The Void or, "Did I tell you I am feeling unwell?"

For decades, going to the movies has been one of my greatest pleasures. Beginning when I was 15 years old, I would go to the cinema every week, sometimes more. Wonderful films unspooled at local movie houses. I remember going to see my first R-rated movie, the scandalous Warren Beatty film, Shampoo, in 1975. I was not quite 16. Movies captured my imagination from a young age, as they do for most people. But few go deeper into the making--art, craft, personalities, and critiques--of movies than I. Obviously critics have, along with the opinion-sharing, 21st century phenomenon known as bloggers (ahem). There are tens of thousands like-minded folks who blog about film. Some are the fan-boy comic book type who love best when the latest superhero or sci-fi extravaganza hits the nation's cineplexes. Others comment only on a particular film or series of films, like Star Wars or Planet of the Apes. Some fixate on the work of one director like a Stanley Kubrick or Michael Bay (really?). As for me, I dwell primarily in the land of classic Hollywood cinema. I still go to the movies about 10-15 times a year, depending on my interest in a film's story; who is starring and directing it; whether I can find the time to go; and how long that film is playing in my town.

Lately, that has been more difficult to find. You see, I have been feeling unwell. 

I came of age in the 1970s. I am biased, and my recollection is heavy with nostalgia, but the way I remember it, that was a time when movies meant something. Seventies' cinema was about content and meaning and thought. I remember walking away from films and wanting to talk about them, mull them over, discuss them at length with the people I knew who had seen them. Movies mattered to their audiences, to their creators, to me. They were more than just visceral thrills. Today, I feel like most movies--most Hollywood big-budget movies that get major studio promotion and exposure anyway--don't stand for anything. Back in the day, a summer season of films meant many things to many people. In 1975--41 years ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth--theaters around the nation offered escapist fare like Return of the Pink Panther, Freebie and the Bean, James Bond's latest, The Man With the Golden Gun, Mandingo, and of course, Jaws. Simultaneously, however, the summer also included late spring releases like the Mike Nichols-Warren Beatty-Jack Nicholson bomb, The Fortune; John Schlesinger's adaptation of Nathaniel West's Hollywood novel, The Day of the Locust; Woody Allen's Love and Death (when he still knew how to be silly); Robert Altman's classic, Nashville; and Robert Mitchum starring as Raymond Chandler's famed sleuth, Philip Marlowe, in Farewell, My Lovely. In other words, an abundance of choices was available to movie audiences: some good, some bad, some mindless, some not, but variety, nonetheless, came from the big studios. But all that has changed now.

Did I mention that I feel unwell?

The Hollywood system is broken. It has been for some time and doesn't seem to be getting any better. Well-constructed yet entertaining products with a serious, thoughtful slant only come out at certain times of year. From late September to Christmas Day, movies that don't rely on the popcorn munching, soda gulping crowd are more likely to be released to a public that either no longer goes to the movies or don't care about more serious fare. Worse than that, however, is the fact that the studios are unwilling to make movies outside the most mainstream for fear of losing money. Not that this is new. As far back as the Depression, Hollywood studios were against making movies that might play over their audiences' heads. In Elia Kazan's 1976 film, The Last Tycoon, an adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald's unfinished novel, the lead character, Monroe Stahr is the production head of a major Hollywood studio. He tells his fellow executives, including his boss, studio chief Pat Brady, that the $2 million production of a high-brow film may lose money with the unhappy ending he is proposing to remain true to its story, prompting every suit at the table to look at each other in disbelief. "What is he thinking?! Times are tough! The country is in a depression, Monroe!" Stahr replies, "We've been playing it safe here for two years. I'm going to make this movie, with its unhappy ending. It's about time we took a chance and made a film that may lose money. Write it off as good will." Needless to say, this idealism is seldom found outside of fictional Hollywood.

Don't get me wrong. Bad movies, dumb movies, silly ones have always existed. Hollywood has reveled in its bloated epics for decades. The 1950s saw a big increase of inflated spectaculars, but I'm not convinced that such a film was ever accepted as the norm--what to expect in entertainment--until the last thirty-to-forty years of increasingly big-budget entertainment. Today, the people who flock to these mindless, unfeeling, witless spectacles do not know any better. American movie audiences have been spoonfed these tiresome excuses for entertainment for the generations now, leading audiences to expect it. And now they're asking for more, resulting in Suicide Squad, Batman Vs. Superman, Iron Man 1, 2, 3, reboots of Star Trek and Star Wars, Tarzan and now I hear, a Harry Potter prequel. Why? No simple answer exists. Franchise movies are cash cows for the major studios (although recently some of these movies have not been profitable due to excessive budgets) with built-in audiences for their instantly recognizable characters. For these movies, too often a coherent screenplay is optional--the least of concerns.

  

Did I forget to mention I have been feeling unwell?

With Labor Day just around to corner, I hope to be on the mend soon. A few, upcoming films seem entertaining, challenging, even fun. Hell and High Water just opened and looks to be a serious--and seriously violent--film that harks back to the days of Sam Peckinpah. Sully, with Tom Hanks, has potential as does Oliver Stone's Snowden; Warren Beatty's Rules Don't Apply; Allied, Robert Zemeckis' romantic thriller starring Brad Pitt and Marion Cotillard; and La La Land, which  looks like it will transport its audience to that magical world of romance, grace, and beauty that musicals so often do. After all this, I still have faith. I look forward to attending this movie catholic's place of worship, sitting in the dark with my fellow congregants, and hoping to be healed of the malady that has taken hold of me. Because when one or more of these ambitious, vital films fail to find its audience, it makes it tougher for other movies with a unique perspective to see the light of day and make movie-going the memorable and thrilling experience it still has the chance to be.