Emotionally Reasoning With Unoriginality: How Writing Changed My Views On Biopics
Staff Writer Billy Steven Tay critiques biopics’ obsession with accuracy and their eventual depiction(s) of unoriginality.
Every few months, my group of friends and I would meet up for a meal and catch up. As film students, the topic invariably would lead to what movies we’d seen recently. Bergman, Ray and Varda always took centre stage. Our weird friend would chime in on his 15th viewing of Pasolini’s Salo (1975) and The Piano Teacher (2001), saying there’s now meaning behind the Libertines getting aroused at the girl’s crying. The topic quickly led to Elvis (2022), Bohemian Rhapsody (2018) and Rocketman (2019) - biopics that chronicled the lives of Elvis Presley, Queen and Elton John respectively. Excitement took over as each one of my friends chimed in on the costumes, music, and the accuracy of how the actor looked. I kept quiet, which led to all eyes on me.
“Did you like it? You confirm liked it. Music fan like you, what’s not to like?” Again, I kept quiet.
For the first time ever, the table of opinions weren’t split evenly - I was the only one who didn’t care for these films.
In recent years, the rise of the biopic as a mainstay in contemporary cinema cannot be ignored. Its meteoric appeal cannot be understated, with its nostalgic, saccharine overtones laced with a feel-good soundtrack. And who doesn’t love a true story? But for the more ardent viewer, it simply isn’t enough.
Originality is a concept that often becomes a major factor in a viewer’s criticism and evaluation of films. Come up with a truly original story or concept, and all critique would lead to its originality as its main selling point. Truth is, originality is an unachievable ideal; all stories point to each other, either by influence, homage or structure. Shakespeare is revered as the preeminent English writer, as is Hitchcock for pioneering the camera work evocative of a person’s gaze. If originality is the metric we gauge things by - and if nothing is truly original - then how can we critique new works? New works offer insights by integrating the concepts, adapting and appropriating them to make a statement in cinema. It could be a technical achievement that pushes the boundaries, a storytelling technique executed beautifully, or in the case of Tarantino’s Kill Bill (2003) - a homage to Lady Snowblood (1973) so obviously intentional, you can’t help but see his love for the screen past the blatant copy.
Back at the table, I asked my friends what they saw in the films; unsurprisingly, praise was directed at these few things.
“Rami Malek actually looks like Freddie Mercury!”
“They recreated the music video for “I’m Still Standing” so accurately!”
“The final scene actually looks like the real performance, down to the Coke cup on the right of Elvis on the piano as he sings Unchained Melody!”
In these statements, critique now rests not on originality, but on accuracy to the source material. It’s nothing new of course. Harry Potter was often criticised in the early films for leaving out aspects (or lightening the mood) of the film for the screen. Later films like Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (2004) directed by Alfonso Cuarón brought the franchise into darker territory, distancing themselves from the books as living works of art that could be critiqued in isolation. The internal struggle of Harry, the very setting of Hogwarts, magic and the dark arts was visually stunning; it had taken the medium of film and appropriated it for itself. It’s hard to pick a favorite scene, but the shot of the Whomping Willow as it changes with the seasons, coming to life and shaking off snow and dried leaves as it adjusts itself to its changing environment evokes an otherworldly sense of realism. These little elements build up the story world in Harry Potter, going beyond textual descriptors and making the book literally come to life.
For directors, it is a true balancing act between sticking to the source material, being historically accurate, and hitting the right notes (not literally). But if directors throw that all out of the window for a moment and disregard historical accuracy, are their works still as compelling? As a history major, this answer seems sacrilegious - how can you be a revisionist? But the cinephile in me is willing to give it a shot. So over the weekend, I hunkered down in my room, bought Ben N’ Jerry’s ice cream (Strawberry Cheesecake flavor, if you’re wondering) and sat through several biopics that took this contentious path; Polanski’s The Pianist (2002), Spielberg’s Catch Me If You Can (2002), and Levinson’s Good Morning, Vietnam (1987). By the end of these films, I was crying, laughing, laughing more and then thinking deeply. The transformative power of film had yet again changed my perspective; by right, I shouldn’t have enjoyed these films, but I did. How was this possible? Why didn’t I question the accuracy of these films at every step of the way? A few months later, I watched Rob Marshall’s Memoirs of a Geisha (2005) on a date night, equally as flabbergasted as I was mesmerised. Historically, it’s further removed from the source novel, with its Orientalist, exoticised imagery of Japanese geishas speaking heavily-accented English over its two hour runtime. Yet, the set design, colour-grading and sweeping cinematography was alluring and spellbinding - it looked good! But in its quest for style-over-substance and exoticism, it perpetuated problematic stereotypes about geishas and Japanese stereotypes, suggesting that these women were nothing more than expensive prostitutes who auctioned off their virginity for custom kimonos. And let’s not get started on the white saviour narrative, as our protagonist must now return to her pre-war life of forced intimacy to secure financial investment from her American liberators in a hot spring. While I enjoyed the set design and sweeping cinematography, the problems inherent in the presentation were too glaring to ignore - no amount of colour grading, editing or cutting can fix that. A line must be drawn when a film’s inaccuracy brings about problematic depictions and imposes them onto the viewer.
If we de-centre ourselves from the idea that films should subscribe to an ideal, we openly embrace what these films have to offer; new perspectives, new ideas and fresh insights from re-presenting real events. This point brings me back to revisionism - and the sacrilege that I feel about films that go down this path. I found myself watching Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds (2009) [sic] and keeping an open mind about Tarantino’s representations of World War II Nazism on the silver screen. As the movie went on, I gradually forgot about my pearl-clutching stance and simply enjoyed the movie for what it is - Tarantino’s alternative history about Hitler getting burned to death in a French cinema. If enjoyment of these pictures disproves my long-held views, I wholeheartedly accept the notion of being a hypocrite.
Analysing biopics often leads to these two camps: accuracy or originality. But across the spectrum, I didn’t like these films for simply being accurate, like a schoolteacher meticulously fact-checking essays. Neither did I love them for being original - Tarantino’s homage (or copy, frankly) to John Ford’s The Searchers (1956) in the opening scene would have disproved my argument. Throwing criticism aside, I enjoyed these films for their emotional depth and dramatic effectiveness. Catch Me If You Can hits a raw nerve; as a child of divorce, I relate deeply to Frank Abagnale’s torment on having to pick which parent to live with. Tarantino’s work ignites a wicked excitement in me as I see Hitler finally dying not by his own hand.
I speak again to films as having a transformative power. If we learn to forgive inaccuracies, broaden our definition of what is good, and learn to listen to our heart more than our analytical and critical mind, we can gain a deeper understanding and enjoyment of great stories from around the world.