#40 -- "The Prestige" Reviewed | * * * ½

"This is a movie about being fooled because we want to be fooled and it doesn't stop there -- we want to be fooled by something complicated and we won't take simple for an answer. . . Don't look closely. Stand at a distance. You aren't being fooled."

This movie is a Monet. It's impressionism. It's clearest when you stop squinting and you back away and you stop trying to examine it because as you examine it, The Prestige is giving you your answers over and over. Let it. In fact, while you're worming your way around the question, trying to match it up with an answer that must, by necessity, be as equally taut and coiled, you have all the answers you need. It is both question and codex, describing itself, and you, at the same time.

Christopher Nolan is cruel and he doesn't care who knows it. The guy is fairly humorless in his movies and that's one of his flaws. As a director, his grasp on the audience's reactions goes beyond the movie itself and he bats around expectations like an arrogant racquetball player. His characters in The Prestige, Borden and Angier, are cold and obsessive, assuredly like Nolan is, mystifying people because they know how to, not because it cheers them up. They have the ability to distract the gawking masses, and out of pity, these two magicians suffer for their art, probably more than they would have liked to. It's sort of a self-pitying sacrifice but the outcome is a warm amazement at the power our own minds have over us when we go looking for something and ignore all other possibilities in search of something complex. The search for a complex answer sends feedback into the simple question we asked in the first place, layering and warping it until its nigh-unrecognizable.

The Prestige is fairly self-referential, something we normally don't like because it places an invisible dunce cap on the audience, and yet The Prestige goes even further -- that dunce cap isn't its last trick, it's just more sleight-of-hand. In fact, the movie thinks very highly of you, proven by the fact that it bothered to challenge you at all. It has deeper meaning than Inception, Nolan's later movie, but lacks Inception's urgency, focusing instead on keeping every shot air-tight instead of making it exciting. Inception is better the first time you view it while The Prestige is sharper the fifth or sixth time you see it and they're both equally good. Push. We're not talking about Inception though.

No, instead, we have The Prestige today. This is a movie about being fooled because we want to be fooled and it doesn't stop there -- we want to be fooled by something complicated and we won't take simple for an answer. We need to let that go. Maybe enjoy ourselves. Maybe try smiling at a neat li'l trick.

In London around the start of the 20th century, two stage magicians become rivals and through some non-linear storytelling, one of them is wrongfully accused of drowning the other after a trick involving some sort of lightning machine. But that doesn't happen until later, apparently. Flashback to years earlier when they were just starting up, dissecting what it means to be a capable stage performer. It appears total commitment is the answer to that question and we are slowly told that answers might not be as clear as they seem. People are always acting, always leaving misdirection.

Angier, the man who drowns in the introductory flash-forward, is a better performer, favoring flashiness. Borden, the accused now on trial, is blunter but sneakier -- he starts as the "antagonist." The two of them constantly trade the upper hand and the roles of antagonist and protagonist. The audience doesn't know which one to keep an eye on and credit to Nolan for these switches is highly-deserved. We're asked from the very beginning if we're "watching closely," but this is even more misdirection.

Don't look closely. Stand at a distance. You aren't being fooled.

The whole time, while the two of them are swapping mistresses and puzzling each other with new tricks that bring them to anger, assuring others that it's a puzzle within a riddle within a masquerade. It isn't though. Angier visits Nikolai Tesla / David Bowie in America to make him a high-science machine that will zap him from one place to another, a magic trick that Borden has mastered without the use of a body-double, which is the traditional way to accomplish The Transported Man illusion. Little by little we learn just how extensive their contention is. Eventually, Angier discovers the machine can clone anything or anybody.

It doesn't really matter what the solution is because the point the movie is making is that actual answers can never be guessed if we go in with an obsessed eye. This rubs some people the wrong way and those people must think very highly of themselves. The answer is: you're a dummy, stop pretending, stop thinking you know everything. Even when the answer is right in front of your face, waving at you, which The Prestige does with zero apologies on repeated viewings, you won't see the answer until you're cool with being fooled and that's not a bad thing. If you can't stick with the movie after the twist with Angier cloning and killing himself over and over, all to serve a magic trick, You're Doing It Wrong. 

It's a stupid twist and it knows it. It teaches a lesson about suspending disbelief, which is why you're there, watching a movie. Movies are all about people dying over and over and people swapping characters every other second, which is how Borden does his version of The Transported Man, and yet Angier refuses to believe it is so simple. Angier is the all assholes at the movies demanding complexity, considering themselves to be very smart and feeling quite entitled to a story as equally-gnarled. At the movies, we believe the misdirection because we want to believe in the mystery.

Like your dad trolling you for trying to act like an adult before you're ready, The Prestige gives you all the tools you need to fix a roof that doesn't need fixing, and yet you search it for the flaws he assured you were there and he is kicking back somewhere with an iced tea, waiting for you to come find him after two hours of trying.

Your reaction should not be: "you asshole."

It should be: "good one."

* * * ½

(out of 4)

-- Ghost Little

on Twitter  |  @GhostLittle_WTF

#39 -- The Scotsman And The Whale

"The Scotsman's heart began to feel faint. He had come so far across so much of Scotland to find the bones of the greatest creature on earth, only to find nothing. Had the giant fox lied to him?"

One thousand and fifty years ago in the furthest, coldest reaches of Scotland, there lived a man whose house faced the western seas. Oh, he was a happy Scotsman with a darling wife and their days were rich and full of happiness. There were days of struggle, like when the whiskey was running low, true, those days were trying. There were days of struggle that perhaps turned into years of trouble, like when the wicked men came in from the southlands, burning houses and stealing sheep and raiding the man's tended peet and berry bogs, from which he drew his livelihood. But amidst all of this, the Scotsman remained happy because he had his bog and he always had his wife.

There came a day in the Scotsman's middle years when his bones would occasionally ache and stiffen during the most chilled winter nights (although he would never admit it), when he decided that he wanted to change his Scotch whiskey recipe, which was already quite famous. It was famous in all the lands that he had ever traveled to, north or south, and it was what gave him the most pride of all.

Well, he thought about it, and considered the ingredients and method that he used now -- which involved harvesting a certain peet in spring and autumn and buying a particular barley from one of his friends, the one-armed Irishman, who made his home in a meadow just down the coast below the rocky grotto -- and the Scotsman examined his berry bog, which he used to line his barrel casks to give the whiskey that particular, aged flavor. He recalled the year he didn't make the Scotch in those barrels because the men from the south had stolen his crop, and the whiskey had not been good that year. True, that ingredient was vital, but there had to be more.

"Wife," he said to his wife. "I want to do something new. Something new with my Scotch whiskey."

And his wife answered, "Scotsman," and then chewed the bread in her mouth, adding, "If you want to give your Scotch whiskey a new flavor, ask yourself: do I want the flavor of my most beloved creation to be small or do I want it to be large?"

"I want it to be large," the Scotsman said right away without thinking. "If I am to distill my Scotch, it must be strong and powerful so that all men and women from across our great land will want to drink it. They will want to drink it and they will not want to drink anything else."

The Scotsman's wife nodded, saying, "Well, if you are sure, then you must add the bones of the largest creature on earth to your Scotch. That will make its flavor large. It will make it irresistible to all men and women."

"Very good thinking, wife! What is the largest creature on earth?"

"Why, the giant fox, of course. They live in the highlands and avoid people. Clever beasts."

"Then I will go to the highlands and take the bones of a giant fox. From its bones, I will make the greatest whiskey known to man!"

With that, the Scotsman got a good night's rest and loaded up his pack with supplies and Scotch whiskey and drank a wee dram with breakfast at the morning sun and he was off to find the giant fox in the highlands. The trail was easy, he had traveled it before many times as a young man and as an old man. No, he reminded himself. He was not old. He was wise. And he liked the sound of that. Later in the afternoon, he found paw tracks just off the trail in the heath and nettles. They were amazing and gigantic, as large across as his farm's water well. Surely these were the tracks of the giant fox.

He followed them until night, made a fire, and slept with one eye open, for the giant wolves were cunning indeed.

When he woke, the fire had died. The trail was still fresh though. This gave him hope. Perhaps this would be an simple quarry after all. For the rest of the day it was simple, he followed the tracks, winding up the coast, far beyond the trail and far beyond any sign of man's influence. Truly, he was in mysterious country. But he had to press on and there was no time for fear or trepidation. Besides, he had his whiskey with him and it warmed him up right and gave him courage. As night was falling on his second day of tracking, when the light begins to play tricks on you, he found the giant fox.

Curled in its den, it lay. And it was surrounded by small fox pups. The Scotsman knew that he badly wanted the bones to make his whiskey, but he hesitated when he saw the cubs. So he took a dram of Scotch down his throat, and then three or four more like it for good measure. As he began to draw his knife, which he had used to kill game with since he was a young boy, the giant fox spoke.

"Scotsman," the giant fox said to him. "What are you doing? Would you honestly try to take the bones of a mother giant fox to distill your fiery drink?"

"Ah," the Scotsman grumbled to himself. "No. No, I suppose I could not. T'would be heartless and I am not a heartless man, no."

"You need not worry," assured the giant fox. "I am not even the largest creature on earth."

"Ah! This is good," said the Scotsman. "Tell me, what is the largest creature on earth?"

"The largest creature on earth is the green dragon," said the giant fox. "It lives further north."

"And you say it is larger than you, giant fox?"

"Oh, many times larger. Why, I've seen one green dragon eat five giant foxes in one sitting and it would have eaten more if there were more for eating."

"Five giant foxes?" the Scotsman gasped, trying not to show fear. "Such a hungry, fearsome creature must surely be the largest on earth. I will use its bones to make my whiskey great and large!"

He patted one of the fox cubs on its head and let another lick whiskey from his open palm and he thanked the mother giant fox and he was off. The days began to shorten. The wind became darker up there in the north. The Scotsman worried one morning after breaking camp that he might not be able to find his way back home to his wife and to his peet and berry bog. He shook thoughts of doubt from his mind. He must carry on into those jagged rocks that stabbed the horizon, turning noontime sun into a deep, long shadow. If the green dragons still dwelt in this world, and if the giant fox had been telling the truth, then this must be where they made their roost.

There were two days before he reached the foothills and two days after that, he drank the last of the whiskey he had brought with him. He was on his own now. Dark times indeed. At last, he reached the top of the jagged rocks that blocked out the noontime sun and shouted, "If this be where the green dragons roost, reveal yourselves!"

In that moment, no dragons showed themselves. The Scotsman's heart began to feel faint. He had come so far across so much of Scotland to find the bones of the greatest creature on earth, only to find nothing. Had the giant fox lied to him?

The giant fox had not lied! A gargantuan roar found the Scotsman's ears, descending onto him from behind an acrid miasma of fog and fear. The green dragon crashed to earth before him, wings spread wide, hurling guttural shouts and fire and smoke and putrid, green-colored gases.

"I have spoken with the giant fox," the green dragon yelled with no warning. "She told me many things, Scotsman, and I considered them deeply as I flew here to this roost, my home!"

"Oh, great green dragon," the Scotsman said. "I have come to find the bones of the greatest creature on earth to make my Scotch whiskey. To slay a creature as great as you will be a mighty task --"

"-- The giant fox has lied to you. For I am not the greatest creature on earth."

"How is this possible, great green dragon? You are great and green and you fly and you carry off sheep as though they were but coins in a man's pocket, trifling things, yea."

"Nay, Scotsman, nay. The whale, Scotsman. The whale is the greatest creature on earth. It is the whale's bones that you require. From the whale's bones, and only from the whale's bones can you create the greatest Scotch whiskey on earth." The green dragon lowered its head closer to him now, eyes glinting. "That is, of course, if you still desire to make the greatest Scotch whiskey on earth."

"Yes!" shouted the Scotsman in triumph, looking down at the waters below the dragon's roost, where he was certain the whale lived. "Yes, my Scotch must be flavorful and bold and big and I need the bones of the greatest creature on earth to make it so large."

The green dragon examined him. It looked the Scotsman in the eye, choosing its own words carefully. "It. Will. Be. Big. With flavor!" It spread its wings out wide. "Go now, Scotsman! Into the seas with you to find the whale's bones!"

The Scotsman dove from the cliff headlong into the freezing water. He did not die. If had been a bird, he might have flown, but he was just a man, and the waters claimed him and he sank into the deep. There, he came face to face with the whale.

This creature was gross with size and massiveness. And it was immediately clear that it was alone. All about it were bones, skeletons of other whales that must have died hundreds of years earlier, perhaps even before the lands had risen out of the seas and the earth was young. This whale was alone.

There were many bones that the Scotsman could take and he knew he must be careful, for he could not carry many and the bones would be heavy, great as they were. He gathered his thoughts but before he could speak, the whale came under him, rising high and fast towards the surface, breaching suddenly with a mighty and powerful crash. Here, the Scotsman could breathe and here he could ask the whale for some of the giant bones.

"Great whale," said the Scotsman, wiping ocean waters from his eyes. "I have traveled so far and spoken to many great beasts to find you. I have come to ask you a favor." The whale nodded. "Please, great whale. Might I take one of the bones of your ancestors to help me make my Scotch whiskey big and powerful with flavor? It is the only way. Yea, my whiskey is known throughout the land and it it is very great, this is true, but with your help, great whale, its flavor might become large and eternal. It might become unforgettable."

The whale bobbed is head slowly, up and down. Then it bobbed it side to side. Then up and down again. And then side to side once more.

Then it spoke, saying: "Arrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooo. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Roooooooooooo. Ara. Ararararararara. Arrruuuuuuuuuuhhhhhh. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Ruhhuhuhuhuhaaaarrrrhhhh! Arrro. Ruuuuuuuuu. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Rouuuuuuuuuuu. Rahaharoooooooo. Rearouououououuuuuuuuu. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrroughhhhhhh. Rarararrroooooo. Riharararararaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuurrrrrr. Dharrrrrrooooooooooouuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Raharayruuuuuuuuuu! Arrruuuuuuuuuuhhhhhh. Arrrrrrr. Ruuuuuuuuu. Roooooooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuu. Riharararararaaaauuuuuuurrrrr. Arrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooo. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Roooooooooooo. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrroughhhhhhh. Rarararrroooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Rouuuuuuuuuuu. Rahaharoooooooo. Rearouououououuuuuuuuu. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Dharrrrrrooooooooooouuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Raharayruuuuuuuuuu! Arrruuuuuuuuuuhhhhhh. Arrrrrrr. Ruuuuuuuuu. Roooooooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuu. Riharararararaaaauuuuuuurrrrr. Arrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooo. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Rarararrroooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Rouuuuuuuuuuu. Rahaharoooooooo. Rearouououououuuuuuuuu. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Dharrrrrrooooooooooouuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Rouuuuuuuuuuu. Rahaharoooooooo. Rearouououououuuuuuuuu. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Roooooooooooo. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrroughhhhhhh. Rarararrroooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Rouuuuuuuuuuu. Rahaharoooooooo. Rearouououououuuuuuuuu. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Ruuuuuuuuu. Roooooooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuu. Riharararararaaaauuuuuuurrrrr. Arrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooo. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Rarararrroooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Rouuuuuuuuuuu. Rahaharoooooooo. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Dharrrrrrooooooooooouuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Raharayruuuuuuuuuu! Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Rarararrroooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr.

"Rouuuuuuuuuuu. Rahaharoooooooo. Rearouououououuuuuuuuu. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Dharrrrrrooooooooooouuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Rouuuuuuuuuuu. Rahaharoooooooo. Rearouououououuuuuuuuu. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Roooooooooooo. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Raharayruuuuuuuuuu! Arrruuuuuuuuuuhhhhhh. Arrrrrrr. Ruuuuuuuuu. Roooooooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuu. Riharararararaaaauuuuuuurrrrr. Arrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooo. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Roooooooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuu. Riharararararaaaauuuuuuurrrrr. Arrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooo. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Rarararrroooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Rouuuuuuuuuuu. Rahaharoooooooo. Rearouououououuuuuuuuu. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Dharrrrrrooooooooooouuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Dharrrrrrooooooooooouuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Rouuuuuuuuuuu. Rahaharoooooooo. Rearouououououuuuuuuuu. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Roooooooooooo. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrroughhhhhhh. Rarararrroooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Yaruuuuhhh. Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Raharayruuuuuuuuuu! Arrruuuuuuuuuuhhhhhh. Arrrrrrr. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Rouuuuuuuuuuu. Rahaharoooooooo. Rearouououououuuuuuuuu. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! 

"Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Dharrrrrrooooooooooouuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. 

"Dharrrrrrooooooooooouuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Rouuuuuuuuuuu. Rahaharoooooooo. Rearouououououuuuuuuuu. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Roooooooooooo. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrroughhhhhhh. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Rouuuuuuuuuuu. Rahaharoooooooo. Rearouououououuuuuuuuu. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrroughhhhhhh. Rarararrroooooo. Riharararararaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuurrrrrr. Dharrrrrrooooooooooouuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Rearouououououuuuuuuuu. Arrrrrroooouuuuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Ruuuuuuuuu. Roooooooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuu. Riharararararaaaauuuuuuurrrrr. Arrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooo. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Rarararrroooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Arrrrrrr. Rouuuuuuuuuuu. Rahaharoooooooo. Yaruuuuhhh. Arrrrhoooooo. Errrrrrrrrrrooooooo. Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Dharrrrrrooooooooooouuuuuu. Yaruuuuhhh. Yerrruuuuu. Nyruuuuuuuuuuuu. Raharayruuuuuuuuuu! Ruuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!! Rarararrroooooo."

Whales don't speak English.

-- Ghost Little and Doberman

on Twitter  |  @GhostLittle_WTF

#38 -- "Shakespeare In Love" Reviewed | * * ½

". . .honestly, Shakespeare In Love is not meta enough. . . it is like throwing a bratwurst down a hallway."

An interesting conversation happened at the bar last week when we mentioned to somebody that we would never see that movie Contagion because it would only increase our hypochondria and that it was weird that they give away Gwyneth Paltrow's death in the trailers and that she had been an overrated actress ever since Shakespeare In Love, a movie which we had never seen.

"Oh, you need to watch Shakespeare In Love. It's amazing. It's my go-to feel-good movie to watch when I'm feeling down."

"Really. That's a pretty big statement. Is it better than Love, Actually?"

"I'm getting kinda sick of Love, Actually."

"Okay. Is it better than Saving Private Ryan?"

"I haven't seen Saving Private Ryan. Why do you ask?"

"Because Shakespeare In Love won the best picture Oscar over Saving Private Ryan in 1998, which I'm pretty sure was the biggest acts of grand larceny since Prometheus."

That dim-light conversation was how we found ourselves watching Shakespeare In Love and yeah, we did go into this movie on a sour note, a bad way to go into any experience, expecting one thing and instead getting another. Expecting local venison steaks and instead getting a shrink-wrapped mid-sized bratwurst -- not terrible, just disturbing because you're worried about how it was made. Co-written by Tom Stoppard, a genius, it's a very meta-story about William Shakespeare getting writer's block while working on "Romeo and Juliet" and then overcoming the aforementioned writer's block by inadvertently living the play's story himself, and, umm, writing it as he goes. Shakespeare is the Romeo in that sentence. Today, Shakespeare's stories are veritable narrative-engines that you can tweak and tune to run in any environment -- lighten it by setting it as a CG cartoon (Gnomio & Juliet, featuring the voice of Jason Statham as Tybalt), tighten the gear ratio to make it work in modern California (Romeo + Juliet, directed by the mad-Australian Baz Luhrmann), add werewolves and vampires (Underworld, directed by nobody) because werewolves and vampires have blood like soda-fountain syrup and it is joyous to watch it squib everywhere. Those are all just the takes on "Romeo and Juliet," let's not forget those riffs on "Hamlet" (The Lion King), and "The Tempest" (Forbidden Planet). These plays are sort of like wide, straight-line hallways that you can decorate to your liking, highly-adaptable templates tailor-made for being self-referential and tongue-in-cheek meta-narratives, but honestly, Shakespeare In Love is not meta enough.

For all of its borrowing of classical Shakespearean elements like class-warfare and simple misunderstandings leading to big troubles and big troubles leading to fencing-duels and fencing-duels leading to Accidental Poison, this is a movie that's self-satisfied. Stoppard's approach to, ya know, "spinning the whole Shakespeare play-writing story so it's sly and aware, man" is the equivalent of a college student coming into a sophomore creative writing class and saying, "My paper is about my roommate writing a poem about his doomed relationship with a girl whose family has a house in the Hamptons."

Saying that Shakespeare didn't just write "Romeo and Juliet," bro, he lived it, isn't clever. It's child's play. Know what Stoppard should've done? He should've gone further. He should've set it in on a far-flung future space-station where a barely-human playwright repeats history and inadvertently re-write Shakespeare by living that timeless starcrossed-lovers story -- a "million monkeys at a million typewriters" meets "power of love" kinda thing (in space!). Stoppard squeezes references to so many other plays that this could have been a huge mash-up of all the Shakespearean mythos rather than just an opaque retelling with a deus ex machina that doesn't do her job. And there are references, there are Easter eggs, there is fan-service, and there are no bigger fanboys than English literature fanboys, that's for damn sure, but it isn't enough to point to a human skull in the background and assume you've just split the stage-drama atom. C'mon, that's what Family Guy does, sniggering at Optimus Prime copy-pasted into the background during a conversation about robots. Those objects in the background in Shakespeare In Love like Yorick's skull have meaning in the plays come from -- why did they make the plot run parallel to "Romeo and Juliet" if it's supposed to be a Shakespeare origin-story? Is it Shakespeare Begins or is it Batman and Juliet? Well, it's something in between and as a result, we're stuck with an imbalance. The whole message feels misdirected or unsure of what it wants to be, hence the well-documented re-shoots on the movie's ending. The sad part is that Stoppard fucking knows how to write a good, goofy spoof like he did with Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead and it's tragic that his ideas seem to be a delicious apple-blueberry crumb pie that somebody decided to drop a upside-down German bundt cake on top of, hoping to hide the sugary fruit filling dripping out of the sides and maybe win some Oscars.

Shakespeare wrote comedies and tragedies and romances and sonnets -- most of the sonnets are rumored to have actually been written for one of his male friends, by the way -- so there was obviously more to his talent and legend than one girl that he couldn't forget. He invented words! He borrowed and stole ideas! He wrote fucking "MacBeth" and "King Lear!" The fact that Shakespeare cheated on his wife with no remorse is the least interesting thing he did. Instead of being just "Romeo and Juliet" -- and yes, there were disguises, and deceptions, and cross-dressing, and a third-act turn, and those are all Shakespeare tropes -- this should have been an assembly of the major themes from many plays woven together into a story that's genuinely new. That would have been impressive. Retelling "Romeo and Juliet" has been done better, most notably by the above-mentioned Baz Luhrmann; in Moulin Rouge! The whole back-half of that movie is about them inadvertently performing an Indian version of "Romeo and Juliet" but they don't wink and nod at each other, they just added Bollywood-psychosis by way of French Absinthe-madness and actually had the balls to kill the female lead.

Shakespeare In Love is not a bad movie. It isn't as smart as it thinks it is. It isn't poorly-acted. It isn't poorly-written dialog. It isn't disrespectful of its medium. It isn't as good as Saving Private Ryan. It isn't undeserving of praise but it is given too much credit. It is award-bait. It is wasted potential. It is sugar-neutral. It is Splenda. It is a case of been-there done-that. It is a re-tread. It is like throwing a bratwurst down a hallway.

* * ½

(out of 4)

-- Ghost Little

on Twitter  |  @GhostLittle_WTF

#37 -- The 10 Types Of Bombast In Storytelling

"It isn't on drugs, it was just born intelligent enough to choose stupidity over seriousness like a giggling vizier with schemes to poison the kingdom's groundwater... bombast is good-simple."

Three things happened at once. Boombastic, by Shaggy, was on playing off Pandora, Sucker Punch: The Long Version, was playing on mute on the TV, and we had just finished rearranging the bookshelf. Strange to see Othello next to Watchmen next to Paradise Lost next to The Diamond Age. Then we paused Pandora, threw on Deadmau5, and kept staring at Sucker Punch from across the room. What a meaningless piece of background-movie. It's blustery and when it waxes poetic, it forgets how to speak English. That doesn't stop it from tripping over its voluminous bombast and it can't even shoot straight enough to hit that target.

bom·bast
noun
1. speech too pompous for an occasion; pretentious words.
2. Obsolete. Cotton or other material used to stuff garments; padding

The dictionary treats the word like it's a dirty. . . word. It so isn' t! Etymologically, it's cool to see that it comes from an airier / padded definition. Now, bombast can be a bad thing, particularly if a story has been relying on realism for credibility, that story is just flat out fucked and silly if it becomes too bombastic. That said, bombast is buoyant and it can come in a lot of forms.

The 10 types of bombast in storytelling are:

1. Voluminous Bombast. This is the most common type of bombast these days. Comic books came into vogue recently with celebrated success. These are large stories with large meanings -- frequently meaningless meanings, true, but they are decedents of The Illiad and The Odyssey. It's a viewtiful sight to behold. They are shoutey and they smash shit up by purpose-driven men and women with axes, guns, swords, guns that are also swords, and batmobiles. The best example of voluminous bombast is 300, a grossly-inflated comic-retelling of an ancient-Greek story. It's beyond criticism, tempered lazily to a blunt edge with an too-big hammer, and it gets its point across by making you afraid that at any point, large humans will noise at you! This is simple and honest and is one of the oldest versions of bombast and it can never die because it's the most easily-excused. You can't hide from big sounds. Try to close it out all you want, it'll just rattle your bones with or without your permission. People love rock concerts because they make crowds vibrate at the same frequency. They all share the experience, the same feeling at once. That's why rock stars love their jobs, they hold the crowd in their hands, a powerful feeling. And that's why loud, voluminous, bombastic stories are the so loved. They are the drunken-makout of storytelling.
2. Absurdist Bombast. If Voluminous Bombast is a story in rock-concert form, then Absurdist Bombast is its self-aware, slightly-ironic younger brother playing with the recording's RPMs and mashing them up against The Roots and Led Zeppelin's subtler, deep-tracked bass-lines. It's the same story but it's indifferent. It isn't serious and instead of bellowing with pride, it cackles, clacking coal-covered fingertips against each other, sometimes pausing momentarily to drink another pint of seawater. Have you seen Crank? Crank is absurdly bombastic. It isn't on drugs, except during the parts where Jason Statham does drugs ("Dis is the Haitian shit! It is made of Plant Shit!"), it was just born intelligent enough to choose stupidity over seriousness like a giggling vizier with schemes to poison the kingdom's groundwater. It is a simple puzzle, sure, oftentimes without an actual solution or a reason, and absurdism wouldn't want it any other way.
3. Bombastia Nostalgia. Recent-past historical-fiction. Americans are suckers for nostalgia and tradition and the people that were ballsy enough to bend and break those traditions back when they were considered law. The Bombastia Nostalgia is glamor, outdated, which we know we shouldn't revive, an ancient, beautiful, poetic society felled long ago by hubris and crushing, intimate, lives that remain be dead. It's dreams and photographs of run-on emotions. It's Mad Men. Big cars, blurred filmstrips, willful ignorance and elegant self-destruction. There's societal fervor, and most of all, there's pride. It's a creased-edged version of the present that we "outgrew," armed with the advances in civilization (or silent-regression, depending on who you ask), and yet we wouldn't mind going back to it. It's quieter than Voluminous Bombast, but not as soft as Regretful Bombast, which we'll talk about in a moment.
4. Closed Bombast. A close relative of Bombastia Nostalgia, separating itself because it isn't as focused on society, no, it's more individual. It's reserved, it's cagey -- it's the most masculine bombast. It always walks; until it has to sprint. While sprinting, it can capably load a gun, some kind of old bolt-action rifle. Professionalism and manliness, this is a heart attack locked and loaded. Think of Michael Mann and Christopher Nolan's movies. The Prestige, Inception, Heat, and Collateral are all movies about very ordered men that work efficiently until they allow emotions to get the best of them. Then things crumble. That's when they are forced to accelerate from low-grade gasoline to whatever they used to put in the space shuttle. Shit blows up and innocents we secretly loved die. When Closed Bombast is pushed, it pushes back and it pushes back angry!
5. Regretful Bombast. One way you could go after being pushed would be to suffer under the weight of the emotions let loose. Instead of fighting back, the emotional, regretful event causes the person to sink into melancholy. Now, the genie is out of the bottle, and loaded with way, way, way too much self-pity, the characters have to face it. Garden State comes to mind, which is a mediocre movie that's terribly in love with its own regret. It's soft, it wants to be alone. It shouldn't be, but it wants to be. There's a lot of mucky emotion in the past that, regretfully, must be dealt with. It isn't romantic by default, it wants to be if it can earn it, and it can indeed, just think of the part when they get drunk in the empty mansion and Natalie Portman does that goofy 4-second tap dance in front of the fire. We were thinking of mentioning The Fountain but its characters are actually struggling to keep things steady while fighting a losing battle. They're fighting but they're realistic and they'd rather not have to.
6. Ecstatic Bombast. These are the characters that are so glad that they get to fight. For lack of a better explanation, this is Michael Bay, particularly Bad Boys II, Bay's truest movie. But why is it so bombastic? Because, bitch! Ecstatic Bombast would never lie to you. We're here with our gleeful loudness not because we're proud or honorable like Voluminous Bombast, but because there's no greater feeling than to watch the fragments of a crumbling earth tornado around us. The most villainous form of bombast, Ecstatic Bombast shows no regret, no emotion, it is a purely-destructive force. It's a nice thing to look at once in a while, but baby, you wouldn't want to live there.
7. Bombast Immaterial. The other type of bombast whose meaning is difficult to ascertain, Bombast Immaterial is wandering, inaccessible, and often impenetrable. It has meaning, it's just going to take a to figure out, it might not be fun to figure out, it might not be a good answer, and you might go crazy in your attempt. It's Paradise Lost. It's James Joyce. It's Neon Genesis Evangelion. Yes, we did just mention those last two in the same breath, and we promise never to do so again. One is the height of artistic deconstruction and the other is about metaphysical alien robots, but both are as stubborn as steel coconuts. Bombast Immaterial is an amorphous thing and honestly, Neon Genesis, trust us, isn't worth figuring out, despite it's impenetrable mind-fucking weirdness. That's the problem, for all the insanity and burned-brained cells Bombast Immaterial can produce in you, it might end up being stupid, maybe even stupider than you. James Joyce is not stupid, his work is Immaterial Bombast that must be reassembled to understand, and when you do, you'll be able to see the difference between meaningful bombast and bullshit, which is what Neon Genesis is. You might not understand Bombast Immaterial the first time around, so you'll immediately assume it's smart, which works to its benefit if its indeed stupid, like Donnie Darko. It is the only type of bombast that can be benefit endlessly from its psycho-epic frame, expending towards the stars, like Black Swan, or into a giant hot mess, like Australia.
8. Hindsight Bombast. Unique to historical fiction, this is a high-volume bombast that makes you hate yourself, especially if you're white. Acceptance of "that's how things were" tragedy in any historical fiction/non-fiction, accuracy is less important than you'd think. It's older than Bombastia Nostalgia because it's more imaginary and because everybody that was alive back then is now dead. It strives to teach lessons and comfort you in the present, presenting humanity's dirtiness and self-contempt rather than glamorizing ancient people's pride and heroics. Heroics are important in Hindsight Bombast but those people are like the samurai in Seven Samurai, banished for who they are after doing good. Romanticization isn't the point of Hindsight Bombast, even if there is a romance in the story.
9. Smooth Bombast. It's swagger. It is somehow softer, dark, pulpy, and hyper-real. Basically Indiana Jones, or Harrison Ford in general. Zidane (the good one, not the Frenchman, fuck no) has got the Smooth Bombast. There's no way it could be that inhuman and loaded with fake charm, but it is! It so is! Smooth Bombast is smooth like water-packed sand is smooth. It can go from fine to grungy in a singular spectacular moment and it wouldn't even notice it's bleeding until you inform it of the bullet-hole gusher straight through its upper thigh. Smooth Bombast outruns the bad guys in a stolen Aston Martin and crashes it with (somewhat begrudging, unspoken) indifference. Smooth Bombast also steals Jeeps -- and gets in fights with Nepalese gangsters because it's loud with faulty braggadocio. Smooth Bombast always wants to do the right thing, even if it's the stupid thing.
10. Bombast Familia. This is the tightest, most painful, most personal, most bottled, most highly-pressurized bombast. Part of us wanted to call it Casked Bombast, but we kept coming back to the painful, drunken haze that sets in from too much gin and Scotch deep into the night -- the amount of consumption (no, not that kind of consumption (or maybe it is, now that we think of it (it isn't (SATINE!!!)))) you'd only let your family see. Armed to the teeth with that legally-dead B.A.C., all that bombastic pontification comes out after years contained and alone like the Tyrones in Long Day's Journey Into Night or Cat on a Hot Tin Roof or almost anything by Arthur Miller. The part in The Crucible when John Proctor has to choose whether to live or to kill his family's name by falsely confessing to witchcraft, that is the very definition of gigantic, appropriate Bombast Familia.

By definition, bombast is unnecessary -- we deny this reality and substitute our own. Big emotions are great entertainment. They bring down kings and cats alike and they are usually easy to understand. Bombast is good-simple.

-- Ghost Little and Doberman

on Twitter  |  @GhostLittle_WTF