1. Raising Arizona (1987)

Adam,

It’s tempting—for a movie as good, as funny, as singular as Raising Arizona—to write a review that consists of little more than a greatest hits summary of moments from the film.  I could, for example, express admiration for the many delightfully off-kilter line readings (my personal MVP: Holly Hunter’s sobbing outburst, “I LOVE HIM SO-O MU-U-UCH…!”).  I could also rehash the jewel of condensed exposition that is the movie’s opening sequence.  I could note how sharply and succinctly the movie uses dialogue to sketch out characters like Hi’s odious foreman Glen, who damns himself with lines like, “Me and Dot went in to adopt on account a’ somethin’ went wrong with my semen.”

Raising Arizona’s premise suggests a movie that will be weird and frantic—funny, yes, but little more than that.  How else to describe it but as a star-crossed love story/crime caper/comedy of errors, in which a Hawaiian shirt-wearing serial stick-up artist called Hi McDunnough (Nicolas Cage) falls in love with a stern-but-vulnerable cop named Ed (Holly Hunter) and tries to start a family.  Complications arise in the various forms of: infertility, a mismanaged baby heist, a pair of fugitive jailbirds, and a sinister biker/bounty hunter.  It’s a grab bag of plot elements, and in the hands of pretty much anyone other than the Coens, a formula for unfocused chaos.

The Coens themselves, notoriously coy about interpreting their own work, have resisted talking about Raising Arizona as much more than an exercise in comedic storytelling.  But these are filmmakers who have proven themselves time and again to be exceptionally wise about genre—about its expectations and possibilities.  It’s pretty much guaranteed that there will be more going on.

Tucked away amid Raising Arizona’s manic set pieces and baroque dialogue is a sweet, melancholy little parable about inequality—about why, in Hi’s words, “some should have so many while others should have so few.”  It’s a weighty topic for any film, especially (one might assume) a broad comedy in which somebody gets blown up by a hand grenade.  But it’s a unique privilege of comedy to be able to observe the absurdity at the root of tragic situations without having the responsibility to locate a solution—knowing, even, that there may be no solutions.

Indeed, some of the funniest moments in the movie double as pointed social critique.  For example, there is Hi’s justification for his recidivist tendencies: “I tried to stand up and fly straight, but it wasn’t easy with that sumbitch Reagan in the White House.  I dunno, they say he’s a decent man.  So maybe his advisers are confused.”  There is a simultaneous naiveté and wisdom in that statement which carries throughout the film.  I also love Hi’s stilted explanation of adoption agency politics: “Well, this whole thing is just who knows who—then over here, you have favoritism.”  As circular as that sounds, it really is a pretty accurate summary of how society works.  How it is, though, that some people can work the system to their advantage will always remain a mystery to those people who cannot.

Given this context, even the speech (whimsical and highly stylized as it may be) conveys something purposeful about the characters.  The mannered language characters like Hi, Gale, and Evelle use isn’t just aesthetic; it’s aspirational, as if these characters had tried to lift some of the fancier-sounding phrases straight out of the Bible or evening news.  It’s a kind of linguistic analog to the lovingly tended decorations the McDunnoughs use to beautify their modest trailer home.  Or to the pomade Gale and Evelle studiously comb into their hair after breaking out of prison, their state-issued overalls still caked with mud and sewage.

Nathan Arizona—already established in his spacious house with his $500 camel coats and amusingly prim-looking hausfrau of a wife—is not so concerned with appearing grander than he is and so cultivates a folksier image.  His signature phrase: “Watch yer butt (or my name ain’t Nathan Arizona)!”  The twist, we discover, is that his name is not Nathan Arizona after all, but Nathan Huffhines.  His reason for the name change: “Would you buy furniture at a store called Unpainted Huffhines?”  The implication being that somewhere in his past, he too was just another schmo trying to make reality fit his created image.

Two contrasting visions of domesticity:

above, the McDunnough home; below, the Arizonas'.

The Coens understand the dual nature of inequality: that it is, on the one hand, an inescapable facet of life perpetrated through the randomness of luck, and on the other hand, a social problem that can be ameliorated or exacerbated by human actions.  On the one hand, one of the terrible things about inequality is that those who enjoy success don’t deserve it less than other people.  If Nathan Arizona were a thoroughly loathsome individual it would be easier to begrudge him his good fortune.  And though he may be a blowhard, he also turns out to be an essentially decent and forgiving man, full of genuine affection for his family.  When you take “deserves” out of the equation, it’s basically inexplicable why some people ascend to wealth, power, and personal happiness while others can never seem to catch a break.

On the other hand, the movie points out, social institutions do a lot to restrict opportunity.  One man, born Nathan Huffhines, successfully recreates himself as Nathan Arizona, founds a furniture empire, and spawns a dynasty of darling, blond little überkinder.  Another man is turned away by an adoption agency due to his criminal past, in spite of his sincere desire to turn over a new leaf.  Reinvention, supposed to be the bedrock of American life, becomes just another unevenly distributed privilege.

But as devoted as the movie is to critiquing American society, it does so not without compassion.  Unlike so many other more patronizing takedowns of the American dream, Raising Arizona doesn’t make the mistake of condemning the dream as shallow or materialistic.  Rather, the movie acknowledges the simple dignity and profound satisfaction of settling down with the one you love and raising a family in comfort and stability.  Hi’s closing speech, a lovely and achingly hopeful recounting of a literal dream, points to the sad truth that, while all people may yearn for love and acceptance, not all people can or ever will find it.

As Hi muses: "This whole dream, was it wishful thinking?  Was I just fleeing reality like I know I'm liable to do?  But me and Ed, we can be good too.  And it seemed real.  It seemed like us and it seemed like, well, our home.  If not Arizona, then a land not too far away.  Where all parents are strong and wise and capable, and all children are happy and beloved.  I don't know.  Maybe it was Utah."

Of course, after all that, count on the Coens to end on a punchline.  “Maybe it was Utah” indeed.

Awaiting your response (or my name ain’t…),

Victoria (with love)

2. The Lego Movie (2014)

Adam,

I should preface my review by saying upfront that The Lego Movie was my favorite cinema release from the first half of this year.  Its qualifications being: it’s hilarious.  It wouldn’t have to be more than that, but as you showed, there’s a lot going on beneath the surface.

The Lego Movie belongs to a small, but eclectic category of American animated films whose style and content most radically challenge the idea that animation ought to remain the province of children.  In the same category with Lego, I would include titles likeThe Fantastic Mr. Fox, Rango, and Beowulf, all films that, differences in quality aside, offer the kinds of complexity and weirdness not to be found in the average animated entertainment.  As a point of comparison, even the most sophisticated Pixar products resist stepping too far outside the conventions of stylistic polish and narrative linearity.  Instead, films like Lego feature dense and textured worlds, strong and idiosyncratic directorial voices, intertextuality, meta-narrative, and rueful acknowledgements of the grown-up reality just outside the carefully positioned or digitally generated frame.

This isn’t to say that The Lego Movie wants to put away childish things entirely.  It’s much too fun and too silly for that.  But it manages to balance the grown-up and the childlike mostly with remarkable grace.  A big part of the movie’s premise involves the recognition that, with every modern architecture set or life-size model of Conan O’Brien, Lego culture is increasingly geared toward adults, or adult-minded children.  As the dad played by Will Ferrell explains, Lego isn’t a toy, it’s “a highly sophisticated inter-locking brick system.”  

"The box for this one said 'Ages 8 to 14!'" "That's a suggestion.  They have to put that on there."

The Lego Movie seems to be as interested in taking something intended for kids (animation) and imbuing it with adult savvy as it is in taking something that has been co-opted by the adult world (Lego) and renewing its sense of innocence and play.  Maybe that’s another reason your citing of post-modernism as an influence is so astute.  One of the insights of post-modernism—that most jargon-filled, theory-laden, and therefore seemingly the most un-kid-friendly of isms—was that maybe the most innovative thing art could do was simply to recapture a childlike freedom from established ways of thinking.

The Lego Movie is partly about the inevitability of growing up and partly about the vehicles that can return us, if only temporarily and if only in spirit, to the fun of youth.  One of these is, of course, nostalgia for our own youths.  The Lego Movie is filled with details bound to bring a smile of recognition to any adults who remember playing with Legos however many years ago: the broken chin piece on Benny the space guy’s helmet, the various Minifigure costumes and references to different Lego series, even the smudges and scratches on the Lego figures.  The other way we can get back to a carefree, childlike state of mind, the movie points out, is through the eyes of actual children.  The real climax of the movie occurs, not inside the Lego world at all, but at the moment that Will Ferrell’s emotionally detached dad finally loosens up enough to appreciate his son’s creativity.

The Lego Movie still has some of the weaknesses in plotting and theme that tend to afflict all feature-length comedies.  Some critics, like A.O. Scott, found that the film’s message about unleashing creativity was undermined by its adherence to narrative convention.  And while I think Scott is selling Lego short—how many conventionally plotted films involve a reality-bending third-act conceit?—it’s true that the film never quite resolves the tension it establishes between creativity and order.

On the one hand, we are encouraged to see Emmet’s reflexive trust of structures, systems, and routines as inherently suspect—at best only thinly masking his actual loneliness and desire for acceptance, and at worst enabling the nefarious schemes of President Business.  On the other hand, the movie also points out that defining creativity as necessarily disordered and individualistic is itself a kind of uncreativeness (see: Batman’s pathological inability to conceptualize building anything not bat-themed).  

"Great idea.  A Bat spaceship."

It feels a bit like an inconsistency, then, that the Big Heroic Climax involves reaffirming the supreme importance of imagination, rather than seeking out a balance between imagination and organization.  (This is where I should probably note that you yourself belong to the Follow the Instructions school of Lego building, whereas I go the stick-motley-pieces-together route—both approaches have their upsides.)

I want to reemphasize the point that, despite my quibbles, I do think this is a really, really good film.  What The Lego Movie excels at above all is being funny, and that is by no means a small feat.  Just consider the number of lame slapstick gags, tepid one-liners, and ever more outrageous scenarios America has to endure per annum, and The Lego Movie looks like even more of a gem. 

Finally, it seems wrong to close out our discussion of this movie without a nod to some of the specific bits you and I found most charming.  Liam Neeson, for example, puts in one of his most delightful performances ever, vocal or otherwise, as Good Cop/Bad Cop.  

I also want to single out Morgan Freeman, whose Vitruvius manages to be both the quintessential Morgan Freeman performance and the quintessential take-off of a Morgan Freeman performance.  Everyone in the cast, really, shows an energy, commitment, and deftness not always present in the voice acting for animated features (usually the rule is: the bigger and more star-studded the cast, the more indifferent the individual performances).  I also think I could, if I wanted to, spend pages and pages expositing on why I get so much joy out of hearing Batman refer to the Millennium Falcon crew as “bon vivants.”  But for the sake of everyone, I’ll refrain.  Instead, I leave you with everyone's jam:

Love,

Victoria

1. The Lego Movie (2014)

Victoria,

My apologies for the delay in getting this review out.  Due to moving, we’re a bit backlogged.  Fear not, however, new posts are coming!  And, per Daniel Dawson’s request, we’re moving out of the box to review one of my favorite movies so far this year, The Lego Movie.

When I first heard a Lego movie was in the works, I had two thoughts: A. This will undoubtedly be terrible, and B. I don’t care.  Let this be a cautionary tale for pre-judging a work of art based on concept or title, though, because despite external appearances The Lego Movie is the smartest thing to hit your local Redbox in quite some time.  Masquerading as a children’s film, directors Phil Lord and Christopher Miller have crafted what is, in my opinion, the quintessential postmodern film.

Let me make my case, lest any fans of the The Matrix reading this choke in disgust.  Postmodernity is, at its heart, a philosophy interested in examining the ways people tell stories to and about themselves.  One of the central ideas in postmodernity is that humans buy into meta-narratives, overarching stories that tell people who they are, what they are about, and where they are going.  Postmodernity often emphasizes that there are multiple cultural narratives, but that these fit under the umbrella of larger, more totalizing meta-narratives.  Postmodernists also point out that multiple cultural narratives, and meta-narratives, can coexist alongside each other.  For a real world example of all this, I would point to the traditional work narrative most Americans have.  Typically it looks something like this: high school->college->job->retirement.  This coincides with the narratives people accept about certain professions, such as, say, a doctor, which looks something like this: college->med school->residency->practice->retirement.  This fits into the narrative of the American Dream (work hard, make money, have a family), as well as other political (democracy) and economic (capitalism) narratives that many people implicitly accept.

The Lego Movie demonstrates these ideas perfectly.  Emmett, our hero, begins the film as an instruction-following drone.  He has accepted without hesitation the narrative that has been given to him (by Lord Business, it turns out), and lives each day so that it follows along step by step towards its eventual conclusion.  He soon learns that his world, “Bricksburg,” coincides with many others, such as “The Old West” and “Middle Zealand.”  Each of these worlds contains its own set of narratives for its citizens to follow.  All of these worlds, he also discovers, are under the direction of Lord Business, who creates the narratives these people follow.  In the terms of postmodernism, each world functions as a different cultural narrative under the umbrella of the over-arching meta-narrative of Lord Business’ plans.  Plans, it turns out, for the end of these worlds.

This is where things get really interesting.  Another important aspect of postmodernity is that these narratives and meta-narratives should be open to critique.  These narratives could, after all, end in ways people wouldn’t suspect, and might not actually want.  In the movie, this is represented in “Taco Tuesday.”  The denizens of Bricksburg work diligently so that they can enjoy a taco-filled day in the middle of the week.  Little do they know that what they are actually doing is working towards “TAKOS Tuesday,” the day Lord Business sprays the world with crazy glue, effectively ending all Lego life.  Only by joining up with people aware of the existence of these narratives is Emmett able to eventually foil Lord Business’ plan.  Through Emmett’s story, the movie emphasizes the importance of criticizing, and possibly even working outside of or against, the narratives people are constantly asked to tacitly accept.

Pause for a moment and remember that this story is taking place inside a trademarked brand-logo of a film.  Product placement was developed decades ago to quietly convince people to buy something by inserting it into various film scenes.  After all, who wouldn’t want to eat Cheerios cereal if you knew that this was the brand Superman preferred?  The Lego Movie was ostensibly developed primarily to sell Legos.  This fits a certain consumer narrative: watch movie about toys->buy more toys.  That the film bluntly encourages the questioning of these sorts of narratives is a stroke of genius on the parts of the filmmakers (and insanely good luck - how in the world did they pitch this to Warner Bros.?)

It’s worth noting that questioning these narratives doesn’t necessarily mean you have to reject them.  After all, what did we do after watching The Lego Movie back in February?  Go out and buy Legos.

The movie works post-modernly in a variety of other cool ways too, such as by nesting the Lego story in a real-world story, and by following along the tried-and-true epic hero story trajectory (only to subvert it by having the hero-producing prophecy be made up).  I’ll leave the playing out of this theory up to you, though, as we think about this upon subsequent viewings.  I definitely want to watch this again.  A movie this smart - and, I should mention, this funny - deserves it.

Love,

Adam