Where to start? There is so much swirling around my head, and all for a film which I actually don't think is worthy of so much thought. I can see I'll have to get personal.
My confession is this: that as a teenager, which I was when "Rent" debuted on Broadway, I really felt it was a gift to us theater kids; something in which "real" people sang songs the rest of us could hit all the notes of. I related especially to Mark, the only one to fail at hooking up, the one who fears he'll be left alone to observe. I know this opens up a whole other can of worms for those of you who are ignorant of my theater geek past; but for the sake of journalistic integrity it must be known.
"Rent", for those of you who don't know, is a Broadway show that costs as much as a Broadway show usually does about poor people in lower Manhattan who complain about having to pay rent on the huge loft their former roommate owns, do drugs, get aids, and die singing. It is filled with appeals to the bohemian life; in fact, one of the choicest numbers is a list of things which exemplify this spirit (my favorite juxtaposition being "huevos rancheros and Maya Angelou!").
I hadn't thought about "Rent" in a long time until the film came out, almost under my nose. Actually, it went to the second run theaters before I could even decide whether it was worth seeing. $3 meant it was.
The movie prompted two reactions in me, somewhat contradictory ones. First, I was angered that so much of what I loved was left out. I tend to like the "connective tissue" of sung-through musicals; it's not necessarily the songs that get me, but the recitative, the sung-spoken bits which actually reveal plot and character. Rent, on stage, is filled with polyphonic plot-driving. Polyphony always makes me tingle. Most of the songs were still there, but they were simplified, excised of the little touches of character which made me like them. Some of these lines were preserved in dialogue, which is always a little disconcerting for a viewer familiar with the source material.
The other reaction was the solidification of my feeling that all was not right in the land of bohemia. If my advancing age (and wisdom, of course) weren't enough to tell me that "Rent" is a hollow shell of counter-cultural jargon with mass-market appeal, the film would have driven it home for sure. None of the characters seem sincere in their efforts to remain outside the "mainstream." Textually, everyone sells out when there's the least bit of temptation. Are we supposed to be happy that Angel's outfits would be mass-produced by the Gap? Does Mark even struggle with Sarah Silverman's sleazy tabloid offer? The only character who seems to practice what she preaches is Joanne, the lawyer; she's going for what she wants, tells it like it is, and doesn't apologize for it. Everyone else is living a lie. This is only aided by the fact that the song Roger takes a year to write is one of the worst in the show. Mimi should have turned right around and walked back toward that heavenly light.
On top of this, of course, is the fact that this is a counter-culture vehicle driven by Chris Columbus. Need I say more?
The original performers have held up to varying degrees. I've always loved Anthony Rapp as Mark; his voice is pleasantly nasal (to my prejudiced ears) and he's in pretty good shape. Roger looks (and sounds) like someone they hired ten years ago for his looks and not his voice. Angel is still beautiful, whether as man or woman, which is lucky. Jesse L. Martin (Collins) and Taye Diggs (Benny) look and sound great. Maureen, unfortunately, is not someone whom I believe when she says, "every single day/I walk down the street/I hear people say/'Baby's so sweet'". The new additions, Joanne and Mimi (Rosario Dawson, great in "Josie and the Pussycats") are good, but Dawson's gotten really thin.
Overall, the vocal tweaking was annoying, the cuts hampered the flow, and the hypocrisy was both repulsive and apparently unintentional. I had to see it as a follower in a former life; but that book is officially closed now, thanks to Columbus & Co.
Read more!
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Adaptation (2002)
I have to admit, I felt a little cheated by Adaptation. It wasn't so much that the reality Charlie Kaufman showed us, i.e. the writing of the script, was completely made up. It was that the initial premise, which was wonderfully self-involved and contained so much promise, gives way to inane hi-jinks which pull the film away from what it seems to be about.
What is seems to be about is the identity of the writer. It's a very good meditation on the writer's task, both as regards Susan Orlean (the true-life author of The Orchid Thief whose fictional counterpart is played by Meryl Streep) and Charlie Kaufman (portrayed by Nicolas Cage). It, and here's where the self-indulgence comes is, delves into the process of writing faced with trepidation by Kaufman, confused tenacity by Orlean, and aplomb by Kaufman's (fictional) twin brother (also Cage). Kaufman splits his own identity between these writers and what results is a meta-text on, you guessed it, adaptation.
So far, so good. Cage is funny, though he ought to have been played by Paul Giamatti as that who Cage seems to be modeling. Streep is good as usual, and Chris Cooper is great as the orchid thief himself, John Laroche, who keeps insisting that "I should play me" in the movie. The play between the real and the fictional is great, as Kaufman makes up much of the plot and many characters but bases others on real life with real names. And in the end, his struggle is real and recognizable to writers or others who struggle creatively.
But it falls apart in the final act. When Charlie, who seems to be on a voyage of self-discovery as a writer, finally gets up the courage to meet the woman he's writing about, all probability breaks loose and Kaufman's unable to stuff any of it back into his script. Why a movie about writing requires a chase scene and a drug operation, I have no idea. And that confusion, rather different from the inherent confusion of the premise which is necessary and to the point, makes the film weaker. I wanted to love this film, and for the first hour and a half or so I did. The memory of that final betrayal of my commitment, however, will keep me from seeing it again. Read more!
What is seems to be about is the identity of the writer. It's a very good meditation on the writer's task, both as regards Susan Orlean (the true-life author of The Orchid Thief whose fictional counterpart is played by Meryl Streep) and Charlie Kaufman (portrayed by Nicolas Cage). It, and here's where the self-indulgence comes is, delves into the process of writing faced with trepidation by Kaufman, confused tenacity by Orlean, and aplomb by Kaufman's (fictional) twin brother (also Cage). Kaufman splits his own identity between these writers and what results is a meta-text on, you guessed it, adaptation.
So far, so good. Cage is funny, though he ought to have been played by Paul Giamatti as that who Cage seems to be modeling. Streep is good as usual, and Chris Cooper is great as the orchid thief himself, John Laroche, who keeps insisting that "I should play me" in the movie. The play between the real and the fictional is great, as Kaufman makes up much of the plot and many characters but bases others on real life with real names. And in the end, his struggle is real and recognizable to writers or others who struggle creatively.
But it falls apart in the final act. When Charlie, who seems to be on a voyage of self-discovery as a writer, finally gets up the courage to meet the woman he's writing about, all probability breaks loose and Kaufman's unable to stuff any of it back into his script. Why a movie about writing requires a chase scene and a drug operation, I have no idea. And that confusion, rather different from the inherent confusion of the premise which is necessary and to the point, makes the film weaker. I wanted to love this film, and for the first hour and a half or so I did. The memory of that final betrayal of my commitment, however, will keep me from seeing it again. Read more!
An American Werewolf in London (1981)
I've avoided this movie for some time because of its title. Maybe it was linked in my mind with Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London," a song I've long had antipathy for. Plus, there was the ill-starred Paris version of a few years ago, which not even Julie Delpy could save.
I'm happy to report that this movie is everything it should be and everything the comments which got me to watch it in the first place promised. It's hilarious, but in a natural, realistic way. "Shawn of the Dead" was a parody of zombie films, but held an element of truth in the oblivion in which the main characters live. "Werewolf" isn't a parody, but it has that same sense of ordinary, goofy people trapped in circumstances they are not prepared for. Much of the plot concerns not the werewolf itself but the consequences of the encounter and the doubt and suspense of its aftermath. Will he become a werewolf too? What will that mean? What should he do if it happens? And why are women suddenly all over him?
The two male leads, David Naughton and Griffin Dunne, share both an unfamiliarity with acting and a very natural friendly chemistry; their ribbing of each other during various otherwise gruesome situations feels real and natural and was a great pleasure to watch. Griffin Dunne, in particular, was very likeable and funny. David Naughton, as more the "straight man" of the pair, was charismatic. Jenny Aguter, as the nurse who takes Naughton home, is attractive and interesting.
I don't want to give too much away for anyone who hasn't seen it, but surely you know one character becomes a werewolf. This transformation is ambitious and well done, much of it on screen instead of between cutaways. Along the way, the plot takes such outragous turns that the audience is kept interested. The humor, far from making this a comedy, makes the horror of the characters' plight all the more realistic and poignant. Nothing is pushed beyond credibility, except for the werewolf stuff which is something of a necessity. Some of the humor is unintentional, however, and may have resulted from the director's fervor in showing too much of the beast.
There are some things which could have been improved. The ending is a little weak. The wolf, as I've implied, becomes rather comical when running. But the joys of this film, from the reticent pub-goers at the "Slaughtered Lamb" to a nightmare-like turn of nudity in the zoo, far outweigh the bad points. I was delighted with this movie, all the more so because I fully expected rampant silliness from the guy who brought us "Animal House"; this movie is justifiably a classic. Read more!
I'm happy to report that this movie is everything it should be and everything the comments which got me to watch it in the first place promised. It's hilarious, but in a natural, realistic way. "Shawn of the Dead" was a parody of zombie films, but held an element of truth in the oblivion in which the main characters live. "Werewolf" isn't a parody, but it has that same sense of ordinary, goofy people trapped in circumstances they are not prepared for. Much of the plot concerns not the werewolf itself but the consequences of the encounter and the doubt and suspense of its aftermath. Will he become a werewolf too? What will that mean? What should he do if it happens? And why are women suddenly all over him?
The two male leads, David Naughton and Griffin Dunne, share both an unfamiliarity with acting and a very natural friendly chemistry; their ribbing of each other during various otherwise gruesome situations feels real and natural and was a great pleasure to watch. Griffin Dunne, in particular, was very likeable and funny. David Naughton, as more the "straight man" of the pair, was charismatic. Jenny Aguter, as the nurse who takes Naughton home, is attractive and interesting.
I don't want to give too much away for anyone who hasn't seen it, but surely you know one character becomes a werewolf. This transformation is ambitious and well done, much of it on screen instead of between cutaways. Along the way, the plot takes such outragous turns that the audience is kept interested. The humor, far from making this a comedy, makes the horror of the characters' plight all the more realistic and poignant. Nothing is pushed beyond credibility, except for the werewolf stuff which is something of a necessity. Some of the humor is unintentional, however, and may have resulted from the director's fervor in showing too much of the beast.
There are some things which could have been improved. The ending is a little weak. The wolf, as I've implied, becomes rather comical when running. But the joys of this film, from the reticent pub-goers at the "Slaughtered Lamb" to a nightmare-like turn of nudity in the zoo, far outweigh the bad points. I was delighted with this movie, all the more so because I fully expected rampant silliness from the guy who brought us "Animal House"; this movie is justifiably a classic. Read more!
King Kong (2005)
First off, let me say that I did enjoy this movie. It was long, but it was fun. There were some clever references to the original which amused me. But in the end, King Kong is a meta-film riff on the 1933 version similar to the pastiche novels Sherlock Holmes enthusiasts have been devouring ever since Doyle retired the detective for good.
In a sense, this rescued the film for me: the references to Fay doing "a movie for RKO" (King Kong), the dialogue from the first film serving as the dialogue for the film Denham is actually shooting, the writer named Jack Driscoll after the first mate in the original. For the first half of the movie, these touches kept me interested, but Jackson soon gets over-involved in his subject. Oddly, the first half was much the most enjoyable for me.
I believe it's clear from the first film that we are to pity Kong. It's a sympathetic story. Clearly, Peter Jackson felt that way. But his film goes out of its way to make absolutely certain the audience walks away on the gorilla's side. Naomi Watts as Ann Darrow quickly comes to respect what Kong has done for her, although she does absolutely nothing to save him until people actually start shooting. I got the sense that her sympathy was motivated by Jackson's identification rather than anything she was actually feeling herself. I did enjoy seeing her in drag at the beginning, though. Kong has pretty good taste. For the other actors, I don't understand Adrian Brody's appeal but Jack Black, usually the bane of movies he's in, has done a good job lately of reigning himself in or appearing in films (School of Rock) where he's appropriate.
As for the much-touted effects which drench this movie to the point of drowning, I found them uneven. Kong was well done (though is Andy Sirkis the only guy who can act with electrodes attached to his body?), but many of the ocean scenes were obvious blue-screen jobs which I thought could have been better, especially since they had an actual boat. The colors of the film, especially in New York, were simultaneously muted and distinct, and I think this was in order to aid the integration of the computer generated material. Fight scenes went on too long, and the giant bugs included overtly phallic creatures with teeth which I thought were a tad unnecessary. And what did all these enormous carnivores eat when there weren't any people? It's a pretty poorly designed island, diversity-wise.
I liked that many of the racist elements were kept, but in the context of 1933 show-business. However, what are we to make of the islanders as envisioned here, or indeed the ape brought over the sea in chains? These questions remain, despite the "enlightened" attitudes towards "natives." Does it strengthen the film's tragedy (and stave off accusations of slave-analogies) to tell us that Kong is merely the victim of circumstance rather than let us find the pity in our own hearts? Is it really the best move on Ann Darrow's part to avoid all contact with Kong and Denham instead of actively trying to help him? And was it just me, or did Colin Hanks' character have something for Denham?
As a side note, the theater here in Seattle has a large marquee on which is written:
KING KONG
I WISH I KNEW HOW TO QUIT YOU Read more!
In a sense, this rescued the film for me: the references to Fay doing "a movie for RKO" (King Kong), the dialogue from the first film serving as the dialogue for the film Denham is actually shooting, the writer named Jack Driscoll after the first mate in the original. For the first half of the movie, these touches kept me interested, but Jackson soon gets over-involved in his subject. Oddly, the first half was much the most enjoyable for me.
I believe it's clear from the first film that we are to pity Kong. It's a sympathetic story. Clearly, Peter Jackson felt that way. But his film goes out of its way to make absolutely certain the audience walks away on the gorilla's side. Naomi Watts as Ann Darrow quickly comes to respect what Kong has done for her, although she does absolutely nothing to save him until people actually start shooting. I got the sense that her sympathy was motivated by Jackson's identification rather than anything she was actually feeling herself. I did enjoy seeing her in drag at the beginning, though. Kong has pretty good taste. For the other actors, I don't understand Adrian Brody's appeal but Jack Black, usually the bane of movies he's in, has done a good job lately of reigning himself in or appearing in films (School of Rock) where he's appropriate.
As for the much-touted effects which drench this movie to the point of drowning, I found them uneven. Kong was well done (though is Andy Sirkis the only guy who can act with electrodes attached to his body?), but many of the ocean scenes were obvious blue-screen jobs which I thought could have been better, especially since they had an actual boat. The colors of the film, especially in New York, were simultaneously muted and distinct, and I think this was in order to aid the integration of the computer generated material. Fight scenes went on too long, and the giant bugs included overtly phallic creatures with teeth which I thought were a tad unnecessary. And what did all these enormous carnivores eat when there weren't any people? It's a pretty poorly designed island, diversity-wise.
I liked that many of the racist elements were kept, but in the context of 1933 show-business. However, what are we to make of the islanders as envisioned here, or indeed the ape brought over the sea in chains? These questions remain, despite the "enlightened" attitudes towards "natives." Does it strengthen the film's tragedy (and stave off accusations of slave-analogies) to tell us that Kong is merely the victim of circumstance rather than let us find the pity in our own hearts? Is it really the best move on Ann Darrow's part to avoid all contact with Kong and Denham instead of actively trying to help him? And was it just me, or did Colin Hanks' character have something for Denham?
As a side note, the theater here in Seattle has a large marquee on which is written:
KING KONG
I WISH I KNEW HOW TO QUIT YOU Read more!
Ripley's Game (2002)
Ripley's Game was, in summary, a disappointment. It started out quite well, with John Malkovich snarking his way through a lovely art-forgery heist. And then, just about when Ripley becomes a homicidal fiend (a strange look on Malkovich, to be sure), things sort of go to hell.
Perhaps it is unfair to compare this film to the earlier and bigger-budgeted "The Talented Mr. Ripley", but such a comparison is not only natural but reasonable. I came into the film trusting Malkovich to pull out a performance every bit as good as Matt Damon, an actor I had only really enjoyed in his Ripley incarnation. This trust was justified (though no actor with Ripley's skill at mimicry and reinvention has yet played the role). What was not was that I'd get a film of equal complexity and style. I understand that resources were more scarce here, and that is not the problem. The problem is of plot and character identification. There were too many contrived conveniences without any of the depth or character-driven tension of the former film. The characters, other than Ripley, are flat and poorly acted, and even Ripley does little but react to the rather mundane (for the genre) situation he finds himself in. If Ripley is still alive at Malkovich's age, it is because he doesn't let things like this happen to him. The plot does not hinge on a clever scheme, or a mistake born of hubris, or anything connected to Ripley's interesting and complex psychological makeup. It involves hit men.
There were some wonderful touches here, and as an action romp its adequate. I haven't read the book this is presumably based on, and perhaps the problem is in the source material. But "The Talented Mr. Ripley" gave us a portrait of a conflicted, confused con man whose pathology stemmed from his own identify issues and self-esteem. "Ripley's Game" could have been an equally complex portrait of the same man after that conflict has been eroded by time and hard living, and I have a feeling this was attempted in Ripley's relationship with the hapless innocent he spins into his web. But it falls short, as does the film, from the layered film it could have been to mere suspense-drama. It is telling that my favorite scene was one in which Ripley overhears his neighbor dismiss him as having too much money and too little taste and merely blinks a few times before entering into the fray. The film would have been better served by exploring both this accusation and Ripley's cold reaction.
But then we might not have gotten to watch Malkovich kill pretty much everyone on a train. Read more!
Perhaps it is unfair to compare this film to the earlier and bigger-budgeted "The Talented Mr. Ripley", but such a comparison is not only natural but reasonable. I came into the film trusting Malkovich to pull out a performance every bit as good as Matt Damon, an actor I had only really enjoyed in his Ripley incarnation. This trust was justified (though no actor with Ripley's skill at mimicry and reinvention has yet played the role). What was not was that I'd get a film of equal complexity and style. I understand that resources were more scarce here, and that is not the problem. The problem is of plot and character identification. There were too many contrived conveniences without any of the depth or character-driven tension of the former film. The characters, other than Ripley, are flat and poorly acted, and even Ripley does little but react to the rather mundane (for the genre) situation he finds himself in. If Ripley is still alive at Malkovich's age, it is because he doesn't let things like this happen to him. The plot does not hinge on a clever scheme, or a mistake born of hubris, or anything connected to Ripley's interesting and complex psychological makeup. It involves hit men.
There were some wonderful touches here, and as an action romp its adequate. I haven't read the book this is presumably based on, and perhaps the problem is in the source material. But "The Talented Mr. Ripley" gave us a portrait of a conflicted, confused con man whose pathology stemmed from his own identify issues and self-esteem. "Ripley's Game" could have been an equally complex portrait of the same man after that conflict has been eroded by time and hard living, and I have a feeling this was attempted in Ripley's relationship with the hapless innocent he spins into his web. But it falls short, as does the film, from the layered film it could have been to mere suspense-drama. It is telling that my favorite scene was one in which Ripley overhears his neighbor dismiss him as having too much money and too little taste and merely blinks a few times before entering into the fray. The film would have been better served by exploring both this accusation and Ripley's cold reaction.
But then we might not have gotten to watch Malkovich kill pretty much everyone on a train. Read more!
Logan's Run (1976)
This movie has one of the best, most memorable titles ever titled. I say this because I feel as though I've known this movie all my life, although I had no idea what it was about and had not seen it until a few days ago. It's a kinetic, inspiring combination of words. Unfortunately, although "bub" appears nowhere in the script, it does not live up to its name.
The film concerns a future Earth society, culled haphazardly not from Huxley and Orwell but from ripped-off descendants of theirs, where man's primary objective is the pursuit of pleasure until the age of 30, at which time they are killed off spectacularly with the promise of being "reborn". Naturally, questioning the status quo leads to death as well but by butane lighters instead of anti-gravity and fireworks. Michael York, my favorite John the Baptist, plays the title character who, after a (rather short) lifetime of bringing down "runners" as a Sandman, goes on the run himself (cue title). He meets lovely Jessica (Jenny Agutter) by fortunate chance and they get wet together a lot. In water. They eventually meet up with the best character in the movie in the best special effects of the movie and are subjected to some completely irrelevant T.S. Eliot and practice some really bad decision making.
In general, despite some nice matte paintings late in the film, the effects are poor. The Sandmen's (Sandmans'?) weapons are ridiculous, the nightly death-orgy much more costly than it had to be, and the city itself an obvious model. I have nothing at all against models and much prefer them to computer-generated effects, but these come off very badly.
At the same time, there's something very charming about the two leads. I've always liked Michael York and he lends a very respectable air to this bastian of 1970's scifi. I can understand why it's still around and maybe even why I found it on the "staff picks" shelf at my local video store. But I was disappointed; I expected more from something with such a good title and such a "good" reputation. Worth seeing for some of the scenes (including Agutter's outfit), but don't go in with high expectations. Read more!
The film concerns a future Earth society, culled haphazardly not from Huxley and Orwell but from ripped-off descendants of theirs, where man's primary objective is the pursuit of pleasure until the age of 30, at which time they are killed off spectacularly with the promise of being "reborn". Naturally, questioning the status quo leads to death as well but by butane lighters instead of anti-gravity and fireworks. Michael York, my favorite John the Baptist, plays the title character who, after a (rather short) lifetime of bringing down "runners" as a Sandman, goes on the run himself (cue title). He meets lovely Jessica (Jenny Agutter) by fortunate chance and they get wet together a lot. In water. They eventually meet up with the best character in the movie in the best special effects of the movie and are subjected to some completely irrelevant T.S. Eliot and practice some really bad decision making.
In general, despite some nice matte paintings late in the film, the effects are poor. The Sandmen's (Sandmans'?) weapons are ridiculous, the nightly death-orgy much more costly than it had to be, and the city itself an obvious model. I have nothing at all against models and much prefer them to computer-generated effects, but these come off very badly.
At the same time, there's something very charming about the two leads. I've always liked Michael York and he lends a very respectable air to this bastian of 1970's scifi. I can understand why it's still around and maybe even why I found it on the "staff picks" shelf at my local video store. But I was disappointed; I expected more from something with such a good title and such a "good" reputation. Worth seeing for some of the scenes (including Agutter's outfit), but don't go in with high expectations. Read more!
Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005)
I almost thought I'd give this movie a bad review. As I sat in the theater, I enumerated the points against it. Self-indulgent. Cinematographically lacking. Precious. Eccentric lovables drawn together inexhorably through a tangled and fortuitous chain of events.
But I can't.
The fact is, Miranda July's first feature (which she wrote, directed, and starred in) is as charming and silly and pretty as her name. Without shying away from pain, it emphasizes those little tragedies that make up our lives and points out its little victories as well. The moments in this movie are small, personal, strange in the way that things in real life are strange. The eccentricities, though concnetrated, are ones I've never seen before and therefore believe in. For anyone who hasn't seen the film, there is one scene that is worth it for its audacity, the kid involved, and the underlying sweetness. For those of you who have seen it, I'm talking about this: ))<=>((
Accusations of preciousness are not unfounded, I think. But that's a tricky word, and anyway I forgive her, because there's something true in this movie. Something that made me laugh out loud and walk away quietly sad. The performances, except for Richard, are wonderful. The children, especially, acquit themselves brilliantly. The film's made up of tiny moments of life and it's not and Important Film. But it's lovely and worth seeing and it's worth watching July for what happens next. Hopefully she'll get herself a cinematographer and some real film (yes, I'm a snob).
I did have a slight problem with the fact that the main character was a struggling artist whose art I did not like, which always makes for an uncomfortable character/audience relationship. But since July was playing the artist, and she made this film as well, I'll let her off the hook and assume it was intentional. Read more!
But I can't.
The fact is, Miranda July's first feature (which she wrote, directed, and starred in) is as charming and silly and pretty as her name. Without shying away from pain, it emphasizes those little tragedies that make up our lives and points out its little victories as well. The moments in this movie are small, personal, strange in the way that things in real life are strange. The eccentricities, though concnetrated, are ones I've never seen before and therefore believe in. For anyone who hasn't seen the film, there is one scene that is worth it for its audacity, the kid involved, and the underlying sweetness. For those of you who have seen it, I'm talking about this: ))<=>((
Accusations of preciousness are not unfounded, I think. But that's a tricky word, and anyway I forgive her, because there's something true in this movie. Something that made me laugh out loud and walk away quietly sad. The performances, except for Richard, are wonderful. The children, especially, acquit themselves brilliantly. The film's made up of tiny moments of life and it's not and Important Film. But it's lovely and worth seeing and it's worth watching July for what happens next. Hopefully she'll get herself a cinematographer and some real film (yes, I'm a snob).
I did have a slight problem with the fact that the main character was a struggling artist whose art I did not like, which always makes for an uncomfortable character/audience relationship. But since July was playing the artist, and she made this film as well, I'll let her off the hook and assume it was intentional. Read more!
Brokeback Mountain (2005)
Before it ever came out, Brokeback Mountain was either denigrated or celebrated, depending on the speaker/audience, as "that gay cowboy movie". Now I, for one, have nothing against gay cowboys. I love them. It's a nifty expectation-crossing identity. But honestly, is it all that surprising?
The people I went to see this film with all cried. They cried because it was tragically romantic. Maybe they cried because they were gay. But I didn't. Do you want to know why? It wasn't because I'm not gay. Or because I don't like gay people. It's because I might be immune to sticky romance for its own sake. It's a fine movie, full of beautiful scenery and all that stuff, but honestly a movie with romance at its core won't do it. Now you might well ask why I'm all over Pride and Prejudice or Romeo and Juliet and in response I'll tell you what they have that this movie didn't: words.
Now the screenwriters here did a fine job as well. But in the aforementioned examples, words and their witty usage play a large role in my enjoyment of the piece (which is why Mercutio should have gotten the girl, right?). I will never know half of what these guys wrote, because I could not understand a damn word Heath Ledger said. Maybe he was disguising his Australian accent by being incomprehensible, but it's too bad Marlon Brando's dead because he could have given this kid elocution lessons.
I'm glad there's a "gay" movie out there being sold as a "love story" instead of a "gay movie." There shouldn't be distinctions like that anyway; as if I can't identify with a man or a woman or a lesbian or a dog, for that matter, and need to have a character just like me to relate to. I'm glad someone like Ang Lee took this on, and stars like Gyllenhaal and Ledger put themselves out there. But on the other hand, it feels cautious at the same time. How far "out there" are they really putting themselves? Is there going to be any backlash? And if there isn't, is it because people are accepting homosexuality, or because they're able to reconcile gay, manly cowboys away as being "not the same" as those flashy homos down the street? Read more!
The people I went to see this film with all cried. They cried because it was tragically romantic. Maybe they cried because they were gay. But I didn't. Do you want to know why? It wasn't because I'm not gay. Or because I don't like gay people. It's because I might be immune to sticky romance for its own sake. It's a fine movie, full of beautiful scenery and all that stuff, but honestly a movie with romance at its core won't do it. Now you might well ask why I'm all over Pride and Prejudice or Romeo and Juliet and in response I'll tell you what they have that this movie didn't: words.
Now the screenwriters here did a fine job as well. But in the aforementioned examples, words and their witty usage play a large role in my enjoyment of the piece (which is why Mercutio should have gotten the girl, right?). I will never know half of what these guys wrote, because I could not understand a damn word Heath Ledger said. Maybe he was disguising his Australian accent by being incomprehensible, but it's too bad Marlon Brando's dead because he could have given this kid elocution lessons.
I'm glad there's a "gay" movie out there being sold as a "love story" instead of a "gay movie." There shouldn't be distinctions like that anyway; as if I can't identify with a man or a woman or a lesbian or a dog, for that matter, and need to have a character just like me to relate to. I'm glad someone like Ang Lee took this on, and stars like Gyllenhaal and Ledger put themselves out there. But on the other hand, it feels cautious at the same time. How far "out there" are they really putting themselves? Is there going to be any backlash? And if there isn't, is it because people are accepting homosexuality, or because they're able to reconcile gay, manly cowboys away as being "not the same" as those flashy homos down the street? Read more!
The Hours (2002)
The Hours is one of those movies which everyone tells you is good. They know this because:
1) It’s based on a book
2) Meryl Streep’s in it, with some other people
and
3) Everyone else says so
Now I’m not intending to trash “The Hours”. It’s a fine piece of work, but the above-mentioned reasons made me reluctant to see it, which is why I only got around to it last night. Having now seen it, I can’t muster up any regret that it took me so long; just a neutral sort of “Hmm. I’m glad I saw that.” What’s odd about this lukewarm response is that the movie itself deals with the overwrought emotions of three different women who are all, to some degree, mentally unstable. There is a current of woe running so strong through this movie that I never felt as if I really knew any of the characters; just the low points of their lives. This is exhausting to watch, and furthermore the mannered, oh-so-pertinent ramblings of depressed people is a bit too much like what I’ve got at home. But when it’s going on around you, at least you have the memory, the knowledge, of the person’s real character. Giving screen time to three connected but separate stories is necessarily going to limit your experience of each to the pinnacle of their emotion, and for me, that lessened my identification with them. When everything everyone says is Significant, it’s hard to feel in the moment rather than in a series of Moments that have been deliberately, and a bit obviously, picked out for you.
That said, I did like the structure of the film. The concept of it, anyway. As I understand it, this is due to the structure of the book, but the filmmakers did achieve a different “look” and color palette for each segment. The performances were fine, but the high key emotion is difficult to buy when it’s in constant supply. With three famous actresses in the lead roles, my cynical movie-person says that it’s mostly a showpiece for their emotive talents. That isn’t to say it’s not worth it; just that it’s a movie which seems to be aching for depth with the broadest possible scope. Read more!
1) It’s based on a book
2) Meryl Streep’s in it, with some other people
and
3) Everyone else says so
Now I’m not intending to trash “The Hours”. It’s a fine piece of work, but the above-mentioned reasons made me reluctant to see it, which is why I only got around to it last night. Having now seen it, I can’t muster up any regret that it took me so long; just a neutral sort of “Hmm. I’m glad I saw that.” What’s odd about this lukewarm response is that the movie itself deals with the overwrought emotions of three different women who are all, to some degree, mentally unstable. There is a current of woe running so strong through this movie that I never felt as if I really knew any of the characters; just the low points of their lives. This is exhausting to watch, and furthermore the mannered, oh-so-pertinent ramblings of depressed people is a bit too much like what I’ve got at home. But when it’s going on around you, at least you have the memory, the knowledge, of the person’s real character. Giving screen time to three connected but separate stories is necessarily going to limit your experience of each to the pinnacle of their emotion, and for me, that lessened my identification with them. When everything everyone says is Significant, it’s hard to feel in the moment rather than in a series of Moments that have been deliberately, and a bit obviously, picked out for you.
That said, I did like the structure of the film. The concept of it, anyway. As I understand it, this is due to the structure of the book, but the filmmakers did achieve a different “look” and color palette for each segment. The performances were fine, but the high key emotion is difficult to buy when it’s in constant supply. With three famous actresses in the lead roles, my cynical movie-person says that it’s mostly a showpiece for their emotive talents. That isn’t to say it’s not worth it; just that it’s a movie which seems to be aching for depth with the broadest possible scope. Read more!
Pride and Prejudice (2005)
It is a shame when one’s experience of something is colored completely by that which has gone before. While this is true for much of life, as we are all shaped by experience, it was especially the case last night as I finally watched “Pride & Prejudice”, not to be confused with “Pride and Prejudice” of 1995 miniseries fame.
I put off seeing it for some time. While hardly a self-described Janite, I’ve made a yearly habit of seeing the A&E Firth-Ehle concoction and even recently converted my husband to the same practice. It is unfair to the new film to compare them. For one thing, nearly five hours is much longer than just over two. Concerns that too much is compressed can hardly be the fault of the filmmakers (although one can fault someone for making it in the first place, that’s a fruitless argument). So I will attempt to confine myself to factors which can reasonably be compared. At the same time, I must avow a deep regard for the previous incarnation, which must color my pronouncements, however I seek to disentangle my review from my love.
I was worried about the casting of Keira Knightly. A renowned beauty, I feared she might be “too pretty” to be Lizzy. She is not, I am happy to say. However, she rarely reaches the twinkling wit I look for in an Elizabeth Bennett, although she acquits herself quite well given how much screen time is actually given to her relationship with Mr. Darcy. The constraints of timing made the entire film seem rather rushed, as if it was necessary to get to the next quirky line or plot point before the last could really sink in. The rest of the cast played their characters for a bit more realism than the mini, Mr. Collins being a bit more pathetic than silly, Mr. Bennett a little more comfortable with his lot in life as the husband of a silly, but not shrilly unbelievable, woman. Even Mary, the unfortunate “spinster in the making” seemed like a reasonable person.
Where I think the film really fails is in its romantic yearnings. Technically and stylistically, this movie is head and waist above the miniseries. For instance, there is lighting and camerawork; something the makers of the mini seem to have forgotten might be a good idea. The movie employs these skills in a desperate attempt to make Darcy and Lizzie fall in love; there are thunderstorms, mists, sunrises, mirrors, all contriving a relationship which, honestly, I couldn’t see between the characters. Part of the problem is the lack of time spent with them, and the film’s decision not to reveal Darcy’s regard until he proposes. Part of it may be blamed on a lack of chemistry between the actors. Part of it, I must admit, might be a hormonal demand for Colin Firth’s piercing, smoldering eyes and Jennifer Ehle’s saucy twinklings back.
But there is a scene which, I feel, exemplifies the contrast between these two films. Elizabeth and her aunt and uncle visit Pemberley while Darcy is supposedly away. In the mini, they encounter a portrait of the young master and marvel at the man captured within it. In the movie, Lizzie walks transfixed through a sculpture garden filled with erotically charged buttocks until she reaches a cold, marble bust of Mr. Darcy, who is declared to be quite handsome. While sex might be introduced more forcefully into this picture, wealth is as well. The marble Mr. Darcy represents sensuality but of a material sort; the sensuality of sculpture as opposed to warm oils and shirts soaked through from impromptu pond-divings. The film’s Mr. Darcy remains cold and aloof when not desperate and pleading, without any of the fire of Firth’s version. This Darcy will not bend, but break; oil paint takes years to dry. And this is just the point; the miniseries has more time to build these relationships and mold these characters. In the movie, they flit by us as mere types whose characters we must determine by what others say of them; and isn’t that just what the book teaches us we shouldn’t do? Read more!
I put off seeing it for some time. While hardly a self-described Janite, I’ve made a yearly habit of seeing the A&E Firth-Ehle concoction and even recently converted my husband to the same practice. It is unfair to the new film to compare them. For one thing, nearly five hours is much longer than just over two. Concerns that too much is compressed can hardly be the fault of the filmmakers (although one can fault someone for making it in the first place, that’s a fruitless argument). So I will attempt to confine myself to factors which can reasonably be compared. At the same time, I must avow a deep regard for the previous incarnation, which must color my pronouncements, however I seek to disentangle my review from my love.
I was worried about the casting of Keira Knightly. A renowned beauty, I feared she might be “too pretty” to be Lizzy. She is not, I am happy to say. However, she rarely reaches the twinkling wit I look for in an Elizabeth Bennett, although she acquits herself quite well given how much screen time is actually given to her relationship with Mr. Darcy. The constraints of timing made the entire film seem rather rushed, as if it was necessary to get to the next quirky line or plot point before the last could really sink in. The rest of the cast played their characters for a bit more realism than the mini, Mr. Collins being a bit more pathetic than silly, Mr. Bennett a little more comfortable with his lot in life as the husband of a silly, but not shrilly unbelievable, woman. Even Mary, the unfortunate “spinster in the making” seemed like a reasonable person.
Where I think the film really fails is in its romantic yearnings. Technically and stylistically, this movie is head and waist above the miniseries. For instance, there is lighting and camerawork; something the makers of the mini seem to have forgotten might be a good idea. The movie employs these skills in a desperate attempt to make Darcy and Lizzie fall in love; there are thunderstorms, mists, sunrises, mirrors, all contriving a relationship which, honestly, I couldn’t see between the characters. Part of the problem is the lack of time spent with them, and the film’s decision not to reveal Darcy’s regard until he proposes. Part of it may be blamed on a lack of chemistry between the actors. Part of it, I must admit, might be a hormonal demand for Colin Firth’s piercing, smoldering eyes and Jennifer Ehle’s saucy twinklings back.
But there is a scene which, I feel, exemplifies the contrast between these two films. Elizabeth and her aunt and uncle visit Pemberley while Darcy is supposedly away. In the mini, they encounter a portrait of the young master and marvel at the man captured within it. In the movie, Lizzie walks transfixed through a sculpture garden filled with erotically charged buttocks until she reaches a cold, marble bust of Mr. Darcy, who is declared to be quite handsome. While sex might be introduced more forcefully into this picture, wealth is as well. The marble Mr. Darcy represents sensuality but of a material sort; the sensuality of sculpture as opposed to warm oils and shirts soaked through from impromptu pond-divings. The film’s Mr. Darcy remains cold and aloof when not desperate and pleading, without any of the fire of Firth’s version. This Darcy will not bend, but break; oil paint takes years to dry. And this is just the point; the miniseries has more time to build these relationships and mold these characters. In the movie, they flit by us as mere types whose characters we must determine by what others say of them; and isn’t that just what the book teaches us we shouldn’t do? Read more!
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (2005)
Narnia: The Franchise™, by any account, is going to suffer the burden of expectation. Already a childhood classic that brings with it the stigma of visualizing what millions of people have already got in their heads, Lord of the Rings fever has infected the undertaking in the womb, producing a first child which makes me undesirous of the union continuing.
The major problem I see in the film is twofold: First, my attempt to retrieve from the movie some semblance of the wonder I felt as a child; and second, the filmmakers’ attempt to imbue the film with enough wonder that it can’t help but outshine our expectations both as readers and as moviegoers. In conjunction, these two factors cannot help but result in disappointment.
I realize that this film, like the books, is directed towards children. Although comparisons must be made to Tolkien’s work, both because of his relationship to Lewis and the filmmaking techniques they share, the books work on a much smaller scale (despite the allegorical elements). And this is why I feel that a smaller scale would have been appropriate for the film. In an attempt to match LOTR for epic scope, a movie in which sound stages alternate with real life with grating obviousness falls flat. At one point, when emerging onto a most impressive ridge, I expected the children to wonder how to get back to Narnia from Middle Earth. An effort to bring home just what danger the Pevensies are running from by depicting a German bomber cockpit and extremely poorly animated bombs made me think I was in the wrong theater. Is this background necessary? Is it an effort to Harry Potterize the children’s plight by emphasizing the starkness of real life? Do we need huge clashing armies, the origins and motives of which are never quite clear?
It is the small things that work in this movie and which should have been emphasized. Everyone’s talking about Georgie Henley’s performance and cuteness and I can’t help but add my voice to the clamor. She, as Lucy or as an actress, is everything I wanted to be when I was eight. There was a little clumsiness in her crying, but on the whole I felt that her reactions were perfectly childlike and real. The animals, while well developed from an anatomical perspective, still suffer, especially in direct sunlight. I was grateful that they looked like animals and not crudely anthropomorphized cartoons. Liam Neeson, however, ought to take some acting lessons from Aslan. And Tilda Swinton as the White Witch was spot on devilish. Her cold, pale face could well be believed to be the cause of eternal winter without Christmas, and I myself might be tempted into taking Turkish Delight from her Method-ridden hands.
Narnia should not suffer comparisons to Middle Earth. These two series are quite different animals, each lovely in its own way with brilliance enough to shine on their own. This film, however, makes the comparison inevitable, and it comes out the lesser. Concentrate on the children, spend less time on sweeping over alien landscapes and make these odd creatures people. Make Tumnus’ ears move and centaurs comprehensible to us. Don’t give us bloodless battles which can’t teach us anything and resurrections which are only there to preach. Read more!
The major problem I see in the film is twofold: First, my attempt to retrieve from the movie some semblance of the wonder I felt as a child; and second, the filmmakers’ attempt to imbue the film with enough wonder that it can’t help but outshine our expectations both as readers and as moviegoers. In conjunction, these two factors cannot help but result in disappointment.
I realize that this film, like the books, is directed towards children. Although comparisons must be made to Tolkien’s work, both because of his relationship to Lewis and the filmmaking techniques they share, the books work on a much smaller scale (despite the allegorical elements). And this is why I feel that a smaller scale would have been appropriate for the film. In an attempt to match LOTR for epic scope, a movie in which sound stages alternate with real life with grating obviousness falls flat. At one point, when emerging onto a most impressive ridge, I expected the children to wonder how to get back to Narnia from Middle Earth. An effort to bring home just what danger the Pevensies are running from by depicting a German bomber cockpit and extremely poorly animated bombs made me think I was in the wrong theater. Is this background necessary? Is it an effort to Harry Potterize the children’s plight by emphasizing the starkness of real life? Do we need huge clashing armies, the origins and motives of which are never quite clear?
It is the small things that work in this movie and which should have been emphasized. Everyone’s talking about Georgie Henley’s performance and cuteness and I can’t help but add my voice to the clamor. She, as Lucy or as an actress, is everything I wanted to be when I was eight. There was a little clumsiness in her crying, but on the whole I felt that her reactions were perfectly childlike and real. The animals, while well developed from an anatomical perspective, still suffer, especially in direct sunlight. I was grateful that they looked like animals and not crudely anthropomorphized cartoons. Liam Neeson, however, ought to take some acting lessons from Aslan. And Tilda Swinton as the White Witch was spot on devilish. Her cold, pale face could well be believed to be the cause of eternal winter without Christmas, and I myself might be tempted into taking Turkish Delight from her Method-ridden hands.
Narnia should not suffer comparisons to Middle Earth. These two series are quite different animals, each lovely in its own way with brilliance enough to shine on their own. This film, however, makes the comparison inevitable, and it comes out the lesser. Concentrate on the children, spend less time on sweeping over alien landscapes and make these odd creatures people. Make Tumnus’ ears move and centaurs comprehensible to us. Don’t give us bloodless battles which can’t teach us anything and resurrections which are only there to preach. Read more!
Alien (1979)
Alien is a story of loyalty and survival. It is the story of overcoming adversity without losing one’s humanity. It’s the story of a woman and her cat.
Now, I’ve heard people wax pretentious about the mythological underpinnings of the “Alien Cycle” as they call it. In fact, I heard this tonight at a screening of the film at the Science Fiction Museum in Seattle. You can say what you want about Josephs Campbell and Conrad, but in my opinion a film “cycle” with no consistency of creatorhood aside from the commendable instinct to include Sigourney Weaver does not merit an over-arcing theory that includes all four films. Granted, myths and fairy tales also have multiple, untraceable creators, but they weren’t created by corporations for financial gain, a consideration I feel has to be taken into account.
But whatever. Alien is a horror movie in space. It’s a very good horror movie in space. Like many horror films, it involves human contact, and conflict with, that which is Other. The alien is “unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality.” While Ripley and the others struggle with the implications of their options—to quarantine, to fight, to preserve the few or attempt to save the many—the alien has no such qualms. In the end, the only person Ripley can save is herself. She is reduced to the amoral status of a creature fighting for its survival, just like the alien. Almost. For Ripley’s fellow-feeling, her humanity, is rescued by her rescue of Jonesy the cat.
And yet the very thing that assures us of Ripley’s humanity, Jones, is another example of the Other. He represents the Other we have taken to our bosom, and yet the unreadable reaction shots as he watches the destruction of Harry Dean Stanton reveal an alien presence among us. The cat is not human; he is not governed by human emotions or capable of expressing them. Watching my own housemate stare at me with unblinking, expressionless green eyes consistently fills me with wonder that this thing, this non-human, this incomprehensible being is sharing my space. We co-exist, and yet we are not like, despite the fact that I have let this alien presence into my home and my heart.
But it is not only that which looks foreign which must be watched. There is an alien on the crew, undetected and working against them; an alien inside assisting the alien outside. So even the visible signs of humanity are not enough.
Subsequent to rescuing Jones and herself, Ripley reveals another side of her humanity—her femaleness. Up to this point, Ripley has no physical womanhood. She is depicted, like much of the crew, as genderless. This is not to imply that real androgyny is being explored, but that any of these characters could switch genders without any alteration to the story. Sigourney Weaver, in particular, is tall and lacks the curves which instantly cry “woman.” When she supposes herself safe, she sheds another layer of protection and becomes, for the first time, a woman in the vulnerable state of partial nudity. When it become clear that this safety is an illusion, she retreats to a heavy, gender-neutral space suit in order to do final battle with the alien. A certain amount of shielding from the vulnerable side of what makes us human is necessary for survival, just as Ripley’s regard for that which is not human makes her even more so. Read more!
Now, I’ve heard people wax pretentious about the mythological underpinnings of the “Alien Cycle” as they call it. In fact, I heard this tonight at a screening of the film at the Science Fiction Museum in Seattle. You can say what you want about Josephs Campbell and Conrad, but in my opinion a film “cycle” with no consistency of creatorhood aside from the commendable instinct to include Sigourney Weaver does not merit an over-arcing theory that includes all four films. Granted, myths and fairy tales also have multiple, untraceable creators, but they weren’t created by corporations for financial gain, a consideration I feel has to be taken into account.
But whatever. Alien is a horror movie in space. It’s a very good horror movie in space. Like many horror films, it involves human contact, and conflict with, that which is Other. The alien is “unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality.” While Ripley and the others struggle with the implications of their options—to quarantine, to fight, to preserve the few or attempt to save the many—the alien has no such qualms. In the end, the only person Ripley can save is herself. She is reduced to the amoral status of a creature fighting for its survival, just like the alien. Almost. For Ripley’s fellow-feeling, her humanity, is rescued by her rescue of Jonesy the cat.
And yet the very thing that assures us of Ripley’s humanity, Jones, is another example of the Other. He represents the Other we have taken to our bosom, and yet the unreadable reaction shots as he watches the destruction of Harry Dean Stanton reveal an alien presence among us. The cat is not human; he is not governed by human emotions or capable of expressing them. Watching my own housemate stare at me with unblinking, expressionless green eyes consistently fills me with wonder that this thing, this non-human, this incomprehensible being is sharing my space. We co-exist, and yet we are not like, despite the fact that I have let this alien presence into my home and my heart.
But it is not only that which looks foreign which must be watched. There is an alien on the crew, undetected and working against them; an alien inside assisting the alien outside. So even the visible signs of humanity are not enough.
Subsequent to rescuing Jones and herself, Ripley reveals another side of her humanity—her femaleness. Up to this point, Ripley has no physical womanhood. She is depicted, like much of the crew, as genderless. This is not to imply that real androgyny is being explored, but that any of these characters could switch genders without any alteration to the story. Sigourney Weaver, in particular, is tall and lacks the curves which instantly cry “woman.” When she supposes herself safe, she sheds another layer of protection and becomes, for the first time, a woman in the vulnerable state of partial nudity. When it become clear that this safety is an illusion, she retreats to a heavy, gender-neutral space suit in order to do final battle with the alien. A certain amount of shielding from the vulnerable side of what makes us human is necessary for survival, just as Ripley’s regard for that which is not human makes her even more so. Read more!
Inserts (1974)
At first glance, it's hard to tell why anyone, let alone rising stars Richard Dreyfuss, Veronica Cartwright, and Jessica Harper, wanted to make this film. After all, it's an NC-17, low budget, one-room piece about the porn industry in the 1920's. It requires its actors to be unclothed for much of the proceedings and to recite naughty terms for various body parts to the point of desensitization. The title comes from the practice of filming the close-up bits that go in between the action to suitably titillate the audience. So by common sense, this seems like it should be a prurient, dirty little film of little redeeming value. In actuality, it is a concise treatment of the film industry; a snapshot from one dusty corner that captures the whole.
At the center of the films success is Richard Dreyfuss, a post-American Graffiti pre-Jaws imp with rheumy eyes, stubble, and a nasally cackle I've always found weirdly endearing. As the Boy Wonder, we are given to understand that a brilliant career has been squandered, "realized at an early age," as he says, and he now spends his days in the living room of his mansion: drinking, making porn, and not having sex. He is a casualty of the get-rich-quick days of early film, a "ghost story" to newcomers like Clark Gable (a ghost himself, as he only appears off-screen to offer a nebulous and rejected hope to the Boy Wonder). Although he has turned his back on both art and Hollywood, the Boy is hopelessly entangled in the process of film-making. He cannot escape; and indeed, most of his life (as we perceive it) is accompanied by the sound of a camera running even when he is nowhere near one. And despite this artistic torpor, he can't help but innovate within his chosen field. His financial backer is appalled to see him remove the camera from the tripod to obtain visceral shots of his actors engaged in coitus; the people who watch these movies are looking for one thing, and it's not art. The decline of both his fortunes and his libido are, through the course of the film, revealed to be rooted not in his own lack of ability (mentally or physically) but in something else. We are never privy to what happened to the Boy Wonder, but Dreyfuss' performance is laden with an inertia which precludes any chance of leaving the sordid yet comfortingly miserable existence he's made for himself.
The other characters are not silent about Hollywood, old or new, either. Veronica Cartwright plays the once-legit actress now reduced to heroin addiction and porn; the more pro-actively destructive twin to the Boy Wonder, who is in a process of fading rather than burning out. Bob Hoskins is the financially-minded producer who is conscious only of what he can package and sell to an undiscerning, undifferentiated public, whether it's smut or hamburgers. And Jessica Harper is the lean and hungry would-be star, who manipulates the Boy in her ambition to "make it" at whatever the cost. Her every thought is on show business--who's hot, and how she can be one of them. In fact, the only person in this little group who sees beyond his shallow ambitions is the Boy Wonder; and that's because he doesn't have any.
The movie drags a bit in the last half, where Harper and Dreyfuss trade manipulations, reluctance, and biting retorts without much sense of what their motivations are. But it's a lovely, theatrical script with one-liners galore that make the smutty content seem more than justified. Richard Dreyfuss, on screen all the time, gives a nuanced performance not without his characteristic flare-ups, and the two ladies give brave turns as rather uncharacteristically built objects of lust. Bob Hoskins' American accent is impeccable as always, and Rex the Wonder Dog (the hired meat) is as shallow and stiff as he needs to be. This slice-of-porn world is a perfect microcosm of the collaborative, hustling world of movie-making, and it has nudity. This movie should not have been overlooked all these years. Read more!
At the center of the films success is Richard Dreyfuss, a post-American Graffiti pre-Jaws imp with rheumy eyes, stubble, and a nasally cackle I've always found weirdly endearing. As the Boy Wonder, we are given to understand that a brilliant career has been squandered, "realized at an early age," as he says, and he now spends his days in the living room of his mansion: drinking, making porn, and not having sex. He is a casualty of the get-rich-quick days of early film, a "ghost story" to newcomers like Clark Gable (a ghost himself, as he only appears off-screen to offer a nebulous and rejected hope to the Boy Wonder). Although he has turned his back on both art and Hollywood, the Boy is hopelessly entangled in the process of film-making. He cannot escape; and indeed, most of his life (as we perceive it) is accompanied by the sound of a camera running even when he is nowhere near one. And despite this artistic torpor, he can't help but innovate within his chosen field. His financial backer is appalled to see him remove the camera from the tripod to obtain visceral shots of his actors engaged in coitus; the people who watch these movies are looking for one thing, and it's not art. The decline of both his fortunes and his libido are, through the course of the film, revealed to be rooted not in his own lack of ability (mentally or physically) but in something else. We are never privy to what happened to the Boy Wonder, but Dreyfuss' performance is laden with an inertia which precludes any chance of leaving the sordid yet comfortingly miserable existence he's made for himself.
The other characters are not silent about Hollywood, old or new, either. Veronica Cartwright plays the once-legit actress now reduced to heroin addiction and porn; the more pro-actively destructive twin to the Boy Wonder, who is in a process of fading rather than burning out. Bob Hoskins is the financially-minded producer who is conscious only of what he can package and sell to an undiscerning, undifferentiated public, whether it's smut or hamburgers. And Jessica Harper is the lean and hungry would-be star, who manipulates the Boy in her ambition to "make it" at whatever the cost. Her every thought is on show business--who's hot, and how she can be one of them. In fact, the only person in this little group who sees beyond his shallow ambitions is the Boy Wonder; and that's because he doesn't have any.
The movie drags a bit in the last half, where Harper and Dreyfuss trade manipulations, reluctance, and biting retorts without much sense of what their motivations are. But it's a lovely, theatrical script with one-liners galore that make the smutty content seem more than justified. Richard Dreyfuss, on screen all the time, gives a nuanced performance not without his characteristic flare-ups, and the two ladies give brave turns as rather uncharacteristically built objects of lust. Bob Hoskins' American accent is impeccable as always, and Rex the Wonder Dog (the hired meat) is as shallow and stiff as he needs to be. This slice-of-porn world is a perfect microcosm of the collaborative, hustling world of movie-making, and it has nudity. This movie should not have been overlooked all these years. Read more!
Shopgirl (2005)
Here is a phrase I never imagined I would say: I saw the new Steve Martin movie last night. I don’t dislike Steve Martin--I have respect for him as a writer and comedian—but I’ve never really been into the sort of family-friendly, trite comedies he seems to make. I went to “Shopgirl” prepared to be disappointed. Perhaps that contributed to my pleasant surprise, but in any case, I enjoyed this film.
Enjoyment is a subjective thing. When I say I enjoyed it, I don’t necessarily mean it was a romantic romp through a May-December romance and what follows. What I enjoyed, in a squirmy, uncomfortable sort of way, was the fact that Martin took a complicated (and partially true) situation and rendered it like a fairy tale. It was simple and sweet, in the brief sense, but underneath the shorthand there lies a complex knot of emotions and relationships. I especially liked the treatment of Mirabelle’s depression, which was not discussed at any length but described in visual cues and a wonderful sequence where the bustle and hum of Saks 5th Ave becomes too much. I haven’t seen depression depicted in quite this way, with a quiet subjectivity and cues that I immediately understood, and it was refreshing.
I don’t know how disturbing this film was intended to be. Audiences will differ in their opinions on the basic facts of Mirabelle and Ray Porter’s (Martin) relationship, the casual sex, the conventional portrayal of a woman who is basically useless without a man. But this film is not seeking to biograph Mirabelle’s whole life; merely to show us, through her relationships, why this girl is worth notice. As the twisted web of influence spools out (Martin wrote the book, cast himself in a somewhat unsavory role, and hired the real-life girl in question to do the artwork used in the film) I come to the conclusion that it takes guts to tell a story like this, to put yourself on the line in the way Martin has, and I respect him for it. And I like the movie, too. Read more!
Enjoyment is a subjective thing. When I say I enjoyed it, I don’t necessarily mean it was a romantic romp through a May-December romance and what follows. What I enjoyed, in a squirmy, uncomfortable sort of way, was the fact that Martin took a complicated (and partially true) situation and rendered it like a fairy tale. It was simple and sweet, in the brief sense, but underneath the shorthand there lies a complex knot of emotions and relationships. I especially liked the treatment of Mirabelle’s depression, which was not discussed at any length but described in visual cues and a wonderful sequence where the bustle and hum of Saks 5th Ave becomes too much. I haven’t seen depression depicted in quite this way, with a quiet subjectivity and cues that I immediately understood, and it was refreshing.
I don’t know how disturbing this film was intended to be. Audiences will differ in their opinions on the basic facts of Mirabelle and Ray Porter’s (Martin) relationship, the casual sex, the conventional portrayal of a woman who is basically useless without a man. But this film is not seeking to biograph Mirabelle’s whole life; merely to show us, through her relationships, why this girl is worth notice. As the twisted web of influence spools out (Martin wrote the book, cast himself in a somewhat unsavory role, and hired the real-life girl in question to do the artwork used in the film) I come to the conclusion that it takes guts to tell a story like this, to put yourself on the line in the way Martin has, and I respect him for it. And I like the movie, too. Read more!
Broken Flowers (2005)
Is it possible to like the fact of a movie’s existence without really liking it?
"Broken Flowers" has a lot going for it. It has Bill Murray as a man named Don Johnston and a bunch of Hollywood queens (in the female royalty sense) and a famous director. And nice music and naked teenagers named Lolita. And the best next-door neighbor ever in Winston, whose accented enthusiasm and habit of talking on the phone as he’s entering Murray ’s house are instantly endearing. But there’s something that wouldn’t let me into the film, and the experience was less than satisfying.
It wasn’t the ending, I don’t think. It’s ambiguous; but so is Don's life and the entire quest which makes up the movie’s meager plot. It’s an esoteric “About Schmidt,” “Lost In Translation” gone even stiller. I don’t have a problem with the facts of this. It may be that Bill Murray has been directed further from his trademark deadpan and into merely dead. He suitably portrays a worn man, bereft of life, but as he is the center of the film and nearly every shot it’s hard to take this journey with him. For was is most accurately described as a kind of road movie, this causes difficulties.
There are nice things about this film. Wonderful things. But is it good? I don’t think so; or at least, it wasn’t to me. It was worth it. It was thoughtful. I’m glad it exists and I’m glad I saw it. And I want to give a shout out to the middle-aged women and man who sat behind me in the theater and cackled, the man uttering the immortal critique: “That Murray can make eating carrots funny.” Maybe if I had been that guy, the movie would have been better. Read more!
"Broken Flowers" has a lot going for it. It has Bill Murray as a man named Don Johnston and a bunch of Hollywood queens (in the female royalty sense) and a famous director. And nice music and naked teenagers named Lolita. And the best next-door neighbor ever in Winston, whose accented enthusiasm and habit of talking on the phone as he’s entering Murray ’s house are instantly endearing. But there’s something that wouldn’t let me into the film, and the experience was less than satisfying.
It wasn’t the ending, I don’t think. It’s ambiguous; but so is Don's life and the entire quest which makes up the movie’s meager plot. It’s an esoteric “About Schmidt,” “Lost In Translation” gone even stiller. I don’t have a problem with the facts of this. It may be that Bill Murray has been directed further from his trademark deadpan and into merely dead. He suitably portrays a worn man, bereft of life, but as he is the center of the film and nearly every shot it’s hard to take this journey with him. For was is most accurately described as a kind of road movie, this causes difficulties.
There are nice things about this film. Wonderful things. But is it good? I don’t think so; or at least, it wasn’t to me. It was worth it. It was thoughtful. I’m glad it exists and I’m glad I saw it. And I want to give a shout out to the middle-aged women and man who sat behind me in the theater and cackled, the man uttering the immortal critique: “That Murray can make eating carrots funny.” Maybe if I had been that guy, the movie would have been better. Read more!
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