December 12, 2009

Broken “Bones”

Let me just say at the outset that I really enjoyed the story of “The Lovely Bones.” In book form. It’s at once clever, touching, thrilling and eloquently examines how a quintessential American family deals with the loss of a child, and how that child comes of age under extreme circumstances. Alice Sebold deftly takes all these elements and swirls them in a beautiful mélange of heartbreak.

While all of these elements exist in Peter Jackson’s film version of “The Lovely Bones”, some are forced to play background roles to the gee whiz CGI spectacle of Jackson’s view of the afterlife. Giant Ships in Bottles crash into a pristine CGI shore! Day and Night exist on the same horizon! OMG that effect was AMAZING!!!  What does any of that noise have to do with the story?

But, the CGI’s not the biggest problem. At the risk of being seen as anti-alienist, I think there is one singular, central problem with the film adaptation of The Lovely Bones.

It doesn’t feel American.

Hear me out. The author, Alice Sebold was born in a small town in Wisconsin and grew up in suburban Philly. The Salmons of the book live in a bucolic Midwestern town in Pennsylvania in the 1970s. The plot centers around a serial killer, an uniquely (and sadly) American phenomenon. That said, let’s take a look at the rundown of the cast and crew.

Director: Peter Jackson, New Zealand. Writers: Phillipa Boyens, Fran Walsh and Peter Jackson, all from New Zealand. Female leads: Susie (Irish) Lindsey (New Zealand), Abigail (British)

So, to recap, a uniquely American story from an American woman is being told by a New Zealand man and a bunch of other people who are NOT American.

Now, if there’s a fantasy story that involves swords, hobbits and rings then, sure, Peter Jackson’s your guy. But, if you’re telling a tale of melancholic loss deeply felt by a typical American teenage girl you CALL SOMEONE ELSE. I don’t know, maybe, an American woman?

There is no good reason why a director like Kathryn Bigelow, Alison Anders, Sofia Coppola, Kimberly Pierce of for that matter even Catherine Hardwick who directed the first installment of the mega-hit Twilight franchise was not at the helm of this movie. Where the hell was Little Miss Book Club Oprah when it came time to produce? Barbara Streisand? Hell, even Drew Barrymore would’ve been a better choice. Hello?

The girl playing Susie Salmon is amazing. I’m not knocking her. She’s a soulful little actress. She plays all the turns and reversals brilliantly. I feel her emotion and hate to see her expressive eyes well thick with tears. Even the sister was really good. There are great little performances in the movie, to be sure, but the movie as a whole is a mess.

I went to a sneak preview about a week ago where Peter Jackson and the rest of the cast (sans Marky Mark) were present for a talkback. Peter Jackson several times mentioned that this was a Fantasy movie. Several times he went on and on about how he wanted to represent the afterlife as a product of a girl’s fantasy. He then went on to blather about the afterlife and, in a moment of sheer awesomeness, my friend who was gracious enough to take me to the screening caught Susan Sarandon rolling her eyes as the director once again began rambling about his CGI vision of heaven.

It’s pretty sad commentary that one of the only American actresses in the film thinks her director is full of shit. During the talk back the American cast members kept talking about how they wanted their performances to capture a “very American experience” on this very American story. Sadly, they didn’t get what they wanted and neither did the audience.

I think Hollywood needs to take a step back and really look at the storytelling they’re doing. Maybe instead of saying “Okay, hot book property, big time director with a lot of clout. That’s a win/win” they should say, “Who would be the best choice to tell this particular story?” In this case, it would’ve been an American woman director with an American cast.

The British are very protective of their uniquely British stories, why aren’t we? I actually cringe at the previews for Sherlock Holmes, equally because the greatest English detective ever is being played by an American and that someone actually gave Guy Ritchie money to make another movie. Truth be told, I’m sick of great parts for Americans going to Brits, Aussies and other foreign actors. You wouldn’t cast a woman to play a man or an Asian dude to play Hitler, then why is the American/Any Other English-Speaking Nationality Swap okay?

Are we not a soulful people with a rich storytelling tradition? Why can’t we tell our own stories? It’s not because the British are better actors. There are many excellent American actresses who would’ve been amazing in those roles.

A girl from a small suburban American town is raped and murdered by her neighbor and she can’t bring herself to go to heaven until she’s dealt with the loss of the one thing she craves the most, love. To me, that story never screamed Tent Pole Fantasy Film Geared Toward An International Audience. This film should’ve been smaller, more real, introspective and thoughtful. More Middle America less Middle Earth. Middle America, remember those people? They go to the movies. They’re the ones who keep you in business.

Instead of the touching book The Lovely Bones we all read, we get a foreign-made fantasy epic The Lovely Bones full of sound and fury.

Which in the end, as well all know, signifies nothing.

August 7, 2009

An Open Letter to the Emmys

Today, I am very sad. For two reasons, which are inextricably linked to the treatment of writers in Hollywood.

First, I read that in order to streamline the Emmy broadcast, the Academy, in its inestimable brilliance, has chosen to have the recipients of the writing awards be given the enviable opportunity to accept the prize for their hard work and talent and the thunderous applause that comes with such an achievement in front of a packed house…

Of empty chairs.

Those awards will only be viewed by early birds who wanted to beat the rush of the red carpet and nervous seat fillers awaiting their orders for the night. The actors who actually said those words the scribes so thoughtfully crafted out of thin air and brain cells will still be on the red carpet, soaking up fan adoration for a performance that started with a sole writer and a blank page.

When I heard the news about the change to the telecast, I had an immediate visceral reaction. I was reminded by the following succinct words written by David Mamet.

“You fucking shit. Where did you learn your trade?”

How dare you give short shrift to the people whose ideas are the framework you built your house of celebrity worship upon? What unmitigated gall you have to glibly brush aside the integral contribution of the writer. Such a careless action brings to mind Griffin Mill, anti-hero of Robert Altman’s “The Player” and his cynical gaze toward writers:

“I was just thinking what an interesting concept it is to eliminate the writer from the artistic process.”

You’ve come a long way toward doing so. With the Academy throwing all it’s eggs into the reality basket, you’ve all but decimated the scripted drama and comedy. Instead of a medium that bread works by Serling, Chayefsky, Lear and Bochco, you have celebutantes spouting self-aggrandizing inanity and fabricated drama choreographed by producers.

Wait. It all makes sense now. You’re just making the telecast reflect the rest of the networks. Screw the writer. They’re below-the-line talent that don’t mean anything to anyone. It’s the celebrities people want to see. The writers don’t count to Mr. and Ms. America.

Which brings me to my second reason for being sad. The death of John Hughes.

Born in my home state of Michigan, John Hughes came to represent someone to look up to, someone you should aspire to be. As a writer growing up in Michigan, true role models like that were hard to come by. My film and writing education consisted of sitting in the dark and absorbing the creative output of John Hughes and Sam Raimi, another Michigan boy done good.

John Hughes’ writing not only defined a generation, it shaped it. I can remember the theatre I was in when I first saw National Lampoon’s Vacation. I wore my Sixteen Candles shirt that read “Can I borrow your underpants for ten minutes?” for class photos that year. I loved every minute of the Breakfast Club and knew that I was equal parts John Bender and Brian Johnson. I remember driving myself and a friend to see a sneak preview of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and getting swag like posters, tshirts and buttons, which we both wore to school the next day making everyone jealous.

But, more than all that, it was the connection to movies that spoke to me directly. Movies that said, “Hey, I know what you’re going through.” That reassured me that high school isn’t everything and there is a world out there of art and music and heartbreak and love and it‘s waiting for you to experience it and create it anew. John Hughes films were about real kids in unreal situations and they got through those situations by being true to themselves. His films taught us to recognize our fears, wants, desires and dreams in others and to accept them for what they are, whether they be a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess or a criminal.

Not since Capra or Wilder has there been a singular writing and filmmaking talent that could walk the line between the sweet and the saccharin, between pathos and melodrama. His teen movies were populated with real teens, not cynical mini-adults with grad-school vocabularies. His comedies had emotion and love wrapped in a neat little bow that was heartfelt not hokey. Don’t believe me? Watch the end of Plains, Trains and Automobiles, “This Woman’s Work” from She’s Having a Baby, or any of the scenes between Harry Dean Stanton and Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink. John Hughes’ writing made us laugh, cry, get angry, believe in love and understanding all in the span a hour and a half. And, that writing has stayed with us a lifetime.

So, for your Emmy consideration, I submit the writer John Hughes as a testimonial to what writers can do to and for an audience. Emmy decision makers should just scan the thousands upon thousands of Twitter and Facebook updates, blogs and rants containing quotes and passages, remembrances and eulogies for a writer whose passing has effected an entire generation.

Then, maybe you’ll rethink the decision you’ve made about the writer’s awards. Writers mean more to people sitting in the dark than you know. We know that writers are the mischief makers, they are the dreamers of dreams.

Then, maybe you’ll revise your poor choice of words and rewrite the ending to this story.

Sincerely,

Kirk Diedrich
Writer/Director

April 30, 2009

Stoked about this week’s show with Elaine Hendrix.  She’s returning to host ACME This Week.  She hosted the show two years ago (has it been that long?)  We had a blast that show and this one looks to be even better.

Come check it out.  I’m playing Nightshade (again) and a new creepy guy.  Plus other hilarity I’m sure.

ACME Comedy Theatre
135 N. La Brea
Hollywood, CA 90046
www.acmecomedy.com

Tickets are available online and you can get a discount by typing in “kdiedrich” in the coupon code box thingy.  See you there!