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I love you. 

When I heard those words spit out at the light-skinned Lelia Goldoni during John Cassavetes breakthrough film "Shadows" I couldn't help but mutter under my breath: "Oh, bullshit."  The scene, amateurishly romantic, has Lelia finding herself at the disposal of another white, bohemian male looking to get laid.  What the lad doesn't know is that Lelia is actually black.

That scene where the revelation shines through is what anchors Cassavetes' debut film, and in many ways (like its raw unchoreographed camera movements) becomes the benchmark for the American drama in the decades to come.  Jonathan Rosenbaum, the film critic for the Chicago Reader, hosted a screening and lecture at the Gene Siskel Film Center earlier tonight, to a packed crowd, and revealed to us that the final released version of the film (from 1959) was in fact a second draft; the first was shot without sound, and other tecnical problems, largely due to its improvisational creation.  That elusive singular original print was in the hands of Boston University's Ray Carney a few years back, but that stirred up some heat with the Cassavetes estate.

No matter.  The "Shadows" film that students of cinema have come to discover is a largely imperfect film, but has some solid nuggets of narrative discourse and unconventional protagonists that have played a large part in replacing the Jimmy Stewarts in today's cinema with the Ryan Gosling's of "Half Nelson" and the Sean Penn's of "She's So Lovely" (another Cassavetes screenplay coincidentally).  The timing of the film's release with the civil rights movement is impeccable and what's more impressive is how the film really evades the topic altogether; all of the tensions of race and the melting pot atmospheres of the nightclubs/bars and New York City in general are emulated through the rich leads of the film--Lelia, Ben Carruthers & Hugh Hurd--who tug and pull with their own doubts of status quo and the feeling of being content. 

"Shadows" is that small, messy argument that people have with each other when their idea of what is right is threatened or opposed.  And just because you might be proven wrong, it doesn't mean your aspirations weren't right. 

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Daniel Day-Lewis dedicated his SAG Best Actor award this past Sunday to the late Heath Ledger (Oscar nominee for "Brokeback Mountain"), honoring Ledger's distinct body of work; he also cited the fascinating character Ledger portrayed in "Monster's Ball."  As Day-Lewis spoke during the press conference about Ledger's death ultimately being "none of our business" I felt greatly appreciative towards the remark. 

During the immediate days following Ledger's untimely death, a flood of media speculation circled around the notion of whether or not he committed suicide or if it was related to his split from Michelle Williams.  And if you weren't watching TV, then the online fan community bombarded message boards with outcries on the fate of the upcoming Batman sequel, "The Dark Knight"--to which Ledger is playing The Joker.

Maybe I'm just weird, but the last thing on my mind was the fate of a comic book franchise, that will inevitably continue on.  My initial reaction to the death was simple shock that then receded into sadness.  I never held Ledger to a godly status, but I was convinced that he was in the beginning stages of setting himself into an elite class of thespians (Philip Seymour Hoffman, Brian Cox for example) that worked outside the box of Hollywood formula; actors that stuck to their guns and achieved a more artful success.  We shouldn't focus on his personal life--we have no say or position to do so.  Instead, it would prove more useful to focus on the art and the craft of Ledger.  I thought of Ledger's performance as one of the incarnations of Bob Dylan in the masterful "I'm Not There," and began to treasure his talent a bit more.  There was something happening here.

Yet, it all ends there as well.  Ledger's all-together eclectic chapters of work will find its epilogue this summer in Director Christopher Nolan's Batman film, and though no preliminary screenings have taken place, already there is an enormous sense of something special that was going on felt from just soundbites (from which this blog's title is taken) and early theatrical trailers of the film.  How exciting, to have had one of the most promising of young actors to take a risk in embodying an immortalized comic book character, and going totally against norms and expectations (that's not lipstick across his cheeks...) in order to elevate material to art--which is what the artist's who will ultimately stand out aspire to do.

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In honor of its ten year anniversary, I harked back into my nostalgic DVD collection and watched "Happiness" again, eagerly hoping to find myself laughing hysterically in the same manner critics back in '98 claimed to have been when the film came out.  Unfortunately, I found myself in the same deadly-quiet state of seriousness I was in as a thirteen year old watching it for the first time.  And that's not a bad thing.

Director Todd Solondz did make me laugh like a madman in almost every scene of his "Welcome To The Dollhouse," but in his "Happiness" I think the intended (if they are) laughs drown in the film's sea of ugly and disturbing currents of human tragedy.  It's not a dark comedy, and to call it a dark drama makes it sound like it's "Monster" or something.  It's the strangest of the genres; a film that is uniquely in its own kind of category. 

What was more apparent this time around, was how much the film's argument circumvents the idea of sex being the primal and surprisingly only useful feat we as humans are capable of achieving.  It sounds bold, but the more I thought of this notion while watching it, the more I felt like I was watching an entirely different movie; perhaps this train of thought went unnoticed while watching the film for the first time as an early teen.  When puberty hits, discoveries like masteurbation usually cloud one's sense for clarity.

Every character in this film is in a sense longing to achieve sexual pleasure.  Philip Seymour Hoffman's character, the most obvious of the bunch, calls his neighbor (Lara Flynn Boyle) and breathes heavily on the phone, telling her he wants to pump her hard until she has his cum bursting out of her ears.  Dylan Baker (in one of the best performances of the 1990s) plays a suburban dad and employed psychiatrist who can't seem to make love to his wife (he even lies to her about making love the night before during a morning wake up scene) but has a remarkable desire to have sex with nine year old boys (usually drugged or by physical force).  Even those who "murder" in the film, do so in order to react to their sexual longings.  When Camryn Mannheim's character kills the doorman after he rapes her, she makes it a particular order to cut off his penis.  Here in its most primitive force is the act of sexual domination (and thus success) highlighted.

I guess the first time I watched "Happiness" as a young teen, my initial reactions weren't so much to examine these sexual demons, but to instead long to find out if they would ever get caught or if their problems would ever get solved.  Where's the arresting of Camryn Mannheim?  How come Hoffman chickens out with Boyle in the end?!

But that's not what Solondz wants; I know this now, watching it with a seasoned pair of eyes.  This is his dissertation on the impotence of the American society, a culture whose sexual boundaries are laid out in bold.  Since the release of "Happiness" a tumult of revelation and news hysteria has been fine-tuning our views on what is considered appropriate sexual behavior.  Institutions such as the church, have found themselves in pandemonium with the release of testimonies from individuals claiming to have been raped by priests and other members of the clergy.  Politicians who bash gay rights find themseves with their pants around their ankles while fucking male prostitutes over their mahogany desks.  In a word, "Happiness" was a naked look at our society without all the headlines and media soundbites.  These are people.  People like this exist.  This is what makes them happy.  And it's all traced back to sex.

The big payoff at the end of the film, a perfect ending for this conflict, has Billy Maplewood (Rufus Read), a soft-faced preteen, finally reach orgasm.  An almost horrid close-up, a quick tight shot of sperm hitting a balcony rail, has an effect that is both icky and exhilarating.  Here we see the end of biblical innocence and the mark of another individual coming (no pun intended) to terms with life.

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During an interview with Creative Screenwriting Magazine, the Coen brothers admitted that while writing "O Brother Where Art Thou" they weren't exactly adapting Homer; it wasn't until late in the process, that the two realized the similarities between their screenplay and "The Odyssey."  So what happened?  The Academy honored the pair with a "Best Adapted Screenplay" Oscar nomination.

As of this past Tuesday, the brothers find themselves competing again in the same category, though this time, the source material was recognized right away--Cormac McCarthy's same-titled novel.  "No Country For Old Men" (no. 3 on my top ten list for 2007) is without doubt a great film, though one can't help but notice its almost too-literal adaptation on screen.  Tommy Lee Jones' monologues in the film are italicized in the novel, the action scenes match paragraph to paragraph, beat to beat, and the film ends in the same anti-climatic, epilogueesque note as the novel.  All together, the Coen's have remained true to McCarthy's original vision, but for a pair of filmmakers who are starkly original in their body of work, one can only quietly wish that Coens could have brought a bit more of themselves to the table--added to their masterful talents of film editing and directing. 

For me, the "No Country" screenplay is essentially a weak entry (out of the five nominated) for the category, though I predict it will ultimately win it due to its recent wins with the National Board of Review and the Golden Globe Awards. But the other four nominees represent what is key to adapting a screenplay: elevating and augmenting the source material to a degree that can be best viewed as whollistically new, yet thematically similar (to the source).  Look at Sarah Polley's delicate balance of nuanced episodes of past and present in "Away From Her," or Christopher Hampton's selective trimmings of class commentary in the first act of "Atonement."  Paul Thomas Anderson, perhaps the most significant case of adapting, takes the historical and personal impacts of Upton Sinclair's "Oil!" and manifests a story that is in no way a mirror to the novel, but has the same staggering effect in "There Will Be Blood."  Oscar-winner Ronald Harwood ("The Pianist"), in a bold and brilliant stroke, takes the thin-paged memoir of the late Jean-Dominique Bauby, and repositions the audience into a first-person subjective point of view in order to experience the dilemma in a move that juxtaposes the novel's poetic, dreamlike examination of ideas and philosophies in "The Diving Bell and The Butterfly."

Yet, it seems that it's been a year for "No Country" (great, but not the year's best), so the Coen's might be adding another Oscar to their mantle.  If it does happen, maybe the Academy will not honor the pair in the directing category, and give the gold statue to the true Best Director (note the singular) of the year: Paul Thomas Anderson. 

Posted by nelsoncarvajal at 01:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Oh what a shame.  "Cassandra's Dream," Woody Allen's masterful and grossly underrated new film is only one day away from finishing it's limited 7-day run here in downtown Chicago.  I went to see the film on a whim last night.  I'm grateful I did.

In many ways a companion piece to both "Crimes and Misdemeanors" and "Matchpoint," "Cassandra" is a bold step forward by Allen in surveying the tragic lifecycle of human beings and how ultimately what we want doesn't really matter.  Life has a way of unfolding in diabolical ways and cynical power upheavals.  Not even Hannah Montana can outrun this fact.

Ewan McGregor and Colin Farrell excel as brothers desperate for a way out of debt and class immobility.  Tom Wilkinson shows up in the second act of the film as the insanely rich uncle who needs a muscular favor from the two, in exchange for financial salvation and security.

I enjoyed this film thoroughly.  I'm still shocked to find its slew of lukewarm reviews all over RottenTomatoes.com but I guess not everyone can look at the same work of art and see the real work come forward at them.  That's fine.  I enjoyed Philip Glass' brusing and forceful score which lent a sense of urgency throughout the entire film, that lacked in "Matchpoint" up until its closing passages.

And that ending.  It's rather common lately that final scenes in great movies piss people off.  Audiences hated the tepid, and quiet closing scene of "No Country For Old Men."  Some audience members were offended by the last scene of "There Will Be Blood."  And here also, Allen whips out another unconventional ending that is so bare bones and abrupt I damn near jumped out of my seat in admiration for the balls it took to end it like that.

That's life.  It's no dream. 

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It's been almost a month now since I first saw Director Matt Reeves' much anticipated "Cloverfield."  I sat in on a special screening a good three weeks before its national release.  There was to be no discussion about the film.  Not on any internet sites or blogs until after the film's premiere.  Weeks passed. 

Once the film opened this past Friday, I rolled my sleeves in anticipation to share my thoughts.  I sat in front of a blank screen. 

I forgot about the film already.

The thrill of the mysterious thing attacking the city was gone (I still don't know how to describe that monster), the novelty of the cinéma vérité teaser trailer from July had worn off, and I was sort of pissed that Hud (the camera guy) never used the letterbox feature on his mini-DV camcorder.

I went back and watched it again (in a digital presentation that was spoiled because the film is shot on handheld camcorders, thus leaving the permanent grainy look during the night scenes) and noted some new findings.

1) The film, more or less works, because it has convinced itself that nothing terrible will happen.  The opening shaky shots in a ritzy midtown apartment, on a trip to Coney Island, in a neighborhood store and at an entertaining surprise party, are so warm and authentic that we, as an audience, fool ourselves into thinking that we're NOT watching "Cloverfield."

2)Thus, when shit starts to go down (brilliantly executed during a fire escape dialogue scene), we're in it for the long (actually short, it's not even 90 minutes!) haul. 

3) Hud, the camera guy, (like it or not) saves the film in many ways.  Yes, he says corny lines.  Yes, he wants the untouchable girl.  Yes, he blesses the camcorder with a remarkably charged battery life.  But he also is our eyes and ears to the film.  When he yells, so do we.  When breaks the tension with a joke, we are grateful he did.  And when he is crying out for dear life in a spiraling helicopter, damn it, we are hooked by the gut.

4) If it wasn't for the stupid idea of trying to rescue a soon-to-be-dead ice queen, the film would be 28 minutes long.

5) I know I saw a "Slusho" ad on a TV screen in the electronics store, and still find no significance in it.

6) Hank Azaria is not the camera guy in this movie.  Grateful for Hud now?

7) That shot at Coney Island, during the film's close, paid a sort of ironic payoff, that I must admit went over my head during my first screening of the film.  Look out at the right side screen, just by the white boat, and you'll know what I mean.

8) I forgot about the movie again by the time I was done peeing in the men's restroom.

I don't know what to make of this. 

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I guess I can't ignore it any longer or at least pretend that it doesn't bother me: Roger Ebert broke my heart.  Since the debut of Paul Thomas Anderson's "Hard Eight" some years ago, Ebert more or less has been my go-to-critic that would expertly nail down what I could only try to muster out, when it came down to explaining why Anderson's films would arguably be the best films of their own years--and in celebrating the presence of a born filmmaker that is sure to rank among the greats when the time for reflection comes.  If you have read my review of "There Will Be Blood" then you know I admire the film greatly and believe it is the best film of 2007.  However, I screened the movie back in November knowing I would have to wait until the January of the new year before I could read the eloquent prose Ebert would lend to Anderson's masterpiece.

Then January came.  Ebert's review of the film--expertly written as always--lacked that enthusiasm for the material.  While reading it I couldn't help but notice that although Ebert was recommending the film (he gave it three and a half stars out of four), it almost felt that he wasn't too thrilled about it.  "A force beyond categories," he called it.  That's something.  I was more alarmed at his, "Watching the movie is like viewing a natural disaster that you cannot turn away from. By that I do not mean that the movie is bad, any more than it is good," statement.  Did we see the same movie?

I suppose this can be tied in with "Blood's" omission from Ebert's coveted top ten films of the year list.  "The Great Debaters," another made for TV Hallmark classic made the cut, but the great American masterpiece of "Blood" was not even handed a special jury prize from Ebert?  Something was not right here.

Then came the juxtaposition to "Citizen Kane."  It was inevitable that Ebert would touch upon this during his review, as a boatload of other critics have already made the comparison.  Ebert said, ""There Will Be Blood" is no "Kane" however. Plainview lacks a "Rosebud." He regrets nothing, misses nothing, pities nothing..."  And for one of the closing statements, he went ahead and claimed that, ""There Will Be Blood" is the kind of film that is easily called great. I am not sure of its greatness."

The "rosebud" statement is an error.  To equate what a childhood sled meant for a newspaper tycoon with something that would matter to a relentless turn of the century oil man requires some serious rearranging of motifs and augmenting of themes.  Daniel Plainview indeed has his "rosebud."  It is in his role of his young son H.W. 

Charles Foster Kane is someone we meet in "Citizen Kane" at a very young age.  We know he goes through life longing for that lost childhood he was crudely stripped from.

Daniel Plainview is someone we are thrusted into joining, deep within the pit of the bloody earth.  We do not know where this man comes from, or what life events have shaped him into what he is.  We just know he hates people.  Why?  He dabbles in some drunken explanation.  Yet, as educated audience members, we'd rather see it than be told why.  We see it in the way he looks at people.  We see it in his disappointment with organized religion.  We see it burning in his eyes when he encounters someone pretending to be his brother.

Plainview, one of the most fascinating characters of modern cinema, was also probably stripped away from an ideal childhood--but he wasn't nestled under the tutelage of any one mentor to grow into becoming an industry success story.  He was most likely thrown onto barren lands, alone, and with odds not on his side;  we are to believe this given brother Henry Plainview's background from his diary.  This family background was not a Brady Bunch scenario, but rather a rugged, tough every-person-for-themself lifestyle--that both Daniel and Henry exemplify.  For such a barbaric force of nature to strike sudden success, it is no wonder that Daniel is uneasy around people once placed back into civilized, restrained quarters.  I'd love to see Kane not twitch his eye or mumble thoughts to himself while rubbing shoulders with the tuxedo clan of the print world after going through what Plainview has. 

So in other words, when Plainview acquires H.W. as a son, he more or less has found his "rosebud"; that artifact that connects Plainview to what he has lost--family.  It just so happens that Plainview is stripped of his "rosebud" at an adult age, and we can forgive that fact if we consider Plainview's birth (in cinematic terms) to occur once he rises, soaked in the blood of the earth, from the very well that has tied his fate to a career as an oil man.

And as a resentful old tycoon to lose his only strand to family and affection (the adult H.W. decides to leave) ultimately puts Plainview into the same room of despair with Kane.  While Kane went out with a whimper and a broken snowglobe, Plainview's final plight before doom goes out with a bang, thus aligning alongside the famous line of "Rosebud" a new wholly iconic line: "I'm Finished."

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Suffice it to say, Dylan wins over the festival's hip young crowd during the '63 concert and "Mirror" continues to propel forward over the next two years and reveals to the audience the more round-faced, long-haired, and leather jacket-toting rock star that Dylan would ultimately become.  The only problem was that his folk focus group was not kin to the change--or to Dylan's acoustic guitar being replaced by an electric one (and a hell of an awesome band).  The last twenty minutes of "Mirror" are especially engrossing as we hear the boos coming from the folk crowd toward Dylan's electric "Maggie's Farm" and "Like A Rolling Stone" tunes.

All this sound familiar?  

It should.  Scorsese tackled this plot development of Dylan's career brilliantly in his "No Direction Home" back in 2005, but here this segment of rock history gets more context and thus weighs more heavily on the viewer's own instincts.  Did Dylan sell out?  Were the people at Newport that ignorant to change or at recognizing great music?  Was that sweat pouring down the left side of Dylan's face or was that an unexpected tear of desire as he tried to win back the crowd by performing a rushed acoustic pick of "Mr. Tambourine Man"?  You decide.

The new year is still tender, and aside from seeing "There Will Be Blood" for the third time, watching "The Other Side of the Mirror" was the first great moviegoing experience of 2008.  Catch it on the cinema screen before this Thursday the 17th; after that you'll be forced to order a DVD from Amazon or something. 

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It would seem that the "Juno" backlash has indeed begun: the film was shut out at Sunday's Golden Globe Awards, seeing the likes of far worthier nominees walking away with the golden statue.  Ellen Page rightfully lost to Marion Cotillard who was divine in "La Vie En Rose," Diablo Cody's almost-too-hip-for-its-own-good script lost to the violent poetry found in Cormac McCarthy's "No Country For Old Men" (adapted by the Coen Brothers), and the movie lost the Best Picture (Comedy or Musical) award to "Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street."

The big surprise of the night was Julian Schnabel's upset victory (this writer however is inspired by the choice) for Best Director with his remarkable "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly."

And, on a wonderful note, Daniel Day-Lewis adds yet another award for his epic portrayal of greed and madness in "There Will Be Blood." 

Posted by nelsoncarvajal at 07:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)