Barton Fink

The Coen Brothers’ 1991 film Barton Fink has been on my “to-do” list for quite some time, and finally I have gotten the chance to watch it. Famous both for its use of visual metaphor and Biblical and literary allusion, Barton Fink is an excellent, albeit rather unfocused, multi-genre picture.

It is 1942, and Barton Fink (John Turturro) is a newly successful New York playwright who is offered a chance to work for “Capitol Pictures” in Los Angeles, writing movies. At first reluctant, he eventually agrees and travels to L.A., planning to stay in the Hotel Earle, a decrepit and strange old place that he opts for because, as his slick producer instantly sees, it’s “not too Hollywood”. Upon arrival, Barton sets his typewriter on his desk and receives his first assignment, to write a script about wrestling. After sitting down, he hears loud, strange noises coming from the room next door and calls the front desk, and soon receives a knock at his door: Charlie (John Goodman), a large and jolly insurance salesman, apologizes for the disturbance he caused and offers Barton a drink.

As Barton struggles to get his script off the ground, he bumps into a well-known writer named W.P. Mayhew, who he befriends, quickly realizing that he despises him. Barton continues to struggle with his script, as his room is seemingly falling apart and he is plagued by a mosquito that wakes him as it buzzes closer and closer to his ear. Meanwhile, his large and friendly neighbor Charlie barges in and complains of ear infections, requiring a gauze to plug up the puss secreting out of his ear. Part Bates motel, part The Shining (the Coen brothers cited Kubrick’s film as an influence), Barton Fink is mysterious and at times disgusting. Within the confines of his room, all Barton has to look at is a simple painting of a woman lying down and staring at the ocean from the shore.

In keeping with my unspoken refusal to spoil a story, eventually Barton’s private neurosis manifests into a major problem in the reality of the film- a climactic culmination of small, easily unnoticed details that add up to something larger than Barton can imagine. Of course, when things begin to unravel into chaos, Fink is at his most inspired, and with mounting pressure from Jack Lipnick, a rich, robed studio head with a palace, he gets a massive, “big” (not large, but important) script finished.

What struck me about Fink, in keeping with the Coen brothers tradition, is a film with enough ambiguity to intrigue but enough immersive storytelling to engage the audience, rather than the audience attempting to engage the film. A problem I could easily see is someone discussing Barton Fink and the numerous instances of symbolism, metaphor, and allusion that the average moviegoer would never notice- and much of that symbolism is unintentional on the part of the Coens, who are creative and brilliant, but by no means mystical or fanatically dense. It would be a mistake to take this movie for more than what it is- a mystery, a comedy, film noir, and maybe even a wrestling pictcha rolled into one accessible work.

Synecdoche, New York

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players…they have their exits, and their entrances…”

William Shakespeare’s famous line, from his play As You Like It, seems to be the existentialist wind that pushes forth Caden Cotard (Phillip Seymour Hoffman), a misanthropic playwright in Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York. A film that has divided critics and audiences, Synecdoche is certainly one of the boldest and most brilliant films I have seen in quite some time, so much so that the physical DVD should be locked away in a cabinet somewhere. The ideas about death, life, and art are perhaps too fierce for our mortal minds to handle, a welcome feeling compared with much of the fare gracing cineplexes these days.

Charlie Kaufman’s previous screenwriting credits, Being John Malkovich, Adaptation, and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, are far-reaching metaphysical tragedies, disconserting contemplations on the human condition. If you thought they were at all morose, Synecdoche will knock you over- Caden is left by his wife Adele (Catherine Keener), who takes their daughter Olive to Berlin. He becomes convinced that he is dying, and after receiving a MacArthur Grant, sets to work on arguably his, and mankind’s, most ambitious dramatic production- an unnamed project that requires a full-scale set of New York City in an old airport hanger.

All is surreal in the film; Caden’s box office attendant Ellen (Samantha Morton) lives in a house that is perpetually on fire. Caden finds Olive’s diary underneath her bed, and it seems to fill out as the years pass, even as Olive is somewhere deep in Berlin. Jennifer Jason Leigh plays Maria, friend of Adele’s, who prevents Caden from finding his daughter. Meanwhile, his untitled project continues to gain momentum, requiring more actors and more set pieces. Time in the film is used deceptively- from one scene to the next, everyone seems to age years. From his small beginnings, Caden’s life and the film itself evolves (or devolves) into a grand landscape of non-sequiter.

To summarize the events of the film is, a this juncture, impossible- Kaufman distills time and pours as many different concepts and tricks into each scene as possible. You could not possibly catch all that there is to see just from one viewing, but by the slow fade to white at the end, it becomes obvious that, while not handing it to the audience, the film is ripe with intellectual concerns: the nature of inevitable death, existential angst, and the severe pain of love, coupled with the impossibility of making, as Caden strives to do, “a work of brutal truth and honesty”. In it’s own self-fulfilling way, however, Kaufman’s film achieves what few movies ever do: a true emphatic impression upon its audience, who are confronted not through violence of the harshness that all human beings experience.

I Love You, Man

My distaste for the “stoner-slacker” genre of Judd Apatow’s flock is, admittedly, also tinged by a hint of interest and awe- a bunch of friends making Hollywood comedies together. That they give credit where credit is due (Bill Murray, Steve Martin) is only icing on the cake. In I Love You, Man, these twenty and thirtysomethings finally eschew the narcissism and underlying negativity, ending up with a comedy that is actually “feel-good”.

Paul Rudd (who seems to be in every movie these days) plays Peter Klaven, a hopelessly nice guy that, at the beginning of the film, proposes to his girlfriend Zooey (Rashida Jones). She accepts, and they are excited, but soon it becomes obvious that Peter has spent his life catering to girlfriends and doesn’t have a single true male friend. Whereas in Knocked Up and The 40-Year Old Virgin, and Superbad, guys littered the screen, Peter is actually surrounding by women, at least until he starts looking for a best man for his wedding. He tries meeting guys for dinner (a definite “no-no” according to his gay brother Robby, played by SNL cast member Andy Samberg), and eventually gives up. He’s a realtor trying to sell Lou Ferrigno’s house, and during a house showing, he meets a guy named Syndney Fife who’s scoping out potential female divorcees. After describing the food Peter serves as “a revelation”, they exchange business cards.

The awkward concept of “man-date” is thoroughly explored in this film; whether or not it’s appropriate to call and so on, and Peter, the hopelessly nice yet hopelessly awkward “girlfriend guy”, struggles to fit in. When he finally meets up with Sydney, he’s unable to come up with a cool nickname for him (Sydney calls Peter “Pistol”). It’s painful, and yet you realize that a trip to the mall or any public place would show groups of dudes hanging out together, conversing in a very specific and regulated way. It’s a blessing that Peter doesn’t know the dumb guy stuff, and it’s a blessing he’s not Sydney Fife, a perpetually laid back slacker with a “man-cave”, replete with drum set, Rush posters, and jerk-off station (wait, what). Sydney seems incapable of settling down.

While there are some minor conflicts throughout the film, overall it’s a mainline dose of happiness and fun, without a hint of tragedy to be found. Everything works out, everyone is happy, and we all learn a thing or two in the process. The dialogue is comic genius, a combination of awkward pauses, gibberish when one can’t think of what to say, and pop culture references (Syndney’s dog is named Anwar Sadat). Filmed in and around Los Angeles, it’s a bright, sunny movie, with no ugly references to the economic or political or moral conflicts plaguing the country- we’d be cursed if this was the only kind of movie to come out, but as a pick-me-up, I Love You, Man works.

Frost/Nixon

The difficulties in capturing historical politics on-screen are numerous; accuracy is essential considering the film has little to do with “history” if it manipulates the facts or leans towards a particular political spectrum. So many films (Ollie Stone, I’m looking at you) distort and expand on reality in such a way that often you are watching the creator’s own impression of the events, rather than an honest recreation. Ron Howard’s newest film, Frost/Nixon, risks political bias and never quite achieves the relevance it hopes for, however salvaged the final product is by humanist perfomances courtesy Frank Langella, Michael Sheen, and Matthew Macfadyen, among others.

Michael Sheen plays David Frost, a toothy talk show host in search of a big ratings draw. He decides that an interview with the recently resigned Richard Nixon (Langella) would be the publicity Frost needs to rocket into fame, and so he and his producer John Birt (Macfayden) broker a deal independent of the networks and eventually offer Nixon an exorbant fee to conduct a series of interviews over the course of four long days. Nixon, a looming competitor, battles wits with Frost both on and off set.

It is a compelling film in that it gives heightened drama to what could have been a mundane interview; Frost interrogates Nixon, bringing up several pieces of evidence that had come to light only after Nixon had resigned. The interviews themselves are intense, albeit short- Nixon cause Frost to stumble. In fact, the first few interviews are rocky for Frost, to say the least, as Nixon is able to enter into soliloquy upon soliquly outlining his achievements.

While not a failure by any means, Frost/Nixon fails to capture the true underdog energy of Frost, and at no point did I find myself truly awed, or even remotely moved. It’s a strictly by-the-numbers political drama, effectively photographed, yet the obvious influence of its previous incarnation as a play (the playwright, Peter Morgan, penned the film’s script) saps a key amount of visual energy. Frank Langella, who earned an Academy nomination for “Best Actor”, is compelling as the bully (ignoring obvious physical differences), and pulls off the sad puppy look when he is at last trounced, but I have to believe (and hope) that the actual events weren’t so pathetically cliched.