WORKING WITH RUSSELL CROWE

Ms. Fonda, you’re very welcome. Generous words, heartfelt and true, should be offered to those who have made a difference in others’ lives through their vocation and passion. Certainly, this applies to you! How could it not? Understand, my intention isn’t to be sycophantic or grandiose (as a writer and a fellow artist, I can sometimes be a tough customer, ha ha), but your work, both on-screen and off, has served to make the world a better place. It really IS true. It isn’t just that we have the intense joy and pleasure of watching an artist hone her craft, but do it in service to stories that offer us a chance to consider the world in which we live, and, by doing that, become smarter, informed, and better human beings.

In They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?, you allowed us a glimpse of what happens to people who have been devastated by depression (as well as the Depression) and by dreams deferred. You refused to allow Gloria to be a faceless victim, some cast-off chucked upon that garbage heap reserved for the brokenhearted and emotionally blindsided. Instead of just thinking, “Oh, I’m playing a divine masochist,” one can discern you thinking, “Who is this woman? Why does she make the choices she does? How can I bring that to light for others?”

In Klute, you demythologized that exhausted, inaccurate, and consigned staple known as “the hooker with a heart of gold.” In fact, given the context and complexity which you brought to that performance (easily one of the greatest in the history of cinema), it’s impossible to see that film and think of Bree in so stereotypical and insulting a fashion. Which is to say, your work informed us of the nuances and conflicts which afflict those in society whom so many would be only too quick and happy to write off. You gave us the necessary information so that we could understand why Bree made the choices she did. Think of the people who have seen your work in that film and now feel differently when it comes to harshly (and prematurely) judging others with whom they think they have nothing in common,

In Coming Home, you gave us Sally, who I think represented what can happen to us (women and men alike) when we make the choice of being spectators in our lives. We give up our ability to discern what’s important; we cease to be present; and as a result, we live as half a person rather than as a whole one (something with which I struggle every day). Sally was such a person before she got involved with (and interested about) life by volunteering at the VA hospital. And when she did that, her eyes were opened, and her mind and heart were soon to follow. To watch her transformation is to have an opportunity to ponder the human condition, as well as a great treat of watching an artist wholly in control of her craft. Even more, it’s a film that dares to ask vital (if not always popular) questions about our country’s involvement in an immoral war, and the selective amnesia and blame that sadly occur and are extended to our veterans rather than to those in an administration who put our brave soldiers into so unnecessary and untenable a position in the first place. Other films dealing with that war pretty much skipped that most important part: war is hell, certainly; but what comes after for those who had to fight in it, those who come home? What do we as a nation do (or not do) to try to help repair their traumatized bodies and minds? What of compassion rather than disdain? You dared to make a film that opened a dialogue and asked the tough questions; forgoing scenes of battlefield atrocities, your film focused on other atrocities: namely, what happens to the minds of those who have to travel to foreign countries and pull the triggers and lay the traps? How do they resolve those two lives they’ve lived, foreign and stateside? Not many would dare to make such a film, and yet you did (and gave a stunning performance, to boot!)

In The China Syndrome, you dared to discuss the inherent dangers of something that our species (sadly) takes for granted: nuclear energy. I remember when that film was released (I saw it when I was nine) and shortly thereafter the accident at Three Mile Island occurred. (Quite a few of the film’s critics and naysayers must have been feasting upon heaps of crow and humble pie.) Sadly, it’s still a problem. One hopes that sooner rather than later, we wise up and do something about it. (In addition to this, you helped bring a first-rate thriller to the screen, filled with first-rate performances, especially your own as Kimberly Wells and Jack Lemmon’s as Jack Goodell — one of his best.)

I’ve already spoken at length about On Golden Pond, so you know how much this film means to me. (In my last post, I unconsciously made an omission: I forgot to mention Ms. Hepburn’s wonderful performance as Ethel Thayer. I correct that here.)

Seriously, in addition to your work as an actor, you and Mr. Gilbert produced some stunning films that, while they were busy entertaining us, also managed to inform us about issues that matter. It’s one of the reasons why, when I sit down to write, I set for myself the goal of telling stories that people will not only enjoy, but that will also give them an opportunity to have their minds and hearts engaged and challenged. It is this to which artists should aspire. It’s not enough simply to see something; we must be persistently interested and look beneath the surface, sift through what lies there, and bring it to light. Just think how many times you have done that! And how you are still doing it! Not just as an actor now, but as a writer, too.

Regarding your question about Russell Crowe: he didn’t win an Oscar for A Beautiful Mind. That year, Denzel Washington won an Oscar for Training Day (his second award, but his first in the leading actor category). A Beautiful Mind did win some awards, though: picture, director, supporting actress, adapted screenplay.

The film is a sore spot for me, as it disservices John and Alicia Nash, as well as Sylvia Nasar’s splendid biography (didn’t I say I could be a tough customer?).

The problems lie in the screenplay, which (not to be rude) isn’t very well-written. In fact, it is depends too heavily on the saccharine and overly melodramatic. When I read it, I shook my head in disbelief. Such a wealth of material, and THIS was what was done with it?

To explain:

John Nash is a fascinating human being. Not only for his genius, but for his ambiguities. The latter were all but excised from the film (one supposes for purposes of reaching the widest possible demographic). As researched and chronicled by Ms. Nasar, John had a number of ambiguities, which ranged from theological criticisms to questions of sexual preference. Well, those are two things that often don’t go over well in big-budget Hollywood movies. So out they went. (Though, to his credit, I did feel that Mr. Crowe tried to address these elements of character in his performance, which is the primary reason to watch the film: he is very good in it.)

Also, the character of Alicia. In the biography, she isn’t presented as the long-suffering wife who exists merely to bolster John by giving him the “Frank, you’re the champ” speech when the chips are down. No, as chronicled by Ms. Nasar, Alicia was much stronger and smarter than that. There’s no question she loved John and wanted to help him with his struggles; but she was also, after all, human. And there was a period (I think it was something like three years) when she couldn’t live with him. She would come around and check up on him, but she also (for her own sanity) had to distance herself from it physically for a while. (Imagine what the film might have been if Ms. Connelly had been allowed to portray these aspects of such a strong, intelligent woman!)

Also, one of the Nashes’ children also suffered from schizophrenia (of the religious persecution variety). In the film, no mention is made of this. (Alas, people who see the film but do not read the biography might well not be aware of the consequences heredity sometimes plays with regard to this illness.) Instead, what you get is a couple literally walking off into the sunset!

Worst of all, and most insulting, the film takes John’s illness and utilizes it as a plot gimmick. Which is really irresponsible and (no other word for it) cheap. Who knows? Perhaps it was considered a cool idea to take a human being’s illness, use it to manipulate and trick audiences, and in the bargain have an excuse to throw in some Cold War espionage. Whatever the reason, it was distasteful. (When I finished watching the film, I felt sullied more than anything.)

Perhaps if, during the film’s release, the filmmakers hadn’t given a plethora of interviews in which they spoke of how hard they worked to make an “authentic” and “honest” film about their subject, I wouldn’t have been as disgusted as I was. For unlike Alan Parker, who said of the criticism aimed at Mississippi Burning, that he was making a motion picture, not a documentary, the makers of A Beautiful Mind seemed to want to have their cake and eat it, too.

When, as artists, you’re dealing with real-life human beings, and you speak of such things as “authenticity” and “verisimilitude,” then you’d damned well better respect them.

An exemplary example of a film that does it correctly and honestly is Soldier’s Girl. Clearly, Frank Pierson and Ron Nyswaner did their homework. What’s more, their dedication to telling the truth about the tragic love story of Barry Winchell and Calpernia Addams permeated the rest of the film, most notably in its excellent performances. Never does the film pander; nor does it attempt to manipulate your emotions; rather, it earns them. Those involved weren’t afraid to ask the tough questions. Nor were they afraid to share what discoveries they made, no matter how painful the denouement. Instead of machinations and the crude trotting out of stereotypical bunk, we were offered instead a story that celebrated the memories of real, flesh-and-blood and -soul human beings who lived it.

When it comes to depicting the lives of real people on film, THAT is what is achieved when it’s done the right (the best) way.

Oh, but I have gone on again. My apologies. As always…
Warm regards,
John