The beauty of this film lies, for me, in the tightrope walking elegance of setting an unabashedly romantic film not in the past, where nostalgia makes romanticism feel comfortable and at home, but firmly in the present, where it is always at odds with the grimness of reality. There is also a wonderful dare at play in the proposition of the film, one that mirrors the artistic dreams of the characters, which is that the unlikelihood of the film's success in the contemporary world of cinema is itself pitting romanticism against cynicism.
This isn't a new idea, or theme. It's been done a thousand times. It is also, as someone who grew up in the theatre, a fairly juvenile reading of the "write what you know" mantra to write a story about artists trying to produce art in a hostile world. Every kid I know tried to write that play. They were, almost without exception, very very bad. But the fact that the premise is clichéd makes the success of the film even more exceptional. The real question is how? How does it succeed? The answer is the same for the characters in the film as it is for the film itself: do it anyway, and do it right. Do it honestly, and unapologetically. Ground your romanticism with ardor and conviction, and dare your audience to disbelieve.
When I was studying theatre, a professor of mine talked to our group about an assignment he had given us. We were struggling to come up with a physical performance piece attempting to depict the phrase "giants waking on the face of the earth." And he told us to think of the exercise as though we were given a sphere, and were tasked with bringing it to life for the audience. The easy route, and the common tendency, is to decorate the surface of the sphere, paint over it with narrative clutter. But what he wanted us to do was to delve into the sphere, look at it, study it, understand it, so that every element of our work would always be in service to what the thing is.
What is it to be an artist following a dream? It is to put all of your eggs in one basket. The fear of that risk is real. The consequences of being unable to sell that basket are real. It is much easier to be like the guy at the party in the beginning of "La La Land," offering up a never-ending stream of half-concocted pitches. Or like the samba/tapas bar, doing too much so that neither is what it should be. But the characters in "La La Land" dare to dream, and in so doing, experience that fear and those consequences, even though they ultimately triumph. However, the story of the film is so simple that Chazelle as a director is also putting all of his narrative eggs in one basket. If the love story weren't compelling or satisfying, the whole thing would collapse. But he cast two actors whose chemistry and report are so clear that they were able to carry that weight.
Which brings me to the point of one of the often-criticized aspects of the film: neither Gosling or Stone are excellent singers or dancers. This is frequently considered a failure on Chazelle's part to produce as perfect a movie-musical as those he so clearly is paying homage to--"Singin' In the Rain" and "An American in Paris." But first of all, let's face it: Gene Kelly was one of a kind. And rather than create what could only be a pale imitation, Chazelle looked to his strengths to make a film of his own. Kelly was also a performative creator, with his own particular performance style, which is different than a creator for whom the performance style is one among the many tools at his or her disposal. In Kelly's world, the direction is in service to the performance. In Chazelle's world, the performance is in service to the direction. But it is also somewhat myopic to suggest Kelly musicals were the only inspirations for the film. The tenor, if not the style, is more reminiscent of Demy's "Umbrellas of Cherbourg" and "Young Girls of Rochefort," a much more muted and subtle tone, rooted in the nuance of film performance rather than the immaculate perfection demanded of vaudeville.
In service to the simplicity of the narrative in "La La Land," it is far more important that the performers be good actors than that they be excellent singers or dancers. It is also in service to the vitally important contemporary feel of the film that the singing be rough, and often mediocre; that it be attainable. This film doesn't offer a vision of perfection or virtuosity, which when put in the context of a story about artistic ambitions and dreams becomes stifling and paralyzing. Too often artists are taught to believe that success is a product of excellence and genius, when in reality the work is what matters. Do it anyway.
Of course, no review would be complete without addressing the love story of the film. At the outset, it is fairly standard. There's the meet-cute, the feigned animosity, and the eventual coming together. But that all happens in the first half of the film. There was a moment, after the fulfillment of the question, "will they?" where I was afraid that in answering the question, "what next?" Chazelle would succumb to cynicism, letting the grimness of their prospects as artists, and the mundane demands of everyday life drag the film down into the bleak world of compromise. And indeed, he lets it seep into the corners, like the water stain on the ceiling, but he ultimately manages to find the buoyancy again. And in one of the most glorious moments in any recent love story I can recall, the grand romantic gesture that brings the two back together ultimately isn't about Gosling's character getting the girl. It is about getting the girl what she wants, even if that means losing her.
One of the things that has rarely been replicated since the era of Gene Kelly is the grande finale, a dance sequence that takes you back through the film in a surreal sort of abstraction. Chazelle manages to deliver on that promise without it feeling like a disconnected dream-sequence. He uses the format to finish the love story, giving us a whirlwind glimpse of what could have been, never suggesting, however, that when the dust settles, we should feel that what could have been is what ought to have been. Chazelle gives us what few love stories, let alone musical love stories, ever do: a world in which it is possible to have more than one love in your life. Where those loves do not have to be in competition, but can instead be representative of different parts of ourselves. It is not sad, not even bittersweet, to have the characters go their separate ways. It is not a matter, as in "Casablanca," another reference Chazelle utilizes, of duty over love. It is a gratitude, ultimately, for the past love that helped shape our lives into the ones we wanted.
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