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.

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.

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.

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.

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.