myDylarama

Mank: David Fincher's Xanadu

George Crosthwait — 2020-12-17T10:27:05Z

Something is troubling David Fincher. Despite his multiple Oscar nominations, the consistent box office returns that keep the studios purring, and the cult fandom generated by his dark and twisty thrillers, something is gnawing at him. He hasn't done his “Hollywood” picture. And really, how do you expect to be taken seriously as a white male American auteur without a handsome and lightly satirical peek behind the soundstage. Look around you. Scorsese has made Aviator, Tarantino has Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, the Coen brothers have Barton Fink AND Hail, Caesar!, (that's not to mention films by Davids Lynch and Cronenberg, Woody Allen, Richard Linklater, Barry Sonnenfeld, Frank Oz, Damien Chazelle, Ben Affleck, Casey Affleck, Jay Roach, Martin McDonagh, Richard Kelly, James Franco, Michel Hazanavicius, Curtis Hanson, Spike Jonze, Tim Burton, Mike Figgis, Bernard Rose, Robert Altman, Robert Aldrich, John McTiernan, Wes Craven, Brian De Palma, Paul Schrader, Richard Attenborough, Terrence Malick, Peter Bogdanovich, John Schlesinger, Vincente Minelli, Warren Beatty, Sidney Pollack, Elia Kazan, Nicholas Ray, Billy Wilder, George Cukor, William Wyler, William Wellman, Stanley Donen, Gene Kelly, Preston Sturges, and Buster Keaton).

Now the World has Mank. Fincher's tribute to a golden age of the Mankiewicz bros., Orson Welles, the creative process, the studio system, executive control, and alcoholism. A handsomely mounted (Netflix) production with a personal genesis, Mank has thrilled the critics and taken its place in the pantheon of cinema's most self-indulgent sub-genre. What is there to make of Hollywood's addiction to self-representation? Certainly, there's a degree of brand management occurring here; a constant need to justify that the act of making movies is so important/fascinating that there needs to be more movies about it! And, of course, the cultural legacies of such films are guaranteed by the unceasing cascade of award nominations—Fincher is, at the time of writing, every bookies' favourite for the Best Director Oscar.

Onscreen representations of Hollywood tend to fit into two categories: celebrations of movie magic (The Artist), and industry satires (The Player). These categories overlap somewhat, so you might reasonably expect at least a few swipes at unscrupulous producers in the former, and some eventual vindication of cinema in the latter. In reality, one should always regard Hollywood self-satire with suspicion. It is hardly revelatory to paint studio execs as exploitative, or to suggest that the industry as a whole values profit over artistic vision. The exposures of #MeToo and Time's Up were painfully shocking, but if we're being honest, not all that surprising. Whenever Hollywood indulges in self-critique, the actual effect is to remind the public (and the industry drones) that producers are odiously powerful. If you mess with them, you do so at the risk of your career. This can also act as a mea culpa: “We know Hollywood is messed up, but at least we can criticise ourselves”. When an industry is constantly poised in a Teflon coated stance of self-satire, sincere accusations from outside parties tend to slide straight off. “Tell the story you know”, declares John Houseman in Mank. Maybe it's all just Hollywood water cooler chat.
How effective can a Hollywood takedown of an institution, or public figure, be? Citizen Kane may have pissed off William Randolph Hearst, but did it hamper newspaper sales? Rupert Murdoch might not like Succession (if he watches it), but is presumably happy with the health of his evil empire. Hearst actually appears as a major supporting character in Mank, alongside a rogues' gallery that includes Louis B. Mayer, Ben Hecht and David O. Selznick. As cartoonishly reprehensible as these caricatures are, forget about making links to media moguls or studio heads of the present (a couple of wafts at Goebbels and fake news aside). Like other golden age hagiographies such as Trumbo and The Aviator, Mank's “Hollywoodland” is presented as a temporally isolated space where art triumphs and everyone cheerfully trades witty barbs like Dorothy Parker after a large scotch. Whilst this mythical past is haunted by ghouls like Hearst, Mayer, and Joe McCarthy, their presence is countered by guardians of the craft. Our saviours in Mank include the visionary prophet Orson Welles, the doomed but noble Irving Thalberg, and the uncompromising court jester Herman Mankiewicz, flirting with career suicide but protecting his creative honour.

Mankiewicz is an interesting vessel through which to tell this story. Whilst Fincher may be righting a misconception that Citizen Kane was a co-authored script, Welles remains the unchallenged genius. Fincher adores him. We rarely see his face, and Tom Burke's booming impression dominates, even when heard through the phone. He is frequently framed from below, towering over everyone, or from behind, in darkened silhouette. One analysis of Mank and similar films is to draw a connection between creator and subject. Take for example the perfectionist Martin Scorsese the rehabilitating an OCD suffering Howard Hughes as a tragic romantic in The Aviator, or the exploitation upcycler Quentin Tarantino's aging tough guys saving the world from hippies in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. Here, Fincher isn't hubristic enough to compare himself directly to Welles, but possibly sees himself in Mankiewicz: the highly successful, uniquely talented and principled, yet flawed and underrated studio veteran.

Mank's opening credits plunge the viewer into immediate pastiche territory. A golden-era-esque title card fades into digitally simulated black-and-white celluloid stock. Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross' score accurately captures the atmosphere of an (anachronistic) 50s noir—nostalgia often miss-remembers what 1940s Hollywood sounded like. As the first artificial reel-change “cigarette-burn” (surely Fincher's career “rosebud”) marker appears, you might find yourself experiencing a kind of inauthentic authenticity. A sense that everything looks like it should and is thus uncannily unreal. Whilst there are some zingy exchanges—Mankiewicz and Marion Davies' moonlit stroll through Hearst's menagerie is a clear standout—much of the dialogue occupies the awkward space between the didactic “I'm [insert Hollywood player] and I work at [insert studio] and I made [insert well known film]” and the niche “I hear you won an arm wrestle [sic] against Wallace Beery”). Mank doesn't even operate as the “creative block” tale it establishes in the first act. The moment Mankiewicz's deadline looms, he simply completes his script with relative ease. What remains then is an occasionally witty, handsomely mounted, mildly informative, narratively turgid, hollow shell. It is telling that some of the truly interesting backstage-movies come courtesy of non-male, or non-white directors. See Kitty Green's The Assistant if it's a real industry critique you're after, or Spike Lee's assault on Hollywood narrative history in BlacKkKlansman, or even delight in Sofia Coppola turning Tinseltown tedium into its own aesthetic in Somewhere. Compared to these, Fincher comes across as pretty frothy.

And after all that having been said, it is interesting to note that Mank itself is based on a script penned by Fincher's late father, Jack (also responsible for an early The Aviator draft). Maybe then, this is all a tribute to the unrecognised talents of a loved one, and for all those un-optioned scripts, and movies that might have been, now lost to the void. A disposable film to scold Hollywood's creative entropy.

Essay on Shadows (1959)

Martin Appleby — 2011-09-18T02:17:30Z

The directional debut of celebrated film-maker John Cassavetes, Shadows (1959) is heralded as a land mark in independent film making, film critic Elbert Ventura suggests that the date of the film's release should be celebrated as the birthday of American independent cinema (Ventura, E. 2009. John Cassavetes' startling directorial debut changed American movies forever). Vastly different in style, tone and content to what audiences of that era were familiar with seeing, and had come to expect from a film. They were not used to witnessing such stark realism, and casual exploration of race.

The film was made on a minuscule budget, thought to be around forty thousand dollars (Giddins, B. 2004. Shadows: Eternal Times Square), shot with hand held cameras, and dialogue allegedly improvised in its entirety by the actors. In a New York Times review, critic Bosley Crowther describes the film as “fitfully dynamic, endowed with a raw but vibrant strength, conveying an illusion of being a record of real people.” (Crowther, B. 1961. New York Times). The film has a very naturalistic, documentary-like quality, which adds depth, and honesty to the themes that are explored within the story.

The film takes place in New York City, and centres on three African-American siblings, Lelia, Ben and Hugh, following them in their everyday lives over a period of several days. Although they are African-American, the two youngest siblings, Lelia and Ben, have very light coloured skin, and can pass for being Caucasian. The eldest sibling, Hugh, has much darker coloured skin. It is possible that Lelia and Ben are of mixed-race; having one white parent and one black parent, however, their parents are never introduced, or mentioned at any point during the film.

All three siblings have very differing attitudes, and feelings regarding race and identity. The youngest, Lelia, is impartial, and as Bosley Crowther points out in his review; “indifferent to the matter of race”. (Crowther, B. 1961. New York Times). She wants to be accepted for who she is, and judged on her creative and artistic endeavours as a writer, rather than on the colour of her skin. On meeting a romantic interest, Tony, at a party, he asks her to whom she belongs, to which she replies “I belong to me.” (31 mins). She is fiercely independent, but very naïve. She succumbs to Tony's charms, and has sex with him the same night they meet. He then declares his love for her, however, only when he meets her brother Hugh, does he realise that he she is African-American. This changes his view of her completely, exposing his racist sensibilities, angering Hugh, and deeply hurting Lelia.

The middle sibling, Ben, is an out of work trumpet player. He openly resents being African-American, and chooses to spend the majority of his time with his white friends. At a party, organized by his brother Hugh, in which all of the guests are black, Ben feels like an outsider. A black woman approaches him during the party, and encourages him to integrate and join in, when he refuses, she verbally lambastes his attitude;

“Pull yourself together, because you're not kidding anybody but yourself … You have your sense of values all mixed up.” (57 mins)
This upsets him, and leads to a physical altercation between them. Ben is then attacked by his brother Hugh, who is angered by his actions. Ben leaves the party and goes to a bar, but before entering, he poignantly recites a line from a nursery rhyme to himself; “Mary had a little lamb, it's fleece as white as snow. Everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.” (59 mins) This is a clear metaphor for his desire for his skin to be “as white as snow”.

The eldest sibling, Hugh, is a struggling Jazz musician. It appears that he has a much stronger relationship with Lelia, than with Ben. He is very nurturing, and protective of her, but being a very proud man, he is frustrated by Ben's resentment of his race. This is evident in a scene in which Lelia is upset after being scorned by the racist Tony; Ben enquires as to what is troubling her, to which Hugh replies; “Nothing you'd be interested in … Just a problem with the racists, that's all. Like I said, nothing you'd be interested in.” (53 mins) This subtle dig suggests that Hugh believes that Ben is not concerned with the struggles of being black, preferring to intentionally pass himself off as white. Ben does not deny this statement, indicating that he knows it to be true.

This candid, honest portrayal of life from an African-American perspective was not something that was seen in mainstream cinema in the 1950s (or previous). In Representation: Cultural representations and signifying practices (Hall, S. 1997. Sage), Stuart Hall studies the representation of black people in early American cinema, looking at the early work of pioneer black film-maker Oscar Micheaux, who produced what Hall describes as 'segregated' cinema – films made by black people for black people (p.252). In mainstream cinema black actors were generally cast in stereotypical roles, Hall lists these stereotypes as “jesters, simpletons, faithful retainers and servants.” (p.252) These roles were often very degrading, and disrespectful to black people.

In the 1950s mainstream films finally began to deal the subject of racism, with black actor Sidney Portier at the forefront of these films. The characters that Portier portrayed were often “everything that the stereotyped black man was not”, (p.253) his characters were always refined, intelligent, well dressed and well mannered. He was accepted by white audiences because he “met their standards” suggests Hall (p.253).

These films, Hall states, were often made “from a white liberal perspective.” (p.252). Appearing to actively seek being 'politically correct'. Having Portier play so “rigorously against the grain” (Hall, S. 1997. p.253) was an extreme opposite to the aforementioned stereotypes that black actors were previously confined to play - with neither seeming to be an entirely honest or accurate representation of most African-American's real lives. That is one of the key differences between these mainstream films and Cassavetes' Shadows. Even though John Cassavetes is himself a white man, Shadows' subtle exploration of race has an air of honesty, and realism about it. As Elbert Ventura points out; “Cassavetes and his actors aren't afraid to have their characters act in unlikable ways” (Ventura, E. 2009. John Cassavetes' startling directorial debut changed American movies forever) Cassavetes' film doesn't preach or become politically minded in delivering its message. It would seem that If there was an intended meaning within the story, the characters and their actions are allowed to dictate it in an honest, uncompromised and naturalistic manner.

Primary Source -
Shadows, 1959. Film. Directed by John Cassavetes. USA: Lion International Films.

Secondary Sources -
CROWTHER, B. 1961. Film Improvised Under Cassavetes Opens. New York Times. [online] Available: http://movies.nytimes.com/movie/review?res=9C0CE0DD133DE733A25751C2A9659C946091D6CF. [accessed 09 December 2010]

HALL, S. 1997. Representation: Cultural representations and signifying practices. UK: Sage.

VENTURA, E. 2009. John Cassavetes' startling directorial debut changed American movies forever. [online] Available: http://www.slate.com/id/2235169/pagenum/2. [accessed 09 December 2010]

Transamerica, a gendered perspective!

Abla Kandalaft — 2010-07-18T13:15:45Z

I first caught Transamerica about 15 min in, on a tiny television set in a small family-run hotel in St Malo. That was back in 2006, about a year after its release and I was working as a tour guide in France. In the first few minutes this is what I thought was going on: a very masculine-looking woman teenage hitchhiker are driving through the US. What I didn't get was whether it was a man or a woman playing Bree. It was only when the credits rolled that I realised it was Felicity Huffman.

Transamerica doesn't really fit in any particular genre, part road movie, part melodrama, part offbeat comedy and so on. To sum up, the film follows Bree, née “Stanley” (Felicity Huffman), as she sets out to complete her transformation from man to woman. Just before she goes through the final surgical procedure, she learns she has a son, Toby (Kevin Zegers) from her unsuccessful dabble with the opposite sex back when she was Stanley. More or less bullied by her psychiatrist into meeting him, she picks him up from a New York police station where he was held for a minor drug offence. Instead of telling him who she is, Bree explains to Toby, a street hustler, that she is affiliated to a local church and was sent to bail him out as an act of Christian charity. Somehow reluctantly, she ends up offering him a lift to LA as he plans on embarking upon a career in the porn film industry.

This film raises particularly interesting questions in regards to representations of the body. Huffman and Zegers brilliantly and subtly embody two opposite relations to theirs. Feeling estranged from her masculine body, Bree sees it as a work in progress that is to be controlled and wrapped up. Every inch is covered. She goes to painstaking lengths to be able to present it in public, from layers of foundation to hormone pills, scarves to surgery. Conversely Toby is careless and negligent when it comes to his appearance but, and perhaps unsurprisingly considering his occupation, instead of camouflaging his body he constantly exhibits it; aware of its earning potential, first as a hustler and soon as a porn star.

The issue of gender brought up in Transamerica is particularly interesting. There is a lot to be said for its portrayal of gender performativity, developed in particular by Judith Butler. She argues that “One is not born female, one becomes female; but even more radically, one can if one chooses, become neither female nor male, woman nor man” and one becomes both or neither through performance. Basically, according to her “queer theory”, you have a body, you perform an identity, you may have desires. This is particularly obvious in Bree's daily ritual of voice placement, make up and dress we witness at the start of the film. She constructs the image she wishes to project as a woman. Huffman delivers a stunning performance as every detail is measured so that we clearly feel that Stanley, in the early stages of his transformation, is performing a woman. Toby's sexual identity is equally blurry (or all-encompassing); he has a body with sexual potential, he performs whatever identity he feels will earn him a living/ get him out of trouble/ allow him to fit in and expresses ambivalent desires.
What I found particularly original in Transamerica is that despite this subject matter, sexuality and transexuality are not really what it's about. They're just part and parcel of the characters' identities. Gender identity is simply a “work in progress” to use Bree's words, secondary to the characters' journey itself and the growing bond between them, as director Duncan Tucker explains in the commentary. The film is beautifully shot and stands out especially for the consistently excellent performances and the very appropriate soundtrack.