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The Magic of Mike Nichols

The Magic of Mike Nichols

In the late 1940s, young émigré Mike Nichols — born Mikhail
Igor Peschkowsky in the waning days of the Weimar Republic — headed to Broadway
to catch a new play, starring a then-unknown transplant from Nebraska. "To
this day," he tells interlocutor Jack O’Brien in Douglas McGrath’s
"Becoming Mike Nichols" (HBO), "it was the only thing I’ve seen
that was 100% real and 100% poetic, both at the same time." Though
"paralyzed" by its remarkable confluence of writing, acting, and
directing, he nonetheless absorbed from the production something like a
calling: Nichols aspired to recreate that alchemy of the real and the poetic for
the rest of his life.

WATCH: "The Best of Mike Nichols"

The play was "A Streetcar Named Desire," the
performer Marlon Brando, and Nichols the filmmaker cleared this extraordinary
bar twice: in his dreamy anthem for doomed youth, "The Graduate"
(1967), which remains an iconic artifact of the 1960s, and in his 2003
adaptation of Tony Kushner’s "Angels in America" (HBO), which deserves
consideration alongside "Berlin Alexanderplatz" (Fassbinder, 1980)
and "Fanny and Alexander" (Bergman, 1982), as one of the finest works
of art ever conceived for television. In each, Nichols elucidates a specific
historical moment — the rise of the counterculture, the AIDS crisis — by
buffeting the naturalistic with the fantastic, the tragic with the comic, much
as Tennessee Williams tossed the romantic Blanche DuBois into the lion’s den
with roughneck Stanley Kowalski. The magic of Mike Nichols was to understand
that we cannot see ourselves clearly except at a slight remove, and to
construct that distancing effect without losing the lifelike texture of his
characters.

That neither "Becoming Mike Nichols" nor longtime
collaborator Elaine May’s "Mike Nichols: American Masters" (PBS)
manages to marshal his prolific work in theater, film, and television into a
fully satisfying portrait is, in this sense, unsurprising: No career as long
and as varied as Nichols’ is easily reduced to feature length. Yet McGrath and
May alike, relying on Nichols’ own words to structure the narrative, recognize
the formative influence of his work in comedy without deigning to elucidate the
point. At 71 and 53 minutes, respectively, their films focus on the period of
meteoric success that culminated in "The Graduate" — and then cut off
or peter out, as if there were nothing left to say.

READ MORE: "How to Ruin a Marriage Without Really Trying, from ‘Carnage’ to ‘Virginia Woolf’"   

This is unfortunate, because Nichols’ understanding of his
own steep learning curve is charming, illuminating, and terrifically funny. He
knew so little about cameras going into "Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"
(1966) that he conscripted actor Anthony Perkins to explain the rudiments of
lens lengths, and yet his renowned instinct with actors seems, in retrospect,
an inborn trait. He cast relative newcomer Robert Redford in the Broadway debut
of Neil Simon’s "Barefoot in the Park," for example, after seeing him
just once, on "Playhouse 90." (Nichols recognized a star when he saw
one.) The result was a filmmaker whose treatment of the topical was rooted not
in cinematic realism, exactly, but the stage’s willing suspension of disbelief.
The premise of "Working Girl" (1988), which finds Melanie Griffith’s
secretary, Tess, aping her high-powered boss (Sigourney Weaver) to establish
herself on Wall Street, is a flight of fancy, but the film captures
true-to-life professional barriers — of gender, of class — with such precision
it still feels fresh.

The through-line in Nichols’ wide-ranging body of work was
his ongoing attempt to rediscover the poetic realism he saw in "A
Streetcar Named Desire" — filtered, of course, through the comic prism he
developed in collaboration with May, and achieved, with varying degrees of
success, in everything from "Carnal Knowledge" (1971) to
"Wit" (2001). Even at his most caustic, in "Closer" (2004),
the cruelty on display veers toward comedy — the climactic argument between
Julia Roberts and Clive Owen has something of the roast in it, powered by the
fleeting delights of pure malice.

If "Mike Nichols: American Masters" and
"Becoming Mike Nichols" fail to suggest how the director’s artistic
principles influenced the more cagey sense of humor that marked his final
decade, both at least reopen the door to more thorough appreciations and
reconsiderations of Nichols’ life behind the camera. The filmmaker himself,
fortunately for us, never forgot the lesson he learned in his earliest days in
the theater — whether producing the gutsiness of "Silkwood" (1983),
the dirty politics of "Primary Colors" (1998), or the ironies of
"Charlie Wilson’s War" (2007). "There are only three kinds of
scenes," he says in "Becoming Mike Nichols." "Negotiations,
seductions, and fights." That he became a master of all three would itself
require the willing suspension of disbelief, except that, for more than four
decades, he kept providing the evidence.

"Becoming Mike
Nichols" airs tonight at 9 p.m. on HBO. Watch "Mike Nichols: American
Masters" at pbs.org.

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Comments

Matt Brennan

M — I see your point, but "American Masters" often does devote more than an hour to its subjects; the entry on "Harper Lee" made newly available after the author’s death is 80+ minutes, for example. My main qualm is that the interview between Nichols and Julian Schlossberg on which May relies does not, as edited in the PBS doc, feature much in-depth discussion of Nichols’ work after "The Graduate" — certainly not of the expansiveness with which he talks about collaborating with May, directing theatre, and taking up film (all great). HBO’s doc flat-out stops after Nichols wins the Oscar for "The Graduate." My desire for both is that they carried what you aptly call "the essence of his drive" deeper into his career, and in much more detail. What the two docs do well fascinated and inspired me—my disappointment is that they didn’t do more of it. They whet my appetite, but never served up a second course.

M

This is a strange piece, one focused so much on one idea that it loses the context, and not only because it critiques something like the Mike Nichols: American Masters as a solo film, and not as one part of an ongoing, overview series. I’ve yet to see the HBO offering, but PBS’ Masters episode does, indeed, elaborate on the mix of Nichols’ artistic principles and humor. It continually goes back to the interplay between drama and humor, which is no surprise since it was directed by Elaine May. As an hour special, of course, a career like Nichols’ will be wildly simplified and can in no way give depth to everything worth discussing. But perhaps it would be more worthwhile to discuss that this is May’s long-awaited eulogy — one that discusses the essence of his drive, who he was, what he thought about, and how he reflects on the culmination of his career. It is a posthumous conversation, and a loving ode. It isn’t perfect. It IS painfully short. But it’s also about a hell of a lot more than a discussion that peters out after The Graduate.

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