I won't trouble you with yet another bloated Magnolia analysis (I included a pretty lengthy one as a lead in to a now-outdated Top 100), but given even more distance from its release it might be a rewarding exercise to explore some of the things I love about it, and why it has yet to be dethroned from my #1 spot. Of course, that might be writing a check I can't cash; I've never been able to completely explain everything I like about it - partly because I've never felt the urge to justify it, but also because a lotta math & science kinda sterilizes the experience. In discussing his own favorite films, Paul Thomas Anderson himself said it best: "I'm one of those people that would prefer to not talk about them. It's enough to say, like, 'Yeah it's fucking great, you should see it!'" One big point that's worth revisiting is how I thought it was the prefect movie for me "at that age" and "at that time in my life", but really that would only suggest that at 16 years old I was most receptive to wordy, character-driven Melodramas about coincidence and cancer. But it never really was about any of that; it wasn't some badge of maturity that I was suddenly more interested in deathbed soliloquies than stylized shootouts because the subject matter never really mattered that much to me. After all, the stories and characters that make up the entirety of P. T. Anderson's career have only ever been thinly veiled excuses to set a stage for great actors, and to do neat stuff with the camera. Anyone who's ever looked for anything more from his movies is missing the point (and for my taste, missing the point of movies as an art form).
It was the prefect movie for me at that age because it was around that time that stuff like plot and acting really started to fade into the background in terms of what I found exciting, and instead I began focusing more on the optical elements of Cinema. Magnolia certainly has some fine performances and sparkling writing that all creates a heartfelt emotional rollercoaster, but I didn't care about any of that shit. Not because I was an insensitive teenager, but because my scrutiny had gradually shifted away from the Theatre elements of Film and I was now more focused on the visual artistry of the medium - in terms of identifying what I liked, and how that's achieved. Before I began collecting the digital formats of physical media, I collected videotapes in the same way: shelves of colorful boxes made up of all the movies I liked. And similarly to today, there were sometimes the options to upgrade; around the mid 1990s I began to notice that studios were releasing a select handful of their films on Widescreen VHS(!). Maybe you had to be there (and maybe you were), but in my tiny world populated only by me, this was one of the greatest things to ever happen; before DVDs began to normalize the Widescreen format, I'd been living in a square world, modified to fit my 4:3 screen. Unless I'd seen it in a theater, I was being deprived of huge portions of hundreds of movies by watching them on TV, and as I began to rebuild my video library with various "Special Letterbox Edition" tapes, I suddenly became acutely aware of what I'd been missing.
I was definitely conscious of stuff getting lost in the transition from movie theater to Home Video - Hey, how come I can't see that thing on the other side of the screen anymore? But with things I hadn't previously seen in the theater, seeing them uncropped was like watching them for the first time - which also taught me a great deal about aspect ratio; films like Reservoir Dogs and The Usual Suspects suddenly became twice as big and beautiful because of their sprawling 2.35:1 Cinemascope frame, and that sleek and sexy rectangle was probably one of the first aesthetic hallmarks of movies that landed on my list of "preferences". I love the way vertical elements populate the screen and the way closeups need to be forced into its narrow window; it's perhaps the most basic way to get a tangible idea of how Directors and Cinematographers utilize (and sometimes waste) the canvas with which they have to work. I remember Frederick Elmes talking on the Blue Velvet DVD Extras about how 2.35 is such a "fun shape" to play with, and considering the way that particular movie rose a whole letter grade for me once I saw it in its entire scope, his comments only furthered my attraction to that super wide frame.
The two most significant (and attractive) Widescreen VHS tapes I owned were Casino and Boogie Nights - significant because neither of those movies should be forced to compromise their compositions, but also because of how stylistically similar these two films are. When Boogie Nights was new in theaters there were a lotta comparisons being made to Goodfellas and Pulp Fiction, but I didn't get as much of a sense of either of those as I did with Casino (and I'm sure I wasn't alone on that). A handful of shots and cuts and music cues and even entire sequences are nearly identical to Casino, and while they're not that hard to miss, they're even more evident when you're able to view them in their entire layout. Incidentally, those traits that those two movies share are the elements that I began appreciating and craving and looking for in all Cinema - and it's all the same stuff I listed the last time I discussed this, and it's still all the same things today: dolly shots, whip pans, extreme closeups, a few expertly used pop songs, and some "visible" editing that doesn't stumble over itself. Is that too much to ask?
I went to see Bringing Out the Dead in November of 1999 fully expecting the same amount of innovation and vibrancy that I'd gotten used to with Marty's stellar mid 90s run (Cape Fear, Age of Innocence, Casino, Kundun). I famously fell in love with the soundtrack, and felt that soundtrack was expertly used throughout the film, but otherwise I found the movie to be kinda hammy and inflated; there are some flimsy performances that only manage to amplify the hokey writing, and its singular inescapable theme is already annoying 30 minutes in. But who cares? I was here for kung fu camera moves and breakneck editing, and while the movie has a juicy single serving size of those things, it mostly paled in comparison to what I'd thought was an ongoing escalation in Scorsese's talents. I didn't really have the tools to articulate it to myself back then but I think the Robert Richardson glow was unreasonably heavy-handed and that Thelma was exploring what would've been labeled at the time as an "MTV Style" of cutting. I wasn't able to explain why any of this was "right" or "wrong" when I was 16 but that's because I didn't yet understand how's that's such a pedestrian way of processing movies (or any art). Clearly I'd been getting a sense of what my preferences were when it came to how things looked, but as conceptual as that idea was I knew that Marty's entry in the groundbreaking assemblage of "1999 Cinema" didn't meet my standards (whatever those were).
We all know the legend of 1999 and its cavalcade of great movies - those of us who lived it can attest to its worth. But lots of years had lots of good movies (some even had more in my opinion) - the more remarkable thing about the films of '99 was the variety; top earners ranged from computer generated galaxies to the shot-on-video woods of Maryland, and for better or worse, a lotta things were feeling experimental. How was I to build up any specific leanings or partiality to any singular style when I was faced with such a wide spectrum of creativity? But again that's kinda the point: I had no desire or need to be firm with my standards because movies, at that time, were still full of surprises. In hindsight, the entirety of the 1990s felt that way, and that final year of the decade just went hardest.
It was a long journey of taut anticipation between the first time I saw Boogie Nights and the first time I saw Magnolia. And again, I've recounted that voyage once before in great detail, but the biggest takeaway anyone should retain from reading about it is that never had I been that excited to see a new movie, and then the movie managed to surpass those almost unrealistic expectations. It took me some time to recognize that one of the main reasons that it clicked so comfortably for me was because I did indeed have "preferences" or "standards" or "tastes" that were unique to me, and after this film checked every box, it squeezed some extra credit into the margins. It gave me all my closeups and push ins and detailed compositions and rich colors and anamorphic lenses, but it also employed a handful of tricks and techniques that felt entirely new to me -- a feeling that I've not felt in a long time, but something that was actually commonplace during that era, so it took some distance to fully appreciate its extra specialness. But not much distance.
I went back to theater as many times as possible to experience it in its biggest, loudest format, sitting closer and closer to the screen with each subsequent viewing until I just started watching it from the front row - something I've never intentionally done before or since; I'd grasped a good sense of the frame, now I just wanted to be in the movie. The camera floats and rolls and spins around enough that immersing my eyes and ears at such a close proximity gave more of a sense of adrenaline and weightlessness than the IMAX presentation of One Battle After Another. Sitting that close to the movie also forced me to fixate on some of the smaller details, mostly in the set design -- and boy did they design the shit outta those sets!
I'd always took notice of the handwritten "Exodus" sign being held up in the audience of the game show, but I didn't give it extra thought; there was definitely a trend around that time of linking Bible verses to sporting events, and so I thought that was the extent of the gag. But I also always noticed the ropes on the roof of Sydney's Barringer's apartment building that formed an "82", and it wasn't until I brought a friend with me to the theater and for her to whisper, "Why's there an 82 there?" that I began to generate some mild curiosity. And it was after that fourth or fifth viewing that I had my father pull out an old Bible to find the passage, though even before we started flipping through the pages he informed me that the book of Exodus dealt largely with plagues, and that it was most likely a reference to the frogs...
These were pre-internet times -- I mean, they were for me at least, I didn't own a computer and it wasn't really part of the school system yet. My point is that once I figured out the Exodus thing it only compounded my craving for repeat viewings; there was no online list of clues that were readily available to me, and so the movie had suddenly become a kinda game I could play. Muck like the "Paul is dead" puzzles put forth by The Beatles, this added layer of subtext was as fun as it was impressive - suddenly I demanded that every artwork utilize this Leonardo da Vinci style of inventiveness; anything that didn't involve little clues to a larger meaning felt lazy and ineffectual.
Obviously as I grew older I placed less value on the usage of decorative afterthoughts as profound symbolism, but I do think it was that little added component of creativity and effort that managed to excite and inspire me more than any other movie had -- or, more to the point, has. Yes, believe it or not this meandering chronicle has an approaching purpose - and I don't even need any cataclysmic metaphors to lay it down. After nearly a decade of being asked what my favorite movie was, I finally had a comfortably honest answer that I was secure in allowing it to define me (at least in that area of interest). But it wasn't just to fulfill the purpose of having a response to that mostly routine question - I truly believed it, for all the vague reasons given here plus all the intangible stuff I can't describe (or don't care to).
I'm trying to think of post-90s instances that had me excited or even mildly hopeful for the immediate future of mainstream movies. There were definitely a lotta stylistically ambitious films at the beginning of this century: Traffic, Requiem For a Dream, City of God, Memento. Charlie Kaufman had proven to be a wealth of fertile ground for filmmaking experimentation: Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, Adaptation, Eternal Sunshine. Between Mulholland Drive and INLAND EMPIRE David Lynch certainly wasn't mellowing. Franchises gradually but aggressively reigned supreme, but even that avenue had potential when the world of Batman landed in the hands of a true and talented auteur. Iñárritu further fine-tuned the popular art of nonlinear storytelling with Amores perros and 21 Grams. Cloverfield was built from the ground up and had the potential to become what the Halloween franchise could not. Quentin was given much bigger budgets and he only ever knew how to spend them wisely - up to and including Grindhouse which showed us yet another new format for presenting films that had the potential to become a trend. (It did not.)
There have been a bunch of movies from this century that I've liked and even loved. And obviously during this time I've seen even more movies from before the new millennium that I've also admired. And Magnolia continues to be my favorite. Why? ...That's not a lead in, it's a question I'm asking. I'm asking you that. A more objective person might suggest that it's just some kinda familiar nostalgia thing - a "comfort movie" that merely serves the purpose of reminding me how happy and excited I was when it first came out. Of course that could be grounds for an argument that the merits of all movies, from Gigi to Anora, can only be measured by whatever naive sensibilities we possessed the first time we saw it. So that's a silly take, obviously. Could it be that I've yet to see a movie exactly like it? I mean it's not like Magnolia is some surreal, abstract mindfuck that's so impalpable that it couldn't possibly be replicated -- it's literally just closeups of people's heads for three hours, talking and yelling and crying. Though when it's reduced to those terms, it becomes obvious that there's a million movies like that. Actually, most of them are just exactly that.
One Battle After Another was actually the first movie I've seen in an IMAX Theater. I honestly found the experience kinda obnoxious and gimmicky; any mild stirring of action caused my seat to buzz like my table was ready, and the screen wasn't any bigger than those times I simply chose to sit closer. Mostly it distracted me from most of the nerdy things I try to pay attention to when I watch a movie, but whatever, I got to view it on my TV in what felt like a week after its theater run, and I definitely got a better and more intimate sense of it. (Obviously I still champion the theater experience but when they flirt with carnival ride tricks then it's no longer the thing I liked.) Anyways, my point is that I liked the movie - it's easily his funniest film, and it's also the farthest he's moved away from whatever I'd consider his "usual" material to be in terms of scale and genre. Did I think it was his best? No. Did I like it more than Magnolia? No. Okay, so, moving on then? Like, seriously, what am I supposed to do? Where do I go from here? Is this the price one pays for having a "favorite movie"? In the 26 years since I first saw it I obviously came to realize that all movies are different in terms of budget, style, era, aim, and many other nuances that separate Wild Strawberries from Jackass Forever, so at some point it feels kinda narrow-minded to compare. But really that's the situation only part of the time - ultimately, most movies are the same, and they're gradually getting samer.
I'm not going to spiral into some rant about how Cinema is getting "worse", nor am I condemning the future to death so we can match the past because, logically, movies peaked for me at one point and so everything that came after and before simply lost some luster. It's frustrating because I'm still chasing that vibe that, on paper, is so technically simple, but there are obviously more specific circumstances that made that particular movie work so well for me. Having a young, ambitious filmmaker with a clear vision and fresh trauma at the helm are definitely some big factors. He also had a lot to prove after coming off a big critical darling like Boogie Nights, and was free of studio interference because of it. And honestly it's a lotta that same energy that makes Hard Eight, Boogie Nights, and Magnolia a sorta Divine Trilogy of power and panache that, sadly, has continued to feel glaringly absent to me ever since. Agree or not, it seems to be obvious to everyone that there's definitely a "before and after" mile marker around the Punch-Drunk Love/There Will Be Blood shift, and there definitely is a consensus that he only began to "find his voice" in the 21st Century. I will say he's gotten weirder and braver and smarter, but I think there was a reckless egomania that drove those first three films, and from that came a lotta flash and pizazz that would eventually calm down into more subtle shades of artistry. Or, I'm just so lowbrow that I prefer gambling and pornography and CGI action sequences over haute couture and religious cults.
1999 was also the year of my favorite Michael Mann movie (The Insider) as well as my favorite Steven Soderbergh movie (The Limey). So by that measure, everything they've done since has been a failure...? I'd never frame it in such a crude way but at its center that really is how I feel deep down; and I just have to deal with it and go on living. The new stuff's not better, it's just different. What a drag. I mean am I doing it wrong? Is it a mistake to prefer and even promote the things that came before, or the way they used to be? For my money it seems that the best we can only ever hope for now is to imitate The Beatles because we're left with no other direction to go -- that's obviously not a unanimous sentiment but you get what I'm trying to say. This is basically just Sick Boy's "theory" in Trainspotting - that artists peak and then gradually they're no longer as good as they were at their best. I mean most of this is very subjective, but for all the "great" stuff that's been released in the new millennium, I don't think I've heard anybody over the age of 25 say "This has been the best that movies have ever been, or at the very least, way better than the 90s. Or 80s. Or 70s etc". But again this isn't about the entirety of Film, but the dull ache that one is forced to live with once they've chosen a favorite selection from an ongoing art form with a (stalled or not) forward momentum. Canterbury Tales could be your favorite piece of 14th Century Literature but that's fine because The Renaissance is over, so you can make your choice from a distance and move on and not be disappointed in all the new Geoffrey Chaucer books. I intermittently and only every briefly entertain the idea that I've aged out of the medium; it was the lovely Samuel Johnson who once said, "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life", but in my heart of hearts I don't believe I'm so curmudgeon and conservative that I'm just unable to appreciate all the bold, fresh, innovative directions that Cinema is clearly following. Shaky sarcasm aside, I like to think I didn't become fully desensitized to The Magic of Movies before the age of 20, and that some kinda shift actually did occur. Because let's be real, it's the children who are wrong.
In his review of Hard Eight, Gene Siskel said of P. T., "...he makes tension out of somebody handing somebody something". If you've seen it you know what he's talking about. Actually if you've seen any well-crafted movies you know what he's talking about: the ingenuity to compose melodies with the camera, and the ambition and ability to follow through. I miss that. I don't mean that I miss nuance illustrated thought the use of closeups, but I miss seeing it done in a way I like. I miss seeing an edit or a move or a lighting trick or a stunt or a visual effect that makes me gasp, that inspires me, that makes me ask, "How'd they do that? How'd they think of doing that?" Most of the great filmmakers with great resumes have slipped and fallen into the muddy puddles of the modern tools that are making everything we watch look and feel like a commercial for antidepressants; nowadays I'm just attentive to those who still film with film and light with lights, and Paul Thomas Anderson holds strong at the top of that short list. And yes, once in a while I will still spot a sense of technique that gets me giddy, or at least forces one of those Jeremiah Johnson nods outta me, but I still long for the days when it was commonplace for an entire feature to not just meet my standards, but surpass them in such a way that makes me forget about the way things were, and to be excited for what's to come.
- Paul
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