I first heard about Morgan Spurlock’s masochistic romp through grease and fat back in Fall 2003. The girl I was currently seeing happened to have done the still photography for it, and mentioned the project to me in passing. At the time, my reaction was similar to that of Scott Ambrozy (the Director of Photography) when Spurlock initially suggested the concept to him. Supposedly, Ambrozy bust into hysterics (this was back on Thanksgiving 2002), and said, “Wow, that’s a really great bad idea.” I must admit, I thought much the same thing. How interesting could seeing some dude pig out be? Very, it turns out. Super Size Me is one of the most important movies in the past several years and may be the best of a recent spurt of strong documentaries (Capturing the Friedmans, To Be and to Have, The Fog of War, etc). Beyond his self-flagellation, Spurlock explores the world of obesity and fast food in other ways: visits to school cafeterias, interviews (and attempted interviews) with McDonalds and other related people/companies, and statistical evaluation and analysis. What results is one of the most terrifying reality checks I’ve seen, often horrifying yet frequently hilarious (that Spurlock’s girlfriend is a Vegan chef is the topper!).
For those who don’t know, Spurlock (pictured) decided to embark on a 30-day binge to discover just how dangerous fast food truly is. For one month, he ate nothing but McDonalds—three square meals a day. The following rules applied: he had to try everything on the menu at least once, he’d only super size if asked, and he could only eat items available over the Mickey D’s counter, even water. Spurlock didn’t take this quest lightly; he hired three doctors and a personal trainer to monitor and gauge his process. And then he did it. 90 McDonalds meals, no excuses, starting off in NYC and spanning across Texas (the fattest state in the world; 5 of the 9 super-size ‘requests’ took place there), Los Angeles, and Chicago. The results were astounding. By month’s end, Spurlock gained 25 pounds, going from 185 to 210. His cholesterol shot up, his energy and sex drive shot down. But most disturbingly, his liver damage was on a par with that of extreme binge drinking. Doctors were amazed by this, having no actual idea that an exceptionally fatty diet could have that effect. It took a heavy dosage of salads, prepared by Alex (the aforementioned Vegan girlfriend), to get him back to a reasonable weight. Even now, he hasn’t been able to fully shed the final few pounds, and cringes at the sight of a Happy Meal or anything else chain-related.
The incredibly negative consequences of greaseburgers and ‘Chicken’ McNuggets really smack you in the face while watching Super Size Me. Sure, we all *know* just how bad Mickey D’s is for you. We *know* we should rarely eat it, if at all. But it’s right there in front of us, delicious, sloppy, and moderately priced. And no cooking required. It’s easy to shrug it off under normal circumstances, to say, “Oh, one meal there won’t hurt me.” But seeing Spurlock slowly crumble into an exhausted slug serves as quite a wakeup call. Early on, he’s nothing if not gung-ho about the project, even after puking up an especially large portion on Day 2. By Day 20, however, his enthusiasm is almost completely sapped. There’s no bounce in his step, just a weary desire for it all to be over. You’ve gotta commend his dedication, though – despite doctor’s warnings, Spurlock refused to quit. Whether or not this was the prudent decision is thankfully irrelevant, as Spurlock has since recovered his health. The effects of his actions, though, will likely be felt for years to come.
During his trek around the USA, Spurlock plunges into the Public School system and comes up with a plateful of denial, both parental and corporate. Most of the children eat cookies, chips, ding-dongs, and other such lovely foods as their main course, with some soda to wash it down. Super Size Me cleverly unearths the flawed philosophy that allows this shocking situation to go down—parents normally lack the guts to challenge the system, and the food corporations and school supervisors turn a blind eye by rationalizing. What Spurlock does better than any recent documentary is give the ‘bad guys’ every opportunity to prove their points. All little Johnny took was a coke and some french fries? That’s okay, he probably has a bag lunch with a sandwich and some veggies back at the table! When the woman at the school says this, Spurlock simply nods and walks over to the table where ‘little Johnny’ is sitting. “You brought something else to eat?” he asks. Little Johnny shakes his head. It’s a simple moment but a stunning one, and perhaps the moment where everything starts to come together. Obesity and the poisoning of our bodies begins with our children, and McDonalds is the primary culprit. Ronald McDonald, playgrounds, Happy Meals, toys…kids become addicted the McDonalds lore before they know a damn thing about how dangerous the food itself is. It’s a warm atmosphere, but as superficial as warmth can get. Not surprisingly, Spurlock’s attempts to score an interview with a Mickey D’s CEO were unsuccessful. Way to go, Corporate America!
Super Size Me never slows down, constantly investigating problems and potential solutions in the area of weight and health care, such as physical education classes, advertising campaigns, etc. One of the more fascinating concepts raised is that of public ‘decorum’ – that is, the unwillingness of our society to boldly speak out about weight problems. It’s considered proper—hell, recommended—to chastise someone for smoking cigs. Let ‘er rip on the poor nicotine fiend! But anyone who’s fat is immune to criticism, when it’s just as dangerous, if not more so! Will we ever be capable of hearing negative words about our stomachs without instantly turning on the defense mechanism and spewing venom in response? At 6’4″, 200 lbs, I never had to worry about obesity growing up, but did have to endure constant taunts during my scrawnier days about my, er, lack of substance. I took said insults as motivation to pack on some pounds, and have since done so, to the point where I now have a perfectly normal build. Will those who struggle to control their weight ever be able to view things like this? After seeing Super Size Me, they just might. It’s the rarest of films, one that constantly provokes thought without being preachy, one that touches all the bases. In fact, I’d say it’s a grand slam to deep right field. You can be sure that McDonalds, Burger King, and other chains won’t be getting a dime of my cash from now on. Hopefully, you’ll say the same after leaving your multiplex on May 7th.
72/100
In Praise of Love, the latest film by Jean-Luc Godard, isn’t unbearable. This is significant, for it marks a drastic change from the rest of his post-Week End work, most of which consists of a stream of mostly indecipherable psychobabble. I don’t doubt that with many viewings, one can begin to extract some significance from For Ever Mozart or King Lear, but I’ll be damned if I’m interested enough to do so. These films explore the same themes of his early work—mainly, the meaning of cinema and what it can accomplish—but choose to do so without a story or any semblance of coherence. Depending on your view, this can be insane brilliance or wretched pretentiousness. I primarily choose the latter, though perhaps smarmy is the better word than ‘pretentious.’ There’s no doubting Godard’s intelligence; he’s clearly supremely schooled in literature, art, cinema, and all that good stuff. Starting with Breathless and continuing through My Life to Live, Contempt, Band of Outsiders and Alphaville, Godard employed his aforementioned intelligence to craft fascinating films, unique blasts of energy, ideas, and snappiness.
Then the trouble began. With Pierrot Le Fou in 1965 and Week End and Two or Three Things I Know About Her in 1967, Godard began to slowly eliminate narrative as a key component to his work, though those films were still successes. From the ‘70’s and on, however, Godard’s movies became little more than an excuse for him to flaunt his immense acumen. Splashes of this were present earlier—the Emily Bronte scene in Week End, the Pan Am and TWA bags on the head in Two or Three Things I Know About Her—but encompassed within a storyline, they were far more useful and informative, and far less ostentatious. Even then, however, the scenes would be nothing without knowledge of who Emily Bronte was. There are those who say to break down Godard’s rambling is to miss the point, that one must simply allow the mood to sweep you in. I don’t buy it, for what’s the reward of 80 minutes of indecipherable gibberish? If that was indeed Godard’s goal, then it failed with me in every post-1967 film of his that I’ve seen, though as I’ve said, I’m sure there are those who can somehow connect to JLG/JLG or the like.
Which brings us to In Praise of Love, made in 2001 and released here in 2002. Though still primarily stream-of-consciousness based, it reaches back to Godard’s glory days a bit, conjuring memories of his great Contempt with stunning visuals and a somber piano score. The plot is almost trivial, but exists in a slightly more understandable fashion, focusing on a Parisian director named Edgar and his travails while undertaking a complex project about love. Ultimately, though, In Praise of Love is about themes, about the anti-Hollywood sentiment that Godard feels so passionately about, and this is where the film begins to crumble. I have absolutely no problem with his admonishing America; God knows we’re a flawed country, and probably in need of a wakeup call about it. What I take issue with is his methods of doing this, particularly his all-out assault on Spielberg and particularly Schindler’s List. Though Spielberg isn’t mentioned by name until well into the film, In Praise of Love appears to be mocking Schindler’s List throughout, right down to Godard’s decision to shoot the present in black and white and the past in color. Perhaps I’m overanalyzing here, but I can’t help but think that’s a direct attack on Schindler’s List’s girl in red—a touch that I happen to find one of cinema’s more poignant moments. Even putting aside my personal adoration for Spielberg’s masterpiece, however, Godard blatantly ignores the extraordinary impression that Schindler’s List left on American culture, choosing instead to focus on its historical ‘inaccuracies.’ What Godard fails to realize is that few films are more successful than Schindler’s List in conveying its message to the audience, and isn’t that what Godard himself has always preached? Of course we all know of the Holocaust and its horrors but when I watched Schindler’s List, I felt it like never before. Godard’s attacks on Hollywood become grating rather quickly, and he should have chosen someone else to pick on if he wants to make his point without seeming nonsensical and illogical.
Phew! All that said, though, Godard frequently does nail our cultural problems, as well as successfully convey his doubts about himself and his career. We see a young couple in front of a poster for Bresson’s Pickpocket, ignoring a parallel advertisement for the mainstream Matrix. Their easygoing manner in selecting arty over mindless reflects a respect for artistry that’s simply not present in our society much of the time. The literary and cinematic references, including odes to L’Atalante, are plentiful— I’m sure I missed a good deal, if not most of them—but succeed in provoking when they hit in a non-pretentious manner. Edgar’s character seems to be an autobiographical reflection of a wistful Godard, a man questioning his success and old age. That his faith in childhood and youth, so prevalent in My Life to Live and the like, is disintegrating would leave me sad, but I have to admit that my disgust with several of his messages frequently left me cold. Overall, In Praise of Love succeeds at times, fails at others, but always manages to be controversial and provocative. In that regard, I suppose it must be labeled a success, if not a film for everyone.
Of the many great pictures about Hollywood (David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive and Robert Altman’s The Player immediately come to mind), none are greater than Sunset Boulevard, Billy Wilder’s scathing assault on Hollywood’s deceptive magnetism and fear of watching it pass you by. It’s narrated post-mortem by Joe Gillis (William Holden), who has a sizable chunk of screen time, but Sunset Boulevard is really about Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson), a faded star from the silent era who’s been a recluse for twenty years, unable to face the truth that Hollywood no longer needs her services. That she hibernates in a decrepit mansion with broken shades, rotting grounds, and a ratty swimming pool further allows her to avoid changing with the times. Inside her decaying palace, Norma’s built an effigy of sorts to herself—she doesn’t love cinema, merely her onscreen image and impact on the public. Photos of her 20-year old, glowing face fill the house. Her private movie theater plays nothing but her old films, and her lone servant Max (Erich von Stroheim) somberly eggs Norma’s facade on, essentially applying the blinders himself by sending her fake fan letters, not exposing her to the reality of the world that now exists outside their abode, and continually telling her and Joe that, “Madame is the greatest of them all.” When Joe’s car pulls up lame on Sunset with a busted tire, Norma seizes her chance to hire an established writer, one who can fix up her shoddy script that would get her back onscreen, but it’s more than that. By demanding that Joe move to her place, arranging elaborate parties for the two of them (complete with band), and buying him everything she wishes him to have, Norma’s essentially turns Joe into an involuntary lapdog, creating an artificial fawning fanboy who they both know doesn’t have any delusions about Norma’s current spot in the industry, but one who has the savvy to keep his mouth shut about it while getting some much-needed money to straighten out his broken finances.
Sunset Boulevard has many noirish elements—the dark lighting, a femme fatale, first-person narration—but it’s more of a biting satire than anything else. Norma’s unwillingness to face the world is mirrored by Joe’s similar, if less drastic, fear of failure. His scripts seem to end before they start, he’s deeply in debt, and he’s planning to move back to Ohio and work at the copy store dirt cheap, giving up his Hollywood dreams. There’s plenty of crooked Californian in him, as he originally takes the gig at Sunset to make some serious cash, but deep down, he’s not cut out for the industry. A kick in the ass from Betty Schaefer (Nancy Olson) gets him started on a potential winner, but when put to the test, he takes the easy way out just like Norma, casting Betty—and a potential Hollywood career with a beautiful young woman—aside. Oh, he doesn’t cave in to Norma either, planning to take that trip back to Ohio before getting gunned down, but he’s never able to take that all-out plunge that great writers do.
Much has been made of Gloria Swanson’s magnificent and sweeping performance as Norma, and rightly so. Under pounds of makeup, her every emotion and gesture rings true, from her coddling of Joe to her matter-of-fact manner with Max, to her delusional meeting with Cecil B.DeMille. What’s not discussed enough is the supporting work of Erich von Stroheim, William Holden, and Nancy Olson. Holden’s smarmy wisecracks are accompanied by a growing weariness with his artificial lifestyle. Von Stroheim’s eyes say it all, like the silent stars— no words are needed to express his devotion and love for ‘Madame.’ And Olson brings a fiery determination and innocence to an extremely important role—Betty serves as Joe’s outlet to salvation during the dark days of the latter stages at Sunset Boulevard. That she doesn’t end up changing him doesn’t mean she didn’t try. Wilder’s scripts are always excellent, from Double Indemnity (1944) and The Lost Weekend (1945) to Some Like it Hot (1959). But Sunset Boulevard is his crowning achievement—every line is spat out with the utmost contempt for something, it seems, and there’s not a cliché in sight…not even hiding in a cobwebbed corner of that large prison at Sunset.
The character of Max is perhaps the most intriguing of all. Who is this loner who’s so bent on keeping Norma’s illusions alive? As Sunset Boulevard progresses, clues begin to unearth themselves until we come to the startling revelation that not only was Max one of Norma’s first directors, but also her first husband…and gave up his career to come back as her whipped servant. Their relationship is one of the more powerful I’ve seen; Wilder’s timing is simply perfect. When the bombshell is dropped, we’ve had 100 minutes to soak in Max’s blind devotion and willingness to do anything to keep Norma in blissful, blind delirium. Under most circumstances, believing that one of the silent era’s most successful directors would toss aside his career to cater to Norma Desmond’s every need would be difficult to swallow, but there’s not a hint of implausibility…simply shock and sorrow. And after the murder, as Joe lies face-down in the swimming pool, and Norma sits in shock, thinking that she’s about to film Cecil B. Demille’s next picture and finally return to the screen…who’s there to assist the cops in keeping Norma happy to her last second as a free woman but Max. Setting up a crew, Max steps behind the camera for his final directorial gig, one that will send the woman he worships to prison for the rest of her life. Is there a more heartbreaking moment in cinema than Norma’s ultimate descent down the grand staircase—and into her greatest fear, obscurity? “Alright. Mr. DeMille…I’m ready for my closeup…”