Now that Robert Altman is gone, Woody Allen and John Sayles are the reigning elders of American independent film, two veteran writer-directors who are still making movies at a brisk rate and calling their own shots. Both have movies coming out this month: Cassandra’s Dream and Honeydripper respectively.
Allen is older. He’s 73, Sayles is 57. And while Allen has spent much of his career under the patronage of Hollywood studios—retreating to Europe in recent years to find independent financing for his films—Sayles has earned his reputation as the father of modern American indie cinema by making nothing but fiercely independent productions. But although Allen hides behind the persona of of a meek middle-class intellectual and Sayles has the brawny build and forceful manner of longshoreman, these two filmmakers have much in common.
Neither lets anyone mess with his vision. Both are routinely prolific, although Allen outpaces Sayles, along with everyone else. He has written and directed 35 movies in 44 years; Sayles has written and directed 16 movies in 28 years. Along the way, both have found time to write books, but Sayles is more prolific on that front: while Allen has authored three slim volumes of sit-down comedy, Sayles has published three novels and two books of short stories. Both men appear in front of the camera, although Allen is a screen icon, Sayles a minor character actor.
Sayles and Allen share a no-nonsense approach to their craft and an unadorned style, yet as artists they’re from different planets. Allen is always making the same movie on some level; all his films are variations on two or three themes. And whether or not he’s onscreen, they’re all deeply infused by his personality. Whether set in Manhattan or London, his films all occupy the same moral universe, one that hinges on the chronic weakness of the human condition. Whether comic or tragic, they're all anti-heroic excursions into some sort of existential peril. Sayles never makes the same movie twice. Beholden to his subject matter, and devoted to research and realism, he’s constantly exploring new worlds. His work, which shows no trace of his own persona, is often charged with socially progressive themes. He can't get enough of class conflict. And he has a taste for heroism.
Now for their new movies. The quick verdict: Sayles has made his best film in a decade, and Allen is back on cruise control. Cassandra's Dream opens Feb. 8; we'll take a closer look at it then.
Honeydripper
The title refers to the name of a derelict juke joint in rural Alabama run by an aging piano player named Tyrone (Danny Glover). He’s struggling to keep the Honeydripper Lounge afloat, and as the creditors close in, Tyrone makes a last-ditch effort to save it by hiring Guitar Sam, a popular hot shot from New Orleans. Predictably, Sam doesn’t show. So Tyrone enlists a young drifter to impersonate him, a black musician fresh off a freight train (Gary Clark Jr.), who has been jailed by the local sheriff (Stacy Keach) and put to work picking cotton. The kid is packing a homemade electric guitar. Turn him loose and, to paraphrase Chuck Berry, my how that little country boy can sing.
Honeydripper’s southern fried magic realism may be too sweet and too corny for the urbane palate. But underlying this fable of rock’n’roll saving the world are some sterling performances and divine music. Glover carries the weight of the world on his shoulders as the all-but-defeated Tyrone, who clings to his bar, and his pride, while being haunted by the ghosts of music past. Delta blues master Keb’ Mo’ slips in and out of the picture as a phantom trickster, a blind gent dispensing wisdom between licks of slide guitar. Gary Clark Jr. is a slow-burn revelation, simmering with a quiet charisma that erupts with quicksilver virtuosity in the climactic scene of Tyrone's imposter band bringing the Honeydripper Lounge back to life.
Film may be the art of faking reality. But like Once, which gave us Dublin unplugged, this is one of those rare music movies that doesn’t fake the music. Sayles understands that it’s easier to turn a musician into an actor than an actor into a musician. And aside from Glover, all the actors cast as musicians in Honeydripper are musicians first and foremost. As with Once, crackling performances are recorded live off the floor with no lip synch—crucial for a film that aims for authenticity as it untangles rock’n’roll’s early roots.
Some of Sayles’ recent films, notably Silver City (2004), have been heavy-handed with didactic intent. That’s not the case here. Although his characters bear an aura of nobility that can get a little stifling, there’s nothing too black-and-white about this story of race and music in the Deep South. You might expect the one major white character, Stacy Keach’s sheriff, to come off as a stereotypical bigot. But he’s quite subtly drawn, as a secure patriarch who derives his power from gentle patronizing rather than brutality. And Sayles populates his tale with enough personnel to fill a Broadway musical—from Tyrone's wife (Lisa Gay Hamilton), who's torn between her devil-music husband and a revival tent preacher, to the faded southern belle who employs her as a maid (Mary Steenburgen).
While Sayles' story is utterly predictable—its tidy narrative arc and feel-good ending are more typical of a Hollywood movie than an "indie" film—the tropes are offset by the director’s sharp eye for detail, the complexity of his characters, and the assiduous research informing the script and the music.
Latest Blog Entry
Back to the blog...
The Outsiders: John Sayles and Woody Allen
Brian D. Johnson | January 31, 2008 | 22:56:28 | Permalink
brian.johnson@macleans.rogers.com
Allen is older. He’s 73, Sayles is 57. And while Allen has spent much of his career under the patronage of Hollywood studios—retreating to Europe in recent years to find independent financing for his films—Sayles has earned his reputation as the father of modern American indie cinema by making nothing but fiercely independent productions. But although Allen hides behind the persona of of a meek middle-class intellectual and Sayles has the brawny build and forceful manner of longshoreman, these two filmmakers have much in common.
Neither lets anyone mess with his vision. Both are routinely prolific, although Allen outpaces Sayles, along with everyone else. He has written and directed 35 movies in 44 years; Sayles has written and directed 16 movies in 28 years. Along the way, both have found time to write books, but Sayles is more prolific on that front: while Allen has authored three slim volumes of sit-down comedy, Sayles has published three novels and two books of short stories. Both men appear in front of the camera, although Allen is a screen icon, Sayles a minor character actor.
Sayles and Allen share a no-nonsense approach to their craft and an unadorned style, yet as artists they’re from different planets. Allen is always making the same movie on some level; all his films are variations on two or three themes. And whether or not he’s onscreen, they’re all deeply infused by his personality. Whether set in Manhattan or London, his films all occupy the same moral universe, one that hinges on the chronic weakness of the human condition. Whether comic or tragic, they're all anti-heroic excursions into some sort of existential peril. Sayles never makes the same movie twice. Beholden to his subject matter, and devoted to research and realism, he’s constantly exploring new worlds. His work, which shows no trace of his own persona, is often charged with socially progressive themes. He can't get enough of class conflict. And he has a taste for heroism.
Both men are effortlessly loquacious. Maclean’s Editor-in-Chief Kenneth Whyte recently conducted an expansive interview with Woody Allen for the magazine. And for my interview with John Sayles, who was in Toronto last week, go to Sayles Talk.
Now for their new movies. The quick verdict: Sayles has made his best film in a decade, and Allen is back on cruise control. Cassandra's Dream opens Feb. 8; we'll take a closer look at it then.
Honeydripper
The title refers to the name of a derelict juke joint in rural Alabama run by an aging piano player named Tyrone (Danny Glover). He’s struggling to keep the Honeydripper Lounge afloat, and as the creditors close in, Tyrone makes a last-ditch effort to save it by hiring Guitar Sam, a popular hot shot from New Orleans. Predictably, Sam doesn’t show. So Tyrone enlists a young drifter to impersonate him, a black musician fresh off a freight train (Gary Clark Jr.), who has been jailed by the local sheriff (Stacy Keach) and put to work picking cotton. The kid is packing a homemade electric guitar. Turn him loose and, to paraphrase Chuck Berry, my how that little country boy can sing.
Honeydripper’s southern fried magic realism may be too sweet and too corny for the urbane palate. But underlying this fable of rock’n’roll saving the world are some sterling performances and divine music. Glover carries the weight of the world on his shoulders as the all-but-defeated Tyrone, who clings to his bar, and his pride, while being haunted by the ghosts of music past. Delta blues master Keb’ Mo’ slips in and out of the picture as a phantom trickster, a blind gent dispensing wisdom between licks of slide guitar. Gary Clark Jr. is a slow-burn revelation, simmering with a quiet charisma that erupts with quicksilver virtuosity in the climactic scene of Tyrone's imposter band bringing the Honeydripper Lounge back to life.
Film may be the art of faking reality. But like Once, which gave us Dublin unplugged, this is one of those rare music movies that doesn’t fake the music. Sayles understands that it’s easier to turn a musician into an actor than an actor into a musician. And aside from Glover, all the actors cast as musicians in Honeydripper are musicians first and foremost. As with Once, crackling performances are recorded live off the floor with no lip synch—crucial for a film that aims for authenticity as it untangles rock’n’roll’s early roots.
Some of Sayles’ recent films, notably Silver City (2004), have been heavy-handed with didactic intent. That’s not the case here. Although his characters bear an aura of nobility that can get a little stifling, there’s nothing too black-and-white about this story of race and music in the Deep South. You might expect the one major white character, Stacy Keach’s sheriff, to come off as a stereotypical bigot. But he’s quite subtly drawn, as a secure patriarch who derives his power from gentle patronizing rather than brutality. And Sayles populates his tale with enough personnel to fill a Broadway musical—from Tyrone's wife (Lisa Gay Hamilton), who's torn between her devil-music husband and a revival tent preacher, to the faded southern belle who employs her as a maid (Mary Steenburgen).
While Sayles' story is utterly predictable—its tidy narrative arc and feel-good ending are more typical of a Hollywood movie than an "indie" film—the tropes are offset by the director’s sharp eye for detail, the complexity of his characters, and the assiduous research informing the script and the music.
Honeydripper is Sayles’ best film since Lone Star (1996). And what ultimately pulls it back from the brink of cliché is the emotional resonance of Danny Glover's reflective performance. Following his note-perfect turn in Clement Virgo's Poor Boy's Game, he shows once again that Mel Gibson's beleagered sidekick from Lethal Weapon was carrying a concealed weapon of untapped talent.
Back to the blog...
Previous Posts