Moonrise Kingdom may be the first time I was the only non-white person in a crowded theater (and I’ve been to many a Woody Allen picture). I passed on the film when my friends in Tucson suggested an outing earlier this summer, saving it for my sister when I visited my family in Dinuba. It turned out to be perfectly enjoyable, a sweet take on childhood adventure and its accompanying romanticism. Anderson has never been my cup of tea, but my reasons are nebulous and mostly tied to my reactions to his distinctive middle-class reference points. 
In any case, even if the camp setting of Moonrise Kingdom kept me at arm’s length for a little while, the stylistic flourishes warmed me. The overly mustard décor of a 1960s kitchen, for example, extending itself (maybe a little too much) into the fashion choices of the kitchen’s owner. A lovingly handled record player, with attention to the simplicity of its knobs. A superfluous shot from atop a police car, complete with siren, like an old episode of Adam-12. The charming children’s-book silhouette to illustrate danger in the finale. Even the kohl-eyed stare of Suzy when she puts down her binoculars reminded me, oddly enough, of the first time I actually encountered the word kohl–that made it a little easier to accept the main protagonist’s smarter-than-thou presence.
I stay away from reviews these days and try to read them only after I’ve seen a film. I was pleasantly surprised to see a couple of mentions of Hal Ashby, in relation to his Harold and Maude as a potential referent to Anderson’s film. That film, too, is carried by a young protagonist whose knowledge and adult demeanor strains credibility, but characters like these might be appealing (I suspect) because they match how some people in the audience have always imagined themselves to be.  In any case, it got me to thinking about why I never talk about Hal Ashby as a favorite director, or even a director for whom I have a lot of affection.
Ashby’s run in the 1970s is quite remarkable. There’s The Landlord (1970, which I’ll get to in a moment); Harold and Maude (1971), with its passionate fans (though I’m not of them); the Nicholson-led sausage party, The Last Detail (1973); the comedy, ending with a melancholic note, Shampoo (1975); the earnest biopic of Woody Guthrie, Bound for Glory (1976); the sentimental Vietnam drama Coming Home (1978);, and satiric/maybe mythic Peter Sellars flick Being There (1979).
Netflix was (is still?) showing The Landlord in my queue for a while and I finally gave in because it held one of those Supporting Actress performances (Lee Grant) in a seemingly minor film that I feared I would never get to. Oddly enough, I ended up being thrilled by the film  Based on African-American writer Kristin Hunter’s 1966 novel of the same name, the film is very much of its time: daring on the one hand for its embrace of direct social commentary, but rushed, too, in how it can sometimes dispense altogether with narrative trajectory in favor of characters speaking directly to the camera and just putting it all on the line. The film follows a young affluent New Yorker, played by Beau Bridges, who tells us in the opening that he plans to buy a Park Slope tenement (!!), ditch the renters, and construct an elaborate space for himself. The plans, of course, don’t quite work out that way, and the film follows him in his various confrontations and relationships with the people in the neighborhood.
I don’t know why Ashby is hardly ever discussed much with other elite 1970s directors. Well, maybe I do know (but am reluctant to admit) that I often think of Ashby’s work as heavily dependent on the screenplay. Whether his films exhibit any visual flair or identifiable Ashby frames is something I should think about, but the credits to The Landlord held a number of surprises. Liberal Hollywood rabble-rousers Norman Jewison and Walter Mirisch served as producers, and I nearly jumped out of my chair when I spotted Gordon Willis’s name as the cinematographer, which gave me yet another opportunity to watch a master in action. Here, for example is one of my favorite shots in the film, in which four light sources pop up on the screen, in tempo with the rising tension between the two characters.
I’ve mentioned The Landlord to a few film friends in regards to Ashby and Anderson, but I’m still floating around what kind of question I want to pose to myself when I finally get around to Bound for Glory. Maybe watching these 1970s films would tell me something about what he chose to listen to and highlight in story. Twice in The Landlord, the film crosscuts Lee Grant’s horrified self-regard when threatened with her son’s increasing involvement with black women. Rather than count on Grant’s execution of uncontainable disgust, the film inserts sight gags to distill her character’s racism unmistakably to the audience. In one, her character gathers a small group of children and she sings to them as their plantation mother hen before the film cuts back to the present action.
It reminded me of the same moment of maternal discovery by Brenda Blethyn’s character in Secrets & Lies, how much more patiently the director Mike Leigh allowed the moment to pass. I saw that film in the theater too, and the gradual laughter that accompanied it was a credit to the unity of the story’s pace and the audience’s handle of it. I’m fuddy-duddy that way, preferring the chance to witness a change, rather than the static resonance of the tableau or the employment of the zoom shot for the sake of the zoom shot. I’d recommend a look at this picture for all sorts of reasons, though I’ll also say there’s some intriguing, engaging work from Diana Sands, Marki Bey, and Pearl Bailey, should you need a little nudge.
-  Since my sister uses a wheelchair, we’re always right up front, and I’m always curious about the makeup of an audience—I can see it all from that vantage point. This one completely surprised me, not least because the film actually screened in Fresno (albeit in one of those last theaters at the end of the hall, past the always empty, never-ever stocked concession stand, when the theater apparently had grander plans for service.) ↩
-  Another Tucson friend firmly insists his conviction that understanding a Wes Anderson film is the ticket to understanding whiteness, and I think I get what he means. Take summer camp, for example—as an adult, I can now see why camps might figure as perfect metaphoric sites to revisit adolescent loneliness and the ruthless competition for popular standing. But damn, I spent my summers picking grapes. Suburban angst took a long time for me to understand on those days when I all I could recall of summer was brutal heat.↩
- Much smarter than anyone in the room, even at an age when it wasn’t actually possible to be so.↩
- It’s the one Ashby film from this era that I have not seen, given my general distaste for biopics.↩
-  Its last sequence is one of the few that can bring me to tears, and I’ve seen the film many times.↩
-  Though I will tell you that a good friend with the same general tastes found it insufferable.↩
-  Yet another book to put on my stack! ↩
-  Even I’ll admit that the Ashby film I’m least fond of, The Last Detail, carried my interest because of the sustained interaction of the three protagonists, and the sentimentality of Coming Home is something I can easily ignore because of the evident investment in the story’s grounded emotions by the principle players—I really do choke up watching Jane Fonda in the last scene of this picture.↩