STRANGER THAN FICTION

Written by Zach Helm
Directed by Mark Forster

“Life is stranger than fiction,” or so the saying goes. Borrowing from the expression, Mark Forster’s STRANGER THAN FICTION is about one man’s life that has become the subject of soon-to-be published fiction. An as yet undetermined narrator announces at the very start that, “This is a story about a man named Harold Crick.” That narrator is revealed to be author Karen Eiffel (the always absorbing Emma Thompson), whose previous novels have all ended with her protagonists dying to serve the story’s greater purpose. Somehow, her voice has found its way from the pages that tell Harold’s story to the head of a man actually named Harold Crick (Will Ferrell). As she pushes through the novel that has taken her a decade to complete, Harold begins to hear her voice wherever he goes. As she points out his obsessive-compulsive behaviour, he begins to question the strict structure that has kept his life in order for years. When Eiffel announces that he is unknowingly spiraling towards his imminent death, he has heard enough. The funny thing is Harold’s death was imminent before someone told him it was. He just needed someone to remind him that he should probably get around to doing some living while he was still alive.

But is this actually a story about Harold Crick? Is it not just as much a story about Karen Eiffel? After all, she knows the story she is telling so well that her words and voice have torn some line in the fabric of the universe to make it into Harold’s head. I don’t know how likely that is in real life but I’m pretty sure it would never happen if there weren’t an intense cerebral connection between the two parties involved or if he weren’t a complete fabrication of one’s imagination. At first glance, Crick and Eiffel seem like people on entirely opposite ends of the spectrum. After a closer look, they are clearly in opposition to each other but they inhabit the very same spectrum. Both are shown as obsessive-compulsive people. Harold counts his brush strokes and goes to bed at exactly the same time each night. Karen lives a reclusive life in a starkly white apartment, extinguishing her cigarettes in spit-damp tissues she tucks away in her pockets. Both attempt to exert high levels of restraint in their lives to maintain the illusion that they command the direction their lives will take, one through chaos and the other through control. It is also a convenient way to avoid experiencing anything frighteningly unknown.


Eiffel struggles with how to kill Crick for most of the film. How do you kill someone to make a literary point when their life barely has any relevance to begin with? Meanwhile, Harold’s recent bout with schizophrenia has him seeing how the tiniest changes in his life can make it all the more exciting. Funny how the knowledge that death may be around the corner acts as a good kick in the ass. The connection between Crick and Eiffel also exposes their attitudes towards life and death while helping each of them heal their apprehensions towards both realities. Crick had conveniently eliminated the possibility of death from his calculated existence. Eiffel’s eerie fascination with death had stopped her from seeing her own possibilities for happiness in life. As the two become more aware of the other’s existence, and subsequently more comfortable with that, they each begin to see what they were not seeing prior. Life will not be and will never seem worth living if you don’t take risks, no matter how small they may be; from wearing a sweater instead of a tie for a change to stepping outside your apartment and meeting new people.

STRANGER THAN FICTION is smart without being superior, funny without being asinine. Forster’s previous work has either bored me (MONSTER’S BALL), frustrated me (STAY) or filled my heart with warmth and my eyes with tears (FINDING NEVERLAND). Here he creates a poignant piece about a woman telling the story of a man because its easier than telling her own story. Her real problem with killing Harold Crick is that she no longer knows if she wants to. Killing Harold would just mean metaphorically killing herself again. Writing Harold’s newfound appreciation for life has sparked her own and Forster hopes her reminder will be one to us as well. Not to sound too morbid but our deaths are as imminent as Harold’s. The film’s subtle layers expose a simple insight about the distance between our lives and the stories we tell about our lives. These stories are told to create meaning and give shape but we all run the risk of missing out in the process if we don’t allow for the unexpected.

MATCH POINT

Written and Directed by Woody Allen

The ladies who saved my seat at the nearly sold-out screening of MATCH POINT I attended, were having the same conversation probably everyone in the audience has had at one point in time before buying their ticket for the evening’s final showing.

“I know,” the lady furthest to my right exclaimed. “My boyfriend and I were watching the preview and then it was, like, ‘This is a Woody Allen film.’ It didn’t look anything like that.”

“I know,” the closer lady returned. “It looks really good.”

This leads me to two major points of contention when it comes to addressing MATCH POINT. First, the previews look like a drastic departure from Woody’s previous outings. It looks smooth, glossy, and conventional even. The other point refers to the widely established opinion of the movie going public that it has been ages since Woody made a good movie. From two points, stem two questions. Is it really that different? And is it really any good?

Woody Allen has been making movies for just over forty years so it seems reasonable to wonder just how much of a departure MATCH POINT really could be from a director who’s neurotic mistrust of love and life looms over most of his offerings. Even as he gets on in years and no longer takes on the lead acting responsibilities, cutting down to merely writing and directing one film a year on average, the ghost of the Woody Allen caricature finds it’s way into the picture (see Jason Biggs in ANYTHING ELSE or Will Ferrell in MELINDA AND MELINDA.) The lead here, tennis pro turned instructor, Chris Wilton is played by Jonathan Rhys Meyers. We meet him after Woody’s classic plain white text on black background opening credits, interviewing for a job and looking for a London flat. The young lad worked his way out of a poor Irish background into the pro-tennis circuit before retiring for a more stable life where he could appreciate the finer things life had to offer, like opera and art. In opposition to past leads, he is well put together, focused. He has his eye on the ball, if you will. This is not to say he has everything figured out or is without fear. He knows he wants to do something of value with his life, isn’t clear on what exactly that is but also does not let hesitation paralyze him. Upon meeting Chloe Hewett (the glowing Emily Mortimer), Chris’ biggest similarity to the Woody Allen archetype becomes apparent. Despite all his efforts and subsequent accomplishments, he is a pessimist. He may appreciate the finer things but his belief is the finest things are those capable of capturing and communicating everything that is tragic about life. Can a pessimist truly know love? Woody seems to think yes, at least at first. Chloe is an eternal optimist who has never known anything tragic about life and despite their differences they fall in love while walking around London, which Allen frames like postcards in much the same way he has framed Manhattan for years.

Woody has a strong handle on the visual direction, allowing characters to walk in and out of the frame when we would expect them to. There are no surprises, just a natural direction, suggesting that Woody knows exactly what we will want to see as we watch from behind bushes or fences. More importantly, he has an even stronger control on this, his finest screenplay since 1992’s HUSBANDS AND WIVES. MATCHPOINT is ultimately about luck, how little importance we place on luck despite the significant role it plays in our lives and how far we’re willing to push our own luck. Chris, a devout believer in the influence luck has on his life, decides to close his eyes and hope for the best when he embarks on an affair with Nola Rice (Scarlet Johansson), his soon-to-be brother-in-law’s fiancé. The two gravitate towards each other, pulled by an uncontrollable sexual desire. Separately, they each represent opposite ends of the luck spectrum. Chris is still riding his lucky streak, scoring his tennis instructor job, meeting Chloe, getting a job at one of her father’s business firms. Whereas Nola is still trying to escape hers, running away from her dead-end Colorado home, struggling to make it as an actress and eventually losing her fiancé, Tom (Matthew Goode). The question then is how much better is Chris’ luck when all the successes he stumbles upon are not what he wants but what he believes he should want?


Further strengthening Woody’s script, is the issue of class woven in and out of the entire film. Both Chris and Nola come from modest backgrounds at best and are dating members of London’s higher society. Tom and Chloe are happy, High-spirited people with all the time in the world to pursue their interests – opera, tennis, opening an art gallery. Chris and Nola have been working their whole lives to get where they are with Nola finding she still has a great deal of work ahead of her while she’s not certain she has it in her to get there. For Tom and Chloe, there is no flipside to the coin and new opportunities arise all the time. They’ve always been lucky and what makes them descent is at least they can each acknowledge their fortunate existence. Nola has yet to truly know luck and lack of enthusiasm in her speech shows how little faith she has in potentially finding it. But it is the taste of a fortunate man’s life that is new to Chris Wilton. He has a driver now and his new flat no longer has a fold out sofa bed but it does have one of the most spectacular views of London available. So when his affair with Nola begins to threaten his newfound cushion of a life, he is forced to make a decision for the first time instead of leaving everything to chance. This decision brings about a tension and discomfort that is so rarely achieved in filmmaking today. Woody manages to blindside his audience without using it as a gimmick or relying on twists to give the film its ultimate meaning.

Be it lucky in life or unlucky in love, Woody serves up a film about the game itself. We may all think that we have control, that we hold the power over our lives or that we are making the decisions that will move us forward. What Woody wants to remind us is that, like a game, we don’t get to make any of these decisions until it’s our turn to serve and we certainly don’t know what our opponents will do next despite how well we think we know their game.

THE PRODUCERS

Written by Mel Brooks and Thomas Meehan
Directed by Susan Stroman

It should be noted right off the bat that I spend my life accounting with figures and such and that I have a not-so-secret desire somewhere deep in my soul. Yes, that’s right, I wanna be a producer of a big show on Broadway! Well, maybe not Broadway as they are more frequently interested in commerce more so than art (when is that “Apprentice” musical opening??). I also had the chance to catch the Broadway musical earlier this year, albeit not starring Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick as it was originally cast a few years ago. I saw it and I did not love it. There’s nothing terribly exciting about watching an actor put on a bad Nathan Lane impression (or in my case, an understudy putting on an impression of an actor putting on a bad Nathan Lane impression).

The film interpretation, directed by choreographer Susan Stroman is very loyal to the stage production and a lot more enjoyable to watch with Broderick and Lane in the leads. Stroman gives a refreshing taste of the classical Hollywood musical, staging some musical numbers on stages themselves (revolutionary!), some on sound stage sets that recreate the streets of New York and others on the actual streets of New York. The result is a lively, energetic film with many hearty laughs at the expense of the absurdity of the theatrical world and Broadway itself.

The one thing I did not see was this supposedly perfect chemistry between Broderick and Lane that helped the stage production amass a record setting number of Tony’s. As Max Bialystock, a middle-aged Broadway producer slash scam artist, Lane is slimy, quick and crafty. He always has an answer and his timing is on cue at all times. It became obvious to me how vital Lane is to this show as Bialystock highlights his strongest traits, a smooth liar who constantly fumbles but knows how to wiggle himself out every time. This will replace his role as Albert in “The Birdcage” as his signature. On the other hand, I found Broderick to be annoying and difficult to watch at times. To begin with, the character of Leopold Bloom is a pathetic coward, prone to overly dramatic panic attacks if one steals the remaining scrap of his childhood blue blanky. Broderick then takes this character and overdoes every movement, every expression, almost every line. Bloom may be an awkward guy by nature but Broderick himself looks uncomfortable and unsure how to make this character work on screen. As a result, instead of going forward side by side, Lane ends up carrying Broderick along with him.

Broderick works much better opposite Uma Thurman as Ulla. Thurman has never looked more like a classical movie star and together they generate some genuine sparks during an enchanting number called “That Face” in which the walls that prevent love from growing between an unobtainable woman and a bumbling, mumbling accountant are broken down with a dance and a kiss. Another addition to the cast, Will Ferrell, continues to enhance his character work with more depth and less Will Ferrell. As Franz Liebkind, the author of the supposedly worst play ever written, “Springtime for Hitler”, Ferrell is infallible, maintaining the caricature of a neo-Nazi musical nut job throughout without giving into his own self-indulgence.

Caricature is typical Mel Brooks and “The Producers” oozes caricature, from a blond bombshell who can barely speak English to an entire parade of gay theatre folk in costumes as cliché as sailors, leather cops and Indian chiefs. My issues with Broderick aside, Brooks’ incapability of seeing characters other than one he could conceivably play (think white, straight, Jewish type) as characters with actual personalities is what ultimately stops “The Producers” from selling. Hysterical laughter one minute, an awkwardly hushed theatre the next.