Showing posts with label Raymond Carver. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Raymond Carver. Show all posts

Friday, June 10, 2011

"Everything Must Go (To Extremes)"



There is no shortage of potential, literal ways to define what the film Everything Must Go is "about." Going with the depicted events, good cases can be made for the theme being a.) the effects of alcoholism, b.) the crumbling of a marriage, or c.) the growth and study of interpersonal relationships. However, much like a good short story (the film is loosely based on Raymond Carver's "Why Don't You Dance?", a selection from What We Talk About When We Talk About Love), the events provide the journey and the hints of the resolution, but the development ultimately refuses to make any concrete assumptions or tidy explanations. This is not a perfect film, yet it wisely goes about showing the actions while at the same time resisting any moralizing or cheap surprises.

In the span of one day, Nick Halsey (Will Ferrell) loses his job in the midst of relapsing into drinking. Upon returning home, he finds every lock on the house changed, a "Dear John" letter from his wife taped to the front door, and all of his possessions scattered on the front lawn. His credit cards and joint bank account are frozen. His immediate solution to all of this is to head to the store to buy some beer, which, his alcoholism aside, isn't so bad, seeing that having all of those happenings piled into span of a few hours would be too much for anybody to process. He encounters a young boy named Kenny who aimlessly rides his bicycle around the street, passing time while his mother cares for a terminally ill woman down the street. A run-in with the police is avoided when Nick calls upon local detective Frank Garcia (an excellent performance by Michael Peña), who happens to be his AA sponsor. Garcia's solution is to have Nick sell his personal items in a yard sale, as a way to clean up the mess and begin sorting his life out. Nick enlists the help of Kenny, and in the process begins conversations with Samantha (Rebecca Hall), a young pregnant wife waiting for her husband to join her in their new house. These secondary characters (including an old high school classmate played by Laura Dern, and a comedic May-December couple next door) provide interactions and realizations for Nick, not in the expected roles of helping him "find himself," but more in the sense of helping him understand his problems and weaknesses. There is a major difference.

Dan Rush is a first-time film director, as well as the writer of the screenplay. His direction is admirable and not overly flashy, focusing on excellent close-up shots of the character's faces, which, aided immensely by the commendable acting, carefully shows the inner problems that plague every character: Nick's nighttime sweating in the depths of withdrawal; Rebecca's unhappiness and unease in her domestic life, which she tries her best to hide; Kenny's isolation from kids his own age. Everything Must Go was shot and set in Arizona, and Rush includes some occasionally grand wide shots of the region's long roads and rural terrain, which somehow blend nicely into the smaller scenes of everyday suburbia. With the occasional exception, there are no dramatic revelations in the film. Therefore, Rush wisely keeps the direction to the minimum, allowing the story to be told without resorting to trick shots or mixed-up story lines.

The screenplay is a source of both the film's strength and its major weaknesses. Adapting a very brief Raymond Carver story is an excellent example of a new filmmaker tapping into a reservoir of terrific material (and I'll now confess that I haven't seen Robert Altman's Shortcuts). I'm still amazed at the wealth of classic short stories and novels that still have not been adapted into films, but that is a different tangent altogether. Carver's stories, including "Why Don't You Dance?", are more often than not minimalist, open-ended expressions that one wouldn't immediately assume could transfer well to film. Rush is able to express Carver's hallmarks--male isolation, alcoholism, and suburban dissatisfaction--while at the same time leaving virtually none of the events or pieces of the story in the film, with the exception of the idea of an impromptu yard sale and the appearance of a record player and vinyls. In the story, the man is left unnamed, and only interacts with a young couple who stumble upon his possessions on the lawn (they play some records, which leads to the story's title question). At the same time, while Rush skillfully evokes Carver's atmospheres, the screenplay has some nagging problems. The piling of a broken marriage, a man falling off the wagon, and the loss of a job all in the span of a single day might not be totally impossible in real life, but seems to be an exaggerated, hasty introduction to Nick's current state. Everything Must Go is a tidy hour-and-a-half film, but would have been better served with some of Nick's woes drawn out more realistically. Later in the film, the audience is shown two concurrent scenes that are blatantly confusing. In one late night scene, Nick is sweating and trembling from alcohol withdrawal, leading to a revealing confrontation with Samantha. The very next night, he's shown looking strong and avoiding another relapse while out to dinner. The inclusion of a brief scene with Delilah (Laura Dern) is well-crafted and marked by terrific acting, but somehow feels out of place, or, more appropriately, tossed in. It avoids some obvious film cliches, yet its very subversion of expectations leads to its being a strange aside in a generally smooth time line. One of Rush's best decisions was to leave Nick's estranged wife out of the picture, literally: she's discussed and hinted at, and plays a major role in one of the film's later conflicts, yet works amazingly well as an unseen character, with her problems with Nick shown in retrospect, rather than in concrete scenes.



Even with these faults, the acting is nearly pitch-perfect, beginning with the wonderful performance by Will Ferrell. In his review of the film, Roger Ebert gives mentions and examples of comedians who have made the turn into respected dramatic acting. The beauty of Ferrell's performance is its understatement, since Nick's mental state would be perfect for over-acting. Ferrell is somber without being melodramatic, and even expresses Nick's withdrawal impressively, opting for a simple, saddening descent, and using his eyes to convey weariness and depression. There are occasional humorous moments in the film, but these are situational, rather than slapstick. In Stranger Than Fiction, Ferrell combined some excellent acting with scenes that called for his gifted, physical/facial comedy. In this film, however, it's a complete dramatic role, and the ultimate compliment is that audiences can easily get lost in the acting and story, rather than referring to a subliminal understanding that Ferrell is a comedian playing a serious role. Rebecca Hall makes the most of a poorly sketched character, and much like Ferrell, she evokes a lot without resorting to too much emotion, with the exception of one scene. However, much like her role in Ben Affleck's The Town, she's playing a strong woman with recurring troubles, and in both films, she doesn't have the fortune of a screenplay that gives her a chance to realistically overcome her character's problems. Again, this could be another tangent for another essay, namely the often-discussed lack of realistic female roles in contemporary cinema. Then again, she doesn't falter; it's only the screenplay that gives the character the limitations, not the actress herself. Christopher Jordan Wallace's portrayal is sympathetic, and works as a good example of adolescent loneliness and turmoil. He's basically an innocent version of Nick, without the alcohol or the life experience, striving to understand where he belongs. While Nick grows towards acceptance of his changes, Kenny's redemption comes in more confidence. Rush writes the character well, avoiding teenage stereotypes.

With bad acting, Everything Must Go would have been a bland, tiresome indie drama. However, drawing on the actors' strengths, Dan Rush was able to create a vivid film that wasn't weighed down with the occasional limitations of the screenplay. As a feature film debut, it's the sign of a potential budding talent, especially since using Raymond Carver as a basis shows bravery and determination in a first-time adaptation. I'm curious to see if Rush ever develops any original screenplays. Even if he continues to work with adaptations, some stronger drafts will help immensely, and it's not at all inconceivable that he could eventually create even better films. As a start, he aims high and generally hits his targeted goals. With more focus, he could become a highly respected filmmaker, and audiences could eventually look back upon Everything Must Go as an early, noble step in his development.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Universal Languages



As I hinted with my look at Tropic of Cancer, most of my posts in the coming months will deal with literature, primarily authors whom I may have overlooked thus far, albeit unintentionally. My latest reading, Haruki Murakami's The Elephant Vanishes, turned out to be a stone that killed a few birds. Not only is he an author I should have read years ago, but his works represent international fictions, an area I haven't touched much since my looks at Roberto Bolano. The final side of this stone is that The Elephant Vanishes is a short story collection, and anyone familiar with this blog knows my strong admiration for this art form.

Any discussion of Murakami might very well turn towards the label/designation of his writing as postmodern. While a few of his stories fall into that category, I want to avoid any looks at the notion of postmodernism, only because I feel that it can occasionally be too all-encompassing, sometimes to a fault. Without reviewing some of my older posts, I'm almost certain that I've made this argument before. Postmodernism is an undeniable literary style, but one that tends to be used too frequently. Also, despite Murakami's lauded place in international fictions, my reading brought to mind the idea of "the classic," not in the old-fashioned sense, but in another (sometimes overused) phrase, "the classic short story." One of the best creators of the short story was Raymond Carver, and I noticed striking similarities (this is meant in the best way possible, not to disparage either writer) between the story crafts of Murakami and Carver. A friend of mine brought to my attention that Murakami not only translates Carver's works into Japanese, but professes an admiration for the late writer.

The similarities are not limited to these two men, but rather, they span the details of what most people consider a "good" short story. One of these details is precisely that: a detail. Murakami and Carver undoubtedly prescribe to James Joyce's famous maxim that "a writer should always know how much change a character has in his pocket." These details tend to go overlooked in everyday life, but in the medium of the short story (and, of course, the novel) they are elevated above the everyday and fill in vital details about the characters. For example, a usual feature of anyone's day is food.

"Like a guest invited to dinner by a feuding married couple, Noboru Watanabe tried to come between us by asking me, 'Have you ever thought of marrying?'
'Never had the chance,' I said as I was about to put a chunk of fried potato in my mouth. 'I had to raise my little sister without any help, and then came the long years of war...'
'War? What war?'
'It's just another one of his stupid jokes,' said my sister, shaking the bottle of salad dressing (Murakami 179)."

"My large parties are gone now and also the old couple. The place is emptying out. By the time I serve the fat man his chops and baked potato, along with more bread and butter, he is the only one left.
I drop lots of sour cream onto his potato. I sprinkle bacon and chives over his sour cream. I bring him more bread and butter.
Is everything alright? I say.
Fine, he says, and he puffs. Excellent, thank you, he says, and puffs again.
Enjoy your dinner, I say. I raise the lid of his sugar bowl and look in. He nods and keeps looking at me until I move away (Carver 6)."

Of course, these are not what the respective stories are all about, but in both examples, food highlights the larger themes and activities (more explicitly in the Carver passage). The story, "Fat," focuses on a waiter describing a heavy-set diner, with the unspoken notion of social stigmas. In Murakami's "Family Affair," food is part of a family dinner, with the unspoken notion of blunt conversations not associated with the usual Western assumptions of Japanese societal norms (another point is to note is that criticism of Murakami is that he is too influenced by the Western authors he admires).

This leads to the strong depictions of family life tinged with unhappiness and disappointment. In this sense, Carver and Murakami share a literary version of dynamic equilibrium, i.e. "the more things change, the more they stay the same." Murakami hints at less than stellar relationships with a noticeable degree of tact, whereas Carver is much more blunt and visceral. Is this due to a difference in literary styles, or a difference in society--Western emotions versus Japanese restraint? Arguments could be made for either, although their styles are not completely set in stone. Carver has passages of quiet observation, while Murakami's characters can be very abrasive and occasionally antisocial. Here are examples of Carver's emotion and Murakami's restraint:

"'Listen, listen to me, Ralph,' she whimpered. 'I swear to you he didn't. He didn't come. He didn't come in me.' She rocked from side to side in the chair.
'Oh God! God damn you!' he shrieked.
'God! She said, getting up, holding out her hands, 'Are we crazy, Ralph? Have we lost our minds? Ralph? Forgive me, Ralph. Forgive--'
'Don't touch me! Get away from me!' he screamed. He was screaming (Carver 238)."

"We're still happy, of course. I really do think so. No domestic troubles cast shadows on our home. I love him and trust him. And I'm sure he feels the same about me. But little by little, as the months and years go by, your life changes. That's just how it is. There's nothing you can do about it. Now all the afternoon slots are taken. When we finish eating, my husband brushes his teeth, hurries out to his car, and goes back to the office. He's got all those sick teeth waiting for him. But that's all right. We both know you can't have everything your own way (Murakami 79)."

And here's an example of a calmer Carver and a more agitated Murakami:

"He stood naked on the tiles before getting into the water. He gathered in his fingers the slack flesh over his ribs. He studied his face again in the clouded mirror. He started in fear when Marian called his name.
'Ralph. The children are in their room playing. I called Von Williams and said you wouldn't be in today, and I'm going to stay home.' Then she said, 'I have a nice breakfast on the stove for you, darling, when you're through with your bath. Ralph?'
'Just be quiet, please,' he said (Carver 251)."

"I closed my eyes and kept them shut. Then I opened them and looked at my son's face again. And then it hit me. What bothered me about my son's sleeping face was that it looked exactly like my husband's. And exactly like my mother-in-law's. Stubborn. Self-satisfied. It was in their blood--a kind of arrogance I hated in my husband's family (Murakami 104-105)."

Another proof that struggling relationships transcend regions and emotions is that both of the Murkami passages come from the same story ("Sleep"), the same with the Carver passages ("Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?"). The beauty here is that the emotional hypotheses I presented are both valid and invalid, depending on how one reads the given stories. They can be bent slightly to prove these points or thrown away altogether.

The final idea I'd like to mention is the reoccurring theme of unresolved problems and clashes (a postmodern trait?). With both writers, the usual ending of a given story is very logical, yet the given problems or questions are rarely resolved, thereby making the reader either a.) come up with their own conclusions as to where the characters are headed, or b.) take the story as a small piece of a much larger issue. This is a major part of my fascination with both writers, a fascination that has stretched for a few years now (beginning with early readings of Carver while in college and continuing with the recent readings of Murakami). There is nothing at all wrong with a short story that ends with a satisfactory conclusion, yet I've noticed a trend in my own story writing that follows the same open-ended conclusions...in other words, stories that logically leave someone wanting more information in a bad way should instead be looked at as realism. In everyday life, problems and issues are not resolved within the sum of a few pages. With writers as gifted as Carver was and Murakami is, these gentle and abrupt fadeouts lead to reader discussion and heavy contemplation of what will happen next. Small ideas like these might seem obvious, but can be easily lost in the never-ending discussion of what compromises a good piece of writing.

Works Cited:

Carver, Raymond. Will You Please Be Quiet, Please? Copyright 1991 by Tess Gallagher.

Murakami, Haruki. The Elephant Vanishes. Copyright 1993 by Haruki Murakami.

2021 Readings, 2022 Goals

In keeping with the 2020 trend, my reading total was pretty sad, as you can tell.  As always, it's about quality, not quantity, but sure...