Greta Gerwig

I watched Marriage Story with excitement. I’ve been following Noah Baumbach’s career since Kicking and Screaming (1995), a hilarious movie about East Coast college men’s arrested development and how their romantic immaturity interferes with their happiness.

The déjà vu happened immediately: This new, supposedly innovative film was about a New Yorker’s arrested development and how his romantic immaturity interferes with his happiness.

Sigh.

Had I seen growth in the treatment of this subject matter, I wouldn’t have been so troubled, but the earlier film, though rough around the edges, was twice as entertaining and unique as Marriage Story, which felt like a weak combination of Baumbach’s old themes and Kramer versus Kramer. Yet the Academy awarded Baumbach for this water treading with a Best Picture nod. They then gave a Supporting Actress nom to Laura Dern for the worst caricature of a woman I’ve seen outside of an action flick in years, a Rush Limbaugh characterization of a female divorce lawyer if ever I saw one. That nod alone says a lot about Academy voters.

This worrying backward movement extended to The Irishman as well. Academy voters rewarded Martin Scorsese for returning to mob territory, even though he made no attempt to switch the perspective away from the mobsters, or to include one female character whose personality existed outside of men’s treatment of her. True, there are some changes—he replaced the flashy narrator of Goodfellas with a quiet, suffering cog, who supposedly played a pivotal role in Hoffa’s death in real life as well as in the film. Only he didn’t: his involvement in Hoffa’s death was a fabrication, which was the most interesting thing about him. What would cause a man to lie about such a thing, knowing his family would condemn him for it? THAT’s a topic for a movie! Instead the film presents his lie as true; the plot focuses on how the hero has gotten himself caught up in this miserable mob life, which is a story line expressed in a much more interesting way in Goodfellas.

Now let’s turn to Quentin Tarantino. His material is always imaginative, violent, unique. His films are exciting to watch, but typically, he treats his characters as paper dolls rather than humans. In Jackie Brown, he turned down his jets and humanized his middle-aged hero and heroine. He gave them regrets and nostalgia, which imbued that film with insight as well as style. For the adolescent Tarantino, that’s some serious growth. So why is anyone impressed with his depiction of Sharon Tate as a wide-eyed viewer of her own movies, a woman who loves nothing more than sexy dancing at the Playboy Mansion, who throws her hair flowing behind her before riding in an open-topped car?* Why, in a film about opportunity cut short, pretend that Tate’s real opportunity loss was that of continuing to be a schoolboy’s fantasy, and not a mature mother? Do we honestly find it good storytelling to continue to pretend that the sexual playground of the 60s was so very fun for the women who didn’t have the biological option of being so carefree?

I don’t know how we can expect male directors (let alone female, who have so few opportunities) to be innovative, to embrace perspectives beyond their own, when they’re rewarded with nominations for circling and re-circling the same tired subject matter and stereotyped characterizations while their finer, fresher films go unnoticed.

This year Clint Eastwood was the director with a real breakthrough. His career was founded on celebrating renegade men with authority. To have him suddenly turn the tables on that legacy in Richard Jewell was groundbreaking. What happens, he asks in the film, if the man who grew up revering lawmen as heroes is suddenly victimized by them? In other words, Jewell could have been, probably was, a fan of Dirty Harry—and that very love destroyed his life. For all this talk of the Oscars and male rage, the real-life Richard Jewell EARNED his rage, and yet his film, the most interesting exploration of white male anger this year, was left out of the running.

Usually, I dislike Eastwood’s films, finding his sexist heroes annoying and his overwrought storytelling verging on silly. But in Richard Jewell, Eastwood even toned down his considerable love for melodrama and sky-high messaging. The result is a brilliant, affecting, subtle film. (One scene—Kathy Bates sadly rubbing her Tupperware after a police warrant destroys it—is more affecting than almost every moment in the Oscar-nominated films; the diner scene beats them all.) This is what great filmmakers do: they surprise us with what they have to say about life, with technical and storytelling techniques that have some kind of direction or point beyond divorce sucks or mobsters’ lives are bad.

I enjoyed all of the Oscar-nominated films I’ve seen, but I’ve been disappointed in most of them as well. With this kind of talent, why play it so safe? Why not fully humanize Tate, as Tarantino did the fictional Jackie Brown? Greta Gerwig didn’t play it safe; she tampered with a beloved story and came up with something truer to Louisa May Alcott’s vision and intent than any previous cinematic version of Little Women. (If you don’t think that’s risky, you haven’t met any fans of classic novels.)

What if Scorsese had called into question his own legacy of celebrating violent men, as Eastwood did with lawmen? What a brilliant film The Irishman could have been!

Unfortunately, there’s an answer to why these directors didn’t make their films more innovative, nuanced, surprising—especially Scorsese. He knew his Academy too well. He anticipated what would happen to Gerwig, to Eastwood. (Only directors the Academy doesn’t know are allowed to take those types of chances.) So he put his head down and gave the voters what they wanted of him, same-old, same-old. And he got his nomination.

*I think we all know from Bridget Jones how well that turns out, but not in Tarantino’s world, where all sexy women can throw their hair back without any falling into their eyes.