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Tuesday, Jan 15, 2008


A few years back, when it seemed like every mainstream media outlet was jumping on the Giuseppe Andrews bandwagon, the unpredictable auteur announced the unthinkable. After working almost exclusively in the domain of the trailer park, after focusing on the residents there and the relationships he forged, he was abandoning everyone’s favorite surreal cinematic backdrop for ‘greener pastures’. Having gained his regal reputation via his doublewide workouts, leaving behind the setting for something else appeared antithetical to his overall aesthetic. More disconcerting, where would he go next, and what would this new direction look like?


Fans needn’t have worried. While recent efforts have indeed moved to motels and interesting homesteads for their locations, Andrews remains the Salem Cigarettes of the marginalized. In essence, you can take the director out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the director. Two new films - the vegan variety act Garbanzo Gas and the poignant portrait of one man’s misery, Cat Piss, proves that even when devoid of an RV vista (as in Gas), there is still enough of the filmmakers’ fascinating spirit to propel his passions forward. Indeed, as with the Americano Trilogy, these newer offerings suggest a growing confidence that is occasionally frightening to behold.



When a lucky cow wins an all expense paid weekend at a local hotel, it can’t believe its good fortune. It gets to relax, unwind, and avoid a trip to the slaughterhouse - at least for a few days. Of course, it couldn’t imagine the menagerie of madmen it would run into. Down the hall is a pair of drug addled dimwits who are desperate for something to eat. The cow becomes their main focus. Meanwhile, two different spree killers are wrecking havoc. One murders at the command of some erroneous bath linen. The other listens to a voice inside his shoe, the instructions resulting in even more dead bodies. All the while, our contented animal tries to accommodate everyone’s needs, which typically revolve around a room service meal of meat and potatoes.


Garbanzo Gas is either the most brilliant pro-vegetarian film ever made, or the most maddening deconstruction of meat’s magical allure since the Sawyer clan discovered the value in human hamburger. Centering on the mythical, mouthwatering promise of steak (and a fully dressed baked potato side dish), and using the actual source of such succulence as the pro/con catalyst, Andrews expands outward, taking on suicidal tendencies, homicidal madness, insanity, and fixation. Overflowing with the filmmaker’s trademark deranged dialogue, and incorporating a tender performance from Andrews’ staple Vietnam Ron, this well-meaning message movie is far more effective than a perverse PETA rally in reiterating the value of animal life, and the uselessness of human existence.



Every person we meet in this stunning celluloid statement is an asshole. The two tweaking lowlifes awaiting the hotel’s check-out time to literally do the same are desperate dope fiends, foaming at the mouth over vending machine chips and in-room coffee. They are so hapless and hungry that they even go down to the seashore and try to catch some fish. On the opposite end are two serial killers - one driven to his deeds by a talking towel, the other who imagines he’s mandated by a shoe promising chili cheese fries. While the premises seem laughable, the analogy is crucial. All man wants to do is kill - be it for sustenance, or to fuel some insane psychological desire. And thanks to the performance of Walt Dongo, Matt Dougal, and Tyree, we get that concept loud and lamentably clear.


On the other hand, Vietnam Ron’s quiet, considerate cow is projected as the voice of reason and accommodation. Anything these vacation interlopers want, he is more than willing to provide. Even when faced with dealing out free versions of himself (not literally), he happily obliges. It’s a brilliant casting step by Andrews. Ron is, without a doubt, a subversive superstar. But he’s also an inherently interesting actor, and a man seemingly incapable of outright anger. Sure, he’s been malevolent in the past, but it has always been a put on. Here, his genuine personality comes through, and it’s a stunning display. It makes his last act conversation with a man from the slaughterhouse all the more emotional. Any other member of the Andrews’ crew would not have worked. Garbanzo Gas needs Vietnam Ron to resonate.


And it really does work. While he avoids the standard abattoir shock treatment (no blood and guts here), Andrews uses shots of sunbathing bovine - and another one of his amazing songs - to finalize the attitude. Yet it’s a cleverly confused conceit. Because of the main characters fascination with steak and all the trimmings, because of how dedicated they are to their misguided mastication, Gas seems to suggest that, while murder, meat is pretty damn tasty. Sure, the contemplative animals argue against the senseless slaughter of same, but when recognizable archetypes scream for slabs of cow carcass, the carnivore in everyone is tantalized. Of course, as a staunch vegetarian, Andrews would argue with that assessment, but when it comes to his art, Garbanzo Gas is more intricate than a standard protest piece.



If you’re looking for simplicity, Cat Piss is the answer. Hailed as a literal return to the trailer park, it centers on Andrews’ newfound friendship with resident Wally Lavern. Under the premise that he would live with the man 24/7 and record their “relationship”, Piss provides the kind of retro-realistic view into the world of the marginalized that few films - let alone filmmakers - would ever dare discuss. As our director helps out around the decaying trailer, as Lavern has imaginary political debates with a broken TV, as flutes are practiced and cats are comforted, this is what the end of one’s days really looks like.


Equally heartbreaking and hilarious, Cat Piss calmly revises our view of Andrews’ environ. Where before, everything was scatology and sexual drive, the implied gimmickry of seeing old people prance around in the all together, here is the way things really are. Matter of fact, unexaggerated for the looming, omniscient camera, this is the very fringes of what we consider to be civilized society. Lavern is not viewed as a joke, or something to be pitied. Instead, Andrews uses his own goofball grace to turn his costar into a perturbing poster boy. It’s the kind of portrayal that we can feel - we can smell the dank air inside the trailer, taste the featureless food bought on a carefully controlled budget. If they were smart, political candidates would hire Andrews to create their pro/con economy ads. No one has a better eye for the travesties of retail existence.



Indeed, this is one of the filmmaker’s most ideological offerings, perhaps even more than Gas. Since Lavern is allowed to rant at the blank boob tube, selling sentiments that may disturb a more liberal mindset, Andrews must counter said caustic conservatism with visuals: the unhappiness on the man’s face; the docile pleasures of playing a plastic flute; the look on a friendly feline’s face. It’s the haves vs. the always have nots all over again. While Gas may have taken the trailer park out into the real world, this is the literal landscape Andrews understands best. It makes what could have been maudlin and morose into an uplifting and quite special experience.


This is true of all of Andrews work, no matter how smutty or silly. His desire to delve beyond the limits of so-called “legitimate” cinema to seek art where it is ample is commendable. Painters know that the imitation of life - any life - is better than a faked foundation. Why shouldn’t filmmakers follow the same inspiration rules? Giuseppe Andrews understands this all too well. This is why his oeuvre is so outstanding. This is why, no matter the pronouncements, he’ll never fully leave behind his trailer town roots.


Scores: Garbanzo Gas
DVD


 

Scores: Cat Piss
DVD



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Monday, Jan 14, 2008


Life. Death. Love. Hate. Family. Friends. Art. Artifice. These are the stalwarts of human existence.  They are the boundaries by which we analyze and legitimize our lives. They are the personality benchmarks, the tactile reflections of our existential image. We embrace most. We avoid others - either purposefully or indirectly - and yet when it comes right down to it, the basis of every individual is figuring out how to deal with these facets and their inate eternal struggle. Media has always played a part in this dissection, from epic poems and the days of Greek theater to novels, television, and motion pictures. But no one has really captured the essence of these competing elements - until now.


Avant-godhead Giuseppe Andrews has created a near 200 minutes masterwork of pain, passion, and perversion. Labeled The Americano Trilogy, it stands as one of cinema’s greatest accounts of that humble state known as humanity. Actually, Andrews has made three amazing movies, linked thematically by their desire to delve deep into the heart of what makes us tick. Consisting of the wedding farce Golden Embers, the relationship lunacy of Holiday Weekend, and the demented death meditation Everlasting Pine, we see the same actors essaying different characters, acting out frequently incongruent plots. But taken together, these films become a perfect satiric amalgamation of everything our society sits on.



When we first meet the characters from Golden Embers, they are people in transition. One is a bride to be, hoping her ex-addict brother can stay sober long enough to walk her down the aisle. The sibling is a sexually obsessed dope fiend, desperate for any kind of psychosexual release - and lots of wacky white powder. Locked up in a hotel room, freebasing his sordid memories and many erotic needs, he slowly comes unglued. Soon, we are witnessing rampant mood swings, murderous hallucinations, and the world’s most misguided nuptials, complete with dancing.


As Giuseppe Andrews movies go, Golden Embers is almost a one man show. Miles Dougal gives an amazing, tour de force performance as a man awkwardly coming to grips with losing his baby sister. Riddled with guilt over something from his past, and replacing the loss with unspeakable acts of self-indulgence, this is a David Lynch drama on badly cut cocaine. During the course of his motor lodge madness, Dougal speaks to angels, a defiant version of himself, and various real (and imaginary) drug dealers. We see snippets of a dream, a non-nightmare of sorts where our harried hero believes his is trying to slay his sibling. Of course, this all leads back to abandonment issues, and Dougal’s desire to crawl back into the carnal comforts of the womb - any womb.


This is the first indication that Andrews can draw beyond the trailer park for his squalid slices of life. We barely visit the tornado magnets of previous epics as beach settings, backyards and other real world locales get the savant surreality treatment. As usual, the director finds freakish faces to realize his most vivid fever day dreams, and along with long time collaborators Vietnam Ron and Walt Dongo, we are introduced to Tommy Salami, Ed, and the amazing Elaine Bongos. All these new people provide a window into the fresh way Andrews is working. Even the standard scatology that comes with the territory is metered out in a far more humorous and heart-wrenching fashion. 



Because it is a middle act, the narrative driving Holiday Weekend is centered on people and how they relate to each other. A young couple quibbles over an impulsive decision to steal a coffee machine, while the victimized pair sans Sanka plays an unusual game of affection and abuse. A young man with werewolf-ism moves in with a fledgling songwriter, while elsewhere, an injured individual with Tourettes seeks council from a high priced lawyer. All the while, some elderly homosexual lovers reunite, dancing to celebrate the rekindling of their long dormant love.


Referencing Mr. Eraserhead once again, and giving us his spin on spirituality and the afterlife, Holiday Weekend is like several smart sketches that add up to one indelible portrait. We are definitely dealing with the standard relationship conceits - anger and codependency, trust and its violation, acceptance and forgiveness, and realizing that love has no prejudice, no pride, and no presumptions. In between trips to a hotel bathroom (which acts as a way station of sorts for God’s judgmental wrath) and another Dougal rant as the victim of some loose cobblestones, Andrews offers up insights into a world we all know, but dare not acknowledge. Even the more fanciful element - a man who suffers from a paranormal problem, a killer automaton - can be boiled down to issues of personal space and its disturbing violation.


Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of this story is the coffee maker-less couple. She’s a clean freak, locked in cycles of endless scrubbing and scouring. He’s an ox like ogre, a bully bent on getting his way with his fists and a facile sense of sensitivity. Of the three amazing films, this is the best written. Andrews’ dialogue jumps off the screen, offering memorable bits like the scene where an old man declares his lust for his 80-plus year old paramour, web tech dissections, and more grade-A porn poetry. Clearly, Andrews is exploring the theme of outside manipulation - either by a so-called Supreme Being, or a deranged mad scientist who builds a remote controlled robot bent on killing. We are supposed to see that all life is driven by unseen forces, things we can’t anticipate or expect.



In makes a perfect tie-in to the final film. In Everlasting Pine, a famed composer is having problems with his wife. She’s still vital and alive, seeking occasional sexual congress from a new age Yoga guru. He, on the other hand, is moody and temperamental, lost in a world of ritualistic habits and dark obsessions. When he is commissioned by a friend to write a requiem for his dead father, the same old feelings flare up. When the cuckold learns of the price his problems have wrought, he sees only one violent way out.


Focusing on a single person once again (Vietnam Ron is spectacular as the screwed up musician) and using his plight as a frame of reference for all the other issues in the story, Andrews brings his triptych to a close in brilliant fashion. Contentment, and its lack of curative properties propel this story, as we see one man (Dongo’s yoga master) requiring sex to fill in the gaps missing in his spiritual quest, while Ron’s composer can’t abide by much except coffee and the occasional roll in the sack. Both men are viewed as masters of their domain, capable of great and glorious things. But when you remove the pretense of fame, when you take away what they’ve done in the past for what they’re responsible for now, it seems like charlatanism meshed with good old fashioned flim flam.


Andrews again fleshes out his supporting roles by including newcomer Ed (a guitar virtuoso who has collaborated with the writer/director on several of his amazing CDs) and the plain speaking Salami. It’s important to note that the filmmakers personal flame, the intriguing Marybeth Spychalski handles the main female roles in each story, and her voice of reason vibrancy matched with her uncanny ability to blend with her clearly amateur costars turn her into an instant source of audience access. Indeed, what many may wonder about the work of Giuseppe Andrews is, given its source, its structure, its star power, and its frequent bouts of strangeness, how accessible can it really be? Thanks to Spychalski, and her beau’s ability behind the typewriter, lens, and portable recording studio, the answer is self-evident. You’ll have to work a little - these are interactive films by inherent definition - but your efforts will be rewarded over and over again.



Indeed, like all his work, Andrews’ Americano Trilogy is a mesmerizing triumph. It’s not car wreck compelling or freak show undeniable. Instead, these films easily transcend their oddball obviousness to become canvases in a gallery of mankind’s many individual incarnations. We see ourselves here, even if the conversation is centering around various references to female genitalia and not how this month’s budget will get balanced. For every whiff of authenticity, Andrews tosses in awkward moments of undeniable art. It’s there when an over the hill whore strips naked and lets her sags show. It’s present in an acting performance that damns the standard torpedoes and piles on the scenery chewing splendor. It’s buried inside the insular references, and it’s lost amid incomplete line readings and on camera nerves.


Currently only available on Andrews’ personal website (www.giuseppeandrews.net) Americano masks the horrors of everyday living by turning the twisted into the tame, the grotesque into the gorgeous. There will be some small minded movie fans that look at what is accomplished here as nothing more than hackneyed home movies made by a supposedly talented Hollywood himbo and a group of his marginalized Sterno-fueled friends. Nothing could be further from the truth. In an era where ability is finally being met by machinery, Golden Embers, Holiday Weekend, and Everlasting Pine are the films the New Wave would have made had they not had state sponsored studios staring over their shoulder. They’re the true post-modern efforts the ‘70s just couldn’t touch. All revolution is part freedom, part fear. Get rid of the dread and you’ll discover the jaundiced joys awaiting you in this terrific trio.


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Sunday, Jan 13, 2008


Has there ever been a case where such a seismic cinematic shift has occurred in such a surreal, almost otherworldly setting? Who could have imagined that the very fabric of film could be disassembled and stitched back together within the retired/repatriated citizenry of a trailer park? Is it at all conceivable that an actor, best noted for his work in genre films like Independence Day and Cabin Fever, would end up being the Neo-No-New Wave genius of his generation, the voice of the so-called bridesmaid, never the bride, digital revolution? The answer to these and a myriad of similar motion picture predicaments arrives in the form of musician/madman/monarch Giuseppe Andrews. Long an icon for those who appreciate his outsider oeuvre, the 28 year old auteur has amassed a creative catalog so important that it’s only a matter of time before he’s declared the most important filmmaker of the last decade.


For this novel real-realist, this Godard a go-go, the whole world is a soundstage. No subject is too scatological or scandalous, no actor to amateurish or aged. His is a universe where septuagenarian sex is as prevalent as vacationing cows, where silly songs about love and bananas become the perfect panacea for individual aches and pains. Initially supported by Troma (who continues to promise a bountiful box set of the man’s work), but now forging a aesthetic path all his own (via the website giuseppeandrews.net), Andrews is angling to prove that art can be found - and better yet, formed - out of the most unusual, mundane, and downright degrading elements of society. At the same time, he is restoring dignity to a marginalized group of people who’ve long since lost touch with the rest of the communal countenance. 


By now, the background is legendary. Drafting insanely intricate scripts filled with curse words and outrageously erotic innuendo, Andrews would seek out willing participants in his local trailer park (where he himself lived) and videotape them reading his words. Sans much action and very little conversational context, these specifically designed dialogues became treatises on disenfranchisement and depression. Highlighted initially by the amazing cantankerousness of Bill Nolan, these first films were part of something that should be subtitled “the last angry old man” movement. Blue, brave, and undeniably ballsy, Andrews’ cinematic statements avoided the stock elements we’ve come to expect from depictions of the public periphery. Instead, he simply made his characters back into what they originally were - real men and women.



Like the famed filmmakers of the ‘50s, ‘60s, and ‘70s, Andrews ignored the standards of regular motion pictures to find a new means of expression. He concocted elaborate scores filled with his own amazing music, tunes that took the inert dramatics they supplemented and turned them into a sublime symphony of the human spirit. He used nudity as an equalizing, offered racism and the reactionary as part of both the problem and the solution. In Andrews’ view, white could play black, old could act young, and the most down and out of his complex company could become pure poetic pop stars. Nolan was the first of these found icons. The remarkable Vietnam Ron, the always evocative Tyree, and new sensation Elaine Bongos soon followed. They never come across as pawns, however. While part of Andrews’ plan, he keeps them real, and recognizable, no matter the dreamlike scenarios involved.


That’s part of the joy in an Andrews’ film - and its part of the reason to champion his continued output. As he’s aged, as his work has gone from straightforward script reading to more character-based interaction, the writer/director has elevated his game. He’s moved beyond the walls of those junked double-wides and RVs to hotel rooms and sunny backyards. His heart remains locked in the marginalized and underappreciated, but he’s willing to experiment with his unfathomable formula, instead trying to connect his cast in ways both weird and world-weary. Some may see the senior citizen nakedness, the hints at old folk’s homosexuality, the implied misuse of personal problems and borderline dementia and start screaming for social services. But there is no exploitation in Andrews. Instead, there is only admiration - even reverence - for what these noble exiles stand for.



More importantly, he’s shaking up cinema. He’s taking the tired blockbuster high concept crap that gets hurled out of Hollywood faster than a fame whore on TMZ and removes its over-processed shell. Even better, he’s triumphantly outed the self-indulgent dung that purports to be independent film by showing the shoe-gazing novices what real free thinking cinema is all about. He is literally rewriting the rules, doing what predecessors like Godard, Truffaut, and Cabrol did, and yet he’s found a decidedly American bent to the debunking. By using the trailer park, the last bastion of post-colonial wanderlust, he’s merged the symbolic with the substandard, the non-redneck version of liberated living combined with the typical tawdriness one would find in the slicker suburbs.


He is a true social commentator, a man making the most of what celebrity and found artistry can contain. While continuing to maintain his status as a Tinsel Town talent (he was recently seen in the excellent experimental film from pal/supporter Adam Rifkin, Look), he maintains a staunch personal work ethic. Over the last year or so, he’s release several sensational homemade CDs (all are recommended, as Andrews is a very, very talented songwriter and musician) and he’s used newfound friends Miles Dougal, Wally Lavern, Sir George Bigfoot, and Ed to further flesh out his freakiness. Perhaps most importantly, gal pal/significant other Marybeth Spychalski provides a kind of simpatico muse to make the madness go down soft and easy. Her work in the Americano Trilogy alone makes her the Bardot to Andrews’ jaunty Jean -Luc.



Over the next three days, Short Ends and Leader will be celebrating the unique vision of this equally idiosyncratic artist by getting fans and the unfamiliar up to date with the latest Andrews offerings. We will dissect the Short Cuts like Americano, explain the ‘Meat is Murder’ slant of the sensational Garbanzo Gas, uncover the filmmakers most heartfelt examination of the trailer park ever (the 17 minute masterwork Cat Piss), and revisit as much of the man’s canon as possible, including a countdown of past opuses and a look at what is waiting in the wings. Along the way, we will ascertain hidden gems, joke about the filmmaker’s fashion sense, and wonder what lycanthropy, icantthankyouenough.com, and a wind up sex novelty have to do with this awkward American life.



Still, talking about the work of Giuseppe Andrews does not do this masterful moviemaker justice. Instead, his films need to be experienced and savored, studied like an archeological find from the past and positioned as the powerful new voice of a raw, futuristic, and subversive cinema. When established filmmakers like Coppola and Tarantino argued that technology would traverse a new creative manner, it is Andrews who they were obviously referring to. While others are trying to tame the digital realm, making it mimic the very establishment stance they should be avoiding, efforts like Trailer Town and Touch Me in the Morning are raging against the machine - and winning. When the wave has finally crested and broken, a lot of time wasting wannabes will be washed away. But Andrews will remain standing. It’s how any true innovator usually winds up.


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Saturday, Jan 12, 2008

For many it remains a defining moment for the once inventive Music Television channel. Desperate to replicate the success of original programming like The Real World, the former cable location of rock videos took a pitch from a local NYU sketch comedy troupe and crafted an overnight spoof sensation that seemed to speak directly to its increasingly disaffected demographic. Entitled The State, it went on to become a well received (and remembered) cult creation. Now, over a decade later, the members of the formidable act have made their way into the mainstream. From writing screenplays for major Hollywood hits (Night at the Museum) to producing more TV treats (Reno: 911), the imprint on the industry remains strong. Now comes The Ten, the work of writer/director David Wain and writer/star Ken Marino. This indie comedy takes on those ever-present Commandments, using an anthology approach to bring a Decalogue of delirium to the silver screen.


We are first introduced to Jeff Reigert, a married man whose wife is cold and calculated. He sets up the stories, beginning with the tale of a skydiving accident victim who becomes a media God. Then we see a doctor inadvertently kill a patient, witness a young woman fall in love with the second coming of Christ, and marvel as two men engage in an all out war to see who can own the most Computerized Axial Tomography devices. Along the way, a mother must tell her teen boys about their biological father, a young woman becomes sexually obsessed with a puppet, a group of heroin addicts discuss a legendary lying animal, and prison sex gets the retro rom-com treatment. In the end, a group of naked non-church going men redefine the Sabbath, all in the name of highlighting the pros and cons of obeying and keeping said dogmatic laws.


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Friday, Jan 11, 2008


Well, at least they ended the suspense before any real curiosity could be created. The Writers Guild of America, currently picketing the pleasantry out of the awards season, announced the nominees for their 2007 accolades. Divided into categories for Best Original Screenplay, Best Adapted Screenplay, and Best Documentary (which, apparently, is considered an indirect form of writing), the organization at the center of current industry chaos took a moment off to praise their own people. With the recently truncated Critic’s Choice Awards, the all but called off Golden Globes, and threatened Oscars giving the industry pause for concern, many wondered how the striking organization would handle their own stab at trophy time. Of course, they cut out all the speculation by simultaneously announcing that their own banquet for recognizing the winners would be cancelled as well.


It wasn’t the only intriguing thing about the WGA’s nods. Since they follow the Academy mandate and recognize both original and adapted work, the writers decided to do what Oscar doesn’t and give comedy a little love. Humor was the basis for 80% of the screenwriter-created category, while drama took 20% (seriousness is the only thing featured in the book/play to film translation category). Rumors also circulating that the WGA posted its list of choices in order of winner and runners up. Even after a similar slip up was reported last year, and a supposed randomization was used to re-identify the contenders, it appears the same thing has happened again. So in the name of all that’s fair, SE&L will scramble the names in that good old statistical standby - alphabetical order. That way, a small amount of surprise is left come disclosure. Let’s begin with:


Best Original Screenplay



Diablo Cody Juno


The Oscar for Best Screenplay (Original or Adapted) is often referred to as the ‘Runner Up’ award. It is usually given to the artist or newcomer who, while outside the studio system or movie mainstream, deserves recognition for what they accomplished. It’s where the Coens, and Quentin Tarantino earned their only Academy acknowledgment. Cody should be prepared to have her name listed among this illustrious number as well.



Judd Apatow Knocked Up


In a perfect world, Apatow would be handed the keys to the cinematic kingdom. After single-handedly saving big screen comedy this year, and inspiring many to once again take up the cause of motion picture wit, some peer recognition would be nice. While Superbad got all the gross out geek love, this is the better movie - from both a performance and screenplay position.



Nancy Oliver Lars and the Real Girl


Here’s a pleasant surprise, the recognition of a truly quirky movie that seemingly got lost among Juno‘s growing grrrrl power. Critics who had problems with this film often listed Ryan Gosling’s oddball performance as the main problem. Others argued with director Craig Gillespie. No one had a bad word to say about Oliver’s solid script, however. While it probably won’t win, it’s nice to know someone was paying attention.



Tony Gilroy Michael Clayton


Of the two Guild awards earned by this film, this is the one that makes the most sense. Gilroy is not a solid director (some of his pro-actor histrionic choices mar this movie), but you can’t deny the power in his writing. In a clear case of giving some respect to an effort that might otherwise go unnoticed, this nod feels like the final payoff.



Tamara Jenkins The Savages


Here’s the nomination that really throws us. The Savages is a strange film. It’s either undermined by its performances (mainly the mannered work of Laura Linney), or it’s a victim of a poorly conceived and sloppy script. One imagines that Guild members, wary of having to take care of their own aging parents, gave Jenkins a handout. There are definitely better efforts out there.


Best Adapted Screenplay



Ronald Harwood The Diving Bell and the Butterfly


This one’s as confusing as The Savages, but for decidedly different reasons. Without a doubt, Julian Schnabel’s work is far more satisfying than Jenkins’ dour jokefest. But with so much of the material lifted directly from Jean-Dominique Bauby’s book, and the reliance on visual vs. verbal cues to tell the tale, it seems like a stretch to award the otherwise fine film for its writing.



Sean Penn Into the Wild


In one of those ‘hard to mess up’ situations, Penn’s persistence with the devastated McCandless family (and their desire to keep their son’s story sacred) guaranteed that Wild would work on some level. But matched with the actor’s newfound visual flare, and the undeniable emotion inherent in the story, this could be a case of the sum being greater than any one part - including the screenplay.



Joel and Ethan Coen No Country for Old Men


It’s interesting that the Coens are the only team of writers nominated in the screenplay category (documentary does have a trio). Of course, when they make a movie jointly, they are always listed together, even if directing is more Joel’s area of expertise. As adaptations go, this is a first rate reconfiguration of Cormac McCarthy’s dark and very dense novel. The presumptive favorite, one guesses.



Paul Thomas Anderson There Will Be Blood


Whether or not Anderson can win this award has a lot to do with what the Guild considers a successful book to screen translation. Upton Sinclair’s Oil! is definitely part of the narrative strategy, but the auteur also goes off on enough flights of personal fancy to make much of this movie his own. If strength of direction and acting were factored in, he’d definitely win.



James Vanderbilt Zodiac


Talk about your dark horse picks. When people discuss the unforgettable work done in this ‘70s throwback police procedural, few are focused on Vanderbilt. In fact, director David Fincher and his commendable cast usually get first kudos, followed quickly by anyone involved in the look and feel of the film. That someone actually recognized the difficulty in condensing this complex story into a sound, suspenseful thriller is remarkable.


Naturally, SE&L thinks there are a few overlooked or unconsidered scripts that deserved credit as well. Somehow, the WGA decided to neglect these wonderful examples of the written narrative, and choose the 10 efforts above. Any one of these would easily replace at least one (if not two) of the wonky choices provided, beginning with:



Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg Hot Fuzz


The insane minds behind Shaun of the Dead deliver the definitive lampoon of big budget action cop buddy action movies while systematically satirizing the concept of ‘being British’. It’s a work of undeniable genius from beginning to shoot ‘em up end.



Ben Affleck and Aaron Stockard Gone Baby Gone


We know Affleck can write - he has his own little gold man for cranking out Good Will Hunting. This stellar thriller proves that said statuette was no fluke. While earning some cred, this film will probably end up 2007’s most unappreciated - and that’s a shame.



Wes Anderson, Roman Coppola, and Jason Schwartzman The Darjeeling Limited


Like watching a novel unfold on screen, the work of these terrific storytellers lifted what could have been mannered and manipulative into something quite magical. This is the most human and heartfelt movie Anderson has ever made - and the scripts the reason why.



Aaron Sorkin Charlie Wilson’s War


Apparently, burning one’s bridges among the Tinsel Town talent pool means that, even when you do something substantially right, you get little recognition in response. Sorkin may be a sourpuss, but his biting work on this non-fiction adaptation deserves more than mere pat pleasantries.



Kelly Masterson Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead


The twisted turns and tricks of a complex crime story are hard enough to navigate. Now imagine being a first timer creating a Rashomon like narrative for directorial legend Sidney Lumet. But that’s what Masterson did, and the results were stellar. Her efforts deserved to be recognized.


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