“I just wanted to take another look at ya.”
In so many instances, I find myself praising a film for its tight structure, its efficiency. I could never say that about A Star is Born. And in this case, I love the inefficiency. It contributes to the power of the film’s agenda.
I’ll admit it took me relatively deep into the film to notice an important structural pattern: so many scene transitions are disconcerting. Viewers can’t help but ask themselves, “Where are we? How did we get here?”
Examples include Jackson showing up in Ally’s room; the “steroid” shot (sidebar: are we sure they’re steroids?); the snorting scene; and, of course, the Noodles scene. At first blush, it might be tempting to dismiss these transitions as sloppy and near-incoherent.
But then we remember: Jackson himself is sloppy and (often) near-incoherent. And then we understand that the jarring and inefficient nature of the structure is intentional. To some extent, we are supposed to experience the film as Jackson experiences his life. (This design gets explicit in some of the scenes when we hear the low ringing in his ears.) Jackson, like the audience, often seems surprised to be where he is, and takes a few moments to get himself acclimated coolly and calmly—with varying degrees of success.
It’s in this light that it matters that we don’t know Bobby is his brother, officially, until we discover that Bobby sold dad’s ranch. (Incidentally, the quitting scene is quite powerful in and of itself.) It’s not that Jackson has intentionally kept Bobby’s identity a secret from us; but that he is less than wholly forthcoming about his family ties parallels a pattern of hiding we see elsewhere. And this pattern helps make the structure more jarring, as the audience learns details about Jackson at very inopportune moments.
Jackson is not one to admit it or talk about it, but demons haunt him, and he is in a constant struggle to escape their wrath. These jarring scene transitions offer the audience the smallest taste of what it’s like when someone tries to cope with their demons through self-destructive methods.
“Jack, I feel like we’ve done this before.”
Jackson’s illness provides an opportunity for a classic Film Lit discussion—one that can get complicated quickly, and addresses the film’s key themes.
Specifically, what are we to make of the fact that we see no evidence of a serious effort to get Jackson help until after the Grammys fiasco?
Bobby knows he needs help. And, to be sure, I don’t think it’s unfair to guess that Bobby has tried to get Jackson into rehab before, perhaps even more than once.
Ally knows he needs help. Indeed, at the rehab center, she tells Jackson that she worried that without the booze, he might not want her. What are we supposed to think about that admission? What does that fear excuse her of?
These questions, and the ensuing discussions, in a classroom setting would require some deft and delicate navigation, to say the least. But I do think it’s important to have these discussions.
“Look, talent comes everywhere, but having something to say and a way to say it to have people listen to it, that’s a whole other bag.”
I mean, the songs and the performances—most of them, at least—are captivating. They speak to anyone who’s ever loved and lost. I listen to the soundtrack a lot, and I must say that at least three still bring tears to my eyes.
I’ll also confess that I’m no music expert. And I still think I know enough to know that her star turn, embodied by her Saturday Night Live performance, is embarrassing—hyper-sexualized and cliché. And it’s not that pop music can’t be as deep and soulful as the music that first attracted Jackson to Ally, the music that made her a star in the first place. But the movie doesn’t work unless you perceive her new direction as trash. (The distinction between rising star Ally’s and icon Ally’s music comes into especially clear relief if you ever listen to the soundtrack start to finish. I mean, the shift is stark, and the chasm is wide. It’s quite ear-opening.)
And here’s where a character like Rez Gavron would be fun to discuss in class. At one point, he tells Ally, “This is not normal stuff. It’s really amazing, what you’re doing.” Is he sincere? To what extent is aware of his corrupting influence? What does it mean in the context of the film that Ally says of Rez, “He does this all the time”? What is “this”? How many other unique voices has he silenced all in the name of fame and industry success?
Of course Ally is right when she immediately assumes that Jackson is jealous of her success. And, by the same token, of course Jackson is right to be skeptical. But he’s supportive through the skepticism: he helps her in the studio and then says, “That’s the stuff.” (Another fun question: is he lying there, or telling the truth?) And in a moment of serenity, he tries to express his skepticism in front of the insufficiently nasal billboard, and does so via sincere and sage advice.
The real question to wrestle with, naturally, is what Ally knows about her new direction, and when she knows it.
I should add that some of my favorite discussions are ones when I get the chance to encourage empathy for the characters. In this context, in the event a student (or class) wants to go too far down the analytical rabbit hole of hating and criticizing Ally, I would be sure to point out her predicament. I mean, honestly, who among us wouldn’t be tempted to make just a few changes, and jump through some objectively ludicrous hoops for a chance at fame and fortune?
“I’m just tryin’ to figure it out, that’s all.”
One of the first lessons I learned about conflict in film is that the best scenes are the ones that lead us to ask, “Why are these people arguing, and why are they both right?”
We have that in the bathtub scene. It would be a great one to discuss with a Film Lit class. It’s a classic for the “Attack or Defend” prompt—asking students to attack or defend either Ally or Jackson or both.
By this point, Ally is lost. And of course she’s right about how Jackson needs to clean himself up, and that there’s at least a little bit of jealousy and shame and insecurity behind Jackson’s discomfort with her success. And it’s also true that she is way (way) over the line with the crack about Jackson’s father. I should add, too, that, as I understand it, though I’m willing to believe she’s coming from a place of love in telling him to clean himself up, it’s unlikely that this suggestion is going to help the larger problem very much.
For his part, Jackson is drunk, but not wrong about Ally. And it’s also true that he is way (way) over the line when he calls Ally ugly. Love, as they say, brings out our best and our worst, and this line in particular is Jackson at his worst—a line with malicious intent aimed directly at her most profound insecurity, to create the most psychological damage.
“I hope it’s okay if I love you forever, Jack.”
Let me first say that I love the ending. I think the song is beautiful, and the cut to Jackson’s presumed debut of the song is something else.
Film Lit teaches us, though, that the last shot defines the film. In this case, the last show is a riveting camera spike from Ally. And it sets up a very fun potential discussion: Why end the film like that?
I might be a bit too cynical, but I think there’s an argument that the camera spike wants us to pause for a second. After all, isn’t there something at least a little bit exploitative about the performance? And, again, without questioning the sincerity of Ally’s love for Jackson, is it unfair to think that maybe that song should have remained private between them?
Put another way: if we reverse-engineer the decision-making process that led to that performance, what do we see?
“If there’s one reason we’re supposed to be here, it’s to say something so that people want to hear it.”
See you on March 8th, when we discuss Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (2019).