No Middle Name

 

Lee Child

There is just one thing that I have in common with Lee Child, the author of the Jack Reacher series. In the past three years I have been working my way through the series via library audiobooks, as audiobooks tends to be less of a page-turner, so to speak, than paper books. 

Yesterday I finally picked up a paper version of his short story collection "No Middle Name," published in 2017. The third story in the book, "High Heat," confirms my suspicion that Mr. Child, like me, has a particular fondness for people beating each other up with their bare hands. Certainly, there were plenty of guns in the Reacher series, and he devoted one full book ("Persuader") to the study of various guns. But description of hand-to-hand combats is salt to his books. There have to be multiple fight scenes in each book. 

In High Heat, he even devised a plot point to get rid of all the guns the bad guys may have, just to allow the 16-year-old Reacher to beat them all up. It's pretty clever, but a little far-fetched for organized crimes in New York City in 1977.

I have to imagine that Mr. Child's choice to put bare-knuckled fights into every book he writes reflects a real personal interest. (It must be difficult to avoid completely repeating oneself though.) Out of all the different types of violence on screen and on paper, I too most prefer this type of fighting scenes. Sure, the gun battles in John Wick are nicely choreographed and impressive, but they are inspired by unweaponed combat choreography too. There is an intimacy in these scenes that can better portray characters than any other types of fighting. The cold efficiency of guns offers less room for characterization and emotional, as well as visceral, impact. 

The Prophecy of Middlemarch

 

Some years ago I read Daniel Deronda on a whim. Two things, or rather two characters, in the novel left a lasting impression: the fervent Zionist Ezra Mordecai Cohen and Daniel Deronda's mother, a Jewish actress who gave her son up, so that she can continue her career on stage. More than anything, it tipped me off to the origin of Israel that predated WWII, even WWI. 

I have not even finished reading Middlemarch, but some elements really blew me away with its modern resonance. It was written in 1871 and depicted an earlier period around 1830, so I never dreamed that I would see so many concerns that I had thought belonged strictly in the 20th century, at least.  

First, one of the main characters, Dr. Lydgate, was a young physician trying to change the way medicine was practiced in the country. Not content with treating local patients for their common illnesses, his ambition was to do research and unravel the pathology of diseases. He had microscopes and experimental apparatuses at home and kept up with new scientific discoveries in the field from the Continent. 

Moreover, he broke from the traditional practice of selling medicinal products (mostly tinctures and potions back then), because he recognized it as a type of conflict of interest. Physicians were incentivized to give patients their own concoctions because they could make more money selling medicines than diagnosing and caring for patients. Who cares if the medicines were effective? 

Oh my God this is so modern. Neither concerns have been completely resolved in medicine today. We are still doing research and unraveling pathology of illnesses. We are still struggling with nudging physicians to do the ethical thing in the face of greed. Both remain front and center in medicine. 

A second main character, Mr. Will Ladislaw, has an even more contemporary profession: campaign manager! I have never, ever seen this profession mentioned in classic literature, until "All the King's Men", which was published in 1946 in the United States. Ladislaw not only wrote speeches and opinion pieces in the partisan newspaper for his boss, Mr. Brooke, he also devised campaign strategy for him and coached him in his campaign! 

Alas, poor Mr. Brooke liked to veer off script and blab to anyone "You have a point there." There is a hilarious campaign rally scene that could happen even today. At one point, Will and the doctor had an argument about whether a politician should be sincere and say what he believes in. The doctor, talking from a scientist's perspective, found Will's cynical approach of saying whatever to keep voters happy appalling. I almost fell out of the chair laughing.

I don't know why George Eliot was so much better at seeing the future than other novelists of the same period, but she seemed to have acute insights into social trends and political sentiment roiling underneath the surface. No, she was not writing about what is often called "universal and timeless human nature," whatever that means, but rather a prediction of the tides to come and wash us away in the new millennia. And she was spot on.  

Heat (1995)

I don't think anyone who has seen this movie could forget the bank robbery shootout scene. Living in LA during the 1990s, my memory of this heart-pounding scene was further solidified by a real-life shootout between 2 bank robbers and the police (the notorious North Hollywood shootout in February 1998) that eerily imitated the movie and was televised on network news.

Rewatching the movie 27 years later, I feel it's a real shame that Michael Mann has not been able to repeat his achievement in subsequent movies. The screenplay is extremely efficient and understated. The dialogs strive for a realistic feel on both sides of the law. None of the key information is repeated, so that the audience has to pay attention to understand the chain of events. Some plot elements are done so economically as to verge on underdevelopment --- including Natalie Portman's character and the character known as Waingro, who may or may not be a serial killer. There is a thin line between suggesting a larger world outside of the plot and tossing threads all over the place, and this movie has both. 

Nearly every action set piece in the movie is well done, including a brief one involving a failed money exchange between DeNiro's Neil and a crooked financier. Mann clearly attempted to make the action as realistic as possible with minimal soundtrack and naturalistic sound design. I say "nearly" because the final showdown between Neil and Pacino's Vincent is a disappointment, which did not improve on second viewing. After all the impeccable scenes previously, the chase and the conclusion seem too long and somewhat confusing. Can a person get from the hotel to the runways of LAX on foot? (Why is the hotel next door to LAX in the first place?) Where was the plane that was going to be Neil's escape? Where is the money? Without the money, does Neil really have a reason to get to the airport anyway? How far behind him was Vincent? (The scene has him either very far behind or very close.) If Mann intended the final chase to be anticlimactic and somewhat pathetic, I would be OK with that, but the intention is not clearly conveyed on screen. 

On second viewing, Pacino's performance is particularly jarring when he is surrounded by the understated and matter-of-fact approach from just about everyone. He really stood out like a sore thumb. According to reviews, it was apparently Mann's decision to make the character so ... flamboyant? aggressive? loud? unstable? I guess he wanted a stark contrast between DeNiro's internalized Neil and the half-crazed policeman for unexpected effects. However, everything about Vincent rings false. First and foremost, Pacino reeks of New York and does not fit into the Los Angeles surrounding at all. I know because I spent my formative years there. From his costume to his accent to the manners, Pacino seems to be in a totally different movie. In one scene, Vincent is standing in front of a kitchen sink full of dirty dishes, contemplating washing them, in his suit. Does he ever wash dishes? Does Mann? It looks so fake as to be almost laughable. It is baffling.  

Talk about baffling, it is both interesting and a little hilarious that Mann decided to give every male character a woman, except the financial guy and Waingro, who are apparently considered the lowest of the low. Every single one of the career criminals has a woman in his life. Neil falls hopelessly in love with Judging Amy (oops, that's what I remember Amy Brenneman from). At some point I was thinking that only the Hispanic guy played by Danny Trejo didn't have a woman to warm his bed, and then the movie immediately proved me wrong. So this must mean something. Mann did not stuff his movie with so many side characters for nothing. Heck, the camera even lingered on a woman in the arm of a policeman in one scene. 

Obviously Mann had something to say about the relationship of violent men (on both sides of the law) and the women in their lives. Throughout most of the movie, I thought the point was how delusional they are and how they are incapable of constructing a normal and sane life, as represented by women. But Amy Brenneman's character proves me wrong: Look, here is a woman living a normal life as a graphic designer, who is willing to give up everything to run off with this master criminal! I guess his message is, maybe, that no woman can resist the romanticism represented by violent men? I am not against this theme at all, but it contradicts 80% of the movie that comes before it ... 

Barry Lyndon (1975)

 

Finally, I have watched this movie. My interest was driven first by the music choices (Sarabande and Schubert's Piano Trio in E-flat) and then by some still photos of the cinematography.

In some ways, Kubrick's choices in "Barry Lyndon" remind me of "Tar". The characters' feelings and motivations are deliberately obscured. There are mentions of the main characters' cruelty and harm onto others, but there is also explicit effort to win sympathy for them, including one of the most manipulative devices --- tenderness toward young children.

As expected, the music is beautiful and haunting, the cinematography is stunning. Many a shot leaves me with an illusion of witnessing a scene through a time machine. Well, not quite. The scenes tend to be a little too clean and orderly to be realistic, especially the battlefield ones. Rather, they tend to mimic classical paintings of the era, which are a sanitized version of daily life of aristocracy. The renowned candle-lit scenes, supposedly shot with no artificial light, and the indoor scenes have an eerie quality that is both realistic and dream like. Technically, it is every bit as good as the critical acclaims. 

Nevertheless, something about Lady Lyndon bothered me. Every other characters is vividly drawn, including two other female characters and a dozen or so male characters. The only character that makes no sense whatsoever is Lady Lyndon. We see her son from her previous marriage complain about and fight with Barry over his depravity and greed that are ruining her, but she does nothing. In fact she barely speaks a line or two. Instead, we are treated with an occasional scene of Barry making love to her, on top of many scenes of his debauchery, and left with the impression that she is too in love with him to see his misconduct. We are supposed to believe that this conflict is entirely between the two men. 

Out of curiosity I looked up the source materials, Thackeray's novel The Memoir of Barry Lyndon and the real-life person, Andrew Stoney Bowes, on which the novel was based. So the funny (ironic, not haha) thing is that Stoney married a rich heiress, Lady Bowes, for her money through an elaborate scam (involving a duel), and inside the marriage he not only squandered her fortune but also psychologically and physically abused her for eight years. He beat her frequently and severely. After she finally escaped with the help of a maid, he sent some guys to track her down, who also beat her and threatened to rape and kill her. She was fortunately rescued and then initiated a long and arduous process of divorce and, despite his various efforts to smear her reputation, won back her freedom and what's left of her estate.

Well I suppose no one would ever think that Lady Bowes' story was thrilling, terrifying, dramatic, or heroic enough to turn into a novel or a movie. In Thackeray's novel, it is at least mentioned that Barry admitted to beating his wife (but only when he was drunk, according to himself). In the movie, however, that detail is entirely absent, as all abuse and confrontations are transferred between the stepfather and stepson. To me, it is comparable to narrating the adventure of a Japanese solider in China during WWII without mentioning that he had chopped off a few civilians' heads. I am not against humanizing anyone, even the worst, but excuse me for puking a little over here.

Andor and THX1138

When I watched the prison break episodes in "Andor", I felt there was something familiar about the set design but couldn't put my finger on it. Eventually, the buried memory surfaced. The all-white prison interior is almost certainly a conscious reference to THX1138, which was George Lucas' first feature film, released in 1971, before "American Graffiti" won him wide critical acclaim. Actually he made a short film THX1138 at USC and later expanded it to feature length, casting Robert Duvall in the lead role. 

Of course, THX1138 was hardly the first dystopian science fiction movie, and the influence of 1984, Brave New World, and the Cold War was unmistakable. Super original it was not. Nevertheless, the aesthetics was quite stunning.

Compare this visual style with the set of prison in Andor. 

The orange stripes are the only visual relief from the oppressive whiteness in this world. After all, this is a Disney series, not an experimental art film. 

The question of whether Tony Gilroy talked to Lucas before making Andor remains unanswered. It tickles me to death what the latter thinks of Andor, although I doubt he would comment publicly.  

Coincidentally (not!), THX1138 is, at least metaphorically, also a prison break movie. L.O.L.

Empire-related awkwardness: Avatar

 

The talk about just who the "evil empire" represents in Star Wars reminds me of another awkward example of imperialism and colonialism --- "Avatar" (2009). One may argue that James Cameron is a little bolder than George Lucas, because the baddies in this movie are obviously American military. However, Cameron's politics is far simpler than Lucas', as the former appears to believe that having a white savior, aka Dances with Wolves, join and lead the natives in their resistance is more than enough to absolve the character's affiliation with the colonialist army. 

The question is, does it work? Can the audience (the descendants of colonialists and beneficiaries of genocide) be relieved of any discomfort and self-examination by gleefully imagining oneself as the white male savior riding the dragon and bedding the pretty native girl? It seems to work for Cameron, who is perhaps more "left wing" (whatever that means) than Lucas but lacks the latter's self-awareness. Indeed, Cameron's left-wing tendencies were on full display in "Titanic," which was despised by a friend who grew up in the final days of USSR and me, who grew up under CCP. The movie's simpleminded familiarity made us laugh. 

Lucas was fully intentional in acknowledging the sins of the father and the darkness inherited by the son. This is why his sextet was so conflicted within itself. I often wonder whether this internal struggle contributed to the storytelling failure in the prequels. There was a sincere desire to demonstrate how the ideals (represented by the old Republic) descended into evil and perhaps to take some ownership in it, but his fear of being truly understood and rejected, maybe even hated, by the audience must have stopped him short. 

The things we do for love (ie, being loved).  

Andor and the Contradictions of Star Wars

 

The showrunner Tony Gilroy said he was not a fan of the Star Wars series. However, as one of the best script doctors in Hollywood, he got roped into fixing up "Rogue One" and subsequently was given the (I'm sure a lot of) money to do the spinoff series "Andor" for Disney's streaming business. 

Nevertheless, the relatively dark and menacing "Andor" series caused me to revisit the contradictions in the heart of George Lucas' original Star Wars series. Critics have commented that "Andor" is tonally different from the SW franchise and more "adult" in its depiction of war, police state, oppression, the prison-industrial complex, and revolution.  

For example, the torture scene is quite disturbing in "Andor", even though it is much less graphic than the scene in "The Last Jedi," but we should not forget that there was also one in A New Hope, in which Princess Leia was tortured by Darth Vader (who turned out to be her father, think about that symbolism for a moment) with no apparent effect afterward. (Yes, when they want to show an entity is evil and to induce sympathy and outrage, the go-to device is that they torture and rape/kill women. Everyone knows the trick.)

Another example of parallel plot is how a reluctant central character makes the decision to join the rebellion. Does anyone still remember the turning point of Luke Skywalker? The imperial troopers killed Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru. Similarly, it was only when his mother Maarva had died that Andor decided to stop running from his destiny. His father had been executed by the Empire years ago. Of course Maarva was not directly killed by the empire, but it was close enough. 

So my argument is that Gilroy was really trying to hew pretty close to the original SW, which is pretty dark and sinister if you look closely. And yet, the series also "disneyfied" itself from the start, making it palatable to the American mass audience. It was Lucas' conscious decision to make the deaths completely bloodless, when SW was financed by 20th Century Fox. Hell, the dead characters even come back as smiling, approving ghosts (a device cleverly echoed but not exactly endorsed in "Andor" with the holographic recording of Maarva).

This manipulation cannot be blamed on Disney's production of episodes 7 to 9, unless we consider the decades-long effect Disney had had on the American popular culture since it started to convert dark and vicious folktales into cute cartoons. I was struck, in "Attack of the Clones", how indifferent and meaningless the action scenes were, because the killing was enacted upon thousands and thousands of fleshless droids. There is no feeling, no stake, and nobody cares. But it was intentional to protect the audience from seeing any blood and real death.  

We should also consider the contradiction at the heart of SW. What is the empire an allegory for? Commentators and the public assume that the empire refers to the British Empire and the rebellion the American revolution --- All the imperial characters spoke with an English accent while the heroes spoke with an American accent, and that's no accident. Sometimes Lucas tacitly approved of this interpretation, but occasionally he said openly that ROTJ is an allegory of the Vietnam war, implying that the empire is the American one. Nevertheless, he took care not to be too loud about it. 

I gotta hand it to his sophisticated manipulation. George Lucas is the best case of "having his cake and eat it" that I have ever seen. This is how you do it, baby! We do not need to worry that the audience may recognize themselves in the evil empire (and some actually do so). Contrary to the logical awareness "Are we the baddies?", the human instinct shields people from such uncomfortable reflections, and everyone believes he is one of the good guys. Besides, Ronald Reagan told everyone who the evil empire was --- those guys over there!