Seed NewsvineSeptember 24, 2010
September 14, 2009
"The Informant!" Reveals That There's Corn From Illinois In Japanese Tofu & Other Moviegoing Pleasures
Well, if "Che" and "The Girlfriend Experience" are left out of end of the year accolades from critics groups then "The Informant!" may be Soderbergh's sole awards shot (though Matt Damon also has a shot at an acting nod in Clint Eastwood's new film about Nelson Mandela due out in December). And what a surprise this movie turned out to be!
Boasting in the TV ads as being the next film from "Oceans 11, 12 & 13" Director Steven Soderbergh, "Informant" couldn't be more different than those Vegas fluff vehicles. Rather, this new film is more at home alongside Soderbergh's "The Limey" or "Out of Sight"--films with several commercial ingredients but spun together in the offbeat niche Soderbergh blender. Shot all around the state of Illinois, along with some sections in Japan and parts of Europe, "The Informant!" spends much of its running time observing the organisms of a corporate office, shabby hotel rooms and pristine farmland mansions. Even more interesting are the variables within each setting.
Damon plays Mark Whitacre, a top corporate figure who turned out to be an enigma of a whistle blower for ADM--but for reasons I'll leave for you to discover. The film garners its narrative backbone from Whitacre's obtuse observations about the environment around him, odd global facts and the personal goals he sets for himself. These often hilarious observations are unexpectedly thrown at the audience over the actual main dialogue soundtrack during several parts of the movie. At first it's alarming. How can we hear what these key players are talking about? But as the film advances forward it becomes clear that the audience is at no more an advantage than some of the characters being demised, double-crossed or caught up in Whitacre's smoke n' mirrors trick.
The ADM (Archer Daniels Midland) Company debacle could have led Soderbergh astray simply as the standard Hollywood health issue morality tale (as his ill-fated and lesser "Erin Brockovich") but by focusing solely on Whitacre's naive white knight campaign to bring corporate price fixing to an imaginary halt, "The Informant!" unravels from probable corporate thriller to a wry darkly comic riff on the concept of risk and reward. In other words, when you put your ass on the line, just what exactly are you deep down inside hoping to come away with? A slap on the back? A simple thank you? Tickets to Hawaii?
In the end, after watching the film I felt as if I just watched a Werner Herzog film. There are soulful characters all around the edges, including FBI Special Agent Brian Shepard played here by Scott Bakula (remember him from TV's "Quantum Leap"?), Mick Andreas played by comedian Tom Papa & even a turn by Clancy Brown as the lawyer Aubrey Daniel (remember Brown from "Pet Cemetery 2"?). All of them loose and natural feeling, never striking a moment of caricature. Even in the white collar office setting there is always a vibration of absurdity felt underneath the desks and leather chairs but the simple plot mechanism of the supposed David vs. Goliath setup lends all this goofiness a gravitas of apt seriousness.
A smart film about corporate greediness is especially welcome viewing in today's ever dire economy. Like they say, laughter is best medicine.
July 20, 2009
The Hurt Locker -- Or How Michael Bay Needs To Stop Blowing Everything Up And Take Some Notes From This Masterpiece
Once the unbearably exciting first ten minutes of Kathryn Bigelow's "The Hurt Locker" came to a close, I literally looked up at the auditorium ceiling and then at the speakers along the walls and smiled. Sure, the sole explosion during "Locker's" opening scene was as loud as one of the numerous explosions in a mindless Hollywood blockbuster, but because the scene (and by the end, the entire movie) was so brilliantly Directed, I actually felt a bit shook up. And the urgency was unmistakable. I knew I was in.
Although "Locker" ran through the 2008 festival circuit, winning prizes and nominations from the Venice Film Festival and Independent Spirit Awards respectively, it has risen to be a serious Oscar contender for 2009. Already Oscar talk is in line for Jeremy Renner for Best Actor, Bigelow for Best Director & more than anything, for the Best Picture award itself.
Playing it straight and without any of the glam from earlier studio pictures concerning terrorism in the Middle East (a catalog example of that bland trend would be Peter Berg's "The Kingdom"), Bigelow's picture is constructed on two visceral halves, thus creating a stasis of action and ideas. After the thrilling opening, the first section of the film is essentially back-to-back-to-back set pieces/sequences that pit Staff Sergeant James (Renner), Sergeant Sanborn (Anthony Mackie from "Half Nelson") & Sergeant Thompson (Brian Geraghty) in increasingly hostile situations, usually involving the disarming of carefully hidden bombs--in public. There is no "bad guy" in this war film, nor is there a political agenda to the piece. It's a rich character study of three very different men--the rogue, the rational & the rookie--that wisely uses the war in Iraq simply as an environment. For the most part, these are men who are just performing jobs (with the slight final exception of Renner's character who is practically addicted to the adrenaline of surviving day to day in Baghdad) and it's the level of no-bull routines that makes the film sort of frightening to watch.
The second section of the film still has expertly staged scenes of the team trying to locate and dismantle different bombs, but in between these horrific chapters we're given glimpses of each man's clouded internal path toward making some sort of personal amends with their reasons for being in the war in the first place. We learn Sanborn does not want to grow up to start a family just yet. We learn that Thompson may just be in over his head and now has to suck it up and cringe through the day to day grind. With Sgt. James, we're given the real mixture of heroism and hubris. Sure his job requires heroic actions, but he is a hot dog; an individual who relishes in rebellion and doing things against the books for the hell of it. It isn't until we see his involvement with a young street vendor and then some closing scenes concerning his relationship with his immediate family that we begin to see shades of a really lonely soul who has finally found his comfort zone: staring death in the face. Everyday.
The film has strong and useful supporting turns from Oscar Nominee Ralph Fiennes, Guy Pearce, Christian Camargo & David Morse and it has a very real sense of location and geography (much in the tactical way Ridley Scott's "Black Hawk Down" did). My only concern with the film is its actual release time: Summer 2009 (aka NOW). In a summer where forgetful action fare like "X-Men Origins: Wolverine" and even worse "Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen" have a monopoly on Box Office receipts, "The Hurt Locker" will have to depend largely on critical reception and word of mouth to find its audience. In a film industry that manages to convince audiences to lap up action films that have the word "Transformers" slapped on the the poster, it's inspiring to see Ms. Bigelow in full command of the craft--even using special effects and the handheld camera toward the benefit of actual storytelling. Should she receive an Oscar nomination for Best Director (and believe me she deserves it) let it be a shaking of the finger toward the banal Michael Bay and his split second scenes/frames/pieces of shit, mindless movies.
It's okay to like action movies, believe me. It's just even better to seek out those action movies that might get you thinking or feeling a little less light-headed. Trust me, Shia LeBeouf & Megan Fox won't miss your presence.
May 31, 2009
Much Ado About Something: Thoughts On Jarmusch's Silence
Sometimes two lovers can look at each other endlessly, not saying a word. Their eyes can do all the talking. Other times, silence can be pretty frightening. No matter what the emotion, it is a pretty profound fact: With the absence of conventional dialogue or noise, comes a staggering truth (which is sometimes ugly).
Jim Jarmusch--the truly original figure in the film world ("Stranger Than Paradise," "Ghost Dog: The Way Of The Samauri")--has brought his latest work to audiences with some rooted stakes. In the week before the release of "The Limits of Control" Jarmusch quietly confessed to NPR during an interview: "Well frankly, I get a little annoyed recently with the pace of a lot of films where no shot is on longer than three seconds." When you listen to the interview (which you can download here) note the matter of fact tone in Jarmusch's dialogue with the host. It's as if he made the film for therapeutic reasons. There is no usual 'Hey I'm the quirky movie director chock-full of cute anecdotes from the set' type rhetoric here that would usually draw the masses to the box office on opening day. And with good reason.
As a sort of antidote to the slew of noisy, thoughtless and hastily-edited films expected to flow into theatres this summer, "Limits" boldly and quietly protests the inane filmmaking technique employed by many Directors today (largely because a majority of them were only lukewarm music video Directors before). It does so by resting on its images for long stretches of time and by actually observing most of its characters. Hardly any dialogue is spoken. Even more, some of the dialogue is identical in some scenes. Yet the film moves forward, in a quiet quest. Funny, I was watching a retrospective documentary the other day on the making of "Kramer vs. Kramer," and Meryl Streep achingly reminisced, "You see in the 70s, [audiences] were actually interested in behavior."
On paper, the plot for "Limits" is concise: A hired hitman (Isaach De Bankolé) walks around parts of Spain, awaiting further instructions at various cafes from equally intriguing characters and contacts. By the end of the film, he unbelievably infiltrates a fortress and kills his target. Then he leaves our lives.
How and why Jarmusch stretches this for two hours is for you to decide--and hopefully enjoy on some level. For me, overall, I was affected in the same way as when I see a familiar piece of art in a gallery but it's been tweaked in a strange, elusive way. Or more plainly, like going to see a band in a concert and they don't sing the songs exactly like they sound on the record. You might hate it but sometimes you'll discover new life in sections of the songs you never knew existed. It's kinda like that.
And as with every Jarmusch film, there are some standout scenes where I can see Film Editor Scott Tobias from the A.V. Club in the future mentioning them in his series 'The New Cult Canon.' One such scene comes about halfway through the picture when De Bankole walks into a late bar and observes a stirring and verbally forceful flameno dance. Plus there is the impressive roster of standout character actors from Gael Garcia Bernal to John Hurt.
Still, for all of its restraint, the film is quite forceful in two specific areas: It's sound design and its poetic cinematography. If you listen near the end of that NPR interview, you'll note the interviewer say to Jarmusch that upon leaving the theatre, all outside street noise felt amplified to him. He was more aware of his environment in a startling way. Everything from the stirring of an espresso drink to the deep breaths taken in from our protagonist are given equal attention on the film's soundtrack. It's quite unusual.
Christopher Doyle continues great work on his cinematography filmography (especially after photographing Gus Van Sant's divine "Paranoid Park" in 2007) with "Limits" and whatever measurable success the film wins with audiences owes a great deal to Doyle's palette. Whether it's the naked figure of a seductress or the bathroom of an airport, each frame iridescently bleeds with a quixotic attraction.
It's been about a month now since first seeing the film and I write late of it because I couldn't articulate what or even how I was able to be moved by the film. Not so much emotionally but more on the level of art appreciation. Just when I think I have it all figured out, an auteur like Jarmusch comes along and fucks my world up.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
May 11, 2009
Sports From The Inside Out
Every once in a while, we get films in cinemas like the great "Hoop Dreams" or "When We Were Kings," films that challenge our immediate sense of professional sports. At least our sense of sports existing solely as tangible, understandable and ultimately controllable entities. As spectators, we look at every athlete we admire (or have gambling money riding on) through a self-preservation prism. We don't only like players based on what city their jersey represents. We look for qualities we believe we have and try to find openings in their public persona--and we take cracks at wedging those ideals into those openings; Into people we don't really know. Because, if they're like us, well, then they're alright. And what non-athlete wouldn't want to stay the way they are (couch and life ridden) and still be able to throw a no-hit inning or dunk a basketball?
Ryan Fleck and Anna Boden's (creators of the awesome "Half Nelson") latest narrative film "Sugar" shows us, through extraordinarily personal passages, the unclear journey of some baseball players (mainly non-American) from an international training camp, to the minor rookie league and finally (maybe) the big time. At the center of this piece is Miguel 'Sugar' Santos (played by newcomer Algenis Perez Soto), a talented pitcher with a mean curve ball from the Dominican Republic. Fleck and Boden understand the perils of language barriers and wisely place the audience in various scenarios and problematic situations that speak on universal touchstones that don't need to be spelled out in words but in images: being homesick, starting a new job, getting rejected by that "first" girl and making that scary decision you never want to make. The subtitles shouldn't scare away the audience. This is one of the best sports films ever made and is also one of the best films of 2009.
Where Miguel 'Sugar' Santos is a new figure in the (fictional) movie sports world, there is hardly a person out there who doesn't know who Mike "The Baddest Guy On The Planet" Tyson is. Or was."Tyson" is a fast, entertaining and thought-provoking piece of work. This isn't your ESPN behind the athlete profile piece. This is Tyson, candid and open, sitting in front of the camera telling his life story (intercut with photos and archival fight footage).
But another central character in the exciting new documentary is the Director: James Toback. The name might not be so familiar to the average reader and moviegoer but the life of Toback as a person, in some ways, parallels his subject, Tyson. A Harvard graduate, Toback's personal life has always been very public; he is a self-proclaimed womanizer, gambler and is known for taking the most hits of LSD ever recorded. It pays to know this going into "Tyson." As I mentioned earlier, we look to sports figures for some sort of personal closure or affirmation. Tyson is a melting pot. We know this. Toback knows this. In an earlier film of his--1999's "Black and White"--Toback cast Tyson opposite Robert Downey Jr. in the film's most electrifying scene which you can watch here. The tension in that scene runs under every scene in his documentary about Tyson. Beneath Tyson's much-mocked voice and speech pattern curdles an unseen aggression that seems to build endlessly. It's dangerous. Toback's latest work is perhaps the most potent example of spectator and sport, only this time we get the motivations that rest outside of scoreboards, stat boxes, and marquee matchups. More than 30 years after "Rocky," we finally get knocked out of our seats in a more self-affirming way.
February 05, 2009
Two Great Films On Opposite Ends Of The Narrative Spectrum
Steven Soderbergh has created his magnum opus; the one he'll be remembered for. His massive achievement "Che" (divided into two parts domestically: "El Argentine" and "Guerilla") follows Academy Award Winner Benicio Del Toro through two very different sections of the infamous Che Guevara's life. The first two-plus hours of "Che" chronicles the very successful (if not borderline smooth) Cuban revolution, in which Che stridently leads a good hunk of Fidel Castro's clan in the overthrowing of Batista. Acting as his own DP, Soderbergh intercuts this section with a haunting passage of Del Toro's visit to the U.N. where he is met with equal fascination and hatred years later--all shot in black and white. It is because of this masterstroke of storytelling that makes the first part of "Che" equally bold and (more crucially) understandable. This isn't the dense biopic of fluttery images--and coupled with a supplemental map of Cuba at the start of the film, the first half of "Che" is agreeable and functions more as a political war thriller.
The second half of the film is by far more depressing, if at times harrowing. Switching aspect ratios from the first half (which is in scope) Soderbergh shoots this latter half in flat, making the images tighter--especially individuals' faces which seem like they have no room to breath on screen during close ups. This half of the film illustrates the failed Bolivian revolution of which Che Guevara found himself literally in the heart of darkness. But if the audience finds themselves cringing or with worried looks on their faces during these closing sequences it will be to the effectiveness of the first half, which paints Che as a seminal figure of righteousness; Almost in that holy light in which today's hipsters carry on the front of their T-Shirts. Soderbergh really slaps the last half off on hard in order to stress the most important point behind Che: before being that legendary romantic figure, Che Guevara was (and still is) a military revolutionary figure. No need for the style statement here.
Equipped with a stellar supporting cast that includes Oscar Winner Matt Damon, Oscar Nominee Catalina Sandino Moreno, Golden Globe Nominee Lou Diamond Philips, Julia Ormond ("The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button"), Rodrigo Santoro ("Redbelt"), Franka Potente ("Blow") & Demian Bichir in an outstanding (and grossly overlooked) supporting turn as Fidel Castro, "Che" is a towering film that must--absolutely must--be seen on the big screen.
Moving as far away from the Soderbergh epic approach as possible, Kelly Reichardt's masterful "Wendy and Lucy" paints a portrait of a central figure that is equally engrossing. For those aspiring filmmakers out there without the Soderbergh-insured $40 million shooting budget, I suggest taking out a notepad while watching Reichardt's masterpiece (which cost around a modest $50,000 to make).
Academy Award Nominee Michelle Williams gives her best and most complete performance as Wendy, an introvert from Indiana who gets stuck with car trouble in Oregon on her way to Alaska. And then she loses her fucking dog.
"Wendy & Lucy," much in the same vein as some of 2008's top films ("Chop Shop" & "Ballast" to name a few), takes the minimalist approach in its creation. The bookends that would be accompany the generic Hollywood road movie would visualize for the audience a wretched home life for Wendy at the beginning and some magnetic pay off at the end when Wendy reaches that lucrative job in Alaska. Reichardt isn't concerned with that--and thank God she isn't.
By simply focusing on a few days where Wendy must rely on her instincts for survival, Reichardt is able to bring up the poor economic crisis in the country in a dialogue that does not spell it out. Consider an exchange between Wendy and a Walgreens parking lot security guard (played effortlessly by Wally Dalton) in front of the store during the day. Or the auto mechanic shop (where Will Patton remains at a comfort cool) that doesn't really have dependable hours. This is one of many cities/towns in the country that are forced to live in an idle state. A sort of eroding of self.
Even more fascinating, is how we are able to be equally shocked at some of Wendy's choices when on the way out of the theatre, we find ourselves second guessing our own instincts. Maybe we would have done that too, we think.
I realize with both "Che" and "Wendy and Lucy" I have written pieces that articulate mood and thought rather than conflict and resolution. That's because, like life, some of the best movies are just about the journey. Whether it's overthrowing a dictator of finding your lost dog, the most important development can be overthrowing your fears or prejudices and finding yourself.
October 21, 2008
The Film "American Beauty" Aspired To Be
NOTE: Nelson screened the following film during the 44th Chicago International Film Festival.
Before films by the great Paul Thomas Anderson were being robbed of their Best Picture statuette (cough*"There Will Be Blood"*cough), there was a scary time when Anderson's film's weren't even nominated in that category! One such horrid year was 1999, and at the following Oscar ceremony the much overrated "American Beauty" wrongly took home the prize.
I thought of the Alan Ball-penned film while watching Director Kiyoshi Kurosawa's devastating and masterful "Tokyo Sonata" at this year's Film Festival. It follows the different paths from a family of four in modern Japan as they each deal with relative voids.
And Kurosawa finds just the right balance in depicting the despair and utter self-determination of the father. In "American Beauty" Director Sam Mendes went for the Hollywood underdog ticket, leaving the Kevin Spacey father figure to prove triumphant in various scenarios whether it be blackmailing his boss or buying the awesome car of his childhood dreams. With "Tokyo Sonata" Kurosawa believes in the role of the father figure to stand for something less narcissistic; here the father figure still acts selfish, but to an extent. Rather than let down his family with the devastation of admitting his unemployment, he continues to dress the part every morning on the way out of the house, always uncertain of the day ahead of him. Will he spend it at the homeless feeding shelter? Or at the shopping mall, scrubbing toilets for minimum wage?
More than anything else, "Tokyo Sonata" manages to create a narrative that is surprising in the way each chapter unfolds, even though the backdrop is something very conventional and familiar (Even "Ordinary People" comes to mind). Much of that is to the credit of the stellar ensemble but also to Kurosawa's personal touch. He's showing off in some scenes, and his filmmaking technique is breathtaking to watch. Two key scenes, both bravura achievements in technical shooting, particularly stand out. One is a confrontation between the youngest son and his angry father. The son has been keeping a secret: he's been taking his parents' money and paying for piano lessons instead of paying money for his grade school's monthly lunch fee. Watch the static shot (all in one take) of the argument. Then note when the cut comes and how jarring the plot development is. Next there is a dazzling steadicam shot of the mother leaving the shopping mall and getting into a car. The car then pulls out of its spot, out of the lot and onto the street road. Seamless. Listen to what is said inside the car as all this is happening. You can literally check off how many plot, character and thematic developments Kurosawa nails in these few moments. A thing of beauty.
"Tokyo Sonata" is without question one of the best films of 2008.
July 25, 2008
The Stoner Express
*SPECIAL EARLY REVIEW*
When James Remar appeared onscreen during the black and white intro to the "Pineapple Express" I smiled. There's something about Remar that evokes a particular coolness; a character actor so distinct-looking, with such an engrossing voice that you only wish a long-overdue titular vehicle built for him would come his way. I also wished that this black and white intro would serve a primary function or contribution (minus its location) to the narrative behind "Pineapple"; all it does is inform the audience that weed makes you hungry and high. Thanks Bill Hader.
And so begins this placid story, only interrupted by over the top action scenes and few memorable one-liners ("Let's get ready to suck today's dick!")--which is a significant surprise considering it being the screenwriting follow-up to "Superbad" for star Seth Rogen and co-writer Evan Goldberg. On a footnote, it must be known that the catchy "Paper Planes" tune that immortalized the theatrical trailer isn't even used in the feature.
But the film has so much potential! Even as I went home that day, I kept replaying the talent behind the film: Judd Apatow! Gary Cole! The return of Rosie Perez! Hell, there's even a seductive idea behind having Rogen's Dale Denton character date a chick (Amber Heard) still in high school!
All down the drain!
More disappointing for me is that this was acclaimed Director David Gordon Green's ("Snow Angels") first big Hollywood-sized vehicle. Shit.
But let's talk about what's good. James Franco plays down his red carpet good looks in order to give us the convincing pot dealer that is Saul Silver. He runs around with greasy long hair and red flannel pajama pants with a look of consistent curiosity on his face; a suitable performance for someone who is stoned out of their brains for most of the running time. But the big two saving graces for "Pineapple" aren't its marquee stars.
First off there's Craig Robinson. You might remember him as the scene-stealing nightclub bouncer from "Knocked Up." Here he plays Matheson, one of two hitmen chasing Rogen and Franco, who sort of looks like Mr. T's gay nepew, fully equipped with sleeveless shirts and a pair of British Knights shoes. He knocks it out of the park; we need to see more of this guy.
Then there's Danny R. McBride, my unsung hero. I saw him in "The Foot Fist Way" earlier this year and the more I think about that film, the more it grows on me. Here he lends that same sort of wannabe teen bully trapped in a adult man's body syndrome to Red, a former pot supplier to Saul. The running gag with Red in this film is that he never seems capable of dying--no matter how bad his bodily injuries are. By the time the film winds down and Red mumbles, "I don't know if I'm seeing things because I'm so high or because I don't have anymore blood in my body..." the film earns its first truly deserving gut-busting laugh. And when that memorable line is said over the morning after breakfast, it makes odd sense: Doesn't the morning after an adventure of being high always seem funnier because you finally realize just how dumb everything you did was?
Kind of like this movie.
July 07, 2008
Alexandria In Wonderland
Tarsem has made an extraordinary film. Miles away from "The Cell"--in both breakthrough visuals and sheer human drama--his newest film "The Fall" places Tarsem at the top of this year's list of Best Directors so far.
It's been about a month since I watched the film and I still can't shake off some of the iconic imagery set by it. The story behind the making of the film is widely known by now; a long time project that was very close to never getting wide distribution. Aside from some crew members walking off from the team after finding out that lead actor Lee Pace was in fact NOT paralyzed from the waist down (his character in the film is), Tarsem managed to pull off the impossible: shooting an epic film on various contents, with a lead child actor who has never spoken any English before, in a movie that no one wants to finance.
Well, he did it. And the result is the year's best so far, holding a top spot on my '08 list, right up there with the minimalist "Shotgun Stories" and grossly misunderstood "Funny Games."
Pace stars as Roy Walker, a fallen stuntman who is now stuck in his rigid bed at a California hospital in 1920s Hollywood. A curious young girl (wearing a cast around her arm) comes across Roy and is entranced by him, his condition and his knack for storytelling. The girl is Alexandria, played wonderfully by newcomer Catinca Untaru, and when she's not throwing oranges at priests she can be found at the foot of Roy's bed, eagerly listening to his stories about the masked bandit.
What do I think about the story? The masked bandit and his journeys are simply an excuse to setup a wild canvas of visuals. A niche Tarsem fills brilliantly. So what if swimming elephants or butterfly-catching monkeys or growling dark-masked villains aren't the most original items in the world? It's their aesthetic execution, coupled with the rhythms of Krishna Levy's score and the blurry lines between reality and fiction, which the film brings up, that are the real finds.
There are sequences in this film, from the black and white opening title segment to the bravura slave-rescue amidst a vast desert that will stand the test of time. This is a big movie.
Yes, this is a pretty vaguely-written blog, but I can't help it. The second I start typing a sentence to discuss a visual sequence or style, I find myself getting angry at how trite and blah it sounds like.
Enough of my tell. Time for more show.
June 19, 2008
Southern Comfort
This is one of the best films of the year. Hands down.
Michael Shannon, a Kentucky native and a seasoned Chicago stage actor, has always been that character actor that just draws you in, making you secretly yearn for the plot to suddenly follow his supporting character instead of the normal Hollywood titular lead. Sort of like an early Harvey Keitel.
Shannon's latest role--a lead this time--in a marvelous film named "Shotgun Stories" will do more than just turn the heads of casual moviegoers (well, okay, more than your "casual" patron if they're wise enough to seek and find this film). The film, which is a synthesis of the southern gothic and the american fable, showcases the year's best lead performance (so far) in Shannon and announces the birth of a gifted filmmaker: Jeff Nichols.
There are three brothers: Son, Kid and Boy. They live together more or less. One sleeps in a nearby van with his dog and the youngest sleeps in the backyard tent. Son (Shannon) gets the house because, well, he has a son and a woman. One day the woman and the son leave and the three brothers find themselves together more. At places. Restaurants. The living room.
Hell, even their father's funeral.
It is here where it is my duty to stop. The funeral brings some unexpected developments. There are extended members of family introduced. Some diabolical family background history is brought up. But more importantly, in a carefully blocked scene near the casket of the father, notice the hierarchy of familial power visualized with Son and brothers standing over their hateful bloodline.
Of course, once the mechanisms of plot start going into the action, the revenge tale variables go up in the air. Some die. Yes. Some get hurt. Yes.
All are saved?
Nichols and producer David Gordon Green ("Snow Angels") seem to want to think so, if one considers the preciousness given to each scene of these characters' rural lives that is not directly connected to the plot. But I don't know if that answer is clear by the film's end. It's for the viewer to decide.
What is clear is this: "Shotgun" has been doing the festival circuit for quite a bit now and only found its way in Chicago for a mere seven day run. If you are fortunate enough to live in a city that is playing it, even if only briefly, you owe it to yourself to see it.
There. It's that simple.
May 22, 2008
Identity Crisis: Examining "Redbelt" and "Jellyfish"
"Identity would seem to be the garment with which one covers the nakedness of the self, in which case, it is best that the garment be loose, a little like the robes of the desert, through which one's nakedness can always be felt, and, sometimes, discerned. This trust in one's nakedness is all that gives one the power to change one's robes." --James Arthur Baldwin
David Mamet's newest film "Redbelt" pits Chiwetel Ejiofor as Mike Terry, a mixed-martial arts trainer who is broke. Oh, and he's also in search of himself--more in the manner of reassuring his values. As with any Mamet movie, "Redbelt" isn't so much about martial arts as it is about the revealing of personal themes; in this case it's a code of honor, honesty and being true to oneself. All aspects to a particular identity.
Through the discourse of the film, Mike Terry faces old enemies in the form of a brother-in-law, new friends in the form of Tim Allen's superstar alter ego, and individuals like Emily Mortimer's depressed lawyer who has a tendency to shoot business windows and then win over the heart of our protagonist.
In the end, the film is only minor Mamet. It's no "Spartan" or "Glengarry Glen Ross." Still though, Mamet's central theme of identity, which is chiseled at with every addition to his filmography, is--excuse the pun--at the center of "Redbelt's" ring.
So Mike (Ejiofor) by the end of the film does change. Or maybe change is the wrong word to use; he more or less makes a discovery about his own identity (a philosophical one) and his singular place in the world. A colleague of mine by the name of Rory Jobst said it best when it came to Mike's role in the film: "A martial artist who has to find his place in the world."
But what about when you live in a world that finds your place for you? Such ideas and implications are brought up in Shira Geffen and Etgar Keret's "Jellyfish" (its translated title from "Meduzot"), which won the Camera D'Or prize at last year's Cannes Film Festival.
The exquisitely beautiful Sarah Adler leads an ensemble as Batia, a wedding party waitress who recently was deserted by her boyfriend. With a nagging promo-hungry & fundraising-happy mother constantly blasting through her answering machine or telephone, Batia is a lost soul adrift an ocean of lost souls. We meet others: a newly married couple living the honeymoon from hell in a noisy hotel building and a slanky, tall aspiring actress with mommy-doesn't-love-me issues. For me, the strongest character comes from Joy (played by Ma-Nenita De Latorre) a Philippine social worker who coincidentally comes to nurse the aspiring actress' ailing mother.
Joy is the least flawed character in the film. Her qualities are ultimately redeeming and her subplot of working to earn enough to reconnect with her son, who lives in her home country, is the most accessible of all the rest. Batia, as the film shows, comes across a personified angel or jellyfish even, in a wet, mute young girl (Nikol Leidman), who only wears an underwear and a floating tube. The married couple faces the possibility of infidelity back at the hotel. And our aspiring actress underperforms in a silly, semi-musical version of Hamlet.
The last five minutes of the film unfurl in an exciting and often brilliant execution of gorgeous underwater cinematography and surprising plot developments. Water is everywhere in this movie. Whether it's the desire to view the ocean from a hotel suite, a leaky ceiling or the mural on the side of a moving background truck (the opening shot)--water is there. The ocean can be a scary, unpredictable environment and the filmmakers propose the idea of identity being completely controlled by the elements. Batia's parents are wealthy but she somehow lives in a stinker of an aparment. Joy's only way to be with her son, is to work as a surrogate daughter to a sickly elderly woman.
Is that much of life really out of our hands? Maybe. But the scary implications behind "Jellyfish" can't be ignored. Do we make our own identity, like Mike does in the final scene of "Redbelt"? Or is it useless since our environment will ultimately make us who we are like in "Jellyfish"?
Geffen and Keret's film may be superior to "Redbelt" but I like to side myself with Mamet's ideology of making one's own identity independently. And more importantly, in one's own control.
May 06, 2008
Immigrant Song
Richard Jenkins has been acting for a long time. In many ways, "The Visitor" harks back to those stowed away feelings I got years ago when I first watched Philip Baker Hall in "Hard Eight" (aka "Sydney"). Hall had been acting in films for a number of years--mostly as an unsung supporting character actor (minus his stunning turn in Altman's "Secret Honor"). "Hard" put Hall in the forefront; his major starring role billed him in front of such heavyweights as Gwyneth Paltrow and Samuel L. Jackson. Though big names like that are absent from "Visitor" it in no way makes Jenkins' performance less of a thing of beauty. Like his colleague, Jenkins is in no hurry to give an overly theatrical lead performance. There are moments of startling silence, and of sad secrets of a past life.
Director Thomas McCarthy ("The Station Agent") creates a deliberately isolated economics professor in Jenkins; his Walter Vale character is note perfect in showing just how unhappy he is with whatever he's looking at, albeit a late student paper or a shallow piano teacher.
Without giving too much away, a university-related conference in New York City forces Walter (Jenkins) to leave his quiet Connecticut life in order to present a paper he "co-authored." Conveniently, Walter has an uptown apartment nestled in the art-interested area of the city.
I'll stop there.
There's a surprise, or ironic twist you could call it, that's waiting for Walter in his quiet apartment. The way he handles this situation and the relationships that are formed from it, give the movie its weight and ultimate core of pathos. Up until Walter walks into his apartment, we are pretty much watching a riff of Giamatti's wine-crazed loner from "Sideways." But Jenkins does something special; he doesn't make Walter totally likable or such a sad old man that we're forced to feel sorry for him. Walter has money, a secure job and respect from his colleagues. No, what Jenkins gives to Walter is that added layer of personal yearning. On the exterior Walter is successful: a college professor working on his fourth book. Yet, on the inside, Jenkins is able to convey a void that is much more organic.
So once Walter starts to let loose musically and sometimes with foolish abandon, the feeling is euphoric. Many critics have commented on the film's post-9/11 atmosphere or messaging, but that begins to distract from the film's real find: a dazzling lead performance from Jenkins, worthy of an Oscar nomination (I'm saying it now!). I also felt that a few years ago, Jenkins was robbed of a supporting actor Oscar nod for his heartbreaking role in "North Country."
The 9/11 immigrant aspect is pushing what the film is doing in the wrong direction. The film could have very well also dealt with illegal Mexicans or Chinese characters. But it doesn't. It deals with other nationalities. Deal with it.
This is a film about relationships: the lack of relationships, the discovery of relationships and the ultimate loss of relationships. It doesn't matter the person is from.
What matters is where you and that person go.
April 08, 2008
I Guess He Is Iron Man: Weak, Predictable Story Is Overshadowed By Performance Of Downey Jr.
*SPECIAL EARLY REVIEW*
This is not a bad film. Let me say that first before this goes on any further. "Iron Man," arguably one of the most anticipated movies of the blockbuster-addled summer, is hugely saved from falling to the depths of "Fantastic Four"-bad, by the endearing and utterly winning performance by Robert Downey Jr. Directed with a fresh zest by Jon Favreau, "Iron" does not offer any staggering or moving insight into Tony Stark (Downey Jr.) which is a shame really, because in the comics he's a bag of mess; a raging alcoholic and a copper-version of Bruce Wayne. In fact, the first ten or so minutes of the film, for some odd reason, happen out of order. Usually this tactic is to invoke suspense or to provide a later twist. But that never happens. We see Stark in an army truck, hamming it up, and then boom--explosions and chaos. But before the first explosion happens, we in the audience know Stark: he is brash, charming, funny and drinks a lot. Oh and he loves women, even if they're in a soldier uniform. So after the opening titlecard goes away, and a "36 Hours Earlier" heading, what we see is an elongated visualization of what we already suspected: he is brash, charming, funny and drinks a lot. Oh and he loves women, even if they're a reporter pretending to despise him.
I wish these passages of the narrative gave us some compelling flashbacks into the Stark-lore. Instead, we get a "Zoolander"-type montage of soundbites, magazine covers and photo stills of who Tony Stark "really is." This is probably the achilles heel to the whole movie; which I'm struggling to understand how two screenwriters like Mark Fergus and Hawk Ostby agreed on such a choice--these being two of the writers who adapted the masterful "Children of Men."
But about 45 minutes into all of the humor and POW plot settings, the movie picks up steam and really, in a sense, never looks back, as it fills the screen with impressive special effects and complex gadgets. The action is there and is neat to watch once you have suspended your belief that a tycoon like Stark could learn so quickly how to become an acrobatic flying vessel.
But back to Downey Jr. He's the real special effect. He's having a ball playing Stark, lacing the script with an undeserved coolness and sharpness to his dialogue. On sheer personality, Downey Jr. makes Bale's Wayne look like one of those immobile, lifeless gargoyles on the top of a Gotham building. There are moments of great sincerity between Stark and Pepper (Gwyneth Paltrow) as well as a tender parting of ways with his cave-mate Yin Sin (Shaun Toub).
Jeff Bridges' Obadiah Stane is given some three-dimensional weight; though he eventually gives into being the destructive Iron Monger (with about ten minutes of screen time), he isn't all bad. He's a businessman, who is thick enough to sweat off collateral damage if need be. Terrence Howard doesn't really provide much but be that nice friend in the military. He does tease the audience with a moment that hints at a possible mechanic duo. And of course, as with any Marvel movie, Stan Lee shows up. This time standing in for Hugh Hefner.
So how will it do next month when it is released? I'm sure it'll kill at the Box Office opening weekend, just on sheer anticipation alone. People fearing to walk into another "Superman Returns" snoozefest will have nothing to worry about. This movie is loud and destructive. People looking for "X2:X-Men United" or "Batman Begins" will have to wait again. On page "Iron Man" probably reads like the "Fantastic Four" script, plugging Burger King and topped off with a 'climatic' battle (finally with an actual villain) in the streets of the city, where person-less buses are ready for impact. But if you find yourself leaning forward by that point, it would have been because of the work by Downey Jr. who elevates the material. He makes it so that it's more than just two CGI bots bashing; he makes it so that it feels like there's something at stake.
And that closing line in the final press conference--the last scene in the film--either sets up a string of sequels or is a safety line of dialogue for closure in case of underperforming box office returns.
March 31, 2008
Probable Ouroboros
Aside from Paul Thomas Anderson, David Gordon Green is probably the other great young American Director; his "George Washington" found itself on several top ten lists years ago and his films "Undertow" and "All The Real Girls" rest comfortably in my DVD collection. Now, after months of being delayed, his latest film "Snow Angels" is in theatres. Let's begin.
I watched the film in a crowded auditorium, accompanied by some close friends who were not familiar with Green's work. When the house lights came up at the film's closing credits, one of them said to me: "Great performances, but a real shitty plot. You know everything that was going to happen from the outset."
His statement is accurate; the plot is nothing groundbreaking, nor are the actions done by certain characters at the film's end are entirely ironic or unpredictable. Everything everybody does in the film is inflicted by either personal pain, or by personal redemption. There are winners and losers, you could say.
But, I do believe my friend was incorrect in downplaying the film altogether. This is the first, least-polarizing great movie of the year. I still treasure "Funny Games" but at least here, there's no taunting of the audience before a character is killed. And to respond to my friend's feelings toward the notion of plot, well, Green has never been much for spinning a yarn; rather he is interested in what goes on in each scene, with the motivations of characters' feelings or their unspoken back history. Other Directors build and build to an exciting conclusion, that either pulls the rug from under you or just makes you cheer. Green is more of an academic, savoring those missed moments in narrative fiction. Think of a favorite scene in J.D. Salinger's The Catcher In The Rye, like Holden's examination of "bitches" sitting in a room waiting, and his scathing inner thoughts. Green could probably shoot that scene in such a lyrical way, it would be empty of sarcastic laughs and full of bruising insight. "Snow Angels" is that film; it's looking at small town individuals, who don't care about the last home high school football game, nor do they treasure their underwhelming jobs. They just want geniune human connections, free of expectations and of past demons. Green places you inside their homes, in the back kitchens of their waitressing job, in the bedrooms where they pray and in the motel room where they sleep with their friend's husband.
The lead role is played by the great Sam Rockwell ("Confessions of a Dangerous Mind"), and requires some raw power from its star. As a born-again Christian, Rockwell sidesteps the usual nutso religious freak prototype (see Marcia Gay Harden in "The Mist"), and delivers a performance that is both heartbreaking and frightening. Not in the way to make you gasp, but in the gut reactions it gets from you, by playing it straight-faced. You may not agree with what Rockwell's character does at the end of the film, but you cannot think of an alternate path or chain of events that would stay faithful to his arc. Nothing in these characters' actions can be labeled unnecessary. They are natural.
Since the plot is not much for unraveling, I'll spare you the setup, in order to better appreciate the filmmaking. I will however make you sit up and note some particular moments: there's the quiet kissings between two high school characters in a bedroom, that's sublime. Notice Tim Orr's placement of the camera just over the shoulder and then away, while Rockwell speaks to a higher power in private. Savor the bleakness of a detective's routine questioning; it's not glammed up to tone the likes of TV cop dramas. In fact it reminded me of the investigation passages of Steven Soderbergh's masterful "Bubble." People have these jobs, and everyday can't be acted out in glory.
Of course, by now you might be frustrated with this Select Cinema entry. You are no closer to knowing what the movie is about since you started reading. That's okay. After you watch it, I'll ask you to consider the title I chose for this entry. Think about the parallels between the doomed, older ex-high school sweethearts, and the newly blossoming romance that unfolds. Would you say Green is implying that these small town characters are ultimately Greek in their nature? Are the teens in just as much peril of growing up, only to grow violently apart?
Oh, and look. A discussion has arose.
It's what Green does. He's not interested in Act I, II, and III. He's interested in the passages. He's interested in the beats between the spoken dialogue. Green has confidence in his audience. They can draw their own outlines and values.
Okay. Now go see it.
March 21, 2008
Bruno S. For A New Generation
Yes, it is a bit of strong stretch to pair Ramin Bahrani's "Man Push Cart" with Werner Herzog's great "Stroszek" but the parallels that do exist are worth examining. Though "Stroszek" takes place in Germany, New York and then hysterically in Wisconsin, it emits a gritty, scarily real sense of time and setting in each location. "Man Push Cart" is set entirely in New York, (it's worthy to note that most of its cast speaks in Pakistani language) but it is buried deep within the steamy streets of the city, in the dark warehouses, and even in the vacant, desperate parking lot of a Toys R' Us. "Cart's" protagonist, the endearing and quiet Ahmad (Ahmad Razvi) pulls and pushes his food and beverage cart through the graveyard hours of the city, toward usual corners and along dangerous traffic lanes. While observing the quiet opening passages, I was reminded of Bruno S.--the protagonist of "Stroszek"--and his accordian music setup box that he pushed and dragged around the slum apartment complexes of Germany. Here we have in Ahmad, a reincarnation of Bruno's plight toward that elusive dream, albeit here an American dream (and it would eventually be both Bruno's aspiration and crushing demise).
To the audience, Ahmad is a young, apt and capable individual. What is he doing pushing a cart, and selling coffee? A lesser film would exploit this concept into some violin-ready tearjerker plot, where Ahmad might be trying to raise money to save some afterschool music program or to pay for his grandmother's emergency surgery.
But there's none of that here. The story is very real: Ahmad's wife passed away a year earlier. His in-laws find him incapable of raising his young son. In the mid 90s, in Pakistan, he enjoyed mild success as a rock singer. Now he finds himself bumming beer off of strangers and selling cheap porn DVDs to other immigrant workers. The precise storylines connecting him from point A to point now, could make for an entire other feature, but Director Bahrani is more concerned with studying this man, who is essentially lost at sea. When we see Ahmad's blank expression while sitting with friends at a karaoke lounge, it is easy to see that Ahmad isn't so much concerned with how he got to where he is, but more importantly, he is trying to figure a way to get out of his situation. There is the prospect of love but that is soon deserted--much like Bruno's seperation with Eva. "Cart" is a gem in that it holds a passive view on its subject. Usually, with 'real life' genre dramas, there's more of a visceral, if not judgemental aesthetic approach to the material. Here, however, Bahrani miraculously handles Ahmad's story with such a delicate touch, it's as tender as Ahmad's nurturing of his infant kitten.
So when problems arise, even on a small scale, we are riveted. The life and ardor of Ahmad becomes so materialized and immersed in reality, that there's this fresh, urgent drive fueling the narrative. It's unfolding at its own will, not that of a formulaic screenplay.
For me, as an avid filmgoer, I really saw Ahmad lost in this sea of New York movie life. When his cart is thought to be stolen, I was convinced that Brad Renfro and friends stole it, like they did in "Sleepers." In an earlier scene, when Ahmad trips on the side of traffic while pulling his cart and dodges an angry taxicab, I was certain Travis Bickle ("Taxi Driver") was behind the wheel honking the horn.
And by the last scene, in that faraway shot, of Ahmad accepting (at least what I think) his misguided dreams, I saw Bruno, sitting next to his frozen turkey, riding the circular ski slope seats, in hopes of being taken away.
But maybe you'll think differently.
March 07, 2008
Hey "Juno": This Is One Doodle That CAN Be Undid
What a lovely evening. I walked into the Music Box Theatre, ordered a medium coffee, sat in my seat, dog-eared a page in Jean-Dominique Bauby's The Diving Bell And The Butterfly, and looked up at the blank screen where a theatre employee was off to the side of it manually adjusting the masking. I had been very eager to watch Cristian Mungiu's "4 Months, 3 Weeks & 2 Days" for quite some time; it won the Palme D'or at last May's Cannes Film Festival, and that's a big deal. Past winners of the prize include Gus Van Sant for "Elephant" and Quentin Tarantino for "Pulp Fiction."
The opportunity to see it months ago presented itself at the Chicago Film Festival, but I was met with the demise of a singular sold-out show. It wasn't my time.
Watching the film, I was thinking a lot about Alfonso Cuaron's masterful "Children Of Men" and the long takes during several scenes. "Children" dazzled with some awesomely choreographed stunts, explosions and chaotic orchestration. It was both eye and mind candy. I can't say "4 Months" is much for eye candy--it's mostly covered in gray, and bleak pallets, though the questions on the topic of abortion and the idea of personal rights comes into naked observation, offering enough sugar for the brain.
Ebert, in his review of the film, made note that the Gabita character (who needs the immediate abortion) is a painful individual who lacks the resources, and often common courtesy toward her best friend and her general state of affairs to win us over: "We wonder how she has survived to her current 20-ish age in a society that obviously requires boldness, courage and improvisation."
Similarly, I felt no pity for Gabita. Yes, she wants an abortion, but she is so absent-minded, and sometimes annoying, that I just became angrier with her. She should have forced her guy to slap on a rubber or something.
Our hearts and our hopes lie with her wonderfully-dedicated friend and study buddy Otilia. An entire feature could probably be made on the trials and tribulations of her lower-class upbringing, her studies in school and her awkwardly-placed romance with boyfriend Adi. She has more bite than say, you're hamburger-phone-wielding onscreen vixen.
And thankfully, due to her selfless performance, and involving subplot (she could very well be jailed for assisting with the abortion), the movie finds both its anchor and true calling. Otilia may not be the one going through abortion, but her fears, worries and surprising choices are both understood and rooted for by the audience. Well, rooting may be pushing it.
This is abortion we're dealing with. It's a hot topic issue, I know. I suppose, I would urge you to watch it; the outcome may not make you feel warm inside, but if you found yourself attracted and engrossed by the moral questions posed at the end of "Gone Baby Gone," you might find yourself agreeing that Gabita would probably not be the best role model. Or mother.
March 04, 2008
Breaking The Fourth Wall--Among Other Stratagems Of Genre
*SPECIAL EARLY REVIEW*
After leaving the advance screening for critics of "Funny Games," I was sure of two things: 1) I had just watched what could possibly be the most controversial and divisive film of the year and 2) I had also just watched, what this filmgoer believes, is a perfectly constructed film that is currently holding the number one spot on 2008's very early best of the year list.
Wow. I remember last fall, while watching a trailer for "No Country For Old Men," that boasted critical praise (deservedly), reading one of the titlecards that read: "One Hell Of A Film." No offense to Javier Bardem's monster in "No Country," but he doesn't hold a candle to the horrfic duet of Paul and Peter (played by Michael Pitt and Brady Corbet). If "No Country" was hell then "Funny Games" is the apocalypse.
Now, I haven't seen Director Michael Haneke's original 1997 film "Funny Games" of which the new version is an exact duplicate of (except in English), but I have seen and own a copy of his "Caché"--as is the situation for many American critics. That film, a quiet psychological thriller whose villain is a largely unseen voyeur, was a triumph in that its placid camera style actually fueled the screen full of tension. Usually, thrillers need quick jumpcuts, zooms, close-ups, etc. to provoke an uneasiness, or sense of terror. That film and this new "Funny Games" has the advantage of being under Haneke's wicked and articulate direction. Many of the murders in "Games" happen offscreen. We never see anyone get stabbed or shot. We just hear it, and usually the gory sounds are accompanied by cold medium shots of someone who is either watching or is in the next room.
This film is going to rattle you. I've been home for about six hours now and it's taken me that long to muster up the gut to try and write a review that can celebrate the film's genius without making you think it's an arthouse snuff film. I'm pretty sure the naysayers who will despise the film when it released (on March 14) will call it snuff, or complete chaos. In fact, upon leaving the auditorium earlier today, I passed by a couple of critics standing in the hallway and this is what I overheard: "How can she [Naomi Watts] make that? She was the executive producer, though I can't see what compelled her to want to tell this story..."
Yes, Naomi Watts was very much involved with the production. Aside from producing she is also the star (though it's not a glamorous role seeing that she is mostly in her sweaty bra and underwear for most of its run). Obviously Watts, along with Haneke, believed the film could work (and it does). I guess the best way to explain other critics' contempt with the film can be best described by what my colleague, Scott Tobias of The A.V. Club (The Onion), wrote me earlier today: "Trouble is, "Funny Games" doesn't disguise its contempt for its audience, so it's no surprise that many viewers, in no mood to be scolded for their bloodlust, hate it right back."
This scolding comes by way of the film's lead villain (Pitt) periodically breaking the fourth wall to speak directly to the audience. "You're on their side, aren't you?" he asks the audience at one point. Oh, how diabolical.
If you haven't seen the original, that's fine (a lot of Americans haven't). If you haven't seen the trailer for the film, then I actually envy you: Though the film offers its fair share of surprises, I cannot even fathom the idea of walking into this film cold. That must be quite the experience.
The best films are the ones that provoke, stir up dialogue and conversation, but not just for the sake of arguing. Haneke is very much concerned with the concept of genre, but more importantly he seems to want to reexamine our culture's fascination with gore and violence. We have moved, in celluloid eras, from such masterclasses as "Rosemary's Baby" to mindless, bloody torture movies like the "Saw" series. It's as if Haneke is saying, "If you really want a movie that actually lives up to its alluring poster and slick tagline, I dare you to give this one a try."
Believe me, it's going to break your eggs.
The Power Of Images. And B-Movies Too.
Maybe it was because "Boyz N The Hood" was both parodied and celebrated so earnestly, that by the time Jack Black appeared in black face during "Be Kind Rewind's" third act, I had forgiven Director Michel Gondry's film for all of its missed opportunities and flaws, and embraced it for what it was basking in: the power of the movies.
Gondry has an eye that still puzzles me but also continues to draw my curiosity. In his music videos for Daft Punk, The White Stripes, and Foo Fighters, he somehow manages to articulate the exuberant visuals he conjures up into a way that makes them both original but devastatingly familiar. Who hasn't had a dream where their hands didn't get huge?
Easier said than done of course. Gondry's zest for creating worlds from common everyday objects is a treasure to behold in today's age of CGI overkill, where lifeless renditions of places like say, middle earth, create more noise than inspiration on the silver screen. Sometimes he doesn't quite hit a homerun ("The Science of Sleep") but he swings for the fence each time. Sometimes we're lucky enough to have an "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" hurled our way.
So now there's "Be Kind": a whimsical film that pits its pair of heroes in a situation that inspires them to recreate ("swede" as the film calls it) their favorite videos (mostly B-movies) in order to keep business alive at their shabby video store. Through some quickly forgettable setup scenes involving Jack Black getting zapped Looney Tunes style, we are to believe that Black is magnetized and thus has the power to erase all the VHS tapes he walks by. Fine. The real fun begins when Black and friend Mos Def (who, by the way, is pretty incoherent in some of his dialogue) actually start to reenact some of their fav flicks by way of recording them with a VHS camera recorder. A lot of it is funny and inventive and you almost wish there was an added segment at the end, where we get to see one of these twenty-minute long recreated treasures in its entirety.
Up until about the last five minutes, I was pretty sold and accepting of the fact that Gondry had managed to divert my attention for about two hours with his film. Then during the closing scene of the film, when the camera is pretty much focused in on the eyes and faces of eager viewers watching their neighborhood-created "sweded" docudrama, I was struck with the image of myself and the other members of the audience in the auditorium watching "Be Kind." All of us, looking ahead at an illuminated screen, mouths open, eyes wide open as well; as if some of us were looking for a kind of divine truth in our moviegoing passage and others looking only for an early evening distraction.
The idea intrigued me and by the time the possible real point of the film--how each of us creates our own version of what we see, especially in movies--started to sink in, the closing credits were rolling.
I suddenly want to see the film again. Maybe I'll wait for it on DVD, though.
Or maybe even on VHS.
Then again, if it is released on VHS (rare these days), part of me hopes that when I put the tape in the VCR, I am met only with static.
Perhaps that will prompt me to make it my own.
February 20, 2008
Old School Animation Is Not "Ded" Either
Marjane Satrapi is an expatriate. She is also my new Frank Miller. Up until now, I had no knowledge of her graphic novel, her biting humor or her zestful approach to storytelling.
I mean, I was aware of the film's Jury Prize win at last year's Cannes Film Festival; I read Ebert's four-star review of it; the fact that it ended up Entertainment Weekly's top ten list (Scwarzbaum's list anyway) caught my eye. But I still hadn't seen the movie.
A few hours ago, I went into "Persepolis" looking forward to eating my 2 for $3 Big Mac bag-o-goodies. I must admit, I wasn't really holding "Persepolis" as a serious candidate for observation (it looked like a cute toon, nothing more). After watching it, I can honestly say that if it beats "Ratatouille" for the Oscar on Sunday, it deserves it. It's that good.
A quick plot synopsis would highlight the fact that it is autobiographical, concerns the progression into womanhood by an outspoken young girl (Marjane), and is set against the backdrop of an Iran going through a tumultuous revolution. The Shah is being overthrown, the radical enforcement of the concealing of women--wait, all I'm doing is listing bullets about the movie. This is not "Elizabeth: The Golden Age." This is a film to embrace, and for avid comic book fans, it is the best cinematic interpretation of the genre that I've seen since Miller's "Sin City" (although that was a graphic novel as well).
It's insane how ingenious the animations unfold onscreen. Satrapi, along with her co-Director Vincent Paronnaud, have found away to make flat drawings of her novel pop and unfurl beautifully. I remember a few of the shots serving as slick transitions using the same outlines of key figures from previous shots; think of the opening shots of "Citizen Kane" where the lit window would stay in place, but the points of the mansion would blend into the points of the fence, and the sky would reflect itself unto a puddle of water--it's like that.
And the use of ambient sound is on par with a heavy Ken Burns recreation. The soundtrack is pretty appealing too, featuring Iron Maiden and "Eye of the Tiger" in a hilarious scene of rejuvenation, just to name a few. Just go see this movie if you haven't.
And don't let my celebration of its technical merit make you believe it's another eye-popping "Beowulf" or something. It's better; this movie has heart. And a lot of jasmine flowers in its bra.
February 19, 2008
Who's That Videotaping At My Door?
Waiting for the Lasalle bus this afternoon, on my way to watch "George A. Romero's Diary of the Dead," I received a picture mail message on my cell phone. It was of some animated character jumping around, trying to be funny. On the bus, a young lad sitting across from me swept his finger across his iPhone, probably switching between photo browsing and checking his email. The bus grumbled forward.
Inside the actual auditorium, in the row in front of me, a tall white guy with thinning hair, had his headphones blasting at full volume. It sounded like Rammstein or something. As I leaned forward to ask if he was going to turn it off by the time the show started, the house lights came down. The first ad began to play onscreen but the projectionist forgot to stop the preshow slides that were still up; in front of me was a moving car in a Honda ad, racing across a Concession combo snapshot from the lobby. There was a lot of shit going on.
The kind of shit that accumulated into a big problem for Jack Gladney in Don DeLillo's White Noise (no, not the Michael Keaton romp, it's an actual book) and the shit I was dealing with is at the epicenter of Romero's latest scathing zombie flick which, again, peels away at the layers of American consumerism and its instant gratification fix. The fix these days comes in the form of what Peter Travers of Rolling Stone calls the "youtubification" of America; pretty much everyone and anyone has the capability to post whatever they want on the internet (from blogs to viral videos) for everyone to see. What you want (not necessarily what you need) is only a click away and there's always so much of the same thing (why do people always re-post movie trailers on youtube?). What's significant? What's worth looking at? This is what Romero's interested in exploring.
Once more, there is an inexplicable outbreak. The dead are rising. They move slow and go, "Ugghhhooohh." A group of film students from the University of Pittsburgh are out shooting their semester mummy horror film in the dark woods when they begin hearing reports of attacks over the radio coming from their Winnebago. The group splits in half; we follow the section of the group with videocameras who are going to head back toward the dorms to find their friends. The leader of this group, the Director of their semester film, is glued to his camera. He not only insists that he documents everything, but in a crucial scene in a hospital when his peers are being attacked in another room, instead of helping them, he finds a nearby electric outlet to recharge his camera battery. This guy is serious about capturing this cataclysmic event.
This might ring echoes of "Cloverfield," that loud and dizzying monster movie from last month, which I didn't know what to do with. But that film was all spectacle. It's brains lied in the aesthetic and sound design. Romero's handheld camera film, on the other hand, is a masterclass in sociological film study. "Diary" teeter-totters on a film that has genuine scares (thanks to the loud acoustics of a theatre auditorium) and a ripe black comedy that shines light on the insanity of the American bullshit-info-bloated existence. A character late in the film basically voices Romero's concern with the access to and distribution of information, particularly the visual media. When there's so much between the sender and the receiver, how do we know what we're watching is entirely factual--or truthful?
I can't say that the young individuals of "Diary" are especially well-prepared or smart (the only really creative character turns out to be Samuel, the deaf Amish farmer, who obviously read Max Brooks' Zombie Survival Guide), but they serve two purposes: 1) To be eaten by zombies and 2) To embody the generation of web savvy and ADD-addled young Americans that Romero finds both annoying and horrifying. There are some memorable lines delivered in the film, most notably: "Everyone with a heartbeat, freeze and shut the fuck up!"
Another line that stuck out was, "There's always an audience for horror. Believable horror." If that's the case, then there's always going to be an audience for Romero.
February 12, 2008
Playing Cards With Death
On my stroll down a snowy Grand Avenue toward a twilight screening of "In Bruges," I began to fancy myself with possible titles for this blog entry. Upon sitting on my seat in the auditorium, I settled on "Bruging The Elements." What a find.
Martin McDonagh's new film, a surprising dark comedy, is being shortlisted by many American moviegoers because of its routine, British-tongue-in-cheek-aren't-we-dandy theatrical trailer. I'm not going to be coy: though the trailer is on my iPod (what new trailer isn't?) it was so underwhelming that I was convinced Jason Statham was in it.
He's not.
Pronounced IN BROOOOJJJHHH (rhymes with the 'rouge' in "Moulin Rouge"), the film stars Colin Farrell in another excellent turn (following his role in the heavily overlooked "Cassandra's Dream" from last month) as a regretful and borderline suicidal first-time hitman who is ordered to hide, along with his associate Ken (played by the always award-worthy Brendan Gleeson), in the medieval city of Bruges after his rookie kill assignment went terribly wrong. Obviously Ray (Farrell) is uneasy: not only is Bruges uninteresting and placid, but Ken seems to annoyingly enjoy it, and to top it all off, the two are to stay put in their shared hotel room until they get a ring from their big boss. Ray would rather take his chances in the nearby pub to drown his sorrows.
The opening scenes in the film are a bit too drawn out; long silences on a river canoe, blank expressions of Farrell's face while sightseeing the historic edifices. I wasn't convinced that I wanted to finish watching the movie.
Then a flashback happens (part of which is stupidly shown in the theatrical trailer) and the second wave of surprise in that flashback (a morbidly funny twist) helps put some dramatic weight in the convictions of the Farrell character and turn all of his whining and crying he had done up until then on its head; he was drowning in quiet desperation all this time.
It's great that the film takes the time to show some actual artwork found in Bruges. There is a crucial shot, close to the flashback scene, of a mural of a man playing cards with a skeleton in a toga-like garment (closely resembling the figure of 'Death') that Ray is looking at while he is near the worst of his depression. Essentially, it is the representation of the film, or at least the themes it deals with; predominantly the conflicting matters of knowing you deserve to die and actually having the balls to go through with dying.
I don't know any professional hitman like the characters Farrell and Gleeson play in the film, but I've seen enough hitmen films now to appreciate a movie like "In Bruges" for it's heartful take on the profession. Some of these fucking guys have to be feeling guilty after awhile. Not everyone is the stone-wallin' Leon character from "The Professional."
Killing for hire parallels the card game with death. Sure most of the time no one can call your bluff; you're in and you're out, no hard feelings. But sometimes death has a higher hand, and you've already pushed in all your chips on a suited pair. You'll never know what that higher hand was, only that you lost. And now you're dead.
Speaking of death personified, there's also Ralph Fiennes. He plays Harry, the boss that's supposed to call their hotel room. Once he shows up in Bruges, the real excitement starts (Academy take note, here's your first frontrunner in this year's Supporting Actor race). Though, now that I think about it, the Harry character isn't so much death personified as he is a religious fighter sent by Bill Paxton in "Frailty." Fiennes brilliantly articulates the dilemma of having to accept the fate of death while talking to Gleeson. Their initial sitdown exchange is worth the price of admission alone.
So what does it all mean? I don't know. Some people in the film died for no reason. Some died because they deserved and knew they did. And some died because they thought they had to--even if it's not the case.
I guess the lesson is to not use head-exploding bullets.
Regardless, the film is hugely enjoyable and even when it runs a little messy (in sappiness and red-goo blood) we forgive it. Midgets have feelings too.
February 01, 2008
Two Of A Kind
Monsieur Hire (Michel Blanc) stands by his window--having finished his routine hard-boiled egg for supper--and watches his neighbor Alice (Sandrine Bonnaire) from the across building, with lustful and adoring eyes; Leonard Schiller (Frank Langella) sits at his desk, clad in in shirt and tie, staring at his typewriter, unable to bring himself to type with any conviction or passion. Both men are at a standstill--incapable of seizing and acting on their greatest desires.
"Monsieur Hire" (1989-left picture) and "Starting Out In The Evening" (2007-right picture), two very different pieces of work, end their narratives on two polar notes--yet the "wants" that drive the story up until then come from the same womb, plump with desideratum. Monsieur Hire, a man who is despised by his neighbors and is the focal suspect to the local Chief Inspector, is an enigma of a Don Juan. He is at once creepy and toweringly romantic. For much of the short running time, he is made to be a mild-mannered voyeur, whose only connection to societal acceptance is by being an expert bowler at the local bowling alley. After the audience is convinced that Hire could in fact be the murderer that the Inspector is trying to weed out, Director Patrice Leconte pulls the rug from under and unspools Hire to be one of the most faithful lovers and admirers of postmodern cinema.
Hire's lust for Alice moves past the Norman-Bates-Peephole-Fascination, and into the role of a romantic martyr whose real intentions and desires are so moving that it may take an immediate second viewing to take it all in at a recommended dosage. Leonard Schiller, in "Starting," has equal desires of the heart to finish his last novel, yet his intentions are firmly guarded behind his weathered stoic stare and restrained vernacular. Schiller's muse comes in the form of a female grad student Heather Wolfe (Lauren Ambrose) but she is no Alice to him; the finished text is Schiller's lover from the across building. Essentially, the roles of Alice, Heather, the book, and the subject of murder are all interchangeable variables that revolve around the nucleus of male adoration. Schiller very much wants to finish his novel, not so much for revived literary fame, but to give him purpose in this life. The language, the ideas and the story have supplied the yearned for nourishment to Schiller, so much as to drive the seperation from his wife in the earlier years. In Hire's case, his love and dedication to Alice has forced him into a corner, an almost metaphysical one indeed, as he shrouds in the confinements of his tiny studio apartment.
What happens to these two men in the end is very different and yet we see each man's fate clearly from the beginning, almost from the opening frame. Both films strike at the absurdity of manhood, and the bag of expectations that arrive with it. The notions of duty, honor and family go out of the window when the desires of the heart are ignorantly exposed or threatened.
And if you take that idea into consideration, then Hire's "letting go" at the end of the film can be seen as a liberation.
January 31, 2008
Gray Matters
I love you. I love you.
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.
January 29, 2008
Happiness Is A Warm Load
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.
January 23, 2008
Being Rescued Is Not Very Wicked
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.
January 15, 2008
It's All Over Now Baby Blue
I visited the Gene Siskel Film Center (where I am a member) tonight, a very brisk Chicago evening, and was treated to a wonderful viewing experience: Murray Lerner's curious and bleak exhibition of a documentary entitled "The Other Side of the Mirror." To call it a documentary is something of a stretch, considering there are no interviews, voiceovers, or even the slightest notion of any one filmmaker's opinion. It's just a well-assembled collection of rare footage from the Newport Folk Festival during the years of 1963, 1964, & 1965 when a little ol' bird of a boy named Bob Dylan was belting at the top of his lungs some memorable folk tunes that "meant something."
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.