Living the Romantic Comedy

Great Moments in Romantic Comedy #102

Whether you're of the crowd that hears "new Woody Allen film" and thinks Oh God please make him stop or those who think Even bad Woody is worth seeing, or somewhere in between, you're probably aware that Midnight in Paris is a hit.  I think it's a lighter, sketchier work than Vicky Cristina Barcelona (if you hated that movie, you're reading the wrong blog) but I loved it - whatever its flaws, the word "delightful," all retro associations intended, is what comes to mind.

The pleasures of Midnight stem from a very simple premise, and the less you know about it going in, the better, but some spoilage ahead is unavoidable in talking about a wonderful gag that comes in the middle of the movie. 

Owen Wilson, who plays the Woody-surrogate protagonist this time out, has been vexed by an academic pedant (Michael Sheen) vying for the attentions of his fiancee, played by Rachel McAdams, and finally, when they come upon a Picasso in a Parisian museum, Owen has the rare opportunity to put this pompous a-hole in his place.  He tops his rival's discourse with an eloquent critique of his own - so detailed and insightful that for once, the pretentious professor is rendered speechless. 

How did Owen do it?  Well, as a recent time-traveler to Paris in the '20s, he just happened to have actually been there, the night Pablo first showed his freshly painted canvas to Gertrude Stein.

Even before I stopped laughing at the slack-jawed look on Sheen's face (along with an audience that included, funnily enough, the Woodman's contemporary Paul Mazurksy, a few seats over, having a ball) a little bell went off in my head.  I realized that, much as the very conceit of Midnight has links to Allen's short story "The Kugelmass Episode," among other precedents, what we'd just seen on screen was a variation on one of the most famous and beloved gags in the Allen canon:

 

Some might say this isn't legitimately a "great moment in romantic comedy," given that the gag itself has little to do with rom-com high jinks, beyond its setup (i.e. Alvy Singer is in a bad mood because he and Annie Hall are having a terrible fight). I say, who cares? It's genius.

But not to get all academic pretentious pedantic on this stuff, since you might reach for a large sock filled with horse manure, I'll argue that one of the joys of romantic comedy, when done well, is how adept it is in talking to the culture about little (but often profound) intimate truisms - facts of the human condition that this character-driven genre consistently tends to highlight.

Annie Hall is chock full of such moments: scenes, visual riffs and witty lines that speak to us of things we know about relationship, gender, and simply being human that we hadn't been able to previously articulate, ourselves.  A good rom-com is having a conversation with its contemporaries, and a great one - such as Annie Hall - speaks to the ages. 

Proof of the pudding lies in Midnight in Paris's relexive homage, be it conscious or un (the auteur's prerogative) to the kind of "Boy, wouldn't I love to be able to tell this schmuck off!" experience immortalized in Alvy Singer's magical fetching of Marshall McLuhan to make his case. 

We've all been there, facing a know-it-all who needs to be put in his place.  Having Midnight in Paris to provide a new wish fulfillment fantasy of How Sweet Getting Even Could Be is delicious.  But having that scene from Annie Hall as the timelessly definitive version to savor...? 

Priceless.

Funny Women Rule

I have to recuse myself from posting an actual review of one of the best-reviewed movies of 2011, because as a story analyst at Universal, I spent over three years working on Bridesmaids, giving notes on some eleven drafts of the project.  So I can't really talk the movie up and say "go see it!" the way so many people on the web have been doing.

Ironically, even if I wanted to shill for Bridesmaids, I wouldn't need to: one day into its opening weekend, the movie has far surpassed even the studio's expectations, being a certified hit on its way to becoming a cultural phenomenon.

This is a good thing.

Regardless of the film's perceived merits (and here's the juncture where I must forcibly seal my lips, since as an assistant mechanic who worked on the engine of this vehicle, I have a particularly skewed view of its strengths and weaknesses), the fact of Bridemaids finding an audience is extremely heartening.  Readers of this blog, former students, friends whose ears have been oft talked-off on the subject, et al, already know that I've been passionately advocating stronger female roles in movies for over a decade, as a recent post bears out.

So let me just say this about that, without going into any critical detail on the movie as a movie.  Here is a project written by two female first-time screenwriters (Kristen Wiig & Annie Mumulo), with a female TV comedy star in her first leading role (Wiig) supported by a cast of relatively unknown female performers, that sends up a genre generally beloved by the mythical female audience (i.e. chick flicks about weddings). 

Yes, there are men involved (director Paul Feig and 800 lb. gorilla producer Judd Apatow, along with capable co-stars Jon Hamm and Chris O'Dowd).  But this movie, from its estrogen-powered core to its bright pink poster typeface, is what has been considered toxic to the box office for years and years.  In conventional industry terms, it's the sort of Hollywood nightmare project - "character-driven," no less - that sends executives running from a pitch meeting, babbling excuses as they duck and cover.

So it's with no small pleasure that I say to my colleagues, you men (and women) in an industry long rampant with sexism and misogyny who have been refusing to believe that women can be funny - and make money being funny - with all due respect...?  Go fuck yourselves.

What my colleagues will do in actuality, if they follow form (i.e. follow the money) is begin to buy and greenlight projects with funny women in them.  And I believe the American public (which oddly enough seems to consist, in part, of... women?!) will be, like, okay with that, as this weekend's sight-unseen groundswell of support for Bridesmaids indicates.

I'll just note two unbiased things about Bridesmaids before the inevitable backlash sets in: One, whether you end up loving or hating it, the movie has undeniable LOL laughs in it, and two, bridesmaid Melissa McCarthy has just leapt past Phase 1 of the 4 Phases of Being an Actor (1: Who's Melissa McCarthy?) to Phase 2: Get me Melissa McCarthy! as this item from Nikki Finke demonstrates.  Phase 3 (Get me a young Melissa McCarthy!) and Phase 4 (Who's Melissa McCarthy?) will surely follow, but as I always say, "Give me these problems."

Bridesmaids: At your local multiplex.  You might consider getting in the loop.

Great Moments in Romantic Comedy #101

The one cliche that has nearly driven a stake through the heart of our undead genre is the race to the airport.  Beneath this horror lies a more acceptable, however uncomfortable truth.

Love must be won.  We believe this, because we know it: real love don't (except in certain bad movies and exceptional lives) come easy.

Because of this truism, nothing is more galling to fan or foe of the rom-com genre than the ridiculous third act Run to Keep Her or Him From Leaving, precisely due to its inert inevitability: this routine gives a lie to the very ethos that motors romantic comedy - a celebration of the beautiful exception that's worth sacrificing everything in the end - if After All That (i.e the movie you just sat through), all a rom-com protagonist has to do is is run to him/her and blurt out an "I love you."  The modern day zombie rom-com, by ending with this codified (fossilized) gesture, reduces its story to being just Another One of Those.

For these reasons, despite how unhip a Billy Crystal movie might seem in 2011, the climax of When Harry Met Sally... is the exception that has set the standard of the romantic comedy climax since its 1989 premiere.  Today's screenwriters are still "homaging" (ripping off) its particular approach to handling this moment.  I see it in spec scripts every other week.  Here's the original:

Having realized that Sally is the answer to him being an asshole, Harry the Screw-Up does his Run of Shamed Desperation not to the airport, but across town to a New Year's Eve party.  He arrives in time to deliver the obligatory "I love you," but for once, our heroine is unmoved.

"You can't just show up here," she says, "Tell me you love me, and expect to make everything all right.  It doesn't work that way."

I love that him saying "I love you" doesn't cut it!  Harry is forced to dig deeper.

"How about this way?" he offers. "I love how you get cold when it's seventy-one degrees out.  I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich.  I love that you get a little crinkle right there when you're looking at me like I'm nuts.  I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still your perfume on my clothes.  And I love that you're the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night.

"And it's not because I'm lonely.  And it's not because it's New Year's Eve.  I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the  rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

Sally, still not entirely happy: "This is just like you, Harry.  You say things like that, and you make it impossible for me to hate you, and I hate you, Harry. I really hate you. I hate you..."

Harry puts his arms around her.  They kiss.

Ryan is spectacular in this scene, by the way, and Crystal is given a nice help by having to shout his (otherwise too sentimental) lines over the New Year's Festivities.  If you got a couple minutes, you can take a look:

 

This Great Moment's influence - essentially, the triumph of genuine, selflessly-directed love over the narcissistic impulse - continues to this day.  Within the expected Run To... scene, the contemporary romantic comedy writer now generally intuits or contrives a resolution that has its hero or heroine acknowledge the lovability of the Other.  Love means letting it be about them, not you, and the stronger the specificity, the better.

Nora Ephron's scene in When Harry... is the paradigm.