The blindness & deafness of Hollywood

When it comes to movies, folks speak with their dollars. Were the Academy Awards given to what the masses (you and I) believe were the best picture, best actors, etc., none of this years winners save Heath Ledger would have hoisted the little, golden man.

That's why it comes as no surprise to us, the rank and file, that Race to Witch Mountain (RWM), the tame, Saturday-afternoon popcorn fare that harkens back to yesteryear, ker-shwacked The Watchmen at the box office this weekend.

RWM stars the Rock, the former wrestler who now makes movies that don't assault the family (i.e. Gridiron Gang). It's got special effects. It's got chase scenes. It's got aliens. Why it stands atop the box office, I believe, is not because of what it's got; it's because of what it doesn't have. What it doesn't have is what The Watchmen has in spades.

The Watchmen film grew out of the graphic novel written in the '80's. By graphic novel, I don't mean graphic novel, something prurient that you would hide from your mama. It's a comic book on steroids, deep in plot and characterization. Because of its size, graphic novels appeal more to adult audiences and tend to cover topics of a more mature nature. (Words like adult and mature are good words coopted by the porn industry to try and put frosting on manure. I use those words in their classic definition and not euphemistically for salacious waste.)

Where the novel, which for full-disclosure I have not read, uses greater discretion in language and sex, the movie slathers itself in it. And the winner is...Race to Witch Mountain.

Is Hollywood listening? Did they miss last summer? The Dark Knight and Iron Man, both dark films with tormented characters, rocked the box office. The difference? Foul language minimized and gratuitous sex avoided (though Iron Man had a few risque' moments). Parents are much more willing to let their teenage children go see movies (or likely join them) where the plot and the characters raise difficult questions or pose dire dilemmas.

I don't need to be assaulted with foul language to understand the corruption of a soul or that he faces an intense situation. Show me that with style, with acting, with nuance. I don't need to see copulation to understand passion. I've written about it before (here, here, and here), but I'll say it again, I've had my heart pounding with nary a button popped or kiss consumated. You call yourself a director? Then show me your art with a dabble and not a dumptruck.

Hollywood doesn't get it. If they had their druthers, they'd keep cranking out the guano for which they give each other awards. Ah, but the rabble (you and I) pay for their ability to make pictures that jab a stick in the eye of mid-American sensibilities. So until such time as money grows on trees, expect the producers to pitch us a Scooby-snack from time to time by giving us a good ole edge-of-the-seat family friendly flick like Race to Witch Mountain, and we'll keep flocking to the cineplex. Meantime, we'll continue to avoid The Watchmen and its type like a cold sore.

Yet Hollywood continues to shake its swollen head and wonder why. Pass the Blistex.