I know I only have between zero and three regular readers of this blog, but I would like to celebrate my favorite movies of the year, with my first ever Mango Awards Ceremony. I am going to evaluate all of the movies I have seen in the last year, or to the best of my ability. There will be two classes of categories: the awards for films released in 2008 and films that I saw on DVD that are most likely released in any of the years preceding 2008.
This should be interesting and pretty easy, since it's only me voting. I'll list everything I've seen, for my own reference, then later decide the winners. In the unlikely event that anyone would like to weigh in, the polls are open, and maybe I'll have a reader's choice award or something. I might as well call it the "Bryan Award" or whatever, since I doubt more than one person will say anything, if at all.
So stay tuned!
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Ciao
Dir. Yen Tan, 2008
Loyalty is a strong bond. It is probably the one noble incentive for doing something fairly unpleasant, scary, or uncertain. Loyalty to a friend can lead you to take care of his posthumous affairs, even when it is emotionally taxing, and to face the unknown. While loyalty is one theme in Ciao, it is also what kept me watching the entire film rather than leave during the first 10 minutes. I am glad I stayed to watch it because once it found its stride, it was a moving and thought-provoking film. It is very flawed, at times uncomfortably so, but it contains the seeds of a promising career for all of the parties involved.
While I do not personally know, nor have I met the filmmaker, director, writer, anything, I know someone who knows the editor. This is two degrees of separation, but they are good friends, and I am always willing to support friends of friends, especially in the face of the harsh Hollywood machine. I know that it is difficult to translate a good idea to film, and that there are so many variables that are so difficult to control, plus budgetary limitations, time constraints, etc. I needed to open my mind and look at the intent of this film, to understand it as an entity rather than just the small details of its component parts. It was uncomfortable at times, but in the end, I gave in completely.
The film leaps immediately into the drama: a man, named Mark, somehow dies rather suddenly, leaving his best friend, Jeff, as the only one able to sort out his personal business. This involves answering emails and notifying friends and acquaintances that he is deceased. Thus, Jeff meets Andrea, an Italian man who met Mark online and had arranged to fly out to meet him for the first time. They would be lovers, hopefully, and Mark's death was a sudden shock, as Andrea was already in the country. Jeff, intrigued by this mystery man whom Mark had kept a secret, invites Andrea to come out to Dallas anyway. It's a little crazy, sure, but the love that both Andrea and Jeff felt for Mark clearly told them that someone so meaningful probably can't be all bad. It is a rather reckless leap of faith, but one that I cannot admit to finding unrealistic.
When Andrea arrives, there is awkward uncertainty as the two men gauge each other and slowly let down their guard. Jeff is still boggled that Mark never mentioned Andrea, with whom he apparently communicated frequently for some time. Andrea is still boggled that Mark died so suddenly, and seeks to learn about him from and through his best friend. After a while, their conversations grow more intimate and they allow their emotions and secrets to come out. Each man is nursing wounds from unrequited loves, and dreams of the possibilities afforded from things beyond their reach. It is only a matter of time before they feel love for each other, which we know will happen from the film's poster, and because of the nature of a story like this. It is an old story, but set in the repressed banality of the life of a homosexual man in a conservative, post-industrial city.
The events in the film are very sympathetic, and the emotion is very human. As the characters learn more about each other, we learn more about them, and about the events that bring people together. This might sound cheesy, but whatever skepticism or antagonism one may feel about someone, the immediate reaction to a loss is sympathy and compassion. Jeff hadn't known about Andrea because Mark was afraid he would judge him for his previously impulsive love life. While he may have dismissed Andrea as just another "fuckoff," his heart was softened by his friend's death, and as a tribute, or to honor one last wish, Jeff chose to understand this man from across the world and to embrace Mark's personality. Mark did not have a dying wish, but if he had, it would probably have been understanding and acceptance of his nature. That kind of friendship and loyalty is touching, and yet understated.
The amateurism of the film is evident in some of the typical film-school techniques employed: stationary camera repeating exact shots multiple times, somewhat stilted, theatrical dialogue with awkward timing and lack of facial expression, and somewhat beginning-level actors. By far the most pleasing person to watch was Andrea, played by Alessandro Calza (who also wrote the script). He was not necessarily the most natural, but his awkwardness was more forgivable as a foreigner. Jeff's stepsister, a somewhat unnecessary character who clearly was mostly a tool for allowing Jeff's inner monologue to be spoken out loud without the use of voiceover, was the weakest character. The film equipment was good quality, and the images were lovely, but perhaps the crew needed a bit more practice and experimentation to fully understand the possibilities afforded by high definition work.
That being said, the nuances of the emotional range were hidden between the unnatural-sounding words and odd actions. My tendency is to use realism as the measure of quality, but even though this played out very much like a "film," there is a real, developed maturity in the content. There is an understanding of human nature and the strength of friendship and love affairs. Curiosity and grief drives Jeff to a potentially dangerous situation, especially when he knows that Mark was previously in an abusive relationship. While actor Adam Neal Smith does not necessarily physically evoke the stages of grieving, Jeff's character is full enough that if he existed, we'd know that he was seeking answers and looking to complete his view of Mark by reading more emails than necessary and eventually asking Andrea bold questions about their international relationship.
I'm not sure I would be so forgiving and patient with this film if I were not tangentially and indirectly connected to it, but I sought to understand it and take it in. I was patient with the annoying parts, and cringed at the less effective writing at times, but I wanted to get to know it. Often there is more than what meets the eye, and a little patience can reveal a lot more than what appears at face value. I am quick to dismiss something as "terrible," but perhaps this was a good exercise in opening my mind and reserving judgment until I get more information. It was ultimately worth my time, and I was impressed by what I could take away from it. If the measure of a good film is what kind of mark it made or how it influenced me, then I can say that this is a good film.
Loyalty is a strong bond. It is probably the one noble incentive for doing something fairly unpleasant, scary, or uncertain. Loyalty to a friend can lead you to take care of his posthumous affairs, even when it is emotionally taxing, and to face the unknown. While loyalty is one theme in Ciao, it is also what kept me watching the entire film rather than leave during the first 10 minutes. I am glad I stayed to watch it because once it found its stride, it was a moving and thought-provoking film. It is very flawed, at times uncomfortably so, but it contains the seeds of a promising career for all of the parties involved.
While I do not personally know, nor have I met the filmmaker, director, writer, anything, I know someone who knows the editor. This is two degrees of separation, but they are good friends, and I am always willing to support friends of friends, especially in the face of the harsh Hollywood machine. I know that it is difficult to translate a good idea to film, and that there are so many variables that are so difficult to control, plus budgetary limitations, time constraints, etc. I needed to open my mind and look at the intent of this film, to understand it as an entity rather than just the small details of its component parts. It was uncomfortable at times, but in the end, I gave in completely.
The film leaps immediately into the drama: a man, named Mark, somehow dies rather suddenly, leaving his best friend, Jeff, as the only one able to sort out his personal business. This involves answering emails and notifying friends and acquaintances that he is deceased. Thus, Jeff meets Andrea, an Italian man who met Mark online and had arranged to fly out to meet him for the first time. They would be lovers, hopefully, and Mark's death was a sudden shock, as Andrea was already in the country. Jeff, intrigued by this mystery man whom Mark had kept a secret, invites Andrea to come out to Dallas anyway. It's a little crazy, sure, but the love that both Andrea and Jeff felt for Mark clearly told them that someone so meaningful probably can't be all bad. It is a rather reckless leap of faith, but one that I cannot admit to finding unrealistic.
When Andrea arrives, there is awkward uncertainty as the two men gauge each other and slowly let down their guard. Jeff is still boggled that Mark never mentioned Andrea, with whom he apparently communicated frequently for some time. Andrea is still boggled that Mark died so suddenly, and seeks to learn about him from and through his best friend. After a while, their conversations grow more intimate and they allow their emotions and secrets to come out. Each man is nursing wounds from unrequited loves, and dreams of the possibilities afforded from things beyond their reach. It is only a matter of time before they feel love for each other, which we know will happen from the film's poster, and because of the nature of a story like this. It is an old story, but set in the repressed banality of the life of a homosexual man in a conservative, post-industrial city.
The events in the film are very sympathetic, and the emotion is very human. As the characters learn more about each other, we learn more about them, and about the events that bring people together. This might sound cheesy, but whatever skepticism or antagonism one may feel about someone, the immediate reaction to a loss is sympathy and compassion. Jeff hadn't known about Andrea because Mark was afraid he would judge him for his previously impulsive love life. While he may have dismissed Andrea as just another "fuckoff," his heart was softened by his friend's death, and as a tribute, or to honor one last wish, Jeff chose to understand this man from across the world and to embrace Mark's personality. Mark did not have a dying wish, but if he had, it would probably have been understanding and acceptance of his nature. That kind of friendship and loyalty is touching, and yet understated.
The amateurism of the film is evident in some of the typical film-school techniques employed: stationary camera repeating exact shots multiple times, somewhat stilted, theatrical dialogue with awkward timing and lack of facial expression, and somewhat beginning-level actors. By far the most pleasing person to watch was Andrea, played by Alessandro Calza (who also wrote the script). He was not necessarily the most natural, but his awkwardness was more forgivable as a foreigner. Jeff's stepsister, a somewhat unnecessary character who clearly was mostly a tool for allowing Jeff's inner monologue to be spoken out loud without the use of voiceover, was the weakest character. The film equipment was good quality, and the images were lovely, but perhaps the crew needed a bit more practice and experimentation to fully understand the possibilities afforded by high definition work.
That being said, the nuances of the emotional range were hidden between the unnatural-sounding words and odd actions. My tendency is to use realism as the measure of quality, but even though this played out very much like a "film," there is a real, developed maturity in the content. There is an understanding of human nature and the strength of friendship and love affairs. Curiosity and grief drives Jeff to a potentially dangerous situation, especially when he knows that Mark was previously in an abusive relationship. While actor Adam Neal Smith does not necessarily physically evoke the stages of grieving, Jeff's character is full enough that if he existed, we'd know that he was seeking answers and looking to complete his view of Mark by reading more emails than necessary and eventually asking Andrea bold questions about their international relationship.
I'm not sure I would be so forgiving and patient with this film if I were not tangentially and indirectly connected to it, but I sought to understand it and take it in. I was patient with the annoying parts, and cringed at the less effective writing at times, but I wanted to get to know it. Often there is more than what meets the eye, and a little patience can reveal a lot more than what appears at face value. I am quick to dismiss something as "terrible," but perhaps this was a good exercise in opening my mind and reserving judgment until I get more information. It was ultimately worth my time, and I was impressed by what I could take away from it. If the measure of a good film is what kind of mark it made or how it influenced me, then I can say that this is a good film.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Ashes of Time Redux
Dir. Wong Kar Wai, 2008 [original release, 1994]
Wong Kar Wai's films are so multisensory and tapestry-like that I just want to devour them with a spoon. He and Christopher Doyle have made some of my favorite movies and when the films are over, I am as satisfied as if I had done everything I loved doing for the perfect amount of time. So it goes without saying that I was on board with this film even before seeing it. I was already convinced that I would love it, and I did no research on it beforehand so that every moment would be original and untainted by expectation or anticipation. Coming to the film was like coming to a dinner where I knew I would be served my favorite food.
I almost feel as though it's unfair for me to review this alongside any other film because it impacts me in such a personal way. Here is one of my favorite directors working with one of my favorite cinematographers and some of my favorite actors. If there are any flaws, I'd be willing to overlook them and chalk them up to character or charming imperfections, whereas any other film would get dinged for somehow dropping the ball. Luckily, there are no glaring flaws, so I didn't have to have an internal battle over how I should feel about it.
The plot is unclear, mysterious, labyrinthine. We see a man, Huang Yaoshi, who lives alone in the middle of nowhere, who is awaiting a friend of his. The friend, Ouyang Feng, comes bearing wine that makes you forget, and seems to be carrying the burden of his painful memories himself. We don't know who they are, only that Huang appears to be some kind of hitman, and his Ouyang to be pathologically attracted to and by women who are spoken for, destroying engagements as he passes. As Huang meets with other people who request his services, he finds a common thread among them: they yearn for something intangible and desperately cling to hope for finding peace.
A pair of siblings come to Huang with conflicting requests for revenge, and Huang is unable to accommodate them because they turn out to be the same heartbroken woman, scorned by Ouyang. Tony Leung Chiu Wai, who plays a blind swordsman, has a vague request for Huang which he is unable to persuade him to fulfill, and which Huang later discovers was not what it appeared to be, anyway. A woman comes to Huang, asking him to help her avenge her slain brother, but can only pay him in eggs. Another man, whom Huang subcontracts to do his dirty work, contends with his duty and his indomitable wife. All of these figures rotate around Huang, who harbors his own demons, and nurses his own broken heart and wounded pride. Wong Kar Wai's frequently used themes of loss, revelation and reflection seem so fresh and unrepetitive
For those familiar with Christopher Doyle's cinematographic style, I don't have to mention the visual splendor of the color scheme, startling landscapes and dramatic distortions. But for anyone doubting that a film like this might be worth seeing, think of it as a moving tableau. The light is positively heavy with emotion and sensuality, and everyone onscreen is so beautiful, even if not classically so. Every other review I have read, glimpsed, or heard reference to has said, even if they did not love the movie, that it is best seen on a big screen. Doyle works with images like a master violinist with his own craft. The mastery with which he and Wong Kar Wai communicate their visions is evident in how seamlessly the content and the appearance blend into a complete work of art.
I could wax poetic about this film all day, but it has already taken me far too long to write this review. Normally I'd end with a full-sized paragraph, but I just want to post this thing.
Wong Kar Wai's films are so multisensory and tapestry-like that I just want to devour them with a spoon. He and Christopher Doyle have made some of my favorite movies and when the films are over, I am as satisfied as if I had done everything I loved doing for the perfect amount of time. So it goes without saying that I was on board with this film even before seeing it. I was already convinced that I would love it, and I did no research on it beforehand so that every moment would be original and untainted by expectation or anticipation. Coming to the film was like coming to a dinner where I knew I would be served my favorite food.
I almost feel as though it's unfair for me to review this alongside any other film because it impacts me in such a personal way. Here is one of my favorite directors working with one of my favorite cinematographers and some of my favorite actors. If there are any flaws, I'd be willing to overlook them and chalk them up to character or charming imperfections, whereas any other film would get dinged for somehow dropping the ball. Luckily, there are no glaring flaws, so I didn't have to have an internal battle over how I should feel about it.
The plot is unclear, mysterious, labyrinthine. We see a man, Huang Yaoshi, who lives alone in the middle of nowhere, who is awaiting a friend of his. The friend, Ouyang Feng, comes bearing wine that makes you forget, and seems to be carrying the burden of his painful memories himself. We don't know who they are, only that Huang appears to be some kind of hitman, and his Ouyang to be pathologically attracted to and by women who are spoken for, destroying engagements as he passes. As Huang meets with other people who request his services, he finds a common thread among them: they yearn for something intangible and desperately cling to hope for finding peace.
A pair of siblings come to Huang with conflicting requests for revenge, and Huang is unable to accommodate them because they turn out to be the same heartbroken woman, scorned by Ouyang. Tony Leung Chiu Wai, who plays a blind swordsman, has a vague request for Huang which he is unable to persuade him to fulfill, and which Huang later discovers was not what it appeared to be, anyway. A woman comes to Huang, asking him to help her avenge her slain brother, but can only pay him in eggs. Another man, whom Huang subcontracts to do his dirty work, contends with his duty and his indomitable wife. All of these figures rotate around Huang, who harbors his own demons, and nurses his own broken heart and wounded pride. Wong Kar Wai's frequently used themes of loss, revelation and reflection seem so fresh and unrepetitive
For those familiar with Christopher Doyle's cinematographic style, I don't have to mention the visual splendor of the color scheme, startling landscapes and dramatic distortions. But for anyone doubting that a film like this might be worth seeing, think of it as a moving tableau. The light is positively heavy with emotion and sensuality, and everyone onscreen is so beautiful, even if not classically so. Every other review I have read, glimpsed, or heard reference to has said, even if they did not love the movie, that it is best seen on a big screen. Doyle works with images like a master violinist with his own craft. The mastery with which he and Wong Kar Wai communicate their visions is evident in how seamlessly the content and the appearance blend into a complete work of art.
I could wax poetic about this film all day, but it has already taken me far too long to write this review. Normally I'd end with a full-sized paragraph, but I just want to post this thing.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Rachel Getting Married
Dir. Jonathan Demme, 2008
The most widely advertised component of Rachel Getting Married is the acting performance of Anne Hathaway. At the movie theater, the projectionist came to the front of the auditorium and welcomed us all, told us that Hathaway's performance has been critically lauded, and that she's a shoo-in for an Oscar nomination. All of this is true, but what the media has failed to remark upon is also the strength of the rest of the cast, the excellent script, and the tactful directing. This is exactly the kind of film I love to watch, where every scene holds the possibility for something, but the movie remains unexpected.
The film opens with Anne Hathaway (not actually playing Rachel, but rather, her sister, Kym), sitting with a nurse and another patient on a bench outside. The other patient begins to whine and Kym sharply scolds him. The patient responds with malicious sarcasm, "Are you going to run someone over again, with your car?" Kym looks away quickly, scanning the horizon, and smoking her cigarette. So much is revealed in that short exchange, yet it opens up a whole universe of questions. Did she actually do this? Is she at a hospital for rehab or for an injury? Is she looking for someone? Who is Rachel, then?
As the film progresses, our questions are answered, but oh so slowly. Rachel is Kym's sister. Kym was in rehab. Kym was a model for at least some time. Kym goes to NA meetings and really, really believes in them. The plot of the film seems to move around her for the first part; she drifts into scenes and creates drama with her neediness and her wounded self image which battles her still-inflated ego. The other characters are correct in saying that Kym makes everything about herself, from taking it personally when she is neither selected to be the maid of honor due to her chronic unreliability and her "past," nor informed that Rachel and her husband-to-be, Sidney, are moving to Hawaii after their nuptials. Kym is a whirlwind of self-importance and brittleness, sharp tongue and shame.
Portrayal of family can be very hit and miss in films, though it doesn't seem like the complexity of this kind of interpersonal relationship should be so difficult. Yet I think portraying a dysfunctional family that still has a lot of affection for each other is the most challenging because it requires a sensitivity to the ways in which people who love each other can be cruel, but then make amends almost as though nothing happened. Rachel Getting Married does this without ranging into the sentimental or the improbable. Kym, Rachel, their parents and their friends are all intelligent and emotional people, but the conversation never strays into the trite or the pretentious, and the compassion that they express seems genuine. This is both testament to the writing and the acting, but the entire ensemble just brims with talent and aptitude.
As much as I enjoyed this film, it wasn't perfect. Any film laced with tragedy borders on the melodramatic at times, and this is no exception. Although, sometimes a real-life situation can be melodramatic at times, and truly, there is no other way to show a confrontation between mother and daughter than tearfully maudlin. Additionally, there is the occasional scene in the film that is meant to show the closeness and the quirkiness of the family, but they can be a little strange and a little bit long. For example, there is a scene in which Rachel's father and Sidney race to see who can load the dishwasher in two minutes with the most dishes. This scene seems hardly edited for time, and we experience every moment of that two minutes, down to the scrubbing of the platters and the re-stacking of the plates, and including the time in between the dad's and Sidney's rounds. It's kind of cute, kind of funny, and then takes a turn for the sad, but then you realize that there has been some portion of the film has been devoted to watching people load a dishwasher.
Altogether, I loved Rachel Getting Married. Anne Hathaway may have the greatest star power and therefore the loudest accolades, but Rosemarie DeWitt has gained recognition for her stint in Mad Men, and so will her marketability increase with this. It's not a film with an obvious protagonist or villain, but in it, we can see the multi-faceted nature of people who really do mean well, but say and do terrible things. It is a subject that I enjoy seeing in movies because it forces me to look beyond the forced dichotomy of good and evil that so many stories present, and most things in life are not so simple.
The most widely advertised component of Rachel Getting Married is the acting performance of Anne Hathaway. At the movie theater, the projectionist came to the front of the auditorium and welcomed us all, told us that Hathaway's performance has been critically lauded, and that she's a shoo-in for an Oscar nomination. All of this is true, but what the media has failed to remark upon is also the strength of the rest of the cast, the excellent script, and the tactful directing. This is exactly the kind of film I love to watch, where every scene holds the possibility for something, but the movie remains unexpected.
The film opens with Anne Hathaway (not actually playing Rachel, but rather, her sister, Kym), sitting with a nurse and another patient on a bench outside. The other patient begins to whine and Kym sharply scolds him. The patient responds with malicious sarcasm, "Are you going to run someone over again, with your car?" Kym looks away quickly, scanning the horizon, and smoking her cigarette. So much is revealed in that short exchange, yet it opens up a whole universe of questions. Did she actually do this? Is she at a hospital for rehab or for an injury? Is she looking for someone? Who is Rachel, then?
As the film progresses, our questions are answered, but oh so slowly. Rachel is Kym's sister. Kym was in rehab. Kym was a model for at least some time. Kym goes to NA meetings and really, really believes in them. The plot of the film seems to move around her for the first part; she drifts into scenes and creates drama with her neediness and her wounded self image which battles her still-inflated ego. The other characters are correct in saying that Kym makes everything about herself, from taking it personally when she is neither selected to be the maid of honor due to her chronic unreliability and her "past," nor informed that Rachel and her husband-to-be, Sidney, are moving to Hawaii after their nuptials. Kym is a whirlwind of self-importance and brittleness, sharp tongue and shame.
Portrayal of family can be very hit and miss in films, though it doesn't seem like the complexity of this kind of interpersonal relationship should be so difficult. Yet I think portraying a dysfunctional family that still has a lot of affection for each other is the most challenging because it requires a sensitivity to the ways in which people who love each other can be cruel, but then make amends almost as though nothing happened. Rachel Getting Married does this without ranging into the sentimental or the improbable. Kym, Rachel, their parents and their friends are all intelligent and emotional people, but the conversation never strays into the trite or the pretentious, and the compassion that they express seems genuine. This is both testament to the writing and the acting, but the entire ensemble just brims with talent and aptitude.
As much as I enjoyed this film, it wasn't perfect. Any film laced with tragedy borders on the melodramatic at times, and this is no exception. Although, sometimes a real-life situation can be melodramatic at times, and truly, there is no other way to show a confrontation between mother and daughter than tearfully maudlin. Additionally, there is the occasional scene in the film that is meant to show the closeness and the quirkiness of the family, but they can be a little strange and a little bit long. For example, there is a scene in which Rachel's father and Sidney race to see who can load the dishwasher in two minutes with the most dishes. This scene seems hardly edited for time, and we experience every moment of that two minutes, down to the scrubbing of the platters and the re-stacking of the plates, and including the time in between the dad's and Sidney's rounds. It's kind of cute, kind of funny, and then takes a turn for the sad, but then you realize that there has been some portion of the film has been devoted to watching people load a dishwasher.
Altogether, I loved Rachel Getting Married. Anne Hathaway may have the greatest star power and therefore the loudest accolades, but Rosemarie DeWitt has gained recognition for her stint in Mad Men, and so will her marketability increase with this. It's not a film with an obvious protagonist or villain, but in it, we can see the multi-faceted nature of people who really do mean well, but say and do terrible things. It is a subject that I enjoy seeing in movies because it forces me to look beyond the forced dichotomy of good and evil that so many stories present, and most things in life are not so simple.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Margot at the Wedding
Dir. Noah Baumbach, 2007
I don't really know what Noah Baumbach's deal is. I can see that he's a really weird guy, and that's his shtick, but it doesn't work every time. Now that I have seen three of his films, rather than thinking the first one that I didn't love, Kicking and Screaming, was just the odd one of a presumably successful repertoire, I can see that the one that I do love, The Squid and the Whale, is actually the odd one out of an apparently lackluster repertoire. Margot at the Wedding retained some of the sparkle of relatable humanity that was so wonderful about The Squid and the Whale, but the oddness of the characters and the disconnectedness of the scenes from one to the other were ultimately disappointing.
Nicole Kidman plays Margot, who, along with her son, Claude, goes to the sudden wedding of her sister, Pauline, played by Jennifer Jason Leigh. The two sisters are sharp and witty, but with different outlooks on life: Margot is a pessimist and Pauline is an optimist. Margot's "still got it," and Pauline thinks she needs to just take what she can get. Each sister's respective children have more in common with each other than the actual siblings do. While at first we are unclear why Margot would go such a distance for a wedding she was predisposed to disapprove of, we soon realize that she was promoting a book, arranging a tryst with a neighbor, and running away from her husband, who is never portrayed as anything less than a decent guy.
Pauline, on the other hand, reveals that she is pregnant, which is why she has chosen to leap into matrimony with Malcolm (Jack Black). Malcolm is chronically unemployed, disgruntled, immature and has other unspeakable issues. He and Margot cannot hide their contempt for each other, though Claude and Malcolm get along quite well. Claude is sadly torn between his loyalty for his mother and his sympathy for his aunt, whom he cannot see as the fool that Margot describes her to be. Preparations for the wedding include some friendly moments which someone's hissy fit inevitably ruins, or screaming matches that we wonder will ever get resolved.
I'm not sure which, if any, of the characters are meant to be sympathetic. Pauline starts out as the obvious choice for her sweet desperation, but then she proves to be just another Dumb Girl. Malcolm seemed like a poor old slob until you learn that his behavior is morally reprehensible. Margot somewhat earns our sympathy for being so emotionally cut off and unable to deal with her own self-loathing that she projects onto everyone else, but her words are so unpleasant that while I could intellectually feel for her, I know I would absolutely despise her if she actually existed. This leaves Claude, the unfortunate recipient of a broken home and a confused pre-adolescence. Perhaps someone with a similarly dysfunctional upbringing could relate more to him on a personal level, but I had difficulty overcoming his weirdness.
In The Squid and the Whale, the similarly pre-adolescent Frank has a similar oddness that he expresses in public sexuality and binge drinking. His parents are like Margot in that they are very intellectual and literary, and emotionally incapable of an appropriate relationship with anyone. These adults are developmentally stunted and have not taught their children any useful tools for existing in society. And yet Frank is more believable than Claude, more understandable and more sympathetic. Perhaps it is because he has a bigger role that he is allowed more screen time to develop more layers of personality, or perhaps it is because the words that Frank and his parents exchange seem more like realistic words than those between Claude and Margot. It seems as though Noah Baumbach took his good ideas in Squid and looked through his emotional thesaurus to find an equivalent, but as we all know, synonyms don't have the exact same meanings or implications as the original word.
I really wanted to like this film, nay, love it. The Squid and the Whale was full of such bittersweet humanity that watching it was like inspecting a fine gem and being blown away by the intricacies. Margot at the Wedding was too similar to not be compared, but too different exist alongside as an equal piece of art. While I have heard that Baumbach drew strongly from his own life for Squid, I can believe that he was a really weird kid who felt alienated from his peers because of his uniquely screwed up home life. While Frank made me want to give him a hug and buy him a sandwich, I just wanted to keep an eye on Claude and to make sure he didn't break anything or steal my underwear. It is a subtle difference between the two films, and a subtle departure that makes one excellent and the other middling. Repetition of theme, and overuse of device? That is a large part of it, but the rest may just be physical exhaustion from such exposure to irreparably weird people.
I don't really know what Noah Baumbach's deal is. I can see that he's a really weird guy, and that's his shtick, but it doesn't work every time. Now that I have seen three of his films, rather than thinking the first one that I didn't love, Kicking and Screaming, was just the odd one of a presumably successful repertoire, I can see that the one that I do love, The Squid and the Whale, is actually the odd one out of an apparently lackluster repertoire. Margot at the Wedding retained some of the sparkle of relatable humanity that was so wonderful about The Squid and the Whale, but the oddness of the characters and the disconnectedness of the scenes from one to the other were ultimately disappointing.
Nicole Kidman plays Margot, who, along with her son, Claude, goes to the sudden wedding of her sister, Pauline, played by Jennifer Jason Leigh. The two sisters are sharp and witty, but with different outlooks on life: Margot is a pessimist and Pauline is an optimist. Margot's "still got it," and Pauline thinks she needs to just take what she can get. Each sister's respective children have more in common with each other than the actual siblings do. While at first we are unclear why Margot would go such a distance for a wedding she was predisposed to disapprove of, we soon realize that she was promoting a book, arranging a tryst with a neighbor, and running away from her husband, who is never portrayed as anything less than a decent guy.
Pauline, on the other hand, reveals that she is pregnant, which is why she has chosen to leap into matrimony with Malcolm (Jack Black). Malcolm is chronically unemployed, disgruntled, immature and has other unspeakable issues. He and Margot cannot hide their contempt for each other, though Claude and Malcolm get along quite well. Claude is sadly torn between his loyalty for his mother and his sympathy for his aunt, whom he cannot see as the fool that Margot describes her to be. Preparations for the wedding include some friendly moments which someone's hissy fit inevitably ruins, or screaming matches that we wonder will ever get resolved.
I'm not sure which, if any, of the characters are meant to be sympathetic. Pauline starts out as the obvious choice for her sweet desperation, but then she proves to be just another Dumb Girl. Malcolm seemed like a poor old slob until you learn that his behavior is morally reprehensible. Margot somewhat earns our sympathy for being so emotionally cut off and unable to deal with her own self-loathing that she projects onto everyone else, but her words are so unpleasant that while I could intellectually feel for her, I know I would absolutely despise her if she actually existed. This leaves Claude, the unfortunate recipient of a broken home and a confused pre-adolescence. Perhaps someone with a similarly dysfunctional upbringing could relate more to him on a personal level, but I had difficulty overcoming his weirdness.
In The Squid and the Whale, the similarly pre-adolescent Frank has a similar oddness that he expresses in public sexuality and binge drinking. His parents are like Margot in that they are very intellectual and literary, and emotionally incapable of an appropriate relationship with anyone. These adults are developmentally stunted and have not taught their children any useful tools for existing in society. And yet Frank is more believable than Claude, more understandable and more sympathetic. Perhaps it is because he has a bigger role that he is allowed more screen time to develop more layers of personality, or perhaps it is because the words that Frank and his parents exchange seem more like realistic words than those between Claude and Margot. It seems as though Noah Baumbach took his good ideas in Squid and looked through his emotional thesaurus to find an equivalent, but as we all know, synonyms don't have the exact same meanings or implications as the original word.
I really wanted to like this film, nay, love it. The Squid and the Whale was full of such bittersweet humanity that watching it was like inspecting a fine gem and being blown away by the intricacies. Margot at the Wedding was too similar to not be compared, but too different exist alongside as an equal piece of art. While I have heard that Baumbach drew strongly from his own life for Squid, I can believe that he was a really weird kid who felt alienated from his peers because of his uniquely screwed up home life. While Frank made me want to give him a hug and buy him a sandwich, I just wanted to keep an eye on Claude and to make sure he didn't break anything or steal my underwear. It is a subtle difference between the two films, and a subtle departure that makes one excellent and the other middling. Repetition of theme, and overuse of device? That is a large part of it, but the rest may just be physical exhaustion from such exposure to irreparably weird people.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
W.
Dir. Oliver Stone, 2008
I had no intention of seeing this film until about two weeks ago. It's hard to say what exactly changed that influenced my decision, but I think that my masochistic streak must have gone into gear. As someone who likes neither George W. Bush nor Oliver Stone, I figured there would be nothing in it for me, except to be possibly be annoyed, or to reaffirm my pre-existing feelings. Then, I thought it might be an important film to see for the awards season so that I would have my own opinion of the film and the performances. I found that while I by no means loved the film, and my views of Bush are neither changed nor augmented, it was interesting and ambitious, with some good ideas mixed in among expected weaknesses.
It was brave of Stone to make a film about a president while he is still in office, not only for the criticism it will inspire, but because of the fact-checking required to assure that it is not a work of pure fiction. I have neither the time nor the inclination to research things about Bush's past and present to make sure that Stone did not take liberties, but I suppose it cannot be avoided. The film covers W.'s life from when he was a fraternity pledge at Yale to the end of his first term in 2004. The history behind the man and the administration years are inter-cut together to show both Bush's upbringing and the result at the same time. In the end, this makes a it film built on dichotomy: on opposing sides, opposing views, and opposing goals. At times this works well, and at other times, it appears to be two films battling against each other.
In documenting Bush's early life, Stone portrays W. as a good ole boy, not particularly bright, but definitely personable. He lives his whole life in the shadow of his accomplished father, whom you may recognize as George Herbert Walker Bush, or "Poppy." Whenever W. wants something done, his father pulls whatever strings he can to make it happen, but the result is bittersweet: the victory is tainted by the shame that W. didn't do it all his own, and that his brother, Jeb, could have. Poppy's opinion of his son is that he should work for his living, but is willing to enable his slacking if it means saving the face of the Bush family name. W.'s inferiority complex leads him to plow through meaningless jobs, a marriage proposal he regrets, and a failed congressional election. Only in his governorship and his presidential election was he able to prove that he could pull himself up by his own bootstraps, but Poppy is always quick to chastise him for poor timing, or for stealing Jeb's thunder.
As leader of the free world, President W. is battling with his cabinet for how to best justify to the American people the decision to invade Iraq despite no tangible proof of WMDs, or reliable reports about Saddam Hussein's purchase of yellow cake Uranium from Niger. It is a political drama involving heated debates around ovular tables, punctuated by moments of prayer, and campaign strategists working to properly word speeches and press releases and fact-checking with world leaders and journalists. In this segment, W. is not sympathetic at all; his upbringing contextualizes his need to definitively capture Saddam Hussein and to tie al-Qaeda to Iraq to accomplish what Operation Desert Storm did not, but a few cautioning words from Colin Powell and smarmy speeches by Dick Cheney indicate that Stone believes that these are ill-chosen decisions and represent Bush's misguided and sinister presidency.
In describing it this way, it hardly seems like one film at all. Stone does not smoothly reconcile the early years with the later years, except to contrast the one from the other. While we can believe that Early W. and Present W. are the same person, all that Stone does to build W. up as a sympathetic figure, always seeking his father's approval is ultimately torn down by his depiction of W. as bumbling, tongue-tied, and taking direction from his Vice President. The Bushisms are expected, but they are not funny anymore given how often they are quoted in calendars, Newsweek, and the internet. When Stone chose to turn the tone from humanizing to ridiculing, I was less able to see characters, but rather actors doing impressions. I can see what his intent with the film was, and it was clever, but one of Oliver Stone's major flaws is his lack of subtlety. Had he allowed for a more neutral middle ground in the two approaches to W.'s life story so that they wouldn't appear so separate, the film would have been more successful.
When the casting for W. was first announced, I was pretty puzzled. Josh Brolin seemed far too beefy, Elizabeth Banks far too pretty, and Thandie Newton far too sweet for their respective roles of George W. Bush, Laura Bush and Condoleezza Rice. On the other hand, Jeffrey Wright as Powell, James Cromwell as George H.W. Bush, and Ellen Burstyn as Barbara Bush seemed well-chosen. The film held surprises, both pleasant and not. Brolin was quite good, and by the end, had perfected W.'s voice so well, that I was unsure to whom I was listening when he was giving speeches. Newton's portrayal of Rice was unflattering and a bit distracting in the way that her speech was so affected, and her face so wrenched up in a grimace. I didn't know that Richard Dreyfus had been cast as Cheney, and I was pleased to see him again, although a bit unsettled at hearing such poisonous words come out of such a differently familiar face. As a sort of sideways homage to The Daily Show, noted political satirist Rob Corddry unexpectedly comes in as Ari Fleischer.
Along with Stanley Weiser's commendable script, Oliver Stone puts together a commendable film. For the most part, it is interesting to watch and it is important as a historical artifact for what some people's perceptions of the administration is and has been. However, Stone was fighting a battle already in choosing such contemporary subject matter, and that has limited him in the scope of the film. Because I know that Bush is still in office and was re-elected in the 2004 election, I was unsure when the film would actually end. For the last six or seven scenes, I was sure it would be over, and then I was surprised that it went on. Who is to say that in the last two and a half months of George W. Bush's presidency, something noteworthy may happen, worth mentioning in a film? That would perhaps make for a more natural story arc.
I had no intention of seeing this film until about two weeks ago. It's hard to say what exactly changed that influenced my decision, but I think that my masochistic streak must have gone into gear. As someone who likes neither George W. Bush nor Oliver Stone, I figured there would be nothing in it for me, except to be possibly be annoyed, or to reaffirm my pre-existing feelings. Then, I thought it might be an important film to see for the awards season so that I would have my own opinion of the film and the performances. I found that while I by no means loved the film, and my views of Bush are neither changed nor augmented, it was interesting and ambitious, with some good ideas mixed in among expected weaknesses.
It was brave of Stone to make a film about a president while he is still in office, not only for the criticism it will inspire, but because of the fact-checking required to assure that it is not a work of pure fiction. I have neither the time nor the inclination to research things about Bush's past and present to make sure that Stone did not take liberties, but I suppose it cannot be avoided. The film covers W.'s life from when he was a fraternity pledge at Yale to the end of his first term in 2004. The history behind the man and the administration years are inter-cut together to show both Bush's upbringing and the result at the same time. In the end, this makes a it film built on dichotomy: on opposing sides, opposing views, and opposing goals. At times this works well, and at other times, it appears to be two films battling against each other.
In documenting Bush's early life, Stone portrays W. as a good ole boy, not particularly bright, but definitely personable. He lives his whole life in the shadow of his accomplished father, whom you may recognize as George Herbert Walker Bush, or "Poppy." Whenever W. wants something done, his father pulls whatever strings he can to make it happen, but the result is bittersweet: the victory is tainted by the shame that W. didn't do it all his own, and that his brother, Jeb, could have. Poppy's opinion of his son is that he should work for his living, but is willing to enable his slacking if it means saving the face of the Bush family name. W.'s inferiority complex leads him to plow through meaningless jobs, a marriage proposal he regrets, and a failed congressional election. Only in his governorship and his presidential election was he able to prove that he could pull himself up by his own bootstraps, but Poppy is always quick to chastise him for poor timing, or for stealing Jeb's thunder.
As leader of the free world, President W. is battling with his cabinet for how to best justify to the American people the decision to invade Iraq despite no tangible proof of WMDs, or reliable reports about Saddam Hussein's purchase of yellow cake Uranium from Niger. It is a political drama involving heated debates around ovular tables, punctuated by moments of prayer, and campaign strategists working to properly word speeches and press releases and fact-checking with world leaders and journalists. In this segment, W. is not sympathetic at all; his upbringing contextualizes his need to definitively capture Saddam Hussein and to tie al-Qaeda to Iraq to accomplish what Operation Desert Storm did not, but a few cautioning words from Colin Powell and smarmy speeches by Dick Cheney indicate that Stone believes that these are ill-chosen decisions and represent Bush's misguided and sinister presidency.
In describing it this way, it hardly seems like one film at all. Stone does not smoothly reconcile the early years with the later years, except to contrast the one from the other. While we can believe that Early W. and Present W. are the same person, all that Stone does to build W. up as a sympathetic figure, always seeking his father's approval is ultimately torn down by his depiction of W. as bumbling, tongue-tied, and taking direction from his Vice President. The Bushisms are expected, but they are not funny anymore given how often they are quoted in calendars, Newsweek, and the internet. When Stone chose to turn the tone from humanizing to ridiculing, I was less able to see characters, but rather actors doing impressions. I can see what his intent with the film was, and it was clever, but one of Oliver Stone's major flaws is his lack of subtlety. Had he allowed for a more neutral middle ground in the two approaches to W.'s life story so that they wouldn't appear so separate, the film would have been more successful.
When the casting for W. was first announced, I was pretty puzzled. Josh Brolin seemed far too beefy, Elizabeth Banks far too pretty, and Thandie Newton far too sweet for their respective roles of George W. Bush, Laura Bush and Condoleezza Rice. On the other hand, Jeffrey Wright as Powell, James Cromwell as George H.W. Bush, and Ellen Burstyn as Barbara Bush seemed well-chosen. The film held surprises, both pleasant and not. Brolin was quite good, and by the end, had perfected W.'s voice so well, that I was unsure to whom I was listening when he was giving speeches. Newton's portrayal of Rice was unflattering and a bit distracting in the way that her speech was so affected, and her face so wrenched up in a grimace. I didn't know that Richard Dreyfus had been cast as Cheney, and I was pleased to see him again, although a bit unsettled at hearing such poisonous words come out of such a differently familiar face. As a sort of sideways homage to The Daily Show, noted political satirist Rob Corddry unexpectedly comes in as Ari Fleischer.
Along with Stanley Weiser's commendable script, Oliver Stone puts together a commendable film. For the most part, it is interesting to watch and it is important as a historical artifact for what some people's perceptions of the administration is and has been. However, Stone was fighting a battle already in choosing such contemporary subject matter, and that has limited him in the scope of the film. Because I know that Bush is still in office and was re-elected in the 2004 election, I was unsure when the film would actually end. For the last six or seven scenes, I was sure it would be over, and then I was surprised that it went on. Who is to say that in the last two and a half months of George W. Bush's presidency, something noteworthy may happen, worth mentioning in a film? That would perhaps make for a more natural story arc.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Choke
Dir. Clark Gregg, 2008
When I first saw Fight Club, it was so new and exciting and original. That edgy, gritty, yet polished style of moviemaking hadn't yet quite taken off, and the plot was engrossing and surprising. It motivated me to dive into the writing of Chuck Palahniuk to see what this guy was actually like. The book, Fight Club, was fun, and I read it with relish. I was pleased that the film adapted it so closely, and it may be one of the few films that actually surpasses the original book in quality. After that, I read Survivor, which I thought was an even better book, but that I wish I had read first. Because the styles of the two books were so similar, even though Survivor was great, it felt stale and repetitive. I figured that I shouldn't read another Chuck Palahniuk book, because I would probably find it even more stale, and I wasn't in the mood to confirm this.
In case you weren't following, I haven't read Choke. But I feel that my initial fears about reading another Palahniuk were reflected in my viewing of the film, Choke in that I was mostly entertained but the pattern of the events was so reminiscent of the other two stories that it wasn't quite fresh. Palahniuk is intrigued by the depraved, perverted anti-hero who steals hearts and finds an equally enigmatic woman to share his bizarre existence with. In Fight Club, it was Tyler and Marla. In Survivor, it was Tender and Fertility. In Choke, it's Victor and Paige.
So Victor, living what can only be the result of an immensely screwed-up childhood, works as a "historical interpreter" (models as a 17th century colonial for tour groups), goes to regular sex addicts anonymous meetings (but is definitely off the wagon - or is it on?), and makes a pittance in sympathy checks from wealthy men in restaurants who save him from choking. His mother, who neglected him as a child, is living in a nursing home and is suffering from either Alzheimer's or dementia, it is not quite clear. The question of Victor's birth father comes up, and his mother's doctor, Paige, translates her diary to find that some rather startling revelations. Without giving the hook away, Victor's perspective on himself and his mother changes somewhat, and he begins to search for something more substantial without really knowing what that is.
This film is crude, dark, and not particularly funny, but whether it is my own dark side or my continued fascination with Palahniuk's style, I did not dislike it. It is difficult to pinpoint exactly what I liked about it, though a large part is probably that I quite like the actors. Anjelica Huston plays Victor's ailing mother with a frightening tact reminiscent of both Etheline Tenenbaum and the Grand High Witch in The Witches. I've always enjoyed Sam Rockwell and Kelly MacDonald (even though, as a friend of mine once pointed out, in her film roles, she always "gets fucked"), and there are some fun little cameos from people whose faces I recognize but could never for the life of me place.
I was disappointed, actually, that it was not as funny as I'd hoped it would be. I laughed a couple of times, and there were certainly no jokes that were over my head, but that's about it. The script is ultimately a little formulaic, with no unique flair. Clark Gregg clearly believed that the plot of the film is all it would take to captivate an audience, and that the book contained enough quirks to possibly carry over into the film. I suppose he was right, since I remained entertained, but I was hoping for something unique, like a cutting-edge soundtrack or ballsy performance, as Fight Club had to keep it relevant and re-watchable. My review is coming out more negative than I expected. Sometimes, I guess mediocrity can be okay.
The arc of a Palahniuk story is irresistible, and somehow restores my faith in the fact that I'm a decent person, because I'm nothing like these guys. This very concept is not enough to carry an entire literary work, and so I have no plans to revisit those books, or any new ones. It is unlikely that I see another film based on one of these books either, because its novelty will surely wane, and I doubt that I will need the regular reaffirmation of my relative morality. For now, Choke gets a pass, but I won't be seeing it again.
When I first saw Fight Club, it was so new and exciting and original. That edgy, gritty, yet polished style of moviemaking hadn't yet quite taken off, and the plot was engrossing and surprising. It motivated me to dive into the writing of Chuck Palahniuk to see what this guy was actually like. The book, Fight Club, was fun, and I read it with relish. I was pleased that the film adapted it so closely, and it may be one of the few films that actually surpasses the original book in quality. After that, I read Survivor, which I thought was an even better book, but that I wish I had read first. Because the styles of the two books were so similar, even though Survivor was great, it felt stale and repetitive. I figured that I shouldn't read another Chuck Palahniuk book, because I would probably find it even more stale, and I wasn't in the mood to confirm this.
In case you weren't following, I haven't read Choke. But I feel that my initial fears about reading another Palahniuk were reflected in my viewing of the film, Choke in that I was mostly entertained but the pattern of the events was so reminiscent of the other two stories that it wasn't quite fresh. Palahniuk is intrigued by the depraved, perverted anti-hero who steals hearts and finds an equally enigmatic woman to share his bizarre existence with. In Fight Club, it was Tyler and Marla. In Survivor, it was Tender and Fertility. In Choke, it's Victor and Paige.
So Victor, living what can only be the result of an immensely screwed-up childhood, works as a "historical interpreter" (models as a 17th century colonial for tour groups), goes to regular sex addicts anonymous meetings (but is definitely off the wagon - or is it on?), and makes a pittance in sympathy checks from wealthy men in restaurants who save him from choking. His mother, who neglected him as a child, is living in a nursing home and is suffering from either Alzheimer's or dementia, it is not quite clear. The question of Victor's birth father comes up, and his mother's doctor, Paige, translates her diary to find that some rather startling revelations. Without giving the hook away, Victor's perspective on himself and his mother changes somewhat, and he begins to search for something more substantial without really knowing what that is.
This film is crude, dark, and not particularly funny, but whether it is my own dark side or my continued fascination with Palahniuk's style, I did not dislike it. It is difficult to pinpoint exactly what I liked about it, though a large part is probably that I quite like the actors. Anjelica Huston plays Victor's ailing mother with a frightening tact reminiscent of both Etheline Tenenbaum and the Grand High Witch in The Witches. I've always enjoyed Sam Rockwell and Kelly MacDonald (even though, as a friend of mine once pointed out, in her film roles, she always "gets fucked"), and there are some fun little cameos from people whose faces I recognize but could never for the life of me place.
I was disappointed, actually, that it was not as funny as I'd hoped it would be. I laughed a couple of times, and there were certainly no jokes that were over my head, but that's about it. The script is ultimately a little formulaic, with no unique flair. Clark Gregg clearly believed that the plot of the film is all it would take to captivate an audience, and that the book contained enough quirks to possibly carry over into the film. I suppose he was right, since I remained entertained, but I was hoping for something unique, like a cutting-edge soundtrack or ballsy performance, as Fight Club had to keep it relevant and re-watchable. My review is coming out more negative than I expected. Sometimes, I guess mediocrity can be okay.
The arc of a Palahniuk story is irresistible, and somehow restores my faith in the fact that I'm a decent person, because I'm nothing like these guys. This very concept is not enough to carry an entire literary work, and so I have no plans to revisit those books, or any new ones. It is unlikely that I see another film based on one of these books either, because its novelty will surely wane, and I doubt that I will need the regular reaffirmation of my relative morality. For now, Choke gets a pass, but I won't be seeing it again.
Miracle at St. Anna
Dir. Spike Lee, 2008
I have a lot of respect for Spike Lee. He is a very clever director, and one that always makes me think. I know that when I see one of his films, it won't do to check my brain at the door; I have to be fully engaged. I love this. I love a director who challenges conventions and conventional thought, and who clearly invests a lot of himself in all of his films so that you know that he never just makes a movie to raise money for the next one. For this, I was looking forward to Miracle at St. Anna. If I didn't love the movie, I knew that it would at least affect me on a more profound level. I did not anticipate the fact that the movie, while thought-provoking and paradigm-shifting, would actually have a few structural faults.
The film starts off in the noir fashion: the camera crawling through a harshly lit hallway, with the sound of a movie playing in the background. We see the main character, Hector Negron, watching The Longest Day and responding to John Wayne as though in personal conversation with him. Cut to Negron at his job in a bank. He is mechanical in his duties until a familiar face comes to his window. In apparent cold blood, he shoots the man with a German luger, and, impervious to the panic and uproar around him, calmly drops the gun, and closes his window. The police can't figure out why an upstanding citizen, decorated war hero, and otherwise unproblematic man would commit such a crime. Finally, we get the whole story when Negron flashes back through his history; the only hint he gives to a reporter is the mention of the "Sleeping Man."
This intriguing introduction sets the scene for a film that, ultimately, is nothing like that. The noir aspects from that point on are completely absent. The writing then takes a turn for both the brutally dramatic and silly. After a devastating attack on the WWII Buffalo Soldiers and a betrayal by their own white commanding officer, the four surviving soldiers plod through a sort of slapstick, sarcastic plot wherein they make fun of each other and find the little boy, Angelo, who will follow them throughout the remainder of their journey. This mood, too, will not continue beyond this gathering of scenes, and about an hour and a half into the film entire do we realize exactly what kind of movie this is.
It is, ultimately, a sort of supernatural tale of magical leaps of faith and human interaction. Angelo proves to be quite a remarkable boy, with instinct like a cat. The townspeople in the little Florentine village where the soldier quartet find themselves have experienced a sort of miracle of electricity that they attribute to having somehow pleased the nearby mountain known as the Sleeping Man. Tragic events ensue and befall all characters involved, and eventually, through a series of entirely unlikely and, dare I say it, miraculous events, we understand the motive behind Hector Negron's seemingly cold blooded murder.
Each of these component parts would make an interesting film on their own, and it's almost like they were separate films. However, there is little except continuity of characters to tie the three portions together. It is as though the final idea of the film was never quite fully figured out, or that the footage for each of these parts pleased Lee and the crew so much that they didn't wish to alter them to make the film more cohesive. Whatever the reason was, it felt rather disjointed.
This is not to say that it is a bad film. The attention to detail is quite remarkable, from recurring themes to the sets, and the acting on the part of everyone involved is above par. Some of the loveliest parts of the film are the interactions between the main characters; that sentiment of tough-love brotherhood, affection and disgust at the same time. Some big actors play some very small parts, which are fun, but then it's a little boggling that they pretty much disappear entirely.
As with many of Spike Lee's films, his credo, "by any means necessary" comes into play. He appears to truly believe that violence can be justified if the ends are worthwhile. I don't know how fully I believe in this notion, but my personal history is quite different from that of Lee, and of many other people who believe as he does. Oftentimes, as I watch his films, I have difficulty reconciling my beliefs on violence with the point of view that he presents. He makes a convincing argument for why it was necessary for Negron to kill this man the very moment he laid eyes on him, nearly 40 years after the war ended, as he makes a good case for violence or uprising in other films. However, that element just doesn't completely sit right with me all the time, so much of my viewing experience is combating cognitive dissonance.
I look forward to every Spike Lee film that comes out, and even if I don't like it, I always take something away from it. He likes to present unique perspectives on history and society, often at the expense of the audience's comfort level. There were protestations in Europe against his choices in Miracle at St. Anna because it did not portray the Italian resistance in an overall positive way. For cinematic effect, surely, he chose to stretch the truth of the circumstances behind the titular "miracle" at Sant'Anna. While I often dislike when filmmakers take liberties with historic events for the sake of good cinema, without the events being what they were, without that element of subversiveness and scandal, it would simply not be a Spike Lee film.
I have a lot of respect for Spike Lee. He is a very clever director, and one that always makes me think. I know that when I see one of his films, it won't do to check my brain at the door; I have to be fully engaged. I love this. I love a director who challenges conventions and conventional thought, and who clearly invests a lot of himself in all of his films so that you know that he never just makes a movie to raise money for the next one. For this, I was looking forward to Miracle at St. Anna. If I didn't love the movie, I knew that it would at least affect me on a more profound level. I did not anticipate the fact that the movie, while thought-provoking and paradigm-shifting, would actually have a few structural faults.
The film starts off in the noir fashion: the camera crawling through a harshly lit hallway, with the sound of a movie playing in the background. We see the main character, Hector Negron, watching The Longest Day and responding to John Wayne as though in personal conversation with him. Cut to Negron at his job in a bank. He is mechanical in his duties until a familiar face comes to his window. In apparent cold blood, he shoots the man with a German luger, and, impervious to the panic and uproar around him, calmly drops the gun, and closes his window. The police can't figure out why an upstanding citizen, decorated war hero, and otherwise unproblematic man would commit such a crime. Finally, we get the whole story when Negron flashes back through his history; the only hint he gives to a reporter is the mention of the "Sleeping Man."
This intriguing introduction sets the scene for a film that, ultimately, is nothing like that. The noir aspects from that point on are completely absent. The writing then takes a turn for both the brutally dramatic and silly. After a devastating attack on the WWII Buffalo Soldiers and a betrayal by their own white commanding officer, the four surviving soldiers plod through a sort of slapstick, sarcastic plot wherein they make fun of each other and find the little boy, Angelo, who will follow them throughout the remainder of their journey. This mood, too, will not continue beyond this gathering of scenes, and about an hour and a half into the film entire do we realize exactly what kind of movie this is.
It is, ultimately, a sort of supernatural tale of magical leaps of faith and human interaction. Angelo proves to be quite a remarkable boy, with instinct like a cat. The townspeople in the little Florentine village where the soldier quartet find themselves have experienced a sort of miracle of electricity that they attribute to having somehow pleased the nearby mountain known as the Sleeping Man. Tragic events ensue and befall all characters involved, and eventually, through a series of entirely unlikely and, dare I say it, miraculous events, we understand the motive behind Hector Negron's seemingly cold blooded murder.
Each of these component parts would make an interesting film on their own, and it's almost like they were separate films. However, there is little except continuity of characters to tie the three portions together. It is as though the final idea of the film was never quite fully figured out, or that the footage for each of these parts pleased Lee and the crew so much that they didn't wish to alter them to make the film more cohesive. Whatever the reason was, it felt rather disjointed.
This is not to say that it is a bad film. The attention to detail is quite remarkable, from recurring themes to the sets, and the acting on the part of everyone involved is above par. Some of the loveliest parts of the film are the interactions between the main characters; that sentiment of tough-love brotherhood, affection and disgust at the same time. Some big actors play some very small parts, which are fun, but then it's a little boggling that they pretty much disappear entirely.
As with many of Spike Lee's films, his credo, "by any means necessary" comes into play. He appears to truly believe that violence can be justified if the ends are worthwhile. I don't know how fully I believe in this notion, but my personal history is quite different from that of Lee, and of many other people who believe as he does. Oftentimes, as I watch his films, I have difficulty reconciling my beliefs on violence with the point of view that he presents. He makes a convincing argument for why it was necessary for Negron to kill this man the very moment he laid eyes on him, nearly 40 years after the war ended, as he makes a good case for violence or uprising in other films. However, that element just doesn't completely sit right with me all the time, so much of my viewing experience is combating cognitive dissonance.
I look forward to every Spike Lee film that comes out, and even if I don't like it, I always take something away from it. He likes to present unique perspectives on history and society, often at the expense of the audience's comfort level. There were protestations in Europe against his choices in Miracle at St. Anna because it did not portray the Italian resistance in an overall positive way. For cinematic effect, surely, he chose to stretch the truth of the circumstances behind the titular "miracle" at Sant'Anna. While I often dislike when filmmakers take liberties with historic events for the sake of good cinema, without the events being what they were, without that element of subversiveness and scandal, it would simply not be a Spike Lee film.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Xanadu
Dir. Robert Greenwald, 1980
It is difficult to explain the appeal of musicals to someone who is either unfamiliar with the medium, not particularly receptive to it, or socially conditioned to believe it is stupid and therefore a waste of time. Musicals contain a unique intersection of whimsy, improbability, hokeyness and entertainment that may seem overwhelming, though one or two of those elements at a time may be perfectly manageable. Fundamentally, musicals exist as a fantastic diversion from reality to a world where everyone knows the words and the dances, or to provide a unique perspective on a social issue placed in an operatic context. For some, it just doesn't work. For me, however, it is the ultimate guilty pleasure.
I had heard about Xanadu multiple times from my old friend, the internet, usually in a joke about bad acting, Olivia Newton John, or having hair reminiscent of a sex toy. Yes, the movie contains all of these things. It is a fabulous display of the 1980's view of modernity and the classics, mixed with recurring roller skating and sass talk. Simply put, Sonny (Michael Beck) is an unsuccessful painter who runs into Kira (Olivia Newton John) when contemplating the purpose of his life. Kira turns out to be one of the Greek muses, and helps Sonny and his geriatric friend Danny (THE Gene Kelly) create a time-warping nightclub called Xanadu. Kira then argues with her parents (presumably Zeus and Hera) and gets to stay on earth forever and ever to be with Sonny. The end, hallelujah.
But the genius is in the details. As I was watching this ridiculous film (streaming from IMDb - and you can too!), I was overcome with a rush like the first time I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show or Plan 9 From Outer Space: I was witnessing immortalized camp. This was a cultural milestone, completely comfortable in its relative mediocrity, striving for one kind of success but achieving another entirely. Did the filmmakers know that they were creating a terrible movie? I'm inclined to think not, but they did know that Olivia Newton John would essentially carry the movie on her own, and she is a rather flimsy actress. Did they know that it would not only become a cult classic, but an icon of gay culture? Surely not.
The swanky Sonny, who backtalks his boss, is apparently a babe magnet, and meets music legends on the beach, is not as attractive as he is a good backdrop for Kira and her glowing blonde hair. Perhaps he was meant to be a heartthrob for female viewers, and I can't say how many women in 1980 were actually attracted to him, but to me, he was far too reminiscent of Andy Samberg. It's really all about Olivia. She doesn't have the sassy fabulousness of Dr. Frankenfurter or other cult legends, but her magnetic singing voice and Australian charm is enough for some. She beams with sparkling white teeth, roller skates around in chaste white dress and ribbons in her hair, and in the final scene, where she sings the award-winning song "Xanadu," she makes an astonishing 4 costume changes spanning from disco queen to her childish Muse getup.
What really immortalizes Xanadu are the weird, avant-garde moments. There is a scene when they are preparing for the club Xanadu's opening night, and Gene Kelly goes to a trendy clothing shop to try on some sharp new duds. The music montage involves the height of early 80's fashion, and some strange items that nobody has probably ever worn, including the above spiderweb-themed cocktail dresses and catsuits. In another scene, there is a battle of the bands between a 1940's-style swing group and an extremely of-the-minute synth rock band, complete with Devo-esque jumpsuits and flailing limbs. At first, it seems a discordant melange marked by completely different styles of suggestive dancing and sequins, but then the two musical styles blend together so perfectly that one begins to believe that maybe these guys actually had something in mind when they orchestrated that weird, weird scene.
This is not a movie that you either like or don't like. You either love it or you think it's crap. Or both! I fully realize that it is a crappy movie, utter crap, but it is so great. All parties involved act atrociously, and the million-plus dollars they spent on the Xanadu club set was largely wasted, because it really just looked like a gratuitous birthday cake of a set with blinking lights and rotating stages. But at the same time, there are moments of bizarre genius that make it all so glorious. It truly deserves the cult status that it has attained, and was truly enjoyable to watch, in all of its campy glory.
It is difficult to explain the appeal of musicals to someone who is either unfamiliar with the medium, not particularly receptive to it, or socially conditioned to believe it is stupid and therefore a waste of time. Musicals contain a unique intersection of whimsy, improbability, hokeyness and entertainment that may seem overwhelming, though one or two of those elements at a time may be perfectly manageable. Fundamentally, musicals exist as a fantastic diversion from reality to a world where everyone knows the words and the dances, or to provide a unique perspective on a social issue placed in an operatic context. For some, it just doesn't work. For me, however, it is the ultimate guilty pleasure.
I had heard about Xanadu multiple times from my old friend, the internet, usually in a joke about bad acting, Olivia Newton John, or having hair reminiscent of a sex toy. Yes, the movie contains all of these things. It is a fabulous display of the 1980's view of modernity and the classics, mixed with recurring roller skating and sass talk. Simply put, Sonny (Michael Beck) is an unsuccessful painter who runs into Kira (Olivia Newton John) when contemplating the purpose of his life. Kira turns out to be one of the Greek muses, and helps Sonny and his geriatric friend Danny (THE Gene Kelly) create a time-warping nightclub called Xanadu. Kira then argues with her parents (presumably Zeus and Hera) and gets to stay on earth forever and ever to be with Sonny. The end, hallelujah.
But the genius is in the details. As I was watching this ridiculous film (streaming from IMDb - and you can too!), I was overcome with a rush like the first time I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show or Plan 9 From Outer Space: I was witnessing immortalized camp. This was a cultural milestone, completely comfortable in its relative mediocrity, striving for one kind of success but achieving another entirely. Did the filmmakers know that they were creating a terrible movie? I'm inclined to think not, but they did know that Olivia Newton John would essentially carry the movie on her own, and she is a rather flimsy actress. Did they know that it would not only become a cult classic, but an icon of gay culture? Surely not.
The swanky Sonny, who backtalks his boss, is apparently a babe magnet, and meets music legends on the beach, is not as attractive as he is a good backdrop for Kira and her glowing blonde hair. Perhaps he was meant to be a heartthrob for female viewers, and I can't say how many women in 1980 were actually attracted to him, but to me, he was far too reminiscent of Andy Samberg. It's really all about Olivia. She doesn't have the sassy fabulousness of Dr. Frankenfurter or other cult legends, but her magnetic singing voice and Australian charm is enough for some. She beams with sparkling white teeth, roller skates around in chaste white dress and ribbons in her hair, and in the final scene, where she sings the award-winning song "Xanadu," she makes an astonishing 4 costume changes spanning from disco queen to her childish Muse getup.
What really immortalizes Xanadu are the weird, avant-garde moments. There is a scene when they are preparing for the club Xanadu's opening night, and Gene Kelly goes to a trendy clothing shop to try on some sharp new duds. The music montage involves the height of early 80's fashion, and some strange items that nobody has probably ever worn, including the above spiderweb-themed cocktail dresses and catsuits. In another scene, there is a battle of the bands between a 1940's-style swing group and an extremely of-the-minute synth rock band, complete with Devo-esque jumpsuits and flailing limbs. At first, it seems a discordant melange marked by completely different styles of suggestive dancing and sequins, but then the two musical styles blend together so perfectly that one begins to believe that maybe these guys actually had something in mind when they orchestrated that weird, weird scene.
This is not a movie that you either like or don't like. You either love it or you think it's crap. Or both! I fully realize that it is a crappy movie, utter crap, but it is so great. All parties involved act atrociously, and the million-plus dollars they spent on the Xanadu club set was largely wasted, because it really just looked like a gratuitous birthday cake of a set with blinking lights and rotating stages. But at the same time, there are moments of bizarre genius that make it all so glorious. It truly deserves the cult status that it has attained, and was truly enjoyable to watch, in all of its campy glory.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Female Trouble
Dir. John Waters, 1974
Female Trouble was John Waters' follow-up film to Pink Flamingos, and he employs largely the same cast in similar roles. What differentiates the two films are their focus: Pink Flamingos is clearly about the lows of society and the limitations of cinema and decency, whereas Female Trouble is a feminist film, crassly defending the struggle of women through over-the-top scenarios. It's comical, but the notion is out there that views of women are somewhat tainted by societal norms rather than the content of women's character.
Divine again plays the heroine, Dawn Davenport, a juvenile delinquent who gets knocked up by Earl (also played by Divine; a funny "go fuck yourself" moment) and runs away to Baltimore. There she pays her dues to society starting off as a waitress, then a burlesque dancer, and finally a prostitute and petty thief. She leads a miserable single life with her irritable child, Taffy (played by Mink Stole, whom I love more daily), until she marries Gater, a straight hairdresser who lives next door with his heterophobic Aunt Ida (the inimitable Edith Massey). Then, she is miserable and married with only her ostentatious salon hairstyles to make her happy.
The owners of the hair salon, the Dashers, take notice of Dawn's "unique" beauty and make an offer for her to model for them while enhancing her loveliness with criminal behavior. The Dashers photograph Dawn while she robs houses, beats her daughter, and breaks things in her house. When she kicks Gater out of the house, Aunt Ida comes storming in and throws acid into Dawn's face. She is terribly disfigured, but the Dashers believe this only adds to her beauty. They book her a performing gig where she executes all kinds of repulsive acts, including rubbing dead fish on herself and shooting a member of the audience. Dawn is so wrapped up in her fame and notoriety that she crows about her infamy through her friends' treachery and her eventual dismal end.
Waters holds the female condition near to his heart in this film. At the start, audiences will identify with Dawn as she sasses back to her teacher, smokes in the bathroom, and throws a tantrum when she doesn't get cha-cha heels for Christmas. As she struggles to make ends meet doing a variety of odd (and odder) jobs, the audience may feel sympathy for her. Only when the typical vulgarity of Divine's persona starts to shine through do audiences realize that this has all been a ruse to conjure up some feelings for Dawn Davenport before exploiting her before wealthy opportunists and the media circus. Were it not for Divine's extra-cinematic fame, the audience might have fully invested in the well-being of this girl, but because it is also a cynical romp, we are one step removed.
As this removed audience, even though we feel for Dawn, we still want to know what kind of hijinks she gets into, and we hope to be wowed, grossed out, and offended. Dawn will always remain more an object than a true female heroine, a vehicle for humiliation more than a figure living the American dream. But while audiences of the 1970's could detach from this film as fiction, it was a time when women were still seen as objects for men's amusement, and didn't garner the same respect as men in social issues and the workplace. Feminism had taken huge strides since the early 1960's, but there was still domestic inequity and, to this day, women get paid less than men for comparable jobs.
Perhaps Waters' message was intentional, perhaps not. I have heard him speak, however, and he is quite an intelligent person, so I would not deny him that insight. He is cited as having his finger on the pulse of contemporary society, and of understanding the basest aspects of human nature better than most. Female Trouble might seem like an ironic title at first, but it is very particularly selected. The troubles don't necessarily belong to the main female in the film, rather, it is about the trouble people have with reconciling females as equal citizens, and the disconnect between realizing that the objectification of a film character may not be so different from someone's home situation.
Female Trouble was John Waters' follow-up film to Pink Flamingos, and he employs largely the same cast in similar roles. What differentiates the two films are their focus: Pink Flamingos is clearly about the lows of society and the limitations of cinema and decency, whereas Female Trouble is a feminist film, crassly defending the struggle of women through over-the-top scenarios. It's comical, but the notion is out there that views of women are somewhat tainted by societal norms rather than the content of women's character.
Divine again plays the heroine, Dawn Davenport, a juvenile delinquent who gets knocked up by Earl (also played by Divine; a funny "go fuck yourself" moment) and runs away to Baltimore. There she pays her dues to society starting off as a waitress, then a burlesque dancer, and finally a prostitute and petty thief. She leads a miserable single life with her irritable child, Taffy (played by Mink Stole, whom I love more daily), until she marries Gater, a straight hairdresser who lives next door with his heterophobic Aunt Ida (the inimitable Edith Massey). Then, she is miserable and married with only her ostentatious salon hairstyles to make her happy.
The owners of the hair salon, the Dashers, take notice of Dawn's "unique" beauty and make an offer for her to model for them while enhancing her loveliness with criminal behavior. The Dashers photograph Dawn while she robs houses, beats her daughter, and breaks things in her house. When she kicks Gater out of the house, Aunt Ida comes storming in and throws acid into Dawn's face. She is terribly disfigured, but the Dashers believe this only adds to her beauty. They book her a performing gig where she executes all kinds of repulsive acts, including rubbing dead fish on herself and shooting a member of the audience. Dawn is so wrapped up in her fame and notoriety that she crows about her infamy through her friends' treachery and her eventual dismal end.
Waters holds the female condition near to his heart in this film. At the start, audiences will identify with Dawn as she sasses back to her teacher, smokes in the bathroom, and throws a tantrum when she doesn't get cha-cha heels for Christmas. As she struggles to make ends meet doing a variety of odd (and odder) jobs, the audience may feel sympathy for her. Only when the typical vulgarity of Divine's persona starts to shine through do audiences realize that this has all been a ruse to conjure up some feelings for Dawn Davenport before exploiting her before wealthy opportunists and the media circus. Were it not for Divine's extra-cinematic fame, the audience might have fully invested in the well-being of this girl, but because it is also a cynical romp, we are one step removed.
As this removed audience, even though we feel for Dawn, we still want to know what kind of hijinks she gets into, and we hope to be wowed, grossed out, and offended. Dawn will always remain more an object than a true female heroine, a vehicle for humiliation more than a figure living the American dream. But while audiences of the 1970's could detach from this film as fiction, it was a time when women were still seen as objects for men's amusement, and didn't garner the same respect as men in social issues and the workplace. Feminism had taken huge strides since the early 1960's, but there was still domestic inequity and, to this day, women get paid less than men for comparable jobs.
Perhaps Waters' message was intentional, perhaps not. I have heard him speak, however, and he is quite an intelligent person, so I would not deny him that insight. He is cited as having his finger on the pulse of contemporary society, and of understanding the basest aspects of human nature better than most. Female Trouble might seem like an ironic title at first, but it is very particularly selected. The troubles don't necessarily belong to the main female in the film, rather, it is about the trouble people have with reconciling females as equal citizens, and the disconnect between realizing that the objectification of a film character may not be so different from someone's home situation.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Tropic Thunder
Dir. Ben Stiller, 2008
Dear Ben Stiller,
I must congratulate you on your triumphant return to cinema after your last film, The Heartbreak Kid, which earned a Rotten Tomatoes score of 30%. Your recent run of movies has been pretty uninteresting and uninspiring, which is the most polite way to put it. In fact, not since Keeping the Faith has the idea of you being in a movie not totally turned me off to the point of revulsion. When I heard you actually directed Tropic Thunder, I was pretty surprised. Not very optimistic, but surprised.
I consider your best work to be the stoic Chas Tenenbaum, whose humor came from the completely deadpan delivery of your comically tragic lines. This works so well for you, and you did it again in the aforementioned Keeping the Faith, although it was not nearly as good a movie. So with Tropic Thunder, even though your role is anything but subtle, you finally own up to the goofball throwaway actor that you actually appear to be most of the time. (I am sorry, but your father is a lot funnier.) In this film, you seem to embrace your own mediocrity and to the role that you inevitably play in the Hollywood circus: the clown.
Tropic Thunder did not look like a good film at first glance. In fact, after seeing the trailer about twenty times, I was convinced it was the next of a string of disposable gross-out humor flicks like the Farrelly Brothers are prone to making. It was only after people that I truly respected said that it was actually a funny movie, full of Hollywood inside jokes, that I came to look at it differently. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was actually a very detailed satire of the Hollywood machine, a very complex set up with every stereotype imaginable illustrated in unforgiving clarity. Right off the bat, with the fake movie trailers for actors Tugg Speedman, Kirk Lazarus and Jeff Portnoy, the scene is set for the audience to take in the spectacle of a good, old-fashioned parody.
Seeing this movie so soon after Hamlet 2 was weird and gratifying, because I had just described Steve Coogan's career of self-deprecating roles. In this film, he plays another such loser, a weak first-time director on an out of control movie set. Robert Downey, Jr., as Kirk Lazarus, the Australian, multi-Oscar winning method actor is brilliant, as is Brandon Jackson as Alpa Chino, the rap artist-turned-actor who is at constant odds with Lazarus who is portraying an African-American soldier. Jack Black is still annoying, although here it works, since his character is an annoying comedy actor of vulgar proportions. But it is you, Ben Stiller, as Tugg Speedman, the lousy action star who finds his inner dramatic actor, who makes an interesting point.
You really do play two roles, Ben Stiller. Sometimes you are Tugg, even though you do not actually have the career of an action star, though Tugg's struggle to win an Oscar and prevent himself from going "full retard" might very well be your own struggle. But your role as yourself is substantially present as well. Your name is sloshed around the credits far too generously, even if you did put a lot of work into it. The credits for director, writer, producer, and actor are surely merited, but is it really necessary to top it all off with "A Ben Stiller Film?" I would argue that it is necessary if the point you are making is that the farce continues into real life as well. Having gratuitous credits is very much the M.O. of an overblown egomaniac. Which I would not be surprised to learn that you are.
In sum, the film is a fine one. It is funny and clever, possibly too clever for its own good. I loved most things about it, though there is an obvious over-the-top-ness that will never be absent from films starring you, Jack Black, and Danny McBride (who also does a good job, and is much less annoying than in Pineapple Express). War films are sacred in Hollywood, and it was a clever setting for the ultimate "in-your-face!" gag. At times your douchery was a bit strong, and if I never hear Jack Black make another oral sex joke again, I would be all too pleased. So carry on, and stop returning the Farrelly brothers' phone calls. It'll do you some good.
Dear Ben Stiller,
I must congratulate you on your triumphant return to cinema after your last film, The Heartbreak Kid, which earned a Rotten Tomatoes score of 30%. Your recent run of movies has been pretty uninteresting and uninspiring, which is the most polite way to put it. In fact, not since Keeping the Faith has the idea of you being in a movie not totally turned me off to the point of revulsion. When I heard you actually directed Tropic Thunder, I was pretty surprised. Not very optimistic, but surprised.
I consider your best work to be the stoic Chas Tenenbaum, whose humor came from the completely deadpan delivery of your comically tragic lines. This works so well for you, and you did it again in the aforementioned Keeping the Faith, although it was not nearly as good a movie. So with Tropic Thunder, even though your role is anything but subtle, you finally own up to the goofball throwaway actor that you actually appear to be most of the time. (I am sorry, but your father is a lot funnier.) In this film, you seem to embrace your own mediocrity and to the role that you inevitably play in the Hollywood circus: the clown.
Tropic Thunder did not look like a good film at first glance. In fact, after seeing the trailer about twenty times, I was convinced it was the next of a string of disposable gross-out humor flicks like the Farrelly Brothers are prone to making. It was only after people that I truly respected said that it was actually a funny movie, full of Hollywood inside jokes, that I came to look at it differently. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was actually a very detailed satire of the Hollywood machine, a very complex set up with every stereotype imaginable illustrated in unforgiving clarity. Right off the bat, with the fake movie trailers for actors Tugg Speedman, Kirk Lazarus and Jeff Portnoy, the scene is set for the audience to take in the spectacle of a good, old-fashioned parody.
Seeing this movie so soon after Hamlet 2 was weird and gratifying, because I had just described Steve Coogan's career of self-deprecating roles. In this film, he plays another such loser, a weak first-time director on an out of control movie set. Robert Downey, Jr., as Kirk Lazarus, the Australian, multi-Oscar winning method actor is brilliant, as is Brandon Jackson as Alpa Chino, the rap artist-turned-actor who is at constant odds with Lazarus who is portraying an African-American soldier. Jack Black is still annoying, although here it works, since his character is an annoying comedy actor of vulgar proportions. But it is you, Ben Stiller, as Tugg Speedman, the lousy action star who finds his inner dramatic actor, who makes an interesting point.
You really do play two roles, Ben Stiller. Sometimes you are Tugg, even though you do not actually have the career of an action star, though Tugg's struggle to win an Oscar and prevent himself from going "full retard" might very well be your own struggle. But your role as yourself is substantially present as well. Your name is sloshed around the credits far too generously, even if you did put a lot of work into it. The credits for director, writer, producer, and actor are surely merited, but is it really necessary to top it all off with "A Ben Stiller Film?" I would argue that it is necessary if the point you are making is that the farce continues into real life as well. Having gratuitous credits is very much the M.O. of an overblown egomaniac. Which I would not be surprised to learn that you are.
In sum, the film is a fine one. It is funny and clever, possibly too clever for its own good. I loved most things about it, though there is an obvious over-the-top-ness that will never be absent from films starring you, Jack Black, and Danny McBride (who also does a good job, and is much less annoying than in Pineapple Express). War films are sacred in Hollywood, and it was a clever setting for the ultimate "in-your-face!" gag. At times your douchery was a bit strong, and if I never hear Jack Black make another oral sex joke again, I would be all too pleased. So carry on, and stop returning the Farrelly brothers' phone calls. It'll do you some good.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Hamlet 2
Dir. Andrew Fleming, 2008
This movie. Let me tell you about this movie. There is so much to say, and even though I saw this five days ago, I am still forming the words because this movie just evokes such a range of emotions from me. To save you from reading all the way through before getting to my final conclusion (which I may change my mind about once I get to the end of this article) I should say that I loved it. Not every minute of it, but it is so brilliant. I was pretty lucky to have seen no trailers, no posters, and to go into the film with only the slightest hint of what it was about, plus riding my fascination with Steve Coogan's career.
Steve Coogan is an actor who is charmingly aware of his irrelevance in the entertainment world, and of the overblown importance that we give to the entertainment field. The projects he chooses often feature him playing himself, but a loser version with an inflated sense of self-importance. That, or a character with the apparent awareness that he is a parody of himself. In 24 Hour Party People, Coogan plays a Tony Wilson (legendary record label owner) that is constantly talking to the camera about his portrayal of the real events in the film. In Tristram Shandy, he plays himself as the star of the film based on the un-filmable novel, and is the admittedly weakest member of the cast. These examples from his filmography are a major reason why I was so attracted to this film, and would not rest until I saw it.
In Hamlet 2, Coogan plays Dana Marschz, a washed up "actor" teaching drama in Tucson, AZ. The first minutes of the film show some footage of commercials from Marschz's erstwhile career with Coogan's giant toothy grin hawking the Magic Bullet and herpes medication, paired with dramatic voice-over by someone who sounds exactly like Jeremy Irons. It starts the film off with such a bang that I nearly squealed with excitement at what greatness I could be witnessing. Rather than simply teaching drama to a couple of schmaltzy, overeager thespians, some disaffected roughs join the class because of the dissolution of elective programs due to budget cuts. At the provocation of a wry sophomore journalist, Marschz decides to put on an original play rather than an adapted one (the last of which was Erin Brockovich), and reinvents Hamlet with time travel, forgiveness, Jesus, and musical numbers involving the harrowing experience of getting raped in the face. (It's about his relationship with his father.) Needless to say, nobody wants him to put this show on, and staging it becomes a struggle of epic proportions.
Abortions of cinema like Meet the Spartans ultimately fail because the filmmakers don't understand the line between imitation and parody. Movies of that kind simply imitate other films, piling pop-culture references upon each other until the result is a completely meaningless string of profanity and gross-out "humor." Hamlet 2 is an excellent example of parody gone so, so right. The film pokes fun at the Inspirational Teacher movie so blatantly that Marschz tries to engage the class by asking if anyone has seen Mr. Holland's Opus. More than just name-drop, later in the film, at the peak moment where The Quiet One gives the Get Off Your Ass Speech and says "carpe diem," Marschz desperately whimpers "That's from Dead Poets Society!" as though that was the culmination of all of his effort.
But, like good parody, Hamlet 2 brings so much more to the genres satirized here. The film is so self-aware that every known actor in the film plays a meta-parody of his- or herself. For example, Elisabeth Shue plays Elisabeth Shue, a "retired" actress working as a nurse in a fertility clinic; Steve Coogan reprises the aforementioned role of the hapless, talentless loser; Catherine Keener plays the devious bitch from the Being John Malkovich era; and David Arquette plays the role he was meant for: the impossibly dumb, clueless roommate. The less known actors play archetypal roles (the rabid drama types, the gangsta who's an amazing actor with disapproving parents, etc.) with such flair, you'd think it was completely original. Even the voice of Jeremy Irons (if it is actually him) is such the perfect choice for the narration of something overblown and dramatic.
Where the movie does not always succeed, however, is in overall execution. Occasionally, the jokes are a little too easy and too crass for how utterly brilliant the rest of it is. Amy Poehler (unfortunately, the weakest part of this ensemble) enters as the ACLU agent hired to protect Marschz's freedom to put on his play, and drops the most baffling line: "I have nothing to lose, I'm married to a Jew." Normally an epithet of this type doesn't bother me, even if I belong to the scorned demographic. There is clearly a reference here that I am missing, because it seems like the line is just thrown in to complete the offensive spectrum, even though it is not clever at all. While there are some parts that are so split-second hilarious, like Marschz's theatrical jump-kick to reveal a flash of unclothed genitals (to the horror of the high school class before him), there are also many parts that are so bluntly slapstick (like repeated head injuries to the same Quiet Student) that I wonder if the two writers simply didn't collaborate much. I wonder if the good stuff came from Pam Brady, writer for South Park, or from director Andrew Fleming, whose last notable work was Nancy Drew.
I am willing to forgive those lapses in cleverness and funniness for the overall success of the film. I knew so little about it going in that I could only be impressed, and I was. It is one of the better comedies of the year, and the only one that comes to mind that actually made me laugh out loud recently. If the ultimate goal of a comedy is to make someone as picky and uptight as me actually laugh by my own accord rather than riding the wave of paroxysmal audiences, then Hamlet 2 passes with flying colors. Dare I even say, I would see it again.
This movie. Let me tell you about this movie. There is so much to say, and even though I saw this five days ago, I am still forming the words because this movie just evokes such a range of emotions from me. To save you from reading all the way through before getting to my final conclusion (which I may change my mind about once I get to the end of this article) I should say that I loved it. Not every minute of it, but it is so brilliant. I was pretty lucky to have seen no trailers, no posters, and to go into the film with only the slightest hint of what it was about, plus riding my fascination with Steve Coogan's career.
Steve Coogan is an actor who is charmingly aware of his irrelevance in the entertainment world, and of the overblown importance that we give to the entertainment field. The projects he chooses often feature him playing himself, but a loser version with an inflated sense of self-importance. That, or a character with the apparent awareness that he is a parody of himself. In 24 Hour Party People, Coogan plays a Tony Wilson (legendary record label owner) that is constantly talking to the camera about his portrayal of the real events in the film. In Tristram Shandy, he plays himself as the star of the film based on the un-filmable novel, and is the admittedly weakest member of the cast. These examples from his filmography are a major reason why I was so attracted to this film, and would not rest until I saw it.
In Hamlet 2, Coogan plays Dana Marschz, a washed up "actor" teaching drama in Tucson, AZ. The first minutes of the film show some footage of commercials from Marschz's erstwhile career with Coogan's giant toothy grin hawking the Magic Bullet and herpes medication, paired with dramatic voice-over by someone who sounds exactly like Jeremy Irons. It starts the film off with such a bang that I nearly squealed with excitement at what greatness I could be witnessing. Rather than simply teaching drama to a couple of schmaltzy, overeager thespians, some disaffected roughs join the class because of the dissolution of elective programs due to budget cuts. At the provocation of a wry sophomore journalist, Marschz decides to put on an original play rather than an adapted one (the last of which was Erin Brockovich), and reinvents Hamlet with time travel, forgiveness, Jesus, and musical numbers involving the harrowing experience of getting raped in the face. (It's about his relationship with his father.) Needless to say, nobody wants him to put this show on, and staging it becomes a struggle of epic proportions.
Abortions of cinema like Meet the Spartans ultimately fail because the filmmakers don't understand the line between imitation and parody. Movies of that kind simply imitate other films, piling pop-culture references upon each other until the result is a completely meaningless string of profanity and gross-out "humor." Hamlet 2 is an excellent example of parody gone so, so right. The film pokes fun at the Inspirational Teacher movie so blatantly that Marschz tries to engage the class by asking if anyone has seen Mr. Holland's Opus. More than just name-drop, later in the film, at the peak moment where The Quiet One gives the Get Off Your Ass Speech and says "carpe diem," Marschz desperately whimpers "That's from Dead Poets Society!" as though that was the culmination of all of his effort.
But, like good parody, Hamlet 2 brings so much more to the genres satirized here. The film is so self-aware that every known actor in the film plays a meta-parody of his- or herself. For example, Elisabeth Shue plays Elisabeth Shue, a "retired" actress working as a nurse in a fertility clinic; Steve Coogan reprises the aforementioned role of the hapless, talentless loser; Catherine Keener plays the devious bitch from the Being John Malkovich era; and David Arquette plays the role he was meant for: the impossibly dumb, clueless roommate. The less known actors play archetypal roles (the rabid drama types, the gangsta who's an amazing actor with disapproving parents, etc.) with such flair, you'd think it was completely original. Even the voice of Jeremy Irons (if it is actually him) is such the perfect choice for the narration of something overblown and dramatic.
Where the movie does not always succeed, however, is in overall execution. Occasionally, the jokes are a little too easy and too crass for how utterly brilliant the rest of it is. Amy Poehler (unfortunately, the weakest part of this ensemble) enters as the ACLU agent hired to protect Marschz's freedom to put on his play, and drops the most baffling line: "I have nothing to lose, I'm married to a Jew." Normally an epithet of this type doesn't bother me, even if I belong to the scorned demographic. There is clearly a reference here that I am missing, because it seems like the line is just thrown in to complete the offensive spectrum, even though it is not clever at all. While there are some parts that are so split-second hilarious, like Marschz's theatrical jump-kick to reveal a flash of unclothed genitals (to the horror of the high school class before him), there are also many parts that are so bluntly slapstick (like repeated head injuries to the same Quiet Student) that I wonder if the two writers simply didn't collaborate much. I wonder if the good stuff came from Pam Brady, writer for South Park, or from director Andrew Fleming, whose last notable work was Nancy Drew.
I am willing to forgive those lapses in cleverness and funniness for the overall success of the film. I knew so little about it going in that I could only be impressed, and I was. It is one of the better comedies of the year, and the only one that comes to mind that actually made me laugh out loud recently. If the ultimate goal of a comedy is to make someone as picky and uptight as me actually laugh by my own accord rather than riding the wave of paroxysmal audiences, then Hamlet 2 passes with flying colors. Dare I even say, I would see it again.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Dir. Woody Allen, 2008
The Woody Allen machine is, alas, a trainwreck. The tragedy of it all is that he is a director that, deep down, I respect and admire for the majority of his body of work. His films have made me laugh, cry and think, in addition to rendering me embarrassed, annoyed and disappointed. But with this new film, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, a new emotion seeps from my loins: disgust. I had hoped it would be at least as good as Deconstructing Harry, or, more optimistically, Match Point, but I had long given up the expectation of seeing another Manhattan, or even Mighty Aphrodite. This film is by far my least favorite of his, and I've seen The Curse of the Jade Scorpion, Small Time Crooks and Hollywood Ending.
Woody (I feel we're old friends by now, so I can be familiar) chooses the overused plot device of two college-aged girls on vacation in a foreign country, where they will do new and different things that will change their lives. Usually you can find that setup in a horror film where the life-changing event is death or mutilation. Maybe that would have made Vicky Cristina Barcelona more interesting, rather than having the two girls pretentiously explore sex, Spaniards, and art. Vicky (Rebecca Hall) is the more straitlaced of the two, engaged to be married and stridently pursuing a master's degree in Catalan identity. Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) is a "free spirit" (kill me for using that term), unsure of what she wants, but only certain of what she doesn't want. Wah, wah, wah. The two girls meet Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem), a not-subtly-so fiery Spanish painter who invites them for a debauched weekend out of town so he can make love to both of them. For reasons that only a work of fiction can devise, they agree.
Cristina, content to leap into bed with Juan Antonio immediately, is sold on the dramatic lifestyle of an artist. Vicky attempts to keep her head but is seduced by the torrid painter over a private guitar concert. While Juan Antonio shacks up with Cristina, Vicky marries her fiancé but pines theatrically while gazing over picturesque Barcelona landscapes. Then, in the midst of Juan Antonio and Cristina's cohabitational bliss, in sweeps Maria Elena (Penelope Cruz), J.A.'s suicidal ex-wife, who at first schizophrenically mistrusts and threatens Cristina, but then joins their conjugal life in a supposed perfect tripod of mutual love.
The story is so insipid that it's embarrassing so spend so much time on it, but clearly Woody is so proud of his decisions that just in case we didn't catch it, he assigns a dull and obvious voice-over narration to fill in all the spaces between dialogue. At some points, the level of detail in the voice-over is even insulting; for example, when Juan Antonio gets a phone call in the middle of the night and rushes out to the hospital, the narrator says, "Juan Antonio ran out in the middle of the night and raced over to the hospital." I can't, for the life of me, understand why Woody thought his film needed so much narration. Perhaps what he really wants to do is write a book, but feels his time is finite, so why not stick as many words in one two-hour space as possible?
While watching the film, I tried hard to enjoy it, either by taking in the sweeping shots of Gaudi's architecture or the sensuous way that the light ripples off of Javier Bardem's unusual features. But the first moments of real entertainment came with the introduction of Maria Elena. While her character was not particular original, Penelope Cruz fully commits herself to the role, and manages to breathe some much-needed life into the film. In non-Spanish films, she is usually pretty bland, but I was very impressed that she could carry it off in a way that made it seem like her character was not actually as cookie-cutter as it was probably written.
I cannot say the same for any of the other performances, however. It is a shame, because I already know that Javier Bardem is an excellent actor, and I've liked the little I have seen of Rebecca Hall. (I now also know that Lost in Translation aside, Scarlett Johansson is simply not a very good actress, so I didn't expect much and didn't get it.) While the actors get the facial expressions right, every word that comes out of their mouths loses all credibility because they deliver their lines like Woody Allen himself. In his early films, Woody's neurotic stammer immortalized his Lower East Side persona, but with his words in other people's mouths, it seems much too much like he is vainly attempting to turn his cast into his protégés. I can just see him yelling, "cut!" mid-scene and pulling Rebecca Hall aside, saying, "Look, you're doing great, but you're saying your lines too clearly. Throw some stutter in there so that we know you're thinking about things while you're talking. Make us believe that you're a little neurotic. Make us believe that you're unsure of yourself."
I can't imagine going back to a time before I'd seen any of Woody's other films, so I can't imagine how this film must come across to those unfamiliar with his work. Do I only dislike this film because I know it's so much worse than his others? The things I do not like about it probably only bother me so much because I know that Woody is better than this. Perhaps some viewers would be excited by the prospect of an onscreen threesome, and are appeased by a "hot" darkroom scene, but I don't go to the cinema to see dispassionate same-sex kisses. I didn't expect much from this cast and crew, but I was unprepared to see the lowest common denominator from all involved, Penelope Cruz excepted. What should have at least been a decent diversion turned out to be more like a pretentious college drama production.
The Woody Allen machine is, alas, a trainwreck. The tragedy of it all is that he is a director that, deep down, I respect and admire for the majority of his body of work. His films have made me laugh, cry and think, in addition to rendering me embarrassed, annoyed and disappointed. But with this new film, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, a new emotion seeps from my loins: disgust. I had hoped it would be at least as good as Deconstructing Harry, or, more optimistically, Match Point, but I had long given up the expectation of seeing another Manhattan, or even Mighty Aphrodite. This film is by far my least favorite of his, and I've seen The Curse of the Jade Scorpion, Small Time Crooks and Hollywood Ending.
Woody (I feel we're old friends by now, so I can be familiar) chooses the overused plot device of two college-aged girls on vacation in a foreign country, where they will do new and different things that will change their lives. Usually you can find that setup in a horror film where the life-changing event is death or mutilation. Maybe that would have made Vicky Cristina Barcelona more interesting, rather than having the two girls pretentiously explore sex, Spaniards, and art. Vicky (Rebecca Hall) is the more straitlaced of the two, engaged to be married and stridently pursuing a master's degree in Catalan identity. Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) is a "free spirit" (kill me for using that term), unsure of what she wants, but only certain of what she doesn't want. Wah, wah, wah. The two girls meet Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem), a not-subtly-so fiery Spanish painter who invites them for a debauched weekend out of town so he can make love to both of them. For reasons that only a work of fiction can devise, they agree.
Cristina, content to leap into bed with Juan Antonio immediately, is sold on the dramatic lifestyle of an artist. Vicky attempts to keep her head but is seduced by the torrid painter over a private guitar concert. While Juan Antonio shacks up with Cristina, Vicky marries her fiancé but pines theatrically while gazing over picturesque Barcelona landscapes. Then, in the midst of Juan Antonio and Cristina's cohabitational bliss, in sweeps Maria Elena (Penelope Cruz), J.A.'s suicidal ex-wife, who at first schizophrenically mistrusts and threatens Cristina, but then joins their conjugal life in a supposed perfect tripod of mutual love.
The story is so insipid that it's embarrassing so spend so much time on it, but clearly Woody is so proud of his decisions that just in case we didn't catch it, he assigns a dull and obvious voice-over narration to fill in all the spaces between dialogue. At some points, the level of detail in the voice-over is even insulting; for example, when Juan Antonio gets a phone call in the middle of the night and rushes out to the hospital, the narrator says, "Juan Antonio ran out in the middle of the night and raced over to the hospital." I can't, for the life of me, understand why Woody thought his film needed so much narration. Perhaps what he really wants to do is write a book, but feels his time is finite, so why not stick as many words in one two-hour space as possible?
While watching the film, I tried hard to enjoy it, either by taking in the sweeping shots of Gaudi's architecture or the sensuous way that the light ripples off of Javier Bardem's unusual features. But the first moments of real entertainment came with the introduction of Maria Elena. While her character was not particular original, Penelope Cruz fully commits herself to the role, and manages to breathe some much-needed life into the film. In non-Spanish films, she is usually pretty bland, but I was very impressed that she could carry it off in a way that made it seem like her character was not actually as cookie-cutter as it was probably written.
I cannot say the same for any of the other performances, however. It is a shame, because I already know that Javier Bardem is an excellent actor, and I've liked the little I have seen of Rebecca Hall. (I now also know that Lost in Translation aside, Scarlett Johansson is simply not a very good actress, so I didn't expect much and didn't get it.) While the actors get the facial expressions right, every word that comes out of their mouths loses all credibility because they deliver their lines like Woody Allen himself. In his early films, Woody's neurotic stammer immortalized his Lower East Side persona, but with his words in other people's mouths, it seems much too much like he is vainly attempting to turn his cast into his protégés. I can just see him yelling, "cut!" mid-scene and pulling Rebecca Hall aside, saying, "Look, you're doing great, but you're saying your lines too clearly. Throw some stutter in there so that we know you're thinking about things while you're talking. Make us believe that you're a little neurotic. Make us believe that you're unsure of yourself."
I can't imagine going back to a time before I'd seen any of Woody's other films, so I can't imagine how this film must come across to those unfamiliar with his work. Do I only dislike this film because I know it's so much worse than his others? The things I do not like about it probably only bother me so much because I know that Woody is better than this. Perhaps some viewers would be excited by the prospect of an onscreen threesome, and are appeased by a "hot" darkroom scene, but I don't go to the cinema to see dispassionate same-sex kisses. I didn't expect much from this cast and crew, but I was unprepared to see the lowest common denominator from all involved, Penelope Cruz excepted. What should have at least been a decent diversion turned out to be more like a pretentious college drama production.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Pink Flamingos
Dir. John Waters, 1972
In 1964 Justice Potter Stewart officially stated that obscenity is impossible to define, but added, "I know it when I see it." He was referring to what is protected under the first amendment, and his statement officiously took the power out of the hands of moviemakers and artists; judgment of their art would be at the discretion of the authorities. The very same year, Susan Sontag wrote "Notes on Camp," wherein she defines camp through a list of examples, exceptions and anecdotes. Camp, like obscenity, belongs to the realm of the intangible and unspecific.
Along comes the 1970's, and with it came a new face in cinema. If there was ever a person who wanted to put a fine point on both camp and obscenity, it is John Waters. With his films that seem to portray the absolute worst of society, he lays the foundation for the Church of Camp, and the Camp Bible is none other than Pink Flamingos. In this film, he pushes the boundaries of what is acceptable, what is tolerable, and what you can portray in film. Pink Flamingos is not his first film, but it is the first that is readily available with Netflix. It is also arguably his most well-known and notorious film, which people discuss in shocked whispers. "This is the one where Divine eats shit!" "This is the one where she puts a steak under her skirt!" "This is the one with the Egg Man!"
There is actually a plot here, but it's so improbable that it only serves to provide an excuse for showing some of the most outrageous acts committed to film. Divine, John Waters' muse and the queen of camp herself, is hailed in the local paper as the "filthiest person alive," much to the chagrin of the local filth, Connie and Raymond Marble (played by Waters regulars Mink Stole and David Lochary). They take it upon themselves to usurp the title from Divine at any cost, which starts a war of filth and licentiousness, and which Divine predictably wins. There are other characters, Divine's entourage and the servants that the Marbles employ to do their dirty work, but it is Edith Massey's role as Edie, Divine's mother and egg enthusiast, who gives the most memorable performance. Who, having seen this film, can forget the be-girdled woman in the playpen, bleating for "Mr. Egg Man?" Kudos to John Waters for realizing that eggs are the most disgusting food ever to be binge-eaten.
While 1970's film had taken great strides in breaking cultural norms and depicting things that had previously been considered taboo, Pink Flamingos took it to a whole new level. Other films were fiercely anti-war, toying with political disaffection and breaking down sexual mores, but this one depicted absolutely everything that people had not yet wanted to face. Public murder, cannibalism, incest, rape, mutilation, animal cruelty, voyeurism, exhibitionism, fetishism, and that's just off the top of my head. It was extremely controversial, protested by almost every single political advocacy group, and was banned in several countries. On top of it, Waters added a very ironic, bubble-gum pop soundtrack, with such hits as "The Girl Can't Help It," "(How Much is) That Doggie in the Window," and "I'm Not A Juvenile Delinquent," which play over various acts of lewdness and vulgarity.
John Waters knew exactly what he was doing in making this film. He employs all sorts of cinematic devices to get his point across, from the aforementioned irony, to his encyclopedic knowledge of film clichés to abuse and exploit. At one point, he even breaks down the 4th wall, referring to Divine as not only playing the character of the Filthiest Person Alive, but actually being the Filthiest Actress Alive, when she famously eats the dog feces. He made quite possibly the filthiest film ever made, and he could very well be the filthiest director alive. But you have to know the rules to break them, and he takes obscenity and camp to the far reaches of the imagination, doing better to define them than any theoretician ever could. The country may not like it, but John Waters made his impression on American society in a way that could never be reversed.
In 1964 Justice Potter Stewart officially stated that obscenity is impossible to define, but added, "I know it when I see it." He was referring to what is protected under the first amendment, and his statement officiously took the power out of the hands of moviemakers and artists; judgment of their art would be at the discretion of the authorities. The very same year, Susan Sontag wrote "Notes on Camp," wherein she defines camp through a list of examples, exceptions and anecdotes. Camp, like obscenity, belongs to the realm of the intangible and unspecific.
Along comes the 1970's, and with it came a new face in cinema. If there was ever a person who wanted to put a fine point on both camp and obscenity, it is John Waters. With his films that seem to portray the absolute worst of society, he lays the foundation for the Church of Camp, and the Camp Bible is none other than Pink Flamingos. In this film, he pushes the boundaries of what is acceptable, what is tolerable, and what you can portray in film. Pink Flamingos is not his first film, but it is the first that is readily available with Netflix. It is also arguably his most well-known and notorious film, which people discuss in shocked whispers. "This is the one where Divine eats shit!" "This is the one where she puts a steak under her skirt!" "This is the one with the Egg Man!"
There is actually a plot here, but it's so improbable that it only serves to provide an excuse for showing some of the most outrageous acts committed to film. Divine, John Waters' muse and the queen of camp herself, is hailed in the local paper as the "filthiest person alive," much to the chagrin of the local filth, Connie and Raymond Marble (played by Waters regulars Mink Stole and David Lochary). They take it upon themselves to usurp the title from Divine at any cost, which starts a war of filth and licentiousness, and which Divine predictably wins. There are other characters, Divine's entourage and the servants that the Marbles employ to do their dirty work, but it is Edith Massey's role as Edie, Divine's mother and egg enthusiast, who gives the most memorable performance. Who, having seen this film, can forget the be-girdled woman in the playpen, bleating for "Mr. Egg Man?" Kudos to John Waters for realizing that eggs are the most disgusting food ever to be binge-eaten.
While 1970's film had taken great strides in breaking cultural norms and depicting things that had previously been considered taboo, Pink Flamingos took it to a whole new level. Other films were fiercely anti-war, toying with political disaffection and breaking down sexual mores, but this one depicted absolutely everything that people had not yet wanted to face. Public murder, cannibalism, incest, rape, mutilation, animal cruelty, voyeurism, exhibitionism, fetishism, and that's just off the top of my head. It was extremely controversial, protested by almost every single political advocacy group, and was banned in several countries. On top of it, Waters added a very ironic, bubble-gum pop soundtrack, with such hits as "The Girl Can't Help It," "(How Much is) That Doggie in the Window," and "I'm Not A Juvenile Delinquent," which play over various acts of lewdness and vulgarity.
John Waters knew exactly what he was doing in making this film. He employs all sorts of cinematic devices to get his point across, from the aforementioned irony, to his encyclopedic knowledge of film clichés to abuse and exploit. At one point, he even breaks down the 4th wall, referring to Divine as not only playing the character of the Filthiest Person Alive, but actually being the Filthiest Actress Alive, when she famously eats the dog feces. He made quite possibly the filthiest film ever made, and he could very well be the filthiest director alive. But you have to know the rules to break them, and he takes obscenity and camp to the far reaches of the imagination, doing better to define them than any theoretician ever could. The country may not like it, but John Waters made his impression on American society in a way that could never be reversed.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Pineapple Express
Dir. David Gordon Green, 2008
I have the current misfortune, in reviewing this film, of being entirely the wrong audience for it. It was a very successful film, well-reviewed by many, but I did not enjoy it very much for reasons that extend a little bit beyond the actual content. Despite doing my best to keep an open mind and to be amenable to the fact that I might like it, I was relieved when I did not, because it could better galvanize my stance on the world of Judd Apatow, Seth Rogen, and, albeit in a different way, David Gordon Green. I have yet to enjoy a film experience with any of these variables in play, but I will try to explain this is the most unbiased way possible.
The film opens with Dale Denton (Seth Rogen), a pretty smart guy who holds a pretty unchallenging job as a process server, and who has the time to call into talk radio shows and smoke weed in his car. He's kind of a loser, but in that marketable way that kids these days seem to really get into. One day, upon visiting his dealer, Saul (played quite excellently by James Franco), he acquires a rare variation of the cannabis that is as identifiable as a fingerprint. This comes into play as Dale goes to serve a more notorious drug dealer, Ted, and witnesses him and a LadyCop (Rosie Perez) commit a murder. While panicking, Dale drops his identifiable joint, which Ted and LadyCop use to track him through Saul, and Saul's provider, Red. The chase ensues, and there are madcap shenanigans and explosions and fistfights, and all other kinds of insanity.
I'll start off with the positive. James Franco really is quite good, as I'm sure most reviewers are pleased to declare. He really commits to his role, and has good comic delivery. He hasn't had many comedic roles in his recent years, though it's possible that his success with Pineapple Express will lead to more. I can only hope that they don't start typecasting him as the goofy sidekick kind of supporting role, because I think he's better than that. Another positive note in this whole endeavor is that it really would have been worse if David Gordon Green had written the script. Whatever there is to say about writers Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg, their script fits the genre well, does what it needs to do, and many people will like it because that is their brand of humor. Green's writing is atrocious, and although there are some who like his style, it would definitely appeal to a much, much smaller audience.
And this is where I let loose with all the things I didn't like. True, it could have been worse, and my poor opinion of Green is informed by All the Real Girls and Undertow, and not George Washington or Snow Angels, which I hear are actually good. I didn't sense much of his strong influence in this film, aside from one scene of dancing around in the woods which is reminiscent of the awfulness of All the Real Girls. What is more noticeable is the absence of Judd Apatow as director, which is the nicest way I can put it. Apatow's influence is quite definitely present, but it is diluted by something else, an "indie" awkwardness that some may interpret as an edge of believability and genuineness. I saw Green's decision to focus more on weird little moments more of a disconnect from the flow of the narration.
Seeing this film has definitely showed me the relative strengths of the writing versus the direction. The writing and the directing styles are recognizable enough to be able to tell at what point which force took over and had more weight. This is definitely a Seth Rogen film rather than a David Gordon Green film. However, that is where I am, as a moviegoer, completely alienated. I don't like Seth Rogen. Where some see an Everyman, I see the kind of annoying guy that I used to know in high school and didn't particularly like. He is not the type of person I'd get along with, and I don't feel that he represents me or "my kind" of people. The kind of humor in this film is one that appeals to the majority in my age demographic, probably, but I don't laugh at "gay" insinuations or long, long fight sequences where someone will just not die. The people in the theater with me had a really great time, though, so good for them.
Why did I watch this then? Honestly, it's only because the IMAX screening of The Dark Knight had sold out, and we needed to kill some time before the next one. Had it not been playing at the right time, or if Brideshead Revisited had started just a half hour earlier, everything would be different, and I'd probably be sitting here, complaining about that movie instead. I didn't come out of it entirely feeling like I'd wasted my time, because it's good to be reminded of what's out there, and to reaffirm that your tastes are actually what they are. I would love to believe that if it were a really great film that I'd admit to liking it, but I'm not sure that I could. If that invalidates this review, I suppose I can accept that.
I have the current misfortune, in reviewing this film, of being entirely the wrong audience for it. It was a very successful film, well-reviewed by many, but I did not enjoy it very much for reasons that extend a little bit beyond the actual content. Despite doing my best to keep an open mind and to be amenable to the fact that I might like it, I was relieved when I did not, because it could better galvanize my stance on the world of Judd Apatow, Seth Rogen, and, albeit in a different way, David Gordon Green. I have yet to enjoy a film experience with any of these variables in play, but I will try to explain this is the most unbiased way possible.
The film opens with Dale Denton (Seth Rogen), a pretty smart guy who holds a pretty unchallenging job as a process server, and who has the time to call into talk radio shows and smoke weed in his car. He's kind of a loser, but in that marketable way that kids these days seem to really get into. One day, upon visiting his dealer, Saul (played quite excellently by James Franco), he acquires a rare variation of the cannabis that is as identifiable as a fingerprint. This comes into play as Dale goes to serve a more notorious drug dealer, Ted, and witnesses him and a LadyCop (Rosie Perez) commit a murder. While panicking, Dale drops his identifiable joint, which Ted and LadyCop use to track him through Saul, and Saul's provider, Red. The chase ensues, and there are madcap shenanigans and explosions and fistfights, and all other kinds of insanity.
I'll start off with the positive. James Franco really is quite good, as I'm sure most reviewers are pleased to declare. He really commits to his role, and has good comic delivery. He hasn't had many comedic roles in his recent years, though it's possible that his success with Pineapple Express will lead to more. I can only hope that they don't start typecasting him as the goofy sidekick kind of supporting role, because I think he's better than that. Another positive note in this whole endeavor is that it really would have been worse if David Gordon Green had written the script. Whatever there is to say about writers Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg, their script fits the genre well, does what it needs to do, and many people will like it because that is their brand of humor. Green's writing is atrocious, and although there are some who like his style, it would definitely appeal to a much, much smaller audience.
And this is where I let loose with all the things I didn't like. True, it could have been worse, and my poor opinion of Green is informed by All the Real Girls and Undertow, and not George Washington or Snow Angels, which I hear are actually good. I didn't sense much of his strong influence in this film, aside from one scene of dancing around in the woods which is reminiscent of the awfulness of All the Real Girls. What is more noticeable is the absence of Judd Apatow as director, which is the nicest way I can put it. Apatow's influence is quite definitely present, but it is diluted by something else, an "indie" awkwardness that some may interpret as an edge of believability and genuineness. I saw Green's decision to focus more on weird little moments more of a disconnect from the flow of the narration.
Seeing this film has definitely showed me the relative strengths of the writing versus the direction. The writing and the directing styles are recognizable enough to be able to tell at what point which force took over and had more weight. This is definitely a Seth Rogen film rather than a David Gordon Green film. However, that is where I am, as a moviegoer, completely alienated. I don't like Seth Rogen. Where some see an Everyman, I see the kind of annoying guy that I used to know in high school and didn't particularly like. He is not the type of person I'd get along with, and I don't feel that he represents me or "my kind" of people. The kind of humor in this film is one that appeals to the majority in my age demographic, probably, but I don't laugh at "gay" insinuations or long, long fight sequences where someone will just not die. The people in the theater with me had a really great time, though, so good for them.
Why did I watch this then? Honestly, it's only because the IMAX screening of The Dark Knight had sold out, and we needed to kill some time before the next one. Had it not been playing at the right time, or if Brideshead Revisited had started just a half hour earlier, everything would be different, and I'd probably be sitting here, complaining about that movie instead. I didn't come out of it entirely feeling like I'd wasted my time, because it's good to be reminded of what's out there, and to reaffirm that your tastes are actually what they are. I would love to believe that if it were a really great film that I'd admit to liking it, but I'm not sure that I could. If that invalidates this review, I suppose I can accept that.
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Dark Knight
Dir. Christopher Nolan, 2008
What is there to say about this film that hasn't already been shouted from rooftops by many more articulate than I? I suppose one more jubilant essay won't disrupt the balance in the universe. While for previous superhero movie reviews, I have entered the theater knowing either nothing at all or very little about the culture of the comic, such was not the case for The Dark Knight. I readily admit that my nerdiness runs far and wide, but I have always had a snobby aversion to the comic book variety. But the Batman appeal cannot be denied.
I have glanced over several reviews that start off with "Batman is the only superhero I've ever been interested in" or something to that effect. Without meaning to be redundant, I, too, belong to that group of Batman-but-not-any-other followers. While some may have been interested more in the story, my fascination was largely with the artwork. The comic book covers (I have still never read a superhero comic), the cartoons, the earlier films' mise-en-scene was always so much darker and moodier than the others. In my synaesthetic mind, all other superheroes are big, bouncy bubbles, and Batman is sharp, jagged triangles. I was lucky that "Batman: The Animated Series" was well-written, intelligent and entertaining, because I would have watched it anyway. The villains were so much more melancholy, just like the hero, and it fascinated me to no end that the animators actually drew on black paper instead of white.
The Dark Knight shows the extent to which this moodiness and darkness can extend. It is far cry away from all the previous Batman movies, even the Tim Burton ones, even Batman Begins. The first scene involves the Joker's takedown of a mob-run bank, which is brilliantly, beautifully executed. The mafioso are up in arms; who is this lunatic who stole their money? Who has the stones to rob from the most dangerous people in Gotham City? Only a complete loose cannon of a villain, the "better class of criminal" that the city deserves. The Joker brings completely new light to the brutal irony of his name, the frightening uncertainty of his motives, and the thorough extent to which he continuously plays mind games. I'm sure you have all heard how excellent Heath Ledger is in this role, and it bears repeating. They can never make another film with the Joker. He died with Ledger.
There are many other things that are taking place at the same time: Bruce Wayne is battling his purpose in Gotham City, hoping that the brazen new District Attorney, Harvey Dent, can clean up the city the legit way, allowing Wayne to retire Batman and become a normal member of society and to win his childhood flame, Rachel Dawes back. This is as hopeful and cheery as the film gets, for the downward spiral of Dent into Two-Face after the wretched demise of Dawes proves that Batman is, in fact, the necessary hero and scapegoat, who will bear the burden of responsibility for Two-Face's destruction.
The ending is grim, the suit is revamped, Batman gets a new vehicle. The Joker and Batman battle time and time again to test who knows the nature of the people of Gotham best. The cinematography is so vast and bleak that it takes your breath away, and never before has there been a Batman franchise where the real grit and downfall of a formerly prosperous city is so clearly depicted. I have heard some legitimate criticism of the film: it is too long, Christian Bale's "Batman voice" is too cartoonishly gruff, the editing is too choppy and frenetic. None of these things bothered me, though I can see them being distracting. In this day and age of epic action movies with explosions and fight scenes galore, I didn't even notice the length or the editing. I was too wrapped up in feelings of excitement and despair to notice any shortcomings, even upon second viewing.
I feel that there are two histories of Batman. There's the 1960's Adam West, pun-filled, slapstick type that evolved into the camp George Clooney/Val Kilmer Batman of the 1990's. Then there's the Tim Burton, Batman: The Animated Series, and now Christopher Nolan's version. Each has its own merit, depending on how light and fluffy you want your Batman to be. I definitely enjoyed the old TV show, but I don't even associate it with the charcoal and smoke world of the latter category. When it comes down to the debate between which view is better, more interesting, more loved, we might as well be comparing two different superheroes all together, not the same one.
The series has been rebooted, reviewed and reinterpreted so many times because Batman is the Everyman of superheroes. While he has extraordinary strength, courage and skill, he does not have any supernatural endowment of any of these things. He so embodies the struggle of man through his extraordinary struggle with crime and inner demons, because these are "normal people" problems, not making sure your eyes are covered so you don't accidentally kill someone with your laser eye beams. This is not a new revelation, and indeed, the time it took for me to actually write this review has almost rendered it unnecessary. I don't even necessarily believe that I can present a unique experience. But I, like so many other people, do identify and love this character because of everything he represents, and I do still want to write about it, only because it satisfies my craving for somber and tortured artistry in conjunction with exciting action sequences. It does not surprise me that this film is so successful, because here is finally a truly excellent film version of possibly one of the most popular heroic figures in literature and pop culture.
What is there to say about this film that hasn't already been shouted from rooftops by many more articulate than I? I suppose one more jubilant essay won't disrupt the balance in the universe. While for previous superhero movie reviews, I have entered the theater knowing either nothing at all or very little about the culture of the comic, such was not the case for The Dark Knight. I readily admit that my nerdiness runs far and wide, but I have always had a snobby aversion to the comic book variety. But the Batman appeal cannot be denied.
I have glanced over several reviews that start off with "Batman is the only superhero I've ever been interested in" or something to that effect. Without meaning to be redundant, I, too, belong to that group of Batman-but-not-any-other followers. While some may have been interested more in the story, my fascination was largely with the artwork. The comic book covers (I have still never read a superhero comic), the cartoons, the earlier films' mise-en-scene was always so much darker and moodier than the others. In my synaesthetic mind, all other superheroes are big, bouncy bubbles, and Batman is sharp, jagged triangles. I was lucky that "Batman: The Animated Series" was well-written, intelligent and entertaining, because I would have watched it anyway. The villains were so much more melancholy, just like the hero, and it fascinated me to no end that the animators actually drew on black paper instead of white.
The Dark Knight shows the extent to which this moodiness and darkness can extend. It is far cry away from all the previous Batman movies, even the Tim Burton ones, even Batman Begins. The first scene involves the Joker's takedown of a mob-run bank, which is brilliantly, beautifully executed. The mafioso are up in arms; who is this lunatic who stole their money? Who has the stones to rob from the most dangerous people in Gotham City? Only a complete loose cannon of a villain, the "better class of criminal" that the city deserves. The Joker brings completely new light to the brutal irony of his name, the frightening uncertainty of his motives, and the thorough extent to which he continuously plays mind games. I'm sure you have all heard how excellent Heath Ledger is in this role, and it bears repeating. They can never make another film with the Joker. He died with Ledger.
There are many other things that are taking place at the same time: Bruce Wayne is battling his purpose in Gotham City, hoping that the brazen new District Attorney, Harvey Dent, can clean up the city the legit way, allowing Wayne to retire Batman and become a normal member of society and to win his childhood flame, Rachel Dawes back. This is as hopeful and cheery as the film gets, for the downward spiral of Dent into Two-Face after the wretched demise of Dawes proves that Batman is, in fact, the necessary hero and scapegoat, who will bear the burden of responsibility for Two-Face's destruction.
The ending is grim, the suit is revamped, Batman gets a new vehicle. The Joker and Batman battle time and time again to test who knows the nature of the people of Gotham best. The cinematography is so vast and bleak that it takes your breath away, and never before has there been a Batman franchise where the real grit and downfall of a formerly prosperous city is so clearly depicted. I have heard some legitimate criticism of the film: it is too long, Christian Bale's "Batman voice" is too cartoonishly gruff, the editing is too choppy and frenetic. None of these things bothered me, though I can see them being distracting. In this day and age of epic action movies with explosions and fight scenes galore, I didn't even notice the length or the editing. I was too wrapped up in feelings of excitement and despair to notice any shortcomings, even upon second viewing.
I feel that there are two histories of Batman. There's the 1960's Adam West, pun-filled, slapstick type that evolved into the camp George Clooney/Val Kilmer Batman of the 1990's. Then there's the Tim Burton, Batman: The Animated Series, and now Christopher Nolan's version. Each has its own merit, depending on how light and fluffy you want your Batman to be. I definitely enjoyed the old TV show, but I don't even associate it with the charcoal and smoke world of the latter category. When it comes down to the debate between which view is better, more interesting, more loved, we might as well be comparing two different superheroes all together, not the same one.
The series has been rebooted, reviewed and reinterpreted so many times because Batman is the Everyman of superheroes. While he has extraordinary strength, courage and skill, he does not have any supernatural endowment of any of these things. He so embodies the struggle of man through his extraordinary struggle with crime and inner demons, because these are "normal people" problems, not making sure your eyes are covered so you don't accidentally kill someone with your laser eye beams. This is not a new revelation, and indeed, the time it took for me to actually write this review has almost rendered it unnecessary. I don't even necessarily believe that I can present a unique experience. But I, like so many other people, do identify and love this character because of everything he represents, and I do still want to write about it, only because it satisfies my craving for somber and tortured artistry in conjunction with exciting action sequences. It does not surprise me that this film is so successful, because here is finally a truly excellent film version of possibly one of the most popular heroic figures in literature and pop culture.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End (DVD)
Dir. Gore Verbinski, 2007
It has been a while since the Pirates of the Caribbean movies took the world by storm. At the the time, who knew that these films would be as successful as they were? Or maybe they did know. Hipsters and high school students had already taken on pirate chic, sporting skulls and cross-bones and wearing ironic t-shirts. Putting Johnny Depp in ragged clothing and giving him a charming, ne'er-do-well attitude is pretty much always cult, if not box office, gold. Clearly they were on to something, even after the second two films of the trilogy received only mediocre reviews. On paper, and so in the annals of time, these films will probably not be looked at as anything more than an excellent moneymaking venture which happened to capitalize on very up-to-the-moment trends and the star power of its young and attractive stars.
At World's End has the misfortune of being the third part of a trilogy, or at least the second half of a single story arc. It definitely cannot stand alone as a film, and the burden rests on it to resolve whatever convoluted nonsense the previous films have set up. Sometimes, this makes for a very good film, one that is satisfying and ties things up nicely, like with the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Often times, however, it is severely lacking in originality and makes all attempts at resolution feel tacked on. At World's End is, oddly enough, neither of these, though I cannot say it is a good movie, it is definitely not entirely a bad one.
One thing that makes the film tolerable is to completely ignore the plot. The second film sets up a supernatural type quest for the attractive cast to retrieve Jack Sparrow (Depp, as if you didn't know) from Davy Jones's locker, where he has been in purgatory, sniffing for peanuts and riding on waves of stone crabs. At the end of Dead Man's Chest, everyone is feeling sad and guilty for sending Jack to his watery "grave," and they all resolve that they must bring him back for unspoken reasons that seem to be rather affectionate. Tia Dalma, the witch-woman, manages to resurrect Barbossa (Geoffrey Rush) to lead the expedition. However, once this cavalcade does magically bring the dead man back from the dead, all sincerity is gone, and the film becomes a farce of secret bargains, double-crossings, pretend betrayals, and crap.
That's when the brain gets turned off, and I can appreciate the spectacle for what it is. Johnny Depp is a terribly attractive man, and is probably the only person to ever make filth look sexy. Davy Jones (Bill Nighy) is one of the most intriguing looking villains in CGI villainry, and the various landscapes of the Arctic, Caribbean, middle of the ocean, and middle of nowhere are breathtaking. I don't particularly care for the health and well-being of the characters, since the outcome is fairly guaranteed to be pat and neat. The writing is at times atrocious, though there are some decently good jokes that aren't throwbacks to the one-liners of the previous Pirates of the Caribbean movies. If this were a silent film, with the same visuals but little speaking at all, this would be a smashing success.
All the same, I quite like it. I did give it 3.5 out of 5 mangoes, which is generous considering how awful the script is. The fact that this film is self-realized as a mediocre action flick is refreshing. It is so aware of the fact that it puts together a winning combination of Kiera Knightley/Orlando Bloom/Johnny Depp sexiness, slapstick humor, and allusions to the Disneyland ride, that it is relaxed and allows us to ride the wave of prettiness. It is enjoyable to take in, provided you don't try to figure out what is going on. Certain moments are exciting and the cinematography at other times is heart-stoppingly beautiful. It is unpretentious fun and does not take itself seriously.
Sometimes, people talk about how a film can take itself seriously, so I'll elaborate on that. When there are moments in a film where the action stops, the dialogue picks up and one character tries to relay a moral, or meaning, or life lesson to another, or possibly the characters are meant to discover these meanings for themselves through long scenes of training and meditation: that is serious. When an action/adventure type film wastes the audience's time with morals and lessons, it takes itself far too seriously. I cannot imagine hoping to gain anything meaningful from your average action flick. Wanted is one such film that seeks to impart some wisdom upon its audience, beckoning the viewer to evaluate his or her life, and as "What the fuck have you done lately?" At World's End is nothing, empty, a flash in the pan. And good! That's all I want from a movie with explosions and cephalopodic villains. If I want intellectual, I'll see a film written by someone I respect.
I may seem like an action movie apologist, and to be fair, it is a personal preference for my action movies to be pretty and brainless, just like a stereotypical supermodel. Yet I am nothing if not the product of my environment, and I have been told that you get different things from different places. The "one stop shop" film doesn't come along very often, and there is absolutely no film I have ever seen that has everything I have ever wanted in a film. I compartmentalize, and therefore satisfy a single craving at a time. At World's End is a very satisfying film, if only for special effects and eye candy. At times, that is all I want, and that is all I need.
It has been a while since the Pirates of the Caribbean movies took the world by storm. At the the time, who knew that these films would be as successful as they were? Or maybe they did know. Hipsters and high school students had already taken on pirate chic, sporting skulls and cross-bones and wearing ironic t-shirts. Putting Johnny Depp in ragged clothing and giving him a charming, ne'er-do-well attitude is pretty much always cult, if not box office, gold. Clearly they were on to something, even after the second two films of the trilogy received only mediocre reviews. On paper, and so in the annals of time, these films will probably not be looked at as anything more than an excellent moneymaking venture which happened to capitalize on very up-to-the-moment trends and the star power of its young and attractive stars.
At World's End has the misfortune of being the third part of a trilogy, or at least the second half of a single story arc. It definitely cannot stand alone as a film, and the burden rests on it to resolve whatever convoluted nonsense the previous films have set up. Sometimes, this makes for a very good film, one that is satisfying and ties things up nicely, like with the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Often times, however, it is severely lacking in originality and makes all attempts at resolution feel tacked on. At World's End is, oddly enough, neither of these, though I cannot say it is a good movie, it is definitely not entirely a bad one.
One thing that makes the film tolerable is to completely ignore the plot. The second film sets up a supernatural type quest for the attractive cast to retrieve Jack Sparrow (Depp, as if you didn't know) from Davy Jones's locker, where he has been in purgatory, sniffing for peanuts and riding on waves of stone crabs. At the end of Dead Man's Chest, everyone is feeling sad and guilty for sending Jack to his watery "grave," and they all resolve that they must bring him back for unspoken reasons that seem to be rather affectionate. Tia Dalma, the witch-woman, manages to resurrect Barbossa (Geoffrey Rush) to lead the expedition. However, once this cavalcade does magically bring the dead man back from the dead, all sincerity is gone, and the film becomes a farce of secret bargains, double-crossings, pretend betrayals, and crap.
That's when the brain gets turned off, and I can appreciate the spectacle for what it is. Johnny Depp is a terribly attractive man, and is probably the only person to ever make filth look sexy. Davy Jones (Bill Nighy) is one of the most intriguing looking villains in CGI villainry, and the various landscapes of the Arctic, Caribbean, middle of the ocean, and middle of nowhere are breathtaking. I don't particularly care for the health and well-being of the characters, since the outcome is fairly guaranteed to be pat and neat. The writing is at times atrocious, though there are some decently good jokes that aren't throwbacks to the one-liners of the previous Pirates of the Caribbean movies. If this were a silent film, with the same visuals but little speaking at all, this would be a smashing success.
All the same, I quite like it. I did give it 3.5 out of 5 mangoes, which is generous considering how awful the script is. The fact that this film is self-realized as a mediocre action flick is refreshing. It is so aware of the fact that it puts together a winning combination of Kiera Knightley/Orlando Bloom/Johnny Depp sexiness, slapstick humor, and allusions to the Disneyland ride, that it is relaxed and allows us to ride the wave of prettiness. It is enjoyable to take in, provided you don't try to figure out what is going on. Certain moments are exciting and the cinematography at other times is heart-stoppingly beautiful. It is unpretentious fun and does not take itself seriously.
Sometimes, people talk about how a film can take itself seriously, so I'll elaborate on that. When there are moments in a film where the action stops, the dialogue picks up and one character tries to relay a moral, or meaning, or life lesson to another, or possibly the characters are meant to discover these meanings for themselves through long scenes of training and meditation: that is serious. When an action/adventure type film wastes the audience's time with morals and lessons, it takes itself far too seriously. I cannot imagine hoping to gain anything meaningful from your average action flick. Wanted is one such film that seeks to impart some wisdom upon its audience, beckoning the viewer to evaluate his or her life, and as "What the fuck have you done lately?" At World's End is nothing, empty, a flash in the pan. And good! That's all I want from a movie with explosions and cephalopodic villains. If I want intellectual, I'll see a film written by someone I respect.
I may seem like an action movie apologist, and to be fair, it is a personal preference for my action movies to be pretty and brainless, just like a stereotypical supermodel. Yet I am nothing if not the product of my environment, and I have been told that you get different things from different places. The "one stop shop" film doesn't come along very often, and there is absolutely no film I have ever seen that has everything I have ever wanted in a film. I compartmentalize, and therefore satisfy a single craving at a time. At World's End is a very satisfying film, if only for special effects and eye candy. At times, that is all I want, and that is all I need.
Monday, July 21, 2008
WALL-E
Dir. Andrew Stanton, 2008
It is rare that a film comes along that really seems to defy categorization, and that takes a classic idea and successfully modernizes it. There have been many rehashings of Shakespeare dramas, or reiterations of tired romantic plotlines, but it is unusual to see a film that takes a completely original approach to a classic, and makes it work in every way. This year, I have been relatively unimpressed with what I have seen, but I had high hopes for Wall-E to be at least sweet and funny, and well animated. I was unprepared to be totally thrown for a loop. This film really went to the roots of the classics, the story of creation, and went with a risky idea that threatened to alienate some audiences, but that ultimately has such broad appeal for whatever anyone can hope to find in a movie.
The opening moments of Wall-E present a sparkling view of outer space, paired with the optimistic opening lines from the song “Sunday Clothes” from Hello, Dolly!, which leads one to think that this will be the start of the cute and fun love story between the Wall-E and Eve, which we know is coming, thanks to the trailers. Then the camera takes a dip down and shows us the Earth, dusty and brown and encrusted with a filthy layer of satellites. As the music wells and fades, we see that the surface of the Earth is dry, barren, dead, and heaped with trash of all kinds. It is truly a shocking view of what may come, and one that does not seem improbable. But then we see a little guy, rolling around, playing this uplifting song from Hello, Dolly!, and we know that we have seen our hero.
Wall-E is the last robot of a class of clean-up machines, the Waste Allocator Load Lifter- Earth Class. Years ago, everyone on Earth went off into outer space on a luxury-cruise style ship, the Axiom, leaving the Wall-Es to clean up, with the intention of returning in 5 years when all the trash was taken care of. At this point, we do not know what has become of this plan, but it looks like a lot more time has passed. So much time, in fact, that Wall-E has had the time to rifle through the artifacts of the human lifestyle and to develop an idea of what the culture must have been like. From watching Hello, Dolly!, he has also developed a notion of what love is, and to realize that he is lonely. One day, out of the sky, comes another spacecraft with a beautiful, Macintosh-esque robot, Eve (E Vegetation E) whose “directive” it is to find some sign of life of Earth. Wall-E is instantly smitten, and does anything to try and introduce her to his life here on Earth and his highly amusing collection of items, including a little plant that he’d just found. Eve, upon seeing the plant, sends out a signal for the spacecraft to come back for her so that she can bring the plant back to the Axiom. Wall-E, unable to imagine being alone again, follows along, and the adventure begins!
This entire portion is completely without dialogue beyond each robot’s repetition of the other’s name. I mean, how else are robots going to communicate? The only narration is from a talking billboard that advertises the Axiom and the Five-Year Clean Up Plan, and the lyrics to the Hello, Dolly! songs. And yet, it is engrossing. The children in the theater did not seem antsy at all, but appeared to be as transfixed as anyone else. There is enough slapstick humor to keep things at a “children’s movie” level, but it never ranges into the idiotic. The rest of the film, the majority of which takes place on the Axiom, changes tone considerably and becomes a kind of action-adventure film, where Wall-E and Eve combat the ship’s computer, which has a directive of its own, unbeknownst to even the captain of the ship, an actual human. It is a triumph of the will story in this respect, and a satisfying one.
But the story of creation lies in the details. The humans, who are revealed to have been on the Axiom for 700 years now, have lived idle lives on levitating lounge chairs, plugged into a screen that tells them when to eat, what to eat, what color jumpsuit to wear, and which direction to coast. After all these years, their skeletons have shrunk, they can hardly read, most likely cannot walk, and appear to have no free will. They are all infants, at every stage of their lives. Even the captain admits to only having one duty on the ship, which is to advertise the perfect conditions of the Axiom, as maintained by the ship’s computer.
Then Wall-E comes in, and through a series of missteps and stumbles unwittingly becomes the agent for free will. He tracks terrestrial dirt into the ship, and because he is the only entity on the ship that does not follow a pre-set path, he leads the automatic cleaning robot, MO, off of his set path. When trying to break into the flow of manned lounge chairs, he knocks one human, John, off of his seat, and brings his attention to the surroundings of the ship, which even though he has spent his whole life there, he has never actually seen. Similarly, when trying to get close to Eve, who is being taken to the control deck, he interacts with another human in a floating chair, Mary. She, too, is snapped to cognizance, and begins to see their lives for what they actually are. Mary and John (hinting at some Biblical themes) find each other, and begin to enjoy their lives and try new things for the first time, like splashing in the water and marveling at the view of the cosmos that the ship affords.
When Wall-E finally meets the captain of the ship, and becomes the instrument by which he learns of the Five-Year Plan, Wall-E also inadvertently teaches him about such fundamental aspects of Earth living, like agriculture and dancing. The captain realizes that this is what humans are meant to do, rather than to gradually atrophy and take up space in the Axiom, and he overtakes the ship’s computer, a HAL-like being that seeks to maintain the status quo. The human spirit overcomes, and free will reigns.
It is a beautiful irony that the instigator of free will, the savior of the human race, and the one who introduces love to humans and robots alike, is a man-made machine. Wall-E only has one basic function, but through years of cultivation, has become the Prophet. Although everything that he does is unintentional, this is the only way that a story like this could be bearable. Without it, the film would appear too preachy, too Biblical, and much, much less entertaining. (It is, after all, a kids’ movie, and pratfalls are necessary to keep them in rapt attention.) It is a bold move for the Pixar people to make a film like this, one with little dialogue and with such a serious message. I’m not entirely sure if this is something that most kids would catch on to, but the message would surely grow on them.
Not only is this film an indictment of man’s wasteful nature and a proponent for alternative conservational lifestyles, it is also an optimistic view of a life where man and machine can live in harmony. Rather than it being an apocalyptic view of the future where computers and robots are in control and humans have to overthrow them entirely in order to survive, it is accepting of the habits that people already have, and does not rely on a reactionary lifestyle to show hope for the future. While many visions of the future involve a kind of battle against technology that develops independent thought, this film attempts something quite different and is therefore much more bold. It is hard to see our somewhat destructive lifestyle as positive, but it is also easy to lay the blame on technology.
When I first saw Wall-E, I absolutely adored it, but it was so avant-garde that I was almost afraid to fully take in everything that it was saying. Andrew Stanton is an excellent director, but he doesn’t have the humanistic genius of Brad Bird (The Iron Giant, The Incredibles). For this reason, I felt less of an affinity for Wall-E and Eve, and felt that the film was slightly lacking in credible sentiment. But then I saw it a second time, and I realized that Brad Bird wouldn’t have made the same kind of film as this one is, and the higher level of human relatability would not necessarily be appropriate. This is a film about robots, and so there has to be a degree of mechanical detachment. Additionally, the ideas in the film that seemed so frighteningly ambitious had a little time to sink in, and I was able to fully appreciate the brilliance the second time around. It is a very detailed and very clever film, and one that really works to hint at the dangers of a wasteful lifestyle, while providing a realistic glimpse of a future where we don’t have to let go of our technological activities.
It is rare that a film comes along that really seems to defy categorization, and that takes a classic idea and successfully modernizes it. There have been many rehashings of Shakespeare dramas, or reiterations of tired romantic plotlines, but it is unusual to see a film that takes a completely original approach to a classic, and makes it work in every way. This year, I have been relatively unimpressed with what I have seen, but I had high hopes for Wall-E to be at least sweet and funny, and well animated. I was unprepared to be totally thrown for a loop. This film really went to the roots of the classics, the story of creation, and went with a risky idea that threatened to alienate some audiences, but that ultimately has such broad appeal for whatever anyone can hope to find in a movie.
The opening moments of Wall-E present a sparkling view of outer space, paired with the optimistic opening lines from the song “Sunday Clothes” from Hello, Dolly!, which leads one to think that this will be the start of the cute and fun love story between the Wall-E and Eve, which we know is coming, thanks to the trailers. Then the camera takes a dip down and shows us the Earth, dusty and brown and encrusted with a filthy layer of satellites. As the music wells and fades, we see that the surface of the Earth is dry, barren, dead, and heaped with trash of all kinds. It is truly a shocking view of what may come, and one that does not seem improbable. But then we see a little guy, rolling around, playing this uplifting song from Hello, Dolly!, and we know that we have seen our hero.
Wall-E is the last robot of a class of clean-up machines, the Waste Allocator Load Lifter- Earth Class. Years ago, everyone on Earth went off into outer space on a luxury-cruise style ship, the Axiom, leaving the Wall-Es to clean up, with the intention of returning in 5 years when all the trash was taken care of. At this point, we do not know what has become of this plan, but it looks like a lot more time has passed. So much time, in fact, that Wall-E has had the time to rifle through the artifacts of the human lifestyle and to develop an idea of what the culture must have been like. From watching Hello, Dolly!, he has also developed a notion of what love is, and to realize that he is lonely. One day, out of the sky, comes another spacecraft with a beautiful, Macintosh-esque robot, Eve (E Vegetation E) whose “directive” it is to find some sign of life of Earth. Wall-E is instantly smitten, and does anything to try and introduce her to his life here on Earth and his highly amusing collection of items, including a little plant that he’d just found. Eve, upon seeing the plant, sends out a signal for the spacecraft to come back for her so that she can bring the plant back to the Axiom. Wall-E, unable to imagine being alone again, follows along, and the adventure begins!
This entire portion is completely without dialogue beyond each robot’s repetition of the other’s name. I mean, how else are robots going to communicate? The only narration is from a talking billboard that advertises the Axiom and the Five-Year Clean Up Plan, and the lyrics to the Hello, Dolly! songs. And yet, it is engrossing. The children in the theater did not seem antsy at all, but appeared to be as transfixed as anyone else. There is enough slapstick humor to keep things at a “children’s movie” level, but it never ranges into the idiotic. The rest of the film, the majority of which takes place on the Axiom, changes tone considerably and becomes a kind of action-adventure film, where Wall-E and Eve combat the ship’s computer, which has a directive of its own, unbeknownst to even the captain of the ship, an actual human. It is a triumph of the will story in this respect, and a satisfying one.
But the story of creation lies in the details. The humans, who are revealed to have been on the Axiom for 700 years now, have lived idle lives on levitating lounge chairs, plugged into a screen that tells them when to eat, what to eat, what color jumpsuit to wear, and which direction to coast. After all these years, their skeletons have shrunk, they can hardly read, most likely cannot walk, and appear to have no free will. They are all infants, at every stage of their lives. Even the captain admits to only having one duty on the ship, which is to advertise the perfect conditions of the Axiom, as maintained by the ship’s computer.
Then Wall-E comes in, and through a series of missteps and stumbles unwittingly becomes the agent for free will. He tracks terrestrial dirt into the ship, and because he is the only entity on the ship that does not follow a pre-set path, he leads the automatic cleaning robot, MO, off of his set path. When trying to break into the flow of manned lounge chairs, he knocks one human, John, off of his seat, and brings his attention to the surroundings of the ship, which even though he has spent his whole life there, he has never actually seen. Similarly, when trying to get close to Eve, who is being taken to the control deck, he interacts with another human in a floating chair, Mary. She, too, is snapped to cognizance, and begins to see their lives for what they actually are. Mary and John (hinting at some Biblical themes) find each other, and begin to enjoy their lives and try new things for the first time, like splashing in the water and marveling at the view of the cosmos that the ship affords.
When Wall-E finally meets the captain of the ship, and becomes the instrument by which he learns of the Five-Year Plan, Wall-E also inadvertently teaches him about such fundamental aspects of Earth living, like agriculture and dancing. The captain realizes that this is what humans are meant to do, rather than to gradually atrophy and take up space in the Axiom, and he overtakes the ship’s computer, a HAL-like being that seeks to maintain the status quo. The human spirit overcomes, and free will reigns.
It is a beautiful irony that the instigator of free will, the savior of the human race, and the one who introduces love to humans and robots alike, is a man-made machine. Wall-E only has one basic function, but through years of cultivation, has become the Prophet. Although everything that he does is unintentional, this is the only way that a story like this could be bearable. Without it, the film would appear too preachy, too Biblical, and much, much less entertaining. (It is, after all, a kids’ movie, and pratfalls are necessary to keep them in rapt attention.) It is a bold move for the Pixar people to make a film like this, one with little dialogue and with such a serious message. I’m not entirely sure if this is something that most kids would catch on to, but the message would surely grow on them.
Not only is this film an indictment of man’s wasteful nature and a proponent for alternative conservational lifestyles, it is also an optimistic view of a life where man and machine can live in harmony. Rather than it being an apocalyptic view of the future where computers and robots are in control and humans have to overthrow them entirely in order to survive, it is accepting of the habits that people already have, and does not rely on a reactionary lifestyle to show hope for the future. While many visions of the future involve a kind of battle against technology that develops independent thought, this film attempts something quite different and is therefore much more bold. It is hard to see our somewhat destructive lifestyle as positive, but it is also easy to lay the blame on technology.
When I first saw Wall-E, I absolutely adored it, but it was so avant-garde that I was almost afraid to fully take in everything that it was saying. Andrew Stanton is an excellent director, but he doesn’t have the humanistic genius of Brad Bird (The Iron Giant, The Incredibles). For this reason, I felt less of an affinity for Wall-E and Eve, and felt that the film was slightly lacking in credible sentiment. But then I saw it a second time, and I realized that Brad Bird wouldn’t have made the same kind of film as this one is, and the higher level of human relatability would not necessarily be appropriate. This is a film about robots, and so there has to be a degree of mechanical detachment. Additionally, the ideas in the film that seemed so frighteningly ambitious had a little time to sink in, and I was able to fully appreciate the brilliance the second time around. It is a very detailed and very clever film, and one that really works to hint at the dangers of a wasteful lifestyle, while providing a realistic glimpse of a future where we don’t have to let go of our technological activities.
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