There have been many instances where great composers were not the best conductors. The Book of Musical Knowledge (Arthur Elson- 1915) opines as such: “In general, composers make poor conductors… To begin with, composers are seldom broad enough to judge the music of all others properly…Then, too, many composers lack the needed executive ability. When conducting, they are apt to listen dreamily to the music instead of guiding it.”
Even the great Beethoven was apparently a mere mortal when conducting, even his own brilliant works; “Beethoven knew the instruments well, but was not really a good conductor. Later on, when he became deaf, he still continued to lead; but the results were so bad that finally the musicians agreed to follow the first violinist, and disregard Beethoven’s irregular motions.”
Something similar to this phenomenon is at play with The Poker House, which recently premiered on DVD. The Poker House was written by artist/writer/actor Lori Petty, and the plot was drawn from actual experiences from her own childhood growing up in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Petty has fashioned a brilliant and blistering script from her memories of growing up with her two sisters in a combination brothel and gambling joint (the aforementioned “Poker House”) where a motley assortment of junkies, gamblers, pimps and thieves gather at all hours to enjoy poker, drugs, and prostitutes; most notably the girls’ mother, Sarah (Selma Blair), who is deeply addicted to drugs and is totally in the thrall of her dealer/pimp, Duval (Bokeem Woodbine).
The action is all arranged to take place in one day (the far southwest suburbs of Lemont and Lockport fill in as 1976 Council Bluffs, Iowa), and illustrates the trauma that the 14-year-old Petty (called “Agnes” in the film) and her two younger sisters endure in their efforts to create an island of safety and normality amidst the horrifying and dangerous environment in which they are forced to live (basically fending for themselves). Despite the toxic home life, the girls take care of each other and all manage to not only survive, but to maintain good grades and an informal support network outside of their chaotic home. Agnes is even able to be a star athlete and hold down several part-time jobs, including one at the local paper.
The story itself is bracing, intense, yet ultimately heartwarming, a testament to the ability of children to adapt and function in the worst of circumstances and the triumph of love and creativity in the face of neglect and abuse. The problem lies in the fact that Petty, instead of finding a skilled veteran director who could do justice to this incredible story (or at least saving this particular story for her second or third directorial effort), takes the task on herself in her debut behind the camera.
Her lack of directing experience hampers the film in several ways, but it is her schmaltzy old Hollywood aesthetic that creates the main flaw of the film. It’s as if Charles Bukowski, Flannery O’Connor, and Raymond Carver co-wrote the greatest indie coming of age screenplay ever, but the project was given to Garry Marshall to rework as an After School Special. Something this raw and gritty requires a more realistic treatment, and Petty’s showbizzy flourishes and unfortunate music choices (except for the incredible recreations of old school 70’s soul) ring false and saccharine.
Sometimes when an actor directs (especially when other actors in the film are close friends), they become too acquiescent to the comfort of the actors and are afraid to prod and push them out of their comfort zones and into a better performance. Selma Blair (who was the victim of horrible miscasting to begin with) might have been believable as the girl’s pathologically self-centered and morally bankrupt mother, given a director that could have pushed her harder and perhaps even been a bit cruel (like Peter Weir supposedly did to Rosie Perez in Fearless, 1993) to get her into the requisite emotional place to most appropriately play the character in the scene.
Petty, who is close friends with Blair (and no doubt felt that Blair was doing her a favor by appearing in the film), could not summon that wherewithal, and Selma’s performance reflects that. The fact that Blair was playing a character based on a person who was not only alive, but was also someone she probably knew (Petty and her mother are now apparently on good terms despite everything) undoubtedly added another level of awkwardness to the process, with disastrous results.
Despite all my problems with it, I still feel that The Poker House is worth a look by folks. Bokeem Woodbine is tremendous as the charming yet feral pimp/dealer/boyfriend, and Jennifer Lawrence (who plays Agnes) has the screen presence and uncanny beauty of the greatest old Hollywood child stars, such Elizabeth Taylor and Natalie Wood; but also possesses the acting chops of a Jodie Foster or an Ellen Page. The girls who play the sisters (Sophia Bairley and Danielle Campbell) are also great finds, and Petty directs the children extremely well.
This film does have much to offer, it just could have been so much better in the hands of a more experienced “conductor.” Without trying to publicly psychoanalyze Lori Petty, there seems to be a disconnect between Petty and her true feelings about what she went through as a child (her flippant and distracted manner during the director’s commentary is particularly enlightening in that regard) that greatly hampered her ability to take on this material. * While I have nothing but respect and awe for what she has endured and been able to accomplish in her life; I sincerely wish she had given the job of directing her story to someone else.
*Update 11/2: UPON FURTHER REFLECTION, I can’t believe I was such a dick to have written that! I have every right to criticize her aesthetic choices, but no one can (or should) ever tell a victim of abuse how they should feel about their abuse. I apologize to anyone who read that statement and had an attack of boiling blood (and to Ms. Petty). As a survivor of various kinds of abuse I should know better, but got caught up in my own pomposity and really stepped in it.
I thought about just going back and deleting it, but decided I’d leave it up and strike through it as a “teachable moment” for anyone who might wander by- Please don’t ever try to tell an abuse survivor what their “real feelings” (WTF Mike?!) are or should be. It just ain’t right.
