James Horner: In Memoriam

When I was 14 years old, I had a regular habit of sneaking into my sister’s bedroom and “borrowing” CDs, mostly of the sort I was too sheepish to admit I enjoyed. The album I swiped perhaps more than any other was the Titanic soundtrack. I would take it back to my room and listen for long chunks of time. I remember intuitively turning the volume up for the really sweeping cues—such as those written for the ship’s sinking—before catching myself and turning the dial down, out of fear that others were hearing. You see, I was somewhat embarrassed of own my love of film music, particularly the kind of soppy, sentimental scores that James Horner was so gifted at spinning. When I woke up this morning and learned of his unexpected death, I instantly recalled the many hours I had spent in quiet seclusion thrilling to his music.

James Horner had no fear or hesitation about going right for the heart. His music is lush and expressive; it is never in the background but ingrained into the emotional fabric of a movie. All the same, to listen to a Horner score free from its visual context is to undergo an emotional journey unto its own. It is at once monumental and intimate, conveying a unique sensibility that I find easy to identify. More than almost any other musician, I can identify his music purely based on an impression. He was sometimes criticized for his scores sounding similar to each other, but there is actually quite a lot of variety in his melodies and themes. Yet, there is an unmistakable James Horner sound that I will miss from movies. It’s a kind of poeticism that exists separate from the notes and orchestrations.

To me, that sound is pure emotiveness. Horner embraced that fully and unreservedly, and he helped me to recognize and embrace that in myself. Today I’ll be listening to the Titanic score—among selections from many others—and I won’t be adjusting the volume in hopes no one will hear.

Summer of '88: An American in Python: A Fish Called Wanda

Monty Python was arguably the most versatile of comic troupes. Each of its members displayed an abundant range of creative poses and vocal deliveries in addition to wry intelligence. While their act is undeniably outlandish, there's something very subtle about the performances and how the actors interacted that made everything work. Perhaps that's why a majority of the individual efforts after the British ensemble had disbanded lacked the same flair. A noted exception to this is A Fish Called Wanda, a film that channels much of the effortless wit and energy of Monty Python's work but with its own personality.

A Fish Called Wanda's Monty Python influence comes primarily from John Cleese, who stars in and wrote the screenplay about four London jewel thieves chasing some elusive loot after their master plan goes awry. Also on hand from Python-land is Michael Palin, here playing Ken Pile, a stutterer and an animal lover—two attributes that make him the butt of a hefty number of the film's jokes. As Palin hams it up with yet another of his famously nervous characters, Cleese plays the straight man, a barrister brilliantly named Archie Leach. Initially this proves an odd fit for the actor, who so often commands the screen with exaggerated annunciation and body language. But once Archie becomes entangled in the thieves' scheme, Cleese slowly teases out a confection of classic looks and one-liners that rivals the actor's finest work.

Click here to read the full article at Slant Magazine

A brief (belated) reflection on Andrew Sarris

Film has lost too many legends of late. In the last several weeks, we have seen the deaths of Nora Ephron, Andy Griffith, and Ernest Borgnine, all of whose work had a lasting effect on the Movies (or TV, in Griffith's case). But for film writers and critics, a more personal loss was felt with the death of Andrew Sarris, champion of auteur theory and all-around titan of American film criticism for the last 50 years. At the time the news broke, I was so moved by the bevy of remembrances and beautifully-written tributes that I could hardly find the words myself. Having digested it all, I still feel at a loss for words, suffice to say that although he will best be remembered for his involvement in Cahiers du Cinema and his brief riff with Pauline Kael (which was barely that, as Jim Emerson documents), Sarris's work will remain important to me for a very different reason.

Sarris eschewed the journalistic/academic binary that began to emerge in the 1960's and 1970's, when film studies became more accepted at colleges and universities and journalistic criticism more resembled a buyer's guide. Overly simplistic, perhaps, but this schism was and continues to affect how criticism is approached and practiced. Sarris, though, was never quite comfortable in either mold. That is to say, he was very comfortable in both venues but rejected the ideological simplicity of their respective purposes. This was a staple of his compact writing about films and directors. He recognized the different ways to see movies—as art, as commercial property, etc.—and came at them with insights that blended various sensibilities. Many writers have also noted that Sarris also famously changed his mind about movies and was willing to re-evaluate them. That he fluidly and cogently addressed this in his writing gave it an evenly personal and knowledgeable aura. He made me want to know about movies, but he also made me want to experience them and feel them.

No matter the circuit, the best criticism should be penetrating, informed, and personal. To engage in a bit of playful wordplay, criticism should rest somewhere be analysis and poetry. It's not an easy balance to strike, but Sarris straddled this line so convincingly and, consequently, inspired so much great criticism. His death is a matter of great sadness for those who love and practice criticism. And it is a reminder that in an age of ubiquitous digital exchange—in which opinion seems to trump knowledge, and in which serious media reporters interrogate film critics as if the occupation is without meaning or merit—perceptive criticism is needed now more than ever. And all those who (thankfully) practice it have Sarris to thank.

"A fervent and frightened prayer..."

Over the last week, I've been reading tributes in newspapers and on websites to the enduring career of Paul Newman. I heard reports of his sickness in recent months, almost refusing to accept that the frail man pictured in photos was actually him. When I learned of his death late last Saturday morning, I was as surprised as I was saddened -- not just because cinema has lost one of its greatest actors, but because it lost a true artist and model citizen. He gave the movies a positive face at a time in which American movies were undergoing such great change. He was an honest, sensitive actor whose charisma endured over many decades and defied easy categorization, even though that smile was so recognizable. One might even say that Paul Newman was born to star in the movies, with his classic good looks, commanding voice, and unending charm.

Thinking back on his most memorable roles now immortalized in the pantheon of cinematic images, I came to see that Newman as more than a good actor boasting several significant performances. He had a way of uniquely embodying each character he played while still making it his own. There was an undeniable "Paul Newman" spirit to his characters, despite never playing two characters the same. He didn't "disappear" into roles, but instead made them apart of him. It's not often when being yourself is noted as an actor's strengths, but Newman was one of the few who was both himself and whoever he was portraying; the likely result of the shear honesty he brought to his craft.

That honesty was also revealed through his many humanitarian efforts and political activism. I am not nearly knowledgeable enough to fully honor that work, suffice to say that there were many instances from his life on screen that revealed the many sides of Paul Newman.

Perhaps my favorite performance of his is from Sidney Lumet's brilliant 1982 film, The Verdict. Newman plays a depressed alcoholic whose best prosecuting days are behind him. In the film, he finds himself at a moral crossroad, where doing the right thing stretches far beyond the one single case he is serving on. Here is Newman's final case to the jury:



This speech crystallized the vision I have held of Paul Newman for as long as I can remember; i.e., what he means to the movies, his enduring acting career, his humanitarian efforts. Everything I admire about the man and his work can be seen in this singular moment.

Monologues in movies are so often remembered for their intense dramatic rhythms and strong delivery, yet what makes this one of the very finest is the perfect tone Newman finds between defeat and hope. His summation is more than three minutes, but consisting of only a few hundred words. It is somber, soulful, and especially relevant as Americans head to the polls for one of the most important Presidential elections they'll take part in. (One could say that this election itself is a frightened and fervent prayer.) It's also a great tribute to Paul Newman's career in movies and commitment to justice.

Manny Farber: In Memory

"The liveliest, smartest, most original film critic this country ever produced."
-- Susan Sontag, on Manny Farber

Considering who those words are coming from, this is the highest compliment one could receive. And Manny Farber deserved it. Having provided us so many indispensable ideas about visuality and criticism, Farber now leaves us --termite critics, as Andy Horbal once wrote in the spirit of Farber-- to realize his vision of engaging the multitude of images in the world. He will always be one of the most unique voices in film criticism and aesthetics.

Some tributes:

-- Jim Emerson at scanners
-- Brendon Bouzard at My Five Year Plan
-- Glenn Kenny at Some Came Running
-- David Schwartz at the Moving Image Resource
-- Ryland Walker Knight at Vinyl is Heavy
-- Zach Campbell at Elusive Lucidity

Roy Scheider: In Memory

Roy Scheider is the acting equivalent of Sidney Lumet. His filmography is staggering, and not because he was in so many hits or because of the awards he won. Over his long career, Scheider has quietly assembled one of the most impressive careers an actor can have in Hollywood. And quite simply, it's because he was good. He committed to each role he played, which is evident in his variety of strong performances, from The French Connection to All The Jazz. His face expressed so much but with so little. There was a passion in his eyes that was at once confident and vulnerable. Revealing character in the most subtle, even mysterious ways, the beauty of Scheider's work is that he did it in his own way. He carved his own niche. His best performances will be remembered as some of the most important and significant in all of cinema.

His most famous utterance on screen is the immortal "We're gonna need a bigger boat" line from Jaws. The cigarette dangles from his mouth like he doesn't even know it's there, his body is frozen in shock, and in that one moment of immobility he communicates exactly what every viewer watching the film feels. It's one of the most memorable moments in all of the movies, and it comes across because of Scheider's ability to evoke the intangibility about acting. This moment alone will cement Scheider into the minds of millions. It will be forever branded on the silver screens of our minds.

But for me, his finest moment comes in the very same movie, but in a much more tender scene at a dinner table. The scene contains almost no dialogue, and consists of Chief Brody (Scheider) and his son, who is maybe four-years-old, sitting at the table after dinner. Brody is tired and stressed, more so than he would ever expected to have dealth with. He's also beginning to feel a bit like the lone figure of authority left on Amity island with a shred of ethical responsiblity. His son sits across from him, watching him and mimicking his actions. At first, Brody doesn't realize he is even there, let alone replicating his actions. When he finally glances over and sees his son gazing admirably at him, he doesn't smile or well up in tears but instead looks right back at him. His facial muscles begin to relax, but for a moment he looks searchingly back into his son's eyes, as if he is recalling his own childhood wonderment with his father while realizing what a figure of importance he is to his child.

Brody then decides to have a little bit of fun, almost to reassure him that everything is going to be alright. The playful candor between the two is so naive, so benevolent, and yet profoundly simple, that it locates a childish wonderment that lives buried underneath the stress and burdens of everyday life. In that moment Scheider and his young acting counterpart create real magic. The scene continues with Brody leading his son in a series of strange hand motions and facial contortions, before his son finally smiles at him like he knew that was the one thing Brody needed to get through the rest of his day. Brody then leans down close to the boy's face and softly says, "Give us a kiss." The boy asks why, and Brody responds simply, directly, even painfully, as if caught between the reality of being chief of police in shark city and the transient moment of connecting with his son: "Because I need it."