The Weekly Gravy #169

Gandhi (1982) – ***½

As far the awards groups were concerned, Gandhi was the film of 1982. It won 8 Oscars from 11 nominations, 5 BAFTAs from 16 nominations (the all-time record), 5 Globes from 5 nominations, and Best Film from the NBR and NYFCC. It also made six times its budget at the international box office, and if that didn’t bring it near E.T.‘s gross, it was no mean feat for a 191-minute film about a man who advocated non-violence and simple living.

In all those accolades, in the sheer prestige of the production with its epic scale and cast of Indian, British, and American stars, and in the importance of its subject matter, a man so revered as to be called the father of his nation despite, as the film itself notes, never having served in any elected capacity, the question of the film’s actual quality was perhaps overlooked; Leslie Halliwell praised its being made at a time when few such films were, and for boasting Ben Kingsley’s star-making performance, concluding “Beside these factors the sluggish pace and the air of schoolbook history seem comparatively unimportant.”

That sounds a bit like damning with faint praise, and I don’t necessarily agree that the pace is sluggish – it may not have really merited its Oscar for Best Film Editing, but given the length it moves well enough – but the latter point is harder to shake, and long before I saw the film I remember seeing my father’s copy of the published screenplay and raising an eyebrow at the claim “If ever a script is destined for a distinguished life on its own it is [John] Briley’s highly readable, entertaining screenplay for Gandhi.”

Not so, I think, and the script is part of the reason the film doesn’t, in my view, reach true greatness – and part of the reason, I think, why it isn’t a film that really stands on its own anymore. I rather doubt that people go back to it for the sake of going back to it. Rather, I think most who watch it now do so for its biographical value or for its status as an Oscar winner. There are worse reasons to watch a film, of course, but look at other Oscar-winning biopics like Lawrence of Arabia and Patton, films which stand on their own by virtue of their dramatic power and artistic accomplishment.

But they’re also films which cover far less time than the 55 years Gandhi encompasses and devote more time to the complexity of their subjects’ humanity, to Lawrence’s vanity and white-savior complex and to Patton’s fierce temper and arrogance. Gandhi allows its subject few moments of weakness, though Kingsley’s performance is utterly convincing throughout, showing the idealistic determination, the lawyer’s cunning, the quiet sense of humor, and the deeply felt anguish at the violence which continually erupts along the long journey.

Aside from one scene where he argues with his wife Katsurba (Rohini Hattangadi) over her responsibilities at their communal farm in South Africa, the film’s Gandhi is beyond reproach, unless you’re inclined to agree with those who suggest his principles are not wholly practical, like Jinnah (Alyque Padamsee), or those friends of Gandhi’s he cites as saying “how much it costs them to keep me in poverty.” But even then, one can’t deny that he practices what he preaches, and never claims power he does not have – and that power he has is, after all, mainly symbolic.

It’s also the kind of biopic which spends too much time on meetings, conferences, and speeches and relies too much on conversations with journalists and newsreel montages; it adds to that “air of schoolbook history” Halliwell mentioned, and again one thinks of that scene with Katsurba, and then of all the scenes where Gandhi must step away from her to speak to this leader or that reporter, or must leave her behind to make this march or serve that prison sentence. The simple humanity gets a bit lost in all the history.

So, the Oscar for Original Screenplay wasn’t that great a choice. Nor was the award for Richard Attenborough’s direction (even he felt Spielberg should’ve won for E.T.), though he handles it professionally throughout, and ironically brings some real power to the scenes of violence, especially the Amritsar Massacre and a night-time march in the second half which turns into an anti-police riot. In these scenes, and in the beauty of India, we see why it won Best Cinematography – and Art Direction, and Costume Design, even if the former award really belonged to Blade Runner (which won all three of those awards from the BAFTAs).

It was rightly nominated for the makeup that turns Kingsley into the Gandhi we all recognize (even if they clearly painted his teeth to simulate edentulism) and for the fine score by Ravi Shankar and George Fenton. Best Sound – for the crowd scenes, sure. Kudos to the BAFTAs again, for nominating Hattangadi for Supporting Actress (she actually won) along with Candice Bergen as Margaret Bourke-White (she’s fine), as well as Edward Fox’s cold-blooded Brig. Gen. Dyer (a brief but key role) and Roshan Seth’s unassuming Nehru, though I preferred Padamsee’s coldly aristocratic Jinnah.

The Academy only nominated Kingsley, and I expect he easily won. It’s hard to argue with that, given the strength of the performance, but to give it Best Picture over E.T., a film which is genuinely beloved on its own merits rather than because it tells the life story of a revered man…it may not be easy to argue with that, but had E.T. won from the get-go, I don’t think anyone would cry foul over Gandhi‘s loss.

It’s a good film that tells an important, often resonant story (the sectarian conflicts are especially relevant) and in a day and age when Gandhi’s assassin is revered by some in India for his Hindu-nationalist views, it’s helpful to look at this film and see him as the murderer he was. But importance is not the same as greatness.

Score: 83

The Boy and the Heron/ 君たちはどう生きるか/Kimitachi wa Dō Ikiru ka (2023) – ****

I’ve now seen The Boy and the Heron twice, first in the original Japanese and then in the English-language dub – the reverse of how I probably should have done it, since seeing the dub first and then watching the original worked so well for Spirited Away. In any case, seeing the film a second time helped me to understand the film better, or at least to refine my interpretation of it, even if the sense of discovery which comes from first encountering so unpredictable a narrative was necessarily diminished. No matter; there’s more than enough here to treasure and meditate upon to reward two or more viewings, whichever version you choose.

I do recommend not reading further if you haven’t seen the film yet, as I went in quite cold and had none of the story’s turns spoiled for me. To be sure, it’s a damned hard film to spoil, and if I told you what happens in the climax of the film I’d have to spend another 10 minutes establishing the context – nevertheless, it should be first seen with as few expectations as possible.

The story begins with young Mahito Maki losing his mother in an air raid on Tokyo, a sequence which establishes a fire motif which pays off tremendously later on, and also offers a horrifying and heart-wrenching start to the film, as the sound distorts, as the background characters blur into mortified wraiths, as Mahito rushes into the inferno in a futile attempt to rescue his mother. We’ve barely had time to process this before the film jumps ahead a year, to when his father Shoichi moves them both to the countryside, to where Mahito’s aunt Natsuko – Shoichi’s new bride – is waiting.

The countryside may be idyllic compared to war-torn Tokyo, but Mahito is little cheered and visibly cool towards Natsuko; when she presses his hand to her belly to feel the kick of his little sibling-to-be, the awkwardness is both amusing and empathetic. And the old family estate they’re living at offers its own challenges, from the coterie of nosy, well-meaning “grannies” to the gray heron whose behavior suggests a super-avian consciousness. Even before things get truly weird, the drama – and the comedy – are there.

So they are when Shoichi insists on driving Mahito to school in his fancy car (on a second watch I really appreciated the humor of his vanity); it’s little surprise that he’s resented by his classmates and soon scraps with them, though his decision to bash his own head with a rock afterwards is rather more startling, and leads him into serious illness, during which time the heron begins to speak and to tell Mahito that “his presence is requested.”

He’s already discovered the strange tower in the backyard, built by a great-uncle who disappeared decades since, but when Natsuko herself goes missing, the search leads Mahito and Kiriko, the surliest of the grannies, into the tower where the film finally plunges headlong into fantasy, and Miyazaki indulges his gift for creating fantastical worlds by creating one where the logic and rules are harder than ever to grasp. One might find the result exasperating, but I think there’s a method to Miyazaki’s madness.

It may help to read up on the film’s themes and genesis; knowing that the film has elements of autobiography and stands in part as a testament by Miyazaki for his grandson – and that Miyazaki has had a difficult relationship with his own family, especially his son and fellow director Goro – I’ve come to see the film, and especially the parallel world where most of the second half of the story takes place, as an allegory for the imagination, which is at once rich and expansive, at once reflective of reality and capable of reaching far beyond it, at once exhilarating and destructive (especially when it takes over one’s life), at once enchanting to others and confoundingly idiosyncratic.

Those idiosyncrasies include the role of birds throughout, which bears full fruit when the parakeets appear – and I dare say no more, except that the parakeets should enjoy the cultural ubiquity currently afforded the damned Minions – and the huge stone which powers this world, which to me resembles a fingerprint, fitting as we seem to be in a world built entirely on one man’s fancies. He longs to pass these on to the next generation, but they must die with him, whatever mark they leave on those who encounter them.

The journey is full of gorgeously rendered locations, from the country estate to the magnificent tower with its countless books and mosaic floors, to the long-beached ship, overgrown with moss, where another Kiriko lives, to the huge, bustling parakeet city, to the garden where the ruler of the parallel world lives and tries to keep his fantasy land intact for another day. And it boasts fascinating characters, most of all the heron himself – and if there’s one reason to watch the dub, it’s to enjoy Robert Pattinson’s vocal performance, which is 180 degrees from anything he’s ever done before.

It has quiet beauty (visually and in Joe Hisaishi’s lovely score), cinematic fluidity (one transition is especially breathtaking), tragedy (that poor pelican), mystery (who are those translucent beings?), whimsy (the warawara), and bittersweet acceptance, much of it buried so deep in the experience that you can only find it for yourself. And while doing so can be challenging, and while the characters can get a bit lost in the shuffle, especially in the overstuffed final act, the end result is justly celebrated – whether or not it actually is Miyazaki’s final film.

Score: 90

The Deer Hunter (1978) – ****

In every sense, The Deer Hunter offers a lot to chew on. It’s not only a long film (183 minutes) and filled with lengthy sequences (most famously the wedding), but it combines a maximalist approach to depicting rituals of all kinds with a restrained, naturalistic approach to characterization, preferring an observational style with rambling, often repetitive dialogue to overt storytelling and straightforward exposition. It bluntly juxtaposes the fire and violence of life in Clairton, Pennsylvania with the violence and fire of Vietnam – which, after all, is as much home to the Vietnamese as Clairton is to our protagonists.

It opens with scenes of the steel mill where most of the characters work, a place of deafening noise, fire, and danger – but a place where they belong. It will later depict, in the jungles and villages of Vietnam and in Saigon, comparable noise, fire, and even more danger, in this case from their fellow man. It is not where they belong, any more than any American soldier belonged there – but the film doesn’t get into the merits of that particular war because it’s less about this war than about war as war, first a ritual of patriotism and masculinity, then a force of emotional and physical destruction. The outcome of Vietnam justifies the tone, but in most respects this story could’ve been about any war.

It serves as a deconstruction of the heroic, masculine archetype Michael (Robert De Niro) embodies; he is a man who can survive, a man who can kill and avenge, but not necessarily a man who save. He cannot save the Vietnamese mother and her child, though he sets the VC who killed them on fire. He can save Steven (John Savage) from the prison-camp “pit” and from the river, but Steven loses his legs and suffers such a severe breakdown Michael must drag him out of the VA hospital and back to his wife Angela (Rutanya Alda) – and even then, we can only wonder how functional their life together is, though the final scene offers some hope.

Most tragically, Michael cannot save Nick (Christopher Walken), and despite heroically returning to Vietnam to find him, going to great lengths to track him down in the Saigon underworld, desperately trying to jar him back to his senses and finally facing him in Russian roulette in a mirror of the harrowing sequence which scarred Michael and shattered Nick, he is finally unable to save Nick from losing the game and his life, and is left to keep his promise to bring Nick home in the saddest way.

American masculinity is further deconstructed in the character of Stan (John Cazale), who’s pathetically insecure and waves a tiny handgun in contrast to Michael’s expert handling of a hunting rifle, but who proves a prolific womanizer, while Michael only has eyes for Linda (Meryl Streep), who’s involved with Nick before the war and with Michael afterwards – but even then, Michael loves Nick more openly than he loves Linda. (Unsurprisingly, Stan outright wonders if Michael is gay.) There’s also the character of the wedding singer (Joe Grifasi), a crass flirt who’s later revealed to be the manager of the local supermarket; people aren’t necessarily who they seem.

America itself is critiqued in the violence and brutishness of life in Clairton. Women have it especially hard, with Linda being struck by her alcoholic father, Stan striking his date at the wedding, and Angela being so shattered by Steven’s breakdown she cannot even speak to Michael when he visits. But the men, whose devotion to one another is beyond question, are quite hard on each other, with pranks, small scrapes, insults, and tense moments casting a shadow on the moments of camaraderie and good humor.

Take the odd scene during the hunting trip, when John (George Dzundza) steps away from the car to relieve himself, the others drive away, he sits by the side of the road and waits for them to back up, they drive away again, and only then do they back up and let him back into the car. The scene is all done in a single, lengthy take, and one wonders just what the point of showing it at length was. Is it to show the games the characters play, to contrast them with the horrible games they’re forced to play in the war, for higher stakes and without the consolation of friendship?

It all feeds into the famous final scene, where the characters sing “God Bless America,” at once a sincere hymn to their “home, sweet home” and an ironic reflection on all that American has given and taken away from them. It resists easy or singular interpretation throughout, which is more often than a strength of the film and its script (credited to Deric Washburn but apparently heavily revised by director Michel Cimino). The script didn’t win the Oscar, fitting given how much the film tries to feel unwritten; one could then argue that the Oscar it won for its editing was well deserved, given that the film isn’t a total shapeless mess – but one could also argue that it’s too long and too repetitive and some tightening would’ve done little to diminish its impact.

The Oscar for Best Sound was well earned, given the way it brings both the domestic scenes and the combat sequences to life; Vilmos Zsigmond’s cinematography was rightly nominated, but rightly lost to Days of Heaven, which was nonetheless snubbed in the Picture and Director races, leaving Hunter to take top honors. (Since it is, for all its flaws, a great film, I will not strongly object.) Walken won an Oscar for his tragically charming performance, while De Niro’s quiet, conflicted strength and Streep’s loving self-discovery were nominated; Savage’s awkward decency, Cazale’s neurotic arrogance, Dzundza’s hearty cheer, Anya’s shy pathos, and non-actor Chuck Aspegren’s bearish good nature are all worth praise as well.

Heaven’s Gate is still a damned mess, though.

Score: 87