Category: Film (Page 2 of 3)

How the Cosmic Eating Contest Went Awry

May 1, 2017 / Kyle A. Massa

(Disclaimer: the title of this blog post has nothing to do with its content. Rather, it’s meant to get you to read the piece. Apologies to those interested in cosmic eating contests.)

I went to an art show last week with my mom. She entered a painting of my aunt’s cat (it was the best one there, in my opinion). Before the winners were announced, we browsed through the other paintings. Each had a title, and one in particular caught my eye.

Its name was: “Waiting for the Slutty Nun.” I needed to see this piece.

No, I don’t have a thing for slutty nuns. Rather, the title was so outrageous, so striking, that I couldn’t not be interested in the painting. I wasn’t the only one; people chattered about the piece before they’d even seen it.

For me, this experience reinforced the idea that a good title is essential for any piece of art. An accurate label isn’t enough. If we want to get people excited about our work before they even see it, a good title is essential.

For writers, the title of a book or story is often the first point of contact between the reader and the work. If they’ve never heard of you or your writing before, you want to make a good first impression. A great title sparks that initial interest—which is exactly what we’re looking for.

Furthermore, a good title can help our work stand out from others. For instance, let’s say you wrote a truly outstanding crime novel. It’s suspenseful, unpredictable, and exciting. Plus, it’s unlike other crime novels because it takes place on the moon. Clearly, this is a pretty unusual story. Yet if you give it a generic title like “The Murder,” you’re not showing how your piece is different from others.

Lastly, great titles are perfectly paired with their stories. I’m thinking of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. Imagine if that book had a different title, like The Firemen or The Book Burners. Wouldn’t it just not be the same? No other title quite captures the essence of the story so perfectly (451 degrees Fahrenheit is the temperature at which paper ignites, by the way). Plus, that title would never fit quite right on any other novel. Fahrenheit 451 is the perfect name for that book, and only that book.

For us writers and artists in general, I think agonizing over the perfect title is well worth it. Let’s not settle for the generic—let’s be inventive. Evocative. Bold. Or, if you’re a nun, maybe even a little slutty?

Computer Imagery, Ethics, and Grand Moff Tarkin

January 23, 2017 / Kyle A. Massa

Image from Wikipedia

A while ago, I wrote a story about a future in which all actors are computer generated. In my story, advertisers acquire the rights to the likeness of Marlon Brando, which they subsequently use in an ad for an erectile disfunction pill, thus giving his most famous lines from The Godfather new meaning. For example: “Act like a man!”

I wrote this story thinking that it wouldn’t come true for another few decades, if ever. The funny thing is, it already happened.

If you’ve seen Star Wars: Rogue One, then you know that Grand Moff Tarkin makes an appearance. You also know that he looked a bit off in the film. That’s because Peter Cushing, the actor who pioneered the role in A New Hope, died over two decades ago. The Tarkin of the film is completely computer generated.

This is not the kind of thing Hollywood needs to be doing. Here’s why:

For starters, there was no legitimate reason to recreate this character through CGI (computer-generated imagery). Though he played a somewhat important role in the original Star Wars, it’s not like he was Luke Skywalker. Most casual Star Wars fans wouldn’t know him from Count Dooku.

Why not just recast the role? Any older, gaunt, severe British guy would’ve done the job. In fact, Charles Dance comes to mind as a perfect replacement (the dude who played Tywin Lannister on Game of Thrones). Filmgoers are smart enough to understand that two different actors can play the same role—especially if one of them passed away.

Furthermore, the current technology isn’t even good enough to completely achieve the effect they’re aiming for. The creators of Rogue One tried their damnedest, but human mannerisms are difficult to replicate. We’re all so familiar with human movements that any little deviation makes the whole illusion fall apart.

The Tarkin of Rogue One, for example, looks pretty darn real in still images. But when he walks and especially when he talks, he looks pretty darn artificial. (There’s another CGI cameo at the end that looks even worse, but I won’t spoil it for you.) I mean, come on. K-2SO looked more realistic than this dude.

And another thing: though the Cushing estate signed off on the film, what if Peter Cushing himself had hated it? What if he wouldn’t want to be involved at all? If this film is any indication for the future, studios don’t care. So long as the family agrees to the project (and gets a hefty check for doing so), then it doesn’t really matter what the actor would’ve wanted.

To illustrate, let’s imagine that Studio Whatever is producing their yearly superhero film. They’ve determined that these movies generally skew toward millennials and away from baby boomers. So, in order to increase their viewership among the older age group, they decide to cast Marilyn Monroe in the film.

Now we’ve got a celebrated cultural icon appearing in some stupid DC crossover movie directed by Zac Snyder. And by the way, she wouldn’t even be able to turn the project down, because she’s dead. It would be just as bad as it sounds.

I hope Hollywood considers what they’re doing before they decide to do more. Otherwise, they’re going to put Marlon Brando into an ad for erectile dysfunction. And I don’t think anyone wants to see that.

Why Do We Care When Characters Die?

December 12, 2016 / Kyle A. Massa

Why’d you have to take Ned Stark, man?

Did you cry when Bambi’s mom got shot?

It’s okay. You can admit it. Though we know they’re not real, the death of fictional characters evokes real emotion in us. I find that amazing. After all, when fictional character die, we’re essentially mourning the loss of someone who does not, has not, and never will, exist.

The question is: why? Why do we care when a nonexistent character bites the dust?

I don’t claim to know the answer. But I do have some theories.

Here’s the first: we humans can’t help but empathize. When characters feel realistic, when we become invested in them, they become mirrors. We see our own traits reflected back at us, both the good and the bad. We draw parallels between our lives and theirs. So, when one of them dies, we see parts of us dying, too. And nobody likes that.

Here’s another: the more time we spend with characters, the more we become attached to them. Especially in book series, TV series, and film franchises, we watch these characters grow, watch them succeed and fail, watch them change with us. I think this is especially true for something like the Harry Potter series, in which the readers/viewers grow up right alongside the characters. When you’re going through the same experiences with another person at the same time, you’re likely to form a connection with them (even if they’re made up).

My third and most out-there theory: death in fiction reminds us of our own mortality. A popular theory of filmmaking states that we love movies because they solve problems in a matter of hours that are otherwise unsolvable in real life. In The Lord of the Rings, for example, Frodo extinguishes every last shred of evil in the world just by tossing some jewelry into an active volcano. Of course, we know that destroying (or even defining) evil is not that simple. But it’s still satisfying to see it done in fiction.

When characters die, however, it’s a subconscious reminder of the real world. We react so strongly to death in fiction because it reminds us that problems like death can’t be solved, not even in fictional realities.

It’s weird, but as much as they can sometimes upset us, character deaths often shape good fiction. Without people dying left and right, would A Song of Ice and Fire be the compelling series that it is? Definitely not. No matter what the reason, killing beloved characters is an essential part of fiction.

But still. Bambi’s mom was over the line, Disney.

Writers Are More Normal Than Movies Would Have You Believe

April 25, 2016 / Kyle A. Massa

Do you know any writers? Do you absolutely hate those people?

I ask because of a film I recently watched called Stuck In Love, a film which essentially posits that all writers are dark, moody substance abusers, and way smarter than you’ll ever be. Or, more generally, the kind of people nobody likes.

The brief rundown: a family of writers struggles with the ups and downs of being in love. There’s Bill Borgens, played by Greg Kinnear, a brilliant writer who hasn’t written anything since his wife Erica, Jennifer Connelly, left him (unsurprising). And then there’s his daughter Sam, played by Lily Collins, whose only two topics of conversation are death and herself. And then his son Rusty, played by Nat Wolff, whose most notable traits are loving Stephen King, wearing hoodies, and being sad all the time.

This movie could’ve been interesting. Instead, you just end up hating everyone.

Why? Because every character is cynical, moody, and generally unlikeable. No one talks about anything that real people would talk about. Instead, it’s all this philosophical esoterica that’s just meant to make the audience nod their heads and say, “Wow. These characters are so brilliant.” Or to just make us all feel dumb.

Sam, for example, has her first novel published at the age of nineteen. Okay, not completely impossible, but neither the actress nor the script convinced me to suspend my disbelief.

Also, Bill’s solution to missing his wife is to spy on her through the window whenever he happens to pass by (which is about thirty times, give or take). How is that a logical solution to the problem? Oh right, they’re writers. They’re too brilliant for us mortals to understand.

And whenever Rusty gets depressed about anything (which is all the time—the kid’s such a moper), his dad loudly asserts, “You’re a writer.” As if he should expect to be mopey all the time, like an occupational hazard. As if you can’t be a writer unless you’re unhappy.

The worst part about a movie like this, for me, is that it separates writers from normal people. The folks behind this movie seem to think that writers are, as a rule, douchebags. Yet I know a lot of writers, and the majority of them are perfectly pleasant, normal people. They aren’t misunderstood masterminds, they don’t talk about existentialism every second. Most writers I know are just people.

And I’m not just talking about my friends, here. David Mitchell, author of Cloud Atlas, happens to have a stammer when he talks. Virginia Woolfe was so good at cricket that her family began to call her, “The Demon Bowler.” Also, Stephen King’s favorite band is the decidedly unartistic AC/DC. They’re great writers, sure, but when you look past the work, you find normal people.

I’m not sure I can say anything more about this movie without puking, so let me just say this: give writers a chance. We’re not all annoying assholes. Most are pretty cool people.

What’s the Deal With Serial Killers in Pop Culture?

January 25, 2016 / Kyle A. Massa

So my girlfriend and I tried watching American Horror Story this season.

…And we didn’t get very far.

Without spoiling anything, the pilot begins with an L.A.P.D detective investigating a string of grisly murders, ostensibly committed by the same person. A serial killer.

Of course it’s a serial killer. Of course the crime involves gratuitous brutality that no one would actually have time for, plus some artificial ritualistic element. I don’t think the killer leaves a note, but hell, what self-respecting serial killer doesn’t taunt the cops a little?

This is nothing new, of course. Here’s a short list of serial killer stories off the top of my head: The Silence of the Lambs (plus a sequel, a prequel, a sort-of sequel, a spin-off TV series, and the original Hannibal Lector movie no one’s ever heard of), Psycho (plus a remake and a spin-off TV series), American Psycho, Dahmer, The Following, American Horror Story, From Hell, Zodiac…and the list goes on.

Oh, and they’ve announced they’re making a film adaptation of The Devil in the White City starring Leonardo DiCaprio as serial killa H.H. Holmes.

So yeah. People seem to like serial killers a whole lot for some reason. We seem to feel an innate magnetism toward some pretty bad dudes.

But why are we so interested in this stuff, even when it’s so unpleasant?

My first impression is that we consume fiction in order to immerse ourselves in worlds we’ve never been to before. When we watch movies or read books, we often expect to see that which we haven’t seen, to encounter people who are different than us. And if you’re looking for, uh, different characters, why not try people who kill other people in their spare time?

Furthermore, with any serial killer, the question of “why?” always comes up. Some part of us wants to understand why someone would kill others compulsively. Is it something in their past? Or is it something they were just born to do? Maybe the best part of those questions is that we never really get answers.

And another questions goes along with that: “what if?” If serial killers kill people for more or less no reason, then what’s to stop them from killing me or you? Your audience might ask themselves that very question: What if that could happen to me?

Perfect. When your audience wonders how they would react within your world, they’re becoming a participant in your story. Which means they’re probably enjoying it.

Lastly, fiction serves as a buffer between audience and subject matter, allowing us to watch and even root for the killer. We follow these people who only pretend to feel emotion, who use their charm in order to kill those around them—but we don’t want to get too close. I think that’s why it’s so unpleasant to hear news stories about mass murders, yet a story about a mass murderer under the guise of fictional film can draw millions to the box office. Strange, isn’t it?

People talk about serial killers all the time. They talk about them in books, on TV, in movies, even on podcasts. Even after writing this blog, I’m still not sure I understand the fascination.

But one thing’s for sure: this subject is going to continue killin’ it for years to come.

Sorry. Bad pun…

The Force Awakens Gets the Tone Just Right

January 11, 2016 / Kyle A. Massa

If you’ve seen Star Wars: The Force Awakens, I’m guessing you liked it. And on the off chance that you didn’t, I’m guessing you still liked it more than the prequel films. Though there are many elements working for this film that weren’t working in the prequels, I think the key is tone.

What was the tone of the original three Star Wars films? A satisfying blend of wonder, adventure, humor, action, and drama. The prequels were a little heavy on the latter two, which kind of spoiled the recipe. The Force Awakens, however, got it just right.

It’s much easier to enjoy the world of a film when the characters are enjoying, too. For example, when Rey and Finn escape aboard the Millennium Falcon, they’re just as excited about their accomplishment as we are. That feels much more real to me than the characters of Episodes I, II, and III, who pretty much have flat reactions to just about everything. Exhibit A:

And Exhibit B:

And this…

We don’t see this kind of stiffness in the original trilogy. Instead, we have scenes of straight humor, such as Han’s classic “Who’s scruffy lookin’?” line—which is way more quotable, and not in an ironic way. Probably should’ve used that one more in high school…

It’s not that the prequels didn’t try for moments of levity. Jar Jar Binks was an attempt at humor. A misguided, bungling, completely unfunny attempt at humor, sure, but an attempt nonetheless. (P.S., did you know he’s a Sith Lord? I’m convinced.)

Ultimately, the tone of The Force Awakens matches the tone of the originals far better than the prequels. If the prequel trilogy came out first, I suspect it wouldn’t have been so disappointing. The established tone would’ve been a bit more serious and a bit less humorous. Therefore, audiences maybe wouldn’t have gone into theaters expecting something they weren’t going to get. It’s sort of like when Coke changed their recipe; people didn’t like it because it was unfamiliar.

The Force Awakens, however, is much more successful because the filmmakers go back to a world in which discovery and fun are integral to the story, just like in the original trilogy of films. It’s not just that we get Luke and Han and Leia back—it’s that we get their energy and excitement back, too.

Why There Should Be More Movies That Don’t Make Sense

November 2, 2015 / Kyle A. Massa

After I finished watching Alejandro G. Innaritu’s Birdman for the first time, my initial reaction was this: “I would need to watch that ten more times to really get it.”

I mean, let’s run through this for a second. The film is about Riggan Thomson, a guy who may or may not be schizophrenic and who (spoiler alert) seems to literally fly away from his problems at the end of the film. If you’ve seen the film, you’ll remember the scene where Riggan runs through Time Square in his tighty whities. And then there’s the fistfight with Ed Norton, fresh out of a tanning booth.

I mean, really…what the hell does any of this mean?

I don’t know. But that’s what I like about it.

I’ve seen enough transparent movies, and I bet you have, too–that is to say, movies that viewers can fully grasp in one sitting. To be fair, I love movies like that. I saw Jurassic World this summer and loved it. It’s not especially deep and you won’t gain much from watching it a second time (except maybe enjoying the dinosaur showdown at the end a little more), but it’s a fun movie.

And I think that’s fine. A movie shouldn’t set out to confuse its audience. However, I think more movies should challenge the audience. And that’s exactly what Birdman does.

Birdman is a story that you can’t consume in just one sitting. It’s a film that rewards careful viewers. It’s a story that offers something new every time you consume it. Still, Birdman is probably not to sort of movie you’re going to go see with your buddies on a Saturday night in July. Weird stories are not easy to get on the first go around.

Hollywood knows this, and I think that’s why you don’t see weird films nearly often enough. They know what kind of story sells, and it more or less goes like this: Main Character begins in a world of order. Disorder causes a problem that only Main Character can fix. For the next sixty minutes or so, Main Character tries and fails to fix her/his problem. Finally, Main Character faces the problem in the climax and either succeeds or fails in the attempt (usually succeeds).

It’s a simplified version, sure, but it’s a story humans have loved ever since stories have been told. Just ask Joseph Campbell.

It’s a good formula, and one that’s been proven to work. But formulas are for math and science. They’re dangerous when used in art.

Art shouldn’t be formulaic. Art should be spontaneous, unpredictable, and, it shouldn’t always make immediate sense. Because isn’t the whole point of art to make you think, to make you look at the world a different way? Nothing makes us think quite like something totally strange and totally unlike what we’ve seen before.

Or a guy who caws like a bird.

The Babadook and the Power of Fantasy

June 23, 2015 / Kyle A. Massa

The Babadook is not your average horror film.

There’s no gratuitous violence. There aren’t any jump-out scares. No blood. And–thank god–there are no dumb teenagers.

The Babadook is the story of Amelia Vannick (played by Essie Davis), a widow who lives alone with her troubled son, Samuel (Noah Wiseman). Amelia’s husband died on the same day her son was born, and neither of them have been quite right since. One night, Amelia finds a creepy book in her son’s room called Mister Babadook. The horror begins when the creature from the book stalks the family.

It might not sound all that scary from my description, but, trust me, The Babadook will frighten even the most experienced horror junkies. So what does this film do so well?

In a word: juxtaposition.

The Babadook pairs reality with fantasy, depression with home invasion, and suppression with the supernatural. Despite the poster and the synopsis, this film is as much about loss as it is about a monster.

Take writer/director Jennifer Kent’s interpretation of her own film, for instance: “Now, I’m not saying we all want to go and kill our kids, but a lot of women struggle. And it is a very taboo subject, to say that motherhood is anything but a perfect experience for women.”

It certainly isn’t for our main character, Amelia. Her husband died, she works at a job where she’s surrounded by death (a nursing home), and her son Samuel builds homemade weapons in the basement like a troubled little MacGyver. We can tell right from the beginning that the stress wears on her–and that much of her frustration is directed at Samuel.

As the film progresses and the Babadook invades the home, we see Amelia’s aggression heighten. The Babadook, in this case, represents Amelia’s suppressed anger; it’s no coincidence that it chooses to possess her and not her son. You’ve probably seen the moment from the trailer when Samuel shouts over and over, “Don’t let it in!” But his mother lets the Babadook–her anger–take full control, and that’s when things get even worse.

That is the power of fantasy. The Babadook is the personification of Amelia’s negative emotion, and a good one at that; if suppressed anger had a corporeal form, I’d imagine it wouldn’t be too pretty. Amelia sees the Babadook everywhere–in her home, at the police station, in her neighbor’s home. Here, writer/director Jennifer Kent gives us an important clue through the use of fantasy: Amelia can’t escape her negative emotions, no matter where she goes.

One of the coolest parts of the film is the use of montage. Not the kind of montage you see in a romantic comedy–I’m talking Russian filmmaker Sergei Eisenstein’s theory of film montage. Basically, the idea is that if you constantly show two images together in sequence, you can give both images a new, greater meaning. For example, if you show an image of a crying baby followed by an image of the grim reaper, you’ve given greater meaning to both images: you’re indicating that that baby might die, or you’re showing the passage of life, from the cradle to the grave.

Montage is a type of juxtaposition, and Kent uses it extensively with the Babadook and Amelia’s depression. We often see images of Amelia and the Babadook mirrored–Amelia holds a steak knife and the Babadook has knifelike fingers, for instance. Eventually, the real image and the fantastical one combine, and both transcend their original meaning: they represent a mother’s wish to kill her son.

The ending, to me, is the most intriguing part of the whole film. Amelia confronts the Babadook, and in doing so, she confronts the anger she feels toward her son and the depression she feels regarding her husband’s death. But, interestingly enough, that doesn’t actually kill the creature. The Babadook lives in the basement, chained up and weakened, but still alive. Amelia goes down to feed it, and the film ends.

What does this mean? Well, it’s certainly not the sort of happy ending we might expect. If we look back to classic works of horror, we see the recurring use of the subterranean to represent the subconscious (Lovecraft and Poe use this form of symbolism a fair bit). When you see people going down into the earth, it’s as if they’re traveling to a suppressed, secret part of the psyche.

Amelia’s basement serves the same role–she hides her negative emotions down in her subconscious mind, where they can’t hurt her or her son any more. For a while, at least…

You don’t need violence and blood to be frightening, and I think The Babadook proves that beyond a doubt. In this age of senseless violence and gratuitous gore, I was very happy to find a film that focuses on psychology rather than shock value. Writer/director Jennifer Kent uses fantasy to frighten us in a way that reality never could.

So if you decide to watch, I suggest doing it on a weekend. You probably won’t be getting any sleep.

Like creepy stories? You might enjoy horror story “Sightings.” It’s about a reporter tracking an angelic creature that brings with it a mysterious plague.

“Whiplash” and Writing a Good Villain

March 23, 2015 / Kyle A. Massa

I somehow made it through awards season without seeing many of the Academy Award Nominated films. Maybe I’ve been playing too much Fire Emblem: Awakening with the shades drawn. Anyway, I’ve gradually started to see more of them. Last night, Whiplash became the latest.

The film stars Miles Teller as Andrew Neiman, an ambitious jazz drummer at a competitive music conservatory, and J.K. Simmons as Terence Fletcher, an emotionally abusive music teacher. The film centers on the relationship between Neiman and Fletcher, examining Neiman’s thirst for greatness that is only swollen by Fletcher’s search for extraordinary talent.

Though Teller delivers an excellent performance, Simmons really steals the show (I mean, he did win the Oscar). Anyone can yell and scream obscenities, but Simmons balances those scenes with kind, almost touching moments of humanity. In one scene, for example, Neiman glimpses his teacher meeting with a friend and his daughter backstage before a show. Fletcher says to his friend’s daughter, “I’m so sorry, can I have your autograph?” And then later, “What do you say, you ready for Carnegie Hall?” It’s not said with the biting sarcasm he uses elsewhere in the film, though; it’s a surprisingly sweet scene.

Simmons’s Terence Fletcher is certainly a villain; there’s no questioning that. But, like any truly good villain, he’s still a person.

There’s another telling scene toward the end of the film in which Fletcher reveals his teaching style to Neiman. He says, “…it’s about pushing people beyond what’s expected of them. And I believe that is a necessity. Because without it you’re depriving the world of its next Armstrong. Its next Parker.” And then comes the line that probably encapsulates the character best: “There are no two words more harmful in the entire English language than ‘good job.'”

It’s an amazing scene because Fletcher justifies his aggressive teaching style. And though we as the audience probably didn’t understand him before (when he was slapping students, hurling chairs at them, and forcing them to play into the late hours of the morning), we might understand him now. This is the mark of an excellent fictional villain: one who commits reprehensible acts, yet reasonably justifies her/his actions.

Now I don’t want to diss the classic evil dude archetype. The Anton Chigurhs, Saurons, and Freddy Kruegers of film and literature are often just as awesome as their more rounded counterparts. But that sort of villain is seen less and less in modern stories. Filmgoers and readers seem far more interested in villains like Terence Fletcher, speaking generally. Guys like The Joker, Jaime Lannister, and Hans Landa are popular villains for a reason. It’s because people seem to be looking for villains with well-rounded psychologies and compelling motives for their evil acts.

Whiplash certainly doesn’t pass judgment on Fletcher’s actions either way. In fact, at the end of the film, Neiman does become Fletcher’s greatest student.

And when the villain helps the hero achieve his dreams, you’ve got to admit…that’s a new (and pretty cool) kind of villain.

What Does the Adapter Owe to the Source Material?

March 2, 2015 / Kyle A. Massa

Martin Luther King Jr.

“Do you love me?”

You might not remember this scene from Ava DuVerney’s Selma, but it certainly stuck with me. Coretta Scott King (played by Carmen Ejogo) confronts her husband, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. (played by David Oyelowo) with this very question. King responds with a quick, “Yes.”

“Do you love any of the others?” Coretta asks. Dr. King’s eyes bounce around the room nervously, and a painfully long silence passes before he croaks, “No.” Coretta leaves the room, and the scene ends.

It’s a powerful moment that’s well-acted on both sides. But what really struck me about that scene, and really most of the film, was this: how much of it is actually accurate to history?

There have been plenty of articles written on this very subject, many of which express disappointment over “historical inaccuracies” in the film. A lot of people are specifically upset about the depiction of President Lyndon B. Johnson. For context, in Selma, Johnson (played by Tom Wilkinson) is portrayed as a mostly unwilling participant in the equal rights movement, preferring instead to focus upon other issues and push King’s agenda back to the following year. Joseph A. Califano Jr., Johnson’s Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare, claimed that the filmmakers felt “free to fill the screen with falsehoods, immune from any responsibility to the dead, just because they thought it made for a better story.”

I agree with Mr. Califano in one respect at least. It did make for a better story.

When it comes to adaptations of any kind, many people seem to be so preoccupied with what happened. It seems like every historical fiction film or novel that comes out has people complaining that it’s not accurate, or that the artist changed too much. But that’s what it’s called historical fiction. As Vladimir Nabokov wrote in his afterword to Lolita, “It is childish to study a work of fiction in order to gain information about a country or about a social class or about the author.” In other words, don’t consume fiction and expect to learn any facts about anything.

Let’s say Selma did not portray the King/Johnson relationship with such strong conflict. Let’s imagine a film in which Johnson is fully on board with Dr. King’s plans. That’s a story without conflict, and, without conflict, you don’t have much of a story.

I suppose I understand why people close to the issue might be so upset. Indeed, there’s sometimes a certain presumptive quality to a piece of historical fiction, an unspoken suggestion that this was the way it really happened. But writer/director Ava DuVerney addressed the topic thusly, and I couldn’t agree more: “[Selma is] not a documentary. I’m not a historian. I’m a storyteller.”

Indeed, Selma is not a documentary. It is historical fiction. Perhaps we should remember that fiction is meant to entertain, to tell a compelling story, to make the audience think, and to make the audience feel. Even if a work of fiction is based on real-life occurrences, the artists allegiance should not lie with absolute truth; it should lie with the story.