Film Epidemic

I'm Still Here (Affleck, 2010)

2010-12-02T09:28:00.001-08:00

This probably seemed like a genius idea in the planning stages. Unfortunately, the execution leaves a lot to be desired. The film is uncomfortable, but for the wrong reasons, as hardly anybody but the dimmest of pop culture leeches seems genuinely taken in by Phoenix's attempt to make a Sacha Baron Cohen film. It's clear that most of the big-time celebs with which Phoenix interacts rightly smell a (Bo)rat.

When a young, gifted actor like Phoenix has a sit-down meeting with P. Diddy in order to discuss a potential hip-hop album, it's not humorous or revelatory. It's just sad. Diddy shows professionalism and generosity in sitting through Phoenix's pitch, but rightly recognizes the whole affair as a waste of his time. David Letterman gamely plays along out of respect for Phoenix's reputation. But for a man who's played this game with the great Andy Kaufman, it's clear that this particular prank is small potatoes.

It's as if Phoenix, jealous of the legendary status of his late brother, attempted to stage his own funeral and found out that nobody really cared. Phoenix may have torpedoed his own career, but perhaps not in the way he expected. The exposé of behind-the-scenes celeb-culture superficiality is occasionally interesting, such as in a scene where we see how paparazzi goad stars into reactions. But it's not nearly enough to fully justify the indulgences of Affleck and Phoenix and their toothless bite of the hand that feeds them.

[**]

Inglourious Basterds (Tarantino, 2009)

2009-09-07T23:04:00.000-07:00

Inglourious Basterds is not only probably Tarantino's best film to date -- at this point in time, I'd say it is -- but more importantly it is a film that I never would have thought him capable of creating. Though certain stylistic flourishes remain, Tarantino drops a few of his crutches (namely the mixtape soundtrack and the barrage of pop culture fetishism) and tackles his subject matter with something his work, even the good stuff, has rarely possessed in the past -- a desire to communicate an important idea.

The film melds Tarantino's mastery of surface pleasures with a newfound commitment to layered, sophisticated thematics and the result is an exhilarating film that is not only a rewrite of history, but in some ways an actual argument in support of historical inaccuracy. Tarantino argues that we have had enough films in which we see the repeated images of strong, powerful Nazis hounding terrified Jews and executing them mercilessly. Those films have their place in telling a history, but what are the consequences of having those images barrage us every year around Oscar season?

Like the film's Nazi propagandists who realize that the cinema can be used to rally a nation and inspire pride, Tarantino audaciously suggests that a film with a band of ruthless Jewish spies who put terror into the hearts of their enemies might have real life value in the way it alters our perceptions. Instead of using cinema to kill the Jews over and over and over, why not use it to burn the idea of Nazism in effigy? Only Tarantino would be so cocky as to use the final line of his film to insinuate that he knows that the film he has created is fantastic. But I have to say that I agree with his assessment.

Inglourious Basterds is a film that is exciting not only because it is perhaps the pinnacle of Tarantino's cinema. It is exciting because it suggests that Tarantino may have reached a new stage in his career. It took him 15 years to live up to the enormous hype of Pulp Fiction. Let's hope it takes far less time for him to match this one.

[****]

Onibaba (Shindô, 1964)

2009-07-23T12:37:00.000-07:00

The pulsing drums underneath the opening credits draw us in immediately. These are quickly followed by the distinct intensity of the two lead performers. Two women, one a young widow whose husband’s life has been claimed in the war and the other her mother-in-law, make their home in a marshy area covered in reeds that severely limit visibility for the unfortunate soldiers that stumble in. They venture in seeking a hiding place from pursuers and find themselves instead within a trap policed by merciless scavengers. Quickly and efficiently, their armor is stripped and their unclothed bodies are unceremoniously dropped into a giant hole. The pulsing drums return. Not surprisingly, it will not be the last time we hear them.

Kaneto Shindo’s Onibaba is a film ahead of its time, aggressive in its sexuality and its ferocity. Within a matter of minutes, Shindo gives us a palpable sense of place, time and the central characters. We know that these women are hardened, desperate and dangerous. We know that male sexuality and dominance is sharply threatened by these women with their loose-fitting kimonos and the dark vaginal opening that is used to dispose of their corpses. We know that the hole will figure prominently in the way the plot unfolds – but who end up down there? And how? Shindo not only immerses us in the geography of his setting, guiding us with his camera through the blowing reeds, but offers us a meticulous sense of atmosphere. It’s hard to think of Onibaba without thinking of the two women, sleeping uncovered on the floor, occasionally topless. There is a pervasive sense of heat in this film – and unpleasant, oppressive kind of heat that goes beyond the earthly and suggests something downright hellish.

Despite the detail in establishing the period, the narrative that unfolds is as simple as a fairy tale. And yet, it is all the more potent in its impact due to its use of easily identifiable types. When another young man enters the picture and takes up residence a short way away from the women’s hut, it is not long before she is escaping at night to enjoy his company. As you may suspect, her wandering is not appreciated by the mother of her former husband. Do I dare reveal to those of you who have not seen the film the way in which she attempts to prevent their affair from continuing? I think I shall leave it to be discovered as I did, because it is a sheer thrill, particularly in the way it is executed. The world Shindo creates and the tale he tells are both absolute joys, filled with an honesty towards sex and warfare and a conclusion that is both provocative and chilling. It is a film that grasps us by the throat and sears itself into our memories.

[****]

Johnny Got His Gun (Trumbo, 1971)

2009-06-13T11:08:00.000-07:00

Johnny Got His Gun is haunting, powerful stuff. A World War I soldier is hit by a mortar shell and loses his arms, his legs and most of his face, leaving him little more than a brain trapped in darkness with his memories, fears and suppositions about what might be going on around him based on what he can feel. The great thing about the film is the way the flashbacks simulate a mind in great distress due to both trauma and the effect of sedatives. The soldier remembers conversations that probably took place, but also imagines others that never could have been - with an anachronistic Christ, his dead father and also his old girlfriend. The film's subject matter is ultra-grim, but the tale never drags because the film making itself - particularly the writing - is bold and alive. Anti-war film, surrealistic nightmare, extreme absurdist consideration of the relationship between mind and body ... it's all of these things. A must see.

[****]

Up (Docter/Peterson, 2009)

2009-06-13T11:07:00.000-07:00

I never thought Pixar would make a film worse than Cars, but a mere three years later, here we have it. Up is a gloomy, humorless, maudlin, coarsely manipulative turkey of a film. A grumpy old man teams up with an irritating boy scout and a slightly moronic dog to find a rare giant bird with an annoying shriek. Oh joy!

The film uses a montage at the beginning to set up the fact that the old man promised his wife that one day they would take an adventure to Paradise Falls. So then he straps a bunch of balloons onto his house so that they will carry him to his destination. So far, so good. Kind of like The Straight Story meet James and the Giant Peach. I can see the possibilities.

But then the film commits a fatal error by skipping right over what should be the most extraordinary part of the story. The journey. Within the film's first half hour, we are already within a couple of miles of the final destination. And while the old man's adventure will eventually become about something other than reaching the Falls, there is no excitement or emotional release to finding that this crazy plan has in fact carried him all the way to South America. It literally happens in an instant.

Instead of documenting adventures in the sky as the flying house slowly makes it way towards its destination, the writers have decided that it would be preferable to follow the old man on the ground as he walks the last part of the way tugging the floating house behind him with a garden hose, an absurd betrayal of any internal logic the film may have had. Now, before I am accused of not being able to suspend disbelief, let me explain. For the sake of a fantastic story, I am willing to believe that enough balloons can rip a house up from its foundation in good enough shape to travel a long distance. But when you tell me that an old man cannot walk up stairs on his own, yet has the strength to stop this same house on his own before it goes careening over a cliff, then you have ceased to make any coherent sense. You are lying to me in an effort to crudely manipulate my emotions. When a man is feeble when you need me to cry, strong when you need me to get swept up in the action, throws out his back when you need me to laugh, is slow or nimble whenever it suits your purposes, then you have failed to create a character that means anything at all to me.

So despite the fact that the balloons were able to rip the house out of the ground and carry it aloft, this little old man is enough to anchor essentially that same weight to the ground (give or take a few balloons that were cut away). And this same man who uses a cane is able to maneuver this bulk through trees without it somehow getting tangled up. Riiiiight.

Maybe this would be forgivable if the film was any fun. But it's not. Apart from the ever present specter of impending death, the film has little in the way of humor unless you are amused by the somewhat desperate convention of 'talking dogs'. It doesn't even have the beautiful visuals that made Cars at the very least tolerable. All in all, a supreme disappointment, a lazy effort, and to be honest, a grating disaster than I hope never to watch again.

[*1/2]

The Gits (O'Kane, 2005)

2009-01-17T20:51:00.001-08:00

Like Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain, the dazzling, aggressive front-woman for the early 90s Seattle band, The Gits, died at that seemingly cursed age of 27. However, Mia Zapata, was anything but a rock and roll cliché. Unlike those more famous rock legends, there was nothing self-destructive about Mia’s early death. On the contrary, Mia’s life was violently ripped away from her in the summer of 1993 and her bloodied body left in the middle of a dark Seattle street. In such cases of tragedy, it can be tempting to romanticize the life that might have been lived, the accomplishments that might have been achieved. But those who know basic rock history and have had the opportunity to listen to Zapata’s band can certainly put two and two together and realize that Mia was in the right time and the right place to make quite a substantial impact.

How high Mia’s star would have risen is anybody’s guess. To be sure, The Gits would have benefited greatly from the Seattle explosion that was about to happen, including Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden and all the rest. An Atlantic Records representative appears in the film and tells us that, without a doubt, he had the intent to offer the band a major label contract. Critical response to their first indie album was enthusiastic. Throughout the first half of Kerri O’Kane’s documentary, we follow the rise of the band, as they form (taking their name from a Monty Python skit) and play shows at Antioch College in Ohio, then move west to Seattle and set up shop with like-minded friends and musicians in a Capitol Hill dwelling that eventually takes on the name, The Rathouse.

The surviving members share anecdotes about charming dive bars and living as a poor artist. Most importantly, we are given ample opportunity to listen to the band’s music through live concert footage. We note Zapata’s signature blues-punk vocals and gritty, intelligent lyrics underscored by the hard-charging, skillful musicianship of her bandmates. And we realize that this was no mere grunge band. We realize that The Gits had something to offer the music world that was all their own. Mainstream acceptance and videos on MTV might have been an iffy proposition, but this was a band that was peaking and looked to have room to grow.

The second half of the film details Mia’s tragic end at the hands of a random assailant. Without warning, Zapata was raped and murdered while walking home from a favorite bar after spending time with friends who say that she was in high spirits, optimistic about her future after playing a successful solo show. An investigation soon follows, but with no success. Mia’s murderer, it seems, has escaped justice and members of the music community begin to suspect that the criminal may be one of their own.

The strength of O’Kane’s film, beyond the dynamic subject matter, is how much of a sense we get of the love, respect and admiration Zapata inspired in those around her. We get a true feeling for the community that supported her and the family atmosphere provided by her friends, colleagues and bandmates. O’Kane understands why Zapata is an important figure, but resists the temptation to overstate the case, allowing the music and the memories of loved ones to speak for themselves. Most moving of all is the testimony of Mia’s father who naturally provides a very different perspective on her daughter before asserting that “now she belongs to you.” The story of Mia Zapata is one that deserves to be heard for many reasons and The Gits is both a fitting tribute to her life and a exhilarating celebration of her music.

[***1/2]

The Browning Version (Asquith, 1951)

2008-10-21T11:12:00.000-07:00

Unless you are familiar with the original play or have read the synopsis carefully, there is a period of time at the beginning of The Browning Version where it is unclear just who the subject of our story will be. With the setting as one of those English schools that are frequently used in the movies as a demonstration of government's capacity for soul-crushing rigidity, you may think that you are in store for something like Jean Vigo's Zero for Conduct or Lindsay Anderson's If ... in which the focus is on the students and how they manage to keep the human desire for freedom and imaginative exploration alive in the face of stern discipline. Perhaps that young boy who drops his hat and consequently arrives late to school will become the focus and we will see him struggle against authority. Or perhaps the film will be about that new teacher with the fresh young face who has arrived on the scene and how he inspires the apathetic youth to find vitality, inspiration and joy in those dusty old classics. While the themes of rigidity versus personal freedom are still present, The Browning Version tackles them from a different perspective: by making the monster into the sympathetic protagonist.

Michael Redgrave (father to Lynn and Vanessa) plays an emotionally cold, widely reviled master with the rather unfortunate name of Andrew Crocker-Harris, known to his students as 'The Crock' as well as other worse things that are whispered behind his back. In early scenes, we see that his sole admirable quality as a teacher is his ability to maintain order. He is knowledgeable about his subject matter, the early Greek play, Agamemnon; yet, he strangles the life out of it by deriding his students' attempts at translation and focusing on grammatical minutiae rather than the exhilarating story of passion and violence. In scenes outside of class, we see that he is unable to maintain such neat and tidy order in his own life. Despite his fastidious insistence on keeping the clocks running accurately, his wife is engaged in a rather indiscreet affair with the school's science teacher. And although the headmaster publicly declares the great sadness that will meet Crocker-Harris' imminent retirement, it is painfully clear that his lifetime as an educator has earned him little to no respect from the people with which he has come into contact.

In the way that it places us at a critical moment in time and asks us to look back on a man's lifetime consumed by failure, The Browning Version is reminiscent of Ingmar Bergman's great film, Winter Light, or even Dickens' A Christmas Carol. As his farewell date approaches, Crocker-Harris is forced to reflect upon the sum total of his life, and he finds that it really hasn't added up to all that much. In scenes that approach the naked cruelty of a Neil LaBute script, Crocker-Harris must confront his wife, his headmaster, as well as the man who has made him a cuckold. He must also suffer supreme indignity before finally facing up to the students who hold him in utter contempt. The result is a film that despite its modest focus is surprisingly captivating and emotionally harrowing. Redgrave is outstanding in the lead role, never making himself more likable than he needs to be, yet coloring the teacher with gentle sprinkles of life, helping us to envision the man who was once a highly decorated scholar. Note how he insists on the word 'gentle' during one key moment where he is translating from the Greek and you will see how Redgrave suggests the pulse beating beneath his stoic exterior.

The film builds towards a conclusion that may be on the outskirts of what might be considered realistic; however, it would difficult to deny it's cathartic power after witnessing one ordinary man put through the wringer and then find the desire to be extraordinary again. Sometimes it's nice to find yourself capable of a little sympathy for the devil.

[***1/2]

The Dark Knight (Nolan, 2008)

2008-08-02T14:28:00.000-07:00

The Dark Knight is a substantial improvement over Batman Begins, which got bogged down in tedious minutiae regarding martial arts training and assorted origin story geekery. As someone who is not especially a fan of the character, I really didn't give a rat's ass. This film, on the other hand, is ... well ... simply a lot more fun.

Is fun the right word? Yes. Much has been made of how dark the film is, how frightening its lead villain. Since the film's release, mainstream audiences have declared with their pocketbooks that they can take it. Of course they can. Setting aside for a moment the absurd notion that the film ranks among the greatest of all time (no ... it does not), the main reason, in my estimation, that The Dark Knight has achieved such overwhelming financial success is because The Joker is a dead perfect fit for our times. And his execution (I will give credit not only to Ledger, but to Nolan and company as well) is also the element that will make this film memorable.

Popping up when unexpected, carrying with him anarchic disillusionment, ready to explode into violence on a whim, The Joker perfectly encapsulates our feelings of helplessness in the face of a world going down the tubes. We look to the people who hold the world in balance (I'm not even talking about terrorists -- elected officials!) and they seem much like madmen. How many times have we thought that new news events would be absurdly comic if they weren't also of dire importance? Heath Ledger understands this connection and plays it to the hilt, never allowing the cartoonish aspects of his character to drain away his capability for danger. Even when he is away for long stretches of time, his presence looms over the film and we are held in attention anticipating his return. Let it be said: this is not a case of a star's tragic death leading to undeserved adulation. This is a supreme performance. Pure and simple.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Christian Bale's performance as the title character. His sullen, personality-free take on Bruce Wayne is tolerable, I suppose. However, his bizarre decision to play Batman as if he were squaring off against The Undertaker in Wrestlemania XII is a head scratcher. I've always thought that Bale was one of the most overpraised actors alive. But it's hard to imagine even his supporters defending his laughable vocal exertions which threaten to derail scenes that would otherwise be filled with tension. Aaron Eckhart as Harvey Dent runs into a similar problem, though not as extreme. When he is interacting casually, he is a perfectly capable actor. However, when later events force him into heightened levels of emotion, he just doesn't seem to have the conviction to match the moment.

As a director, Nolan is efficient, keeping the pace of this long film moving at a satisfying clip; however, there is very little art to his approach. He lacks the flair and creativity that Sam Raimi brings to the Spiderman films. I also thought that the editing felt rushed in places, as if the film was jumping to the next thought before it had finished the previous sentence. This did not feel like any sort of calculated tactic to disrupt the film's pacing. It just felt kind of sloppy.

My final criticism of the film is fairly significant, I think, and prevents me from holding the piece in higher esteem. It's simply this: the character of Batman with his armored car and his silly rubber suit and his Rex Kwan Do gets swallowed up by the enormity of the menace he faces. Perhaps he is a Super Cop, but the Gotham city police force still seems to be doing a lion's share of the work. From time to time, he is able to turn the tide with a timely gadget. But I just don't get the feeling in this battle of good and evil that the town really needs him. I don't understand his need for secrecy. I don't understand why he keeps his technology to himself. I don't understand why his vigilante status helps him to be more effective at fighting crime.

Criticisms aside, this was pretty much engaging from start to finish, with only a couple of dead spots. Thanks to Ledger and the Joker character, the film actually had some legitimate laughs this time as well, not just that dopey 'comic' banter between Bruce Wayne and his butler. The film has numerous flaws. But when it's good ... it's awfully damn good.

[***]

Boarding Gate (Assayas, 2007)

2008-04-20T21:08:00.000-07:00

Olivier Assayas’ Boarding Gate is not so much a film about plot or atmosphere. It’s a film about attitude. Early on, we are introduced to the basics of the situation involving a big time criminal who wants out of the lifestyle and a comparatively small-time drug dealer who used to be his lover. Most of this is material that you have probably seen countless times before. Pretty soon, the drug dealer will be in over her head and on the run from men who want her to disappear permanently. There are crosses and double crosses, twists and turns, many of which are predictable. So, you may be rightly wondering at this point, why should I care? You should care because the woman on the run is Asia Argento.

To say that Argento seems “at home” or “in her element” would be a cliché, but how else to describe her performance in which she lifts the film up by the scruff of the neck and carries it confidently from start to finish? At 32 years of age, Argento has the advantage of possessing over 20 years of acting experience. Making no effort to conceal her trademark tattoos, Asia is no chameleon. As in her other performances, she is rarely far from playing herself. And yet, she has just the right mixture of aggressiveness and vulnerability to make her characters entirely captivating. Even when she is trading bruising language with Michael Madsen, she never seems to be trying to achieve an effect. She uses her body with abandon, plunging headfirst into scenes where another actress might make us feel that she was being exploited. You get the sense that Argento hasn’t been cast in a role, so much as a film has been constructed around her.

Boarding Gate works, and works well, despite its uninspired plot because Assayas is able to sustain a prolonged sense of danger. You don’t know whether to envy the men Argento falls in love with or feel sorry for them. At any given moment they are seemingly at risk of being fucked or being killed, possibly both on the same night. In a supporting role, Michael Madsen is himself a combustible personality, playing the kind of man that would dare get close to Argento for any prolonged period of time. There is also fun to be had in the globe-skipping path Argento takes attempting to find safety and in seeing Sonic Youth’s Kim Gordon suddenly appear on screen barking out orders in Cantonese. (Gordon unfortunately does not fare as well in English, giving a performance on the level of Lyle Lovett.)

Boarding Gate leaves us with very little thematically to ponder. The things at stake are the kinds of things that are really only important to movie characters in films such as this. Argento’s character makes a final decision that, while revealing something significant about her personality, does not offer us much in the way of a satisfying conclusion. Still, the film is fun while it lasts, artful and exciting enough to fully capture our interest and, most importantly, a worthy showcase for Argento’s charismatic bravado.

[***1/2]

The Freethinker (Watkins, 1994)

2008-04-17T19:32:00.000-07:00

For his recent film study of iconoclast Bob Dylan, I’m Not There, director Todd Haynes employed six different actors to portray the central character, emphasizing his belief that a monolithic view of such a complex character would be inevitably problematic. When making a film biography, a director faces the challenge of staging personal moments that in most cases had no witnesses other than the direct participants. Even though viewers are aware that they are watching a film, a filmmaker can be put in the awkward position of purporting to ‘know’ in situations where knowledge is impossible. Consequently, responses to these films can get mired in discussions of whether this or that really happened while larger thematic matters get ignored.

For his four-and-a-half hour film on the troubled life of Swedish playwright, August Strindberg, Peter Watkins employs the same kind of democratic principles that he advocates for world governments in anti-authoritarian films like Punishment Park and The Journey. Watkins is, if nothing else, an untiring champion of the people. For The Freethinker, this means opening up the discussion to not only members of his cast, but also members of the public who have been invited to watch his actors rehearse and perform improvisations. There is no question that The Freethinker has the personality of a Watkins film in the way it blends documentary with historical recreation. In form, it most closely resembles Edvard Munch made some twenty years earlier. However, in this instance, Watkins goes even farther incorporating outside voices. The actors who play Strindberg and his wife occasionally address the camera in Bergmanesque close-up to share their thoughts on the characters they are playing. Peripheral characters discuss Strindberg in round table settings only to have the actors later drop character to share their own thoughts from the late 20^th century. In a small black box theater, Swedish members of the public respond casually to Watkins’ actors, waxing philosophical on the internal struggle between emotions and intellect.

And yet, at the end of the day, it is Watkins who controls the film’s editing decisions. In Strindberg, he has found a character full of contradiction. Early on, a revolutionary writer and historian who argues that the history of Sweden is the history of its people rather than its rulers, Strindberg later succumbs to the pressure of his critics and turns his back on his early ideals. His behavior becomes erratic, particularly as it concerns his family and his attitude towards women sours from comparatively enlightened to straight-up misogynistic. Quotes from Strindberg’s writings are displayed on title cards and then juxtaposed with both scenes from his plays and scenework speculating on how his domestic life might have looked behind his public appearance. Most of these scenes are performed with basic costumes and sets. Some appear to be simply the actors in rehearsal. Watkins’ films have always leaned towards the academic. Here, more than ever, it seems as if Watkins is using film to compose a thesis that never arrives at its conclusion. This is, in some sense, admirable as it allows viewers to feel as if they are a part of the investigation. At times though, Watkins’ refusal to boil down his subject can prove wearisome, particularly as he meanders to his pet theme of the damaging influence of modern media

The Freethinker has admirable qualities; however, it is not likely to hold the attention of anyone but Strindberg enthusiasts and Watkins completists, two categories that do not exactly boast large populations. Watkins has made films that are more provocative, more penetrating and better looking. Most importantly, he has made Edvard Munch a more effective examination of the artist in conflict with society.

[**1/2]

The Guernica Tree (Arrabal, 1975)

2008-03-24T14:39:00.000-07:00

Fernando Arrabal’s take on the 1937 Nazi bombing of Guernica during the Spanish Civil War is to film what Picasso’s Guernica is to the world of art. Both are works that draw from the horrors of war and then use evocative symbols and purposeful distortions of reality to communicate feelings of anger, sadness and disgust. The film is set, not in Guernica, but rather in a nearby village called Villa Ramiro. There, Bohemians dance in the streets in elaborate costumes and a local artist pulls shocking pranks on both government officials and church goers. Up in a tower of stone, the count coldly lords over the citizens. From the very beginning, the seeds of conflict are planted.

When a beautiful woman arrives in town, riding sidesaddle, she is chased by three Fascist thugs intent on raping her. She flees into a small deserted house. When the men find her and close in on her, she reveals a handful of vipers in her hands, which she flings at her attackers in self-defense. This incident is a metaphor for the large-scale conflict that serves as the film’s center. The woman’s name is Vandale, a survivor of the Guernica bombings who has come to Villa Ramiro to provide inspiration and leadership to the rebels who wish to overthrow their oppressors.

After the rebels topple the local government officials and desecrate the nearby church in ways that would not seem out of place in a de Sade novel, Vandale rallies the villagers and urges them to take up arms against the approaching armies intent on definitively crushing the uprising. Also involved is a local academic who preaches pacifism and believes in ideas that are transported “on the wings of a dove.” However, in the face of enemy artillery, he struggles to translate his ideals into tangible action, worrying that he has cornered himself into passivity.

Arrabal directs with equal parts creativity, rage and vulgarity. It is worth noting that his grudge against fascism was developed first-hand in his childhood when his father, a political enemy of Franco, was placed in a labor camp for life. Though it is believed that he escaped from prison in 1941, he disappeared forever. With that context, it is perhaps easier to understand the perverse glee Arrabal takes with debasing the film’s oppressors, often through sexual or scatological imagery. Holding the film together is an underlying sense of poetry and the masterful use of allegorical characters. On rare occasions, Arrabal lapses into scenes that are either insincere or obvious audience bait for moral outrage. However, for the most part, The Guernica Tree is a stirring, captivating plea for humanity and courage in the face of governmental cruelties.

[***1/2]

Sunshine (Boyle, 2007)

2008-01-17T23:05:00.000-08:00

Problems don’t get a whole lot bigger than this. In Danny Boyle’s tense, skillfully made space film, Sunshine, the sun is dying and a crew of eight astronauts is hurtling towards the center of the solar system with the nuclear equivalent of jumper cables. Their task is to deliver a payload that will create a star within the star and bring the earth’s temperature back up where it belongs so that Al Gore can return to the lecture tour. Naturally, all sorts of scientific questions about the plausibility of such a mission are bound to leap into our minds. However, the point of Sunshine is not whether or not the mission will ultimately have precisely the desired effect. The point is that faced with the threat of extinction, the mission represents the last, best effort of the human race. Like De Palma’s Mission to Mars, Boyle’s film excels at offering us evidence of humankind’s ingenuity juxtaposed against cold, hard evidence of our fragility.

That such a journey is even ponderable is in itself rather extraordinary. The crew flying the Icarus II is equipped with technology that exceeds the capabilities of our own time, but not by much. An on-board Earth simulator allows one man, filled with the tension of being away from home for years, to refocus and recalibrate. An abundant greenhouse is filled with plants that provide a small bit of aesthetic beauty, as well as assist with the oxygen flow. Their navigational system is controlled by a computer system that allows for intuitive voice-activated interfacing that is essentially no different from having a conversation. Without resorting to easily defined ‘types’, Boyle’s characters (apart from a couple notable exceptions) also represent the high point of human education, rationality and courage. Some possess the ability to make extraordinary scientific and mathematical calculations. Others are notable for their ability to use logic under intense pressure and place themselves in danger understanding what ultimately is at stake.

At one point, the characters joke that they should not split up because they don’t want to be picked off one by one by a malicious alien. The gag works because it is a direct commentary on the type of film that Sunshine is not – well, not exactly. In addition to the mere difficulty of traversing a vast distance through space, the crew must also contend with a force representative of a certain kind of apocalyptic thought that is a very real threat to human well being in the real world. While there may be some who feel that the final section of Sunshine descends into something more base and ordinary, it seems to me that this is where the film asserts a rather pointed message regarding the battle between scientific accomplishment and religious faith. The idea of manipulating the sun is extraordinary. It may also be seen by some as hubristic. If the caretaker of the universe wants to shut down operations, then who are we to argue? The glorious spiritual conclusion of Sunshine is derived from the notion that we are, in fact, our own caretakers and the tiny part of the universe we inhabit, flawed though it may be, is more precious than the imagined paradises of mythology. This metaphorical struggle elevates Sunshine beyond the scope of a conventional thriller while at the same time intensifying the desperate acts of the Icarus crew.

[***1/2]

Citizen Dog (Sasanatieng, 2004)

2007-11-22T21:14:00.000-08:00

I appreciate a film that lets you know from the very beginning that you are going to be in good hands. The bold, saturated colors of Citizen Dog are immediately arresting as we begin in a comic dream sequence where the protagonist, Pod, meets his grandmother in front of a vivid, pleasantly artificial landscape. After she offers a cryptic prophecy, an off-screen narrator introduces us to Pod’s quirks and personality traits. As we are introduced to Pod’s highly stylized environment, see him work a tedious job at a sardine factory and learn about his habit of plugging in the fan when he means to plug in the iron, it becomes increasingly harder to believe that Thai director, Wisit Sasanatieng, has not at some point in his life watched Amelie. To be sure, the film’s first 15-20 minutes are an absolute delight, highlighted by a giddy and joyful opening credits sequence.

Pod is a country boy who, we are told, has no dream. After accepting a new job in the big city, he soon finds himself attracted to Jin, an obsessive-compulsive maid who may actually find joy and fulfillment in a job devoted to cleanliness. Jin is, however, difficult to get to know, as she constantly has her head in a book. One book, to be precise – a book with a plain white cover and written in a language that she does not understand. Jin, we will find, has a habit of making huge assumptions about the world around her, believing certain people or things are of great importance and impulsively acting according to those fantasies.

Pod, on the other hand, seems utterly intimidated and paralyzed by the hustle and bustle of the world around him. All around him, extraordinary things happen. Yet, he seems too timid to take an active role. After he meets Jin, she and her blue uniform are all that he can see. Sometimes, literally. Despite her frequent irrationality, there is something about her intensity and passion that he finds alluring. In the film’s central metaphor, Pod resists growing a tail, as his grandmother has predicted he would. Sasanatieng’s purpose is somewhat elusive; however, it seems that what Pod fears about becoming a ‘citizen dog’ is that he feels it means conformity and obedience. Pod resists going along with the crowd. Yet, his resistance is passive and unengaged. He must ultimately make a choice: either continue to bump up against the mainstream or find a way to exist within it.

Citizen Dog is filled with enough surprises, humor and visual delights to make it well worth watching. I’ve purposefully avoided mentioning some of the film’s most magical moments and sight gags. However, I did find that my interest and involvement in the journey did begin to wane about halfway through. It is a joy to be introduced to the film’s conventions, idiosyncrasies and central characters. About the time the guy who licks everybody and everything makes his appearance though, I was ready for the film to get a little bit more sincere and forthcoming with what it ultimately hoped to accomplish. Jin’s journey actually turned out to be more moving and meaningful to me than Pod’s. Many of Sasanatieng’s metaphors failed to leave a lasting impression on me, remaining charming quirks, rather than resonant ideas.

Clearly, Sasanatieng is not short on ideas. Yet, in this particular instance, those ideas get a running start, but never truly take flight. Still, all told, there is much about Citizen Dog to recommend and it leaves me with the feeling that Sasanatieng is a director to watch in the future.

[***]

Artemisia (Merlet, 1997)

2007-10-30T19:51:00.000-07:00

Agnès Merlet’s take on influential Italian painter Artemisia Gentileschi is a film that veers away from the conventional account of the 17^th century feminist icon’s troubled life in order to recast fellow artist Agostino Tassi, the man widely considered to be her rapist, as an unconventional tutor who not only gave her a few pointers on perspective, but awakened her sexuality as well. While historians will tell you that Artemisia was subjected to humiliation and torture because she dared to bring forward accusations of rape, Merlet’s film suggests that clergy and judges inspected her vagina and cruelly bent her fingers because she was trying to protect her partner in an affair that was illicit, but consensual.

With this rather charitable interpretation of Tassi’s involvement, Artemisia’s father, Orazio, becomes the film’s chief villain, as he attempts to preserve his family’s honor by bringing charges against his painting painter. Because none of the art academies will admit a woman, he convinces Tassi to offer his gifted daughter personal instruction. Merlet’s film gets a lot of mileage out of the fact that as a young woman, Artemisia is not allowed to paint nudes. As her father paints using a nude male model, a sheet is drawn to protect Artemisia’s eyes from gazing upon his anatomy firsthand. Frustrated and defiant, Artemisia begins to trace the outline of the model’s silhouette on the sheet.

In another scene, Artemisia strips to the waist and paints her own semi-nude body because it is the only way for her to gain critical information about human body structure. Eventually, she finds other opportunities to obtain the forbidden knowledge – a man and a woman making love on the beach, a mini-orgy observed through a window late at night, a local boy who is willing to be observed naked in exchange for a kiss. Artemisia’s quest to educate herself never descends into tawdry exploitation; however, it is clear that by choosing to focus on titillating speculations, Merlet’s intent is to tie Artemisia’s artistic struggle directly to the sexual repression that pervades her culture. Tassi’s historical rape therefore becomes instead a vital transgression that propels Artemisia on an unavoidable path towards iconoclasm. Her reputation sullied, Artemisia is no longer left with any honor to protect, no longer left with any respectable options other than to immerse herself completely in her art.

Without attempting to make a value judgment about Merlet’s historical fudging, considering the film alongside the conventional storyline only brings the director’s purpose into sharper focus. Objections to transforming a famed historical rape victim into a highly sexualized contributor to her own persecution are certainly understandable and valid. Artemisia raises many questions about an artist’s responsibility to historical truth that cannot be effectively explored within the scope of this review. However, the fact remains that Artemisia is a well-made, provocative film with beautiful photography and a captivating lead performance. Ultimately, Merlet’s film asks us to consider the conditions and circumstances that work together to fuel the passion within an artistic soul.

[***]

Galaxy Quest (Parisot, 1999)

2007-10-30T19:49:00.000-07:00

Galaxy Quest is a film with one of those premises that movie executives must love. What if the cast of a science-fiction television show was forced to travel to space and fend off malicious aliens in real life? It is easy to imagine the comic possibilities as we see actors attempt to bridge the gap between fantasy and reality. Ripping off as much as possible from Star Trek while still avoiding copyright infringement, Galaxy Quest assembles a talented group of actors (and Tim Allen) for a lightweight comedy adventure that is palatable enough, though not terribly ambitious.

We get the expected gags, such as backstage grumpiness from Alan Rickman’s character, a classically trained thespian who refuses to utter the catch phrase that made him famous, and a degrading appearance at the opening of a new retail store. Most of these moments work well enough because the cast attacks the material with exuberance and commitment. Tony Shalhoub’s ship maintenance specialist is a captivatingly odd creation, as we wonder to ourselves if he is perpetually baked or just acts that way naturally. We know for the entire length of the film that Rickman’s character will eventually be placed in a situation where he will rediscover the freshness of his catch-phrase and deliver it with gusto. When it finally occurs, it happens perhaps not quite as we had expected as Rickman demonstrates the way a great actor can find truth in even the silliest material. What is Sam Rockwell doing here? He doesn’t know. We don’t know, but what the heck. He’s good for a few moments of memorable oddness, even if his character is utterly superfluous.

But ultimately, the star of this show for me was an actor with which I had not been previously familiar. Enrico Colantoni as the lead alien, Mathesar, delivers a thoroughly satisfying comedic performance, adopting a bizarre high-pitched cadence and beaming with sincerity and optimism. His choices are peculiar and bold without becoming irritating or phony. I also enjoyed how the alien creatures moved, as if they were still unaccustomed to their adopted bodies, and the striking gaze of Missi Pyle’s Laliari, pitched somewhere between Milla Jovovich and Jim Carrey.

Although it has its share of comedic moments, Galaxy Quest also has an adventure plotline that is every bit as silly and formulaic as the shows the film is parodying. Naturally, this is intentional, but we, as an audience, are forced to endure it. When Sigourney Weaver’s character observes that it’s ridiculous that her only job is to repeat what the computer has said or that the crushing devices in the hallway of the starport are illogical, does that make the rudimentary action more bearable? Well, kind of. But too often, I felt like the film was making a joke and then pointing out that it had just made a joke in case I had missed it.

It’s hard to feel strongly about Galaxy Quest either positively or negatively. It takes a decent premise and a winsome cast and then coasts along. I suppose there is some joy to be had in laughing at dorky TV shows and the dorky people who obsess over them, but it’s a shallow pleasure at best.

[**1/2]

Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny (L. Lynch, 2006)

2007-08-28T00:15:00.001-07:00

The remarkable thing about Tenacious D is that, despite obviously being a joke band, they are actually capable on occasion of achieving a bizarre death-folk nirvana. It's no wonder that the fictional versions of Jack Black and Kyle Gass spend so much time trying to catch lightning in a bottle. Most of the time, the two sound like a pair of goofs messing around after a night of mind-altering substances. But every once in a while - honest to goodness - the music actually soars and the two create a distinctive sound that is no less awesome for its copious references to medieval mythology and explicit sex.

Perhaps Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny is all the more disappointing because it gives us glimpses of the glorious film that could have been. In the opening sequence, quite obviously inspired by The Who's Tommy, a young Jack Black rocks the family dinner, upsets his Christian father and pledges his loyalty to Ronnie James Dio. The tone, the energy, the humor, the music - everything is pitch perfect. This is what the Tenacious D film needed to be - an overblown rock opera emulating (and topping) the excesses of their idols. Instead, the film soon drops its ambition and slides into a half-baked stoner comedy complete with mandatory cameos by Ben Stiller and Amy Poehler.

The D will probably never have another chance at making a feature film, so it is a shame that they settled for lame kung-fu parody, an uninspired hallucinogenic sequence and a gratuitous car chase. Most of this is transparent filler as we await the unavoidable confrontation with Satan himself. The film once again enters rock opera mode and immediately recaptures our attention. This is the D we need to see. We need nothing short of our minds completely blown. In the film's final scene, we get an ultra lame bong joke, followed by an after-the-credits fart gag. Not good enough. When watching the D, our level of enjoyment directly correlates to their level of mad ambition.

[**]

The NeverEnding Story (Petersen, 1984)

2007-08-20T15:27:00.001-07:00

Although it contains many familiar plot elements, there is probably not another film that feels quite the same as The NeverEnding Story. There is a brave hero who has been sent on a great quest, a trusty steed, a journey filled with all manner of odd creatures who provide clues, a giant, a wolf, a dragon and a child monarch. However, it is not merely the plot that involves the viewer - although it certainly has its share of satisfying developments. Rather, it is the delightful way in which we are lured into the story - not just of a young hunter tasked with the responsibility of finding a cure for the Childlike Empress, but also of an ordinary boy who is discovering the extraordinary power of his own imagination.

You may remember the fantasy scenes more vividly from your childhood than you do the ‘reality’ scenes; however, the way the character of Bastian, the reader, is established is vital to the film’s success and as worthy of praise as anything else we see. First there is the simple and not overly emotional talk from Dad, in which we learn indirectly that Bastian’s Mom is no longer around. Bastian’s father is not painted as a caricature, nor is his advice all that unreasonable. He is loving, although he may not entirely grasp his son’s needs. Then, there is Bastian’s encounter with the bullies in which he is chased down an alleyway and forced to escape into a garbage dumpster. Here we see the daily reality that Bastian’s father is asking him to face. The bullies do not inflict physical pain upon Bastian. It is enough for us to experience his indignity.

Eluding the bullies’ second pursuit, Bastian ducks into an old bookstore run by a crotchety man who takes Bastian for the sort of kid who would rather spend his time at the video arcade. Bastian defends himself as a reader of worthwhile literature. Maybe so, but the shop owner assures him that all that he has experienced is kid-stuff compared to The Neverending Story. Luring Bastian in with quiet intensity, he eventually induces Bastian to ‘borrow’ the book while simultaneously piquing the viewer’s curiosity as well.

Skipping class and hiding himself away in an unused room at his school, Bastian’s decision to read and plunge himself into Fantasia, the setting for The Neverending Story, is positioned as an act of rebellion. This mysterious book and the wonders it must contain are too thrilling to be diluted. The math test will have to wait. His father will have to wait. Bastian isolates himself and plunges into a different world. The geography of Fantasia, with its swirling clouds, murky swamps, shimmering seas and gaping canyons is pleasantly disorienting. We are never quite sure how the various topographies interconnect. It is difficult to grasp how far Atreyu, the hunter, has traveled. When the wolf dispatched to end Atreyu’s mission pursues him, we are not sure how close or far away he is. Making matters worse is the ever-looming presence of The Nothing, a seemingly unstoppable force that rips up everything in its path. This fictional universe is elusive, intangible, ever-shifting and, most importantly, exhilarating.

As events unfold, it becomes clear that Bastian’s role as reader is more vital than he could possibly have imagined. Once Atreyu finally meets the ailing Childlike Empress (played by Tami Stronach, who is breathtaking in the only screen performance of her career), he arrives believing that his quest has been a failure. What follows is a deeply satisfying coup de theater that not only elevates the role of Bastian, the reader, but by logical extension, the viewer as well.

Michael Ende, the man who wrote the work upon which Wolfgang Petersen’s film is based, was deeply dissatisfied with the adaptation, going so far as to sue to have the name changed. It’s a shame - because one of the strongest feelings the film inspires in the viewer is the desire to lock oneself away with Mr. Ende’s book.

[****]

Death of a President (Range, 2006)

2007-08-13T09:33:00.001-07:00

Much to my surprise, Gabriel Range’s faux-documentary, Death of a President, which considers what might happen in the wake of a successful assassination attempt on George W. Bush, is not the kind of wild-eyed, irresponsible shock-piece that I had anticipated. On the contrary, it is thoroughly engrossing speculation that concisely sums up the major tensions brewing in the United States at this time and suggests that the country, with Bush serving as a lightning rod, is not only a target of intense external aggression, but also is home to an alarming amount of internal discontent and anger. The filmmakers wisely steer clear of the sort of Bush ridicule that has become de rigeur over the past six years. Yet, at the same time, they create an accurate picture of the man, folksy bravado and ideological stubbornness intact.

Fittingly, the investigation that follows, headed up by President Cheney – I’ll give you a moment to shudder – falls into the same kind of methodological errors that have led to disaster in Iraq, namely letting a conclusion precede evidence rather than evidence leading to a conclusion. What is most admirable about the film is the way that it proceeds without concern for who will take offense. Political advisors, dissidents and talking heads alike are drawn with flaws exposed, but very little registers as being unfair or false. It’s quite possible that we are too close to the subject of Range’s film for it to receive wide appreciation. I suspect that it will be the sort of film that will gain more support with time. It seems to me that the film has been hastily dismissed for reasons that will not be important to those who will watch it in the future. Beyond the startling premise, this is a film that effectively captures the feeling of the age, wrapping post-9/11 paranoia, governmental distrust and Katrina outrage into one potent package.

[***1/2]

The Journey (Watkins, 1987)

2007-07-30T12:20:00.000-07:00

Every generation deserves a rabble-rouser as committed and ambitious as Peter Watkins. During the mid-80’s, at the height of U.S.-Soviet nuclear tensions, Watkins traveled the world in order to make a film for peace – a 14-hour documentary broken into 18 installments entitled The Journey. Watkins’ goal was to demonstrate that despite the enormous network that has been established to stockpile nuclear weaponry - with the deadliest of bombs and missiles being constructed and transported right under our noses - the general public still remains largely ignorant about even the most basic concepts associated with the technology and its potential consequences. Watkins further asserts that the news media of the United States, Canada, England and Australia has failed to properly educate citizens about the growing nuclear danger and has, on the contrary, confused and mislead its viewers. Finally, Watkins ties in the expenditure made for nuclear weaponry to the lack of funds available to aid the starving populations of the world.

Perhaps the most extraordinary aspect of The Journey is the extraordinary amount of information that Watkins unearths about how nuclear weapons are created within our midst. Although many of us may think that this activity goes on in top secret facilities tucked away somewhere beyond our reach, Watkins shows us that the technology for these weapons is developed at our universities, built in our factories and transported along railways that run through our neighborhoods. The task is divided up sufficiently so that very few people have to actually take personal responsibility for the creation of death devices. An individual factory worker may only know that he is responsible for the creation of one part. It is therefore easy to remain willfully ignorant of the part’s eventual purpose. In order to get at the truth, one would have to ask uncomfortable questions of authority figures responsible for your employment and break a taboo that dictates silence on the matter.

In some communities, conscientious objectors may not only be out of a job, but also branded by their neighbors as a political radical. As Watkins shows a train carrying an enormous amount of nuclear weaponry through a seemingly peaceful Washington town, the scene eerily calls to mind Resnais’ Holocaust documentary Night and Fog and the way in which grotesque acts were committed in neighborhoods where citizens dutifully went about their daily routine. Watkins covers so much territory that the likelihood that he will touch upon a surprising fact about an area near you is high, no matter what continent you currently occupy. Doggedly, Watkins works to lift the veil of silence that dominates the subject and provide average citizens with sobering information so that they may make a decision about whether or not they will remain complicit in these activities. However, Watkins also shows that effective protests are not easy to accomplish, particularly with a media that is all too willing to side with authority. When protestors decide to stand in the way of the aforementioned train, the local news story shows them being dragged away forcefully by police. The train carrying deadly weapons is not shown. The subject of the protest is not discussed. The objections are effectively marginalized.

For the most part, Watkins’ film staggers the viewer with both statistics (the hungry all over the world could be fed with what is spent on the arms race in two weeks) and scope. Watkins talks with witnesses to Hiroshima and Allied bombing in Germany. He talks to Algerians who are subject to prejudice in France, women in Mozambique who struggle to maintain their community despite war and poverty, and also Polynesians who live near the site of nuclear testing. In Australia and Norway, he stages speculative improvisations with non-actors, demonstrating how nonsensical and inadequate government guidelines are for handling post-nuclear situations. And yet, The Journey’s greatest strength also turns out to be the thing that keeps it from having the impact of some of Watkins’ shorter films like The War Game and Punishment Park. Watkins lays out an extraordinary case in the first two-thirds of his film and then spends much of the last third cycling back over points that have already been established. When he uses low-tech video to allow a family in Britain to communicate directly with a family in Russia without the filter of the media or the government, the resulting appeals for peace are moving. However, how many families around the world do we need to see arrive at the same conclusion: that family is essentially just like me.

The size of Watkins’ film coupled with the vitriolic nature of his attack on the media and government proved troublesome. Despite what obviously was an enormous amount of research, time, energy and dedication, the film has appeared on television exactly three times since its release according to the director’s website. Longer is the list of international TV stations that refused to air the film. Consequently, the documentary has appeared only at the occasional film festival or special screening. Perhaps the difficulties that Watkins has faced mirror the problems we face with the nuclear problem. The subject is so taboo, the conspiracy of silence so fierce and the cruel effects of the weaponry so surreal that it is hard for the average citizen to digest. Still, it is hard to imagine another filmmaker having the patience and courage to tackle such a noble use of the medium. Latest word is that Watkins is attempting to bring The Journey to DVD. If so, the number of people who have seen this work will multiply enormously. Despite being over two decades old, The Journey still holds much that could make the world a better place.

[***1/2]

Pride and Prejudice (Wright, 2005)

2007-07-23T13:39:00.000-07:00

When creating a modern adaptation of a classic piece of literature, there are at least two ways in which a director can go wrong. The first way is to treat the famous text with so much reverence that it is not allowed to breathe. It becomes a museum piece where viewers gaze appreciatively at what a past generation must have considered great, but do not fully engage for themselves. The second way is to assume that the viewer will only respond to the work if it is ‘translated’ into something aggressively contemporary. Oftentimes, this method results in an extreme flattening of the source material, causing it to become something utterly banal. For his recent adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, director Joe Wright finds the perfect balance, trusting in the comedy and emotional pull of the two-hundred-year-old story and yet also using modern technology and sensibilities to keep the tale alive and fresh.

Wright does not simply observe the social gatherings where men and women play a highly stylized game of courtship. He puts us in the party. In the one of the film’s most memorable (and perhaps showy) moments, Wright’s camera moves through several rooms at a lively ball, beginning with a father requesting that his musically mediocre daughter stop playing the piano and then sweeping past each of the major players, checking in on their status and giving the viewer an idea of where each is located in relation to each other. While the long tracking shot has become something of a contemporary film cliché, it is utterly appropriate here, giving us a first-hand feeling for how the characters might maneuver around, attempting to create ‘chance’ meetings with those they wish to engage and avoiding those they don’t. After checking in with several characters, the shot finds the father and daughter in an entirely different part of the building, attempting to resolve their prior quarrel. We have not seen all that has transpired in between, thus reinforcing the film’s central theme – that we can often formulate opinions about situations and people based on tiny snippets of information.

Wright’s directorial choices are often adventuresome, but rarely, if ever, do they distract from the film’s main purpose – to convey Austen’s ideas and observations about human interaction. He shows a remarkable eye for composition, such as anytime the Bennett sisters are shown on camera together. They stand about the room, perfectly arranged in a manner pleasing to the eye and yet not so formal as to seem forcefully staged. When the central lovers embrace, the sun shines perfectly between their faces, bathing the union in celestial light. When Elizabeth flees the marriage proposal of the interminably boring Mr. Collins, the camera is positioned with appropriate distance in order to accentuate the comedy of the moment, as she runs down the lane pursued by geese. Wright is also aided by an extraordinary ensemble, led by veterans Brenda Blethyn, Donald Sutherland and Judi Dench and with a central performance by starlet Keira Knightley that makes a lasting impression. Only Matthew Macfadyen in the key role of Mr. Darcy seems to be in over his head – or perhaps it is just the awkwardness and social anxiety of his character that I am reading as stiltedness. No matter. His performance does not distract substantially from the film’s building tension – yes, tension! – and palpable emotional pull.

With Pride and Prejudice, Joe Wright has managed an extraordinary feat, giving a modern sheen to a classic, without letting it be devoured by our post-modern world. He has not condescended to his viewer, nor asked for our idolatry. He has proceeded with trust in Ms. Austen and the idea that if a classic is to remain a classic, then it must connect with a modern audience on its own terms, not through its reputation. Wright’s adaptation is full of life, humor and sensitivity, announcing this first-time feature director as a talent to be paid careful attention in the years to come.

[***1/2]

Quest for Fire (Annaud, 1981)

2007-07-16T15:49:00.001-07:00

For years I’ve wondered why they don’t make more films like Quest for Fire, Jean-Jacques Annaud’s bold and beautiful adaptation of the J.H. Rosny novel. After all, considering the origins of our species is a gateway for all sorts of provocative questions about what made us what we are and why. There is something mesmerizing about fire - even today when our scientific knowledge runs much deeper. Perhaps you’ve had the experience of sitting around a campfire musing about how such a simple phenomenon makes so many extraordinary things possible.

Quest for Fire takes us back to a time when different tribes of early humans roamed the earth. More often than not, a collision of tribes leads quickly to violence, particularly when one group possesses that which is necessary for the other group’s survival. It is one such clash that serves as the film’s inciting incident. We witness a skirmish in which one group is forced to flee from the safety of their homes in order to escape from a group that is much more aggressive. In the process, they extinguish their master flame, leaving them in darkness. The astute viewer will note that this darkness is both literal and figurative as it becomes clear that the mastery of fire is vital for the tribe to progress towards the next stage of evolution.

The stakes that are set up are extraordinarily high; however, as three of the tribesmen begin their quest to travel the countryside in search of a new flame, it becomes clear why prehistoric dramas are an exceedingly rare commodity. For one thing, we have to consider the rate at which technological and cultural progression occurred in these early times. Whereas 21st century humans can open up the newspaper (or better yet, surf to their favorite news website) any day of the week and read about an extraordinary discovery or development in the world of science, the accomplishments of early humans – critical though they were – occurred over the course of tens of thousands of years. It therefore becomes difficult to compress scientific awakening into a two-hour drama without the result coming across as at least somewhat comical. What are the odds, for example, that one fateful journey could lead one prehistoric man to discover not only a method for creating fire from scratch, but also laughter, spears and the missionary position?

Despite the challenges, Annaud does an excellent job evoking an era of history that is based on a comparatively tiny amount of scientific knowledge. Using a made-up prehistoric language and careful observations about the social interactions of primates, Annaud constructs a world that is plausible enough for us to invest in characters that express themselves mostly through grunts, shrieks and growls. Although anachronistic moments inevitably slip through – such as a couple instances of shtick from Ron Perlman lifted directly from vaudeville - more often that not, the experience of speculating on how our distant ancestors struggled for basic survival without a fraction of the comforts that we now enjoy is humbling and spiritually stirring.

While individual moments may seem a silly or contrived, the overall result is a film that is admirable for the vision displayed by its director and the courage and the courage displayed by its cast. You may wish that Annaud had allowed himself to venture even further away from the conventions of the three-act mentality; however, you will probably be glad that the film exists at all and that he has taken you as far as he does.

[***]

Gertrud (Dreyer, 1964)

2007-07-09T10:43:00.000-07:00

For his final film, the Danish master, Carl Theodor Dreyer, opted to adapt a play (written by Hjalmar Söderberg) about a woman who is drawn to great men but then finds that they are incapable of offering her the depth of love that she requires. A writer, a politician and a musician comprise her past, present and (she hopes) future lovers respectively. As she carries on with an affair under her husband’s nose, word arrives that the writer will soon return to town to be honored for his influence and artistry at a special ceremony. The convergence of these three figures in Gertrud’s life put her into a state of deep self-reflection as she realizes that she is at a critical crossroads in her life. Not content to be proverbial ‘good woman’ standing behind the ‘great man’, Gertrud seeks a path that will lead towards personal fulfillment and, above all, true love.

When we first meet Gertrud, she resembles nothing so much as Nora from Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, unconvincingly playing the part of doting wife to a successful husband. Her dissatisfaction registers palpably on her face, hoping to communicate to her husband an internal state she would rather not have to put into words. Past the point of putting on a brave face, Gertrud already seems to have separated herself spiritually from her daily reality, even though her body is going through the motions. Dreyer further underlines the tension by not allowing his actors to even look at each other throughout most of the first twenty-minute scene. The effect is jarring and unnatural at first; but, slowly we come to realize that Dreyer’s lack of warmth is intentional, that he has denied his players the very thing that most actors feed upon – the energy that comes through eye contact and interplay with another performer.

Surprisingly, this oppressive limiting of eye contact and direct interaction continues throughout most of the film. Characters exist in the same room and speak words that work together to make a conversation, and yet rarely do we ever feel as if they are truly connecting. At one point, Dreyer creates a beautiful picture with one character facing towards the camera and another character directly behind facing off to our left. Their bodies are so close that they merge together in our vision. And yet, the souls that give them life are miles apart. At one point, Gertrud notes that she sees life as a long chain of dreams, drifting into each other and Dreyer’s direction takes that assertion to heart. From the initial set-up, we may expect a series of tense, passionate explosions along the lines of Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage. Instead, we get a film that comes at loneliness and heartbreak from a completely different direction. It is almost as if Dreyer has created a film that deemphasizes the flesh that gives us form and instead delves straight for the intangible spirit that gives us spark. It is a somber film, occasionally tedious and stilted, but ultimately profound and effectively unsettling.

Risk-taking and audacity is generally associated with youth; however, Dreyer takes risks here that perhaps only an experienced director in his seventies could take. He takes one of the most conventional starting points for a drama – a woman is unsatisfied with her husband and seeks fulfillment elsewhere – and elevates it to a stirring statement on our ability to reconcile personal achievement with love for another. Drawing from a lifetime in the cinema, he drains his drama of the one thing that we would assume would drive the film forward – passion. He is able to do so because his superior sense of composition and structure are able to steer our attention towards startling truths that lie around the corner from our expectations.

[***1/2]

Once (Carney, 2006)

2007-07-02T12:04:00.000-07:00

On the streets of Dublin, a man plays a guitar that has seen so much use that it looks as if it could collapse inward upon itself at any moment. Initially, he seems like just another wannabe folkie, the kind that might be likely to irritate you in the later hours of a good party. Most of us would simply walk on by, catching a few seconds of his tune and this nothing more about him. However, because this is a film, we are forced to pay attention, to listen to his music unfold and build towards an impressive crescendo. Skepticism turns to empathy and admiration as we observe the investment the man has in his music, the sincerity and passion that he pours into his performance. The reception he receives on the street is less than enthusiastic. Only one person, a young Czech woman has stopped to appreciate his talents. Despite her praise, he is somewhat disheartened when the she is much more excited to discover that he is a vacuum-repairman by day and might possibly be able to aid her with a problem Hoover.

After this adorable meeting, you probably think that you know how the rest of the film will likely unfold. Chances are though, that you are wrong. As it turns out, she is a gifted musician as well. Although she cannot afford a piano of her own, she enjoys playing one of the display models in the local shop. He listens to her play and soon they are playing one of his songs together. The moment is magical and in his mind, he sees her as the cure for his loneliness and depression. He pushes – too hard – for a tangible connection. She, on the other hand, is in no mood (or perhaps no position) to rush into a whimsical romance. Still, she sees a way to assist him and perhaps even give him the sense of fulfillment and self-worth that he has been craving, albeit in a different way that he may have initially desired.

Often romantic comedies can seem to be written by people whose ideas about male-female relationships and courting never evolved beyond their high school prom. Their hijinks typically revolve around someone who frets over whether or not they will be able to find “the one”. And because they believe that there is one and only one person that will fill their lives with happiness, any amount of immature, selfish, idiotic behavior is justified in pursuit of their end goal. Once is a film that truly understands that attraction between intelligent men and women is really much more complicated than that. The truth is that it is possible to meet people throughout our lives that excite us and help elevate us in satisfying ways. This is a film in which two adults attracted to each other have to make grown-up decisions and not simply follow their impulses. Ultimately, writer/director John Carney leaves his characters with fates that fall well short of their wildest dreams. And yet, this does not mean, on the other hand, that he drags them through misery and despair. Instead they find themselves with unexpected rewards because each has mindful of the needs of the other. Together, they exemplify the idea that true love is in helping the beloved to be the most happy, the most fulfilled, the most satisfied that they can be.

[****]

Mission to Mars (De Palma, 2000)

2007-06-17T21:17:00.000-07:00

There are films which use space travel for the purposes of great adventure. Epic battles are fought between the stars resulting in high speed chases and spectacular explosions. Bizarre aliens populate the skies taking whatever forms our latex make-up or computer graphics can manage. This, of course, is the universe as imagined by George Lucas – a place where extraordinary technology is used to settle conflicts that are essentially very basic. Good guys battle bad guys. Attractive guys pair up with attractive women. And good guys can become bad guys if they do not heed the pseudo-Buddhist teaching of their mentors.

And then there are films that use space travel to speculate about the nature of who we are. They recognize that more than anything else space points up human fragility while simultaneously affirming that the fact we are here at all is nothing short of a miracle. We intuit that if we are to seriously learn more about how we came to be, then we must take small, tentative steps out into the universe. Brian De Palma’s Mission to Mars falls into the latter category of films. And while it would be a stretch to say that De Palma’s creation deserves comparison to Kubrick’s 2001, it at least can be safely considered alongside something like Zemeckis’ Contact. Like that film, Mission to Mars uses our best scientific knowledge to speculate how its characters might conceivably be hurled into the far reaches of space and then makes fanciful guesses about the extraordinary things that might await the travelers once they reach their intended destination.

Although Mission to Mars eventually builds in momentum towards an exciting and enlightening conclusion, it struggles mightily while its characters are still on Earth. Early expository dialogue ranges from stilted to utterly manipulative. De Palma’s camera meanders around smoothly at a go-away party and we fear that this will be another film in which De Palma is more concerned with cinematic acrobatics rather than conveying anything of substance. Happily though, the film wastes little time getting its characters into zero gravity. A team led by Don Cheadle’s Luke is the first to set foot on the red planet. However, when a violent unexpected storm wreaks havoc on the exploration party, another group including a husband and wife team (Tim Robbins and Connie Nielsen) and a recent widower (Gary Sinise) is pieced together to serve as a rescue squad.

Because of the six months of travel involved merely to complete one leg of the journey, it is believed that a married couple will be beneficial to the team, presumably due to the stability and warmth they will provide. In the first of the film’s magical scenes, we see the duo engaging in a bit of gravity-free ballroom dancing and see how the presence of love could help boost morale on a long, tedious journey. However, we also see later how such ties might pose a problem when one partner is faced with a decision that could risk the ultimate success of the mission. Although he was not initially a member of the Mars expedition due to questions about his mental health in the wake of his wife’s death, it is Gary Sinise’s Jim that pushes the group towards its most extraordinary discovery declaring that he “didn’t come 100 million miles just to turn back in the last 10 feet.”

What transpires on the red planet, I will not reveal. However, I will suggest that De Palma’s film probably had difficulty finding an audience due to the fact that it merges a first half focused on grounded scientific knowledge and a second half that indulges in wild, dreamy speculation. The ideal viewer will have to be a particular mixture of realist and dreamer, willing to forgive the film’s various false notes and occasional melodramatic manipulations. Those willing to go along on the journey will find a film of building tension and power – a film that is almost even more endearing because of its awkwardness. It is a film that affirms how far we are from true understanding about our origins and purpose, but which also celebrates that tiny bit of knowledge that we have been able to attain through the efforts of the curious and the courageous.

[***1/2]

Mean Girls (Waters, 2004)

2007-06-15T21:08:00.000-07:00

One of the clever twists on the typical teen comedy to be found in Tina Fey’s debut screenplay for Mean Girls is that the central character, Cady (played by Lindsay Lohan), arrives at an American high school after being homeschooled in Africa for her entire life. She is completely disconnected from the pop culture that drives the fashion choices of her friends and unaware of the social hierarchy that has been firmly established. The rest of the students have a collective history together with memories of past relationships, embarrassments and treacheries. Cady walks in essentially a blank slate, ready to be coerced into joining one of the various factions.

Among her suitors are a team of Math-letes, who are seeking out a token girl that will allow them to receive more funding, and a trio of attractive but vacant rich girls dubbed the Plastics who represent the pinnacle of popularity. Cady is befriended by an intense, dark-haired young woman of questionable sexuality and her unquestionably gay male buddy. These two warn Cady that despite her mathematical prowess, she would be foolish to risk the “social suicide” in becoming a Math-lete. Instead, they encourage her to use the Plastics’ interest in her as a means to destroy them.

It is here where many viewers will draw comparison to the 1980’s cult hit, Heathers, in which similar high school tensions lead to murder played for dark comedy. Indeed, Mean Girls seems to be written as a direct response to that film. Without ever spoiling the light-hearted fun, Mean Girls functions as a post-Columbine corrective for Heathers. It is a tale of teen cattiness and deceit that demonstrates the lengths high schoolers will go to emotionally torment each other. Yet unlike Heathers, it ultimately veers towards positivity and a reinforcement of the benefits of integrity and goodwill towards others.

Especially notable about Mean Girls’ trajectory is the way in which Cady arrives at the self-realization moment that we know will ultimately come by film’s end. In setting out to break apart the Plastics and their dominance of the school, Cady’s seeming successes only lead to a degradation of her self. Although we may take a little vindictive pleasure in watching Cady’s targets crumble, we cannot help but note that neither the school nor Cady is any healthier or happier. Only when Cady has managed to alienate virtually every member of the school - partly through her own doing and partly because of a scheme on the part of her enemy - does she discover the part of herself that will allow her to get back on track, fulfill her own spirit and become a positive influence on those around her.

Written with plenty of wit and wisdom, Mean Girls is a refreshing film to counter the onslaught of backstabbing and conniving that we are subjected to daily in this culture obsessed with so-called reality television. It convincingly exposes the destructive nature of clique mentality and models healthy relationships for teens who may feel that they are trapped in survival mode. Mean Girls strikes a satisfying balance between edgy and earnest and is therefore a cut above the average teen comedy.

[***1/2]

Red Road (Arnold, 2006)

2007-05-29T12:24:00.000-07:00

Sitting in front of a bank of monitors, able to monitor suspicious activity all over the city, Jackie succumbs to the temptation that many of us would no doubt have if we found ourselves in the same position. She begins to use her pseudo-omniscience for personal ends. A man and a woman sneak away for a quick sexual encounter behind a city building, unaware of the camera fixed on their moment of supposed intimacy. Jackie watches quietly with interest and for a moment we suspect that she may even be aroused by what she sees. And then she sees the man’s face. She thinks it is someone from her past. As she moves her camera to follow her target, she loses him temporarily and settles briefly upon … a sly metaphor crossing the road and escaping into the night. What it is exactly, I will not reveal, but it effectively tells us what we need to know about the man that has captured Jackie’s attention. Or at least how she perceives him.

Jackie’s voyeuristic occupation keeps her at a safe distance from the general hubbub and bustle of the city. As we learn more about her past, we discover why this particular vocation would be especially desirable. Using modern technology, Jackie is able to help people to avoid trouble before it starts. And yet, we also see that there is a part of her that craves intimacy and companionship. She smiles warmly as she observes the old man walking his perpetually ailing dog and also at the cleaning lady dancing raucously in a room she thinks no one can see. She has illicit sexual encounters with a regular partner, but these trysts are about as personal as a regular check-up at the dentist. It is startling when she leaves her privileged position in order to take a more direct approach to the situation at hand. As much of the film consists of Jackie watching surveillance video, there is a great deal of silence. This is contrasted sharply with the loud Oasis sing-a-long at a party Jackie crashes for her own purposes. Is it because the party takes place at a position outside of the range of her camera’s view? Or perhaps it is because she cannot bear the idea that this man has the freedom to enjoy the company of friends and celebrate.

Red Road is the first in a trilogy of films by different directors tied together under the heading of Advance Party. Basically, the films will be tied together by a shared set of characters that have been created by Danes Lone Scherfig and Anders Thomas Jensen. A set of rules has been crafted to guide the project; however, despite Lars von Trier’s apparent participation, this particular set of rules is decidedly non-dogmatic, asserting only that the films must take place in Scotland and that all characters must appear in all of the films and be played by the same actor throughout. It remains to be seen how Red Road will be informed , complemented, enhanced or contradicted by the two films to follow. However, as a stand-alone effort, it is a captivating, effective piece on the topic of pain, intimacy, revenge and healing.

In the lead role, Kate Dickie gives an extraordinary performance as a woman who is easily identifiable but ultimately somewhat difficult to wholeheartedly embrace. Jackie is a woman who both demands control and has difficulty maintaining it and Dickie smoothly and admirably navigates that contradiction. Director Andrea Arnold has the distinction of making her feature film debut already with an Oscar to her credit (for the short film, Wasp). Red Road shows that Arnold is likely to live up to that early promise. Her film offers a complicated and provocative portrait of a female protagonist without being overtly feminist. It is also bluntly sexual without being exploitative. After keeping up rapt in attention for the duration of her film, Arnold’s conclusion comes across as a bit too pat and tidy. Still, Red Road is successful at offering fresh perspectives and rhythms that may well be the harbingers of an extraordinary career.

[***1/2]

When a Woman Ascends the Stairs (Naruse, 1960)

2007-05-27T11:17:00.000-07:00

The title can mean at least a couple different things. Ascending the stairs can serve as a metaphor for the aging process. Our central character, Keiko, is merely thirty years of age, yet already a widow. In order to have a comfortable life for herself, she serves as a hostess at a bar that upon a cursory glance could be mistaken for a brothel. Although the female staff members are not officially ‘on the menu’, it is clear that their main task is to satisfy the male clientele with their charm and femininity. Having lost her husband, Keiko is now past the age when many women begin a life of marriage. In Keiko’s story, director Mikio Naruse suggests that the opportunities for women to fit into Japanese society are limited to a very narrow path – much like the narrow stairs which lead to only one destination. A woman may take a husband and live off of his wealth, or she may make her own way in a career that will most likely still involve satisfying the ego of a wealthy man.

Another metaphorical implication of the title may call attention to the way a woman ascends in social status. This aspect of the title’s meaning is ironic. As evidenced by the film, Keiko finds herself ‘ascending’ into a destination that she does not desire. On more than one occasion, she is offered an opportunity to attain financial comfort and security; however, these options lack those things that she most desires – namely control over her own destiny, and, perhaps more urgently, love. Although the topic of whoredom is never explicitly discussed, it permeates the subtext of the entire film. The favors Keiko offers and receives are invariably as romantic as a financial ledger. With each flirtation between man and woman, we must ask ourselves what each party has to gain. Even when Keiko seemingly negotiates an arrangement that is dispassionate but workable, her social position is only as sturdy as the man whom she has given control.

Naruse’s film will be pleasing to those who prefer a restrained and unadorned style. He is fortunate to have a strong, convincing lead in Hideko Takamine who is convincing in each and every moment she appears on screen. She is a woman who carries with her a lot of emotional baggage and yet clearly still strives to live happily and vibrantly. There is hope within her that she will discover something wonderful at the top of the stairs. And yet she is intelligent enough to observe the lives of those around her and foresee where she is most likely heading. Very little about Naruse’s style is particularly memorable, as he seems to have pitched himself towards efficiency rather than artistry. Because of this, the film occasionally has stretches that can seem obvious because we know the basic trajectory long before we arrive. Still, the tale is told well and with integrity, leading up to a climax that could prove emotionally powerful to some viewers. I found that my own response was something closer to detached appreciation rather than passionate investment. Still, the film is worth the journey in order to experience an articulate expression of a recurring societal issue.

[***]

Paprika (Kon, 2006)

2007-05-04T11:24:00.000-07:00

Every bit as disorienting as Inland Empire, David Lynch’s collision of fiction and reality, Paprika is an exhilarating experience that basically contains all that is good about Satoshi Kon’s previous projects and combines them into one potent feature. From Perfect Blue, we have a central heroine whose identity is fractured. From Millenium Actress, we have concrete reality merging with the reality of dreams and memories. And from Paranoia Agent, we have a sly social commentary about a society that has been driven insane by modernity.

After one viewing of this delightfully slippery film, I offer a plot synopsis at my own peril. But, basically, the situation is as follows. A group of psychotherapists has developed the DC Mini, a device which allows patients to capture their own dreams and view them later when they are awake. As the film begins, we enter into the midst of a recurring dream that a cop is having which involves chasing a mysterious figure down a hallway and being unable to prevent a murder. The dream is an abstraction of the case that he is currently working to solve. Problems arise when it is discovered that someone is using the technology to enter the dreams of all those who are hooked up to the device. By manipulating dreams, this ‘terrorist’ - as they call him - is able to eventually create delusion that impact reality. The dreams of different people begin to merge and build dangerous momentum. Soon, the barrier between dreams and reality disappears altogether, leading to extraordinary sequences where the background is constantly shifting and characters may enter paintings, films or television programs and instantly become a part of a whole new world.

Yes, there are explicit references made to the illusory world of cinema. Films, after all, are always some sort of dream – an imagined series of events that may aid us in understanding the events of our waking lives. However, the real profundity in Kon’s film is the way that he links our dream world to our online world. The internet, Kon suggests, is a place where many of our repressed desires may come to life. As in our dreams, we may take on different identities or we may indulge in unusual fantasies. We may be emboldened to say or do things that we might not otherwise allow to see the light of day. The key difference, of course, is that unlike our dreams, this online activity is shared and public. As the influence of the technology grows and people spend more and more time in their ‘second lives’, this collective fantasy must inevitably have real world consequences. Our dreams may not be ours alone, but rather open and available for others to invade and impact.

Paprika is a complex film, layering ideas upon ideas, all the while remaining capable of shifting directions at any given moment. However, it not a film that is unnecessarily frustrating or unfocused. Kon allows rest periods in between the extraordinary visual assaults for us to process what we are experiencing, and there is always a sense of forward momentum, even if sometimes we feel that we are barely able to keep up. Pressed into a ninety-minute feature, Kon is not able to indulge in the kind of digressions that made Paranoia Agent occasionally difficult to fully absorb. Paprika is Satoshi Kon meeting and exceeding our highest expectations and delivering his best work yet.

[****]

Black Book (Verhoeven, 2006)

2007-04-23T11:42:00.000-07:00

After spending several years in Hollywood tackling such highbrow subject matter as murderous lesbians, backstabbing showgirls and vicious insect armies, Dutch director Paul Verhoeven returns home to take on the light, breezy topic of Nazi persecution of the Jews during World War II. In all seriousness, Verhoeven’s latest film, Black Book, is a rare creature that succeeds in making a critical historical point while at the same time never allowing the politics to weigh down the thriller. In order to appreciate Black Book, the viewer will likely have to tap into a different frame of mind than one might normally bring to a World War II drama.

There are plenty of films that have been created that allow us to dwell deeply on Nazi atrocities and mourn for those who lost their lives. This is not one of them. World War II is used primarily as the background for an exciting adventure filled with intrigue, twists and double-crosses. Nazis pop up unexpectedly out of dark places, calling to mind something closer to Castle Wolfenstein rather than Schindler’s List. And yet the film itself is not simple-minded. It is rather a film that strives for entertainment first and foremost, allowing its lessons of moral confusion in times of war to come to the forefront only towards the very end. Because it has been filmed in a foreign language, it will likely play at your local arthouse. However, take away the subtitles and Black Book has enough thrills to play inside your local mall – and I don’t mean that derogatorily. It is a film that successfully bridges the gap between mainstream and arthouse entertainment, allowing viewers to engage with whatever level of intellectual investment that they care to offer.

Verhoeven’s wisest directorial choice is casting Carice van Houten in his lead as Rachel, the young Jewish woman who must blend in amongst the Nazis responsible for murdering her family. Van Houten’s charisma and beauty allow us to easily forgive one of the script’s flimsiest bits of logic, namely why a high-ranking Nazi official (Sebastian Koch) is willing to risk so much and offer her so much trust. Van Houten’s performance combines beauty, caginess, sensitivity and dignity. All that and she can sing! The character of Rachel is far from angelic and not even psychologically consistent. And yet, van Houten gives her cohesion and provides a direct connection to Verhoeven’s theme of moral fogginess. I suspect the performance will do for her what Run Lola Run did for Franka Potente, namely make her highly sought after by Hollywood producers.

Only one character in Black Book stands out as being mostly unsuccessful. One member of the Dutch resistance is a religious man who insists that his group must not use violence, even when threatened by attacking Nazis. In using this character, Verhoeven is attempting to comment on the fruitlessness of moral rigidity in a time of unspeakable atrocities. And yet, the execution of this particular character is fairly ludicrous. Fortunately, his scenes are mostly brief and do not distract significantly from the whole.

There will be those who argue that the selected subject matter does not deserve to be treated so flippantly or mined for the maximum cinematic thrills. It is a legitimate point. And yet, there will be many who will be glad to approach the time period without the weighty reverence that is typically required. In the end, I believe Verhoeven gives his film legitimacy with the way he asserts that compassion and cruelty are qualities that know no borders and that nationality is no assurance of moral superiority.

[***1/2]

Flesh + Blood (Verhoeven, 1985)

2007-03-30T12:20:00.000-07:00

The title may as well be a concise summary of the career of director Paul Verhoeven, as it tells us very little about the actual film. Known mostly in the United States as the director of such exercises in excess as Robocop, Basic Instinct and Showgirls, Dutchman Verhoeven here works for the first time in the English language. His cast is peppered with notable American actors like Jennifer Jason Leigh, Bruno Kirby and Brion James, as well as a rather notable Dutch holdover in Rutger Hauer. Somewhat comically, Verhoeven’s film is set in a location no more specific than “Western Europe” sometime during the Medieval Era, although ultimately intricacies of history and geography are of little consequence to the tale Verhoeven tells.

His primary characters are a lusty group of commoners who have been duped into participating in a dangerous siege by a nobleman who refuses to reward them for their efforts. They are the sorts who in these tales always seem to be laughing heartily, exposing a wretched set of teeth, while they clutch a large, half-eaten drumstick in one hand. They are the kind of people for which the term ‘ragtag’ was coined. Led by Hauer and a beat-up statue of St. Martin that they look to for timely omens, the group exacts their revenge by making off with the dowry intended for the nobleman’s son, and (unwittingly) the bride-to-be herself, played by Leigh. Soon, they take over a castle and set up a makeshift home, living the life of royalty.

Much of this is trademark Verhoeven schlock - heavy on the rapes and vulgarity, low on plausibility and insight. However, the film grows surprisingly more engrossing during its second half, largely due to the interplay between the extraordinary duo of Hauer and Leigh. Leigh in particular plays a character who, if not exactly complex, is certainly captivatingly conflicted. Hauer’s Martin quickly fends off his companions to make his abductee his concubine. Leigh’s Agnes goes along with his advances, initially - it seems - to spare herself from violent repercussions. However, as she receives a crash course in sexuality, her participation seems to grow more eager and unrestrained.

Having previously pledged herself to her groom-to-be in a pseudo-tender scene that takes place beneath two decaying corpses hanging from a tree branch, Agnes is forced to convince two different men that her love for them is real in the hopes that one of them will rescue her from the conflict. The question is: which one of them is the rescuer and which the villain? As the tide turns for either side, Agnes’ affections seem to drift back and forth. She maneuvers carefully to avoid being exposed as unfaithful, all the while dropping subtle hints to convince the other that her actions are being coerced. Truth be told, it is little more than a shallow game set against a generic medieval background, but for some reason – most likely the charisma and skill of Hauer and Leigh – the whole silly thing works.

The viewer is unlikely to be enlightened or moved; however, Flesh + Blood does offer Ladyhawke-era Rutger Hauer brandishing medieval weaponry, copious Jennifer Jason Leigh nudity and the sight of diseased dog meat being catapulted over castle walls. Every once in a while, depending on your mood, those just might be the ingredients for an ideal viewing experience.

[***]

The Host (Bong, 2006)

2007-03-19T10:10:00.000-07:00

A careless chemical dump in a Korean river leads to the creation of a gigantic fish beast that also has the ability to hang upside down like a bat, swing around like an especially acrobatic monkey and run on land like a charging rhino in Bong Joon-ho’s The Host. The Host is a peculiar kind of monster movie in that it reveals the full abilities of its creature early on, letting the beast go on a rampage in broad daylight. Although it makes for a somewhat exciting opening sequence, it also proves to be somewhat disastrous for the film as a whole. It shifts the emphasis away from our thrill in discovering more about the newfound threat and places it squarely on a family of misfits who never grow or change in any meaningful way. It is film that wanders aimlessly from drama to comedy to horror to science fiction to political allegory, never finding a satisfying fit and consequently ending up as a largely incoherent mess.

The film starts out promisingly enough. After a thankfully brief back story and character introduction, we are soon amused by the sight of dimwitted city dwellers mistaking the beast for an unusual kind of dolphin and luring it towards them by tossing beer nuts into the river. The creature leaps onto land, sending the panicked masses scurrying and treating the viewer to about five to ten minutes of nicely orchestrated mayhem. At the conclusion of this sequence, the beast takes off with a key character, leading the others to presume her dead, and it is shortly thereafter where the film reveals its first signs of trouble.

We see a makeshift public shrine where the families of the creature’s victims have placed pictures of their missing loved ones. Rather than opting for a simple moment of humanity, Bong inexplicably tries to mine the moment for farcical comedy. Our central characters are so loud and demonstrative with their mourning that they begin to disrupt those around them. The scene is played for comedy, but where are we supposed to find humor? In the fact that this family has just lost a family member? In the fact that they are mourning ‘improperly’? The overall effect is to seemingly reveal to the audience information that we should not know. If the victim was really dead, the filmmakers wouldn’t treat the moment so flippantly, would they?

Eventually, however, we realize that The Host is woefully inconsistent about its attitude towards human life. In some horror movies, victims are dispensable, used merely as prey so that the filmmaker can engineer thrills. In other films, we are provided with real flesh-and-blood humans who embark upon a journey that actually means something. We invest in their fates because the decisions they make and the way that they grow actually has purpose. The Host rests at some unsatisfying point in between.

Unlike George Romero’s Land of the Dead, which wittily offered us a zombie polemic or Stephen Chow’s Shaolin Soccer, which at least gleefully committed to its own over-the-top cartoonishness, The Host is whatever it wants to be at any given moment. It shifts around from dopey to creepy to sensitive to callous to humorous to earnest. It dabbles in drama, comedy, horror, sci-fi, paranoid political thriller and environmental cautionary tale without ever being completely satisfying in any one area. It sends four poorly written family members on a quest to find a fifth and then offers us an ending that renders the whole journey meaningless. It is as if each scene was shot without any thought to how it would fit together with all the others. Indeed, the film would probably work best for someone with the short-term memory loss suffered by Leonard in Memento. It is a film that is only concerned about the next five minutes, disregarding any sort of internal consistency. Consequently, The Host offers little tension and leaves little impression.

[**]

Celine and Julie Go Boating (Rivette, 1974)

2007-03-12T10:37:00.000-07:00

Considered Jacques Rivette’s most famous and beloved work, Celine and Julie Go Boating is a curious creature. It is a film that ultimately works despite the fact that approximately two hours of its runtime is utterly superfluous and often tedious. In spirit, it is reminiscent of Vera Chytilová’s Daisies, although it lacks that film’s political consciousness, as well as its economical punch. Nonetheless, it gives us two attractive young women who form a unique bond and then pit themselves against mainstream society. Whereas Chytilová’s Maries were anarchofeminists, Celine and Julie are simply whimsical pranksters who spend a lot of time giggling. For the better part of the film, it appears that Rivette will be content to bounce around aimlessly between situations that range from cute to insufferably cute. However, in the final part of the film, the Ritalin kicks in and he at last settles into something approaching a purpose.

When we first see Julie, she is sitting on a park bench reading a book about magic when who should happen by but Celine, a small-time magician. Celine drops a couple personal items behind her, leading Julie to retrieve them and follow her in the hopes of returning them. This, I suppose, is as good a reason as any to bring the two together. Why though does Celine refuse to stop, thus leading Julie on an extended tour of the city? Possibly it is because Celine and Julie (with the guidance of Rivette) will instinctively choose the path that is most adorable and precious.

Eventually Celine and Julie move in together, cause a disruption at the local library, play a trick on one of Julie’s suitors and do lots and lots of giggling. Although much of the film’s first half is meandering and inconsequential, two standout sequences involve first Celine and then Julie appearing at a local cabaret club. With comic indifference, Celine smoothly endures a heckler as she works her way through a decidedly unambitious magic routine in which the focus is clearly not on her tricks, but on her legs. Later, Julie steps into her companion’s place to vamp, mug and improvise her way through a rough approximation of the former’s performance. Because she is able to keep in constant motion, linking one idea into the next, allowing one emotion to drift into another, it takes her audience a long while to realize that what they are watching not only contains no magic, it also contains no sense.

Out of all this whimsy, it comes as something of a surprise when an actual plot arises in the film’s final hour. At a mysterious house, a stilted melodrama is being played out repeatedly day after day in which an innocent ends up murdered. Alternately, Celine or Julie visits the house and then emerges with no memory of what has occurred until they suck on a magical candy that awakens their memory. Unfortunately, they are only able to remember fragments, thus keeping the murderer’s identity a secret. Eventually, in the film’s comedic high point, Celine and Julie find a way to infiltrate the house together in the hopes of altering the plot and rescuing the victim. This portion of the film works wonderfully because at last we have a tangible object of satire. The ghostly figures that maneuver their way coldly through a bleak chamber drama could possibly be figures out of Bergman, or they could be intended to represent an outmoded French theatrical form. (Indeed, there is a brief smattering of inexplicable applause that would suggest the latter.) No matter what target was specifically intended, the situation pits the dusty old conventions of the past versus the fresh, rambunctious spirit of Celine and Julie.

But to answer what is undoubtedly your most pressing question, Celine and Julie really do go boating. Honest. Like so many other things in the film, the title is something of a comic non-sequitur. But when the moment comes, pay attention to who else goes boating. And take note of the fact that they are traveling in the opposite direction.

[***]

The Lives of Others (von Donnersmarck, 2006)

2007-03-11T15:57:00.000-07:00

The winner of the Academy Award for Best Foreign Film, The Lives of Others is the debut feature of German director Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck. You may have trouble remembering that name, but you will certainly not have the same trouble remembering the film. Von Donnersmarck has crafted a thoroughly engrossing tale of a governmental spy in early 1980’s East Germany. When we first see Hauptmann Gerd Wiesler (played by Ulrich Mühe of Funny Games), he is leading a lecture, instructing students in proper interrogation technique. A subject that sticks to the same answers, we are told, is actually lying, because this demonstrates that he has rehearsed his story. We also see Wiesler preserve the seat cover sat on by the subject during the interview so that the scent may be used later by dogs trained to track down enemies of the state. Guilt, in this time and place, is presumed. Innocence requires devotion to socialist ideals in every waking moment of your life.

Soon Wiesler is assigned to Operation Lazlo, a surveillance mission in which he has been asked to spy upon writer Georg Dreyman and Christa-Maria Sieland, his actress wife. Dreyman is considered by the government to be the last non-subversive playwright in East Germany. Indeed, Georg and Christa have learned how to operate within the system, choosing their words in public extremely carefully and submitting to certain arrangements that are humiliating at best, soul-destroying at worst. Listening in from a makeshift surveillance center in the attic above their apartment, Wiesler notes down every small detail that could point to disloyalty to the state. However, when he discovers the true purpose behind his assignment, his perspective on the couple undergoes an unexpected change. He begins to empathize with their situation and admire the sacrifices they make to be able to continue their art. He even weeps when they experience extreme sorrow.

The Lives of Others achieves its power by pitting two longtime rivals against each other: the artist and the state. As always, the state has technology and weaponry and brute force. But, the artist, von Donnersmarck argues, holds a different kind of power. It is a power that is not coercive, but rather seductive. It requires participation, but once experienced, it can disarm any thug. Playing a beautiful sonata on his piano, Georg remarks that it would be impossible for anyone to hear the piece – fully take it in – and not be a good man. Although he does not know it, his words (and the sonata) have been heard by one of his most dangerous enemies. Von Donnersmarck’s master stroke is that Wiesler does not just experience the art – in a sense he actually becomes the artist. With his subsequent actions, he takes on the roles of his assigned subjects – playwright and actor – and alters all three of their lives forever.

The Lives of Others builds towards a tense, emotional climax that is both thematically and dramatically satisfying, although more finicky viewers may question the plausibility of the extraordinary risk taken by one of the key characters. There is also the question of a highly serendipitous clue that leads to a conclusion that some may find pat. However, these seem like trivial complaints in the face of a remarkable and passionate expression of the way that art can access our core humanity, pushing us inevitably towards empathy.

[****]

Crazy Love (Deruddere, 1987)

2007-03-02T11:27:00.000-08:00

There’s really only one explanation for the fact that Belgian director, Dominique Deruddere’s debut feature (based on the writings of Charles Bukowski) is not remembered fondly as one of the 1980’s great statements on the painful awkwardness of adolescence and budding sexuality. It is because the film builds to an act that is so taboo that it seems unimaginable that it actually occurs in the real world. And yet it must, for how else would we have a word for it? It is an act that has caused Crazy Love to be released in a DVD package that trumpets the film’s credentials as a piece of bizarro cinema, comparing it to David Lynch’s Eraserhead. And yet, in truth, the film is not schlocky or surreal, neither exploitative nor extreme. Apart from some comically disturbing acne makeup, Crazy Love is surprisingly restrained and tender considering its subject matter. Make no mistake: it is certainly frank in regards to sexuality. However, it is not a cynical film, taking as its protagonist a man who is a romantic at heart despite the intense resistance he finds in reality.

When we first see Harry Voss, the year is 1955 and he is in the cinema watching a film in which a prince and princess head off towards a fairy tale ending. The impact is so great on the twelve-year-old boy that he steals a promotional movie still from the theater’s display case and takes it home with him. His older friend, more knowledgeable about sex, is unimpressed noting that the couple in the picture still has their clothes on. In the film’s first thirty minutes, we see young Harry come to the disheartening realization that physical attraction in the real world bears little resemblance to what he sees in the movies. His father is not a handsome prince, but rather a gruff looking, overweight man who snores loudly on the couch. His parents do not exchange passionate kisses bathed in a heavenly glow. On the contrary, they grunt and sweat under the covers in a fashion that seems decidedly utilitarian. His older friend, willing to instruct him in the ways of human sexuality, takes him to a nearby carnival to gaze upon female wrestlers and drunken lovers. The setting for this portion of the film is noteworthy as young Harry comes to consider human sexuality to be something of a grotesquerie. He takes in as much information as he can, hoping eventually to discover the beauty that lies underneath. By the end of the film’s first section, Harry is a little bit wiser about the world that surrounds him. However, he is not necessarily happier because of it, his naïve joy transformed into reluctant acquiescence.

The film’s middle section takes place later in Harry life, on the night of his senior prom. Still a romantic at heart and a practicing poet, Harry is cursed with a case of acne so bad that it nearly qualifies as a physical deformity. With a wicked sense of humor, Deruddere has pushed a common teenage affliction into the realm of the absurd. Little children stare on the bus in amazement. Harry’s female classmates recoil in disgust. Although the blemishes more closely resemble a new strain of the plague than something out of a Noxzema commercial, his doctor instructs him to be patient and let nature take its course. But for Harry, that is precisely the problem. Nature has taken its course and caused him to be intensely attracted to a beautiful girl that, in realistic terms, he cannot ever approach. He has composed poetry, using the letters of her name as inspiration and yet the thought of asking her for a dance fills him with horror. This may seem like familiar territory for a teen comedy; however, what separates Deruddere’s film from something more typical is not only his gift for black comedy, but how he demonstrates the way that these moments of intense social awkwardness can define us for a lifetime. Even when Harry is able to attain a small victory, he must do so through a desperate and heart-breaking act of self-parody.

Be warned: other reviewers will reveal openly what occurs in the final section of Crazy Love where we see Harry as a drunken outcast, rapidly approaching middle age. Personally, I am of the opinion that this development is best left for viewers to discover and experience within the flow of the film. I will, however, suggest that this section is effective at accomplishing much more than a cheap shock. It is the culmination of a narrative that suggests that the way we behave as adults is indicative of the way we are able to transition from youthful idealism to something more pragmatic. As Harry’s mother tells him, there are still beautiful things in life, even if they fall well short of our wildest fantasies. When we last see Harry, he is still stubbornly clinging to a notion of purity and romance that has long since died. We see that he has never successfully assimilated into a world that is decidedly imperfect and think to ourselves that it is no wonder that so many great poets have imploded so early in their lives. Don’t let the bland title or sensationalized marketing fool you. Crazy Love is a highly watchable film of great sensitivity, a seemingly forgotten gem of 1980’s world cinema.

[***1/2]

Rescue Dawn (Herzog, 2006)

2007-03-01T16:47:00.000-08:00

For his most recent film, Werner Herzog returns to a subject that he covered in the 1997 documentary (unseen by me) called Little Dieter Needs to Fly: a German-American fighter pilot who is shot down over Laos in an ill-fated bombing run and then organizes an escape from the POW camp where he is being held prisoner. It is the kind of film that must have seemed like a dream project for actors Christian Bale, Steve Zahn and Jeremy Davies. They would have the opportunity to grow their hair out and film in an exotic location with a legendary director who would no doubt have high expectations, but, all the same, would allow them performances that bordered on indulgent. When you’re going nuts and starving in a Laotian prison camp, who’s to say how much is too much? For Herzog fans, the premise may seem promising as well. After all, hasn’t the director excelled at finding poetry in the way that man can be swallowed up by the wilderness?

Rescue Dawn starts out promisingly enough with an opening sequence that shows the view from a plane as bombs are dropped from above and incinerate what lies beneath. What is odd about this scene is that there are few detectable manmade targets and so the effect touches upon Herzog’s pet theme of man vs. nature by showing us fiery explosions that plume amidst trees and wilderness, weapons directed seemingly at the Earth itself. Unfortunately, much of what follows resembles something that could have been directed by Ridley or Tony Scott. Some may not consider that to be such a bad thing. For me, it is a plunge from the sublime into the banal. Indeed, the early scenes of Bale’s cocky fighter pilot watching a military training film alongside his Navy buddies resembles nothing so much as the latter Scott’s own Top Gun. Our expectation is that once the exposition is over and Herzog ventures into the wilderness, he will be able to find some kind of underlying philosophical significance in Dengler’s arduous journey, some kind of insight or magic that only he can offer. Unfortunately, the tale never grows to be much more than what it appears on the surface. It is the story of a man who is captured, endures imprisonment for a while and then escapes. Nothing more. It is frequently well-shot and occasionally well-acted (with the more subdued performances of Zahn and Davies outshining Bale’s off-pitch bravado), but never particularly thought-provoking or inspiring. Herzog has made films much worse than this and he has made films much better than this, but I can’t recall a film he has made that is as safe as this. From one of the cinema’s great risk-takers, Rescue Dawn is quite possibly the last thing I expected: passable entertainment.

[**1/2]

Zoo (Devor, 2007)

2007-02-22T13:36:00.000-08:00

Strangely enough, Robinson Devor’s Zoo, a documentary that tackles the subject of a small group of people devoted to amorous interactions with horses, is not a bad movie for the reasons you might think. It is bad for reasons that are utterly banal. It is unfocused, poorly edited, meandering, tentative and tonally inconsistent. Understandably, Devor met considerable resistance when attempting to find people willing to talk on camera about their roles in a barnyard sex party that left one man dead. Unfortunately, his solution to that problem does not make for viewing that is compelling, or particularly instructive.

Using various audio interviews, Devor uses a mix of actors and real subjects to stage recreations of the events leading up to the night in question. Participants leave their homes and travel by planes, trains and automobiles to Enumclaw, Washington, invariably looking wistfully out the window as if pondering some great existential truth that is beyond our comprehension. The things we learn about these men are not surprising: they hooked up through the internet, they have family and friends who love them, they feel persecuted by anti-bestiality laws, they believe that they are animal lovers (not harmers) and that their partners are willing participants.

When they arrive at the house that serves as a meeting place, they make some mixed drinks to set the mood, as Devor shoots them in dark shadows in order to emphasize the underground nature of their activities (as if this was necessary). Since the voices of the participants is essentially all we hear and never in synchronicity with their image, the overall effect is that we are largely unable to distinguish this documentary from a straight-faced put-on. Devor’s intent seems to be to find the humanity in a group of people who have received only ridicule; however, Zoo brings us no closer to understanding this phenomenon or the people involved. There are no insights offered from psychologists or other authorities who might have been able to help us provide some context, nor do the filmmakers themselves venture into the discussion with any sort of explicitly expressed opinion.

However, Devor does find the time to have one of his actors (the man playing the tiny role of Cop #1) tell a long, barely related story about how he was with a young girl when she died and had the opportunity to look death in the face. Presumably this digression is to remind us that the man who died left behind people who loved him even if he engaged in bizarre sexual behavior and that we should have some compassion for his fate. Why Devor felt that his audience might need this particular reminder is unclear. As it stands, the scene feels suspiciously like a filmmaker padding his runtime to ensure he reaches feature length.

In the end, Zoo fails miserably not because of its subject, but because of its execution. Watching it, I found that I really did want to understand and have some insight into this predilection that seems so appalling to me. What needs does it fulfill? Where does the desire start? How has the taboo been handled throughout history by various cultures? Unfortunately, Devor has not accumulated enough information and has grafted what information he does have to recreations that seem inspired by equal parts Unsolved Mysteries and Emmanuelle. Tedious, clumsy and amateurish, Zoo is wholly unprovocative.

[*1/2]

20 Favorite Films of the 20's (Updated)

2007-02-21T09:09:00.000-08:00

1. Metropolis (Lang)
2. Seven Chances (Keaton)
3. The General (Bruckman/Keaton)
4. Un Chien Andalou (Bunuel)
5. The Last Laugh (Murnau)
6. Sunrise (Murnau)
7. The Passion of Joan of Arc (Dreyer)
8. The Fall of the House of Usher (Epstein)
9. Nosferatu (Murnau)
10. Neighbors (Cline/Keaton)
11. Our Hospitality (Blystone/Keaton)
12. Faust (Murnau)
13. Steamboat Bill, Jr. (Reisner)
14. Sherlock Jr. (Keaton)
15. Battleship Potemkin (Eisenstein)
16. The Man Who Laughs (Leni)
17. Cops (Cline/Keaton)
18. The Thief of Bagdad (Walsh)
19. College (Horne)
20. The Balloonatic (Cline/Keaton)

20 Favorite Films of the 30's (Updated)

2007-02-20T16:59:00.000-08:00

1. M (Lang)
2. Tabu (Murnau)
3. The Grand Illusion (Renoir)
4. Vampyr (Dreyer)
5. The Wizard of Oz (Fleming)
6. The Testament of Dr. Mabuse (Lang)
7. Wuthering Heights (Wyler)
8. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (Capra)
9. L’age d’or (Bunuel)
10. The Blood of a Poet (Cocteau)
11. The Thin Man (Van Dyke)
12. City Lights (Chaplin)
13. Bringing Up Baby (Hawks)
14. Sabotage (Hitchcock)
15. The Lady Vanishes (Hitchcock)
16. Land Without Bread (Bunuel)
17. The Adventures of Robin Hood (Curtiz/Keighley)
18. I Am a Fugitive From a Chain Gang (LeRoy)
19. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (various)
20. Bride of Frankenstein (Whale)

20 Favorite Films of the 40's (Updated)

2007-02-20T16:45:00.000-08:00

1. The Bicycle Thief (De Sica)
2. Hangmen Also Die (Lang)
3. The Lady Eve (Sturges)
4. Notorious (Hitchcock)
5. Meshes of the Afternoon (Deren/Hammid)
6. Children of Paradise (Carne)
7. Stray Dog (Kurosawa)
8. Casablanca (Curtiz)
9. Great Expectations (Lean)
10. Citizen Kane (Welles)
11. The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (Huston)
12. Day of Wrath (Dreyer)
13. Peter and the Wolf (Geronimi)
14. His Girl Friday (Hawks)
15. My Darling Clementine (Ford)
16. The Grapes of Wrath (Ford)
17. Hamlet (Olivier)
18. Beauty and the Beast (Cocteau)
19. Brief Encounter (Lean)
20. Lifeboat (Hitchcock)

20 Favorite Films of the 50's (Updated)

2007-02-20T16:29:00.000-08:00

1. Los Olvidados (Bunuel)
2. Sunset Blvd. (Wilder)
3. The Night of the Hunter (Laughton)
4. Ikiru (Kurosawa)
5. The Seven Samurai (Kurosawa)
6. Tokyo Story (Ozu)
7. Umberto D (De Sica)
8. I Live in Fear (Kurosawa)
9. The 400 Blows (Truffaut)
10. All About Eve (Mankiewicz)
11. El (Bunuel)
12. Wild Strawberries (Bergman)
13. Throne of Blood (Kurosawa)
14. The Seventh Seal (Bergman)
15. What’s Opera, Doc? (Jones)
16. Animal Farm (Batchelor/Halas)
17. Ballad of a Soldier (Chukhrai)
18. 12 Angry Men (Lumet)
19. Paths of Glory (Kubrick)
20. The Cranes Are Flying (Kalatozishvili)

25 Favorite Films of the 60's (Updated)

2007-02-20T16:02:00.000-08:00

1. 2001: A Space Odyssey (Kubrick)
2. Winter Light (Bergman)
3. Dr. Strangelove (Kubrick)
4. The Virgin Spring (Bergman)
5. The War Game (Watkins)
6. Onibaba (Shindo)
7. The Firemen’s Ball (Forman)
8. Marat/Sade (Brook)
9. The Battle of Algiers (Pontecorvo)
10. Satyricon (Fellini)
11. Simon of the Desert (Bunuel)
12. I am Curious – Yellow (Sjoman)
13. Hour of the Wolf (Bergman)
14. How the Grinch Stole Christmas! (Jones/Washam)
15. Witches’ Hammer (Vavra)
16. The Shop on Main Street (Kadar/Klos)
17. Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (Nichols)
18. Viridiana (Bunuel)
19. The Loves of a Blonde (Forman)
20. The Graduate (Nichols)
21. Repulsion (Polanski)
22. Lawrence of Arabia (Lean)
23. Persona (Bergman)
24. An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge (Enrico)
25. Lord of the Flies (Brook)

25 Favorite Films of the 70's (Updated)

2007-02-20T15:07:00.000-08:00

1. Walkabout (Roeg)
2. Life of Brian (Jones)
3. The Holy Mountain (Jodorowsky)
4. Eraserhead (Lynch)
5. Aguirre, the Wrath of God (Herzog)
6. Grey Gardens (Hovde/Maysles/Maysles/Meyer)
7. Monty Python and the Holy Grail (Gilliam/Jones)
8. Punishment Park (Watkins)
9. A Clockwork Orange (Kubrick)
10. Valerie and Her Week of Wonders (Jires)
11. All That Jazz (Fosse)
12. Dog Day Afternoon (Lumet)
13. The Phantom of Liberty (Bunuel)
14. Cries and Whispers (Bergman)
15. That Obscure Object of Desire (Bunuel)
16. Scenes from a Marriage (Bergman)
17. The Godfather (Coppola)
18. Stroszek (Herzog)
19. Fox and His Friends (Fassbinder)
20. The Lorax (Pratt)
21. Cabaret (Fosse)
22. Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (Fassbinder)
23. Halloween (Carpenter)
24. The Merchant of Four Seasons (Fassbinder)
25. Star Wars (Lucas)

25 Favorite Films of the 80's (Updated)

2007-02-20T14:31:00.000-08:00

1. Amadeus (Forman)
2. The Vanishing (Sluizer)
3. A Zed and Two Noughts (Greenaway)
4. This Is Spinal Tap (Reiner)
5. The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover (Greenaway)
6. Raising Arizona (Coen)
7. Ran (Kurosawa)
8. The Elephant Man (Lynch)
9. Brazil (Gilliam)
10. Blue Velvet (Lynch)
11. The Atomic Cafe (Loader/Rafferty/Rafferty)
12. Poltergeist (Hooper)
13. Henry V (Branagh)
14. Death in the Seine (Greenaway)
15. The Last Temptation of Christ (Scorsese)
16. Drowning By Numbers (Greenaway)
17. Santa sangre (Jodorowsky)
18. Raiders of the Lost Ark (Spielberg)
19. The Secret of NIMH (Bluth)
20. Prick Up Your Ears (Frears)
21. Time Bandits (Gilliam)
22. Do the Right Thing (Lee)
23. Zelig (Allen)
24. The Brave Little Toaster (Rees)
25. Betty Blue (Beineix)

25 Favorite Films of the 90's (Updated)

2007-02-20T12:19:00.000-08:00

1. Breaking the Waves (Trier)
2. The Sweet Hereafter (Egoyan)
3. Muriel’s Wedding (Hogan)
4. Heavenly Creatures (Jackson)
5. Boys Don’t Cry (Peirce)
6. Prospero’s Books (Greenaway)
7. Fargo (Coen)
8. Kirikou and the Sorceress (Ocelot)
9. The Celebration (Vinterberg)
10. Orlando (Potter)
11. Run Lola Run (Tykwer)
12. Baseball (Burns)
13. Raise the Red Lantern (Zhang)
14. The Kingdom (Trier)
15. Fucking Amal (Moodysson)
16. In the Company of Men (Labute)
17. Bob Roberts (Robbins)
18. The Piano (Campion)
19. 71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance (Haneke)
20. The Wrong Trousers (Park)
21. Quiz Show (Redford)
22. Funny Games (Haneke)
23. Edward II (Jarman)
24. The Pillow Book (Greenaway)
25. Welcome to the Dollhouse (Solondz)

25 Favorite Films of the 2000's (Updated)

2007-02-19T16:21:00.000-08:00

1. Dogville (Trier)
2. Mulholland Dr. (Lynch)
3. Dancer in the Dark (Trier)
4. Inland Empire (Lynch)
5. Hedwig and the Angry Inch (Mitchell)
6. Y tu mama tambien (Cuaron)
7. Me and You and Everyone We Know (July)
8. City of God (Meirelles/Lund)
9. Manderlay (Trier)
10. The Piano Teacher (Haneke)
11. The Isle (Kim)
12. Together (Moodysson)
13. Fat Girl (Breillat)
14. Palindromes (Solondz)
15. Shaun of the Dead (Wright)
16. The Heart of the World (Maddin)
17. May (McKee)
18. The Weather Underground (Green/Siegel)
19. Cowards Bend the Knee (Maddin)
20. Babel (Inarritu)
21. Talk to Her (Almodovar)
22. Grizzly Man (Herzog)
23. The Deep End (McGehee/Siegel)
24. Cache (Haneke)
25. The Five Obstructions (Leth/Trier)

Jindabyne (Lawrence, 2006)

2007-02-19T09:40:00.000-08:00

Four men in a small Australian town set out on an annual fishing trip. They arrive in a beautiful, peaceful location far out in the wilderness. “No women allowed,” says one, reinforcing the idea that the spot is, for them, a kind of sanctuary. This tranquility is quickly interrupted when they discover a dead body floating in the river. With the actions they take next, the four men set themselves up to be pariahs in their own community and change the way that their loved ones view and understand them.

Working from a short story by Raymond Carver (whose work also served as the basis for Robert Altman’s Short Cuts), director Ray Lawrence has assembled a quality cast (including Laura Linney and Gabriel Byrne) to tell his grief-soaked morality tale. Upon returning home, the men find that most of their fellow citizens are appalled that they continued to fish on through the weekend rather than report the body immediately. Because the victim is a young girl with dark skin and the fishing group’s leader, Stewart, is an Irish immigrant, tensions explode as the victim’s family accuses the men of not just negligence, but racism.

The disconnect that Stewart feels from the Australian community is further complicated by the way that his Catholicism conflicts with the beliefs held by many of the locals. Stewart’s contention is straightforward: the girl was dead and beyond help. Under those circumstances, what is the difference between Friday and Sunday? In fact, we do see Stewart deeply saddened upon discovering the body and therefore do not think him to be simply emotionally callous. However, many believe that the location in the wilderness near where the men were fishing is a path for spirits to travel on their way to … wherever … and thus Stewart’s actions have caused some kind of supernatural interruption.

What’s good about Lawrence’s film is the way it examines how we can be insensitive to the tragedies of others, particularly when it threatens to interrupt those things that we find pleasurable. Sorrow, it is suggested, is simply not enough unless it leads to action. Unfortunately, the film’s captivating middle section is bookended by tedious exposition and a third act bogged down by dopey spirituality and empty histrionics. Basically, it’s yet another film playing at ‘secrets and lies’, with an inciting incident opening up old wounds and long-held prejudices. Fans of Linney and Byrne may want to check it out to see the two trading vicious barbs; but chances are, you’ve seen this kind of thing before and you’ve seen it done better. Jindabyne’s only exceptional quality is a haunting score that relies heavily on human wailing. Beyond that, your experience with the film will largely depend upon your tolerance for touchy-feely ideas about the afterlife and overblown scenes of familial nastiness.

[**1/2]

A Comedy of Power (Chabrol, 2006)

2007-02-19T09:39:00.000-08:00

Claude Chabrol’s A Comedy of Power is perhaps the worst kind of bad movie. There are films that are woefully incompetent, films that are utterly laughable and yet beyond the surface you can usually see that someone cared deeply about the project. A Comedy of Power is not that kind of film. Although it contains solid acting and production values, A Comedy of Power is a film that is impossible to imagine anyone involved feeling passionately about. At least when Baz Luhrmann or Mel Gibson embarrass themselves with their latest myopic vision, you can tell that they poured their hearts into the project. By contrast, Chabrol’s film is utterly devoid of ambition, personal style, artistry, and, despite what the title promises, comedy. Most astonishing of all, Chabrol has managed to turn out this turkey with none other than Isabelle Huppert playing his lead. Huppert is Jeanne Charmant-Killman (Get it? Kill Man!), a high-powered prosecutor who is examining generic greedy businessmen who run a generic company and have been accused of generic corporate crimes. When these men get together, you can just tell they have it coming because they’re always smoking cigars. And they’re so smug about it too.

Huppert’s character is nicknamed ‘The Piranha’, presumably due to her ferocity, tenacity and tiny size. If, like me, you are drawn to the film thinking that the idea of Huppert engaged in a high stakes power struggle, spewing acid and taking names, is your idea of a fun time at the movies, be warned. From start to finish, Chabrol’s characters are exactly what they appear to be on the surface. There is no joy in watching Huppert nail the naughty executives because they never pose much of a threat. Huppert is so utterly composed and under control in every situation that it is hard to imagine that she has even broken a sweat. As for the supposed comedy, Chabrol’s script misses even the most obvious of jokes. For example, on a raid of a corporate office, Jeanne seizes an executive’s computer. Initially, he vehemently protests. Later, he claims that the only thing he uses the computer for is to calculate his golf handicap. Jeanne’s response: “How is it?” If Jeanne had made some remark noting that he must be extremely embarrassed about his score if he wanted so desperately to keep it secret, then Chabrol might have elicited some laughter.

Such laughs, unfortunately, are not to be found. Nor is any sort of insight or dramatic tension. Chabrol never earns our investment because he never offers his protagonist a worthy challenge. Instead we get a series of events that is like a shadow version of what might have been an actual film: empty, soulless, insignificant.

[*]

The Diary of an Unknown Soldier (Watkins, 1959)

2007-02-15T10:11:00.001-08:00

Apart from two pieces of disowned juvenilia, The Diary of an Unknown Soldier is Watkins' first film. Just under twenty minutes in length, it is a sometimes captivating, sometimes strident effort that is worth watching in order to see a critical aspect of Watkins' later films beginning to emerge. Whereas many films present war to us as faceless mobs clashing against each other, Watkins is deeply concerned with the place of the individual within the violence. Other films have made efforts to humanize the soldier. What perhaps sets Watkins apart is that his characters are not particularly charismatic, powerful or interesting. They are the people who would be among the war statistics released after a particularly deadly battle. If a news report said '23 British Soldiers Killed', the protagonist of this particular short film might very well be #16. However, Watkins takes us inside his mind and relays the fears that soldiers cannot normally express openly. He asks us to consider the ordinary man who pays the violent price for decisions made by those in command - the ones that are normally the central characters in war films. The film ends before the soldier goes to battle; but, through his daydreams, we see the outcome that he imagines as he considers the possibility of his fast-approaching death. The film has nifty composition and editing, signaling the growth of an emerging talent. Unfortunately, it also has poor sound quality with stock effects and a voice-over that pushes far too hard for emotional impact, instead becoming off-putting. Nonetheless, those who want to know more about the artistic development of the man behind Punishment Park and The War Game will definitely want to check it out.

[**1/2]

Bothersome Man (Lien, 2006) and Fido (Currie, 2006)

2007-02-15T10:06:00.000-08:00

Often it can be enlightening to see two seemingly unrelated films back-to-back because unexpected similarities will emerge, revealing common ideas that are on different artists’ minds, although they are eventually expressed in two different ways. Such was the case yesterday when I took in the dark Norwegian comedy, Bothersome Man, followed by the Canadian zombie film, Fido. In both films, the protagonist is caught in a community where he seems to be the only one who is capable of feeling healthy human emotion.

In Bothersome Man, Andreas finds himself on a bus, traveling by himself to a remote city where he is greeted by a very modest welcoming committee and then ushered off to a new job and apartment that have been pre-arranged for him. Although he has no recollection of how he came to board the bus, all initially seems well. The co-workers are all friendly and it does not take him long to find not one but two beautiful lovers. However, Andreas soon finds that virtually everything about the town is utterly vanilla. Food lacks flavor. Alcohol lacks potency. Sex lacks passion. When Andreas expresses even the slightest displeasure, he is regarded warily. Bothersome Man is at its best when it is laying out the universe into which Andreas has stumbled … or perhaps been birthed. Predictably, Andreas struggles to resist his environment and eventually to escape. His efforts lead to a final shot that is appropriately vague, but lacking in deep metaphorical power. As an audience, we don’t necessarily require more answers; however, we are left with the impression that the filmmakers are throwing up their hands and giving up on how the film should be resolved. Still, there is plenty along the way to make the film worth seeing – enough twists to a somewhat familiar formula to keep us intrigued – with the film’s highlight possibly being one of the most ill-conceived suicide attempts ever committed to film.

In Fido, the protagonist is a young boy named Timmy - his name taken from the TV series Lassie. Fido’s innovation is to merge two separate subgenres into one – the zombie comedy and the 1950’s satire. The result is delicious and surprisingly mainstream in its appeal. We are introduced to the world of the film through a black-and-white instructional film being shown in Timmy’s classroom. (Have we seen this done before? Yes. Is it still funny? Yes.) Instead of a nuclear threat, we learn that radiation has caused the dead to come back to life as zombies. Consequently, old people are feared and people save up for funerals that will ensure that their heads and bodies are buried separately. Fortunately though, an inventor has created a collar which allows zombies to be domesticated and perform various household chores. When we first see Timmy, he is ridiculed in class for asking an expert whether zombies are dead or alive; however, it is this question that is critical to the way the film unfolds. Timmy begins to discover that his family’s zombie, Fido, is capable of far more human emotion than he could ever have expected. Thus, the film touches upon a little bit of political subtext in that these middle class families are benefiting from the labor of a dehumanized workforce. Eventually though, the subtext becomes less important than the comedy. Carrie-Anne Moss is particular is fantastic in role of a typical domestic homemaker who discovers that Fido fulfills needs that her husband can’t – though not necessarily the ones you may be thinking of. Moss proves to be an extraordinary comedic actress, displaying a gear that she was not allowed to access in either Memento or The Matrix. Billy Connelly, Dylan Baker and Tim Blake Nelson round out an excellent cast. Although it won’t make anyone forget Shaun of the Dead and it may displease those who feel the gore is too soft or the humor too precious, Fido is a consistently funny film with just enough social commentary to keep the film from feeling utterly frivolous. Be warned: this is the type of film that reviewers love to review by spoiling four or five of the film’s best jokes. I have consciously attempted to avoid this. Others may not be so kind.

Taken together, the two films seem to reveal a deep concern with the way society continues to barrel ahead in a state of functional insanity. Both films pit society versus the spirit of a sensitive individual who struggles to inject a little compassion into his surrounding. Andreas and Timmy achieve different results, but both experience conflict that is worthy of consideration in our war-torn world.

Bothersome Man ***
Fido ***1/2

Little Children (Field, 2006)

2007-02-02T22:42:00.000-08:00

After the hugely enthusiastic response to his directorial debut, In the Bedroom, a gripping and emotional drama about a family torn apart by tragedy, director Todd Field has made a surprising left turn and delivered Little Children, which (despite what the Golden Globes and the Internet Movie Database would have you believe) is a rather extraordinary comedy. If, like me, you go into Little Children expecting another harrowing, naturalistic drama, there will be a rather significant adjustment you will need to make early on in the film as Field lays out a new set of conventions. However, once Field’s offbeat tone is established, Little Children becomes a darkly humorous and thoroughly involving take on suburban dissatisfaction and hypocrisy.

The central characters of Little Children, played by Kate Winslet and Patrick Wilson, are young parents living at an age where the idea of settling down seems not only daunting, but somehow incompatible with one’s sense of self. Although they have reached the typical age to begin the process of rearing children, they retain a personal vision of themselves that is trapped in young adulthood. Having now lived long enough to see the passing of a generation, they are reluctant to assume the role of their parents. Consequently, they find themselves engaged in an affair not so much because they are a great match, but because each is experiencing a kind of internal rebellion against a path that is largely pre-determined.

The most jarring aspect of the style Field employs for Little Children is the narration - pitched somewhere between Robert Stack and Rod Serling - that fills in the specifics of certain characters’ thought processes. Field’s narrator is undoubtedly intrusive and speaks with a gravity that initially seems mismatched with the light comedic tone of the film’s early scenes. Devotees of Robert McKee will likely fume audibly in their theater seats; however, the interruptions Field creates serve a very important function. They provide a baseline from which we can judge the two adulterers' distance from their normal, everyday lives. With his film, Field is able to accurately communicate the sensation of being caught up in the magic of physical attraction. However, the voiceovers prevent the affair from taking on the kind of romanticism that is prevalent in so many other films. Because of the voiceovers, we consider the reasons why these two have drifted and are reminded of the bubble that must inevitably burst.

Complicating matters is the presence in the narrative of a convicted sex offender named Ronnie played by Jackie Earle Haley. Both vile and pathetic, Ronnie could easily have walked in from a Todd Solondz film. Indeed, one of the film’s most troubling scenes features Ronnie out on a blind date with a character played by Jane Adams of Happiness. Convinced that her son needs to have a girlfriend in order to direct his compulsive sexual urges, Ronnie’s mother is instrumental in convincing him to place a personal ad. The result of the date lands squarely in that uncomfortable Solondz range where we are both appalled and amused. In addition to his role in the film’s startling conclusion, Ronnie serves as a provocative parallel to our two adulterers. Although Ronnie receives abuse in the community because of the threat he presumably poses to the neighborhood children, we are left to wonder about the potential emotional damage that is being wrought by two loving parents.

Little Children covers territory that has been covered many times before, perhaps most famously in American Beauty; however, in doing so, it uncovers new insights and observations that are well worth the journey. It establishes a personality all its own and handles difficult subject matter while being neither too dreary nor too flippant. In the end, as fantasy begins to dissipate, the little children of the film’s title are a reminder why most of eventually let go of a cherished era of our lives and proceed forward as best we can. We do it because, despite our everlasting quest for personal fulfillment, they need our love. We do it because we hope that they will never experience a pain as deep as Ronnie’s.

[***1/2]

The Departed (Scorsese, 2006)

2007-02-01T09:49:00.000-08:00

Alternately entertaining and tedious, engrossing and pointless, The Departed is a film that is so in love with its own conceit that it continues to circle around itself providing meaningless twists long after the viewer has fully absorbed the utterly simple idea at its core: there is a fine line between good and evil, cop and gangster, angel and devil, etc., etc., ad infinitum. Watching a great director like Scorsese tackle this material is a bit like watching a fourteen-year-old trick-or-treat on Halloween. We can tell that they are having fun, but we can’t help thinking that perhaps their time might be better spent on something better suited to their level of maturity.

This is not to say that there isn’t fun to be had with this tale of undercover cop vs. mobster plant. What I mean to say is that Scorsese’s presence is not entirely helpful. His scope, his technical precision and his bombast make a promise that is never fulfilled: that somewhere at the end of this noise, there will arise a purpose beyond that which could be easily gleaned from the film’s promotional trailer. But alas, the bloody finale reveals the entire exercise to be precisely as shallow as it appears.

Yes, there are nifty moments of tension and some quality performances; but this, I suspect, is a film that will give ammunition to Scorsese’s detractors who suggest that he employs violence for thrills and not for the purpose of critique. How, after all, can we defend the crescendo of music that accompanies Leonardo DiCaprio’s character bludgeoning two men in a convenience store? This, and many other instances of violence in The Departed work in the moment because they are surprising and neatly staged. However, after each character is brutally dispatched, we realize just how little they meant. We may as well be watching Wile E. Coyote have dynamite explode in his face. The pawns in The Departed are no less cartoonish.

I cannot take issue with those who might find the film to be a fun time at the movies. Gangster tales are not typically my thing; but I can certainly see how those of certain tastes might enjoy the hammy acting and well-staged violence. However, I would be in disagreement with those who suggested that this project represents a worthy use of Scorsese’s talents. Typically a meticulous researcher and unconventional philosopher, Scorsese has given us a film that is only slightly more insightful than a decent episode of The Sopranos.

[**1/2]

Saboteur (Hitchcock, 1942)

2007-01-31T10:58:00.000-08:00

Alfred Hitchcock’s wartime thriller, Saboteur, starts with a bang in Los Angeles and ends in New York City in a scene that seems intentionally geared towards one-upping the finale of King Kong. Our central character is Barry Kane, a man who has been framed for the sabotage of an airplane plant, a fiery disaster that claimed the life of his close friend. We follow his journey across the country as he attempts to clear his name and discover more information about the shady forces responsible for undermining the nation’s security. Along the way, he meets a curious collection of characters including a chatty truck driver, a benevolent blind man and a caboose full of circus freaks. His enemies are not tied to any specific nation. They do not speak with a detectable accent, although they do seem more likely to sport a wispy moustache. They are, the film suggests, all around us – so indistinguishable from you and me that they could be swarming at a fancy dinner party and no one would believe you if you tried to point them out. Their purpose is vague; however, when one key villain explains his motivation, it sounds remarkably like what the current American President might suspect: they hate us for our freedom.

The film’s politics are not terribly sophisticated. In an impassioned moment, Barry Kane, caught in a tense predicament, nonetheless finds the composure to deliver a patriotic speech about the heart of America. Drawing from the memory of those who have assisted him, he asserts that there numerous people across the country who will always be willing to stand up for what is right and resist those who wish to undermine American prosperity. The film’s climax emphasizes this idea with a symbol of liberty that is almost comically overt. The events that lead our primary villain to a location where escape is extremely difficult are not terribly logical; however, they do allow Hitchcock to stage another of his famous tension-filled setpieces, a sequence that is rather admirable, albeit primarily on a technical level.

More problematic than the simplistic picture of good and evil or the lapses in logic (which, to be honest, are present in most Hitchcock films) is the way in which Barry’s unlikely accomplices determine that he is on the right side. After all, based on the information these characters have, Barry is a wanted man, responsible for a despicable crime. So how do these good Samaritans make a decision about whether or not Barry is trustworthy? Blind hunches. Just because they happen to be right in this particular case does not make their actions advisable. Even a woman determined to bring Kane in to the police cozies up to him as soon as it gets a little chilly out in the desert. What are audiences to take away from this? That it is OK to place your trust in a stranger as long as he is a clean-cut American boy and gives you a warm feeling inside? Lest we give Hitchcock’s film a pass for being a product of simpler times, we only have to look at Fritz Lang’s Hangmen Also Die, released one year later, to see a film that explores similar ideas with a firmer grasp on common sense and yet does not sacrifice thrills.

Taken purely as light entertainment, there are many things about Saboteur to enjoy, including supporting performances by Otto Kruger and Norman Lloyd, the aforementioned climax and one really impressive stunt. However, the film’s lead performances, typically a Hitchcock strength, never match the quality of the supporting cast. Robert Cummings, in particular, lends little finesse to his two-dimensional do-gooder and renders much his more important dialogue ineffective. Most of all though, it is the film’s muddled wartime message – spies are everywhere, so trust no one … unless you sense that it is OK – that keeps it from being a completely satisfactory experience.

[**1/2]

Curse of the Golden Flower (Zhang, 2006)

2007-01-25T12:03:00.000-08:00

In ancient Greek drama, the stories told by Sophocles and Euripides often centered on a royal family with some sort of internal corruption or imbalance. The events of the play then were a matter of restoring order and ensuring that the state was able to move forward. Zhang Yimou’s most recent film, Curse of the Golden Flower takes that pattern, adds glorious color and martial arts, then offers a conclusion that does indeed offer reconciliation, though perhaps not in the way we might expect.

Chow Yun-Fat and Gong Li play the central roles as the Emperor and Empress respectively, though their union is anything but a pleasant one. For three years he has been away from the palace and in his absence, the Empress has been conducting an affair with the Emperor’s oldest son – a man who calls her Mother although he was born of a different wife. On the flip side, the Emperor has arranged to have his wife’s daily medicine spiked with an herb that will lead her steadily towards insanity. The other key players in the household are the royal doctor and his daughter, a servant, as well as the Empress’ two true sons. Instinctively we know that each of these people will have a role to play in how the story unravels and influence the balance of power. Most often, we are at a least a step ahead of the characters in figuring out who is connected to whom. And yet, the joy of Zhang’s film is in watching just how it all happens.

First and foremost, Zhang’s players enact their melodrama in costumes and a setting that are ornate nearly to the point of absurdity. In nearly every frame, we are bombarded with walls, floors, ornaments, robes and gowns that are so utterly decadent that it becomes something of a relief for us when we finally have a scene that takes place outside. It is as if the royals are being smothered in luxury, their outward show a futile attempt to mask their moral decay. Secondly, Zhang gives his drama an appropriate sense of size and magic with battles that are not physically possible, yet convey in a short amount of time the cosmic import of their outcome. In the film’s most thrilling sequence, warriors clad in black descend from high above into a deep valley to surprise a seemingly defenseless target. In this and other scenes, the faceless tend to die simultaneously in the same fashion. After all, they are merely pawns in the struggle amongst a handful of key players. When the leader of an army survives miraculously while all around him fall, it is because they are not intended to be individuals; rather, they are a visual extension of his own personality and power.

Finally, the acting, while not uniformly excellent, does contain compelling performances where it counts. It is no surprise that Gong Li leads the way, excelling as she does in expressing stubborn determination. Liu Ye, as the eldest son, also turns in a captivating turn, finding humor in dire situations, but never sacrificing the honesty of the moment. I also admired Chen Jin’s performance in the role of a woman with a mysterious background – though it does not remain terribly mysterious for long. Somewhere in between Hero and House of Flying Daggers in terms of political content, Curse of the Golden Flower is, for the most part, simply a broad tale of power and deceit told with uncommon flair. Still, there is enough ambiguity in the closing scenes to fuel a reading that would either support or attack the Chinese government. Because it does not end in typical crowd-pleasing fashion, the sense a viewer makes of this conclusion may prove critical to one’s ultimate satisfaction with the film. Even so, Zhang offers so much that it is hard to imagine a viewer who will not find at least something to admire.

[***1/2]

The Road Home (Zhang, 1999)

2007-01-23T12:07:00.000-08:00

The two young people in a small Chinese village barely speak to each other throughout the entire film and yet director Zhang Yimou is able to offer us in shorthand the power of a union that lasted a lifetime. Here is a story that conveys its central message of love, honor and respect with an extraordinary amount of economy. Although The Road Home spans several decades, it is not epic in scope. There is only one setting really, as we never leave the small mountain village – two if you want to count the long dirt road than winds its way into the horizon and makes the city seem so hopelessly distant. Zhang also focuses on just two moments in time. The first is the tentative courtship of a shy young girl who lives with her blind mother and a teacher from the city whose voice may as well be a siren song. The second – occurring shortly after the teacher’s death some decades later - serves as the bookend for the film’s beginning and ending.

We enter the film through the character of a young man who is the son of the teacher and the young girl who has grown into an old woman. He has returned to the small village from the city in order to assist with funeral arrangements, particularly an unusual request made by his mother. She wants to have her husband’s coffin carried along the long road leading to the village so that he will never forget how to return home. Initially, this may seem like a silly superstition, the loopy demands of a grieving widow. Indeed, it is not a task easily accomplished. All of the young people are out of town and all there is left to do the heavy lifting is a handful of elderly men. However, to understand the significance of this gesture, we are taken back to the moment when the teacher from the big city first caught the attention of the young village girl.

The tale of his father and mother first meeting is told through the mind of their son. As it is being passed on without first-hand knowledge of what occurred, the story rightfully takes on the feeling of legend. The details are sparse, and his father has an effortless magnetism that sends his mother into a dreamlike trance. Little moments of humor and sorrow are told simply but passionately, as if they have been rehearsed and improved over the course of a generation. Even the colors are extra-vibrant, contrasting sharply with the dreary palate that Zhang uses for the scenes that take place in the present day. The attraction between these two people is common – it happens all over the world every day – but to the son who resulted from their union, these fragments of information from before he was born may as well be treasured artifacts. It is not a story of high drama (although there is some unspecified political trouble that we never fully understand); yet, because of the context and the care with which the memories are conveyed, the emotional impact is overwhelming. It is not necessarily the events that occur which draw out our tears, but rather the way in which the son comes to honor the people who gave him life.

Naturally, in the flashback, we come to learn more about the central metaphor that serves as the film’s title and also about its significance to the protagonist’s grieving mother. However, Zhang never pushes his sentiment too forcefully and is successful in finding moments of joy and tension in places that we may not expect – a broken bowl, a lost hair clip, recitations from a teacher’s lesson book. With its G-rating, The Road Home may very well be to Zhang Yimou what The Straight Story (released in the same year) is to David Lynch – a pure, affecting dose of unsophistication that embraces the importance of family and recognizes that life is paradoxically a long, arduous journey that takes place in what can seem like an instant.

****

The Fourth Man (Verhoeven, 1983)

2007-01-17T15:01:00.000-08:00

A clear precursor to his early nineties box-office hit, Basic Instinct, Paul Verhoeven’s The Fourth Man tells the story of a man who finds himself ensnared by a woman who is dynamite in bed, but possibly very dangerous out of it. Much like his American output, The Fourth Man aspires no higher than schlock. In this respect, the film is certainly at least a partial success with its casual use of nudity (genitals arrive just after the opening credits!), its over-the-top violence and its occasional moments of “oh-no-you-didn’t” audacity. Verhoeven uses symbols – notably a statue of Jesus that receives adoration above and beyond the call of duty – however, it is clear that he doesn’t really believe in them. They are employed not necessarily to provide his film with depth, but in order to allow Verhoeven opportunities to titillate the viewer with perversions and grotesqueries.

Gerard is a successful writer who is scheduled to give a lecture in Vlissingen, but along the way has a dark premonition that seems to warn of impending danger. Because the vision features the town’s local hotel, he opts to spend the night with one of the lecture’s attendees, a beautician named Christine who has the curious habit of continuously videotaping Gerard. Though he has a live-in boyfriend, Gerard is more than happy to share his hostess’ bed, particularly because she has boyish features. Quickly though, Gerard’s attention turns to Christine’s other lover, a plumber named Herman who has the kind of body that actually looks decent in a Speedo. He encourages Christine to invite her lover over while he is still around, secretly hoping to get a piece of the action. However, left alone to sift through Christine’s video footage, he uncovers a rather distressing pattern.

Though the film is not much different than Basic Instinct in the way it prioritizes sensationalism, it is more tolerable due to the absence of actors like Michael Douglas and Sharon Stone whose self-importance seemed to act as a roadblock to Verhoeven achieving an appropriate tone. Whereas Stone and Douglas seemed to beg us to take them seriously in the midst of tawdry absurdities, Renée Soutendijk and Jeroen Krabbé are refreshingly goofy, pitching their performances somewhere between Fassbinder and Hitchcock. I was particularly fond of Krabbé’s drunken video screening session in which he expresses disgust with what he sees on-screen, all the while failing to reach the conclusions that seem to us as viewers quite obvious. And for all the praise of Stone’s performance, it is rather doubtful that she would have been game enough to allow her breasts to be covered while her male partner raved about how much her naked body resembled a boy’s.

Despite the odd moment of humor and amusing naughtiness, it is difficult to respond to The Fourth Man with a high degree of enthusiasm. It is a mystery that is never mysterious and a thriller that is seldom thrilling. Verhoeven mixes in a dose of religious imagery, but only because such things are certain to get a rise out of somebody and not because he wishes to make any sort of sustained commentary. A little bit of kinkiness and perversion is always at least a little bit fun, but with Verhoeven, it is somehow less so. Perhaps it is because there is no sense of taboo – thus taking away our thrill when a taboo is broken. Depending on your mood, The Fourth Man is either amusing enough to exceed low expectations or too insubstantial to be bothered with.

[**1/2]

Inland Empire (Lynch, 2006)

2007-01-15T10:39:00.000-08:00

An even more savage assault on the corruption and soul-sucking nature of Hollywood than Mulholland Dr., David Lynch’s Inland Empire is exhilarating filmmaking, giving the illusion of a nightmare run out of control, but holding together because it is meticulously constructed and clear about which pieces of its elaborate puzzle are important. The film’s basic storyline involves an actress who is cast in a remake of a film that no one knows because it was never completed. The original production is thought to have been cursed - and indeed, the actress begins to experience unusual occurrences before she even attends the first readthrough. A strange prophet arrives at her front door with cryptic information about both her present and her future – two states of being that will become increasingly difficult for her to distinguish between.

Complicating matters is that the film’s script seems to parallel her own life. Behind-the-scenes flirtations with the film’s lead actor get intertwined with the fictional tale of adultery being told in front of the camera and Lynch himself encourages the blurriness, creating a palpable sense of unease and disorientation. Further complicating matters is the fact that scenes from the original film (apparently shot in a foreign language) appear interspersed throughout, as well as a bizarre sitcom starring human-sized rabbits. Detractors may wish to point to the rabbits as meaningless strangeness; however, like a Shakespearean dumb show, they set the stage for what follows. A mistimed laugh track responds to non-existent punchlines and the players go through the motions like zombies. Why rabbits? Well, think to yourself … what activity is it that both rabbits and Hollywood actors are famous for really enjoying?

The film’s basic premise - a cursed film script – could be something right out of one of the recent flood of Japanese horror films like The Ring. However, Lynch is able to take the somewhat silly starting point and use it as an opportunity to create masterful riffs on the vampiric nature of Hollywood. Much like his heroine in Mulholland Dr. is eaten alive by the city of dreams, his central character in Inland Empire is put through a wringer, draining her personal emotion and putting it on camera so that it can become a commodity and having her personal life discussed luridly on a vacuous gossip program. From the very beginning of the film, Lynch makes a direct connection between Hollywood stardom and whoredom. When Dern’s character finds herself trapped in a small living room with a large group of young women, it is no accident that it is hard for us to tell whether they are intended to be hot up-and-coming movie starlets or streetwalking hookers. Deftly, Lynch accomplishes everything to which Christopher’s Guest’s For Your Consideration aspired and much, much more. In case we didn’t get the message, he places a critical scene – the closest we get to an explanation – at the corner of Hollywood and Vine. As Dern’s character reaches her lowest point, a homeless person draws a clear connection between the immediate pain being felt in the scene and the big-picture pain that awaits many actresses who are used for their sexuality and then discarded once they are no longer of use. Sometimes a screwdriver isn’t just a screwdriver.

It is a shame that Lynch’s reputation is for being an artist that is contemptuous of his audience and who is willing to string random bizarre images together just to confuse people. The truth is that few contemporary directors give their audiences more respect and few contemporary writers produce scripts so masterfully constructed. As you watch Inland Empire, there will definitely be moments that you cannot immediately digest or put into place. The trick is not to write these moments off as meaningless meandering. Hold them in the back of your mind and Lynch will be certain to offer space for the puzzle piece to fit later in the film. Every clue is repeated in a different context, allowing the viewer to make a meaningful connection in the space in between. Perhaps the only thing that Inland Empire lacks is a moment as emotionally resonant as the ‘silencio’ scene in Mulholland Dr. Nonetheless, Inland Empire is disturbing, funny, thrilling, witty and provocative and deserves to be considered amongst Lynch’s best work.

[****]

Perfume: The Story of a Murderer (Tykwer, 2006)

2007-01-10T12:21:00.000-08:00

The central characters in Tom Tykwer’s films do not live their lives the way most film characters do. The actions that they take and the events that they experience have a significance that I can only describe as cosmic. Many characters in film are introspective or highly concerned about the purpose of their existence. However, there is something particular about Tykwer’s brand of existentialism. In Tykwer’s universe, human suffering and confusion can be transcended by seizing the right moment, taking the right leap of faith, being in the right place at the right time or finding the right combination. In one film, the gateway is literally a roulette wheel. No finer crystallization of Tykwerian existence could be found. In his vision of the world, we are bounced around by chance. If we are fortunate, we may land upon the right number. That which we gain will be determined by how much we risked. If we have been playing for high enough stakes, the windfall can be nothing short of miraculous.

Curiously, Tykwer has typically built his film around characters that are either on the wrong side of the law or out-and-out criminals. Perfume’s Jean-Baptiste Grenouille is without a doubt the worst of the bunch. Born into a pile of fish entrails and raised in an orphanage, Grenouille has little to no sense of morality or compassion. As he grows older, he learns what others consider acceptable behavior and therefore manages to stay mostly out of trouble, but never does he seem to a full-fledged member of the human race. He has been blessed with a highly developed sense of smell, and as the various smells of the city assault his senses, Grenouille is led to investigate, absorb and catalog. It is here where Tykwer is able to assert his notion of human lives being largely at the mercy of chance. Grenouille is lead around - quite literally - by the nose.

Grenouille does not place much value in conventional ideas of right and wrong. For him, there are only good and bad smells. It is therefore extraordinarily distressing for him to discover that he can detect no scent of his own. In Grenouille’s mind, to have no scent is not to exist. This realization sends him into despair and makes him more determined than ever to make a lasting mark on the world. If his lack of body odor verifies his insignificance, then he will find a way to manufacture the finest scent ever known to man. Unfortunately for the local population, it is Grenouille’s belief that this perfume must be produced from a combination of distilled human essence. Obviously Grenouille’s goals are misguided and amoral; however, they are also essentially a repetition of a pathway followed characters in Run Lola Run, The Princess and the Warrior and Heaven leading the way to the Tykwer Miracle, that moment when the roulette ball falls into place and something impossible can happen.

Although it initially seemed to me that the film’s final twenty minutes were dreamlike delusions – and there is much to suggest that they are – further reflection has convinced me that the extent of their reality does not much matter. Tykwer is wise not to dilute the finale’s impact with apologies or explanations. We are presented with a development that flies in the face of logic, yet represents the will of our central character pushing back against the universe that has determined so much of his identity. In the miracle, Grenouille finds vindication, purpose and an opportunity to escape. Although bogged down somewhat by a miscast Dustin Hoffman (Ian Holm would have fared better) and a tired, clichéd murder investigation, Perfume is still a welcome addition to Tykwer’s filmography and contains enough visual delights and provocative questions to be likely to linger within the imagination.

[***1/2]

Children of Men (Cuaron, 2006)

2007-01-07T22:18:00.000-08:00

Twenty years into the future, the human race faces an extraordinary crisis. For nearly two decades, there has been nary a human birth. The entire planet, it seems, has grown infertile – although it is worth noting that this phenomenon has not extended to the animal kingdom. Whatever it is that has caused reproduction to cease has focused on human beings alone. Although the film remains vague about the specifics of the cause of the mass infertility, it seems clear that it is directly related somehow to mankind’s propensity for perpetual violence. All around the world, countries are devastated and some literally in flames. The answer to the mystery of the missing children may be as simple as this: we no longer deserve them.

The most noteworthy accomplishment to come from Children of Men is how director Alfonso Cuaron immerses us in this sad, damaged world that unfortunately does not look terribly dissimilar to our own. Governmental slogans abound, warning citizens about the dangers of hiring illegal aliens and avoiding fertility tests. In one of the film’s most chilling social commentaries, euthanasia devices are now abundant and advertised on buses throughout the city. In Cuaron’s vision, the human race is dying and not going out with grace. From the advanced technology to the jarring outbursts of violence, Cuaron’s vision of futuristic England is thoroughly convincing. Children of Men will no doubt be best remembered for at least three virtuoso sequences involving long takes that move through meticulously choreographed stunts, effects and high drama. Cuaron works against the typical action scene rhythm and astonishes us with how much he can convey without cutting away. As we follow Clive Owen’s central character, there always seems to be something going on in the periphery that is either posing a potential threat or revealing new information. Only a couple minor problems diminish the thrills, such as a scene involving an uncooperative engine that stretches plausibility too far and some unwelcome blood drops on the camera lens that disrupt the film’s reality by making the camera a concrete part of the scene. Is Owen’s character being followed by a documentary film team?

However, where the film really falls short of its extraordinary potential is exploring the ramifications of its extraordinary premise. A few characters offer brief thoughts on what it was like to have children and how the world has changed since their disappearance; however, the film’s writers seem more concerned with the various machinations of their plot and who will betray whom than they are with allowing the film’s potentially devastating themes to hit home. Despite not-so-subtle visual accusations directed against President Bush and his misguided war in Iraq, Cuaron and his writers are unable to convey the seriousness of the dark world we are creating. The film’s ending is technically complete in that it brings the central mission to a close; however, it leaves us with no idea as to how the accomplishment of this mission has changed those involved. It does not tell us what impact (if any) the mission will have on the world at large. Does the film’s brief moment of peace towards the end of the film tell us enough? It is a nice moment, but not a resolution large enough for the enormous questions that have been unleashed.

Despite all this, you would be crazy to miss seeing this film in the most ideal conditions possible. The film’s core themes may not linger, but Alfonso Cuaron will treat you to a couple things that you’ve never seen before.

[***1/2]

Friday Night (Denis, 2002)

2007-01-04T09:50:00.000-08:00

Free of extraneous drama or verbiage, Claire Denis’ delightful film, Friday Night chooses to focus on basically one event in the life of an ordinary woman. What we learn initially about Laure, our protagonist, is very basic. We know that she is packing up her apartment and preparing to move in with a man named Francois. Quietly, she lingers over a party dress and wonders, half-muttering to herself, whether or not it is something she should keep. Left alone, without anyone to please, Clare’s preparations resemble a solemn ritual more than a task filled with giddy excitement. Clare does not seem overtly sad; however, there is no mistaking her trepidation. Her anxiety, as best we can tell, does not stem from an abusive boyfriend or anything else quite so dramatic. She merely has typical concerns that are likely to accompany the merging of two lives. Over the course of Friday night, she will set out for dinner plans with a female companion, get caught in traffic because of a Parisian transit strike and hook up for a one-night stand with an attractive stranger. Clearly that last bit is going to be awfully difficult to explain to Francois.

The thrilling aspect of Denis’ film is the way in which she offers an explanation of Laure’s impulsive action not through words or complicated psychology, but rather by powerfully evoking the intoxicating spirit of the evening. This is a difficult sensation to try to convey to someone who has not seen the film - but despite the fact that there are longs stretches in the film where nothing significant happens, it is the way that Denis lingers over specific details that gives Laure’s journey texture and shape. Laure’s infidelity is entirely free of malice and ultimately can only be described as selfish in a positive sense. Would Francois (who we never see) be understanding if he were to find out? Of course not. But unlike Francois, we get to be there with Laure every step of the way. We get to hear the radio message that encourages drivers to pick up hitchhikers. We get to see Laure struggle initially with fear and distrust of a male stranger. Merely by observing her actions, we come to understand her need to retain independence and control of her life. There are even tiny bits of cinema magic, so subtle that you may wonder if you really saw them.

To describe Denis’ film as surreal would be far too strong. To describe it as naturalistic would be selling it short. The events that occur are all quite plausible, and yet with her pacing, editing and frequent close-ups, Denis creates a kind of light haze that helps us to process why Laure makes her decision. Most love affairs – both in cinema and in life – are reckless, with the lack on control fueling the passion. Not so with Laure, as Denis makes her path seem virtually inevitable. Although he would no doubt be outraged to learn what has transpired - as would most of us in his situation - Francois has, by the end of the film, inherited a lover more likely to be secure with her pivotal decision to give up a share of her independence.

[***1/2]

Little Miss Sunshine (Dayton/Faris, 2006)

2007-01-03T09:51:00.000-08:00

Little Miss Sunshine is yet another in a long line of film comedies in which the central characters walk a thin line between being lovable misfits and being complete and utter horse’s asses. Imagine if you will National Lampoon’s Vacation except half as funny and twice as schmaltzy. Indeed, Little Miss Sunshine borrows liberally from Vacation, from the pater familias with an artificially sunny disposition to the goofy family vehicle that miraculously holds itself together to an unusual encounter with a highway patrolman to another plot development that I will refrain from revealing here.

Unfortunately, Little Miss Sunshine wants to have it both ways. It wants to be both cold, wicked farce and a touching statement on how a dysfunctional family can come together. It offers us both cruel gags disrespectful of human life and sincere talks on the pier about the nature and purpose of human suffering. It asks us to respect a young girl’s dream and then openly mocks that which she has aspired to be. And when did daring to walk out of step with the mainstream become equated with making a fool and a nuisance of yourself in a public forum?

Having audacity can be an admirable quality; but, it would be nice if that audacity was applied to something more worthwhile than parading your idiocy at a children’s beauty queen pageant. When Chevy Chase stormed Wally World at gunpoint, you could see the mad joy in his eyes as he fulfilled his absurd quest. The characters in Little Miss Sunshine can attain victory only by surrounding themselves with human beings more out of touch with reality than themselves. But no amount of manipulation with bureaucratic hospital employees or icy pageant organizers is going to make a surly Nietzsche-reading teenager who refuses to speak endearing. We don’t want him to find a way to connect with his family. We want him to be beaten with large sticks. Likewise, the revelation of what Grandpa has been teaching our young heroine in his private lessons is not so much humorous as it is sickening.

Taken strictly for cheap laughs, the film is moderately successful with Steve Carell mining some humor out of his character’s deep depression and Alan Arkin dishing out obscenity without flinching. However, the film accomplishes the remarkable task of turning one of today’s great actresses, Toni Collette, into a non-entity. As the sensible mom, Collette is tasked with holding this rickety ship together and playing an actual human being while her cast mates are allowed to indulge their particular quirks. Most importantly though, Little Miss Sunshine fails as a family bonding picture largely because it does not know whether or not it wants to be sincere. In the end, we are not convinced by the power of familial bonds to overcome obstacles. We are convinced that this group should be broken up and kept as far away from each other as possible.

[**]

Casino Royale (Campbell, 2006)

2006-12-29T22:45:00.000-08:00

Hailed almost unanimously as a welcome reinvention of the James Bond character, Casino Royale gives us a secret agent that is superior to his predecessors presumably for the same reasons that Christian Bale’s Batman was deemed by many comic book fans to be superior to Michael Keaton’s: he is dark and emotionally distant. Director Martin Campbell hammers home this point early on with an opening scene that shows Bond earning his ‘double-0’ status by killing two targets. In what passes for style in this wholly unengaging and downright depressing action film, the sequence in shot in black-and-white. We watch Bond pummel the first man in a public restroom, bashing his face ruthlessly into walls and sinks (*sigh*, our hero!) and then swiftly execute a second man mid-sentence with the mere twitch of his finger. It is the contrast that Bond feels between the two incidents that not only earns him his place as our protagonist, but also provides the dark undercurrent to what presumably is intended to be a pleasurable movie-going experience. In a scene that comes perilously close to self-parody, Bond is put in a situation where he must resuscitate himself with a defibrillator – a sequence apparently written to establish definitively that this Bond does indeed have a heart.

Daniel Craig’s Bond is not charismatic in way that his dashing forerunners have been – unless you are the sort that finds arrogance and robotic masculinity charismatic. He is undeniably, to use the popular phrase, a ‘bad-ass’, but is that really all we should ask from our action heroes? That they be able to inflict a great deal of pain quickly and without conscience? Apart from the fact that he seems to be on reasonably friendly terms with the reputable Judi Dench, there is little that distinguishes him from the film’s villains. Emotional detachment not only serves as a defining trait of Bond’s personality, but also as a bedrock theme that the film returns to with its banter, double-crosses and casino setting where poker players attempt to stifle their emotions in order to best their opponents. The connection is so clear as to be artlessly blunt – the life of a secret agent involves bluffing, calculated risks and the ability to read other people’s tells. By the time we have spent over two hours with Bond, he has learned the hard lesson that no one in his life is to be trusted. We can say to ourselves that this is just an action movie and these observations should not be important; however, I think that it is no coincidence that both Bale’s Batman and Craig’s Bond have been hailed as heroes for our time. I do not wish to belabor the point by making tenuous connections to the national zeitgeist; but, simply put, this is not the kind of protagonist that I personally enjoy seeing at the center of a popcorn film. I do not enjoy cheering on his thoughtless brutality uncritically. I do not enjoy seeing the reinforcement of the idea of a world devoid of meaningful connection and trust.

I accept the fact that the opinions I have offered above are in the minority. Casino Royale will no doubt spawn highly popular sequels that make loads of money offering viewers more of the same. This does not surprise me. What does surprise me is that this film has received a pass for its awful pacing and bizarre narrative structure. After early action sequences that, while not exactly thrilling, are undeniably frenzied and loud, Campbell sits his audience down for the better part of the film’s second hour as a witness to Texas Hold ‘Em Poker. Not only do the screenwriters have their major players exchange banalities lifted directly from Poker for Dummies (“everybody has a tell”), they have a secondary character offer up ridiculous commentary because they are concerned audience members will be too dim to understand that Bond has all his chips at stake. Following the resolution of the gambling, Casino Royale indulges in at least two false endings and sets off on a couple more action sequences that feel not so much like integral parts of the film, but rather encores that we never wanted. After what seems like an eternity, the filmmakers finally, mercifully, decide to roll the closing credits rather than offering up a brand new plot twist in which Judi Dench steals the millions of dollars in poker winnings at gunpoint and then sets off swimming across the English Channel. Thus ends the latest installment of Bond – and, most likely, my interaction with the franchise.

[**]

The Testament of Dr. Mabuse (Lang, 1933)

2006-12-20T10:58:00.000-08:00

Like Fritz Lang’s classic M, his second film of the sound era is an exciting search for an elusive criminal. In fact, The Testament of Dr. Mabuse even has the same investigator. However, unlike the earlier film, the Germany of Dr. Mabuse is a place haunted by an influence that nothing short of supernatural. Locked up in a mental institution where he scribbles down diabolical schemes on copious amounts of paper, Dr. Mabuse shouldn’t be a threat to the outside world. And yet, somehow, the crimes that he conceives actually begin to take place. Later, when it seems as if Mabuse is utterly incapable of plotting, let alone finding a way to instruct a gang of criminals on the outside, the disturbances continue. Even when Mabuse’s gangsters are captured and interrogated, they are of no use to the police because they all claim to have never seen the face of the man who serves as their leader.

Although the set-up is a fairly standard police investigation, Lang’s execution is anything but conventional. Scene after scene draws us deeper into a world that is far more complex and mysterious than we initially expect. Lang’s film crosses over from thriller to horror to mystery to allegory effortlessly, providing an experience that is both immediately entertaining and rich in substance. In a virtuoso sequence, Lang cuts back and forth as characters in two different locations are trapped in desperate situations. Either one of these would have been more than capable of holding us in tense anticipation; yet, Lang offers them simultaneously, heightening our investment, rather than dissipating it. As audience members, we have the mystery largely pieced together before the on-screen investigator does. However, while this might spell boredom in a lesser film, Lang employs exhilarating special effects and masterful pacing to insure that we are kept in rapt attention all the way through to the end.

[****]

The King of Comedy (Scorsese, 1983)

2006-12-18T10:17:00.000-08:00

Coming from the actor-director combo that brought us characters as memorably violent as Travis Bickle, Jake LaMotta and Max Cady, The King of Comedy is a refreshing change of pace. There is just one notable act of violence in the entirety of the film, an act that does not directly involve Robert Deniro’s central character, Rupert Pupkin. Rupert Pupkin spends a lot of time introducing himself to various people that he hopes will be able to assist him on his quest for stardom; but, despite his best efforts, he has a name that people just can’t seem to get right. Somewhere in his life, somebody told Rupert to not let anyone stand in the way of achieving his dream. He pursues the big break that he knows must be waiting just around the corner with unwavering tenacity. At one point, a television executive politely offers him sound advice about honing his craft in local comedy clubs and working his way up. However, for Rupert, who prefers to rehearse his stand-up comedy material in the comfort of his mom’s basement, there is no need to allow others to critique his presentation. He is a star already, a diamond just waiting to be discovered and displayed.

The unfortunate recipient of the bulk of Rupert’s attention is television star, Jerry Langford, played with supreme focus and control by Jerry Lewis. Langford is clearly modeled on late night king, Johnny Carson, whose act has been recycled and revamped by countless followers – from David Letterman and Conan O’Brien to Arsenio Hall and his direct inheritor, Jay Leno. Even daytime hosts such as Rosie O’Donnell and Ellen Degeneres owe a debt to Carson. Scorsese gives Langford a majestic curtain from which to emerge, a jolly sidekick named Ed, a goofy bandleader and even goes so far as to incorporate Carson’s favorite song (“Come Rain or Come Shine”) into his opening credits. However, most of what we see from Langford is not his on-stage persona. Instead, we see a human being who desperately craves privacy. In an effort to maintain the semblance of a regular life, he walks unescorted down a New York street only to have someone wish cancer upon him when he refuses to honor a fan’s absurd request. Casting Lewis is an excellent choice by Scorsese because it means we do not really need to see much of Langford’s on-screen persona. We simply transfer Lewis’ potential for zaniness over to Langford and note with astonishment at how tired and serious he seems when patiently waiting for Rupert to go away.

Over the course of the film, Rupert, with the assistance of another rabid Langford fan played by the uniquely insane Sandra Bernhard, forces his way into a spotlight that he has not earned. Although the presence of Deniro keeps us on guard for a sudden explosion of violent rage, Rupert approaches every situation with a sunny disposition. Even when he is being tossed from a building, he does not lose his temper, opting instead to inform those responsible that they are making a huge mistake. Whereas other Scorsese thugs might use a gun, a knife or a fist to get their point across, Rupert’s weapons of choice are persistence and civility. Films about our obsession with celebrity are not in short supply; however, Scorsese’s film is noteworthy for the way in which it subtly exposes Rupert’s motivation. Ultimately, we realize that Rupert’s desired reward is not truly fame or fortune, but simply the opportunity to gaze upon someone’s face as it occurs to them that Rupert Pupkin is somebody that matters – somebody worth remembering. When we finally get a chance to see Rupert’s stand-up, it is decidedly average at best. However, it allows us to see how Rupert has taken a lifetime filled with disappointment and focused it into a solitary goal.

Both Deniro and Scorsese are clearly working outside of their safety zone. Yet, this is precisely what makes the film endearing and ultimately worthwhile. Operating without their most reliable weapon – brutal violence – they are forced to find another way to engage the audience. This means that while The King of Comedy may lack the polished confidence of a film like Goodfellas, it comes across as a one of Scorsese’s most thoughtful and affecting efforts.

[***1/2]

Au hasard Balthazar (Bresson, 1966)

2006-12-11T16:10:00.000-08:00

In his essay for the Great Movies series, Roger Ebert writes of Au hasard Balthazar that the film’s donkey protagonist is the “perfect Bresson character.” It is a sentiment with which I agree. However, unlike Ebert, I don’t necessarily think that this is a compliment. One of Bresson’s most noticeable stylistic choices is the way in which he forbids his actors from … well … acting. In a misguided attempt at trying to achieve emotional purity, Bresson instead creates emotional inertness. With films like A Man Escaped and Pickpocket, this can easily pass for quiet intensity or purposeful stoicism. However, in both Lancelot du Lac and Au hasard Balthazar, Bresson trips over the fine line and lands squarely in ludicrousness. Bresson’s oppressiveness is palpable throughout both of these films and, in the latter, characters speak of their joy and anger in the same forced monotone, performing as if in fear of electric shock. The donkey Balthazar consequently becomes a kind of unintentional self-parody, allowed extravagant indulgences like flinching and braying that Bresson wouldn’t dream of permitting in his human actors.

Bresson’s donkey is the link between a variety of troubled characters who temporarily serve as the beast’s owner. The way that each of them treats Balthazar reflects something of their respective personalities. Marie, the reckless romantic showers him with love while the young delinquent, Gerard, subjects him to cruelty. Throughout his lifetime, Balthazar is subjected to all sorts of suffering and indignity, only to bear it all quietly without complaint. His level determination is presumably intended to be contrasted with the human characters that fall in love with the wrong person, sedate themselves with alcohol, or scheme to make more money. Unlike these people with their aspirations, expectations and disappointment, Balthazar does not carry with him past troubles. He also does not fret about the future. He lives perpetually in the present, plodding through his life with single-minded stubbornness.

There is a critical moment in Au hasard Balthazar that will likely have a great impact on whether an individual viewer accepts or rejects Bresson’s artistic offering. Noting all that the donkey has endured over his lifetime, one character declares without irony that Balthazar is a saint. Such a straightforward statement of the film’s intent forces the viewer into a decision. Have we merely been watching politely, following the events of the film with a modicum of interest because those involved seem so sincere? Or have we really absorbed Bresson’s thematic exploration and bought into the substance of what Balthazar symbolizes? My reaction was to resist a spiritual connection that Bresson, in my determination, had not earned because his scenes of human interaction were not believable or compelling. Thus, the rest of the film struck me as somewhat ridiculous, an ineffective reach for profundity. Based on the film’s stellar reputation, your results may vary.

[**]

The Fountain (Aronofsky, 2006)

2006-12-07T11:36:00.000-08:00

When has there ever been a film that fluctuated so wildly between utterly captivating and utterly banal? The Fountain, Darren Aronofsky’s long awaited follow-up to the superb Requiem for a Dream is a film with a superb premise and admirable ambition. Jumping between three wildly different settings -- two of which may very well exist only within the imagination -- it is the story of a man who finds himself confronted with the ultimate in inconvenient truths. Simply put: with humanity comes mortality. Everyone we have ever known and ever will know will someday die. It is inescapable fact. And yet, through various intellectual and philosophical contortions, humanity has long made an attempt to convince itself otherwise.

There is a definite joy early on in The Fountain in watching Aronofsky introduce the various elements of his story. Watching a scene with Spanish conquistadors on a quest for the Fountain of Youth cut sharply into a scene with a man and a tree floating through space in a giant snow globe sets our minds whirring. Aronofsky boldly asserts that his intention is to think large and with great anticipation we await insights of great resonance. What is this beautiful limbo in which Hugh Jackman’s character lingers? Where is he heading and what will it mean when he gets there? Dutifully we place our trust in Aronofsky and await something magical or, at the very least, meaningful.

Unfortunately, once the film starts to explain itself, it begins a gradual plunge into the mundane. The film is never again as exciting as it is in the first ten minutes when we are disoriented and relying on our own presumptions about what the film might be. At the heart of the narrative is a plot that is disappointingly simple and surprisingly unaffecting. A doctor conducts medical research that he hopes will one day save his wife’s life. The problem is that her condition is very serious and time is running short. Even when he attains success, he is disappointed when the results are not immediately practical for his situation. His colleagues protest and tell him that he is “losing perspective.”

One of Aronofsky’s key mistakes is explaining away his other two settings by making the doctor’s wife the author of a novel-in-progress. This choice spoils some of the fun we might otherwise have had by making the connections too literal. Consequently, all that is said in those alternate settings becomes a part of a simplistic message offered by the wife to her husband: death is coming and it must be accepted. It eventually dawns on us that this strange, audacious film that literally reaches for the stars and is occasionally quite beautiful has an alarming lack of substance. No doors of perception are opened. No revelations are made. The central storyline is not even involving emotionally. Instead, Aronofsky takes the most basic of truths -- something that should be plain to any person old enough to want to sit through the film – dresses it up in fancy clothes and calls it philosophy.

The discussions that follow The Fountain will no doubt be far more compelling than the film itself. This is because there is no doubt that Aronofsky is dancing around some compelling ideas here. Unfortunately those post-show discussions will arise not from Aronofsky’s artistry and insights, but rather the lingering desire to fill out for ourselves what he might have accomplished.

[**1/2]

For Your Consideration (Guest, 2006)

2006-11-22T10:24:00.000-08:00

In one of the most shocking developments of the cinematic season, I am grieved to report that the most dependable and likable comedic ensemble in film today has lined up a seemingly unmissable target from point blank range and then forgotten the ammunition. All of the critical players from Waiting for Guffman, Best in Show and A Mighty Wind are back and director Christopher Guest has made a wise addition in The Office’s Ricky Gervais. The subject matter concerned the hype and overall inanity of Hollywood’s award season and what happens to the production of a film once the buzz starts to build. Best of all, the film has been structured to provide a deserving showcase for the comedic gifts of Catherine O’Hara, consistently one of the funniest actors around. Sounds promising enough so far, yes? So wha’ happened?

The problem seems to stem from Guest’s decision to veer away from the documentary structure that has served the team well in their past projects, allowing the ensemble to work off of each other and improvise moments of unpredictable magic. While Guest’s desire and willingness to attempt something new is to be commended, he has unfortunately settled upon a film that is in an awkward limbo between his past work and something more conventional. In interviews supporting the film, Guest and his co-writer, Eugene Levy, have boasted that their ensemble works without rehearsal, simply working from meticulous bios that have been constructed for each character. This is all well and good when trying to simulate the feeling of a documentary where the subjects would naturally be speaking off the cuff. However, Guest and Levy have dropped the documentary trappings and neglected to supply their ensemble with a legitimate script or even a fruitful sequence of events. Consequently, For Your Consideration plays out like a depressing shadow of a film that could have been. The jokes never rise above the level of a basic premise that isn’t terribly funny to begin with. The director’s too Jewish! The veteran actor has to do demeaning commercials! The wealthy producer doesn’t know anything about film! Nobody’s respecting the writers’ script! The media asks vacant questions! It’s possible to see how employing these stereotypes might have been a possible starting point for Guest and company to supply amusing riffs. But sadly, the characterizations never progress past the first dimension. Whole scenes go by and we not only wonder about their purpose – we wonder where the punchline was supposed to be. One thing becomes abundantly clear: either the ensemble needs to return to the documentary format and find a way to inject new energy (Ricky Gervais was a good step), or they need to put the work into a polished script and – horror of horrors – take the time to rehearse.

It would have made a great story: Catherine O’Hara playing an aging actress whose fictional performance generates Oscar buzz actually generating real-life Oscar buzz and earning a long-deserved nomination. But alas, this outcome is not likely to come to pass, as For Your Consideration paradoxically gives O’Hara far less to do than her supporting roles in previous films. I will not spoil her character’s fate out of basic respect; however, if I spoiled it for you, you would likely think that I must have been leaving something out – that her character arc couldn’t possibly be so incredibly flimsy. Unfortunately, it is. And unfortunately, this is the rule with For Your Consideration rather than the exception. Characters either make the most obvious change that you could conceive, don’t change at all, or disappear completely. It is with astonishment that we see the closing credits begin, because we are still waiting for the film to begin. The greatest indignity of all is that Guest and company have produced a film that is even more vacant and ill-conceived than the Oscar bait films they have attempted to skewer.

[*]

Happy Feet (Miller, 2006)

2006-11-17T23:39:00.000-08:00

If you’re thinking Happy Feet is going to be just another average animated film trading on a combo of cute animals, hip pop culture references and hammy celebrity voiceovers, boy are you in for a surprise. Happy Feet is nothing short of an epic. The title comes from the particular quirk of Mumble, the penguin protagonist whom we gleefully follow from egg to misfit to hero as he struggles to gain acceptance in community that does not recognize, let alone appreciate his talents. In a world of birds that find love and companionship by finding and unleashing their ‘heart songs’, Mumble is tone-def. But man, can that boy boogie. By this point, you may be thinking that you have seen this film several times before – an awkward young character struggling to be accepted by the mainstream for their individuality. However, Happy Feet’s greatness comes not only in the roundabout way that it treads upon this familiar path, but also in the way that it travels far beyond the expected destination. Most films such as this are content with self-discovery. Happy Feet encourages viewers to apply their gifts towards a greater good.

There comes a moment early on in Happy Feet where it becomes clear that the viewer will have to either submit to George Miller’s stylistic tone or resist it. It is simply too aggressive to watch without investment. An early medley of recognizable popular music temporarily calls to mind the disastrous bombast of Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge; however, there is a key difference. Unlike Luhrmann, Miller does not beg and plead like a puppy for our appreciation. Rather, he confidently asserts his alternate penguin universe with resonant song selection and character interaction that is three-dimensional. He does not overuse his gimmick. Instead, he continually finds new ways to engage us in his hero’s journey: song, dance, drama, humor, suspense and passion. Even when one of his supporting characters is the frequently unbearable Robin Williams, Miller is able to use him in just the right doses, reminding us why he shot to superstardom and not allowing him to grow tiresome. Even Williams’ Latino accent, which was distressing in the film’s trailer, makes sense here because of the context. Mumble has traveled to a different community and the change is used to underscore the transition.

Along his journey, Mumble also has encounters with creatures more threatening that would just assume make him a meal. Invariably, these encounters are genuinely thrilling with extraordinary animation rendering the various species of marine life. There are several sequences in Happy Feet that simply gorgeous, particularly a nighttime song set against the backdrop of the aurora australis. Purely on a technical level, Happy Feet sets a new standard in computer animation. However, it is the substance that Miller ultimately delivers in the form of a thoroughly convincing moral plea that is sure to make the film a work that will endure for years to come. Without stridency, Miller makes an environmental statement that is simple enough for a child to understand and yet carries with it the power to stir and shame an adult. Even if you can see the ending coming, it is a marvel to witness. Yes, Happy Feet is a ‘feel good’ film; but, it is a film that provides that good feeling by showing us our better nature, rather than indulging in embarrassing sappiness and pop psychology. Dreamworks and Pixar, take note. The bar has been raised. Happy Feet is one of the year’s best films.

[****]

Forgotten Silver (Jackson/Botes, 1995)

2006-11-15T15:45:00.000-08:00

Peter Jackson’s follow-up to the remarkable Heavenly Creatures, one of the very best films of the nineties, was Forgotten Silver, a television collaboration with Costa Botes, a man whose contribution to film is, apart from this particular picture, unknown to me. Together they have created a film, made in documentary style, about the fictional New Zealand director, Colin McKenzie. As the legend goes, McKenzie was a pioneer whose remarkable innovations such as synchronized sound, close-ups and hidden cameras went largely unrecognized due to his tumultuous and tragic life. Jackson and Botes’ central conceit is that they have stumbled upon a treasure trove of previously unseen material from Colin McKenzie, a man who is like the D.W. Griffith of an alternate universe. Mostly, it seems, the film is a thinly veiled excuse for the filmmakers to work with silent film conventions, creating scenes from McKenzie lost epic Salome, as well as installments of Stan the Man, a primitive version of Candid Camera. The major problem is that these films, supposedly created by McKenzie, do not warrant the kind of excitement that would lead the interviewed historians to place them on par with Citizen Kane. For a Peter Jackson creation, they are actually quite conservative. They are also not incompetent or ridiculous enough to inspire laughter in the spirit of satire or parody. In constructing their ruse, Jackson and Botes have aimed for plausibility and get able support from talking heads like Harvey Weinstein, Leonard Maltin and Sam Neill playing themselves. However, what they sacrifice is any spirit of fun. The gags are too sporadic and too tame when they finally do arrive. In the end, we truly know very little about the personality of Colin McKenzie apart from the fact that he is a generic impassioned director, driven by generic dreams. The story of his life is ludicrous – not in a Zelig kind of a way, but rather like his bio was hastily sketched for a first draft and then never improved. Perhaps the film’s greatest pleasure, apart from a funny sequence in which McKenzie accidentally shoots a ‘lewd’ film, is watching scruffy Peter Jackson make his way through the New Zealand jungle in ridiculously colored shorts on a mock search for the lost set of Salome. Despite its convincing deadpan and nods to film history, Forgotten Silver is short on defining gags that you will want to recount for your friends. Consequently, the film ends up eventually feeling tedious and hardly worth the effort.

[**1/2]

Babel (Iñárritu, 2006)

2006-11-12T16:45:00.000-08:00

The name Alejandro González Iñárritu is quickly becoming synonymous with the word ‘visceral’. As evidenced by his Amores Perros, 21 Grams, his segment in the film 11’09”01 and especially his most recent work, Babel, Iñárritu is an artist that bypasses our brain and our heart in order to latch a firm hold on our gut. This is not to say that his films lack intelligence or compassion. It simply means that Iñárritu’s top priority is to capture the way we respond to the world instinctually. Perhaps this is why he prefers to work with scripts that bounce around between various storylines. It allows him to build towards a critical moment and then quickly dart away while we are still left with that initial feeling. Michael Haneke, a filmmaker focused primarily on the intellect, would take precisely the opposite approach. He would linger on the critical moment for an extremely lengthy period of time until viewers work past what they feel about the thing they have seen and into what they think about it. There is merit in both approaches.

With Babel, Iñárritu offers us the world as powder keg, a place where a small twitch of the right muscle in the right moment can be enough to send reverberations throughout the world. As one might guess from the title, one of Babel’s major themes is how language and culture often provide barriers to communication. Spread out around the globe, our communities give us a sense of comfort and identity; however, they can also become an obstacle when cultures collide, leading to communication in the international ‘language’ of violence. In selecting his moments of culture shock, Iñárritu does not merely stop with the obvious, such as two American children visiting a Mexican wedding. He also offers us cultural divides that we may not have considered, such as a group of young, deaf-mute friends living in urban Japan. The complexity of Babel’s layering is perhaps best on display in a scene where a troubled girl from this group attends a dance club. Without dialogue, Iñárritu offers us Japanese culture meeting deaf culture meeting youth culture meeting rave culture and allows us to consider how the way we identify ourselves impacts the choices we make.

Thankfully, Iñárritu’s writer, Guillermo Arriaga, does not condescend to the viewer with overwrought speeches about how we crash into each other in order to feel something. On the contrary, he sets his situations in motion, allows them to follow a logical course and then lingers gently over the details that may prove revelatory. What does it mean, for example, that a parental figure offers the same slap to a boy that has committed a horrifying act of violence and a girl that has allowed others to spy upon her naked body? During a high-speed chase, how does the racial identity of the passengers in the back seat affect the way that we experience the scene? Does it make a difference? From start to finish, Babel is tense and gripping, as well as being impeccably performed. Initially, we are skeptical about the way that Iñárritu and Arriaga will tie together their story lines; however, when the final piece in the puzzle comes, it takes the film to new heights rather than exposing any lack of credibility. Don’t avoid the film thinking that you have seen this kind of ‘everybody’s connected’ storyline before. Babel is something special.

[****]

Borat (Charles, 2006)

2006-11-06T09:26:00.000-08:00

The most complimentary thing that can probably be said about Sacha Baron Cohen, the man behind the character of Borat - a cultural reporter from an alternate reality Kazakhstan – is that he has the nerve and audacity of the late, great Andy Kaufman. I have no idea how he is able to will his way through the various confrontational situations we see in his most recent film without eventually letting his targets in on the joke or even cracking a smile. When Cohen is going well, this skill works to great advantage. His projected foreignness and his disregard of conventional American etiquette often allow his interviewees to reveal something unexpected about themselves. With Borat as a catalyst, some reveal that an enthusiastic gesture of goodwill from a foreigner is enough to cause them to spew profanities or run away in fear. Others, prompted by Borat’s own biases, feel secure in talking on camera about their distrust of minorities. However, there are also other occasions where, as viewers, we have to wonder whether Cohen’s ability to divorce himself from others’ feelings is really something to be admired.

Over the course of Borat’s 80-plus minutes, we are offered a mixture of mischievous pranks and short mockumentary-style material used to provide the film with a throughline. As one might expect from such a structure, the results are hit-and-miss. There are about three moments in Borat that are sheer gold and several others which are genuinely amusing. However, where Cohen and director Larry Charles fail is in bringing all of their footage together into a film that has a clear purpose or, at the very least, a consistent point of view. The story of Borat becomes not the story of a pseudo-Muslim reporter let loose in a Christian nation, but rather the story of Sacha Baron Cohen’s personality. What situation is too dangerous for him to place himself into? Why is he willing to subject himself to extreme discomfort and humiliation in the name of a moderately funny joke? What does he feel that he is ultimately accomplishing?

When Cohen’s stunts work, it is because there is a kind of poetic justice at work. I would argue that Cohen is actually funniest when he is at his most fair. When Borat attends a church service and asks to be saved, we see that his ridiculous contortions are not considered anything out of the ordinary. In moments like this, Cohen has crystallized something that is insightful and revealing. However, it is unfortunate that this oft-funny film builds to a climax that contains what is perhaps Cohen’s lowest and most bewildering moment. While the concept for Borat’s encounter with Pamela Anderson is funny in theory, the reality that we witness is, to be honest, disturbing and borderline cruel. Making the assumption that Anderson was not in on the joke – she’s not that good of an actress – I wondered to myself what she had done to deserve such treatment. To be sure she is aggressively superficial. However, the moment struck me as being poetically out-of-whack. Never mind whether or not such behavior is ethical. It’s not very funny.

And yet, all told, I would recommend Borat. It is an unfocused, often misguided work, and it frequently seems as if Cohen is abusing his unbelievable sense of courage. However, it also displays Cohen’s undeniable charisma, is consistently watchable and is likely to provoke a reaction in the viewer worth analyzing if you are indeed the self-reflective type. It is a film where the high points make the low points worth enduring and where you can safely say you will see and hear things you have not seen and heard before.

[***]

Pulse (K. Kurosawa, 2001)

2006-11-04T01:48:00.000-08:00

Although it has been lumped in with other recent Japanese horror films such as The Grudge and Ringu, Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s Pulse is something else entirely. You wouldn’t know it from the premise which involves a deadly curse that seems to be spreading via the internet; however, Pulse is no mere gimmick film. On the contrary, it is a somber, serious exploration of postmodern emptiness. Upon an initial viewing, there is still much about the events in Pulse that I am not sure I completely understand. This much is clear. Each of the characters affected by the curse turn on their computers to find a website that offers a view of someone else’s existence. It is as if they are peering into a webcam, although we learn that there is no physical reason why these visions should be transmitted. The person they spy upon is invariably in a state of severe distress. However, there is no apparent way for the two parties to communicate. Afterwards, the viewer grows sullen and goes through a few various stages before disappearing completely. It is important to note that the victims are interconnected, with one incident linking into another.

I fear that I have made the film sound like the very thing it is not. It is not awkwardly goofy, nor a film in which the actions seem contrived and forced to produce artificial scares. On the contrary, Kurosawa has done an effective job of painting an ever-so-slightly exaggerated version of our own world in which increased connection only leads to more profound feelings of loneliness. With the explosion of the internet, most of has within our homes a portal which allows us to interact with the outside world without even getting out of our pajamas. Even the dial-up sound that Kurosawa uses in key places here is quickly becoming a thing of the past as more and more of us switch to a connection that is ‘always on’. The question is whether or not this development has led to a populace that is in fact more disconnected from meaningful human interaction. With increased efficiency comes more time for us to be left alone with our own thoughts and insecurities. The moments of horror in Pulse are not cheap thrills in which someone is in danger of being hacked to pieces. That, after all, is an experience few of us are likely to encounter. The horror is something much more unsettling. It is the terror of our unavoidable mortality, the terror of human uncertainty, the terror of being alone.

Kurosawa succeeds by resisting the typical rhythms of the modern horror film. He does not try to scare us through ‘gotcha’ surprises. He allows the fear to seep slowly into us. He does not offer clumsy exposition followed by tiresome explanations. He allows his world to be much like our own – mysterious from start to finish. In the end, surrounded by chaos and uncertainty, two characters arrive at the only reasonable strategy: keep going as long as possible. This conclusion may seem somewhat non-committal for some; however, it ensures that Kurosawa’s film will latch onto us and linger. Whereas so many horror films are forgotten as soon as the lights come up, Pulse has an energy and an impact that extends well beyond the closing credits.

[****]

Teorema (Pasolini, 1968)

2006-10-30T11:05:00.000-08:00

The plot summary for Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Teorema listed on the Internet Movie Database reads as follows: A strange visitor in a wealthy family. He seduces the maid, the son, the mother, the daughter and finally the father before leaving a few days after. After he's gone, none of them can continue living as they did. What this summary accurately captures is the utter simplicity of Pasolini’s film. With very few words of actual dialogue spoken, this is indeed basically all that happens over the course of 90-plus minutes. However, it is in the fuzzy details of this summary where the captivating mystery of Teorema is revealed. For example, I take issue with the word ‘seduce’. It is a word that calls to mind John Malkovich in Dangerous Liaisons. However, the charismatic stranger played by Terrence Stamp is far more passive. In each of his interactions with the members of the household, it is the other person who is the initiator. Each one of them looks to this stranger to fulfill some kind of spiritual need. Each one of them feels somehow incomplete. Once they have opened themselves up to the stranger and exposed their aching souls, he invariably responds with love, kindness and friendship. In his review, Ebert goes so far as to say he ‘makes love’ with each of them. While it is certainly possible to make this interpretation, I think that it involves making somewhat of a leap considering what Pasolini presents us with on screen. In truth, the conclusions of these various encounters are left mostly open-ended.

Halfway through the film, the stranger announces that he must leave. Before he goes, he meets with each member of the household individually and they tell him how he has impacted their lives and how his leaving will affect them in the future. The stranger does not offer words of wisdom or much in the way of overt encouragement. He offers kind looks, open ears, perhaps a gentle touch and not much more. The second half of the film shows us how these individuals seek to achieve fulfillment in the absence of their unusual houseguest. Their tactics involve art, sex, passivity and at least one supernatural phenomenon. However, Pasolini saves his greatest bit of cinematic magic for the end. Throughout the film, we have seen the narrative events interrupted with seemingly incongruous shots of a barren desert. With his film’s closing moments, narrative reality and metaphorical reality collide in a haunting scene of raw anguish.

How we interpret Teorema will likely depend on the identity or value that we place upon the stranger. Clad in white and often bathed in bright light, many viewers (and Joan Osborne fans) will no doubt conclude that he must be Christ or God himself. However, Pasolini’s film is never so blatant as to limit the stranger’s identity to one possibility. He could even be seen as the embodiment of an abstract idea – which, I suppose, would not make him all that different from Jesus after all. There can be no doubt about at least one thing in regards to Pasolini’s film: it is masterful. Easily digestible, but endlessly haunting, Teorema is a testament to Pasolini’s gift for visual composition, thematic exploration and potent minimalism.

[****]

The Black Dahlia (DePalma, 2006)

2006-10-27T12:25:00.000-07:00

Based on what is supposedly one of the most fascinating murder mysteries in California history, Brian DePalma’s latest exercise in cinematic superficiality is, unfortunately, a vacuous, tedious bore. To describe a DePalma film as pointless is, I suppose, a charge that is not likely to carry much weight. Even his best films have not usually been overloaded with substance, yet they have frequently been very entertaining, even thrilling. The Black Dahlia, by comparison, is a joyless, unadventurous mess in which we are introduced to a mystery which goes ignored for a large portion of the film only to be summed up hurriedly in the film’s final minutes long after we have ceased to care.

One of DePalma’s most critical mistakes is hitching his film’s success to the mumbly squinter, Josh Hartnett. As a cinematic presence, Hartnett is a virtual non-entity, making one long for the semi-charming dopiness of Keanu Reeves or Orlando Bloom. Hartnett makes his best attempt at the detached, rugged film noir protagonist, but succeeds only in detaching the viewer’s interest entirely. In the thankless role of female love interest to not only Hartnett’s character, but also Aaron Eckhart’s, is Scarlett Johansson, who a short time ago was one of the most compelling young actresses in Hollywood. Since then, Johansson has been overexposed and stuffed into roles that simply do not fit. Her awkward honesty and her groundedness are what made her so memorable in films like Ghost World and Lost in Translation. Here, with the make-up, costuming and hair-styling, she resembles nothing more than a living, breathing toy doll. Seemingly overwhelmed by her own appearance, or perhaps her shallow character, Johansson is surprisingly uncharismatic here with her gravelly voice, one of her greatest assets, now coming across as oddly out of place.

Since the film has no overriding purpose nor a compelling narrative drive, what little pleasure there is to be had from The Black Dahlia comes in isolated moments. DePalma’s reputed visual flair is largely absent here, although he does pull off at least one virtuoso shot at the beginning of a dinner party hosted by the bizarro family of Hilary Swank’s bisexual femme fatale. Indeed, this is really one of the only scenes in the film that truly work, perhaps because of the ensemble work which is successful in finding a nice blend of humor and mystery. It is a rare moment where we don’t feel as if we can easily anticipate the film’s next move. Mia Kirshner also impresses in occasional flashback scenes, playing the eventual murder victim who wants to be a movie star. In an audition scene, an off-screen character remarks upon her inability to play sadness. In a later scene, captured on film, we definitively see that emotion come shining through.

As two policemen pursue the killer of a young woman, it becomes evident that both grow to have an emotional attachment for a victim they never knew. It is here where a compelling film might have been made, with actual stakes for both the protagonists and the viewer. DePalma hints at an attachment that may be a more genuine feeling of love than any which is experienced by the characters that actually bed each other. Ultimately though, the director is much more interested in mining the sensationalistic situation for film noir-lite with a side serving of ridiculous camp. Even at his best, DePalma is a charismatic charlatan, offering shallow pleasures that cause you not to regret that your time has been wasted. At other times, as with The Black Dahlia, DePalma is unable to keep up appearances, finds that he has nothing substantial to fall back on and is exposed as something slightly different, but not nearly as romantic: an out-and-out fraud.

[*1/2]

Marie Antoinette (Coppola, 2006)

2006-10-21T23:03:00.000-07:00

It is easy to see how Sofia Coppola’s newly released take on the life of Marie Antoinette could be met with disapproval and outright scorn by many. For one thing, it fails utterly as biography and probably falls even shorter of being sound history. Those who have expectations along those lines will be utterly disappointed. Fortunately though, Marie Antoinette has different aspirations and succeeds beautifully if accepted on those terms. Watching Coppola’s third feature film, it is clearer than ever that she has a distinct stylistic purpose that works to great effect here. She is a cinematic impressionist, painting individual moments with a light touch and then allowing the viewer to put the pieces together in order to create meaning. She values the visual over the spoken, mood over narrative and ambiguity over clarity. If you have seen her prior two films, you should know already whether or not this is the film for you.

The most striking artistic choice made by Coppola is to drain the period drama of all of its typical stuffiness. The language used by her characters is direct and mostly free of the kind of elevation that one might normally expect (see Keanu and Winona in the Dracula film made by Coppola’s father). She has cast actors that may strike us as definitely associated with modernity such as Jason Schwartzman, Molly Shannon, Asia Argento and, of course, her lead, Kirsten Dunst. She has scored her film mostly with modern pop songs, creating gleeful anachronistic moments that Baz Luhrmann could only dream of matching. Her choices succeed where Luhrmann’s fail because she has created an alternate historical France that has internal consistency. Her characters have modern concerns and aspirations; however, there are limits. We do not see Marie walking around with an IPOD, for example, or putting up a poster of The Postal Service.

Most of the dramatic (and comedic) thrust comes from the inability of Marie and her arranged husband, Louis, to produce a male heir. Louis has a stubborn (and in my view, wholly unreasonable) resistance to consummating his marriage, preferring rather to go on long hunts or read up on the latest developments in locksmithery. Perhaps it is the pressure of having the responsibility to produce a being that will one day rule an entire nation. Surely the large group of observers in the wedding chamber at bedtime including Louis’ father, the king, and priests charged with blessing the forthcoming copulation can’t help to inspire feeling of intimacy and arousal. One of Coppola’s deft touches is the way she contrasts her characters’ youthful spirits with the absurdly formal expectations that are placed upon them. Even some of the children sport wigs colored grey, as if to suggest in them a level of maturity that they cannot possibly hope to meet. When young Marie escapes to a masquerade ball for a bit of late night fun, Dunst plays the moment no differently than she might in Crazy/Beautiful. By making this choice, she and Coppola are not suggesting that people have always behaved in the same way throughout time necessarily, but rather they are attempting to find a spot that exists somewhere in between 21st century America and 18th century France that will allow us to use the figure of Marie Antoinette to learn something about ourselves. Though her film is satisfactorily researched, Coppola’s Marie Antoinette is purposefully iconic – not strict historical reality.

I look forward to reading what others have ultimately taken away from the film; but, as my mind has a tendency to search for political subtext, I interpreted Marie Antoinette as a subtle warning against American isolationist attitudes. Marie lives in a world of wealth, privilege and round-the-clock pleasure. Far beyond the walls of her palace, there is poverty, war and strife. However, when these issues arise, she opts to remain blissfully ignorant. Coppola successfully gives the viewer Marie’s narrow perspective by focusing almost her entire film on the daily goings-on of the royal court. Even Marie’s brief daydream about what battle must be like is comically romanticized. Like Marie, we hear precious little about the country’s widespread discontent until it is knocking down her door in order to come for her head. In this respect, Coppola’s film could easily be paired alongside Lars von Trier’s Dogville in a hypothetical college course. Some may try to dismiss the film as exploring nothing more than the shallow ennui of the rich and fabulous, but I think that would be unfair. Coppola’s intentions were likely not as overtly political as my interpretation. I expect that femininity in crisis, battling against the expectations of society may have been more at the forefront of her mind. Still, she has once again created a work that is consistently engaging despite its refusal to follow formula and which has enough breathing room to allow different viewers to come away from the film with a singular experience.

[***1/2]

Wolf Creek (McLean, 2005)

2006-10-16T16:11:00.000-07:00

In the opening moments of Greg McLean’s Wolf Creek, the first-time director makes a questionable decision that unfortunately colors and distracts from the rest of the film which follows. He offers the viewer an opening text which informs us that all we are about to witness is based on actual events. He also tells us that numerous people are reported missing in Australia each year, never to be heard from again. With those words, McLean makes the viewer a promise that he is unable to keep. We expect that he has selected the subject matter because he has something insightful to offer us about this particular case or perhaps missing persons cases in general. However, it eventually becomes clear that McLean’s purpose is far simpler. He really just wants to creep us out and, like so many other budding directors, display his stylistic technique through the horror genre. In this goal, McLean has much to offer. He demonstrates a knack for developing characters and creating an effective sense of dread. His three lead actors, who play characters traveling through the vast Australian countryside, demonstrate an ability to interact naturally with each other. Their dialogue seems at least partially improvised. Whether it is or not makes no difference. These characters are engaging because they have aspirations, humor and intelligence.

When a strange coincidence occurs at an old meteor crater, leaving the trio stranded, McLean seems to be hinting at cosmic significance. However, despite the potential for further thematic exploration, McLean’s excellent first hour soon gives way to a crazed killer scenario that is far more typical. It is not necessarily that the film declines dramatically in quality. It is simply disappointing to eventually discover that the film has far less in mind than we originally think. It also leads us to wonder how tasteful it is to create an action thriller out of recent tragic misfortune. John Jarratt’s performance as the malevolent outdoorsman is fun in places, but is far too obviously an actor’s construction to offer much psychological insight. Ultimately, we have are left with a film which is more competently executed than most horror films, but still has the same low aspirations: make the viewer wonder who will die and shock us with the creative, vicious way in which they meet their end.

If this is what you want from a horror movie, you should be well satisfied. However, I can’t help but think that with his opening text and an ending in which we realize that most of what we have seen is unreliable that McLean is in an uncomfortable liminal zone between fact and fiction. If the film is a thriller, why does it matter that it has basis in reality? Why must we lose track of a character for one-third of the film only to have this character reappear in an awkward clunky coda? If the film is intended to shed light on a real-life situation, how is it served by unfocused speculation which is geared obviously more towards shock and thrills than an exploration of truth? For technical merit and for its creation of dread and suspense, Wolf Creek is still worth seeing, even if McLean ultimately bites off more than he can chew.

[***]

The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant (Fassbinder, 1972)

2006-10-16T16:10:00.000-07:00

When we first see Petra von Kant, she is lying in bed. Indeed, almost the entire film takes place within the walls of her bedroom. Petra, we are told, is a fashion designer of some renown although we never see any evidence of her work ethic. All of her labor it seems is carried out by her servant, Marlene. One of the film’s more curious characters, Marlene does not speak, although Fassbinder makes it clear in the way he foregrounds her in certain situations that she has great affection for her mistress – possibly even sexual attraction. In consoling her cousin, Petra reveals how her last marriage ended miserably, partially due to disagreements in regards to who was responsible for leading the relationship and partially due to Petra growing distaste for “the way men stink.” When young model Karin (played by Hanna Schygulla) enters the picture, Petra makes a pass in the form of an offer of employment. This, in turn, leads to a relationship, of which we only see the beginning and ending.

Fassbinder’s film starts out very slowly as we receive a great deal of information by that most tiresome of expository devices: listening to one end of a telephone call. Gradually though, as new characters are introduced, the film begins to pick up steam with the most satisfying scene being Petra’s complete meltdown in front of a small group of party guests. In passing moments, with its strong female characters and lengthy conversations, Fassbinder’s film resembles something that might have been made by Bergman if the Swede had camp sensibilities. I particularly enjoyed the ending with Petra’s final desperate attempt at connection and the amusing response that follows. I suppose my complaint with the film is that it feels simultaneously incomplete and too lengthy --incomplete because the meat of Petra and Karin’s relationship is left unseen, too lengthy because Fassbinder’s conversations are long on exposition rather than insight. What makes the journey worthwhile is the same thing that is a strength in every Fassbinder film I have seen, a cast of actors that are given an opportunity to flourish within the director’s universe, neatly executing his wicked games of seduction and deceit.

[***]

Brokeback Mountain (A. Lee, 2005)

2006-09-28T16:00:00.000-07:00

Though some have claimed that the appeal of Brokeback Mountain is the way in which it presents a love that is ‘universal’ – invariably a troublesome descriptor – it is, in fact, the film’s focus on the particular challenges of living life as a gay man that makes it so special, so moving and -- perhaps most importantly – so persuasive. The premise of a hidden love affair between two cowboys was ridiculed well before the film had been completed with the derision continuing through award season. The word ‘brokeback’ became a punch-line and predictably the parodies came fast and furious. Some were funny. Some were not. But perhaps the greatest compliment that can be paid to Brokeback Mountain is that a year later the film retains its dignity and offers an experience that, when experienced in full, is impervious to juvenile tittering. Brokeback’s reception only serves to demonstrate and underline the thesis that Ang Lee presents so effectively.

Although it initially seems like merely a provocative conceit, it soon becomes clear why Brokeback’s characters need to be cowboys. Writer Annie Proulx has provided her tale with a setting that magnifies the masculine expectations that have been heaped upon Ennis and Jack. By watching and observing how their lifestyle conflicts with our pre-conceived notions of homosexuality, we begin to see the way that society tends to define maleness. This is particularly evident in Heath Ledger’s admirable performance as Ennis. Having been taught to despise homosexuals at a young age, Ennis has grown into a withdrawn, mumbling tough guy who is quick to pick fights and terrified to be caught weeping. Once we get to know Ennis, it becomes painfully clear that he is acting a lifelong role and has successfully masked his true self from even his wife and children. Jake Gyllenhaal’s Jack is somewhat less convincing, particularly as the story moves him into middle age. However, the important thing is that the two are convincing as a couple.

With the great expanse of Wyoming as their backdrop and not a soul to interrupt their interaction, it is difficult to imagine an argument against the consummation of their attraction that approaches the level of coherence. Naturally, things do not go so well when the two return to domestic life and spend literally years pretending not to feel the things that they feel. The film’s conclusion is not so much predictable as it is inevitable; however, Lee handles the events in a way that is much different than we might expect, placing the emphasis squarely on love rather than wallowing in images of hate. The final scene, with its subtle yet cruel irony, is an absolute stunner and a haunting conclusion to a great modern tragedy that will continue to resonate long into the future.

[****]

Shortbus (Mitchell, 2006)

2006-09-22T10:42:00.000-07:00

Early on in John Cameron Mitchell’s Shortbus, the director makes a critical decision that impacts the rest of the film and, despite all the fun it offers, gives it a deep undercurrent of sadness. After soaring over and around a 3D-animated version of New York City and peeking in various windows to find characters engaged in sexual encounters that are enthusiastic, yet ultimately unsatisfying, Mitchell lingers momentarily over the gaping hole that remains in the midst of the city where the World Trade Center once stood. While most films that can be found in your local video store’s ‘adult’ section offer promises of enacting your fantasies, Mitchell makes it clear early on that his film featuring scenes of explicit sexuality will be grounded in reality. Although his name is never mentioned, Shortbus is very much a product of the George W. Bush era. Indeed, Mitchell’s most palpable success is the way he captures the ever-present feeling of dread that has been a part of living in America for the past five years as we have been encouraged to fear the boogeyman that might strike at any moment and have watched as bombs have been dropped on innocents in our name.

Given these circumstances, is it really any wonder that Sofia, our central character, has never been able to achieve an orgasm? Living just blocks away from America’s enormous open wound, how does one go about seeking the kind of pleasure that is unapologetically selfish? For many of us who despair about the Bush policy of perpetual war, the ideals of the sixties come to mind and a retreat into hedonism seems like just what the doctor ordered. However, we also know that the sixties cannot be repeated. Our awareness of AIDS and the harmful effects of drug use, as well as the drastic impact of an increasingly large media and the internet have contributed to our collective sense of cynicism. We see that a large amount of money and power can buy you exactly the kind of news you want broadcast. We see that the current administration has successfully linked activism and terrorism in the minds of many Americans. Under these circumstances, how is it possible to really dive into life and experience without guilt the pleasures that make it worth living?

In his deeply emotional (and hilarious) ensemble piece, Mitchell suggests that there is at least one ideal from the sixties that is still attainable and still has the potential to make the world a better place: connectedness. It is connectedness that James lacks when he feels that he must communicate with his lover through a homemade video. It is connectedness that is lost when Sofia attempts to communicate with her husband through cheesy psychiatric exercises. For Severin, disconnectedness means being separated from her own identity and being trapped playing a fictional role that has little to do with who she actually is. And it is connectedness that these characters seek at Shortbus, the underground salon where politics, art, fashion and sex collide.

Although Mitchell’s film contains thin plotlines that betray a work put together by actors rather than writers, the unconventional method of creation also allows for moments of startling honesty -- in particular a key scene where a character is confronted with the cold reality of his self-worth. There are memorable lines aplenty in Shortbus as Mitchell once again displays his sense of wit. Occasionally the film becomes a mite too enamored of its own cuteness -- but because of the charisma of the cast and the daring of their good-natured enterprise, these moments are easily forgiven. Perhaps best of all, this is a film that is aware of the decade’s sense of dread, yet does not consume itself with criticizing those who are responsible. Instead, it offers an alternate path and suggests that it is through understanding, accepting and, yes, loving each other that we find strength and satisfaction. Though some may try to convince you that we are destined to travel in different directions, we are, in fact, all dying together. Under these circumstances, the petty divisions that bring so much misery to our lives are nothing short of nonsensical. As with his first feature, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, John Cameron Mitchell has created a film that is passionate, vibrant, insightful and truly one of a kind.

[***1/2]

Wet Hot American Summer (Wain, 2001)

2006-09-09T00:25:00.000-07:00

The defining moment for Wet Hot American Summer comes late in the film during the summer camp’s climactic talent show. Predictably, this production is filled with acts that are extremely incompetent -- so bad that the filmmakers hope we will be amused by how dreadful they are. Periodically during these acts, we are shown the audience which is laughing uproariously – not in derision it seems, but genuine pleasure. And so, here is the choice given to us by the filmmakers: laugh at the idiots on stage, laugh at the idiots in the audience who are amused by their incompetence or laugh at the idiots who put this film together and hoped to pass it off as legitimate entertainment. Notably, a few moments later, the only earnest performance of the show is performed – an amateurish but heartfelt rendition of a song from the Broadway musical Godspell. How is this effort received? It is met with a loud chorus of boos. It is here where the film most clearly asserts what it stands for. It ridicules aspiration and commitment in favor of half-assed wisecracking. And as it does so, it also strives to deflect any responsibility from itself to be creative or inventive. It hopes that we will be content to mirror the mindless idiots laughing along to nothing in particular. The joke’s on us.

Wet Hot American Summer is a film that we know to be a comedy mostly because it contains a cast composed largely of people who have been known to be funny in other situations. David Hyde Pierce, Janeane Garofalo, Molly Shannon, Michael Ian Black and Amy Poehler have all made me laugh heartily at other times. Their presence together should theoretically guarantee an enjoyable time. However, in this case, they have been given an aimless script that seeks to satirize a small, forgettable group of films that hardly need to be knocked down a peg. Do we really need someone to make a film pointing out the tired clichés in Meatballs? All of these actors have worked with better material – hell, a few of them have written better material – and their desperation in trying to breathe life into this turkey is evident in virtually every scene. When they are not mugging shamelessly in an effort to squeeze any sort of humor out of a largely incoherent script, they are performing with a wink and a nod in order to let us know that they are above it. Whole subplots and characters go absolutely nowhere. We find out that two characters are gay and … that’s it. They’re gay. The smelly kid who won’t take a shower? Well, guess what happens to him! Set-up after set-up leads to an eventual payoff that was a lot funnier when we imagined it in our own minds at the beginning of the film. Some of the absence of wit could be forgiven if it were at the very least fun and raunchy; however, despite the use of words “wet” and “hot” in the title, this film is certainly not going to leave the viewer feeling either.

[*]

71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance (Haneke, 1994)

2006-08-31T12:06:00.000-07:00

You’ve no doubt seen this kind of film before. A variety of seemingly unrelated people, each struggling with the day-to-day obstacles and disappointments of life, are drawn together by a single critical incident. Short Cuts, Magnolia and 21 Grams would be just a few noteworthy examples of this kind of storytelling which strives to underscore our interconnectedness and our fragility in a world that has a momentum too large for any one human to completely control. However, rarely has this structure been executed so masterfully as in Michael Haneke’s third film, 71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance.

From here, I will proceed with caution so as not to lessen the impact for anyone who plans to view the film. Even though Haneke tells us at the very beginning where his film will end, there is remarkable tension in the way that he introduces the various players and then slowly moves the pieces together. However, there is really no puzzle to 71 Fragments, no artificial plot twist to anticipate, nor any political subtext to translate. What the film does have though is an unnerving atmosphere of inevitability. Watching 71 Fragments, I wondered to myself how Haneke is able to achieve a mood that is so cold, so clinical and yet so captivating. My conclusion is that it is because his camera simply does not flinch. In any given scene, we may see emotions laid bare or a sudden act of violence or perhaps just someone engaged in an everyday activity of utter simplicity. Like a poker player, Haneke provides the viewer with no visual or auditory clues that would allow us to anticipate what is about to occur. 71 Fragments contains no underscore, precious few close-ups and a minimal amount of camera movement, reinforcing a perspective that is dispassionate - sometimes distressingly so.

Adding to this sense of detachment, Haneke provides a brief, but certainly noticeable pause between each of his scenes. The pause lasts barely more than the amount of time it would take to count one thousand-one; yet, this small stylistic choice forces us to consider the importance of each chunk of new information and how it relates to the incident that we know will eventually occur. Another critical factor contributing to the film’s suspense is that we have no idea how long each of these scenes – or fragments – will last. At times Haneke interrupts midstream just as we are getting involved in the moment – even in the middle of a sentence. At other times, he holds the camera on his actors for a duration far longer than we initially think he should. We think we understand what the scene is communicating, grow impatient as it seems to drag on and then eventually are startled to discover the scene evolve into something completely different. During that time, we experience a series of emotions and find ourselves in deep in thought. It is for this reason that Haneke’s films can feel so draining. Those who have seen the virtuoso long sequences in Funny Games and Cache will know what I am talking about. 71 Fragments contains at least two such scenes, neither of which I will spoil here.

In Haneke’s resolution, he finally finds a place for a joke. Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t the sort of joke that is likely to make you laugh out loud. On the contrary, it is a kind of cosmic joke that speaks volumes about the value of our lives and the overwhelming momentum of the human race as a whole. Haneke ends his film with probably one of the last faces you might expect to see and yet finds a way to use this persona to discreetly guide our interpretation towards his film’s overriding purpose. If it seems as if I have told you next to nothing about the film’s plot and characters, it is intentional. Never fear. They are certainly deeply compelling. But I will leave it for you to hopefully experience Haneke’s work as I did – as freshly as possible.

[****]

The Devil's Wanton (Bergman, 1949)

2006-08-26T16:53:00.000-07:00

Of the twenty-odd Ingmar Bergman films that I have seen, The Devil’s Wanton is the earliest, made in the director’s early thirties. Although over half a century of masterful filmmaking lay ahead, this early effort shows Bergman already with a firm handle on cinema’s possibilities and a clear vision of the themes he wants to convey. Made just a few years after the Hiroshima bombing, it is a deeply pessimistic film that suggests that hell may very well exist – right here on earth. Despite the gloominess of his theme, Bergman playfully bookends his tale with a beginning and an ending involving a group of filmmakers pondering the creation of the film seen in the middle. It is a story of a young prostitute, her accidental pregnancy and the way in which the child’s father goes about covering his tracks. Bergman’s ability to write challenging, captivating roles for women is unparalleled and the one he has created for lead actress Doris Svedlund is no exception. Standout scenes include a dream sequence involving a forest made up of human beings rather than trees and a tense scene in which a man notifies his wife that both of them are going to commit suicide whether she likes it or not. Although the prostitute’s tragic life is something that has really occurred within the universe of the film, we see the on-screen filmmakers conclude that such a work could never be made because it would leave viewers with a question too unbearable to ponder. Of course Bergman not only poses that question in this film, but would do so in numerous other films over the course of his illustrious career. The Devil’s Wanton is a worthy entry in a deep filmography and one that will doubtless become more readily available to film buffs eventually.

[***1/2]

Battle in Heaven (Reygadas, 2005)

2006-08-24T00:40:00.000-07:00

Carlos Reygadas’ Battle in Heaven has a title that is highly deceptive. It contains nothing so dramatic or beautiful as those words might suggest. Instead it is an empty, awkward film about an empty, awkward man. He and his wife have kidnapped an infant that has unexpectedly died. This might seem like an enticing set-up. However, Reygadas doesn’t show us any of this drama on-screen. We learn about it in an early conversation and then his lead spends much of the rest of the film moping about feeling guilty. The central role of Marcos is played by a non-actor named … err … Marcos and his inexperience is evident in each and every scene in which he appears. A favorite Reygadas move is to have his robot of an actor stare off into the distance while his camera pans away to …………nothing. Marcos seeks comfort in the bed of his boss’s daughter who conveniently happens to be a prostitute. Unfortunately for viewers, he also has time to get busy with his tank-like wife in an explicit scene featuring about 500 pounds of combined nakedness (don’t ask). Where is all this heading? That’s the funny part. Nowhere! Absolutely nowhere! Reygadas can’t probe the psychology of the situation because he has cast actors utterly incapable of conveying emotion or complexity. He can’t lure us in with his plot because he has none. The only card he really has to play (besides pointless sex and violence) is opacity. In his 95-minute film, Reygadas has enough content for a film about 10% of that length. The rest is cinematic vamping as Reygadas hopes to accidentally stumble upon a captivating idea, an honest moment or a meaningful image. Not good enough. Battle in Heaven is a complete waste of time.

[*]

The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things (A. Argento, 2004)

2006-08-24T00:37:00.000-07:00

With her first feature length film, Scarlet Diva, Asia Argento delivered a highly indulgent work that demonstrated that its director had no shortage of ideas and no shortage of love for her leading actress – herself. While Scarlet Diva was wildly unfocused, it was also highly watchable – partly because of Argento’s charisma and partly because of her ability to keep us off guard with risky choices. At the time, I suspected that Argento had a great film within her. After all, she had the pedigree and no shortage of confidence. Her most recent film, The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things, shows Argento well on her way to accomplishing that goal, progressing even faster in her maturation than I could have anticipated.

Working from the writing of J.T. LeRoy, Argento creates a harrowing nightmare of one young boy’s long-term abuse at the hands of several parental figures, but primarily his drug-addicted mother. Apparently, there has been controversy over LeRoy’s identity and whether or not the stories told within LeRoy’s books are factual. Such matters do not interest me and have little to do with what Argento has accomplished or how the film impacts the viewer. I assumed going in that what I was watching was a fiction. Whether or not the film entertained and had something to say were more important considerations than whether it was based in truth.

In the role of Sarah, the young boy’s mother, Asia Argento takes her own impulsive persona and layers in a dose of Courtney Love-style nastiness. Indeed, with her bleached hair and perpetual petulance, the resemblance to Love is too close to be a mere coincidence. It may seem to some that Argento’s appearance in this critical role is more narcissism, but honestly, who else could pull off the performance that Argento gives us here? The challenge is that Sarah is a woman in her twenties who has lived a life of constant tumult. She must be attractive enough to plausibly lure multiple sexual partners and yet weathered enough to have plausibly lived a life of substance abuse and other risky behavior. At thirty years of age, Argento has been performing in movies since childhood. She grew up with a father who was one of horror’s most accomplished (and most sadistic) directors. She has the background to allow her to approach the role with confidence and succeeds in being both utterly believable and consistently compelling.

At the beginning of the film, we see Jeremiah, the young boy at the center of the tale, returned to his biological mother after living for years with foster parents. He considers them to be his true mother and father and regards Sarah as a complete stranger. It soon becomes clear that Sarah, despite her biological connection, is an utterly worthless parental figure. She is given to ridicule, cruelty, manipulation and promiscuity. We see her with so many sexual partners that we eventually lose track. How long, we wonder, can Jeremiah be exposed to her influence and resist being forever consumed by her irrationality? When Sarah is unable or unwilling to care for Jeremiah, he is placed in the care of his Grandmother and Grandfather whose devotion to religion is revealed to be merely a tool used to justify sickening abuse. Through them, we come to understand Sarah’s chaotic nature and realize the gigantic obstacles Jeremiah must face if he is ever to attain a healthy existence.

After spending some time with his grandparents, Jeremiah oddly finds his mother somewhat comforting by comparison. In a startling sequence, he strives to understand his mother and feel closer to her by assuming her identity. These scenes are handled with tact and creativity while still achieving the desired emotional effect. Argento uses several stylistic touches in order to allow her viewer to consider the events from Jeremiah’s perspective including unusual camera angles, first person perspective and even a few startling scenes of stop-motion animation. These choices elevate the film above the banal and give it an exciting edge of surrealism. Although the film becomes somewhat confusing towards the end with the introduction of a character whose purpose is unclear, the overall journey of mother and son is haunting and thought-provoking. It asks us to consider our origins and how much of our future is determined before we even have a chance to care for ourselves. Not only that, it does so with copious amounts of creativity and passion, indicating that Asia Argento may very well have a second cinematic career should she ever tire of acting.

[***1/2]

Snakes on a Plane (Ellis, 2006)

2006-08-21T01:10:00.000-07:00

OK, let’s not go overboard. Snakes on a Plane, the new film from David R. Ellis - which has gained a great deal of publicity for its straightforward “give-the-people-what-they want” approach - is neither disaster nor masterpiece. What is it? A fairly efficient Hollywood action film that has the good sense to embrace its ridiculous premise and push it to gleefully absurd heights. Make all the jokes you want. Snakes and planes are two things that lend themselves exceedingly well to creating tension. Both the villains and the setting are used to excellent effect as Ellis creates a genuine feeling of claustrophobia, chaos and hysteria. Snakes are inherently dramatic creatures, shifting between a slow ominous slither and a sharp, sudden strike – two gears which are nicely integrated into the film’s rhythm.

For the most part, the film achieves an appropriate tone – somewhere on the silly scale between Stephen Chow and Sam Raimi – but unfortunately uses up all its best ideas in the second act. Comparatively, the film’s final scenes are a bit of a letdown. After actually creating characters that we are willing to invest in, the film places far too much of its resolution in the hands of a peripheral comic relief character whose nonchalance defuses too much of the excitement that has been built up over the course of an hour-and-a-half. In the lead, Samuel L. Jackson is given a perfect vehicle for his humor and charisma. He embraces the role wholeheartedly, coming alive in a situation that might have left other actors embarrassed. Oddly enough, one of his few lines that do not work is the one that has received the most attention. The line, with its double use of everybody’s favorite 13-letter profanity was a suggestion from internet fans that eventually found its way into the film. Jackson’s line reading is impeccable and, taken on its own, the line is exceedingly funny. However, the filmmakers have inserted it into a part of the film where it doesn’t quite fit. Jackson’s line is an explosion, something that we could easily imagine him building towards; yet, it occurs during a time of relative calm when the passengers are plotting their next move. A couple minutes earlier and it would have been perfect. As it is, it misses the mark and seems incongruous, an obvious addition to the original script.

As for any metaphorical connection to terrorism or satire of America’s culture of fear, Ellis has made no overt gestures in that direction. His film exists in a universe that is largely divorced from our own. It is a purely cinematic universe, generated to inspire escapism and not weighed down with anything so lofty as ‘relevance’ or ‘purpose’. Still, I think it is fair to say that it is no accident that this much-hyped and eagerly anticipated film (in some circles) is a cartoon recreation of one of the deepest fears many of us hold in the early years of the 21st century. Perhaps deep down the film resonates for us because it allows us to distort and openly ridicule something that many of us find genuinely terrifying. Perhaps its simplicity is comforting with its promise of a slick, charismatic hero who will take care of us, cracking wise all along the way. Or perhaps it just boils down to the fact that snakes and planes are an idea whose time has come.

[***]

Rent (Columbus, 2005)

2006-08-19T13:34:00.000-07:00

In the late 90’s, there were two plays that erupted onto the New York musical theatre scene and were hailed as the rebirth of the rock musical. The first was Jonathan Larson’s Rent which garnered a lot of attention because its composer had died tragically just hours after the final dress rehearsal. The second was John Cameron Mitchell’s Hedwig and the Angry Inch, which beat Rent to movie screens by about four years. Whereas the latter is a soul-searching journey of personal identity told with extraordinary wit and music inspired by David Bowie, the former is an insipid, naïve tale of eight friends living in Greenwich Village waiting for someone to appreciate their untapped genius/inner beauty with music inspired by Rick Springfield.

There are many, many flaws in both the play and the film version of Rent; however, there is one that stands out among the others as simply deadly. We are asked to extend our sympathy to a group of characters that seemingly see no connection between their motto “No day but today” - which is repeated ad nauseum - and their inability to pay their bills. I agree that it is a shame that money drives so much of our thinking in America and that we should not forget to experience pleasure while we have the ability to do so, but seriously. Grow up. Don’t sully other artists who are actually sacrificing to make a difference in this world by whining about how you don’t get paid to sit at home and indulge in “mucho masturbation.” You’ve got all this artistic integrity that nobody appreciates? Boo hoo. Get in line. The arts certainly should be better funded in the United States, but being an artist means having a responsibility to society, even if it’s not always appreciated. Besides, you know who else “sold out” and took money from sources that weren’t exactly sparkling and pure? Shakespeare, Mozart, Moliere, Michaelangelo, etc., etc. The list goes on.

If this enormous helping of self-pity and myopia weren’t bad enough, Larson piggybacks onto the AIDS tragedy by making not one, not two, but four of his characters HIV-positive. While this is a worthy topic for discussion, there is no evidence in the film that anyone has a genuine understanding of the epidemic that could not be gleaned from reading about it in a textbook. Nor does he seem to be willing to make any kind of political statement apart from appropriating the slogan of Act Up and shouting it during the film’s most offensive number, “La Vie Boheme”. Larson may have known people with the disease during his lifetime, but here he uses it as a cheap tool to manipulate our emotions. Who will be lost? Who will live to proclaim the need for hope? With characters this transparent and unlikable, who really cares?

Six members of the original Broadway cast reprise their roles in the film, and it must be said that they are, for the most part, a talented, passionate bunch that sincerely believe in the project. I was especially taken by the charisma of Idina Menzel and Jesse L. Martin in the roles of Maureen and Collins. Rosario Dawson, who was not in the original cast, also shines during her featured number, “Out Tonight”. Unfortunately, they have devoted their passions to work with no understanding of the world that exists outside of its own neighborhood. It has no interest in understanding the politics surrounding the AIDS crisis and arts funding in America. It begs us to be moved by characters whose most notable quality seems to be that they are able to name drop Lenny Bruce and Vaclav Havel, but who don’t have a fraction of their guts. It is a film that does not see the irony in celebrating “anyone out of the mainstream” when it is directed by the guy who brought us Home Alone and Mrs. Doubtfire. It is a film that is naïve enough to pay tribute to the Sex Pistols and then in the same breath tell us that we should never play “the fame game”. The Sex Pistols may have taken an unusual path to stardom, but they most certainly were playing the game. This is more than can be said about the characters in Rent who seem to be reluctant to take any sort of action lest it disrupt the shimmering glow of their precious artistic purity.

[*]

The Passion of the Christ (Gibson, 2004)

2006-08-11T11:11:00.000-07:00

Watching The Passion of the Christ on DVD now, over two years after the initial release, it’s hard to see why we all got so worked up. Was it because it was an election year and George Bush seemed determined to continue to blur the line between church and state until we were living in a full-fledged theocracy? Whatever the cause, Mel Gibson’s take on the Jesus legend is neither inspirational nor threatening. It is worthy of neither enthusiasm nor vitriol, because … well … it’s mostly just kind of silly. One of Gibson’s wisest moves is to employ ancient languages for his screenplay, for it is the only thing apart from the copious amounts of blood that give the film any sense of seriousness or gravity. Surely it is not Gibson’s ideas that give the film any weight, because he has none. He has made a film that, for all its grandiose posturing, is essentially as airheaded as Legally Blonde. Nowhere in the film does Gibson seek to explore, illuminate, question or clarify. Instead, he continually aspires to nothing more than cheap effect, operating in a perpetual state of “Wouldn’t it be cool if …?”

Wouldn’t it be cool if the coins flung to Judas moved in slow motion? Wouldn’t it be cool Satan had this really freaky looking baby? Wouldn’t it be cool if Mary rushed to help Jesus when he fell just like when he was a kid she rushed to help him when he fell? That would be, like, ironic and shit.

Gibson’s film is all cheap effect and posturing. It fails to utilize the greatest gift humans ever received: the capacity for thought. Instead, it dutifully creates reenactments of a simple tale created by people thousands of years ago who were more scientifically ignorant than a moderately sharp first grader in the 21st century. We are far from unlocking all of the secrets of the universe, but we know a hell of a lot more than the people whose mythologies and petty politics continue to have tremendous impact on our lives. We fight their wars with modern technology. Shouldn’t we, at the very least, temper their myths with modern philosophy? For all of the talk of Gibson’s dedication, his film lacks the sincere spiritual yearning of Martin Scorsese’s Last Temptation of Christ. For all of the talk of Gibson’s historical accuracy, his film lacks the deep academic understanding of Monty Python’s Life of Brian. For all of the talk of Gibson’s ability to elicit emotional reaction, he falls short of even the pathos generated by Jesus Christ Superstar. At least in that film, we get an idea of how Jesus inspired so many humans and how his teachings must have seem like welcome light in a dark world.

However, unlike others, I am not bothered by Gibson’s decision to focus his film on the final hours leading up to Jesus’ death. I am bothered by his decision not to stay focused. The flashbacks he inserts to break up Jesus’ trial and torture come at awkward times, making it seem like Jesus is distracted more than anything else. The content of the flashbacks adds little to no insight into Jesus’ situation or character. Obviously, they also don’t add anything to the film thematically because – well – Gibson doesn’t really have themes to begin with. It just feels like Jesus’ mind is sort of wandering. The flashbacks also prevent Gibson from effectively building the momentum of his much desired visceral effect. We are given too many interruptions -- too many opportunities to relax and not enough to ponder in the downtime. Setting aside any ethical question of presenting the torture of Jesus as a thrill ride, Gibson’s film fails at even that shallow artistic goal.

In the hands of a more capable and intellectually curious director, the hours leading up to and including the crucifixion of Jesus could have made for a worthwhile film. Defenders rightly point to Dreyer’s Passion of Joan of Arc as an example that shows that the structure is not inherently flawed. However, they miss a few things that Dreyer has and Gibson does not – focus, restraint and legitimate artistic purpose being chief among them. If Gibson was an introspective man, perhaps he could have asked why, thousands of years later, we are still captivated by a tale of childlike simplicity centering on grotesque physical torture. Perhaps he could have explored whether it has something to do with human spirit - whatever it is that animates us - being hopelessly at odds with the human form. Do we obliterate the body of Christ as a kind of ritual self-loathing in order to demonstrate that our souls are held back and weighed down by the ordinariness of our clumsy bodies? Now that is a question that might have led to a better understanding of ourselves and our interaction with others. Instead, Gibson is content to spin his wheels like a monster truck caught in a vast pit of mud. It doesn’t matter if he’s making progress. It only matters that he’s making noise.

[*1/2]

Over the Hedge (Johnson/Kirkpatrick, 2006)

2006-08-07T11:47:00.000-07:00

Consistently funny and relatively inoffensive, Over the Hedge is a quality mainstream animated adventure that coyly introduces an environmental theme of woodland animals facing the prospect of encroaching suburbia and then safely retreats into a broad reinforcement of the concept of family. With Over the Hedge, Dreamworks does not venture too far from their formula for success; however, in this particular case, the copious celebrity voiceovers are mostly endearing and the occasional pop culture references are actually kind of funny. Bruce Willis and Garry Shandling are well cast respectively as a conniving raccoon and a cautious turtle that bump heads about competing ideas about foraging. William Shatner is also a welcome presence as a possum that is fond of hamming up his death scenes. Eugene Levy and Catherine O’Hara’s use of Fargo-esque accents for a pair of porcupines is somewhat of a lazy choice, but the pair certainly has the comic technique to pull it off. At its best, Over the Hedge has comic set-pieces that are reminiscent of the kind of hilarity inspired by Looney Tunes. The chase scenes are well choreographed and I greatly enjoyed the film’s willingness to go extreme with some of the better jokes. Without spoiling the moment, I will also say that the film builds to a very funny climax involving an overactive squirrel that is refreshingly strange. I was less enamored by the direction of the skunk character voiced by Wanda Sykes. Her involvement in a distraction plot is probably the least inspired aspect of the screenplay and also gives the filmmakers an opportunity to dabble in Dreamworks’ trademark gas humor. I was also somewhat disappointed, though not terribly surprised, by the way the film sidesteps the environmental issue and instead embraces something far more generic. In the end though, such complaints do not ruin the fun of an enjoyable family comedy.

[***]

Shock Corridor (Fuller, 1963)

2006-07-28T00:02:00.000-07:00

There’s a compelling statement at the core of Samuel Fuller’s Shock Corridor. A journalist has himself admitted to a mental hospital in order to gain access to three patients who were witness to a murder. These patients with their particular idiosyncratic behaviors represent the paranoia and guilt of America at the middle of the twentieth century. First, there is a man who believes that he is a Confederate general. He is also fiercely anti-Communist and is disappointed to discover that he himself betrayed his own country by becoming a Communist. Second, there is a young black man who spews vile racist rhetoric and even imagines that he has created the Ku Klux Klan. And, finally, there is the nuclear scientist who has regressed to the mentality of a child. Once we start to make the connection between these three characters, it becomes hard to see Fuller’s setting as merely what it seems on the surface. There’s a deeper purpose here. When we remember the Euripides quote that precedes the film – “Whom God wishes to destroy, he first makes mad” – it becomes clear that Fuller is issuing a warning for his time. Not only is the United States saturated with madmen he seems to say, but those who still retain their wits are in danger of being immersed and transformed.

Unfortunately, all this is buried beneath execution that varies dramatically from genuinely effective to horribly grating to unintentionally comic. Fuller’s asylum is reminiscent of the Monty Python sketch in which all of mental patients suffer from the same affliction – overacting. Peter Breck, in the lead role as the investigating journalist, is the worst offender. His performance style is over-the-top even in his quieter moments. When the time comes for him to convince the medical staff of his mental instability, he really lets loose, chewing not only the scenery, but the boom mike and several unfortunate crew members. Breck is not alone however, as Fuller has instructed his actors to shoot for a performance style that is all affectation and no honesty. One only has to look to the loonies of Peter Brook’s Marat/Sade to see how Fuller’s suffer by comparison. Hari Rhodes fares best in the role of Trent, the black student who believes himself to be a white supremacist. His performance leads what is by far the film’s most captivating sequence in which he protests school integration, dons a white hood and then leads a race riot directed against a fellow member of his own race. This scene points to the chilling experience Shock Corridor might have been with less meandering, more carefully observed performances and more focus on communicating the dark themes that drive the film’s script. As it is, Shock Corridor lands only a glancing blow, making it a somewhat engaging curiosity, but not an experience that is likely to linger.

**1/2

You Can Count on Me (Lonergan, 2000)

2006-07-23T22:24:00.000-07:00

A single, sudden moment early on in the life of two siblings leaves them adrift in a world where both meaning and morality are elusive. Although the event is only mentioned out loud briefly, it clearly follows the brother and sister like an enormous shadow long into adulthood, affecting the way they lead their lives and how they interact with each other. Sammy, played by Laura Linney, and Terry, played by Mark Ruffalo, have taken very different approaches to dealing with this irrevocable event. Sammy has remained in the small town where they grew up and lives in their childhood home raising her eight-year-old son on her own. She has worked several years at the local bank, a place where changing the color scheme of your computer monitor can be seen as an act of rebellion. Terry, on the other hand has opted for a more nomadic, more turbulent life style. He is involved with a highly unstable partner and has spent significant time in Alaska and Florida, opposite sides of the country. You Can Count on Me takes place during a brief visit by Terry which may or may not be the last time he sees his sister.

Although Kenneth Lonergan’s screenplay certainly has its merits, this is a film that belongs to the actors, particularly Linney and Ruffalo. The fireworks fly early on in a tense restaurant scene in which Terry explains his long absence and Sammy expresses her disappointment without fear of decorum. Linney is perfectly cast as the sharp, but surprisingly impulsive single mother whose conservative veneer is really just a mask disguising a woman who is in a state of spiritual tumult. As good as she is, Ruffalo is even better as the slacker, Terry, who swears openly in front of Sammy’s child and whose idea of quality babysitting is involving the boy in a pool hustle at the local bar. Terry’s relationship with the boy is a bit reckless, but cannot be described as negligent. He has his own ideas about what is right for the boy and offers him jarring experiences whether Sammy likes it or not. For Terry, Ruffalo has selected a rhythm perfectly suited to Lonergan’s somewhat broadly drawn character that also gives him the feeling of a unique individual. There have been many characters similar to Terry in the movies before, but through Ruffalo, we are drawn into a specific struggle and journey. He is deeply affecting without ever being hammy. Bookending the scene at the restaurant is a wonderful scene late in the film where their situation is left painfully unresolved. Although it is never spoken out loud, the film’s title rings in our head as a powerful subtext. Perhaps the next thought might be “Can I Count on You?”

Matthew Broderick’s anal bank manager character is somewhat less successful. I enjoyed the way he communicated through a never-ending stream of post-it notes. I also liked the surprising direction his character arc takes and how it helps to add depth to how we understand Sammy. However, Broderick’s performance doesn’t really seem to match the film. Juxtaposed against the effortless naturalism of Linney and Ruffalo, Broderick too often comes across like two-dimensional comic relief. I never really bought him as a plausible human being with a life outside of a writer’s screenplay. Broderick has pulled off this kind of role before, in Alexander Payne’s Election. Unfortuantely, he is far less successful here, providing the film with an unwanted dose of ‘phony’. I also felt that Lonergan’s screenplay fluctuated between insightful and overwritten. In the end, he gets the job done, communicating his themes and providing a moving experience. However, there are several times where we are given far more words than we really need. Lonergan’s direction is technically uninspiring, although I suspect that it may have been worth granting him that position in order to get the specificity of the primary relationships just right.

When it comes right down to it, Lonergan has created a memorable experience with characters that we are glad to have known, despite all their faults. He has created a situation that has a satisfying amount of specificity, but is general enough to apply to those of us who will never experience these particulars. Perhaps best of all, he has given Laura Linney and Mark Ruffalo a showcase for their extraordinary abilities and created characters that have allowed them to demonstrate the full range of their talents.

[***1/2]

Tranceformer: A Portrait of Lars von Trier (Bjorkman, 1997)

2006-07-17T11:45:00.000-07:00

Tranceformer: A Portrait of Lars von Trier, included as a bonus feature on the Criterion DVD for The Element of Crime, captures the Danish director at a critical juncture in his artistic progression. The film, made by Stig Bjorkman, lays out a quick picture of Trier's strange upbringing and allows him to describe how his parents raised him almost entirely devoid of authoritarian guidance. We see some of Trier's first films, made as a child, and note how they already include such features as experimentation with film stock, grim imagery and a long tracking shot shot from a bicycle. We then see how the technological heaviness of The Element of Crime and Europa has started to give way to the lighter touch of Breaking the Waves. Despite the film's inimate feel, we may be surprised to see just how large the crew for Breaking the Waves is. In one comical moment, the crew is reassured that 'not knowing what they are doing' is a part of the grand design. There is no mention of Dogme, but Tranceformer allows us to make palpable connections between a man who grew up with no limits and then decided to impose them on himself in order to generate compelling art.

[***1/2]

My 20 Favorite Films That Have Been BANNED In Malaysia

2006-07-06T10:39:00.000-07:00

20. Scarface (DePalma)
19. Thirteen (Hardwicke)
18. 40 Year Old Virgin, The (Apatow)
17. Shadow of the Vampire (Merhige)
16. South Park: Bigger Longer & Uncut (Parker)
15. Invincible (Herzog)
14. Exorcist, The (Friedkin)
13. Battle Royale (Fukasaku)
12. Eyes Wide Shut (Kubrick)
11. Boogie Nights (Anderson)
10. 8 ½ Women (Greenaway)
9. Evil Dead, The (Raimi)
8. Good Night, and Good Luck (Clooney)
7. Sideways (Payne)
6. Lost in Translation (Coppola)
5. Caché (Haneke)
4. Schindler's List (Spielberg)
3. The Piano (Campion)
2. A Clockwork Orange (Kubrick)
1. Amadeus (Forman)

Robin Hood (Reitherman, 1973)

2006-06-30T15:16:00.000-07:00

There’s a moral question inherent in the telling of the Robin Hood myth. When is doing the wrong thing actually the right thing to do? After all, one of the absolutes that parents pass down to children is that it is not right to steal. However, if a wicked prince acting on borrowed authority takes from the citizenry that which they should rightfully possess, is it stealing at all? Must the wealth be redistributed in equal proportion according to need or according to who lost what? And if the people live in a monarchy where the right to rule is bequeathed by God, isn’t a complaint against unfair taxes truthfully a complaint against God? This all gets very confusing for an adult; however, it is likely significantly less so for a child watching Disney’s animated version of Robin Hood. Though the film for the most part skirts the issues I have raised above (rightfully perhaps), it is effective at communicating a very basic message of fairness that gives parents a starting point for deeper discussion. Watching the film for a second time, my four-year-old did not want to watch the part where the Sheriff of Nottingham grabbed a youngster’s birthday present right out of his hands. I see this as a good sign. It offended his sense of right and wrong.

I have no idea why the Sheriff and other characters speak in an American Southern accent when the film is set in 13th century England, but I enjoyed the way in which different animal species were matched up with suitable characters. Casting a fox in the title role is a no-brainer, but the film makes clever use of rhinos, elephants and turtles too. There is plenty of satisfying adventure in the heists that bookend the front and back of the picture, as well as the archery contest at the film’s center, although a sequence where a chicken thumps several guards on the noggin struck me as lacking imagination. The film’s look is appealing, if not terribly inventive, and I enjoyed the presence of Roger Miller (including the song which would later gain infamy as the soundtrack to Hampsterdance). There’s also something very effective about the portrayal of the thumb-sucking villian, Prince John. Perhaps it is the crown that barely fits on a head that is too small to bear it. Perhaps it is the way that he overestimates his own power. At any rate, I think that he is a well-created example of the bully mentality that can eventually be overcome with strategic resistance.

Robin Hood is not a film that inspires the kind of thrills, laughs or tears to rank it among Disney’s best; however, it is endearing enough to make for an enjoyable family experience with a little bit of adventure for the little ones and perhaps a little nostalgia for the parents.

[***]

Double Suicide (Shinoda, 1969)

2006-06-28T14:56:00.000-07:00

Masahiro Shinoda’s Double Suicide is, as the title might suggest, a film of high melodrama and fatalism. It is based upon a play written for the Japanese theatrical form known as bunraku. Bunraku is a highly sophisticated form of puppet theatre in which the marionettes are much larger and more lifelike than those we might expect to see in the West. While I cannot claim to be an expert of its intricacies, I do know that it shares much in common with kabuki, a theatrical form perhaps wider known to Westerners. An emphasis is placed on a highly presentational performance style and the use of stock character types. The popularity of both kabuki and bunraku may explain why the performances of Japanese actors of the 50’s and 60’s often seems exaggerated when compared to American actors of the same era who come from a theatrical tradition based in realism.

Personally, I am fond of overtly presentational performances and I liked how Shinoda attempted to settle upon a consistent style slightly separated from realism, even though he is using flesh-and-blood actors. The use of people wearing the traditional hooded garment typically worn by bunraku puppeteers is also a nice touch. They do not literally move the actors as they would puppets; however, they do manipulate various props and with their presence create a feeling that the main performers are not entirely acting according to their will. They can be seen as a kind of chorus, always observing and serving as a reminder of societal expectations. Each of the principal characters can easily be defined by a single noun: the merchant, the courtesan, the wife, the mother, the father, etc. The suggestion is that the issues presented within the play are woven into the fabric of society. We see that men are susceptible to falling for available sex, thinking that they can redeem a loose woman, rather than accepting their role as husband and father. We see that money can lead to increased power and influence, even though it is not a trustworthy indicator of morality and fairness. We see how individuals attempting to operate outside of tradition run the risk of being consumed and destroyed.

In the beginning of the film, we hear two off-screen voices discussing how the ‘double suicide’ of the title is to be staged within the context of the film. It must not be presented beautifully as in the kabuki tradition we are told. And yet, when we arrive at the critical scenes, I’m not sure that the filmmakers have lived up to their promise. It is violent, to be sure, but carefully choreographed and elegantly shot. Is the film meant to expose the absurdity of the concept of suicide for the sake of honor? Or does the film hope that we will be emotionally drawn into the tragedy of the two main characters that spend a great deal of time weeping and bemoaning their misfortune? In the end, I was unsure and thus found myself at the conclusion with a feeling of neutrality.

There is much about the overt theatricality of Double Suicide that makes it worth watching. The film contains passionate performances and creative non-realistic staging. However, I am not convinced that these elements are married to a tale that is necessarily worth retelling without a clearer deconstruction of its fatalistic mindset. It may be my inability to fully comprehend another culture, but unlike most great tragedies I have seen, I’m not entirely sure why these characters had to die.

[***]

United 93 (Greengrass, 2006)

2006-06-25T15:40:00.000-07:00

For his latest film, United 93, director Paul Greengrass gave himself a task so ridiculously difficult that it seemed destined for failure. His goal: to recreate the events occurring aboard the doomed flight based on incomplete information without alienating an intensely sensitive public and without being lumped in with numerous other filmmakers with a political ax to grind. He needed to avoid exploitation and sensationalism while staying true to the grisly truth. He needed to make a film that was purposeful without seeming to drag the audience to his point of view. Much to my surprise, he has largely succeeded.

The first thing to be said about United 93 is that it is utterly compelling. Much of the information we receive in the film is not new. The timeline for the morning in question is painfully familiar in most of our minds. However, it turns out that there is indeed a value to putting these pieces together and watching the reenactment unfold. With skillful pacing, Greengrass takes us through a morning that begins as ordinary, soon becomes disorienting and ends in sickening chaos. I am not normally a huge fan of naturalism, but it is appropriate in this case. To take us where he wants to take us, Greengrass needs no extraneous poetry, high concept or unusual style. It is enough to take us behind the scenes of air traffic control and allow us to be privy to decisions being made by people with little idea of just how big a threat they are up against. On more than one occasion, we see or hear just how many planes are in the sky. I recall that one of the most ominous things about 9/11 was not knowing when it would end. What new nightmare lay around the corner, waiting to be discovered?

For just about anyone, it was nearly impossible to work that day. Greengrass shows us those who absolutely had to continue working because it was their job to respond. Every person we see on screen is ordinary, from the stewardesses to the passengers to the military to the air traffic controllers to the terrorists themselves. Greengrass does his best not to paint heroes and villains. He does not make the mistake of making this a story about individuals. We only learn as much about each person as could be reasonably gleaned from eavesdropping on them across the aisle, or observing their response to an impossible situation.

Does this make Greengrass impartial? Of course not. From watching the film, it seems apparent that he is concerned about the intrusion of irrationality into secular society. The film begins and ends with prayer. And without any deep explanation of the terrorists’ motives, their religious faith is left as primary motivator that allows them to commit despicable acts of cruelty and violence. One critical character appears to harbor doubts, only to later find the will to complete his task through an appeal to his deity. Since there is no way for Greengrass to have known this character’s mindset on the day in question, we must look at it as a thematic addition, placed to draw attention to a battle that has not received enough attention in the press and which seems all the more clear to me now. Beyond the destruction, I believe that 9/11 was intended as a worldwide demonstration of true faith in action. These hijackers and those who funded them counted on the fact that their side would meet death with open arms, while the other side would be caught screaming in terror, clinging to life. The underlying question is this: if those of us in this Christian nation truly believe what most of us say we believe, then why does the prospect of death fill us with so much fear? Never mind that this nation is filled with not only Christians, but Jews, Buddhists, atheists and, yes, Muslims. This day was seen by the planners as a battle of faith for two warring religions. By making an ambush attack on unsuspecting civilians, they hoped to flaunt our doubts versus their unshakable confidence. Of course, America soon sought out to prove its worth through a resurgence in a different shade of irrationality, but I digress.

The main thing that I want to point out is that Greengrass foregrounds this theme subtly but intentionally. He also employs the numerous ordinary people on the ground scrambling to save lives not only as a device to provide context, but as a means to make us aware of the countless people who work each day so that we may have an efficient, safe society. There is no need to call them heroes. It is enough that they are decent. United 93 does not paint America as either perfection or corruption incarnate. The portrait is somewhat closer to life: imperfect government, susceptible to the superficial, and yet, possessing a bed rock of good ideas that have served it well. Naturally, United 93 is not a definitive account of 9/11, nor does it aspire to be. It takes one aspect of the day and tells a trustworthy version of the story. Some have called this film cathartic. I don’t think so. If anything, it provides a jumping off point for more discussion, analysis and consternation. Time will tell if United 93 proves to be an ‘important’ film, but I think that there is no question that it is a valuable one.

[****]

Babe: Pig in the City (Miller, 1998)

2006-06-24T15:43:00.000-07:00

There are intelligent people who feel that Babe: Pig in the City, the follow-up to the Oscar-nominated children’s film, is an underappreciated gem. Not the least of these was the late Gene Siskel who famously called it the year’s best film. Though I was no big fan of the original film, I approached the sequel with a great deal of optimism - partly because of director, George Miller, who helmed the Mad Max trilogy and partly because of the promise of a film of dark strangeness and a willingness to confront the topic of death. Though it is uncomfortable for us to admit as much, death and dying is a subject of great interest to a child. The questions they ask are serious, even if they understandably have little grasp as to what it really means. Children’s films can be extraordinarily moving in this regard when the filmmakers have the courage to trust and challenge their young audience. The Brave Little Toaster and Kirikou and the Sorceress are noteworthy examples of exemplary children’s entertainment that is both enjoyable and meaningful.

Unfortunately, Babe: Pig in the City falls well short of this standard. Despite impressive visual effects, art direction and animal wrangling, I cannot get on board with the theory that this is anything more than a well-executed gimmick film. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to put something like Babe: Pig in the City together. The cast is made up almost entirely of various livestock, as well as some monkeys and a few of the more well-behaved domestic animals like dogs and cats. With the help of some realistic-looking puppets, the animals interact with one another and walk in groups and perform basic tasks. It is surely an amazing feat of choreography, patience and editing. However, it is unfortunately not a technique that I find conducive to making compelling drama. My complaints are similar to those I had about Babe. These creatures that we are supposed to accept as characters are clearly indifferent to the drama they enact. Despite our attempts to capture them on camera in moments that strike us as anthropomorphic, their eyes speak only of obedience, impatience or boredom. With animation, any manner of creature can be given a human spark because it is humans who are adapting them to their needs. However, there is just no way to make a simple pig care.

While these complaints may seem trivial to some, I firmly believe that it places a cap on what a film like this can achieve. I don’t see the film others see. I don’t see drama. I see the film for what is really is - a series of animal tricks strung together. I see a pale shadow of drama that has been robbed of the core humanity that is essential to make it work. Strangely, I was reminded of Werner Herzog’s Heart of Glass which was performed by a hypnotized cast. The effect is similar. Zombified players being coaxed through the motions of a formula that is supposed to result somehow in meaning or understanding. Am I taking the film too seriously? I don’t think so. If the film wanted to simply be a light comedy, I would review it on those terms. Unfortunately, the film has aspirations it cannot achieve

In the end, I was left unmoved and largely unentertained by the experience, as was my son who gave up forty minutes in. I had little idea of what Babe’s journey was supposed to amount to, nor what lessons viewers were supposed to take away. I was impressed by individual moments and found it difficult to bear the film much ill will; however, it is my opinion that the film is exactly what is looks like: a talking pig movie. No more. No less.

[**1/2]

The Man Who Planted Trees (Back, 1987)

2006-06-20T13:55:00.000-07:00

Frédéric Back’s The Man Who Planted Trees lives up to its billing as a great environmentalist picture. The animation is very much like an artist’s sketchbook come to life. And I mean that as a compliment. With images that make suggestions at an idea, yet never seem set in stone, Back provides a look to his film that supports the underlying message that he is trying to convey. The film is a response to the notion that progress marches on and there is nothing that can be done to keep the earth beautiful and hospitable. Back’s visions are in a constant state of motion, begging to be nudged in another direction. There always seemed to me to be a portion of the image unfinished, as if continually reminding us about a future yet to be shaped. The story is of one modest man whose determination brings about an enormous change for people who are not even aware of their benefactor. The man asks for no award or recognition. It is enough for him simply to give life. Christopher Plummer’s narration does seem to lack variety after a while, but this is a minor complaint considering it is in the service of a film that seems entirely capable of opening up your world to new hopes and possibilities. The relative obscurity of this short film is a shame, as it is a work that really should be seen by everyone.

The Forgotten Faces (Watkins, 1961)

2006-06-10T23:29:00.000-07:00

Billed as an amateur production from early in the career of maverick filmmaker Peter Watkins, The Forgotten Faces is anything but amateurish. Telling the story of a Hungarian student revolt against the Communist government imposed by the Soviets in the 50’s, this short film shows many of Watkins’ trademarks already in place. It is shot in faux documentary style with a narrator (not Watkins this time) providing context and background information about each of the key players. The street scenes in which revolutionaries clash with police reminded me of Eisenstein as the violence is swift and shocking and much of what we experience is conveyed through a series of faces – hopeful, determined, pained, despairing. Watkins’ interpretation of warfare is unusual in that he does not go into too much detail about the circumstances leading up to the violence from a nationalistic perspective. Rather, it is the individual that takes center stage. Each brief history told is an acknowledgment of that person’s existence and the contribution they have made to the whole, no matter how small. As Watkins returns late in the film to each character and briefly summarizes their fate, we see why he is not only one of cinema’s great historians, but also one of its great humanists.

Drawing Restraint 9 (Barney, 2005)

2006-06-05T23:57:00.000-07:00

Drawing Restraint 9 picks right up where Drawing Restraint 8 left off, bringing back all the zany characters that you’ve come to know and love.

OK, that’s not true.

Matthew Barney’s latest excursion into film is indeed a sequel of sorts, but not to any other film. Rather, it is a continuation of a series of art installations made earlier in Barney’s career. How many people have actually followed the series up to this point is not known to me, but no matter. Barney’s film, at the very least, works as a stand-alone experience. I can’t imagine that the keys to unlocking this film’s mysteries are somewhere lurking in a pivotal moment of Drawing Restraint 3 for example.

Two people, a man and a woman, visit a Japanese whaling boat, participate in a ritual that seems to draw equally from Eastern religion and - oh I don’t know – Mars, and then consummate their relationship in a rather unorthodox manner that I will not reveal. And that’s about it. What I have just described takes places over the course of 135 minutes, with Barney’s pacing fluctuating between ‘slothful’ and ‘tortoise-like’. To be sure, this insistence on an exaggeratedly slow pace creates a feeling that is distinctly Barney. There is no mistaking his hand at work. I gather that he is shooting for an experience that is meditative and which allows us to consider and digest the imagery that he has to offer us. This is all well and good, except for the fact that Barney doesn’t hold up his end of the bargain by giving us enough to chew on. I do not think I would have minded the pacing if Barney’s visuals were considerably more evocative.

In reviews that I have read, critics have declared that they did not much care to try to decipher Barney’s symbols. Having now seen the film, I find this strange as almost all of them are fairly straightforward abstractions of sexual intercourse. I mean, jeez, how hard do you have to work to interpret long, protruding objects entering holes, canals or otherwise penetrating? Barney repeats the pattern using different objects and occasionally throwing in various fluids for good measure. The problem is not that Barney’s symbols are impenetrable. It is that they are too transparent.

Fortunately, there is the occasional Bjork song to perk things up once in a while and a bathing scene that adds a welcome dose of genuine eroticism. In between, unfortunately, is a lot of stuff that would be a stretch to describe as meditative. Instead, let’s be honest and call it what it is. Filler. I admire Barney. I honestly do. I root for his films because I hope they will open up a path for a cinema that is highly symbolic and which de-emphasizes the textual. Would it really be such a compromise to cut a half hour or so out of the film in order to make it merely ‘ponderous’? I don’t think it makes me a philistine to suggest as much. Together, Barney and Bjork could be quite a team, with her serving both as his Giulietta Masina, but also his Michael Nyman. However, to do so, he will have to repay his patrons’ patience with much more substance than he offers here.

[**]

Corpse Bride (Burton, 2005)

2006-05-31T10:21:00.000-07:00

Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride follows the pattern of so many other Burton projects that have come before it: inventive visuals, mildly amusing quirk, woefully unsatisfying narrative. The first fifteen to twenty minutes in which we are introduced to the film’s universe are the best. I laughed with joy at these fantastic creations with their pale, dour faces and their ridiculously proportioned bodies. It amused me to see that even the horses galloped along on long, thin legs and that the vicar’s neck was pushed forward at a dramatic angle, as if in a state of permanent accusation. Indeed, if we were only to go by still photographs, we might think that Corpse Bride was one of the greatest animated features ever made. The film’s look is to be highly commended.

Unfortunately, Burton and company have saddled this film with an utterly pathetic screenplay that barely has enough content for a third of the film’s already slight runtime. Victor has a really bad wedding rehearsal and then goes off to the dark and creepy woods to practice his vows where he accidentally places the ring on the finger of a female corpse whose hand just happens to be sticking out of the ground. She whisks him away to the land of the dead where death is a cabaret, old chum, complete with endless mortality jokes and a few musical numbers composed by Danny Elfman. Meanwhile, back in the land of the living, a cad of remarkable callousness™ is putting the moves on Victor’s intended wife. Those who have never seen a film before will be SHOCKED by the film’s ending in which Victor either marries the living girl or the corpse and the cad of remarkable callousness™ either gets his comeuppance or goes on doing mean things for the rest of his life.

In the leads, Burton has cast three of the finest film actors of the day in Johnny Depp, Helena Bonham Carter and Emily Watson. Surely, this kind of firepower could have been put to much better use, but Burton is fortunate in that they are able to prevent the proceedings from getting unbearably dull, even as we feel the palpable shift from wonder to tedium. Elfman’s songs don’t help things either. As an orchestral composer and even as a pop songsmith, I enjoy his work; however, there is something about his ‘showtunes’ with their high-pitched toddler-voiced choruses and their in-your-face zaniness that I find entirely grating. Corpse Bride has a few moments of awe-inspiring greatness – the bride emerging from the ground, Victor being whisked back to the land of the dead – but, on the whole, you’d be much better off playing Grim Fandango.

[**1/2]

A Director to Adapt Each of Shakespeare's Plays #25: RICHARD III directed by Werner Herzog

2006-05-30T20:07:00.000-07:00

The Plot:

Hey, remember that civil war England had way back in the King Henry VI trilogy? The one with the roses? OK, that’s all been sorted out now and when the dust settled, it was not Richard, but his older brother, Edward, who claimed the throne. Unfortunately for Edward, his kid brother is like a Machiavellian wet dream. He’s determined to take control of the throne by any means possible. In one of the most fascinating of all Shakespeare scenes, Richard successfully woos the woman whose husband he has previously murdered. Later, he helps his older brothers along to early graves, offs the Lord Chamberlain and even whacks Edward’s young boys who are technically in line to succeed the throne before Richard. When his marriage is no longer politically useful, guess what, he kills his wife too. Eventually, pretty much everybody who’s not already dead has turned against Richard and he is killed on the field of battle – significantly sans horse.

Why Herzog?

I’ve seen three film adaptations of Richard III and two of them are quite good. Most recently, Ian McKellen starred in a version that successfully transferred the historical events to a hypothetical 20th century fascist regime. Forty years prior, Laurence Olivier’s Richard set the bar by which all later stage and screen Richards would be measured. The third adaptation was the 1912 silent version that is remarkable not so much because it successfully engages the viewer, but simply because it exists at all. There is also Pacino’s adaptation/documentary, Looking for Richard, that has its moments but is incomplete as an adaptation and unenlightening as a documentary. There is not a pressing need for another film of Richard III, but if a new version were to be made, I’d like to see one that steers away from the polished, slick feel of the 1995 film. It worked very well in that particular case, but a director attempted to follow in its footsteps would run the risk of creating something redundant I fear. For a very different, but equally compelling Richard III, I would turn to Herzog, who with films like Aguirre the Wrath of God, Fitzcarraldo and Cobra Verde, has created fascinating portraits of uncompromising ambition. Indeed, Klaus Kinski’s character in Aguirre could be a distant relative of Richard with his peculiar gait and his ruthless tactics. Alas, Kinski is no longer with us; but how cool would it be to see Herzog take an actor like Tim Roth, for example, and take a shot at one of history's most unusual villains? It would be a grittier, more naturalistic Richard and one that would take the time to go beyond the surface and paint a detailed, textured portrait of the crippled king. Herzog’s films always feel just a little bit out of control, like he's discovering the film as he shoots, and it’s that sensation that gives them unusual life and energy. His glory days are in the past perhaps, but his recent Invincible was enough to convince me that he still has a few good films left in him. He also has an unusual sense of humor that I think would be just great for bringing to life Richard’s eccentricities. All he would need was a way to somehow incorporate a large group of small animals to swarm around Richard on the battlefield.

Herzog films I have seen:

1. Aguirre, the Wrath of God ****
2. Stroszek ****
3. Grizzly Man ****
4. The Enigma of Kasper Hauser ****
5. Woyzeck ***1/2
6. Fitzcarraldo ***1/2
7. Nosferatu, Phantom der Nacht ***1/2
8. God's Angry Man ***1/2
9. The Wild Blue Yonder ***1/2
10. Invincible ***1/2
11. Cobra Verde ***
12. How Much Wood Would a Woodchuck Chuck **1/2
13. Even Dwarfs Started Small *1/2
14. Heart of Glass *