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“You’ve heard of a no-win situation, haven’t you?… Vietnam; this.” —Albert Brooks, Modern Romance

LaMotta vs. Janiro. There are some ugly fights in Raging Bull, like when Jake LaMotta (Robert De Niro) drops his arms and takes the punishment he thinks he deserves, holding himself upright as his own blood drips from saturated ropes. But not on this night. Jake is the one meting out punishment to Tony Janiro, a young middleweight challenger, and he’s doing it almost entirely with blows to the head. His wife Vickie (Cathy Moriarty) had mentioned in passing that Janiro was handsome and Jake, consumed by pathological jealousy, wants to break the kid’s face for it. When Janiro hits the floor, Jake raises his arms and flashes a malevolent smile in Vickie’s direction. “He ain’t pretty no more,” says a ringside observer.

Then the cycle begins again.

Albert Brooks’ Modern Romance came out a year after Raging Bull, and at no point does Brooks’ Robert Cole resort to fisticuffs over Mary Harvard (Kathryn Harrold), his on-again/off-again girlfriend. Raging Bull is a black-and-white period drama and Modern Romance is a contemporary romantic comedy, but the two films play like companion pieces, each a disturbing and unrelenting profile of male jealousy and obsession. Jake exerts power through brute force, every bit the ferocious animal the title implies; Robert resorts to relentless passive-aggression, masking his emotional violence with the assurance that passion dictates his possessiveness. Jake thrashes his opponents in the ring, and turns on his wife, his brother (Joe Pesci), and finally himself. For Robert, the words “I love you” act like a soft punch that sting in the same way, because they keep him in a relationship that brings joy to neither party, but staves off the possibility that Mary can be with anyone else but him.

For Brooks to smuggle these insights into a comedy—and an exceptionally funny one at that—is an achievement that should be respected as much as Martin Scorsese’s perennial best-of-all-time favorite, but rarely gets the same acknowledgement, if it gets acknowledged at all. (One exception: Stanley Kubrick, who loved Modern Romance so much that he reportedly contacted Brooks out of the blue to ask him how he pulled it off. It sounds absurd until you consider how much Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut taps into the same phenomenon.) Much like Brooks’ debut feature, Real Life, Modern Romance is a bold act of comic deconstruction, starting with the deliberately blunt title, which isn’t about “romance” any more than the earlier film was about “life.” Before making movies, Brooks’ stand-up, short films, and talk-show appearances made delicious sport out of breaking down tired gags, like ventriloquism, celebrity impersonations, and the spit-take. Modern Romance promises—and, in its perverse way, delivers—a love story for our time, but it relentlessly exposes the impulses that keep bad relationships going, bonded in perpetual dysfunction.

Brooks wastes no time. In the very first scene, Robert breaks up with Mary, likening their “no-win situation” to the Vietnam War. Mary rolls her eyes. This has happened before. We don’t know how many times they’ve broken up and gotten back together before, but Modern Romance opens somewhere in the middle of their relationship, not the beginning of it. And as the film unfolds, we can see plainly why they don’t work as a couple. They have nothing in common. She works at a bank and he works as a film editor, and both have trouble even feigning interest in the other’s job. They fight constantly, which at least leads to great make-up sex. There’s no evidence they even like each other. Robert uses the word “love” to express a burbling cauldron of ugly emotions; Mary seems so worn down by his relentless entreaties that she keeps coming back.

The relationship would end if not for two related factors: 1. Robert cannot be alone for a second. 2. Robert cannot bear the thought of Mary sleeping with another man. Modern Romance makes hilarious sport of the former in an extended post-break-up where Robert pops two Quaaludes and spends a long night stumbling around his apartment, making phone calls to his assistant editor (Bruno Kirby), arranging a rebound date with a woman he can’t even remember (“I didn’t even think you liked me,” she says), and chatting up his pet bird Petey. To continue the Raging Bull analogy, the scene is like the comic equivalent of LaMotta alone in the jail cell, pounding the walls with his fists as if trying to break through the prison of his own conscience. These are metaphorical walls that both men have constructed—and in Robert’s case, not even a couple of ‘ludes can soften the concrete.

The old adage dictates that money cant buy happiness, but anyone without money can say with all certainty that it sure makes it a hell of a lot easier. That saying is predicated on two core assumptions, both of which Steven Soderberghs 2009 film The Girlfriend Experience effectively overturns. The first is that having things material possessions, baubles, immediate luxuries will not bring a person any sort of profound, meaningful contentment. Christine, a.k.a. Chelsea, the high-price escort that former adult film starlet Sasha Grey portrays in the film, might beg to differ. She meticulously catalogues the clothes she wears on her various appointments like theyre armor, noting the names Kors, Chanel, and Louboutin as if they possess power even on the printed page. The second is that money can only be used to purchase things, items that sit idly around a house, providing no consolation whatsoever. But In The Girlfriend Experience, everything has a price tag.

The Girlfriend Experience was doomed to be written off as one of Soderberghs experimental vanity projects from the very outset, its low-budget Handicam aesthetic and lack of name-brand actors (with the highly significant exception of Ms. Grey) alienating many of the directors faithful followers. But while the stylistic boundary-pushing and unorthodox narrative methods may have positioned this film for accusations of disposability from its detractors, the films understanding of the intersection between commerce and romance has revealed itself to be more prescient with every passing year. With Grey as his guide, Soderbergh infiltrates the upper echelon of New York society and finds a hidden world where everything can be automated and accessed on demand, whether that means love, power, or integrity. Money might not be able to buy happiness, but that still leaves quite a bit worth buying.

Greys character is no simple prostitute; shes a woman of a distinct caliber, offering more than a crass meetup at a dingy hotel. The sexual aspect is but a single component of what Christine provides when she assumes her secret identity as Chelsea. Her clients pay out the nose for the titular experience, the simulacrum of companionship that she dutifully playacts by listening attentively and patiently as they prattle on about their jobs, their lives, or the future. Chelsea goes out for full engagements, attending dinner, drinks or dancing in addition to catering to the various sexual preferences of her clientele. Soderbergh includes liberal swatches of dialogue in which Chelsea and her male patrons simply shoot the bull, with no explicitly transactional tone involved one man complains about lackluster sales at work, another advises Chelsea to invest in gold. To the men, theyre conversing as one human being to another. But Chelsea never gets lost in the woods and forgets the fundamental gap between customer and servant.

The constant element threading these dialogues together, and connecting Chelseas plotline to the goings-on that occupy her boyfriend Chris (Chris Santos), is the driving motivator of fiscal gain. Both Chelsea and Chris are in the business of monetizing the illusion of sincere affection within a specifically defined transaction. Chelsea offers an escort service that purports to be something more, and Chris is a personal trainer at a gym, where he gets all buddy-buddy with fitness nuts in an effort to secure a two-year commitment and the hefty check that goes with it. They both harbor greater ambitions, too: Chris dreams of starting a facility of his own, while Christine only assumes her Chelsea persona so that she can save up enough to open a luxury clothing store. It turns out that Chris and Christine are a well-matched couple, so like-minded in their pursuit of the almighty dollar that Chris readily turns a blind eye to Christines outings as Chelsea.

At least, up until a point. Soderbergh keeps his dramatic motion at a low simmer throughout most of the film, with the widespread unrest of the 2007 financial crisis and the impending 2008 Presidential election rumbling around the fringes, socioeconomic storm clouds gathering on the horizon. But Soderbergh doesnt have the time in this svelte 77-minute film to wait for the effects of the shifting tectonic plates of American culture to affect Christine and Chris, and so he introduces immediate conflict that replicates the same thematic concerns. Christine realizes that shell have to make a dramatic move if she wants to bring her aspirations to fruition, and agrees to sit down with a skeevy critic of escorts who goes by The Erotic Connoisseur. (Adding yet another layer of metatext to a film that courts a complex relationship with reality, Soderbergh cast actual film critic Glenn Kenny as the lecherous appraiser of prostitutes.) He makes Chelsea an offer that shes not entirely sure she can afford to refuse: one weekend on a sheiks pleasure yacht, with the opportunity to make kaboodles of money and establish some promising connections. But before she can even consider that option, the Connoisseur requests a bit of try-before-you-buy action with Chelsea, a prospect twice as unsavory.

The old adage dictates that money can’t buy happiness, but anyone without money can say with all certainty that it sure makes it a hell of a lot easier. That saying is predicated on two core assumptions, both of which Steven Soderbergh’s 2009 film The Girlfriend Experience effectively overturns. The first is that having things — material possessions, baubles, immediate luxuries — will not bring a person any sort of profound, meaningful contentment. Christine, a.k.a. Chelsea, the high-price escort that former adult film starlet Sasha Grey portrays in the film, might beg to differ. She meticulously catalogues the clothes she wears on her various appointments like they’re armor, noting the names Kors, Chanel, and Louboutin as if they possess power even on the printed page. The second is that money can only be used to purchase things, items that sit idly around a house, providing no consolation whatsoever. But In The Girlfriend Experience, everything has a price tag.

The Girlfriend Experience was doomed to be written off as one of Soderbergh’s experimental vanity projects from the very outset, its low-budget Handicam aesthetic and lack of name-brand actors (with the highly significant exception of Ms. Grey) alienating many of the director’s faithful followers. But while the stylistic boundary-pushing and unorthodox narrative methods may have positioned this film for accusations of disposability from its detractors, the film’s understanding of the intersection between commerce and romance has revealed itself to be more prescient with every passing year. With Grey as his guide, Soderbergh infiltrates the upper echelon of New York society and finds a hidden world where everything can be automated and accessed on demand, whether that means love, power, or integrity. Money might not be able to buy happiness, but that still leaves quite a bit worth buying.

Grey’s character is no simple prostitute; she’s a woman of a distinct caliber, offering more than a crass meetup at a dingy hotel. The sexual aspect is but a single component of what Christine provides when she assumes her secret identity as Chelsea. Her clients pay out the nose for the titular experience, the simulacrum of companionship that she dutifully playacts by listening attentively and patiently as they prattle on about their jobs, their lives, or the future. Chelsea goes out for full engagements, attending dinner, drinks or dancing in addition to catering to the various sexual preferences of her clientele. Soderbergh includes liberal swatches of dialogue in which Chelsea and her male patrons simply shoot the bull, with no explicitly transactional tone involved — one man complains about lackluster sales at work, another advises Chelsea to invest in gold. To the men, they’re conversing as one human being to another. But Chelsea never gets lost in the woods and forgets the fundamental gap between customer and servant.

The constant element threading these dialogues together, and connecting Chelsea’s plotline to the goings-on that occupy her boyfriend Chris (Chris Santos), is the driving motivator of fiscal gain. Both Chelsea and Chris are in the business of monetizing the illusion of sincere affection within a specifically defined transaction. Chelsea offers an escort service that purports to be something more, and Chris is a personal trainer at a gym, where he gets all buddy-buddy with fitness nuts in an effort to secure a two-year commitment and the hefty check that goes with it. They both harbor greater ambitions, too: Chris dreams of starting a facility of his own, while Christine only assumes her Chelsea persona so that she can save up enough to open a luxury clothing store. It turns out that Chris and Christine are a well-matched couple, so like-minded in their pursuit of the almighty dollar that Chris readily turns a blind eye to Christine’s outings as Chelsea.

At least, up until a point. Soderbergh keeps his dramatic motion at a low simmer throughout most of the film, with the widespread unrest of the 2007 financial crisis and the impending 2008 Presidential election rumbling around the fringes, socioeconomic storm clouds gathering on the horizon. But Soderbergh doesn’t have the time in this svelte 77-minute film to wait for the effects of the shifting tectonic plates of American culture to affect Christine and Chris, and so he introduces immediate conflict that replicates the same thematic concerns. Christine realizes that she’ll have to make a dramatic move if she wants to bring her aspirations to fruition, and agrees to sit down with a skeevy critic of escorts who goes by “The Erotic Connoisseur.” (Adding yet another layer of metatext to a film that courts a complex relationship with reality, Soderbergh cast actual film critic Glenn Kenny as the lecherous appraiser of prostitutes.) He makes Chelsea an offer that she’s not entirely sure she can afford to refuse: one weekend on a sheik’s pleasure yacht, with the opportunity to make kaboodles of money and establish some promising connections. But before she can even consider that option, the Connoisseur requests a bit of try-before-you-buy action with Chelsea, a prospect twice as unsavory.

Just in time for your holiday travels, we present the first edition of the Musings Podcast, in which we pair Punk Auteur Joel Potrykus (BUZZARD, APE) with The Undisputed Party King, Andrew W.K., for a chat about Faces of Death, Pink Floyd, Lord of the Rings, and other weird shit.

Below is a transcribed excerpt from their conversation, the full version of which is streaming on Soundcloud and iTunes. We hope you have as much fun listening to it as we had putting it together.

Joel Potrykus:Im curious if there are any movies that you were way crazy into in high school. I think thats where people really get into movies the most.

Andrew W.K.: At that time, I was definitely into trying to find movies. I had a rather primal experience, I believe, my freshman year at a concert that was actually at the University of Michigan campus at some type of auditorium that had a screening room. There were some very confrontational and intense groups/bands playing and thats why I had gone. But one of the groups specifically, I believe it was called 10,000 Dying Rats (at least I think that was their nameI believe theyre even still in Michigan, I tried following up with them over the years, Im sure theyre still active, the members definitely are to some capacity). I remember they were very dedicated. Part of their presentation involved using the projector and the big screen and showing this compilation of movie clips that they had edited together. It was very intense. Theres a lot of clips I was semi-familiar and then there were many that I was unfamiliar with including clips from a movie called Nekromantik. It was probably the most disturbing thing I had ever seen. Part of it was probably taken from or had the same atmosphere as this compilation called Faces of Death.

JP: Right. Half of those were so fake, though. Those Faces of Death. I was so into those. But it was always such a bummer, because half of them were re-enactments and stuff.

Just in time for your holiday travels, we present the first edition of the Musings Podcast, in which we pair Punk Auteur Joel Potrykus (BUZZARD, APE) with The Undisputed Party King, Andrew W.K., for a chat about Faces of Death, Pink Floyd, Lord of the Rings, and other weird shit. 

Below is a transcribed excerpt from their conversation, the full version of which is streaming on Soundcloud and iTunes. We hope you have as much fun listening to it as we had putting it together. 

Joel Potrykus: I’m curious if there are any movies that you were way crazy into in high school. I think that’s where people really get into movies the most.

Andrew W.K.: At that time, I was definitely into trying to find movies. I had a rather primal experience, I believe, my freshman year at a concert that was actually at the University of Michigan campus at some type of auditorium that had a screening room. There were some very confrontational and intense groups/bands playing and that’s why I had gone. But one of the groups specifically, I believe it was called “10,000 Dying Rats” (at least I think that was their name—I believe they’re even still in Michigan, I tried following up with them over the years, I’m sure they’re still active, the members definitely are to some capacity). I remember they were very dedicated. Part of their presentation involved using the projector and the big screen and showing this compilation of movie clips that they had edited together. It was very intense. There’s a lot of clips I was semi-familiar and then there were many that I was unfamiliar with including clips from a movie called Nekromantik. It was probably the most disturbing thing I had ever seen. Part of it was probably taken from – or had the same atmosphere as – this compilation called Faces of Death.

JP: Right. Half of those were so fake, though. Those Faces of Death. I was so into those. But it was always such a bummer, because half of them were re-enactments and stuff.

A time of turmoil, upheaval, and bloodshed. The youngest living child of a once powerful, feared man becomes the unlikely head of the family business. Following betrayal, and the violent elimination of rivals, this individual obtains absolute power while losing an aspect of humanity. In simplistic terms, this is the storyline of The Godfather. But its also the storyline of Shekhar Kapurs 1998 film Elizabeth. With adept staging, a captivating lead performance, and an utter disregard for the facts, Kapurs Elizabeth took what could easily have been a dry, stuffy historical drama into gangland territory, turning the Virgin Queen into a tragically flawed character in the style of Godfather chosen son Michael Corleone.

The monarch, who ruled for 44 years and was the last of the Tudor dynasty, had been featured in several films and TV miniseries before Kapurs 1998 drama. But you wont find a similar history lesson in Kapurs Elizabeth. Kapur and screenwriter Michael Hirst filter the best elements of the historical story through the lens of a Godfather-esque drama. I had to make a choice, Kapur explained to The Independent, whether I wanted the details of history or the emotions and essence of history to prevail. In the resulting film, the emotions prevail. Characters motives are not rooted in their historical counterparts at all, and Elizabeth condenses about 14 years of the Queens early reign into what feels like only a few months on the job. Yet this allows Kapur to focus on what it takes for Elizabeth to gain power, without being bogged down by historical accuracy. The conflict here is simple: in order to reign supreme, Elizabeth must learn to smite her enemies and make herself more than just a human being; she has to become an icon.

Like youngest Corleone heir Michael in Francis Ford Coppolas The Godfather, Elizabeth is an outsider looking in and yet her connection to Henry VIII helps define her identity on the throne. The Catholic Church and Queen Mary (Kathy Burke) are brutally resisting the Protestants – and Elizabeth, born of King Henry VIIIs second wife, Anne Boleyn, is a Protestant. Although Henry VIII, for his part, never makes a physical appearance in Elizabeth, the corpulent king looms over Elizabeth just as Marlon Brandos Don Vito Corleone did in The Godfather. I am my father’s daughter, Elizabeth intones later in the film. I am not afraid of anything.

Kapur lucked out in the casting of the then relatively unknown Cate Blanchett, who brings the perfect blend of humanity to a figure who had long been flattened into an emotionless, mythical figure of history. Blanchett starts the film as a romantic, hopeful, idealistic girl who holds fast to her principles. When she stands accused of treason and faces possible execution, her sister, Queen Mary, gives her an easy out: proclaim that if somehow crowned queen, she will retain Catholic beliefs rather than Protestant ones. The headstrong Elizabeth will not yield, declaring shell instead act as [her] conscience dictates. As Elizabeth progresses, Blanchett hardens her performance into something like all that cold white stone that surrounds the characters. She rages, she suffers, she loses any trace of mirth or innocence, while retaining her steadfast adherence to her principles. As the film draws to a violent conclusion, the almost childlike girl that she was has been replaced by a resolute, powerful woman. I have rid England of her enemies, she says, her voice flat and cold. What do I do now? Am I to be made of stone? Must I be touched by nothing? By the end of the film, shes slathered in ghoulish white make-up, her red hair sheared from her head and replaced with a towering wig.

Elizabeths final, absolute control is aided in part by her advisor and hitman Sir Francis Walsingham, played devilishly by Geoffery Rush as a cool, irreligious enforce, unlike the fiercely Protestant historical figure. The film also has him murder one of Elizabeths rivals, Mary of Guise, the French Queen of Scots – an event that absolutely did not happen. When grilled by advisors about the murder, Elizabeth promptly replies, I never sanctioned it! but she shoots Walsingham a knowing look. Around every shadowy corner in the vast, stone structures that the characters drift through, there seems to be another enemy hoping for – or literally plotting – Elizabeths death and refusing to recognize a Protestant queen. Walsingham protects and enables her.

A time of turmoil, upheaval, and bloodshed. The youngest living child of a once powerful, feared man becomes the unlikely head of the “family business.” Following betrayal, and the violent elimination of rivals, this individual obtains absolute power while losing an aspect of humanity. In simplistic terms, this is the storyline of The Godfather. But it’s also the storyline of Shekhar Kapur’s 1998 film Elizabeth. With adept staging, a captivating lead performance, and an utter disregard for the facts, Kapur’s Elizabeth took what could easily have been a dry, stuffy historical drama into gangland territory, turning the Virgin Queen into a tragically flawed character in the style of Godfather chosen son Michael Corleone.

The monarch, who ruled for 44 years and was the last of the Tudor dynasty, had been featured in several films and TV miniseries before Kapur’s 1998 drama. But you won’t find a similar history lesson in Kapur’s Elizabeth. Kapur and screenwriter Michael Hirst filter the best elements of the historical story through the lens of a Godfather-esque drama. “I had to make a choice,” Kapur explained to The Independent, “whether I wanted the details of history or the emotions and essence of history to prevail.” In the resulting film, the emotions prevail. Characters’ motives are not rooted in their historical counterparts at all, and Elizabeth condenses about 14 years of the Queen’s early reign into what feels like only a few months on the job. Yet this allows Kapur to focus on what it takes for Elizabeth to gain power, without being bogged down by historical accuracy. The conflict here is simple: in order to reign supreme, Elizabeth must learn to smite her enemies and make herself more than just a human being; she has to become an icon.

Like youngest Corleone heir Michael in Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather, Elizabeth is an outsider looking in and yet her connection to Henry VIII helps define her identity on the throne. The Catholic Church and Queen Mary (Kathy Burke) are brutally resisting the Protestants – and Elizabeth, born of King Henry VIII’s second wife, Anne Boleyn, is a Protestant. Although Henry VIII, for his part, never makes a physical appearance in Elizabeth, the corpulent king looms over Elizabeth just as Marlon Brando’s Don Vito Corleone did in The Godfather. “I am my father’s daughter,” Elizabeth intones later in the film. “I am not afraid of anything.”

Kapur lucked out in the casting of the then relatively unknown Cate Blanchett, who brings the perfect blend of humanity to a figure who had long been flattened into an emotionless, mythical figure of history. Blanchett starts the film as a romantic, hopeful, idealistic girl who holds fast to her principles. When she stands accused of treason and faces possible execution, her sister, Queen Mary, gives her an easy out: proclaim that if somehow crowned queen, she will retain Catholic beliefs rather than Protestant ones. The headstrong Elizabeth will not yield, declaring she’ll instead “act as [her] conscience dictates.” As Elizabeth progresses, Blanchett hardens her performance into something like all that cold white stone that surrounds the characters. She rages, she suffers, she loses any trace of mirth or innocence, while retaining her steadfast adherence to her principles. As the film draws to a violent conclusion, the almost childlike girl that she was has been replaced by a resolute, powerful woman. “I have rid England of her enemies,” she says, her voice flat and cold. “What do I do now? Am I to be made of stone? Must I be touched by nothing?” By the end of the film, she’s slathered in ghoulish white make-up, her red hair sheared from her head and replaced with a towering wig.

Elizabeth’s final, absolute control is aided in part by her advisor and hitman Sir Francis Walsingham, played devilishly by Geoffery Rush as a cool, irreligious enforce, unlike the fiercely Protestant historical figure. The film also has him murder one of Elizabeth’s rivals, Mary of Guise, the French Queen of Scots – an event that absolutely did not happen. When grilled by advisors about the murder, Elizabeth promptly replies, “I never sanctioned it!” but she shoots Walsingham a knowing look. Around every shadowy corner in the vast, stone structures that the characters drift through, there seems to be another enemy hoping for – or literally plotting – Elizabeth’s death and refusing to recognize a Protestant queen. Walsingham protects and enables her.

The movies have always been in love with themselves. For all their heroes and villains, lost loves and epic stories, Hollywoods greatest source of mythology has always been its own history. Almost from the birth of the medium, movies have explored the filmmaking process and satirized their own development, acting out existential investigations that let the viewer in on the joke while keeping them at arms length. By taking place inside the machinery of filmmaking, the narratives seem to offer a glimpse of the real Hollywood, but the finished product is still, itself, a movie, and its representation of reality is always going to be heightened and enhanced to keep the audience entertained. Theres a constant tension at the heart of these films. The more they try to pull back the curtain, the harder it is to see whats really behind it.

Hollywood got an early start on self-awareness. Hollywood and Souls for Sale, both silents from 1923, as well as 1928s silent Show People, are comedies set in the nascent world of film production that are stuffed with cameos from stars of the era. More incisively, theres 1924s Merton of the Movies, which originated on Broadway and told the story of an aspiring actor with a penchant for overwrought, hammy acting, so much so that a studio casts him in a comedy but tells him hes filming a drama. Right there, youve got the star-making process, the average persons thirst for fame, and the duplicitous ways that suits conduct business, all played for knowing laughs. Almost a century later, the story hasnt really changed.

Yet whats become so fascinating about these kinds of movies is that as film history marched on, it became possible to fold real films into the fictional narratives, and for actors playing characters to reference other actors by their real names. Little winks like that pop up everywhere Lauren Bacall in How to Marry a Millionaire talking about that old fella, whats his name, in The African Queen; Cary Grant name-checking Ralph Bellamy in His Girl Friday, in which Bellamy also starred but they take on new meaning when they happen in movies that are themselves about the filmmaking process. Characters making movies talk about real-world pictures that we, the viewers, have seen. Its a way to bolster the credibility of their fictionalizations, but it also makes for a pleasantly disorienting experience. Instead of pure suspension of disbelief and pretending that, say, Tom Hanks doesnt exist in Tom Hanks movies, we watch actors invoke their real-life colleagues in ways that blur reality. The films create a world that might be called Alternate-Universe Hollywood: recognizably our own, yet unavoidably foreign. There are plenty of ways to do this, from the absurdity of Tropic Thunder to the existential dread of The Player, but two comedies from the 1990s stand out for their charm and precision: Get Shorty and Bowfinger. Individually theyre great funny, quick-witted, entertaining but theyre also prime examples of how to tell an Alternate-Universe Hollywood story that feels as strong twenty years later as it did the day the print was struck.

Get Shorty was released in 1995, five years after the Elmore Leonard novel that inspired it. The story follows loan shark and film buff Chili Palmer (John Travolta) as he pursues a debtor to Los Angeles and decides to become a movie producer. Like most movies about movies, its a love song to the idea of Hollywood-as-dream-factory: Chilis eyes sparkle when he talks about the classics, and he starts to win over his love interest (Rene Russo) at a screening of Touch of Evil. There are even moments that quote 1932s Cabin in the Cotton. But modern Hollywood is dealt with more vaguely: while established stars who gained fame in the 1970s and 1980s are mentioned, specific films from recent years are only alluded to in a general way. Take Chilis pontification on whether he could step in front of the camera: I can see myself in the parts that Robert De Niro plays, or maybe an Al Pacino movie, playing a real hard-on. I couldnt see myself in a movie where like the three guys get left with a baby, they don’t know how to take care of it, so they act like assholes. Hes talking, of course, about 1987s Three Men and a Baby. But that film was only a few years old when Get Shorty was released, and as a result, bringing it up runs the risk of making the film feel dated, tied to the period in a way thats ironically less likely to happen by name-checking films from decades prior. Its partly because classic films have had time to let their reputations grow, evolving into a canon everyone can invoke. Newer films, though, dont have that luxury.

Theres also a reason Chili doesnt say the films title but does describe its plot. Its an example of whats known as distancing language, which is when generalities are used to place a subconscious distance between the speaker and the object in the mind of the audience. It pops up about every week in politics: I did not have sexual relations with that woman might lack grace, but it still plays better than I didnt sleep with Monica. The phrase that woman is a distancing one, and phrases like that manage to simultaneously evoke something specific without actually bringing it all the way into the room. So when Chili all but says its a movie about three men and a baby, hes able to call the picture to mind for viewers, but not in such a way that Get Shorty becomes irrevocably linked to it. The film floats along on the surface of its era.