Wednesday, February 14, 2018

Ingrid Goes West, #perfectlife, and the Nightmare of Instagram

I very much enjoyed Ingrid Goes West due to the way it dramatizes the deranging effects of anyone seeking approval and self-validation on social media. The hook of the movie that involves Ingrid Thorburn (Aubrey Plaza) macing a beautiful Instagram star at her wedding was entertaining, but Ingrid's tendency to spend all of her time on her iPhone, mostly repetitively liking other people's Instagram posts, fully got my attention. The movie is full of the little beeps, boops, and buzzes of the Apple corporation that now provide the Pavlovian sonic backdrop of our lives.  When Ingrid's mother dies,she leaves Ingrid with the financial ability to start life over as avatar IngridGoesWest, an opportunity she uses to stalk, then infiltrate the social life of Instagram Influencer Taylor Sloane (a very blonde Elizabeth Olsen) who lives in Los Angeles with her cute husband (Wyatt Russell), her especially cute dog, her perfect vegan place to eat lunch, the beach, her perfect fashion sense, etc. She lives the #perfectlife embodiment of what appears to be a social-mediated heaven on earth, and part of the fun of the movie lies in the way it exposes the vapid, more disturbing real life that underlies all of those perfect photos and happy moments that Taylor sells and Ingrid envies and emulates.

Unexpectedly but not entirely unreasonably, given its portrayal of someone desperately seeking the company of the rich and famous, Ingrid Goes West resembles The Talented Mr. Ripley (1999). Yet, in that text, the writer of the original novel, Patricia Highsmith, tends to reward Ripley as often as punish him for his twisted desire to imitate Dickie Greenleaf. In Ingrid's case, the writers of the movie, David Branson Smith and Matt Spicer, keep the stalker's derangement more on the surface. By kidnapping Taylor's dog and then "finding it," and then subsequently buying a bad painting made by Taylor's husband, Ingrid does infiltrate their perfect household for awhile. One can see the high point of Ingrid's life is getting photographed with Taylor as they display the peace sign. Once Taylor actually posts that photo on Instagram to her zillion followers, Ingrid has it made. She has attained the near-viral success that she craves, so, of course, things start to go awry after that.

I was intrigued by the movie's focus and plot shifts throughout (whereas often I get dissatisfied with the third act of most recent releases). Billy Magnussen's abrupt appearance as Taylor's alcoholic and pleasantly demented brother Nicky works especially well. Nicky is quite buff, punchy, and fiercely and extravagantly rich in Bret Easton Ellis fashion, having just flown over from Paris, but he also shares with Philip Seymour Hoffman's character Freddie Miles in Mr. Ripley the instant ability to see through the stalker at the high end glamorous entourage of the rich and famous. And once Nicky gets involved, Ingrid Goes West turns to the violence that underlies Ingrid's hidden desperation.

The movie leaves me wondering these things: Do we have any idea how the addictiveness of social media has already mucked up our lives? Are you conscious of how others manipulate your attention and why? Do you know anyone who spends a disproportionate amount of his or her day "liking" posts on a website? Do we know where this relationship with our phone is leading? Ingrid Goes West all too accurately suggests just how sick and warped our mediated world may soon become.

Sunday, February 4, 2018

Paul Thomas Anderson's Phantom Thread and the Sins of the Artist

It's good to have Daniel Day-Lewis back on screen again, even if his character spends much of the movie glowering and acting peevish. Day-Lewis plays the 1950s English couture costume designer, Reynolds Woodcock, a man with a preternatural talent for fashioning exquisite dresses for princesses. I was happy to see how director/writer Paul Thomas Anderson has moved on from the execrable hippie fashions and plot incoherencies of his film adaptation of Thomas Pynchon's Inherent Vice (2014). In comparison, Phantom Thread straightforwardly conveys the story of an accoladed and distinguished celebrity who finds a new muse in a country waitress named Alma (Vicky Krieps), but then learns that she has a more willful independence than he had bargained for.

Woodcock is a capital A Artist, extremely successful at his trade, surrounded by menial seamstresses and a resigned but competent middle management assistant/boss sister named Cyril (Lesley Manville) in his London townhouse. But Reynolds can be given to fits of temper when Alma butters her toast too loudly because he cannot stand interruptions to his concentration (my wife was quite happy to point out how I can oppressively be much the same way in my sensitivity to noise). Reynolds is also death-haunted and superstitious, placing secret items in the linings of his creations--words that attempt to get rid of a curse to a wedding dress, a locket of his mother's hair inside of his jacket, or the name of someone he's infatuated with. Alma, 25 years his junior, is happy to learn that she inspires him with her fair-haired German beauty, but she soon grows tired of catering to him, his busy schedule, and to his many acolytes as if she has no self to assert. One evening, she decides to kick everyone out of the townhouse and fix him a meal which included asparagus cooked in butter. Reynolds replies by showing up for dinner in his pajamas (in this film, the ultimate insult). Meals in this movie often serve as a kind of communion, but since Reynold is not really interested in Alma's internal life beyond her ability to help him with his art, she ultimately moves on to more extreme measures to control him.

I immensely enjoyed most of this movie, but there's a scene towards the end that struck me as both unlikely and the kind of thing that filmmakers nowadays often fall prey to--a moment of narrative extremity designed for a jaded audience that needs something more, a tendency that often bends movies' third acts out of whack as a result. In comparison, I like to remember the climactic scene when Day-Lewis as Newland Archer is tortured by turn of the century New York society in Scorsese's excellent The Age of Innocence (1993). In this concluding plot movement,  Day Lewis looks enormously pained by the fact that he can only sit next to Madame Olenska (Michelle Pfeiffer) during a dinner party instead of running off with her as his beloved. The climax of that movie has plenty of soul-crushing drama and tension, but it remains plausible, whereas the final act of Phantom Thread did not quite work for me, but given the brilliance of the rest of the film, one can take my reaction as highly qualified.

It's fun to brood upon Phantom Thread's cinematic DNA. During a fashion show, Reynolds arranges for Alma to walk past a hole in the wall so that he can secretly spy upon her as she sways and struts before an adoring audience. The scene directly refers to Norman Bates' peeping tom activity in Hitchcock's Psycho (1960) as he spies upon Marion Crane as she prepares to take an ill-fated shower, but in this case Alma knows what he's doing, and appears to enjoy her extra illicit audience member. At another time, Reynolds has Alma awkwardly strip to her shift and then take her measurements as a slightly ironical Cyril takes down his dictation. Using his Pygmalion-esque couture genius, Reynolds transforms Alma just as Scottie (James Stewart) obsessively metamorphoses Judy (Kim Novak) into Madeleine by having her wear a grey suit and just the right tight curl in her hair in Vertigo. 

Of course, Norman is a psychopath and Scottie is a depressed control freak, both variations of Hitchcock's increasingly deplorable tendency to control and immobilize the loved object in his creations, but Phantom Thread left me wondering why so many stories about artists have to end up violating his or her self-absorbed autonomy. As Day-Lewis said in a recent interview, "If a poet is not self-absorbed, what else is he?" Couldn't Reynolds just remain a great artist? Recently, I've been studying Wes Anderson's brilliant Rushmore (1998). In this film, Max Fischer screws up his life to no end with his absurd fight with Herman Blume and his highly inappropriate and intrusive infatuation with Rosemary Cross, but then he heals these relationships by writing and staging a new play that acknowledges his mistakes, in effect using his art to cure his reality. Reynolds, in comparison, does not have that option with his couture skills. Instead, he must suffer a kind of degradation in Alma's hands, and I just get tired of otherwise admirable characters getting dragged down, even if they deserve it.

[I showed this draft to my wife, who had this to say in response:] "Doesn't the film also suggest that even artists have to live in the real world?  And, you can't just go around hurting other people?  I've known genuine artists who were also self-absorbed narcissists, people who purposefully (whether they knew it or not) destroyed things and people in order to create art.  I don't think anyone gets a pass on hurting others, even if he/she creates the most beautiful art in the world.  Reynolds enjoys moving on to the next muse, even saying that he can't marry because it's not fair--as if treating every woman at the end of the relationship as someone you can just discard is in any way fair.  It's not.  He thinks he has some sort of moral high ground because he doesn't marry--and that allows him to treat people horribly."

Poised between these two perspectives--the admiration of the artist, and the depiction of the rightful consequences of his sins--Paul Thomas Anderson's Phantom Thread treats us to much food for thought, perhaps because it leaves a mixed after-taste.  

Friday, February 2, 2018

"28 Days, 28 Films for Black History Month" via The New York Times

An excellent selection of movies that highlight the African American experience in cinema by A.O. Scott and Manohla Dargis:

"The critical and box-office success of Get Out and the very existence of big-studio productions like Black Panther are good reasons to revisit the remarkable, complex story of black filmmaking in America. For Black History Month, we have selected 28 essential films from the 20th century pertaining to African-American experiences. These aren’t the 28 essential black-themed films, but a calendar of suggested viewing."

Sunday, January 28, 2018

"The Follower Factory" via The New York Times

A compelling multi-media article about fake Twitter followers raises the question: why be on social media anymore?

"These accounts are counterfeit coins in the booming economy of online influence, reaching into virtually any industry where a mass audience — or the illusion of it — can be monetized. Fake accounts, deployed by governments, criminals and entrepreneurs, now infest social media networks. By some calculations, as many as 48 million of Twitter’s reported active users — nearly 15 percent — are automated accounts designed to simulate real people, though the company claims that number is far lower.

In November, Facebook disclosed to investors that it had at least twice as many fake users as it previously estimated, indicating that up to 60 million automated accounts may roam the world’s largest social media platform. These fake accounts, known as bots, can help sway advertising audiences and reshape political debates. They can defraud businesses and ruin reputations. Yet their creation and sale fall into a legal gray zone."

Thursday, January 25, 2018

Sofia Coppola remembers making The Virgin Suicides

I enjoyed this recollection of Sofia Coppola's in The Guardian via @CriterionDaily:

"What does The Virgin Suicides mean to me now? It makes me remember shooting in Toronto with Kirsten and all the cast. Also, I have fond memories of it just not being a total disaster. I remember my Dad telling me that your movie’s never as good as the dailies – everything shot that day – and never as terrible as the first rough cut. When I saw the first rough cut, I thought: 'Oh no, this is terrible, what have I done? I’ve talked all these people into letting me make a movie and it’s terrible.' Then, little by little, we pieced it together and made it into a film.

I don’t know if I would have a film career if it wasn’t for that book. Turning it into a film really opened me up, gave me the bug. I think I was just wandering in my 20s, trying to figure out what I wanted to do, trying different things and having that angst of not feeling comfortable in your own skin yet. It was scary directing a film, but I was so connected with the material I felt like I had no choice. The Virgin Suicides made me a film-maker."

Wednesday, January 3, 2018