Taking Martin Scorsese Up on It

I thought previously about devoting a post to director Martin Scorsese’s comments on the Marvel Cinematic Universe, but I hadn’t had time to read the original interview in which the comments were made. I gathered that Mr. Scorsese felt his comments had been misconstrued in some quarters and wanted to understand for myself what he was saying. This morning I read both the Empire magazine article in which he responded to a question about Marvel superhero movies and a follow-up New York Times opinion piece in which he clarified and expanded on his earlier comments.

If I’m understanding Mr. Scorsese correctly, his objection to the films is two-fold: he perceives that they are 1.) designed, packaged, and marketed by studio executives with a cynical eye toward the bottom line and a wish to spoonfeed what’s essentially pablum to the public and 2.) they are also essentially “dead” artistically (though not without fine production values in many cases). The first objection is easily understood, but I’ve been sitting here thinking about the second one for at least an hour. It concerns me as someone who studies myth because the Marvel universe is full of superheroes who are, if not directly out of some ancient pantheon or other—like Thor and Loki—then more recently created mythic characters with attributes and histories of their own.

What Mr. Scorsese said separates cinema from this mass-distributed audiovisual entertainment is the lack of risk undertaken by the latter, the impossibility of anything unexpected or revelatory taking place within a Marvel-type movie. I believe he views Marvel movies as formulaic, paint-by-numbers products aimed at the lowest common denominator. I think I’m characterizing what he meant correctly in saying that he views a cinematic experience as a ritual in the true sense of the word: film actually has the power to effect change in the person watching, to transform his or her thinking, emotional range, moral sense, or view of the world, and I completely agree with him that cinema can do all these things (as can other art forms).

Mr. Scorsese seems to perceive superhero movies, on the other hand, as falling into the category of spectacle: showy, frequently impressive on the visual level, and capable of stimulating some primal place in the brain that responds to grandiose gestures, noise, color, and gross physical action. In this representation, superhero movies are more circus performance than film, capable of manipulating the viewer with heart-stopping visuals that are nonetheless scripted and predictable. They may entertain you, but they will not change you.

Of course, I’m referring here to the categories of ritual and spectacle outlined by anthropologist John J. MacAloon, which can be used to make sense of various types of public events and performances. I’ve found Mr. MacAloon’s categories helpful in thinking about performances as diverse as the Olympic Games, bullfights, and State of the Union addresses, and they certainly seem applicable in this case. So if I were to characterize what I think Mr. Scorsese is saying in terms of Mr. MacAloon’s thinking, true cinema is transformative, like Greek tragedy, and superhero movies are mere spectacle, like the Colosseum extravaganzas of Ancient Rome.

Like Mr. Scorsese, I am a strong proponent of the individual artistic voice, and I do agree that projects produced “by committee” (no matter what type of project we’re talking about) are in danger of being homogenized or smoothed down by “groupthink.” I don’t want anyone else telling me how to write, and here I may be an exception, because plenty of people are proponents of writer’s workshops and craft classes. I have tried both and am not opposed to them but came away with the feeling that you learn to write by reading, writing, and living. Certain things are hard to transmit to someone else, as I learned during my stint as a writing teacher.

You can explain punctuation and mechanics to people and show them examples of good writing, but . . . Style? Voice? That instinctual je ne sais quoi that helps you find your way to just the right way of saying something so that people will remember it and be moved by it? You absorb other people’s writing through your pores without thinking about it too much, but when you go to do it yourself, you have to shut everyone else out and go with what’s in your head and heart.

To that extent, I agree with Mr. Scorsese that individual voices and points of view are vital. I guess I part ways with him on the notion of superhero movies having no “soul,” if you want to put it that way. I would probably place movies like his and the Marvel films on the same sliding scale, according to whether they are more or less subtle in the way they embody archetypes and present mythic themes. The superhero movies may paint with broad brushstrokes and rely more on action and special effects than a film like Mr. Scorcese’s The Age of Innocence (just to pick an example); in them, archetypes are writ large so that they are instantly recognizable, and the heroic themes are plainly evident. I would argue, though, that these films are just as ritualistic as anything a more nuanced filmmaker might create.

Don’t think someone can’t be inspired by or feel the power of a heroic character in a movie just because it’s an “audiovisual spectacle.” I’m remembering the fan who commented online that in his severe health struggles (with diabetes and some other issues, as I recall), he asked himself what Tyrion, his favorite character in Game of Thrones, would do in his shoes, and that is what helped him get through the experience. This may be a controversial idea in some quarters, but I don’t think it’s any different than someone finding strength by calling on the gods of his religious beliefs, whatever they may be. To paraphrase Carl Jung, as I did recently, I believe the gods have become our movie heroes (and our athletes and our rock stars). They have in no way disappeared, even if you’re not religious. There’s a certain responsibility that comes with the territory of celebrity that not everyone wishes to take on (or even believes in), but nevertheless it’s there.

In films that rely more on dialogue, plot, and understated themes, you may have to think about the characters and events to understand the archetypal content behind them, but I’m arguing that even in original screenplays with no reference to any preexisting story, the same basic categories of human experience are the building blocks, whether or not you call them archetypes or myths. People combine them in new ways, and new myths can always be created. I haven’t seen Mr. Scorsese’s latest, The Irishman, but I’m willing to bet that if I went to see it, I’d be able to find just as many mythic characters as there are in The Avengers—they may initially look just as ordinary as you or me, but that’s the point. When we react to a mythic character or image, we’re projecting something that’s actually inside of us; most of us look rather ordinary on the outside, but what about what’s inside?

By the way, and I say this respectfully, Mr. Scorsese’s movies, in my experience of them and from what I know of the ones I haven’t seen, are pretty heavy themselves on the spectacle end of things. I realized today, while looking at a catalog of his films, that the half dozen or so I have seen are the ones that are somewhat untypical of the vast body of his work. Violence and crime are themes he explores extensively (and graphically, if the descriptions I hear are accurate). I have seen none of those for the plain reason that I find visual depictions of extreme violence to be disturbing. I’ve missed a number of highly acclaimed films for that reason. The one film of Mr. Scorsese’s I most regret not seeing is Raging Bull, and I plan to rectify that omission now that I have a temporary subscription to Amazon Prime. Whether it will leave me sleepless or have me feeling bruised for days, like other films by other directors have in the past, I can’t say at this point. At least it doesn’t seem to involve weapons.

I suppose the final point I’m making is that I don’t see the division between ritual and spectacle that I think Mr. Scorsese is using as the criterion for differentiating between true cinema as opposed to mass entertainment. His own films are full of spectacle, as are those of many other distinguished directors. Many of the superhero movies are full of transformative characters, themes, and episodes. Is it possible to make a movie that truly is devoid of any transformative content? Maybe, but I would place all of them on the same sliding scale I was talking about. Part of the power of any movie depends on how skillfully the story is told, and even a respectable production with famous names and a big budget may miss the mark if no one gets it.

Eternal Return in L.A.

Like any big city, Los Angeles is full of surprises and odd corners. In a way, I think that's what drew me to big city life, the need for a sense of possibilities that don't exist in a smaller town. I remember a time when I would spend my Friday evenings endlessly driving around Lexington, mostly in the suburbs, with the radio on. I think what I was really looking for was something I hadn't seen before, a street I had never driven down, a house I had never seen, something, anything that seemed new and unexpected.

There can be something comforting in the familiar, but too much of it leads to boredom. Somebody said to me once that after moving to a much smaller town, she realized you didn't really need to have a million choices of where to shop for groceries or go to get coffee, but I don't agree. I think that some people do need variety to thrive and that most of those people are in cities. I remember coming out of a cafe in Paris once and thinking that part of that city's magic was the sense that you never knew what you might find around any corner; the air itself was alive with potentialities.

It's true that different cities have different personalities and offer varying degrees of this sense of openness. I have been in some cities that, while offering a variety of things to do and places to go, somehow seemed like larger versions of smaller towns. There was something quotidian about them, and this isn't a put-down, just an observation. Los Angeles isn't like that. While there is a certain quality that lets you know, yes, this is definitely L.A., no matter where you are, neighborhoods do offer distinctly different faces, and I've always had the sense that it would be important to figure out which part of town you want to be in.

There is a practical aspect to this, of course, because most people have to consider such things as commute distances and school districts and may not end up living precisely where they would go if they consulted their own wishes. I was once having lunch in a Silver Lake cafe on what may have been my first visit to that neighborhood when I noticed a young man at a nearby table observing me closely. It was not an unfriendly or threatening look but more of a keenly observing one, and combined with the fact that he had a notebook, gave me the idea that he might be a writer (I've been known to jot down notes about random people and events in just that same way).

I may be wrong, but my take on it was that I somehow looked out of place in that particular setting, and that that was what caught his eye: "Ah, I wonder what this very conventional, Middle America woman is doing in this hipster Silver Lake hangout so far off the tourist track? What possible combination of events could have brought her here? This could be a good story." (I made a mental note at that time that toning down the Lands End aspect of my wardrobe might be something to consider.) It was the first time I had a sense of myself as possibly looking exotic to someone else, and while amusing (if I was right about what was happening), it wasn't exactly pleasing. I'm not a hipster, but I'm not a soccer mom either. (And what is that, anyway?)

I wasn't drawn to Santa Monica in my first visits there, but I gradually ended up believing that that was probably where I would gravitate if I moved to L.A. It seemed clean and safe, if perhaps a little bland and a touch snobby. But then I had a bad experience on my last visit there (a hotel door that didn't lock properly, stuck in a remote corner of the property, so alarming that I immediately went down to the desk and told them I'd changed my mind about staying there). While it was all very unsettling (and mysterious), perhaps it was good that it happened. It made me realize that maybe Santa Monica wasn't the place for me, if something as simple as a securely locked door was so difficult to come by there.

When I first visited some of the neighborhoods east of the 405, I found them to be a bit edgy for my taste. I couldn't imagine feeling safe there. Now I find them more appealing and less threatening than they once seemed. Have the neighborhoods changed, or have I? Maybe it's some of both. Even Los Feliz, which three weeks ago seemed rather grubby, revealed itself to have possibilities when I explored it more thoroughly. Sometimes going a few blocks in a different direction makes a difference. I find that I'm drawn neither to the hipster hangouts nor the yuppie ones. I look for something that seems only to be trying to be itself, which really means a lack of trying, if you think about it.

Despite the pressure of adjusting to a new place and achieving secure footing professionally and financially, I still see the soul of Los Angeles peeking out at me at certain times and places, usually unlooked for: the slant of light through the windows in Union Station; a halting conversation in Spanish in which I nevertheless managed to convey my meaning (I think); a piece of art in a Metro station illustrating the constellations; a beautifully crafted latte in an unpretentious setting; a smile from a stranger; an early evening walk around the lotus pond in Echo Park, a public space that actually seems to live up to its function; a dignified older building suddenly glimpsed in a quiet corner at the end of a walkway; a taco at Grand Central Market (I plead guilty to getting the mild sauce); a doorman dressed as an American soldier, circa World War II, materializing suddenly at the door of the Vista Theatre; a sudden urge to tap dance (if I only knew how) while waiting for a train; branches alive with brightly colored blooms hanging over a wall; and a mural on the side of a building, studied while waiting for a traffic light, hitting me with the force of a dream, a visual poem that I could not unravel but that spoke to me deeply.

While it's obviously a very modern and trend-setting city, Los Angeles seems, at the same time, to be somehow very old to me. Its history is alive in its place names and in many of its public places, and its function as the backdrop to countless Hollywood movies and television shows means that once you arrive here, you find that it already seems strangely familiar, since the reality corresponds to a city already existing in your imagination. The predominance of Googie and other architecture from the mid-20th century also resonates with me personally, since it hearkens back to my early childhood when that style was much in evidence. There are moments when I feel that I've fallen into a time machine, and past, present, and future are all on display at once.

While being very "of the moment," Los Angeles also reveals a layer of mythic time that runs through everything else and seems tied to something much older than even recorded history. You don't need to look any further than the fossils at the La Brea tar pits if you want physical evidence of this, but it's also apparent in the creative life of the city, in the murals and the public art, in the films that are one of the city's signature products--both creating and reflecting the myths and dreams of our culture--and in the infrastructure itself. I'm surprised to find myself concluding that Los Angeles is similar to Boston in this characteristic of past and present being very visibly on display side by side. I've always considered Boston to be an extremely graceful example of this historical layering, whereas in L.A. it seems more chaotic. Nevertheless, though it may surprise you to hear me say this, L.A. seems in many ways to be the more ancient city of the two.