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Breakthroughs: A Short Film by Jake Paltrow
2008 Oscars Portfolio: Photographed by Ryan McGinley
Shooting Stars: Behind the Scenes Video of the Portfolio Shoot
Breaking Through by Lynn Hirschberg
In 2005, at the Sundance Film Festival, a star was born, but almost no one noticed. Well, actually, a few studio executives who saw “Hard Candy” raved about the performance of the unknown Ellen Page — she played an avenging, psychopathic 14-year-old who entices and then violently tortures a would-be pedophile. But the movie was so relentlessly disturbing (at one point, Page’s character ties her enemy down and slowly begins to castrate him) that when “Hard Candy” was released the following year, no one went to see it. What the audience missed then is what they later found in “Juno” — the birth of a different sort of actress. Unlike her glamour-girl peers who double as tabloid superstars, Page, who is now 20, is a tomboy — her on-screen persona is sharp, clear-eyed, determined and self-consciously original. In “Hard Candy,” she managed to be adorable and persuasive while wielding a large knife; in 2007, that same spirit and charm animated “Juno,” a kind of fairy tale about a pregnant 16-year-old who decides to have the baby and give it to the couple (in the end, half the couple) she chooses. In “Juno,” the lack of realism — no one questions Juno’s decision — and the lack of politics are trumped by the overwhelming appeal of Page’s acting. She is so alive on screen — so unique, so ingratiating — that she makes the character, and the entire film, believable.
As is often the case with cinematic breakthroughs, Page had two of them: the first, “Hard Candy,” was her initial artistic birth; “Juno” then deftly married artistic cred with popular acclaim. Page is now a star. With breakthrough performances, as with almost everything else in life, context is everything. Diane Keaton was in three Woody Allen films before Allen wrote “Annie Hall” as a love letter to her quirks. Despite her brilliant comedic turns in the other films, “Annie Hall,” was, and is, the Keaton performance that cemented her cinematic identity. Just as Juno MacGuff probably has high-school girls trading their Uggs and belly-baring T-shirts for tartan plaid Converse sneakers and red hoodies, Annie Hall spawned legions of loyal followers. I, for one, started wearing a fedora and sewed copies of her outsize dresses. I think I may even have said “la-di-dah” once or twice.
But it’s not just a high-school-girl thing. Daniel Day-Lewis was so taken with Clint Eastwood’s performances in the Sergio Leone spaghetti westerns that he copied his way of walking, “trying to be loose-limbed and mean and taciturn.” And more recently, I’m certain that young men everywhere identified with Seth Rogen in “Knocked Up.” Although Rogen had his artistic breakthrough with “The 40-Year-Old Virgin” two years ago, he achieved mass appeal this year as a funny, lovable, shlubby every-guy who won the beautiful blonde.
Rogen was sleeker and more confident in “The 40-Year-Old Virgin”— he had a hipster aesthetic that was also goofy, which made him fascinating. For “Knocked Up,” he softened the edges of that character, which increased his popularity among the male moviegoing constituency, who, more than anything else, like to think of themselves as hilarious.
With comedy, especially, breakthrough performances often become templates: a cinematic persona is born, and that persona moves from scenario to scenario. When Will Ferrell played Ron Burgundy in “Anchorman,” he forged a certain absurd, overconfident, slightly dim, hugely funny personality that has re-emerged, with slight variations, in “Talladega Nights” and “Blades of Glory.” Ferrell may switch from Nascar to figure skating, but he sticks with the same character. The same is true of Vince Vaughn (the brilliant motormouth of “Wedding Crashers” is nearly indistinguishable from the character he plays in “Fred Claus”), Owen Wilson (slacker deadbeat extraordinaire, ever since “Starsky and Hutch”) and Ben Stiller, who broke through in “There’s Something About Mary” as the nerd who experienced every one of the (male) audience’s most humiliating anxieties and still got the girl. Stiller has been playing that part — more or less — ever since.
The constancy of these cinematic personas may be why comedy is so overlooked by the Academy Awards. It’s nearly impossible to be funny on camera, but that degree of difficulty is rarely acknowledged by the kinds of groups that give out prizes. They prefer a different type of breakthrough performance — something more shape-shifting. While Diane Keaton did win the Oscar for “Annie Hall,” she was playing a character in a Woody Allen movie, a film set in New York City, with self-consciously tongue-in-cheek references to the theories of Marshall McLuhan and Sigmund Freud. Seth Rogen’s performance in “Knocked Up” or Michael Cera’s in “Superbad” — the character Cera plays in the end-of-high-school comedy has a new sort of gentle rhythm — may be defining, but the movies they are in have a preponderance of penis jokes. Funny as these films may be, they do not appeal to the academy’s sense of its own sophistication.
It’s not surprising, then, that Cate Blanchett, who disappears into every character she plays, is nominated for two different movies this year: she metamorphoses into Queen Elizabeth I and Bob Dylan. Blanchett’s artistic breakthrough was in 1997’s “Oscar and Lucinda,” in which she starred opposite Ralph Fiennes as a misfit adventuress. Few people saw the film, but her performance was transfixing, and when she was chosen to play the young queen in “Elizabeth” in 1998, her command of the screen was assured.
Similarly, Jennifer Jason Leigh has a way of fusing herself with the women she plays. Her artistic breakthrough was in “Georgia” (1995), in which she played a drug-addicted, would-be-rock-star sister of a successful singer. This year, in “Margot at the Wedding,” she again plays the less-accomplished sibling, but the dynamics of Leigh’s performance could not be more different. It is hard to tell where Leigh ends and the character in “Margot” begins, which is why a breakthrough in a dramatic performance does not always lead to the creation of a persona.
This wasn’t always the case. In the past, especially during the glory days of the studio system, stars were invented before they were put into films. The breakthrough was the invention of the star’s on-screen (and, supposedly, off-) personality. Bette Davis was tart and willful; Clark Gable was sardonic and dashing; Cary Grant was suave and sophisticated (and so on) before they were cast in the parts that made them known. Their breakthroughs came the day they were signed to the studio. Now we live in a time of endless self-invention, and that requires a different kind of career planning. Unlike comedians, dramatic actors do not usually write their own material, and they no longer have the studio to create vehicles for them. As a result, breakthrough performances — both artistic and commercial — become crucial indicators of success and longevity; a breakthrough can guarantee that scripts will come your way. When, say, Amy Ryan, a long-respected New York stage actor, burst forth this year as a stoned, sl*tty mother in “Gone Baby Gone,” her professional life changed. And the same is true for Josh Brolin. He had to persuade the Coen brothers to cast him in “No Country for Old Men,” but now he’s being offered nearly every plum role. He’s about to play Dan White opposite Sean Penn in the story of the gay activist Harvey Milk, and Oliver Stone wants to cast him as George W. Bush in his biopic of the president. “Before ‘No Country,’ my most famous role was in ‘The Goonies,’ ” Brolin told me. One part can alter everything. “I remember when that happened to me,” Jack Nicholson told me several years ago. “I’d been working for 12 years, and then the part in ‘Easy Rider’ changed my life. Very few people have ever had the experience where they sit back and say, ‘I am a movie star.’ I knew it at the first showing of ‘Easy Rider’ at the Cannes Film Festival by how the audience reacted to the movie. A lot of people would say, ‘I know I’m a movie star, but, oh, I wonder what’s going to happen. . . .’ I knew it then: I was a movie star. And it was great.”