair use):

"We both know that I was never really that good at it, anyway."

Maybe it's story, maybe it's actors, maybe it's subtlety, maybe it's all of these and more. There obviously isn't a set formula, since character studies are so tricky and, like Greenberg, just don't work. But when they do work? Stand back. Or, literally, sit back and savor the show.