THE BUSINESS OF SAVING MR. BANKS and How It Surprised This Skeptic

 

(Since this is now available at home, I thought I'd share)


I really had no intention of seeing Saving Mr. Banks, but at the urging of a certain angel faced 8-year-old who is my frequent movie companion, I found myself spending the latter part of Saturday afternoon doing just that. He is a wise one, that one.


 The film is about the author of Mary Poppins, P. L. Travers, as she ventures away from her home in London and heads to Hollywood to finally (possibly) allow Walt Disney to make a movie of her work. There has been chatter in anticipation of the film's release that P. L. Travers is dealt with in the screenplay as overly harsh, while Walt Disney is treated with with white-animated gloves. Honestly, I think that is a bunch of hooey from a cadre of critics who strive to say something salacious so that, upon wide release, their commentary will be poised to go viral via association. Don't fall for it. Mrs. Travers is portrayed through writing (screenplay: Kelly Marcel and Sue Smith) and acting (Emma Thompson) in a manner that is not usually allowed onscreen in modern cinema. She is persnickety, sometimes to the point of rudeness. She is not warm and fuzzy, and barely even polite. She is demanding and controlling, and willing to go to the mat to protect her story and its characters. She is also complicated and stoically emotional and far more layered than any female character, all without any of her lady parts on display, has been drawn in so long that I can't even recall a similar instance off the top of my head. If you are a woman in Hollywood, she already sounds like a hero, no? The movie dances between the 1960s when Mrs. Travers came to the Disney studios after being courted by Walt Disney for 20 years, with his laser beam focus upon making her book, Mary Poppins (never Mary, always Mary Poppins, she directs the Disney team), into the Disney movie-fied Mary Poppins, and the years long before, during Travers' time as a child in Australia. Giving nothing away, I will just share that she had a sad and bumpy childhood, marked by the imaginative and charismatic father who also happened to be an alcoholic who found challenge in keeping the bank jobs that must have bored him to tears...and drink. I'm not going to give away the nuances of the story. I am just going to tell you, go see it. It is smart and insightful, without hitting you square over the head with it all. I walked away with an appreciation for each of the characters as artists who, like a lot of us, had our childhood challenges and turned them into a creative life as an adult. The story here, that is what stays with me. And the tenacity of a woman who believed in her story, and her characters, and was willing to walk away before having them diced and sliced and served up with a side of BS. As a writer, I think that is a beautiful portrayal. Maybe it isn't what we are used to seeing. But that says more about what is wrong with the state of entertainment than it does the accurate portrayal of this talented writer. Walt Disney's track record of being rather sexist can be thoroughly rooted out in another production, another movie where he gets to be the main show. But this wasn't his story. It was about Mrs. Travers and her Mr. Banks, and that was the beauty of it, from beginning to end.

(For a taste of her sass and tenacity in action, here are some taped excerpts of the writing sessions that she demanded be taped so as to not be bamboozled by the Disney machine:  https://soundcloud.com/tags/mary%20poppins)

(The cast discussing  the film, Saving Mr. Banks.)

© 2014 Charise M. Studesville 

She Taught the World the Song of All Caged Birds

            In the days after I was hurt in the field by school, my fear of the world around me became a quiet, but forceful rage. I was convinced that I might just explode from within, leaving my body split in half on the floor or sidewalk, depending upon where I happened to be when it occurred. I thought of this often, and how it would need to be cleaned up, and about who would be forced to do my final dirty work. It would be the human version of the snake sheddings I saw in the park across the street. This seemed all the more plausible because it had felt like I was split in two that day, and I was still bleeding “down there,” which might actually be the first sign of this whole body split in half snake shedding thing. I wasn’t sure.

One day after school, I could not focus to do the day’s homework. I had stuffed my face with three days’ worth of snacks, until I heaved over the toilet, puking out sweet release of everything except what refused to leave my body. I walked back to the living room and fell to the floor, crying and screaming. Finally. I somehow ended up on all fours, screaming into the floor, every cubic foot of air that resided in my 8-year-old little body. I screamed until my head hit the floor in exhaustion. And then I screamed some more. As I went to bring my head up, my nose scraped against the itchy carpeting. It hurt. And the hurt somehow also felt good, so I did it again. And then again and again. When this vomiting of rage was over, I laid their exhausted, nose already scabbing over from the rug burn that would remain. The first thing I saw when I finally pulled myself up, was the book my mother had told me I wasn’t old enough to read. I decided in that moment that I was now old enough. So I took the little forbidden paperback into my room. Since I’d vomited as proof, I was deemed sick enough for Grandma Betty days, and my book went with me. When Grandma saw the book I was reading, as she brought me my ginger ale and cinnamon toast, she looked a little surprised.

“Honey, where did you get that book?” she asked, trying to remain unfazed.

“From the bookshelf,” I answered, matter-of-factly.

“I’m not sure you are old enough to be reading that,” she said, still standing there.

“I am,” I answered, and looked up and smiled at her. “Thank you for my toast.”

“You are welcome, you cute little imp, you,” she said, as she walked back into the kitchen, laughing to herself.

Over those few days on her sofa, I read I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings from cover to cover. When I got to the chapter where Maya Angelou is raped, it felt like someone had lifted a load of bricks from my chest. My mind spun. That is what happened to me, I thought. I am not the only girl. It was such a small realization. I am not the only girl. I am not the only girl. I am not the only girl. Without realizing it, I had tears running down my face.

“What’s wrong?” Grandma asked, now standing right in front of me. “Is your tumtum bothering you?”

“God doesn’t hate me,” I said, before breaking down, letting the book fall to the floor.

“Of course not, Sweetie,” she said, as she sat down next to me and pulled me in to her pillowy chest. “God loves you. And so does your old grandma.”

I cried in her arms for a long time. And she sat and allowed me to do so for as long as I needed.

“Is everything ok?” she finally asked.

I nodded yes, because it was all I could muster.

I wasn’t sure who this Maya Angelou lady was. I wasn’t even sure I understood the grown up meaning of this title, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. But I did know that she might have saved my life. Well, her and Grandma Betty. Cuz after that day, I didn’t feel as much like walking out in front of a car like I had planned to do when I went back to school, just to be taken away from the hurting. And I was thankful for that.

 

"Maya Angelou had a profound effect" on my life...here is a great collection of who she was.

© 2014 Charise M. Studesville

PROMETHEUS ---My Take *SPOILER ALERT*

After waiting for what felt like forever for Prometheus to be released, I finally indulged in the 3D sci-fi fest yesterday. With the viral campaigns that sucked me in with fake David promos, and the increasing bombardment of teasers as the release date neared, I was primed and ready.  


As a young girl, I was a rabid fan of the original 1979 Alien film. Not only did I relish finally seeing a sci-fi film with a kickass female protagonist in Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley, I also loved the psychological and emotional orchestration via both story and imagery that were achieved in that masterpiece. While I knew that this was a new story (kind of), with a new cast, I was hopeful that I would be treated to a whole new land of wonder. I didn’t know how Director Ridley Scott would out-do the fresh shock and awe of the original chestburster magic, but I was willing to pay to see him try.


With the very first scene of Prometheus, the mind-boggling cinematography and visual effects had me. The disintegration of an Engineer, with its pitch-perfect overtones of passing millennia and biological evolution, along with the emotion conveyed by this creature, was pure VFX magic. It set the tone for the over 1000 digital effects shots sprinkled throughout the film. Later, my eyes were wowed again by the digital orrery, the 3D hologram star map that is a centerpiece of the story and action, along with the ghosts of Engineers past who populated the downed vessel. My eyes also ate up the imagery fed to us via the pristine 3D shooting. It was crisp and precise in showing how the camera technology can be used to impart enormous depth, without ever going all superhero-flying-at-your-head mode. Even with the washed-out, bleach bypass drab blue/green palette, the RED Epic cameras, aided by the Element Technica Atom 3d rig, lent a visual there-ness that allowed the viewer to experience a feeling of having been dropped down into the world created by the film’s technical mastery. Locations, including Scotland and Iceland, were stunning enough to have become another character in the film. Cinematographer Dariusz Wolski has talked up the fact that he is sold on the RED 3D Epic’s ability to shoot 5k at 120fps without compromising resolution. After viewing the final product myself, I’m gonna get on that bandwagon, too. (Full disclosure: My first film I directed was shot on the RED, 2008 version, and I have been a lover of the brand since then.) So, from first frame to last, the look of Prometheus was very much right on the mark.  


Then there's the story. And here’s where I jump off the bandwagon. While it might not be fair to compare Noomi Rapace’s Elizabeth Shaw with Sigourney Weaver’s instantly iconic Ellen Ripley, how can you not? They both are the tough, resourceful protagonists on a space ship, who have to face some nasty peril in the form of alien body invaders, and fight like hell in order to live to tell about it. While Rapace seemed a little flat initially, I was won over a little when she is forced to use a mechanical operating chamber to give herself a C-section!! to abort the growing alien-fetus implanted in her, all while remaining awake!!, AND then she must maintain her wits enough to escape this most horrid and vile creature now outside of her body, but still within the chamber with her. She is one badass gringa! I only wish there’d been a few more scenes as intense as this one. As a whole, I’m left thinking that the much of the flatness comes from the script. There was a lot of ground to cover. We’ve seen battles and conundrums like this before, so none of it feels totally fresh. The story is a collection of down the rabbit hole cluster-fuckery that the crew of the ship is left to scramble to overcome. They don’t fair so well, and neither does originality. Michael Fassbender’s David is creepy and expertly played as the robot without emotion, but with more mental dexterity than robot’s we’ve previously seen in most films of this genre. This said, it’s hard not to think of David as the humanoid version of Stanley Kubrick’s film 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the “character” of the ship computer HAL 9000. The over-arching feel, story-wise, is that the film is an homage to several other films that sci-fi-heads have loved. Ridley Scott is clearly one of those.


When Alien came out, much was made about the overtly sexual tone of the monster’s attacks upon the bodies of the crew. This is, to great effect, carried forth in this latest installment, as well. The oral invasion of each victim by the phallic creature, combined with the scary-teethed orifice, and the unwanted invasion of bodies as incubators, all goes right back to the rape imagery that left many a viewer of the original more than a bit unnerved. It’s an unthinkable death to asphyxiate via a huge snaky alien tentacle jammed down your throat. And even though we’ve seen this brand of death before, the horror of it still holds up. In fact, I think it will always hold up as pretty damn scary.


The surprising addition to this film that I don’t remember from Alien (or maybe I just need to go back for another gander), is the religion versus evolution debate. Much is made of character Shaw’s attachment to her cross necklace, and it’s functioning as the not-so-subtle connection to her spiritual beliefs, as instilled in her by her father. Robot David’s verbally challenging her belief system, and then also removing it from her (via his taking of the cross) at a crucial moment was the screenwriters' and filmmaker’s vehicle to posing the eternal question(s): Is faith primitive and naive in the face of science and logic? Is there a God or Almighty Creator? The film doesn’t answer these questions. Not really sure it was supposed to. And I don’t mind. What I do mind is that it seemed like an artificial add-on to the story, or maybe an unfortunate by-product of the edit. Seems with a little more subtly by screenwriters Jon Spaihts and Damon Lindelof, though, it could have entered the picture without it feeling like the action was stopped to bring the viewer this opportunity to ponder the faith question.


Clearly, this film was a huge undertaking. And while the $120M budget should have yielded a more finely-honed story to go along with the gargantuan visuals, I’m gonna forgive them. Mostly. Via the visuals provided by the effects shots and the cinematography, it was a ride, an event. And, in the final analysis, that’s what many moviegoers got on the Ridley Scott Express to experience. I just hope that with the inevitable sequel, the story and plotting are given as much attention as the visual effects.

The Truth. Capital 'T'

Whitney Houston died yesterday afternoon just down the road from me. Like everyone else who loved her in real life or from afar as a fan of her music, I'd really hoped she would get the proverbial drug monkey off her back.  None of us will ever know her particular chaos that dwelled inside her brain. And that's the part, to me, that is so heart-achingly sad. Even surrounded by a staff of handlers, friends, family (and maybe even a sobriety coach? I haven't any idea about that one)---even with all of that, she was alone.  In the inner world of the human mind, we are ultimately at our most alone. There are illnesses that cause complete physical paralysis, while leaving the brain perfectly intact. One, in essence, becomes a captive of their body, like a patient waking from anesthesia, mid-surgery, and being unable to scream.  In actuality, we live a version of that everyday. Some more than others. It's why the ubiquitous neighbor of a serial killer news interview is always some version of, "He was a nice, normal guy. I never would have known." And that's the point. We never really know. This is an absolute that we absolutely know.  Even the most adept communicator cannot convey a 360˚ view of their thoughts and feelings. By virtue of the fact that even with the power to convey a 360˚ view, the person listening has their own 360˚ view that assesses all incoming information via its own prismatic alteration of that original truth.  So, as much as everyone in Hollywood this Grammy weekend wants to figure out and understand, it's a futile effort.  Whitney kept her secrets, and took them with her.  And those who will inevitably claim to know what was in her mind? All we'll ever know from them is their interpretation, not The Truth. 


It occurs to me as so odd that we all go through life knowing that death is part of the deal, and are still rendered utterly dumbfounded when it shows up in close proximity to us. I'm beginning to think that we run around in this world of social constructs, mostly ignoring the fact that much of it balances upon untruths. Then The Truth shows up. Because death is an ablsolute truth. And I think that's the most confusing concept imagineable to us. Our no longer existing is the thing. But the scary addendum on that is that too many of us stop existing long before The Truth in the form of death arrives. I guess it's up to each of us to decide which end to existing is more tragic.

I pray that she finds the peace that so eluded her while she was here.

1ST ANNUAL GEEKGIRLCON!!!

The prospect of attending a full-on geek fest devoted to all things SHE was exciting to ponder.  The reality has gone so far beyond the expectations, that it all feels a tad surreal.  Seattle is a perfect setting for GeekGirlCon2011.  It already has that indie, no-pretense, cool-to-be-smart vibe going on.  Add to it a bunch of chicks who are here to talk, and challenge, and game, and cosplay, and just generally shake things up, and you pretty much have full-on anarchy.  I kinda half expected to be one of a hundred people sitting in a room.  Soooo not the case.  They sold out yesterday, and expected to do the same today.  Walking around the Seattle Center campus, the feeling of attending your first day of training at an alternative universe-ity left me feeling like a little Doogiela Howser.


First panel I attended was "The Heroine: Journey, Culture & Narrative." If that sounds kinda like a women's studies class, it was.  In the best way.  Four different women presented their take on women in film and television within male-dominated genres:


*Claudette Colbert's defiantly rich career in Hollywood, including gender-bending roles in war films such as "So Proudly We Hail", "Since You Were Away", and "Three Came Home".


*Buffy The Vampire Slayer and Zena Warrior Princess and the eschewing of binary thinking that you must be EITHER action hero OR female, and how they both show that aggression is actually a human trait to behold when necessary.


*How slamming Charlie's Angels and the like because they are physically attractive is reductive thinking, and that using the traditional Hero's Journey is problematic because it is so inherently male-centric.


*Looking at how Wonder Woman's Amazon background, devoid of men, shaped her as a woman/character.


The final word on this panel was the idea that there is "POWER IN LACK OF CATFIGHTS AND VICTIMIZATION WITHIN A MOVIE POPULATED BY FEMALE COMRADERIE."


I then attended a ticketed special event: "Oral History Live! With Jane Espenson." To say that she is a pioneer in the writing world of television is an understatement.  Plain and simple, she just f'ing rocks!  She is geek writer extraordinaire, and shared her rise up the writing ranks starting with getting a call to pitch Star Trek episode stories after sending in spec scripts, and up to her time on Buffy The Vampire Slayer, Gilmore Girls and Battlestar Galactica.  So cool to hear how even established vets get so excited about creating content.  She shared her experiences in the trenches of doing BG webisodes as the sets were literally being torn down as they shot.  Jane gave a great scoop on "Once Upon A Time" that has Lotusfilmgirl doing a furious re-write for submission....


Saw a rough cut of "History of the Universe As Told by Wonder Woman" that made me beyond proud to have jumped aboard their Kickstarter campaign several months ago.  People should be VERY excited about this one.  The kickass panel included Gail Simone (comic author rockstar!), and Trina Robbins (comic book author high priestess!!!).  They both talked about how GeekGirlCon felt like being at Woodstock, seeing the start of a revolution evolving before your very eyes.


I had hoped that by coming here to Seattle, I would get some fuel to go back and attack the storylines of the projects I'm working on.  It has truly given me so much more.  Total game changer.

Dwayne McDuffie on the realities of the Black writer in the comic book i...