What is it about Andy Muschietti’s It, an adaptation of Stephen King’s monstrously sized novel of childhood trauma and clowns, that makes the film feel so bland and unimportant? It certainly wants to feel lively and fun and maybe even a little important. It wants to feel alive. The various iterations of It have all tried to reconcile with otherness, being an outsider, a “loser”, if you will. But the gravity of those implications isn’t there perhaps because It is a film that is unsure of what It is, shifting and transforming in tone as quickly as the monster haunting the film’s characters. But It is unable to settle confidently in any one of its tonal or aesthetic personae. Read the rest of this entry »
I don’t know what, exactly, my mother was thinking showing me Grease when I was three or four. Next to Bringing Up Baby, it was the single film that I watched the most, playing on a loop for most of my childhood. I know the film as well as well as Jan knows the toothbrush jingle. And that other people have connections to Grease not dissimilar to mine is indicative of the cultural influence the film had, and perhaps of how not-actually transgressive it is. Is it that my/our parents just sort of looked past its discussions of sex and peer pressure in favor of its catchy songs? Or is it because, by the ‘90s, it had nothing interesting to say about the very subject matter it wanted to be “radical” about?
In my last review, for Baz Lurhmann’s The Great Gatsby, I mentioned that I am occasionally guilty of having such loathing for a director, or someone of that ilk, that I will go into their film with a closed mind. Mind you, that doesn’t happen often, but it does happen once in a while. Surprisingly, I went into Man of Steel, the new Superman reboot, with a fairly open mind. Or rather, an apathetic and ambivalent one. Despite being directed by another one of my least favorite people, Zack Snyder, responsible for such putrid work as Sucker Punch and 300, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Or I didn’t really care one way or the other. Granted, by the one trailer I had watched months ago, the one touting Christopher Nolan’s involvement, I expected something thoughtful. Not necessarily because of Nolan’s part in the making of the film, but more because it has been the latest trend of rebooting superheroes to be more grim, contemplative, existential, etc. Therefore, it shocked me that my fairly neutral expectations were thrashed and destroyed, as if Superman himself had torn them apart. And not in a good way.
As with all reboots of the last decade or so, Man of Steel frames itself as an origin story, attempting to delve into Krypton, the origin of both Superman and Clark Kent, and Superman’s father situation. Thus, the plot results in Kent’s quiet, yet noticeable presence on earth, saving people left, right and center, and General Zod’s desire to capture the ever present Superman. General Zod was at one point the head of Krypton’s army, for the record. Meanwhile, Lois Lane is saved by a mysterious someone and is determined to track down the origin of her savior.
Man of Steel, perhaps at its core, feels like a poorly written lead in to what could be something far better. Like the bad TV movie that works as a prequel to the “fair to serviceable to maybe even good” TV series. Think Star Wars: The Clone Wars, that terrible 3D animated movie that ended up giving way to a pretty great animated television series. Well, at least we can hope. So much of the film feels like setup and so little of it feels like plot or anything worth really caring about. This, I feel, is screenwriter David S. Goyer’s fault, as well as co-story writer (but not screenwriter) Christopher Nolan’s fault. While watching the film, I could not believe that Nolan had anything to do with the story of Man of Steel, so I assumed that Goyer, who worked on Nolan’s Dark Knight Trilogy, had written the screenplay alone (which he did, and it really shows). That Nolan was certainly a part of the story process causes me internal tension; I really like his Dark Knight Trilogy and I think it is, for the most part, a well told, well executed contemporary appropriation of the character. For some reason, that translation was not as smooth for Superman. In terms of Goyer’s screenwriting, the stakes, though they are allegedly high, never feel it. I had a very hard time caring about what was going on, not because I am not a Superman enthusiast, but because there seemed to be very little actual plot. Although one should be able to sum up a plot in a few sentences, it’s actually quite hard to do with Man of Steel. Not because a lot is going on, but because you have to wrack your brain to remember if anything important happened anyways. Uh, was there a McGuffin? I don’t remember. And why was Zod doing this again? Huh?
Again, it was disheartening to see Nolan having a story credit, because it meant that he had to share some of the blame for how poor the story was. Goyer alone can take credit for the lousy dialogue, the bad exposition, and the fact that even simple ideas to the characters within context either don’t make sense or are not applied or appropriated in a logical way. (Remember that “terraforming” line? That dumb mistake could have easily been remedied by just having another character ask that question.)
As much as I admire ambition, ambition in and of itself does not a good movie make, and Man of Steel is no exception. Again, like Nolan’s Dark Knight Trilogy, Man of Steel takes a slightly “throw ideas at the wall and see what sticks” way of attempting thematic exploration. It comes off even worse than The Dark Knight Rises, not only in the way that too many things are thrown at the wall, creating a lack of thematic cohesiveness, but that none of them stick. You have ideas about Superman’s deep loyalty to his parents, but then it’s never explored. Superman’s’ loyalty to mankind? Not explored. The freedom of choice in an individual’s future? Not explored. Adoption and what that does to one’s childhood/personal life? Not explored, only briefly, insensitively hinted at. (Speaking as an adopted child, I was kind of offended at this.) Carnage in the real world and its real world repercussions? Not explored at all.
This last one puzzled me. It does not surprise me at all that the film should employ 9/11 imagery; that’s what these new, brooding superhero movies do in order to make them contextually relevant. But the film doesn’t actually make the environment within the film anymore contemporary than Richard Donner’s 1978 film with Christopher Reeve. Yes, both Smallville and Metropolis are clearly in the modern world. There’s modern technology. And there’s even product placement. (I’m currently waiting for an ad telling me to buy the Nikon D3S, the camera that Lois Lane uses! And then gets smashed!) But none of the surroundings do so much as to make that texture of the setting like a real, modern place. The closest it comes to ever achieving that is an ominous message from General Zod that is sent via television: it’s static-y, the tracking is off, and a couple people whip out their smart phones. But what does that say about the people of this universe? Pretty much nothing. What Nolan was able to do with his Dark Knight Trilogy was to make Gotham City an “anywhere metropolitan area” that doubled as one that was distinctly set in a pretty specific time bracket, with its politics, technology, villainy, and, yes, its hero. But the Dark Knight was also able to transcend time and, while taking on the role of a rather Right Wing iconography, make his hero relevant regardless of setting. Man of Steel fails to do that. He is stuck in a limbo. Looking at just the setting, you wouldn’t really be able to distinguish it from any other time. This seems to be less of a comment of the “Good Ol’ American Way” (which would be kind of Superman-like), the jingoistic notion that the United States is some sort of rural area that remains nameless, and more just lack of texture and substance. Its 9/11 imagery, through the loudness of its sonic qualities and its blatant compositions, is the only thing that is “contextually relevant” in the film, but none of the rest of the film actually justifies this or backs it up. Instead, we’re left with a gross, unsettling image of destruction, and a whole lot of irresolution and lack of closure. The question is: is that the fault of Goyer or is it Snyder?
I don’t care for Zack Snyder. I don’t care for his cinematography. I don’t care for his pseudo-feminist ideas. I don’t care for the fact that he needs to use slow motion in everything. I don’t particularly care for the fact that he had to drain his best film of political subtext. I think he’s serviceable, but he is certainly not someone I would watch for pleasure. Sort of like Tarsem Singh in a way, he’s a visualist, enchanted by the image so much that he sometimes (or kind of often) forgets that the image must contain context and meaning that adds to the whole. His compositions are sometimes very nice, very entrancing, but they’re good in small, maybe music video sized portions. A two and a half hour film? Not so much. That said, Snyder’s direction for the film wasn’t inherently horrific, but neither was it particularly good. The trailer (which, I know, is an arbitrary bar to compare to) presented Man of Steel with the cinematography and “tone poem-ness” of Terrence Malick, and, to be quite honest, I wouldn’t have been surprised if that was the direction he would have gone in: everyone loves copying Malick. But, Snyder didn’t go the Malick route; he went the “I don’t own a SteadiCam, so I’m going to walk around and occasionally compose somewhat nice screen grabs, but never create a fulfilling or terribly consistent aesthetic” route. Even the action sequences, which are deliriously edited, lack the necessary cohesion that it takes to make a great action film. Snyder’s work here is neither breathtaking nor abhorrent and instead settles into the forgettable, which is a disappointment. Even the grotesque videogame aesthetic of Sucker Punch was at least memorable, even if it wasn’t very “good”.
The purpose of a reboot is ostensibly to garner a wider audience while retaining the built in fan base. That may mean that you have to build from the ground up, but with the brooding, thoughtful superhero films of late, from Iron Man 3 to The Dark Knight, character construction and illustration are at the top of importance. It is such a disappointment, therefore, that the characters seem so flat throughout the film. Henry Cavill may be distractingly handsome, a man so masculine that not even his new super suit can contain his chest hair, but he lacks the real charisma and pathos that this kind of reboot calls for. That may be asking a lot, but Cavill, at times, plays Clark Kent like a hotter, but more wooden Christopher Reeve. What made Reeve’s performance interesting, regardless of the camp tone of the film, was that his was able to very easily transition from the affability of Kent, the vulnerability of Kal-El, and the decisive power of Superman. When Cavill is able to do any of these things or ever bring his own to the character, it isn’t with the same assurance or confidence. It seems almost self-conscious. It feels like he knows he’s playing Superman, making him question his instincts. (Cavill is also distractingly handsome, but I think I already mentioned that.)
Russell Crowe and Kevin Costner play Superman’s fathers; the former is Jor-El, Superman’s biological father, and the latter is Jonathan Kent, his adopted father. Despite their presence in the film, the paternal relationships of Superman are actually poorly executed. There’s less of a give and take between Clark and his dad and more of a series of flashbacks (very poorly integrated into the narrative, making the structure rather confusing and, again, inconsistent) of Mr. Kent lecturing his son about how he has to hide his powers and whatnot. It doesn’t get much deeper, which makes the relationship feel much shallower than it should. Meanwhile, Russell Crowe is fine, if not memorable, as Mr. Exposition Man. It is from him that we get the most backstory, which kind of makes his place beyond the first half hour of the film rather unnecessary. Instead, they build his “consciousness” into the story. Sort of like Old Ben Kenobi.
Which brings us to the villain, General Zod. A week later and I still don’t remember what exactly his deal was. (Just kidding.) In actuality, there just wasn’t enough plot for me to care what his deal was. Zod was neither sympathetic enough to grant the audience an emotion turnaround, not villainous enough to make his truly despicable. Instead, Michael Shannon, who shines in Take Shelter and HBO’s Boardwalk Empire gives us an over the top performance that seems better fit to the 1970s film than the attempted grittiness of this new one. It isn’t funny, exactly, but you can see the crumbs on the side of Shannon’s face from the scene he just chewed.
The real problem here is the women in the film, in that they do nothing and/or are reduced to bimbos. Even sweet Amy Adams is given nothing to work with for Lois Lane. I may not know a lot about the Superman universe, but what I do know is that Lois Lane is a tough character. She has a masculine vibe about her which she “needs” as a journalist. She’s driven and determined and not really subservient. She’s even won a Pulitzer, as Adams proudly proclaims. But Adams is given so little to do in the film, besides playing the beleaguered journalist looking for the man who saved her. She doesn’t seem like the hardcore, motivated character that Lois Lane is supposed to be. She receives a lot of help from men, and her character ends up lacking depth. The rest of the females are either helped by men, ask questions that people in their position should know, or make funny, but very vapid comments. The rest of the cast, from Christopher Meloni to Laurence Fishburne, also suffer from this lack of depth, if not from the casual sexism of the script.
So, while the film might be well animated, it is also very loud, maybe unnecessarily so. Such forced loudness caused me fatigue and boredom. I’m not sure which is worse. But sound for sound’s sake does not, again, add sonic texture to the setting or the story. It’s just loudness.
Its ostensible goal is somewhat achieved: there’s a new Superman movie and it will bring in new audiences. But its loftier goals of something thoughtful, interesting, and full of depth are never attained. Snyder, Nolan, and Goyer even fail to make Superman contextually relevant, instead making the film kind of faceless, save for the gross use of post-9/11 imagery. What we have here is something loud and brassy, and if that’s what people want, that’s fine. But the attempts something higher than that, the only thing that comes of it is complete carnage.
I had Netflix this summer, which basically meant my time was spent either doing homework or watching movies. Over the course of the vacation, I watched 74 films. I have written about 30 reviews. Hope you all enjoy.
P.S. The posters won’t appear, but it’s not like that really matters.
What a great film! It’s as seductive in its wit, satire, and drama as Mrs. Robinson. An incredible portrait of growing up after high school. One of the most unique coming of age tales I’ve seen in recent years. The film was very well written and avoided melodrama, which was great. Dustin Hoffman, Anne Bancroft, and Katherine Ross were all fantastic. Hoffman plays mild mannered good boy excellently, and Bancroft, who was only 6 years his senior, is one hell of a temptress. Very funny, and perhaps has jumped into my favorite films list.
This film, after Bullets Over Broadway, was my first Woody Allen film. I’d been worried because I had very high expectations. And I rented it so I could weep about how single I am. Thankfully, neither occurred. It was a brisk, intelligent, and funny film. Allen was hysterical and Keaton was top notch. But my favorite scene was when Allen is standing in line at the movies and complains about the pseudo-intellectual talking behind him. The relation to German philosophy and the breaking of the fourth wall was perfect, and I think that Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind shares its non-linear, memory lane format. I loved it.
Let me tell you I am a huge fan of the Master of Suspense, Alfred Hitchcock, my favorite film of his being either Psycho or The Birds. The Lady Vanishes is, in several ways, a departure from his normal grimness and morbidity. Light as air and as ironic and witty as Howard Hawks’ Bringing Up Baby (my favorite film), rarely does darkness taint this film. As it should be. Its frothy ambiance and amusing characters fill out any trepidation one might have when boarding a train. The claustrophobic setting is no doubt reminiscent of Agatha Christie fare, but it’s funny and more light hearted. Its as if everyone is in on the joke. This is thanks both to the impeccable directing as well as the superb screenplay. The two leads are marvelous! A superb caper, and significantly better than his oft acclaimed The 39 Steps.
Something Wild this way comes! Sporting a look reminiscent of Louise Brooks in her scintillating role in GW Pabst’s Pandora’s Box, Melanie Griffiths shines as the pathological liar trapped by her own subtle insecurities, Audrey/Lulu. She takes mild mannered Charlie, played by Jeff Daniels, on a whirl wind of a ride allowing himself the freedom from routine and obsessive compulsion, something he’s accustomed to but rebels against subconsciously by doing subtle things like not pay lunch bills. Ray Liotta steps into the picture in his first role as Audrey’s violent ex-husband. I would say that this film, heartwarming, weird, thrilling, and romantic, is like the screwball comedies of the ’30s and ’40s. It’s like The Philadelphia Story, His Girl Friday, and Bringing Up Baby on crack and in the 1980’s. I was wary about it for a third of the film, finding it kind of weird and finding Daniels just annoying and underdeveloped. But Demme, who won an Oscar for directing in 1991 for The Silence of the Lambs, subtly allows Daniels character to create a back story for himself, allowing the viewer to see how “nice guy”-ish he really was, and allow him to develop further into a nuanced character. Melanie Griffiths was awesome. It’s a Wild and fun and romantic ride.
Based on the James Stewart movie The Shop Around the Corner (which was, in turn, based on a stage play), Nora Ephron’s charming You’ve Got Mail seems very quaint in an age where every kid has a smart phone and an iPod and complain when a YouTube video takes too long to load. This, children of this generation, is what life was like for internet users in 1998. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, who seem to just exude chemistry ever since their film Sleepless in Seattle, play people who like each other. Or at least, they like their online, anonymous personalities and slight facades. In real life, Hanks is the big bad chain store crushing Ryan’s cute little book shop, and a very Pride and Prejudice relationship begins. The banter is funny, as Ephron’s script always are (written with her sister, Delia), and it’s a perfectly suitable romantic comedy. It’s queer watching people use dial up, though. But the story itself doesn’t seem very dated. But it doesn’t feel as cutesy romantic as it could be. Instead, it just comes off as a little bland at times and fluctuates between true romance and the dull over trodden gimmick of the two leads who hate each other but really love each other secretly. But, it is, for the most part, enjoyable fluff.
The minute the film starts, you have a sense that it’s going to be some political or social commentary or allegory about obsession with media. It’s prophetic message may seem snooty and pretentious at times, but it ends up being overrun by its graphic, haunting imagery. The visual effects work better than the dialogue itself in serving as a prophetic warning. Some notable lines are in there, like “the television screen is the retina of the mind’s eye” and such, but literally having a beta-max shoved into your chest is scarier than anything you can imagine. The storyline involves James Woods, the president of a sleazy TV channel, stumbling upon a frequency to a channel that’s even more sadistic and sexual, called “Videodrome”. Torture on screen, that’s what the people want! And considering the surge in torture porn flicks, it’s not hard to believe at all now. The film is well acted, but it’s the make up and horrifying visuals that make this film as indelible as it is.
I love a dysfunctional family as much as the next guy, considering I have one myself, but The Life Aquatic just didn’t cut it for me. The characters were shallow, the story was deeply uninteresting, and the humor was full of itself and twee. It was so quirky and annoying, I wanted to punch the screen. I remember enjoying the Royal Tennenbaums because it was darker, more skewed on its views on humanity, and its emotional complexity was more ambiguous. Its dark humor wasn’t as blatant and self serving as well. Luckily, I don’t own this movie. However, as always, Wes Anderson’s color palette was nice.
I’ve basically learned since Memento not to doubt the logic and skill and brilliance of Christopher Nolan. Even with his blockbuster films that are as mainstream as you can get, like The Dark Knight,there’s a level of darkness and emotional complexity and integrity to the work itself that is so rare to find these days. And so, why not make an allegorical film about…auteurism. Jean-Luc Godard said, “Cinema is the most beautiful fraud in the world.” And by that, Nolan gives us a fairly straight forward, emotionally gorgeous, and visually stunning tale of two rival magicians trying to one up each other with who gets the better trick, and the most prestige. (Though, the word is meant to symbolize the fraud itself and its presentation to the audience.) Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman do an awesome job playing really petty magicians, Scarlett Johannsen is gorgeous, and, per typical of a Nolan film, the end will rape your mind. Great, under rated film.
If there were ever a shocking, a sprawling, and an intense mystery thriller for a neo-noir generation, it would the this film, the Swedish adaptation of the first novel in the Millenium triliogy by Stieg Larsson. Instead of being marked by nonstop action and excitement, the plot draws you in slowly and steadily, and grasps you until yuour last breath, never letting go. Michael Myqvist plays journalist and investigator Mikael Blomkvist of the Millenium periodical. He’s consulted by a powerful man about the disappearance of his niece. He is joined by genius punk-goth hacker Lisbeth Salander, played with pathos and power by Noomi Rapace, and they work together as an odd couple team. As they go through the case, more and more dark details are revealed. It’s a winning psychological thriller that keeps you on the edge without being a complete assualt on the senses. There are graphic scenes of rape, but they are not gratuitous. The original translation fo the Swedish title is Men Who Hate Women, and the film delves into the chauvnism and the crimes committed against women, without being blatant or misogynistic. It’s Rapace who makes the film, sporting this dark and slightly disturbed look, and that look is as dark and mysterious as her personality. An incredible and visceral film, but it runs a bit too long at over 150 minutes. I am eagerly anticipating the remake by David Fincher and starring Daniel Criag and Rooney Mara (the Social Network).
What could be more charming that riding on a gondola in Venice and kissing under the Bridge of Sighs, falling in love for all of eternity? Very little, in fact. A Little Romance is at a disadvantage in my own personal views from becoming an annoyingRomeo and Juliet rehash. Two photogenic young stars, one played by Diane Lane and the other by Thelonious Bernard, embark on a romantic adventure against the will of Lane’s mother. But, young love is far more optimistic and less melodramatic than Shakespeare plays it, and its end result is more delightful and amusing and romantic than you could imagine. What won me over? The charming, if volatile Bernard, who plays a dashing and handsome young French boy who loves the cinema and quotes Casablanca upon meeting Lane’s Lauren. On their way to falling for one another, they are joined by Lawrence Olivier, who is in splendid form as a pickpocket. It is charming and their determination without cynicism, as well as without the obnoxious cutsiness of Nicholas Sparks, make this a beautiful film, with breathtaking scenery and some wonderful performances. It’s dated in a way, for those weened on trash like The Notebook, but it will remain a picturesque illustration of young romance at its cinematic finest.
Manhattan seems to be a companion piece to Allen’s Annie Hall form 1977. It elaborates on the ideas of pseudo-intellectualism, but there’s still that sweet sentimentality intact. The scene where Keaton and Allen are standing in line at the movies listening to the guy talk about neo-realism and whatnot seems to be the thesis for Manhattan. How the broad talk of philosophy can in the end ruin a friendship and how one must get down to the bare bones, simplification of tenderness. This is shown when Allen continues to date and yet intellectually demean his 17 year old girlfriend, played by the grand daughter of Ernest Hemingway. We see she’s a perfectly capable of understanding these concepts, but she just doesn’t care for them. She wants emotional stimulation as opposed to constant intellectual stimulation. And it works. However, Allen’s inner intellectual is drawn to his best friennd’s mistress, Keaton again, who is wonderful, and he must decide between true beauty and emotion versus simple, almost emotionless intellect. But, really, its sharp evaluation of New York City sophisticates plays second fiddle to its gorgeous photography. Gordon Willis captures the stark contrast of black and white beautifully, and the Gershwin filled score is absolutely immaculate. It’s a beautiful, endearing film about love and the city.
I think Christopher Nolan is a god sent to us by the film lords. And, while Following is certainly not his strongest films, it is an impressive debut nonetheless. A thick and hard boiled neo-noir about guys who burgal for the thrill of it. The black and white photography is fitting, but it never pulls you in aesthetically. It feels like there should be more contrast in the lighting to show the contrast in characteristics between the male leads. It plays out much like Double Indemnity. But unfamiliarity with Nolan’s back and forth story style may find this jagged and rough edged film disconcerting and maybe irksome. All said and done, it makes for a good neo-noir and an interesting piece of filmmaking. But, if you’re looking for a better Nolan noir, look for Memento.
It’s funny that I should watch this film while slightly sleep deprived. But being up late at night is nothing compared to Al Pacino’s insomnia-ridden cop in Nolan’s excruciatingly tense mystery. Based on a Norwegian film of the same name directed by Erik Skjoldbjærg, Insomnia is an interestingly existential film, though it doesn’t try to be. Pacino’s LA cop, on the hunt for a murderer of a 17 year old girl in Alaska, accidentaly shoots his partner and tries to cover it up. Already under suspcian for something back home, he is unable to sleep and has flashes of visions. Not to ention the fact that where he’s staying in Alaska; well, the sun never goes down. Hillary Swank plays the sharp, star struck local cop who is on the same case. And Robin Williams, in a brilliant departure from his broad comedy, plays the murderer. He’s not funny. His character, who plays mind games with Pacino’s cop, could have easily been a bad rip off of Hannibal Lecter in the Silence of the Lambs, but Williams brings his own twisted nerve to the character, keeping it fresh. Visually, the film is captivating, utilizing symbolic motifs and great cinematography. But, it’s a Nolan film. A film of pure tension and suspense, Insomnia will keep you up at night.
As I was reading the essays that came with the Kiss Me Deadly Blu-ray, it kept saying that it was a sci-fi noir. I would have to say that’s an overestimation of the film. It is more hard boiled film noir in the classic vein, if significantly more violent and a bit more exciting, than it is science fiction. Yes, it took place during the Cold War, and yes there’s some stuff about nuclear war fare that isn’t exactly spelled out explcityly. But, if there is anything to draw you to this hot as hell classic, it is how ahead of its time it was. Robert Aldrich’s superb and intense film plays up the violence and the misogyny to unbelievable levels, making it both shocking and entertaining. And Ralph Meeker’s off kilter, nasty private dick is one of the most memorable performances I’ve seen in a while . And the box, of course; the great Whatsit, which inspired Quentin Tarantino for his film Pulp Fiction. That said, it is classic noir, so if you’re not really into repugnant anti-heroes and hot dames, then oh well.
Non linear storyline. An homage to everything you can think of. Punchy, kick ass dialogue. Samuel L. Jackson quoting the Bible. Uma Thurman and John Travolta dancing. This hell fire of a film written and directed by Quentin Tarantino is a pop culture masterpiece, tones and perfected by its rousing and interesting characters and most of all by the killer screenplay written by Tarantino and Roger Avary, for which they won an Academy Award for. It’s hard to tell what the film is actually abuot, but that may be just the point. A throwback to the hard boiled and trashy novels of the 1950’s, the film relishes in its meandering story lines and interconnected plots, reveling in exactly that subgenre. Samuel L. Jackson is absolutely superb as a philosophical hitman, and he delivers his lines with perfect beat, enunciation, and emotion. He’s as moving as he is funny, and Tarantino’s social analysis throughout the film is spoken through him, and it’s dead on. Travolta is also fantastic as the partner, and he plays a character which could be really annoying and ignorant. Instead, he’s cool, funny, and clever. And Uma Thurman plays the wife of WIng RHames. I have to say, Uma Thurman seems to be at her very best when she’s dealing with Tarantino. She was kickass inKill Bill, and in this, she’s cool, witty, and her pathological decision making is nothing but intense. The film may be over two and a half hours long, but it’s fast paced. And not by action, but by compelling story and incredible dialogue. Truly a masterpiece of the modern era of film, and a love letter to all things trashy and pulpy.
In many ways, I feel that David Cronenberg’s disturbing and smart Videodrome works as an unofficial companion piece with Michael Powell’s unsettling masterpiece Peeping Tom. Both are essentially about the cruelties and horrors of voyeurism and what it does to people. Both are sexually charged with deep and horrific psychoses of their main characters. Bot are propfetic and comment on social desires, taboos, etc. But, of the two, I prefer Peeping Tom, as it is more elegantly handled, but just as penetrating. Psychotic Mark Lewis, played by Carl Boehm (who looks like a more handsome and younger version of Peter Lorre in Fritz Lang’sM), kills women. He films them to the point of death. And the he watches it over again. A very, very obvious exploration into voyeurism, the first person point of view would inspire the same kind of madness in Black Swan (which was also inspired thematically by one of Powell and Emeric Pressberger’s masterpieces, The Red Shoes). Moira Shearer plays a young woman who begins to befriend the young man, who works as a photographer, as as the film goes on, his personal traumas are revealed in the most suspenseful fashion. A great piece of filmmaking, with its subtext as potent today as it was in 1960.
Godfrey is a “forgotten man”, basically a bum, who is picked up by a family of aristocrats for a scavenger hunt game. He is then hired by the family, in particular, Cornelia Bullock, to be the family’s butler. The test for him, a reserved, wise man (as men like that tend to be in films of this style), is to last in the house without walking out. The Bullock family is bonkers. Steeped in extravagance, the family is always in trouble or doing something stupid, like getting drunk and partying and whatnot. I was rather disappointed with this film. As a big fan of the screwball comedy, and an admirer of William Powell in The Thin Man, the film seemed devoid of actual wit. Yeah, people banter back and forth, but none of it is actually very funny. The comedy itself shouldn’t feel so dated, instead it just feel half hearted and kind of stupid. And I don’t appreciate there being not one admirable character. The entire family seems repugnant and/or idiotic. And William Powell’s forgotten man is supposed to come off more as kindly and wise than oh so holier than thou. Oh, boo hoo, a movie with a message about the worth of money. Like we haven’t seen that before. Kudos to Pwell though, Without him, the film would be a dull and unfunny and preachy.
Sophia Coppola’s Oscar-winning tale of lonely people in Tokyo is perfection. Absolute perfection. The slow, beautifully languid pace fit the meandering soul of the film itself, and the performances were spectacular and so nuanced. The locale is beautifully claustrophobic. The sense of emptiness and loneliness slowly being filled was incredibly palpable and honestly tugged at my heart strings. Murray’s pitch perfect fictitious self dazzlingly personifies loneliness and Johansson’s throaty and equally superb part embodies the lost soul she’s trying to find. It hit all the right notes in humor, drama, and romance, and I found it particularly pleasing that the two maintained a close, intimate relationship, but did not sleep together. To me, the unification of those souls, finding and helping one another back on their way – that translated perfectly to the screen.
The Piano (1993) | Directed by Jane Campion
Stanley Kubrick once compared film to music, that “it should be a progression of moods and feelings.” That couldn’t be a more beautiful and accurate description of Jane Campion’s highly exotic, erotic period tale of a mute woman (Holly Hunter) and her daughter (a young Anna Paquin) sent to New Zealand for an arranged marriage. She brings her treasured piano, but her new husband (Sam Neil) cannot carry the piano back to their house. Eventually, the natives who help them bring their belongings introduce her to Baine (Harvey Keitel), a swarthy man. Hunter plays her character lovingly and, as a mute, without words. Other actresses could fall prey to scene chewery and believability, but Hunter is tender and nuanced. From years of repression, she finally is able to indulge herself and become free by having an illicit affair with Keitel. She maintains her love for the piano, which is an extension of who she is an appendage to her soul. Campion’s film is beautiful, with exotic photography, and Hunter and Paquin both deserved their Academy Award winds. Paquin isn’t cute or precocious, however. She is nothing but real, acting much older than she is. The Piano is an example of a film that needs little words to show its beauty, but reveals its gorgeousness through its pure mood and tone.
Clearly, as evidenced by his screenplays for Adaptation. and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and even Synecdoche, New York,Charlie Kaufman enjoys being both self-referential, self-aware, and exploring the flaws, fallacies, and beauties of the human mind in all of its existential beauty. I would say Kaufman’s script for the amusingly dark Being John Malkovich, directed with style and flair by Spike Jonze, helped me understand what existentialism actually is: the philosophy of being. And in being, the exploration of existentialism is more humorous and dark than it is completely serious. John Cusack plays a down-on-his-luck puppeteer who finds a portal into the mind of the great actor John Malkovich, in a world where no one seems to actually know his filmography. (They keep saying he’s in some heist movie…) Meanwhile, he falls In love with an acerbic, stuck up Catherine Keener, who in turn falls in love with John Malkovich, but only when Cusack’s wife (an unrecognizable, incredible performance from Cameron Diaz) is inhabiting Malkovich’s body. And so, not only do we get a funny lesson in the philosophy of being and existing, but in are thrown the philosophies of sexuality, love, and fulfillment. Indeed, this is an interesting journey, and Malkovich is in full, overacting form. He’s supposed to be, of course. Cusack’s character, though, is too unlikable, and Keener is just repugnant. The kudos should really go to Diaz, for making a full transformation. The film has visual flair, giving perspective into…perspective. The film isn’t only an exploration of being and existing, but an exploration of what makes us tick.
This may be a complete travesty in the film world, but I could not stand this film. Having heard much about how realistic it was in comparison with the gangster epic by Francis Ford Coppola The Godfather, Scorsese’s brash, violent, and devious film takes out the romance of being in the mob and tries to make it as realistic as possible. Realistic though it may be, it is by no means, in my personal opinion, not any more entertaining. Ray Liotta(who was just as scary in Jonathan Demme’s Something Wild) makes his mark on cinematic history as Henry Hill, the real life mobster who got into the gang as a young teen. I suppose it may be interesting to watch the workings of organized crime from an outsider’s view working to get in, but its unremorseful violence and profane script dissolves all interest. The meandering and overlong storyline also takes a hit at one’s attention span, and and its inconsistent narration makes it seem a little sloppy. The visual style remains the same, and by that I mean uninteresting. The violence, as I said, is brutal, tough, and nasty. It’s not a fun film to watch. But kudos to Scorsese for a first class selection of music, a playlist that reflects the times and the characters. But…Joe Pesci…seriously. Punctuating your screenplay and having your one uneducated and dense and trigger happy character spout the f-word every other word doesn’t make him seem any more interesting and it doesn’t add any depth to the character. Somehow, though, he managed to nab an Oscar, which I think may have been a bit more deserved for My Cousin Vinny. De Niro feels barely there. But, I guess the reason why everyone lauds the film is because of its realism. Woo hoo. Based on the book Wiseguy by co-screenwriter Nicholas Pillegi, GoodFellas is a unique piece of celluloid for its realistic look at the mob, but its entertainment value is as scares as anyone In the witness protection program.
Much like his next film Modern Times, City Lightsshows Charlie Chaplin’s romantic side more than ever, and it shows how hesitant he was to jump into the era of talking pictures. Made four years after the “first” talkie, The Jazz Singer, Chaplin maintained that if the Little Tramp talked all of his magic would disappear. He had his point, for the incarnation of the Tramp in The Great Dictator isn’t as delightfully quaint. One of the problems I’ve had with silent comedies is that they feel like a bunch of shorter gags made for one and two reelers just strung together without a coherent storyline. Buster Keaton avoided this with his death defying, if less entertaining The General, but Chaplin fell prey to this in his funny, but long and slow The Gold Rush. City Lights escapes this problem by giving the Tramp a serious love interest in that of a beautiful blind flower girl. It’s fluid and funny, and that is what matters. He is adamant on helping her get money to pay for her rent as well as for her to undergo surgery so that she can see. Ah, but there is a catch. He had accidentally been masquerading as a millionaire, after befriending an alcoholic one who invited the Tramp into his home. And that means that should the flower girl see him, she would know him for the bum he really is. And he hasn’t a care in the world. The strongest thing this film has, besides great gags, is a touching storyline. It is his most romantic feature, next to Modern Times. It is filled with heart and doesn’t tug on your heartstrings, but pull gently more and more until the beautiful, slightly ambiguous ending. It’s delightful, hilarious, and heartwarming, and one of my favorite Chaplin films.
Bronson (2008) | Directed by Nocolas Winding Refn
Bronson is one of the most exhilarating movies I’ve had the pleasure of seeing in a while. I’m not normally a fan of ultra-violence, but director Nicolas Winding Refn is so theatrical, so flamboyant, and so delightful in his violent performance art, it doesn’t matter. And it’s indeed theatrical. And it is indeed exhilarating. The film grabs you by the crotch and doesn’t let you go for a moment. Tom Hardy, in a role that has me questioning why the hell he doesn’t have a crap load of big awards on his shelf, begins the film by introducing himself as the world’s most violent prisoner. And he makes his motivations explicit. “I’ve always wanted to be famous.” And so, Charles Bronson, formerly known as Michael Gordon Peterson, addresses an audience on a stage, as if performing some vaudevillian one man show. The cinematography, by Larry Smith, is as harsh as Bronson’s knuckles, and the violence is intense, but darkly humorous. Hardy humanizes the character in a completely bizarre and brilliant way. Yes, he is a madman, but his exuberance and delight and charisma is so undeniable, you find yourself rooting for him. At times, he doesn’t even seem evil. He seems like an Alex Fletcher 2.0, only with a hell of a lot more muscle. Various symbolism about repression and being confined and claustrophobia and splattered in red across the screen, but the visualization makes the experience truly memorable. But the winner of the formula? Ding, ding ding! Tom Hardy is brilliant and absolutely brutal as the lead, perfecting the accent and bouncing back skillfully between being horrific and being hysterical. The blend of classical music and British pop/techno makes it feel a lot more like Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange, but in reality, as much as they are about desensitization to violence and its effect on society, the films themselves are very different. Kubrick’s film is at once repulsive and cringe worthy, but that was the director’s intention. Refn, however, wants to, like Bronson, give you a show. And that he does.
Having been born in the 1990’s and most familiar with caper films like Steven Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Eleven, from a ‘90’s child point of view, Roy Hill’s masterpiece crime movie The Sting can best be described as an “old timey Ocean’s Eleven”. However, for the sake of screenwriter David S. Ward, it’s far cleverer than Soderbergh’s film. (Not to say his film isn’t good, it’s great.) A street grafter (Robort Redford) wants to avenge the death of a friend (Robert Earl Jones) by pulling the ultimate con on the gangster (Robert Shaw) who killed his friend. He gets the help from a professional con man and cheat (Paul Newman) and what follows is a particularly jolly and fun movie. George Roy Hill had previously worked with Newman and Redford on Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, a film that, much to the dismay of Cinephiles, I despise. I dislike it mainly for its strange pace. But, thank goodness for The Sting. Its pace is jaunty and fun, and it’s a film that almost lacks much of a dark side, except for the finale. Newman and Redford have perfect chemistry together, as we all know, and the master and apprentice repartee is brilliant. Robert Shaw is pleasantly menacing as the gangster, completing this excellent ensemble. The Sting is one of the more delightful films I have seen this summer, and while the stakes are high, it’s a big win for the viewer.
The Shrek series is best known for creating an empire at DreamWorks Animation that is comparable to that at Pixar Animation. What’s the difference between the two studios? DreamWorks’s films, in particular the Shrek series, are cheekier, more sarcastic, often more self-referential, and often crasser. And, everyone copies them, not Pixar. And so, DreamWorks pushes the sequel limit with the multiply-titled fourth Shrek film, alternately known as Shrek Forever After and Shrek: The Final Chapter. The fourth film is evidence that, after the second, the formula was running very, very dry. The self-aware fairy-tale series does an It’s a Wonderful Life-esque morality tale, when Shrek (the insufferable Mike Myers) wishes that he were just as fearful a single and unmarried ogre as he used to be. And he stupidly gets his wish when he makes a deal with Rumpelstiltskin (Walt Dohrn). And gone are his children, his family, his friends, blah blah blah. And he has a day until he can set things right et cetera. It’s the most boring plot you could ask for, one that has been tread over a billion times within the cinematic work. The animation is lazy, the jokes are boring, and the movie seems extremely half-hearted. Even its self-awareness is lacking. The characters are so incredibly stupid, and yet they try to wink at the camera (as they have for the entire series) with an “oh look how clever we are lampooning fairy tale”. Even the voice work is insufferable. Cameron Diaz seems barely there and Jon Hamm is completely useless as a member of some ogre-rebellion. You would have thought that after ten years, the animation would be mind-blowing, kind of like when you watch Toy Story and then you watch Toy Story 3. It’s a completely unnecessary sequel and I hope that this is where the fairy tale finally ends.
Catherine Breillat is a professor of Auteur Cinema. This is so incredibly obvious with her polarizing filmFat Girl, a film so uncomfortable and so infuriating that it is difficult to watch. However, this is not for the general and obvious reasons that many people talk about, such as its lengthy sex scene, its rape, the sexual violence, etc; it is hard to watch because the characters within her film are not so much characters but mouth pieces for her feminist theory fodder. Following is a short personal op-ed piece I wrote about the film:
But not exactly why. Yes, the sex scene is repulsive and excruciating, but it’s more the shockingly stereotypical and pseudo-feminism stuff that is spouting from the character’s mouths that make this irksome. The male character, Fernando, is a prime example of a character that self-contradicting in his ethics and what he carries out. And it doesn’t help that Breillat is propelling various ideas of how men use women and how that is either perfectly fine or disgusting, as her interviews are not entirely clear. She says, “Fernando is not an asshole.” And then goes on to say that he is being sincere in an instantaneous manner, and that sincerity disappears when he gets his desire. Doesn’t that mean he’s not actually sincere? Her understanding of the male persona, at one moment describing men as sick dogs who just want to sleep with women and then hailing them (seemingly) for their ability to have that power, is infuriating. Four or five times, throughout the lengthy bedding scene, Fernando changes his onions to suit whatever the girl wants. Yes, this tactic is slightly realistic, but the constant change of mind to express opposing ideas makes little sense and instead gives off the impression that the character is just a mouth piece for the director, who has made the two characters just part of a thesis for her feminist theory class. The portrayal of males and sexuality reaches two different extremes, and whether or not they are true, the explanation and justification for these actions are not true within the male world. I am very sympathetic with the female character, of course, as the male is being very manipulative. Breillat isn’t clear as to whether she’s condoning these actions or tactics, as her interviews and own quotes remain murky. It’s just very obnoxious to see this portrayal that wants to express very different ideas within one character, which makes the character themselves a work of self-contradiction.
This did not change much as the film went on. Fat Girl, otherwise known as A ma soeur! (For My Sister) , is somewhat a demonstration in shock cinema (which is a term that recalls titles more like The Rocky Horror Picture Showthan deliberately intellectual cinema along the lines of Jean-Luc Godard and Francois Truffaut) and somewhat a demonstration of deliberately and obsessively intellectual and theoretical subject matter. It only occasionally appears to be an actual movie, but too thin are the strands of plot and story that hold the auteur’s ideas together cohesively. The characterization of Elena (a gorgeous Roxane Mesquida) is derisive and sometimes bizarre, while her liver Fernando (Libero De Rienzo) is too often chauvinistic and, as aforementioned, self-contradictory. And the relationship between the two is like someone’s thesis for a gender studies class acted out by people, but a lousy and overtly sexual one. Trading ideas instead of feelings, the director speaks too blatantly through the characters instead of letting them find their own voices. This is also true of Elena’s relationship with her younger sister, Anais (Anais Reboux). It’s superficial and unbelievable at first, something you would hear in a sitcom, where the dialogue is so wooden and pseudo-analytical, that it drives the viewer up the wall. However, this is lessens as the film goes on, and the relationship manages to normalize itself. The real star of the film is sweet, emotional Anais, who manages to voice her (or the director’s) ideas and theories without succumbing to too much ludicrousness. She’s far more cynical and realistic about love and sex than her sister. Her wounded soul is apparent only when she lets us see it instead of making it forced. Her performance is surprisingly nuanced for someone so inexperienced and young. Given the material for the film, I would have found it hard to do. But her cries and whimpers, her laughs, and her ideas all seem more real than is deserving of the film.
Fat Girl is an interesting film, but its ideas, characterizations, and overall tone are too polarizing to be enjoyable or watchable. Breillat is an intellectual at heart who tries too hard to instill her ideas on frame and in dialogue than make a film where the characters find themselves instead of act as a go-between for her and the audience. If anything, watch the film out of curiosity and for Anais Reboix’s moving performance.
I don’t know of too many films that tackle very polarizing issues, like abortion or doctor assisted suicide. That’s not to say they don’t exist (the former subject has a few, like 4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days,Citizen Ruth, and Vera Drake), just that they are fairly rare. Leave it to HBO to go full throttle with this subject, and leave it to them to go directly and film something about the source. HBO Films’ You Don’t Know Jack chronicles the career of Dr. Jack Kevorkian, also known as “Dr. Death”. Al Pacino plays the good doctor and the film goes all the way from the beginning of his ideas for doctor assisted suicide to his trial and conviction by the Supreme Court. While the film vividly and realistically presents the cases, victims, etc. for the audience, the problem with it is its one sidedness. It tries its best to show both sides of the issue (sort of), but I suppose it’s not their job to show both sides. They are telling Dr. Kevorkian’s story, not the issue itself. And it’s not a documentary. Though, insight would have been nice. Al Pacino’s performance was stellar, of course. He again transforms himself into someone whom is slightly sinister and yet benevolent at the same time. You Don’t Know Jack is an excellent docu-drama, thoroughly entertaining and brings some of the issue to light.
Patty Jenkin’s roaring film Monster (see what I did there?) is a demonstration in complete transformation from actress to character. Less than a portrayal, Charlize Theron embodies that of her character, convicted and executed murderer and prostitute Aileen Wuornos. Her performance will go down in the history of cinema as one of the finest things, one of the most heart wrenching, and one of the most terrifying. Hers will stand next to the great roles in cinema, such as Marion Cotillard in La Vie en Rose, Gloria Swanson in Sunset Blvd., and others. Her performance alone reminds me of why I love cinema. It moved me. Anyways, enough about Theron. Monster is the incredible film that manages to let its own character let the audience become sympathetic towards her, as opposed to the director forcing it down their throats. Christina Ricci is excellent as Aileen’s lover, Selby. The raw emotion is what pushes the film, and it will tear your heart out without remorse.
Having been shocked and pleased with Henri-Georges Cluzot’s great film Diabolique, I was expecting the same sort of tension from his previous masterpiece The Wages of Fear. I was sorely disappointed. The film is about four men in some South American country who are hired by an American oil company to transport two trucks of nitroglycerin. From there, the road is rough and the terrain is dangerous. And the movie is boring. Regardless of what it says about American industrialism and its horrors, the biggest problem with the film is that it is extremely dull. It takes about an hour for that brief synopsis to actually begin, for the driving to start ot for driving to even be mentioned. Before, it’s just a few characters wallowing in how much they want to get out of their god-forsaken country. And even as they do drive, the tension is limited except for a few scenes. The characters are all rather repugnant. Especially Jo (Charles Vanel), who spends the entire film either whining or yelling at people for no reason. I was highly disappointed in this film. What one is wagering is their attention span.
Peter Bogdonavich’s Paper Moon is a strangely sweet and funny film about dark times and dark people. It’s not exactly a dramedy and it’s not exactly a dark comedy either. It’s funniness is fairly frank and honest, but its setting is the darkness. A con man and his friend’s daughter (Ryan O’Neal and his daughter Tatum) go about during the Great Depression getting rich by selling Bibles to people. It’s a very sweet, very strange ale, and Tatum O’Neal absolutely shines as Addie Pray. She’s precocious, but not annoying or unbelievable. She’s also devilishly clever. Tatum is the youngest person to ever win an Academy Award, for she was ten when she won Best Actress for the role. I remember feeling a little uneasy about whether she deserved it or not, but she most certainly did. Paper Moon makes a most entertaining yarn of a film. The black and white photography is in particular gorgeous. It’s a classic that could fall way to be overly sweet, but it has just enough sour in there to please everyone.
Beauty and the Beast (La Belle et la Bête) (1946) | Directed by Jean Cocteau
I managed to miss the Disney Renaissance growing up, which means I’ve never actually seen their musical animated adaptation of Beauty and the Beast in its entirety. I suppose it was, in a way, a good thing, as it left me fairly unbiased when viewing the enchanting Jean Cocteau adaptation of the film (Le Belle et la Bete) form 1946. It is, in the most honest and glorious fashion, a fairy-tale film. Everything about the film exudes mystique and enchantment. The gorgeous set design, the magnificent special effect, and, above all, the story and romance are all perfect. Its magic is palpable with some of the most impressive special effects (that would be increased in impressiveness for Cocteau’s Orpheus). Jean Marrais portrays the Beast (as well as a handsome suitor) while Josette Day is radiant and beautiful as Belle. Based on the tale written by Leprince de Beaumont, this adaptation transcends the fairy-tale medium itself (even though it is so distinctly that), by telling us a love story and having us fall for the beast over the handsome man he was. The emotion that Marrais portrays under the thick makeup is tender and vulnerable, something shown underneath a hard and beastly exterior. Greta Garbo, upon seeing the film and its ending, said, “Give me back my Beast!” And that is how we, the audience, feel. I have only felt this strongly and similarly about a beastly character once before, in Peter Jackon’s 2005 adaptation of King Kong. We fell in love with something that looked monstrous but was in fact more kind and gentle than any man. Josette Day is equally as kind and generous in the film, and she pulls off a part that is as vulnerable as the Beast’s. This enthralling and ethereal film is one of the most beautiful ever, and transcends the art of the fairy-tale by making cinematic magic by putting a beautiful love story on film. Indeed, it was Beauty killed the Beast, as well as the audience.
The Others is a peculiarly traditional film, as well as interestingly symbolic. Beneath the dust that covers the gigantic Gothic household where Nicole Kidman and her two children live, and behind the shadows that shroud the house in mystery, are symbolic references that allude to the Bible as well as to more sociological comments on religion, superstitious and its effect on people. Kidman plays the religious, hardened, and heartbroken Grace, whose deeply religious views she pounds into her children puritanically. Her children, Nicholas (James Bentley) and Anne (Alakina Mann), live each day in the darkness, as they are sensitive to light. The one light they can handle is the barely-there glimmer of hope that their father will return home from the war safely. In traipse three servants, one of whom is a mute, and one, Mrs. Mills (Fionnula Flanagan),seems to be the ring leader. Their connections to the house are deep, the roots of which are hidden. But as the daughter begins to see intruders her mother can’t, strange things begin to happen. This is a deceptively traditional film. Its production and camera tricks are so traditional, you will, at times, be thinking you are watching a ghost story from the 1960s. That’s not a bad thing; as a matter of fact this film may work somewhat as an homage to those ghost films. And just like those films, every frame contains something about religion and the afterlife. These messages might be a tad more sophisticated and complex, but in the end the most important part of this ghost story by Alejandro Amenabar: it scares you. Yes, as conventional as the scares seem to be, they are indeed frightening. The deceptive turns and wicked twists pay off well, and the ending is satisfying. The Others is an accomplished film in the traditional style of ghost story telling. It does the best thing a ghost story can do: keep you up at night.
The abortion debate is so extreme and controversial that it is hard to ever have a conversation with anyone about it without it turning into a debate. It’s harder still to document the issue itself without letting your own biases get in the way of being evenhanded. Somehow, though, Tony Kaye, the skilled music video director and director ofAmerican History X, managed to do it. And not only did he show both sides in a documentary, he actually made the documentary well. A compelling look at all aspects and facets of this extraordinarily painful debate, Kaye presents the issue through interviews, archival footage, etc. It took Kaye 17 years to make the film, which leaves room for 17 years of opinion and change. The interviews come from both the completely rational as well as the completely fanatical. Filmed in black and white, which may be aesthetically important to show that the issue itself is not merely black and white, the documentary is often hard to watch. If it had been in color, it would literally be unwatchable at some points, as some abortions and the aftermath of such procedures are shown and documented. The murders of several doctors who had performed abortions occurred during the production of filming. Protests are shown. Even Norma McCorvey, the history making Jane Roe of the Roe v. Wade case, is interviewed. Fanatics on both sides are interviewed. And philosophers, writers, academics, and politicians give their input. (The black and white cinematography is rather compelling even as a piece of cinema verite at times.) And while even handed and ambiguous it may be, the best thing one can say about this emotional and riveting documentary is that it will move you, make your blood boil, and make you think. That is the best any documentary can do. Make you think.
It’s nice to know that it’s a rare moment when my mother questions my maturity. It’s also a good sign that other people find me relatively mature. And should I ever have a downfall in terms of this maturity, I will take heart in knowing I will never be as slovenly, drunk, or caddish as Arthur Bach, played by Dudley Moore in the original film from 1981, and by Russell Brand in the 2011 remake.
Often balking at his stupidity (in terms of choices), his negligence, his pure drunkenness, the audience will probably, as I did, find that the role of playboy Arthur Bach was tailor made for Brand. Brand is a (seemingly) drunken, crass, English comic and actor, who has appeared in such movies as Forgetting Sarah Marshall and Get Me to the Greek. And now he has his starring role, reprising basically the other two roles, but with more quippy lines.
And that’s what this movie is, for most of it: quippy. It is line after line, funny though they may be, of quippy, sardonic, bizarrely articulate lines and pieces of dialogue from Brand, occasionally from his nanny, Hobson (the great Helen Mirren), and some bitchy lines from his fiancée, Susan (Jennifer Garner).
The story goes like this. Arthur is rich. Arthur is drunk. Arthur spends frivolously. Hobson babies him. Hobson cracks joke. Arthur verbally retaliates with another quip. Arthur is called to office by mother. The two quip back and forth. Arthur must marry a woman he basically despises in order to keep the $950 million family fortune. Arthur agrees. Arthur meets free spirit in illegal tour guide/aspiring children’s book author Naomi (Greta Gerwig). Don’t worry, I’d never heard of her either.) Arthur falls in love. Mother displeased. Arthur determined to love Naomi. And so on.
It’s all rather predictable, and the movie is, to be honest, very clumsily made, and very badly written. Yes, the dialogue is excellent, but the character development is almost non-existent for anyone but Arthur. Even Arthur’s development falters halfway through. Naomi, though cute as she is, seems like she was very lazily written, like a child half-heartedly making a person out of play dough. The kind of “oh-I forgot this part, but oh well” kind of development. It felt fake. The chemistry wasn’t very real either. Helen Mirren, on the other hand, while she was good for what material she had, her character couldn’t decide whether she was a tough, sardonic nanny, or one that has a maternal nature about her. It was like she had bipolar disorder, and no fine line as to what caused which personality to be emulated. This is fairly odd, considering that Mirren usually makes most movies watchable, simply because of her presence in them. But, even she seemed to strain at the bit.
There may be some sort of moral problem, but it’s probably just me. Arthur seems like a playboy one minute, and a forever man child the next. Again, the movie can’t decide which one he is, or even make either a smooth transition from one to the other or a hybrid of the two archetypes. The lines seem suited for Brand’s British, kind of dopey sounding voice, which transforms the lines into lyrical poetry. Having said that, his actions undermine every plausibility of the script, every tender moment. And moment that’s supposed to be “real”.
And towards the end of the movie, it gets all melodramatic. I shan’t divulge in specifics, but all scenes of melodrama and heart seem tired, weary, and not genuine. This is because the constant, incessant sardonic quips undermines every heartfelt moment. Even scenes that would be incredibly sobering, such as Arthur’s visit to an AA meeting, seem halfhearted.
The one highlight of the movie is Jennifer Garner, who plays Arthur’s bride-to-be. With little motivation, or real motivation to drive a movie, Garner unleashes her inner beeyotch out and wreaks carnage on the lives of Arthur and his swell Naomi. Her smile is as fake as the drama in the movie, but, this time, it’s a good thing. She delivers her lines with a smirk and a wink, kind of like she wants to kick you in the crotch when she says them. And, if anything, it makes her all the more charming.
In essence, this is a movie that is funny if you enjoy line after line of sarcasm pouring out of the mouth of a drunk. But the jarring quality of its characters makes the movie that much weaker. It’s a disappointment, which is to be blamed primarily on the screenplay and its major lack of character development. But, thankfully, Russell Brand does have some dry wit. However, it does not salvage the movie from its clumsiness. Mirren’s quote from the movie can apply to the writers, it seems: “It’s the drunk leading the blind.”