The foreigner is bitching again. Sorry, let me be more specific. I’m not talking about all American movies, only about the all-American movies. So, don’t take it personal. Statistics show that in good periods the US film industry produces about three movies a day. The mass production is done with a well-oiled cliché. The plot, the cuts, the actors are professional. After a while, blue print driven professionalism gets boring. There are routines and extravagant solutions. But, what if extravagancies become routines, too? Movies are cooked by recipes. The three main ingredients are:
- The characters. Women are beautiful, men are brave.
- The thought. A hero has to tell a very wise sentence that can sound only from a great thinker’s mouth like Mao Zedong or Sylvester Stallone.
- The progression. Wherever we come from, a happy ending is obligatory. The heroes should suffer, get in trouble. The bad can gain temporary advantage in the middle, but the good always overcome in the end. There’s no such thing as love making without orgasm. It is not what we paid for.
A movie provides what a hooker does. They fake joy for money. The only circumstance you should forget is that they both lie. Remember those Las Vegas motel beds that vibrate for half a dollar? In case of machines the functions of give and take are clear and separate. You throw two quarters in the slot and receive a minute of good vibration. It is real. Purchased love and movies work more shrewdly. You have to participate, to be a part of the pretense, in which money is converted to illusion. That’s the name of the game. The prostitute or the film cannot be delightful if the trade becomes obvious. However, just because the exchange is not evident, the film still can be deceitful. So, where is the line between real and phony?
In a local rental shop I found a tape, in which the imaginary world reflects real life exceptionally well. The title is Forced March and it is about a film shooting in my old country, Hungary. Movie making in a movie is a common Hollywood technique. The main character is a Californian actor, whose task is to reconstruct the life and death of Miklós Radnóti, one of the greatest Hungarian poets of our century. Because of his Jewish origin, Radnóti was sent to a work camp in 1944. The American actor tries to understand why Jews trusted the Hungarian authorities that they would not be killed or handed over to the German invaders. The actor does some private research and begins to identify with his character. The director deprecates his abilities, stating a spoiled yuppie cannot feel the pain and hopelessness of a tortured man. In a scene Radnóti should lethargically wait for a soldier shooting him in the head. The actor departs from the script, twisting the soldier’s arm, taking the gun and pointing it at an officer. The director stops the camera and explains to the young man, who was raised on Western movies, that heroism does not fit here and the situation makes the prisoners apathetic, unable to fight back. At this point I realized that this picture was trustworthy. I started to believe what I saw. It seldom happens to me since I live here and watch mostly American movies.
Hollywood has been fooling generations by showing us American heroes with the world’s hardest fists and unstoppable skills. Their triumph is indisputable. The Vietnam War was the first and ultimate lesson of our generation that taught us: we are also vulnerable, we too can break down under torture, we may lose sometimes. Does it mean we are inferior? No, merely human. Among other messages, that’s what the Forced March tells us. Without a beautiful girl or a bulletproof guy. Without a wise sentence from a superhero. Without happy ending. Possibly, that’s why I like it.