Because we've become cliche.
Ann Hornaday had a great piece this past Sunday in the Washington Post, "From Indie Chic to Indie, Sheesh." It's cringe-inducing. In sum, mentioning so many movies I love -- and still do, despite her column -- she boiled "indie films" down to, essentially, the Gen X stereotype writ large. You know that stereotype: We're cynical, apathetic, self-absorbed slackers. And every time we hear that stereotype invoked against us, we balk: "No! We're much more!" At least I do; I always think, No, we're wall-breakers, open-minded, activist-oriented, and engaged. Some of us anyway.
And then along comes Hornaday with a perfect description of the films that define us, or at least have enraptured us, the past 20 years -- a description that's spot on. And a description that not only captures these films in a nutshell -- but also perfectly fit into the Gen X Stereotype Mold. (Yipe!)
American independent films used to be the stuff of the cognoscenti,
denizens of film festivals and art houses who laughed knowingly at their inside
jokes, appreciated their scratchy production values and applauded their formal
daring. It all changed in 1994, when the $8 million "Pulp Fiction" surpassed
$100 million at the U.S. box office. Since then, "low budget" films have been
steadily churned out by boutique arms of big studios and ambitious young
filmmakers looking for a hot Hollywood career.
By the time "Juno" screenwriter Diablo Cody won the Oscar this year, it was
painfully clear that the very principles that made indies so attractive in the
first place had morphed into tired, cynical mannerisms: Spontaneity became false
and studied; intimacy became precious; daring became shock value for its own
sake; personal became shallow and solipsistic; and willingness to challenge
linear narrative became pretentious and incoherent.
But there's hope:
Can indies be saved? Yes, but only as long as the question is framed
differently. It's time to stop talking about budgets, "edge" and filmmakers'
come-from-behind biographies -- indeed, maybe the word "indie" itself should be
banished -- and instead rediscover values like intelligence, emotional truth,
moral heft and restraint, which will endure long after indie-chic signifiers and
smug hermeticism have worn themselves out. . . .
Some of the best films of this year have been indies, in the most classical
sense of the word. "Frozen River," "Chop Shop" and "The Visitor" (by "The
Station Agent's" Tom McCarthy) each tells a well-crafted story about characters
we haven't seen before, in spontaneous, unstudied ease. Another bright spot on
the horizon is "Wellness," by Jake Mahaffy, which has barely been seen on the
festival circuit but turns heads wherever it's played. Mahaffy's unsettling,
finely observed drama about a traveling salesman in Pennsylvania suggests the
possibility for a new cinematic genre: post-industrial American neorealism. . .
.
In financing, lineage and vision, these movies are as independent as they
come. But none of them looks or sounds or acts like "Little Miss Juno Dynamite."
Instead, they look and sound and act exactly the way they should. They don't
concern themselves with being cutting-edge or groundbreaking; rather, as Chekhov
exhorted, they simply care about "what flows freely from the heart." Devoid of
mannerisms, gimmicks or look-at-me gestures, they do the truly radical thing.
They tell their stories simply and well. Move over, indie: Old-school classicism
may be making its own comeback.
All, it's time for a rewrite. There are stories to tell.
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