The Bigger Picture

Ben Fritz of the Wall Street Journal loves movies. He is passionate about the experience of communally watching a film, the unique ability for artists to tell their stories, and the Hollywood business machine behind it all. But man, he hates franchise features. From Marvel and DC to Star Wars and Star Trek to dinosaurs and robots, he sees these spectacles as indie film destroyers and creative blockers. To some extent, he might be right. What Fritz seems to have forgotten along the way, and a point that is only marginally made during the wrap-up of his book The Big Picture, is that movies, yes, even those about super-heroes and Jedis, are supposed to elicit an emotional response, be that enjoyable, fun, or even disturbing. The Big Picture is an important, topical,

timely read, and one that can be quite depressing at times in regards to the state of the industry, and with that fact that he just can’t get over that super-hero hurtle.

Fritz focuses his book on the parallel fall of both Sony Pictures and of mid-budget adult dramas industry-wide. Taking advantage of 2014’s hack, Fritz provides incredible insight into the studio that, honestly, never could have happened if that hack did not occur. The book runs with a documentary style narrative on Amy Pascal, Michael Lynton, and Sony’s quest to remain as an actor-friendly studio in an era where big-budget franchises quickly became the rage of the machine, and at a time when Sony had one, single franchise, that surprisingly couldn’t compete: Spider-Man. Fritz’s on-going commentary, about how the franchises being overseen by the Disney umbrella (incorporating Marvel, Lucasfilm and Pixar), Warner Bros, and Fox propelled those studios ahead of the others by incredible margins with arguably less creativity, however, quickly becomes repetitive. He’s a voice in the wilderness screaming for common sense and a return to artistic measures, but one that is being smothered by the mass of fanboys, geeks, wizards, and Disney princess consumers.

But what if today’s current state is not all bad? Yes, studios have pared down their offerings, but what if in doing so, they are making better films? Creative films with substance guided by an artistic venture and not a committee? Fritz breaks down the financials of how a film like Steve Jobs may or may not make a profit and expands that equation to the first Spider-Man film by Sam Raimi. Yet he never scores an interview with an actor or director who made it big, and whose work benefited as a result of being in such a franchise. An artist, like Jon Watts who, regardless of making Cop Car, might never have achieved a grand success were it not for Spider-Man: Homecoming, or an actor such as John Boyega getting his huge break with The Force Awakens.

As part of those financials, Fritz gets into the former importance of DVD sales, and how the loss of that income was instrumental into the disappearance of mid-range fare. VOD and direct-release methods were discussed as alternatives, but financials on digital purchases and rentals were not given any viable notice. And perhaps it is still too early for analytics on such info. However, can it not be said that the successes of the X-Men and Deadpool films can directly lead into allowing studios, such as Fox, to release The Shape of Water and Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri? Fritz only makes tangible connections.

Look, I am an indie film snob. I’m the guy hitting film festivals to see the latest from Jim Jarmusch and Wes Anderson while boycotting Michael Bay nonsense and Seth MacFarlane comedies. I prefer those serious dramas that compel thought and analyzation, to experience that fresh creative vibe. But man, the geek in me eats away at Marvel, Star Wars and Star Trek, franchises that I will defend as much as I love Bottle Rocket and Ghost Dog. I think there can be such compromise between art and commercialism. I think that if people are going to the cinema, even if it’s, ugh, Sausage Party, then the medium is being absorbed, and propagated. And that should be considered a win.

The Big Picture is a good read and a fantastic insider’s look into the studio system. However, the removal of the constant commentary could have reduced this repetitive-at-times read from a full book to a powerful article in the New Yorker.

Many thanks to Houghton Mifflin Harcourt and NetGalley for the advance reader’s copy. I find it deliciously ironic that I am writing this review on the eve of possibly the greatest franchise release of all time: Avengers: Infinity War. I have tickets for Saturday’s show.


As Always,
theJOE

When the Omega Point Breaks

Point Omega is Don DeLillo’s exercise in drinking scotch neat and slowly discussing loss, without ever directly mentioning such. Until it happens. And maybe not even then. With DeLillo’s glacier-moving plot, loss is the only event that occurs in a book that focuses on two men: one old, and one getting there. They talk like old men. Drink like old men. Slowly. Repetitively. Discussing. Dissecting. Thinking. At certain beats, what thoughts indeed.

DeLillo slows down time, deliberately, stunningly. Bookended with an elaborate depiction of Douglas Gordon's film project 24 Hour Psycho, in which the classic Hitchcock film is reduced to play at two frames per second, DeLillo slows the lives of Elster, a former military analyst, and Finley, a wannabe filmmaker, stretching out their time into a series of blurred together sun rises and sets. Their discussion works. The reader yearns for that next conversation particularly from Elster, his theories, his philosophy; he sees war as a haiku. Intellectually deep and mono/dialogue heavy – this is good stuff.

Yet, yes and yet, as a lover of stories, this one doesn’t go anywhere. The arrival, and subsequent departure, of Elster’s daughter Jessie, is the only element denoting time moving forward, as the two men are stuck in their own two fps lives. Ideas are discussed, dreams are forgotten, and again yet, there isn’t any true development for them as the lack of a narrative-heavy arc prevents any true catharsis or evolution. Then the book simply ends, leaving the men stuck in the inconsequence of their own inaction. To be watched, frame by frame, with no resolution in sight.

As Always,

theJOE

Playing With Madness

Run to the hills, Maiden fans. Front-man Bruce Dickinson’s autobiography What Does This Button Do? is fun, relatable, and likable, just like the rock deity himself. Bruce is, after all, a different sort of heavy metal artist, so there is no reason why his book should also not be equally unique. Alongside the tales of an international rock star with travels to Sarajevo, Japan, Rio, Australia, and, heaven forbid, Detroit, Bruce is a brew master, a fencing master, an actor, and, oh yes, an airline pilot. In fact, with a large portion of his book devoted to his extensive pilot’s training, his enthusiasm of flying, and details of all types of planes, his family life is as silent and forgotten as unclaimed luggage.

Autobiographies, particularly those belonging to rock stars, are often filled with the cliched travels and travails of life on the road: cheap hotels, roadside bars, one-night stands, sex, drugs, and, occasionally, a little rock-n-roll magic. Surprisingly, not so much for Bruce and his time in Iron Maiden or even his solo career. Yes, yes, there are the typical hot tub parties and experimentation with hallucinogenic wacky weed within, but for the most part, Bruce lived a straight life, putting all his passion onto the stage, and then later, into the pilot’s seat.

Always a performer, Bruce’s recounts are refreshing and entertaining. Even during chapters discussing a crushingly-depressing tour to Sarajevo during the height of the Balkan war, and his, thank Eddie, recovery from cancer, his style is open and welcoming. Although mostly linear, the narrative occasionally jumps around at times like an excited teenager anxious to talk about a cool concert or blockbuster movie. Again, and deliberately, Bruce foregoes any mention of his love life; his wives, his children. In his afterword he mentions this book is his tale to tell, and gives his family as much privacy as possible. However, such absences do make significant holes in his timeline.

The best of autobiographies are when the reader feels like the author is speaking to them directly while sharing space at a bar. Bruce does not disappoint. Tragic, engaging, and, real, Bruce is the real deal and enjoys the respect of his fans. Although, I’m sure he’d prefer it if you were drinking a pint of Trooper ale.


As Always,
theJOE

Change is Good

Hockey, for the casual fan – the guy who catches the highlights while at the bowling alley bar or tunes in for a period when the local team hits the playoffs – can be defined by one all-encompassing element of play: the fight.

That diehard fan? Fighting, save for the occasional benches-clearing melee that lasts the entire third period (like that unforgettable Flyers/Senators brawl from 2004), is passé and even a time waster. For the diehard, it’s all about the speed, the slapshot, the butterfly save, the hat trick. The play and the score is what truly matters. And Ken Dryden, former Montreal Canadiens goalie and Maple Leafs president, now author, would agree. With his latest, Game Change, Dryden skates deep into another issue: concussions that come as a result of body checking, and yes, fighting.

Game Change is an entertaining, enlightening read. The book is also an important one, and topically so. In Game Change, Dryden explores the life and career of Steve Montador, an everyman defenseman who played for six NHL teams and whose career ended as a result of multiple concussions. Montador died in 2015 after suffering from the effects of chronic traumatic encephalopathy, a degenerative brain disease commonly known as CTE, an acronym anyone who saw the Will Smith movie Concussion should recall.

Dryden cleverly disguises his treatise with an enjoyable look into hockey history, how the game started, and how it has evolved. Within is also Montador’s story: how he played, how he trained, and most importantly, how he loved the game. Yet, similar to the fighters and goons of the game, Dryden does not pull any punches as he throws down his gloves to present his call to arms: no hits to the head. No excuses.

Dryden writes like a hockey player. His sentences are short and clipped, he often repeats highlights he finds important to ensure the reader takes notice. He is also passionate, writing from the heart, even when he is taking about the mind. To do so, he presents interviews not only from scientists and doctors who share his philosophy of changing – and only slightly at that – the game of hockey to preserve the quality of life for the player, but also talks to players. Former Bruin Marc Savard, Flyers captain Keith Primeau, and someone named Sidney Crosby all share their stories and fears and recovery from post-concussion syndrome, how it has changed their play, and their lives.

Game Change is written for the casual fan, but the diehard will enjoy the deep cuts. More importantly, and even more important than hockey, the respect for life offered within is shown as a universal constant. That players, with their athleticism, their passion, their talent, are much more than just a product. Theirs is a life that should be cherished and celebrated. Dryden believes that is a constant on which everyone can agree. Unless, of course, you are NHL commissioner Gary Bettman.


As Always,
theJOE