Genres Class at Delta this Fall Semester

This Fall I’m teaching one of my all-time favorite classes here at Delta, EMB 175, Genres in Film History. We look at seven major types of films and ask ourselves how we know when a film is a Film Noir or what makes a Western a Western.  

The class meets each Monday from nine to noon, and in two-week blocks, we focus on different genres. The first week, we watch a classic, traditional western, horror, sci fi, or comedy. Then on the following week, we watch a more contemporary, often revisionist version of that same genre. So we might watch the 1931 version of Dracula one week and then watch 2014’s vampire mockumentary What We Do In The Shadows the next.  Fritz Lang’s silent sci fi masterpiece Metropolis from 1927 and then Alex Garland’s challenging female robot mind trip Ex Machina from 2014.  What’s interesting about genre is how their variations often reveal our country’s mood and outlook. The kind of westerns being made or if they’re being made at all often tells us something about the mood of the United States. Comparing and contrasting movies from the same genre but from different time periods often leads to really interesting conversations.

Genre, of course, is a French word for “type” or “kind,” and it’s one way we categorize film. We know that a western is different than a horror movie because there are certain expectations of each kind of film. Those expectations are called conventions. For instance, Westerns usually take place in the American west, often during the 19^th century. There are cowboy hats and horses, six shooters, and saloons. They often address the conflict between wilderness and civilization, the needs of the lone hero individual versus the needs of the community. There are all kinds of both physical and conceptual elements that help us to identify a film as a Western, but even within that genre, there’s tremendous variety in theme and approach.

There’s no more American genre than the Western. They are our national origin stories, the myths we tell that help explain who we are and how we got where we are.

In John Ford’s Stagecoach from 1939, a group of disparate strangers travels together across dangerous territory in hopes of reaching safe haven at the end of the road. In Kelly Reichardt’s 2010 film, Meek’s Cutoff, there’s also a group of varied individuals trying to make their way across western wilderness in hopes of finding safety in their destination. But the two films couldn’t be more different. Stagecoach, while wonderful, is simpler and more direct. The macho male hero conquers the Indians, kills the bad guys, and gets the girl. A white, masculine point of view prevails. I mean, it was made in 1939 after all. Meek’s Cutoff, on the other hand, practically wallows in its ambiguity. A group of pioneers headed for Oregon gets lost and wanders for weeks as food and water grow scarce. The film subtly examines the power dynamics between the sexes as the women in the group begin to question whether or not the men know where they’re going. Instead of encountering a horde of stampeding Apache, the group captures a lone Cayuse Indian who doesn’t speak English and isn’t particularly interested in helping his captors. Thematically, it’s a much more complicated film than Stagecoach and suggests that the point of view of the white, male conqueror isn’t the only one worth considering.

If talking about differences like that interests you, you should sign up for the class. There’s still room, and you don’t have to be any kind of movie expert to take it. It’s welcoming place for anyone who enjoys watching films and has ideas about what they mean and why they’re important. I can think of a lot worse ways to spend part of your Fall semester than watching great movies and talking about them.

Always Be My Maybe

The new Netflix romantic comedy Always Be My Maybe is not original. In fact, it’s loaded with clichés. Watching it, you get the sense that stars Ali Wong and Randall Park must be friends in real life who were having lunch together one day when one of them said, “We should work together. What should we do? I know! A romantic comedy! Yeah, let’s write one. I can play the Type-A successful woman who doesn’t have time for a relationship and you can play the regular-guy-schlub who helps me relax and I help you get your life together! Then we can put in a Notting Hill moment and then a When Harry Met Sally Moment, oh, and hey, let’s not forget the falling-in-love sequence set to music!” The movie hits just about every contemporary romcom cliché you can think of, including the desperate last minute run to confess your love in front of a bunch of strangers at a public event.

Even though there is nothing new under the sun where this film is concerned, it is not without its merits. Wong and Park play lifelong friends who grew up in San Francisco together. After a brief physical encounter that goes awry as young adults, they go their separate ways and don’t see each other for over a decade. Wong’s character, Sasha, becomes a world-famous chef, opening high-end restaurants across the globe and appearing on the cover of Food and Wine Magazine. Park’s character, Marcus, has stayed in San Francisco where he works for his dad’s heating and cooling company and plays in the same band he’s been in since high school. Sasha comes back to the Bay Area to open a new restaurant and the two reconnect. As I said, there’s not much new in the story.

Wong and Park are both funny and can deliver a throwaway punchline with sniper-like efficiency, but as romantic leads, neither are particularly convincing. Again, they seem like pals workshopping a screenplay at a summer seminar more than believable characters with an actual relationship.

Always Be My Maybe has exactly three really good things going for it.

Number one, the soundtrack is fantastic. It features a host of West Coast rappers and R and B artists from the 90s through today, and it’s expertly curated to add energy and motion to the film when the story itself is only so-so.

Number two, as is often the case in romantic comedies, the supporting cast is hilarious. There must be something freeing about playing the wacky best friend or the wise parent. Michelle Buteau as Veronica, Sasha’s best friend and personal assistant, is hilarious and is probably the film’s MVP for funny line delivery. James Saito as Marcus’s dad, Harry, is wry, sad, funny, and irreverent. He brings a few real moments of genuine emotion and humanity to a relatively small role.    

Number three, there is an extended celebrity cameo in the film where a real-life famous action star plays himself as Sasha’s new boyfriend. They go out to dinner with Marcus and his star-struck, hippie-dippy girlfriend and then back to his lavish hotel suite for a high octane game of Truth or Dare. For the fourteen or so minutes he is on the screen, this actor takes Always Be My Maybe from being a middling romcom and turns it into a cringey, unpredictable fever dream. I watched most of this sequence with my mouth open, utterly surprised that this guy actually showed up for this and then fully invested in playing himself as a wildly pretentious, borderline nutjob. It was pure delight, and I will go back and watch those fourteen minutes of the film again.

Beyond that, Always Be My Maybe is nothing special. Like many Netflix projects, it needs a stronger editorial voice through every part of the process, trimming this, adding that, and encouraging more originality. Park and Wong will probably get more jobs based on this film, but hopefully, their new projects are actually new.

Aladdin

The new live-action version of Disney’s Aladdin is over two hours long, and so I couldn’t figure out why the first few scenes moved so quickly and seemed truncated. We see Jafar feed some poor sap to the tiger-headed Cave of Wonders before the opening credits are even finished, and other initial scenes seem similarly clipped. It took me a bit to figure out what the rush is.

The film follows the structure of the original 1992 animated film closely, and so we meet Aladdin, the poor, thieving street rat, along with Jasmine, the beautiful and good-hearted princess of Agrabah, and Jafar, the villainous adviser to the sultan, all in short order. But then, along comes the reason for all the rush at the beginning. Once Aladdin becomes trapped in the Cave of Wonders with a certain magic lamp, that’s when the movie really begins. Guy Ritchie, who directed and co-wrote the script, clearly understands the centrality of the Genie in this story. Originally, of course, the part was voiced by Robin Williams, the titan of improv and the man whose performance took the 1992 version from being a very nice movie and fashioned it into an instant classic. This time around, the role is played by a blue, digitized version of Will Smith who manages to both acknowledge Williams’ inimitable take on the part and still create his own enjoyable, distinct spin on it. It is Smith’s sheer star power that carries the film and makes it into something more enjoyable than just a slavish money grab for adult Gen X nostalgia dollars.

The other leads do a serviceable job in their parts. Relative newcomer Mena Massoud plays the title role with the requisite amount of charm and non-threatening handsomeness, while British actress Naomi Scott is appropriately feisty and independent as Princess Jasmine. The two have nice chemistry but there’s nothing particularly groundbreaking about either of them. Marwan Kenzari as Jafar is the only main role who goes in a noticeably different direction than the animated version. Instead of a cackling, old school, take-over-the-world Bond villain type, he plays Jafar as utterly cold and damaged, driven by his own impoverished upbringing. It’s an interesting choice as it at least had me guessing which direction he was going to go next with a line delivery.

Guy Ritchie was always a curious choice as director for a big budget song-and-dance Disney remake. Originally making his bones with violent and profane crime thrillers like Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels and Snatch, he transitioned into more mainstream fare with the Robert Downey Jr.-led Sherlock Holmes films. But even with that popular success, it doesn’t seem that a musical in a natural choice for Ritchie. His camera-work, while frenetic at times, isn’t always confident. There’s almost a feeling of him saying, “Is this right? Does this seem right?” during certain sequences. His approach to the film isn’t bad per se, but he seems to lack the nerve and facility necessary to make something as unnatural as a giant musical number seem normal.

The production designers spared no expense, and large practical sets were built along with extensive CGI work. While everything looks great, it all has the artificial feeling of a ride at Disneyland. Watching the film feels a little like you’ve just passed through Frontierland and Tomorrowland into Middle-East Land.

Retooled versions of the original songs are intact along with a new number co-written by Alan Menken and the lyricists Pasek and Paul, songwriters of Dear Evan Hansen, La La Land, and The Greatest Showman. Princess Jasmine’s new breakout song, “Speechless,” is much more contemporary and anthemic than the rest of the film’s music, but it goes with Naomi Scott’s performance and the film’s new feminist touch.

This version of Aladdin doesn’t bring much that’s new. But it does respect and interpret the original material with some wit and verve.