In the petri dish of American film comedy, Step Brothers represents a mutant combination of two previously separate strains: the chaotic man-child romp, whose past master is Adam Sandler, and the profane-coming-of-age story, lately patented by Judd Apatow (who co-produced). The experiment is not a success, though we might have had a better test case if somebody had bothered with a script, instead of relying so obviously heavily on improv. (Director Adam McKay, the occasional genius of Talladega Nights notwithstanding, is the lazy man’s Christopher Guest.) It does push both tendencies to new, potentially interesting extremes: Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly seem not just simple but borderline autistic, and their advanced ages make their condition seem a lot more tragic than Seth Rogen’s (or Sandler’s, who was ten years younger when he made the very similar, vastly superior Billy Madison). Ultimately, though, Step Brothers is a freak show, closer to Lars Von Trier’s The Idiots or something by Werner Herzog than its obvious American models. And I’ve got to hope it serves as a wake-up call for Ferrell, who’s beginning to look like a sad old gorilla who suspects he might have been destined for something better than hurling his feces at spectators. Back to the lab!
by Evan Kindley | Source: 35mm print
27 Jul 2008 3:01 PM | Submit Comment
Except for “Jose Chung’s From Outer Space,” I always preferred the non-alien episodes of Chris Carter’s original series over those concerned with extraterrestrial life, which I’m sure puts me at odds with other, more die-hard fans of “The X-Files”: “Chinga,” “Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose,” “Tithonus,” “Bad Blood,” and even “Sunshine Days” always felt a step above, say, “Duane Barry” or “One Son.” Which makes watching any kind of theatrical incarnation of the series somewhat difficult for me: The core of the television show was, of course, aliensÑMulder’s search for his sister, for the truth behind her disappearance, and Scully’s clinical rejection of any and all evidence concerned with that truthÑand so any plot not infused with an “out there” aspect would seem profane, even sacrilegious, no matter how interesting or entertaining it might be.
Both fortunately and unfortunately, I Want to Believe takes great steps to avoid any mention of aliens. There are throwaway remarks about Mulder’s sister that act as clichéd callbacks to the series and are introduced haphazardly to create a link between Mulder’s obsession and Scully’s attachment to a young hospital patient suffering from an incurable disease, as well as the two’s own personal life. However, the real concern of the film, co-written by Chris Carter and Frank Spotnitz, is in religion. The two former agents, both now outsiders, are drawn into an investigation about disappearances in snow-drenched West Virginia of young women, including a fellow agent. And as their guide they rely on a pedophile priest who claims psychic visionsÑ“God’s work”Ñare leading him to body parts buried throughout the barren countryside. Mulder, naturally, believes the man wholeheartedly, while Scully’s usual cynicism is overpowered by outright disgustÑshe sees him as nothing more than a vile creature looking for pity, even as his words begin prying into her own psyche.
After leaving the theatre, my brother and IÑagain, both fans of the seriesÑagreed that this was more like an extended episode than an actual, full-blown film sequel. In fact, I Want to Believe is remarkably reserved, preferring a heart of human interest rather than one of unrestrained paranormality. Which is a relief in only one wayÑthe role given to Gillian Anderson. My main concern walking in wasn’t whether or not I’d be entertained, but what effect this would have on her career. An incredibly gifted actress, she’s also been open about the difficulties she felt returning to such a long-gone character, and her unease sometimes shows. (I swear there are two moments when she almost slips into a British accent.) Still, throughout the run of the series, she was given quite a few moments of excellenceÑin particular, the closing moments of “Revelations,” in which Dana Scully confesses to a priest her fears that “God is speaking, but no one’s listening.” It’s a scene I was reminded of continually throughout I Want to Believe, and Anderson makes the most of her role as student-in-doubt. In a film that refuses to meet expectations, it’s the lead actressÑthe one who was openly uneasy, the one who had moved onÑwho shines.
by Adam Balz | Source: 35MM Theatrical Print
26 Jul 2008 5:10 PM | Comments (1)
“I’m not a baby. I’m a tumor.”
While I agree with Roeper and Company that this year has produced some superior superhero movies, even the best has been weighed down to some degree by typical alter-ego suspenseÑa tension felt by the hero as he tries to balance public life with the most private of obligations. Bruce Banner is a quiet presence in an equatorial bottling plant who, outside of work, tries to cure himself of the Hulk; Tony Stark is a weapons manufacturer for the United States military and womanizing “Merchant of Death” who also happens to fight terrorism in an iron suit; even Bruce Wayne finds time between fighting crime as Batman to lose a girlfriend. None of them want to be exposed as heroes, for various reasons, and this lends their respective storylines added, though unnecessary, anxiety. (To their credit, the writers of Iron Man use the closing moments of their film to swift-kick this cliché in the ribs.)
What’s so alluring about the Hellboy films, other than the talent involved, is the simple fact that Hellboy has no secret he must keep privateÑhe is the secret. So while Tony Stark and Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne live out their public lives, albeit with a little trepidation over their duties, Hellboy isn’t allowed one. Sure, he’s got a significant other, but they can never been seen together by anyone outside the Bureau wallsÑsad substitutions, they note, for the painted walls of a “normal” home. And when he’s finally exposed, he doesn’t receive the attention a superhero should, the attention he expects: He is heckled on the street and becomes tabloid-television fodder before being accused of endangering the life of a baby. The scene that audiences have reacted to the most strongly, and rightly so, comes soon afterwards, when Hellboy and Abe Sapien get drunk and sing along to Barry Manilow. We laugh because the moment is funny, even as we acknowledge the truth in their heartbreak.
Hellboy II ends on a note of poisoned optimism: The heroes leave the screen in search of a life that matches what they see as normal, even as we recall the warnings of the beautifully gothic Angel of Death from only scenes before about Hellboy’s destiny. This sequel is obviously the second installment in a trilogy that seems destined for a dark and unavoidable conclusion; where Del Toro’s original was lighthearted, perhaps because it was the obligatory introduction, The Golden Army finds its plot in Hellboy’s mixed feelings over his role in the human world. It’s a lesson other superhero movies should head, even if it means throwing in a Manilow tune or two.
by Adam Balz | Source: 35MM Theatrical Print
26 Jul 2008 5:08 PM | Submit Comment
According to the back cover of Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, the master theoretical physicist wrote his now famous book for “nonscientists everywhere.” Well, as someone who is both a nonscientistÑin fact, as an English major, I think I qualify for a PhD in nonscienceÑand lives in the all-encompassing everywhere, I found the uncommonly thin tome a tad on the confusing side. A tad. Not that I’m doggedly oblivious to the world of scienceÑamong other things, I found Hawking’s personal and historical anecdotes far more informative and memorable than the eye-blearing diagrams and letter-number equationsÑI just don’t understand the jargon, which seems to snowball throughout the book into chapter upon chapter of incomprehensible terminology.
So what could be more welcomed than a simplified simplification? A cut-down version of an already cut-down subject? Unfortunately, even Errol Morris’ talent for slow-motion cutawaysÑin this case, a Roulette wheel, a shattering cup of tee, the inner workings of a clockÑand interesting interview practices can’t save a subject that is both bewildering and subjective.
by Adam Balz | Source: VHS
26 Jul 2008 5:06 PM | Submit Comment
Phantasm II was released in 1988, nine years after its affectionately remembered initial installment, and it’s an archetypal ’80s horror film: replete with prosthetic effects, geysers of blood, gratuitous sex, James LeGros (the poor man’s Kevin Bacon), and explosions—two, actually, within the first thirteen minutes. These aspects are not what really characterize the Phantasm franchise, however, which is known for its demon dwarves, Angus Scrimm’s leering Tall Man, and the hearse he drives wrecklessly. The supernatural, really, is the distinguishing feature, which in my opinion is totally mystified in both films. There’s a scene in II, even, that echoes 2001’s famous epilogue, but with none of the philosiphical import. Instead, every scene, every line of dialogue, every ridiculously souped-up weapon (including a four-barrel shotgun, which is used accordingly to expend four of the aforesaid demon dwarves—simultaneously), and every flourish of the special effects is intent to enhance the atmosphere of total, cacophonic mayhem. The result is riotously entertaining.
by Rumsey Taylor | Source: VHS
25 Jul 2008 6:14 PM | Comments (1)
Almost exactly twenty-one years ago I saw this in a theater, and it frightened me so much I cried and pleaded with my mother to take me home. She didn’t, and I justly considered this, for years, to be one of the scariest films I’d ever seen.
It’s not any more, of course, but this experience recounts one of my qualities, for better or worse, as a film-watcher. That is, how different films viewed at different times derive different responses. Harry and the Hendersons is not a terrifying film, but to an impressionable eight-year-old who sees a new movie only once every two or three months, it’s potently terrifying.
This experience makes me question how I perceive certain films, and how perception is as influenced by context as it is by taste—and how both of these things evolve with age. It’s possible to rewatch something you consider one of the best films you’ve ever seen and to degrade its status, but the problem with this for me is that I really enjoy my favorites, so in rewatching them is the risk of liking them less. Perceptions are impermanent, but isn’t it one of the implicit goals of all criticism to make permanent an art’s status? Rotten Tomatoes and Metacritic exist as testaments to this, aggregated consensuses based on the idea of a permanent critical record. And I guess this is fine and well; films, after all, are static objects. But the people who watch them are not.
by Rumsey Taylor | Source: Cable TV
25 Jul 2008 6:10 PM | Comments (2)
Far more than the average movie that actually has subtitles, Mamma Mia! feels to me like a foreign film, albeit one from no particular country. As directed by Briton Phyllida Lloyd, Mamma Mia! plays like it’s been awkwardly dubbed from another language; the cast is a mishmash of caucasian nationalities (American, English, Irish, Swedish); it’s set on a Greek island populated by colorful peasants who never speak; it’s got a score of Swedish pop songs in uncertain English which include references to locales like Glasgow and Paris, characters named “Fernando” and “Chiquitita,” as well as snatches of pidgin French (“Voulez Vous”) and Italian (“Mamma Mia!”). In its deracinated, decentered blandness it’s like a parody of people’s worst fears about globalization.
What holds this international festival of triviality together is nostalgia for the halcyon days of the… 1970s. Not the 60s, mind you (already travestied quite thoroughly in Julie Taymor’s Across the Universe) but the 70s: when American and British counterculture spread across the globe and metastasized into something gaudy, vacuous and vaguely libertarian. Mamma Mia! has no other raison d’etre than celebration of this historical process and its experience by a small group of elites, which is what make its second half – when the party really gets started! – well nigh unbearable. The plot, which calls for a young girl to willingly convert her wedding into a bacchanalian reunion for her mother’s middle-aged friends, more or less expresses the Weltanschaaung; a bunch of drunken drag queens doing karaoke more or less expresses the style. It’s not just that the participants are “too old” for this (though there is that): it’s that they’re reaffirming something that was of pretty dubious value in the first place. And Pierce Brosnan should never sing again.
by Evan Kindley | Source: 35mm print
22 Jul 2008 8:56 AM | Comments (1)
After showing us Franz Biberkopf at his most vulnerable in the last installment, Fassbinder now proceeds to remind us of how repulsive he can be: trading “broads” with his buddy Reinhold and then kicking them out on the street when he gets bored with them. Our exploration of this side of Franz’s character is served by uncomfortable close-ups of nervous, bulbous faces, alternating with very distant, exaggeratedly theatrical shots, sometimes from behind pieces of furniture, which suggest bootleg videos of Strindberg plays.
A note on the music in this episode: it’s insane. For one almost twenty minute sequence there is a continuous music cue of what sounds like several treated pianos, echoing and overlapping in creepy dissonance, and occasionally interrupted by a random sine wave blast (though it’s possible that was just a speaker problem with the TV I was watching on). It is not synchronized to the image at all, as far as I can tell, which increases the feeling of chaotic malevolence building up. And yet it’s juxtaposed with a quite charming little jazz dance sequence: Franz can really shake a tail feather!
by Evan Kindley | Source: Criterion Collection DVD
19 Jul 2008 12:19 PM | Submit Comment
Having recently discovered that I am 1/16th Swedish, I thought it appropriate to delve into one of my distant ancestor’s fellow countryman’s great cinematic creations. As expected, this landmark offering from Bergman is a beautiful rumination on life, love, and death, with a endearing performance by Victor Sjöström as an aged doctor on a road trip to receive an honorary degree. What surprised me, however, was the ample dose of humor, particularly the hilarious interchanges between Isak and Agda. Call each other by our first names?! What would people think!
by Thomas Scalzo | Source: Turner Classic Movies Broadcast
15 Jul 2008 12:30 AM | Comments (1)
When The Dark Knight began to unspool at the screening I attended, you could’ve heard a pin drop. Rarely have I ever heard a movie greeted with such a pregnant silence. The buzz on Christopher Nolan’s sequel to 2005’s Batman Begins has reached a feverish level, which in itself is kind of neat. Not just because it’s nice to see people getting excited about going to the movies at a time when there’s been loads of handwringing over the demise of the ritual, but because Nolan, who made his feature debut with a tricky little indie called Following, is a filmmaker worth paying attention to. The Dark Knight is worth paying attention to as well, and if you can get on Nolan’s savage wavelength, you won’t be disappointed in what he’s created here.
Among the details that have stuck with me from Batman Begins is the fact that Nolan’s is a Batman who wakes up bruised in the morning, and that sobering current of realism is expanded on in the director’s new feature, which has a palette that’s heavy on the black and blue. No other Batman film has felt so much like a gritty crime drama, albeit one with some memorably phantasmagoric flourishes. This is miles from the Adam West movie I remember waiting all day to watch on UHF television with my parents, but I’m of the opinion that there’s no one way to tell this story. And what a mad story it turns out to be when played out the way Nolan imagines it. One of the notorious elements of Tim Burton’s 1989 Batman is how it occupies an uneasy place between art and commerce. (With that Prince soundtrack shoehorned in, you can almost hear Burton and the studio execs fighting.) But Nolan appears to have had close to free rein here, and the result has an edgy menace to it.
A major force that drives the film is Heath Ledger’s sick take on Batman’s nemesis the Joker. In the months since the young actor’s untimely passing, his personal tragedy has often overwhelmed discussion of Nolan’s film or else loomed unmentioned but not unthought of, the elephant in the room. Yet while real life occasionally intrudes on one’s thoughts unbidden, giving a few moments in the film a more macabre tinge than Nolan or Ledger could ever have intended, it speaks highly of Ledger’s talent that his ferocious take on the character overcomes even the tabloid headlines. (Nolan should be praised for his decision to cast Ledger, a not-at-all obvious choice that was met with initial distress by fans, until the release of the film’s trailer.) With his peeling pancake makeup, odd posture, and odder vocal inflections, the Joker is consistently frightening but also brutally funny. He’s a man who isn’t – devoid in this incarnation of any real name, prior identity, or origin story – and also a man without a plan, other than creating as much chaos as possible. It’s said in the film that the Joker is the kind of man who simply wants to watch the world burn, and his presence opens up the kind of nihilistic abyss that rarely worms its way into the popular consciousness outside of Sex Pistols records. Pretty subversive stuff for a summer blockbuster.
This is also one of the rare superhero films that can incorporate multiple villains into a single story. An impeccably-cast Aaron Eckhardt starts the film as the slightly snarky do-gooder D.A. Harvey Dent before morphing into a particularly gruesome version of the familiar villain Two-Face.(He looks less like Tommy Lee Jones in Batman Forever than he does Griffin Dunne in An American Werewolf in London.) If Ledger’s Joker is terrifying because we don’t know his story, Eckhardt’s Two Face is terrifying because we do. It’s a nightmare vision of curdled idealism.
The good guys do all right for themselves too. Bale continues to be an ideal Batman, equally believable as a pretty boy millionaire and a haunted, good-hearted vigilante. (He still drops his voice an octave or so more than is entirely necessary when he dons the cape and cowl, but at least this time the decision has a creepy fringe benefit; Batman and the Joker share a similar throaty snarl, providing a troubling link between hero and villain.) Morgan Freeman and Michael Caine each get a few good moments in as Batman’s trusted associates, and Gary Oldman brings an appealing, melancholy warmth to his good guy copper Jim Gordon.
This is the most hardboiled Batman movie to date, and Nolan pulls off the near-impossible by preventing the triumph of good from feeling like a sure thing. (In this movie, it really isn’t.) But just when one begins to believe in the Joker’s words about a ravenous world forever at the edge of chaos, Nolan shows a little faith. In a story as tough as this one, that goes a long way.
by Victoria Large | Source: 35MM Print
14 Jul 2008 9:13 PM | Comments (9)
Nothing could ever explain to me how someone with the access, reverence, and funding to make Gonzo could bury the thing in such a deep sludge of forrest-gumpized 60s nostalgia. It’s a drugged, feature length version of the obligatory, unnecessary pan past Nixon’s resigning head on the tube that smudges so many otherwise acceptable period movies. Can we have a tribute to Thompson that doesn’t need Time Life’s Greatest Flower Power Hits set over split screens of Iraq & Vietnam, Bush & Nixon, to get its juice? I wasn’t even an idea in my parents’ heads when RFK was gunned down, but even I feel the knee-jerk tug of heartstring when they set the footage to come on people now, smile on your brother — or whatever. Does anybody remember this happening, or are we all reacting to some collectively shared impression of a classic music video?
Though it ultimately drowns in its own expensive soundtrack, Gonzo isn’t a total waste. It does give us a good 20 minutes on Hunter Thompson’s coverage of the ‘72 Presidential campaign (fantastic!) and more than a few interviews with remarkable figures. Jann Wenner, Pat Buchanan, George McGovern, Ralph Steadman, Tom Wolfe, and Jimmies Carter & Buffett are given the respectful chance to tell their side of Hunter’s story at offices or studios, behind desks, or in front of windows. Only Sondi Wright, Thompson’s first wife, was filmed in front of a green screen, which was later replaced with explicit photos and footage of H.S.T.’s presumed infidelity, naked ladies and snide grimaces. Inexplicable, and a cruel joke.
by Teddy Blanks | Source: 35mm Print
13 Jul 2008 1:11 AM | Submit Comment
England, 16th century. Sir Thomas More refuses to sign an oath approving King Henry VIII’s assumption of supreme authority over the Church of England. Though More certainly frowned upon the well-known and sordid motivations for Henry’s audacity (his desire to divorce Catherine of Aragon and wed Anne Boleyn), his refusal is due to much loftier objections. For More’s devotion is to God first, then king. Logically, any act in defiance of God (or more specifically, the Pope, God’s representative on Earth), cannot be met with approval. Unfortunately, such sound arguments do not hold sway over the tempestuous king, and More becomes a target for his liege’s wrath.
The grand themes inherent in this famous tale are here admirably espoused. We see the pious More enduring the consequences of honesty, appraising the value of truth, and understanding the illusion of justice. Throughout, the villains are clearly delimited, the heroes equally so. Uncluttered static shots, bold colors, and an economical score all enhance the film’s unambiguous narrative. Add in Paul Scofield’s considered portrayal of More and you have an efficient, well-structured film that is easy to praise.
If fault is to be found, it lies within this very straightforward quality of the tale. For aside from a general concern for the welfare of his family, there is no conflict in More, no doubt, and hardly any passion. Rarely does he go so far as even to raise his voice. He doesn’t merely believe he is doing right, he knows it. At times, this self-assurance nearly descends into smugness, resulting in a venerable but cold character. In fact, Robert Shaw’s King Henry is the only person in the film that seems truly alive, conflicted, dishonest, and megalomaniacal, yes, but alive. Just a touch of Henry’s impulsivity injected into the measured More would have brought us an intimate connection to this extraordinary man. As it stands, we are left with distant admiration.
by Thomas Scalzo | Source: Turner Classic Movies Broadcast
12 Jul 2008 4:14 PM | Submit Comment
While Iron Man, despite its virtues, hit a few familiar beats too many, and The Incredible Hulk did the same while dispensing with exposition and character development to a distressing extent, this comic book sequel feels remarkably fresh. It’s a visual feast (Could we expect less from director Guillermo del Toro?), packed with wonderfully imaginative creatures that range from the adorable to the terrifying. It might have succeeded as sheer spectacle, but happily, there’s more happening here.
The film is admirably character-driven, with great stuff from Ron Perlman as the demonic antihero of the title; Doug Jones as Abe Sapien, the aquatic psychic with a blue-green tint; and Family Guy creator Seth MacFarlane voicing Johann Krauss, another psychic whose physical presence is only a vapor. Del Toro also manages the neat trick of introducing a villain (Luke Goss making a strong impression as the graceful, fearsome Prince Nuada) whose motives we understand.
The tone turns on a dime from genuine menace (Those flesh-eating tooth fairies could have escaped from Pan’s Labyrinth.) to sublime humor (a sing-a-long of the Barry Manilow cheesefest “Can’t Smile Without You”), and there are a few killer setpieces, my favorite being Hellboy’s smackdown with an invisible opponent. The climax does echo many an action pic in that it’s yet another mano y mano fight, but this one’s got a touch of the sad and the poetic to it. Del Toro has the guts to question the rightness of his hero’s actions, and better still, he has the guts to let the question linger.
The film leaves threads dangling, being perhaps a bit obvious about its hopes for a sequel, but so what? If it’s anything like this installment, Hellboy III will be a treat.
by Victoria Large | Source: 35MM Print
12 Jul 2008 2:06 PM | Comments (1)
On a much deserved vacation from the grueling motocross circuit, a quartet of campers witnesses a satanic ritual killing, and spends the next few days running from angry occultists. Despite a few dull moments at a motor home camp, there’s little to complain about here, particularly when Warren Oates buys a double barrel shotgun and the group pits their $36,000 RV against a relentless onslaught of satanists on the open road.
Aside from employing Oates, who makes just about any film worth watching, Race is to be commended for keeping the focus squarely on the harrowing setup of being chased by a relentless evil, and not delving overmuch into the identities and personalities of the devil-worshipers. Such a narrative choice offers a film in which the threat can theoretically come from anywhere, be it a disgruntled sheriff, or a harmless grandma. In fact, by the time the exciting conclusion rolls around, it feels as if the entire world is comprised of satanists, with the last bastion of rational humanity crammed into an RV with nothing but a 12-gauge to protect them.
by Thomas Scalzo | Source: Anchor Bay DVD
10 Jul 2008 11:31 PM | Submit Comment
Beneath a Pixar film’s cute, clever touches and tremendous action setpieces lies something like darkness. Can you imagine any other studio turning a blockbuster sequel about sentient toys into a bittersweet reflection on mortality, or making a movie that uses hilarious fuzzy monsters to tell a story of parental anxieties and the consequences of unethical development of resources? WALL-E turns the equation on its head and offers, in its grim postapocalyptic landscape, wide-eyed and unadulterated hope for us all. This film sees as much beauty in the universe as WALL-E sees in the lovely junk all around him.
The robot love story is always front and center, with the saving-of-Earth a mere subplot, a side effect of WALL-E and EVE’s romantic misadventures. Both are motivated only by their own programming (EVE is after the plant because it’s her directive— she’s not really invested in outcomes beyond that) and by their burgeoning desires for each other, which subsume their programming in the end. And whenever they act out of love, beautiful things happen, whether it’s a ballet in space (dear God, what a scene!) or the waking up of humanity.
Considering the humans are the ones who broke the planet through overconsumption, they come off pretty well here too— full of enthusiasm to get cracking and set themselves straight, even after generations of inactivity. All it takes is opening their eyes and showing them something worth loving. John and Mary get knocked off their conveyor belts and find love in each other, while the captain gradually falls in love with all of Earth culture that he’s never had the chance to experience. And the great act of love that they witness as EVE rescues WALL-E seems to be the spark they all needed. Interestingly, there’s no real bitterness or anger in the handling of how the Earth got so screwed up in the first place— the details are sort of blithely skipped over, because they really just don’t matter. If there’s a call to action here, it’s refreshingly blame-free, based instead on pure inspiration. And it’s striking what a lack of real villainy there is, too. Yes, there is a force on the ship that wants to stop anyone from going back to Earth— but is that force born of actual evil? No— it’s born of giving up, because giving up hope is really the worst thing anyone can do in this film.
I fear that I’m making WALL-E sound far too touchy-feely hippy-dippy, when it doesn’t really feel that way to watch it. In fact, I’ve mainly talked about the plot-heavy second half, when it’s the much more impressionistic first half that mentally prepares you for what’s to come. Watching WALL-E scoot around this decrepid planet and find amazement in the likes of lightbulbs and a Hello, Dolly video opens you up to the film’s vision, so that everything that follows is utterly believable: two robots acting only out of love can save a species. In these cynical times, WALL-E seems to have floated down from lightyears away.
by Megan Weireter | Source:
10 Jul 2008 3:44 PM | Comments (3)
I substantially agree with Matt Bailey’s review, so I’m just going to add a few notes:
It’s been said of so many movies that “Paris is the star,” but here it’s more as if Paris were the director. Varda frequently shoots through car windshields, giving us long takes of incidental observation of traffic, shop windows, art students running amok, more traffic. This makes me realize how comparatively controlled some of the famously vivacious, spontaneous New Wave directors (Godard, Truffaut) are when they shoot the city; or rather, they’ve often eliminated anything that will fail to give the effect of spontaneity. For instance, the sheer number of old people out on the streets in Cléo, particularly old women, is striking.
A related point: Varda’s use of dead space between “movie scenes.” Cléo’s style is mostly semi-documentary but every once in a while will rev itself up into Sirkian melodrama (its heroine is, after all, a “mélomaniac”) or romantic comedy. The real-time gambit justifies itself here: it’s as if we’re seeing everything that leads up to an especially charged moment. In a way this trick has since become familiar, though significantly it’s usually subsumed within a broader metacinematic technique, so that we see the scene being arranged before it’s allowed to play out; it’s as if we’re being asked to say, “Oh, how artificial.” But Varda just shifts from ennui into rapture without signaling. The sweetness of this is in its casual suggestion that such magic moments do happen, even, as it were, spontaneously; you just have to wait around for them a while.
Cléo’s relation to Lola, made the previous year by Varda’s husband Jacques Demy. The titles seem to play off each other, and both in their way consider feminine narcissism. Both feature musical sequences (or rather, rehearsals for musical sequences). Both have a just-looking-around innocence of style that contrasts with their protagonists’ protestations of despair, as if their directors were kids watching their older siblings go through a rough period.
by Evan Kindley | Source: Criterion Collection DVD
10 Jul 2008 2:30 PM | Submit Comment
I’ve found Demy’s Umbrellas of Cherbourg a little (actually a lot) twee for my taste, so I was a little uncertain about this one, his debut and a non-musical prequel of sorts to that film. But Lola won me over from the first frame. Part of it is the leavening effect, I think, of the setting: though made in ‘61, it takes place in the immediate post-World War II period, in a France that’s both culturally rejuvenated and a little tired of its own native charm. Everyone in Lola reminds everyone of someone else – another love, in another country, at another time. From this vantage point, it’s hard to understand their nostalgia: the city of Nantes looks so luminous, and the atmosphere of the film itself is so warm and friendly, you can’t really imagine wanting to be anywhere else. But this paradox only strengthens the movie’s overall effect, which is much more melancholy than it would first appear. Beneath the surface fluffiness, there’s a deep confusion about the future of the French way of life, especially when that way of life is partially defined as an unfettered attraction to pleasure – and what’s more attractive or pleasurable than foreignness? Indeed, I’d say this xenophilia – expressed dramatically through the historically convenient trope of Franco-American relations, and cinematically through echoes of future Demy collaborator Gene Kelly – is the keynote of the film, what keeps it from being more than just charming. Thus, while the musical brothel sequences, in which a lingerie-clad Anouk Aimée and her cohort entertain a horde of jitterbugging G.I.s, are some of the most innocent images of sex tourism I’ve ever seen, they’re also some of the most truthful, in that they don’t let you forget the realities (economic, political, libidinal) driving the production of all this naughty fun. Which is not to say it isn’t still fun. In fact, that’s the problem.
by Evan Kindley | Source: Fox Lorber DVD
08 Jul 2008 11:07 PM | Submit Comment
“While you watched this, five of us were murdered. One was the random killing of a stranger.”
That is the final spoken narration of The Killing of America; delivered as deadpan and heavily-handed as all before it but this time accompanied by John Lennon’s “Imagine.” A few seconds earlier, we are informed that two people were murdered at Lennon’s vigil that we are currently seeing. Three and a half minutes prior we are shown the haunting photographic evidence of one of the pivotal moments in America cultural history: Lennon dutifully signing an autograph for Mark David Chapman hours before his death.
The eighty-five minutes leading up to the segment on Lennon’s murder are comprised of authentic footage of scores of violent incidences ranging from ubiquitous inclusions such as the Zapruder film to seldom seen footage of middle-America hostage situations, sniper attacks, and serial killers. The film is somewhat unfairly lumped into the Mondo genre due to its grim subject matter and adoption of the narration style that so often accompanies such films. Yet “Mondo” inevitably implies a bit of falsity; cinematic legerdemain with the truth. The entirety of the information presented in the film is from first-generation sources pulled from news footage or other on-scene cameras and at no point is anything staged. The Killing of America is as close to “truth” as one can come within the Mondo genre.
The few critics that have been able to see The Killing of AmericaÑstill unavailable in the US to this dayÑhave labeled this sentimental closing sequence as the powerful film’s lone weak point. I, however, found it to be an apt and somewhat profound conclusion to the documentary’s examination of 20th century America’s obsession with violence. The central motif of the film is a subtle but clearly communicated anti-gun stance. The film hypothesizesÑnot unconvincinglyÑthat the gun-related deaths of the Kennedy brothers and Martin Luther King Jr. desensitized the population and enforced a belief that violence was simply a part of American life. While it offers no counter argument to its claims, the material it presents paints a shockingly bleak portrait of the US at the dawn of the eighties and offers no possibility for avoiding an even more dismal future if guns continue to be an ingrained part of American culture. The Killing of America’s parting shot does what its lamentably more famous genre-mate Faces of Death claimed to do: present a world where violence and death are inescapable.
by David Carter | Source: Bootleg DVD
08 Jul 2008 10:02 PM | Comments (2)
Another Kurosawa, another huge disappointment. The man is quickly becoming for me one of the most overrated filmmakers in history. I haven’t seen all of his stuff so maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but I’ve covered his major work and the only one that can count as a legitimate masterpiece is Throne of Blood. I could make this post an omnibus gripe session but let me get to the film in question here.
Kagemusha is simply bad. Let’s stop cutting it so much slack as the “warm-up” for Ran (which is no excuse, especially when Ran itself isn’t that good) and for Chrissakes let’s not toss “masterpiece” anywhere near it. Aside from the incredible opening scene, where the Lord and his double (both played by the extraordinary Tatsuya Nakadai) are both in the same tense, stationary shot, the film lacks any sense of drama, consequence, excitement, characterization, thematic heft, or even basic storytelling flow. Granted, thanks mostly to Nakadai, the character of the Double is able to generate some sympathy toward the end but by then there’s only one reel left, which is devoted to cinema’s least engaging and most non-sensical battle sequence. Wait, I take that back—the earlier nighttime battle sequence is even less engaging and makes even less sense.
To be frank, I have to assume that the reason this film is as well regarded as it is is because Kurosawa came up with the admittedly brilliant idea of sticking a colored flag on the backs of all his extras. This makes even the endlessly repeated shot of a horseman (or horsemen) galloping across the screen look like a visual wonder. There are times in the film, as in Ran, where it seems that the sole purpose of the picture is to photograph thousands of color-coded extras march across the screen. The majesty of these images is not lost on me, and there is one shot in particular of soldiers backlit by the sun, which looks like at least three different composite images layered on top of each other, that is truly breathtaking. But lots of extras and colored banners does not a masterpiece make. There needs to be a reason for all the pomp and circumstance. Here, there is none. After a plodding hour-long expository setup, battle finally erupts, but without any context. It just happens. And it makes no sense. As in Ran, Kurosawa’s idea of medieval warfare is a bunch of guys shooting at an endless stream of other guys either running or riding parallel to the shooters—that’s right, parallel. I’m no military expert, but shouldn’t an attacking army be either going toward (perpendicular) to the enemy line or, if they retreat, away from the line? But parallel to? The way Kurosawa films the action, they are like ducks in a shooting gallery. This makes for a pretty picture, what with all those banners and backlighting, but is entirely nonsensical. Worse, though, is the complete anonymity of the action—there is no build up of tension, no excitement in the action, just bodies in motion. If you took a still frame from one of these sequences and hung it up on a wall somewhere, I’d say great photo. Watching it as part of a narrative film, I say bad filmmaking.
But this instance isn’t even as bad as it gets. The previously mentioned nighttime battle sequence is a master class in boring and confusing the audience. First of all, this sequence is some of the worst night(or day-for-night, I couldn’t quite tell) cinematography ever. Even in a brand new print, the image was muddy and egregiously dark, to the point of barely being able to make out figures on screen (those colored flags finally came in handy). Again, instead of any real action, all we get is off-screen commands to troops, who then shuffle across the sand dunes to make new formations, another excuse for Kurosawa to use all those flags and extras. There is no drama, no narrative rhythm, just constant, vaguely defined motion. Throughout this sequence, I had no idea where troops were in relation to each other, what was going on in the larger battle, why the attacking general halted his troops even though he greatly outnumbered the enemy ahead of him, or, most importantly, why I should care. The purpose of this scene is to show the Double’s reaction to all the killing around him, but when the audience has no idea what’s happening, the effect is lost. It just becomes the usual “war is bad” mantra that every war movie needs to make clear, even while they trumpet its glories and revel in its aesthetic pleasure. This paradox is all the more apparent in Kurosawa’s films, where the pictoral choreography of men in action is paramount.
The final, (anti)climactic battle sequence wasn’t quite as disappointing as the one in Ran, where, after a massive build-up of people and anticipation, the battle devolves into a repeated shot of a couple extras falling off their horses, but it came pretty close. My complaint here isn’t that Kurosawa skimps on the money shot of troops actually engaging in combat (which he does, choosing instead to cut to reaction shots of the non-combatants), but that the setup for the sequence, again, doesn’t make sense. Like the other battle sequences, this one simply occurs. There is no reason aside from the fact that the new Lord is a little trigger-happy. The generals of the once invincible Takeda Clan all resign themselves to defeat even before the battle starts, simply because the new Lord has disobeyed the late Lord’s wishes to not attack outside of their own lands. The opposing warlords give the order to “shoot the horses first” as if this were a novel idea. Sure enough, as the Takeda generals send one army after another at the enemy lines, they are mowed down by a wall of gunfire. Throughout all of this, all I could think of was why didn’t the Takeda Clan just send all their guys out at once, instead of waiting for each separate army to be destroyed and then sending in another? Or better question, if this is the way they fought, how did they become Japan’s most powerful clan in the first place? Why didn’t their enemies just shoot them down like they did here? None of this matters, though, as long as all those extras with all those flags on their backs get to create the color choreography that’s really on Kurosawa’s mind. Action here is empty spectacle, far prettier but also far more boring and ill conceived than your average Braveheart knock-off. There is no lyricism to the succession of images, which is what makes Ran worth watching, but rather a forced poetry that comes off exactly as such.
Lest you think I’m some sort of action-whore who believes The Last Samurai is the best movie ever, let me be clear that I don’t necessarily want or need Hollywood-ized gratuitous combat viscera to get my jollies. I do expect to be excited and engaged, though, either by the sheer physicality or by the ideas presented in an epic such as this, and that’s where Kagemusha truly fails. The film thinks of itself as grand tragedy, but it left me feeling nothing. I never felt that the narrative provided any meaningful stakes, that there was a reason for me to feel either way about any of the characters or about the Takeda Clan. As I said before, Nakadai’s portrayal of the Double is sympathetic, and the relationship he has with the true Lord’s grandson is touching, but it is not enough in a nearly three-hour pageant of anonymous horses and men. There are no real characters in the film, aside from the Double, in that none of the other figures on screen register as people. A muddled theme of suppressing ones true identity to the greater good is lazily thrown into the film, registering zero resonance. It looked pretty easy/fun to impersonate a rich and respected warlord.
Look, there’s good stuff in this film as there is in all of Kurosawa’s films, but for the life of me I cannot understand why these are so well-regarded. I’ll keep watching Kurosawa, but from now on consider my expectations officially lowered.
by Timothy Sun | Source: 35mm
07 Jul 2008 4:26 PM | Comments (6)
Ian Cheney and Curtis Ellis leave Boston for the small farming community of Greene, Iowa and spend a year cultivating an acre of corn in this engaging documentary directed by Aaron Woolf. Cheney and Ellis’ purpose is to examine how and why corn became such a predominant feature of the American diet and the American economy, largely via the inedible Iowa crops that are processed into corn syrup or used to feed livestock. Here we see how not only urban and suburban consumers have become alienated from the processes that bring food to their tables, but how rarely farmers themselves have anything to do with their mature crops other than parceling them off for sale.
Cheney and Ellis are curious and concerned but not self-righteous, and the film benefits from the even-tempered nature of their probing. There are also a few nice visual flourishes, such as a stop motion toy farm used to illustrate some of the information. Ultimately, this intelligent investigation of the transformation of American agriculture (with all of its economic, social, and nutritional ramifications) may lead viewers not only to be more mindful of what they put in their bodies, but also lead them to wonder why the issue is so rarely a part of the national conversation.
by Victoria Large | Source: Docurama Films DVD
06 Jul 2008 5:26 PM | Submit Comment
Recommended if you like: (a) Will Smith’s God complex or (b) extreme close-ups of Charlize Theron’s pores. If only more homeless alcoholics would use their powers for good…
by Evan Kindley | Source: 35mm print
06 Jul 2008 1:24 PM | Submit Comment
The third Pirates of the Caribbean is basically a series of truly marvelous set pieces, stellar makeup jobs, and gorgeous CGI strung together in a mosaic with no discernible narrative. Even Johnny Depp’s performance as has lost much of its freshness, especially since Jack Sparrow is given nothing comprehensible to do. Then Keith Richards shows up. Why? Because. Boo, suspension of disbelief; hooray, because! The art and design of the movie are so beautifully done that the nonexistence of the plot hardly matters. (Though I feel like Orlando Bloom has some obligation to the gods of genetics to be a more useful human being with those frustratingly perfect looks of his. But as it is, watching him act is like watching a superhero who can only use his powers to deliver the mail or help a friend move. Nice, I guess, but is that really it?)
The film actually works great if you think of it less as the third installment of an established Disney franchise and more as a Matthew Barney film without any sex.
by Katherine Follett | Source: Disney DVD
06 Jul 2008 11:30 AM | Submit Comment
A few days ago, Pitchfork ran a review of mash-up artist Girl Talk’s new album. It began:
As I was finishing an interview with Gregg Gillis in July 2006, he casually mentioned his desire to see M. Night Shyamalan’s just-released fantasy movie Lady in the Water. Given the film’s wretched reviews – a pitiful 24% on Rotten Tomatoes – and the train-wreck hype surrounding it, I thought he was kidding. He wasn’t; Gillis liked some of Shyamalan’s other flicks, so he wanted to check this one out. Simple. And it’s this omnivorous, pleasure-seeking attitude toward pop culture that defines his work as Girl Talk. (Luckily, his taste in music is superior to his taste in film.)
Ugh. I mention this because I think it reflects the popular thinking that has determined how Shyamalan’s films have been received since Signs. Yes, The Village was terrible, and yes, I skipped Lady in the Water, but The Happening, despite its ridiculous title and premise, is – like last year’s Cloverfield – a short, effective apocalyptic thriller. Of course, it has run up its very own embarrassing 18% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, and the only reason I can see for that is that Shyamalan is just not “in” anymore. He’s been rejected by those who see themselves as taking film seriously. We can all just assume that if someone we trust expresses an interest in one of his movies, they are probably kidding. Right?
It’s not great. It’s even laughable at points. But The Happening is a step forward, the first step out of a rough patch for Shyamalan, who retains his gift for audience manipulation and quiet, sustained suspense.
by Teddy Blanks | Source: 20th Century Fox 35mm print
06 Jul 2008 3:14 AM | Comments (1)
Before heading to the cookouts, my girlfriend and I laid in bed this morning and watched Air Force One on a laptop. The acting and dialogue are terrible, for the most part. (Watch Gary Oldman, as the head hijacker, try to keep a straight face while mourning “Mother Russia.”) But the scenario itself is irresistible: Harrison Ford as the President, belonging to no specific political party, but still single-handedly saving a plane full of hostages, and the free world? Say what you will about Crystal Skull, but a decade ago the man was definitely not too old for this shit.
Audrey, who just got off a ten month stint in the press room at the Hillary Clinton campaign, was quite taken with Glenn Close as the tough, steadfast VP. Sometimes the people we cast to play our elected officials in the movies can be enough to make us proud to be Americans.
by Teddy Blanks | Source: iTunes Download
05 Jul 2008 12:27 AM | Comments (1)
I used to assume Pixar films would always centre their narratives around some sort of basic childhood fear or parental paranoia (usually involving abandonment issues), but in recent years Pixar has attempted to distance themselves from these mildly manipulative scenarios and instead concentrated their considerable talents upon envisioning various distressing and disheartening dystopias. By doing so the company has achieved some extraordinary results that simultaneously fuse together charming entertainment with modest social critique.
Their latest film, WALL-E, continues this recent trend by taking our consumer-driven culture to some incredibly unsettling extremes, though a great deal of their social critique is camouflaged within a robot love-story, which somehow manages to integrate an appreciation for mushy musicals. The film is also one of Pixar’s more audacious creative efforts considering it evades issues involving family dynamics and commences without a great deal of dialogue. Actually, even when the first few words are spoken, they’re kind of inaudible. The difficulty in discerning the dialogue actually may not be the film’s greatest obstacle, as the filmmakers have included a few darker touches (the robot psych-ward was kind of disturbing) and I’ve already heard complaints about the tweaking of the accepted Pixar-formula by blending a few schmaltzy techniques that appear lifted from the maudlin romantic-comedy playbook (the complaints I heard so far are a bit blunter than the words I’m using).
While I do agree that some of the song cues sound a bit too calculated and I might have chosen a different musical for Wall-E to be obsessed with, I have to say Pixar has long relied upon sappy songs to achieve their signature emotional resonance and I’ll admit that I believe them to be one of the few contemporary filmmaking crews capable of wielding such sentiment within specific scenes without ultimately weakening their final product. In fact I must say that I was mesmerized with a few sequences within the film, which rarely happens anymore.
Instead, what I found weird was the integration of live-action footage with the usual computer animation. Perhaps it was a necessary decision considering the filmmakers already needed to include live-action footage of Hello Dolly!, but even after the filmmakers provided an explanation for the creepy alteration to the human form that occurs over the centuries within the film, I still found that the inclusion of footage involving Fred Willard severely hindered, rather than enhanced, my ability to perceive this imaginary world as some extension of our own reality. Instead, the inclusion of live-action footage only highlighted the artificial nature of film, which seems to run contrary to the filmmakers’ intentions, since the film’s primary observations seem squarely aimed at our current culture. Still, this lapse seems trivial in comparison to film’s other substantial achievements.
As an aside, in terms of the demographic breakdown of the audience, I was definitely the outlier at the matinee screening I attended. It felt like every grandparent in my city decided to take their grandkids to see this movie. Oddly there was little reaction from either demographic during the screening and I’m not exactly sure which age group was more likely to have been sleeping through the movie.
by Chiranjit Goswami | Source: Walt Disney Studios 35mm print
02 Jul 2008 5:14 PM | Submit Comment
Nearly a decade after his haunting turn as a deranged murderer in Fritz Lang’s M, Peter Lorre lent his incomparable aura of insanity to another tense thriller, once again playing a mentally disturbed man who is convinced that the world has it in for him, and is irresistibly compelled to carry out heinous and violent acts.
Unlike his starring role in M, however, Lorre’s work here is limited to a few short scenes, the bulk of the tale dominated by the tribulations of a reporter named Mike Ward. After witnessing a murder, Mike helps land the accused man in jail. However, once a second murder occurs, again with Ward as the only witness, the police turn their suspicions on Mike, and force him to find a way to prove his innocence.
Though the wrongfully accused man thriller has been infused with greater suspense (Hitchcock’s terrific The 39 Steps, for one, was released five years earlier), Stranger incorporates some unique narrative touches, including a disturbing nightmare montage of the American legal system gone belly up (replete with sleeping jurors, an impatient-to-convict judge, and an apathetic defense attorney), and an extended interior monologue detailing just how paranoid Mike has become.
Above all, though, and despite his limited screen time, it is the presence of Peter Lorre that recommends this film—his disarmingly calm voice laced with madness; his lolling and asymmetrical eyes peering warily at new acquaintances—injecting a sinister, unnerving element to the proceedings.
by Thomas Scalzo | Source: TCM Broadcast
02 Jul 2008 8:43 AM | Submit Comment
