Being the Best and Being a Team

Last night, something happened on the court of the NBA Finals that defied my expectations: the Celtics won. Not only did they win, the Celtics beat the Lakers after trailing by 21 after the first quarter and by 18 at halftime. More astonishing than what, however, is the question of why. With a lead that exceeded 20 points and the MVP of the NBA on their side, why did the Lakers lose? As great as the Celtic defense proved to be, the Lakers lost because of Kobe Bryant.

Though Bryant is the best player in the NBA, when games enter crunch time and victory hangs in uncertainty, his downside manifests in his teammates. In such moments, the Lakers enter Kobe Mode, where Bryant assumes the role of the classic hero and bends the fate of the game to his will. When Kobe takes over, he resembles the closest thing to Jordan since Jordan. But as dominant as these moments can make Bryant look, they also reveal his great flaw: the rest of the Lakers fear their leader.

Kobe Mode destroys the Lakers' confidence and camaraderie for these two reasons: victory must occur through him, and he seems unwilling to trust his teammates. In the first instance, Kobe treats each game as if it is his to win, which makes his supporting cast passive; in the second, when Kobe must rely on his teammates, they fear to fail him.

This truth about Bryant only comes out in defeat of course. When Sasha Vujacic received Bryant's pass and nailed a three to seal game three, Kobe patted him on the head. But in game four, after Vujacic let Ray Allen slip past him to score a game-clinching basket, Kobe shirked his teammate. Vujacic slammed his despairing first into a bench chair, and Kobe let him suffer the blame. Jordan would have rescued his teammate. Consequently, the Lakers lack the sense of shared identity and shared fate that defines a team, and Kobe prevents them from becoming one.

Notice how the Celtics displayed the opposite in game four. In the first half, Eddie House missed all of his wide-open jump shots, but Paul Pierce—who is becoming their own leader—continued to give him looks in the second half, and House produced 11 points. The Celtics put the same exact faith in James Posey, who produced 18 points off the bench.

More importantly, these were not bench performances that brought random victory; rather, the Celtics clinched a win through the leadership of their stars. In the third quarter, Pierce confronted the impossible with defense—he blocked a jump shot by Kobe Bryant. The play led to the Celtics rally that won the game. Then on the most important possession of the game—the one that would put the Lakers away or give them a new opening—Pierce did not demand the ball. Instead, he trusted it to Ray Allen, who also displayed fearlessness.

An important victory requires two things: a leader who can confront the impossible and a team who believes in itself. Pierce displayed both traits last night, and the Celtics overcame a deficit of over 20 points to earn a commanding 3-1 lead in the series.

Kobe may be the best player on the Finals court, but he has yet to learn what six seasons of mediocrity taught Jordan: a superstar cannot win a championship single-handedly. Unfortunately for the rest of the Lakers, this last component will only come if their leader is willing to change, to listen. As simple as such a demand sounds, it could keep Kobe from ever winning another title.

An Oscar-Winner about Fathers and Sons

Character, winner of the Academy Award for Best Foreign Film in 1997, tells the story of a boy who grows up without his father, discovers him in his juvenile years, and wants to kill him by the time he becomes a man. In spite of the misery that father and son manufacture, their mutual will to win produces something greater than a soap opera scuffle—it shows the human spirit capable of honor in the midst of desperate searching and profound suffering.

The story transpires through the framework of a murder investigation. Witnesses see a bloodied young man emerge from a building where police find a dead man. Moments later, police arrest the young man, and two officers begin his cross-examination: the victim is Dreverhaven, the powerful town bailiff, and the suspect is Katadreuffe, his son.

As Katadreuffe reports his story, the film jumps to flashbacks. His mother Joba worked as housekeeper for Dreverhaven. She performed her tasks efficiently and inconspicuously, without ever speaking to the man. One day he notices her, however, and they mate off screen. Weeks later she announces her pregnancy and resignation in the same sentence. After she leaves him, he bombards her new residence with marriage proposals, but she refuses each one. Throughout his life, Dreverhaven continues to desire Joba, but she always remains outside his reach.

She gives birth to Katadreuffe, who as a schoolboy receives notes that say the same single word: bastard. The film occurs in the Rotterdam of the post-WWI 1900s, when communism carried underground popularity and single-mother families carried public disgrace. Despite this written ridicule, which also comes in physical and verbal forms, Katadreuffe hears nothing of his father. His relationship with his mother exists in silence. Despite her efforts, a nagging, almost instinctive curiosity leads the boy to discover the father he has never seen. Once they meet, the film attends to the story of their peculiar relationship, which becomes one of constant obsession, despite their infrequent interaction. Katadreuffe attempts to defeat his father by overcoming poverty; Dreverhaven opposes his son by making his every endeavor more difficult.

Though he seems to lack mercy, Dreverhaven is not a heartless man. When he enters a city battle zone to perform an eviction, a young boy fires a pistol at him, and one of the bullets grazes his face. Dreverhaven responds by trying to prevent officers from gunning down the boy. However infrequent it emerges, goodwill lies buried deep within him.

Normally Dreverhaven acts with harshness. In a latter episode, he tells the tenants of an apartment building he owns that they have three days to evacuate the premises. In a dream that anticipates making this announcement, he appears naked before his tenants, and they beat him to death. When the actual moment comes, even with the premonition of this dream, he still passes through the audience and mounts the podium to proclaim the three-day notice. For Dreverhaven, moments of peril amount to tests of his will: something inside him must confront its every obstacle in order to assert its nature—whether it's a war zone or the stage of his death. Though this sense of conduct overrules his sense of compassion, he bears his tenants no malice. His occupation makes him an instrument of the law, and his personal code resembles a virtuous legality. This is the very code that he aims to impart to his son, whether it kills him or not.

Consequently, when Dreverhaven's name comes up at the law firm where Katadreuffe works, employees debate whether his modus operandi is a virtue or vice, courage or recklessness. Even with these aforementioned traits, much mystery shrouds Dreverhaven. The film never enters his past to explain who he really is. In addition, it's never clear to Katadreuffe why his father treats him so: is he being punished because he represents the fruit of his father's one failure, or is he being taught a way of overcoming the world?

Though these lawyers remain divided on Dreverhaven, the ending addresses the remaining uncertainty. After the interrogation, there is no marriage to save the day—and there could have been a happy one. Instead, the end depicts a moment of recognition that amounts to so much more, to the very thing that Katadreuffe has been striving for, the thing that only a father can provide: identity.

Introduction to New Post

In honoring of school ending and summer beginning, I have written a new post, one that considers a subject other than Kurosawa—something recent, even. Confounded? Just read on, brave reader…

(By the way, I apologize in advance for using the offensive phrase, but it's the most accurate one. Now I bet you're curious...)

Michael Clayton, An Above-Average Legal Thriller

Among the five films nominated for best picture this past year—Atonement, Juno, Michael Clayton, No Country for Old Men, and There Will Be Blood—I had only one left to see when I began my Netflicks trial account last week: that one being the man in the middle, Michael Clayton. Though the film lost in this category, and rightly so, I believe that the film contains significant merit that both justifies its nomination and warrants our attention.

Michael Clayton (George Clooney) works as a fixer for the law firm Kenner, Bach, and Dean; with money and personal contacts, Clayton rescues his clients from the consequences of the law. Presently, his firm prepares to settle a six-year, three-billion-dollar lawsuit filed against its defendant, U-North, a corporation accused of poisoning people by polluting the environment. The lawyer in charge of the case, Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson), feels nauseated about defending another corrupt company. He erupts during a deposition, and the firm sends Clayton to placate the problem. When U-North grows impatient, Clayton excuses his friend—Edens is bipolar and has forgotten to take his pills. But this only touches the surface. Underneath it, Edens can no longer help companies that expend the weak in the name of capitalistic endeavor: he escapes into hiding, and begins to build a case against U-North. The rest considers how two characters, one from each organization, react to this threat of exposure.

Thematically, Michael Clayton considers what actions a man will take in order to preserve his empire of dirt, and how much of his soul he will squander in order to pay the cost. In the high society this film portrays, success means that one must maintain a spotless surface, even if it covers a collection of deceit, debt, bribery, murder, family neglect, and failure. Under such pressure, man either retaliates like Arthur Edens or breaks like Karen Crowder (Tilda Swinton), general counsel
for U-North who also turns to mess-fixing.

Technically, the demands this theme places upon the actors actually caters to Clooney: it dictates a surface restraint that keeps him from having to explore a broader emotional range, one he often seems to leave unexplored in his dramatic roles. Clooney is a skilled actor, and he has demonstrated that he can succeed at comedy, as well as directing: together, these instances confirm that he possesses a level of diversity. In dramas, however, he plays the wise guy: the inner depths of his characters always remain internal, and his occasional outbursts inevitably have this wise-ass tone to them. Hence, the job of delivering the movie's brilliant opening monologue passes to Tom Wilkinson. Regardless of his range, Clooney excels as Michael Clayton: except for a few here and theres, we forget we are watching George Clooney.

Topically, the film visits gain-the-world-and-forfeit-the-soul territory. The corrupting influence of money—a theme that can collapse into a cliché quite easily—appears in three of the above nominees. In each one, it's a pursuit that costs the family. In There Will Be Blood, oilman Daniel Plainview disowns his son when he decides to begin his own oil company: outside the family business, H.W. only amounts to a competitor. In No Country for Old Men, Llewellyn Moss risks his life and the life of his wife to retain an abandoned bag of cash he finds at a shootout; his find-keepers, losers-weepers scheme ends in utter disaster. In Michael Clayton, the title character has a son, but no time for him. With failed restaurant debt, a broken family, and a gambling weakness upon his head, Clayton offers his son this consolation: he believes that his son is different and will achieve the success he himself has failed to reach. Sounds like a virtue the film treats as vice, right?

By the end, Clayton seems to realize that life means more than money, but what exactly does it mean? What ground enables Clayton to stand beside his final decision? The decision could be motivated by love of his son, it could be motivated by loyalty to his friend, or it could be motivated by a desire to outdo his enemies. Ultimately, the source of a higher significance remains ambiguous; the realm of ideals marks unfamiliar territory to Clayton. He knows his final act is a good one, and that he must perform it whatever its consequences; Edens at least showed him that much. But from there, who knows?

Still, something great lives in this film. In an environment without noble ideals, the human spirit exhibits its need for them; and, even if it knows not where to find them, it will still begin to search. This testament—combined a brilliant opening dialogue and a scene with horses full of awesome mystery—turn an average subject in a routine genre into a worthy endeavor.

Shakespeare, Kurosawa and the Spider Webs of the Heart

A military leader and his friend withstand the invasion of a rival kingdom. Their king summons the heroes to his castle to reward them. En route, the warriors meet an ominous spirit who predicts their twofold fates: advancement and eventual kingship for both families. Shortly thereafter, each receives the first slice of his prophesied fruits, so the two begin to consider the promised second portions. If the spirit spoke truly, do I to wait for my fate to arrive or do I pursue it myself? With these thoughts, the leader returns to his wife, who pressures him to kill for the crown. His choices lead to blood and disaster.

This summary outlines the plot of Throne of Blood, by Akira Kurosawa, and if it sounds familiar, it's because the film depicts an adaptation of Macbeth by William Shakespeare. While the majority of adaptations flounder in relationship to their source, Throne of Blood prospers: the film maintains the spirit of Macbeth and at the same time achieves its own distinct form. Most of the changes to the play result necessarily, from the decision to transfer Shakespeare to a Japanese setting. Instead of eleventh century Scotland, the film occurs in medieval Japan of the late 1400s. Obviously, the names of people and places have to change; Washizu is the Macbeth figure and Asaji is his diabolic lady (who seems to move like an upright snake when she goes to retrieve a sleeping potion). Also, Kurosawa reduces the three witches to a single spirit. And instead of a specific country, the kingdom Washizu overtakes seems to be known as the Spider's Web.

One of the deliberate changes—which Stephen Prince points out in his helpful essay, "Shakespeare Transposed"—is the use of Noh Theater traditions. The Noh style originated in Japan, first appearing on its stages in the fourteenth century; three of its essential elements are music, masks, and stylized performances. About the last feature, its peculiar acting style, he says more: "Noh performance is a striking blend of stillness and agitation." This explains why characters in a Kurosawa film often behave wildly, exaggerating gestures and facial expressions. (Watch, for example, how the messenger knocks on the castle gate.) The style values physicality above language. Whereas Shakespeare reveals internal states through poetic language, Kurosawa conveys them through physical expression. Instead of realism, he aims at expressionism; instead of memorable individuals, he pursues universal types.

Aside from context, the lack of Shakespeare's language marks the greatest difference between Macbeth and Throne of Blood. Kurosawa replaces it with the poetry of his camera, and cinematic metaphor appears in the various representations of circles. Round shapes often hang on helmets: the great lord carries a nearly full circle, and Washizu wears a half moon—and these sizes seem consistent with rank. Another example occurs before Washizu and Miki engaged the spirit in the forest; it sits in a hovel and spins a wheel while it sings of the violence men circulate. Then before the final passage of the movie begins, guards outside the city gates exchange conversation in two circular rounds: each speaks in turn as the discussion rotates counter-clockwise, and each speaks again as their dialogue reverses into a full clockwise revolution.

The circles imply a cyclicality of rising and falling, a visual theme that compliments the content of Throne of Blood. Two odd-seeming scenes clarify its meaning. After Washizu receives his first promotion, peasant workers outside his new home remark, "Life can always be improved." A similar scene, and the same line, occurs in a lookout tower, after Washizu advances to the Spider's Web Castle. The line implies that even the lowest in society look for their opportunity to profit. Asaji tells her husband: "Did not the great lord secure his own position murdering his predecessor?" Washizu chooses to follow this example, to sustain the violent circle. Unlike Macbeth, Throne of Blood needs no hero to duel its villain, there is no Macduff to challenge the usurper and right his wrongs. Everyone has a death arrow to offer Washizu—every heart contains the capacity to murder. Perhaps the tragedy of Throne of Blood is that "humans are terrified to look into their own hearts." Watching Washizu choose the evil over the good of his heart discourages the audience from indulging its own.

A Quick Thought on Kurosawa's Ran

I saw Ran, recently, a film in which Kurosawa adapts Shakespeare's King Lear. The movie proved too immense to review after just one viewing, but one episode struck me particularly: the way Kurosawa startles us when one of the main characters is shot.

To accomplish this effect, Kurosawa places a castle in flames in the center of the shot, so that even though it occupies the background, we give our attention to the burning building. To the configuration he then adds two characters, each on a side of the frame, and positions them in the foreground. The frame presents a perfectly structured triangle. What amazes me is that all Kurosawa uses to pull off the effect is depth. By leading our eyes to the back of the shot, he surprises us in the front. No special effects, just masterful directing. This shot achieves the status of a composition—by that word I mean an arrangement of the frame that contributes meaning to the story—and nearly every sustained shot in Ran carries this kind of significant organization. Because his frames are this good consistently, I think you'll struggle to find a better composer of images in the movies.

A Man I'd Like You to Meet

Near the end of February, a friend asked me to borrow his Net-flicks account. Asked. I gave the request about two seconds of deliberation. How could I deny a favor to a friend?

Anyway, for the past six weeks, I have been using it to watch the films of Akira Kurosawa. I don't know how deep your awareness of movies goes, but critics count this Japanese director among the all-time greats. Many Kurosawa films influenced American ones. Yojimbo inspired A Fistful of Dollars, one of the movies that made Clint Eastwood famous. And you may not believe this but Hidden Fortress inspired Star Wars. These facts come from Roger Ebert, not myself, and can be found in his review of Seven Samurai in the first volume of The Great Movies.

Consequently, if ever a director was indebted to another, George Lucas owes Kurosawa. Consider the difference in quality between the earlier Star Wars films, the ones that borrowed from Kurosawa, and the newer films, the Star Wars prequels that Lucas wrote himself. The difference is not that Lucas dropped in quality; the difference is Kurosawa. (If any Star Wars die-hards are reading this, I'm probably moments from being blaster-shot, light-sabered, and Force-choked.)

To be fair to Lucas, Kurosawa also borrowed from the greats, especially Shakespeare. His Throne of Blood adapts Macbeth, and in Ran he uses the storyline of King Lear. (Both are the best adaptations of any Shakespeare Tragedies I have seen put to film.) And since I am getting most of this information from Ebert, I guess it is hypocritical of me to criticize Lucas. I just know the power of a Kurosawa film and want you to experience it.

Unfortunately, I think two factors deter the average movie fan from his films. First, all of his movies require subtitles. And second, most of them are about Samurais. Though the subtitles are unavoidable, the social practices, despite their unfamiliar eastern-ness, actually strengthen his movies. The culture of Japan and the code of the Samurai provide Kurosawa with a particular myth, by which I mean a shared set of ways a society establishes. (Unfortunately, our society has lost such a shared understanding about the most important things.)

Though his films most often occur in an eastern nation of the past, they view honor, social etiquette, the place of men and women, and religious ceremony specifically. This grounding in detail enables his films to achieve the universal. An American may know nothing about a Samurai, but seeing the specific way his society define integrity allows a Westerner to relate to such a figure, to recognize an honorable as well as a dishonorable Samurai.

If then these are issues keeping you from Kurosawa, I encourage you to overlook them. I don't have a Netflicks account to offer you, but I do have a recommendation. Try Ikiru, which to me seems to be based on The Death of Ivan Ilyich, a novella by Leo Tolstoy. It's about a middle-aged, city official who discovers that he has cancer in his stomach and only a few months to live. Mortality confronts him with the vanity of his life, and he responds with a search for something meaningful. What he discovers is real hope, a reward greatly worth the effort.

Away From Her: How far does "in sickness and in health" go?

Overlooked by most Best of 2007 lists is Away From Her, a film directed by Sarah Polley who only turned 29 in January. The oversight is unfortunate. Her film reveals astounding insight for a young director, especially considering that Polley focuses on characters twice her age. Those figures are Grant (Gordon Pinsent) and Fiona (Julie Christie) Anderson, a retired couple whose marriage is challenged by the Alzheimer's disease slowly overtaking Fiona. Filming such a subject so often leads to a Hallmark-Hall-of-Fame-like feature, those knickknacks in which the disease always heals and everyone hugs at the end. That Polley succeeds at making her protagonists fully dynamic—fallen, yet laboring to love; fixed, and by decades of routine, but trying to change—is a victory for young directors, but especially for viewers looking for a thoughtful film.

The film asks questions about a side of love often unconsidered in movies. At the outset, the couple believes they can manage the disease. They label the drawers; they walk the same routes; they rehearse their memories. But Fiona has begun to wander, aimlessly, and Grant worries as he drives the night to find her. As disease infects her mind, Fiona realizes she needs constant care, and resolves to admit herself to a nursing home. Grant resists; he wants to keep his wife at home. The conflict then becomes whether he can change, whether his love can grow to meet the distance that disease brings. Amazingly, Away From Her depicts love as letting go.

Can a man, one who has loved a woman up close for nearly 50 years, learn to love from afar? After being the participant, can one play the spectator? Grant finds a way, and while I wish he could have found another, I empathize with his need. Wanting to be known, which is different than having someone around to combat loneliness, is a human desire, one which we feel naturally and achieve rarely, often only if our relationships contain the greatest humility and, as Fiona says, the touch of grace. To me, Grant seems willing to sacrifice being known—which Fiona can offer, though not willfully, and only now and then, as the ending implies—for the chance to avoid living alone. He chooses the easier, less heroic path, but it is still not an easy one and he does not choose it lightly. And, quite possibly, if we judge him we condemn ourselves.

Polley captures her story with thoughtful and beautiful images, using bright lighting and snow covered Canadian landscapes to create visual metaphors for a memory going blank. In an early shot, the camera looks directly down at Fiona as she wanders among the tall, identical trees of a perplexing forest: as her memory fades Fiona grows as anonymous as the trees, and the work of navigating the forest parallels the difficulty of remembering.

Away From Her is a meaningful picture of profound love and perseverant humanity. Rated PG-13, it contains little profanity, no violence, and no nudity. It may move slower than an action movie, but has so much more to offer the patient viewer.

What Better Way to Start

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.

- W.H. Auden, from "In Memory of W.B. Yeats"