Selling Out
By Tom Macy
October 15, 2009
BoxOfficeProphets.com
Looking back, I've always known this to be true on some level. I can think of countless times when I have had my initial opinion of a film do a complete 180 upon repeated viewings. If I went back in time and had a conversation with myself coming out of Michael Clayton, my former self would say it was the usual thriller walk-through starring George Clooney and his perfectly furrowed brow, while my current self would insist that Tony Gilroy deftly crafted a satisfying thrill ride that simultaneously possessed subtle complexities that effectively and fascinatingly subvert your run-of-the-mill courtroom drama.
On the same coin, if I were now to run into myself in latter half of summer 2006, no doubt we would eventually start to shake our heads in disbelief over the other's position on Little Miss Sunshine. "Ensemble acting at its absolute best!" declares 2006 me. "Contrived formulaic waste of time," replies a smug Mr. Present Day.
Very embarrassed I am, too, about my first impression of Passion of the Christ. That movie, however manipulatively absurd I claim it to be today, pulverized me back when I saw it in the theater. But come on, I was young and impressionable. Mel Gibson took advantage of me!
Eventually, I've begun to stop trusting my opinions, or not place too much stock in them the first time through. This is frustrating because as a cinephile, while I enjoy watching movies, I enjoy debating them more – well, debating with people about them, not the movies themselves. They're just celluloid - which is not alive. So when I find myself shifting positions, it becomes increasingly difficult. I keep saying things like, "Yeah, I've seen Bob le Flambeur but only once and it was so long ago." Sometimes I wonder why I'm even bothering to fill these gaps in my film knowledge when I'm going to have to see them three times before I know what I actually think? Gah!!!
Yes, this is nothing new. It's par for the course, even. You can't see every film ever made all at once, let alone multiple times. A complete understanding of the world of cinema and its history is something that must be accumulated. I am reminded of this every time someone who I consider to have an inferior understanding of cinema leaves me in the dust by the breadth of films they've seen just because they had the advantage of being on earth 20 years longer than me. To comfort my cine-ego in these mortifying occurrences, I tell myself to relax, that one day I will have the time to watch Bergman's canon three to five times over. Eventually, all the films will be checked off and there will be no stopping me. With my formidable bedrock of knowledge I will be a film buff to be reckoned with. And when the time comes to take a stand I will be able to defend my position with unwavering confidence.
On Sunday morning that was how I felt. But now, I'm not sure of anything anymore. How can I be? How can I go on believing this after the preconceived notions of my cinematic foundation have been rocked to their very core by rewatching Titanic? Oh yeah, that's right. Resigning myself to an evening of Sunday night football, I quickly strayed as the Steelers ran up the score in the first half and decided to see what Sunday TV (for which - if you read this column frequently - you know I'm a sucker) had to offer. On this particular day, it only took one click of the remote. All of a sudden I was somewhere I never intended to be again. If it weren't for the particular shot I happened to come across I probably would have given it a prompt "next!" But in this particular scene I realized I had forgotten how absolutely gorgeous Titanic was. It was a scene I didn't remember specifically - a sparsely filled dining room. The set and costumes were immaculate and ravishing. Late afternoon light poured through the windows, creating a haze that consumed the frame in a nostalgic glow. Wow.
Understandable, though, I thought. This movie cost $200 million. Obviously James Cameron, being the competent filmmaker that he is, would supply some level of technical mastery and visual spectacle. Surely if I watched another few minutes proof that Titanic was a pompous, over-romanticized play at the hearts and wallets of 14-year-old girls – who, as we all know, hypnotically attended multiple viewings that would lead to Titanic's methodical grossing of $1.8 billion worldwide - would show its face soon.
Even though it had been awhile, I had seen the movie several times before. There would be no surprises. I knew every calculating twist and turn. And so what if I loved it when it first came out? I was 14 myself! The only reason was because I went with this girl I was insanely in love with who was stringing me along. In her bereaved state at the film's end, I got to put my arm around her. How could I NOT love it? (I will always be indebted to you for that, James Cameron. Thanks, bro.) But as I've gotten older and wiser, I know my preliminary feelings toward this film were just a product of circumstance. It was the girl that made me love the movie, not the movie itself.
Life is much clearer now. Older, and a serious film buff, I have gotten past this naïveté. I have seen more than one Luis Bunuel film (four, actually) and I have argued intelligently – I hope – on the overly stated influence of the French new wave. Even today I went a screening of East of Eden (damn, James Dean had it going on) when I easily could have seen, oh I don't know, everything just sounds more pathetic than funny. Pandorum? Anyway, the point is, in my current film-going mindset I was confident that my well-versed knowledge of the medium – while maybe not up to Uncle Jon's standards, jerk - could discern when a film is great and when I'm being manipulated. There was no way I could be convinced that Titanic might actually a good movie. However, there was one variable I forgot to take into account. Kate. Winslet.
Listen, don't get me wrong, Leo is fine (he's no James Dean). But Kate Winslet is nearly unparalleled in the consistent brilliance of her work. It's hard to imagine her now playing an ingénue in a big Hollywood epic. But did she ever. And while she was the same budding starlet - suffering through Cameron's trite dialogue that features the name Jack 80 times - that I remembered, there was just something extra I had never picked up on before. Elegant sets and impressive visuals be damned. The reason to see Titanic is Kate Winslet's face. She embodies so completely and so accurately a vision of someone consumed with love. All those scenes we remember and berate so well - when Jack draws her, the two of them giddily cavorting in the baggage room, eventually ending up in the foggy windowed car (scandal!), and of course, I'm flying!!! Truly, any mention of them a month or two ago would have induced an eye roll from me, but now, experiencing them through Winslet's eyes, I'm going to say, it was beautiful.
Except I keep reminding myself that the embodiment of a character by a great actress does not a make a good movie. For some reason, Annette Bening in running With Scissors comes to mind. Just because I recognize that she is a great actress doesn't mean this is a quality movie. I held on tightly to that mindset as long as I could. But when I reached one of the film's most quoted, maligned and imitated moments of all, it came crashing down. Rose is being lowered in the life boat, longingly looking up at Mr. Dreamboat while James Horner's score plays - that later with the accompaniment of lyrics sung by Celine Dion would cause us all to have blood coming out our ears. Then, she instantly jumps off the lifeboat back onto the ship, likely resigning herself to - as a Batman villain would say - a watery grave. Horner cues the slow electric percussion as his theme swells. She runs into Jack's arms sobbing as he asks, "Why did you do that, Rose? You're so stupid!" She replies, "You jump, I jump, right?" My eyes instantly welled. What was happening? I actually said out loud, alone in my apartment, "What the hell?" (Actually, my language was a little more colorful than that). In that moment, it was clear to me. It's not about being good or bad. It's about what it means to you and only to you. I have always known that there was a curious power about this film that - almost unfairly - tapped its way into the hearts of pubescent girls everywhere. But while I may have thought I understood that power, I'd never truly experienced it.
Now, one can educate oneself to the nines. You can use buzzwords like narrative structure, shot composition, and mise-en-scène. You can check off a list of great films you've seen and compare it to other film lovers' like scorecards – I have NEVER done that. But let's be honest. That isn't why we go to the movies. It's because of those rare moments, when Kate Winslet looks up at Leo - no, Jack Dawson - and has a totally disarmingly wave of love wash over her. For many, this moment does nothing. For others, it makes us laugh. At different times I've done both. But in that right circumstance? With the right perspective? That moment will define you. And on Sunday night, James Cameron, Kate Winslet and the programmers of TNT defined my feelings. Back in December of 1997 with that sobbing girl under my arm all I wanted was to be her Jack Dawson. But I had it backwards. I'm not Jack. I'm Rose. Twelve years later, Titanic has held up a mirror and shown me my inner 14-year-old, the little girl in me who just wants someone to understand her and love her eternally and unconditionally. And the reason I see that now is because of the circumstance I am in. Because I have finally found him, uh, her (hi, I miss you) and she is my Jack Dawson. And Titanic, of all films, has shown me that. And that friends, is why I love the movies.