Handholding. We’re so used to it as a movie audience. Whether it’s a character’s too on-the-nose internal monologue, drawn out, overly expository dialogue or painfully heavy-handed symbolism, what trips up most filmmakers is finding a way of communicating information about character, story or theme in an artful and economic way while at the same time avoiding the obvious.
Take, “Ad Astra” (2019), the deadingly dull sci-fi absent father story to end all absent father stories – he’s so absent, he’s not even on the planet!
There’s a scene where Brad Pitt’s Roy McBride is travelling on a ship, heading out to the furthest reaches of space, on a secret mission to locate his long gone Daddy. That Daddy, played by Tommy Lee Jones, himself, was on a mission – many, many moons ago – when he embraced the crazy and went rogue.
Along the way, they come upon another ship. A conversation ensues between two crew members. The gist of it is whether they should go aboard and see what’s what or stay put and avoid a potentially hastily arranged meeting with their maker. One crew member is gung-ho, while the other is a firm gung-no. Why? He looks scared. Though he says, “Yes”, the look on his face says, “No!!!”
I believe this is called acting. And, the actor easily pulls off the contrast between what he is saying and how he looks when he is saying it. Why doesn’t he simply say, “Nuh-huh, no way, I’d like to see my wife and kids again, thank you very much!” Maybe he fears being called a coward? Maybe he’s just plain lazy? Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he doesn’t think it’s a good idea to board this spooky ship and risk being killed. He is the enemy of action, which, in the context of a movie, is almost always a losing position. Of course they’re going to board the ship. This snoozefest needs a body count!
Meanwhile, Roy McBride, who’s been carefully following the crew member back and forth, has an observation he wants to share with us. Great! What is it? McBride’s inner voice tells us that the crew member who looks scared is, in fact, scared. Apparently, in making this film, Pitt and co-writer/director James Gray were targeting the ‘chimpanzees with poor vision’ demographic.
Not exactly the only problem in the bloated and emotionally ineffectual bore of a ride to rogue Daddy that is “Ad Astra”, but McBride’s internal monologue doesn’t just spoil the mood and atmosphere of this brief scene, but many before and afterwards.
That bit of bone-picking takes us to Sean Baker’s wonderfully episodic, emotionally absorbing bummer of a summer tale of childhood joy and adult pain, “The Florida Project.”
It’s set mostly at a couple of cheap motels – The Magic Castle and Futureland – that sit just a hop, skip and a jump away from Walt Disney World, in Orlando, Florida.
Though TFP features a colourful and convincing mosaic of characters, it focuses most of its’ running time on a troubled young mother, Hailey (played with a sort of drugged-out, drunken grace by Bria Vinaite) and her trouble maker of a daughter, Moonee (a knockout of a performance by 7 year-old Brooklynn Prince).
That we know where this story is headed long before it gets there is rendered irrelevant by the smart choices made by writer-director Sean Baker, his co-writer Chris Bergoch and the pitch perfect performances of the large and varied cast.
In the screenwriting world, many a guru will stress the importance of a tight plot. Every story moment or ‘beat’ is given a page number and characters are built specially for the structure so that every moving part is in sync.
Most mainstream movies, more or less, follow this plan. I’m not here to suggest that they shouldn’t. Hollywood keeps raking in billions of dollars a year – they know what they’re doing.
That doesn’t mean they don’t love the art of filmmaking – many, I’m sure, do. The problem is that, because these ‘moving works of art’ require so much money to finish, there is a definite incentive to make them pleasing and ‘boredom proof’ in order to attract the widest audience possible. So, the tight, connect-the-dots form that most screenplays take is seen as unquestionable – the equivalent of a bible to a devoted Catholic.
Thankfully, some producers see this ‘screenplay bible’ as optional. And, yes, plenty of directors do as well.
Baker opens with a charming little sequence. Moonee and her pal Scooty (Christopher Rivera), both not more than 8, are seated outside, underneath one of the staircases, of The Magic Castle Motel.
Running towards them, yelling each of their names at the top of his lungs, is their other buddy, Dicky (Aiden Malik).
It’s a brief moment – not much, really. Even so, it captures the anticipatory joy of childhood friendship so well.
Moonee and her gang have a ball in adventures that range from harmless to harmful to “You did what, now?” In these wonderfully evocative scenes, Baker uses his widescreen to its fullest. In doing so, he emphasizes the freedom these kids feel whenever they’re far from their parents and exploring the world on their own.
These moments of early exploration anticipate the border crossing adventures of young adulthood where everything is a bit scarier and the stakes are much higher. It’s a sort of testing ground for one’s desire and capacity to explore the unknown. Baker lets these scenes run with a hidden directorial hand, which only serves to make these moments all the more convincing.
And, for a good little while, TFP is nothing but blue sky sunny days and fun, fun, fun for all those under 8.
Baker and cinematographer Alexis Zabe delight in pulling the camera way, way back. The result is that Moonee and crew are dwarfed by their surroundings. B & Z even take time to get wide shots of various nearby stores and their funky, cartoonish signs.
Actually, almost every building in TFP suggests child-like whimsy or a reach for some kind of playful fantasy. Even “The Magic Castle Hotel” is painted a playful purple that clashes dramatically with the grey lives lived by those who work there and call it there home.
One of those working there is the motel’s manager. Played by Willem Dafoe, Bobby is a responsible and diligent worker with more of a heart than the job requires. If he’s lucky, Bobby spends his days putting out one little fire after another.
The film isn’t really about him, though Dafoe shines in the few standout scenes he does have – removing a dangerous trespasser and his successive, escalating run-ins with Hailey.
The abscence of parenting abounds in TFP. Moonee’s father is awol. Hailey is physically present, but has zero interest in filling the flip-flops of a parental figure. When Moonee misbehaves, Hailey laughs along with her. When other adults urge her to put her foot down, she mocks them.
Though it’s never clear, you don’t need a hand from Sherlock Holmes to deduce what awful things Hailey has already had to deal with in her short life.
It may be that Hailey can’t be a proper parent to Moonee because she never had a proper parent herself. She might be giving Moonee exactly the kind of mothering she received.
As far as taking parental advice from others – how can she? To do so would rob her of the very same escape that Moonee, by virtue of being a child, automatically enjoys. In truth, Hailey is a child, too, and maybe the one most in need of a guiding hand.
As I’ve said before, some films benefit tremendously by delaying a major turning point. Good examples are “The Loneliest Planet” (2011) and the extraordinary “The Sisters Brothers” (2018). These films let the audience soak up the characters and atmosphere by extending and adding scenes that, in your average screenplay, would be tossed out.
In those two films, that extension and addition lets us relax fully absorb their sounds and images. It also makes us drop our guard. Starving us of plot for so long, when that major turning point does hit, it leaves us stunned and shaken.
When do we most appreciate a meal? When do we most appreciate a tall glass of cold water?
In TFP, the turning point functions differently than in the previous two examples. Unlike in TLP or TSB, in TFP, the turning point is entirely predictable. But, because Baker and his cast do such a good job creating a wholly believable, sad little corner of the world, when Hailey’s fall does come, it hits us hard.
Not only that, but marvel at the way Baker plays with images and their abscence. He uses off screen space so well, you’re surprised by how shaken you are by something you never see.
Just as a side note, I still remember a lesson my film teacher at Sheridan College (Oakville campus – class of ’92) Jeffrey Paull, taught us about off screen space by mentioning Andy Warhol’s film “Blow Job” (1963) as an example.
The film is one long close-up of the face of the man on the receiving end of the much celebrated and extremely generous act.
Here, in TFP, by using off-screen space so well, particularly in one scene where Moonee is at her most vulnerable, Baker shows us the power of addition by subtraction. He keeps his camera on Moonee as, off screen, two adults talk. The contrast between what we see and hear is so harsh, it’s almost enough to make you sick.
This strategy – call it what you want – works to engage us, and keep us focused, maybe hyper-focused, on what is happening in front of us and what is not happening in front of us.
Deprived of a shot we know we would normally see, we’re, momentarily, knocked off balance. Because of that, this ugly moment may even register more deeply with us. By choosing to stay on Moonee, Baker keeps us in her world – one which has no way of understanding or defending itself from what’s taking place off screen.
It’s a different choice, maybe planned all along or maybe made in the editing room (Baker is credited as the editor). This is filmmaking that is subtle and hyper-aware of audience expectations.
Just to underline how careful Baker is in controling his images, he set this ugly moment up by using an identical shot of Moonee, earlier in the film, on at least two other occasions. He’s using repeating shots like a musician might use repeating riffs or a stand up comedian might use a ‘call back.’
The best silent screen comedians used this technique of repetition and variation to hilarious effect. Think of Chaplin’s brilliant bolt tightening gag from “Modern Times” (1936).
Chaplin is a worker on an assembly line repeatedly using two wrenches to tighten two bolts of identical machine parts. He repeats this action so often that he becomes a kind of automaton – incapable of stopping.
Eventually, he finds himself outside the factory doors chasing a buxom older woman who’s wearing a dress featuring two prominent, bolt-like buttons positioned like outer nipples. This is repetition and variation by a master filmmaker at the top of his game.
Baker uses his off-screen strategy time and time again – particularly when it comes to Hailey. He keeps us on our toes by keeping crucial visual information from us.
Again, our expectation is that we’ll see a flashback or an awkward, purely expository bit of dialogue to better understand Hailey. But, we never get. And, we shouldn’t. All we need to know about Hailey is evident in her attitude towards parenting, in her faraway eyes and in the delight she takes in indulging in escapist experiences – both childish and adult in nature.
For Hailey, the adult addiction she is so clearly a victim of serves to keep at bay the adult reality of her situation and, by doing so, keeps her in a kind of adult version of childhood escapism.
We also don’t see key moments from Hailey’s downward spiral. They happen off-screen. Yet, if we are paying attention, when it comes to one key plot point in Hailey’s unraveling, we can’t help but know it and feel it.
That contrast between not seeing but still knowing creates a different kind of reaction from us. In the scene in question, Hailey is in a great mood – you could even call it triumphant. Yet, as we watch her, we quickly begin to understand what made that ‘triumphant’ moment possible and feel dreadful for her.
Again, though the story is completely predictable, due to Baker’s editing strategy, he gets more suspense, more dramatic impact and more engagement from us than he would have otherwise. He fully understands our hunger for information and exploits it to great effect.
Hopefully, I haven’t left you with the impression that all of this editing skullduggery is the only thing making TFP a worthwhile viewing experience – it’s not.
The actors are wonderful. There’s a naturalism that comes through in their performances. They seem free of fakery. If acting is, partially, the art of hiding one’s effort, then these actors have succeed brilliantly.
Add to that dialogue that never feels off – so much that you feel like you’re eavesdropping – and you’d be forgiven for believing that this filmmaking thing was a cinch.
One other thing, Bobby has a brief scene with a young boy (late teens/early twenties) who may, in fact, be his son. Baker doesn’t tell us as much, but the dialogue certainly hints at that. It’s such a nothing scene, that, ironically, it stands out.
In the scene Bobby and the boy are moving a broken down ice machine out the building. In their brief exchange, we learn that Bobby invited the boy to help him. It lasts maybe 45 seconds. Again, a nothing scene. But, if the boy is his son, then it fits with the theme of absent parenting.
Why has Bobby asked his son to help him move the ice machine? He could’ve found someone else. The boy says something about “talking to her” – Bobby’s ex-wife? Are they separated? The conversation between the two is the kind of talk fathers and sons have all the time – all surface, only occasionally hinting at something much more meaningful. You can’t not notice the irony of Bobby putting so much time and energy into managing “The Magic Castle”, yet failing to put as much into managing his own relationship with his son.
For the ending, Baker switches things up. He alters the look of the film while filling our ears with a hopeful and heroic bit of music on the soundtrack. One interpretation suggests that Moonee’s paradise is just a short hop, skip and a jump away. A second suggests that this “paradise” is made even more fake because it is just a hop, skip and a jump away from so much sadness and despair. A third suggests that even a paradise made out of plastic and metal is better than a reality made out of needles and the trading of flesh for crumpled up dollar bills. Maybe, it’s all of the above.
The Moonees of the world await an answer.
