Flight: a journey to honesty.

Last night I watched 'Flight', starring Denzel Washington and directed by Robert Zemeckis. I was initially apprehensive about the film, as plane-crash films are not my favourite: however, I was pleasantly surprised. 

The film opens with Washington (Whip) waking up after a heavy night of drinking, drugs, and sex with a flight-attendant. He swigs beer and snorts cocaine, and then flies a plane. He consumes three small bottles of vodka whilst in air. Due to turbulent weather and faulty mechanics, the plane heads into a nose-dive. Whip (instructing his co-pilot and a flight attendant) flies the plane into an inverted position allowing it to glide to a (relatively) safe landing: only 6 lives are lost in the crash. 

Notwithstanding the palpable tension and jeopardy of this scene, the crash is -paradoxically - 'Flight's least compelling moment. The real intrigue is in the fall-out of the disaster. 

When released from hospital, Whip retreats to his grandfather's abandoned house. He scours the house, pouring away bottle after bottle of alcohol, discarding marijuana: razing the vicinity of the substances which he depended upon before the crash. However, when he meets with an attorney and discovers that a toxicology report evidences the substances in his blood on the flight, and could lead to four life sentences for manslaughter: he returns to the bottle. 

Zemeckis's focus now shifts to the mental and emotional affliction of substance-addiction. As I watched the ensuing scenes, I was uncannily reminded of the short-stories of one of my favourite writers - definitely my favourite American writer - Raymond Carver. Carver's stories often deal with the difficult subject of alcohol-addition. His style is all-inclusive, tackling everything from marital breakdowns, to ear-infections: documenting the ways in which alcoholism affects a sufferers ability to cope with the monumental and the mundane. This inclusiveness is reflected in Gatins's screenplay; we see shots of Whip struggling to change the television-channel, or rise from his chair - and equally, his inability to communicate with his ex-wife or forge a proper relationship with his son. 

No matter where Whip is, or what he's doing - there is always alcohol paraphernalia present. Zemeckis insistently and deftly insures alcohol is always in the shot, always the focal point; as Whip goes to rescue Nicole (his love-interest) from her abusive landlord, he climbs the stairs beer-can in one hand walking stick in the other, wrestles him from her beer-can still in hand. When paying the landlord, he needs two hands to access his wallet - but tucks the can under his chin rather than relinquish it. He drives Nicole home, can in hand; receives a massage, bottle in hand; fills plane-oil [?!], accompanied by a bottle (you get the picture). Arguably, this could all be crafty product-placement, but I appreciate the incredibly subtle way in which Zemeckis highlights Whip's affliction: it is a cinematic trick that unconsciously insinuates the reality of Whip's addiction into the viewers consciousness. No matter how many times he vehemently, vocally denies his problem, the enumerated cans and bottles continue to litter each scenes, taciturnly filling-up the screen: material, tangible proof of a notoriously intangible, immaterial disease. 

Whip's relationship with Nicole is also an interesting element of the film. Nicole is a heroin addict - yet she, unlike Whip, recognises and accepts her addiction (there's no way you can ignore it, really). The scene where Nicole confronts Whip about his alcoholism is emotionally-charged and compelling: he says she can't talk, considering her own problems, and she says, at least she's honest about them. This introduces some fascinating paradoxes; is accepting a problem - as the old cliche says - half way to solving in it? what, on the scale of addiction, is worse: heroin addiction, or alcoholism? what is the more ethical/honest/healthy way to fund said addiction (if 'healthy' is even an appropriate term to use here): tenuously up-keeping a dangerous, but glamorous high-profile career, or drifting through dead-end jobs, pornography and prostitution? Gatins and Zemeckis refuse to show sympathy on either side, or answer these questions: but they certainly raise them, and they hang in the air, poised and potent. 

The most poignant scene of the film (tenser even than the high-octane plan-crash) is when Whip is left in a hotel-room, before his hearing. All alcohol has been removed from his room, he has been sober for eight days, and has nothing to do but wait until morning and try and sleep. He shaves, he eats, watches television. These mundane actions knowingly build up to the scenes climax (and seem to reflect the actions of many of Carver's characters, who take special care over their day-to-day actions, in order to try and relieve and redirect some of the pressure of their very un-ordinary, life-altering afflictions). As he tries to sleep, he hears a knocking noise. It is the door of the adjoining room. The room is open. The mini-bar is full. As we take stock of the rows and rows of tiny, glimmering bottles - tantalisingly refracted and infinitely multiplied by the mirrored panels of the fridge - along with Whip, the audience feels the full impact of the temptation that confronts him. One could almost, tangibly reach out and take a bottle. And that is what Whip does: smelling it, before replacing it, and closing the fridge's door. The audience feels an - albeit brief - sense of victory on Whip's behalf. However, I couldn't help but think, in that split-second, that his abstinence was disingenuous or half-hearted (fully recovered alcoholics do not, or should not at least, count down the minutes since their last drink, nor is recovery realistically viable in a mere eight days). As we see a close-up of Whip's hand quickly, and confidently grab the bottle, and hear the metallic clink of glass departing from the granite worktop resonate throughout the movie-theatre, the audience realises the Whip's demons remain unvanquished: they were simply hovering in the recesses of the darkened room. 

There is undeniable comedy in the scenes of the following morning, as the officials struggle to prepare a horrendously drunk Whip for his public appearance, drafting in his drug-dealer to provide a line of cocaine to perk him up. Whip approaches the hearing with a calm confidence (brought about by the toxic cocktail he so recently consumed), yet it off-put by a small-child in the elevator, penetrating his facade with an innocent - but knowing - gaze, as Whip wipes dregs of cocaine from his nose. His confidence resumes at the hearing, when his suspicions about the plane's poor state are confirmed (it was always going to fall from the sky), and when his toxicology report is deemed void as a result of some crafty manoeuvres by his lawyer.

Yet, as the three errant vodka bottles (which only crew would have access to) are brought to his attention, Whip is torn. He has the perfect get-out-clause: the deceased flight-attendant (who he was sleeping with) had alcohol in her system, and was a documented alcoholic. Here, the major moral dilemma of the film emerges: do you lie to preserve your facade - to keep your wings, stay out of jail, avoid infamy, maintain the praise of the multitude, or tell the truth, to save your life - that which is unseen: your conscience, your moral integrity, your mental health. Whip chooses the latter: but it is not an obvious choice. We have watched him through the whole film, and his choices are - in the large part - wrong, and immoral: he regularly delights in getting off scott-free. Yet, his decision to do the right thing now doesn't seem incongruous, it is as if, as he says, he has 'reached [his] maximum limit of lies'. We see, not a man broken, but a man realising the limit of his capacity for wrongdoing: a man who, like a lot closeted alcoholics, can still ostensibly function and operate in society (can operate a plane, can save all the people on board from certain death) yet, has become incapable of operating morally. Importantly, Whip realises and recognises this incapacity, and can begin to recover from a disaster infinitely more sustained and affecting than a large, explosive plane crash (that's merely a blip) - can recover from the slowly simmering, everyday disaster that is alcoholism and the life of an alcoholic. 

As the film closes, the real drama of the performance resonates. Perhaps it is not the memorable, climactic moments in life which are the most affecting - but the banal: especially when the banal moments are insistently collocated with a disease like alcoholism. Like Carver's short-stories, 'Flight' investigates the human-drama of affliction, the intimate failure and alterations of a very personal addiction. Underneath the glamour of every high-functioning pilot and his gold-buttoned uniform there is, very possibly, a concealed, yet rampant disorder: alcoholism, drug-addiction, etc. - take your pick. 

'Everything Must Go'.

This blog, as the name might give away, is supposed to be about all things literary. Oddly, my first post is not about literature, but a film (inspired by a piece of literature, of course). I recently stayed at a spa which had a DVD library. The library was not available for public viewing, instead we were given a list of names of films with no descriptions as to there genre's or content, just names (very cryptic). Looking through the list I saw the standard rom-coms, tragedies, classics. One name stood out, perhaps because of its sheer blandness, its non-descriptiveness 'Everything Must Go', it gave nothing away. Intrigued I googled it (where would we be without the iPhone?!) and found that it was a comedy starring Will Ferrel based on the short story 'Why don't you dance' from Raymond Carver's 1981 collection 'What We Talk About When We Talk About Love'. Now, I am in no way spiritual, I don't believe in fate or destiny (in fact I'm cringing in anticipation of what I'm about to write) yet, at that moment, I felt like I was predetermined to watch this film. I recently completed my first year at University studying ENglish LIterature and one of my courses for the second term was Contemporary Writing, a course where one of the books we were assigned to read was Carver's 'Cathedral'. I instantly fell in love with his sparse, elliptical style, fascinated by the momentary glimpses into the lives of Midwestern American suburbanites. I subsequently composed an essay on the collection, one of few essays I can honestly say that I've enjoyed (and agonised over) completing. So, when the term was over the first book I ordered 'for the pleasure' (as opposed to task) of reading, was Carver's 'What We Talk About When We Talk About Love': a collection which further compounded my recent acclamation of Carver as 'one of my all-time favourite writers'. So, my expectations were, as you might expect, high.

'Everything Must Go' follows the trials and tribulations of 'Nick Halsey', who salesman loses his job and comes home to find his wife has changed the locks and placed all his possessions on the front lawn. In order to legally stay on the front lawn, Halsey must technically be holding a 'Yard Sale', which he does, befriending a young boy named Kenny and his new neighbour Samantha along the way.  

A primary aspect of Nick's character is his alcoholism, and its portrayal is one aspect of the film that I found particularly interesting. Alcohol/alcoholism is a heavily used motif in Carver's work, and it is an affliction which frequently debilitates his various characters (as it famously did to the author himself). I found that Dan Rush (the Director) really captured the sense of Nick's dependence on alcohol, and not in the charged (and comic) scene where he demands credit from a mini-mart worker, but in invariably more discreet ways. 'Nick' is rarely without a can of beer in his hand; as he drives home from work, as he sorts his belongings, or as he engages with other characters - but the beer is never the focal point. As in Carver's stories, the alcohol abuse is continuous, constant, yet subtle - ingrained into the characters being rather than being an exaggerated action. Ferrell's supping of beer is exercised with the fluidity of breathing, the can almost an integrated part of his body rather than a prop. Here Rush has communicated cinematically what Carver communicates in his writing - the naturalness of alcoholism. Despite the occasional stereotypical alcoholic outbursts, the abuse remains discreet and as a result is paradoxically suggestive and apparent. 

Another element of the film I enjoyed, although it is not fully explored in 'Why Don't You Dance?', is the desperation and sadness of the character of Nick Halsey. I have only ever seen Will Ferrell in farcical comedy roles before, and I have to admit I questioned his ability to convey sufficient seriousness for this role. Yet I was pleasantly surprised. Ferrell is a brilliant actor, and he convincingly conveys an impression of Halsey's utter isolation. For a main portion of the film we see Halsey struggling to hold his own and predominantly looking from the outside inwards; he gets woken by sprinklers, he struggles to cycle with his shopping, he has his Slurpee knocked over, he has his car driven away. All these moments are bittersweet snapshots of everyday life. They are funny yes, but simultaneously sad - there is an overwhelming sense that Nick is completely alone in these situations, and at the mercy of the power of others, unable to confront the problems which face him. These moments are additionally evocative because of their overwhelming and uncanny normality; these things can, and do, happen to us. In that sense we could be one spilled drink away from Nick Halsey; one disaster away from the rapid spiral that results in the impromptu sale of your life's work and possessions. Although Carver does not provide us with all this back-story in his story, it does not feel like an offense or an overstep, the lonesomeness and isolation Rush communicates seems befitting to Carver's style, and to the character of Halsey. 

Now, I fully appreciate that film cannot fully imitate literature - particularly when Carver gives you so little to go on - but Rush gives us the back-story we never really ask for. The beauty of Carver's stories are their shortness, their succinctness, and most importantly - what they don't say. In 'Why Don't You Dance?' there is no 'Nick Halsey', no 'Kenny', no 'Catherine.' There is no lost job, no lost car, no new neighbor, no friendly kid, no betraying friend. Yes, understandably, these elements are necessary to pad out the story and give it weight - yet the specificness of a name, a place, a history destroys the intrigue originally found in 'Why Don't You Dance?'. In Carver's story the protagonist is interesting because he is so non-descript, so unexplained, and because his actions (namely setting up on the lawn and selling his possessions as if this were normal) defy all reasonable logical and social etiquette. If you give him a reason for being on the lawn and a reason for selling his stuff, he becomes another rational, pragmatic human being - and that is certainly not what Carver's characters are. 

Despite my criticism of the film, I did enjoy it. Yet I don't think it can warrant that it is based on 'Why Don't You Dance?'. What I was waiting for, throughout the entire film, was for someone (anyone) to dance. The most engrossing moment in Carver's story is when the young couple, coerced by the man, do actually dance. It is a paradoxical moment of lightness combined with immense tension. The man gives the couple a taste of alcohol - the alcohol that debilitated him can momentarily free them, it can give them joy and release their inhibitions , a quality that he himself has become immune to. In the story the man also dances with the girl, and all Carver's focus is on the human contact between them; 'he felt her breath on his neck', 'she pushed her face into the man's shoulder'. A gap is bridged, he is lifted, he can dance. In the film we miss these two successive, profound moments - we miss the moment where perhaps the man could go back and take the place of the boy, where he could dance. When Nick shares a hug with Samantha at the end of the film, there is the tantalizing possibility that they could dance - but they do not. Perhaps this withheld dancing is an intentional deprivation on Rush's part, sparked by a worry of being too literal with Carver's story. Or perhaps, Rush uses the moment to thwart the audience's epistempohilia - the hug showing a degree of human contact that is similar, but not the same, as the dance that we anticipate. Whatever motivates Rush's exclusion of the dancing scene it is, for me, a flaw. Carver's stories delight in ephemeral, miraculous moments of human contact overcoming the incapacity of self-imposed exile. If you add too many of those moments, you upset the tenuous equilibrium between hopelessness and hope - risking sentimentalization of Carver's work. However, if you remove or intrinsically modify those crucial moments (as Rush has done) you eradicate the glint of salvation that shines amidst the desolation of Carver's writing. I'm afraid a hug just doesn't cut it, I wanted them to dance...why didn't they dance?. 

As I often find with films, they do not live up to the literature upon which they were based. However, despite its flaws, 'Everything Must Go' still resounded very strongly with me. Discovering it really was like finding a treasure in a yard-sale. Amongst the clutter of the in-your-face comedies and cliched romances I found this unheard of film which meant something to me.