Smoke/Innocent When You Dream

I still can’t quite explain why the movie “Smoke” has stuck with me all these years. Perhaps it was the circumstances in which I first viewed the film, a sick day home from school, (at least, I think it was a sick day). I was lucky to have incredibly lenient parents when it came to movies I was allowed to see. The advantage is such that you are made aware of things that, simply, aren’t on your radar. Two other examples of sick day movies that spring to mind are What’s Eating Gilbert Grape and Don’t Look Back, two films, for which, I still hold a great deal of admiration. The lesson here is quite simple: accrue lots of sick days kids, that way your parents will let you watch a bunch of cool shit.

Miramax released Smoke in 1995, written by Paul Auster and directed by Wayne Wang. Interestingly enough, the possessive credit at the start of the movie reads: A Film By Wayne Wang and Paul Auster. It is definitely the product of two distinct personalities. Smoke was one of those Miramax Multiplex Art House movies that proliferated in the mid-90’s. I just coined that term so don’t bother looking it up, and if isn’t legit yet, try to spread it around. I’m referring to films made in the wake of Good Will Hunting and Pulp Fiction, the kinds of films Miramax hung their banner on for so many years. They were independent films, but they weren’t what you’d call provocative “art-house” movies. They had no intentions of rubbing your face in shit. At the same time, they weren’t glossed up the wazoo like big studio productions. There was a strong amount of integrity to these movies. They were singular visions, yet accessible at the same time. Smoke Signals, Chasing Amy, Brassed Off, Cop Land, and Rounders are the prime examples of how I was first introduced to “independent cinema.” A term, which seems fairly meaningless now, considering every single one of those, was actually released by the Walt Disney Company. I guess such distinctions escaped me at the time. I also remember yearning to one day have that Miramax logo in front of a film I had contributed to in some way. I thought that was the mountaintop and the rainbow behind it, the official sign that you’d made it.

I’ll give you all a minute to laugh at my inane naiveté. Yes, I had (and still have) a very dim grasp of the movie industry but I wasn’t even 14 yet, so lay off. Before this turns into a Miramax love-fest, I should explain that the reason for all this is to say; these movies introduced me to the idea that not everything had to have shoot-outs or ten explosions every five minutes to be worthy of my time. It could just be a movie about people…talking.

Talking, and all of its inherent glories, is precisely what Smoke has on its mind. The pleasures one takes from a conversation, the shared experiences, and that intangible connection are all created by the act of conversing. They are created and released into the atmosphere, only to disperse and evaporate instantly. It can be seen, heard and tasted, but the moment one tries to touch it, it’s gone. This all sounds a lot like…okay, I think I’ve laid it on pretty thick here.

The movie is the opposite of this, I should say, It’s light, witty, and quick on it’s feet. The story revolves around Auggie Wren (Harvey Keitel) who runs a cigar store on the corner of 16th Street and Prospect Park West in Brooklyn. The store is frequented by Paul Benjamin, (William Hurt) a writer struggling with the still-fresh random shooting death of his wife. Paul and Auggie have a long-standing friendship. As the film transpires, certain events occur to take Auggie and Paul out of their comfort zone, as they are each confronted by lost children. I suppose it is a bit disingenuous to describe the plot in a beat-by-beat action. Besides, I’m supposed to be talking about music, right? The film has more of a hangout vibe as it is, situations occur and characters react, but it is all within the realm of naturalistic forward momentum. That’s not to say there aren’t certain contrivances, moments where you can feel the writer struggling to pull everything together into some sort of cohesive “what does it all mean” statement, but those are few and far between. As it is, the film likes to sit back and observe these characters and more importantly, hear them talk.

This takes us to the final two sequences in the film. One is a lengthy monologue delivered by Auggie to Paul in a diner somewhere in Brooklyn. Paul has informed Auggie that the New York Times has asked him for a Christmas story to be published on Christmas day. Paul claims to not know any stories, so in exchange for lunch, Auggie agrees to share one with him. He claims that every word of is true. The second scene is played out during the film’s credits. It is a black and white, slow motion visual interpretation of Auggie’s story. The shot that connects the two sequences is a type- writer banging out the words: “Auggie Wren’s Christmas Story.” We hear the story, but we also see it re-constructed by Paul Benjamin for his piece in the times. (Note: Further wormhole inducing information, Auggie Wren’s Christmas Story was actually published in the New York Times on Christmas Day by Paul Auster). In the end, we are left with one story, but many different ways of telling it.

Over the black and white recreation of the story, the filmmakers used the song, “Innocent When You Dream” by Tom Waits. It was this exact scene; I remember it perfectly, when the film seared itself into my mind. From first viewing, this felt like the perfect ending to me. It doesn’t serve any story purpose, it doesn’t tie-up any of the still dangling threads we’ve just spent ninety minutes with, yet it ends on such grace that none of it matters anymore. I think a lot of that warmth has to do with the Waits song. There’s a lot of comfort to its accordion, merry-go-round melody and stumbling piano twinkles, and Waits’ voice is the perfect weapon to undercut any sneaky sentiment. What we have is, in effect, a time less song, one that very strongly indicates a yearning for the past, but in it’s lack of specificity in regards to catering to the popular music trends in which it was created, can be about a feeling we’ll always have. It’s the musical equivalent of smoke. Throw in the fact that Waits uses several of his own vocal tracks to make it sound like a drunken sing-a-long at a bar full of broken down losers and you have that ephemeral spirit of the film wrapped up in a perfect marriage of audio and visuals. As the song plays, the images are definitely the most stylized we’ve seen yet. Yet they never come across as flashy or meant to induce a music video by any stretch of the imagination. Neither do they ever plead with us to feel a certain way about the characters (this is, after all, a story of a man who steals a camera from an old blind woman). The images take their time, allowing the song to intermingle with the silent footage in ways that both compliment and enhance one another. The song gives this final sequence an almost fable-like quality. We quickly understand that it doesn’t really matter if it happened this way to the exact letter. What’s important is that Auggie gave Paul the story as a gift and now that story has taken on an identity of its own. The song is a punch-drunk, bleary-eyed howl of anguish. The visuals are more contemplative but we can see in Auggie’s fumbling attempt at making a connection with another human being that they are after the same thing. It is in that dichotomy, I believe, that the film achieves its true moment of grace. We can make a lot of noise about it, or we can sit down and share a meal with each other in silence. Either way, whatever it is we’re looking for and eventually find, will be gone by the time we realize it. That is why we keep looking, writing, smoking, talking, and dreaming.

 PS: Here is Auggie Wren's Christmas Story by Paul Auster, it's definitely worth a read.