American Sniper

Okay, now that that’s over with (Valentine’s Day), we can get on to what the rest of February is all about, for me anyway. The Oscars. Next Sunday marks the 87th annual Academy Awards, and as you may have noticed, I’ve increased my value over last year’s two cent’s worth post.

That’s both because I’ve seen more of the movies and performances nominated (all the Best Picture nominees except for Selma, and many films that contain nominations in other categories) and because I value my own opinion on the subject more (thanks, Mom). As for Selma, I opted not to see it. What can I say? I’m kind of a baby. I never saw 12 Years a Slave either. I can tolerate fictional violence if it has a point, but have a harder time with true portrayals, particularly of shameful periods in history. So, without further ado — my nickel’s worth.

My favorite movie of the nominees and personal pick for Best Picture is Whiplash. I’m not saying it’ll win, but I absolutely loved it. Perhaps it resonated with me so much because it appealed to my artistic side. This inspiring film carries the message that what is necessary to become one of the greats in any creative endeavor (in this case Andrew Neyman, played brilliantly by Miles Teller, aspires to be a legendary jazz musician) is a drive that eclipses all else and leaves the rest of the world questioning your sanity. I’ve had this very conversation with writer friends and personally determined that I probably don’t have what it takes to make it big. Not for lack of talent, though unbeknownst to me that may be an issue too, but because I desire to have a long, sane and balanced life!

J.K. Simmons, formally known as “that guy,” plays whip-cracking professor/conductor Terence Fletcher, who takes the concept of tough love to new heights and rattles off offensive insults with rapid, drill instructor precision. Simmons has my vote for Best Actor in a Supporting Role, though I liked Mark Ruffalo in Foxcatcher (is Channing Tatum too much of a hunk to even be considered?) and Edward Norton’s performance is one of the few things I actually liked about Birdman.

I had planned a whole separate review of Birdman called “Snobby Bird,” but as usual, time got away from me. I know, I know. A lot of people liked it. I thought it was a pretentious, artsy, load of poo. Okay, maybe calling it poo is a bit much. After all, it’ll probably win. But I’d even prefer to sit through American Sniper again! (Read my earlier review of it here.) Well, wait. I’m not sure that’s true. As a writer and wannabe film critic, I’d probably read up on Birdman and suffer through it again just to try to figure out what all the fuss is about. Am I missing something here?

What bothered me about it is that it took me back to my college days as an English major or even further back to high school drama geek days when I was surrounded by hoardes of goth-styled, eyebrow-pierced young adults all trying to prove how unique and smart they were. At first, it’s intimidating. Like being stuck wearing penny loafers in some dark, artsy dive bar on open mic night listening to spoken word poetry. But then you really listen. And realize no one’s saying anything that profound or that you yourself can’t say anyway.

So, this is how Birdman struck me. Like a rebellious teenager desperately trying to prove how clever he is, director Alejandro Inarritu dazzled us with stylistic camera shots, an annoying, almost continuous drum soundtrack and heady, superfluous dialogue that had most of the audience nodding in approval while I bet they secretly scratched their heads, particularly at Keaton’s surreal alter-ego’s antics, and wondered but what’s it all mean? I understand the dig it took at today’s audience for needing superhero fueled action and explosions versus thoughtful Raymond Carver adaptations, but I still left feeling like I needed the CliffsNotes. Or Award Nominees for Dummies. Or maybe that’s all me and I just didn’t get it. I ‘d like to think I’m fairly smart, but I guess it’s possible. That’s probably why I prefer straightforward, simple writers like Hemingway.

For other nominations, I like Benedict Cumberbatch in The Imitation Game or Eddie Redmayne in The Theory of Everything for Best Actor. (In Redmayne’s case, he deserves to win for the sheer physicality it took to transform into Stephen Hawking alone.) Speaking of amazing transformations, Meryl Streep would be my pick for her bajillionth award, this time for Best Supporting Actress in Into the Woods, if it wasn’t for Patricia Arquette in Boyhood. Into the Woods, by the way, is my favorite film not nominated for Best Picture. It’ll be a shame if it doesn’t at least take home an Oscar for Costume Design. I pick Julianne Moore in Still Alice for Best Actress. No, I haven’t actually seen the movie yet so I guess I can’t say, but I just bet she’s fantastic. I won’t be unhappy if Rosamund Pike wins either. She was truly twisted in Gone Girl, while Reese Witherspoon and Felicity Jones played parts that really didn’t do much for me.

So, there you have it — my nickel’s worth. I guess you know what I’ll be watching next Sunday. It’s the only thing that could tear me away from Downton Abbey. Well, that or a movie.

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I could have called this post Shoddy ‘Sniper’ but didn’t out of respect for the fact that this Clint Eastwood film is about a real person, Navy SEAL Chris Kyle’s, life and death. I’m going to go out on a limb here and risk being in the minority (particularly in the South) and say it. I absolutely did not care for American Sniper. And that’s politics aside. Really.

The way I see it, this movie breaks too many rules of writing (i.e. storytelling, which is what film is). First, the characters (and here I’m referring largely to the main character played by Bradley Cooper) fail to change, grow or otherwise learn squat. There is virtually no character arc. What little depth of character we get is infused by Cooper’s inarguably fine performance. I have no idea if the real-life Kyle was this simplistic. I didn’t know him or read the book. I might point out that the villain of the story and arch nemesis of Kyle is a Syrian sniper who is wholly sinister and similarly one-dimensional right down to his black scarf.

Second, and this is a big one to me, the audience should feel something. Now I consider myself a compassionate, sensitive person. I avoid most news programing because I’ll just get too upset. I cried in Toy Story 3 for God’s sake when all the toys joined hands in the incinerator, prepared to meet their death. And yet, I couldn’t have cared less when this movie reached its tragic (and rather abrupt) ending.

Also, I like it when literature or filmmaking manages to impart some message. But what is American Sniper about? Post-traumatic stress disorder? The horrors of war? Patriotism? The celebrating of a war hero? I, for one, have no idea. The movie manages to bring up all these topics while never quite saying … well, anything. It’s like Clint invited the girl to the prom and then refused to dance with her.

And finally, there’s the problem I struggle with in my own writing. How to tell the story without the audience in mind. I read (in Vanity Fair’s January 2015 edition) that Chris Kyle’s father said to Eastwood and Cooper, “disrespect my son and I’ll unleash hell on you.” Now, how true a character portrayal are we supposed to get after a threat like that? But that’s assuming ‘Sniper’ set out to give us one anyway, which it clearly did not. That’s why it’s safer to invent fiction than to tell a story based on true events. Do I worry about familial reaction to my book? Sure I do. But my writing coach insists I should tell my truth. As I see it. This is the artist’s challenge. Eastwood obviously didn’t choose to accept it.

I’m not saying you should skip ‘Sniper’, although I toyed with that title, too. The storyteller and movie buff in me thinks any Best Picture nominee is at least worth checking out. If you do see it, make sure to look for the laughable fake robotic baby scene. You can’t miss it. Besides, two and a quarter hours (even if it does feel more like three) spent watching Bradley Cooper – how bad can that be?

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Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer

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My Nickel’s Worth

So-so ‘Sniper’