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Not Quite America's Favorite Bank Robbers
The best films are almost always poems. Film shows us pictures
in concert with sounds, arousing the senses with the emotional
nakedness of poet. Film, like poetry, is marked by compaction
of thought expressed in vivid, concrete images. Essentially,
film is poetic drama, the use of story to the poetic ends
of expression of emotion and ideas on life. Film's inherent
compaction contributes to its intensity, differentiating it
from the novel, which, broadly stated, is long prose expressing
ideas bluntly, less like a lyrical painter and more like an
essayist philosopher. As director Sam Mendes himself told
Premiere, "The power of film is that the theme
should be revealed in image, not in words."
I think that's why novel adaptations are almost invariably
disappointing: novel and film are two divergent mediums. Novel
relies on scopic narratives for its ideas; implied in the
serious novel is a certain demand of realism and the rules
of the physical world. To contrast, romance, even in prose,
is the language of the poet's imagination. In theory, pure
realism in cinema is impossible to achieve (the only protests
from auteurs of cinema verite, see Stephen Soderbergh's
upcoming Full Frontal) because the action is staged:
lighted and filmed at the director's behest—it has
to be poetry because the scene itself is constructed from
the imagination of the artist. Serious novels are children
of the author's imagination as well, but implied in the novelistic
contract is more reason and less emotion, less musical rhythm
and more rote ideas, more argumentation and less pure affection.
Think of it this way: Novels are read over periods of time
to the inkling of the reader; film is like listening to symphony
or album at the rhythm and pace of the composer.
I take you through such dry academics to say that I'm impressed
by directors who are master lyricists—those who employ
the elements of cinema to compose the compact, intense, emotional
poetic drama that is inherently film. And the masters (think
Kubrick's use of classical music, Fellini's photography, Truffaut's
imagery) realize the possibility of cinema by assembling filmmaking
teams who individual voices contribute to the unified vision
of the director. The auteur directs the final vision, but
the elements are still the contribution of a team. In this
way, film is less lyricism and more choric poetry—the
Greeks defined lyric poetry as that sung by a single
singer, usually accompanied by a lyre; choric poetry the
expression of drama sung by a chorus, in this case, a filmmaking
team.
Sam Mendes certainly understands the importance of the difference
as it applies to moviemaking. In a time when even the most
banal filmmakers stamp their movies "A So-and-so Film,"
Sam Mendes does not. There's a very misguided pretension in
labeling Rush Hour 2 "A Brett Ratner Film."
or The Sum of All Fears "A Phil Alden Robinson
Film." Mendes, as much as any working filmmaker, understands
that film is a collaborative medium, the choric poetry of
a chorus of artists voiced in their own element of film.
Every frame of this film is a work of art, a composition
of those rarely recognized artists whose labor stir the emotions
and ideas of the viewer. The art director (Richard Johnson),
production designer (Dennis Gassner), and set decorator (Nancy
Haigh) are the same as The Truman Show's, a film I
would argue as the best big-budget Hollywood film of the last
five years. In that film, the design is integral to the storytelling:
The gloss of Seahaven is an expression of the emotional lacquer
of suburban middle class America, filmed with such a shiny
blandness that the cartoonish of Truman's world is nearly
comical, if not for the tragedy of his imprisonment. The design
of the film encourages us to cheer Truman's bursting through
its veneer of perfect picket fences, Truman's desire for a
"real" relationship directly in contrast with the
sterility of the universe in which he inhabits On a certain
level, the average Hollywood audience might recognize Seahaven
on the ride home from the multiplex, but in the very least,
we can cheer for Truman to see the truth as we do, the trick
of the design team to create a vision of heaven but make it
feel like hell. This trio also worked on the ravishing, but
far less substantial O Brother, Where Art Thou, each
having experience in other Coen Brothers movies, perhaps drawing
inspiration from Miller's Crossing, a gangster movie
combining the Coens absurd imagery with their keen sense of
art and style.
Their work in Road to Perdition captures the sparseness
of the graphic novel upon which the film is based. The film,
like the frames of the book, are almost entirely white-on-black,
with deep brown tones. Deep cherry and oak woods compose the
rooms, as if there's a coat of varnish over the film suggesting
an emotional distance that needs to be stripped away. That
distance is bridged by the costume designer, the legendary
Albert Wolsky, who creates black-on-black ensembles that highlight
the expressions of the actors, allowing the tightlipped cruelty
of Paul Newman to stare us in the face, or shock us with the
very human regret of Tom Hanks performing a hit. This story
puts a human face on a movie character so often one-dimensional
filmmakers describe them in shorthand: the hitman. He is the
Angel of Death, Beelzebub in a black trenchcoat, yet we're
lends a certain sympathy for this Michael Sullivan. Sullivan's
violence is not at all flamboyant, the shock of his violence
contrasting with his quiet family man persona. This does not
forgive his violent sins, and without the use of dialogue,
sound man Mark Adams, who won last year's Oscar for his stunning
work in Black Hawk Down, conveys this element of the
character with a most brutal discharge of handguns and the
gentle tinkling of empty shells. Contributing to the aural
effect is the Oscar-winning composer of American Beauty,
Thomas Newman, who manages to integrate his distinctive marimba
and percussion ideas into this somber story, emphasizing the
bass to cast a shadow over the feel of the film. Even the
Lester Burnham dream sequence percussion becomes an aural
clue that something fantastic may happen. And be not forgotten,
all these elements have to edited together, here by 2001 Oscar
nominee Jill Bilcock, whose rapid cuts gave Moulin Rouge!
almost precisely the opposite feel of this film.
Of course, the most significant contribution to the Mendes
vision is legendary cinematographer Conrad Hall. Mendes was
a successful stage director (his most famous credits include
Cabaret and The Glass Menagerie) before going
into film (his first two movies are this and American Beauty),
and it's easy to see why Mendes is so drawn to Hall's work.
Hall uses light to capture characters at the height of expression,
as with most stage lighting, but film requires a more subtle
touch. With the stage, the audience can see the source of
light streaming onto the actors, implied in the stage-audience
contract is the notion that we're at a production—stage
lighting has to be strong enough to reach the back of the
auditorium. With film, the trick is to spotlight actors without
attracting attention to the lighting. Hall's work is so subtle,
but so precise in its staging that the characters seem to
emerge and reveal themselves at exact moments of vulnerability
or rage. Hall is especially good with morally ambiguous characters—he
hides them in the dark and allows them to reveal themselves
in the soft light, resulting in a jolt that lets the actor
develop ideas without words. Much of his work in this film
harks back to In Cold Blood, in which he used similar
lighting techniques to re-create the chilling murders in the
Clutter household. For a more recent example, think of the
scene in American Beauty in which Chris Cooper waits
in the corner for Wes Bentley to open the door to his room,
stepping into the light streaming in through the window. In
this film, there's a spectacular scene of Tom Hanks descending
some stairs, lighted from above such that his face is hidden
by the shadow of his fedora. When asked his identity, he merely
raises his face into the light, inspiring dread in the doorkeeper.
Hall uses this subtle soft white throughout the film, letting
it absorb into the the black trenchcoat or black cars, so
what is reflected back to us is significant. It's the same
scheme used by the illustrator of the graphic novel, Richard
Piers Rayner, with black-on-white pen-and-ink. For a look
at the original text, (click
here for a look at a few frames of the novel)
As for Mendes himself, he's developing his own style based
upon visual motifs that he's able to employ in films with
completely different tones and themes. Fans of American
Beauty will recognize the Mendes dinner table and significance
of the things in and around one's house—indeed, strange
things do happen in the garage. Mendes also loves to guide
the camera through wide, empty streets and highways. I cannot
recall rain ever used as effectively as it was during the
final twenty minutes of American Beauty, and in this
film, it rains so much that I recall Frank McCourt's famous
line about the depressive Irish and the relationship to their
weather: "But above all, we were wet." It's wetter
than Angela's Ashes in this movie—this reviewer
recommends seeing Road to Perdition sans beverages
if you expect to make it all the way through without breaking
the seal. And Mendes shows his mysteriously macabre streak—he
again splatters blood and brain against white tile. There
are several other visual motifs that Mendes is working into
his directoral style, and I find it fascinating to watch him
employ these images in stories so different in theme and tone.
It's best to enter the theater with anything but a skeleton
of the story. Road to Perdition is based on a graphic
novel Max Allan Collins (The Nathan Heller Series, Dick
Tracy from the mid-seventies to early nineties) the book
has a more outlandish plot, he meets Capone and Eliot Ness,
and takes on the world like Lone Wolf and Cub (The Lone Ranger
for us moviegoers, as its shown to us by Michael Junior's
book). The obvious appeal to the filmmaking team is the mythological
weight of the story. David Self (Thirteen Days, The Haunting)
added some elements to help the audience navigate the movie,
like the wake at the beginning to help give us an idea of
this world. The story can be summated by John Rooney's observation
to Michael Sullivan after an episode of boyhood curiosity
gone terribly wrong, "Sons were put on this Earth to
torture their fathers." This story is about the cycle
of violence passed down from men, stemming from the original
sins of pride, vanity, arrogance, and greed generated from
a patriarch, like in—you guessed it—Paradise
Lost. John Rooney is Satan, at least that's what I gathered
when Mendes filmed him being lapped by the flames of a fireplace.
That makes Michael Sullivan, whom Rooney loves "Like
a son," his Beelzebub. Throw Rooney's blood son Conor,
a weak and undisciplined playboy, into the mix, and what we
have is classic Greek tragedy with a biblical spin. Rooney
is a Godfather, at once benevolent provider but cruel cormorant,
probably meant as embodiment of the yin and yang of both God
and Satan. Michael Sullivan is his Angel of Death, Michael
being the harsh angel God sent to Adam and Eve to warn of
the violent and bloody fate of mankind. So throw the conflict
between Sullivan's two sons, and Michael Jr.'s conflict with
his dad into that mix, and we're clearly headed for Cain and
Abel territory, flavored by an Mendes' sensibility of ultimate
redemption.
From a narrative standpoint, Mendes chooses to film the movie,
when he can, from the kid's perspective, much like Spielberg
did with E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial, in an attempt
to show us man's folly through the innocent eyes of a child.
We learn about Michael Sullivan as Michael Junior does: glimpses
of him removing his gun from his coat, scenes of Dad on the
job filmed from the perspective of the eavesdropping child.
The idea is that boys learn their behavior from their masculine
role models—in such a violent, murderous world, what
does this ultimately mean for mankind? Where does it end?
How does it end? Does it end at all? In other words, are men
doomed to repeat the sins of their fathers that extends clear
back to Lucifer's misguided machismo against the Almighty?
Because the movie is filmed from the kid's perspective, this
idea hangs over the film—indeed, the comic relief of
the film comes when Michael teaches Michael Junior how to
drive the getaway car. This teeters close to the brink, but
Sullivan is interested most in saving his son from his own
violence, and this idea is the dramatic question of the film.
(This paragraph contains partial spoilers. Skip to the next
if you haven't seen the film.)
If there's a thematic intersection between Road to Perdition
and American Beauty, it lies in the idea of Petrarchan
redemption—that once a man finds and accomplishes his
purpose in life, then there is nothing left for him. Mendes
seems almost puritanically obsessed with self-improvement
as redemption and death as a sort of victory in his final
judgment. He's very self-conscious of this: Each film involves
a boyish figure taking pictures of death for its ironic beauty.
Ultimately, Ricky Fitts is a benevolent force: He's a collector
of death images, a harmless voyeur whose small smile shows
us that he understands the tragic beauty in Lester's death
that he helped facilitate. Maguire (Jude Law) is an evil force—he
peddles his death for profit. Mendes, especially in his reoccurring
image of brains splattered against white tile, insists on
rubbing our faces in blood, and with this Maguire characters,
I sense a sort of artistic guilt. Is he trying to assuage
his own guilt of winning an Oscar for exploiting brutality?
Is he as disturbed by the violence he creates as Michael Sullivan
is? Does Mendes see himself as an Angel of Death, playing
God with his characters as He does us—enacting his own
sort of brutal justice on both his characters and the audience?
I look to the final confrontation between Rooney and Sullivan:
There's an audience to confrontation in the surrounding apartment
windows, who may only look on has horrified as we do, as if
Mendes is showing us our own voyeuristic reaction to his stage
play of violence. Clearly Mendes is developing not just his
ideas on violence and murder in movies, but on filmmaking
and art itself. You can bet that a camera will worm its way
into the plot of his third film.
I would also like to describe how wonderful Paul Newman,
Jude Law, and Tom Hanks' performances are, but I willingly
admit myself unable. Along with Daniel Craig (Michael Jr.),
these actors carry the final half hour of the film with barely
any dialogue. Newman will certainly get a supporting nomination,
but I'm not so sure about Hanks. In my mind, this year has
yet to provide as menacing a figure as fat, spooky Tom hulking
in his trenchcoat, fedora over his face, icing people at point
blank range. I've heard grumblings about his performance,
but I'm about sick and tired of it. Listen, film critics and
Academy members, Tom Hanks is the best actor in American mainstream
film. Period. Who else could carry a dialogue-less hour long
sequence on a desert island and have that film stay number
one at the box office four weeks in a row? I understand that
the Academy doesn't want to give him a third Oscar, and I
understand that hard-core film critics don't like him because
he's so popular. I know it's frustrating that you can't write
your "This is what movie stars do" essays every
time a Tom Cruise movie comes out. But this has got to stop.
Hanks' natural empathy creates a character unlike no henchman
I can remember onscreen, and you after to credit him for that.
Let us put Joe Versus the Volcano behind us. Film critics
are right to indict this film as inexcusably maudlin, but
Hanks was Forrest Freakin' Gump. Is there a more memorable
character in American cinema since 1990? No, so just give
it up and fall in line with the rest of us: There's nobody
better right now than Tom Hanks, and he's certainly not the
problem with this picture.
If there's a major flaw in Road to Perdition, it's
that the movie is hounded by self-consciousness. Sam Mendes
clearly knows he's making a great movie, and some of the shots
are a little cocky, especially the final confrontation between
Hanks and Newman. The entire feel of the film is a little
cold and distant, but isn't that the son's perception of his
father? Doesn't the tone of the film match what's happening
at its emotional center? The film warms in its lyrical final
sequences, especially after the relationship comes to fruition.
Perhaps I'm stretching a bit. I would love to give this movie
five stars, but Mendes shows off a bit too much, and he leaves
a subplot with a farm family way too underdeveloped to be
credible. In the final analysis, cynical, hard-core critics
might have you believe that Road to Perdition isn't
an immortal movie, but these are the same people who go unmoved
by Forrest Gump, so who gives a damn about them anyway.
Filmsnobs, the end-sum of Road to Perdition is pure
cinematic poetry, a palpable care of every frame labored to
perfection as is each syllable of a sonnet.
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