The Last Candle

Phantom of the Mystery Science Opera.

The event described in this post occurred over two weeks ago, so this entry is a little late. Nonetheless, the sentiments described are no less potent than the day the event occurred.

I mentioned in a previous last post a short saying, attributed to the late Gene Siskel (but not researched for authenticity, lest someone wants to do the footwork for me), about theater audiences:

A film receives the reaction it deserves from a paid audience.

The paid bit is important, but after a recent dehabilitating affair at the Michigan Theater, the maxim requires a necessary augmentation:

A film receives the reaction it deserves from a paid audience, as long as the audience is not actively encouraged to provide their own reaction.

On October the 31st — Halloween for those who are obliged to forget the only macabre holiday of the year — the Michigan Theater indulged the region with seasonal spirit by showing Lon Chaney’s The Phantom of the Opera on the main screen. Catching the Opera screening was a perfect fit to my pledge to see a film at the theater once a week, and having a flick that featured the phenomenal theater organist Steven Bell as the soundtrack moved the show into must-see territory. I even bought pre-release reserved seating online to make sure I’d have a sure chance of being there in case the screening sold out.

Had a pretty good seat, too — middle section, center seat, marred only slightly by the head of the fellow who sat in front me, which took up an unimportant bottom part of a frame. The show-time eventually arrived, and shortly thereafter the master of ceremonies strolled out, a gentlemen I had seen several times introducing Summer Classic Film Series shows, and began to plug the film. Dr. Bell was introduced, who offered a few words about the film and the soundtrack (he wrote it, partially inspired by the original soundtrack — the guy is crazy good), and introduced another musician on the stage, a soprano who would offer her voice during certain film scenes that were staged in the Paris Opera House.

The audience was lively and spirited, large in turn-out, and some members had donned appropriate costumes, including one chap dressed up as Andrew Lloyd Webber’s version of the Phantom. Another great night at the theater, or so I thought at the time.

After Dr. Bell finished his notes on the film, the MC took back the mic, related some historical facts about the films production and the personal agony of Lon Chaney’s makeup, and then finished up with this gem of a suggestion (paraphrased):

“Back in the 20’s, the audience laughed, talked, jeered with the on-screen actors and action. For our showing of the 1925 Phantom of the Opera, feel free to do the same — interact with the movie! Talk back and with the characters! Have fun!”

And my own personal hell was opened up before me.

Okay, I exaggerate. A little bit. But one of my cardinal rules of movie-watching (for new, yet-unseen films, at least) is that the audience shouldn’t react outside of the context of the film. Lately I’ve gone as far as refusing to watch films outside of the theater (i.e. with friends) because the compulsion to chatter is too great. Remember: a film receives the reaction it deserves, by and large.

The aforementioned maxim is generally applicable because a reaction aroused in one member of the audience can easily be extrapolated to most or all other members. If a scene is funny, people will laugh, and no one is brought out of the film; the laughter is an expected, unrestrained reaction. The same applies to scenes and sequences of romance, action, adventure or drama: the tools and ability of the skilled filmmaker guide the production to produce a tuned and directed emotional result and experience for anyone who watches the movie. (Aside: Interpretation of plot devices, narrative and in-depth character analysis is not within the scope of a audience reaction.)

On the other hand, imagine a gag playing itself out on screen, but instead of the crowd wholly breaking out into a peal of laughter, imagine if one guy loudly talked-back to the character on-screen, like he was witnessing the ordeal in person. “You idiot,” he’d say. “That was clearly an exploding cigar!” or something of the sort. Or imagine someone talking during the actor’s big joke, or a teen’s cell phone blaring out during the punchline. And so on. Or if someone laughed when a character’s throat was slashed open. Same deal — the audience would be distracted and pulled back out of the film-watching experience.

Which is pretty much what happened at the Michigan Theater last Friday night: once the MC unleashed the commentaries of any audience member who deemed themselves self-important enough to yell at a movie screen, a crowd of bad Marx Brothers-impersonators was given wings for the next hour and a half. As for the rest of the audience, the ones who just wanted to watch the film as presented, too bad. I couldn’t have turned around to the woman behind me who would say “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty…” and make pigeon-coo noises every time a animal appeared on-screen and tell her to knock it off, not after the theater explicitly condoned her to do what she pleased.

All of that is disruptive behavior for a movie that was not promoted before-hand as featuring such. If the movie was advertised as “Live organ, with audience participation encouraged!” my reaction to this particular showing would be different: I wouldn’t be ranting about how the screening unexpectedly featured a relentless distraction by other audience members, but rather what the experience was like to be present at a showing that allowed audience chat-back (which I have essentially done here anyway, just with more heat). The difference is, I didn’t know any better prior to buying my ticket, no thanks to the theater itself.

Whether theaters allowed talking during movies back when this 1920’s flick was released is irrelevant — what was acceptable theater-going behavior is certainly and evidently not acceptable now. However, if the Michigan Theater’s screening was originally advertised as allowing audience participation…well, that’s something else entirely. Similarly, only the ignorant catch a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show to see the actual movie.

Even through all of the other disruptions inside of the theater on Halloween night, I enjoyed Chaney’s Opera, especially when the rogue commentators forgot they were trying to be funny. Several moments in the movie were fraught with anxiety, and not surprisingly those sequences received little to no ribbing from the crowd. Good filmmaking has the power to dispossess its audience of other attentions and volition, and Lon Chaney’s grotesque appearance and performance easily pulled the audience into a setting that only demanded attention, not participation.

Actually, allowing the chatter did provoke one very funny instance. During a scene transition, a title appeared that described how one of the character’s “barouche” was waiting outside of the opera house for his arrival. The title was many words long, and Dr. Bell wasn’t jamming on his organ during the title, so the theater was generally pretty quiet while the title was up on the screen.

After several long seconds of the title being on-screen, a voice in the back of the theater piped up, in perfect sitting-room volume without a hint of drama or, “A what?” That received a big laugh from the rest of the crowd, because we were all wondering the same thing: what the heck is a barouche? (The answer: a barouche is a type of 19th-Century horse-drawn carriage.)

If only the rest of the chatterboxes during that evening’s showing of Phantom of the Opera had the same tact and deftness as that lone title-commenter, but alas, people just like to show off when given the chance, and we can’t all be Mike, Joel, Tom or Crow.

The Spirit of the Beehive_, written and directed by Víctor Erice: very slow, and very much enjoyed.

How long does a film’s awfulness have to persist before offending the audience past the point of contempt and to the moment of abandon? For Roger Ebert, according to his latest online journal entry [note: Ebert's since added a second journal entry -- see the addendum after this entry's conclusion], the limit is eight minutes, or 92% of the total duration. (Ebert’s critque of Tru Loved, the eight-minuter, says all about his reasons for skipping the remainder of the film.) Or, if Ebert is reviewing Caligua, the threshold is crossed after two hours, or roughly 57% of the total film.

Clearly Ebert’s tolerance for low quality has clearly taken a severe plunge in recent years — well, when n = 2, at least.

Coincidentally, I was recently asked a similar question after modestly mentioning that my Netflix queue has grown over 340 movies. The question was: When I’m watching a movie at home, if and when do I decide that a film’s just not worth my time? When the film’s been sealed back in the dandy red Netflix envelope, was it after I watched the whole thing? Where’s the breaking point?

Heck, if Roger Ebert can’t settle on a definite demarcation, neither can I. But I don’t think either of us would bother.

When to exit the theater, either figuratively or literally, isn’t a static measure that crosses between all films — each show is judged accordingly, implicitly and unofficially, even on the basis that each film is, indeed, an entirely different experience. The medium is a constant, but bailing out on the Friday Night Film is a judgment of content, not the format.

Reading the comments and reactions to Ebert’s journal post reveals a fairly consistent opinion: one, that Ebert was right to walk out when he did, and two, walking out of films is rare but an acceptable reaction[^1], and three, no rule or sudden instance exists that can extrapolate the quality of an entire film from a segment of the whole show.

I like the idea of drawing a distinct line in the sand, but in my limited experience, establishing such a border is basically impossible, or at least very improbable. My favorite suggestion in the comments for an arbitrary time limit was 11 minutes, the time needed to run through a standard 35mm 24fps film reel. That standard, especially now that cellulose film is on the way out, has a kind of romance to it. But like a lot of romance, that’s basically folly: 11 minutes in a Hitchcock isn’t the same as the first 11 minutes of a Fassbinder, or a Kurosawa, Spielberg, Chan-Wook, or Un chien andelou.

Or forget entirely about just 11 minutes: the entire first act might be a snoozer, uninteresting, contrived, disgusting, revolting, or limp, but unforeseen qualities could blossom in the second or third acts. Or the actors might perform throughout like high-school stage drama bombs, but the narrative, or the set design, or the editing, framing and composition, or many other captivating aspects of moving pictures could tilt the production’s quality towards good and worthwhile, even to excellence. Or the denoument could justify a boggling climax that occurred just minutes before the end. And so on.

Of course, the film could start badly, continue badly, and end badly. Or a movie could rocket out of the gate and perform a rousing start, but having squandered the cutting room’s treasure all in one sequence torture the audience with inanity and boredom for its remaining duration.

Such extremes are unusual, but I’ve definitely seen films that start well and end poorly, and vice versa. But even if a film fails in some major respect, most of my picks from the last few years have had enough or plenty of redeeming qualities, usually far more good than bad and easily enough to justify the time spent. Once in a while I find a film that is so good — or bad — that it alters the personal bar for all past and future films, and the only way to find those gems (or bombs) is to watch a lot of movies.

Looking back in my Netflix queue, only a few rejects are sprinkled throughout a hundred or so rentals (and counting!). I pushed eject on Peter Jackson’s King Kong after an hour. Fellini’s famous Amarcord was too aloof for my tastes, and it received the fast-forward treatment after 45 minutes. And then there’s Six-String Samurai, which I began fast-forwarding after an excruciating ten minutes, just to see if the rest of the movie was as bad (it was).

Director and writer M. Night Shyamalan’s filmography is an odd, varied bunch when it comes to lasting power. The Sixth Sense was a great film; Signs was good, but not great; and The Village was terrible. That’s a rough gradient from excellence to awfulness, and unfortunately for him and his audience, the trend has apparently continued downward in recent years. Having skipped through most of The Village, my last-viewed Shyamalan, the plan now before considering another one of his films is consult Wikipedia on the plot and see if the whole shebang floats. I did exactly that when The Happening came out last summer and saved nine bucks for a ticket.

How about films that began poorly and slowly but ratcheted up as they progressed? Das Boot immediately comes to mind: the first act, which ran about an hour and a half, felt like a slow (but compelling) three hours; the second act of another hour and a half felt like ten minutes. I distinctly remembering watching Das Boot during that second act, turning to look at the clock, and wondering, Geez, where the heck did that hour go?

Another example: Two weeks ago I watched my first Yasujiro Ozu film, Late Spring; what I thought to be a very slow fifteen minutes of family drama was in actuality more than an hour, confirmed only after I took a second opinion from the clock on the wall. Garrisoned by the film’s appeal, I completed Late Spring and very much enjoyed it.

Yet another group, one that is expanding all the time, is the classification of films that offer some familiarity, whether due to genre, director, editor or some other aspect. If the film is a Shyamalan, extreme incredulity would be enforced; if the film is a Kurosawa, I would devote the entire evening to it; and if the movie turned out to be a Six-String Samurai sequel, I’d probably burn it. But even Kurosawa films have low points, and Six-String Samurai did star a guitar-playing samurai (or would that be a ronin? Doesn’t have the same ring), which even I’d admit is pretty swank.

When it comes to finding the odds and evens, the intrepid film-lover just has to exercise a smidge of caution, a touch of discretion, watch a ton of movies, and keep the remote (or aisle) within arm’s reach.

The ethereal border that bridges the lands between “play” and “skip” isn’t a consistent standard by any means, but it obviously exists for Ebert, the commenters at his journal, and myself strictly on a per-film basis. Besides, the movie walk-out should be exercised as a rare and extreme measure: film-goers should want to like these movies and, given the movie’s goodwill, accordingly give the production the greatest benefit of the doubt. Nonetheless, the line of abandon exists, but the individual never notices he’s crossed the threshold until he’s over it — and then the departure time has arrived.

But if a thug punched a gun against the side of my head and demanded that the line be clearly drawn, I’d have to go with the 11-minute mark. At the very least, 11 minutes is nearly 37.5% longer than Ebert watched Tru Loved.

Just one scene from some of the more deliberate and best 97 minutes of my movie-watching career.

Addendum: While editing the above entry, Ebert has responded to his original Tru Loved review and consequent blog entry by extending the original review to cover the remainder of the movie and a second entry that’s a post-mortem and apology of sorts.

[^1]: Regarding audience reaction, Ebert wrote in a separate journal entry, “Every movie gets the audience response it deserves–when it has a voluntary audience that has paid admission to get in”, which is exactly why I didn’t go to the Michigan Theater’s screening of Casablanca offered free for students. Sorry, Michigan Theater: As much as I love you, I’d been to one of those free student screening during my college days (for Shyamalan’s Signs, coincidentally), and the audience was constantly screaming, chatting, making noise, and generally ruined the film.

I’m not about to write an extended review for each of the 12 shorts screened at the Manhattan Short Film Festival, but I’m about to write 12 very short impressions. These impressions are purposefully vague and non-descriptive — if you want more information on the shorts’ content, take a gander at the Festival’s Finalists 2008 page.

Ripple: Comedy is low on my list of preferred genres, but dark comedy ranks much higher, and Ripple was maddeningly comical.

Ode Ober: Loved it. A very tight and well-composed perspective of a single man, an older waiter in a luxury restaurant. Rich without hardly a trace of pretension. Nearly dream-like in its portrayal of just another night on the job, but a grounded viewpoint, courtesy of its simple introspection.

Rachel: Didn’t take well, but it took the audience for an emotional ride, eventually arriving at a forgettable destination. A bit lazy. Good performances by the actors.

Teat Beat of Sex: Enjoyed this more than any previously-seen sex comedy, which isn’t saying much. Lots of laughter from the rest of the audience though.

Sour Milk: Good framing and a concise plot, but the story itself just wasn’t all that interesting or unique.

New Boy: Terrific. Colorful and memorable characters, almost all of ‘em pre-teens. Another very well-paced story, and the editing and cinematography bolstered aspects of the plot and characters from side stories into essentials. The Irish accents helped.

Mother Mine: Started off well, but the conclusion was so contrived that the whole movie was ruined. Argh.

Make My Day: Cute, endearing and precise. The birthday of the child character was the same as my birthday, which was a bit of unexpected fun.

The Game: Blew all four tires due to mind-numbing pretension and characters that motioned through odd, inexplicable behaviors which might have made sense (or been an inside joke) to the screenwriter.

Change Coming: Get a couple of good actors and strife becomes very compelling, assuming that the people and not the suffering is the focus. The dust and sun of the Australian outback was a nice contrast amidst the urban- or apartment-interior-based shorts.

Viva Sunita: Limited in scope and silly. Fun and memorable.

The Golden Thread: All the marks of professionalism, but seemed a tad predictable. Could’ve done with more of a human element — people trying to cope with suffering doesn’t need any fantasy element to heighten the experience.

Official ballot of the Manhattan Short Film Festival

Finally, I won’t reveal which short received my vote (ha!), but I’ll reveal my two favorites: Ode Ober and New Boy.

Akira Kurosawa’s film Rashomon is “a film so profound that it changed the way we talk about truth and perception,” says Susan King of the LA Times — that “way we talk” is, or rather the term that’s used is, namely, the Rashomon Effect.

While the psychology world has the great Japanese director’s most thought-provoking movie to thank for a naming a distinct phenomenon of perception, the late Kurosawa would surely thank the Academy Film Archive were he around today (October will mark the 10th year of his passing): the Archive, in cooperation with the Kadokawa Culture Promotion Foundation and the Film Foundation, has restored Rashomon to a new digital print and will be screening the enhanced print at a Beverly Hills theater through the first week of October.

Being a big fan of classic and foreign films, hearing about new and restored prints of these older films is always exciting. Even the process itself of creating an enhanced print sounds like a great deal of difficult, enduring work and a lot of fun: it’d be parts of a history lesson, treasure hunt, editing exercise and a multi-medium puzzle. Film-restorers share the produced wealth and information, too: the LA Times article mentions that the irreplaceable Criterion, who had previously made their own print out of a different negative (and released it on DVD), gave the Academy Film Archive a few frame that were missing from the Archive’s otherwise-superior negative. (The Criterion negative was a fine-grain negative — good color and detail, but the print was not made from the original negative. The Archive acquired a print from the National Film Center in Tokyo that was evidently closer to Kurosawa’s original negatives and, as such, a better copy of the original, actual film.)

Being a Kurosawa fan, I am doubly enthused at the news of this enhanced print; hopefully it’ll see a wide release on DVD or Blu-ray (or come to the Michigan theater — I can dream).

But amidst the Rashomon hoopla, another detail in the LA Times article caught my attention: the film is being shown as part of an exhibition that includes four other Kurosawa favorites, three popular films (Ran, Yojimbo, and, of course, Seven Samurai) and the much lesser-known Dersu Uzala, the latter being the detail that popped out at me.

What’s odd about Dersu Uzala? Just this: not only was it the only Kurosawa film produced and filmed outside of Japan, but the Soviet Union — a very different locale and culture compared to Japan, yes? — footed the bill and provided the actors and setting. The film itself had a Russian-oriented plot and Russian characters.

Dersu Uzala was also only the second film Kurosawa made during the 1970’s, in 1975: Dodesukaden was released in 1970. The film was not a success, and after several years of strife between Kurosawa and Toho, his production company, as well as difficult shoots for Dodesukaden and his previous film Red Beard (1965), Kurosawa attempted suicide in 1971. Dersu Uzala was his first film after recovery; thanks to a continued love for history and filmmaking, the 1980’s brought the realization and completion of Kagemusha and Ran, two of Kurosawa’s richest and most detailed films, the latter regarded as his masterpiece.

The thing is, Dersu Uzala (to my knowledge) has never been given the great treatment received by many other Kurosawa films, perhaps due to the lack of a good print. The version I’ve seen, a DVD released by Kino, supposedly an otherwise-reputable transfer and production company, was decent but not good. Criterion has released several “minor” films in Kurosawa filmography, but Dersu Uzala remains outside of the Collection’s catalog.

I don’t know why Uzala has yet to be given a good print: the movie is great, cut out of the same fine cloth as any other of the master director-editor’s movies. Maybe the answer is simple — maybe the original negatives are simply lost (Russia’s pretty big) and any remaining prints are mediocre quality.

But back to the present, and a glimmer of hope for the sole Russian-born Kurosawa flick: Dersu Uzala is being shown at the Beverly Hills Kurosawa exhibition among four other, beautifully-restored movies — perhaps Dersu Uzala has been given a reprint and remaster itself. Maybe a new print generated by the graces (and money) put forth by this exhibition will lead to a new wide disc release as part of Criterion’s Kurosawa library, and then the movie will finally get the popular release it deserves.

The LA Times article (or anywhere else I’ve looked) doesn’t mention any enhancement to the Uzala print, but hey, any Kurosawa is good (really good), even if the print itself isn’t. The Rashomon Effect may describe that separate participants in the same event can store away completely separate and seemingly conflicting recollections, but the effect of Kurosawa films on me is a consistent phenomenon: I love ‘em all.

Sunday night, and I’m sitting at my latest (as of the last two weeks) writing desk, the coffee table in front of the audio system and television. I was supposed to be tuned into the Olympics, even though the reception ranges between flurry and blizzard, but unless the current event is the Alternative Medicine Finals, NBC is running some kind of fluff piece.

Gracing the screen (forecast: moderate precipitation) is a doctor (or “doctor” rather) who is jabbing needles into some poor woman’s milky forearm. Ah: Eastern-based Olympics with Eastern-based medicine. The volume to the TV is off (the system is playing A Night with John Petrucci and Jordan Rudess at my bidding), so I can’t hear this fellow’s blather, but from the looks of the nonsense, I’m magnitudes better off with the Petrucci.

Now Doc is pointing at a chart of a human being — the map is decorated with dots and connecting lines that span the whole front of its body. That graph is either a public-transit map for bacteria, or meridian lines and points; given the chance to prove the chart�s authority, I’d take the bacteria perspective and try to pull the “Biology is art!” gambit, something made up by me and has as much veracity as meridian-based chiropractic practices.

This meridian junk has been airing for about five minutes now. Maybe this show is some kind of prolonged informercial. I haven’t watched any network TV in…well, probably since I bought the TV three years ago — I didn’t actually get a over-the-air reception until a few days ago, when I bought a rabbit-ears antenna — so maybe I should give network TV a little more breathing room. Heroes is popular after all, even if the commercials make it look like X-Men-lite, which is x number of men and women too many.

The program just seemlessly cut to Bob Costas. Ever heard of the expression, “Lie down with dogs, and you’ll wake up with fleas?” Tonight the part of the dog is played by the bad doctor, with Bob in a starring role as Waking-Up Man. The fleas will be billed as extras.

This coming-out party for network television in my household over the past week has not been rosy. After the Olympics are done, the new antenna will go right into the closet with the other, non-working antenna. (As for Heroes, Berlin Alexanderplatz is doing just fine, even thought it lacks mutants.)

Maybe my perception of the Olympics would be enhanced if I had caught the much-lauded opening ceremonies. The theatrics part, with the drumming and the dancing and the sychronized everything, is the talked-about bit, but some Olympics-watching chums, who I suspect have watched more hours of Olympics than China has won gold medals, even complimented the dancing girls who mashed-potatoed throughout the entire, two-hour procession of participating countries. I wasn’t sure what to make of that until Roger Ebert made a similar statement in his “journal” (don’t call it a blog!) entry Zhang Yimou’s Gold Medal. Nice job, ladies!

The bottom line has two points: one, I’ve never had much interest in the Olympics, which is due in part to the second point, which is that I’ve never had much interested in televised sports. Although I don’t watch much TV, I would probably hop into the ring if the advertisements for the various stations offered anything that interested me, which they haven’t since the first season of Lost and Firefly (and I watched both of those on DVD anyway). How about this idea: W. R. H., a miniseries in thirteen parts and an epilogue? Might be good.

(This has been a part of the blogging recovery program. Writer’s block has never been a problem for me; rather, writer’s balk is my current disorder. A few times a month for the past few months have produced entries that are near-completed and abandoned in the end, unfinished and unposted. My guess for the lack of production is due in part to the he breath and topics of the entries — mostly personal business or occupational rants — so I’m trying something a little lighter, and nothing can be lighter than snide live-blogging of the Olympics, for cryin’ out loud.)

(Also, this has been a test for WriteRoom, which has fared admirably well for allowing me to concentrate on writing and not catching up on science blogs.)