Savant Some More

Roger Greenberg, the mentally unstable lead of Noah Baumbach’s new film Greenberg, puts anyone’s problems to shame.  His rationally unimportant complaints with the outside world - from vague assaults on the “sucky parts” of Starbucks, to the cramped seating at American Airlines - is just one of the many quirks that leads us into the psychologically unstable world of Greenberg.

The movie, in short, is a complex portrait of a narcissist, played to a T by Ben Stiller. After a brief stint in the ‘hospital,’ Greenberg winds up house-sitting the L.A. pad of his brother who’s oh-so-perfect and off somewhere in Vietnam…building hotels and conquering the world.  Meanwhile, Greenberg wants the world to know he intentionally plans on doing nothing. No, he’s not lazy, if that’s what you’re thinking.  He’ll say so himself.  He’s doing nothing by his own volition. 

Errrr…right.  Irritated yet? Me too.

But Baumbauch tries to carve a little soft spot into the audience’s hearts.  After a visit to the vet, Greenberg fervently looks after the health of his brother’s German Shepherd (played by Mahler…a dog).  And, in the midst of his self-proclaimed sloth, he sure does a lot.  He falls into a clumsy and awkward relationship with his brother’s personal assistant (Florence Marr played by Greta Gerwig).  He also bumbles around with friends of yore, rehashes would-be stardom in a failed college band, attempts to rekindle the fire of a lost love, and builds a doghouse on his downtime.  It turns out Greenberg, beneath the facade of his indifference, actually thinks, feels, and cares more than he puts on…which might account for his frequent expletive outbursts in crowded rooms.   

Let’s be clear, though.  On the outside, the guy’s an asshole.  The saving grace?  He’s a well-scripted asshole – and therein lays the charm of the movie.  The environmental symbolism for Greenberg’s inner anguish and bottled feelings are artfully employed.  Greenberg is trapped in his own mind, suspended in asocial passive aggression, hiding behind petty petitions and letters of complaint.  To set this claustrophobic mood, Baumbach has Greenberg coming from the confines of a mental institution to the foreign surroundings of his brother’s house.  What’s more, he’s constantly kept inside.  His brother’s friends use the pool everyday.  The only day they don’t, it’s raining.  A college house party gone awry only buries him deeper within himself.  He cannot drive.  He cannot swim.  He will not eat green eggs and ham (only whiskey and ice cream sandwiches).  Greenberg cannot escape, so he pretends he doesn’t want to.  He’ll be fine with doing nothing.

In comes Florence, a bumbling twenty-something with a heart of gold who somehow looks at Greenberg’s insecurities and mostly sees an endearing weirdo.  She coaxes the hermit out of his shell just long enough for us to glimpse some humanity, but not enough for us to lose sight of the crab he is.  It’s mostly the directorial style that I’m appreciating, not some sudden spurt of sympathy for Greenberg’s melodrama.  The artistry of the film grows on you the same way the narcissistic, ambitionless Greenberg doesn’t.  It would take a few more hours, coupled with some strong apologies and stronger alcohol, before I can sympathize at all.

I wouldn’t feel so passionately irritated, however, if it weren’t for the film’s authenticity.  Halfway through the movie I forgot I was watching Ben Stiller altogether.  Like many of his older roles, he stills plays a victim.  But this time it’s a psychological vulnerability, not a comically Kafkaesque one.  He’s wrapped up in layers so deep you’d need the newest edition of the DSM to unravel the mess.  His costar, Greta Gerwig, plays the role of an average, awkward, wide-eyed gal with captivating precision.  Silent profile shots of her driving along the city streets of LA immediately draw you into her life.  Together, the awkward couple compliment one another with unpredictable chemistry.

And then it all ends abruptly.  If you’re a sucker for ribbon-wrapped resolution, look elsewhere.  But the subtleties of the film stay with you long after the curtains fall.  Doing a case study on a man so particularly unlikeable, and one so detached from the human experience, ran the risk of repelling an unforgiving audience.  But it worked, thanks in part to a solid script and a believable cast.  Ben Stiller should look back on this film with pride.

Joe. :)

Some filmmakers simply capture the essence of a moment with ease. The movie amounts to a series of heavy, real moments - something that tugs at your heart in a way you have trouble describing. The director’s efforts, the painstaking and tiresome routines of creating a movie, all stay put offscreen.  Instead, what remains of the film is something beautiful, something that enraptures an audience not by style or by showmanship, but by the gripping reality the movie produces. Only afterwards, when you stretch from your seat, throw your overpriced popcorn away, and rehash the past two hours, do you realize with sudden excitement how technically masterful the movie was. These movies are a rare breed.

And, after viewing The White Ribbon, I am pleased to announce its earned status among the cinematography-lover’s treasure chest.  Michael Haneke, a reputable European director who’s past films I now plan on digging up and watching, has turned what could have been a rather drab, boring plot-line into something terrifyingly real - all with the power of his lens.

To be brief, the movie concerns itself with dramatic and increasingly disturbing events in a small German village that are meant to paint a larger picture about the country’s entrance into World War I.  To go further, the village is also portrayed as a microcosm for the social mindset of Nazism before World War II.  One reviewer of the movie succinctly reworded the title to his liking: National Socialism - A Prequel.  

I won’t wear you down with the details. We have Wikipedia for that.  In a few words, the movie covers patriarchy in all its glory, and leaves you with a sour taste of tradition, religion and honor.  What needs a little more emphasis, however, is Haneke’s directorial style.  Let me pen to you with careful detail how realistic this movie was:

You are me, sitting in the theater. The lights have dimmed, and after an onslaught of attention-grabbing previews, you nuzzle into your seat a bit more and await the movie. The movie fades in with extreme patience, as if you are being told to take great care with what you are about to see.  Soak it all up, the first scene says, this is a glimpse into a culture, and you will respect it like any foreign traveler should.  

The fade-in leads you into what seems to be a black-and-white film, like any other.  Black-and-white does not lend itself readily to my “reality” description, but let us think about what black-and-white does.  It strips itself of a facade, removes any distracting cosmetics, sucks out the superficial and places special attention on action rather than ‘acting’.  And yet, on closer inspection, there is something different in the way this film was shot.  Conventional wisdom of black-and-white films would not have me questioning whether or not I spotted a yellowish hue in an actor’s linen nightgown. It so happens that Haneke filmed The White Ribbon in color, then proceeded to drain the film of its color to leave you with a reel palette that can only be described as Ghostly Pale with a Pulse.

You, being me, will also notice a stillness to the film.  An eery quiet that you cannot shake.  In the background is a void, a hum that is occupied not by some soundtrack but by the varied thoughts of the individual viewer.  No soundtrack accompanies the scenes, there is only organic music - that is, music that is actually being played by characters in the film.  From one music lover to another, I find that the use of soundtracks are often a way to carry a movie from one scene to another - sometimes cheaply.  But true life lacks a leitmotif, and The White Ribbon is all the more real for opting out of one.  

Most importantly, Haneke has deft control over his camera.  I should preface by saying I’m no film student, I’m but a humble movie buff.  But with that said, I have learned to appreciate certain artfully employed techniques in filmmaking.  What Haneke has done in this film is something wholly new to me.  He lets his lens linger on the scene. Let me explain.

After the climax of a scene has passed (or, perhaps more appropriately, after the point of a scene has passed), Haneke’s camera remains.  At one point, the son of a pastor is led into the dining room to be punished with 10 lashes to his back.  We, the audience, are left in the hallway, our eyes fixed on the dining room door and our imaginations opening the scene on the other side.  In another instance, the baron’s wife returns to her estate and the camera is left long after she has entered, changing scenes only after a trail of attendants follow her in and a butler closes the large wrought iron doors.  

The Lingering Lens.  

I have never felt more like a voyeur at the cinema: glimpsing with confused anxiety and reluctant interest the incestuous relationship between a doctor and his daughter, the heartless parenting of a pastor, the shame and guilt-ridden conscience of a farmer, and the childlike love blossoming amongst a teacher and a maid.  

Say what you will about Haneke’s political points. His only subtleties were in his style - everything else was blunt, and forcefully so.  I care less about how effectively he has managed to sell his take on German culture than his craftsmanship with which he has wrapped everything in.  The scenery was breathtaking.  The choice of actors was superb. The acting was so believable from so many of the young children that I found myself on numerous occasions choking back tears.

And the ending? 

We fade out just as slowly as we faded in, with a story unsolved and a village of people never to be vindicated or brought to justice.  In fact, the last scene (a gathering at the village church) is so normal, so innocent and moral on the surface, that it squeezes one last time at the stomachs of the audience.  You know what lies beneath the surface, and you want to scream out in rage at the screen, gesticulate with wild motions and lament the feigned gentility of it all.  If you are left unsettled by the ending, that is good.  Take that with you as a testament to just how powerful and evocative the moments leading up to it were.

Joe.