Up till now, this essay series has mostly been taking a look back at the juggernauts of Steven Spielberg’s and George Lucas’s careers.
But as Spielberg himself has said, every filmmaker eventually stumbles into a misfire that can break their career if they don’t do the proper course correction.
With that in mind, both Spielberg and Lucas have made several films among those big ones that have not connected for one reason or another. And with misfires, of course, comes criticism.
Now, some of it is constructive criticism. Flaws are flaws, and if enough of them stack up, they can keep the characters at an emotional distance from the audience. And nothing will sink a story quicker.
On the other hand, much of it can also feel like an overdone pile-on that takes the fun out of movie discussions, and that defeats the purpose. But that’s another post.
All that said, one interesting thing to note is how Spielberg and Lucas individually react to criticism.
Spielberg makes films for the audience. When discussing his misfires, he often becomes introspective and apologetic. He is willing to admit to his perceived mistakes, and he usually tries to make up for them. Case in point: After fan outcry over the E.T. special edition, Spielberg said he never should have messed with the film, and now the altered version has essentially been banished.
In contrast, Lucas makes films for himself. When discussing his misfires, he becomes both introspective and defiant. Moreover, he often doubles down on what people are criticizing him for - e.g., He kept adding to the Star Wars Special Editions even after fan outcry. And yet, at the same time, he won’t admit when he does try and make up for fan outcry - e.g., He reduced Jar Jar Binks’s role in the latter two Star Wars prequels and said it was always planned to be that way*.
*That might be true, but for Jar Jar to go from having such a big role in the first prequel to barely appearing in the last prequel is pretty jarring. Oh, god, I’m gonna do it - “or should I say, jar-jarring!” 😃
Honestly, I think everyone in the creative field can relate to both approaches. On the one hand, I would be honored if even just one person liked something I had a hand in creating. On the other hand, I am my own worst critic. I can’t even rewatch the first home movie I ever made at age ten, entitled Fartman, without planning reshoots.
Now, maybe it’s because I’m such an uber fan of these guys, but to me, they are such skilled storytellers that even in their less popular films, I can find things to enjoy.
Here are some thoughts:
1941 (1979)
Ironically, as an homage to vintage madcap comedies, the humor just didn’t seem to land with most people here. And I think it’s because we don’t really have any characters we can latch on to (which is a shame, given the cast).
However, much can be said for the movie's energetic set pieces, beautiful hazy cinematography, and wonderful recreation of '40s Hollywood that involves production design and miniature model work we just don't see much of nowadays. It’s a gorgeous-looking film.
Always (1989)
While there have been romantic elements in many of Spielberg's films, this was the first one wherein the love story was the main focus. (What always strikes me the most is how similar it is to Ghost, which came out a year later. The leads even connect via “their song” at crucial points in both films.)
At any rate, one of Spielberg's strengths is finding the larger-than-life in the everyday. And he certainly shifts between the two here as he balances an intimate story about moving on with some effective afterlife, flight, and fire imagery.
John Goodman, as always, plays a fantastic sidekick, Audrey Hepburn glows in her last film role, and Richard Dreyfuss and Holly Hunter have sweet, relatable chemistry. This is a nice one.
The Lost World: Jurassic Park (1997)
While all of the Jurassic Park sequels made money – it is a six-film franchise, after all – the fact that none of them ever really replicated the trailblazing cultural footprint of the first one signifies that maybe JP was never meant to be a franchise.
For starters, the story made its thematic point in the first film rather conclusively, and it felt decidedly complete. Plus, no other sequel set piece ever matched the sheer “OMG I feel like prey” visceral impact of the iconic T. rex Jeep attack.
Even the best parts of this movie - namely the T. rex trailer attack and the raptor basecamp attack - are basically variations (albeit incredibly well-executed variations) of the most memorable parts of the first film.
That said, I do prefer LW to the other JP sequels. It's a fun movie with another great John Williams score and a propulsive second half (and Jeff Goldblum carries it all). The San Diego climax in particular was a nice surprise.
The Terminal (2004)
The first in a string of underrated Spielberg films from the aughts, this very Frank Capra-esque, humanistic fable is about unlikely connections and passionate dreams.
This is the third Spielberg/Hanks collaboration, and the latter dives into a role that I would present wholeheartedly as proof that he is the most likable guy on the planet.
The movie works because Hanks makes us believe in Viktor as a real person, perfectly conveyed via heartfelt emotion, a wonderful command of physical comedy, and a charming earnestness that you just can't fake. This is a nice one too.
The Adventures of Tintin (2011), The BFG (2016), and Ready Player One (2018)
Here's the thing about performance-capture animation: It is most useful when it's used in service of an effect that cannot be achieved otherwise (Gollum, King Kong, Caeser from the modern Planet of the Apes films). But when it's used for human characters, and you bury your cast under plastic visages, we can sometimes enter the uncanny valley if it’s not done right.
That said, these three films contain some of the best examples of performance-capture animation yet seen. Also, you can tell Spielberg was having fun with the freedom that the process afforded him - he and his team definitely couldn't have pulled off some of the incredible shots in these movies any other way.
And yes, Spielberg’s storytelling skills still shine through in all three films. The relationship between the little girl and the titular BFG is charming, and the action scenes in Tintin and RPO are all very well-conceived and executed (especially the Morocco chase in the former and the Shining sequence in the latter).
Bottom line: These three films have their share of pluses, but ultimately I think performance-capture animation turns a lot of people off, and that’s the main reason why they weren’t bigger hits*.
*Ready Player One’s underperformance was the most surprising to me of these three. Given the nostalgia that fuels much of our pop culture, the popularity of the novel it was based on, its timely social commentary, and its overall fun tone, I thought it was going to catch on. My theory is that while it is mostly set “inside” a video game, the audience connection might have been better maintained if those sequences had featured live-action people against a digital backdrop, ala Tron, as opposed to full-on CGI.
Tucker: The Man and His Dream (1988)
“It’s the idea that counts... And the dream.”
That thematically crucial quote from Tucker: The Man and His Dream - one of two gorgeous-looking Lucasfilm productions released in 1988 - shows precisely why it is the kind of film that seems tailor-made for an essay series like this one.
After all, the stories we choose to tell reveal a lot about us.
Yes, on the surface, the movie is about cars, which is of course George Lucas’s favorite pastime. But more importantly, as Preston Tucker himself articulates during a climactic courtroom speech, it’s about the dangers of closing the door on progress and how dreamers are too often crushed by an out-of-touch capitalistic meatgrinder.
In short, Tucker: The Man and His Dream feels like a veritable psychological profile of George Lucas himself (and director Francis Ford Coppola, arguably.)
It’s obvious why Lucas was drawn to this project, seeing as it reflects his struggles trying to make the landmark Star Wars trilogy within a combative studio system way back when. Yet while the challenges of that experience caused Lucas to step away from the director’s chair for two decades, it nonetheless allowed him to use his clout as a producer to help his peers and mentors get their films made. Silver linings paid forward.
“Don’t get too close to people. You’ll catch their dreams.”
On the other hand, this quote above unintentionally illustrates what might be seen as the downside of dreaming for a living.
If their biographies are to be believed, many innovators often reach the point where their singular tunnel vision dictates they just won’t take no for an answer, and they can often become closed off to other perspectives. This means their art can suffer because of their hubris, and that their “contagious dreams” can take the people who helped them down too.
Some might even argue that the above quote also served as unintentional foreshadowing because - as they see it - such hubris befell Lucas himself during the making of the Star Wars prequels, oh irony of ironies. However, given the fact that those films have seen somewhat of a renaissance over the past few years, I wouldn’t exactly say that’s apt.
Regardless, Lucas himself seems to think he has become disconnected from some of his fans (and definitely his critics).
While the below quote was uttered to Tucker by Howard Hughes in the film, you could almost view it as a scene between younger Lucas and older Lucas in conversation with each other, lamenting where he was versus where he ended up going. Ah, the tumultuous inner life of geniuses - it’s certainly an intriguing notion to contemplate.
“People… Did I change, or did the cosmic sense of humor? I used to laugh when they did.”
Willow (1988)
George Lucas’s attempted franchise-starter has remained an underrated benchmark of the “sword-and-sorcery, dragons-and-magic, let’s-go-on-a-quest” fantasy genre for much of my lifetime.
The reason Willow is such a milestone is that it was one of the first of its kind to show that the genre could work* if it was taken seriously and given the right amount of production-value support.
*Just to illustrate how difficult it is to get full-on fantasy right, think of how many got it wrong pre-2000s as compared to the two modern hallmarks, Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones.
With that in mind, the first big behind-the-scenes article I remember reading in a movie magazine was about this film’s groundbreaking morphing effects. I was so excited because it felt like all of the awe I’d experienced while absorbing the formative fantasy novels of my youth could finally be realized on screen. (This led me to become the only kid I knew who had Willow action figures, along with my Hook ones.)
Wonderfully, this little gem lived up to my expectations back then, and it has since become a cult hit, and I still adore it.
Yes, I get that it’s “Star Wars in medieval times,” but regardless - the mythic themes still stir the soul; Ron Howard’s confident direction is still admirable to behold, given how he was finding his voice at that early stage of his career; the double-headed dragon set piece is still magnificent; and Val Kilmer’s Madmartigan is still the coolest non-Han Solo, Han Solo character.
And I must also mention the beautiful score by James Horner. It simply glows with swashbuckling adventure, and it’s the best fantasy music this side of John Williams.
All in all, I will always hold a special place in my heart for Willow, because it was the first time I ever remember thinking, “It’s possible.” Just as I will always take “lesser” Spielberg/Lucas over most half-baked genre films any day of the week.
And yes, that includes Howard the Duck 🙌