the Duck Mafia Expands (?)
Cinema Quack
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Note: Fiction writing is coming slowly, but well.
Often regarded as Luis Bunuel’s masterpiece, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie is a manically random, though consistently sleek, surrealistic satire of the upper class. And though the film’s message, that rich people are unfulfilled (always being disrupted before they can begin the meal that is central to each loosely connected scene in the film) hypocrites (who dirty their hands in murder, corruption, drugs, affairs and drunkenness while attesting to their own purity) gets tiresome after it’s stated time after time by the writer-director, the film’s style is as fresh and wonderfully madcap as ever.
Dreams and dreams within dreams invade the narrative, minor characters halt everything (including the cavalry!) to recount their dreams, ghosts and terrorist assassins and dead police officers mix fantasy with reality, and punctuating it all are shots of the main characters walking purposelessly through the middle of nowhere. Individual scenes sometimes have regular conflicts (a young boy murders the man pretending to be his father after being told by the ghost of his dead mother that it is her last wish) or discernible meanings (one dream sequence, for example, sees the main troupe of characters invited to a dinner party only to discover themselves on a theatre stage instead of in a house), but what the hell does it mean as a whole?
I haven’t the slightest clue, and that’s probably how Bunuel meant it. The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie is therefore fun but slight and an overrated work by the director whose other films (such as Belle de Jour) are just as inventive and carry significantly more meaning and weight.
Woody Allen’s slump continues with Melinda and Melinda, an amateurish novelty film that tries to prove the close relationship between tragedy and comedy. Made up of a frame and two narratives (one comic and one tragic) joined by a main character you want to bitch slap, it makes one wonder what happened to the filmmaker behind Crimes and Misdemeanours and Hannah and Her Sisters and if he’s ever going to come back.
Beginning with the first scene, the film disrupts any potential rhythm through terrible editing that culminates in a dissolve to a restaurant conversation that sounds like an aging Allen talking to himself. The artificial tone remains and the cast is never natural or convincing while exchanging titbits about classical music, theatre and small, candlelit restaurants. Annie Hall and Mickey Sachs would avoid these characters and Michael Caine and Diane Keaton could act circles around the actors playing them.
In the end, neither the comedy is comic enough (with the notable exception of Will Ferrell’s antics) nor tragedy tragic enough (with affairs, murders, and mental asylums kept unexplainably off screen) to equate the two as anything other than mundane. It doesn’t help that everything in the film is a rehash of other, better Allen films. The only notion Melinda and Melinda truly proves is that comedy and tragedy can both suck.
The simply titled documentary Gaza Strip premiered in the
Would the inclusion of an Israeli-Jewish point of view (as many critics suggest) actually make your film more propagandist, as it would offer an inaccurate portrayal of the
On the topic of artificiality, during many of your interviews with Palestinian children, and in specific with one boy during the scene on the beach, it seemed apparent that they were saying lines and expressing ideas that had they had been taught by their parents or elders. That boy, after finishing his speech, ran off, laughing, to resume playing as if oblivious to what he had just said.
I also noticed that many of the younger Palestinians appeared more knowledgeable and better educated than those who were older. For example, the young woman whom you interviewed in a tent and Mohammed Hejazi seemed to have a better, and more logical, grasp on their situation than the woman who told the story about the bulldozers. I saw this as a sign of hope for the future.
Many of the people who watch your film, including me, don’t have any idea where the places you mention in your film are. There is a map of filming locations on the film’s website, but did you consider putting a map in the film?
One of the things that struck me the most about your film is the calm way in which people, and most of all children, react to gunfire. I recall several shots of children running for cover and laughing.
Whenever the Palestinian rock throwers appeared in your film I was reminded of the platitude, “Those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” Did you have this saying in mind when you were editing the film? Do you think it applies?
I had the “glass house” idea after the scene in which the Palestinian woman recalls her experience with the Israeli bulldozers, not after the rock thrower scene. Since the woman was angry at the destruction of her home and the threat to her own life, I assumed that she did have something to lose. Because the rock thrower scene is before the bulldozer scene, I probably made the connection that one led to the other. Bulldozers being bigger rocks.
Gaza Strip is available on DVD, and James Longley is currently working on a new documentary film about Iraq.
I passed up the chance to see Vincent Ward’s What Dreams May Come when it came out in theatres because, at the time, I disliked Robin Williams and thought the trailer looked like the stuff of weepy, overwrought melodrama. However, my views on Williams have since changed, and after seeing Ward’s earlier effort Map of the Human Heart listed alongside Jacques Tati’s Playtime on the programme of Roger Ebert’s latest Overlooked Film Festival, I decided to give the film a chance. My enthusiasm was further bolstered by an article on Ebert’s spiffy new website in which the renowned (though ever more lenient) critic calls Vincent Ward “a true visionary” and What Dreams May Come “a grievously overlooked” film. For a film geek, I was pretty pumped.
The story of What Dreams May Come, once it actually kicks in about halfway through the film, is set mostly in Heaven and follows the adventures of Chris Nielsen (as played by Williams in one of those roles that reached its peak shortly after this film, in the dreadful Patch Adams and Jakob the Liar) as he tries to find his wife (Annabella Sciorra), who has ended up somewhere in Hell. All the smart dead people tell Chris that it’s too dangerous to go traipsing around in the Devil’s half of the afterlife, thus raising the stakes and making it “so” much more heroic when he eventually does anyway. Conveniently, the rest of Nielsen’s family (a son, a daughter who I thought was a son, and a dog) is dead too, so they’re around periodically, giving advice and waxing on about spiritual and philosophical issues. It all creates a fabulous atmosphere of laughable gloom, doom and hope that Williams captures well by making his eyes wide and watery and spouting lines such as “Boy, I screwed up. I'm in dog Heaven,” after finding his dog, and “I found you in hell. Don't you think I could find you in
In the film’s defence, the special effects are pretty and evocative of many famous works of art. Hieronymous Bosch is an obvious inspiration, for example. And there are many more that anyone interested in painting will have fun picking out. Some of the images are quite beautiful (until Ward violently cuts away from them to one of countless close ups of Robin Williams’ face) and imaginative film copies of classic works. In this respect, What Dreams May Come is to art historians and art history students what Sin City is to comic books nerds.
Perhaps needless to say, I was disappointed with What Dreams May Come. I was keen on liking it, but quickly realized that it was not only far from being the overlooked gem Ebert deemed, but also close to being what my gut reaction had told me to expect, all those years ago. The ending of this film is as manipulative a doozy as you’re likely to find on any given shelf of a video store (and I do mean even if it shares a wall with a Shyamalan flick). And the whole thing tastes strongly of soap. On the whole, the weird tension between Bass’ Hollywood-esque script and Ward’s quasi-arthouse manifestation of it make sure the film fits in neither category (your choice as to which is Heaven and which is Hell) and instead push it into some place in Purgatory where bad films with noble intentions and interesting ideas (like the overall premise of this film) go away until people like Roger Ebert bring them up and naive filmgoers like me get suckered into watching them.