I've been bored rigid by every movie that George Clooney has directed to date, so the sound of a jazz singer, crooning smokily barely five minutes into the beginning of
The Ides of March did not bode well. A jazz number! In the first five minutes! Even Clint Eastwood knows not to do that, saving his jazz numbers until well into a movie, when it has earnt the right to a nap. But the Clooney scene, in which budding polito Ryan Gosling and his boss Philip Seymour Hoffman trade expertise on an upcoming presidential primary election, is supposed to whet our appetite for the oncoming battle. And instead we get the sultry sound of smooth, smooth jazz. That's Clooney all over: so anxious to impress us with his sophistication that he puts the audience to sleep. And by "sophistication" I mean, of course, "absolute, unbending disdain for anything resembling exposition." Clooney is the king of the gnomic. His films are the movie equivalent of the pride he takes, as an actor, in never raising his voice — all matte surfaces, elliptically shorn of background, backstory, build-up, and blurb, because to descend to any of these things would be to "condescend" to the audience, to insult their "intelligence," and so on. It would be no such thing, of course. It just shows basic courtesy. It's what you get paid for, as a dramatist.
Not this one
. For Clooney, love means never having to say what the hell is going on.
Confessions of a Dangerous Mind was almost unintelligible to anyone previously unfamiliar with the strange case of Chuck Barris.
Syriana (which Clooney produced) detonated in the desert rather than explain itself.
Good Night and Good Luck was so poker-faced you almost forgot it was there, although I have a vague memory of shots of shadowy men whispering knowledgeably in Cognac-scented rooms. The perfect Clooney film would consist entirely of nothing but muttering in darkened rooms —
sotto voce aficionados delivering softly-enunciated expertise. That's a pretty good description of
The Ides of March, too, but the movie has more life than that, thanks a couple of twists and the crackle of something going on between Ryan Gosling (him again) and Evan Rachel Wood. Gosling plays an idealistic young press secretary working on the campaign of an Obama-like presidential candidate (Clooney, giving one of those twinkly,
I'm-not-really-here performances often given by actor/directors appearing in their own films). Wood plays a bouncy, blonde intern. You'll never guess what happens. I've been a little perturbed by Wood recently, the raw vulnerability she showed in
Thirteen having long sealed itself up behind a shellac queen-bitch finish, but there's fun to be had seeing these two two go up against one another; Wood get a lovely, nervous moment, the morning after, making a hash of tying his tie. She's just the latest to play gaga for Gosling — a role for which almost every human being on planet earth seems to be auditioning for these days, with the exception of some distant tribespeople in Papua New Guinea. Whether you buy the rest of the movie will depend largely on whether you believe: a) the American public would elect an atheist to the white house; b) Cincinnati residents will ever forgive Clooney for portraying their city as a greying, washed-out dump and c) audiences want to see inspirational political candidates exposed as lying, immoral scumbags. This may get some takers, certainly more than in 2008 when the film was first penned, but the cynicism felt a little rote to me — and more importantly, it seems to give Clooney no joy. From its
bleeugh cinematography to its central message — hope sucks, or blows, depending on your sexual peccadillo — this is one seriously depressed movie. I didn't know whether I should watch it or give it some telephone numbers to call. There's no reason why this should be so: a writer like Aaron Sorkin would have brought some brio to proceedings — a delighted, devilish admiration for the humbug on display. Clooney merely wants us to be down in the dumps.
C+
I've been bored rigid by every movie that George Clooney has directed to date, so the sound of a jazz singer, crooning smokily barely five minutes into the beginning of The Ides of March did not bode well. A jazz number! In the first five minutes! Even Clint Eastwood knows not to do that, saving his jazz numbers until well into a movie, when it has earnt the right to a nap. But the Clooney scene, in which budding polito Ryan Gosling and his boss Philip Seymour Hoffman trade expertise on an upcoming presidential primary election, is supposed to whet our appetite for the oncoming battle. And instead we get the sultry sound of smooth, smooth jazz. That's Clooney all over: so anxious to impress us with his sophistication that he puts the audience to sleep. And by "sophistication" I mean, of course, "absolute, unbending disdain for anything resembling exposition." Clooney is the king of the gnomic. His films are the movie equivalent of the pride he takes, as an actor, in never raising his voice — all matte surfaces, elliptically shorn of background, backstory, build-up, and blurb, because to descend to any of these things would be to "condescend" to the audience, to insult their "intelligence," and so on. It would be no such thing, of course. It just shows basic courtesy. It's what you get paid for, as a dramatist. Not this one. For Clooney, love means never having to say what the hell is going on. Confessions of a Dangerous Mind was almost unintelligible to anyone previously unfamiliar with the strange case of Chuck Barris. Syriana (which Clooney produced) detonated in the desert rather than explain itself. Good Night and Good Luck was so poker-faced you almost forgot it was there, although I have a vague memory of shots of shadowy men whispering knowledgeably in Cognac-scented rooms. The perfect Clooney film would consist entirely of nothing but muttering in darkened rooms — sotto voce aficionados delivering softly-enunciated expertise. That's a pretty good description of The Ides of March, too, but the movie has more life than that, thanks a couple of twists and the crackle of something going on between Ryan Gosling (him again) and Evan Rachel Wood. Gosling plays an idealistic young press secretary working on the campaign of an Obama-like presidential candidate (Clooney, giving one of those twinkly, I'm-not-really-here performances often given by actor/directors appearing in their own films). Wood plays a bouncy, blonde intern. You'll never guess what happens. I've been a little perturbed by Wood recently, the raw vulnerability she showed in Thirteen having long sealed itself up behind a shellac queen-bitch finish, but there's fun to be had seeing these two two go up against one another; Wood get a lovely, nervous moment, the morning after, making a hash of tying his tie. She's just the latest to play gaga for Gosling — a role for which almost every human being on planet earth seems to be auditioning for these days, with the exception of some distant tribespeople in Papua New Guinea. Whether you buy the rest of the movie will depend largely on whether you believe: a) the American public would elect an atheist to the white house; b) Cincinnati residents will ever forgive Clooney for portraying their city as a greying, washed-out dump and c) audiences want to see inspirational political candidates exposed as lying, immoral scumbags. This may get some takers, certainly more than in 2008 when the film was first penned, but the cynicism felt a little rote to me — and more importantly, it seems to give Clooney no joy. From its bleeugh cinematography to its central message — hope sucks, or blows, depending on your sexual peccadillo — this is one seriously depressed movie. I didn't know whether I should watch it or give it some telephone numbers to call. There's no reason why this should be so: a writer like Aaron Sorkin would have brought some brio to proceedings — a delighted, devilish admiration for the humbug on display. Clooney merely wants us to be down in the dumps. C+
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Tom - Loved "In The Rooms," love your site, your writing, etc. Am a Clooney fan as well, I guess I'm not as sophisticated in my tastes. Just curious, though: I loved his movie "Michael Clayton." Wonder if you have anything to say about it. Thanks.
ReplyDeleteThanks so much!
ReplyDeleteI did like Michel Clayton a lot. I like Clooney as an actor and star, just don't rate him hugely as a director. There's a type of smarts that doesn't necessarily help film directors and Clooney has it in spades
Clint Eastwood started his jazz in the first second in "Bird". Didn't you see it?
ReplyDeleteAnd if you can nap to Charlie Parker, you don't deserve ears!
ReplyDeleteYeah but Bird was about a Charlie Parker, so the choice of Charlie Parker's music on the soundtrack was one of the easier creative choices Clint had to make, perhaps. I was thinking more specifically of the jazz interludes in Play Misty For Me and The Bridges of Madison County, both around the halfway mark. Clooney, on the other hand, is always doing this — he pulled a similar stunt in the first five minutes of GNAGD, I seem to remember. Some random torch singer put me straight into a deep snooze.
ReplyDeleteIf you make statements like "Even Clint Eastwood knows not to do that, saving his jazz numbers until well into a movie, when it has earnt the right to a nap" you can't really wriggle out of it by playing the genre card. You made a careless and inaccurate comment and that's that.
ReplyDeleteI change these posts all the time if people point out genuine inaccuracies or flaws. Happy to do it. But your main example for an Eastwood film which uses jazz in the first five minutes is Bird, which is about a jazz musician, so the use of jazz on the soundtrack shouldn't really surprise us. If you can find an example from an Eastwood film that isn't about a jazz musician, I will change the post.
ReplyDeleteWell, Tom, as a wily debater you have moved the goalposts again (to use that fine Brit expression). My criticism remains unanswered and I am not inclined to flounder through the Clint archive to prove a point that I didn't make in the first instance.
ReplyDeleteYou apparently dislike jazz anyway and that, of course, is your prerogative.
As a jazz pianist who even earned a living at the job for a year or two, I obviously would think differently.
Incidentally your late father, David, was a long-standing friend who always said he admired my playing. That is something we could pursue privately if you wish.
We both love cinema and that's the main thing.