mklein-4

I thoroughly enjoyed this film. The actors are excellent and inhabited their characters plausibly. Harris Yulin, the father, is pitch perfect. Linda Lavin, the mother, is good but not great. My highest praise though, is for Michael Maren for writing a good story with genuine characters and pitch perfect dialogue, no tricks, and for directing in a smooth, well paced and confident style. The turning points are organic and not contrived; if we see them coming it's because we have thoroughly bought into the story and empathize with the characters, and the story goes where we would take it. It's not easy to make such a touching film without being saccharine -- Maren succeeds with grace. This is a really good film.

The easiest role for an actor to play is a historical figure - we have no idea how Julius Caesar really sounded, how he moved his body, punctuated his speech, bit his lip, walked into a room, held his cigarette. The hardest role is the living, or recently deceased, celebrity whom we watched, heard, studied, mimicked and thought we understood. JFK, Martin Luther King, Ray Charles, and, above all, the inventor of self referential celebrity, Truman Capote (with apology to Andy Warhol and, of course, Noel Coward)..

After exploding to meteoric fame with his novella Breakfast at Tiffany's, Capote became the New York café society's darling, heir to Coward's gay-man-child-bon-vivant. He drank and held court with the best of New York, which just also happened to be the nexus of television in the early 60s. Before long Capote was the quintessential modern celebrity, famous for being famous. And he did it all before our eyes.

Philip Seymour Hoffman does not so much play Capote as become him. And not just in mannerism, no mean feat, but in personality, because we are convinced that Hoffman feels what Capote felt, cries over the lies, accepts his moral failings. For a short story writer-raconteur from New Orleans, Capote found himself at the center of a nationally enthralling multiple homicide, facing the ultimate journalist's Faustian dilemma: if he perpetrates a lie for the sake of exposing the truth, is he ever worthy of redemption? Capote, in the end, concluded that he wasn't; he never wrote another book. He descended into drunkenness and died a lonely soul. This is not the stuff of Holly Golightly.

I saw this picture at the Toronto Film Festival with Hoffman, Catherine Keener and director Bennett Miller in attendance. Though they had seen it many many times before, it was obvious even they were moved by it and by our reaction. As we stood and applauded them, we turned to one another, glowing in the realization that we had witnessed an amazing performance.

We knew Truman Capote. We watched him live on television. Truman Capote was (we imagined) our friend. Mr. Hoffman, you are Truman Capote.

Noah Baumbach takes a loving (oh?) stab at his parents' divorce, brought on by the hilariously immature antics of his father, and my writing professor, the ever pompous Jonathan Baumbach (Jeff Daniels).

Brooklyn College was a hotbed of activism and liberal arts when I first encountered Jonathan Baumbach (rechristened "Bernard" in the film, a sly wink at Jonathan's mentor and hero, Bernard Malamud). The arrogance and complete lack of self awareness is perfectly captured by Daniels in his over-the-top performance which, amazingly, underplays the actual father.

To call the picture patricidal is to completely miss the point; Baumbach pere is so self centered, he likely sees the film as an homage. Baumbach Sr. is a great writer; he receives good reviews in the literary journals and his books sell in the hundreds. Baumbach Jr., on the other hand, is a great filmmaker, and his movies (The Life Aquatic) are seen by millions. I'm sure the father is disappointed that the son isn't pursuing tenure at a small Ohio college.

I saw this film in a cozy college theater at the Toronto Film Festival. I half expected to run into Jonathan Baumbach, in his leather patched tweed jacket, preening for the audience and eying the coeds.

Funny and poignant. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll want to choke the bastard.

This documentary is far more dramatic than it at first appears. Markowitz, a documentary film maker, has discovered a copy of The Stones of Summer, read it, finds it to be brilliant, and looks for more by the author. When he finds no further works, and that no one has apparently read or heard of the novel or its author, he sets off in search of the author by chasing down and interviewing everyone associated with the book: the NY Times book reviewer, the editor, agent, cover artist, etc. He learns that the author, Dow Mossman, attended the Iowa Writer's Workshop with several well received writers, and he interviews the professors and classmates. At the University of Iowa archives he finds Mossman's drafts and notes, and begins to realize that Mossman was obsessed with the book, struggling through many hand written rewrites, resisting the editor, and surrendering the novel for publication under great duress. A retired professor lets on that he feels responsible for pushing Mossman over the edge into an insane asylum. Markowitz finally meets Mossman, living alone in the decrepit and disheveled house he grew up in. We focus on the moth holes in his sweater and his disintegrating shoes, and we understand that publication of his novel was the apogee of his existence, that ever since his life has been a failure. He works for the local newspaper, not as a journalist, but as a truck loader. The interviews with Mossman are painful to watch.

The movie builds steam, and by the end you are aware that you have experienced two characters' arc, Mossman's and Markowitz'. The film is handicapped by poor and uneven photography (even by cinema verite standards), owing perhaps to the volunteer crew and absence of a focus puller. But this isn't really about cinematography, it's about the agony of the artist and the price he pays. Literature can be a cruel mistress, destroying her lovers capriciously.