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GREYHOUND (2020)

Directed by Aaron Schneider

Written by Tom Hanks & CS Forester

Starring Stephen Graham, Elisabeth Shue, & Tom Hanks as Ernest Krause

Tom, Thanks for Greyhound

July 17, 2020

We live in a harbour town, a cultural hub for essential Maritime lifestyle - lobster, naval museums, moored vessels of all natures, wooden carvings of half-mad cap'ns in yellow slickers with pipes and brown jugs. That's home. And being home, I've taken it for granted the way others do their skyscrapers and sports organizations. For a long time it didn't matter to me that ours is the second most expansive natural harbour in the world, or that we maintain an eighteenth-century defensive citadel that never saw combat. It was always unspectacular that we housed the single largest burial site for victims of the Titanic, or that Churchill and Hemingway both drank here. And even less striking was my awareness of a docked Flower-Class corvette near the chip trucks, called HMCS Sackville K181. I bet if I'd known all my life it's the last of its kind, I still wouldn't have cared, but now I kind of do. Maybe because Tom Hanks cares.

 

Good to be with you again - I hope your endurance of the great wilting civilization has allowed you some sparing weekends of reprieve. As I write this, I'm lying on a beach near Cole Harbour, surrounded by people who shared my goal of escaping the inner-city blaze. Most of them are seemingly more comfortable doing so than I've felt in a while, but my summer vacation's only just started, and perhaps I'll find my centre yet. Still, this break will only last nine days, roughly a third of what's turned out to be the average person's pandemic cooperation threshold. I realize I'm passing this judgement from a crowded beach, but I don't know, it's windy here, and anyway, I'm trying to forget The Great Wilt. In previous summers, I've been more inclined to duck from the oppressive heat by hiding out in a movie theatre, but for all the crowds, it's not windy in movie theatres. Instead I have to drive up to the shore in the daytime, and watch new releases on Apple TV+ in the evenings. It's not ideal, but if TH can handle it, so can I.

 

His theatrical compromise of the season comes in the form of a WWII thriller called Greyhound. Hanks doesn't just star as Captain Ernest Krause, he also adapted the screenplay from CS Forester's The Good Shepherd (I guess the title was in-use). From moving acceptance speeches to an acclaimed book of essays, it's been well-established the man can write nearly as well as he can act. But Greyhound doesn't feel like the humanist text we might expect from TH; it doesn't have the softness of his previous scripts. In fact, it doesn't quite feel like a piece of writing at all, but rather a series of manic visuals conveying the truth and trauma of war on the sea. Once it's understood this is the kind of movie you're getting, the tension is enough. It is, after all, a faithful narrative construct to lead your audience to root for Tom Hanks and against nazis. But my allegiances were a bit more specific given my preoccupation with the ally ship Dicky, a Canadian corvette that looked mighty familiar. As it turns out, I knew the actor and her name was Sackville. Evidently, digital effects artists visited her in my town and took surveys for her rendering in the movie Greyhound. Suddenly, I cared a lot. This war was personal.

 

It's difficult to predict where this film will land in the canon. It doesn't have the torment of Saving Private Ryan or the development of Band of Brothers; it doesn't have the investability of The Hunt For Red October or the shameless masculinity of Con Air. Greyhound seems to have a deliberate lack of personal attachment. The movie's single on-land scene features Krause exchanging Christmas gifts and discussions of marriage with his love Evelyn (Elisabeth Shue). She stays with him on the ship in the form of a pair of slippers, which are soon drenched in blood due to his unyielding control issues. Apart from a few fleeting Evelyn memories and humble prayers, Krause remains brashly dismissive of all conventions that remind him of his humanity. He won't sleep, he won't trade-off; he won't even eat his ham and eggs, as if food has nothing to do with his ability to keep going. This delusion is shattered when an enemy attack kills three of his men, including the ship's head chef. Despite what I'm guessing is a deeply familiar commitment to stoicism for many vets, I struggle to imagine Greyhound becoming one of anyone's faithful rewatchables. Perhaps if it got to kick off its life on a bigger screen, I'd feel differently. If nothing else, it's a moving snapshot of a point in time, with gorgeous cinematography and a lead who always keeps us safe. Plus you can pollish it off in under ninety minutes and we need more movies like that.

 

I took a drive to the Halifax Waterfront to visit K181 on a day too gloomy for the beach. The tourism season is cancelled for obvious reasons, so it's quiet down there. Normally you can help yourself to a tour about the ship; she's outfitted with placards and uniformed mannequins. But the HMCS Sackville's website says her museum will remain closed this year. You can spot from the wharf where someone's painted Donald Duck on her cabin walls - permissively, I assume, though I can't imagine why. There was nothing so blithe about her original purposes, her history. I guess it's easy to take that for granted. It was so long ago. Someday, this new war, this global navigation of and around a hostile virus, will be but a time in history; a time to be defined but unimposed by. God willing, a one-hundred-and-fifty year old Tom Hanks will still be around to star in the movie they make about The Great Wilt. He can even play himself! And, fingers crossed, hopefully we can all go see it in theatres.

 

Thx!

Tom, Thanks for The Burbs

May 13, 2020

THE BURBS (1989)

Directed by Joe Dante

Written by Dana Olsen

Starring Carrie Fisher, Rick Ducommun, & Tom Hanks as Ray Peterson

Maybe I once knew the names of the people across the street and one over, but I would never remember now. That's partly on me because I never took the time to get to know them, but on the other hand, I was a kid and it was thus my role to classify everyone on our street as either a lifelong friend, or a big fat weirdo. And this family was a big fat weirdo family, and it's reflected by the many names we called them in secret - the names I will always remember. To be fair, it was the men of the house who defined their reputation. A father and son. The father would play the accordion on his front step, he'd wear dress clothes to do yard work, he'd cut ceramic tile on a table saw in the driveway at 1 o'clock in the morning. His teenage son was a burn-out-metal-head who eventually upgraded his hang zone from the roof to a school bus he bought and parked on the street. He and his friends painted the bus matte black and lived in it like freaking Manson children, until a mysterious vigilante of the block called the city and had it removed. We all agreed these neighbors were totally strange, and though I never knew them well enough to ask, I'm sure they thought the same of us.

 

The central thesis of 1989's The Burbs seems to be that peculiar behavior is found in the wholesome quiet of the safest-seeming cul de sacs, and that peculiarity can be found in each of us just the same. TH stars as Ray Peterson, an easily agitated workaholic eager to take advantage of a much needed staycation. His wife Carol (Carrie Fisher) insists they spend their time off at their cottage by the lake, but Ray would prefer to stay, and gawk at the ever-flowing fountain in the Jones' yard. In this movie, the Jones' are called the Klopeks, and they've recently moved into the dilapidated house next door and scarcely been seen or heard from since. Ray and his buddies (Bruce Dern & Rick Ducommun) already have their curiosity piqued when another neighbor goes suddenly missing and the Klopek's are seen digging in the back yard, in the dead of a rainy night. Then their nosiness moves up a notch.

 

The Burbs hardly pioneered the suburban milieu of so many classic horror fliks. If anything, it seems to satirize films like Rear Window. For that reason, I kind of wish I'd saved it for Halloween. It opens with an eerie pan across a series of innocent houses, while a crescendo of minor organ music rises. At one point, a character uses bolt cutters to sever a power line into the Klopek house and my fiance predicted they might animate a brief image of his skeleton when he's inevitably electrocuted (which they don't, but it was a fair guess). It is a dark comedy, and it also comes by its sense of dread honestly, managing an understanding of its own degree of camp. To that end, The Burbs is honestly a great ride. TH is essentially the only three-dimensional character, as both the stubborn rogue among the suburb's rationalists and the voice of reason among the crazies. The cast has other great names but their characters are cartoonish, and Ducommun comes across as a bargain-bin Dan Ackroyd, for whom I'd gladly have traded Carrie Fisher in a more prominent role than the nagging wife she played. 

 

The audio engineer on this movie was the real villain. Prop beer cans are a pet peeve of mine anyway, because they're always over-foleyed, but a worse offender is the scene where Hans Klopek (Courtney Gains) serves Ray sardines and pretzels, and the chewing is belabored and nauseating. Moments later, Doctor Werner Klopek (Henry Gibson) shakes Ray's hand without having washed off a palm of red liquid, and the handshake sounds like two trout sumo wrestling. The doctor claims the red stuff is paint. We're clearly meant to think it's blood, and Ray thinks so too, but it seems to me, his trusty nose could have confirmed or quashed that suspicion. There are many such fictitious liberties. The most obvious is Ray & Co's classic unwillingness to call the police when they suspect a murder has happened next door. Then again, every street has weirdo neighbors, and Ray & Co are pretty weird themselves. At one point they climb into the back of an active garbage truck - the image is at least as upsetting as whatever the Klopeks are up to.

 

I'd be remiss not to mention that the theme of neighbors invited an amusing (and now quite meta) cameo from the real Fred Rogers. After a disturbing inspection of the Klopek's dwelling, Ray is seen watching Mr. Roger Neighborhood and gently singing along to the theme song. Of course, this is not the last time a TH movie will require him to sing this ditty, but The Burbs doesn't end with quite the same existential release as A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood. It does end with a family coming together after a difficult time, and now that I think of it, the final shot of both films are breakings of the fourth wall. Still, it's more than some sardines that differ these two. 

 

It's important I state that, for all our juvenile brow-arching, we never expected actual evil of the weird family that lived across the street and one over. Wherever he is now, I imagine their son cringes to remember his ridiculous bus and the tantrum he threw when the city hauled it away. I imagine he and his family also remember the weird kids across the street and one over, who spent years mulling about the driveway, staring back with confused looks on their faces. For all I know they saw me digging that hole in the back yard that one time, but hopefully they don't remember.

 

Thx!

Tom, Thanks for Angels & Demons

May 6, 2020

ANGELS & DEMONS (2009)

Directed by Ron Howard

Written by David Koepp, Akiva Goldsman, & Dan Brown

Starring Ewan McGregor, Ayelet Zurer, & Tom Hanks as Robert Langdon

I have a theory that nobody reads the amount that they say they do. It's not necessarily a deception, I just think we all have a fundamental misunderstanding of our own relationship to reading. Some folks will tell you, frankly, they never read, either with a sense of shame or gleeful sufficiency. Others seem to stock their own personal worth in their ability to digest mammoth works of hefty lit in very short periods of time; these same people tend to point out, as often as possible, the works they've consumed, as if they're check-points on a race to the afterlife. Then there's most of us: a few books a year, many op-eds & essays, countless iterations of news stories, magazines, tweets, notes from loved ones, work materials, and subtitles, all making up a vast amount of reading which we tend to summarize as, "Not as much as I'd like." With all these elements having a daily incursion on the universal modern lifestyle, I just don't see how self-proclaimed voracious readers are reading as much as they say, or how self-proclaimed never readers are reading as little as they say. Look, if you dummied fifty-two books in the last fifty-two weeks, congratulations on all the wonderful factors that enabled such an achievement, but I wonder if you can tell me how Book #17 ended, or what Book #38's protagonist was called. 

 

I was thirteen when I read The Da Vinci Code - I think we've discussed this already - and it was the longest book I'd ever read, at the time. I remember riding that scholarly, check-pointy sense of accomplishment right into the early pages of Angels & Demons, which quickly lost my interest and disrupted my book-reading trajectory for quite some time (or at least until the next Harry Potter came out). A&D was, in fact, written before DVC, but because the latter had so rocked the culture, suddenly all of Dan Brown's Robert Langdon adventures were newly popular. Even into adulthood, when I eventually saw the DVC movie and found it as enjoyable as I remembered the book to be, I never gave A&D a second try, and fifteen years went by before I managed to find out how that book ended... this past weekend, via Tom Hanks. Turns out, Angels & Demons is kind of a blast, and ends, possibly, even more explosively than its more exalted sequel.

 

Where DVC concerns itself with thousands of years of religious institutions concealing secrets, A&D is about such corruption on a more current scale. It begins with the announcement of the death of the Pope and the sense that it's undecided who among four cardinals will next be elected to the Papacy. To complicate things, foul play might have occurred, and thus begins one of the most reliable story structures for creating suspense and devotion-to-hero: "Something's happened and only so&so can crack the case!" Enter: professor of symbology, theistic Indiana Jones, Robert Langdon (TH with shorter hair than in the chronologically-later DVC, meaning Landon grows it out after these events). 

 

Imagine you're the preeminent authority in a field that deals mainly in language, theory, and anecdotal mythology. You're a learned person and your passion for the subjects you study would incline you toward nearly endless curious opportunities. Now imagine your expertise forces you into the regular presence of dead bodies, at the top of investigators' lists of suspects, and in the cross-hairs of the world's dorkiest assassins. It's not easy being Robert Langdon, man, and I don't know where he found time to train with the ninjas in the League of Shadows, in and around writing historical texts and drawing ambigrams for fun, but I'm very impressed. That all said, this movie does imply Langdon isn't fluent in Latin, and of all the blind-spots I could forgive, I struggle with this one. 

 

For the next installment in an established franchise, A&D is not a star-studded film. Ewan McGregor is the shiniest tack-on, in his role as Camerlengo Patrick McKenna. McKenna's in charge of facilitating the transition between Popes, and serves as a cooperative witness into the late pontiff's mysterious death. He reveals himself, with little provocation, to be the illegitimate son of the former Pope, and goes on to perform action stunts that make Landon look more like the bookworm he ought to. The cast member I'm most curious about is Nikolaj Lie Kaas, the unnamed assassin who roams the cobblestones of Italy, murdering the Church's foremost cardinals, one by one, in different elemental ways. This actor does not appear to have had an extensive career in high profile roles, but I wish he had - the guy's scary! Then there's Vittoria Vetra, antimatter specialist, with little to do, and thus, little to influence. I vaguely remember her to be more significant in early parts of the book, but still as scarcely more than the archetypal female sidekick who eventually lays Langdon. A certain amount of formula is acceptable in a Dan Brown adaptation (we discussed this framing in the DVC entry), though I wonder if these adventures would be more thrilling in a greater Brown Television Universe. I'd watch a Professor Langdon Amazon Prime series in a heartbeat. 

 

Do you suppose Robert Langdon laments not reading as much as he'd like? Everyone with a thirst for knowledge seems to have this personal shame, no matter how academically accomplished they are. On the other hand, we're all just faking knowing anything, right? The things we do or don't read in books define us only to us and no one else. When Langdon is called to a police investigation, as an authority on a certain subject, he shows up not knowing how to help or what exactly has happened. But he wants to learn, because he wants to get better. And that's why any of us read, right? To learn. To get better. Unless of course you read exciting action thrillers for entertainment, and if so, can you recommend any good authors?

 

Thx!

Tom, Thanks for The Money Pit

April 22, 2020

THE MONEY PIT (1986)

Directed by Richard Benjamin

Written by David Giler

Starring Shelley Long, Alexander Godunov, & Tom Hanks as Walter Fielding

When I first had forty dollars to my name, I might as well have been the richest person alive. Or not alive for that matter; Bruce Wayne, Gordon Gecko, Scrooge McDuck. It was the most dough I'd ever seen and it was mine to spend as I pleased. "Should I buy my parents house out from under them? A fleet of sports cars I can't legally drive? My own Pizza Hut?" All of these options seemingly at my fingertips, I spent my savings on a toy version of Sebulba's podracer from The Phantom Menace, complete with Sebulba. And it's with those twin cylinder engines on the sun-seared tundra of Mos Espa Grand Arena that I achieved my record millage on a payment of forty dollars. That amount of cash never went so far again. As soon as you've spent the most money you've ever spent, it's no great accomplishment to repeat. In fact, it's only a win if you manage not to spend more. When we bought our house in the Summer of 2018, we had to reach for the absolute ceiling of our budget. We felt cosmically drawn to this place, and though we've never regretted it, we've always felt we got taken for a bit of a ride by the sellers. But as I've learned, that's just how the game is played, and anyway, it's not the sticker price that hurts. Buying a house is fun! It's the cost of filing paperwork, and paying lawyers, and securing loans, and acquiring inspection clearance, and all these other closing rituals that tease your emotions and your financial center of gravity. First it hurts like a throat-punch, and much like the trodden experience of first spending forty dollars on a cool toy, the spending hurts less and less until you feel nothing at all. 

 

Bleak? Pardon me. 1986's The Money Pit is hardly an anti-capitalist indictment of man's enslavement by the almighty dollar. It's a wacky (and I mean wacky in the most 80's movie way) 80's movie. But it does occasionally engage bleakness, with themes of providership, familial instability, and distrust. Tom Hanks plays Walter, an entertainment lawyer living blissfully with his girlfriend Anna, in the swanky apartment she used to share with her ex-husband Max. When Max returns, Walter and Anna are forced to relocate and, as luck would have it, a grand and enviable mansion is newly on the market for a total steal. Walter borrows two-hundred grand from a child pop-star he represents, and buys the house without considering what he's getting himself into. He and Anna quickly learn their new home is a dump, an ineffably upright arrangement of sticks and bricks, ready to crumble at any wrong step. At first, they share the optimistic intention of working to make the house all it can be. But the stress and unyielding expense puts their patience on trial. 

 

This wouldn't be a zany 80's flik without a premise that's fundamentally flawed - Ferris Bueller packs far too many activities into the span of one day; Daniel Son wins the final tournament with an illegal crane kick; Gremlins can't be fed after midnight and yet it's literally always after some previous midnight - you get the picture. Money Pit writer David Giler's entire story would have unraveled if he'd considered any of the basics of real estate. Rule 1: Buy within your means (Walter purchases this massive house he believes is worth a million dollars to live in with just one other person). Rule 2: Secure financing (Walter doesn't belong to a bank? He has to beg for money from the teeny bopper he works with? Houses aren't paid for with bundles of cash in pillow cases). Rule 3: Consult industry professionals, a realtor who's frank about your options, a home inspector who can ensure your investment is sound (Seriously, Walter?). Not only did the writer ignore these essential home-buying tenets, he ignored writing ground rules too! Rule 1: Don't expect us to believe your main character is Justin Bieber's lawyer if he doesn't have a savings, a vehicle, connections, or even his own mailing address. This advice is very specific but applicable here.

 

Hey, all these sins are easily forgiven. It's an 80's movie. The physical comedy provided by TH is black-belt-Buster-Keatonism and, particularly the Mouse-Trap scene where the entire reno-operation collapses, prompted in me a genuine roar of laughter. That's the thing about having TH and Steven Spielberg and Kathleen Kennedy (producers) at the center of your imperfect film: it'll still have great moments. For all its misgivings, how bad can The Money Pit be when the foundation is so solid? This is essentially what the movie is about. If Walter and Anna love each other, no hardship can ever best them, and with perseverance, you can make any house a home. The final act introduces a dark turn where Anna, exhausted by the unrelenting misery of her dwelling, confides in her ex-husband, who openly wants to win her back. She passes out drunk at his place, and is erroneously told by him that they slept together (HOW ROMANTIC). This leads to a hostile break-up between Anna and Walter. I guess my second piece of writing advice is to not hinge your entire climax on a lie, but this fault is forgivable too because, you know, 80's movie. 

 

We've been working on a kitchen make-over. I'm not handy in an especially utilitarian way, but the painting was successful if not downright enjoyable. Our only job this weekend was to replace the old cabinet knobs and I honestly think it would have been easier to replace my own fingers. But we got it done and have since been basking in the pleasure of self-actualization, as home-owners without an inherent know-how, but instead, a drive to learn together and build the home of which we dream. It feels good. Not quite as good as forty dollars down on a podracer with fan-blade pump functionality, but pretty darned good.

 

Thx!

Tom, Thanks for That Thing You Do!

April 15, 2020

THAT THING YOU DO! (1996)

Directed by Tom Hanks

Written by Tom Hanks

Starring Tom Everett Scott, Liv Tyler, & Tom Hanks as Mr. White

When I was twelve, I clung to a MusicStop flyer for months. I think it was MusicStop, before they were bought-out by the national distributor. I remember the flyer was one of the meaty ones, with hefty, glossy paper and a sophisticated staple-binding. All the pages dedicated to mixing consoles, synthesizers, brass, and woodwinds might as well have been the requisite cologne and tobacco ads of every other magazine. All that mattered to me were the electric guitars; the Chuck Berry-lookin' one of perfect crimson symmetry, the sunburst Epiphone which was the least expensive, the Gibson SG with blood-red devil horns. I knew what they cost to rent or purchase and I had exactly no plan for how to make one of them mine. Maybe my flunking from soccer at six and piano at eight was what gave my mother pause, and maybe that was reasonable, but I still remember her saying, "You just want to be a rock star, you'd have to want to work." This is true, but I knew I couldn't let it deter me. When I was fourteen, she took a chance on my willingness to work and bought me an acoustic starter kit and ten lessons at the Conservatory. I went there for three years, and stopped when I'd accrued enough autonomy to continue learning alone. In my late teens, I'd drag guitars around to school and friends' houses. I was one of those, never great at it, never terrible. It's neither my passion nor my burden, it's just comfortably been a thing about me for the latter half of my twenty-eight years. I still go in and out of it.

 

The last guitar I bought was courtesy of a whim I nursed for less than a day. It was a vintage 1963 Silvertone Danelectro with a single lipstick pick-up and a glittery black finish. It's what they call parlor-sized and it sings like a bird. It's apparently one of those makes that cost nickels in their day, but it's held up as a well-crafted machine. Still, you almost never see them played by pros. I once used our mutual Silvertone playership to break the ice in an interview with Serena Ryder. They're not precious or historically significant, but there's some character to them, and they did make a charming cameo in 1996's That Thing You Do, written and directed by debut film auteur Tom Hanks. In the movie about a band of teenage pop-rockers in the 60's, the Silvertone is played by Lenny (Steve Zahn), and he wears it like Archie, and it fits like flower-print vinyl upholstery. Lenny's only a peripheral side-foil and, for a good portion of the film, the band itself is the lead character. But the most developed member, the ultimate hero, is Guy Patterson (Tom Everett Scott), jazz-percussion enthusiast and perfect, bouncy encapsulation of Young TH Energy. The only person he reminds me of more is the kid who played Josh Baskin in Big. The likeness is uncanny, and I have to imagine it's how he got the part. Tom must have seen something he recognized in Tom.

 

Setting the scene for this period piece was not solely on one set of shoulders (though TH served as a jack of many trades). Perhaps the most important element, for selling the era, is the effective crafting of the song - the Oneders-turned-Wonders' one hit, That Thing You Do. This job was left to Adam Schlesinger, who was not only a master of pop craftsmanship, more specifically, he could emulate any essential sonic quality. When he wrote Stacy's Mom, he was attempting the sound like The Cars; when he wrote for Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, it was a contemporary Broadway style he chased; when he wrote That Thing You Do, the goal was to call up the past, and recreate the bubbly, harmonic, commercial ditties of the 1960's - and he nailed it. This month, Schlesinger died from complications due to COVID19, and the world of art is smaller without him in it. As TH Tweeted, "There would be no Playtone without [him]." 

 

Playtone is the fictional record label to which The Oneders are signed, and paired with obligatory sleazy band-flik manager, Mr. White, played by the writer-director. He's not outwardly villainous so much as symbolic of the villainy of corporate structure and artifice. Having worked just outside the music business, I suspect some version of Mr. White exists in real life, though the independence of artists, thankfully, has grown more commonplace. In my experience, these reps are friendly-if-sleepy plaid-dads with Stella Artois and Prime Times in the hatchback. Sometimes they make you check your phones, and insist on Instagram veto-power. Sometimes they'd clearly rather be anywhere else. Usually they're just folks at work. 

 

Cast honourable mentions include Charlize Theron, Giovanni Ribisi, Peter Scolari, Rita Wilson, Chris Isaak, Kevin Pollack, Clint Howard, Paul Feig, Bryan Cranston, Bill Cobbs, and Colin Hanks. This can either speak to the magic TH could always conjure, or the luck that's always tailed him. But there is essentially nothing wrong with this movie; no casting imperfect, no exchange untrue, no visual any less than engrossing. It's sweet but not trite, light but not frivolous, celebratory but not negligent. More than ever, we have so much for which to thank Tom. In grade twelve, my friend Duncan and I liked a band called The Weakerthans. I learned their song One Great City on guitar and I remember being excited for him to hear it. But somewhere in the following summer, I stopped being someone who dragged guitars to friends' houses. But I clung to those lyrics and musle memories like a ragged MusicStop flyer for the next ten years, and last summer, at the after-party of Duncan's wedding, I played it for him. Not half bad, if I'm honest. I'm no Oneder, but I'm not a one-hit wonder either. And I'm no Tom Hanks or Adam Schlesinger, but I think I conjured the magic of calling up the past.

 

Thx!

Tom, Thanks for Apollo 13

April 8, 2020

APOLLO 13 (1995)

Directed by Ron Howard

Written by William Broyles Jr. & Al Reinert

Starring Bill Paxton, Kevin Bacon, & Tom Hanks as Jim Lovell

To live is to collect your own iterations of era-defining experiences, unique perspectives on unifying moments that not only stay with you forever, but are used as universal touchstones for all associated moments and experiences. Everything from "I remember because I wasn't drinking beer that summer" to "I must have been ten because 9/11 had just happened" is a milestone of age more identifying than age itself. When we experience these moments together, they're in our bones. I was 22 years late for the moon-landing, but in terms of tectonic world changes, I remember Diana dying, I remember 9/11, I remember Hurricane Katrina, I remember Harry Potter, I remember the advent of social media, I remember the election of hope and the election of nope. I remember COVID-19, and like you, I always will. Something I learned when watching Apollo 13, is that not having personally experienced some of the most essential culture-changing moments doesn't preclude me from experiencing the changes thereafter, and it doesn't preclude me from relating to the stories of those experiences through moments I have seen. Before Jim Lovell (TH), Fred Haise (Bill Paxton), and Jack Swigert (Kevin Bacon) board their spacecraft, they bid their loved ones goodbye from opposite sides of a wide strip of pavement. Lovell's wife Marilyn tells their children, "We can't go across that road. We don't want daddy to get our germs and get sick in outer space, do we?" Maybe never has a movie so decidedly stopped to make sure I was paying attention. 

 

Apollo 13 marked a significant transition for TH as a film actor, as the first time he portrayed a real person. This is something he seems to do almost exclusively now, deploying his time-tested method of evoking a figure’s sensibility rather than impersonating them exactly. Granted, it's easier to elicit relatability if the subject isn't known for any particular cadence or air (such as Mr. Rogers). TH is a movie star and not what they call a "character actor," so, when he portrays Jim Lovell (or Charlie Wilson or Ben Bradlee or Captain Sully, etc.), he's essentially just Tom Hanks, and that, per the very premise of this log, is entirely satisfactory. At the start of the film, when he's watching with wonder as his fellow man is stepping where no man has stepped before, his expression is both juvenile and wise, both baffled and eager. He turns to look up at the night sky, and shows his dreams to be bigger than the moon itself by placing his thumb directly over its tiny beacon. This is resolved later when, after accepting his lunar dreams have been dashed, he envisions himself prancing gaily in the anti-gravity and turning to thumb-over the Earth in his dust. It takes a performer we trust to feel welcomed inside such an intimate moment, and here, he's just becoming that performer.

 

Above all, Apollo 13 is about two things: insatiable curiosity and bad luck. The random chaos of bad luck and whether or not such a thing even exists stands alone to explain why a return mission to the moon has never been completed, and the true events of this story explain that in detail. In the year following Neil Armstrong's history-making walk, Apollo 13 was launched with the intention of continuing the adventure (as Jim Lovell states, "Imagine if Christopher Columbus discovered the New World and nobody returned to retrace his steps"), but on the way, a mechanical failure forces an early end to the mission, and an emergency trip home filled with tense moments and close calls. It's revealed that the error occurred, at random, months before Lovell was even attached. It was nobody's fault and it could not have been prevented. The film ends with a monologue instead of traditional biopic on-screen graphics. In these, Lovell expresses his lasting curiosity: "... when will we be going back, and who will that be?" It's been half a century since Apollo 13's successful failure, and as it stands there is a plan to finally return to the moon in 2024, but we'll be forced to only wonder until, at last, that day arrives. And then we'll wonder about the next time.

 

I'm not sure what the intended emotion is for an audience of this film. Is American an emotion? TH has been at the center of plenty more rousing thrillers involving travel not going to plan; seriously, it's like all of his movies. Even without a lot of built-in knowledge about how this true story would resolve, I never felt personally endangered by the immersion of the movie. Still, I cared that Swigert not be blamed for the malfunction, I cared that Haise not die of interstellar motion sickness, and I cared that Lovell exhibited steadfast leadership while he nursed a shattered heart. Why that is, I can't say, but I know it's good filmmaking. The use of a soundtrack with only songs about flying, in this case, is good filmmaking. The use of big sound and broad visuals to tell of one of the great unlikely American triumphs is good filmmaking. The casting of Tom Hanks is, as always, good filmmaking.

 

I desperately insist on belonging to shared experiences. It's why I'll drink more beers than I know I can handle, why I'll watch series finales of shows I never followed, why I'll occasionally go to the beach. It's not even that I hope I'll enjoy the shared experience itself, it's that I want to be able to say I was there. But this one? All this that's been going on? The random, chaotic, unavoidable failures, the sudden ending of dreams, the keeping of loved ones a galaxy apart? I don't want to be able to say I was there. I do not want for it to have happened. But it is happening, and with any random luck, maybe our next shared experience will be an unlikely triumph. Until then, Houston, boy, do we have a problem.

 

Thx!

Tom, Thanks for The Circle

April 1, 2020

THE CIRCLE (2017)

Directed by James Ponsoldt

Written by James Ponsoldt & Dave Eggers

Starring Emma Watson, John Boyega, & Tom Hanks as Eamon Bailey

I was fifteen when Facebook reached our city. At first, it seemed like nothing more than the next in a long line of similar platforms allowing young people to feel not only connected but substantial, on a frontier that had previously been little more than a lawless grand experiment of information transfer. Suddenly, every kid in high school had their own front door on the Internet, and it was always unlocked. Facebook proved immediately addictive for its simple observance of everyone's social relevance. This was further distilled with the normalization of selfie-sharing and the advent of Instagram, when suddenly a young person's very worth was precisely quantifiable and on display for all to see and weaponize. Before long, these platforms had become fundamental, as had general participation in a culture that discouraged privacy and championed immodesty. And we have since constantly witnessed how it impacts all aspects of life, from mental health to politics, and yet it's never been enough to say so. The greatest evil of all was their successful goal to convince us to engage willingly. So, we shrug our shoulders, click refresh, and point fingers. 

 

2017's The Circle aims to evaluate a system in which technology and surveillance overthrow a voluntary society, and the one depicted in the film is hardly allegorical. The bells and whistles they fictionalize are in fact quite grounded and realistic, and the story isn't so much cautionary as it is contemporary. For all these reasons, it should be an entirely relatable movie, and yet I spent its full run-time with my eyebrows bouncing about. To be fair, I remember hearing it was flawed, and maybe that influenced my expectations, but I was fully willing to enjoy The Circle, for the cast alone. Emma Watson plays Mae, who's just secured a job at the headquarters of a flashy tech company. After an initial culture shock, she comes to embrace the unconventional pace of her new workplace, owed in part to their full medical coverage of her and her parents (played by Bill Paxton and Glenne Headly, both of whom died within three months of the film's release). Mae is even deeper consumed by The Circle's philosophies on surveillance when a near-death experience finds her in the company of Eamon Bailey (TH), the smooth-talkin' denim-wearin' regular ol' billionaire face of the organization. Mae submits to a pilot test, wherein she allows herself to be watched at all times from around the world. In this process, she becomes something of a social media celebrity.

 

We've already delved into TH's previous Dave Eggers vehicle, A Hologram for the King, a story that also used modern devices like technology and global relations to tell of humanity, ethics, and family. I haven't read either novel, but having now seen both movies, I struggle to imagine how they came from the same imagination. The Circle, while mechanically relevant, is void of soul; we could forever chicken-egg the discussion of how the poor writing begot the poor acting begot the poor dialogue and so on. Let's get to it: this circle is egg-shaped, or it was before it splatted everywhere. Admittedly, it's mostly watchable, save maybe Ellar Coltrane's "death threats," confrontation, but the dude's not really... an actor... can I say that? I'm trying to let him off the hook. The cast is otherwise so crammed with likable people (Patton Oswalt, John Boyega, Karen Gillan), that the film manages to float without life-jackets, but if it's dead in the water, the underdevelopment of the plot can be blamed. Oh, and Emma can't do an American accent. She couldn't then, she can't now, and there are greater sins one can commit.

 

The film does not explicitly discuss the way technology impacts different generations disproportionately, but it's clear by the optics, it's a decisive condemnation of millennials. As a member of that bracket, I (like most of us) can recognize the dangers of cyber immersion and can appreciate a criticism of our carelessness among those dangers. But this self-awareness is exactly what The Circle gets wrong about millennials. The only people shown engaging in toxic, self-obsessed group-think are from the generation that, in real life, is dubious of it. Maybe what we do best is uphold skepticism, and this film's ignorance of that not only insults its audience, it discredits its thesis. I think anyway - I'm not positive there even was a thesis, besides that tech companies can't be trusted (which is true) and that we're too selfish to do anything about it (which is also true, but isn't exclusive to any one demographic). 

 

Our dear TH is so seemingly incapable of turning in a bad performance that if he ever did, that in and of itself would seem like a great performance. He's believable as the charismatic, manipulative priest of a movement, even without a whole lot of experience playing the villain. The problem is, you don't care enough about the heroes to hate their enemies. The real shame is the on-going failure to properly vilify one of these mysterious tech gurus in film; my buddy Aaron Sorkin's written two bio-pics about this kind of person and both of them, while good, are pretty gentle on their subjects. Still, it's not TH's character's flick, though the unrivaled highlight is when Mae exposes his evils and he whispers to Patton Oswalt's character, "We are so fucked." 

 

So! How to show gratitude for this largely bad movie... How to... show... Okay, how about this? It's never a bad time to be reminded to check on our own attachment to any product or service that claims to unite us but in fact keeps us separate. It isn't productive to suspect wickedness in all worldly changes, but it isn't safe to assume altruism either. Just be smart! The other gift The Circle offers is the opportunity to watch other better films with similar themes, like Ex Machina or the Nosedive episode of Black Mirror. Or just watch The Circle - beats going on Facebook.

 

Thx!

Tom, Thanks - a mission statement

September 30, 2019

selfie.jpg

But wait... Is there crying in baseball? I do believe a certain body of work leaves some questions unanswered, some stones unturned, and some showers unpraised. Enter: me, self-appointed pop culture obsessive Colin Sweets - but you can call me the HFPA, because I'm celebrating the life and career of Hollywood's most huggable cinematic treasure, Thomas Jeffrey Hanks. 

Look, we've always been divided, it's just turned out that discussing our differences can be explosively uncomfortable. But if there's a silver lining to these fraught times (not just politically, artistically too), it's that many of us have mined a deeper, sturdier pit of passion. It's good to feel strongly. It's good to love things. So, I propose we go back to basics, select an entity we've always loved, and get deeply and, if necessary, uncomfortably and explosively passionate about that one common thing. 

 

Okay. Maybe I'm projecting. 

 

I just really love Tom Hanks movies. And, right? Not a new take. I love the ones I've seen again and again, and I love the ones I've yet to see (I have some shame about the films in this column). I love 'em because he's in 'em. I've been up and down a lot this year, and I see no surer avenue to ease than the one that emerges from The Burbs, onto The Road to Perdition, expands The Green Mile, and... something something Larry Crowne (I'm out of travel references in the filmography, but he's in something called Greyhound next year, so maybe we'll re-visit). 

 

We can discuss the man in general. Some rich areas that come to mind: his olde typewriter fetish, his childhood dream of being an astronaut, the way his non-threatening crooked smile seems to invite you to join him in a late-night raid on the not-so-secret ice cream stash in the basement. Mostly, I want to talk about the art he's had a hand in bringing to the world; movies that have illicited our full range of ready emotions, perhaps the most imporant of which is okayness - you can watch a Tom Hanks movie to feel okay again. It helps, and for that, I'd like to say, "Tom, thanks." 

 

How do we do this? There is a veritable brick of content to watch and re-watch and I want to hit all of it. So, I'll update this page with my on-going education in America's sweetheart and the movies he's made - one at a time, in no particular order. Join me whenever you need to feel that certain okayness, and we'll hash it out. I'll want to hear from you, and any thoughts or opinions you'd like to contribute can be tweeted to @djcolinsweets. 

 

First up? A character-driven hurricane of a performance that earned TH his most recent Oscar nod. A Christmas 2000 film that broke our hearts using a prop you can buy at any standard sporting goods outlet, and a broken plea to the endless horizon. Give Castaway a view, and we'll regroup to thank Tom. For what it's worth, there is crying in baseball, or at least there was, and it's just because I wished I was inside watching movies instead.

 

Thx!

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