Moneyball (2011)

It takes a lot for me to see a movie more than once. Admittedly, I saw Inception six times in the theaters, but that was kind of a special case: it was an interesting story, a visually striking film, and Ellen Page is totally cute. So when I decided to go see Moneyball a second time, I knew it must merit some serious attention.

I went into Moneyball with high expectations the first time, having read and enjoyed the book from which it originates earlier in the year. What intrigued me most about this film as an adaptation is that the book is not, in and of itself, a great story. Pieces of the book rely rather heavily on a solid grounding in baseball statistics, and, while it isn't absolutely necessary to be a stats-savvy baseball junkie such as myself, it certainly doesn't hurt. But the movie dances around many of the scarier metrics (VORP, WAR, OPS+) and instead chooses to focus almost entirely on Brad Pitt's portrayal of Oakland As general manager Billy Beane. However, there were still major challenges to overcome. Unlike high school or college sports, Major League Baseball is big business, and individual players are relatively unimportant. It is difficult to show an inspirational sports moment when central scenes in the movie involve Jonah Hill crunching numbers on his laptop.

I have read that Pitt's insistence on completing this movie is one of the reasons it did eventually wrap; without his determination and stubbornness (and a surprise cameo by Leonardo DiCaprio as an executive producer), Moneyball almost certainly would have never moved beyond the initial drafts. This is not the first time Pitt has forced a project to its finished form - the lengthy title of The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford was literally written into Pitt's contract for that movie - and I certainly hope it is not the last. Pitt saw a story that needed to be told, and insisted that it was. The question I wondered was, how would director Bennett Miller do it?

Moneyball tackles this problem, ironically enough, by taking itself more seriously as a film than it might have. By that I mean that it never forgets what it is, and never really asks us to, either. Some films - action and sports films, especially, in my opinion - tend to ask us to suspend our disbelief and become hugely emotionally invested in the characters. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate this as much as anyone, and I still shed a tear every single time I watch Invictus or Remember the Titans. But Moneyball takes a different tack. It is replete with intertitles, cutaways to division standings, newspaper clippings, and real game footage from 2002. The sound is manipulated just as patently; lengthy voice-overs move the story forward at key moments. It feels like we are watching a documentary at times, and in a way, we are. What Miller and Pitt (I feel that both deserve credit for this) accomplish by focusing on Beane's story is a blurring of genres, and an introduction of a touching side into what could easily have been an emotionally blank slate.

I felt that this film-school technique worked extremely well, but I must offer a caveat: it will not be for everyone. I say this especially because the second time I saw the film, I sat in front of an elderly couple who were, ahem, confused and put off by this somewhat avant-garde method of storytelling. Their method of decoding the film involved talking it over in that special whisper that one develops at age seventy that is just a smidge, forty decibels or so, louder than is appropriate at the movies. When I am old, I wish to have my own small movie theater. That way, I will never bother anyone when I talk during movies. And popcorn will be cheaper.

Go see this film. I promise you, even if you aren't a baseball fan, you will enjoy Pitt's performance and the way Miller orchestrates what is, all things considered, a very complex tale. I would be surprised if this film isn't in the conversation for Best Picture and Best Actor, along with a handful of technical awards, come February.

And please don't talk during the movie.

The Ides of March (2011)

There was a scene, about an hour of the way through The Ides of March, when I realized why this was a good, not a great, film. In this scene, a character gets into the backseat of an SUV. We know what's going on. It's nothing good, or at least nothing honest. But the scene drags on too long, and before you know it, the character gets out, the car drives off, and we get a facial reaction shot. The scene is effective, but anticlimactic because it could have been so much more. It could have been so much more, ironically, by being so much less. Why does George Clooney (who both directed and co-stars in the film) choose to end the scene this way? I wish I had the answer to that. Because Ides is, at heart, a political thriller, and thrillers are built on suspense. By showing us what we should already know, Clooney removes any remaining suspense.

Let's take a look at the two scenes that I feel epitomize what I'm talking about here. The first is the opening scene from Orson Welles's Touch of Evil. This is a 3+ minute long take that starts with a shadowy figure planting a bomb in the trunk of a car. Then the car drives off, and we don't get the payoff (in this case, an explosion, but it could be anything) until after we have been introduced to another major storyline and several other characters. That's not to say we have forgotten about the bomb. Rather, we have to wait, and the waiting is the best part. That the car does eventually explode is inevitable. But here's the thing: the longer you wait in suspense, the more thrilling the result is. In this case, you see the result right away. But the principle is the same. Welles gave us three and a half minutes; Clooney gives us thirty seconds.

The real crown jewel here though is from the master of suspense himself, Alfred Hitchcock. There is a scene in Frenzy that gives me chills thinking about it: woman is lured into apartment by murderer, door closes, camera dollies backwards down stairs. And then around a corner. And then down more stairs. And then out of the building. And then across the street. The scene is almost excruciatingly long. We know, we know that she is being strangled to death. But Hitchcock never shows us! Never! And it's amazing! And here's why: suspense operates on the very simple premise that our minds, if properly manipulated, will always do a better job of freaking itself out than it will if you show everything. Tons of film theory backs this up, but that's perhaps a talk for another day. That's not to say that I disliked the film. I actually really liked it. I'm just being critical to prove a point.

The truth is, George Clooney has developed a real talent for picking movies that make the viewer think, generally pretty hard, generally about politics - to the point that I almost consider him an auteur of sorts. You know, one that just makes political films. As a political science major, I appreciate this. With the election coming up next year, a film about the evils of electoral politics seems rather apropos. Any qualms I have concerning the content of the film is reflective not of its efficacy, but my predisposition against electoral politics. But I see Ides as a continuation, not an individual piece of art. It is a continuation of a body of work that includes Good Night, and Good Luck and Syriana. Are either of those films perfect? No, of course not. But together, the three films bring us a little closer to realizing Clooney's vision.

And what a vision it is. Government (Ides), international relations (Syriana), and the media (Good Night, and Good Luck) all certainly have their very, very ugly sides. Clooney shows us all of this without batting an eye. Not bad for a guy whose big break was on ER.

As a side note, this is nothing new for Clooney. If you get a chance - check out The Thin Red Line. If you're willing to take the three hours to dedicate to it, you won't be disappointed.