Intolerable Cruelty

Intolerable Cruelty shows once again why combining love and comedy is among the most difficult tasks in fiction writing. Love wants to get close. Comedy wants to step back and make fun. If you don't find the right balance between the two, you're dead.

That's exactly what went wrong with Intolerable Cruelty. With all the smart satire and farcical comedy in this film, this is still at heart a love story between Miles and Marylin. Which means there's got to be real emotion. You can't just tell the audience that characters have feelings for each other. Emotion must be set up, nurtured, brought into the story carefully.

That doesn't happen here. One, Miles doesn't trust Marylin from the beginning, given that she is a total gold-digger. Two, Marylin doesn't trust Miles, given that he is the ultimate sleazy lawyer.

This is not a screwball comedy. But it does share the same story problem: how to make the love real while doing so much broad comedy. Screwball comedy knows you have give the two leads time together. And it has to be quiet time, where they can respond to the deepest part of the other person, so the audience can see that they are capable of love and not just pawns of the plot.

Intolerable Cruelty also fails to set up the comic plot properly. In a story about two master scam artists, the scams better be ingenious and the artists better be smart. But Miles is unbelievably dumb, leaving himself wide open to a woman he knows has only one desire, to take revenge against him.

This film has some very funny lines. But that is not enough. The key to any romantic comedy is setting the proper comic structure (for details, see the Love Story Class or the Comedy Class). Fail there, and nothing else is going to help.

The Hours

The cross cut story structure of The Hours sets a high standard for the film. By doing a "day in the life" of three women from three different decades, the film inevitably 1) compares and contrasts the three, 2) highlights the importance of the cut from one scene to another, and 3) relies on subtle reveals to carry the plot. Unfortunately, The Hours does not pay off these three elements as well as it should.

David Hare's script of Michael Cunningham's novel compares the women in superficial ways - how they turn in bed, wash their faces, enjoy flowers, etc. - but not with a depth that could help each illuminate the others. We could say that each is paralyzed by her traditional role as care giver. But that is a pretty broad generalization with limited payoff, and one that, in the case of Virginia Woolf, is a bit of a stretch. Her husband is the care-giver, and she is trapped as much by her own mental illness as by his efforts to protect her.

The cross cut structure brings our attention to the juxtaposition of scenes, and in The Hours not much comes of that. The "day in the life" technique leads to certain obvious insights about these women, since they each do similar things at each moment of the day. But it struck me that the scene sequence could have been changed to a number of different orders without much difference in audience understanding.

The one moment where the juxtaposition of scenes is more than superficial is when the film goes from Julianne Moore driving to Richard, who is dying of AIDS, and we realize that he is Julianne Moore's little boy. This gives the film a much-needed jolt. But it also highlights what is largely missing from the script, the subtle reveals necessary to build a story of daily life.

The cross cut is a very powerful structural tool in film. You can compare at the speed of light. But if you are also adhering to the rule that a feature film must come in around two hours, you run the grave risk of being superficial. The more lines you cross cut within that two-hour frame, the less depth you achieve.

With The Hours we have three short stories that are playing simultaneously. One or more of these stories may be interesting, but the whole is less than the sum of the parts.

Chicago

The key story device of the film adaptation of Chicago is the decision to do the musical numbers as fantasies from the mind of the lead character, Roxie, who dreams of being a star.

This device has two advantages. First, it gives the audience an excuse for why "real" characters are singing and dancing. This is the first problem that must be solved in any movie musical. Putting the numbers in Roxie's head not only lets the audience enjoy the pleasure of song and dance, it makes the music come from character.

Second, the device lets the filmmakers avoid the other great problem with movie musicals, their length. Movie musicals have to tell a complete story and also do ten or so songs. Typically, the story comes to a grinding halt while a song is performed. And while the songs may be lovely, the leapfrog of story and song can seem interminable.

But using the fantasy device in Chicago, the filmmakers are able to cross-cut story material with the musical number, thus making the overall film considerably tighter.

Catherine Zeta-Jones does an excellent job pretending to be a dancer. But no amount of trick editing and skirted costumes can hide the fact that she is too heavy for the part. And when the "women behind bars" dance number comes on, the sight of women who can dance makes it clear just how much we lose aesthetically by having to use a star instead of a professional dancer.

Adaptation

I'm sitting here struggling with how to write a critique of this highly-praised yet flawed screenplay. Besides my usual feeling of not being good enough - in spite of being highly-successful in Hollywood - what I really want to do right now is have a muffin, and I might as well have coffee too, although it might be better to exercise first.

Kaufman - the writer not the character - has been applauded for his very post-modern technique of including his own struggle to write an adaptation of "The Orchid Lover" as part of the story. If we're comparing to mainstream Hollywood genre films, yes, I will go along with that. But it's also a technique many of us used in high school when we had to write a paper for which we had no subject.

What matters is the technique's effectiveness. Does it give Kaufman a structure that allows him to tell a great story?

Like Kaufman's earlier script, Being John Malkovich, Adaptation has some funny scenes in the opening, and then structurally falls apart. In fact, this script is really a long opening and a long ending stuck together, with little in the middle.

I'm not arguing for a three-act structure script, or for the dreaded genre story that Kaufman considers so beneath him. But I am arguing for a story, an organic unit that builds steadily and expresses a set of themes.

Kaufman's character, Charlie, gives us the key clue to why this organic story never happens. To make this script work, he says he must connect the screenwriter's story with that of the author and the botanist. He never comes close.

Charlie, the character, clearly has needs. He is down on himself, paralyzed, way too self-conscious and is unable to show a woman how he feels about her. Susan, the author, is apparently unhappy in her marriage and wants to feel passionately about something. The botanist, though quirky, does feel passionately about orchids. But his need - to overcome the loss of his wife - has nothing to do with the hero.

The problem comes from the fact that Charlie's desire, to adapt Susan's book, doesn't connect these characters in any but the most superficial way. Whatever weaknesses Charlie may have, he is certainly passionate about good writing. His only connection to Susan and her problems occurs in the ridiculous final scenes when she tries to kill him, an action that is totally out of character and thus has no emotional meaning or payoff.

For most of the film, Charlie's only connection is with his twin brother. This character provides lots of laughs, especially for any writer who has spent any time in Hollywood. And I was certainly grateful for that.

But even here Kaufman's set-up doesn't allow an organic story to develop. The brother represents the writer's urge to go commercial, to hit the simple formula of the hack and make a lot of money. But this is set in opposition to a character who has become highly successful within Hollywood by being original. Sure, he's having some problems adapting this particular book, but that's because the book shouldn't be a movie in the first place. And if Charlie fails, it certainly won't mean the end of his lucrative Hollywood career, or even give it much of a dent.

Playing out this conflict between brothers, then, has nowhere to go. Charlie's brother is at most an inconvenience, and his success at selling his formulaic thriller should cause Charlie, the golden boy, little more than a bemused, "That's Hollywood."

The conflict between the brothers also has nothing to do with the author or the botanist. Neither is dealing with the issue of selling out. The botanist is an obsessed scientist who loves his work; the author is writing an article and book about an orchid man, and trying to match his passion.

All this explains why the story doesn't develop, and why the ending is from another movie. I'm sure that Kaufman the writer justifies the ending by figuring that when Charlie hooks up with his hack, thriller-writing brother, the story they are playing out turns into a thriller as well.

It's a gag idea, too clever by half, and only highlights Kaufman's inability to connect these characters and tell a full story. These characters do have an emotional reality that has been established for most of the film. That is immediately tossed in the toilet. Charlie, no matter how desperate, would never have asked his brother for help with this script, never have gone to see a writing teacher (I like to think he would have called me eventually), never have followed Susan to Florida, etc. etc. etc. Susan would never have tried to kill Charlie, nor would the botanist.

It's all absurd. Unfortunately it's not played absurd. It's played straight. So when the tragedy hits, it's fake tragedy, death ex machina, with the emotions painfully hollow.

As this movie played out, I started smelling the overwhelming odor of disdain that Kaufman seems to have for his audience. He figures he can do a fancy cross cut between three unrelated characters, toss in some inside Hollywood jokes, include himself as a character, staple on a big Hollywood genre ending and everyone will call him a genius.

Given the response of the critics, I guess he's right. I need a muffin. Or maybe coffee. Or maybe I'll call mom...

Catch Me if You Can

The trickster is the most popular of all characters. In Catch Me If You Can, the con-man character generates a number of fun scenes. But the script has no idea how to tie them together.

This movie uses the James Bond approach. But instead of stringing stunts, it strings cons.

The writer makes some attempts to build a story. First, he tries to give some psychological foundation to what's happening by showing the failure of the hero's father. But it is unconvincing and way too long.

The writer also uses a framing device to kick the story up a notch. We begin with the capture of the hero, then flash back. But this frame gives us no new information about the story or the character, and only removes what little suspense we might have had about whether our con-man might escape.

One of the main ways you build a story is by having a main thematic line that is expressed through the need of the main character. This character is a teen-age boy who seems to con just because he is good at it and likes money and women. And no one seems to be getting hurt by it. So the cons don't lead to a more complex web of design or destruction. And with no need, it doesn't matter if the hero changes.

Without a theme or a point, all the story can do is come to an abrupt halt. The writer tries to set up a climactic ending by making us wonder if the hero will come back to work for the FBI. But it's never been set up, so it comes across as fake drama.

The main lesson from this movie is: the trickster character is more difficult to write than he appears. He seems to be so much fun that there seems no reason for him to change and do something else. That may give you some enjoyable scenes, but you can't build the story.

About Schmidt

About Schmidt does something that is rare in movies, especially from Hollywood. It depicts a lone man. That is both a blessing and a curse.

There is a very good reason films don't usually depict a lone man. Film is drama. It is public. We need someone for the main character to talk to. Otherwise the audience doesn't know what the film is about.

The main device this film uses to overcome the lone man problem is the voice-over where Schmidt reads the letters he's written to his African foster child, Ndugu. This technique not only gives the audience a great deal of information, it provides the best comedy of the film.

Missing from the script are opposition, hidden information and thus reveals. The lack of opposition means that we go for long periods without much happening, and worse, we get no depth or variation in the main conflict of the movie. The main opponent in the movie is Schmidt's daughter, who is about to marry a man Schmidt doesn't like. But the daughter is rarely present. And the conflict has no issue. It's an emotional thing; she's either going to marry the guy or not.

The lack of hidden information and reveals means there is little plot. True, Schmidt finds out about his wife's infidelity. But this reveal has little effect because the wife is already dead and we've seen very little between Schmidt and the friend who betrayed him.

In place of a developing opposition and reveals, the writers create a story line by sending the hero on a journey to his daughter's wedding. This gives the appearance of character development, but not the reality. Schmidt simply flips at the end of the film when he makes a speech praising his daughter's new husband and family. But he is clearly trying to be polite, not truthful.

This film seems to be getting praise because it is not a Hollywood mainstream picture, and Jack Nicholson is playing a schlub. That's not enough for me. I left the theater thinking the real drama of this man's life happened before this picture began.

Gangs of New York

Gangs of New York may be the most ambitious film of the last few years. Its production design and cinematography are among the best I have ever seen. Unfortunately its story structure cannot support the film's ambition.

The main structural element that sets this movie apart from others is context. Most Hollywood fare shows nothing of the world of the hero. It wants to get to the goal as quickly as possible so the audience can start on its wild ride.

As a result, the average Hollywood movie has speed, but no subtlety or complexity. There is no sense of how the world drives the hero or how others manifest the hero's central problem in different forms in the world.

Gangs of New York, on the other hand, has a massive amount of context. Indeed, it depicts and compresses all of American history of the 19th century in one film. And it does so by setting up a number of powerful dramatic oppositions: nativists vs. immigrants, the powerful vs. the weak, rich vs. poor, Catholic vs. Protestant, tribes and sectionalism vs. government and the rule of law.

But there is one big problem with showing so much context. You have to have a great desire line. Context is world; it goes sideways in a story. Desire is linear; it is the forward line on which everything hangs. The more you put on the line, the stronger the line has to be.

And what is the desire line these writers use to hang all of 19th century American history? A young man wants to take revenge on the man who killed his father in a street brawl when he was eight.

An eight-year-old seeing his father killed in a street brawl is not the stuff of Hamlet. This is no prince whose throne has been usurped by a murdering uncle who has also married the murdered king's wife. Which is why this boy¹s burning desire to take revenge rings so hollow. And why the forward movement of the story collapses almost immediately.

A weak desire line in a film with so much context is already big trouble. Add to that an almost complete lack of plot and we have narrative suicide.

The interesting thing is why there is so little plot. I found myself wondering about that while I was watching the film (also a very bad sign). It didn't make sense. Here was a fascinating period of American history, with developments coming fast and furious, and yet nothing seems to be happening in this film.

And then it hit me. Gangs of New York has almost no reveals. Plot doesn't come from a lot of things happening. Plot comes from hidden information about the opponents. When this information is revealed to the hero and the audience, the story turns. The audience is surprised and engaged.

So why does Gangs of New York have almost no reveals? It all goes back to the choice of a desire line. By giving the hero all the knowledge with his revenge desire line, it is the opponent, Butcher Bill, who must discover hidden information about the hero. The opponent has the reveal, and it is information the audience already knows. This is a fatal mistake.

The choice of a desire line also causes a break in the movie's spine. The first movie ends after Bill learns the hero's true identity and plot to kill him. In the annual tribute to the hero¹s slain father, Bill brands the hero in front of the entire community and sends him into exile, which is just down the street.

Besides being unbelievable - Bill the Butcher isn't a man who shies away from killing his enemies - this action ends the first story and forces the movie to have to restart. In a movie this long, that's a real audience killer.

The second movie represents a considerable drop off from the first, which already suffered from a weak desire line. Incredibly, for a movie this long, this second film felt both rushed and boring, as the branded outcast quickly rises to lead all Irish in New York. I guess there's nothing star power can't do.

Not surprisingly, the writers have trouble coming up with an organic ending. They have already given us a final battle when Bill exposes the hero and brands him in the tribute. Now they have to come up with another battle, this time in the midst of the terrible race riots of 1863.

But, curiously, the writers purposely undercut the showdown between hero and opponent by having the federal guns blow up the opposing gangs before they can fight.

Thematically, this is quite interesting; we are shifting from one social stage to another, from the era of New York ruled by gangs to an era of New York ruled by a nation of laws.

But the cost of this thematic choice is severe. It further de-dramatizes a final confrontation that is too-long in coming and is a pale repetition of the previous story beat.

There is much about Gangs of New York that is worthwhile, even awe-inspiring. But the movie is also proof, once again, that great filmmaking comes from a great script. And the best visuals in the world won't save you if your script isn't there.