Unable to turn the tide by the usual means, Selaphiel resorts—after a long, one-sided conversation with God via a disembodied red telephone, hanging down from heaven by a long, curly red cord somewhere over the Bavarian alps—to a final, desperate measure: fart noises. Every time Hitler gets up, sits down, bends his knees or swallows a bite of schnitzengruben, Selaphiel is at his elbow with an invisible whoopee-cushion in hand, or a raspberry on his lips, ready to blow. Of course, by then it is too late. Though Lewis’s every reaction to the mysterious flatulence erupting constantly around him is a flash-bomb of comedic genius to an instance, captured by Wenders in a series of bathetic, balletic sequences in various palatial old-world interiors, nobody is laughing.
Having failed in his mission, the bewildered Selaphiel spends the final moments of the film disconsolately roaming Hitler’s underground bunker, trying to learn about humanity by observing the play between the six young Goebbels children and their dogs. Though he sees much to redeem the race in these simple exchanges, it becomes clear to Selaphiel that humanity was simply not ready to be tested by a clown-bot as good as Hitler and that God, like all parents, had probably had a more favorable impression of his offspring than they deserved. He is relieved then when, Soviet battalions battering the door, Jodl (played with houndlike ardor by a very young Willem Dafoe) presents Hitler with a loaded luger on a velvet pillow, which Lewis—tongue out, eyes crossed, head turned like a parrot and mustache working like a very hungry caterpillar—cocks, brings slowly to his command module and finally, dispassionately, releases.
With the exception of a cuckoo bird coo-cooing by and by, the credits roll in silence. And really, what else is there to say?
Directed by George Lucas. Written by Charlie Kaufman. Starring: Harrison Ford, Benicio Del Toro, Helen Mirren, and Arnold Schwarzenegger as Jürgen Von Himmelmacher.
Quixote Jones, an adaptation of the formerly un-filmable Don Quixote, arrives in theatres today as one of the most highly anticipated films of all time—for all the wrong reasons. It’s the movie equivalent of a freeway pileup: we can’t help but gawk, especially after the controversy that preceded its release. From the inception, it had all the makings of a financial and artistic bomb. We were all so sure it would fail.
And we were all so wrong.
In case you’ve been living in a bomb shelter (which, coincidentally, is where we first meet our hero), I’ll recap the film’s checkered origins.
In the last century or so of filmmaking, the feat of making a Don Quixote film worthy of its source seemed as unlikely as Cervantes’ quixotic knight slaying an actual dragon. Many tried, many failed. Orson Welles was one. He toiled over his version sporadically over several decades, as, according to Welles, “a writer works on a novel, no obligations, no time constraints. I’ll finish it whenever I damn well please.” Apparently he never damn well felt like it, though its specter may have haunted him to his death in 1985. Rumor has it that with his final breath, he whispered the word “Quixote” before slumping over in his chair, a glass of Chianti slipping from his lifeless fingertips.
Terry Gilliam had a better go, making it halfway through production until a dispute with Johnny Depp ground everything to a halt. Depp, perhaps still reeling from his recent channeling of Hunter S. Thompson, had decided to model his Sancho Panza after Jim Morrison. He’d show up to set in a heroin daze, swaggering in tight leather pants he refused to remove. When Gilliam threatened to fire him, Depp stormed off the set for good, saying, “You’re just afraid of my freedom, man.”
Besides the mediocre 1988 TV movie starring Bea Arthur as a Quixote-like housewife hopped up on pills and attacking parking meters with a mop, the masterpiece film adaptation of Cervantes’ Don Quixote had still eluded world cinema.
When news that surrealist screenwriter Charlie Kaufman had penned an ingenious new adaptation, which not only placed Quixote in a postapocalyptic world, but also included a Kaufman-like character entering a homemade time machine to confer with Cervantes about the script, everyone pondered what brave soul would step to the helm.
Several names were tossed around: firstly, there was Spike Jonze, who had recently flopped with his remake of The Magnificent Seven, set in contemporary LA, and starring the surviving members of Jackass riding around on big wheels. Next up in the rumor mill was Peter Jackson, but when The Scrolls of Destiny, his six-part adaptation of a Dungeons & Dragons campaign he’d led in high school, left both critics and audiences stupefied, he retreated into the New Zealand mist. Even Spielberg had shown interest, but opted instead for Auschwitz! Auschwitz!, the upcoming third part of his World War II trilogy, and yes, unfortunately, it’s a musical. When at last the trade papers revealed the chosen one, a nation’s collective jaw dropped: George Lucas? Seriously???
Jaws fell further when a cast sheet was leaked to the press. Benicio del Toro as Sancho Panza seemed sensible enough, but who would play the iconic titular knight, the delusional old man that nevertheless captures the hearts and minds of young and old?
Harrison fucking Ford?!?!
Yes, Harrison FUCKING Ford, who gives the performance of a lifetime. And George Lucas, who obliterates his marred reputation following the god-awful Star Wars prequels to deliver a film that’s far from “kid-friendly.” One can only think he took to heart the gang of Star Wars geeks who made headlines last year when they broke into Lucas’s ranch dressed as Stormtroopers and held him hostage, their only demands a written admittance of the suckiness of the prequels and a promise never to direct another Star Wars. (Ed. note: The kidnappers are still at large at present time.)
“Is this another Indiana Jones sequel?” is the question everyone’s been asking.
Answer: only in the most delightfully screwed-up way possible. It’s more of a deconstruction of a Joseph Campbell myth: the hero’s journey, which, not coincidentally, also served as a blueprint for the original Star Wars. In Kaufman and Lucas’s version, instead of the protagonist reluctantly thrust into the role of savior, undergoing a spiritual transformation, and ultimately triumphing against evil, in this Quixote, Ford, known only as “Jones,” ordains himself a hero, naively embracing the cliché without any seeming cause. All of his attempts to “save the world” end in tragic humiliation, and we laugh along with all the supporting players at his buffoonery, even if, like the original Quixote, it only makes him more tragically human.
Similarly, Lucas and Ford did very little right with their careers this century and had not only been written off, but were at times verbally abused by even their most ardent fans. (Who can forget the man who flew over Lucas Ranch, skywriting the words “Suck it, George”?) These were two men with something to prove, if they cared to. Many rumors circulated about their preparation: there were those blurry cellphone videos of the two of them drunk and naked in a fountain at the Bellagio, reports of motorcycle trips into Mexico, a shamanic sweat-lodge initiation on Harrison’s Wyoming ranch, and an apparent trek into the Mojave desert, where they subsided for several days on only mescaline tea and Vitamin Water.
Whether true or not, it’s clear from the film that they at least found their muses.
Perhaps the hallucinogens wiped their minds clean of past atrocities and allowed them to connect with the unhinged imagination of Kaufman. In his script, Cervantes’ novel serves as a jumping-off point to explore not only an America after a total ruin but the very soul of a man who was once its biggest star.
The film opens on the enigmatic Jones, locked in his aforementioned bomb shelter. He bides time, eating beans from a can and making origami animals, including a paper-maché unicorn, a nod to Blade Runner, the first of many references to the participant’s previous films. He confers with an imaginary friend, a clump of his own hair which he’s nicknamed “Chewy.” After dinner, he combs through a small library of DVDs. He considers a few titles: Citizen Kane, Brazil, (an acknowledgment of the directors who failed to film Quixote, perhaps?) until he finally sett
les on one. Yes, it’s Raiders of the Lost Ark.
This could have been gimmicky (or worse, self-promotional), but it works on two levels. This Jones could actually be Ford, reliving his glory days. Or it could be just an ordinary old man suffering dementia and placing himself in all the movies he watches. Ford’s craggy, deeply lined face observes his young self as he performs heroic feats, and something stirs in him. He transforms before our eyes, adopting the steely reserve of a hero again. Delusional though he may be, we can’t help but half-root for him to return to his former, glorious self.
Instead, he makes a fool of himself. After dressing himself in armor made of tinfoil, he makes a vow to himself in a mirror, “To rid the planet of all evil.” Outside, the unnamed town is in shambles, with survivors living in essentially seventeenth-century conditions and violence ruling the day. The world gone mad, Jones’ madness is barely noticed at first. No one takes him seriously until he meets Sancho Panza (Benicio del Toro), a former drug addict turned half-mad, half-savage conspiracy gun-nut (if he’s modeled after any rock star, it might be Ted Nugent). They squabble at first, but gradually Sancho softens to Jones’ fervent hope and naive belief in the triumph of good and joins him in search of evil to rid the world of.
A good chunk of the film follows terrain similar to the book, updated to modern times. Instead of commandeering a tired old horse as his steed, Jones rides a rusty mountain bike, while Sancho rides, naturally, a temperamental Segway. Instead of windmills, Jones fights oil pumps—an obvious environmental metaphor, perhaps, but hilarious to watch.
And that’s really the genius of this film: for all its dark undertones, it remains lighthearted, deft, and perceptive of humanity’s foils. Lucas’s previous powers are at last fully revived: the vivid imagination from the first three Star Wars, the hopeful humanism of American Graffiti, and the dystopic vision of THX1138—all are present in this film, with a dose of the existential to boot.
Part of the joy of this film is the nuanced performances he gets out of the many cameos. There’s something inspired about casting Helen Mirren as the love interest that inspires all of Jones’ exploits, not only because it harkens back to the Ford/Mirren matchup of Mosquito Coast but also that it’s nice to see old man Ford actually going for someone from his own generation, for once.
The film gains extra weight (pun intended) with the arrival of George (a chubby Arnold Schwarzenegger, who appears to have finally given up his workout routine, or at least his steroid diet). The fact that this is his finest film since The Terminator perhaps goes without saying, but the real revelation here is that, for the first time, he’s acting, not as some juiced-up version of himself but as an actual character. At the risk of becoming too meta (which Kaufman never seems to shy away from), Arnold plays a pretentious, Fassbender-like Austrian filmmaker who harnesses his last chance at success by filming Jones and Sancho’s exploits. He’s constantly staging conflicts and reenacting events they’ve only just enacted, calling into question the very idea of “filmmaking” in a world gone mad (and not so far away from our own).
This had to be a Lucas/Ford film, and the reasons become more and more apparent as the film dissects the creative process, and the hazards of success. Ford is constantly hounded for autographs by starving cannibals who, a minute later, want to rip his limbs off. Perhaps the only sequence that comes off gratuitous is a Deliverance-like fever dream sequence, in which Ford hallucinates getting gang-raped by several Jar Jar Binks–like creatures, one even taunting, “Me’sa wanna hear old man squeal like pig.” It’s the one case of Lucas pushing the meta one step too far, but, luckily, a short one.
When Quixote Jones was chosen to close Cannes earlier this year, critics (this one included) scoffed. This was the final nail in the coffin of a once-great festival now succumbing to the almighty dollar. When a frail, rail-thin Lucas took the stage, the audience let out a collective gasp. He informed us they had just delivered the final print that very morning. “I hope you enjoy my little film. It’s very near and dear to my heart.”
Something in his earnest delivery told me we might be in for something unexpected. When the credits rolled and the entire audience rose to its feet in applause, there was only one person left sitting: Lucas himself. A photographer caught the moment: he looked…dissatisfied. When the Palme d’Or was later announced, going, naturally, to Lucas, he took to the stage calmly amidst the thunderous applause.
“This…” he began, and we all expected him to follow with “…is the greatest honor of my life.” Instead, defying expectations yet again, Lucas went on, “…is bullshit. Total fucking BULLSHIT!” Smashing his award on the stage floor and hurrying offstage amid a flurry of gasps and flashbulbs, critics claim it was his attempt to manufacture a “von Trier moment,” cementing a new reputation as a “troubled auteur.” Whether planned or not, no one could doubt his conviction. He hasn’t spoken to the press since, and no one knows exactly where he is. Could he be hiding away in a bomb shelter himself, tinkering, editing and reediting his magnum opus in a futile attempt to finally get it right?
Time will tell. For now, we have Quixote Jones, a thrilling, thought-provoking, and wild mess of a masterpiece, and a fine way to spend two hours while awaiting the inevitable end of all things.
Directed by Rob Reiner and Roman Polanski. Starring: Katherine Heigl, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Russell Brand, Jonah Hill, Seann William Scott, Paul Rudd, Vince Vaughn, Ving Rhames, Amanda Seyfried, and Amanda Bynes.
Noah Means Yes, codirected by veterans Rob Reiner and Roman Polanski, is the film equivalent of a cuddly baby chimp that you adopt from the wild who then eats your face off. At least forty-five minutes of the film will please the women who want nothing more than to see Joseph Gordon-Levitt work his alchemy of turning unrequited love into true romance.
The final scenes of Noah might please some of the unlucky boyfriends who are dragged along to sit through a supposed chick flick. They’ll also please the serial killers, critics of rom-com fantasy, and those of us who are bored with the genre and never thought we’d be surprised by a major studio again. (Whether this film will actually get distribution is another matter.)
I’ll go out on a limb here and say Noah Means Yes succeeds where 500 Days of Summer and He’s Just Not That Into You fail. At first it appears to follow the traditional rom-com arc before it veers off wildly into territory more reminiscent of The Shining. As such, the movie is less a romantic comedy than a commentary on the creepiness of the genre itself: in movieland, the path to a woman’s heart is often blind persistence, whereas in the real world, persistence in the pursuit of a woman’s heart might involve chipping away at her sternum.
The movie’s confusing but ultimately genius bipolarity is a result of its curious production history. About half was filmed in New York, but Rob Reiner threw his back out while choking at Katz’s Delicatessen three weeks into the shoot and was unable to travel to Temptation Resort in Mexico to film the crucial second half of the picture.
“We needed a Jewish director, and we needed someone with the balls to do romance right,” says an executive at MGM who asked not to be identified. “Roman wanted to get back to North America, and we knew he’d be perfect. He loved the film, loved the idea of Temptation Resort, and knew this was a chance to come back on his own terms. The only thing he asked for was a little creative control over the script.”
The film begins with Noah Asher (Gordon-Levitt), an entry-level financial professional who lives and works in Manhattan with his best buds Adam (Jonah Hill) and Hannibal (Seann William Scott), whom he also went to college with. When not working, The Bros, as they’re called, try to help Noah overcome a recent heartbreak (she cheated on him and then left) by wing-manning him through meaningless hookups with a string of women, most of which end with Noah crying alone in the bathroom until his friends lure him out with consoling romantic comedies and popcorn.
It’s clear that these romantic comedies, which Noa
h confesses to having watched all his life, serve as training films for Noah and The Bros; even when not openly discussed or watched by the characters, you see rom-com DVD covers, movie posters, in-flight entertainment options, and background shots of them playing in bars and at house parties.
The usual happens when Noah and The Bros’ firm, headed by Paul Rudd and Vince Vaughn, brings in Angelina (Katherine Heigl), a quirky Midwesterner (read: Annie Hall dumbed down and at the mall) who is oblivious to all the attention she generates.
Noah, of course, falls madly in love, inspiring the requisite scenes of him stumbling over himself to win her affection even as she falls down the stairs on her first day at work and farts at a board meeting.
After a string of solid “nos” from Angelina, the diligent Noah finally secures a lunch date during which she tells him of her childhood in Kansas and her dreams of making it big in something one day. “I won’t be a secretary forever,” she sighs. “I just want the normal life, a good career, a devoted man, and a few kids.”
From the scenes we’ve seen of Angelina at home causing explosions in the microwave, melting blouses under the iron, and flipping through iPhoto albums of bungled jobs, internships, and relationships, we know her destiny will be bleak—though most of us expect spinster rather than spinning on a spit like a pig.
When Noah reaches his hand across the table for hers and confesses he wants this life for himself and that he wants her, it’s clear the kiss he intends to plant next will land somewhere in the Pad Thai. At this point, and throughout the Reiner portion of the movie, the tone is striking: Noah’s repeated advances are treated as heroic, and we get the sense he will be rewarded for them as soon as Angelina realizes his devotion to her makes him the one.
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