46. Blade Runner

Skip this review. I want it to run after the review for the new sequel, so I can’t move on until 46. Blade Runner. But I keep putting it off.

I watched the first half about a week ago, and it was cool but I got sleepy and stopped it, figuring I’d finish later. I don’t think I will, though; too many other movies and shows I wanna see. My neighbor watched the entire second season of the Netflix show Stranger Things the day it dropped. That’s nine episodes. I am jealous. Because we have a young daughter and I try to write novels, I figure I must be judicious about what I spend time watching.

I am no hater. I’ve seen Blade Runner probably six times. But I cannot seem to think about it without remembering what personal idol Chuck Klosterman wrote in Esquire, in an essay about robots enslaving mankind: “I suspect Blade Runner might have also touched on this topic, but I honestly can’t remember any of the narrative details; I was too busy pretending it wasn’t terrible.”

Brutal, but there’s another personal hero I also remember. My favorite college professor, a crazy rabbi, loved this flick. The lecture was fantastic. He told us Eldon Tyrell’s first name means, in Hebrew, “God is the judge.” Eldon created the humanoid robot slaves, and his important moments are preceded by a replicant owl; Athena, goddess of technology in ancient Greece, was likewise accompanied by an owl.

Also, Tyrell looks like Josef Mengula, a Nazi doctor who aspired to make a better human.

Blade Runner ponders whether memories define us, because what else are we? Its robots resent their mortality, because why should a creator decide we must die? Yet better works have grown from this richly sapient soil. Ghost in the Shell is a tighter action movie with robots questioning existence. The television show Westworld, likewise, is similarly dark and philosophical about androids and the soul, but it is also insanely entertaining.

So let’s move on. Blade Runner inspires, blows minds, and/or bores. Love it or hate it, you’re probably right.



45. Blade Runner 2049

The robot, K, and his hologram, Joi, are in love. Real love. Blade Runner 2049 is often dark and violent, but the romance is sweet. Two scenes – one in the rain and one in the bedroom – feel genuinely tender. K and Joi make a great couple.

Yet as K, an LAPD cop, works his case, he is literally surrounded by reminders that Joi is a product, something mass-produced for purchase. In a late low moment, K is approached by a giant 3-D ad of Joi, naked, selling sex. How will K reconcile his relationship with the truth of their existences?

Just kidding. Ain’t no reconciliation in Blade Runner! BR2049 stays baffling, and bless its ambiguity. It exists to baffle. Movies are pop art and cannot tell us whether, say, you must be born (“pushed into the world, wanted”) to have a soul. But, if bold, they can ask very well.

The masses might not like this – Blade Runner 2049, like its predecessor, was not a hit in theaters – but artsy power is real. The look – dusky daytimes and wet neon at night – mixes with tech and philosophy into an experience that lingers. The real world felt strange to me after seeing BR2049.

Not that it isn’t fun. K chases and fights other robots. He is hunted by a terminator-esque villain (named Luv) with knife skills and bomber drones. The plot unwraps a massive conspiracy, and does resolve. Harrison Ford is brusque yet likable, even if his contribution has been oversold in the movie’s ads.

Action, melodrama and marketing aren’t the priorities, though, and so Blade Runner 2049 takes its sweet time with freaky details and vexing diversions. It is long (almost three hours) and literary. A new robot spills slimily from a bag, and we are told she has no soul because that was not birth. But it looks like birth. And if K has no soul, how can he love Joi? And if Joi is a product, how can she love K?

This movie is a product – huge budget, major stars, hot director – so how can I love it? Idon’tknowIDon’tKnowIDON’TKNOW!!!


44. Mary Poppins

Mary Poppins is not about Mary Poppins, because a perfect person makes a lousy protagonist. Our eponymous nanny/witch is the change agent for Mr. Banks, whose soul is saved when he finally puts family above money… before being handed more money.

It’s evil?

And easy to miss. We remember Mary Poppins for jaunty fantastical adventures. They save a cartoon fox from hunters, and stop a man from laughing too hard. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious is performed in ‘toon land, and a room cleans itself while they sing A Spoonful of Sugar.

Between goof-offs, though, this flick is hardcore class-war. In the Oscar-winning Chim Chim Cher-ee, Burt sings of working as a chimney sweep: “Though I spends my time in the ashes and smoke/ In this whole wide world there’s no luckier bloke.” The message is clear: a heart full of song beats money.

In Feed the Birds, an old woman outside Mr. Banks’s bank asks passers-by to spend two cents (tuppence) on a little bag of pigeon food. Banks’s kids want to spend their tuppence to feed the birds, but dad has a different idea. He and other bank managers sing a song (Fidelity Fiduciary Bank) about investing that tuppence, to one day know the feeling of conquest via compounding interest. It’s hilarious.

Banks’s kids run away, then weep that their father doesn’t love them.

Mr. Banks sees the light, of course, and quits. He tells a joke so funny that the bank’s CEO dies of laughter.

Banks is left jobless, disheveled, yet happier than ever.

Moments later, flying a kite with his kids, Banks is handed, right there in the park, a partnership at the same bank, replacing the boss he killed.

The End.

Mixed message, right?

You know, the Marvel superhero Iron Man’s personal arc sees him finding inner peace after renouncing war profiteering. Yet there are comic books out this week in which Iron Man teams with employees of defense contractor Northrup Grumman. The comics are sponsored by Northrup Grumman.

Marvel is owned by Disney. It’s the same old shit; know and show what’s right, but above all get that money.


43. Citizen Kane

In The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, by Michael Chabon, the title characters, cousins making comic books together in 1940s Manhattan, see Citizen Kane. Chabon’s description of its inspirational affect is the great movie review that isn’t actually a movie review. Here’s the kicker:

Without the brooding shadows and bold adventurings of the camera, without the theatrical lighting and queasy angles, it would have been merely a clever movie about a rich bastard. It was more, much more, than any movie really needed to be. In this one crucial regard — its inextricable braiding of image and narrative — Citizen Kane was like a comic book. 

Kane’s technique, from composition of shots to the structure of its screenplay, was unique in its time and endures as the masterclass for how film tells a story.

But I like the rich bastard stuff.

The first line is “Rosebud,” spoken by Charles Kane before he dies. The movie follows a reporter digging into Kane’s life to find what Rosebud means. Through flashbacks, an epic story unfolds. As a young man he became a media mogul who manipulated the news. As an older man he ran for high office and was toppled by scandal. He craves ever more throughout his life, until dying alone in a castle surrounded by billions in accumulated artwork, wild animals, and all manner of expensive junk.

Spoiler alert, so stop reading if you haven’t seen this 1941 blockbuster everyone’s heard of.

Rosebud was his sled, a toy from before his impoverished parents gave him away to be raised by a rich man. Kane accumulates fortune and treasures beyond anyone’s dreams, but his sled is the meaning of life. It makes me think he regrets.

I live in a golden age of evil men running media and government, and I do not understand. Why don’t The Koch Brothers care about other people’s children? Is Dick Cheney haunted by the deaths he hath wrought? Does Trump equate success with lying?

Follow the money, but Citizen Kane says they’re missing something, and they know it, and they’ll die lonely and sad. It inspires me to hope.


42. Watchmen

Adrian Veidt is weird. Wearing a gold costume, he sits alone in his arctic fortress watching a wall of TVs that switch channels every hundred seconds, because “meanings coalesce from semiotic chaos before reverting to incoherence.” Known as “the smartest man in the world,” he has his own action figures, loves to brag, and celebrates like he scored a winning touchdown when his plan prevails at the end. Even after killing half a city, he’s almost precious. And despite attacking New York, his opponents are in “moral checkmate” because it was undeniably for the greater good.

That’s the ambiguous, compelling version of Veidt in the ’80s graphic novel. There are countless ways 2009’s movie adaptation stinks, but let’s focus on what makes it worse than the typical cinematic bastardization of a beloved book. In adapting the un-adaptable, filmmakers twisted Veidt’s gloriously ambitious scheme – deceive and disappear the world’s top artists and scientists; frame or kill all superheroes; put world powers on the brink of nuclear war – into something provably gratuitous. Movie Veidt undermines his inspiration by being both charmless bore and blood-fucking madman. Writer Alan Moore’s book Veidt knows he needs just one phony attack; director Zack Snyder’s superterrorist Veidt destroys the world’s major cities, murdering 15 million. Why kill exponentially more people if it makes no difference plot-wise? It’s, again, provably gratuitous. It’s sick.

Further, it slanders Dr. Manhattan, the god-like nuclear-deterring former physicist who abandons humanity until an argument on Mars with his girlfriend convinces him all life is precious. Manhattan seems content at the end of the book, engaged again, and he deserves it after his hard road. Movie Manhattan (a shallow moper) flees the world as a despised enemy, framed by Veidt because the screenwriters didn’t craft a better ending despite adapting a book with a much better ending.

The flick is grim and shitty – iconic characters disgraced, wearing painted rubber suits (with nipples), their meanings and fates subverted.

Manhattan says he longs to see a thermodynamic miracle, “like oxygen spontaneously becoming gold.” This groundless and fake-looking slow-motion gore-a-thon is the opposite: it turned gold into garbage.



41. Ghost in the Shell

Slapping a loaded magazine into her rifle, the robot who feels human tells her boss “I’ll leave the detective stuff to you.” Unraveling conspiracies ain’t her line; Sector 9 assault team leader Major Motoko Kusanagi is a weapon, a killer assigned to find the hacker called Puppet Master.

An animated feast of philosophy and action, Ghost in the Shell is Japanese anime that belongs beside Blade Runner and The Matrix in the Pantheon of thoughtful sci-fi gun-and-fist-fight movies.

In 2029, humans augment their bodies more and more with robots parts, because cyborgs are stronger. “Humanity,” however, “has underestimated the consequences of computerization.” The Puppet Master is a consequence, a potential enemy born in an ocean of information. But is he/she/it alive?

To get to him/her/it, Major battles a walking tank that looks like a giant war spider.

Ghost in the Shell’s action is better than Blade Runner’sWe meet Major midway through an assassination mission, when she turns invisible and explodes a diplomat’s head. Then a thrilling chase concludes with a wet, high-tech street fight.  

In quieter moments, against a stormy techno-urban background (like Blade Runner’s), characters earnestly debate what it means to physically bond with computing technology. They’ve plugged in so deeply that consciousnesses are ghosts and bodies are shells. The network rules. Ghost in the Shell is from 1995, almost a decade before Facebook, but this line reminds me of social networking: “The only thing that makes me feel human is how I’m treated.” 

The network starts manipulating people, implanting false memories and convincing them they’re something they’re not. And a government agency has stupid mistakes to cover, so of course the problem worsens. 

The best part? This all happens in an hour and 20 minutes! Such efficiency – a package of interesting philosophical questions and unique, sleek violence. Why aren’t movies short anymore?

The Puppet Master thinks he knows what’s required for something to truly be alive: mortality and procreation. But he/she/it is reaching. He/she/it doesn’t really know, because Ghost in the Shell doesn’t have answers. All it can give us is a fun, provocative ride, with cyborgs and a spider tank.


40. The Incredibles

At a screenwriting workshop in Mexico, Professor Mark Schwartz told my class about inciting incidents and sudden reversals; that the hero drives the story, and the villain erects roadblocks; that thematic lines begin early and run throughout; and that a love interest provides the destination. There are always exceptions, but the formula is eternal.

The film Schwartz showed to demonstrate these story-theory tenets was Brad Bird’s 2004 action cartoon The Incredibles, whose opening scenes are a masters’ class in setup. We meet Mr. Incredible first in an interview, where he lays two theme lines: the world always needs saving, and he thinks he’d like a simple life raising a family.

The breakneck action that follows establishes Mr. Incredible as a confident and supremely skilled superhero. Over a single evening he frees a cat in a tree, ends a police chase, foils two robberies, saves a jumper from committing suicide, saves a boy from blowing up, and saves a train full of people from derailing. (The boy who almost blew up, Buddy, sets another theme line – be true to yourself – before being coldly cast away by Mr. Incredible. Buddy will return as the villain, putting up roadblocks.)

Inciting incident? The people Mr. Incredible saved all sue, and superheroes are ordered into hiding. Mr. Incredible hangs up his supersuit and goes to work as an insurance agent, forswearing his powers….

Flash forward 15 years and the plot begins.

This was my daughter’s favorite movie when she was 2. She’d pump her little arms and ask for “the movie with corre corre robot.” Corre means “run” in Spanish, and she likes when Dash, Mr. Incredible’s son, runs through the jungle at a hundred miles per hour. She also likes the big robots. We watched it twice a week for months. Now she’s 3 and we still watch it sometimes, and it’s always fresh.

These are signs that The Incredibles might be perfect:

  1. After dozens of viewings, it does not get old.
  2. It is loved, equally for different reasons, by both a screenwriting professor and a baby.

Even The Godfather can’t claim that last one, despite my efforts.


39. Logan

Logan ends with over-the-top action – commandos, leaping mutants, and superpowers like ice breath and telekinesis.

Six months before Logan came out, a photograph of the first page of its screenplay was released online, probably so people could read this: “Basically, if you’re on the make for a hyper choreographed, gravity defying, city-block destroying, CG fuckathon, this ain’t your movie.”

They promised a good movie, not just a good comic-book movie.

(Context: Logan, aka Wolverine, has metal claws and super healing, and is the greatest X-Man. Hugh Jackman has played him eight times.)

Three Mexicans try to kill Logan and steal his car in the first scene, attacking with guns and a crowbar. The fight is dirty. Logan stabs through heads and severs limbs.

Logan repeatedly references the 1953 film Shane, archetype for the story of a mysterious stranger riding into town to rescue peaceful people from fiendish oppressors. We’re in the future, though, 2029, so add a sci-fi sheen. Logan, reluctant hero, is old and in pain and angry about his past. His friends are dead for unexplained reasons, and he meets more death in the second act after helping a farmer fight corporate goons. Logan, through these scenes, is a throwback to great old movies, with its own nasty twists and claw violence.

But the gritty-western ethos is shit upon when Logan switches from interesting into yet another effects-laden chase/battle. There is gravity defiance, Logan even takes drugs to jump farther. And a city block may not get destroyed, but superkids use powers to fight and it looks stupid.

The graphic novel Old Man Logan does the western stuff better – he begins as a farmer who renounced violence – and features fights against Spider-Man’s granddaughter, Red Skull, and the Hulk. It proves that dark authenticity and comic-book action can mix.

Despite countless villains from decades of Wolverine comics, the toughest foe in Logan is a cheesy clone. Why not a scrappy Sabretooth brawl at the end, something rough and tough that keeps the screenplay’s promise?

Logan lied. If you’re on the make for true grit, this ain’t your movie. Not quite.


38. Spotlight

Nudniks say the press has liberal bias, but reporters (not columnists but actual reporters) are in the business of facts. Confirm. Verify. Scour documents. Interview witnesses who might not want to talk. It’s work.

Spotlight showcases the work. Powerful men have committed illegal acts and want the truth hidden, putting them directly opposed to city-level reporters.

The chilling line in Spotlight comes during a sermon, when the priest declares, as powerful people so often declare, that “Knowledge is one thing but faith, faith is another.” A Boston Globe reporter on the paper’s “Spotlight” team sits beside her nana, listening. After that she stops attending church.

“Knowledge is one thing but faith, faith is another.” He’s saying faith is better. No.

I cannot be objective about Spotlight. I spent my 20s as an editor and reporter in newsrooms, with my own desk in a room full of desks, working out-loud with friends I mostly respected, papers stacked everywhere and someone always on the phone. Making daily newspapers meant getting to court on time and arguing with clerks about making copies. It meant doors slammed in my face. Spotlight captures the job – details as tiny as their pens, their clothes, their boss hierarchy, their taking calls for quotes late at night. They go in person to accost lawyers who don’t return calls – an essential move because lawyers and reporters are natural enemies.

And then there’s the Mark-Ruffalo-for-Best-Supporting-Actor (he lost) clip, as reporter Mike Rezendes, yelling at his editor while their colleagues all watch: “We gotta nail these scumbags! We gotta show people, THAT NOBODY CAN GET AWAY WITH THIS!”

Ah, the yelling. Spotlight’s a movie, of course, taking cinematic liberties, but there’s anger with knowing your hard work to expose malfeasance might be wasted. If faith trumps knowledge, we’ve lost. Sometimes reporters want to yell their fucking lungs out.

Reporters are constantly lied to because powerful people do dirty deeds – could be sexual abuse by priests or corruption or murder – in the dark. They need it dark. Aggressive journalism is the light, how honest people fight. It can cure societal ills.


37. Birdman

Rat-at-tat boom and Riggan Thomson contemplates death, or tries to show his daughter he’s a good man, or debates the laziness of criticism with a New York Times critic, or agonizes over money, or agonizes over his new Broadway play, or drinks, or fist-fights his top supporting actor backstage, or levitates, or flies, or smashes all the objects in his office with his mind, and as Riggan hurriedly stomps around the hallowed St. James Theater – periodically donning wig and mustache, getting into character, and stepping onstage to rehearse, with an audience, as the broken man at the center of the play he wrote and is directing based on Raymond Carver’s What We Talk About When We Talk About Love – he is being harassed and haunted and pep-talked by the voice of the character, Birdman, he portrayed in the 1990s, in a film franchise that laid the groundwork for Robert Downey Jr. to make $400 million playing Iron Man over and over and over and over, which is a bit insulting to the greatest actors on Broadway, who don’t wear rubber and fight green screens but instead mine deep internal places and effectively portray powerful emotions on stage nightly, in plays written to tell story through dialogue, and among the best of these actors is Mike, who challenges the rest of the cast with such extreme energy that they scream at him and fight with him and when he’s offstage he’s so thoughtful and dour because he’s peculiar, and drunk, and as Edward Norton is playing Mike you wonder if he’s stealing Birdman, he’s so good, but then opening night gets closer and Michael Keaton’s performance as Riggan is so compelling and vulnerable that you don’t want to blink and a jazz drummer pops off a poetic beat and director Alejandro González Iñárritu edits this beautiful movie without a cut so it looks like a single, continuous shot and when it’s over you step off the ride around Broadway and shake your head and smile because it ends so well and you have just experienced edgy fun at philosophical heights films rarely reach.