There seems to be a propensity in Hollywood to seek out foreign talent. And, in point of fact, there is. Of course, this is not due to some overbearing conspiracy to "de-Americanize" the American film industry, it's merely the result of reaching out to aesthetically-different filmmakers and actors to cast in appropriate ethnicities. Sure, Hollywood's got a ways to go as far as being "equal," but it's closer than most industries. Regardless, this is not a rant about the film world's inequities... this is a celebration of my favorite (living) American directors.
Let's face it, though devoid of an international reputation for art (pop-culturally speaking... the reality is quite different), America is the home to its fair share of capable artists. And I'd like to share my thoughts on two American film directors who absolutely rule their preferred genres, and a third who I think is in honest contention to being labeled the Best Director of All-Time (American or otherwise).
Arguably the least well-known of the three, but easily the best war-film director, is Edward Zwick. Known for critical darlings Glory and Courage Under Fire, he's also been responsible for the underrated The Last Samurai and Defiance. Drama in storytelling is inherently conflict, and while Zwick fills his films with ample amounts of emotional drama (the rivalry between Denzel Washington's Private Trip and, well, everyone else in Glory), he excels at presenting physical conflict.
For many filmmakers, such a tactic would be considered a cheap trick (think the finale of The Matrix trilogy or the third act of Danny Boyle's otherwise brilliant Sunshine). For Zwick, however, whose love of history and geopolitics permeates nearly every frame of his motion pictures, such a tactic is built into the story from inception. And, very nearly to perfection, the payoff works every time.
Still, he has endured his fair share of hiccups (1998's The Siege), but his war film resume, along with the good but often derided (usually by men) Legends of the Fall, more than ensures Zwick's place in the highest pantheon of film direction.
More famous than Zwick is Michael Mann, whom many remember as the progenitor of the campy 80s television series, Miami Vice. Actually, given that he also directed the misguided film version, he'll probably only be remembered for Miami Vice. Such a remembrance would be a little sad, however, as Mann has long been bringing powerful and ostensibly realistic crime films to the screen (then again, perhaps he wouldn't mind).
Little known for the fact that he was the first director to bring Hannibal Lecter to Hollywood (in Manhunter, later remade as Red Dragon), Mann initially burst into the crime scene with the brilliant and brilliantly subdued Thief. Starring James Caan as an extremely professional and increasingly reluctant safecracker, Thief laid the groundwork for many of Mann's crime films to come.
Along with Thief, Mann's greats are Heat (a remake of his own L.A. Takedown) and Collateral, the first film to star Tom Cruise as a villain. There was also the aforementioned film version of Miami Vice (again, misguided, but entertaining) and the under-appreciated Public Enemies, a charismatic film criticized for its historical inaccuracies. Mann's resume also includes the most recent The Last of the Mohicans and Ali.
By far the greatest living American director (in my opinion, anyway), Clint Eastwood began his career as an actor. Upon undertaking his directing career in the early 1970s, Eastwood helmed film after film (usually casting himself) in a professional, competent, and somewhat unspectacular manner. Though many of his earlier efforts remain guilty pleasures (High Plains Drifter, The Outlaw Josey Wales, Firefox), it wasn't until the phenomenal Unforgiven in 1992 that he truly hit his stride. Though his follow-up schedule would be peppered "old Eastwood" directing efforts such as Absolute Power and Space Cowboys, more and more of his films entered the realm of true greatness.
Shifting away from his action-oriented past and into contemporary relevance, Eastwood delighted and disturbed us with cautionary tales of revenge (Mystic River), controversial and loving depictions of euthanasia (Million Dollar Baby), and the perspective of enemies at war (Letters from Iwo Jima). One of his latest efforts not only sealed his place on any list of great film directors, but marked his return to on-screen star-power with quite possibly the greatest character he's ever portrayed (Gran Torino).
Effectively, Eastwood has become what other great and once-great American directors have failed to become... one who gets better with age. Many argue that such lions of film such as Steven Spielberg and Francis Ford Coppola have lost their touch (confirmed for the latter), but few lay claim to such a thing happening to Eastwood. Eastwood, effectively, is the anti-Spielberg (think The Terminal, War of the Worlds, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull). And even with Martin Scorsese's resurgence, Eastwood seems to stand alone when considering quantity, quality, and consistency of work.
I can't wait to see who comes along next.
Showing posts with label Steven Spielberg. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Steven Spielberg. Show all posts
Monday, June 21, 2010
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Film is Collaboration
So there was a conversation the other day. Well, of course there was. People talk, after all. However, this was a conversation concerning an aspiring filmmaker who, like many aspiring filmmakers, views himself as an "artist." In and of itself, there's nothing wrong with being an artist in the film world, but the connotation of the concept is what is a large problem in that particular industry.
You see, the "artists" tend to fancy themselves as not just artists, but as "the next big thing" (oh, if only they could get noticed... yeah, that old story). We're talking "the next Spielberg," "the next Scorsese," "the next Woody Allen," and the list goes on. Lofty goals, sure, and there's nothing wrong with lofty goals, but therein lies the rub: up-and-comers tend to think that Spielberg, Scorsese, and Woody Allen did everything by themselves. As a result, said up-and-comer (and I'm using that term very generously) tries to do everything by himself or herself. And, guess what? Film, unlike some other art forms, doesn't work that way.
Film. Is. Collaboration.
Film is not painting. It is not sculpture. It is not music. One person is not responsible for the idea, the production and creation, and the exhibition of the artwork. In all likelihood, the director is not the writer, the writer is not the cinematographer, the cinematographer is not the actor, and the actor is not the editor. Yes, there are notable exceptions involving multi-tasking, but NONE of those exceptions involved a filmmaker doing everything. Quite simply, that's next to impossible (unless we're talking some sort of auteur-driven avant garde film, but we're not... we're talking film as it pertains to the film industry). Even arguing the Bachs and Beethovens of the music world you have to account for the Yo-Yo Mas and the Itzhak Perlmans.
This all seems obvious, I'm sure, and I'm equally sure that if you're still reading this, you're wondering where the Hell I'm going with it. Here's where: the propensity of young "independent" filmmakers to attempt total control of a project has to stop. This propensity, as I've probably failed at alluding to, comes from the propensity to want to be "artists" above all else.
All too often you will find a young (and probably talented) aspiring filmmaker who wants to make "my project." In other words, that filmmaker wants to A) write the script, B) rewrite the script, C) lock the shooting script, D) produce the film, E) direct the film, F) shoot the film, G) star in the film, H) edit the film, and I) sell, distribute, and market the film.
Pardon my French, but: get. fucking. real.
Even George Lucas, that all-too banal overrated filmmaker (though an outstanding film businessman and innovator, if not the best), once said that writing, directing, and producing a film (the original Star Wars... oh, the irony) was one role too many. And, despite my disdain for admitting such, he was and remains right.
Now, opponents of this argument will no doubt point to Steven Soderbergh, Robert Rodriguez, Quentin Tarantino, and countless others, but even those examples all freely admit to the collaborative nature of filmmaking. Look how much credit QT gives to Uma Thurman for the Kill Bill series. Find out how much credit Rodriguez gives to Tarantino on various film, never mind how much he gives to Frank Miller for Sin City.
The inconvenient truth here is that few of us are as good as any of the people mentioned above, and what aspiring filmmakers need to realize is that their talents probably lie in a specific aspect of filmmaking. Which means that they need to find other aspiring filmmakers whose talents lie in those aspects that they themselves are lacking.
In other words, the next time someone says "I've got my own project," let them know that a film - both before it's completed and after it's distributed - is never artistically owned by one person. It just doesn't happen. And it probably never will.
So... who wants to get a project going?
You see, the "artists" tend to fancy themselves as not just artists, but as "the next big thing" (oh, if only they could get noticed... yeah, that old story). We're talking "the next Spielberg," "the next Scorsese," "the next Woody Allen," and the list goes on. Lofty goals, sure, and there's nothing wrong with lofty goals, but therein lies the rub: up-and-comers tend to think that Spielberg, Scorsese, and Woody Allen did everything by themselves. As a result, said up-and-comer (and I'm using that term very generously) tries to do everything by himself or herself. And, guess what? Film, unlike some other art forms, doesn't work that way.
Film. Is. Collaboration.
Film is not painting. It is not sculpture. It is not music. One person is not responsible for the idea, the production and creation, and the exhibition of the artwork. In all likelihood, the director is not the writer, the writer is not the cinematographer, the cinematographer is not the actor, and the actor is not the editor. Yes, there are notable exceptions involving multi-tasking, but NONE of those exceptions involved a filmmaker doing everything. Quite simply, that's next to impossible (unless we're talking some sort of auteur-driven avant garde film, but we're not... we're talking film as it pertains to the film industry). Even arguing the Bachs and Beethovens of the music world you have to account for the Yo-Yo Mas and the Itzhak Perlmans.
This all seems obvious, I'm sure, and I'm equally sure that if you're still reading this, you're wondering where the Hell I'm going with it. Here's where: the propensity of young "independent" filmmakers to attempt total control of a project has to stop. This propensity, as I've probably failed at alluding to, comes from the propensity to want to be "artists" above all else.
All too often you will find a young (and probably talented) aspiring filmmaker who wants to make "my project." In other words, that filmmaker wants to A) write the script, B) rewrite the script, C) lock the shooting script, D) produce the film, E) direct the film, F) shoot the film, G) star in the film, H) edit the film, and I) sell, distribute, and market the film.
Pardon my French, but: get. fucking. real.
Even George Lucas, that all-too banal overrated filmmaker (though an outstanding film businessman and innovator, if not the best), once said that writing, directing, and producing a film (the original Star Wars... oh, the irony) was one role too many. And, despite my disdain for admitting such, he was and remains right.
Now, opponents of this argument will no doubt point to Steven Soderbergh, Robert Rodriguez, Quentin Tarantino, and countless others, but even those examples all freely admit to the collaborative nature of filmmaking. Look how much credit QT gives to Uma Thurman for the Kill Bill series. Find out how much credit Rodriguez gives to Tarantino on various film, never mind how much he gives to Frank Miller for Sin City.
The inconvenient truth here is that few of us are as good as any of the people mentioned above, and what aspiring filmmakers need to realize is that their talents probably lie in a specific aspect of filmmaking. Which means that they need to find other aspiring filmmakers whose talents lie in those aspects that they themselves are lacking.
In other words, the next time someone says "I've got my own project," let them know that a film - both before it's completed and after it's distributed - is never artistically owned by one person. It just doesn't happen. And it probably never will.
So... who wants to get a project going?
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of Suck
In 1981, director Steven Spielberg, producer George Lucas, and writer Lawrence Kasdan introduced us all to who would become one of the greatest heroes in cinematic history: Indiana Jones. The movie: Raiders of the Lost Ark. The premise: homage to action packed serials of yesteryear. The result: outstanding. Quickly-paced, yet somehow balanced in character, we went on a thrill ride not only genius in plot, but just plain genius.
Three years later we were again exposed to the adventures of Indiana Jones, this time in the ill-titled prequel, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. However, the charm was still there, as were the thrills, and despite disturbing much of the general public with its PG-13-creating antics, the film was still very much kin to the original.
A further five years and we witness what is arguably the best of the series, the still ill-titled Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Here we get a built-in story (the Holy Grail), a return to our built-in bad guys (the Nazis), and an excellent built-in character-building device (Indy's father).
And then... nothing. Well, for 19 years, that is. Until Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull shows up. And resoundingly stinks up the cineplex.
Bad plot, bad script, bad cinematography, bad digital effects... bad idea, basically. And so overwrought with cliche, it makes the first three films look like Shakespearian theatre.
I mean... C'MON!
Seriously, we already knew that George Lucas lost his touch back in the early 80s, but this... this has to be the film that proves that even Mr. Spielberg is forgotting how to make a movie (he's already forgotten how to end one). How could he have possibly agreed with George that this was the best way to reintroduce us to our long-lost hero?
Why even listen to George, anyway? He already almost ruined Indiana Jones' legacy with The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles (an admittedly good show, albeit one that fit poorly with the established Indiana Jones franchise). And now we get this?
Ah, well. I was hoping to be a bit more insightful, but as I'm clearly devolving into straight-up ranting, I shall stop.
Hopefully, someone will convince George to do the same before he proceeds any further with his "Mutt Williams" sequels.
Oy vey.
Three years later we were again exposed to the adventures of Indiana Jones, this time in the ill-titled prequel, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. However, the charm was still there, as were the thrills, and despite disturbing much of the general public with its PG-13-creating antics, the film was still very much kin to the original.
A further five years and we witness what is arguably the best of the series, the still ill-titled Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Here we get a built-in story (the Holy Grail), a return to our built-in bad guys (the Nazis), and an excellent built-in character-building device (Indy's father).
And then... nothing. Well, for 19 years, that is. Until Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull shows up. And resoundingly stinks up the cineplex.
Bad plot, bad script, bad cinematography, bad digital effects... bad idea, basically. And so overwrought with cliche, it makes the first three films look like Shakespearian theatre.
I mean... C'MON!
Seriously, we already knew that George Lucas lost his touch back in the early 80s, but this... this has to be the film that proves that even Mr. Spielberg is forgotting how to make a movie (he's already forgotten how to end one). How could he have possibly agreed with George that this was the best way to reintroduce us to our long-lost hero?
Why even listen to George, anyway? He already almost ruined Indiana Jones' legacy with The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles (an admittedly good show, albeit one that fit poorly with the established Indiana Jones franchise). And now we get this?
Ah, well. I was hoping to be a bit more insightful, but as I'm clearly devolving into straight-up ranting, I shall stop.
Hopefully, someone will convince George to do the same before he proceeds any further with his "Mutt Williams" sequels.
Oy vey.
Monday, October 9, 2006
Padre Stuff, Charger Stuff, and Some Pointless Musings
Well, the Padres season ended tonight, but what a ride it was. And at least they didn't get swept this year like they did last year.
Let's review what they managed to do:
First place in the NL West over the Dodgers.
First time in team history they made the post-season two years in a row.
Trevor Hoffman broke the all-time saves record.
More importantly, they got me to love baseball again... a sport that used to be my favorite sport, one I had played a lot of when I was younger, and one that I had forgotten about until last year, when the Padres snuck into the playoffs as the NL Wild Card team (I also watched the Padres-Yankees World Series when it happened, but that's beside the point). Baseball, in my life, is finally back... and it feels good.
Now, how about them Chargers? 3-1 and on top of the AFC West. I'm still a Drew Brees fan through and through, but I'm definitely on the Phillip Rivers bandwagon, and have been since the beginning of the season. After the terrifying resurgence of Marty-ball last week in Baltimore, I had grown worried for the Chargers' chances... but, thankfully, it seems they fixed things this week against the Steelers. Hell. Yes.
Quick note on Brees... did anybody read John Czarnecki's NFL blog on September 29th? No? Well, I'll reprint it here:
Saints quarterback Drew Brees finally said this week that the only reason he's not playing in San Diego this season is because Chargers GM A.J. Smith didn't want him.
"He's the guy who drafted Phillip (Rivers) and my shoulder injury gave him the excuse to play Phillip this season," Brees said. "I think Marty Schottenheimer and a lot of players wanted me to stay there, but the general manager didn't want that."
Brees said he's happy to be in New Orleans, but had once figured that he would finish his career in San Diego.
Now, I know I'm not the only person to have claimed that Smith was the real reason Brees left town, but I just wanted to point out the accuracy of my September 9th Chargers blog. What can I say? I like to toot my own horn from time to time.
On that note, I would absolutely love to see a Saints-Chargers Super Bowl. It won't happen, but it'd be the coolest thing ever.
Anyway, the Chargers are playing the 49ers next week. That one should be a no-brainer... provided Marty-ball stays in the trashcan.
Pointless Musings
There must be a ton of Battlestar Galactica fans floating around MySpace, because yesterday's blog sure had an insane number of hits.
Why do obviously beautiful and intelligent women stay with obviously unfaithful and idiotic men?
Any movie produced by both Clint Eastwood AND Steven Spielberg is destined to win some Academy Awards.
Tina Fey is deceptively gorgeous.
There are way too many amateur photographers trying to pose as professional photographers in the world.
Same goes for lawyers and politicians.
Chargers are 3-1. Oh, did I mention that already?
Let's review what they managed to do:
First place in the NL West over the Dodgers.
First time in team history they made the post-season two years in a row.
Trevor Hoffman broke the all-time saves record.
More importantly, they got me to love baseball again... a sport that used to be my favorite sport, one I had played a lot of when I was younger, and one that I had forgotten about until last year, when the Padres snuck into the playoffs as the NL Wild Card team (I also watched the Padres-Yankees World Series when it happened, but that's beside the point). Baseball, in my life, is finally back... and it feels good.
Now, how about them Chargers? 3-1 and on top of the AFC West. I'm still a Drew Brees fan through and through, but I'm definitely on the Phillip Rivers bandwagon, and have been since the beginning of the season. After the terrifying resurgence of Marty-ball last week in Baltimore, I had grown worried for the Chargers' chances... but, thankfully, it seems they fixed things this week against the Steelers. Hell. Yes.
Quick note on Brees... did anybody read John Czarnecki's NFL blog on September 29th? No? Well, I'll reprint it here:
Saints quarterback Drew Brees finally said this week that the only reason he's not playing in San Diego this season is because Chargers GM A.J. Smith didn't want him.
"He's the guy who drafted Phillip (Rivers) and my shoulder injury gave him the excuse to play Phillip this season," Brees said. "I think Marty Schottenheimer and a lot of players wanted me to stay there, but the general manager didn't want that."
Brees said he's happy to be in New Orleans, but had once figured that he would finish his career in San Diego.
Now, I know I'm not the only person to have claimed that Smith was the real reason Brees left town, but I just wanted to point out the accuracy of my September 9th Chargers blog. What can I say? I like to toot my own horn from time to time.
On that note, I would absolutely love to see a Saints-Chargers Super Bowl. It won't happen, but it'd be the coolest thing ever.
Anyway, the Chargers are playing the 49ers next week. That one should be a no-brainer... provided Marty-ball stays in the trashcan.
Pointless Musings
There must be a ton of Battlestar Galactica fans floating around MySpace, because yesterday's blog sure had an insane number of hits.
Why do obviously beautiful and intelligent women stay with obviously unfaithful and idiotic men?
Any movie produced by both Clint Eastwood AND Steven Spielberg is destined to win some Academy Awards.
Tina Fey is deceptively gorgeous.
There are way too many amateur photographers trying to pose as professional photographers in the world.
Same goes for lawyers and politicians.
Chargers are 3-1. Oh, did I mention that already?
Saturday, August 5, 2006
Translation & Terminal: Two Reviews
Yesterday I watched Sofia Coppola's Lost in Translation. Today I watched Steven Spielberg's The Terminal. And now I'm going to bore you with what I think about both films...
First up, Lost in Translation. I don't say this often, but this a movie that had me smiling from beginning to end. Yeah, opening a film with a shot of Scarlett Johansson's butt is always a good idea, but that's really not why I liked it. Actually, I don't really know why I liked it. It was just a beautiful, beautiful movie. There were some stereotypical missteps, but overall, it was just an excellent insight into the human condition. Not surprising from the director of The Virgin Suicides. And, it made me want to learn Japanese.
Interestingly enough, my mother told me that she hated it. Of course, as she speaks Japanese (and is Japanese), the "fish out of water" stuff was apparently lost on her.
Next up is uber-director Spielberg's The Terminal. Kind-hearted and well-intentioned, it wasn't overly bad... it just wasn't overly good, either. In fact, it was overly pointless. But I still (sort of) enjoyed it.
However, this, along with Ron Howard's The Da Vinci Code, marks two movies in a row that Tom Hanks was completely miscast in. I just never bought him as Mr. Navorski... probably because, well, it's Tom Hanks. Catherine Zeta-Jones would've been great in her role, but it was so painfully underdeveloped, I didn't really give a shit (can I say that? Shit? Of course I can... it's my blog). In fact, EVERY primary plot in the film was painfully underdeveloped. I mean, the movie waited until forever to reveal the point behind Navorski's visit to the United States and just sort of skipped around dealing with the subplots of Navorki's three friends. So... I guess that means I didn't really give a whole lot of shits.
Of course, I have to give the movie props for the January 3rd reference... heh.
Anyway, Lost in Translation is a must-see, so rent it if you haven't already. The Terminal? Well... save that for a rainy day when you're bored and have the time.
First up, Lost in Translation. I don't say this often, but this a movie that had me smiling from beginning to end. Yeah, opening a film with a shot of Scarlett Johansson's butt is always a good idea, but that's really not why I liked it. Actually, I don't really know why I liked it. It was just a beautiful, beautiful movie. There were some stereotypical missteps, but overall, it was just an excellent insight into the human condition. Not surprising from the director of The Virgin Suicides. And, it made me want to learn Japanese.
Interestingly enough, my mother told me that she hated it. Of course, as she speaks Japanese (and is Japanese), the "fish out of water" stuff was apparently lost on her.
Next up is uber-director Spielberg's The Terminal. Kind-hearted and well-intentioned, it wasn't overly bad... it just wasn't overly good, either. In fact, it was overly pointless. But I still (sort of) enjoyed it.
However, this, along with Ron Howard's The Da Vinci Code, marks two movies in a row that Tom Hanks was completely miscast in. I just never bought him as Mr. Navorski... probably because, well, it's Tom Hanks. Catherine Zeta-Jones would've been great in her role, but it was so painfully underdeveloped, I didn't really give a shit (can I say that? Shit? Of course I can... it's my blog). In fact, EVERY primary plot in the film was painfully underdeveloped. I mean, the movie waited until forever to reveal the point behind Navorski's visit to the United States and just sort of skipped around dealing with the subplots of Navorki's three friends. So... I guess that means I didn't really give a whole lot of shits.
Of course, I have to give the movie props for the January 3rd reference... heh.
Anyway, Lost in Translation is a must-see, so rent it if you haven't already. The Terminal? Well... save that for a rainy day when you're bored and have the time.
Friday, May 5, 2006
Star Wars Returns
Well, well, back by popular demand are the original versions of the holy grail of motion picture trilogies: Star Wars. All I can say is: it's about fucking time.
In 1977, a movie was released that damn near everyone who was breathing O2 at the time fell in love with. A movie cursed with 70s technology, a 70s disco influence, flat acting, and a premise so derivative, Oprah would have crucified its author. That movie was, we all know, Star Wars (back then, no one called it "A New Hope," because the nerds hadn't ruined the franchise yet). It was followed by the superior The Empire Strikes Back, and the technically superior, but sublimly ridiculous (thanks to the Ewoks), Return of the Jedi. With these three movies, George Lucas fulfilled his ultimate dream... or so we thought.
Fast forward to the late 1990s, and George, without a hit movie since the last Indiana Jones entry (whose credit, I'm sorry, is more due Steven Spielberg than Lucas), decides to rerelease the original Star Wars Trilogy in theaters. Audiences and fanatics everywhere are inspired, especially as the recently announced new trilogy officially moves into preproduction. The catch, my friends, is that George wanted to "alter" his beloved creations, under the auspices of "improving" them ("Beware the Darkside and its false pretenses," Yoda would have said).
So what do we get? A Han Solo that shoots in self-defense, thereby eliminating his entire growth-from-scoundrel-to-true-hero story arc. A Luke Skywalker that accidentally falls instead of defiantly resisting Darth Vader's will (a mistake that Lucas subsequently reversed in the arguably worse Special Edition DVDs). And a capital city of an Empire that celebrates the very moment its ruler is killed.
All in all, other than the misplaced nostalgia of finally seeing the Han Solo/Jabba the Hutt scene in Episode IV, the only worthy alteration in the "Special Editions" (special eds, for short) are the windows in Cloud City. Everything else: stupid.
Disclaimer: for the purposes of saving time and space, the author's comments pertaining to the horrible Special Edition DVDs and the absolutely appaling "Prequel Trilogy" will be reserved for a future weblog entry. Except for the following comment:
Episodes I, II, and III, can kiss my motherfucking ass! True Star Wars fans hate these movies, sorry, but it's easy to recognize the change in tone (how do you make Star Wars relevant? Umm... you don't), the change in pace (MTV, thanks for making these movies damn near incoherent), and the change in story (literal changes, too, exactly how many contradictions between the two trilogies are there?).
Anyway, these true Star Wars fans have, it seems, finally forced the hand of Lucasfilm, LTD. and 20th Century Fox. Our beloved movies are coming to DVD (packaged with the Special Editions, of course... I guess we can't ask for too much).
In 1977, a movie was released that damn near everyone who was breathing O2 at the time fell in love with. A movie cursed with 70s technology, a 70s disco influence, flat acting, and a premise so derivative, Oprah would have crucified its author. That movie was, we all know, Star Wars (back then, no one called it "A New Hope," because the nerds hadn't ruined the franchise yet). It was followed by the superior The Empire Strikes Back, and the technically superior, but sublimly ridiculous (thanks to the Ewoks), Return of the Jedi. With these three movies, George Lucas fulfilled his ultimate dream... or so we thought.
Fast forward to the late 1990s, and George, without a hit movie since the last Indiana Jones entry (whose credit, I'm sorry, is more due Steven Spielberg than Lucas), decides to rerelease the original Star Wars Trilogy in theaters. Audiences and fanatics everywhere are inspired, especially as the recently announced new trilogy officially moves into preproduction. The catch, my friends, is that George wanted to "alter" his beloved creations, under the auspices of "improving" them ("Beware the Darkside and its false pretenses," Yoda would have said).
So what do we get? A Han Solo that shoots in self-defense, thereby eliminating his entire growth-from-scoundrel-to-true-hero story arc. A Luke Skywalker that accidentally falls instead of defiantly resisting Darth Vader's will (a mistake that Lucas subsequently reversed in the arguably worse Special Edition DVDs). And a capital city of an Empire that celebrates the very moment its ruler is killed.
All in all, other than the misplaced nostalgia of finally seeing the Han Solo/Jabba the Hutt scene in Episode IV, the only worthy alteration in the "Special Editions" (special eds, for short) are the windows in Cloud City. Everything else: stupid.
Disclaimer: for the purposes of saving time and space, the author's comments pertaining to the horrible Special Edition DVDs and the absolutely appaling "Prequel Trilogy" will be reserved for a future weblog entry. Except for the following comment:
Episodes I, II, and III, can kiss my motherfucking ass! True Star Wars fans hate these movies, sorry, but it's easy to recognize the change in tone (how do you make Star Wars relevant? Umm... you don't), the change in pace (MTV, thanks for making these movies damn near incoherent), and the change in story (literal changes, too, exactly how many contradictions between the two trilogies are there?).
Anyway, these true Star Wars fans have, it seems, finally forced the hand of Lucasfilm, LTD. and 20th Century Fox. Our beloved movies are coming to DVD (packaged with the Special Editions, of course... I guess we can't ask for too much).
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