This Just Might Be My Masterpiece: A Review of 'Django Unchained'

"Django Unchained" is a necessary evil. Unlike films like "Precious" and "The Help," "Django Unchained" inspires honest, provocative, and intelligent discussions about race and violence, whether you think the movie is good or not. Indeed, some of the best reviews of "Django Unchained" criticize Quentin Tarantino's decisions as a filmmaker (see Armond White's review and some of Jermaine Spradley's article).

I can't remember another movie quite like "Django Unchained." As I walked to my car from the theater, I couldn't determine whether I liked it. All I knew was that I had experienced something. I got to hear a black woman yell "Whip him! Whip him!" in the theater as Django went to town on an evil white man. I got to hear white people laugh frequently as "nigger" was said again and again by both white and black characters.

I was eventually confused by my own reactions to "nigger." I personally didn't find it funny when any of the white characters said "nigger" - I just took it as a sign of the time and a reminder that people still use the word in the traditional sense. But when Samuel L. Jackson finally came on the screen, I found it difficult in a couple of instances not to laugh at his use of the word ... what the hell? Was it because I'm a hypocrite? Or was it simply the irony of Jackson's delivery? And why did I laugh much more at "nigger" in "Blazing Saddles" and never feel guilty about it?

Much has been said about whether "Django Unchained" functions as a black fantasy or a guilty white liberal's fantasy. Based on my observations, I'm pretty sure it's both. The black woman in the theater mightily confirmed the black fantasy. In a much different way, Christoph Waltz's character, Dr. King Schultz, confirmed the guilty white liberal fantasy. In the film, Schultz decides to kill Calvin Candie (a scarily effective performance by Leonardo DiCaprio) because of a troubling flashback involving a black man being ripped apart by dogs on Candie's order. The tricky part is that Schultz knows he will endanger two free black people, Django and his wife, by killing Candie! Repulsion obviously plays a part in Schultz's misguided use of violence, but guilt is also a factor: Schultz didn't prevent a black man from being killed by dogs. Schultz is overcome by guilt and repulsion because he had frequently allowed blacks to be mistreated by whites. The dogs simply highlighted what might happen when good men sit back and watch.  

Strangely, Quentin Tarantino is neither a guilty white liberal nor a black man, as explained in Armond White's "Still Not a Brother." At the same time, Tarantino is closer to black than to, say, Australian, as evidenced by the terrible accent Tarantino uses in his "Django Unchained" role, the worst cameo by any director in film history.

Tarantino has proven one thing throughout his career and now especially with "Django Unchained": he is the best living director at provoking extreme feelings. He's like a teenager who loves to push buttons for the sake of pushing buttons. You might think a movie like "The Human Centipede" is revolting, but if "Django Unchained" offends you, it easily tops the gag reflex. And what separates Tarantino from provocative directors like Sam Peckinpah is how his ideas often clash rather than complement each other, whether these ideas relate to genre, taste, morality, history, or whatever is on Tarantino's mind.

The last scene of "Django Unchained" disturbed the hell out of me, particularly when Django proceeded to shoot the knee caps of Samuel L. Jackson's self-hating head slave. Fuck fun and games and fantasy: the scene was not right in a moral sense.

But my moral response was soon put to rest. I felt extreme nostalgia upon hearing Tarantino's final song selection: the theme to "They Call Me Trinity," a comedic western that I watched with my family at least 25 times.

'Skyfall': A Mature Take on Tradition and Duty

"Skyfall" reveals Bond's feelings about his childhood home: "I always hated this place." "Casino Royale" might have left out the gadgets of Bond lore, but "Skyfall" openly mocks them. At the beginning of "Skyfall," M decides to risk killing Bond rather than trusting him to save the day as always. From these examples and others, one would get the impression that "Skyfall" is ready to blaze a more revolutionary trail than even the stripped-down "Casino Royale."

But that's not quite right. Bond's car in "Skyfall" has appeared in other Bond movies. The film has the most traditional Bond music cues since "Tomorrow Never Dies" (some of these cues are so obvious that the fourth wall seems to be broken). "Skyfall" is also more concerned with one-liners than "Casino Royale" and "Quantum of Solace."

While I could have done without some of its more contrived nods to the past, "Skyfall" makes a powerful statement about responsibility. You can't just look to the past, or the world will leave you behind. At the same time, you can't completely ignore what made you successful. Both Bond and M must face this universal truth.

Going beyond the direction of Sam Mendes and the cinematography of Roger Deakins (both of which make "Skyfall" the most beautiful Bond movie ever), and placing aside the fact that Daniel Craig is the deepest cinematic expression of Bond, you ultimately take away one thing from "Skyfall": no matter what, Bond isn't going to quit. In fact, he's going to enjoy the job. It's a simple, refreshing thought for our fear-ridden culture.

'The Virgin Spring': The Power of Moral Filmmaking

Even though I live in a largely Christian country, I was taken aback by the Christianity and moral questioning of a Swedish movie made more than 40 years ago - Ingmar Bergman's "The Virgin Spring." This says a lot about Hollywood and our film culture. For decades, Hollywood has distanced itself from religious and moral filmmaking, and audiences have paid Hollywood well for its efforts. This observation is not a mean indictment; the movie tickets I've purchased do not provide me with any moral high ground. Nonetheless, "The Virgin Spring" is the kind of movie that should be made in the United States. Even something like Terrence Malick's "The Tree of Life," a genuine attempt to address spiritual concerns, is descriptive and mundane rather than provocative and transcendent.

We must look beyond the obvious. Yes, "The Virgin Spring" is an influential film. Every rape-and-revenge movie ("The Last House on the Left," "Straw Dogs," etc.) might owe it something. But if all we can say about "The Virgin Spring" is that it started the rape-and-revenge movie trend, and if we can say that with enthusiasm, we must question not only the film's worth but also our own culture's worth.

"Oh, but it's just a movie!"

The above mindset is the opposite of what Bergman wanted one to think after watching "The Virgin Spring." The film is like an untold story from the Bible - it's an emotional parable. We might root for the father in the story to take revenge for what happens to his daughter, but Bergman goes further than this: we are made to empathize with the father's guilt and his conviction to atone for his violence. I won't reveal how the film gets its title, but it's what miracles are made of.

"The Virgin Spring" didn't inspire blunt moral questions from its imitators. Sure, "Straw Dogs" and the remake of "The Last House on the Left" might bring up a moral discussion (much more than idiotic fare like "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo"), but "The Virgin Spring" insists on moral examination. Whether you ultimately share the protagonist's spiritual concerns (illustrated beautifully by actor Max von Sydow) is immaterial. All of us, Christian or not, must justify and question our responses to the events of "The Virgin Spring." Such is the power of moral filmmaking.

'The Amazing Spider-Man': Without a Mask, Without a Point

Spider-Man hardly wears his mask in Marc Webb's "The Amazing Spider-Man," a ploy that manufactures the most mundane drama. Remember when Michael Keaton rips off his mask in Tim Burton's "Batman Returns"? That scene offered a poignant character moment, a hero willing to give up his madness for love. In contrast, "The Amazing Spider-Man" makes one wonder, "So what is the fucking point of wearing a mask?" The funny thing is that Sam Raimi's Spider-Man trilogy already made me ask that question.

"The Amazing Spider-Man" begins with Peter Parker's parents leaving him behind, but this opening only sets up a flimsy link between Peter's father and Dr. Connors, the villain of the film, and the suggestion that Peter and Dr. Connors can owe their transformations to Peter's father (Peter's mother is forgotten). Peter's love interest, Gwen Stacy, just so happens to work for Dr. Connors. In the middle of the film, Spider-Man saves a man's son, and this man later plays deus ex machina - in the right spot at the right time to save Spidey's ass. With great power comes great coincidence.

Like its hero, this film doesn't have a secret identity. It is clearly a riff on Sam Raimi's trilogy and David Cronenberg's "The Fly," with the villain's master plan resembling what Magneto did way back in Bryan Singer's "X-Men" - and this isn't the first time a superhero movie has copied that scheme. The only interesting idea in "The Amazing Spider-Man" is the conflict between Spider-Man and Gwen Stacey's cop father, played by Dennis Leary. But their relationship is deemed pointless by the end of the film, as Peter Parker vows to break a promise he made to the man, despite the fact that Spider-Man owed his life to him.

"The Amazing Spider-Man" is a dark and silly movie. The witty lines in the trailer are reserved for one scene, which suggests their placement in the trailer was used to attract people like me who thought the Sam Raimi films needed a more lighthearted Spider-Man. However, what we end up with is an inept and horny Spider-Man. Quite frankly, the guys in "American Pie" were more heroic. 

The Hobbit: How Three Films Might Threaten Our Film Culture (and Wallets)

In case the hype machine hasn't told you yet, The Hobbit is the stuff that happens before The Lord of the Rings. J.R.R. Tolkien intended The Hobbit to be a children's book, as opposed to The Lord of the Rings. I've read a chunk of The Hobbit, and it indeed has much better pacing than The Fellowship of the Ring.

Once upon a time, a shrewd man named Peter Jackson thought this children's book could only fit into two films. He has since announced that it can fit into three films. 

Jackson's announcement brings up a question: what the hell happened?

Specifically, what happened to one book getting one movie? What happened to getting our money's worth? What happened to writing, an activity that requires one to remove unnecessary words, sentences, and events?

I believe it all started with the two films made out of the last Harry Potter book. Not to be outdone, the second part of a two-film adaptation of Twilight's final book, Breaking Dawn, will be released later this year.

You know what Peter Jackson has to say about that?

"Hey, fuck you guys. The last Harry Potter and Twilight books were hundreds of pages shorter than Gone with the Wind, but you thought you could make more money by adapting them into two movies that, when combined, were longer than the Gone with the Wind movie? Fuck you guys. I can take a 300-page children's book and turn it into three films. I'm good at telling stories. Fuck you guys."

OK, OK. Peter Jackson would never say or think that. He seems like a pretty nice guy. He probably honestly believes The Hobbit needs three movies. This doesn't change the fact, however, that what he's doing is not good for our film culture, assuming we play along with the business plan.

We shouldn't pay more money to see one story. We shouldn't encourage Hollywood to make even longer franchises. We should spend our money on good movies. I was gonna write another sentence with some curse words, but I guess this'll do.

The Dark Knight Rises: When Hype and Tragedy Intersect

The events surrounding Christopher Nolan's final Batman movie are hard to swallow and disentangle. Last weekend my desire to see The Dark Knight Rises was lost. After I heard about the horrible murders in Colorado that Friday morning, I couldn't work, and the last thing on my mind was whether the movie was going to be good.

I was already disgusted with the hype surrounding The Dark Knight Rises. Batman fans attacked critics who gave the movie a negative review, even though these fans hadn't seen the movie. The attacks escalated to death threats. Then Christopher Nolan, a supposed artist, gave his savvy, all-business take on the extreme reactions: "I think the fans are very passionate about these characters the way a lot of people are very passionate. Batman's been around for over 70 years and there's a reason for that. He has a huge appeal, so I think you know people certainly respond to the character." Perhaps one could defend Nolan, as this writer did, but I wouldn't. Even if Nolan hadn't heard about the death threats, his comments are not those of an artist but of a peddler. Regardless of how much someone loves a character, that doesn't give the person who hasn't even seen the movie the right to attack a critic for a negative review. It's shitty, immoral discourse, and Nolan, as a supposed artist, should not excuse or encourage it. None of us should. 

Enter James Holmes, a maniac who killed 12 people and injured dozens more (estimates vary by news source) in a Colorado theater. This man claimed that he was inspired by the Joker from Nolan's second Batman film, The Dark Knight. When Holmes appeared in court, he was in a strange daze, not unlike Heath Ledger's Joker when the character is taken into a police station for questioning. Regardless of whether you would draw a causal relationship between the film and Holmes' violence (I can't), it seems the man was a fan of Nolan's movie.

Christopher Nolan issued a statement to express his sadness about the murders. Even though we all expected him to do this, I have no doubt he was sincere. At the same time, it saddens me it took this tragedy to get Nolan to speak out against deranged fandom. I certainly can't equate Holmes to the people who lashed out at the critics, even those who made death threats. But I am still disappointed in Nolan's delayed moral response to mania. 

It's time to change our film culture and challenge businessmen like Nolan to do better. There's nothing wrong with being excited about a character on the big screen, but if the movie isn't good, you don't have to like it. If someone else says the movie isn't good, you don't have to be outraged. I'm not pointing a finger at any specific reader, but a big chunk of our overall film culture is more about hype than quality. 

It's time to ask moral questions about films, as Americans did in the 1960s and 1970s. James Holmes' appreciation of the Joker was obviously not the correct moral response. The fact is that he's not the only person who loves Nolan's Joker in the wrong way (I say with shame that I was one of those people initially). True, most fans like this won't kill people. But why does this strange appreciation occur? Does it have anything to do with a film that doesn't let a superhero be, well, a hero? The Dark Knight is a bleak film with no clear moral point. Does the sequel to this kind of material deserve our hype and excitement? 

Our culture needs more moral clarity, not more bleakness. Satirical Facebook tributes and comments about the attractiveness of James Holmes are examples of our culture's lack of moral restraint. Even if all of these comments about Holmes being cute or being a hero are meant to be funny, they display a remarkable lack of understanding about what transpired in Colorado. People are dead, you fucking morons. Mourn them like any upstanding person should do. And as Facebook defends its users' freedom of speech, I must ask the Facebook Team a question: if the victims were your family members and friends, would the tributes to James Holmes be allowed? Hell no, they wouldn't.

What is up with the darkness surrounding Nolan's last two Batman films? Heath Ledger might have died even if he hadn't locked himself in a hotel room for weeks to become the Joker, and James Holmes might have killed people in a theater even if he hadn't seen The Dark Knight, and fans had threatened the lives of critics for negative reviews of movies before The Dark Knight Rises. So while it would be hard to argue that Nolan's films caused people to lose their fucking minds, it's possible these blockbusters aren't cheering us up the way the original Star Wars trilogy did.

Will any of Nolan's next films address these cultural issues? Will many of us expect any of his next films to do so? God I hope so. 

This article is dedicated to the memory of those who were killed in Aurora, to the families who suffered these losses, and to the people who were injured. Might the rest of us strive to make this world a better place.

The Newsroom: Preaching to a Choir

I watched the first episode of The Newsroom with my wife last night. The best part of the experience was when we laughed at Sam Waterson going off on the most annoying character of the show: "I'm a Marine, Don! I will beat the shit out of you, I don't care how many protein bars you eat!" I found myself clinging to the hope that Waterson would beat the shit out of somebody, maybe everybody, involved in the show.

The beginning of The Newsroom starts out well enough. Creator Aaron Sorkin does a good job of showing how political debate in the United States goes stupid. Actor Jeff Daniels is in the middle of this stupid debate. When probed by a student and moderator about what makes America the greatest country in the world, Daniels goes on a rant about how America isn't that great. He cites a lot of depressing statistics and fires at liberals and conservatives. His rant (as unenlightening as it is) then turns embarrassingly sentimental - the sappy dialogue and music brought to mind the "Lesson for the Day" denouements of sitcoms like Family Matters.

The self-importance and lack of intellect that creator Aaron Sorkin displays here is outstanding. It's easy to suggest America is or isn't the greatest country in the world. But here's the truth: any question about the greatest country in the world is idiotic. Who has lived in every country in the world? Who knows everything about every country in the world? These are questions that Sorkin should've raised, but instead I am reminded of Steve Urkel.

Sorkin fumbles again when the BP oil spill comes up. He uses incredible coincidences involving the college roommate and big sister of a character just to be smug about the disaster. I think any reasonable human being knows the oil spill was a travesty, but anyone who disagrees would either a) never watch The Newsroom anyway or b) scoff at Sorkin's smugness.

As a cultural statement, The Newsroom will inspire those who worship the United States to continue their blind faith and know-it-all people to masturbate to depressing statistics. Based on the pilot, it is an irresponsible and, worse, insipid show. We are better off catching another pair of knockers on Game of Thrones.