ORDINARY PEOPLE (1980), ANNIE HALL (1977)

The 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die blogger walks into the door of his new psychiatrist’s office.

Dr. Berger: (already seated) Welcome. Please make yourself comfortable.

Blogger: (Sitting) Thank you. I don’t really know why I’m here. Hey, did you know you look exactly like Judd Hirsch?

Dr. Berger: I get that all the time. Anyway, you must be here for some reason.

Blogger: I’ve been watching these movies you see. Some of the greatest movies of all time. So everything should be great, right? But the problem is, I’ve seen so many good ones that I think I might be losing my perspective about what good is. It’s a hard thing to define anyway, but I’m in a funk. My mind is racing into different places…I…I-

Dr. Berger: Whoa! Calm down. What are you trying to get out of these movies, anyway?

Blogger: Just an excuse to watch them really. They aren't all great. Grease is on the list for example, but I’ve gotten something out of most of the others.

Dr. Berger: All right. What was the last thing you watched?

Blogger: I watched some Godard movies last week. Really weirded me out. I watched Annie Hall last night. Of course, I’ve seen it a dozen times over the years. What did seeing it again really prove?

Dr. Berger: I’ve never seen that one.

Blogger: You’ve never seen Annie Hall? It did win Best Picture the year it came out.

Dr. Berger: I thought Star Wars won Best Picture that year.

Blogger: Oh,no. I’m not getting into that debate again...

Dr. Berger: If the truth be told, I’ve never seen Star Wars either. Not much of a Sci-Fi fan except for Independence Day.

Blogger: Independence Day? Well, it is in the book. But don’t you think it was a bit over the top? Wait a second! Hirsch was in that. Are you sure you aren’t Judd Hirsch?

Dr. Berger: Just because I look like him doesn’t mean I can’t like a movie he happened to be in and appreciate a top notch supporting performance. Anyway, we’re off topic. How often do you have sex?

Blogger: All the time. Maybe three times a week. But how is that relevant?

Dr. Berger: I’m the doctor here, I’ll worry about interpretation. You just supply the facts. I haven’t even begun to ask you about the dream part, Max.

Blogger: Don’t call me Max!

Dr. Berger: You look like a Max.

Blogger: Well you look like Judd Hirsch!

Dr. Berger: Okay, fair enough. If you were a tree, what kind would you be?

Blogger: What?

Dr. Berger: Skip that. Anyway, you watched Annie Hall. It won best picture. One of your favorites. Are all best picture winners in this book?

Blogger: No, not some of the lesser ones. It does have Ordinary People in it. Can you imagine that Ordinary People beat out Raging Bull for best picture the year it came out?

Dr. Berger: Are you kidding? I love Ordinary People! True human emotions have rarely been brought to the screen so convincingly before. You think that compares with Joe Pesci’s mugging for the camera?

Blogger: Joe Pesci can be pretty strong in some roles.

Dr. Berger: Yeah, in the one role he can do: Obnoxious hood the audience can’t wait to see get knocked off.

Blogger: I sense a little jealousy there perhaps. Joe was an Oscar winner. But Timothy Hutton was the one that won best supporting actor for Ordinary People.

Dr. Berger: And he was good, but that was a lead role. They should give supporting actor awards to supporting actors.

Blogger: Like the guy who played the psychiatrist.

Dr. Berger: I know what you’re thinking. But I’m really just calling them like I see them. Anyway, how many times do you have sex a week?

Blogger: Oh, hardly ever. Maybe three times a week.

Dr. Berger: I just don’t see what you have to complain about.

Blogger: It boils down to my thinking there are two kinds of people and they are divided up into the horrible and the miserable.

Dr. Berger: Is that really how you feel?

Blogger: Why, no. It’s a Woody Allen line from Annie Hall. Maybe I’ve seen too many movies. Truth and reality are becoming blurred.

Dr. Berger: Nonsense. Just get a grip

Blogger: Get a grip? Is that all you have to say? What kind of shrink are you?

Dr. Berger: Calm down now. I’m going to put on some music for you to relax.
(The doctor gets out an LP and puts it on the phonograph)

Blogger: Ah, Pachelbel, Canon in D. I should have guessed. You know I just finished reading Death in Venice. Have you read it? Next, I’m reading Death Comes for the Archbishop. Are you listening?

Dr. Berger: (Distracted by the music) Oh, what?

Blogger: Speaking of Ordinary People, my favorite character actor from the 80’s, M. Emmett Walsh, plays Timothy Hutton's swim coach. And in the movie Back to School, he also plays a swimming coach. Isn’t that wild? You know that fact is hard to work into conversation.

Dr. Berger:Uh, huh.

Blogger: Uh, huh. I know that means something in shrinkspeak. Are you formulating an idea that will ultimately render me into some cultural or intellectual stereotype?

Dr. Berger: Nope.

Blogger: I thought you guys reduced everything into psychoanalytic categories.

Dr. Berger: Not really.

Blogger: Well, you aren’t talking much all of a sudden. Well, la-di-da. Let me expound upon my theory of life. It is divided into the horrible and the miserable…Wait, haven’t I already said that?

Dr. Berger: Yes, I think there has to be an adjustment in your movie viewing, but for the moment I do have something you need to try.

Blogger: I hope drugs are involved.

Dr. Berger: No, you’ve lost your perspective on what is good and what is bad. I’m prescribing that you intentionally watch a bad movie.

Blogger: You mean you want me to watch something like Plan 9 From Outer Space, Monster A-Go-Go or The Wasp Woman?

Dr. Berger: No, nothing you might get any secret pleasure from. Here is the movie I want you to watch.

(Dr. Berger writes a name on his prescripion pad and hands it to the blogger.)

Blogger: Paul Blart, Mall Cop! Granted, I agree I need to be pushed. But this is just torture. I could have your license for this!

Dr. Berger: You are just going to have to trust me. I’ve dealt with this kind of thing before. I feel we’ve had a real breakthrough here. Our time is about up now. I’ve got to get to my other job.

Blogger: Other job? Let me guess, you drive a cab?

Dr. Berger: How did you know?

Blogger: Just a guess.

Dr. Berger: Anyway, I think with all the progress we’ve made here, well, it warrants a hug.

Blogger: You’re making me watch Paul Blart, Mall Cop. I don’t feel like hugging you.

Dr. Berger: Suit yourself. Watch it and we’ll talk next week. (Dr. Berger leaves)

The 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die blogger walks out of the door of his psychiatrist’s office shaking his head.

WEEKEND (1967, FRANCE) & TWO OR THREE THINGS I KNOW ABOUT HER (1967, FRANCE)

DOLLAR GENERAL: A CHICKASAW LOVE STORY

MY HOUSE 6:52
I looked at my black television screen after my viewing of Jean Luc-Godard’s Weekend.

How was I supposed to react? How was I supposed to feel? I barely knew who I was.

The only thing I knew was that I was hungry. Hungry for Mayfield Neapolitan Ice Cream.

Hunger was the one thing I knew I could deal with on a rational level.

Dollar General. I had never been to the new Chickasaw Dollar General up the road.

It was time to change that.

I got into my car and drove slowly. I rolled down my window on the way looking for accidents.

No bodies lying on the side of the road. No burning wreckage on the side of the road.

Part of me was disappointed at how uneventful my forty-five second drive to Dollar General was.

At the store, I was overwhelmed by the sheer capitalism.
Tide. Twix. Quaker State. Wrangler Jeans.

How should I allow myself to be brainwashed and subsequently how should I act the rest of the day? Oh, that’s right. I remember now. Mayfield Ice Cream. Mayfield Neapolitan Ice Cream.

I went to the frozen food and reviewed my choices.

Mayfield Chocolate. Mayfield Vanilla. Mayfield Neapolitan.

One box left.

I reached in and touched the ice cream at the same time as another person. I hadn’t seen her. She withdrew at the same time I did.

“Oh, I’m sorry you can have it,” she said to me.

I wouldn’t call her pretty exactly, but she had very long hair and her teeth all appeared to be intact. Of course, I wasn’t sure what the definition of pretty was at that moment and why was I thinking that anyway?

“We can share the ice cream. I’ve got two bowls.” It wasn’t a great pickup line, but I wasn’t trying to pick her up. I was sincere. I really did have two bowls.

We talked. I’m sometimes awkward in these circumstances, but a couple of helpings of Godard will loosen you up quicker than a bottle of TJ Swann.

“Do you live in Chickasaw?” she said.
“Where else would I live?” I said.
“I work over at the Whataburger next door,” she said.
“Oh, did you drive here without accident?” I asked.

She looked a little confused at some of my responses, but not enough to deter her from coming home with me to share my ice cream.

“My name is M…” she said.

“My name…my name is Laszlo Kovacs.” I didn’t want to use my real name.

“When I saw you come in I thought you might be married, Lasslo,” she said.

I didn’t understand the relevance of her inquiry. I asked her if she thought that marriage was a bourgeoisie concept. She laughed nervously and didn’t pursue this line of questioning further. I’m not sure if she understood what bourgeosie meant.

I went to the checkout and a pleasant looking dark skinned lady with long purple fingernails took my ice cream.

“Are you in a film or in reality?” I asked the dark skinned lady.

“That will be 4.99,“ she told me.

I guess she didn’t hear my question.

Neither did my longhaired companion. Either that or she was too worried about making sure that her hair was sufficiently fluffy to have heard me.

On the way home, I saw a man on the side of the road. He appeared to be putting motor oil into his car. I elbowed M… and pointed at the man, but she didn’t seem to know why I was so affected.

MY HOUSE 7:52
M… looked unsure of herself as she sat on the sofa next to me.

“I want you to know I don’t normally do this,” she said.

I laughed. I wasn’t sure why I was laughing.

“Would you like a cigarette?” I asked.

“I would love one,” she replied.

I nodded slightly and looked forward.

Her look conveyed expectation.

“I don’t smoke. I was just wondering if you wanted one.” I said.

“Oh,” she said.

She seemed disappointed and confused.

I was tongue tied before I saw her running her fingers through her long hair.

I smiled at her and she returned the smile.

“I’ve been letting it grow out. I like that it has so much body. Do you like long hair?” she asked.

I sensed that she was searching for a compliment.

“Your hair looks positively Chekhovian,” I said.

It didn’t appear this was the response she was looking for. Once again her face showed disappointment and confusion.

I excused myself to go into the kitchen before returning with two full bowls of ice cream.

Two spoons as well.

I started to place her bowl on the floor in front of her, but sensed she would be more appreciative if I handed it to her.

“Neapolitan,” I said. “Originated in Italy. Though most good ideas come from France. Not all of course, like Neapolitan Ice Cream. Three flavors… One bowl. Oh that reminds me.”

I went back into the kitchen and brought back to her a large of French bread.

“Boy, this feels really hard,” I said as I felt it.

She appeared to be blushing, but I wasn’t sure why.

Perhaps I was talking too much. It was time to make my move.

First, I asked her if she had read Faulkner’s The Wild Palms, but she told me she hadn’t.

I cleared my throat. “I want you to watch a film with me.” I said.

“Oh, I get it. I’ve seen movies like…that before. I’m an adventuresome gal.”

She inched a little closer to me.

“This is called 2 or 3 Things I Know About You."

No response.

"Jean-Luc Godard.”

Still no response.

Her face brightened when a moment of recognition appeared to set in.

“I’ve seen 10 Things I Hate About You. Is it like that?”

“No, M… This is French.”

“Oh, French. My goodness.”

This appeared to impress her.

After I put the movie in and sat down, she put her hand on my knee.

I turned on the film via remote control.

MY HOUSE 8:52
I noticed her eyes were wide open as she stared at the film. She hadn’t commented or reacted. I was worried she wasn’t impressed.

I pointed my finger up in the air to her indicating I needed to use the restroom. I shut the door half way and stared into the mirror.

I whispered to myself. She hasn’t commented or reacted to this film. I worry that she is not impressed.

“Who the hell are you talking to?” She asked from the other room. She appeared angry.

I guess my soliloquy was too loud.

“No one.” I replied.

I came back out and sat next to her. She inched away from me and didn’t say another word for the remainder of the film.

After the final fade out of consumer items resting in the field turn into FIN, I got up and turned the television off by hand.

I turned to make a comment, but before I could say anything, I felt the French bread crack against my skull.

I plummeted to the ground. She tore aprart the French Bread into smaller pieces and threw them at my head.

Then the yelling started. “What the hell did you just make me watch, Lasslo? I think I know what you are! I’ve heard about you people. You’re a Socialiss aren’t you? I don’t want to be with no Socialiss! I’m glad I didn’t let you do anything to me.”

By the time she had finished yelling, crumbs of French bread encircled me as I heard the door close behind her. I closed my eyes to fall asleep to hopefully forget about all the injustices in the world and dream only about what items I might need to purchase the following day.

When I awoke, I decided to lay off the Godard films for awhile.

BREATHLESS (1959, FRANCE)

Everything seems so inconsequential, yet so substantial and full of meaning.

I apologize. Jean-Luc Godard’s landmark French New Wave film Breathless has left me totally confused and resonating with clarity.

Or does it?

I am indeed Breathless.

But is it a good breathless or a bad breathless?

Breathless has the feel of a documentary, but some of the contrivances and unnecessary film edits never let you forget it’s a movie.

Is he trying to say something about the duality of man?

Godard tries to make his film different than anything that came before it, but he openly embraces traditional Hollywood films.

Round up the usual suspects, but ignore them.

Important plot points, like the killing of the police officer that has the main character on the run are rushed through and scenes with inconsequential small talk linger and linger.

What is he running from again?

This film is now 50 years old. Has anybody really figured it out yet? A lot of people have, but nobody has.

I’m in a morass of confusion. I am not ready to commit an opinion on this.

What does Ebert say? What did Gerald Mast say again? What does the blogsophere say?

No, No. Forget all that. I’ve got to work this out on my own.

One film isn’t enough.

I've got to see more Godard.

Which is good.

And bad.

I’m honestly in a quandary. Have I already said morass?

Everything seems so inconsequential, yet so substantial and full of meaning.

BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN (2005)

Screenwriter Larry McMurtry's original, unsuccessful pitch for Brokeback Mountain

Producer: Come on in Lar. Hear you’ve been working on something that’s going to make me happy and I like to be happy.

Screenwriter: You’re going to love this, Paul. It’s called Brokeback Mountain.

Producer: Please, call me (taps on the nameplate on his desk that reads "Mr. Ravelstein").

Screenwriter: I'm Sorry, Mr. Ravelstein. But you’re going to love this. It’s a Western-

Producer: Whoa! You lost me. I like Westerns. You like Westerns. The public, eh, doesn’t like Westerns. If this was 1938 and John Ford was behind that door, I might be interested.

Screenwriter: Wait. Wait. This is a more modern Western. Set in the 60’s and 70’s.

Producer: I’m listening. I’m listening. I’m getting a Lonely are the Brave Electric Horseman vibe here. Please continue.

Screenwriter: There are these two young guys, in their twenties, working for a summer herding sheep on a mountain in Wyoming. I think you’ll like this, Mr. Ravelstein.

Producer: I do like it and call me Paul.

Screenwriter: Yes, you could hire two young actors to play the parts-

Producer: Might have some appeal for our 18-49 female demographic. So what happens with these guys during their summer together? Do they find a dead body? Is it one of those unsolved mysteries? Maybe with a supernatural bent? Or do they accidently kill someone and try to hide it? Or a treasure of some kind? They find a stash of cash and are pursued by the mob. I smell a Harvey Keitel cameo.

Screenwriter: No, no. nothing like that. I thought about some of those elements, but it just seems cliché. No, they become friends on this mountain until their job is over. There's not much more to that part.

Producer: Whoa! You lost me again, Lar. You’ve got to have a hook of some kind. Figure out something for them to do while they’re on this mountain.

Screenwriter: I do know that after they leave the mountain, they find wives. But neither of their marriages are ultimately happy.

Producer: I’m listening. I’m listening. We could get a hot young actress. Have a scene where she takes off her top. That’s always good for box office.

Screenwriter: Someone not well known for the wife.

Producer: Known enough, but not too well known. Give these girls a few credits and you can kiss those tit shots goodbye. I think it’s pretty ungrateful, like they’re above it all. I’ll get off my soapbox now. All right Lar, Let me see if I can guess where you’re steering this vessel. One of these cowboys has an affair with the other cowboy’s wife. Am I right?

Screenwriter: No, that’s not it. Both marriages do drift apart. I do have a scene where the guys go off fishing together.

Producer: Whoa! You lost me again. Marriages drifting apart-we’re not doing a Lifetime movie here. And the guys going fishing? Who are we going to cast? James Earl Jones and Robert Duvall? You looking for retirement home bookings, Lar?

Screenwriter: I admit I haven’t got some of the details worked out quite yet.

Producer: But something’s going to happen, right? Do they get lost at sea? Am I getting a Perfect Storm vibe here? Or do they finally find a treasure of some kind? Pirates of the Caribbean, maybe? Do they find a dead body, kind of a grown up Stand By Me?

Screenwriter: No, I’m trying not to go in a predictable direction with this, Paul.

Producer: Call me Mr. Ravelstein, if you don’t mind, or even if you do mind. Let me get this straight, Lar. These two guys that work for a summer together later go off on fishing trips every once in awhile. They both have marriages that end in separation, for no reason that you can think of. No dead bodies. No hidden treasure. No seducing the other guy’s wife. I’m not being wowed here!

Screenwriter: Wait, I have written a scene where one of the guys gets killed.

Producer: Over money?

Screenwriter: No

Producer: He’s not screwing his friend's wife?

Screenwriter: No

Producer: Sorry, Lar. I’m going to have to pass. Shelve it. While you’re here, do you have anything else?

Screewriter: Uh, how about Lonesome Dove 14?

Producer: You lost me.