I'm finding it very difficult to get jazzed about the Oscars in any way this year. Perhaps this is because I'm in a weird transitional space lately -- looking for work, moving to a new apartment, haphazardly monitoring my money while occasionally splurging on shit I don't need -- or perhaps it's because 2008 was just a thoroughly weak year for American movies. Everything was a little too precious, a little too manicured, a little too much like a lot of what has done before.
And so we have a fairly generic slate of Best Picture nominees, with the obligatory nods to war ("The Reader", materializing out of nowhere with five nominations), CGI spectacle ("Benjamin Button", an ideal premise for a short film, inexplicably stretched to fill three hours), and the Famous and Important People Biopic ("Milk" and "Frost/Nixon", both serviceable and often engaging).
"Slumdog Millionaire", genial and vigorous and ultimately smacking of youth and optimism and Bollywood softshoe, can't help but feel fresh by comparison. But is it truly a remarkable achievement in filmmaking? I'm not so sure. A closer look:
BEST PICTURE NOMINEES
THE CURIOUS CASE OF BENJAMIN BUTTON
You'd think that thirteen nominations would make "Button" the heavyweight at this year's ceremony. It's got pedigree, it's blatantly emotionally manipulative (in the sort of predictable gather-ye-rosebuds way that Oscar voters seem to love), and its formidable budget (a stimulus package of $150 million) really is up there on the screen. Yes, there is some great CGI. There is also some crappy CGI. Ironically, however, time hasn't been kind to "Button" -- the more distance audiences and critics have put between themselves and the film, the more they seem to have come to recognize this is a slow, syrupy and narratively aimless slog. What is the message of this film? That time is precious? That if love becomes difficult it should be abandoned for the sake of your offspring? That age is but a number and 80-year-olds and 10-year-olds can fall in love as they please? Roger Ebert pointed out that it wouldn't make much difference whether Button aged backward or forward because, ultimately, he has no objectives. I couldn't agree more. A film ostensibly addressing the fact that time is precious should at least aim for a two-hour running time.
FROST/NIXON
Solid, smart, and with a clarity of purpose that none of the other Best Picture nominees have. I was never completely sold on Frank Langella as Nixon, but it's an admirable effort considering President Nixon has become a larger-than-life caricature in his own right. Surprisingly, the film is at its most exciting when we're getting to know Frost and Nixon as men, both of them privately desperate to be more than the sum of their parts. Great character work and editing let us get to know these guys quickly -- both smart and capable and sad men -- and then the film becomes something more conventional and restrained once the interviews kick in. Still, Michael Sheen makes this film better than it probably deserves to be, and is Langella's equal, scene for scene, in what is truly the lead role. He should've been nominated, primarily for skillfully allowing Frost to walk a line between smarm and pathos without falling onto one side or the other too definitively.
MILK
Given the electric, non-conformist, change-the-world nature of its protagonist, I was surprised to walk away from "Milk" with the sense that what I had seen was a fairly traditional biopic that was bolstered by a truly remarkable set of performances. On paper, "Milk" is a story we've all seen 1,000 times, hitting what most screenwriting books would say are all the "right" notes in conveying its hero's rise to prominence and his weathering of personal tragedies, his shoring up of friends and allies into a coalition of a vocal minority before everything begins to crumble around him. But screenwriting isn't mathematics, and I couldn't escape the feeling that "Milk" plays it too safe given the magnitude of its subject matter, and takes no real risks in its exploration of conflicts between Milk and his team or between Milk and his detractors. Like "Ray", it's a good biopic with some compelling moments, but it unfortunately never gels into much more than that, despite convincing and challenging and interesting performances from Sean Penn, Josh Brolin and Emile Hirsch. Penn's performance is what I will most remember, though the film never rises to the level of charisma or fervor I assume Harvey Milk must have had.
THE READER
Strangely overrated and underrated at the same time, "The Reader" isn't exactly deserving of its Best Picture nomination, but it's by no means a lame duck, either. Kate Winslet moves delicately between confidence and sympathetic insecurity as a lonely woman who becomes sexually involved with a fifteen-year-old boy. The power dynamic the pair navigates both sexually and intellectually is fascinating (if not entirely believable, since the world outside of their affair is so minimally explored and nothing seems to threaten their regular hot and sweaty meet-ups.) David Kross is very good as Kate Winslet's plaything (lucky shit!), but once the film jumps ahead in time to the exposure of a secret Kate's character had long kept hidden, its story shifts gears in a major way, requiring Kate's dexterity and conviction as a performer to keep it afloat. She does, and will probably get an Oscar as a result. But it is Winslet's character's Big Secret which is both the primary tease of the film and also the story's undoing, as we are ultimately asked to believe in redemption by way of a few relatively tangential accomplishments. If it seems like I'm being intentionally vague -- I am. After all, you might want to go see the film for yourself. I recommend it, but not with as much enthusiasm as I'd like.
SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE
"Slumdog Millionaire" is the odds-on favorite to win tomorrow night, and I'd be hard-pressed to disagree. Though its leads get by more on charm and earnestness than on acting ability, sometimes charm is enough to carry the day. "Slumdog" is essentially candy, parable, and hyperactive youth-driven adventure all wrapped into one glossy, grungy, suspiciously Hollywood-ized package. It's a deft mash-up of high and low culture, both in its employment of quiz show structure and its race through poverty-stricken Mumbai tempered by a soundtrack that features MIA. Somehow, though, this mostly works on the all-important level of audience engagement. I'd be lying if I said I didn't check my watch a couple of times, which I think was mostly due to the story's episodic structure, as the plot presses forward from one trivia question and answer to the next in an inevitable progression towards Winning the Love of the Girl and the Money. Still, there's an unmistakable boldness to its presentation (our teenage hero is tortured within the first few minutes!) and I enjoyed and admired its energy in a year where energy on the big screen was in short supply. "Slumdog Millionaire" is exactly the sort of film for which my brain says no and my heart says yes, and in this case I'm leaning towards my heart.
WILL WIN: Slumdog Millionaire
SHOULD WIN: Slumdog Millionaire (with reservations. Frost/Nixon is my close #2)
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Eulogy for my Dad
The following is the eulogy I wrote for the funeral service of my father, Cliff Radcliff, who passed away on May 25, 2006, after a ten-month battle with brain cancer.
I began practicing archery in grade school, at my dad’s suggestion. For years Dad would drive me to lessons, and then to lunches or dinners for just the two of us. This became our private ritual, one of a few, and on some afternoons he would even try his hand at shooting alongside me. It never surprised me that, even without formal training, Dad always shot well. Because he did everything well. And when I would rush or miss a shot, he’d claim that I had allowed the watchful eyes of others – my classmates, my father – to affect my ability to shoot. I never admitted that he was right, but I will admit it today.
Because today, at just 23 years old, with Dad watching over me yet again, I have to find a place inside of me that will let me say goodbye to him forever. But why? This does not seem fair. My father had only lived 54 years, with an engagement in life and in learning that rivals that of my peers. And with the wisdom and patience and mystery of a man who had lived to see a full and active century.
He had long ago willed himself to stop smoking or drinking. He conditioned his body with Tae Kwon Do and a gym routine that few men his age could have sustained. And Dad’s mind was so vital and so continually thirsty that even the onset of brain cancer did little to sway his focus and eagerness to learn. He read until medications warped his eyesight. He defiantly grew a beard to counter the hair stolen by radiation. And, even just a few days before his passing, he was able to supply Mom with an answer to a crossword puzzle.
I suppose there is a point in a young man’s life at which he begins to see his father not as he’d like him to be, but as he actually is. A time when the son comes to recognize that Dad is fallible, to realize that his father is occasionally if not frequently wrong, and that maybe Dad is a little out of step with the world around him.
I am still waiting, possibly forever, to feel that way about my dad. I am waiting to feel like I have somehow passed him by in my intellect and in my accomplishments. I’m waiting to feel like I don’t need our conversations anymore, to feel that I no longer need to draw upon his pragmatism and his quiet humor and his love. I am waiting to believe that my dad is not the smartest, most passionate, most frustratingly fair and honest and modest man in my life. Because I know that the delusion of believing he is not those things would be so much easier than truly confronting the pain and the loneliness and the anger that I’m feeling today.
As a man, as a student, and as an artist, I have felt a level of companionship and similarity with my dad that I have felt with no one else. And so I know that the coming days will be difficult.
But nothing about Dad’s final battle was just or fair or easy. And yet, when he was diagnosed with brain cancer in July, he did not cry. He only nodded and asked, “What do I need to do?” I was awed but not entirely surprised. Those of you who knew my dad well are familiar with, energized by, the focus and strength he carried in his personal, professional and artistic lives. And by the deep love he quietly, unceremoniously carried for my mother, a woman without whom he told me he’d just be another lonely old bartender in New York.
Over time, the tumors burrowed in my father’s brain would prove the ultimate test of Dad’s quiet will and dignity. Where other men might have mired themselves in self-pity or resignation, Dad, organized as ever, simply went about setting goals. Within days of being handed a death sentence, with his powers of communication being slowly stolen away, my father suddenly began to keep a journal. I never touched the book while he was alive. Privacy is as important to me as it was to Dad, and though I was curious and hopeful about his process for coping with circumstances that would surely buckle so many other men, I understood that the journal was his and his alone.
Today it is mine. Ours. And I think it would be a mistake to prevent Dad from speaking for himself, since even in the worst of times he was such an articulate and deeply philosophical man. A man who would buy copies of many of my course books just so he could follow along with my classes. A man who truly valued his family, his varied and fascinating friends, and his excitement for the arts above all things.
Shortly after being diagnosed with a brain tumor of stage four malignancy, my dad wrote:
“I had a very strange, bizarre time sorting the information out. Was it real? Well, yes, I think it seemed real. It was real enough. Real enough to have shaken my faith, my logic, my grip on reality as I understood it. Could I sort through this new information with clarity? I believed I could, with effort, sort it out. Sort through this with a very clear and unencumbered mind. But in the background, there was a doubt – a very small doubt that I needed to be mindful of. Where did reality start and stop?”
Today I am asking myself the same question. Surrounded by his many friends and by my family, smothered by their generosity and stories and love, I have not yet processed that my dad is truly gone. He was too central to my life, too invested in my future. And just as I was about to set foot on the path that will decide my career and the course of my life, he was taken away in a particularly cruel manner. He will never know my future spouse or children, he will never see my first professional success. Understanding that these things are true, dealing with them, is not a reality for which I am fully prepared.
So I will continue to be angry, yes. But simultaneously, I will continue to be pleased. Pleased that my dad meant so much to so many different types of people, pleased that he found time to rediscover a life in the theatre, pleased that I was with him in the weeks before he passed. And that I was confronted with the comfortable reality that there were no things left unsaid, no apologies to be made or regrets to endure. Dad and I always seemed to really understand each other.
And I am perhaps most pleased that Dad fought so boldly and so tirelessly, and that in doing so he has influenced my perspective of my own disability, my ability to quietly embrace and prepare for any challenges ahead. Dad reserved little time or energy for fear of the unknown or of the seemingly impossible. He simply asked, in so many circumstances, “What do I need to do?” And that – that courage in the face of physical pain and personal doubt – was a fitting, final lesson for which I will forever be grateful.
I began practicing archery in grade school, at my dad’s suggestion. For years Dad would drive me to lessons, and then to lunches or dinners for just the two of us. This became our private ritual, one of a few, and on some afternoons he would even try his hand at shooting alongside me. It never surprised me that, even without formal training, Dad always shot well. Because he did everything well. And when I would rush or miss a shot, he’d claim that I had allowed the watchful eyes of others – my classmates, my father – to affect my ability to shoot. I never admitted that he was right, but I will admit it today.
Because today, at just 23 years old, with Dad watching over me yet again, I have to find a place inside of me that will let me say goodbye to him forever. But why? This does not seem fair. My father had only lived 54 years, with an engagement in life and in learning that rivals that of my peers. And with the wisdom and patience and mystery of a man who had lived to see a full and active century.
He had long ago willed himself to stop smoking or drinking. He conditioned his body with Tae Kwon Do and a gym routine that few men his age could have sustained. And Dad’s mind was so vital and so continually thirsty that even the onset of brain cancer did little to sway his focus and eagerness to learn. He read until medications warped his eyesight. He defiantly grew a beard to counter the hair stolen by radiation. And, even just a few days before his passing, he was able to supply Mom with an answer to a crossword puzzle.
I suppose there is a point in a young man’s life at which he begins to see his father not as he’d like him to be, but as he actually is. A time when the son comes to recognize that Dad is fallible, to realize that his father is occasionally if not frequently wrong, and that maybe Dad is a little out of step with the world around him.
I am still waiting, possibly forever, to feel that way about my dad. I am waiting to feel like I have somehow passed him by in my intellect and in my accomplishments. I’m waiting to feel like I don’t need our conversations anymore, to feel that I no longer need to draw upon his pragmatism and his quiet humor and his love. I am waiting to believe that my dad is not the smartest, most passionate, most frustratingly fair and honest and modest man in my life. Because I know that the delusion of believing he is not those things would be so much easier than truly confronting the pain and the loneliness and the anger that I’m feeling today.
As a man, as a student, and as an artist, I have felt a level of companionship and similarity with my dad that I have felt with no one else. And so I know that the coming days will be difficult.
But nothing about Dad’s final battle was just or fair or easy. And yet, when he was diagnosed with brain cancer in July, he did not cry. He only nodded and asked, “What do I need to do?” I was awed but not entirely surprised. Those of you who knew my dad well are familiar with, energized by, the focus and strength he carried in his personal, professional and artistic lives. And by the deep love he quietly, unceremoniously carried for my mother, a woman without whom he told me he’d just be another lonely old bartender in New York.
Over time, the tumors burrowed in my father’s brain would prove the ultimate test of Dad’s quiet will and dignity. Where other men might have mired themselves in self-pity or resignation, Dad, organized as ever, simply went about setting goals. Within days of being handed a death sentence, with his powers of communication being slowly stolen away, my father suddenly began to keep a journal. I never touched the book while he was alive. Privacy is as important to me as it was to Dad, and though I was curious and hopeful about his process for coping with circumstances that would surely buckle so many other men, I understood that the journal was his and his alone.
Today it is mine. Ours. And I think it would be a mistake to prevent Dad from speaking for himself, since even in the worst of times he was such an articulate and deeply philosophical man. A man who would buy copies of many of my course books just so he could follow along with my classes. A man who truly valued his family, his varied and fascinating friends, and his excitement for the arts above all things.
Shortly after being diagnosed with a brain tumor of stage four malignancy, my dad wrote:
“I had a very strange, bizarre time sorting the information out. Was it real? Well, yes, I think it seemed real. It was real enough. Real enough to have shaken my faith, my logic, my grip on reality as I understood it. Could I sort through this new information with clarity? I believed I could, with effort, sort it out. Sort through this with a very clear and unencumbered mind. But in the background, there was a doubt – a very small doubt that I needed to be mindful of. Where did reality start and stop?”
Today I am asking myself the same question. Surrounded by his many friends and by my family, smothered by their generosity and stories and love, I have not yet processed that my dad is truly gone. He was too central to my life, too invested in my future. And just as I was about to set foot on the path that will decide my career and the course of my life, he was taken away in a particularly cruel manner. He will never know my future spouse or children, he will never see my first professional success. Understanding that these things are true, dealing with them, is not a reality for which I am fully prepared.
So I will continue to be angry, yes. But simultaneously, I will continue to be pleased. Pleased that my dad meant so much to so many different types of people, pleased that he found time to rediscover a life in the theatre, pleased that I was with him in the weeks before he passed. And that I was confronted with the comfortable reality that there were no things left unsaid, no apologies to be made or regrets to endure. Dad and I always seemed to really understand each other.
And I am perhaps most pleased that Dad fought so boldly and so tirelessly, and that in doing so he has influenced my perspective of my own disability, my ability to quietly embrace and prepare for any challenges ahead. Dad reserved little time or energy for fear of the unknown or of the seemingly impossible. He simply asked, in so many circumstances, “What do I need to do?” And that – that courage in the face of physical pain and personal doubt – was a fitting, final lesson for which I will forever be grateful.
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