Crystal Skulls, Secret Unicorns, and Spielberg’s Directorial Spark (Patreon)

1. The Hawks Accord

Howard Hawks famously said that a good movie has “three great scenes and no bad ones.”

I think about this quote all the time. Not because I think the quote is right. I mean, there’s plenty of great movies with bad scenes, along with just about a million ways to enjoy movies that are chock full of bad scenes. But there is something about the quote that speaks to how I think a sizable portion of the audience seems to approach their moviegoing. And more specifically, how they seem to appraise a movie’s worth. Because often we’re not talking about films that reach the height of drama and connect out of some deep, personal form of engagement. Most of the time we’re talking about the “cinema of the inoffensive.” The kinds of films that slide onto the screen, throws up some light entertainment, hits the beats the audience wants, justifies the ticket price, and then simply moves along into vague memory. The kind of films that just throw a solid, if unremarkable down the middle. I think these are the kinds of movies that Hawks is speaking of. And they do well.

Look no further than The Marvel Machine. I know they love to tout their entries as genre-bending efforts, but everything always seems to devolve into the standard set of beats with doohickeys and closing portals and whatnot. Even in terms of their look, the cinematography has been rendered in a consistent, often washed-out house style of naturalism and there are very few tonal jumps to speak of. There’s this whole air of “no glaring fuck ups” mantra, along with a focus on making the jokes and just getting to the power fantasy delivery device in question (a topic I talk about here). I know there’s been outliers, but it’s been a general dynamic of overlap involved. A framework. Because so much of the Marvel output speaks to the “three great scenes and no bad ones” mantra. And I thought about this intensely as I went back to re-watch a film I haven’t seen since its theatrical run in 2008 - a film I find fascinating because it is the complete opposite of that Hawks quote. I am of course talking about…

Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

In retrospect, it’s a fascinating effort. And also a kind of a formative text when I first put forth “The Tangible Details Theory” all those years ago, which is the idea that when a lot of general audiences don’t like something, they may not understand the real reason why and thus they naturally gravitate towards the things that stick out the most in the movie. It’s like Spider-Man 3 has all sorts of narrative problems and over-stuffed rushing, but if you ask people why they didn’t like it, they’d likely point to the goofy scene where Emo Peter dances (which is a fascinating thing to identify for lots of reasons). But what if a film is filled with good things and bad things? What if it’s not even good scenes or bad scenes, but specific moments within both? What if they all fire at a rate back and forth where it is almost impossible to get your footing? What if this is a whole bigger discussion that helps you split apart and examine Spielberg’s entire career?

… Oh no, I’m going to do that!

2. The Beard

It’s funny when I realize how little I’ve written about Spielberg. I mean, he is unquestionably the most successful filmmaker of time. He’s made a dozen plus films I unabashedly love with every fiber of my being. Within popcorn classics? He defined the blockbuster with Jaws and captured wonder and terror the films I grew up on, like Close Encounters of The Third Kind, Raiders of the Lost Ark, E.T., and Jurassic Park. With that run, there’s a reason his name became synonymous with direction itself. After that, his shift into adult dramatic filmmaking resulted in unprecedented success with Schindler’s List, which is undoubtedly a powerful, harrowing film, but who's important political arguments I’ll leave to Art Spiegleman and this Village Voice discussion). But even a few years later, Saving Private Ryan would change the approach to war films forever. For many, this is where “classic” Spielberg ended, but I honestly enjoy his subsequent dark period more than most. A.I. seemed to be greeted with confusion and incredulous animosity, only because I think it’s one of the most unexpectedly sad and horror-inducing films ever made even though it’s not a horror film. Likewise, the sci-fi noir Minority Report rages with constant ingenuity. Catch Me If You Can delights but has way more somber touches than many remember. Now in the last decade he’s started channeling his inner Capra with blockbuster efforts like Lincoln, but I think did an even better job with Bridge of Spies, a film I sometimes think might be his best drama period.

And yet, like any popular artist, Spielberg is a source of constant argumentation. For many young people, he’s part of the venerable “old school film camp” they are supposed to have some measure of reverence for or something. But they didn’t grow up on it, so that’s a pretty good reason not to care. But even since the beginning - there’s been a curious thing that happens when talking about his work, particularly with young males. I often call it “The Spielberg Arc,” and it’s a three part process. When we’re young we tend to love his movies because they are these big, emotional experiences that are often attune to a kid’s perspective. And because there is no filmmaker better at showing you his exact intention. He uses every component of filmmaking to make you feel the thing he wants you to feel, dammit. It is singular, devoted, and often even deft its execution. Thus, he can viscerally move you back and forth, often with full on cinematic manipulation.

But when you become a teenager? You reach an age where you are more curious. Where you discover the art of subtlety and a world with more complex, non-singular feelings. Thus, you begin reaching for the kinds of media where you get to do more of the work yourself. This is a critical step in any person’s artistic development. You start building internal skills of appraisal and putting things together and learning to find emotion in a thing that may not seemingly produce it for you. So perhaps it’s natural to think this is the be all and end all of consuming art? Which is why it often comes with the instinct to reject the prior “simple” approach. In this stage, it becomes easy to think Spielberg is treacly, or manipulative, or that he tacks on “happy endings” or something along those lines. But honestly? I think the reason so many people in this stage tend to balk at his work is born out of a teenage defensiveness. We don’t want to cry. Or be vulnerable. And that means rejecting the things that desperately try to make us feel that way. (note: i say this because, like many boys, I went through it). We say it’s because we want to reach for the notions of adult complexity, but honestly, I think it’s because we’re afraid to feel something simple and true. Luckily, the next stage of that arc is a kind of symbiosis.

Because you realize they are just two different approaches that are after similar things. And in popular filmmaking, this so-called “manipulation” is part of the job. I didn’t rediscover the artist because he suddenly got better at telling stories. It’s because I finally took down all my defenses and just let myself. And to be frank, there’s a reason popcorn fare and prestige dramas connect with audiences. And there’s a reason why an abstract or incredibly vague art film doesn’t have the same size audience. Which is okay, by the way. There’s a spectrum to celebrate. And I adore both approaches with my full attention. I think there’s greatly crafted popcorn films. I think there’s lazy, convoluted ones. I think there’s brilliant, visceral art films. I think there are incoherent, vague ones made by people still trapped in that “second phase” I mentioned above. But it’s all about taking away the limited way of evaluating both approaches. For Spielberg, I think the most important thing is that if he is unafraid to be clear in a moment, that doesn’t mean his ideas are not building up to a nuanced overall picture. He has so many aspects of his work that showcase an understanding of the human condition, one often pointed in its contradictions. Even in terms of plain old darkness, he’s made some of the most haunting images I’ve ever seen on screen. But given the amount of unparalleled success, you know what I think is the most fascinating thing about him?

It’s that he’s also failed a bunch of times.

More than a bunch, really. And not just the genuine schmaltz of films like Always. It’s the lack of inspiration and rushed assumptions of The Lost World. It’s the conversations about how he probably shouldn’t have made The Color Purple and definitely not Amistad. On a similar point, the less said about 1941 the better. As for recent fare, the lack of introspection in Ready Player One made me feel a brand of existential sadness that's hard to express. And upon hearing reactions, I couldn’t even bring myself to see The BFG. And yet, even there are still other films of his that hit and miss in equal measure. But I want to argue that even the worst Spielberg film will have great moments in it. An uncanny shot. A dramatic moment. Even an approach to blocking that’s worth three weeks of film school… But the following three films are the ones I find the most fascinating to talk about.

Specifically, the way they prove the different ways of looking at the Hawks Accord…

3. My Kingdom For A Crystal Skull

I’m not sure how much you remember about the time and place when Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull came out, but there was an odd feeling in the air. It wasn’t certainty, but there was this quiet sense of hope. Granted, it was probably because I was always more of an Indiana Jones kid than a Star Wars kid (and boy did I love Star Wars, so that’s saying something). But by this point people had learned to be cautious. There was some real burnout after the prequels and a lot of anti-Lucas sentiment (it’s funny how differently it all plays now). But everything felt different given Spielberg’s direct involvement. He inherently gave the project this inherent sense of promise. It’s as if we dared to ask ourselves, “What if it’s really good?!” And then it came out and, for the most part, it landed with a big kerplunk. But the way everyone talked about it - and quite frankly STILL talks about - seems to ignore how many things it does well. And all these years later…

I think it’s still worth going over which is which.

The Spark - There’s something about the exact timing of those opening credits in the film. The font, the imagery awash in golden light, the way the cars rush by with energy and gumption. This is “The Spark” that Spielberg has. This absolute ability to make a moment in a given film sing with function and execution, born out of a seemingly innate sense of mise en scene. In the film’s 20 minute opening sequence, you may feel some moments of unease, but you also just get these kinds of moments. Whether its lines like  “put your hands down will ya, you’re embarrassing us” or the terrific gag where the whip doesn’t get him far enough and he careens back into the truck. These sparks show up again and again, perhaps culminating int\ the coup of the university motorcycle chase. I particularly love the great shots of how it all begins - with the girl screaming “that’s my boyfriend!” and punching him outright, knocking him into a group of greasers, who face the opposing jocks, and causing instant pandemonium. This is Spielberg at his finest. Every shot which is “simple” and clear in its aims, but it comes together so cleanly as to seem a miracle of purpose. And it’s at its best when it feels practical. For there’s no bigger high than a stunt man’s feet skitting on the ground, but in the second, given the seamlessness of the execution, I believe it’s Harrison Ford himself. It’s all so tangible and vibrant and it’s the reason I will see everything the guy ever makes… But alas, the sparks still have to crash up against the weight of all other things in the film.

Harrison - What’s very weird about this movie is that, for most of the running time, Ford seems completely locked in (it should be mentioned he has a big financial stake in Indiana Jones, but not Star Wars). But there’s something odd about his opening scene. On paper, it’s such a fantastic idea. Him getting pulled out of a trunk, thrown to ground, and getting the iconic silhouette of the hat. But the second he starts talking… his delivery monotone and flat (he weirdly NEEDS the jacket, too). Seriously, go back and watch how different it is than the rest of the film. I can’t help but keep thinking about how disengaged it seems and gets us off on the wrong foot. Because almost immediately after that opening, things begin to click. The wry smile, the goofy exterior, his off the cuff jokes and his sudden nerding out over history. There’s even the deep warmth of him talking about his dad. He even disarms all of Shia’s attitude so beautifully. And he really, really carries the reality of the movie up until a certain point. And as for the ending that comes after? Well, we’ll get to that later.

Time and Place - Let’s be clear: as much as people think Indiana Jones has to be set around WW2, the film has to make the choice of going with 1957. It’s how you match Ford and he IS Indy. And the thing is that I think a lot of setting stuff works great. I love all the sock hop youngsters and the air of Mccarthyism breathing down their necks. But the sudden appearance of patriotic lines such as “I like Ike” hit a little weird, mostly because it’s just weird to see Indiana say something like that. Just as it’s a little weird to know that he was outright working for OSS? Don’t get me wrong, I get the idea that you want to say he fought the good fight, it’s just weird when the film suddenly makes him a high status character with connections. But I suppose that’s a quibble. The real question here is how it all adds to the big themes. There’s a posited idea here about the Russians and cold war surveillance, along with the idea of invading dreams when “you won’t even know it's happening,” and it’s making this big parallel to what’s happened in the information age with Facebook. But once again, we’ll come back to how the theme actually manifests with the ending. And while the specifics of the time and place mostly work, people are still right to note that something was off about the film’s look…

Janusz Kamiński - I think Janusz is a fascinating figure. You look at that resume and he is unquestionably one of greatest cinematographers of all time. I mean, he’s been working with Spielberg since 1993. But it’s more curious when you look at the non-Spielberg entries and I’m just like… huh. Really it’s no more than that… just a “huh.” But here in this film, there’s so many times where you see what makes him special. Not just with the motorcycle sequence, but I particularly love the interrogation scene in the tent, where you see Indy’s silhouette against the sheet. But at other times, it all feels wrong. Sometimes it’s a practical thing, like a desperate need for a close-up when giving some exposition. But more often, it’s how many times an actor being put in a CGI background feels disastrously off (and juts out compared to the rest of the movie). Even in the opening scenes, go back and look at the background of the desert night. Or compare the gunpowder to the effectiveness of rolling balls. And there’s so many other things that look washed out, and weightless in the film’s last act. There’s something that feels so haphazard here, as if built on an assumption that something would work… and then really, really didn’t. And I’d be fascinated to have a professional break all that down.

“Nuking The Fridge” -  This is where the tangible details thing really went into overdrive, huh?. Lucas really seemed certain that it was possible for a lead-lined fridge to survive that, but alas, no. The thing is it’s not about logic really. It’s about HOW we make the illogical feel like something believable. In retrospect, maybe the fridge is just a little too close to the main spot. Maybe we should see some other objects still standing. Maybe that fridge really flips just goes for one too many tumbles. Maybe a few small changes would do so much. But I honestly get why they went for it. Because the image of Indy staring at that A Bomb explosion (and likely taking years of his life) categorizes the horrors of the new age. But, of course, it all became one of the film’s tangible details that people could clamp onto. Much the way Shia swinging on the vines became a lightning rod, too. Speaking of which…

Mutt Williams - Look, there’s a stomach churning feeling and sadness in even discussing Shia at this point, so I don’t really want to give it all the time of day. But how people felt about Shia *then* was such a central argument around the movie itself. He was one of the tangible details. He was a guy coming from a Disney teen career and he had already been crowned the new king by Spielberg. Lots of “the new Tom Hanks” talk came with it. What he never read as though, was the new Harrison Ford. And in this film, he was pretty much dismissed by audiences for the attempt, which led to him talking shit about the movie and causing a weird falling out with Spielberg. All of this is inseparable from the audience context, I know. But when going over the text, we also have to look at the choices of the story in and of itself. Does he work as a greaser? Maybe, but it doesn’t help that they can’t resist going full tilt and dressing him full on as Marlon Brando in The Wild One. Because anyone who knows that reference is going to get tripped up on logic and be like “wait, is Mutt literally cosplaying?” Granted, it would be funny if the movie called this out. But it also can’t seem to find the balance of whether or not he is a tough greaser or a poser who needs to be brought down to earth. It’s close though. And there’s a reason it all settles pretty quickly once he starts deferring to Indy. And there’s moments you can believably see the character’s emotion and fears, particularly when he’s trying to connect with Ox. But as much as there are moments of commitment, Mutt Williams inevitably becomes the target of decisions around him. And like so many others in this film, it’s his intro and the finish that sink it, which brings us into larger issues of the movie itself.

So now, let’s talk about that…

3rd Act Fall(s) - I know I sound like a broken record, but the ultimate success of most movies really does come down to the writing. No, I’m not talking about snappy dialogue or the need to craft a classic with the deftness of Casablanca or something. I’m talking about the basic goal of providing catharsis through setups and payoffs. And your ending is where all of this really does need to come together. On my first watch of Crystal Skull I thought the last act fell apart. And all these years later? Yeaaaaaaah, I still think the same thing. I know some people like to blame it on the cartoony waterfall dips (and yeah, they don’t really work, but like most things, it begins before it begins. I’d argue it actually starts halfway through the film when Indy and Mutt get captured. I get the intent of this, the goal is to finally get all our characters together (including our McGuffin in Ox and also the surprise of Marion). There’s even some good character stuff and they want you to feel the tense pinch of the Soviet bad guys having control - but in having gone through so much delay for the surprise, it’s also having to do a looooooot of retroactive explanation in these scenes. Which means the whole scenario suddenly puts them on the heels of the adventure.

The film seems to sense this, too, which is why they try an escape that doesn’t work and then it begins a whole series of back and forths. And I get that this is a key part of Indy movies! But usually we’re not doing that *while* trying to establish all these new dynamics, plus the stated goals and objectives are more clear, too. And then they make a choice to do a truck chase and, well… this is a massive self-challenge because the truck chase in Raiders is one of the great all time stunt sequences. But at first it’s not too bad! I like Indy with the rocket launcher and a few other beats, but the second we get to the fencing it switches to HEAVY CGI and it gets real rough real fast (the repeated gag of Mutt getting hit in the balls is kind of the marker). It’s just not selling it. And the ants are creepy, but the washed out / weightless CGI problem hits hard still. By the time we get to the waterfalls we feel the loss of the tension. And the line “three times it drops” doesn’t feel like a big cathartic reveal, but instead just a thing that happens out of, you know, happenstance. But this gets at this key idea. The problem is less the execution of the payoffs themselves. The problem with the last act is the set-up…

Telegraphing Your Punch - The second you see the alien hand in the first scenes of the movie you’re like “oh, that’s an alien, we’re doing aliens here.” And in the end, that’s what they’re doing. It’s aliens. There’s literally no misdirect here. Which would be fine if that’s the tension you want to play in the film, but the film keeps playing with all these playing coy and acts like *we* don’t know. Which is why lines like “depends on who you god is” hit with a clan. And as great as it is to see the confused joy in Ford’s face when he looks at the skull and goes, “what is this thing?” We’re still like “that’s clearly alien.” It may seem small, but this is precisely why the final act falls flat. It’s not because we “already know what’s coming.” It’s because the film stops to explain it like we don’t. It stops to show them holding the skull up and putting together what we have from minute one. Which means we don’t share the discovery.  Moreover, it saps the entire sequence of tension. Note that there’s no ticking clock or crucial stakes. Think about the drama at the end of Crusade with the challenges to solve while his dad is literally dying. Here, they’re just wandering around like “oh gee!” Even their interactions with the natives who guard the place are blown right past (we’ll come back to this). Couple this with the ongoing CGI problems of the super brightly lit throne room sequence and I’m left so lacking. Like, what did they actually do here? It’s not just about a lack of shared discovery with the audience. This should be the exact sequence where there is some catharsis in the relationships (like the “Indy, let it go” moment which solves TWO plot lines in amazing fashion). The problem here? Nothing plays into the catharsis of any of the relationships. Which just highlights the problems of many of them to begin with…

John Hurt - I often say it’s good when the central Macguffin is a person because it allows you to make the objectives part of a human relationship. But here? It’s not that John Hurt is going full inscrutable goofball. Heck, that allows them to do funny lines like “you were at University of Chicago and you were never this interesting.” But it gets to the essential problem of basing a story around a character who is “off their rocker” to use an outdated turn of phrase. Because you never understand the rules or where the tension should be when it comes to what he knows or doesn’t. And the memory game puts us, the audience, again on our heels. In the past, there was always huge joy in getting to see Indy put together a big moment of realization, but in this film he has to do soooo much heavy lifting this way. Moreover, so much of it happens in his head and we’re told the results, while not enough is visual (like with the staff and Library puzzles of films past). But the real problem? How much catharsis can there be in “getting Ox back” if we never even knew the character while they were “well” in the first place? How is this cathartic of *us* and our relationship to the character? Even in terms of sympathy, I was genuinely confused about his relationship to Marion and Mutt in my first watch. But it’s not the only thing that muddles…

Cate Blanchett - She’s really doing everything she can here, huh? And I like that she gets to have all the scenery chewing fun, especially in the tent scene which plays to her strengths (“careful, you may get exactly what you wish for” / “I usually do”). But I think a few small tweaks would do wonders. Because we get the basic beat of her wanting “all the knowledge,” but I think it’s actually important to see her try to interact with the skull herself and feel rejected by it. We want to see just that glimmer of the unhinged, along with understanding the thing that drives her deep down. Because without it? The big “I want all the knowledge!” moment can only feel pat. Moreover, note how little else she gets to do in the finale (the only cool moment is weirdly her squashing the ant with her leg), which would also help fuel the final moment of catharsis when as the villain, she gets the comeuppance. But this one is a big execution thing, too, huh? Because if ever there was a moment for some throwback practical work it’s here. I mean the series has three of the GREAT practical FX villain deaths ever (ark melting - heart / gator chomp - and “he chose… poorly”). And you can’t help, but want THAT kind of moment. Not something over lit that feels like it’s going through the motions :/

Karen Allen - Of course, it had to be Marion Ravenwood. I mean, she’s Karen Allen. She’s great. She waltzes into those movies with her bright eyes and we realize we’ve wanted to see her for so, so long. And there’s so much joy in getting to see her work with (and quarrel with) Indy… So why does the movie mystery box her for half the movie? I will never understand this instinct. Perhaps it was all a LOST-success symptom of worshipping surprise and the days were movies USED to be able to hide things like that. But now we know from the casting announcements alone. It’s the progenitor of the “John Harrison” / Kahn thing that would come a few years later. But to me, this is such a misunderstanding of what “surprise” can give you in a movie. And more importantly, what it takes away. But it takes SO MUCH shoe leather to hide her and maintain the convolution before the reveal, along with so much more retroactive explanation once we’re there. And I’m left wondering a few things. Like, what if we knew Mutt was Marion’s kid from minute one? What if it was what clearly motivated their mission to go for her? What if it better fueled their conflict on the way? Or hell, what if it was Indy and Marion’s adventure from earlier on? What if we got to see the two actors we love bicker and go through a whole arc of their own story? What if we got the thing we really wanted out of this? Even as it exists in this film, there’s something evasive about what the problem really was here. The “they weren’t you” line plays great, but would it be better if Indy was the one who didn’t leave? If she left cuz couldn’t deal with his BS? And if there was some innate part of him that needed fixing and to show that he had come around and matured in some way that changed things for them now? Couldn’t they play SOMETHING as an actual conflict? That’s the thing. There’s so much promise and potential and ends in the exact right place between them, but I just have so many questions about how we got there. And as far as a character goes, she’s not even close to the biggest problem in the film…

Ray Winstone - Of all the characters, this is the most glaring hole. Like so much about this film, I like the idea on paper. You have this idea that Indy’s had this shifty partner and as an actor, Winstone is as good as it gets (and weirdly on fire in Hollywood at this moment in time). But the film spends so much time referencing their past and we get so little time actually seeing them as a team to fall in love with in the first place (whereas we get so much of that with the actors in the other films).  Winstone just switches sides immediately and then doesn’t even get to have fun as a villain. And it doesn’t really do much when he switches back to their side either. Nor when he finally switches back back. I mean, his pulling the gun in the throne room means NOTHING because nothing Cate literally shows up a literal second later to do the same thing. I cannot overstate how much the character is nothing and has zero impact on any moment. Which is likely why his death scene feels so dang weird. Outside the weird execution of him floating away, it’s genuinely the most glaring hole and yet it takes up this big beat like it’s supposed to have meaning. They genuinely never figured out what to do on the page with him. And with it, they never quite figure out what they’re really wanting to say here in general…

Ancient Aliens - I know the show became a big funny meme, but hopeful we also all now realize how much the Ancient Aliens belief has an inherently racist implication because it centers on the idea that these ancient non-white peoples couldn’t have known all these things, thus it had to be Aliens who taught them? IAnd it doesn’t help that the film also skirts right past the native depictions in this story (especially in how quickly the Soviets kill them and move along). I’m not arguing it would have likely been handled great or anything, but it leaves me with this realization about how much more interesting it could have been if this element of the story was given some kind of symbiosis. If they were *actual* characters and part of the events of the finale in some way. Instead, it’s up to our characters to paint the Aliens as “collectors… they’re archeologists,” and hopefully now we understand so much more about the horrors of all the stolen culture in the British museum (in retrospect, it’s odd that Temple of Doom, which has the most racist in depiction of South Asian culture is also somehow the one movie that values returning an object to the culture they belong to). There could have been *some* kind of modern understanding and reflecting of this - and an understanding of what the Aliens valued in terms of respecting the local people. Sure, we get the nice words that “knowledge was their treasure” and get the sentiment, but I wish it had something more specific to the story. It’s all too vague. I mean, if it’s the greatest value, why is Cate simultaneously punished for wanting said knowledge? Is this part Icarus myth? Part vengeful Prometheus? I can’t tell what any of it wants. And you see Ford really trying to sell the sense of catharsis at the end, but he has nothing of substance to go on. There’s nothing he can truly sell.

“And No Bad Ones” - The final takeaway is that Crystal Skull is one of the most interesting ways to examine the promise, potential, and execution of a movie. For much of the running time, it will throw something good into every scene. There are these little moments that spark and elicit a smile. And these moments alone could perhaps be enough to get us through if there was just a hair more functionality in the last act. But it’s the lack of long setup and cumulative payoff that ultimately does the film in. Thus, it can’t help but feel like a sketch of the film we want. An early draft. A movie that is at once so close and yet so far. Especially if you’re looking for a polished movie with “three great scenes and no bad ones.” But instead, it’s a story that careens like a loose mine cart, darting all over, all before getting tossed off a cliff when it matters most. I know this will be the legacy of the film. Just as I know there’s so many rough tangible details that people will hold onto.  But I hope we can remember the good. I hope we remember that it probably could have even survived if the ending gave us something more to hang onto. But without them, it suffers a fate for violating the Hawks accord so plainly.

But it is just one example of how that adage plays into Spielberg’s career…

4. Ninety-Nine Bottles Of Booze

When I mentioned on twitter that I was rewatching The Adventures of Tintin there were several people who said they wished that this is what we got with Crystal Skull (I get the impetus to think that, but they’re also sneaky different films with different needs). And once again, the context of when it came out matters. At the time, I understood there were people who loved the books, but like many Americans, I never read an ounce of them in my life. But I was still excited because 1) it was Spielberg and 2) he was playing with the new toys of Mo-Cap. I felt like there could be a sense of discovery in it. Thus, I was deeply curious. But unfortunately, many others potential audience members were not. Why did people stay away? Was it a marketing failure? Perhaps the imagery skewed too close to the Mo-Cap uncanny valley? Was it because it was a kids movie full of guns, murder and full-on alcoholism? Or perhaps it was just the lunacy of opening two Spielberg event films within three days of each other? Look, I don’t know. I just know for those who actually did watch the film, they got a great Hawksian example of a movie with “three great scenes with no bad ones.”

Just like with Crystal Skull, there are the familiar moments of The Spielberg Spark. It’s just these inventive, playful shots you rarely see in anything else these days. And this film feels like him at his most playful. You see it in the way Snowy’s feet dangle from a ladder above and into the driver’s eye-line. Or the way the sleeping crew is falling around the cabin while staying fast asleep. It’s all his most “Looney Toon logic” stuff, complete with literal birds circling around a character’s head (and if you took it TOO seriously, you’d realize that Tintin gets like 14 concussions in this film). Just like a dog getting drunk off floating liquor, you feel Spielberg getting drunk on the power of animation. Which is probably why he’s always after “the impossible shot,” the one where the camera does that crazy impractical thing that would normally be impossible to pull off. But he has the freedom here. And it’s all best summed up with the big ass, zany tracking shot as they chase the scrolls down the side of the city. I think that on my first watch I maybe bristled a bit at the overkill, but rewatching the other day? It feels alive with purpose. Plus, it’s so good at constantly reframing the action and making the moments sing. It is one of MANY great sequences in the film. And compared to Crystal Skull, there’s rarely a big misstep at all. Not a singular “bad scene” in sight. Along with all these little crisp character beats that help sell the story in question. It’s a work of precision, through and through.

So… why isn't it considered a Spielberg classic? Why does it fail to rouse the spirit quite in the same way? Why does it fall into the camp of “that’s a really good movie” and not gone on to become the object of genuine adoration? Why is it not a new cult classic? Well, that’s the thing about the Hawks Accord of “three great scenes and no bad ones.” That’s only a measure of what gets noticed in terms of flaws. It’s a measure of what makes a fine romp and doesn’t ruffle any feathers in a negative kind of way. ..

And being truly moved is about something else all together.

Because the movies that really, truly mean something to us are the ones that reach down into our souls and really stir something up. They’re not just emotional objects, they unlock something in us. And even the most entertaining of Spielberg’s classic fare can do this. There’s this grand sense of wonder and terror in all those films. Jaws and Jurassic Park are deeply visceral. Even the adventure of Raiders has that gnarly finale that makes us feel like OH, GOOD HEAVENS. Again, notice how much the key elements here are ending catharsis. On shooting for the moon and nailing the dismount. All the best sequence of Jurassic Park come earlier, but there’s something inescapably powerful about them getting away and getting the T-Rex roar as the “when Dinosaurs ruled the earth!” banner comes crashing down. It’s a hammer of an ending moment. And speaks to everything we want deep down.

And for all its flawless guile and moment-to-moment function in Tintin, there’s something invariably lacking about that grand catharsis. Don’t get me wrong, it's a really smart script and the film totally works, particularly in how it keeps the conflict afloat as it weaves our two main characters together. But I can’t help but think of how much of the film’s emotional core and drive rests on Haddock's rather drunken shoulders. And how the whole remember-ing story takes a little too long before getting to all these historical stuff about their descendants and what not (I don’t know about you, but I sometimes have problems with “my grandpa hated your grandpa” stories, unless it’s about how how those grandpas were dumb). But you instinctively want that to still come together in grand fashion with a cathartic conclusion. They’re after grand treasure, you say? That’s the objective? Well, we know we can’t have the characters strike the motherlode and get all the riches of the world. But the film opts for a little bit of gold and the promise of more to THIS adventure with their “unquenchable” thirst. It can’t help but fall victim to that feeling of “TV pilot-ism and the feeling that the rest of this exact adventure will now happen off screen (which hurts all the more given the lack of sequels).

But for Haddock himself, it fails to give us that cathartic bait and switch. The one where he (and we) realize it’s not about the treasure— but the homecoming. Because the moment of him getting to return to his rightful home? I’m sort of at a loss as to why Spielberg doesn’t play the wonder of it. I wonder why it shies away from the emotion he’s normally so good at showing? It should have this deeply cathartic meaning of a threshold cross, not just in terms of rehabilitation, but stripping away the shame that he has carried inside him for so long. It sounds silly, but we’re talking about the moment of transcendence here. That last little bit of cathartic edge that can put a film over the top (and Spielberg normally holds onto for too long). Because you want that hammer. That moment that resonates deep. That perfect thing that leaves the audience saying “wow” instead of “oh, that was really nice!” And here it goes of the “oh well” and something that feels too cute by half.

But hey, this is an American talking. Perhaps the film had that connection with the international audience that grew up on the material. I can’t say. I just know that many of us saw the film and liked it. And I really wish we got some future where Peter Jackson came in and we are three movies deep now. And perhaps the answer lies in why it settled for whimsy over grand, cathartic elation. But perhaps a lifelong Tintin fan brings a whole different lens into it? And if so, that reveals this whole other question: if a good movie is “three great scenes and no bad ones…”

It can still leave us asking “great for who?”

5. Looky Looky, Who Loves Hooky?

So I just watched HOOK for the first time since the theater I think?

It’s honestly a little hard to remember if I also saw more of it on TV or at people’s houses or something. But it’s one of those films that I remember having a big cultural dividing line from the very start. For everyone older than me? It was an affront. A stupid kids movie for dumb babies and thus deserving of a weird amount of animosity (perhaps wished they wished that Spielberg did something cooler? I dunno). But for everyone younger than me? It was the greatest movie ever. And at the exact age in between, I remember feeling really stuck in the middle. There were parts of me that really wanted to embrace aspects of it - and part of me that felt self-conscious, part of that terrible, aching shame of maybe “being a little too old for this” (and please know that older siblings can shape a lot of these feelings really hard). But it turns out that this weird sense of conflict I had speaks to a LOT about what the movie is actually trying to do.

Looking back at it now, Hook is another “tangible details” movie where it’s easy to grasp onto so many things that stick out. For one, it has an…. odd … design. Something weirdly garish and off-putting. But there are so many little moments that leave me bewildered. Like Hoffman’s weird as hell almost-suicide scene. Or how Julia Roberts does a good job for so long, but then there’s the weird moment where out of nowhere she gets big and is lusting after adult Peter? And perhaps oddest of all is Peter’s remembrance of himself in the carriage and saying “So I ran away,” and it’s like, mother fucker you were a baby, what is this? It’s all odd, frankly. But perhaps that’s all fine for the kind of movie where Glenn Close plays a bearded pirate tortured by scorpions and David Crosby gets hit in the nuts by a loose floorboard. We’re through the looking glass already. But what’s perhaps weirder is how much I remembered all these vivid details once they started happening and yet how I felt differently about some of them now. For instance, I remember being unsure about Jack’s performance when I was young, but now I think he does a really remarkable job staying locked in “kid behavior” while obviously processing a lot of complex things. Plus, certain gags like the plane crash drawing play really well. And I can appreciate the fact that Bob Hoskins is the only one truly killing it (while understanding the movie he’s in), probably because he’s always the best part of everything he’s in.

But alas, like most things, the problem is on the page. Ostensibly, Hook is an all-ages family film that is about getting adults to not just engage with the imagined world of their children, but remembering the joy of what it means to be a kid again themselves. At times it feels locked into this. There’s that great speech that Moira has about Peter not being careful with / missing their childhood and it plays so succinctly. And you feel the way Spielberg genuinely wrestles with it himself in those opening scenes (perhaps a little TOO closely, I mean 5 billion dollar deal getting negotiated is not an everyman concern). The problem once again is how long the movie keeps Peter dragging his heels against this conceit. After 40 mins we’re just starting in Neverland. At minute 53 he’s still asking obvious questions like “where are your parents?!” Sure, he knows he has to rescue his kids, but he just keeps refusing to believe his eyes. He supposedly knows the stories, but he denies, denies, denies all the way up until his aforementioned weird remembering scene. And the second he does? Boom, he’s full pan again and can do it all and it’s off to the finale!

The problem is you really want it to feel more like an evolution and outside of the one food imagination scene, there’s a grand failure to do that, let alone a pointed narrative that meaningfully strips away the various parts of his adulthood. And this movie is soooooooo long (2 hours 15) and it spends so much of that time grinding against itself. Imagine being an adult and wanting to see Robin Williams have fun as an adult Peter Pan and you get him complaining for almost 2 hours before barely getting 30 minutes at the end of him doing just that? What about all that denial and short-lived ending makes us, the audience, feel like a kid again? Why do we as adults spend so much time wishing the movie would get to the fun part sooner? If it was tighter and more focused, it could just work so much cleaner. But all of this observation gives way to a fascinating realization... I keep saying “It would work” better, but when I say that? I mean that it can work for its adult audience better.

And there’s a reason why every kid of a certain age adored it.

No, it’s not because kids will eat up anything and don’t know enough to know when things are bad. It is because the movie is absolutely designed for them down to the atom. Some of it is the inherent allure of the Pan lore, what with its lost boys and fun adventures. But Spielberg practically turns it all into crack for kids. It’s tree houses with wind surfboards and homemade weapons and armor and bright shiny colors and everything feeling like it was built from the ground up with haphazard kid logic. For them, the garish is appealing. And even more, there’s a reason that the brooding Ruffio was a budding crush for so many young people I know. But it’s with Peter himself that the kid-friendly story goes into overdrive. Because no, this is not a fantasy for adults. It’s the fantasy of them getting their stern parent to loosen up. For kids, they’re not watching this “as” Peter Pan. For them? HE’S THE ANTAGONIST. Hook is almost incidental. A red herring. No, you are with the Lost Boys and you rooting for them and often against your dad. From that place, everything about the heel-dragging tactics serves a purpose to the rooting interest of the child. We like seeing Peter get tortured and poked and prodded and be wrong wrong wrong for a running time. As a kid, you don’t need the switch to provide the catharsis until the ending. Because this is a film is designed for kids at every step. And there’s a reason it resonated deeply with them.

And for me? That’s the whole problem of being right on that dividing line, right? Of feeling torn between the instincts? Or heck, maybe it wasn’t even age. Maybe it’s that I had a very different kind of relationship with my dad. Maybe it’s that there are so many personal ways we connect to movies. Maybe it’s that there are so many different kinds of things that strike us and our own experiences. And perhaps what’s interesting about Spielberg is there’s no filmmaker who is so accomplished, so full of capacity, and yet, so varying in terms of “who” the final output seems to work for. So what gives?

Epilogue - The Constant Directorer

You’ll notice that every single one of the deep, structural criticisms expressed of the films here comes down to the writing of the story.  And that’s when it’s important to remember: Steven Spielberg is not the writer of the vast majority of his films (though the three films he did write - Close Encounters, A.I., and the upcoming The Fablemans - provides a fascinating lens of examination). Like Scorsese, Fincher and many classic filmmakers of the Golden Age, he’s more a pure director. Which is not to say he doesn’t have a really good story sense. Nor is it to say he doesn’t express a viewpoint or have an authorial voice, especially in the material he curates to make. No, he does all these things in spades, often exceptionally. But what it does do is remind you of two truths. The first is that direction is but one (crucial) part of the many elements of collaborative filmmaking. And the second is perhaps a touch ironic. It’s the notion that you can be a living legend, one who is full of spark and vigor, a seeming “constant” of professional execution, and yet you STILL have to make the right story choice.

And I want this to be a reminder of how hard it is to make the right choice.

You can have every great idea and believe you are heading down the right path, but through the chaos of so many different possibilities that are hard to control, something can just go a little bit wrong. Filmmaking is often like trying to drive a skyscraper (I think McQuarrie said that, but I could be wrong and google is no help). And there is such empathy in understanding that core reality. Especially when hindsight is 20/20. I mean, it’s easy for me to sit here with all this context after all these years have passed and be like “yeah, yeah blank movie shoulda done blank.” But there in the act of creation? When it’s so easy to believe something might really work or a moment will play differently then it ends up? That’s when it’s hardest to see the path.

Moreover, it’s important to look at movies that don’t always work and realize that’s often when we learn the most. I mean you could watch Jaws and my big advice would be like, “I dunno be one of the best rookie filmmakers ever and get extremely lucky when things go wrong?” Okay, I’m being silly and there’s actually LOTS to study in terms of dramatic mechanics in the edit, but I’m still making a point about the artistic process. And please know that we would be having a whole different conversation if Spielberg was writing every one of his movies as some deeply personal exercise. But instead he’s making films that are part of other collaborative instincts - and very much dependent on the various skills of those who write for him. And it’s ultimately dependent on the way audiences respond to that collaboration.

The thing about Hawks “three great scenes and no bad ones” theory is that it so easily highlights both the allure and naked incompleteness of any folksy saying. Because it certainly gets at an idea that shows a general kind of audience thinking, but it barely scratches the surface of the enormous complexity that goes into an audience's wide variety of responses. There’s no one size fits all theory. There can’t be. Moreover, there shouldn’t be. It’s just a little lens of examination. And to best understand them, we need to use lens after lens after lens. Which is why now, even after all these words, there are so many more things to say about Spielberg. Sure, even his movies that don’t quite function on the narrative side show a directorial spark. But the thing I suddenly find myself liking the most is his outright willingness to fail anyway. Not just because it proves that filmmaking is hard for literally everyone, including some of our greatest directors. But because it shows…

That it’s miracle when it all somehow comes together.

<3HULK