A Monster Calls

Adapting books into films often prompts book lovers to say the same thing ("The book was better!"), and most of the time they're not wrong.  But they can become a little too defensive, acting as if the books have been desecrated in some way, forgetting that the books are still there to be enjoyed.  The stories have been retold in a new medium, that's all.  And people who haven't previously read the books that have been adapted to film tend to take the movies as they are (which, in my humble opinion, is what should happen anyway).  I usually consider the movie version of a book to be a companion, not a replacement.

A Monster Calls (2016) is in a slightly different category.  The screenplay is by Patrick Ness, who wrote the novel, based on an idea by Siobhan Dowd.  Although a few details have been tweaked and added in the manner of all stories adapted for visual storytelling, you would be hard-pressed to say the movie isn't faithful to the book.  Director J.A. Bayona has taken all the richness and complexity of the story and translated it into a beautiful, heartbreaking, moving, layered piece of filmmaking.  And in young Lewis MacDougall, he found the perfect Conor O'Malley.

Conor lives in a small town somewhere in England.  His mother (Felicity Jones) has passed on her talent for drawing and a love of movies, but she's dying of cancer (a word which is never spoken out loud at any time during the story).  His grandmother (Sigourney Weaver) steps in to assist, much to Conor's annoyance because they don't get on very well.  His father (Toby Kebbell) is remarried and living in America, which inexplicably leaves Conor with a feeling of abandonment.  He knows the adults around him aren't telling him the whole truth about his mother's illness, and this only adds to his frustration and anxiety.  And then, one night, a monster comes calling.

The monster, played by Liam Neeson, is an impressive achievement of design, animation, and puppetry combined with Neeson's motion-capture performance and brilliant voice acting.  Bayona and his team have succeeded in creating a real being, with real weight and realistic movement, and surprisingly subtle facial expressions.  As he visits Conor, always at 12:07 (the significance of which I will leave for you to discover), he promises to tell three tales.  After the tales are told, he will require Conor to tell a fourth tale, which leaves the boy baffled.

As the adults looking over him overcompensate and treat him too delicately, Conor faces bullies at school.  And having to put up with his strict, seemingly distant, grandmother doesn't alleviate any of the stress in his life.  But his mother is a special presence in his world, his one source of sunshine, and he can't stand the thought of losing her.  Felicity Jones does a wonderful job as a young mother trying to put on a brave face for her son, doing her best to give him the strength he'll need to get through such a bitter season in their lives.

When Conor's father does turn up, Toby Kebbell does that actor's trick of showing us a character whose dialogue says one thing, but his face and body language say another.  We as an audience somehow understand the character's conflict, which is also a sign of good writing.  Conor's dad loves his son, and still loves his ex-wife, but there is a weakness to him, one that he is aware of, and you wonder if he doubts himself too much to do anything about it.  He wants to be a better, more present father, and we can easily comprehend why Conor is so excited to see him, and so quickly disappointed.

When the monster tells the first two tales, they are rendered with beautiful, storybook-like animation, featuring a strong watercolor aesthetic.  The transitions are incredibly imaginative and effective.  And the stories are contradictory in unanticipated ways.  These are not simple stories of good versus evil, but stories that reflect the complexities of real life, where things can develop in unexpected ways.  Life often isn't "happily ever after," as Conor's dad tells him.  What we're left with is usually more bittersweet.  I love stories like this.  While I agree that our choices should, ideally, be more black and white, we have to sift through a lot of grey to get there.  Stories that present a more idealized world are useful and enjoyable, but stories that show us how to face our own realities can be more reassuring.

Conor's grandmother is different from any character I've ever seen Sigourney Weaver play.  She brings a different strength to this story than the kind she displays as Ripley in the Alien franchise.  She lets us see her as an older, somewhat fussy woman, with toughness in her core while masking a true vulnerability.  In due course we will see how much she really understands Conor, and just how much she loves him.  The fate of her character in the story, though, is to be seen through Conor's eyes.

And then there's Lewis MacDougall.  Only 12 years old while filming, he carries the entire movie.  It’s not what we expect, especially considering the famous actors working alongside him, but he proves their equal in every way.  This story is about the struggles of a young boy, and everything is seen from his point of view.  Conor will "come of age" by the end of the story, forced to grow up too quickly in a world too cruel to notice.  Yet tenderness and pure love are shared along the way.  He has hard lessons to learn as he goes, but he's never as alone as he feels.  When the monster finally demands to hear Conor’s story, when he finally reveals his truth, it’s undeniably brave.  Maybe what he’s going through won’t break him, after all, and he’ll grow in strength and wisdom.

This is a sad story, but not a bleak one.  As the monster tells his tales, profound truths are spoken.  (I love that the final words of the novel are spoken by the monster.  And then Patrick Ness decided to give the movie one last little scene beyond the end of the novel.  It provides a breathtaking moment that is open to interpretation.  Is the monster a manifestation of Conor’s worries and dreams, or is he an actual creature from an ancient time?  You get to decide.)  We come to love and understand a boy who faces some bitter realities.  By the time the movie ends and his journey to adulthood begins, we know he'll be okay.  And so will we.

Casablanca

There are many movies that could be called "classic," but Casablanca (1942) is the one that, whenever I hear someone mention the title, makes me perk up and smile.  Its reputation has been going strong for over 80 years now.  Once you've seen it, it's easy to understand why.  Anybody who hasn't seen the movie is missing out.  I don't say this to be snobbish, only to point out that I spent nearly half my life not knowing what I was missing.

I didn't see Casablanca until I was in my twenties and immediately felt like I should've known better.  American audiences don't treasure films from the past as much as they probably should, especially films shot in black and white.  I hate to admit it, but there was a period in my life when old black-and-white films turned me off.  I like to think I've evolved enough to appreciate their beauty and understand their significance in cinema history.  Something about how they look seems more timeless to me now than color films.

Of course there are other noteworthy films from the same period, but you can probably tell by now that Casablanca is my favorite.  I grew up hearing the same snatches of (misquoted) dialogue as everybody else.  It made me worry that the story would be corny.  On the contrary, in the proper context, all the lines of dialogue I knew were either funnier or more meaningful than I had expected.  It causes one to realize that this is a sign of just how good the story is, no matter the circumstances surrounding the writing.  How many other films can you name where nearly every line is considered a classic and is still quoted 80 years later?

Legends have built up around the making of Casablanca.  In one respect it was a pretty standard studio production, with established writers, an experienced director, and a cast full of stars.  The one major hitch seems to be that the script was being written as the film was being shot, which only added to the usual stress of filmmaking.  Considering that the story was being written on the fly, with virtually no time for rewriting and editing, it holds up astoundingly well all these years later.  No one expected it to be a hit, they didn't think it was special in any way, but it won the Academy Award for Best Picture.  And here we are, still talking about it.  There are Best Picture winners from the last 20 years that have already been largely forgotten.  Casablanca may outlive them all.

The first thing that comes to my mind upon hearing the title is the interesting mix of characters.  There's the cynical yet mysterious loner, Rick (Humphrey Bogart); his loyal, observant, piano-playing friend Sam (Dooley Wilson); the stunning Ilsa Lund (Ingrid Bergman), who keeps nearly as many secrets as Rick; resistance leader Victor Laszlo (Paul Henreid); the enterprising and entertaining Captain Renault (Claude Rains); the face of the vile Nazis, Major Strasser (Conrad Veidt); the amusing and vaguely sinister Ferrari (Sydney Greenstreet); the slimy Ugarte (Peter Lorre); and many others, of course.

Throughout the story we meet character after character and realize that the movie is perfectly cast from top to bottom.  All of them are good actors, but to look at them is to instantly understand who they are.  I can't think of one weak link.  Even the people cast in bit parts are unusually effective and memorable.

Consider the cinematography.  The look of the movie is beautiful, and yet, if you watch carefully, you will realize there is nothing fancy about how the film was shot.  There are no shots that draw attention, no camera setups that stand out.  It's almost rudimentary, although it's a stellar example of how a director serves the story.  Michael Curtiz's direction always places emphasis on character and story and never makes it about "the look."  And yet we can't take our eyes off the screen.  Another contributing factor is the pitch-perfect costume design.  None of it is meant to be precisely realistic or accurate to the time and place, but it's all of a piece, so to speak, and works to create a strong look for the film.

The story has its complexities, but it's pretty straightforward.  Two German couriers carrying letters of transit are murdered at the top of the story, and everybody in Casablanca is on the lookout for the letters, while the authorities plan to seize the murderer.  Casablanca itself is considered "unoccupied," full of countless refugees and under the control of the Vichy French, who kowtow to the Nazis.

Most of the story takes place in "Rick's Café Américain," which is a melting pot of disparate characters.  When Victor Laszlo and Ilsa Lund arrive in Casablanca, the Nazis endeavor to keep Laszlo from leaving, and it's clear that his only chance to escape is to obtain the letters of transit.  While it never becomes evident to the other characters that Rick has the letters, it’s what they all suspect.  And even though Rick sticks his neck out for nobody, he's the real hero of the story (not boring Laszlo).  What complicates things, though, is that Rick and Ilsa have a past, one that will have to be resolved by the end of the movie.

Bogart and Bergman would forever be associated with these characters.  It's easy to see how they continue to resonate.  Rick and Ilsa love each other, but they do something almost heroic by looking beyond their love and doing what they think is right, even at the cost of their personal happiness.  That's why we remember them so well.  If Ilsa had run off with Rick, the story would have been forgotten soon after the movie was released.  But what Rick does at the end of the movie is noble, dignified, and unselfish.  When the movie was released, the world was still in the middle of a war, and audiences were craving stories that would give them hope.  A lot of the time, what people want are stories where characters do the right thing in the face of evil, and Casablanca delivers.

(Cinephile trivia alert.  Ingrid Bergman’s portrayal of Ilsa Lund is so memorable that the Mission: Impossible movies starring Tom Cruise feature Rebecca Ferguson—whose looks are reminiscent of Bergman—as Ilsa Faust, an absolutely wonderful character who can be found in . . . Casablanca, of course.)

There's one aspect of the legends surrounding the production that has always bothered me, and that's the myth of the filmmakers and actors not knowing if Ilsa would leave with Victor Laszlo or stay with Rick.  This rumor was perpetuated even by people involved in the production.  Roger Ebert pointed out (quite correctly, I think) that the production code at that time would have never allowed the married Ilsa to run off with Rick.  Yes, it's true that the writers were working on it right up to the end, but they did have to abide by current standards.  Why does the myth persist?  Well, it makes a good story.

Let’s talk about the music.  How many times have we heard people misquote Ilsa’s request of Sam?  To hear Ingrid Bergman say the real line, followed by Dooley Wilson’s inimitable performance of “As Time Goes By,” is a much more moving experience than I had ever guessed.  Composer Max Steiner wanted to write his own song for the movie, but he was stuck using “As Time Goes By.”  To his credit, he incorporated it into his score, lending it even greater emotional significance throughout the story.  Steiner’s use of the song helped make it timeless.

When it comes down to it, Casablanca is difficult to describe.  It doesn’t fit into any single genre.  It has thriller elements, romance, bits of comedy, suspense, and a healthy dose of patriotism.  (The scene where people in the café sing “La Marseillaise” to drown out the Nazis never fails to inspire me.  The power of music, my friends.)  Describing the film as a “classic” seems too simple.  It gives us something to aspire to, exemplified by Rick and Ilsa making personal sacrifices so that good can prevail.  The first time I sat down to watch Casablanca I came to realize that it was only the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

The Remains of the Day

I know people who consider The Remains of the Day (1993) to be boring in the extreme.  The first time I watched it, though, I was glued to the screen.  The story holds deep fascination for me, not because of the time period so much as the unfolding internal human drama.  The most important parts of the story are almost never expressed through dialogue.  This is partly due to the time period and culture the characters inhabit, when genteel civility prevailed in "polite" society.  Most of the focus is on Mr. Stevens (Anthony Hopkins) and his seeming inability to share his thoughts, feelings, and opinions with his colleagues, if, in fact, he even has any.

Anthony Hopkins won the Academy Award the previous year for his portrayal of Hannibal Lecter in The Silence of the Lambs.  Although he deserved praise for taking such a disturbing character and making him inexplicably likable, I think what he does in Remains of the Day is much more subtle and even more difficult.  We don't always know what Stevens is thinking, but we are sure that he is holding back.  When we meet his father (played by Peter Vaughan), we gain a little understanding of the impossible standards that Mr. Stevens has been raised to uphold.  Other than that, we get no back story and can only guess what has led him to stifle normal human interaction, all in the name of service to his employer.

It's clear from the beginning that Mr. Stevens is possibly the most devoted butler in cinema history (except maybe for Bruce Wayne's butler Alfred).  He holds Lord Darlington (James Fox) in the highest regard.  It seems that Lord Darlington holds himself in the highest regard, as well.  Although he is a perfect English gentleman, he is a bit of a fool.  Thinking themselves learned and wise, Darlington and other English aristocrats dabble in international politics, foolishly believing that they can negotiate with a monster like Hitler.  After finding himself on the wrong side of history, Darlington is branded a traitor.  It's not Lord Darlington's fate that will haunt us after the story ends, though, but that of Mr. Stevens.  Was he as much of a fool in his blind devotion to a kindly, albeit misguided, master?

Even Darlington's godson, Reginald Cardinal (Hugh Grant), knows that something is amiss.  There is a sad scene where he tries to get Mr. Stevens to understand, yet Stevens is so focused on his duties, so sure of Lord Darlington's good intentions, that he doesn't seem to grasp the severity of the situation, nor the impact events will have on society at large.  As he reveals late in the film, he doesn't see it as his place to listen in on his employer's conversations, or to form an opinion of things.  His entire existence revolves around his duties as a butler within the contained world of Darlington Hall.

The one person in the story who attempts to pierce Mr. Stevens' facade is Miss Kenton (Emma Thompson), the head housekeeper.  In terms of the Darlington Hall chain of command, they have pretty much equal standing.  It becomes clear to us that Miss Kenton is attracted to Mr. Stevens.  What is less clear is how he feels about her.  I think he is deeply attracted to her, and yet he suppresses those feelings at every turn, as if he's unsure how to handle them.  Why would he do that?  We never find out.  I'm not bringing this up as a complaint; I think it adds intrigue to the story.  Having a character who is a bit of a mystery is usually more interesting, but it only works when you have the right actor in the part, and Hopkins is brilliant.

The relationship between Mr. Stevens and Miss Kenton is really the most pivotal one in the film.  Emma Thompson's performance is the more "human" of the two, relatable to a larger degree.  Her efforts to become closer to Stevens are not overt in any normal sense, but in the carefully controlled realm of Mr. Stevens' repression, they are nearly earth-shaking.  She is only seeking a worthy human connection, yet Stevens is somehow incapable of such a thing, possibly lacking the knowledge of how to even go about it.  Nowadays people would probably label him as autistic or something like that, but I'm not sure it's that simple.

Consider a couple of scenes.  When Lord Darlington decides that a pair of cleaning girls should be dismissed because they are Jewish, it's obvious that Mr. Stevens is disquieted by this.  He knows that it's morally wrong, but he doesn't think it's his place to say anything, certainly not to his employer.  Only months later does Miss Kenton discover that Mr. Stevens was upset by the dismissal, after Lord Darlington expresses regret for his decision.  It frustrates her that Stevens keeps so much to himself, and yet it offers us a small glimpse into his soul.  He does have feelings.

Many reviews pinpoint the scene between Mr. Stevens and Miss Kenton when she corners him and tries to find out what kind of book he's reading.  That scene leads to another that haunts me.  Feeling rejected by Mr. Stevens, Miss Kenton reveals that she is entertaining a proposal for marriage from Mr. Benn (Tim Pigott-Smith).  When she informs Mr. Stevens, she turns slightly cruel, describing the way she and Mr. Benn discuss Stevens behind his back.  What she's really trying to do is get a rise out of him, attempting to get him to show some kind of emotion.  But Mr. Stevens is professional to a fault (which we see earlier as he carries on with his duties even as his father is on his deathbed).  The only crack we see in the facade is when Stevens drops a bottle of wine in the basement.

Years later, when Darlington Hall is owned by retired United States Congressman Jack Lewis (Christopher Reeve, who is supremely effective in a critical dinner scene during Darlington's international conference), Mr. Stevens travels to the West Country hoping to reconnect with Miss Kenton and convince her to return to her old post.  Yes, they need a new housekeeper, although I think we know that Stevens, even if he doesn't realize it, secretly wants her back in his life.  Roger Ebert put it perfectly: "The closing scenes paint a quiet heartbreak.  The whole movie is quiet, introspective, thoughtful: A warning to those who put their emotional lives on hold, because they feel their duties are more important.  Stevens has essentially thrown away his life in the name of duty.  He has used his 'responsibilities' as an excuse for avoiding his responsibility to his own happiness."

There is so much more that could be said about the surrounding political environment, about people who live as servants, and the snoots who deign to employ them.  The story is even savvy enough to recognize how French leaders fooled themselves into making unwise accommodations for Hitler and the Nazis.  This film exposes a wide variety of subjects for examination.

The film was adapted by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala from the Kazuo Ishiguro novel, produced by Ismail Merchant, and directed by James Ivory.  It was made when Merchant-Ivory productions were quite a thing, displaying a mastery of the period.  From top to bottom their productions are top-notch.  Ivory's direction is never flashy, always paying careful attention to subtle details and acting choices.  Jhabvala took a novel that is largely internal and made it accessible from a visual standpoint.  And the actors are uniformly excellent, allowing us a fascinating glimpse into lives different from our own.

I'll give the final words to Mr. Ebert: "The Remains of the Day is a subtle, thoughtful movie.  There are emotional upheavals in it, but they take place in shadows and corners, in secret.  It tells a very sad story—three stories, really.  Not long ago I praised a somewhat similar film, Martin Scorsese's The Age of Innocence, also about characters who place duty above the needs of the heart.  I got some letters from readers who complained the movie was boring, that 'nothing happens in it.'  To which I was tempted to reply: If you had understood what happened in it, it would not have been boring."