DIRECTED BY Jason Reitman
STARRING Ellen Page, Jennifer Garner, Jason Bateman, Michael Cera
US 2007 93 mins.
MICHAEL CLAYTON ****
DIRECTED BY Tony Gilroy
STARRING George Clooney, Tom Wilkinson, Tilda Swinton
US 2007 120 mins.
All is not well at the Oscars. TV ratings for this year’s ceremony sank to an all-time low in the States; people are tuning out. Here in Cyprus, Oscar brand-name marketing has been assiduous. Four of the five Best Picture nominees screened over the past two weekends, the better to piggyback on last Sunday’s ceremony (they may all still be showing now, if Atonement hasn’t been dropped). Yet 20-something friends I’ve spoken to – once the lifeblood of the movie scene – don’t seem too bothered. Some are happy to wait for DVD; others know they can download these films at a moment’s notice, or have done so already. Almost all agree that Oscars aren’t the be-all and end-all. They’re just as interested in Heath Ledger’s upcoming swansong in the new Batman sequel, or Angelina Jolie’s fourth baby, or Heroes on TV or the new Wii videogames. There’s so much else to think about.
Taking a second look at an Oscar winner, less than 24 hours after the ceremony, I checked out the audience as well as the movie. Quite impressive for 8 p.m. on a weekday – seems there is still an Oscar Effect – featuring something you seldom see at the multiplex: older couples, silver-haired gentlemen and their somewhat wrinkly ladies. Maybe that’s the last demographic for whom the Oscars really mean something – those too busy, or old-fashioned, or computer-challenged to keep up with the bewildering array of pop-culture, looking to the Academy as a benchmark of what’s worth trekking to the cinema for.
Alas, the SHB (Silver-Haired Brigade) and the Academy seem to be on divergent paths: only one of this year’s Best Picture slate falls into typical SHB territory (the aforementioned Atonement), and they’ll doubtless be shocked by the violence in eventual winner No Country for Old Men. As for Juno – the film I watched again at the multiplex, post-Oscars – it’s worth quoting the comments of one Mike Horton from Canada at the Internet Movie Database (an ordinary punter, probably in his 40s or 50s), who titles his piece: “This movie is primarily addressed to teenage girls”.
“After reading the highly rated reviews of several movie critics, plus the recommendation of my astute daughter, I looked forward to seeing this movie,” begins Mr. Horton. “Unfortunately I was very disappointed … The lead actress performed her role well, but her dialog consisted of constant flippant remarks, akin to a comedic late night talk-show host. I fail to understand how so many professional movie critics can rave about this movie.”
Bear that in mind as you read the following rave. It’s true I liked Juno even more the second time – except the unfortunate cop-out of its last 20 minutes – but it definitely trades in an arch, snarky tone that won’t appeal to everyone. 16-year-old Juno (played by Ellen Page, who’s 20 but looks about 12) is first seen swigging orange juice, talking to a chair and telling a dog to “shut your fuckin’ gob”. We then segue into animated opening credits, to the strains of a country-style love song with lyrics like “If you were a castle, I’d be your moat / If you were an ocean, I’d learn to float”. Throughout, the soundtrack favours twee, quirky songs that sound like they may have been written by Phoebe from Friends.
Yet Juno herself is an inspired creation, blithely insensitive to manners and decorum, as oblivious to everyday pieties as Groucho Marx. “Hello, I’m calling to procure a hasty abortion,” she explains to the “Women Now” abortion clinic after getting inadvertently pregnant – but finally decides to have “the thing” and pass it on to an adoptive family, though she’d like them to be edgy if possible, maybe a 35-year-old graphic designer with an Asian girlfriend. She’s likeable, sensible (that early use of the F-word is atypical), often hilarious and occasionally vulnerable. Her parents are supportive, but gruff dad J.K. Simmons is disappointed that she left herself with a bun in the oven: “I thought you were the kind of girl who knew when to say when”. She looks at him, the shield of protective irony momentarily dropping: “I don’t really know what kind of girl I am,” she replies softly.
Maybe that’s why Juno is striking a chord with younger audiences (it’s a massive hit, easily the most successful of the five Best Picture nominees) – because it does feel fresh and un-complacent, even in the way people speak. The most common charge against the film is that teenagers ‘don’t really talk like that’ – but it misses the point, because Juno isn’t trying to be realistic. It’s not just the songs and cutesy details like a “hamburger phone” that create a stylised bubble, it’s the constant offbeat tone in 29-year-old Diablo Cody’s (Oscar-winning) screenplay. “What’s the prognosis, Fertile Myrtle?” asks the clerk at the pharmacy where Juno takes her pregnancy test (“Silencio, old man!” she admonishes). Michael Cera as the teenage father – doing the same perpetually-dumbstruck routine he did in Superbad – tells our heroine he should be “royally ticked-off” with her, which doesn’t sound like 16-year-old-speak. It’s like they’re trying out different personas for size, just like Juno comes across as a little kid one moment – e.g. when she’s pretending to be a sumo wrestler in front of the bathroom mirror – a mature adult the next.
Juno is surprisingly wise, though also quite conservative, coming out against divorce and abortion. Most disappointingly, it leaves its tomboy heroine in conventional girlfriend-hood – and doesn’t follow through on its most daring strand, the illicit relationship between Juno and adoptive-dad-to-be Jason Bateman. All in all, I think the Oscars got it right. SHBs are unlikely to agree, though.
Hopefully they’ll have better luck with Michael Clayton, a superb dramatic thriller and my personal favourite in this year’s (very strong) Best Picture line-up. The charge against this one is that it’s well-made but conventional, the tale of a cynic (George Clooney as M. Clayton) who develops a conscience. I’m not so sure. It’s far from clear why Clayton acts as he does at the end (which I won’t spoil), but the very last shot – which is great – suggests he’s not entirely pleased with his life, making do-goodery a less likely motive than simple survival.
That would be in line with the rest of the movie, which flaunts its unsentimentality (perhaps a bit too strenuously) and shies away from improving Messages or larger Statements. Clayton is a pro, a trouble-shooter (“a janitor”, he calls himself) for a prestigious law firm; he’s working-class and staunchly no-nonsense, a corporate hustler who knows the ways of the world. The film’s key scene comes perhaps when Clayton confronts his black-sheep brother, a meeting witnessed by Clayton’s young son who’s obviously upset by what he’s seen – so our hero stops the car, and sets out to reassure the young boy. Does he tell him that he’s special? Does he tell him Daddy loves him? No. He tells him not to worry, because he (the kid) is tough, not weak like his uncle. You’ll be fine, says Clayton. Yeah, life is hard. Sure, it’s a jungle out there. But don’t worry. You’re tough. You’ll be fine.
The film is co-produced by Clooney and Steven Soderbergh (esteemed director of Traffic, Bubble, etc), and it often recalls other films produced by the duo, like Keane and Syriana – jagged slice-of-life films, unafraid to try things out. Chronology gets jumbled in Clayton, the first half-hour shuffling back and forth, backed by a very strange monologue from a character we don’t even see (Clayton’s deranged colleague, played by Tom Wilkinson). It’s a film of slick urban surfaces, neon lights, gleaming streets, but also a film – here’s the good part – of insecurities beneath the show of confidence, compassion breaking through in the realisation that everyone’s scared, however powerful.
An early scene finds Clooney trying to reassure a client (powerfully played by Denis O’Hare) who’s been involved in a hit-and-run accident. The client blusters, insults our hero, acts tough – but you can tell he’s shaken, terribly frightened by the thought of his gilded life crashing down around him. Tilda Swinton (who won an Oscar) plays another lawyer, an ice-cold executive type – but we also see her throwing up in the bathroom before a presentation, practising her speech obsessively then talking in euphemisms (“our options”) with a corporate assassin, trying to conceal her nervousness. And of course there’s Clayton himself, wearing a snappy veneer – a glossy George Clooney veneer – to disguise the train-wreck of his life.
Michael Clayton is quietly exhilarating, set in a world of hard-boiled despair, a soiled ugly world where idealism must be passed off as insanity (otherwise the whole system would collapse). “I’m not arguing with you,” say these weathered professionals; “I’m telling you how it is” – making the final glimmer of possible altruism all the more redemptive. Of all this year’s Oscar crop, it’s the one that’ll resonate most with middle-aged, middle-class viewers, the ones still susceptible to the lure of the Oscars.
But it may be too late: when I watched Juno at the multiplex, the preceding 10 minutes of adverts included a plug for the old Opera cinema, once the most modern and luxurious screen in town. It’s now shut down – unable to make ends meet in the Age of the Download – and has just been converted into a bingo hall, promising big-money jackpots in a “cosmopolitan family atmosphere”. SHBs, take note.
