I awoke to the stove making strange noises. I thought it was the refrigerator, but soon realized it was in fact the stove. When I plugged in my amp I noticed an awful buzzing noise at steady intervals, much like the stove, though I didn't make the connection until later. Before the repair shop I contemplated phoning an ex-lover who knows about electronics, but I decided against it. Some hours later I realized the connection. It seems I have a ghost.
It went like this:
Ghost in apt 3
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Friday, February 9, 2007
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Flags of our Fathers
Clint Eastwood's first draft of an attempted WWII revival nearly squirms in agony with every successive shell impact. A despondent Adam Beach plays private Ira Hayes, a man whose Native American origins, in the eyes of almost every character in the film, seem to justify the rejection of heroism and his consequently booze-soaked descent. If this project is Eastwood's take on Iraq, it's only fair to view private Hayes' struggle in parallel to that of today's minority soldiers. Eastwood's Republican leanings are quite public, as is his blunt hatred of colleague Michael Moore, but isn't he re-examining a point clearly made in 2004's Farenheit 9/11? The intangible cost of war is not only the ante of human life, but the inevitable isolation and exploitation of our lower classes. The three flag-raisers, in fact, represent each of the socio-economic echelons of American life respectively, and go on to represent the respective cost of war. i.e. The poor get poorer.
Whatever his take, a sobbing and impotent Hayes isn't much of a vehicle for commentary. Rather than drive home an all-too-important point, Eastwood drags us through the mire of weak-stomached melodrama in the face of an unspeakably terrible (and completely unrepresented) enemy. There are so many problems with this it makes me want to throw grenades. Since when is Clint Eastwood a pussy? "He was the best marine I ever knew..." says Hayes of Barry Pepper's Captain Strank. Perhaps it's because he was the only marine in the film that wasn't continually sobbing. Anyway... At least Eastwood's formal abilities shine through, despite some basic problems. He's created a balance between the physical challenge of going against a tenacious Japanese force, and going against an equally apathetic American public. It's a very interesting split, and although the heroes apparently don't get it (and do nothing if not complain about the latter struggle, one which in truth is perhaps the more important) it makes an interesting reminder to both sides of the political spectrum. Eastwood reminds us lefties that wars are perhaps a part of American life, but more importantly reminds Bush and Co. that once upon a time governments actually needed to drum up support for wars in order to finance them. Oh, how times have changed.
In spite of this informative balance, Eastwood's tale is still lacking. The American public has no voice, and the really interesting historical stuff never makes it to the surface. The story of American apathy toward WWII is actually pretty amazing. Likewise, we see nothing of the Japanese, and are left with only secondary accounts of their ferocity, creating demons in our imaginations and therefore pigeon-holing an entire ethnicity. Nice job, Clint.
Whatever his take, a sobbing and impotent Hayes isn't much of a vehicle for commentary. Rather than drive home an all-too-important point, Eastwood drags us through the mire of weak-stomached melodrama in the face of an unspeakably terrible (and completely unrepresented) enemy. There are so many problems with this it makes me want to throw grenades. Since when is Clint Eastwood a pussy? "He was the best marine I ever knew..." says Hayes of Barry Pepper's Captain Strank. Perhaps it's because he was the only marine in the film that wasn't continually sobbing. Anyway... At least Eastwood's formal abilities shine through, despite some basic problems. He's created a balance between the physical challenge of going against a tenacious Japanese force, and going against an equally apathetic American public. It's a very interesting split, and although the heroes apparently don't get it (and do nothing if not complain about the latter struggle, one which in truth is perhaps the more important) it makes an interesting reminder to both sides of the political spectrum. Eastwood reminds us lefties that wars are perhaps a part of American life, but more importantly reminds Bush and Co. that once upon a time governments actually needed to drum up support for wars in order to finance them. Oh, how times have changed.
In spite of this informative balance, Eastwood's tale is still lacking. The American public has no voice, and the really interesting historical stuff never makes it to the surface. The story of American apathy toward WWII is actually pretty amazing. Likewise, we see nothing of the Japanese, and are left with only secondary accounts of their ferocity, creating demons in our imaginations and therefore pigeon-holing an entire ethnicity. Nice job, Clint.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Welcome!
Hi Everyone!
Welcome to my bold foray into the world of blogging. I'll be updating this site as much as possible with various pieces of brilliance, but for now I've archived some movie reviews taken from my Myspace blog, although I seem to have the order of them reversed.
My inital idea for this blog is that it's a space for me, where I can put some thoughts out for mass consumption, but also it's a place for you, my friends, to leave comments, tirades, and send your own reviews of just about anything and I'll put them up.
Enjoy.
Welcome to my bold foray into the world of blogging. I'll be updating this site as much as possible with various pieces of brilliance, but for now I've archived some movie reviews taken from my Myspace blog, although I seem to have the order of them reversed.
My inital idea for this blog is that it's a space for me, where I can put some thoughts out for mass consumption, but also it's a place for you, my friends, to leave comments, tirades, and send your own reviews of just about anything and I'll put them up.
Enjoy.
The Devil and Daniel Johnston
The Devil and Daniel Johnston finally made it to Burlington and I finally saw it. Schizophrenic. Attention to detail. Spastically thrown together, but with an intense and intensely insightful knowledge and understanding of the surprisingly enormous heaps of existing material. I had no idea! Daniel J's tape-recorded voice notes are right on. I'd never imagined he had so much video and (amazing!) super 8 footage. Edited even. You can see the man come through.
I've seen Daniel J perform and I still had no idea. We said hello after the show and he said back: "Good luck." He said the same thing to Matt Groening at the end of the film. He must say it to everyone.
Watch for the insightful details on director Jeff Feuerzeig's part: The Metallica press photo (excellent), the contrast between the label bands and Daniel's painful "realness". Gibby Haynes in the dentist chair acting smug, Thurston Moore trying to talk Daniel down from manic schizophrenia. It just gets realer and realer. I love the shaky home movie footage that wears you down before you're hit with the slick, photo op jobs with the record execs and the hippest artists in the country. And the interviews are on color 35!! And there's loads of it!
It doesn't get more real than the redneck, sleeveless-T, motorcycle-ponytailed, Texas gallery owners describing Daniel's annual shows. Or the "Fuck Satan" T-shirt on the local Waller, Texas shredmeister. "Are you Daniel Johnston?" Are good artists crazy? When we've decided whether Daniel J is a good artist, we'll have our answer.
I've seen Daniel J perform and I still had no idea. We said hello after the show and he said back: "Good luck." He said the same thing to Matt Groening at the end of the film. He must say it to everyone.
Watch for the insightful details on director Jeff Feuerzeig's part: The Metallica press photo (excellent), the contrast between the label bands and Daniel's painful "realness". Gibby Haynes in the dentist chair acting smug, Thurston Moore trying to talk Daniel down from manic schizophrenia. It just gets realer and realer. I love the shaky home movie footage that wears you down before you're hit with the slick, photo op jobs with the record execs and the hippest artists in the country. And the interviews are on color 35!! And there's loads of it!
It doesn't get more real than the redneck, sleeveless-T, motorcycle-ponytailed, Texas gallery owners describing Daniel's annual shows. Or the "Fuck Satan" T-shirt on the local Waller, Texas shredmeister. "Are you Daniel Johnston?" Are good artists crazy? When we've decided whether Daniel J is a good artist, we'll have our answer.
Wassup Rockers!
First things first, the Clint Eastwood thing is the best. Larry Clark must hate him. Anyway, Wassup Rockers actually de-labels a group that could only be described with common idiomatic phrases (South Central, Latino, Skater, Punks, etc.) And it still places those kids so correctly ("we're from the ghetto"). Oh yes, you are.
In Rockers, Clark has made Hollywood hand-held realism look like the cutting room floor at Troma. And the images! Tracking the kids while they skate, the fucked up teeth, the 14-yr-old packages. He's like the Herb Ritts of the docu-drama.
But here's the thing. The movie is a big romantic jaunt through the Hills. There's no element of Aristotelian tragedy as in Kassovitz's Hate. There's no referential/archetypal weight as in The Warriors. These kids are nothing more than what Larry Clark fancies them to be. "You could be a model, I'm just trying to help your career." At least he knows full well what he's doing, and is having as much of a blast doing it as we are watching it.
In Rockers, Clark has made Hollywood hand-held realism look like the cutting room floor at Troma. And the images! Tracking the kids while they skate, the fucked up teeth, the 14-yr-old packages. He's like the Herb Ritts of the docu-drama.
But here's the thing. The movie is a big romantic jaunt through the Hills. There's no element of Aristotelian tragedy as in Kassovitz's Hate. There's no referential/archetypal weight as in The Warriors. These kids are nothing more than what Larry Clark fancies them to be. "You could be a model, I'm just trying to help your career." At least he knows full well what he's doing, and is having as much of a blast doing it as we are watching it.
Built to Spill
I hadn't realized they were so jammy, and I guess in B,VT you can't expect, at a rock show 600-kid strong, not to catch a glimpse of the backwards-hat-frat-jam-dance. It was described to me as "like a seven-year-old," and I looked over and agreed completely. If you've never seen it, perhaps it's impossible to really get the humor of it, but it's there, bouncing, back to front, beer in hand, eyes squinted, emotion on the face, head rocking with the beat, mouth trying to lip sync the words but not really knowing them. (It's OK, I don't really know many BTS lyrics either, but as a side note it's great when you catch them, very poignant, clever, well-put. But I'll get to that in a minute). I'm doing the jam-dance right now, sitting at my kitchen table, trying to figure out really how to describe it in words. It's a culture thing.
The lyrics. Excellent. They opened up with "Goin' Against Your Mind" and as awesome as it was to watch him sing, the phrases are pretty cool. "Thought it was an alien/ Turned out to be just God." I downloaded another live version and it sounds like he says it differently.
So, Doug Martsch had this video projection with a slide show of the album art from "You in Reverse," and it was the most lo-fi operation you can picture. He's just got this flimsy stand (it looked like a music stand from high school concert band) and the thing keeps shaking when the bass gets loud. And it blipped a couple times when they really got into it, and toward the end of the song when they're really rocking out, it starts to fall and then the signal cuts out and the thing says "no signal" on the projection board as it's slowly sinking because the stand is shaking so much and as the song crescendoes and the stage lights are turning red and he's singing his fuckin heart out, the stupid thing just falls out of view and then it's just the band, playing rock music. It was mesmerizing, cathartic.
It happened a couple times. Doug and the other guitarist really wanted to get a political tape to play, but the sound was giving them trouble. Eventually, they figured it out and played it during the encore to a tired but loyal audience. It didn't say a lot, but it was there. And it was important for them. I say Bravo.
"This next song is dedicated to Hugo Chavez," said Martsch before playing the awesomest track from the newest album. It was awesome. His intentions are so noble. And he wasn't kidding about leaving during the last song. It's like a contest to see if they can outlast the audience. I just wish they played "Car."
The lyrics. Excellent. They opened up with "Goin' Against Your Mind" and as awesome as it was to watch him sing, the phrases are pretty cool. "Thought it was an alien/ Turned out to be just God." I downloaded another live version and it sounds like he says it differently.
So, Doug Martsch had this video projection with a slide show of the album art from "You in Reverse," and it was the most lo-fi operation you can picture. He's just got this flimsy stand (it looked like a music stand from high school concert band) and the thing keeps shaking when the bass gets loud. And it blipped a couple times when they really got into it, and toward the end of the song when they're really rocking out, it starts to fall and then the signal cuts out and the thing says "no signal" on the projection board as it's slowly sinking because the stand is shaking so much and as the song crescendoes and the stage lights are turning red and he's singing his fuckin heart out, the stupid thing just falls out of view and then it's just the band, playing rock music. It was mesmerizing, cathartic.
It happened a couple times. Doug and the other guitarist really wanted to get a political tape to play, but the sound was giving them trouble. Eventually, they figured it out and played it during the encore to a tired but loyal audience. It didn't say a lot, but it was there. And it was important for them. I say Bravo.
"This next song is dedicated to Hugo Chavez," said Martsch before playing the awesomest track from the newest album. It was awesome. His intentions are so noble. And he wasn't kidding about leaving during the last song. It's like a contest to see if they can outlast the audience. I just wish they played "Car."
Drawing Restraint 9
Matthew Barney's films stand apart from his sculpture and installation work because he's declaring that it actually happened. DR9 isn't a sculpture in cinematic form (as I had originally used the phrase as a foothold for interpretation), there's an actual narrative.
The romance is certainly reminiscent of Eraserhead. Instead of succumbing to the vile detritus surrounding them as in David Lynch's masterpiece, Barney's (real-life) lovers are forced into the inevitable extravagance. I've read a little about traditional Japanese tea ceremonies and they're very similar. It's like the entire film is modeled on the tea ceremony, ritualistic and human, only more visceral, guttural. Barney hasn't lost his attention to the body and its various needs and functions.
The two are methodically invited, transformed, bred, and excreted. And we watch the whole process from the root to the fruit. It all happens in the presence of the most exquisite and illegal substance in the world, ambergris (of Moby Dick fame). The life cycle of humans and animals. Humans thrive in the presence of the most magnificent of them all: The Whale. And we don't even see one.
The romance is certainly reminiscent of Eraserhead. Instead of succumbing to the vile detritus surrounding them as in David Lynch's masterpiece, Barney's (real-life) lovers are forced into the inevitable extravagance. I've read a little about traditional Japanese tea ceremonies and they're very similar. It's like the entire film is modeled on the tea ceremony, ritualistic and human, only more visceral, guttural. Barney hasn't lost his attention to the body and its various needs and functions.
The two are methodically invited, transformed, bred, and excreted. And we watch the whole process from the root to the fruit. It all happens in the presence of the most exquisite and illegal substance in the world, ambergris (of Moby Dick fame). The life cycle of humans and animals. Humans thrive in the presence of the most magnificent of them all: The Whale. And we don't even see one.
A Prairie Home Companion
Robert Altman's latest was clunky and shambly (is this a word?). It doesn't really hold together as a film, but more of a showcase of the PHC juggernaut that is Garrison Kiellor's eternal legacy. His script is so self-serving, I was put off. First, there's no way Meryl Streep's Yolanda Johnson had her heart broken by GK of all people. That guy? I mean, yea, he can sing, but... Anyway, it's not sci-fi.
Which brings me to my next point. Keillor's bit of clever (N)oir is a little too cheeky and amateurish for me. The thing reads a little like a Devin Tanchum script, I'm just waiting for the angel in the white trenchcoat to have a body double. And the few juicy lines are hacked and contrived: Lindsay Lohan's bitter accusation that "someone's dead" and GK's not even going to say anything. You know, nobody really said anything. I wonder how long the corpse sat down there in the basement. Giving off more gas than it took in.
Which brings me to my next point. The trail-hands were well-written, but they were just concentrating too damn hard on hitting the notes to really shine. Those jokes were really funny, though. Woody Harrelson told them with such boyish menace.
Meryl Streep underplayed it perfectly, Tommy Lee Jones has zero comic timing (although that's assuming GK's lines are actually funny), and Lindsay Lohan is out of place, drifting. Why is she in an Altman movie? Jesus, and Kevin Kline's Guy Noir! What the hell? Where did he go at the end? What was the solution? They conspired to murder the Axeman? Yolanda's daughter singing the last song of the show somehow brings it full circle? I think not. Scriptwriting 101: It's deserved, but is it earned?
Am I sounding bitter? Maybe it's a punk gesture. The Prairie Home Companion is just too sacred not to want to spit all over it.
Which brings me to my next point. Keillor's bit of clever (N)oir is a little too cheeky and amateurish for me. The thing reads a little like a Devin Tanchum script, I'm just waiting for the angel in the white trenchcoat to have a body double. And the few juicy lines are hacked and contrived: Lindsay Lohan's bitter accusation that "someone's dead" and GK's not even going to say anything. You know, nobody really said anything. I wonder how long the corpse sat down there in the basement. Giving off more gas than it took in.
Which brings me to my next point. The trail-hands were well-written, but they were just concentrating too damn hard on hitting the notes to really shine. Those jokes were really funny, though. Woody Harrelson told them with such boyish menace.
Meryl Streep underplayed it perfectly, Tommy Lee Jones has zero comic timing (although that's assuming GK's lines are actually funny), and Lindsay Lohan is out of place, drifting. Why is she in an Altman movie? Jesus, and Kevin Kline's Guy Noir! What the hell? Where did he go at the end? What was the solution? They conspired to murder the Axeman? Yolanda's daughter singing the last song of the show somehow brings it full circle? I think not. Scriptwriting 101: It's deserved, but is it earned?
Am I sounding bitter? Maybe it's a punk gesture. The Prairie Home Companion is just too sacred not to want to spit all over it.
Jesus Camp
I just want to head this one off at the pass and say that to a Middle-American audience, there's probably not much of this film that actually surprises. But, my god (ha ha), will this film make a Blue-stater cringe. The pentecostal stuff is the most frightening. Kids writhing on the floor and crying out arameic gibberish. Harry Potter should be put to death, etc.
It's a lot of shock value, though. I admit there's an important point being made. Levi, the charismatic protagonist, says his favorite subject to preach is Faith. Fundamentalists have clung to this concept like a battle standard to the point that our Protestant commander in chief actually has a Divine Mandate, allowing him carte blanche. Faith in God equals Faith in Bush. It's obvious this is wrong.
The filmmakers of Jesus Camp, however, have crafted a sideshow of "jesus nuts," in order to advance their left-wing message. The connection is obvious, and it's spoken very plainly by the super-minister. "If the Evangelicals vote, they win the election." And Fundamentalism is being taught to our Bible-Belt children. It's a one-liner.
The kids in Jesus Camp are doubly exploited. They are trained to become God's Army by their conservative communities, and now they are propped up on display by liberal filmmakers. It resembles Napoleon Dynamite at certain points. I felt bad for the kids. They don't know they're such weirdos! Jesus Camp never quite reconciled the message. All I saw was a very narrow selection of brainwashed kids being paraded around as the sole reason to subscribe to a left-wing agenda.
It's a lot of shock value, though. I admit there's an important point being made. Levi, the charismatic protagonist, says his favorite subject to preach is Faith. Fundamentalists have clung to this concept like a battle standard to the point that our Protestant commander in chief actually has a Divine Mandate, allowing him carte blanche. Faith in God equals Faith in Bush. It's obvious this is wrong.
The filmmakers of Jesus Camp, however, have crafted a sideshow of "jesus nuts," in order to advance their left-wing message. The connection is obvious, and it's spoken very plainly by the super-minister. "If the Evangelicals vote, they win the election." And Fundamentalism is being taught to our Bible-Belt children. It's a one-liner.
The kids in Jesus Camp are doubly exploited. They are trained to become God's Army by their conservative communities, and now they are propped up on display by liberal filmmakers. It resembles Napoleon Dynamite at certain points. I felt bad for the kids. They don't know they're such weirdos! Jesus Camp never quite reconciled the message. All I saw was a very narrow selection of brainwashed kids being paraded around as the sole reason to subscribe to a left-wing agenda.
Death of a President
There was something ominous and hype-ey about the name Gabriel Range as it appeared over the motorcade and Richard Harvey's looming score played. I don't know, maybe it's the name itself. A name like that should either direct music videos or fight crime. Either way, this film has nothing to do with either. It's a lame crime drama that doesn't move.
The mystery story is played out in the most amateur and poorly-scripted way. The details of the investigation are withheld from us for the sole purpose of drawing a 15-minute YouTube conspiracy into a feature film. The basic premise of the botched conviction is racial profiling, a small bullet in a powerpoint presentation. The What-if aspect of the assassination holds a kind of vague, hangnail fascination, but it's a bullet as well. There are a few good performances from the almost all unknown cast, notably Neko Parham's Casy Claybon and (I love this guy) James Urbaniak's FBI CSI guy.
Politically, it's all hype. Range pulls all his punches, although I can't see even the opportunity for punch. Nobody says anything we didn't hear in any of the countless anti-Bush-regime docs of the last three years. The most salient point is this: Should this film incite similar action, we'll then have the Devil himself with whom to deal, and the three scariest words this year: President Dick Cheney.
The mystery story is played out in the most amateur and poorly-scripted way. The details of the investigation are withheld from us for the sole purpose of drawing a 15-minute YouTube conspiracy into a feature film. The basic premise of the botched conviction is racial profiling, a small bullet in a powerpoint presentation. The What-if aspect of the assassination holds a kind of vague, hangnail fascination, but it's a bullet as well. There are a few good performances from the almost all unknown cast, notably Neko Parham's Casy Claybon and (I love this guy) James Urbaniak's FBI CSI guy.
Politically, it's all hype. Range pulls all his punches, although I can't see even the opportunity for punch. Nobody says anything we didn't hear in any of the countless anti-Bush-regime docs of the last three years. The most salient point is this: Should this film incite similar action, we'll then have the Devil himself with whom to deal, and the three scariest words this year: President Dick Cheney.
The Departed
What a movie, and Brian Belovarac put it very well. Welcome back, Marty. After The Aviator, Martin Scorsese could have shown us any amalgamation of Casino and Goodfellas, and as long as it had jump cuts, camera dollys, and that one Rolling Stones song, we would have popped big gangster-size boners. By "we," I mean "I". As for "gangster-size boners," you'll have to fill it in yourself.
I saw it twice. The jokes were that good. I can't get enough of Alec Baldwin. By now, he's gotten over any kind of smug self-importance that seems to mark his legendary career (joke), and really settled into the self-aware Campbellian comedy act (That refers to Bruce Campbell, if anyone was wondering). Mark Wahlberg stole every scene he was in. A difficult task, being surrounded by so many (and there were many, many) heavy hitters. Martin Sheen was stately, yet tender. Damon likeable, Leo was all over the map. But Mark had this way of swaggering out of the conference room that was just irresistable. He's always had a knack for that impetuous bull-headed self-righteousness.
Yea, the film had its problems. First, I just don't think Marty can direct action. The micro-chip handoff scene was so contrived and strangely blocked, I didn't know what to make of it. The chase scene after the porn theater was another weird clunker. I've said this before, and it's one of the reasons I don't like Boston: The accent! Okay, Marky Mark and Matt Damon were born to play those characters, literally. They're both from badass South Boston or whatever, but when your ensemble cast can't get together on which r's to drop, there's a fundamental issue. Costello's mistress has about five total lines and she delivers them with five different accents that range from British sleaze to Southern Belle.
It was great, though, and it moved, and god-damn it's about time Martin Scorsese get back to the fun stuff. Don't forget what got you here, man.
I saw it twice. The jokes were that good. I can't get enough of Alec Baldwin. By now, he's gotten over any kind of smug self-importance that seems to mark his legendary career (joke), and really settled into the self-aware Campbellian comedy act (That refers to Bruce Campbell, if anyone was wondering). Mark Wahlberg stole every scene he was in. A difficult task, being surrounded by so many (and there were many, many) heavy hitters. Martin Sheen was stately, yet tender. Damon likeable, Leo was all over the map. But Mark had this way of swaggering out of the conference room that was just irresistable. He's always had a knack for that impetuous bull-headed self-righteousness.
Yea, the film had its problems. First, I just don't think Marty can direct action. The micro-chip handoff scene was so contrived and strangely blocked, I didn't know what to make of it. The chase scene after the porn theater was another weird clunker. I've said this before, and it's one of the reasons I don't like Boston: The accent! Okay, Marky Mark and Matt Damon were born to play those characters, literally. They're both from badass South Boston or whatever, but when your ensemble cast can't get together on which r's to drop, there's a fundamental issue. Costello's mistress has about five total lines and she delivers them with five different accents that range from British sleaze to Southern Belle.
It was great, though, and it moved, and god-damn it's about time Martin Scorsese get back to the fun stuff. Don't forget what got you here, man.
Borat: Cultural Learnings For Make Benefit Great Nation of Kazakhstan
Sacha Baron Cohen breaks character for one brief glance at the camera while standing behind the Jewish B&B couple, as if to say, "How far should I push this joke?" It's a question with which he's been wrestling since the inception of the character. The couple is completely oblivious, but we are just waiting for the inevitable culture clash. Cohen seems to thrust himself into loaded situations, leaving no choice but to follow through while staying in character. What would Borat do?
He certainly pushes it quite far. Singing the Kazakhi National Anthem to the rodeo crowd takes the cake. It was like a challenge to see which culture he could better defile. I'm surprised he wasn't lynched. The outrageous nudity and the Pamela Anderson scene, though, departed from the more subtle comedy of cultural subversion popularized in Da Ali G show, and bordered on Jackass. Still funny, though.
In essence, that's what happened with the film. I'm usually one to point out missed opportunities, especially when I see what great potential the opportunities hold, but in this case I'm letting it slide. Where Borat could have been an incredibly poignant and fresh means of advancing a clear universal message about cultural values and intolerance, instead it succumbs to the silliness and slapstick genius of its creator and star. It's not a political film, but it's a damn good comedy.
He certainly pushes it quite far. Singing the Kazakhi National Anthem to the rodeo crowd takes the cake. It was like a challenge to see which culture he could better defile. I'm surprised he wasn't lynched. The outrageous nudity and the Pamela Anderson scene, though, departed from the more subtle comedy of cultural subversion popularized in Da Ali G show, and bordered on Jackass. Still funny, though.
In essence, that's what happened with the film. I'm usually one to point out missed opportunities, especially when I see what great potential the opportunities hold, but in this case I'm letting it slide. Where Borat could have been an incredibly poignant and fresh means of advancing a clear universal message about cultural values and intolerance, instead it succumbs to the silliness and slapstick genius of its creator and star. It's not a political film, but it's a damn good comedy.
Down in the Valley
You know the story already. It's one of these things where there's one character that just blows absolutely everything apart, and from the get-go you're just waiting for it to frustrate and eventually leave you pissed off. It's that Markie Mark movie, Fear. You've seen it before.
Edward Norton's Harlan Whatever charms his way into the heart of a pretty young thing with some fundamental problems at home, and ends up being a nutjob who has it out with the father. This guy, David Morse, seems pretty comfortable delivering these serviceable performances in film after film, doesn't he? Every time I see the guy I'm thinking, "OK, this is the one," but he never quite breaks that shell. Anyway... The movie also stars the youngest of the Culkin dynasty, who totally nails the target-shooting scene with Norton. The two make a wicked team. So. Maybe there were some niceties in there.
David Jacobsen crafts a hell of a film, but I just saw Michael Haneke's Cache, another one of these "Leave me the hell alone," movies. Did anyone see With a Friend Like Harry (2000)? Actually, a film that rides this premise to fruitful success is Sam Peckinpah's Straw Dogs. Where Jacobsen introduces a gun in the first act and fires it in the third, Peckinpah opts for a giant bear trap. Way more badass.
Edward Norton's Harlan Whatever charms his way into the heart of a pretty young thing with some fundamental problems at home, and ends up being a nutjob who has it out with the father. This guy, David Morse, seems pretty comfortable delivering these serviceable performances in film after film, doesn't he? Every time I see the guy I'm thinking, "OK, this is the one," but he never quite breaks that shell. Anyway... The movie also stars the youngest of the Culkin dynasty, who totally nails the target-shooting scene with Norton. The two make a wicked team. So. Maybe there were some niceties in there.
David Jacobsen crafts a hell of a film, but I just saw Michael Haneke's Cache, another one of these "Leave me the hell alone," movies. Did anyone see With a Friend Like Harry (2000)? Actually, a film that rides this premise to fruitful success is Sam Peckinpah's Straw Dogs. Where Jacobsen introduces a gun in the first act and fires it in the third, Peckinpah opts for a giant bear trap. Way more badass.
Twelve and Holding
Director Michael Cuesta's coming-of-age drama follows a group of four friends, in the wake of a tragedy, and explores the individual stories surrounding them. Each child deals with a separate, though equally monumental, hurdle. A fine set of performances, at times even brilliant, make this film so watchable, and despite some traps it seems greenhorn Anthony Cipriano's script falls into, is memorable and enjoyable without being dragged down by sentimentality.
Cuesta seems to have taken a page from the Hal Hartley school of dramatic integrity. It's not only his use of tight, three-condensed-to-two-shot coverage style. Hartley's skill is in raising the particular stakes of a scene subtly, yet almost to the breaking point, bordering on unbelievability. Then he stays there, toeing the line, and makes it the new reality of the film. Cuesta employs similar skills, and his actors respond beautifully. Where Leonard's various showdowns, with his parents, with the P.E. teacher, could have hit a comedic note and merely backed down, Cipriano, Cuesta, and the remarkably talented Jesse Comacho keep the intelligence coming.
There are gorgeous moments in this script. The entire exchange with the P.E. teacher is near perfect (Leonard's entire story is reminiscent of Mike Leigh's All or Nothing, in its mood, its writ, and its humanity), Malee's relationship with her mother, Jacob's father and his excellent wisdom.
But Cipriano is suckered in by the same demons that plagued the guy who wrote Crash. He tries to connect the pieces, wrap the story in a salable package. The end effort merely cheapens the whole. There were nice set-ups, and the entire third act is earned, but all our hopes for an excellent and original thought-piece are blown out the window by the cleverly placed resolutions. Maybe that's why nobody saw this movie.
Cuesta seems to have taken a page from the Hal Hartley school of dramatic integrity. It's not only his use of tight, three-condensed-to-two-shot coverage style. Hartley's skill is in raising the particular stakes of a scene subtly, yet almost to the breaking point, bordering on unbelievability. Then he stays there, toeing the line, and makes it the new reality of the film. Cuesta employs similar skills, and his actors respond beautifully. Where Leonard's various showdowns, with his parents, with the P.E. teacher, could have hit a comedic note and merely backed down, Cipriano, Cuesta, and the remarkably talented Jesse Comacho keep the intelligence coming.
There are gorgeous moments in this script. The entire exchange with the P.E. teacher is near perfect (Leonard's entire story is reminiscent of Mike Leigh's All or Nothing, in its mood, its writ, and its humanity), Malee's relationship with her mother, Jacob's father and his excellent wisdom.
But Cipriano is suckered in by the same demons that plagued the guy who wrote Crash. He tries to connect the pieces, wrap the story in a salable package. The end effort merely cheapens the whole. There were nice set-ups, and the entire third act is earned, but all our hopes for an excellent and original thought-piece are blown out the window by the cleverly placed resolutions. Maybe that's why nobody saw this movie.
Fast Food Nation
Finally a political film that's actually got something to do with me and my daily life. Don't get me wrong, I have real feelings for the people dying in Africa and the Middle East, but here's a poignant film that speaks to the ideals of my daily economy. Richard Linklater's latest is a heartfelt gem about our American food and our American way of life and, unfortunately, it will be completely ignored by the masses. Fast Food Sales Rep Harry (Bruce Willis) puts it nicely: "People don't want to be told what's good for them."
There are some very important pieces of writing in this film. Patricia Arquette's character, specifically, is a perfect thematic type. She lies on the bed, a couple drinks deep, and muses her wish to "open the cages and free all the puppies." Co-writer Eric Schlosser, author of the book on which the movie is based, was able to pull off some of this humanistic touch in the original book, despite the fact-based expose style, but in this dramatized script it's allowed to really shine through. The heartstrings are pulled, especially throughout the Mexican struggle. This is clearly based on Upton Sinclair's The Jungle, which is based on fact. And eighty years later, we're told, it's even worse. The Jungle pounds the point home again and again until we and Jurgis are reduced to a dehumanized huddling mass, but Linklater's film keeps it from becoming a "worst-case scenario" by giving us an ironic sense of hope. It's heartbreaking.
But as I have said, this film will be completely ignored. Linklater suspects this, and a few of his characters even state it within the context of the film. "Revolutions are for the young," he says, promptly providing us with a prime example of an idealistic, yet poorly-planned and eventually ineffective example. Revolutions may be for the young and idealistic, but keeping the status quo in place is for the old and powerful. Knowing something is bad and not doing anything about it, though, that's something we all share.
There are some very important pieces of writing in this film. Patricia Arquette's character, specifically, is a perfect thematic type. She lies on the bed, a couple drinks deep, and muses her wish to "open the cages and free all the puppies." Co-writer Eric Schlosser, author of the book on which the movie is based, was able to pull off some of this humanistic touch in the original book, despite the fact-based expose style, but in this dramatized script it's allowed to really shine through. The heartstrings are pulled, especially throughout the Mexican struggle. This is clearly based on Upton Sinclair's The Jungle, which is based on fact. And eighty years later, we're told, it's even worse. The Jungle pounds the point home again and again until we and Jurgis are reduced to a dehumanized huddling mass, but Linklater's film keeps it from becoming a "worst-case scenario" by giving us an ironic sense of hope. It's heartbreaking.
But as I have said, this film will be completely ignored. Linklater suspects this, and a few of his characters even state it within the context of the film. "Revolutions are for the young," he says, promptly providing us with a prime example of an idealistic, yet poorly-planned and eventually ineffective example. Revolutions may be for the young and idealistic, but keeping the status quo in place is for the old and powerful. Knowing something is bad and not doing anything about it, though, that's something we all share.
Tenacious D and the Pick of Destiny
I'll admit to liking the band. And I'll concede that I'm inexplicably drawn to the phrase "Junior Western Bacon Chee," and Jables is cuddly cute when he's not in demon mode or sourly inflicting ribald on Rage Kage, and there were Meatloaf and Ronny Dio in the opening scene, which was a killer rock opera explosion.
But the rest was Poops Magee. The songs were stupid and so was the plot. Besides some brilliant epithets, for which JB and KG seem to have a devilish knack, there wasn't much juice.
But the rest was Poops Magee. The songs were stupid and so was the plot. Besides some brilliant epithets, for which JB and KG seem to have a devilish knack, there wasn't much juice.
For Your Consideration
My own worst fears have been confirmed. The Christopher Guest franchise is losing steam. I sensed it after seeing A Mighty Wind. This comedy of farce is wearing thin, and his latest, For Your Consideration, despite its attempt to fit into a more conventional dramatic structure, can't resurrect the magic that was Waiting For Guffman, or even Best In Show.
There's some attempt at Hollywood lampooning, but Guest's tools of farce are weak and unfocused. The film in production is a ridiculous parody of family melodrama that isn't funny, and takes up way too much screen time. (Comic writers, listen to me: Things aren't funny merely because they are Jewish). Only a few of FYC's characters are fleshed out enough to be interesting. This is Guest's classically familiar Underdog story, but instead of putting a fresh twist on the conventions, he seems to have left out some of the meat.
Even Fred Willard is irritating. It's as if this troupe has run out of ideas and fallen back on the basic essentials they can pull off in their sleep. Nobody is bringing anything new to this thing. There were a few moments, obviously, that kept me in the theater. Ricky Gervais is pretty good. John Michael Higgins is a riot. If you do go see this thing, keep your eyes out for Sam, the 2nd 2nd AD. He has one scene, but he's so loveable, and it reminds you of why Guest's movies used to be good.
There's a scene in which some Hollywood astronaut extras, and then a flock of showgirls, pass by in the background and it's the most directorial skill Mr. Guest employs throughout the film.
There's some attempt at Hollywood lampooning, but Guest's tools of farce are weak and unfocused. The film in production is a ridiculous parody of family melodrama that isn't funny, and takes up way too much screen time. (Comic writers, listen to me: Things aren't funny merely because they are Jewish). Only a few of FYC's characters are fleshed out enough to be interesting. This is Guest's classically familiar Underdog story, but instead of putting a fresh twist on the conventions, he seems to have left out some of the meat.
Even Fred Willard is irritating. It's as if this troupe has run out of ideas and fallen back on the basic essentials they can pull off in their sleep. Nobody is bringing anything new to this thing. There were a few moments, obviously, that kept me in the theater. Ricky Gervais is pretty good. John Michael Higgins is a riot. If you do go see this thing, keep your eyes out for Sam, the 2nd 2nd AD. He has one scene, but he's so loveable, and it reminds you of why Guest's movies used to be good.
There's a scene in which some Hollywood astronaut extras, and then a flock of showgirls, pass by in the background and it's the most directorial skill Mr. Guest employs throughout the film.
The Wild Blue Yonder
Here is a brilliant testament to the Home Theater system. A straight-to-video movie that is entirely based on its mastery of the elements of sight and sound. The beauty of this film (actually its raison d'etre, if you will) is in its cinematica. Werner Herzog employs sweeping long takes of both undersea and outer space, punctuated by (my favorite) a bleak depiction of life on the fringe of Americana, vaguely reminiscent of Stroszek.
These takes are long. Very long. Long enough to allow suitable time for the kind of contemplation it'll take to figure out where Herzog is coming from. His use of canned NASA footage clearly negates the fiction element. Brad Dourif's Alien is obviously not an alien. The film is prefaced as "A Science Fiction Fantasy," a likely play on the two genres and their intertwining histories. But really, Herzog combines aspects of both quite beautifully. Between takes of humans floating through space light years away, we have concise and logical explanations of how it will actually be possible in years to come. It's Star Wars with mathematical explanations.
Werner Herzog's legend as an image-maker is only rivaled by his prowess for recognition of appropriated images. In the end, though, Herzog isn't visiting themes far different than his usual mainstays. It's Man's Struggle Against Oblivion, only this time he's shooting for Oblivion itself. This film gives you some time to think about this stuff. Here's an interesting hypothetical: Can you think of another of his films that couldn't be renamed The Wild Blue Yonder?
I'll leave you with this, because it reminded me of it:
These takes are long. Very long. Long enough to allow suitable time for the kind of contemplation it'll take to figure out where Herzog is coming from. His use of canned NASA footage clearly negates the fiction element. Brad Dourif's Alien is obviously not an alien. The film is prefaced as "A Science Fiction Fantasy," a likely play on the two genres and their intertwining histories. But really, Herzog combines aspects of both quite beautifully. Between takes of humans floating through space light years away, we have concise and logical explanations of how it will actually be possible in years to come. It's Star Wars with mathematical explanations.
Werner Herzog's legend as an image-maker is only rivaled by his prowess for recognition of appropriated images. In the end, though, Herzog isn't visiting themes far different than his usual mainstays. It's Man's Struggle Against Oblivion, only this time he's shooting for Oblivion itself. This film gives you some time to think about this stuff. Here's an interesting hypothetical: Can you think of another of his films that couldn't be renamed The Wild Blue Yonder?
I'll leave you with this, because it reminded me of it:
Clerks II
Kevin Smith's bold return to the Askewniverse is cute, quaint, and sentimental. As far as comedy goes, the crew has not lost its midas touch, but ultimately it's as if Kevin, like his titular characters, is caught between moving forward as a professional, or sticking around Monmouth County, NJ in an attempt to remain true to the people that got him where he is.
Smith's consistently wordy material somehow never becomes awkward or preachy. His actors can always pull it off. Kevin Smith's talent as a writer/director is overshadowed by the ease at which he makes it look easy. If that makes any sense. This sequel, like his first five movies, makes terms like "mouthbreather, porch monkey, ass-to-mouth, and inter-species erotica" into common dialect, five seconds later a fierce diatribe against Lord of the Rings, cut to a tender dialectic on the nature of basic human relations.
The problem with the film, though, isn't in the treatment of the material, or even the material itself, it's the time and place. Kevin, you made an important step out of your comfort zone with Chasing Amy, and I don't think you've explored it further. Woody Allen, for example, recognized his growth as an intelligent filmmaker (yes, like you, Kevin!) and made an important step beyond the farcical tropes of his early work, creating some of the best films of all time, not merely of his own career. Don't let early success ruin you! There's still hope!
Smith's consistently wordy material somehow never becomes awkward or preachy. His actors can always pull it off. Kevin Smith's talent as a writer/director is overshadowed by the ease at which he makes it look easy. If that makes any sense. This sequel, like his first five movies, makes terms like "mouthbreather, porch monkey, ass-to-mouth, and inter-species erotica" into common dialect, five seconds later a fierce diatribe against Lord of the Rings, cut to a tender dialectic on the nature of basic human relations.
The problem with the film, though, isn't in the treatment of the material, or even the material itself, it's the time and place. Kevin, you made an important step out of your comfort zone with Chasing Amy, and I don't think you've explored it further. Woody Allen, for example, recognized his growth as an intelligent filmmaker (yes, like you, Kevin!) and made an important step beyond the farcical tropes of his early work, creating some of the best films of all time, not merely of his own career. Don't let early success ruin you! There's still hope!
Casino Royale
Bond is back with fury, this time fighting a euro-type insider trader, exploiting guerilla terrorists for useable stock futures despite perpetual bleeding from his eye. Bond is completely fucking superhuman, a master of Texas Hold-em, has muscles growing off muscles most people don't even have in the first place, and totally bloodthirsty. He kills so many people, and with such introverted glee. Then he goes back to the Texas Hold-em table wearing a new shirt. Like we wouldn't notice. Oh, but the bad guy notices. It's really just a re-hash of Batman Begins. Expository prequel that deals with subject's inability to reconcile the brutality and isolation required by his position, deals with it, realizes there's nothing to be done about it. Only this time there's Texas Hold-em.
Personally, I like the premise. Humanity versus professionalism, or something.
Casino Royale, though, loses points for many reasons. It'll probably surpass Die Another Day for top-grossing Bond flick, justifiably, but shouldn't we start judging by different terms, considering tickets cost 5 times what they used to, and inflation, and all that? 1965's Thunderball sold twice the number of tickets, but for only 2 dollars a pop! It's silly, back to the movie.
For one, Texas Hold-em is a stupid game. There, I said it. I'm saying right now that the minute it hit ESPN it became stupid and I'm god-damn sick of it. Don't see Casino Royale unless you want to watch an hour of Texas fuckin Hold-em. The plot is not good, and the climax hinges on whether Bond can win at poker.
Daniel Craig's pretty good as Bond. I can't give up on my man, though. Connery may have been the original, but Pierce Brosnan was always my fave. Also, from the very beginning, I desperately wanted to be able to call it "Royale with Cheese," but alas, there is a point of light. This is not a cheesy film.
Personally, I like the premise. Humanity versus professionalism, or something.
Casino Royale, though, loses points for many reasons. It'll probably surpass Die Another Day for top-grossing Bond flick, justifiably, but shouldn't we start judging by different terms, considering tickets cost 5 times what they used to, and inflation, and all that? 1965's Thunderball sold twice the number of tickets, but for only 2 dollars a pop! It's silly, back to the movie.
For one, Texas Hold-em is a stupid game. There, I said it. I'm saying right now that the minute it hit ESPN it became stupid and I'm god-damn sick of it. Don't see Casino Royale unless you want to watch an hour of Texas fuckin Hold-em. The plot is not good, and the climax hinges on whether Bond can win at poker.
Daniel Craig's pretty good as Bond. I can't give up on my man, though. Connery may have been the original, but Pierce Brosnan was always my fave. Also, from the very beginning, I desperately wanted to be able to call it "Royale with Cheese," but alas, there is a point of light. This is not a cheesy film.
Lady Vengeance...
...and The Vengeance Trilogy.
Park Chan-Wook's Lady Vengeance, the third installment of his trilogy, rarely guts as well as its parent films. This story, by far the lamest (and I mean this both in the literal sense that it is wholly ineffective and inoperable, as well as in that it is totally lame, dude), seems to assume that there's a point to be made about the metaphysics of vengeance. This is also where Oldboy (the second in the series) failed. Oh Dae-su follows his boyhood specter from playground to vacant classroom and watches as he feels up Woo-jin's sister. As a flashback, it works fine, but to Park, it makes sense that Dae-su reliving this moment puts him on some kind of spiritual plane with Woo-jin. It does only in the sense that Dae-su is now in a position to empathize with Woo-jin's moral decision. Park ignores the fact that he's grounded in a world of flesh and bones (and, obviously, gallons of prop blood). Is Park implying some kind of designing force? The two men are in the hands of fate? Snooze.
The problem with this latest film is amplified. There's no room for moral decision, and the class-action vengeance suit in the third act is not a moral discussion, nor does one member need to be at all convinced of the need for action. The Angel of Vengeance, or so goes the metaphor, is the guiding force, and what kind of comment is that? A benign one. It is written into the course of history that humans will have their revenge. By constantly referencing his own films, playing casting-tag with his character actors, and presenting these pieces as a Trilogy, Park even more firmly cements us in his world of truncated psychological rules. There are only so many character traits possible, as Geum-ja's prison girlfriend plainly states, "You were only pretending, weren't you..." Park has stacked the deck. Lady Vengeance's story is not even interesting. It's a boring meditation on the themes raised in the first two films, with some plot tricks thrown in as eye candy.
Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance only hit this flat note once or twice, for example the parallel phone hang-up and subsequent question: Who is the real Mr. Vengeance? Get it? We're all Lady and Mr. Vengeance! It's a part of our constitution.
As a craftsman, Park certainly knows his stuff. One look at the mirror scene in the first act of Mr. will hold you until the tendon-slashing finale. Ryu's support system is neatly pared away, physically, psychologically, visually, until he is reduced to nothing more than a body. Park achieves the greatest meditation on the nature of revenge through his ruggedly sparse cinematics. Two installments later, we're barraged with a stupidly Baroque score, graphic novel blacks and browns, macabre weapons, and (haven't we gotten past this?!) HOME VIDEO FOOTAGE OF MURDER.
Highlights: The Oedipus cycle, the Achilles tendon, Lesbos. A five-year-old is hanged. The word "dickshit." A man eats a live octopus.
Lowlights: Nihilism, Buddhism, Hypnotism. Geum-ja's annoying aussie daughter. Granny in a plastic blood-safe suit.
Park Chan-Wook's Lady Vengeance, the third installment of his trilogy, rarely guts as well as its parent films. This story, by far the lamest (and I mean this both in the literal sense that it is wholly ineffective and inoperable, as well as in that it is totally lame, dude), seems to assume that there's a point to be made about the metaphysics of vengeance. This is also where Oldboy (the second in the series) failed. Oh Dae-su follows his boyhood specter from playground to vacant classroom and watches as he feels up Woo-jin's sister. As a flashback, it works fine, but to Park, it makes sense that Dae-su reliving this moment puts him on some kind of spiritual plane with Woo-jin. It does only in the sense that Dae-su is now in a position to empathize with Woo-jin's moral decision. Park ignores the fact that he's grounded in a world of flesh and bones (and, obviously, gallons of prop blood). Is Park implying some kind of designing force? The two men are in the hands of fate? Snooze.
The problem with this latest film is amplified. There's no room for moral decision, and the class-action vengeance suit in the third act is not a moral discussion, nor does one member need to be at all convinced of the need for action. The Angel of Vengeance, or so goes the metaphor, is the guiding force, and what kind of comment is that? A benign one. It is written into the course of history that humans will have their revenge. By constantly referencing his own films, playing casting-tag with his character actors, and presenting these pieces as a Trilogy, Park even more firmly cements us in his world of truncated psychological rules. There are only so many character traits possible, as Geum-ja's prison girlfriend plainly states, "You were only pretending, weren't you..." Park has stacked the deck. Lady Vengeance's story is not even interesting. It's a boring meditation on the themes raised in the first two films, with some plot tricks thrown in as eye candy.
Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance only hit this flat note once or twice, for example the parallel phone hang-up and subsequent question: Who is the real Mr. Vengeance? Get it? We're all Lady and Mr. Vengeance! It's a part of our constitution.
As a craftsman, Park certainly knows his stuff. One look at the mirror scene in the first act of Mr. will hold you until the tendon-slashing finale. Ryu's support system is neatly pared away, physically, psychologically, visually, until he is reduced to nothing more than a body. Park achieves the greatest meditation on the nature of revenge through his ruggedly sparse cinematics. Two installments later, we're barraged with a stupidly Baroque score, graphic novel blacks and browns, macabre weapons, and (haven't we gotten past this?!) HOME VIDEO FOOTAGE OF MURDER.
Highlights: The Oedipus cycle, the Achilles tendon, Lesbos. A five-year-old is hanged. The word "dickshit." A man eats a live octopus.
Lowlights: Nihilism, Buddhism, Hypnotism. Geum-ja's annoying aussie daughter. Granny in a plastic blood-safe suit.
The Death of Mr. Lazarescu
I'm seeing this one rather late, after the rest of you have had your just say about it. Amid the overwhelming praise for this movie, there are obviously a few who didn't quite catch the spirit, and I'll put myself in that camp, but only on a certain level. Christi Puiu's second film definitely has some admirable moments in its technique. The frustration only builds and builds, while Puiu's hand-held camera petutantly records the various layers of absurdity and injustice. Puiu does a fine job of walking the line between overblown satire (because although they leave a bitter taste, the jokes are in there) and exposé-style social commentary. I like the references by some to Fred Wiseman. Though it's a thoroughly manufactured record, it's after all, still a record of a system not without glaring problems, and it carries this weight.
Many of the performances are subtly impressive. I was particularly drawn to the doctors. Each successive "specialist" seemed to want to be done with Lazarescu and the entire film itself. The only time I laughed out loud was at Florin Zamfirescu, the first doctor, the one that looked like an Ewok. His hint of grandiosity despite the crumbling walls around him was right on the money (i.e. He shakes the hand of a man he doesn't seem to even know, as if he's running for office).
The film itself, though, takes a back seat to the social commentary. Puiu must have intended this. His unbearably long takes, the appalling attitude of the medical world, and the formal repetition resemble an essay rather than a narrative. I'm not as interested in comparing this film with Kafka as I am with William Faulkner. Puiu's use of the As I Lay Dying premise isn't the only reason for the comparison. Faulkner's treatment of his subjects, both titular and peripheral, is one of understanding coupled with harsh indictment. This film is of the same attitude.
Even to the very end, the point about Mr. Lazarescu's liver is pounded home. There's nothing the overworked emergency room staff, even if they did give a shit, could do about a lifelong alcoholic and his cirrhosis-hardened liver! Responsibility ultimately lies with the patient! I'm not up on Romanian current events, but it's almost as if Puiu is pointing the finger at his drunk, lethargic countrymen, accusing them of leeching off a universal health care system, still conducting their lives according to some selfish sense of personal entitlement after the communist era. Or maybe that's just how I saw it.
Many of the performances are subtly impressive. I was particularly drawn to the doctors. Each successive "specialist" seemed to want to be done with Lazarescu and the entire film itself. The only time I laughed out loud was at Florin Zamfirescu, the first doctor, the one that looked like an Ewok. His hint of grandiosity despite the crumbling walls around him was right on the money (i.e. He shakes the hand of a man he doesn't seem to even know, as if he's running for office).
The film itself, though, takes a back seat to the social commentary. Puiu must have intended this. His unbearably long takes, the appalling attitude of the medical world, and the formal repetition resemble an essay rather than a narrative. I'm not as interested in comparing this film with Kafka as I am with William Faulkner. Puiu's use of the As I Lay Dying premise isn't the only reason for the comparison. Faulkner's treatment of his subjects, both titular and peripheral, is one of understanding coupled with harsh indictment. This film is of the same attitude.
Even to the very end, the point about Mr. Lazarescu's liver is pounded home. There's nothing the overworked emergency room staff, even if they did give a shit, could do about a lifelong alcoholic and his cirrhosis-hardened liver! Responsibility ultimately lies with the patient! I'm not up on Romanian current events, but it's almost as if Puiu is pointing the finger at his drunk, lethargic countrymen, accusing them of leeching off a universal health care system, still conducting their lives according to some selfish sense of personal entitlement after the communist era. Or maybe that's just how I saw it.
Inland Empire
Walking away from a dense, three-hour-long treatise on the nature of fear and memory, haunted by the superimpositions of faces and the sludgy yet powerful force of good, old-fashioned, close-up Sony digital video, my ears still ringing, eyes re-focusing, bladder beckoning for reprieve, I wondered if I'd ever go back. "See David Lynch's Inland Empire 9 times and get the 10th free!" read the sign outside the IFC Theater in Manhattan. By the time I'd managed to wait out the restroom line (Lynch fans to the T, every one of them. I saw a Pabst Blue Ribbon shirt and 75 pairs of horn-rimmed glasses), I still hadn't decided whether I'd do it again any time soon. Certainly not nine more times. Upon further meditation and reflection, though, I've decided I want more.
David Lynch's casting work is excellent, and I was particularly appalled/entranced by Grace Zabriskie's New Neighbor. The tracking lines in the the blown-up video image around her Medusa-like visage are mesmerizing and despite a flatness (and altogether lack of visual integrity) that video cannot avoid, there's enough presence exuded by this great cast that seems to embed them in the frame, creating, at it's most brilliant moments, what is so beautifully original about DV cinema. It's a meld of performance, sound, and visual art in a way that the lines blur. Without the distance of an expensive 35mm camera, we're so attuned to the physicality of the performances, the performers are actually people doing these things rather than distant Hollywood stars, and we can feel ourselves as people reacting to the actors as people.
His themes are more broad and veiled than most of his other films. Always an avenue of accessibility to his work is the indentification of the world of Lynchian thematics. In this case, Laura Dern is skillfully able to reprise some of the femininity and delicate innocence of Wild At Heart, so much so that her confessional upstairs, tales of violence and rape, seem doubly horrifying, almost cathartic. Likewise, her Polish husband's reversal is similarly disgusting. Inland Empire, though, makes dwindling shades of its themes like darkening levels of muddy DV grain. Maybe that's why this thing seems to warrant multiple viewings, we're left with barely enough to chew on.
There are so many reasons to be fascinated, though, and so many parts that are awesome. Hangin' out with the street people in the closing act, Black Tambourine, David Lynch composing songs and where was Angelo Badalamenti?, the strobe light dance sequence, the Polish folk mafia. I read that Canal was limiting festival and theater releases because the legions of Lynch superfans and their inevitable praise would justify his refusal to cut it down to a marketable screen time.
Here's an amazing quote by David Lynch that they played before the film: "People asked if I'd ever make a studio film. That's like asking if I'd ever poke a giant knife into my chest. ...It might happen."
David Lynch's casting work is excellent, and I was particularly appalled/entranced by Grace Zabriskie's New Neighbor. The tracking lines in the the blown-up video image around her Medusa-like visage are mesmerizing and despite a flatness (and altogether lack of visual integrity) that video cannot avoid, there's enough presence exuded by this great cast that seems to embed them in the frame, creating, at it's most brilliant moments, what is so beautifully original about DV cinema. It's a meld of performance, sound, and visual art in a way that the lines blur. Without the distance of an expensive 35mm camera, we're so attuned to the physicality of the performances, the performers are actually people doing these things rather than distant Hollywood stars, and we can feel ourselves as people reacting to the actors as people.
His themes are more broad and veiled than most of his other films. Always an avenue of accessibility to his work is the indentification of the world of Lynchian thematics. In this case, Laura Dern is skillfully able to reprise some of the femininity and delicate innocence of Wild At Heart, so much so that her confessional upstairs, tales of violence and rape, seem doubly horrifying, almost cathartic. Likewise, her Polish husband's reversal is similarly disgusting. Inland Empire, though, makes dwindling shades of its themes like darkening levels of muddy DV grain. Maybe that's why this thing seems to warrant multiple viewings, we're left with barely enough to chew on.
There are so many reasons to be fascinated, though, and so many parts that are awesome. Hangin' out with the street people in the closing act, Black Tambourine, David Lynch composing songs and where was Angelo Badalamenti?, the strobe light dance sequence, the Polish folk mafia. I read that Canal was limiting festival and theater releases because the legions of Lynch superfans and their inevitable praise would justify his refusal to cut it down to a marketable screen time.
Here's an amazing quote by David Lynch that they played before the film: "People asked if I'd ever make a studio film. That's like asking if I'd ever poke a giant knife into my chest. ...It might happen."
The Last King of Scotland
It's nice to see an African role not played by this guy. Also, the noms are in this morning and it looks as though Forest Whitaker's Oscar-bait performance has done the trick. Cheers. Nothing like a good bio-pic to get the nomination juices flowing. Just mimic a noted historical figure for an hour-and-a-half of screen time and you'll nail yourself a nod. Just ask her, her, him, this guy, etc. Hollywood magic. An actor I've always admired and with whom I've always been impressed, Forest Whitaker's long-awaited performance as eccentric Ugandan dictator Idi Amin is unfortunately watered down with the sap of his eager colleagues who've been riding the biography wave for the past two or three years and reaping the inevitable rewards.
And maybe it's because I've just been through an Asian Extreme kick, been around the world for the past month, saw the newest David Lynch, and not to mention Jackass Number Two, but director Kevin MacDonald's brutal film didn't gut me the way it seemed to the rest of the audience behind me. A woman with (the faint of heart and stomach should look away now) her arms replaced with her legs would normally have caused me to cringe, but instead I took it in stride. The similarly hard-on-the-stomach climax was another brutality I was able to endure.
Anyone fully embracing "The Last King of Scotland" as a noteworthy film should see its superior predecessor, 1970's "A Man Called Horse," starring a radiant Richard Harris. Where LKOS's determinist perspective, pessimistic anti-transcendentalism, and deliberate dearth of humanity and reason make for a total bummer of an "edgy" political thriller, Elliot Silverstein's 1970 film maintained an absolute faith in the integrity of its cultural values. The hanging sequence a celebration of what cements the solidarity of a culture, rather than a fiendish retaliatory reminder to the Great White West that African politics are in fact "real."
As if we need to be reminded of this. Aren't the New York City subway ads "real" enough? "Humans becoming extinct faster than animals," "We are all African," and so on. Didn't we just see Blood Diamond, and Hotel Rwanda, and SaveDarfur.org? MacDonald's unfortunate boon is that Africa is a cruel and inhuman place and the only thing its people understand is a deliberate show of force. The film has been accused of an imperialistic approach due to its reliance on a cute and charismatic white boy as our keyhole into Africa. I make the same accusation, but for a different reason. LKOS's humanity is missing, and the empathy and tolerance of foreign practices (polygamy, torture, etc.) isn't even hinted at. Yes, the Scottish doctor makes some grave mistakes, but at least he's portrayed with some kind of reasoning mechanism. The Africans in this film are treated as props, the squabbling pawns of Western Imperialists. I'll admit, though, it is done in the name of a higher purpose. That purpose is called Hollywood Political Thrill.
And maybe it's because I've just been through an Asian Extreme kick, been around the world for the past month, saw the newest David Lynch, and not to mention Jackass Number Two, but director Kevin MacDonald's brutal film didn't gut me the way it seemed to the rest of the audience behind me. A woman with (the faint of heart and stomach should look away now) her arms replaced with her legs would normally have caused me to cringe, but instead I took it in stride. The similarly hard-on-the-stomach climax was another brutality I was able to endure.
Anyone fully embracing "The Last King of Scotland" as a noteworthy film should see its superior predecessor, 1970's "A Man Called Horse," starring a radiant Richard Harris. Where LKOS's determinist perspective, pessimistic anti-transcendentalism, and deliberate dearth of humanity and reason make for a total bummer of an "edgy" political thriller, Elliot Silverstein's 1970 film maintained an absolute faith in the integrity of its cultural values. The hanging sequence a celebration of what cements the solidarity of a culture, rather than a fiendish retaliatory reminder to the Great White West that African politics are in fact "real."
As if we need to be reminded of this. Aren't the New York City subway ads "real" enough? "Humans becoming extinct faster than animals," "We are all African," and so on. Didn't we just see Blood Diamond, and Hotel Rwanda, and SaveDarfur.org? MacDonald's unfortunate boon is that Africa is a cruel and inhuman place and the only thing its people understand is a deliberate show of force. The film has been accused of an imperialistic approach due to its reliance on a cute and charismatic white boy as our keyhole into Africa. I make the same accusation, but for a different reason. LKOS's humanity is missing, and the empathy and tolerance of foreign practices (polygamy, torture, etc.) isn't even hinted at. Yes, the Scottish doctor makes some grave mistakes, but at least he's portrayed with some kind of reasoning mechanism. The Africans in this film are treated as props, the squabbling pawns of Western Imperialists. I'll admit, though, it is done in the name of a higher purpose. That purpose is called Hollywood Political Thrill.
Pan's Labyrinth
I spoke too soon about cringing at the gutty stuff. It seems the fates have decided to call my bluff and in Pan's Labyrinth have thrown another gruesome series of iniquities in my face. I'm sensing a trend. But I'm on the last chapter of an epic novel about ancient Japan, and my nerve for violence is like concrete. Bring it on, Hollywood. After 9/11, we were barraged with a wave of fantasy films. Now they've turned dark. Actually what really turns my stomach is that more people will be distressed by the (actually relatively tame) torture scene at the end of Pan's Labyrinth's second act, than at the constantly rising death toll at the beginning of the second act of the Iraq War.
Sergi Lopéz plays Capitán Vidal, a storybook brute of a commanding officer. Despite some hints that maybe there's a man inside this shell of evil, we're left only with his trail of horror. It's the status quo for conventional entertainment. Leave out the challenging psychological stuff and substitute with POWERFUL IMAGES (i.e. Good vs. Evil). Mainstream audiences are seemingly able to endure mass amounts of violence, death, and pessimism, but are we really that incapable of negotiating conflicting moral issues? I mean, please, I would have been perfectly satisfied accepting that the commander was a sound, reasonable man inside, but due to the pressures of his position...etc. Oh well. Same old, same old. Lopéz always makes a perfect bad guy, though, doesn't he?
Despite my reservations about considering this film at all mature, I'm definitely impressed with the art direction. Guillermo del Toro deserves a lot of credit for both his images and sounds. I call to attention El Fauno himself, brittle in both mind and body. The asymetry was astounding, the facial expressions subtly brilliant, and the creaks and cracks of his age-old limbs captivating. I don't even like CG. What I did appreciate was the use of sets, costumes, makeup, and models in conjuction with a cohesive and well-planned CG scheme. Also Doug Jones nearly revises his (and del Toro's) Hellboy creation. Excellent.
I'm not convinced, though, even after tearing up a little at the end (But, really, I cry during previews when the music swells. I'm just a sucker for the stuff). I know I always compare everything to earlier, better films, but when there's so many good ones most people have never even heard about, what else can I do? In this case it's Víctor Erice's 1973 masterpiece, The Spirit of the Beehive. It's the story of a young girl experiencing the horrors of post-war Spain through dark fantasies known only to herself. Weird, I know, but does it sound familiar? Erice's main character, Ana, is slightly younger, and according to a recent article in the New York Times, still at a normal age where fantasy and reality cannot always be separated. Likewise, from Ana's perspective Good and Evil are also up for interpretation. Del Toro tosses this idea aside in favor of a non-thinking tear-jerker that isn't as original as its graphic-novel-reading audience would have us believe.
Sergi Lopéz plays Capitán Vidal, a storybook brute of a commanding officer. Despite some hints that maybe there's a man inside this shell of evil, we're left only with his trail of horror. It's the status quo for conventional entertainment. Leave out the challenging psychological stuff and substitute with POWERFUL IMAGES (i.e. Good vs. Evil). Mainstream audiences are seemingly able to endure mass amounts of violence, death, and pessimism, but are we really that incapable of negotiating conflicting moral issues? I mean, please, I would have been perfectly satisfied accepting that the commander was a sound, reasonable man inside, but due to the pressures of his position...etc. Oh well. Same old, same old. Lopéz always makes a perfect bad guy, though, doesn't he?
Despite my reservations about considering this film at all mature, I'm definitely impressed with the art direction. Guillermo del Toro deserves a lot of credit for both his images and sounds. I call to attention El Fauno himself, brittle in both mind and body. The asymetry was astounding, the facial expressions subtly brilliant, and the creaks and cracks of his age-old limbs captivating. I don't even like CG. What I did appreciate was the use of sets, costumes, makeup, and models in conjuction with a cohesive and well-planned CG scheme. Also Doug Jones nearly revises his (and del Toro's) Hellboy creation. Excellent.
I'm not convinced, though, even after tearing up a little at the end (But, really, I cry during previews when the music swells. I'm just a sucker for the stuff). I know I always compare everything to earlier, better films, but when there's so many good ones most people have never even heard about, what else can I do? In this case it's Víctor Erice's 1973 masterpiece, The Spirit of the Beehive. It's the story of a young girl experiencing the horrors of post-war Spain through dark fantasies known only to herself. Weird, I know, but does it sound familiar? Erice's main character, Ana, is slightly younger, and according to a recent article in the New York Times, still at a normal age where fantasy and reality cannot always be separated. Likewise, from Ana's perspective Good and Evil are also up for interpretation. Del Toro tosses this idea aside in favor of a non-thinking tear-jerker that isn't as original as its graphic-novel-reading audience would have us believe.
United 93
This is amazing to me. The much needed break from what could be the most overwhelming gush of blind patriotism and armchair political opinion in all of time just happens to be a Hollywood action thriller about the event that spurned it all. Paul Greengrass's film, contrary to my initial fears about the project, included none of the sickening "victimismo" that the event has instilled in our poor nation. It relied on none of the spectacle of leftist protest that has loosened countless indie investors' wallets in recent years. It mentioned El Presidente two or three times briefly, with only a passing reference to "where he was" at the moment of crisis, as Michael Moore has already so eloquently pointed out. This film even diplomatically avoids driving into our heads a memoriam of names, families, affectees, etc., although (despite my clever quip before watching it) many of the roles were played by actual participants in the event.
All this is vastly impressive, and I believe Greengrass knows that a political film about 9/11 would be the wrong war at the wrong time. So instead, he's created an even more impressive work, to the delight of us all. An action thriller! The notion of restraint was the guiding principle in avoiding the pitfalls of a film of this theme. Likewise, restraint has done its job in guiding Greengrass through the genre. There's no gratuitous special effects that usually mar any kind of intellectual accessibility. There's no "star power." The tension is spine-tingling, and the buildup to the predetermined finale is celebrated, rather than shamelessly hinted at, because don't we always know the ending of these things anyway? This film is an excellent psychological thrill-ride, and isn't it a shame that it took the deaths of over 3,000 New Yorkers to finally get this premise right? Maybe something can be done about the SpiderMan franchise.
All this is vastly impressive, and I believe Greengrass knows that a political film about 9/11 would be the wrong war at the wrong time. So instead, he's created an even more impressive work, to the delight of us all. An action thriller! The notion of restraint was the guiding principle in avoiding the pitfalls of a film of this theme. Likewise, restraint has done its job in guiding Greengrass through the genre. There's no gratuitous special effects that usually mar any kind of intellectual accessibility. There's no "star power." The tension is spine-tingling, and the buildup to the predetermined finale is celebrated, rather than shamelessly hinted at, because don't we always know the ending of these things anyway? This film is an excellent psychological thrill-ride, and isn't it a shame that it took the deaths of over 3,000 New Yorkers to finally get this premise right? Maybe something can be done about the SpiderMan franchise.
Jonestown: The Life and Death of People's Temple
Being of the slightly younger generation, my limited exposure with cult issues ranges from David Karesh to the Heaven's Gate debacle. I've read about Charles Manson and Jim Jones, heard all the Kool-Aid jokes, and thusly I've been able to keep up with the references in various Simpsons episodes. But it wasn't until Jones' commanding voice blared from the loudspeaker, the archived tapes painting a macabre scene over the 16mm beauty of the Guyanan rainforest, that I realized the impact. I was one of two people in the theatre and by the end we were both in uncontrollable tears.
It's a sad story, the tragedy of People's Temple and the Jonestown community. Stanley Nelson's tale is one of supreme empathy. The film relies on large amounts of previously unseen 16mm documentation and audio recordings made by the Temple itself. Despite the revelatory images and sounds, there's not much being presented that hasn't already been revealed over the years by various news sources and psychologists. The cornerstone of Nelson's take on the material is steady thoughout the film, and it is the belief that People's Temple was born in optimism. Jim Jones preached faith, and despite his ominous allusions to himself as father, lover, and even God, the message was always one and the same: It's a big, bad world out there, and in People's Temple lies not only spiritual Salvation, but economical, physical, practical Salvation. Quite unlike Baptist, Evangelical, Pentecostal faith systems promising unlimited bounty in the next world, Jones offered something considerably more attractive: support in this world as well.
As a companion piece to this, despite my ever-present indignant attitude, I recommend Jesus Camp, a film that, due to an obligatory Oscar nod, is again being picked up by a theatre in your area. In stark contrast to Jonestown's Ken Burns-style journalism, Jesus Camp is a sideshow of religious zealouts, jammed into a shortened-for-consumption expos.. that breathes sensationalism like an underabundant supply of oxygen. Jesus Camp's tone is angry, inflammatory, and propagandistic. Jonestown is a welcome removal from the frothing mad world of competitve agenda-pushing and actually exhibits some compassion for its wounded subjects. It's a sad and delicate tribute.
It's a sad story, the tragedy of People's Temple and the Jonestown community. Stanley Nelson's tale is one of supreme empathy. The film relies on large amounts of previously unseen 16mm documentation and audio recordings made by the Temple itself. Despite the revelatory images and sounds, there's not much being presented that hasn't already been revealed over the years by various news sources and psychologists. The cornerstone of Nelson's take on the material is steady thoughout the film, and it is the belief that People's Temple was born in optimism. Jim Jones preached faith, and despite his ominous allusions to himself as father, lover, and even God, the message was always one and the same: It's a big, bad world out there, and in People's Temple lies not only spiritual Salvation, but economical, physical, practical Salvation. Quite unlike Baptist, Evangelical, Pentecostal faith systems promising unlimited bounty in the next world, Jones offered something considerably more attractive: support in this world as well.
As a companion piece to this, despite my ever-present indignant attitude, I recommend Jesus Camp, a film that, due to an obligatory Oscar nod, is again being picked up by a theatre in your area. In stark contrast to Jonestown's Ken Burns-style journalism, Jesus Camp is a sideshow of religious zealouts, jammed into a shortened-for-consumption expos.. that breathes sensationalism like an underabundant supply of oxygen. Jesus Camp's tone is angry, inflammatory, and propagandistic. Jonestown is a welcome removal from the frothing mad world of competitve agenda-pushing and actually exhibits some compassion for its wounded subjects. It's a sad and delicate tribute.
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