007, The Ivory Tower, and the Common Man

Bond is in trouble again folks. We find our hero immobilized, as a slow and painful death creeps closer to him. The villain is goading over his impending victory, drawing it out – when just at the last minute, the jaws of death slowly withdraw and Bond is spared to go on and win the day.

Now the Bond villain speech has become something a mock-able trope in action movies – Jason Lee's Azrael, when prompted for a missing piece of the puzzle in the film Dogma states: “No no, I've seen way too many Bond movies to know you never reveal all the details of your plan, no matter how close you are to winning.” The TV Tropes entry on “Bond Villain Stupidity” lists just 12 entries for non-Bond films, but there are likely countless more out there. Now, there are some “legitimate” reasons why a villain might choose to keep an incapacitated hero alive, notably: the villain wants to break the hero's spirit, a good fight, to manipulate the hero, or get the hero to switch sides. For our purposes, we won't be considering these as the logic behind this death trap, because as we'll see, this villain monologuing is actually central to the allure of the character of 007.

We'll start with the central villain of classic Bond: Ernst Stavro Blofeld, if only because he is the supposed head of SPECTRE (Special Executive for Counterintelligence, Terrorism, Revenge, and Extortion), a key villain in at least three movies, and the mastermind behind the murder of James' wife. In On Her Majesty's Secret Service (OHMSS) – we discover two key facts about Blofeld and Bond's respective lineages, specifically their family mottoes: Blofeld's is “Of Heights and Soaring”, whilst Bond's is “The World is Not Enough” (which eventually became the title of a 1999 film installment in the series, TWINE). Blofeld's family motto here underlines a character trait that is common among all Bond villains; megalomaniac-ism and vanity. One thing could be considered fairly standard for a Bond villain, they don't dream small, from volcano lairs (You Only Live Twice, YOLT), to plains to kill every person on earth from a space station (Moonraker) and complicated impersonation plots (Diamonds Are Forever and Goldeneye). But more importantly, Bond villains are more than regular people, they are geniuses, shrewd businessmen, clever manipulators of people, politically and socially well connected, and oftentimes rich, which doesn't even include those villains (such as TWINE's Renard) who are also superhuman in physical ability (in Renard's case, that he couldn't feel pain).

Now Bond's family motto seems to suggest a certain haughtiness and arrogance, but yet can also have a secondary interpretation. In the film TWINE, the villainess tries to coax 007 by saying that she could have given him the world, and he replies with his saying that “the world is not enough”. In 007's eyes, a world's worth of physical, tangible possessions is insufficient, so what is enough? Bond is repeatedly presented in the books as a “civil servant” for Her Majesty's government, while he does have a housekeeper (May), he has few luxuries as possessions (outside of a car), and doesn't even have access to London's elite gentleman's clubs, requiring M to gain admittance for work in the novel “Moonraker”. Bond is a man of pleasures bending into the intangible: honor, loyalty, ingenuity. Bond is an English gentleman, but one with a blue collar upbringing: his father worked for the arms company Vickers, his parents died in a climbing accident, he was raised by an Aunt, and while he did get high-end education from Eton and Cambridge, he went there under scholarship (a point which is emphasized in Casino Royale, and which results in a fair degree of resentment for the character as portrayed by Daniel Craig). Bond is an everyman; he has little property, lives comfortably at home, but not lavishly, but can proffer his duty in service of his country.

Bond and his villainous counterparts represent the central dichotomy of elitism versus populism. Other than the post-Dalton films, most of the villains are not presented as seeming “regular” - they are smarter than the everyman, but they are also presented as fairly androgynous: they don't have girlfriends, wives, or even lovers, and the few female sub-villains that do exist are also androgynous: Rosa Klebb in From Russia With Love (FRWL), May Day in A View to a Kill (AVTOAK), and the ones that are overtly sexual use physical attraction either as a weapon (Xenia Onatopp in Goldeneye) or with passive disinterest (Elektra King in TWINE). Bond on the other hand, appreciates the passion and touch of a beautiful woman, the roar of the engine in a fast car, and the taste of fine drink. Now, one could see a hangup with this reading – the tuxedo is, after all nearly as synonymous with 007 as a shaken martini, and almost unavoidably the symbol of wealth and privilege, and still for Bond it is a disguise more than anything, and perhaps more importantly, a sign of 007's capacity of to blend and adapt – essentially his world-knowledgeableness. Bond can effortlessly go to any spot on the planet and is as informed as any local (Bond in The Living Daylights after he and Kara Milovy narrowly escape a crashing airplane: “I know a great restaurant in Karachi. We can just make dinner.”), he is the ultimate everyman – at home everywhere, and street smart, not book smart.

This conflict between suits and shirts is no new one; I think of the recent song “Red Solo Cup” by Toby Keith which has the line: “And Freddie Mac can kiss my ass” (though the entire song is a plaudit of the proletariat, and a condemnation of the snooty elite). Toby Keith has not had to worry about money issues for quite a while, but he is still appealing to his fan base, which is hard-working, appreciates simple pleasures, and harbors resentment for suits who get rich without breaking a sweat or getting their hands (or three piece suits) dirty. When Goldfinger, or Blofeld, or Mr. Big, lords over Bond, who is precariously situated in a death trap, what we're really seeing is an allegory of the regular everyday man: competent, capable, hard-working, but appreciative of simple pleasures, versus the characterization of the elite: morally hollow, erudite to the point of arrogance, and overdeveloped beyond the point of humanity. Bond wins because of his human-ness more than anything else, and the villains again prove their vanity by believing that they are more than human and somehow better.

The Right Way or the Highway

“If it bends, it's funny. If it breaks, it isn't.” - Crimes and Misdemeanors

I was asked a question recently that quite dramatically shone a light on strange dichotomy in improv that I had (until that moment) never noticed, but now seem to see everywhere. Here are the two dicta of improv that are at the root of all the trouble:

1. Play the reality. If you want to leave a room, do it. If someone is acting crazy, say it.

2. Raise the stakes. Increase the tension, the consequences, and the frustration with every move.

The way I see it (to back up a few steps), goes all the way to back to basics. Now, full disclosure, I am a hardliner populist when it comes to improv, which means that I think anyone can improvise, because, well, really anyone can. The absolute definition of improvisation is to “do without prior preparation” - which means every single person on the planet improvises everyday; when you walk out of house in the morning, you encounter a dynamic world, one that would be impossible to accurately predict every last encounter of to make a complete plan. In effect, we improvise every action we do that is not pre-rehearsed, from driving your car (because the traffic patterns will have to be adapted to) to talking on the phone (because we have no idea what Becky said about Amber, but we'll need to figure out how we feel about it in the moment) – though these are, arguably, fairly simple tasks that some presets to them (we know how to drive the car, and we know whatever is going on with Becky and Amber based on past experience). But in terms of theater, whenever anyone steps on stage on does something that is not pre-written, rehearsed, or practiced – it is improvised. As a result, literally anyone can improvise by the mere act of going on stage and doing/saying something.

Now, that's an awesomely populist framework, but anyone who's ever seen or done improv knows that there is a difference between good and bad, and enjoyable and un-enjoyable improv (much as there is for really any human endeavor). There's no questioning that a talented and experienced improviser can create something more interesting and watchable than someone who is not those things. The difference here is simple – anyone can improvise, but not everyone can improvise well.

The context of the question I was asked was during a scene in class; I was lecturing how one player just seemed to kind of take the punishment of another character without really reacting to it, and the student's response was simple – he didn't understand how to play the scene truthfully (he said that with the character acting as he was, he just wanted to leave) and also how to have a good scene. In real life, when someone acts strangely, it's true that most people would just leave (or maybe try to see what was wrong with them), but this makes for boring scenes. We go watch theater because we want to see people doing the things we can't do in our lives (because of the consequences, often), but still acting human (because not reacting to a crazy person is, well, crazy). It's the difference between just improvising, and improvising well. A good improviser knows how to carefully play with the balance between adding the strange or ridiculous, while at the same time keeping the reality alive (often in the form of emotional reactions).

Just as any improviser can improvise and doing it well requires striking that balance, it should be though of this way:

1. There is no wrong way to improvise.

2. There are, however, some ways that work better, and make the work more interesting.

(Writ another way: there are strong choices, and there are weak choices.)

Ultimately, this is the long-term goal of teaching improvisation (and comedy, in general): to learn the very distinct line between playing the reality and playing the dramatic scene. And there is a very fine division between knowing when to deploy “playing it real” and “upping the drama”. Learning the fine points, and the often very subtle intricacies of a scene, and when to deploy which one is what distinguishes a good improviser from a great improviser. There are few, if any hard rules, but being an artist is knowing when to follow the preexisting rules, and when to break them; when to leave the room, and when to stay.

Frozen Stakes

Improvisers talk a lot about stakes, which, in my effort to de-mystify a lot of terms that get used, but are not well defined, will be part of this essay's topic. What stakes are is a very ambiguous thing to define, so it's easier to think of them as “what's at stake”, rather than remaining nebulous. In gambling terms for instance, we talk about the stakes being what's at risk; what has been wagered is what you stand to lose or win based on the outcome of whatever event is being bet on. Now when we talk about stakes in improv scenes, so what is your improv director actually looking for? The improv stakes are just the same as in a chance game (when really, isn't improv a chance game anyway – in that we don't know the outcome at least) – what is this character risking in the scene? A character has to have something in danger of being lost, and that thing has to have personal or emotional weight; as in the loss of this thing is of interest, involvement, concern or share to to the person in question.

Okay, easy enough; so we know what stakes are, so it's pretty easy to see why they need to be there. If the two characters in a scene don't have anything at risk (or things at risk they don't care about), then they don't have any investment in the outcome and won't fight to win, and the struggle is where the drama is at. Compare these three scenes:

[A] Ralph has taken Martin's car on a Tuesday night. Martin is okay with that, because he wasn't going anywhere that night, he stays home and watches T.V.

No stakes, nothing at risk, right?

[B] Ralph has taken Martin's car on a Tuesday night. Martin really needed to run some errands that night, but now can't and will have to do them on Wednesday instead. This will cause him to be late for a meeting, which he kind of wanted to go to.

All right, something at stake here, but the problems are relatively easily solved.

[C] Ralph has returned Martin's car on a Friday night completely totaled. To top that off, Martin had a date scheduled that night with Stacy, a girl he really likes, and now he will be late to meet her at the restaurant and his car is destroyed.

Now we've got some stakes – Martin stands to lose the girl of his dreams (I'm editorializing him here a little) because Ralph took the car and wrecked it. Martin stands to lose something that he had at risk (and has lost something else, which may lead to confrontation with Ralph) and it's something he really cares about. Stakes we see, really have one important dimension – importance. Example:

[A] Will loses a plastic sword he used to play Knights and Dragons with. Now with no sword, he plays Cops and Robbers instead.

[B] Sir William loses the Sword of Destiny in a battle, and now cannot defeat the evil dragon.

Option A feels anti-climactic, because there is no consequence to the loss. B feels like the start of a story because there is already a lot at risk.

So stakes are the result of a) someone risking something, and b) the something has to have importance to the character (it should be noted that the stakes don't have to be world-ending, just world-ending for that character). I, for example, am a boring gambler. I don't like the idea of losing money (or at least a lot of it), so when I bet, which is rare to begin with, I don't bet much. The last time I gambled, I put a total of $30 on the line, which is a risk, but doesn't really have a lot of importance to me, and thus would make a very boring scene. Now, had I bet $30,000, then we're getting somewhere. Make that 30 grand the property of a notorious gangster because I was trying to impress a girl, and we're really getting somewhere good. The sub-dimension of stakes, we now see, are consequence. The loss of $30,000 if a I'm a millionaire may have some importance, but if there is no consequence, then the stakes are lost again. The audience needs to feel the risk that a character losing will be important, and have effect to that person. Heightening the stakes, then, are just putting more on the line – the bigger the bet, the bigger the odds; win or lose.

Hulk Versus Superman

I just finished reading the DC versus Marvel trade paperback. I remember catching a few issues way back when it first came out, but I wasn't really in to comics at that time, so it sort of fell by the wayside for me. The premise, for those of you who haven't read it, is that two all powerful beings, one from each universe, decides they will pit the greatest warriors from each universe against each other, to see which universe is superior. Simple, right? I even remember having similar conversations with a friend back in college: who would win in a fight between Hulk and Superman? (Superman, duh. Come on, people.)

If we think about it though, this simple question is essentially the perfect set up for an improv scene. In ten words, we have the whole scene. Who? Two characters, Hulk and Superman. What's going on? They're fighting. When? The present (no time like it). Where? Doesn't really matter.

But notice I didn't ask "why". That's because it really doesn't matter. When we ask questions like this, the why is so unimportant. The comic, for that matter, essentially glosses over the whole topic. There are two supreme beings we don't care one lick about. They were created for this story alone, and will never be discussed once the last page is turned. Their plot is distinctly unimportant, and really only exists to hang the whole thing together. Even the heroes, when summoned for their respective battles, just go along with it.

Remember how I mentioned improv earlier? A scene begins, two actors on stage, and they set to improvising. For our purposes, we don't really care what they're doing, just so long as they're doing something. We also don't care why they're there, which one of them is to blame, or why they're friends (or coworkers, or whatever). What we care about is what's going on, who they are, who they are to each other, and how the whole thing is going to shake out (whether Hulk or Superman will win).

Here's a fun experiment: the next scene you're in either a) start blaming the other person for causing the situation (or just recount how you got there) or b) start asking your other player why he is acting the way that he is.
In the next scene either a) don't worry about why you got there, just accept the fact that its reality or b) treat the other person like this is how they always act (because if they are actually a friend (or coworker, or whatever) this would be how they'd always act).
We don't want to see people argue and bicker, we see enough of that in real life. We go to see performances to see people be honest and deal with each other. Any time we try to "fix" the other person or the situation, we're essentially negotiating the scene with our partner. And time spent negotiating scene points is time wasted.

We don't want to see Superman and the Hulk argue amongst themselves about their predicament, or try arguing with supreme beings as to whether they actually have to do this. We want to see two superheroes go toe-to-toe, and fight each other like they mean it.
Who cares why you're friends or why you're there? You are, so deal with it, and act like this is normal.

The audience wants it.

The Three Types

A couple of months ago, I did a workshop on the improvised narrative, and ended up getting into a rather heated discussion with some of my fellow improvisers. There statement was that they had performed many Harolds, and that the Harold was finely suited to support a longform narrative; mine was that I had never seen a Harold done well that used a narrative plot based structure. (Also worth noting is an Improv Etiquette lesson learned that weekend – Rule #1: never, ever tell an improviser that the way they are doing the Harold is wrong.) They did present an engaging argument: they have done a number of Harolds in the past and had success using it for plot.

My problem with using the Harold in this way is that the Harold was, in my opinion, never designed to support plot. In fact, few of the strict forms hold up plot, which is why when I teach I use the concept “plot shreds improv”. The problem is two fold; the first is that the opening, conclusion, and group games don't really fit into a narrative easily – they stick out a little awkwardly. Additionally, if the form is being used fully, you wind up with a problem of “three lines some waiting”. You have your A plot, which is hopefully very engaging and interesting, but if you stick to the form, it has to share stage time with possibly uninteresting B and C plots. Or even worse, you have three A plots, none of which ever get resolved or linked up in a meaningful way. Now sure, you can do some other scenes here and there, or shift around the weight of the other scenes, but then you're not really doing a Harold anymore, are you. (Go ahead, call me a Harold Purist, but may I remind you of Improv Etiquette Rule #1.)

My hardliner stance for the Harold arises because, in my mind, the Harold is an extremely unique form, and we should be trying to explore what it can do instead of trying to hybridize it with other non-congruent types. Of all the improv I've seen, I would say all longforms fall into one of three categories: Narrative, Deconstructive, and Constructive. The narrative is exactly what it sounds like – it's the improvised story. The Improvised X is riddled with the narrative types, where X is Shakespeare, Star Trek, Movie, etc. This is the one with plots, recurring characters, increasing stakes, climax, and resolution. If you're telling a story, you're doing the narrative type. The deconstructive forms are ones that are based around a central piece, which will ultimately be used as inspiration for scenes, by looking for meaning in the central piece. The Deconstruction (obviously) is the prime one, but Armando, Living Room are also members of this type. The last is constructive, which is where ideas and meaning are all being generated organically by the group. This is the artsy one, and the only form I see fitting this category is the Harold. It's supposed to be a weird, art piece of longform. This one relies on group mind in its group games and beginning. Meaning is found by looking at the juxtaposition of seemingly unrelated ideas, and is largely up to the audience to discern.

So, is there anything wrong with using the Harold as a platform for storytelling (Rule #1; if you're happy, I'm happy)? Does the Harold support narrative fluidly and easily? In my humble opinion, no, but then again what the hell do I matter? But I would pose this question – aren't there already enough forms that do narrative (and if you want to do that so much, why aren't you?) or deconstructive things? Seeing as the Harold is so unique, shouldn't we see what it can do for us when we really pursue the constructive things it can do? Shouldn't we be equally interested in finding the places we can get to when we embrace the weird, non-linear, organic nature that Harold can give us?

A Reunion

Frequent readers of my blog know that I am an unabashed American Pie enthusiast, so let's not waste any time with a build up, or a fancy intro and get right down the most important question of the new film in the canon, American Reunion: how does the film hold up in terms of my ongoing exploration of its themes of authenticity versus artifice?

But first, a review of the film – Reunion is based around the 13-year high school reunion for the East Great Falls class (don't worry about why it's the 13^th, it's callously explained away with one line of dialogue, so let's not dwell too much on that one particular). Jim and Michelle have settled into a comfortable (read: sexless) marriage with kid, Kevin has a beard and a wife, but appears to be kind of restless with both, Oz has gone on to be a hammy sports show host and a former runner up on a “Dancing with the Stars” type show who is apparently discontent with his raunchy blond girlfriend, Finch has just returned from some sort of globe-trotting adventure, Stifler is a door stop intern at some sort of finance or law firm (maybe even both), Vicky has been living in New York since high school working at something (possible art related), Heather is now a doctor (I guess), Jessica is a lesbian, Milf Guy #2 (seriously how he is listed on IMDb) is organizing the reunion, Jim's Dad is now a widower, Stiffler's Mom is still a milf, I guess, and the Sherminator is divorced.

If that sounds like a lot, that's because it is, and while the formula of having multiple protagonists engaged in their own particular conquests worked in the first film quite well, here it feels a little too much. The difference is that while in Pie there were four protagonists all engaged in their own escapades, the goal was the same for all of them: lose your virginity. Here, everyone has a problem, but everyone's problem is different. (Though surprising, and also maybe refreshing, is a real dearth of sentimentality for “days past” - it's there mind you, but it's cooly minimal. And even more surprising, it's not Kevin dealing with it.) And the whole desire to get the entire band back together for the big finale (choke on this – the theatrical Pie releases now form a Quadrilogy), there's a few too many things going on here at once for the audience to feel concerned or even particularly interested in any of them, and as a result the things that should have some emotional resonance don't.

Now what I find unique about this series is how it exists in a fairly small category of films that explore what it's like for a group of friends to have grown up with from each other, to actually watch a friendship evolve. Other singular films have explored a moment, but this is a unique franchise where we can actually watch that evolution occur. This is particularly difficult for comedies, because a lot of that genre's function predicates on the maintenance of peculiar points-of-view or situations. Could you imagine a 40-Year-Old-Virgin 2? You'd have to get a new virgin. Just look at the backlash to Hangover 2; it is very hard to create a same character sequel without just retreading the same ground.

Now, on to my continuing argument regarding authenticity versus artifice: it's here. Oz is discontent obviously because he abandoned the “real” thing he had with Heather. His new life feels like a farce, because it so obviously hangs on him like a poorly tailored suit, particularly in the way he glumly reacts to people recognizing him for his “Dancing” appearance. Finch has been actually lying about his world traveling (which makes me wonder about the similar claims in Pie 2), a lie that actually lands him in jail. What is probably the most glaring evidence of technology being a crutch is when Stiffler tries the old our-car-broke-down-can-we-come-in-and-use-your-phone, and the wary homeowner inquires why the boys don't have cell phones. Stiffler's response is as succinct as could be desired: “The last time I did this cell phones didn't exist.”

Jim and Michelle are sexually frustrated because of their child, which isn't being honest to each other (in addition to the pre-title sequence built around watching porn on the internet and a bathtub water wand that I already discussed in my article about the trailer, they also try a little bondage as before the end of act II to spice things up). What should be the most important factor though, is the guys needing to be honest about where they are in life; they can't stay up drinking all night, they can't party and tussle with high school age kids, and they are grown up now (maybe the fact that this isn't really a big issue demonstrates how well matured everyone is?) so they can't really have shenanigans because responsibility, that's why. Hell I'm starting to think the screenwriters read my blog (Hey Jon and Hayden!), because the antagonistic high school kids show up on jet skis to antagonize people . But in a positive approval of a non-technology, Luddite stance, the fun, carefree, high-school Bacchanalia takes place at “the Falls”, an unstructured series of bonfires, beer coolers, and camp chairs gathered around a beach and waterfall. It's honestly gotten to the point where I can't think of a scene that doesn't bristle with a condemnation of technology. (I may have issues.)

Still this movie met all expectations, it just seems unfortunate that they were so eager to include a catch-up with everyone that the narrative suffered from an over-burdening. They had managed to bring everyone back for the second film, but it should be pointed out that Oz's story was practically non-existent, Finch and Kevin had very “B” stories, and Stifler didn't have an issue – he was just an instigator, a role that Seann William Scott excels at. The second and third films are really Jim's movies. We do get some nicely pleasant moments with the gang all back together, and this is a group of friends that I, for one, do enjoy spending time with.

Guess Who?

Back in 2004, I used to write movie reviews for the USM student newspaper, the "Student Printz". Because I occasionally feel lazy, and it seems a shame that all of five people ever read these, I've decided to repost them here, in the original versions that I emailed to my editor, Noel, all those years ago.

Sure, Ashton Kutcher may not be known for high quality or “deep” films (e.g. “Just Married”), but he has surprised moviegoers with some reasonable acting chops (e.g. “The Butterfly Effect”) or at least with entertaining films (e.g. “Dude, Where’s My Car?”). His latest film, “Guess Who” is officially the bottom of the barrel for this star. Unfunny, and rife with the exact kind of stuff that makes most people uncomfortable, “Guess Who” is only slightly worse from last week’s other premier, “Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous”.

“Guess Who” details the story of Simon Green (Kutcher), an investment banker who is traveling with his girlfriend, Theresa (Zoe Saldana) to meet her parents and announce their engagement. Unfortunately, Theresa’s father, Percy Jones (Bernie Mac) is reasonably upset that his oldest daughter has selected a “white boy” to be her mate. While Simon fights to please Theresa’s family, Percy is aimed at destroying Simon’s reputation and saving his daughter from making a mistake. By the end of the movie, we can be sure that Simon and Percy will get along, and Simon’s relationship to Theresa and her family will be cemented so that everyone can live happily every after.

“Guess Who” is a pseudo-remake of the 1967 classic “Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner”, starring Sidney Poitier and Katharine Houghton. In the original, the only difference is that it’s a white girl bringing her black boyfriend home to meet her parents. I’ve never seen the original, but something tells me that a movie with that kind of premise debuting in the heart of civil rights movement had to have been well done, not to mention the presence of Sidney Poitier and Spencer Tracy in leading roles. “Guess Who” makes no effort to bring itself to any level of anything worthwhile, and instead of showing some fusion of the two very different cultures, all it does is get lost in a sea of stereotypes and non-progressive attitudes.

Especially given that “Guess Who” is classified as a ‘comedy’ one would at least suspect the film to be funny, but it achieves little more than sporadic and isolated humor. Combine that with the stale racial commentary, and the movie achieves little more than a predictable melodrama. Most of the character relationships are poorly portrayed, and despite Simon being in a household of a different race, he acts like an idiot, being cornered into moments of racial tension and then doing the exact wrong thing. Even Bernie Mac, usually the comic relief in movies needing a little humor can’t carry this picture, especially when they give his character racial blinders for the first three quarters of the picture.

I had hoped that by now that filmmakers would make some effort to actually doing something with their art form, be it pursuing new relationships between radically different strata of people or entertaining the audience. But when a movie achieves neither of these and merely seeks to enforce the differences between people, it’s time to go a new direction. “Guess Who” could have been something interesting if somebody had sat down and picked a premise to focus on, instead of just spinning gears with a boring, predictable plot based around two racially terse people.