Archive for Errol Morris

The Big Mouth

Posted in FILM, Politics with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 16, 2021 by dcairns

I was curious about Errol Morris’ AMERICAN DHARMA, about Trump advisor and Breitbart exec Steve Bannon, but not apparently curious enough to see it when it was new. I finally checked it out.

Essentially, it conforms to the conclusions I’ve already drawn about Morris’s filmmaking. When he was making documentaries about ordinary people, he had an impressive ability to get them to open up. When he switched to people like Robert McNamara and Donald Rumsfeld, he was suddenly dealing with people who had decades of practice obfuscating and outright lying and who were not about to change the habits of a lifetime. If David Frost couldn’t open up Richard Nixon, a barefaced crook, in three hours of television, Morris wasn’t going to get any damaging revelations out of these creeps in the space of a feature film. So all his films do is humanise the monsters. This, in some circumstances, might seem worthwhile in itself — monsters are human too. Understanding them can be useful, salutary. But McNamara’s technocrat logic and Rumsfeld’s nauseating folksiness are really just masks.

AMERICAN DHARMA does a number of things with Stephen K. Bannon (as he likes to call himself): it makes him look good, by filming him in a reconstructed set from Henry King’s TWELVE O’CLOCK HIGH, and in hero poses on an airfield, and by flattering lighting and angles — we all know Bannon as a grubby unshaven carcinomic schlub wrapped in excess shirts, a kind of fleshly embodiment of Trumpian excess and corruption. Here he looks, at times, positively noble.

The Bannon emerging from the film is contradictory, which the real Bannon probably is too, but I felt I understood him less at the film’s end than at the beginning. Without feeling I’d been wrong in any of my derogatory opinions about him before. The onscreen Bannon’s most appealing characteristic was his admiration of Morris as a filmmaker and tearful-kitten-emoji eagerness to have Morris’ respect and affection. He genuinely didn’t want Morris to see him as a racist, white supremacist, mean bad guy. So the things he said were calculated to portray him otherwise. Morris was able to use film clips to show Bannon being less cautious elsewhere. When he instructed his audience that when they were called racists, they should “wear it as a badge of pride,” it definitely opened up a schism-chasm between affable Steve the interviewee and his public persona elsewhere. But it seemed, despite a 96 minute runtime, that there just wasn’t any opportunity to get into the nitty-gritty of how exactly it is possible to wear being called racist as a badge of honour, if you’re not a racist. Maybe getting a political figure to approach the truth about himself is going to take much more than an average/minimum feature length. Maybe it can’t be done. Maybe, if that’s true, it shouldn’t be attempted.

Of the varied slithery shitheels and war criminals Morris has allowed to wriggle free over the years (remember how he concluded that the Abu Ghraib torturers were only following orders?), Bannon ought to be the easiest to pin down. He’s not as clever as he thinks he is — I’m not at all certain he’s using the word “dharma” accurately, and certainly the line “we hit them with an enormous fuselage” (rather than “fusillade” — and this guy was in the military?) is laughable. And here is an apparent Breitbart headline, which will reward you for more attention than the copy editor gave it:

DONALD TRUMPS WINS WHITE HOUSE?

As we know from Michael Wolff’s Fire and Fury and other places, Bannon is a man who likes to talk, and while that other jovial fat fellow of sinister motivation, Caspar Guttman, says that talking can only be done judiciously when practiced regularly, it is not certain that talking constantly can ever be judicious, especially if you have crimes to conceal. Bannon not infrequently says the quiet part out loud, because he just can’t bear the thought of there being a quiet part. So it’s actually surprising that Morris, emerging from behind his Interrotron™ to appear as a sort of CKANE Thompson interlocutor, can’t pin down his subject more meaningfully. I guess Morris could argue that, since I didn’t like Bannon better at the film’s end, he hadn’t glorified, glamourised, flattered and platformed a dangerous nutjob — but I have never felt Bannon’s craftiness, sadism and bigotry LESS keenly than I did watching him preen here.

Morris does catch Bannon in one flat-out lie, his assertion that Trump wrote his own inauguration address, which is followed by a slow blink so transparently bogus in its movie-sincerity that Morris’ cry of “Oh come on!” is hardly necessary. And his juxtapositions of archive news footage and doc interview occasionally get at the cruelty underlying the Trump administration’s every action, but living through those years made all that much more visible if you had eyes to see.

I once read that the left cares about human welfare and doing no harm, and the right cares about values, which felt true-ish. So that driving abortion underground, causing more harm, would seem perfectly reasonable to a rightwinger, since all that matters is not endorsing abortion. The death penalty needn’t work as a deterrent, it needn’t save money, it needn’t be humane, it just has to serve as the ultimate statement of a society’s values: there are certain things we feel are so bad that we get to kill you for them.

Suddenly, or not so suddenly, with the Trump administration it seemed like the cruelty was the point. The religious right could overlook Trump violating every commandment ever chiselled, so long as he hurt the right people. Morris mentions this cruelty, but he never follows up on it. When he asks “How is this helping anything?” he’s missing the point. It was never supposed to help anybody or anything, it was just a statement of identity: This particular kind of cruelty is the kind we like. As always with Trump-era wingnuttery, it’s all projection, so when the right accuses the left of identity politics, they’re confessing. Their politics is ALL about identity — their own.

Bannon is, at least, a better movie critic than Trump, who no doubt only chose CITIZEN KANE because it’s “the greatest.” I am undecided if Morris cut that piece together to conflate both Mrs. Kane’s because he assumes Trump doesn’t remember there’s two of them, or just because he wasn’t taking care. Bannon’s reading of CHIMES AT MIDNIGHT is possibly smarter than Morris’. But less humane.

Dead Duck

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 17, 2019 by dcairns

Yes — DECOY is bad, cheap, and interesting, possibly in that order.

I’d read descriptions positing it as a kind of sci-fi noir — putting it in a very small club along with KISS ME DEADLY. The fantasy element is very small, however — the plot revolves around a box of stolen loot which, thanks to the genuinely atmospheric opening sequence, does acquire a kind of Pandoraesque aura. But the fantastical element is merely a drug (methylene blue) that can revive victims of the gas chamber. In other words, the film winds up backing into another genre purely because the writers have a faulty idea of realism.

Gas chamber POV is one of several bold directorial touches.

I was chatting with a friend about composers who make their theme tunes fit the movie title, as if there were going to be lyrics. Like, James Bernard’s DRACULA theme goes “DRA-cul-la!” Called upon to score TASTE THE BLOOD OF DRACULA, he simply added four notes on the front. John Williams gave us STAR WARS (“Staaaar Wars!”), and though RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK doesn’t have a tune you can easily sing the title to, you can definitely sing ~

Indiana!

Jones Jones Jones

Indiana!

Jones Jones Jones Jones Jones…

Well, DECOY has a sweeping and romantic tune that seems to be inviting us to sing “Methyline Blue.” So I did. Methyline Blue, Dilly Dilly…

The first image after the titles is the filthiest sink I’ve ever seen (and I live in Scotland… in my home). With the director credit supered over it. A self-loathing self-assessment?

Jack Bernhard was married to his star, Jean Gillie (THE GENTLE SEX), and she’s the best thing in this. A strange performance that’s mostly just cool statement of fact, with a few uncomfortable moments of shrill hysteria. Sheldon Leonard plays the detective shadowing her plot like a man in a state of deep depression, while her patsy, the prison doctor (Herbert Rudley), who IS in a state of deep depression, plays it like a Lugosi zombie.

The movie makes herculean efforts to pad itself out to a slender 75 minutes — one can’t help wondering if coming up with a bit more plot might have actually been an easier solution. One character resorts to literally reading from a dictionary, while Gillie and Rudley engage in a seemingly endless duologue that keeps circling back on itself like a rondo.

“Despair enacted on cheap sets” is Errol Morris’s unbeatable (curse him) phrase for the Monogram aesthetic, and it fits this one perfectly. A character is raised from the dead only to instantly perish again, something that also happens in THE INVISIBLE GHOST. A Monogram trademark? A metaphor for their entire line of goods? A series of last gasps — for shagged-out actors, burned-out directors, clapped-out sets. Resurrection into eternal death.

EARTH FORCES LAID TO COSMIC IMPULSE — it IS SF!

Robert Armstrong, of Carl Denham fame, plays the unlucky stiff, and it’s incredible looking at him to think he’d live to 1973, so convincing is his bone-weary performance here, whereas poor Gillie would die prematurely after one more film.

Gloom hangs over this movie in a more prevailing, soul-sapping way than it could in a more prestigious production — maybe because Monogram are so bad at comedy relief, yet they insist on having it. DETOUR does have some laughs, but they’re all horrible. DECOY has only the sour echo of a burlesque house rimshot.

Get thee behind me, Thetan

Posted in FILM, Mythology, Politics, Science with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 20, 2015 by dcairns

GOING CLEAR, Alex Gibney’s exposé of the Church of Scientology (Scientology: literally, “science science”), is a proper documentary. I wish MAGICIAN had those chops. Welles deserves masterpieces and arguably the Scientologists deserve to be lost in the dust of history. But they also deserve to be exposed for what they are.

The model for Gibney’s approach is probably Errol Morris — tightly-honed interviews, carefully chosen archive, and dramatic images — a flung chair in extreme slomo makes an impression here. It’s not hugely ground-breaking but it’s meaningful, earnest, compelling, and very well made. Maybe they reuse their drone shot of the Scientology building too often, but it’s a super image, like a building opening its arms to give you a great, big, crushing hug.

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It has a few really amazing figures at its centre. L. Ron Hubbard, seen in archive material, has the voice of John Huston’s Noah Cross (Paul Thomas Anderson missed a trick when he used that in THERE WILL BE BLOOD, thereby ruling it out for THE MASTER) and the smile of Uncle Milty, but is an immediately alarming creature, visibly calculating fresh perfidies in every frame of celluloid that passes. As with many cult nasties, you wonder why anyone would be taken in, but he does have a certain repulsive charisma and a free-flowing glibness.

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Was the Bond villain pose really the best way to go?

David Miscavige resembles a sort of callow Ray Walston — my favourite Thetan? — nerdy in his absurd naval uniform. The leadership of cults tends to break down into two distinct types. The boss usually believes his own bullshit — he may have some kind of criminal past but his philosophy becomes holy writ even to him and so he’s totally wrapped up in the cult of himself. The second-in-commands, like high-ranking Nazis, are more of the gangster type. It’s not so relevant to them whether the faith they follow is genuine, it’s more about keeping it going and getting what they can out of it.

Then there’s Travolta and Cruise (seen in some of the really damaging maniacal interview stuff the Church never intended us to see). A lot of grinning. A sincere grin, we’re told, comes on fast and fades slowly. Hubbard is like an identikit, his eyes have no relationship to his mouth so his grin is frankly terrifying. I was never able to judge the sincerity of a Scientological smile because they DON’T FADE. They come of fast and then just FIX in position, as if the wind changed. Is it true that any Scientologist who smiles must then keep smiling for the rest of their life?

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The two things missing from the documentary are not flaws, just things it occurred to me I’d like to see.

1) An interview with the former head of the IRS explaining why he granted the organisation tax-exempt status. The film lays out a pretty convincing case that he was pressured into it, but it’d be nice to hear him say so, if he’s alive. Personally, I don’t think they should reclassify Scientology as not a religion — it’s no crazier or fakier than Catholicism — I think they should just cancel tax exemption for all religions. You might allow exemption for actual charities administered by religions, if they proved they were engaged in beneficial work.

2) Analysis by an expert in micro-body language of what is going on with Hubbard, Miscavige, and ESPECIALLY Cruise in that remarkable interview. I think this could be very revealing and entertaining, in a morbid way. WHAT is Cruise laughing at? We ideally need a ticker-tape going across his forehead on which we can read all his crazy thoughts, his internal conversation/argument male voice choir. Some massive violation of the inside/outside dichotomy seems to be going on. I’m reminded of the Gentleman with Thistle-Down Hair in Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, who, upon having a brilliant idea, will immediately attribute it to his interlocutor. Cruise seems like he’ll be constantly delighted/angry/terrified by all the wonderful ideas everyone around him is having and not telling him about but that he knows anyway.

It’s striking to look at this astonishing interview with Robert Blake, which Fiona discovered and watched until YouTube wore out,  and realize that Blake, convicted in a civil suit of killing his wife, and obviously out where the buses don’t run in all manner of ways, is entirely and clinically sane compared to Cruise. Blake is persistently furious (and with good reason — everyone thinks he killed his wife – -and HE DID), oppressively FORCEFUL and EXPLOSIVE, and also peppers his dialogue with 1930s newsboy expressions commingled with beat poetry and the lost language of angels: “I am FLAT BROKE! I couldn’t buy SPATS for a HUMMINGBIRD!” Interviewer Piers Morgan, he of the inflamed, evil face, doesn’t even blink at this, because he has no poetry in the place where his soul should be.

xblake

Robert Blake doesn’t NEED Scientology because any Thetans foolhardy enough to clamp themselves onto him die of toxic shock or run gibbering into the night. Or turn up riddled with bullets from an antique Walther.

Piers Morgan doesn’t need Scientology (literally, “the science of science”) because he has no personality, he’s just a vaguely malevolent vacuum packed in pink meat.