The Best of Intentions

I haven’t seen Tron: Legacy yet.

This is not a tragedy, but I do regret it, a bit. I may, in fact, go see it by myself in theaters. Why? Because I’ve been told that if I plan to see it at all, it’s worth seeing 3D (and possibly IMAX, if I’m willing to spend 20 bucks on Tron.)

I’ve done this before. A year ago, no one particularly wanted to go see Avatar by the time I was in a position to see it, but I plunked down the cash and saw it in Imax-3D by myself. And I’m glad I did; the films’ merits were best showcased by the format, and I don’t think I’d have appreciated it as fully watching the Netflix DVD or, perhaps worse but more likely, streaming it over my variably reliable wireless connection.

This is not to say I’m a 3D nut: quite the contrary. I’ve been vociferous in my disapproval for retroactively added 3D – one of the worst things about the terrible Last Airbender was the washed-out, poorly-rendered 3D effects, and it really added nothing to Alice in Wonderland for me.

However, there is a difference for me between a film shot in 3D, and a film that the studios are trying to milk for extra cash. It’s not that the former is always good, but I will pause and seriously consider paying more for the in-theater, 3D experience.

It boils down to directorial intentions.

Now, as a former literature student, I know that authorial intentions are a contested subject, and film studies seem to be no different, from my more limited experience.  We can’t know what a filmmaker was thinking, shot for shot. Even in the age of interviews and the ubiquity of directors’ commentaries, artists are often uninteresting or flat out wrong about their own work.

That said, however, I do think artists – including filmmakers – should be able to show their work to best effect.

Of course, this is a pipe dream, in some ways. Especially for Hollywood films, they are as much or more product than art, and repackaging is par for the course. Colorization, the process of adding color to film originally shot in black and white, is generally frowned upon by film critics, but often undertaken by studios hoping to reach an audience who might avoid older films without it. Though I understand wanting to open a film to a broader audience, the director and the cinematographer made choices of composition and lighting based on the monochrome format.  Including a colorized version on a DVD is one thing, but I am nothing but sympathetic in cases like John Houston’s, regarding broadcasting or re-releasing a colorized film.

In some ways, the DVD has been a boon, in that it has allowed for the option of including both (as my copy of Miracle on 34^th Street does). The combination of DVDs and wide-screen TVs has also done great things to popularize letterboxing. (I had the worst time convincing one of my aunts that I wanted letterboxed DVDs when I asked for movies as gifts.) Many sets will include both versions, but formatting for a square screen is slowly fading out, which is just as well for me. Pan-and-scan, as cropping for fullscreen was often called, seldom took composition or framing into account.

There’s certainly a contingent of viewers who feel like this fuss about colorization or aspect ratios or composition is a tempest in a teakettle. After all, many viewers grew up exposed to films on square TVs, cut with commercials, edited for time and content. The good films hold up, for the most part, and who cares about the bad ones?

But the truth is that films that deserve serious consideration deserve to be seen the way the filmmaker intended. This isn’t always possible, of course; not everyone can afford a state-of-the-art home cinema, or to see every movie they watch in the theater. But it pays to take the effort to get close, when given a choice.  As for the less-than-serious films, that’s up to the viewer. I’ll eventually see Rabbit Hole at home, and be no worse off for it, but the enjoyment I got from Iron Man 2 would have been partly lost, watching it at home.

So, since I do intend to eventually see Tron: Legacy out of my deep childhood affection for the original, I really should get my act together and go out this weekend. If I’m going to like it, I should try it at its best. That’s all a filmmaker can ask.

Rocks Fall, Everyone Might Die

Whiy yes, I did just completely forget to post a film review last Thursday. Well done me. Schedule resuming normally this week. Also, spoiler-phobes, be warned that the end of several films (including Toy Story 3) are discussed below.

When an artist, or a viewer, knows that a film will be the last in a series, they suddenly have license to raise the stakes in a way they couldn’t before. One of the biggest reasons it’s hard to create stakes in an ongoing series is a certain reluctance on the part of the creators to either put major characters in enough jeopardy that the audience believes they’re actually in danger, or to invest in more than one or two characters in the first place. The former problem is one that Western comic books often face; the latter is closer to a James Bond scenario, where supporting players come and go and are largely interchangeable.

Stakes, however, are about more than the logical knowledge that a character might or might not die. And Pixar used this knowledge, more than anything else, to create a terrifying sequence in Toy Story 3. Even though it’s the end of the series, and so one or two characters might be lost, I doubt anyone would really believe that the movie would kill all of the main characters at a go outside the context of the shot.  As the toys head toward incineration, a small part of your brain knows something will stop it. But when you trust a filmmaker, as an audience member, you also trust that bad things could really happen. (I could not get over the fact that Disney’s The Princess and the Frog actually killed its comic relief.)

For my generation, I don’t think things were ever the same, movie-wise, after Mufasa’s death. All bets were off, at that point, and it was the first time many of us lucky to have our parents imagined what it would be like to lose one of them.

This is not to say that killing or threatening to kill beloved characters is the only way to create stakes. In Inception, it’s established very early that killing someone in a dream just wakes them up. Though pain is on the table, there’s a safety net in place. But by the introduction of limbo, Christopher Nolan cleverly removes that safety net without violating the premise. Your body can’t die in a dream, but go too deeply, and the mind can get trapped. It’s terrifying, and at the same time supports the greater story he’s trying to tell.

Stakes can go awry, however. Danny Boyle’s Sunshine is 2/3 of an excellent movie, but the last act disintegrates.  In part, I feel it’s because it veers away from why it’s so important for the characters to be where they are in the first place. It’s not just their own lives they’re fighting for, but the survival of the planet. The points at which the film is most grounded are those where their struggle is reset in this context; when it’s veers too close to a locked-room horror movie, it gets silly.

Sometimes the first film in a series can have good stakes because it isn’t clear that it’s going to be a series. Obviously, Harry won’t die in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone; even if you haven’t read the books, that’s going to be apparent. In the first Matrix movie, on the other hand, it wasn’t evident that any character was or wasn’t safe, and it gave the film’s dangers an added sense of urgency. As with Inception, a world with different rules is still made one with very real and dangerous consequences.

In film, then, as in many story telling media, stakes are the foundation of, and grow out of, solid storytelling technique. Characters must stand at risk of losing something, as concrete as the screenwriters’ clichéd “glass of water” or as intangible as their lover’s affection. There’s a special sort of intensity, however, that comes from the danger of death, either for oneself or someone else. The climax of The Dark Knight has to do, at first blush, with the lives of a great many strangers. In the end, it boils down to the life of Gordon’s son.  By tracking who stands to lose what, you can see where the weight of the film’s emotion falls.

That said, film as a visual medium also has to consider artistic perspectives when making these choices, consistent with the film’s style and tone. The lighting, in the example of Toy Story 3, is a large and memorable part of the scene. Music can be helpful too, though it can risk veering into narm territory if it’s too over-the-top or directly manipulative. There’s a line between drama and melodrama, after all.

Watching a bunch of toys, however, bravely take each other’s hands as they stare death in the face is moving because we’ve invested in the characters, because the threat is real, and because the world of the film allows for the possibility that they might be right in believing they won’t make it.  The film takes the threat seriously, so the audience can too. It develops characters (it’s meaningful that Buzz starts it, and Woody finishes) and it also serves as an emotional punch that the plot has developed toward, not simply a twist for shock’s sake.

Pixar is so successful because it gets these sort of fundamentals right. A lot of Hollywood offerings could stand to take notes.

Watching Christmas Movies

Christmas movies, like Christmas music, need reviewing in a slightly different vein than other forms of entertainment.  I’m no believer in cutting holiday movies slack because they’re holiday movies; there are certainly enough good ones that there’s no excuse for watching drivel just because it happens to involve jingle bells.

That said, however, each new holiday movie is seen with a critical eye. Will this movie become a staple of the yearly celebration? Will it stand up to yearly re-watchings, or is it the sort of thing you put on in the background of a holiday party, knowing no one will really be watching it?

The first thing to consider is A Christmas Carol. Dickens’ novella, in many ways, defined the secular Christmas we know and love today, and few would make a list of favorite Christmas films that didn’t include at least one feature-length version.  There are animated versions, old versions, new versions. It’s a story that will hold up under countless retellings, and choosing the best becomes, ultimately, a matter of taste. I am quite fond of the musical Albert Finney version, called Scrooge (incredibly cheesy in places, but fun):

Not to be confused with the also-delightful Bill Murray Scrooged. But, and without a wink, my actual favorite has to be The Muppet Christmas Carol. It’s more than a decade old, but wears well all the same. The jokes still work, it’s kid friendly without being condescending, and the scary parts are legitimately creepy. Michael Caine is pitch perfect, not redeeming Scrooge too soon, and preserving Scrooge’s wonderful sense of humor.

Scrooge hates caroling bunnies.

With A Christmas Carol, you’re telling a story everyone knows; it’s the film equivalent of The Nutcracker. (I’ve seen a couple movie adaptations, but I’d give them all a skip and see the ballet live if you can.)  Some Christmas movies, while not adapted over and over, have achieved this same mythical status. It’s A Wonderful Life, thanks to syndicated television, certainly makes the grade, and White Christmas does too. (I watch Holiday Inn, mainly because I love Fred Astaire, but its cringe-inducing blackface number means it’s never going to be a mainstream choice again.)  The original Miracle on 34^th Street, for me, is another that the season doesn’t feel complete without. Though I’ve seen one of the several remakes, I was unimpressed; original, non-colorized all the way.

 

Yes, please.

These are films that, through annual re-watching, you know by heart, almost shot for shot. It’s hard to keep a critical distance through the combination of familiarity and nostalgia, though when you do, it can yield some interesting results. (I’ve been much more interested in It’s A Wonderful Life once I realized what a dark, unsettling movie it really is.) Repetition can eventually open new aspects of a movie that you weren’t looking for.

Then there are films you know aren’t objectively good, but that you’re so used to watching, you keep watching anyway.  My family watched March of the Wooden Soldiers every year, and while Laurel and Hardy are a delight, the rest of the story is pretty feeble. (“Nevermind, Bo Peep” will be stuck in your head forever, though, once it lodges there.)

I’m also fond of the first installment of Tim Allen’s Santa Clause franchise, though neither of the sequels; partly, this is because I loved it as a kid, and was also a big fan of Home Improvement at the time it came out. I know many people who love National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, though I’m a little meh on it; I have nostalgic affection for Home Alone, but no drive to rewatch it.  My parents love A Christmas Story, which bored me as a child, but I’ve grown into as an adult.

There are movies that aren’t technically Christmas movies, but have a Christmas element to them. Little Women (1994) definitely fits this bill, as does Edward Scissorhands (but if you’re in the mood for Tim Burton, I’d just go with the stellar The Nightmare Before Christmas instead). Though I think it works better on stage, The Man Who Came to Dinner is certainly considered a classic. And while The Apartment is one of my favorite movies, it doesn’t feel very Christmas-y, despite the centrality of the holidays to the plot.

At the risk of just turning this into a laundry list of holiday films, I will summarize by saying that the holidays are a time to celebrate traditions. For some families, these traditions are musical, or culinary. They might include visits to particular places, or reading particular books.  In my family, Christmas always included Christmas films, some the same, some new.  (I had never seen Love Actually before this year. I know, horrifying. Bill Nighy, I love you.)

But it’s nice to use my critic powers only for good, and to revisit these annual films like the old friends they are.

The Architecture of Expectations

This is a story that began in 2005. I remember reading a book review in the New York Times; I must have been in Bronxville, given when it was published, but I have no real setting for it.  Just a vague memory that the review looked interesting, that I skimmed it because the words “revealing the premise” were in the first sentence, and that I vaguely thought, “oh yes, I should read that sometime.”

The book in question was Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. I’d never read anything else by Ishiguro, though I knew of The Remains of the Day. Still, this was a book that caught my eye mainly because it managed to get itself taken seriously despite whispers of “sci-fi” and “thriller” in its wake.

But I didn’t pick it up right away, and there it sat, on my lengthly list of books to read, some day, when the occasion arose.

And then, a few months ago, a trailer hit.

It’s not a terribly good trailer, in some ways; it gives away the central conceit of the story, and it’s a tad melodramatic (but then, the film might be too, I suppose). But what it did do was trigger my memory of the original review.

So I ended up getting the book on mp3 from the library, to listen to on the train. Rosalyn Landor, the narrator, was really excellent, and I fell in love with the narrative through her telling of it. It was a great thing to listen to on a train, watching suburbs turn into city and vice versa.  The book does a really stellar job of fully exploring a conceit while, at the same time, not forcing it down your throat.  The characters are alien and human all at once, and they drive the novel forward.  It’s certainly dystopian, but it’s not Orwell; it reminded me a bit of The Handmaid’s Tale, in some ways.

But it was a curious thing. Because I’d seen the trailer, the characters were definitely shaped by the three lead actors in my imaginings.  Not perfectly of course; rewatching the trailer, I realized I’d switched some details up, filled in images differently, forgotten some things and misremembered others.  So the book, in my head, was neither the “pure” experience, unfiltered by the knowledge of who would play certain roles, nor was it shaped as it would have been if I’d seen the film first.

The upshot of my enjoying the book so much has been nervousness about the film, despite a great desire to see it. With the book so fresh in my mind, is it even possible that I’ll like the movie? Or will I like the movie more for the pleasant associations it will have with a book I just finished enjoying not that long ago?

Movie adaptations, after all, have a very fine line to tread.  On the one hand, part of their marketing relies upon people who’ve either read the book or intended to; on the other, it’s certain that many people who see the film will have no experience with the book whatsover.  At once, you have to make a film that stands as a film while being true enough to the source material to please those who are trading off the name in the first place.  It’s very hard, and I’ve had both experiences as a moviegoer – adaptations that are loose, but enjoyable, and those that are faithful, but still miss an essential spark.

With any luck, I’ll be reviewing the film of Never Let Me Go in this space sometime soon.  But in the meantime, I’m examining my expectations a little more closely.  What do I want from the film, exactly? And knowing my expecations might be disappointed, can I buffer myself a bit?  Perhaps I’ll be happily surprised, in fact, and the whole thing will be moot.

It’s going to be a thoughtful movie (no explosions and no true macguffins, I’m sorry to say), but it does have a complex, quiet scifi aspect to it that, I expect, will be ignored by those who wish it to be a serious film.  It is a DRAMA, not science fiction, because it is a serious movie about serious things.

To this, I say, someday maybe people will realize that it can be both. And for this alone, I hope the film succeeds, even if in a quiet way.  Because a good movie is a good movie, regardless of what sort of trappings its plot relies upon.

Life of the Party

Watching a movie at a party is a particular sort of movie experience. It suits some movies well, and others it threatens to ruin; I’d never want to try and watch The Quiet American in a room full of people chattering and drinking, but this weekend’s Die Hard With a Vengeance was more or less perfect.

Here are some of the reasons I thought our movie choice worked:

1. Most, but not all, of the people present had seen the movie before. Even for those who hadn’t, the plot is basic enough to come in late and to miss chunks of dialogue. This is a crucial feature for an enjoyable party movie. Nothing is more frustrating than trying to follow an intricate plot in the middle of chaos, or feeling guilty when the person next to you tries to make conversation, forcing you to choose between rudeness or giving up on the film.

With the Die Hard movies, especially, everything moves at a fast clip but remains delightfully uncomplex. (Who are the bad guys? The ones with the fake German accents and the sunglasses. Who are we rooting for? Bruce Willis and Samuel L. Jackson. Oh, let’s blow something up.) This is a feature, not a defect: these movies are great to talk to, play along with, and pick up and put down as necessary.

Also, with an older movie, if you do get hopelessly lost, any number of fellow guests can fill you in, even if they haven’t been paying attention. (Equally, if the movie is abandoned before it ends, you’re not left on such a cliffhanger you’re upset; presumably, good triumphs and our hero prevails.)

2. Collectively watching a movie is also fun if there are puzzles or mysteries, to a point. No, you don’t want someone blurting out the end of The Usual Suspects. But in Die Hard With a Vengeance, for example, there’s a delightful scene in which our heroes have a 3 gallon jug and a 5 gallon jug, and must weight a scale with exactly 4 gallons of water.

Everyone had, of course, forgotten how this was done from their earlier experiences with the movie, so the party was suddenly involved in a quick mental exercise, throwing out and rejecting solutions playfully almost as fast as the characters do. They figured it out before we did (having a script helped, I imagine). But the attempts to figure out the problem briefly untied the party before we broke back into smaller sub-conversations again.

3. Humor. I find that action movies with a touch of comedy are perfect for parties. You can play with the action to humor axis, of course – Speed is delightfully mindless, and Sandra Bullock brings a few laughs, while Hot Fuzz skews more toward comedy, but has some really delightful chases. But regardless, giving people something to laugh at when they’re socializing (and possibly drinking) never goes amiss. And an action film with humor is less tricky to sell than trying to gauge a collective sense of humor. (Should we watch Animal House or Monty Python? The Hangover or Arsenic and Old Lace? Much harder.)

As a side note: Our movie was on TV, which also led to some unintentional humor in the deletion of profanity. It never ceases to amaze me how obvious it is what the original word was, and how much more attention we pay when it’s not there, but that’s another post in the making.

4. Recognizable actors, good or bad, are a conversation starter. Jeremy Irons turns up, and there’s a host of “I loved him in –” or “I always mix him up with” or “Why hasn’t he been in a Harry Potter move?” Samuel L. Jackson leads to Snakes on a Plane jokes, quoting Pulp Fiction, and mocking the Star Wars prequels.

Movies with big stars aren’t necessarily better than those without. But for party purposes, everyone knows and has opinions on the stars, and it’s one more way to interact with the film.

5. Speaking of interacting with the film, this last factor was serendipitous, but fun. A lot of Die Hard With a Vengeance was filmed on location in New York City. A friend of mine, who had never seen the film before, was amused and delighted to recognize places he was familiar with, even 20x years after the film was made. (Why hello, Gray’s Papaya.)

As someone who grew up in the Midwest, the joy of seeing places I recognized in films was severely limited. (PS, Steven Spielberg: There are no mountains in Muncie, Ind.) But now that I’ve been in Manhattan (and, to a lesser degree, Westchester) for long enough, there is a delicious feeling at being able to place a film scene in your own mental map. Recognizing exactly where something was shot is a pleasure best shared with friends, and seeing who can correctly identify a place first becomes a sort of game in itself.

Scouting NY recognizes this; the blog features the occasional movie to street comparison, and asks readers to identify certain movie scenes for fun.

Unless you happen to live in New York, L.A. or London, this sort of thing is hard to plan for. But if it does work out, it’s a bonus.

Ultimately, any film can be good background filler at a party, or (if the party’s going poorly) it can entertain more reticent guests. But if the right movie’s in the background, movie and party will work together, instead of pulling in two different directions. And sometimes, that’s all you need.

Marlowe, First Person, and the Voiceover

I recently finished reading Farewell, My Lovely, the second Philip Marlowe novel. (The second one to be written, at least – there’s nothing in it that requires a reader to have any familiarity with The Big Sleep, the prior book.) I enjoy Chandler a lot, even if I’m a Hammett girl in my heart of hearts.

But one thing I think Chandler handles really skillfully is the nuance of first person narration. Sam Spade is described from without, but Marlowe unfolds slowly, subtly from within. “I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat and a gun. I put them on and went out of the room.” It sums up the classic private eye succinctly and vividly.

And his dry, self-deprecating narration is conversational, as if he’s telling you the story over drinks in a dark bar. Even in action scenes the tone remains: “He bent me. I can be bent. I’m not the City Hall. He bent me.”

This style became iconic, and I’ve seen its influence in Mickey Spillane’s Dead Street and Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files novels, for two examples off the top of my head. The narrator who’s not untrustworthy, per se, but whose perspective you learn to allow for is a clever device in thrillers that allows the reader to root for a protagonist who can vary from jerk with a heart of gold to anti-hero.

Between this tendency and the prevalence of private eye radio dramas in the early 20th century, it was perhaps inevitable that voiceover would become an iconic component of film noir. But I have a confession.

I’m not a fan of the voiceover, 9 times out of 10. Especially in private eye movies.

It can be done well, of course, and certain films are so perfect with it that it’s hard to imagine them without (Sunset Boulevard springs to mind). And when the narration occurs because the character is describing something to another within the film, I almost never object (Double Indemnity and Out of the Past, for a couple examples).

But I think Howard Hawks made an excellent decision not to use voiceover in The Big Sleep, tempting as it might have been. Marlowe’s voice is distinctive, but films aren’t about voice. Though sound is important, film remains a visual medium. We don’t need to learn about Marlowe through his own descriptions and asides. We can see what he does in front of us, without a filter. Adding his take is redundant.

This is not to say there’s no place for voiceover, ever. With a film like Detour, that seems to be checking off every box on the film noir checklist, the structure rests on the narration, and the accusatory “you” creates distance rather than complicity. (In a more complex film like Sunset Boulevard, it serves multiple purposes, and rises above being a narrative buttress of sorts.) It’s a tool, but it’s a tool that works better with context, most of the time.

And, for a modern viewer, a certain layer of self-awareness is necessary. Sin City could use voiceover, and in fact required it, because of its nature as a pastiche; it deliberately evoked the hardboiled crime stories of the past. Blade Runner, in its theatrical release, just felt a little clunky in tipping its hat to noir using the voiceover, without accomplishing much by doing so. (Though this is hardly the only reason most people seem to prefer the director’s cut.)

It feels a little pat to say “I don’t object to voiceover if you do it well.” But I think that the device undermines itself, in some ways, by trying to marry the devices of classic crime fiction to crime cinema. Now, of course, there’s a whole history of narration in film to riff on and play with (Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, anyone?), and it can be clever.

But with your Marlowes and your Spades, they don’t have to tell us the story. They’re too busy living it. And the pleasure of watching them is more than enough.

Star Wars, Nothing But Star Wars

George Lucas knows how to make money.

You can almost hear the ringing of old fashioned cash registers in the background as a montage of his merchandising plays. And come on, this is America – capitalism is almost a state religion, right? Can’t fault a man for success.

But you can fault him for having absolutely no inkling what made his fanbase love him in the first place. Not that it matters: Indiana Jones and, to a much greater degree, Star Wars are so well-established that fan desire for them is now more or less self-sustaining. By opening up the sandbox to all sorts of artists, and by embracing fan work, Lucas cannily ensured that the emotional investment the audience cultivated with his films would be wide-sweeping.

I myself went through a huge Star Wars phase at about the age of 11-12. There were no prequels at that point, but there were tons of extended universe books to read, and of course, the original trilogy. My VHS copies were well-worn and well-loved, though I always fast-forwarded through the Leonard Maltin interviews with Lucas at the beginning of each tape. Even at twelve, I had little interest in what Lucas had to say, which should have been telling, given my contemporary obsession with Inside the Actors’ Studio.

I still own those VHS tapes, despite the fact I’m slowly replacing my collection with DVDs over time. I will keep those three until they wear out, because as of now, there is no other way for me to see the films as I remember them, with Han shooting first and without the unnecessary CGI aliens in every scene.

With the announcement that all six of the live-action Star Wars films were finally coming to Blu-Ray, I foolishly felt a spark of hope. After all, you can get a huge amount of data on a Blu-Ray disc. How hard could it be to include both the original theatrical release and the 1997 “special edition” so that fans could pick their movie?

Too hard, apparently. Lucas argued that releasing the theatrical versions on Blu-Ray would be “kind of an oxymoron, because the quality of the original is not very good.”

…George Lucas. If I were Jon Stewart, I would tell you to meet me at camera three.

The trajectory of the Star Wars universe, in the past decade or so, has been toward bigger and splashier effects. With the prequels, that’s fine. (Well, it would be fine if you had a real screenplay, though that is another kettle of fish.) But the originals were filmed in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s. No one expects them to look like they were filmed yesterday.

I understand that putting grainy analog film on Blu-Ray is not the highest possible use of that technology. But what you have to understand is that it isn’t just about seeing the shiniest shiny possible. This is the way to see films now. By refusing to digitize the theatrical releases, you are barring anyone who doesn’t have a VHS player from ever seeing them again. (That, George, is most people – and it will be everyone when the tapes wear out.)

Many people point to Gary Kurtz’s departure after The Empire Strikes Back as the moment things went wrong, though the chicken-and-egg of it is under debate. Still, I can see it; Empire is considered by many (including me) to be the best movie and, frankly, the bittersweet ending to Return of the Jedi Kurtz says could have been is… well, it could have been some excellent filmmaking. You could have given your characters an arc, you see. The stakes could have been high – there’s a reason the end of Empire is a culture trope now.

If you want to make very expensive toy commercials now, I suppose that’s your business. But you have to realize that some fans are frustrated because the first two films, and especially Empire, were legitimately good movies. Not just engines of pop culture to ride around your money farm, but movies that made you care about the characters, that captured the cultural imagination in a way that’s very special.

Throw us a bone. Give us some way to see them as they were before you felt they needed “fixing.”

Back to the rest of you at camera one. Beyond my rant, there’s a larger point here: directors, like all artists, need to know when to let go. With the advent of DVD and Blu-Ray, we can now expect deleted scenes, makings-of, and director’s commentaries with some regularity. While these are sometimes interesting, I can’t help but feeling they can also serve to obscure, rather than illuminate, what’s great about the actual art they’re describing.

As long as you leave me the option to just watch the movie stand on its own, I’m fine with the fact that all these extras exist. But you have to know when to let your art go. Let the original stand or fall, and go make something new. Not a sequel, not a spin-off – new.

But then, of course, there are the toys to think of. After all, Life Day is coming.