What-To-Watch Wednesday: Searching (2018)

Aneesh Chaganty's Searching is one of those films in which all but the last ten minutes is a taut, tense thriller intertwined with a brilliant character study of a grieving, desperate man. It is also the first film I've seen that successfully utilizes social media platforms and digital communication as authentic storytelling devices and not just as narrative gimmicks. There is so much to recommend about this movie, so much to admire, and then there are those last ten minutes.

So, let's get the bad out of the way. The last ten minutes of the film essentially turn it into a predictable thriller that had it been filmed more conventionally would have barely registered on anyone's radar as a worthwhile movie. It isn't bad per se, but it is something of a let-down after the promise shown in the preceding parts of the film. And, to be honest, it is something that would probably only bother a picky movie goer like me. Most audiences and critics wouldn't find it problematic and apparently haven't if current reviews and audience ratings are to be believed.

Here's the thing: If you like neat wrap-it-up-with-a-pretty-bow closure at the end of your movies, you will be just fine with Searching. If you are like me and prefer that a film follow its narrative to a more realistic and earned resolution, then the ending will be a noticeable, although hardly ruinous sticking point for you. But, if you are like me, you love movies and appreciate ones that are well done, and this one is well done.

The story is about David Kim (John Cho), a widower, who wakes up one morning to find his daughter, Margot, missing. After some denial and false leads, David begins to panic when it becomes clear that he truly has no idea and seemingly no way of finding out what has happened to Margot. He then begins an investigation into the secret life Margot has led online, slowly beginning to piece together her lonely, solitary world.

It is David's investigation that makes up the majority of the story, and Searching is nothing short of a revelation in how the audience discovers new things about the inner lives of Margot and David. Told solely through social media apps and digital video, the format becomes a way in which Chaganty communicates all aspects of the story to the viewer, everything from major plot revelations to the most subtle of character moments. This is both a brilliant move and a huge gamble for Chaganty as the entire success of the narrative depends on the audience being intimately familiar with the idiosyncrasies of communicating online.

To illustrate, there is a moment in which a character types out a text message, pauses as if reading what was just written, and then deletes the message in favor of something more benign. The audience only sees the screen and the typing. This moment, which would have been of no importance in another kind of film, reveals the emotional state of the character doing the typing, and there is not one line of dialogue or facial expression on camera. The fact that we are able to become emotionally invested in this speaks not only to our own experiences with social media but to incredibly masterful film-making as well.

This isn't to say that the actors aren't important in Searching. Debra Messing plays Rosemary Vick, the detective investigating Margot's disappearance, and she is worlds away from Grace Adler in this movie.  As Detective Vick, she is all stoic professionalism masking a deep emotional core. And then there is John Cho, who effectively conveys a man on the edge of grief and panic. The subtle shading he gives to his facial expressions as his character unravels the mystery of what happened to his daughter is a prime example of wonderful screen acting.  Both of their performances manage to penetrate the personal distance potentially created by social media platforms and show the real people behind the text messages and digital videos.

Essentially, Searching is so good at showing us David's inner turmoil that the mystery becomes not what has happened to his daughter but what he discovers about her life before she went missing. He's trying to find out where she is, but in the process he is uncovering what brought about her disappearance in the first place by connecting with her life. And, really, what else do we have when we lose a loved one? None of us get a spectacular revelation explaining the reason our loved one was taken from us. All we can do is try to understand the life they lived through the remnants they leave behind. This feels like the larger idea at work here in Searching; I just wish it had been carried through to the end.

Batman Memories - A Personal Tribute In the Character's 80th Year

Whenever I am asked why I still love comic book super-heroes as a middle-aged adult man, I have a stockpile of answers ranging from the whimsical desire to maintain a sense of childlike wonder in my life to the more profound notion that these characters and their stories are nothing short of American mythology, harkening back to Joseph Campbell's assertion of the recurring themes and archetypes of the Hero's Journey.

These are all true.  I am both the unapologetic fanboy gushing over the next fantastical adventure he can read and the literary scholar able to see the cultural and social significance underlying these characters.  But, something I have never shared with anyone is that my affinity for comic books resulted in me having what I can only describe as a spiritual experience.

No, I am not feeding you a line here.  I once had an experience that quite simply transcended my conscious reality.  All because of a comic book super hero.  Specifically, Batman.

For the 80th anniversary of Batman's first appearance, it is time I tell the story, I think.  But, to do so requires some explanation, so, please, bear with me as I lay it out.

To begin with, when teaching Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, I conduct a lesson in which I show my students how some comic book artists have modeled their renditions of Batman on Gregory Peck in an effort to link the character with Peck's most famous screen performance as Atticus Finch.  The lesson is meant to highlight the cultural impact of both Atticus Finch and the novel.  Through the examination, I hope to show the students that Atticus has even been able to influence one of the most popular super-heroes ever created.

The lesson usually goes well.  It provides an opportunity for cross-textural analysis to figure out just why an artist would want Batman (a character who reaches the highest levels of coolness and bad-assery throughout comic book fandom) to look like an old southern lawyer who tries, yet ultimately fails to protect an innocent black man from racial injustice.  I mean, how could such a visual association hope to enhance one character or the other?

Without going into too much overwrought detail that would not only be terminally boring to most and completely beside the point I want to make here, both characters are enhanced by being associated with one another, Batman in particular benefitting the most by the association.  Although there are a variety of reasons for this, the primary one is that Batman, like many comic book super-heroes from the Golden Age, has a blank-slate quality that allows for a multitude of interpretations to emerge, based on how social mores and conventions change over time.

This isn't to say that Batman can be written any old way a writer feels so inclined.  Most fans would agree that Batman has certain essential qualities that make him Batman, even if there is some disagreement on what all those qualities are.  But, if a writer can stay true to a certain amount of those qualities and keep the essential Batman essence (so to speak), then there is a great deal of room in which to take the character in different directions and tell a variety of stories.

Among the best examples of this (and arguably one of the best iterations of the Batman ever) is the 1990s animated series.  Over four seasons and subsequent animated shows, the DC animation team provided an interpretation of Batman that was both kid-friendly yet managed to appeal to grown-up (and getting increasingly older) fans.  However, I don't want to rehash all the adoration and accolades the series received when a simple Google search would reveal as much.  The point I want to make going into what will become a more personal account is that the animated series is one that most fans will agree got Batman right and did so consistently when other media (including the comics) so often would get him wrong.

With all that said, the experience that affected me on such a profound level was when I watched my first episode of the series and heard Kevin Conroy's voice performance as the Dark Knight for the very first time.

Yes, I am serious.

The episode was "On Leather Wings," and it aired on a Sunday evening at the beginning of September 1992.  I was seventeen and going into my senior year of high school.  By that point, I had been a long-time comic book reader and seen a lot of ups and downs in the medium that comprised the vast majority of my personal reading.

I nearly missed this "premiere" episode but for the lucky chance of visiting the beach cottage of my great-Aunt Ruth in Fenwick Island with my mother that overcast Sunday afternoon.  While there and more than a little bored, I happened upon a TV guide while waiting for Mom to finish her visit with Aunt Ruth.  The TV Guide had a feature article about the new Batman series, giving it a good review.  It mentioned how it was airing that evening during primetime.  The episode synopsis revealed that the main antagonist was Man-bat, a detail that caught my attention because of his being such an offbeat choice compared to Batman's more colorful rogues.

Unknown to me at the time, the series actually had its premiere the day before during Saturday morning television.  But, for me and most long-time fans, the premiere was that Sunday evening.  And, I hurried home very much anticipating how this new iteration of Batman would turn out.

As I watched the episode unfold, I was very much taken by all the things the series has been praised for: the dark, art-deco look; the sleek writing; the voice acting; etc.  And, I remember getting a thrill at the now famous opening sequence of Batman fighting crooks on the rooftops of Gotham.

But, my light enjoyment at the show suddenly exploded into something much greater the moment I heard Batman utter his first spoken lines.  The actual lines weren't particularly dramatic - no grand statements or "I am the night" speeches, just Batman having a conversation with Alfred in the Batcave about the case.  But, it was enough to set something off in me I couldn't quite explain.

And then Batman took a phone call as Bruce Wayne...and his voice changed.  Not an actual change in voices (or voice actors), but an actual change in the voice.  I mean, the actor, Kevin Conroy, actively changed the timbre of his voice to "sound" like how a billionaire playboy might sound, or at least sound like someone trying to sound like a billionaire playboy, which is something Bruce Wayne is supposed to do in the comics.

To this day, I struggle to fully explain the effect that moment had on me.  I know goosebumps blossomed on my arms and tingles shot down my back.  Everything else but the show and its story faded out of existence, and I was transported into another consciousness for the remainder of the half hour it aired.  My imagination was engaged in a way I had not experienced since I was a child when I was reading as many comics as I could and immersing myself in the worlds of these characters I loved.

You see, that voice, THAT Batman voice, was THE voice.  And...I already know I need to explain that better.

I don't know how you read a story, but, in my "reading voice," the voice we all use when we read silently to ourselves, I create distinctive voices for the various characters that help guide me in my reading.  These aren't voices that are clear enough for me to mimic or even describe in any great detail, but they are singular and unique to each character.  But, for characters that have been with me for a long time, like super heroes, their voices are particularly clear and distinct.

The voice I heard in this cartoon at that moment was precisely the voice I had been "hearing" as Batman for most of my reading life.  Somehow, incredibly so, the show creators had plucked the voice out of my imagination and made it a real, tangible thing in the world.  I could actually hear Batman.  My Batman.

I felt exposed in a way, like my inner most thoughts had been laid bare in front of me in dark hues and colorful sounds.  But, instead of feeling embarrassment at this, I felt a vindication of sorts.  Vindication because my personal view of the Dark Knight was no longer relegated to some solitary pocket of a lonely boy's imagination.  It was actually valid and carried weight because there it was plain as can be on prime-time TV.

Kevin Conroy

Perhaps another way to illustrate my point is this: Kevin Conroy tells a story of helping out in a restaurant feeding 9/11 relief workers in the weeks after the attack.  The mood in the restaurant was somber understandably, and hardly anyone was talking.  When a co-worker found out who Conroy was, he had Conroy speak as Batman over a microphone from the kitchen.  It brought the restaurant to a joyous uproar, and everyone for a brief moment enjoyed some levity.

My experience wasn't nearly that demonstrative, but it was no less profound on a very personal level.  And, nothing like it has ever happened to me again.  But, that only serves to make this particular moment more precious and special.  It is also why I totally understand why those relief workers would react the way they did when they heard Conroy over that microphone.  Batman was there for them then, and he was there for me as well in that one brief, fleeting moment.