Generally, when a Hollywood studio feels excited or even lukewarm about an upcoming release, they give the film a screening that allows reviewers and critics the time to, well, review and critique. Given Drew Barrymore’s ever-increasing popularity and James Woods’ strong reputation among fans and critics alike, it seems a bit parsimonious of Columbia Pictures to screen these two stars’ latest flick, Riding In Cars With Boys, only two days before its general public release. Such a penurious allowance of time indicates that the public relations people at Columbia are a bit nervous about how Riding in Cars will be received.

Based on a true story—the autobiography of writer Beverly Donofrio—Riding In Cars purports to be (according to its official website) the “fresh, funny, touching, and unbelievably true” tale of Donofrio, who went from teenage mother (cf. the title) to a college-educated and successful writer. That the subtitle of the book was dropped from the movie (“Confessions of a Bad Girl Who Makes Good”) may underscore some of the potential problems with Riding in Cars in its newest incarnation. Often the striking and memorable features of a biography or autobiography are inexorably tied to the words themselves. A well-written passage can provide even the most seemingly banal details of an ostensibly unremarkable life with a unique glow. Of course, all of the advantages of the written medium are lost when a book is converted into a film. To be sure, the motion picture medium can do many things that a book cannot. The reader’s direct access to the characters’ psychologies is replaced with the filmgoer’s ability to view the characters in all of their dynamic physical detail.

Still, an equal tradeoff is rarely exacted. All too often, books seem to have a clear advantage over film, if only evidenced by the oft-heard, “Yeah, the movie was good, but the book was better.” And biographical films seem especially prone to this disparity. A successful biographical film must take advantage of at least one of several saving graces: superb acting, historical interest, surpassing cinematographic treatment or a truly remarkable real-life epic. The following are salient examples of biographical films that have done this; it seems dubious that Riding in Cars will live up to their legacies.

PHENOMENAL PERFORMANCE & HISTORICAL INTEREST: NIXON

Acting quality is particularly crucial in films whose primary purpose is to narrate the life of their protagonist—particularly if he or she is a publicly familiar figure. The stakes are much higher for actors attempting to portray people with whose mannerisms, voice and appearance the audience is familiar with—but higher stakes mean higher potential rewards for viewers.

A good example of a biographical movie that works well because of a single performance is Oliver Stone’s 1995 film Nixon. The entire film hinges around the performance of Anthony Hopkins as Nixon, and his portrayal is so great that at times it is hard to believe that he is not Nixon himself. For those who have lived through or are simply interested in the presidency and legacy of Nixon, the film is also a tour de force because of Oliver Stone’s unique and controversial interpretations of famous governmental figures (e.g. Kissinger) and events (Watergate, etc). There is no denying that Nixon also benefits from the directorial artistry of Stone and some stunning supporting roles (like Joan Allen’s Oscar-nominated performance as Buddy Nixon and James Woods’ portrayal of Bob Haldeman), but in the end, Nixon, is a great movie because of Hopkins’ transcendent brilliance and Stone’s always intriguing take on American history.

STUNNING ARTISTRY: RAGING BULL

This is not to say that all great biographical filmmaking must center around the verisimilitude of a performance or novel interpretations of events. Indeed, a film like Raging Bull does not achieve its greatness through either of these, but instead more for its enthralling and ultimately tragic story and the artistic greatness of director Martin Scorsese. Based on the true story of mid-20th century boxer Jake LaMotta, Raging Bull seeks to do more than simply recount events and re-interpret them; instead, it is rich with artistic adornments such as beautiful cinematography (especially in its stunningly real and yet eerily surreal depictions of boxing) and metaphor, as LaMotta’s almost masochistic willingness to take abuse in the ring in many ways reflects his self-destructive behavior in his real-life interpersonal relationships.

A viewer of Raging Bull does not need to know the first thing about Jake LaMotta the real man, nor even the first thing about boxing, for the film achieves its greatness through its aesthetic brilliance and through its touching metadiscourse on the sturm und drang of the human soul. Of course, the film also benefits greatly from an incredible performance by Robert De Niro—but in the end the legacy of Raging Bull is that of a surpassing work of art, rather than a piece centered around one performance.

A SIMPLE, “FEEL-GOOD” UPLIFTING STORY: ERIN BROCKOVICH

The rarest (though unequivocally the most rewarding) brand of biographical film treats the truly unbelievable story, the preternatural case history, the real life epic that, without artistic interpretation or cinematic doctoring, reads like a full-blown Hollywood screenplay. Steven Soderberg’s 2000 Oscar-award-winning Erin Brockovich tells just such a story. To be sure, Soderberg’s nuanced cinematographic virtuoso played no small role in the movie’s success. His refreshingly honest, underproduced visual aesthetic won him a second Oscar at the 73rd annual Academy Awards for his harrowing portrayal of suburban American drug culture in Traffic. But this is icing on the proverbial cake—in the case of Brockovich, Soderberg’s genius is merely superstructure to an already captivating biography.

The story is one of a young, brazen and destitute Eric Brockovich (Julia Roberts) who takes the American legal system by the scruff of its neck, moralizes it, defeats a corrupt and malicious business conglomerate and makes no small fortune for herself and others. At the film’s start, Brockovich is combing the classifieds to no particular avail—an image that becomes an important visual trope. Then, after incurring debilitating injuries from a car accident, Brockovich seeks the legal expertise of small claims attorney Ed Masry (Albert Finny), who fails her outright. Holding Masry personally responsible for her condition, Brockovich filibusters her way into a clerical position at Masry’s law firm. While there, she uncovers evidence that a national company has been distributing water contaminated with radioisotopes to rural communities for some time, and has destroyed internal documents attesting to that fact. Though the case seems legally and practically intractable, Brockovich convinces Masry to represent some local plaintiffs. In the end, the case balloons to national proportions and results in the largest direct-action settlement in the history of American justice—$333 million. It’s a story that, by dint of its real-life unbelievability, lends itself perfectly to biographical film, and indeed serves as a sort of paradigm for all future ventures in that genre.

IN THE END

Perhaps Columbia’s low self-estimation in the case of Riding in Cars With Boys is well-founded. The story is real and gritty—what could, given the right turns of phrase—be the stuff of a great autobiographical novel, but what is perhaps too pedestrian for the film’s slate. Unless director Penny Marshal pulls out all cinematographic stops and carries the film on aesthetic sails alone, the prognosis for Riding in Cars looks grim. At the very least, their pusillanimous, even deceitful, refusal to submit to critical treatment will be a self-fulfilling prophesy of sorts. It is a telegraph to intelligent film consumers everywhere, an official self-abnegation: It well might behoove us pay heed to this preemptive funeral dirge that Columbia seems to be singing for itself. The smart viewer will hedge her bets, save $5 and rent The Big Lebowski instead.