Avery tries to be a Critic: 'Snowden'

You may not like Oliver Stone's work. You may not agree with the guy politically. But there's one thing you must admit: the guy very possibly has the biggest, brassiest set of balls in the film industry. Granted there are a few competitors for that title (Michael Moore, Kathryn Bigelow, David Lynch, and Lars Von Trier all come to mind) but Stone, as far as I'm concerned, is currently in the lead. Your move, Hollywood. Your move.

I know, I know. I'm supposed to be reviewing the movie, not gushing about the size of Mr. Stone's, well, stones. But Snowden really could not exist if Stone didn't have guts to spare, and it certainly wouldn't be half as good had it been made by a meeker, more politically-correct filmmaker. Just like Black Widow had to be played by Scarlett Johansson, Snowden just had to be made by Oliver Stone.

We all know the story. The NSA was collecting piles and piles of data from the phones of unsuspecting civilians, all in the name of stopping potential terrorists. The plucky Mr. Snowden, former true believer of all things Republican, came to the rescue by info-dumping on a handful of ambitious, freedom-fighting journalists, and proceeded to promptly and professionally get the hell out of the United States, bringing a hell of a new meaning to the oft-repeated political cry of "if you don't like it here, then leave." A lot of my friends professed shock when the story broke. I wasn't shocked. Make no mistake, I don't agree with spying on unwitting civilians who have, for all intents and purposes, broken no rules...but was I surprised that the government had gone so far? No, not really. But no matter which side you're on, you can't deny that it was a game-changer. Suddenly we all knew Big Brother was watching us and suddenly, you got to have an opinion on whether or not Big Brother should be watching us. All thanks to one guy who, as legend has it, one day said "Enough is enough."

Watching Snowden, you can't imagine a more perfect combination of story and director. Edward Snowden is a subject tailor-made for a filmmaker like Stone: he walks the fine line between patriotism and defiance, loves his country but isn't afraid to break a few eggs in the hopes of improving that country, and has that perfectly charismatic combination of nerdy awkwardness and quiet assertiveness. It's like Snowden was just lying there in wait in Russia, just dreaming of the day when Stone came along to bring his story to cinematic life. It's perfect...

...But it probably is not, when all is said and done, Oscar material. And that's okay.

Let's start with the myriad of things that the film does right. First of all, the acting is phenomenal. If Snowden does manage to snag a nomination, it will undoubtedly be for Joseph Gordon Levitt's spectacularly understated performance. And when I say understated, I mean it. The man is so wonderfully nondescript, you almost forget it's Don John the Movie Star underneath the classic nerd glasses. There's no breast-beating moment of heroism here, no eloquently-wailed monologue about how he'd do it all over again if he had to just for the pleasure of saving the homeland. In so many war films--and this is one of the problems I had with American Sniper--there's a dramatic moment where the leading man (almost always a man) makes a speech that would make Malcolm X green with envy, a moment that is almost always constructed purely to show the actor's chops and has very little basis in the reality of what a human being would actually do in that situation. The geniuses behind Snowden, thank the Lord, resisted that temptation.

Now, I'll grant you, the script has as much to do with the film's quiet realism as the actors. Even the moments that would seemingly call for a screaming epiphany don't give in--the scene on the mountain hike wherein Snowden reveals that he's stopped taking his epilepsy medication comes to mind--and instead fall back on dialogue that would sound natural even if not spoken by consummate professional actors. One of the scenes that most impressed me was the fight in the Japanese apartment when Snowden demands that his girlfriend take down her nude photos and she resists, culminating in a screaming argument that, in any other film, would be a showstopper for all the wrong reasons. Here, it plays like a natural fight: it starts over something so seemingly tiny, escalates until the real reason of the fight is revealed, and culminates in a heartbreaking moment of truth. It's a wonderful marriage of acting and screenwriting, and the kind of thing that makes me want to watch the film more than once.

But oh, I do wish the cameraman had been in on those little meetings wherein the actors, director, and screenwriter decided to make things as chill as possible. There were moments that made me wonder if it was the cinematographer, and not Snowden, who was suffering a seizure. In fact, the moments that showed an epileptic seizure from Snowden's point of view were among the least-dizzying in the film. An action movie like Hardcore Henry demands the frequent use of handheld camera; an espionage thriller with more emphasis on the espionage than the thriller part does not. On the way out of the theater my exasperated moviegoing partner demanded why, in the name of all things holy, they felt the need to use so many handheld camera shots, to which all I could do was shrug and reply, "Maybe the Steadicam broke?" It's the only explanation I have, because when the tripod or Steadicam is used effectively, the shots are beautiful.

But I can excuse the odd artistic choices in camerawork for the film's merits. Unfortunately, most of what I love about the film, will be what the Academy ultimately hates about the film. The political dialogue in Snowden gets intense at times. Stone never has been known to pull a punch, and this film certainly is no ground for pussyfooting. Intense debates about human rights are held, and it's blatantly obvious where the filmmakers' loyalties lie. I remember reading The Handmaid's Tale in college and getting to the line about the difference between "freedom to" and "freedom from." On the one hand, you could be free to do whatever you like; on the other hand, you could be sheltered, but kept free from all possible harm. That's the debate at the heart of Snowden, and you'd have to be deaf, dumb, blind and live under a rock to not know that Stone, like the film's subject, firmly believes that we all have the right to decide exactly what kind of freedom we'd like to have. And that will prevent the film from reaching its full potential, because unfortunately, the number of people in the world who are genuinely frightened of hearing any viewpoint with which they might not agree is quite staggering, and you'd be crazy to not think that there are at least a few of those on the Academy voting board.

Granted, they have every right to decide that this film's message is too inflammatory for their tastes. And they're certainly right if they proclaim it's biased. I haven't seen a political film this one-sided since I watched Bowling for Columbine. Trust me, folks, American Sniper or Zero Dark Thirty are more balanced than this film, and even they were stopped short of snagging Best Picture or even getting a nomination for Best Director; therefore it stands to reason that Stone will be snubbed too. And for good reason: there's literally no room for choice in a movie that is supposedly all about giving people the choice of whether they want to be watched or not. It's funny, isn't it? We're watching this movie about freedom, but the way the film is structured, you have no room to question whether or not Snowden is a good guy; you are shown and told that he is, and that's that. So if the Academy does decide to snub Snowden based on that...well, it's their loss, but at the same time I really can understand why they'd go that route.

And yet...maybe that's okay. Maybe this film really isn't meant to be what some reviewers are already scathingly referring to as "Oscar-bait." Because at the heart of it, Snowden follows the Bridge of Spies philosophy of, "well, maybe the rest of the world hates my guts, but so what? I know I did the right thing," and I have to believe the director did that on purpose. Stone didn't make this film hoping for Best Picture, but you can bet he was sure as hell hoping to reach into some hearts and minds with this piece of work.

And if you need proof of that? Just look at the ending. There is no victory at the finish line, no triumphant moment where Snowden flies into the U.S.A. and shakes President Obama's hand, no medal of honor, no dramatic profession of amnesty. Instead, Stone waits for Gordon Levitt's gentle, stammering end-of-film monologue to peter out, and then proceeds to flip the biggest bird in the history of cinema by bringing Snowden on-camera for the final few shots of the movie. Think about that: Stone went to Russia and put on film the face of a guy who has spent so much time hiding his face, who is on the run from the United States government, who is considered a political enemy, who literally cannot come home under penalty of the law--just to prove a point. My God, if you don't think that took a big, brass set of balls from both men, you are straight-up wrong.

So like or hate Stone, like or hate Snowden...whether you think they're heroes, or just a couple of politically-charged nutcases, you have to admit one thing: they are brave as all living hell.

Being a filmmaker: 'Hail, Caesar!' gets it right

It's a shot we all saw in the trailer: Baird Whitlock (George Clooney) is dressed in an elaborate costume, standing before a giant cross on a slavishly detailed film set, making a show-stopping speech about mankind and God and the meaning of life. He's gesturing, he's shouting, he's on the verge of tears, about to bring the audience to its feet...

...Aaaaaand he forgets his line.

It was precisely at this moment that student filmmakers all over the world fell in love with the Coen brothers all over again, without even seeing the complete film.

Why? Because we know how that feels. We know intimately the frustration and desperation that a cast and crew feel twenty takes in, when we're in the middle of the best take yet...and the actor forgets a line. Now, any number of things can happen that will ruin a take, I'm not blaming it all on the actors, but the point still stands. Substitute "actor forgets his line" for "a lightbulb burns out," or "the audio gets screwed up" or "the camera battery runs out." Pick a disaster, any disaster.

I saw Hail, Caesar! in its opening week and loved it. Not because it's a great film--it is, oh God, it is, I'm not exaggerating when I say it's their best yet--but because the Coens did such a fantastic job taking every directorial nightmare and putting it into a single film...no, a single scene. Oh, there are plenty of moments in the film that speak to a filmmaker's worst fears (actors mess up, gossip-rag journalists sniff around, rival studios rear their heads...communists kidnap movie stars...okay, yeah, it's a Coen film, what did you expect?), but there's one moment in Hail, Caesar! that every single director on God's green earth will respond to with a sympathetic nod and an "Oh hellz yeah I've been there."

About a quarter of the way into the film, country movie star and ultimate sweetheart Hobie Doyle (Alden Ehrenreich) walks onto the set of a beautiful classic drama film, dressed in his first-ever tuxedo, with the wide-eyed eagerness of a child on his first day of school. Picture a young, untrained  John Wayne wandering onto the set of Sabrina. The director, Laurence Laurentz (the incomparable Ralph Fiennes), has had little say in the casting of his leading man and was expecting Cary Grant, not a baby-faced cowboy stuntman. Over the course of three takes, Laurentz tries progressively harder and gives more specific instructions, but Doyle just can't do what his director wants him to do. It's not that he's a bad performer. It's just that he can't play the role that he's being asked to play, because he's never done it before and it's not a part that suits him. It's like trying to make Owen Wilson play the lead in Jesus Christ Superstar. It just isn't going to happen.

Naturally, as the shoot goes on, Laurentz gets progressively more frustrated. First he changes the directions, then he changes the lines, and finally he bursts into his boss' office and demands to know just what the hell was going through the studio heads' minds when they cast this clown in his movie. Of course Mr. Mannix is quite sympathetic to Laurentz's frustration, having plenty of his own disasters to contend with...but in the end, he's firm on his decision, and Laurentz is stuck with this kid, like it or not. And that's pretty much the way it ends. We don't really see Laurentz again (although there are some quite interesting rumors hinted at towards the end) and we never see Hobie Doyle on-set again. But that scene is really all we need to see to know exactly how that movie turned out.

Fellow amateur filmmakers, answer me this: who among us hasn't had to direct a scene with an actor who just plain did not fit that part--but had to play it anyway because they were our only option? When I was in film school I had to work with whatever options the theater department handed me--and in times when the school productions were in full swing, believe me, there wasn't much to go on. Sometimes, I got really, really lucky. Sometimes, I didn't. And even when I went to college and started making films without departmental supervision, I still often had to go with whatever (actually whoever) came my way. Sometimes, it worked. And other times, it didn't. But there was no frustration on earth quite like that of trying to explain to a reluctant actor exactly what I wanted them to do. So, another check for the Coens--they nail that part of filmmaking, no question.

BUT. THAT'S NOT EVEN THE BEST PART.

Quick test for fellow artists--raise your hand if anyone has ever told you that what you're doing is "just entertainment" and thus not a "real" job. That's exactly what happens to multiple characters in Hail, Caesar!--actors and studio execs alike. The Lockheed Corporation tries to snag Eddie Mannix away from his job in Hollywood by calling the movies "frivolous" and insisting that the job he offers is better because it is more "serious." The Communists who kidnap Whitlock tell him that movies are just "distractions" for the public. Even Whitlock gets in on the act at one point, telling Mannix all the things he "learned" from the Communists, telling him that movies are all fake and there's no point to making them because no one gets anything out of a film anyway.

But this is where the genius of the Coen bros kicks in. The film industry is shown, in-depth, as a busy and thriving business run by overworked people, just like, oh I don't know, every other industry on the planet. And that is brilliant, because it demonstrates just how stupid those people who say moviemaking isn't a "real" job actually are. By presenting the film industry as a business like any other, the point is driven home: making movies is a real job, and to hell with anyone who says it isn't.

I wish I could show everyone who asks me, "So, what's it like to make a movie?" Hail, Caesar! because seriously, this movie gets it right. I don't care if you're a student, an independent producer, or James Cameron himself, if you're a filmmaker, you've experienced something like the filmmakers go through in Hail, Caesar! You've had to deal with a miscast actor who just can't understand your directions. You've had to deal with something messing up your best take at the last second. You've had to put up with pissy people who derail you, either outright or by serving their own interests. And of course, you've been told "This isn't a real job, you're just playing around, you should do something more practical."

And I don't know if they mean it this way, but when I watched the Coens' latest movie, all I could hear was them telling me, "To hell with those people. This is real. This is your job. Go and do it well." If Big Eyes was Tim Burton's love letter to aspiring artists, then Hail, Caesar! is the Coen brothers'.

Avery Tries to be a Critic: 'Southpaw'

*sigh* I tried to sit down and write a nice, calm, orderly, nothing-to-see-here review for Southpaw. I really did. But I kept experiencing strange symptoms as I wrote. Like puking in my mouth a little every time I thought about all the gratuitous, gory shots of blood pouring out of Jake Gyllenhaal's mouth. Or my eyes involuntarily rolling themselves every time I recalled the lazy, expletive-heavy dialogue. Or experiencing mild headaches at the thought of seeing one more f-ing boxing movie with a training montage set to an aggressive guitar-heavy song what the hell can we please move on from that Hollywood thank you very much.

Like everyone else who saw Avengers: Age of Ultron, I was subjected to the Southpaw trailer. I saw the movie twice, saw the trailer twice, and both times nudged my movie-going partners and whispered, “Let’s see that when it comes out.” It looked like a really, really, really good movie, okay? I mean it had a great cast, looked like a heart-wrenching story, appeared to have some very solid editing, and just seemed like it would be an Oscars contender without even trying. You know. That kind of movie.

So imagine my disappointment when it turned out to be more like…well, like every movie ever where the arrogant character learns a great life lesson after he loses everything. Even if I hadn’t seen the trailer--which is a long shot, because if you’ve been to a movie in the last six months, you couldn’t help but see the trailer--I could have told you that something bad was going to happen to Billy Hope. That he was going to get his ass kicked. He was going to lose his money. He was going to lose his fans. Now, I hate to say “he was going to lose his family,” because that sounds mean, but you know what? Called it. It’s classic Oscar-baiting Hollywood: take a character who is on top of the world, rip away everything he has, insert Old Wise Man With Tortured Past (I swear that’s a character they have in a vault, just waiting to yank out and insert as-needed) who will invariably be just what Main Character needs to get back on top, and watch him rebuild his world from the ground up. It’s uplifting, it’s classic, it’s inspirational…and it is absurdly lazy writing.

Let me tell you something. This kind of movie, the one I just described? It is really easy to make. Well, comparatively, I should say. No movie, as we’ve already discussed here, is easy, per se. Every movie takes work; you need a script, you need actors, you need locations, you need a camera and a mic, etc. But compared to blockbusters or clever kids’ films, or even an independent or midbudget classic like Interstate 60 or any of the David Lynch classics? It’s cake. You can do it for no money. Angst is cheap. Unless it’s an Oscar bid, like Southpaw, but Jesus Christ, compare the budget for Southpaw ($25 million) to the budget for, say, Gone Girl ($61 million). Now, I’m not one to judge a film by its budget--again, we’ve talked about this--but this proves my point. Angst is cheap.

It’s very, very easy to play an audience for tears. No, really. If you hurt or kill a dog, take a child away from their parents, have one star-crossed lover die and leave the other alive, kill off a mentor, or have an undeserving athlete cheat a hardworking one out of a title, you are gold, my friend. What are the circumstances surrounding these events? Doesn’t matter. Unless your audience is comprised of 500 Ron Swanson clones, pull out any of these scenarios and you’ve got a certified sob-fest on your hands. Hell, I didn’t even like Southpaw, but I was in tears when Maureen died. It’s almost a reflex: decent people can’t stand seeing other decent people in pain. If your audience has any degree of compassion, any of the above scenarios will wrench an emotional response from them. It’s filmmaking 101.

You know what’s hard? Making a detestable character appealing to an audience. In writing classes, we call that “saving the cat.” It means that if your main character is at any point going to look shady, they had better have at least one defining thing that redeems them. But it has to be simple, saving the cat, and it has to be subtle or well-placed. You don’t want the audience to think they’re being forced to like a character; remember, we all want to root for the underdog.

You know what else is hard? Making an audience laugh. I hate cheap-humor movies like Scary Movie because it’s so easy to roll with potty humor when all else fails. But writing a movie like School of Rock or My Cousin Vinny, or a darker comedy like The Ref? That’s hard. Blending comedy and drama, as in Me and Earl and the Dying Girl, is especially difficult because if you go too far in either direction you lose half your audience, and if the contrast is too sharp no one will take your movie seriously. We all know exactly what will make an audience cry. Making an audience laugh is always a toss-up, especially in this day and age where just about everything under the sun is considered offensive.

And you know what’s just about impossible? Making a movie unpredictable. Getting the audience to go “Holy shit, I did not see that coming!” Slitting Neil Patrick Harris’ throat with a boxcutter instead of giving Ben Affleck the lethal injection. Killing Janet Leigh in the shower 45 minutes into the film. Unveiling Christopher Lloyd as a cartoon in disguise. Using little green aliens to rescue Buzz and Woody from the trash incinerator. Granted some of these are adaptations and if you read the book first, you know what’s coming, but if you haven’t, the point still stands. People insist there’s nothing original anymore. Maybe there isn’t, but you can always find a plot twist--if you look for it.

The point is, I have seen Southpaw before. I have seen attractive men lose everything and rely on a wise old learned man to help them get back to the top. I have seen arrogant characters cut down to size by tragedy. It’s fun seeing people get knocked down; it’s why we hone in on fallen celebrities, isn’t it? And it’s equally satisfying to see underdogs claw their way to the top; it’s why we love those rags-to-riches tales of people getting plucked from obscurity and dolled up for their winning moment on American Idol. Sure, Southpaw is formulaic, but it’s a recipe for success, right? It’s sure to snag Gyllenhaal (who is the best damn thing about that film, no contest) at least a few good awards, if not an Oscar nomination. And it definitely put tears in my eyes, even if I knew exactly how and why the film was playing on my heartstrings.

But the problem is that after you walk out of the theater and go back to your business, a film like Southpaw is largely forgettable. Now, before we go any further with this concept, a disclaimer is in order: everyone is different, and what packs an emotional punch for some will not have the same effect on others. For someone out there, maybe Southpaw changed their life the way Sleepy Hollow and Beetlejuice changed mine. Who knows? For the last time: the movie made me cry. I’m not saying it’s meritless or that you’re stupid if you felt something when you watched it.

But so much of Southpaw relies on shock value, like the small child dropping the f-bomb, or the predictably tragic, like the way Billy Hope falls apart when he loses his wife. If you can predict every event that’s going to happen, right down to the outcome of Hope’s climactic fight with the “bad guy,” that’s not going to have as much of an impact on you as...oh, for instance, the end of Gran Torino. Nobody who saw that film is ever going to forget it. You know why? Because when those guns come out, you think Clint Eastwood is going to magically become Clint Eastwood. You don’t think it’s going to go where it ends up going. And there’s something pretty damn magical about that in and of itself.

The most incredible experiences I have ever had with a feature film were, almost invariably, born out of surprise. The twist at the midpoint of Gone Girl? That was the exact moment I fell in love with Gillian Flynn and her unbelievable writing. The surprise at the end of Breaking Dawn 2? Hate the rest of the franchise, but I’m never going to forget the exhilaration I felt watching that battle. All of Interstate 60? I never knew what was coming next, and I loved every second of it. The Man Upstairs in Lego Movie? In my opinion, that was what took the film from meh to should have won the Oscar. Nothing in Southpaw gave me that jolt of surprise, because like I said, I’ve seen it before. I knew he was going to lose, I knew he was going to be rebuilt, I knew he was going to win. My guess is that either Kurt Sutter read a hell of a lot of C.S. Lewis as a kid (the Christian allegory is strong with this one) or that he was taught to follow the Hero’s Journey to the letter when he went to film school. Either way, it doesn’t work. A movie with this much tension should not induce boredom. So please, Academy, do us all a favor and don’t consider this one when you reward Hollywood’s finest efforts this year. Give those awards to movies that did surprise their audiences, because those are the movies we’ll still be talking about in 20 years.

Film and faith

I saw Bridge of Spies today (I know, I'm a little late to the party) and it is every bit as good as everyone says it is. It didn't quite knock Spotlight out of the #1 spot on my 2015 favorites list, but it's pretty damn close. Spielberg definitely hasn't lost his touch, and I'd say he's at least got a solid shot at snagging a Best Director nomination from the Academy this winter. And why shouldn't he? Bridge of Spies is absolutely beautiful. Spielberg, it seems, is at his absolute best when he's doing a period piece. (Evidence: Schindler's List. If that film doesn't make you cry, I don't know what will.) And while we're handing out kudos, my compliments to the art department. Those sets and costumes were out of this world.

But all of that wasn't why I loved the film so much. Oh, that's part of it, I'll admit, but it's not the reason. There's a lot more going on under the surface of Bridge of Spies, and I truly hope people aren't too distracted by the historically-accurate production design to see it. (Although if they were I wouldn't blame them because seriously, look at those sets.)

Before I get into why Bridge of Spies really sent chills down my spine I'll have to get into a little personal backstory. I've had a lot of ups and downs with my faith over the past eighteen months or so, going from Christian to "I want nothing to do with the church" to "okay, sure, God exists, but wtf do I do with that information?" So it's not set in stone, exactly; I'm still figuring out where I stand, religion-wise, but I do believe in God and I do love Jesus and I do pray and sing and worship, so for all intents and purposes, let's say I'm a Christian. I was raised Episcopalian and still lean that way, but I have major issues with the representatives of my religion in general, which is kind of problematic to say the least.

So basically, to put it as simply as possible:

1. I believe in the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit
2. I believe in Heaven and angels
3. I believe God is watching us, He loves us, and He wants to save everyone (yes, even the atheists)
4. I believe that love conquers all and that God is love (even when He seems to be mad at us)
5. I believe that there is hope for the world even now when we can't seem to stop shooting each other

...do I sound like a Christian hippie? You know, the kind that makes Adam 4D throw up in his mouth? Yeah, probably. But you get the general point.

Now, there are a lot of religious/spiritual movies out there that claim to "spread the Word" by lacing as many sappy, otherwise-bland romantic comedies and family flicks with Bible references as possible. I've seen a few of these and honestly, they made me throw up a little. Christmas Angel. What If... God's Not Dead. The Christmas Lodge. War Room. All of them so absolutely stupid and insipid that I was either bored to tears or amused at how pathetic the evangelism attempts actually were. All of them so heavy-handed that were I an atheist, I would watch these things and go "ok, let's change the channel, this is stupid." I once got into a minor argument with someone who will not be named, over whether or not The Polar Express was "preachy." I wish I could sit him down in front of Christmas Angel or War Room--I got your "preachy" right here, buddy.

So no, I'm not a fan of "Christian" media. I'm also definitely not a "Christian" filmmaker. Not like that, anyway. I doubt anything I do will be distributed by Pure Flix. (In fact, I beg you, please beat me with a stick if I ever make anything that Pure Flix is interested in. I would literally rather be Tommy Wiseau than get to that point. Seriously.) No, when I find God in the movies, I find Him in less-blatant, less-evangelistic places.

Like, say, in Bridge of Spies.

The plot doesn't sound too spiritual, really, when you look at it on paper. A Soviet spy is caught, tried, and sentenced to prison in America, while a young American spy pilot is shot down and detained in Russia and an American student is captured in East Berlin. The no-nonsense lawyer who defended the Soviet spy is selected to arrange a prisoner exchange, he goes to Berlin to negotiate, and long story short, history is made. A nice little espionage thriller. A period piece--just what Spielberg does best--served with a nice, fresh side of Disneyfied patriotism, interspersed with a lot of talk about the Lord, the Constitution, and How Great America Really Is And Don't You Dare Say Otherwise.

But oh, it's so much more than that. Early on in the film Abel, the Russian spy, tells Donovan, his lawyer, how he once witnessed a man getting beaten by soldiers. The man kept getting back up, no matter how hard the men hit him, so they eventually gave up and let him go. This man served as a role model for Abel, who remains utterly calm even in the face of the death sentence. Whenever Donovan asks him if he is worried or afraid, Abel replies "Would it help?" He refuses to cooperate and pass information to the CIA, even if it would secure his freedom. He is calm and collected no matter what the situation. He is absolutely ready to die or be hurt for his country. "I'm not afraid to die," he tells Donovan when told about the possibility of the electric chair,  "even if it's not my preference." Halfway into the first act I realized, shit, I kind of want to be like this guy and he's supposed to be "the enemy." Donovan repeatedly mentions throughout the film what a "good soldier" Abel has been and constantly expresses admiration for his conduct, despite the fact that he and Abel are on opposite sides of a very tense fight.

There is a popular worship song that literally everyone who has ever been to an evangelical protestant church has heard, called "Mighty to Save." In the second verse is the line, I give my life to follow everything I believe in/Now I surrender. I couldn't help but think about that line when I saw the way Abel reacts to his capture, and the way American spy Gary Powers reacts to his capture: both men are absolutely willing to give their lives for what they wholeheartedly believe in. They will surrender to the consequences, knowing they made the right call according to their own hearts and minds. Donovan worries that Abel's associates won't believe that he didn't give up any information to the Americans, and Abel assures him that even if they don't, it will be all right because Abel himself knows that he did not betray his country. That is a damn powerful message, considering our culture's obsession with heroism. In most movies if you do the right thing and aren't rewarded with a ticker-tape parade, it's seen as a tragedy. Here, it's acknowledged that even the right actions are not always noticed and rewarded--and that's okay.

In the Bible, Jesus tells us that our reward will be greater in Heaven if we don't loudly pray on street corners, if we don't make a show of doing the "right" thing or the "holy" thing, if we don't insist on showing everyone how religious we are. His message lines right up with the one presented to us in Bridge of Spies: if you do the right thing and you know it, it doesn't matter who else knows. You know. You are able to sleep at night, knowing you did what you needed to do. And that's all the reward you need.

I felt closer to God watching Bridge of Spies than I ever have watching a blatantly "Christian" movie. And when I look at some of the other movies I love, movies that I feel a spiritual connection to in some form or other, I think I see a pattern. The movies I fall in love with don't preach or force an agenda or insist that what they're showing you is the be-all end-all. They're just there, and let you draw what inspiration, comfort, or message you can from them.

One of my former Christian fellowship friends once saw a film I'd made in high school and commented, "I'd never know you were Christian from your work." Funny thing is, one of my fellow students had teased me about the same movie, saying "your virginity pledge is showing" because the romantic leads didn't have sex in the film. It's all in the way you look at things. Someone else is going to watch What If... and, with a sigh, say as the credits roll, "What a beautiful representation of Christ and His love, I wish everyone could see that movie!" Someone else is going to watch Bridge of Spies and think, "Blah, useless romanticized patriotism." Doesn't make any difference to me, or to Spielberg for that matter.

Because he knows what meaning he put into that film. And I know what meaning I took out of it.

And at the end of the day...you guessed it...that's what really matters.

Avery Tries to be a (Retro!) Critic: A Nightmare on Elm Street

I recently wrote about my slow evolution from professional chicken to cautious horror-lover. At the end of the post, I mentioned that I planned to see A Nightmare on Elm Street this Halloween. Well, Ian came over to keep me company last night while my parents were on a weekend getaway, and guess what he brought with him? I'd planned to watch it, I was excited to watch it, but at the sight of the DVD cover (which, trust me, isn't pretty) I nearly backed out. I'm not that brave yet, I wanted to tell Ian. I can't do it. Halloween shops scare me; what effect do you think this will have? Can't we watch Beetle Juice instead?

"I'm not sure about this one," I told him.

"Give it a chance," he insisted. "You'll love it. If you don't, we'll turn it off."

And still I resisted. "If I say turn it down, turn it down," I warned him. "If I say shut it off, shut it off. If I say I need a break, pause it immediately. If I tell you to fast-forward, do it. And if I watch the whole thing and can't sleep tonight, you're staying up with me. But I like Wes Craven. So I'll give it a try." So Ian gave me the remote so I could lower volume/pause/stop/fast-forward as needed, turned on all the lights in the TV room, and settled my puppies on my lap for an extra layer of protection. And then we started the movie.

I'd like to say I forgot why I was afraid to watch it in the first place. I can't. But that, in this case, is a good thing, because it means that Craven did his job, and did it very, very well. My precautions did turn out to be unnecessary; aside from a bathroom break or two (turns out drinking half a gallon of tea before settling down to watch a movie is a bad idea...who knew, right?) we didn't need to pause or stop the film. And no way in hell was I going to fast-forward once I saw how beautiful the movie's aesthetics were. I didn't want to turn away, or turn it off, because not only was it beautiful, it was exciting. It was like a Hitchcock film: I never knew what was going to happen next, but I definitely wanted to find out.

I like Wes Craven a lot. I loved Red Eye and was pleasantly surprised by Scream, and Nightmare on Elm Street is in the same vein as both: a little humor, a lot of great aesthetic effects, a hell of a lot of suspense, and all the trope-subversion in the world. Craven loved to play around with audience expectations, and my God was he ever good at it. That's what makes Nightmare so wonderful and so terrifying. Craven uses his jump scares where they count. And he makes sure to place them where you least expect them to be. Oh, and as if that's not enough, he uses just enough body horror, and just enough psychological freak-outs, to make sure you never forget what you've just seen.

For the millionth time I'll say, I'm picky about horror. I like my horror like I like my period pieces: classy, and with as little gore as possible. (Which is why I will never understand what my dad sees in shows like Hell On Wheels because what even is that thing.) But Wes Craven knew what a lot of modern horror directors do not: how to make even the goriest slasher film a work of art. Because whoa, there is a lot of gore in Nightmare on Elm Street. There are literally fountains of blood in that film. Fountains. I'm not kidding. There are maggots, there's writhing intestines, at one point Freddy Kruger's face is torn off revealing a bloody, fleshy skull underneath. ("I told you to warn me if something like that was going to happen!" I protested to Ian when that scene came around. It was...oh, I don't know...about fifteen minutes into the film.) But even throughout all of that, the aesthetic is so beautiful you don't really know what to make of it.

And then there's the music. It's eerie. It starts off soft and builds to a crescendo, which is cool enough, but the brilliant part is that throughout most of the "normal" scenes. i.e. when Nancy and her friends are awake, the music is almost classical--piano, chimes, and simple repeating note patterns. Then when we enter dream-world and Freddy makes his appearance, BOOM--in come the drums and the synthesizers we associate with the 1980s. Again, very well-played, because even though the music varies, the score feels cohesive.

And then there's the characters, and there's Nancy, oh my God can we just talk about Nancy for a minute? People may hail Joss Whedon as the champion of Strong Female Characters, but the man has nothing on Wes Craven. I've yet to see a Craven film where women are firmly placed in the role of "victims" and the men are in the role of "saviors." It's always a toss-up. And this is what I mean about Craven majorly screwing with the tropes. For instance, we expect that Tina is definitely going to die first because she has sex. Well, spoiler alert, she does...but guess what? Her boyfriend is punished too. This is huge because #1, this movie came out in the 1980s, and I don't think I need to remind anyone how conservative America was in the 1980s...and #2, even today in a lot of our media, we fall into the trap of shaming girls and glorifying boys who have sex. Not so in Nightmare on Elm Street. Everybody's fair game: girls, boys, virgins, non-virgins, dorks, jocks...Freddy Kruger doesn't care about your sex life. He just wants to slit your throat.

But the reason Nancy survives is not because she's a virgin--in fact, it's implied that she isn't--but because she figures out how to empower herself against Kruger. The bathtub scene, where his clawed hand comes up between her legs, implies rape, as does a later scene when he attacks her in her bedroom. But she defeats him not just with physical force, but emotional: she gets to look him in the eyes and say "You can't hurt me. F**k off. I own my own mind and my own body, and if you don't like it, tough." And even without the rape/assault survivor analogies, can we just acknowledge that this girl has the biggest, brassiest set of metaphorical balls ever? She Home Alone-ifies her house, makes sure her mom is out of the way (or tries to, anyway), tells the authorities what's up and won't take no for an answer, and then walks right into the path of a serial killer. She knows she has to be the one to take him down and instead of hiding away, she rises to meet the challenge. And when he attacks her friends and her mother, she doesn't run away in fear. She gets mad. It just got personal, Kruger. You messed with her mom, and now she's going to mess with your already-none-too-handsome face.

The scene where Nancy tells Kruger, once and for all, that he has no power over her reminds me of a scene in Divergent. Inside a fear-driven simulation, heroine Tris's boyfriend, Four, tries to force himself on her sexually, even though in real life he promised he'd go slow. Tris stops him, kicks him off with a decisive "NO!" and wakes from the simulation to find everyone applauding her and telling her she's an example. Not only does she fight off a rapist, but she is congratulated for it. Her empowerment is treated as something to be rewarded, rather than a given. Instead of hearing "Well, you go alone with a guy in his room, what do you expect?" the message is "Whoa! You fought that guy off! Way to go!"

Same for Nancy. While no one is there to give her a high-five after she strips Kruger of his power by refusing to believe in him, Craven makes it clear that Nancy's success against him is real. She couldn't do it just by booby-trapping him, she had to confront him, and then she had to stop giving him the power to hurt her. Again, it's huge, considering the era in which this film was made. Craven's message might've been clouded by the unhappy ending (which, for the record, he didn't want there in the first place), but his original intent is clear. You have the power. You might be afraid, but that doesn't mean you can't be brave.

And last night after watching this thing, I slept well with my pups curled up at my feet and the window wide open. Ian told me he was proud of me for getting through the whole movie, but he can't possibly be as proud of me as I was of myself. Because here's the thing that I've slowly started to discover about horror films: done right, they can be as empowering as they are terrifying. And let me tell you, Craven knew how to do it right.

But purely from a filmmaker's perspective, the best thing about horror films, especially ones like Nightmare on Elm Street, isn't their empowerment factor. It's that when they're over, when you come back to reality and remember that it's just a movie and it wasn't real, it hits you that hey, this film, this really cool piece of visual storytelling, came out of someone's imagination. And then comes the very best part of all: going and writing your own film, and seeing what kind of things can come out of your imagination.