The Duck Mafia

the Duck Mafia Expands (?)

2005-06-23T03:37:00.000-05:00

I've been working on a pet project for a while and now the infrasctructure's finally done (HTML, CSS were foreign to me before this, so be kind!). Without further ado, I proudly present:

Cinema Quack

(http://qc.atspace.com/home.html)
(www.cinemaquack.tk)

Note: Fiction writing is coming slowly, but well.

Breaking a Take

2005-06-04T14:31:00.000-05:00

The blog's going on hiatus for a while.

Although I haven't been updating often, and writing short reviews doesn't require too much time, I'm trying to shed as many small commitments as possible in order to focus my time on writing fiction. Watching films, writing about them and doing about ten other things online is fun, but it's also a good excuse not to do much at all. The internet is a notorious time waster, and I'm notoriously lazy. That's a bad combination.

After my adventures in the writing and [hopefully] publishing worlds settle down, I will be back. But, for now, I'm leaving the pond.

Cheers,
Quack Corleone

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie

2005-05-19T14:55:00.000-05:00

1972.France.Bunuel

3.0 / 4.0

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.

Quack Produced!

2005-05-17T02:59:00.000-05:00

A script of mine has been made into a film!

Student filmmaker Richie Filippi (Utopian Productions) of Hofstra University directed the short (called Un-Undead) which is about a future Earth populated by civilized zombies who live in constant fear of scavenging, barbaric humans. It's a rather horrific comedy.

If it tickles your fancy, both the film and script are available online:

Read Un-Undead

Watch Un-Undead

In addition, the film recently screened at the Hofstra Film Club's Spring Film Festival and was warmly received by a crowd of over 400 people.

Melinda and Melinda

2005-05-16T15:15:00.000-05:00

2004.USA.Allen

1.0 / 4.0

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.

Interview: James Longley

2005-05-12T22:25:00.000-05:00

The simply titled documentary Gaza Strip premiered in the United States in August of 2002, about a year and a half before the sudden surge in popularity of documentary films, and especially of politically themed documentary films, brought on by the War on Terror, War on Iraq, and American presidential election. The work of filmmaker James Longley, who financed, directed, edited, and co-shot the film, it is a raw glimpse into the lives of the 1,300,000 Palestinians living in the Gaza Strip that is as topical now, with Israeli vows of withdrawal from the area, as it was upon its release. Recommended to fans of documentary cinema for its style and to those interested in its subject for its value as a document.

After watching the film, I contacted James Longley and sent him a list of various questions and observations I had about his film. Graciously and promptly, he replied. The following is our exchange, compiled from several emails:

(I am italicized and Mr. Longley is bolded)

Unlike many of the “documentaries” made since the recent popularity of Michael Moore’s activist film, your film actually documents.

My film was made before the Michael Moore film you are probably talking about. "Gaza Strip" was finished in spring 2002 and shot in 2001.

Unlike Moore, you neither appear in your own film nor project your own opinions onto it.

Well -- except that I chose to make a film about that particular subject, which is the most significant way to project your opinion about anything. Just by making a documentary about the Gaza Strip you are already taking a big political step, particularly if you also choose to document only the Palestinians and leave out the supposedly obligatory Israeli viewpoint. (This is weird, don't you think, that films about Palestinians are criticized for leaving out the Israelis, while films about Israelis are never criticized for leaving out the Palestinians ...)

Personally, I don't think that the documentary form is any less subjective than fiction film -- only in documentary you are filming things that are actually happening without your having to write a script or pay actors. But in the end, if the film is going to be at all comprehensible to audiences, you are collecting images and words to tell a story. It's just one story out of millions, and the way you tell it is up to you -- so documentary is a totally subjective form, really. However, I also don't think that fact prevents documentaries from providing a real sense of the world, of objective reality, of truth and all that. It's just that none of those things can be expressed in a truly objective way by people.

Although you choose what is seen and in what order, the people you interview say what they think and you do not manipulate the viewer’s opinion of them through music or mise-en-scene.

I actually am manipulating the viewer, like any filmmaker. It can't be helped. I did make music and put it in the film -- it's everywhere. I took fragments of Bach and Shostakovitch and the sound of people talking, etc -- and warped them into ambient sound beds that are strewn everywhere in the film. When an Israeli IDF jeep appears in one scene, for example, we hear a tortured version of a Bach aria that sounds like a cross between Humphrey Bogart barfing black tar and several monkeys being killed at once. But it's all done in such a way that few people actually notice.

The viewer is free to see what you show and come away with their own thoughts.

That's true enough.

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 Gaza Strip?

Maybe. But I guess my point in leaving out the Israelis was that the Palestinians are a valid subject for documentary film by themselves, without an opposing Israeli narrative thrown in to contradict them.

As long as you accept that all films are basically subjective constructions, then you are also forced to admit that filmmakers who insist on having "both sides" of an argument are just as subjective in their construction of the argument that they are pretending to document objectively. So why bother? I wanted to make a film about the Palestinians because I knew less about them -- so that's what I did. I don't believe any of this nonsense about objectivity in media.

Throughout the film, your camera lingers on faces. However, I noticed that as the film progressed you included fewer shots of smiling faces and more shots of serious, or frightened ones. Was this intentional?

Not really -- the film is mostly chronological, and it so happened that the situation grew worse as I was documenting it, so the people became more serious.

I enjoyed your film when it remained true to a naturalistic, unobtrusive style. For example, when you added effects and toyed with editing to mimic a feeling of fear and panic, I felt it caused the film to feel more artificial.

I probably agree with you in retrospect -- but at the time I wanted to experiment with the medium -- and I just left it in. I think there isn't enough experimentation with the documentary form, though I like a well-made classical style verite film as much as the next guy.

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 disagree with you here. The beach was full of people -- and there was a guy standing behind the camera as I finished that interview who said something to the kid that made him laugh. I don't think he was repeating anything his parents told him -- although who knows? I think he said what he thought -- but he was also kind of excited to be filmed by someone in public. If you spend much time in the Gaza Strip you realize that most of the kids there are pretty much like that one -- they're surrounded by an impossible situation -- but they're still just kids and usually they act like it.

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.

This was not something intentional -- it's just a matter of chance who you get to interview and how well they can talk in front of a camera. There are plenty of sharp old people in the Gaza Strip, but I just happen to think that young people are more interesting to follow -- since they have more energy, move around more, and care less that you are filming them. Mohammed Hejazi had a great way of speaking that I think really makes the film -- but I recorded a lot more material of him than actually made the final version. I cut out all kinds of digressions and boring stories, recitations of film plots and the like. Of course, I also cut out a lot of material I wish I could have kept.

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?

Yes -- I realize that -- but on the DVD version there's a map, also, for reference -- and I just hate to insert things like maps into a verite film. I mean, what does it matter, really, whether a particular scene is taking place in Khan Yunis or Rafah? It's all the Gaza Strip, in the end, and it doesn'talter the point of the material in any way.

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.

Yes -- they are used to being shot at. It's something normal if you live in the Gaza Strip, so they get used to it and learn how to deal with it -- otherwise they'd go crazy.

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?

No -- not exactly. The Gaza Strip isn't a glass house. It's a big open-air prison camp. It makes very little difference whether the Palestinian kids throw stones or not -- so why not? They are not behaving as people in a glass house; they are behaving as people who have nothing left to lose.

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.

I suppose -- but in fact one has nothing to do with the other except in symbolic terms. The fact is that the Israelis bulldoze Palestinian houses in the Gaza Strip in order to expand "security areas" around checkpoints and settlements, and the Rafah border zone, etc. -- The bulldozings are very much pre-planned events designed to conform to expanding Israeli settlements and road construction, and not the result of rock-throwing at all. Now that the Israelis plan to evacuate all the Gaza settlements, of course, it would seem that the bulldozing of all those homes serves no ultimate purpose anyway, even from the Israeli point of view. Except, perhaps, that it puts pressure on the Palestinian population and weakens their resolve -- or so an Israeli Army spokesperson once explained it to me in Tel Aviv. But so it goes.

Gaza Strip is available on DVD, and James Longley is currently working on a new documentary film about Iraq.

What Dreams May Come

2005-04-28T02:43:00.000-05:00

1998.USA.Ward

1.5 / 4.0

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 Jersey!” after finding his wife. Thankfully, some of the serious themes addressed by screenwriter Ron Bass are expressed so damn badly (“Sometimes, when you lose, you win.”) that they make the forced, corny lines sound a whole lot better.

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.

Sin City

2005-04-05T22:48:00.000-05:00

2005.USA.Rodriguez

2.5 / 4.0

Robert Rodriguez’s adaptation of Frank Miller’s series of Sin City graphic novels is the latest link in an already hefty chain of films that try to overcome a lack of substance with an abundance of style. Although substantially better than Kerry Conran’s awful Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow (USA), and international empty but pretty pictures Casshern (Japan) and Immortel (France), Sin City still suffers from fundamental structural problems that no amount of technical excellence or special effects can overcome. It lacks a clear plot, is inhabited by too many characters (for someone other than Robert Altman to contend with), and relies on an irritating amount of narration. Furthermore, the acting varies from excellent (Benicio Del Toro as “Jackie Boy”) through mediocre (Bruce Willis as the stone faced “Hartigan") to embarrassingly bad (Jessica Alba as “Nancy"), and the directing, though adequate, is too concerned with recreating comic book frames than adding to them.

Filmmakers should know that what works in one medium rarely works in another. It’s the reason that many film adaptations of Shakespeare fail to work convincingly on the silver screen, or that many faithful adaptations of popular novels don’t have nearly the same power as the original works. Judging from his El Mariachi days, Robert Rodriguez should know, for example, that films are best when they rely on action and visual exposition over narration and dialogue. In his excellent book “The Technique of Screenplay Writing”, Eugene Vale makes the distinction that film, a medium physically based on motion and progression, should exploit exactly these qualities. He compares the same scene, of a warrior in battle dress, as done in a painting and literature, and points out that a painting shows all of its information at once while a story is better suited to reveal information progressively. According to Vale, a film, like literature, should show its warrior actually fasten the leather straps of his boots, throw his heavy shield over his shoulder and clutch his spear rather than simply the resulting image. In other words, good films make visual the process. In Sin City, Rodriguez resorts too often to narration by his three main characters (Hartigan, Marv and Dwight) in order to give their histories, tell their thoughts, or soften and explain the jump cuts that he uses repeatedly. Although this is done to simulate the reading of a comic, which is made of several hundred frames and cannot convey everything through images, it is not suitable for a film like Sin City, which contains roughly 180,000 frames. The argument could be made that Rodriguez simply doesn’t have enough space, or time, to show everything, but that itself shows flaws in the film’s structure. And, there are also copious action and driving scenes that drag on for far too long and that cannot be justified only because they were in the original material.

In the early days of cinema, a filmed theatre play, or “canned theatre”, was a popular and quick way to bring theatre to a wider audience and one outside of large urban centres. In these productions, the camera would simulate the eyes of a spectator sitting in an expensive seat in the front row of an actual theatre. The result was not cinema as much as a poor, flat replica of a stage production minus the plasticity, unpredictability and immediacy of the actual play. Although Rodriguez’s film is much more than a camera recording of an invisible hand flipping the pages of one of the Frank Miller’s graphic novels, it is perhaps not too much of an overstatement to call it “canned comics”. Like “canned theatre”, Sin City takes many of the elements that work in the form of a comic, and mimics them on celluloid. The Sin City website even has a section that compares frames from the comic with those from the film, as if a perfect similarity was somehow equal to a perfect film. If that was true, a perfect film adaptation of Picasso’s Guernica could be created with a two-hour still frame that uncannily resembled the massive painting.

Another problem that Rodriguez created for himself upon conceiving the idea of a Sin City film was the notion that he could cram a handful of graphic novels, each with its own plot and characters, into a motion picture running slightly more than two hours. For an entirely unfair comparison, imagine some ambitious writer and director taking upon himself the monumental task of creating a film adapted from several Dickens novels, simply because they take place in the same city and period. Is it madness, or is it possible? On the basis of Sin City, it’s the former. History, Eugene Vale and Aristotle suggest that one dramatic work should have one main plot, from which everything else stems and which propels the story. On the other hand, experience shows that this is not always the case, and films have been made that fly in the face of conventional ideas about structure. Regardless, the problem with Sin City is that it doesn’t work and it doesn’t work because it has a weak plot structure and weak characters. Constructed like four consecutive episodes of a television show (though David Lynch managed to make a whole out of some spare TV parts with Mulholland Drive), none of the characters are truly developed and no one plotline strong enough to carry the film. Characters and plots disappear, appear, but never connect in any meaningful way. Attempts are made at thematic unity through motifs (Men defending women, betrayal, corruption, etc.) and the repetition of certain lines of dialogue, but it’s superficial and forced. The main unifying factor, as can be deemed from the title, is The City, but that, like the film, has a style but no heart or soul. Near the end, Rodriguez even resorts to showing various characters from the three main stories together in a bar in a feeble attempt at tying things together. But string don’t hold elephants. Not surprisingly, the film has an incredibly weak ending.

Overall, Sin City is still an enjoyable film. Its ability to recognize and employ the sarcasm that pervades classic Noir and to recreate its mood while balanced between pastiche and homage are high points, for example. As are the technical aspects, and the fact that the film was made outside of the regular Hollywood loop, on video and without actual sets. But it’s impossible to overlook the shortcomings of the narrative. Perhaps if Miller and Rodriguez had hired a screenwriter to write the film, or focused on just one of Miller’s graphic novels, Sin City would have been a better motion picture. And maybe if Rodriguez wasn’t so intent on being faithful to the source material, he would have made a better film. As it stands, whatever Sin City is to fans of Miller and comic books in general, it is not revolutionary cinema, as some have made it out to be. If anything, the film’s “canned comic” brand of adaptation is a step backward. In order to make great films, one must understand the film medium and its strengths, weaknesses and peculiarities. Knowledge of comic books not required.

Dead Man's Shoes

2005-03-21T02:17:00.000-05:00

2004.Britain.Meadows

3.0 / 4.0

Richard (Paddy Considine) returns to his quaint, English hometown after spending some time in the armed forces to take revenge on the local gang, lead by the fearsome Sonny (Gary Stretch), that tormented his brother (Toby Kebbell), in Shane Meadows’ bloody, British revenge fable.

And Dead Man’s Shoes is all about the ensuing mood. The characters, though well acted and distinguishable, aren’t terribly memorable and the plot is insufficient even for the film’s running time of less than ninety minutes. Judging by the surface, the film really shouldn’t be much better than the recent remake of Walking Tall starring The Rock. But it is.

Many critics single out Considine’s performance as the reason for this, but I disagree. For one, ex-boxer Stretch is more effective as a sleazy, tough villain than Considine as the reserved, quietly murderous Richard. And there isn’t enough credit given to Meadows, who sustains an almost unbearable tension through the film’s final hour.

However, the central reason that Dead Man’s Shoes not only works, but works well and packs the emotional wallop that it does is due to the script, co-written by Meadows and Considine, which wraps a predictable tale of revenge with layers of Christian symbolism and themes.

At one point, Richard drugs several of the gang members he set out to punish, and is toying with them when one looks him in the eyes and asks, “Jesus?” Richard shakes his head, but the question is meant to force the viewer to engage with the film’s religious aspect.

Dead Man’s Shoes is no less about Christ than Mel Gibson’s The Passion. It opens with Richard’s sombre statement of intent, “God will forgive them for what they have done, and he will allow them into heaven. I can't live with that,” and ends with a God-like point of view shot from the clouds accompanied by the sounds of a Church choir.

In Dead Man’s Shoes, Richard takes on the role of a vengeful God while his mentally challenged brother Anthony assumes the role of Christ.

The most striking connection between Anthony and Christ is made in a late scene in which Sonny’s gang mercilessly tortures Anthony near an abandoned farmhouse. Bringing to mind the suffering of Christ, the scene emphasises the belief that Christ chose, and was not forced, to die for the sins of humanity. There is even a Pontius Pilate figure, who has the power to stop the ordeal but does not.

Another similarity becomes apparent with a key revelation in the film. Although Anthony exhibits an appealing type of simplicity and grace from the beginning, Meadows grants him actual transcendence by the story’s conclusion. The many shots of Richard and Anthony walking through field and forest achieve a level spirituality.

As God, Richard is always distant from other characters in the film. He appears mainly to pass judgement on them, and the way in which he surprises and frightens his victims, those responsible for the “death of his son”, borders on the supernatural. He appears and disappears almost at will, and has an aura of invincibility. He doesn’t even flinch at the possibility of being shot. Juxtaposed with the exaggerated panic and fallibility of the gang members, Richard is cold and inhuman, but never entirely frightening. What Meadows stresses is Richard’s otherness.

The conclusion of Dead Man’s Shoes is interesting because it offers two endings. Without getting into details that would ruin the film, it is sufficient to say that one is entirely pessimistic and embroils us all in a terrible crime. The second, however, is quite the opposite. It offers comfort and redemption.

Dead Man’s Shoes is much more than its synopsis.

Rushmore

2005-03-14T02:42:00.000-05:00

1998.USA.Anderson

3.0 / 4.0

Despite the flack that Wes Anderson frequently gets from unbelievers like me, at least he makes uniquely interesting films that bare the signature of their creator in nearly every respect. From common themes and motifs to a constant, quirky style, Anderson’s works make up a body of work that makes it possible and inviting to explore its components individually and as a group.

Unfortunately, Anderson hasn’t developed in the same way as other auteurs. His newest films aren’t his best, and his richest is still his sophomore effort Rushmore. Instead of building on, or even innovating, the style and content of that film, he has aped himself in The Royal Tenenbaums and The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. The colourful cinematography and specific use of music in those films comes back to Rushmore, as does the Jacques Cousteau fascination that propels Life Aquatic and the relationship between father and sons that is key in Tenenbaums (and in Life Aquatic according to some).

Rushmore is the entire curve of Anderson’s career (so far), and each successive film merely a tangent.

By itself, the film stands as an entertaining, witty creation that has endeared itself to many film fans and critics. And while it has certainly outlived other comedies of 1998, such as Bulworth and Primary Colours, its reputation is overstated. Neither terribly affecting or poignant as a film aboutfirst love, friendship or growing old, or sharp enough to qualify as effective satire (like Alexander Payne’s 1999 Election), Rushmore is an odd nut to slice. Like its main character Max Fischer, the film is good at the extra curricular but falters at the basics. Max, for example, is a completely rounded character, with faults and virtues that make him at times despicable and at other times extremely loveable, and yet his relationship with Margaret is as unexplored as his relationship with Rosemary unresolved. His character is somewhat wasted as a result.

Anderson fills Rushmore with great moments that he can’t fashion into a great film. Luckily, the great characters and deadpan dialogue hold the better bits together, and the plot deals with enough serious material (Death, suicide, rape, Vietnam) to add just enough weight to balance the whimsy. Still, Rushmore is no masterpiece. It’s good and it may speak to people, but it’s also fuzzy and trivial.

The Aviator & The Hare

2005-03-01T17:00:00.000-05:00

It's timely to be writing about The Aviator a few days after it was acknowledged but not significantly rewarded by the annual Academy Awards. Dodging the question of how much, and what kind of, merit the awards possess, it’s always interesting to see how Hollywood wants to present itself to America and the rest of the world. This year was no exception. Gathering a small collection of minor, technical awards, but losing out the more prestigious ones to Clint Eastwood’s Million Dollar Baby, The Aviator was the victim of Hollywood’s attempt to distance itself from the blockbuster “event” films it has become synonymous with, and demonstrate that it can embrace introspective, smaller films on both scale and budget. Therefore, the forcibly emotional, extravagant and bloated The Aviator was shunned in favour of the forcibly emotional, and too obviously subtle Million Dollar Baby. Both are the products of the same system, but whereas The Aviator is a progressive film that also happens to be what is good about big Hollywood Studio productions, Million Dollar Baby masquerades as an exercise in intellectual “art” cinema while remaining firmly rooted in Hollywood restrictions. Million Dollar Baby is an extremely well made fraud that approaches neither the majesty of Hollywood or the intellectuality of good art cinema.

The white trash family in Eastwood’s film is as caricatured and overblown as the world in Scorsese’s The Aviator. However, The Aviator uses fantasy and artificiality for a purpose, to create a feeling of splendour and magic. Million Dollar Baby, convinced of its own importance, seriousness and grittiness, is rendered silly by unintentional artificiality. Scorsese understands Hollywood conventions and works within and around them. Eastwood pretends they don’t exist.

In terms of film style, not only are some of the scenes in The Aviator aesthetically astounding, but more meaningful than those in Million Dollar Baby. For example, the shot of a naked Howard Hughes clothed only by images from the film projector in his private theatre says more about celebrity and privacy than any shot in Million Dollar Baby about any of its major themes.

Million Dollar Baby isn’t a bad film, it tells a story well and knows how to generate an emotional response, but it’s more like what Hollywood typically makes than The Aviator, despite appearances. Employing continuity editing, based on a simple narrative and short on originality and ideas, Million Dollar Baby is closer to a common, mindless blockbuster than The Aviator, which has the definite imprint of its director, is infused with intelligence, and deviates from traditional film structure.

At the Academy Awards, Hollywood tried to shift the direction of its film industry. It decided to sever itself from its own past and stride in a new direction. Unfortunately, forever focused on only surfaces, it chose the same direction it has always been travelling in. There is no Howard Hughes, only his image.

In attempting to distance itself from itself, Hollywood has tossed away the extravagance of such memorable films as Ben Hur, The Sound of Music and even Titanic, but retained their shortcomings.

Hollywood has finally started believing in the myth of its own inferiority.

Kelly's Heroes

2005-02-16T23:22:00.000-05:00

1970.USA.Hutton

3.5 / 4.0

Since his obscure 1965 debut Wild Seed, director Brian G. Hutton has made only nine films. Of that handful, the 1968 and 1970 war films Where Eagles Dare and Kelly’s Heroes, both starring Clint Eastwood, are his greatest achievements. The latter is an action-packed story about a team of soldiers who infiltrate a Nazi-held castle, not unlike 1967’s The Dirty Dozen. The former is one of my favourite World War II films.

Taking place in the late stages of the war, after Operation Overlord and the Allied breakout from the Normandy beachhead, Kelly’s Heroes follows the escapades of a group of men, lead by Eastwood’s Kelly, as they deviate slightly from the grand strategy of the war and take a detour behind enemy lines to steal a cache of gold. Filling out the fantastic cast of characters (and actors!) are Big Joe, played with comedic machismo by Telly Savalas, supply officer Crapgame, a whiney Don Rickles and, the best of the bunch, tank commander Sergeant Oddball, an era-displaced Hippie played with flair by Donald Sutherland. No doubt a reference to the Vietnam War, which was very much going on while Kelly’s Heroes was released, Oddball and his troupe, who lounge about in Flower Power glory, add an interesting dimension to film. A taboo subject in Hollywood until the late ‘70s, when both American involvement in Vietnam, and the war, was over, the Vietnam War had a singnificant impact on American filmmaking. That Kelly's Heroes, released in 1971, even raised the subject is somewhat amazing. Six years later, Taxi Driver, which dealt with a Vietnam vet in Travis Bickle, was still seen as breaking taboo ground. And it took Hal Ashby’s 1978 Coming Home to finally take the finger out of the dam.

Regardless, Kelly’s Heroes is still very much a World War II film. And it’s depiction of that war balances tragedy and comedy. There are scenes of utter brutality, such as a famous minefield shootout, and ones of easygoing laughter, provided largely by Don Rickles’ character.

That the film is about soldiers making the best of their situation is interesting, if taken with the knowledge that “the good war”, as World War II came to sometimes be called in America, resulted in an immense surge of prosperity in the United States. Are Kelly and his men simply taking their due (even more so, since the gold was likely stolen by the Nazis), or are they unethically profiteering while others are still fighting and dying? Since all they’re doing is killing Nazis and taking back Nazi-occupied cities, and are beneficial to victory, do their ethics and motives even matter? Likewise, Industrialists like Henry Ford became rich during World War II, but the machines and weapons they supplied to the United States Army and Navy greatly contributed to winning the war. I don't think the film offers a concrete opinion on the subject.

Although usually left off the lists of Greatest War Films (though not this one) or even Greatest World War II Films, Kelly’s Heroes is a classic. And for anyone who doubts how influential the film is, just watch the last hour of Saving Private Ryan, which features a showdown, set in a town, between a small group of American soldiers and two Tiger tanks. Two guesses at what happens near the end of Kelly’s Heroes.

Rear Window

2005-02-16T21:10:00.000-05:00

1954.USA.Rear Window

4.0 / 4.0

Writing anything about Rear Window that’s not an academic paper seems pointless. It’s the Hitch film in which Entertainment (North by Northwest), Intellect (Marnie) and Art (Vertigo) collide in an explosion of filmic goodness. Taken as a film about watching films, with Jeff taking the role of the spectator, immobile, in a dark room, watching a screen, Rear Window is as much a film essay as anything Godard’s put out. As a commentary on gender roles, with the feminized Jeff trying to reaffirm his masculinity in the constant danger of the “perfect” Lisa, the film has been dissected to shreds by Feminist critics. Then there’s the whole Psychoanalytic angle, with Jeff’s fears and desires projected onto the windows of his neighbours. Miss Lonelyheart being the embodiment of eternal loneliness, the Newlyweds of marital hell, the Songwriter of artistic frustration, and Thorwald of the murderous impulse that, we're afraid, resides in us all. So what is there really to say about Rear Window? It’s the best film Hitchcock made. And one of the best ever made, at any time, by anyone, anywhere.

Father and Son

2005-02-02T16:39:00.000-05:00

2003.Russia.Sokurov

3.0 / 4.0

It’s easy to watch Russian filmmaker Aleksandr Sokurov’s Father and Son and discard it as nauseatingly artsy Eurotrash. There isn’t a dominant story, and a subplot about an army man who may or may not have killed someone and may or may not be dead is as cryptic as it sounds. The two main characters (the Father and the Son) have no names and we’re not quite sure if we’re supposed to watch them or watch with them. Is their relationship creepy or loving? Add that long stretches of the already short film are of nothing happening and some viewers will conclude that Father and Son is monotony on film, disguised as art.

It’s an easy interpretation of the film, but one that’s nearsighted, while still being somewhat unintentionally accurate, and helpful in deciphering just what is going on. Father and Son is monotony on film, but it’s not a monotonous film. Going against what viewers are used to, and conditioned to concentrate on, Sokurov’s film is about not what’s happening or why it’s happening as much as it’s about how the happenings are shown. For example, the conversation between the Son and the Girl, if taken as a typical movie fare, is a throwaway exchange that neither advances plot or builds character. Hollywood would cut it. And that’s exactly Sokurov’s point. The conversation is meaningless, but the way in which it’s filmed gives it meaning. The form creates the content; the content doesn’t dictate the form. Sokurov says: Focus not on the dialogue, but on the mise-en-scene. It’s vital that the scene is shot with the two characters on opposite sides of a window, because it makes visual the invisible barrier that separates the Son from the Girl (in this case the Son’s reluctance to leave the Father). Furthermore, their faces, as filmed, are often separated by the horizontal and vertical bars that run across the glass, separating the screen into several frames, suggesting fractured states of mind. Other good examples are the multiple scenes in which the Father and Son are on the roof of their apartment building together. Sometimes they lift weights there, play soccer, or perform acrobatics. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the openness that Sokurov’s compositions and setting suggest. The dialogue between the characters doesn’t reveal as much about their relationship as the image of their figures against the sky and the shared feeling of being above the bustle of the street cars and people below.

It’s a shame that so many critics responded to the first shots of Father and Son, of the entangled, naked bodies of the Father and Son, by interpreting them as homoerotic and choosing to explore only that aspect of the film. And it’s fittingly funny that the reason the scene can be viewed as homoerotic is not because of what is happening (the Father waking the Son from a nightmare), but because of how Sokurov films and edits it. In a way, that scene is a misunderstood statement of intent, or thesis, to the rest of the film. In it, Sokurov flags up that how we see things has a huge impact on how we perceive them. Father and Son is not absorbing narrative entertainment. It's a defence of art cinema and of the director as artist. Remember the outdated argument about the auteur versus the metteur-en-scene? It’s just been updated.

Notorious

2005-01-29T17:58:00.000-05:00

1946.USA.Hitchcock

3.0 / 4.0

Hitchcock’s romantic Noir Notorious sees the Master of Suspense in good, but overrated, form. Made soon after the end of World War II, the film takes Nazi villains and pits them against an American agency, embodied by Cary Grant’s character Devlin, in exotic Rio de Janeiro. The battleground is Alicia Huberman, the daughter of a convicted Nazi who agrees to work for the Americans while feigning love for an important Nazi, thus gaining access to his mansion hideout, where suspicious things may be happening.

My main problem with the film (and calling this film imperfect still makes me feel slightly dirty) is its treatment of, and focus on, the relationship between Devlin and Alicia. The two lovebirds spend enough onscreen time together to distract from the more fascinating Nazi plot (or subplot, depending on your interpretation), but not nearly enough to make their relationship convincing or memorable. The film’s long beginning may be a valiant attempt by Hitchcock to create genuine emotion between the characters, but it’s a failure, because for everything that Hitchcock did well, constructing great, natural characters was one of his weak points. And call me a sadist, but I derive more pleasure from watching Marnie and Connery’s Mark Rutland than the mostly innocent love between Devlin and Alicia. I don’t doubt that I prefer Hitchcock films in which the characters are treated as props, useful in generating suspense, thrills and communicating the subtext that Hitchcock’s films are usually so full of. And Notorious disappoints in this respect too (although Penny’s perceptive idea that, “the overt use of the camera reinforces that the story itself is about manipulation,” is something I’m going to pay attention to the next time I watch it). The film is fairly shallow Hitchcock, with everything laid bare and even traditional Hitchcock motifs such as “the mother” implemented rather half-heartedly and mostly as plot devices.

In the film’s defence, it does contain several moments of high-calibre Hitchcock genius, such as the two famous balcony scenes, overlooking a beautifully shot coastline (and some clever editing to get around the time restrictions placed on characters’ kisses) and the staircase finale, in which Devlin makes good use of the three-way conflict between himself, Sebastian, and the ever-more-menacing Nazis. There are also some very good subjective shots, most notably of Alicia while she’s being poisoned and after waking up hung over. But these highpoints are technical.

Notorious is entertaining stuff, and quite good, but it’s not a Hitchcock masterpiece. At least not to a morose glutton for espionage like me.

The Hound of the Baskervilles

2005-01-28T18:54:00.000-05:00

1939.USA.Lanfield

3.0 / 4.0

The Hound of the Baskervilles is a lean, tight version of the famous Sherlock Holmes tale. There’s hardly a wasted frame, unless you object to the silly romantic subplot between Henry Baskerville and Beryl Stapleton. Even a campy séance scene fits the mood of the film. And at less than eighty minutes, the running time is just right. Basil Rathbone is great as the detective, and Nigel Bruce is fun as a comic, bumbling Watson. Some critics object to director Lanfield’s horror approach to the story, but it works quite well and results in some atmospheric shots of the foggy moors around Baskervilles Hall and a genuinely monstrous hound. On the downside, the resolution is a bit underwhelming and Holmes disappears for a long chunk of the second act, leaving Watson and Henry as the main characters. Interestingly, a tame line of dialogue suggesting Holmes’ drug use (“Oh, Watson, the needle.”) was controversial at the time of the film’s release.

Just a Kiss

2005-01-25T22:53:00.000-05:00

2004.Britain.Loach

1.0 / 4.0

British social realist filmmaker Ken Loach tackles inter-faith marriage and the tension between progress and tradition in his newest, called Ae Fond Kiss... on The Isles and Just a Kiss everywhere else. Building on the central relationship, that between a Muslim man and once-Catholic lass, the film manages to induce several forms of boredom and may force some viewers to claw at their eyes and brain, all while maintaining that it is of the same calibre as the British “kitchen sink” dramas of the sixties. Did I mention that it’s a smashing disaster?

Loach has made some good films, as well as some bad ones, but this is his lowest point. Just a Kiss is a film that flies in the face of filmmaking. It’s over an hour and a half of talking heads (played by ex-models) spouting bland lines and expressing their love by spending much of their on screen time making un-erotic love to each other. That “he” wants to open a night club and “she” teaches music could have made for some touching, unique scenes in which two people share a passion for music. But that must have slipped Loach’s (or screenwriter Paul Laverty’s) mind, because it’s barely touched on. I’m not even sure why these people like, let alone love, each other.

The best scene of the film is its first, in which “his” younger sister (the film’s best character, who doesn’t make nearly enough appearances) gives a rousing speech in front of her high school class that ends in a chase through the halls and to “his” parked car. Excluding a later scene where “his” father beats up some windows, it’s the rare scene in Just a Kiss that involves action. If one were to write transcribe what actually happens in the film, leaving out dialogue, the result would be pages of walking, sitting, and riding in cars. The dialogue, as desired I guess, is realistic and uninteresting with a whole bunch of repetition. “Talky” films can, and do, work and ones like Closer are pretty darn good. But they’re not meant to be realist works. There lies the crux of Loach’s problem. Like theatre, these “stagy” films aim away from realism. For example, the dialogue in Closer, or a David Mamet film, is expressive and complex rather than naturalistic. There’s a reason why playwrights and screenwriters whittle away at their scripts until they achieve the largest amount of, and clearest, meaning in the shortest space possible. To use a Seinfeld analogy, the dialogue in a good play or “talky” film is fully comprised of “jerk stores”. It ain’t kinda like the stuff you hear on the street when your walking to the umm grocery store and stuff. And it doesn’t make things better that Loach is getting more preachy with age.

Just a Kiss is a terrible film.

Million Dollar Baby

2005-01-23T22:46:00.000-05:00

2004.USA.Eastwood

3.0 / 4.0

Clint Eastwood’s Million Dollar Baby is a well directed, acted (Morgan Freeman being the standout) and written riff on a story that wouldn’t be out of place in a daytime soap. It’s a fine film constructed from superior elements. In his review of it, Steve suggests that it will leave viewers polarized. Some will see cliché, and others cliché transcended. I fall into the first group, but with an asterisk. Million Dollar Baby is cliché perfected, Mystic River is better, and there’s not much more to say.

The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou

2005-01-14T19:51:00.000-05:00

2004.USA.Anderson

2.5 / 4.0

I haven’t seen Bottle Rocket, was unimpressed by Rushmore, and the best thing I have to say about The Royal Tenenbaums is that it was quirky. In other words, I’m not a Wes Anderson fan. Despite my best attempts, I can’t seem to find anything in his films to sink my teeth into. They have an uncanny ability to draw me into their world, and I don’t dislike watching them, but they always come off as empty. Maybe I have a beef with Anderson the screenwriter and enjoy Anderson the director. Maybe I just don’t understand the films. Either way, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou is more of the same.

Filled with great actors, the film is a lackadaisical fairytale about an aging oceanographer/filmmaker on a quest to kill the shark that killed his partner. Many people focus on the triangular relationship between Zissou, his son, and the jealous Klaus as the heart of the film, but I’m not convinced. The relationships are too shallow. If there is an overlying theme to film, my best guess is that it has something to do with artistic erectile dysfunction, or writer’s block. Why else would Zissou be a filmmaker and an oceanographer? If so, then Zissou’s son, Ned, is not a real child, but an idea (or inspiration) that Zissou gave birth to and somehow lost. And the course of the film sees Zissou fighting to regain that idea and cure his dysfunction. He moves from a state of artistic bankruptcy to creative renewal. It’s important to keep in mind that Zissou’s ultimate creation, which comes to him in a moment of intense emotion, the death of his friend, is the Jaguar Shark. Therefore, the film’s ending amounts to an artistic success for Zissou, something that eluded him in the opening scenes. (And the film’s pirates are meant to represent film piracy?)

Taken as part autobiography, The Life Aquatic may be a story of its own making not dissimilar from the Charlie Kaufman penned Adaptation. But whereas that film used style to complement and comment on its content, Anderson substitutes one for the other. For example, the action scenes in The Life Aquatic, while well enhanced by music and cinematography, are filler. They’re not necessary. The same can be said for many of the film’s lines of dialogue, which are funny but superfluous. Spec screenwriters are told, “kill your babies.” Anderson, as writer-director, has more freedom, but the advice is still sound. It could even be applied to a few of the characters.

Filled with some nice special effects, colourful sets and good acting, The Life Aquatic isn’t a bad film. But I still can’t figure out exactly what it’s about. Maybe it is about relationships between fathers and sons, or about the artist who’s lost his spark, or simply about growing old. I don’t know. And I suspect Wes Anderson doesn’t either.

Easy Virtue

2005-01-14T18:20:00.000-05:00

1928.Britain.Hitchcock

2.0 / 4.0

Easy Virtue is an early, silent Hitchcock that is memorable mostly because it foreshadows themes and techniques that the director would use later in his career. The plodding story centres on Larita Filton, whose identity is corrupted by the media after a sensational divorce trial, and her subsequent attempt to start a new life with her new, and younger, husband. However, this proves difficult because as soon as she moves into her husband’s house (Rebecca) she’s antagonized by his cruel, overprotective mother (Psycho, The Birds, Marnie, etc.) As the mother’s suspicions rise, Larita fights to keep her real identity a secret (Notorious).

Feminist film critics like to read the film as Hitchcock’s condemnation of a patriarchal society that oppresses women, citing the courts, the media, and even the mother as the guilty parties. Of the three, it is the role of the media, represented by the camera, that captured Hitchcock’s interest the most. A much expanded version of the idea would be the basis for Rear Window.

From a technical point of view, there are some minor Hitchcockian touches. The best is a visualization of telephone conversation and its outcome through the facial expressions of the telephone operator who is listening in. There is also a great shot of a man’s swinging pocket watch melting into and out of a shot of a swinging pendulum that can be read in a few different ways. Some subjective shots are quite good, too. Most effective, however, are Hitchcock’s scene transitions. In the film’s funniest transition, a French poodle turns into an English bulldog to signify a corresponding change of setting.

Easy Virtue is strictly for people interested in Hitchcock. Otherwise, it's pretty ordinary stuff.

The Motorcycle Diaries

2005-01-14T17:14:00.000-05:00

2004.USA.Salles

3.0 / 4.0

In Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Sheltering Sky, two characters explain the distinction between tourist and traveller:

“A tourist is someone who thinks about going home the moment they arrive, Tunner. Whereas a traveler might not come back at all.”

Based on the diary of a young Ernesto “Che” Guevara, Walter Salles’ The Motorcycle Diaries is less a political statement or exploration of the early life of the revolutionary than it is a celebration of the journey. In following Guevara and his friend Alberto Granado on their trip across South America, Salles captures the perhaps indescribable feeling of adventure and discovery known to all travellers. Hints at Guevara’s future are wisely kept in the background, and break out at only a few key moments.

The most interesting aspect of The Motorcycle Diaries is its use of music. In the beginning, it originates strictly from outside the film’s world, imposed by the filmmaker, and is associated with the road. The film’s score dominates shots of Guevara and Granado speeding along on their motorcycle (also prominent are shots of the motorcycle crashing, which bring to mind another journey: the Stations of the Cross). However, despite the non-film world origin of the music, the two main characters hear it as clearly as the viewer, in the sense that it is synonymous with the lure of the open road. In this context, the entire film can be seen as an attempt by the two characters, but especially by Guevara, to find the film world source of the music that they hear but cannot understand. For example, Guevara is intrigued by the music performed by an orchestra at the house of his wealthy girlfriend’s father but eventually accepts, as does the viewer, that the music is not the same as the music on the road. Romantic love and money, Salles argues, cannot bring Guevara happiness or fulfilment. Neither can technology or science, as evidenced by the manner in which the music of a Chilean mechanic abruptly cuts off, yet another false lead. The first true source of music, discovered by Granado, comes at a leper colony as Granado leads a band of amateur percussionists in an intense jam session. It is here that he discovers his calling, and it is this moment that shapes the rest of his life. Guevara does not have a parallel onscreen experience, but Salles leaves no doubt as to his future. As the end credits roll over shots of various poor characters from the film, the score, exactly the same music as associated with the road, forges a direct link between those farmers, labourers, and unemployed and the music. For Guevara, it is these people that create the music in his life.

Enduring Love

2005-01-10T22:48:00.000-05:00

2004.Britain.Michell

2.0 / 4.0

Roger Michell’s Enduring Love begins on a striking image. A pastoral setting is invaded by action as a hot air balloon interrupts a couple’s romantic picnic. The balloon is red and almost out of control. Behind it, an old man struggles to reel it in by way of a rope. Inside is a young boy. Suddenly, the picnicking man jumps into action. He speeds after the balloon, along with several strangers, and they manage to bring the balloon down. Everything is fine. Then a violent gust of wind, an act of God, lifts the balloon into the air again. The men hang onto the basket, hoping to force it back down. The balloon rises, contrasted against the sky. One of the men lets go. Within seconds, they all let go. Except for the old man, who rises with the balloon until even he can’t hold on. He falls to his death.

In this excellent scene, the balloon is a unique metaphor for love. Red, (the colour of passion but also of violence) the balloon (full of hot air) can be both an exhilarating experience (when witnessing the world from an otherwise impossibly high point of view) and destructive (as it proves for the old man). Love, as presented by Michell, is a force more powerful than any one person, and the most one can do is hang on. Sometimes this ends in happiness (the salvation of the young boy) and sometimes, for no logical reason (the gust of wind), in tragedy. The boy himself, in the basket, is perhaps a symbol for birth. And the old man’s death is an effective visualization of the self-destructiveness that an obsession motivated by love, such as the one the film will focus on, can result in. This opening scene has more depth than many full films.

Unfortunately, the promise of the film’s beginning is only a tease. Michell soon shows his true intentions, which sadly amount to making a gay, humdrum remake of Fatal Attraction. He fails to explore most of the issues raised by the great opening, and eventually even succumbs to preaching the film’s themes directly through the mouth of his main character. The actors do the best they can, but the film soon enough becomes tough to sit through. Neither the protagonist nor the religiously confused stalker are well developed, and the second act drags like Cheech Marin. My advice is to watch the first ten minutes and then turn it off. Most of Enduring Love is harder to endure than it is enduring.

Best Films of 2004

2005-01-10T15:50:00.000-05:00

01. Code 46
02. Oldboy
03. Bad Education
04. Warszawa
05. Touching the Void
06. Twilight Samurai
07. Hotel Rwanda
08. Napoleon Dynamite
09. Two Brothers
10. Before Sunset
11. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
12. The Passion of the Christ
13. The Motorcycle Diaries
14. Million Dollar Baby
15. I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

Complete List is here

Bad Education

2005-01-08T19:10:00.000-05:00

2004.Spain.Almodovar

4.0 / 4.0

Pedro Almodovar’s rainbow flavoured Film Noir, teeming with gay gaudiness and subverted genre conventions, is sweet and perverse mind candy by a master confectioner. Built with the basic blocks of any Noir, the femme fatale, ambiguity of good and evil, or saint and sinner, narrative through flashbacks and frames, and a sense of the pressure of a mysterious past, Bad Education transforms them into a fresh and fascinating, although wildly unfocused, film. Ultimately a story within a story within a story, each filled with as much truth as invention, Almodovar explores four characters over a period of twenty years, from their Catholic education well into their adulthood. A sometimes priest, two gay brothers, one of whom is a transvestite, and a successful film director are the principal players, an interesting deviation from Almodovar’s usual fascination with female characters. The film’s perplexing plot revolves mainly around stories, written by the triply named Zahara/Juan/Angel, which become both evidence and fiction.

Partly autobiographical, the film nevertheless warns that any retelling of past events, including Bad Education itself, is bound to contain numerous distortions and prejudices. As such, the controversy surrounding the film’s depiction of Catholic clergy, and its abuses, is rather unfounded as Almodovar is never simple in his accusations and criticisms. The abusive priest, for example, is intentionally distanced from the Church in later segments of the film, making it difficult to lay the blame for the titular “bad education” on a group, but rather on an individual, who himself is portrayed as lost and enslaved to powers and urges that he does not fully understand. Also unclear is Almodovar’s opinion on using art as a political tool. Certainly able to expose the comforted, as Juan’s story does, it can also be used as blatant profiteering. Whether Bad Education is meant to do either, both, or none is up for debate.

A major theme of the film is performance. One of the central characters is an actor, who impersonates people in front and beyond the range of the camera, another a director, the third a transvestite, a man performing as a woman, and the last an abusive priest, whose spiritual and later domestic life is a play put on to mask his true identity. A pivotal scene in which an abused boy, now an adult, confronts a priest appears to be an objective flashback but turns out to be a scene in a film. And after plotting a murder, two characters decide to go to the cinema (showing posters for Double Indemnity and La Bete Humaine), in what they believe will be a way to pass the time, but what Almodovar states is yet another performance. Almost in every scene characters perform for each other. From singing, to posing in and around a pool, and even to sex, characters play roles. That the same actors often have parts in each of the three frames of Bad Education underlines the eventual confusion and breakdown of these roles. The priest, for example, despite his desire to lead a heterosexual family life, finally gives in completely to, what we assume, is his true identity. On a larger level, Almodovar, as he often does, explores gender as an assigned role.

Throughout the film, Almodovar displays his technical filmmaking ability. From point of view shots, substituting the objectification of the female body with the male, to smaller and smaller “frames” of vision meant to show the impossibility of camera objectivity and the narrowness of human understanding and acceptance, he shows complete control over a film that is a strange mix of control and chaos, ugliness and beauty. But perhaps the greatest achievement of Bad Education is its ability to make the viewer feel at once uncomfortable and intrigued through subject matter and presentation. In doing so, it shows just how schematic and shallowly reaffirming most films are.

Meet the Fockers

2005-01-04T13:41:00.000-05:00

2004.USA.Roach

2.0 / 4.0

Meet the Fockers is an attempt to cash in on the success of Meet the Parents, a far superior film. It uses the same premise, but with wackier, less believable characters (the best sequence involves a baby and Scarface). It would be uninteresting trash if it weren’t for two things. First, the film’s form fits its content. The Fockers celebrate the mediocrity of their son, Gaylord, by erecting a shrine-like wall of fame for him, filled with seventh placed ribbons at disciplines such as bread making. So too Jay Roach’s direction emphasizes its own blandness. Unlike most films, Meet the Fockers accepts its own insignificance. There is also a question of politics, emphasized by the casting of Dustin Hoffman, an outspoken liberal, as Bernie Focker. Pitted against DeNiro’s Jack Byrnes, the two engage in a battle of ideologies that the film plays out on a battleground of child rearing. On a historical scale, Byrnes represents the Cold War style of American foreign policy based on an arms race, represented by the Byrnes RV, and spheres of influence, or “circles of trust”. Focker, on the other hand, is more environmentally conscious and socially aware, while still not being a push over. In a pivotal scene he injures Byrnes by unexpectedly crashing into him during a football game, his arms stretched out like airplane wings. That Byrnes eventually acts, by injecting Gaylord with truth serum, on bad intelligence may also suggest other connections. Overall, Meet the Parents is an unfunny, bad and darn interesting film.

Friday Night Lights

2005-01-04T11:44:00.000-05:00

2004.USA.Berg

1.5 / 4.0

I don’t know anything about the Permian Panthers, or their 1988 run to the Texas high school football state finals, so against my better judgement I have to give screenwriter David Cohen the benefit of the doubt. I’ll take everything that happens in Friday Night Lights as fact, shielding it from becoming just another cliché-ridden sports flick, even though the stock characters all make an appearance (son who can’t live up to father’s expectations, middle-aged drunkard who can’t let go of teenage past, injured superstar, etc.) But that Friday Night Lights focuses on these well known elements even though it has plenty of more original and interesting ideas bubbling underneath its Mighty Ducks surface means that the filmmakers are playing it safe. The issues of a town that is ominously obsessed with football (“They’re doing too much learning in the schools,” says a resident on a radio call-in show after a loss), the responsibility shouldered by the teenage players (Coach Gary Gaines: “The hopes and dreams of an entire town are riding on your shoulders. You may never matter more than you do right now.”), the desire of the young men to escape the small town lives of their fathers (“That's because he's out of here. He's got the grades. And no matter what we win or loose he knows he's getting out. He's got one foot out the door, man.”), and the uncertainty of a football career, or any dream, are much more fascinating than a last gasp downfield drive. On a brighter note, the filmmakers didn’t shy away from showing that in the championship game, in which the Panthers faced an all-black Dallas Carter team, it was a black ref who made the wrong call, benefiting the Cowboys. Although the film will no doubt be familiar to anyone who’s seen even a few sports films, there’s a certain amount of depth to Friday Night Lights that makes it mildly engaging. Just don’t let the football games distract you. Oh, and by the way, the jerky camerawork doesn’t mesh well with the otherwise slick production values. It’s like paying extra for used furniture. Some people do it, but I just don’t get it.

Hotel Rwanda

2005-01-03T17:03:00.000-05:00

2004.USA.George

* * *

Sometimes a film’s subject matter threatens to overpower the quality of its filmmaking. Such is the case with Terry George’s Hotel Rwanda, a harrowing account of the 1994 genocide in Rwanda that saw close to one million of the country’s Tutsi minority killed at the hands of the Hutu majority. Much like Spielberg’s Holocaust film Schindler’s List, to which Hotel Rwanda is being liberally compared (although Polanki’s The Pianist offers a more apt comparison), a negative or lacklustre review of the film’s form threatens to become a defamation of the genocide itself. Therefore, while credit should be given to George and co-screenwriter Keir Pearson for bringing such an important and overlooked episode of recent history to the screen, it should be kept separate from a critical approach to the film. That being said, Hotel Rwanda, despite not being a masterpiece, is a very good film.

Much of the film’s power derives from three key aspects. First, the plot smartly focuses on one main character. Paul Rusesabagina, a Hutu, played with awesome restraint by Don Cheadle, is a hotel manager whose various skills, coupled with courage, allow him to save the lives of over a thousand innocent people, while often risking his own, by sheltering them in his hotel. Had the film tried to embrace the entire scope of the Rwandan genocide, its effect would have been diluted. However, because it is primarily the story of Paul, Hotel Rwanda elicits an emotional response from the viewer that contributes vastly to its impact. A result of this is that the actual killing, except during one scene, is kept off-screen. Hotel Rwanda, as its PG-13 rating attests to, is not a visually violent film. Interestingly, this decision, made for whatever reason, results in a tension that is not only horrific in itself, but plays on the viewer’s imagination. George carefully shows us enough to let us know what is going on outside the hotel perimeter without actually showing us the genocide. In a large scale application of the Classical Hollywood method of showing murder as a gun, a gunshot and splatter of blood, and of implying sex through dialogue and cigarettes, Hotel Rwanda implies its massacres. But whereas Classical Hollywood was forced into its actions by a production code, George’s decision is relatively free. It’s not self-censorship, but creativity, succinctness and a respect for the audience. For example, a shot early in the film of a large wooden crate breaking on the floor, spilling hundreds of machetes, is as effective as any gory death scene in any film of last year. But George’s camera doesn’t dwell on it. In fact, the deftness with which George handles the material is superb. He never intrudes or stylizes, but simply records. Hotel Rwanda is not a portfolio piece, as is Joshua Marston’s Maria Full of Grace or even Spielberg’s Schindler’s List. George doesn’t indulge in trick shots, elaborate cinematography or special effects. He lets the story speak for itself.

The minor faults that prevent Hotel Rwanda from being an excellent film result from instances in which George breaks his own rules. A reporter played by Joaquin Phoenix, for example, exists too much as a narrator about the causes of the genocide, and a few scenes suffer due to the intrusion of swelling, melodramatic music. But these are fairly minor quibbles about an otherwise good film.

So see Hotel Rwanda because it is a good film and because of what it is about. Just try not to mix the two up too much.

Note: Interestingly both Terry George and Keir Pearson are Irish, a people often considered the “blacks of Europe”.

House of the Flying Daggers

2004-12-31T20:53:00.000-05:00

2004.China.Zhang

*

Director of Hero, Yimou Zhang, tries his hand at more mythmaking with the nicely visualized but otherwise failed House of the Flying Daggers. Perhaps in response to one of the few general criticisms of Hero, a lack of story, Zhang imbues House with a Romeo-and-Juliet-type tale and a barrage of plot twists that are meant to serve as the foundation for the film’s pretty pictures. They don’t, and the result is a plodding, heavy mess whose only accomplishment is to work against the lightness and acrobatics of the film’s fight (and dance) sequences which, while above average, are less spectacular than those in Hero. Maybe it’s due to the absence of Christopher Doyle as cinematographer, but House feels like it was shot by someone with good visual instincts but not enough training. Adding to an already patience-testing experience is inane dialogue, such as in an early scene set in a torture chamber in which one character informs another, “Before you is a torture device,” after we have been treated to a string of shots of the various mechanisms in close up. Also mildly irritating, and at times embarrassing, are the flowery lines spouted by the main characters, which are about as elegant and subtle as Michael Mann’s coyotes in Collateral. Overall, House is overlong and overblown. It refuses to believe in its own emptiness, fighting, to its very end, to convince you that something worthwhile and profound is going on. It’s not. What you see is what you get, and that, unfortunately, is not enough.

If you want to watch a beautiful film (with well composed shots steeped in colour symbolism) which has a good narrative (based on Shakespeare and great at balancing the epic and the personal), see Kurosawa’s Ran.

Maria Full of Grace

2004-12-28T16:25:00.000-05:00

2004.USA.Marston

2.0 / 4.0

Marston’s directorial debut is a sometimes riveting, other times hackneyed, but ultimately affecting depiction of the life of a “mule”, or human drug container. Anchored by a good performance by Catalina Sandino Moreno, the film almost transcends the limitations imposed on it by forced conflicts and melodrama. At its best, Maria Full of Grace is a primer on drug smuggling that excels in its realism. At its worst, it’s a Latino soap opera with pointless romances, family bickering and blunt, overbearing symbolism. The shots of roses and the parallels between Maria and Carla are tolerable. But the last shot of the film, with a pregnant Maria walking in front of a giant sign that reads: “It’s what’s on the inside that counts” to the tune of a bland, indie rock song, is overkill. In Marston’s defence, the tension between realism and symbolism has been around since at least The Bicycle Thieves. However, if Maria Full of Grace had chosen one over the other it would have probably made a better film. Still, as a debut film it’s good for both Marston and Moreno. As anything else, it’s not bad but not as good as you’ve probably heard.

War on Information

2004-12-19T22:49:00.000-05:00

In the past week several websites offering links to bittorrent files were taken offline. A recent surge in pressure exerted by the Motion Picture Association (www.mpaa.org) on these link providers forced their demise. Some, like Phoenix Torrents and Suprnova (Slovenia), which saw over a million visitors a day, made the decision to cease operation before legal action was brought against them and their users. Others, like Youceff Torrents (France), which had its servers raided by police, had little choice.

Importantly, these sites did not host “illegal” files but only pointed to them. However, faced with the almost unlimited power of multinational conglomerates, the creators and administrators of these sites neither have the resources, money, or time to do battle in court. Most bittorrent link sites operate for no profit, and sometimes struggle to pay server costs with money from donations and web ads.

In a predictable twist, the war against bittorrent, file sharing, and the freedom of the internet has already devolved to propaganda (Luther, the printing press and the Church anyone?). Recent news articles available through Yahoo and Reuters about the bittorrent phenomenon have equated the technology with terrorism:

“Some of the BitTorrent host sites, like SuprNova.org, generate a daily list of new seed files added by users. The site recently had listings for movies such as "Van Helsing" and ‘Wimbledon’, which is not scheduled for release on DVD for another three weeks.

Some sites offer digitized broadcasts of "The Daily Show With Jon Stewart," computer games like "Star Trek: Klingon Academy" and "Half Life 2," e-books on the physics behind an atomic bomb, even footage of kidnap victims in the Middle East.” (from here)

Regardless of one’s stance on so-called “piracy”, bittorrent also allows for the transfer of legal files such as classic literature, taped concerts, and freeware software. Textbooks are offered, but they are neither restricted to physics or to the creation of atomic bombs (Cold War nostalgia, perhaps?). God forbid the evil that shall be unleashed on us all if people educate themselves! Still, a youth addicted to drugs is easier to control than one with a thirst for knowledge. As to the clips of beheadings; they’re online. Along with clips of anything else you can think of, including a funny one of George Bush picking his nose and various cartoons and short films.

More of this type of Spin is surely to come.

But whatever the MPAA can bring itself to shove down our throats, the fact remains that file sharing is good for the individual. It allows people to gather information, listen to music, and watch films that they would otherwise likely not experience. Even if, and it’s debatable, bittorrent is detrimental to the film and music industries, the betterment of society should supersede that. The government, a body elected by the people to serve the people, cannot put the desires of a corporation above those of the people.

Separation of Corporation and State? (here)

(Especially funny is the attitude of companies such as Sony, that produce music, films, CDs, DVDs, computers, CD burners and DVD burners. Opposed to “piracy” they may be, but while it’s going on they seem content to profit from it.)

Perhaps the most overlooked aspect of the entire situation is that bittorrent is like a medium inside the internet. It's not merely the sending and receiving of a file, but a nique way of doing so. Think of it like a road, with many possibilities and uses. Should our roadways be destroyed because there are accidents? Should telephone use be restricted because someone can use it to plan a bombing?

THEY are using all means at their disposal to convince you that file sharing is evil before you can decide for yourself. (see “piracy” at dictionary.com: here)

Napster’s dead.

Fool me once, won’t get fooled again.

The war is on.

The Incredibles

2004-12-18T15:42:00.000-05:00

2004.USA.Bird

* *

Well made computer-animated feature about a family of superheroes that's neither Pixar’s or director Brad Bird’s best work. Boringly long, periodically unfunny and surprisingly violent, The Incredibles nevertheless manages to moralize nicely about the strength of the nuclear family and all forms of tolerance. Erroneous black character Frozone and French mini-villain Bomb Voyage are satirical highpoints while the by-the-book structure is irredeemable even by parody. The film’s oft-lauded mass appeal is a greater victory for film business than filmmaker, and its excellent critical reception is perplexing. Moreso The Mediocres than The Incredibles, the film is nevertheless mildly entertaining and visually impressive. And, it must be said, Elizabeth Pena has a deliciously sexy voice that couples well with Elastigirl’s fantastically rotund bottom.

Back by the pond.

2004-12-18T15:28:00.000-05:00

Phew.

With essays and exams coming to a halt, I can start watching movies again! I've decided, in a shameless aping of Scott's site, to keep my reviews short and to start attaching ratings ("Ebert-like" 4-star system). Seems so much funner this way.

Ducks out.

Warmer Places

2004-11-08T11:50:00.000-05:00

Essays. Exams. Studying. Bah!

There'll be a brief hiatus while I get these suckers done.

The Violence of Sound

2004-10-25T12:16:00.000-05:00

Ask some people and they’ll tell you that films are way too violent these days. They’ll point out the blood, the gore, the guts, and reflect nostalgically on the days when Alfred Hitchcock depicted murder through clever editing and restraint. “Nowadays,” they’ll say, “they just have to show everything.”

There’s some truth in this, films are more bloody and violent, but there is also too much credit given to the filmmakers of the past. Political and technical restrictions played a big part in their restraint. However, what is mentioned less often, and due less to these two factors, is the shift toward violence in sound. In the same example from Hitchcock, it’s the sound of the gun shot that moves it beyond a doubt that someone, indeed, has been killed. And just like it can be argued that we’ve become desensitized to violence that would have been shocking fifty years ago, so too we’ve become used to the violent barrage of sound in today’s films.

Take a film like Howard Hawk’s classic Film Noir The Big Sleep, starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, and compare it to a newer, but still well received, detective film such as L.A. Confidential or, a favourite of mine, Carlito’s Way. The classical orchestral score of the first and its masterful use of silence provides an ideal set-up to the gun shots that punctuate the film. When a gun is shot, you jump! In the newer films, there is always something going on, both on the screen and on the audio track. As a result, a gun shot is about as shocking as an increase in the tempo of the background music, or someone yelling across a room to someone else. By complicating and cluttering the audio part of the films, the filmmakers have robbed it of its power. The most complicated aspect of The Big Sleep is its plot, and that is arguably its weakest point as well.

Films, like other forms of art, should have a rhythm and flow. The story needs to have high and low points, moments of intense action and moments of introspection. There need to be close ups and long shots, and long takes and short takes. So why should a film’s sound be different? Assaulting a viewer’s ears for ninety minutes is tiring, lazy and boring. As great as the bombastic parts of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony are, they are balanced by the beautiful, slower, quiet parts. For every Black Dog and Whole Lotta Love, there’s a Stairway to Heaven.

Great filmmakers understand the importance and power of sound, and they use it to create rich, memorable works. Who can forget the last scenes of Bonnie Clyde, and the journey from poetry, through rain, to whispers, to yells, to the playful banjo picking, to a terrible explosion of gunfire, and finally to silence? Even Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan understands this, and includes an instance of muted noise, through the ears of a stunned soldier, as a break from its long, loud opening sequence. But the majority of modern films have moved to extreme, unrelenting audio violence.

Film theorist Rudolf Arnheim controversially predicted that sound would destroy film. That turned out not to be the case, and sound allowed filmmakers yet another avenue of expression to explore, but maybe he was onto something. Silence is powerful. It shouldn’t be thrown away simply because it’s possible to fill every inch of film with sound. But silence is also dangerous. It exposes the visual image. And too many filmmakers use sound as a shield, instead of as a tool. It’s a distraction, not a complement or extension. It’s noise, which is much easier to make than music.

Review: Team America: World Police

2004-10-18T00:40:00.000-05:00

It’s rare to go into a film with certain expectations, be initially disappointed, and come out utterly impressed. It’s even rarer when there are puppets involved.

My expectations for Team America: World Police were simple. I wanted a barbed political comedy. I wanted satire. I wanted a film that took one sided pot shots. I was completely under the impression that I was getting a film intended to influence, or at least released to coincide with, the upcoming American Presidential election. Was I alone in anticipating a Michael Moore film with puppets?

Instead, I got Michael Moore as a puppet in a film that took the median between left and right (or close to it) and, to my dismay, just wasn’t very politically funny. Fortunately, about ten minutes into the film, when a Team America member is gunned down by a turban-wearing terrorist in Paris beneath an impotent Eiffel Tower while asking another Team member to marry him, I let my expectations go and started to enjoy Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s hilarious, multilayered comedy on its own terms. Because what it lacked in jabs at Bush, the film made up for in its other approaches to comedy.

For anyone unfamiliar with the film’s premise it’s: A parody of brainless action films done with puppets. That’s it. There’s a plot with terrorists and Kim Jong Il, but it’s merely functional.

Parody is the film’s first layer. Most of laughs are derived from just how well the filmmakers manage to mimic a real Michael Bay action movie. From swelling music at times when characters spill their guts (and really spill their guts), to slow motion deaths and exploding heads, to simplistic character motivations, traumatic childhood experiences, and romantic chitchat at the most inopportune moments, to the pre-climactic montage, to cornball dialogue, it’s all here. And it’s done in a way that doesn’t deviate much from the sources it’s parodying. I could imagine Ben Affleck looking Kate Beckinsale in the eyes and sweetly professing, “I promise I will… never die.” Michael Bay probably would have made this film, had Parker and Stone not made fun of it first.

Politics, arguably, makes up the film’s second layer. And the aim is at everything in sight (except for the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, which must be a non-issue anyway because neither Bush nor Kerry mentioned it at their debates). Team America is shown as arrogant, blunt, and inconsiderate. One member proudly proclaims, “Cairo… that’s in Egypt.” There’s also a great scene in which the Team America chopper descends onto a marketplace in Cairo, before blowing up most of Egypt’s well known attractions.

The terrorists are, well, terrorists. They range from Middle Eastern, to Somali, to Chechen, to North Korean. Then there are the actors. Alec Baldwin, Martin Sheen, Matt Damon, Susan Sarandon, Tim Robbins, Sean Penn, and others all make appearances. The Penn puppet even mentions his visit to Iraq, where children cheerfully played with gumdrop candy in rivers of chocolate. One by one, the members of the Film Actors Guild suffer horrible deaths at the hands of Team America after declaring their allegiance to the terrorists. It seems like, for some reason, Parker and Stone have the most venom toward them. Michael Moore is called a “socialist weasel”. The film ends with a naughty monologue given in front of a crowd of world leaders that, while played for laughs, isn’t all that dumb.

The third layer of laughs is puppet slapstick. There’s a sex scene that had to be trimmed in order to avoid the dreaded NC17, and plenty of swearing because puppets that swear are funny. And, even though it sounds childish, it made me chuckle whenever two puppets swore at each other. Also funny are gimpy puppet legs that are fairly useless. And vomiting. I’m serious! On a more mature note, watching a well made puppet car chase is exhilarating.

The final layer of Team America is its references to other films. It seems like this is in fashion, but it works for this film because it actually is a parody. I spotted quite a few, and probably missed about the same, but the most unexpected was a nice throwback to Dennis Hopper’s Easy Rider.

If you’re wondering whether to see Team America, you should. It’s funny, crude, maybe a guilty pleasure, and, most of all, even if it doesn’t always hit the mark, there’s always something different going on. You’re bound to find something to laugh at.

Before Sunset: Neorealism for Lovers

2004-10-10T20:18:00.000-05:00

Italian Neorealism was born during the Second World War. Studios had been destroyed. Film stock was hard to come by. Pessimism was abundant.

One of the founders of the movement, Cesare Zavattini, commented that the perfect Neorealist film would follow a worker over the course of one day. Even though most Neorealist films did not reach that extreme, they were influenced by it. Cuts were minimal. Takes were long. Filming was on location. Stories were simple and dealt with the plight of the poor, often in a melodramatic fashion. Themes leaned heavily toward Socialism. Endings were either ambiguous or sombre. Roles were played by untrained actors. Dialogue and action were often improvised.

Fifty years later, American director Richard Linklater channelled the ghost of Neorealist past to create what some believe to be the most romantic film ever made, Before Sunrise. By discarding most of the Neorealist story conventions, and choosing Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy as his leads, but retaining most of the Neorealist filmmaking principles, Linklater crafted a truly memorable film the story of which can be summed up in a sentence: Jesse, an American, and Celine, A Frenchwoman, meet on a train and spend one night together in Vienna.

Sixty years after Neorealism, and nine years after Before Sunrise, Jesse and Celine are back in another Linklater film. This time they’re older, they’re in Paris, and they only have until 7:30. We haven’t seen them for nine years, and they haven’t seen each other. The actors are nine years older. The film is called Before Sunset and the result is an even fuller experiment in Neorealism.

True to Zavattini’s doctrine, and in the footsteps of classics such as The Bicycle Thief, Before Sunset takes place over less than one day (although the story could be argued to take place over more than nine years.) The characters aren’t from the lower brackets of society, but Celine’s character is an environmental activist and takes some pointed left-handed jabs at a several targets. However, the film avoids the preachiness of some Neorealist films, such as Rosselini’s Open City, because the dialogue is so natural that it belongs to the character rather than the screenwriters. There’s also a lot more of it in Linklater’s film than in the Italian Neorealist films, in which lines were dubbed in after filming. Before Sunset is even closer to the melodrama of Neorealism than Before Sunset. Starting with the clunky opening flashback, the mention of Jesse’s failing marriage, and ending with the question of whether Jesse and Celine will end up together there is plenty of room for cheap emotion. Fortunately it’s never overbearing.

Technically, Before Sunset employs most of the Neorealist canon. The film was shot where it takes place, in Paris. There are long, unbroken shots that follow Jesse and Celine through small Parisian streets and parks. There is improvisation by the two leads, which is commendable, but less commendable than in an Italian Neorealist film because Linklater didn’t have to worry about running out of supplies! In a nice touch, Paris is even shown to be quite gritty. Graffiti makes an appearance, and in Celine’s flat the paint and walls are chipped. Not quite the same as a war ravaged city, but Jesse does tell a story about a plot to blow up Notre Dame during World War Two (although with a romantic twist.)

Many people view Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow as an ode to, among other things, cinema history. It’s possible to watch the film and identity references to Film Noir, Fritz Lang, and King Kong. But that’s a gimmick. Before Sunset isn’t gimmicky. It understands cinema history, and uses it not as a parlour game, but to create a great motion picture. Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow apes various styles, directors, and films. Before Sunset takes Neorealism and builds on it.

Tomorrow's Dynamite

2004-10-03T15:38:00.000-05:00

I’ll surrender at the beginning, the very beginning, and confess that maybe Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow and Napoleon Dynamite don’t have as much in common as I’m about to try convince you that they do. But, by the oath of Thor, I’ll be damned if, seeing them one after the other, it didn’t appear just so!

Let’s take, for example, the story of Sky Captain. It’s simplistic. It’s corny, clichéd, and taken straight from a pulp magazine or second rate Sci-Fi yarn (albeit on purpose). And, taken by itself, it’s absolutely, inexcusably, unexciting. There’s a dead a villain, which results in an the enemy that’s about as evil and cunning as a tornado or Mount St. Helens The main character, Sky Captain himself, is without a past, without a motive (other than being heroic like a, err… hero) and tends to spend more time underwater than in the sky. His love interest, a reporter with beautiful blonde locks and an unhealthy relationship with constantly checking the number of shots left in her much too much overexposed camera, is just that; a love interest. What a crock. And the damn scenery kept changing, too!

So, now you probably think I’m going to start defending Napoleon Dynamite as a beacon of filmdom, the little guy’s response to the overbearing, suffocating impact of Hollywood and its Studios and rules on the art of filmmaking. I’m not. First of all, because Sky Captain was the product of a little guy, too. But, most importantly, because the story of Napoleon Dynamite is about as good as the story of Sky Captain. High school underdogs triumph in love and politics. The Mexican immigrant becomes school president. The nerd finds true love and friendship. Another nerd finds true love. You get the point. What we have in both films is a case of style attempting to elevate substance.

(Yes, this I where I’ll start applauding Napoleon Dynamite over Sky Captain. But not because it's better.)

Forget the vast difference in the size of the budget and the amount of resources available to Kerry Conran and Jared Hess. Let’s [unfairly] level the playing field, for a paragraph or two, and look at the problem faced by each director/screenwriter. It’s the same scenario. How do I make a good movie from a bad, unoriginal premise?

Conran, the wily scientific type, would answer: “We’ll make it look good. We’ll reference the pulp fiction we’re emulating. We’ll reference cinema history. We’ll bring a dead actor to life to play a role. We’ll push technology until it enables us to elevate our film above its possible level.” It may sound like someone’s trying to pull some fabric over out eyes, but it’s important to remember that cinema, as an art, was made possible by technology. Technology always came first.

Hess, the artsy fartsy Bohemian, would answer: “It don’t matter what the story is, baby. It’s all in the details. It ain’t what you tell, but how you tell it. We’ll make out characters groovier. We won’t make the same mistakes the squares did. We gotta be true. No swelling string section here, man.” Yeah, sure, you say. That’s what every movie tries to do. When there’s a problem with the story, fix the story. And it usually doesn’t work.

It’s not surprising then that reaction to both films has been wildly mixed. It’s also not surprising that both films have gotten a fair share of excellent reviews, and have been praised as great films. It’s possible to watch Sky Captain and be awed by the fantastic images. Imagine playing with software like Bryce, and being both skilled at it and able to create jaw dropping landscapes in mere seconds. It’s also possible to watch Napoleon Dynamite and hate it. Nothing happens. The main character is unlikeable and annoying. It’s not even funny.

As for me, I think Napoleon Dynamite is one of the best films I’ve seen this year. The characters, Napoleon included, are endearing. The comedy, subtle but not cerebral, is hilarious. And the unabashedly happy ending is a great. Sky Captain left me bored and tired. The constant cutting between only Long Shots and Close Ups was disorienting. And, in a few honest words, I just didn’t care.

So, now to end this much too long-winded, regrettable opinion piece, I’ll say this: Take a painter, give him half an idea, and he’ll paint you Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. Take a writer, give him the same half idea, and he’ll write you Napoleon Dynamite.

Watching the two films just might give you a pretty good idea of which one you are. It did for me.

Review: Infernal Affairs

2004-10-01T17:12:00.000-05:00

Although it’s over two years old, this Hong Kong cop flick has had the double fortune (or misfortune) of both grabbing a limited North American release and becoming the latest import to be primed for a North American remake. I’m looking forward to the new version, not the least because of the choice to put Martin Scorsese behind the camera, while dreading it at the same time, not the least because of the choice to cast Leonardo DiCaprio as a tough guy. Nevertheless, the original, despite most of the attention being on the remake, is a damn good film.

The premise is this: Two men, a cop working undercover as a gang member and a gang member working as a cop, are assigned the task of sniffing each other out. Each side knows they harbour a mole. Each mole is so good at what he does that he evades suspicion. And, just to make things even more interesting, and to blur the line between right and wrong, and hero and villain, the two moles know each other.

The bulk of this is communicated before the title appears on the screen. In my last review, I criticized Cellular for moving along at breakneck speed through its various twists and turns. In this review, I want to praise Infernal Affairs for doing the same thing. The difference between the two films is that one relies solely on pace. In Cellular, if you blink you don’t miss anything other than an action sequence. In Infernal Affairs, the action sequences reveal the story. Blink and you’re lost. It’s a very engaging experience, and one that is satisfying whenever a new piece of information is given because the filmmakers trust you to fit the information into the frame of the story yourself. In one great sequence, a drug raid, the film challenges you to understand certain clues before the characters do. What a great way to pull the viewer in.

However, Infernal Affairs also develops several major themes. Perhaps the most interesting of which is the idea of who, or what, creates and controls our identity. Are we who we make ourselves, what others make of us, or what our environment makes of us? Take, for example, the cop whose identity as an undercover agent is known to only one man. If the man dies, does the cop cease to be an undercover agent and becomes just another gang member? Even the film’s villain, a subjective term, is shown to be in conflict with himself. His actions are clear but his motives are often left up to the interpretation of the viewer. A pivotal scene near the film’s conclusion, in which he kills another character, is a good example. His reason for pulling the trigger is what makes him either good or bad. And since he isn’t sure if he’s the good guy or the bad guy, how can we be? The filmmakers wisely leave it that way.

The film’s only major weakness is a sentimentality that creeps in, intrudingly, at some awkward moments, such as when a short, black and white, montage is provided after the death of a major character (the music doesn’t help either). Other than that, Infernal Affairs is an exciting film. Not much more to say. An action film that requires you to pay attention is a bit too rare these days. Don’t pass up the chance to see one.

Review: Cellular

2004-09-25T00:08:00.000-05:00

After the credits began to roll, the first thing I remembered about Cellular was just how little I actually remembered about Cellular.

On one hand, I knew perfectly well that what I had just witnessed was exactly what the Execs in the Studios in Hollywood salivate over. The premise was “high concept”. The story was clear and straightforward. The characters’ motivations were defined. The action was relentless. Everything was perfect.

On another hand, although not necessarily the left or the right, I knew that the only thing perfect about Cellular was that it was perfectly formulaic. I could take the same elements that I praised, and use them to explain how much of a failure the movie was. The premise was a gimmick. The story was too simple. The characters were flat, one-dimensional, paper thin, trite. The action was boring, and useful only as, at best, a distraction, and, at worst, a prevention against finding something, if it existed, redeeming in the narrative.

What was going on?!

The logic of Seinfeld tells us that, ‘a George, divided against itself, cannot stand!’ And yet here I was. Standing! My film appreciation brain cells, or the small portion of my brain that still harbours original, “me-thought-up” opinions, was screaming that Cellular wasn’t even good enough to warrant a strong negative opinion because it was so piddling and forgettable. But the rest of my brain, that which hath been bleached by critics, public opinion, TV, and the endless rules and regulations of the screenwriting trade, was encouraging me to stab that small portion with a screwdriver, ala Pi, and join the Dark Side. Was I daft? Cellular was everything that is great about the movies!

I realize that I haven’t said anything about the movie so far. Allow me to suspend my runaway train of thought, and do so now.

A woman is kidnapped. She calls a guy. He helps her.

Back to the interesting stuff. I usually use the terms ‘movie’ and ‘film’ interchangeably. But, for some not so odd reason, I can’t bring myself to call Cellular a film. Some may view this as a sign that I’m just a prudish film snob (this may be true) who can’t enjoy a film as entertainment (this is not true). But, to counter, I ask: What is entertainment?

That was pretty philosophical, wasn’t it? But, in all seriousness this time, I ask this: What about Cellular is entertaining? Is it the element of the chase that sucks viewers in? (Yeah, I’m answering my own question with a question. Yeah, it’s not a good idea. Yeah, Socrates did it. No, I’m not comparing myself to Socrates. Yeah, I should move on.) Because the chase explanation is valid, and history certainly agrees. It was almost a genre of early cinema. And, when done well, could be captivating. However, even when well done, a chase is shallow unless there’s an attachment to the chasee, chaser, background situation, and consequences of the chase. In Cellular, there’s very little reason to care.

A woman’s life is at stake, but she’s a stranger. A man becomes a hero, but he too is a stranger. The situation, or reason for the chase, is unknown for at least half the film. And the consequences, although clear, are small and affect only a handful of people. And, for that to combine into an effective and enthralling movie, I have to care about that handful. If the fate of the world was at stake, I would automatically be involved. Since it isn’t, the characters have to involve me before I become involved in their fate. In Cellular, this would entail having more than one scene with the two main characters before flicking the unstoppable action to the ‘On’ position. Now that I think about it, maybe having a First Act that’s longer than five minutes would be a more general way of putting it. But would those early scenes “advance the plot”? Would they be “vital”? Nah, they were probably there in an early draft before being cut as “filler” by someone other than the screenwriter. Maybe Cellular isn’t all that structurally sound. I wonder what McKee would say. Probably something akin to: “Hook me into the story at the first page. The first sentence. The first word. And never let up.” Great advice, whatever the fuck it means.

To wrap things up, I’ll say that Cellular, without being good or bad, occupies a deep, lonely cellar in the big house of film. Not only is it a movie, but it is also a slight movie.

Depressingly, for all of us that have a hidden, outspoken, or other form of desire to write, rewrite, rewrite, rewrite, rewrite, and sell a screenplay, it’s exactly the type of movie we’ll eventually have to pen.

Disclaimer: The preceding was written through the lens of a three-quarter empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s and, while honestly representing the views and opinions of the author at the time of authorship, may be inaccurate as to the opinion of the author in the morning through the broken lens of a headache and the taste of bitter, black coffee.

The Darkness of the Matinee

2004-09-17T16:16:00.000-05:00

When we gaze at a painting, our eyes see exactly what the painter has created on the canvas. We see it for as long as we keep gazing. Our interpretation of the image may be different than someone else’s, and it will no doubt conjure up different memories, ideas, and feelings that depend on our own experiences, but the painting always stays the same. It never changes. The same is true of music, literature, and theater.

When we watch a film, however, the process of viewing becomes uniquely subjective. Because film relies on the ability of our brain to create motion from a series of still images, known as the Phi Phenomenon, it is different from the other art forms. For example, when the alien ship descends on Devil’s Tower in Close Encounters of the Third Kind it does so only in our minds! To go back to painting, it would be akin to walking through an art gallery and constructing a narrative based on the progression of paintings that adorn the walls. Film is our imagination at work. Without us, a film wouldn’t exist as anything other than a series of photographs. It’s strangely fascinating then to think about how our minds operate and how involved we are in the films we watch, because while it’s amazing to know that we can create a UFO landing, isn’t it also scary to think that we can create wars and commit crimes?

When we watch a film in the theater, we spend up to half the time in total darkness. What a weird kind of entertainment. We spend nine dollars to see a two hour film during which we see actual images for maybe seventy minutes and see nothing for the other fifty. And we don’t notice! We don’t notice because our brains are still functioning, still creating motion, still creating film, and our eyes still see images which are no longer there. Does this mean, perhaps, that up to fifty percent of a film is entirely subjective? And I’m not talking about interpretation, but about what we actual “see” on the screen! If so, then, although our brains all work in a similar way, I could have seen a much different film than everyone else, even in the same theater audience. No wonder we can sometimes argue about films without ever getting anywhere! We’re not arguing about the same thing.

Imagine reading a book with only half the sentences on a page. Imagine having to fill in the rest of the sentences for it to make sense. What if Shakespeare only wrote the First, Third, and Fourth Acts of his plays? Would it make sense? I don’t know, but probably not. But that’s what cinema is. It’s an incomplete work of art, in a sense. And every time you sit down and watch a film, you are not simply a spectator. You become a filmmaker.

Review: Code 46

2004-09-10T13:43:00.000-05:00

Code 46, a low key romantic science fiction, that surprisingly stars Tim Robbins and Samantha Morton, is one of the two best films I’ve seen this year (the other being Oldboy). That, by the way, is the short review in case you don’t want to read any more and wish to save yourself from the nauseating praise to follow.

The director is Michael Winterbottom, a Brit, whose chameleon-like portfolio already includes a drama, a romance, a comedy, a western, and a realist road movie. And that’s just in a span of four years! Well, he can safely add another successful genre to that list. And, to steal a chant from the GOP, I’ll add: “Four more years!”

The plot of the Code 46 revolves around a thing called a “papelle”, a document that allows a person to travel around the film’s future Earth. Morton’s character Maria works for a company that manufactures papelles and, as we learn quickly, has been engaged in smuggling them out of her workplace and illegally distributing them to people who don’t qualify as legal recipients. Enter Robbins’ William, a detective with a wife a child, hired by the company to find the employee responsible for the crime.

There’s more, but it’s all less significant than the [purposely] unlikely romance that blossoms between William and Maria and which becomes the focus of the film. And the plot breaks downs near the middle of the film anyway. In a sense, Code 46 is the Lost in Translation that Sofia Coppola didn’t make. It has a similar central relationship between two very different but spiritually linked people, the same slow pace, and the same hypnotic quality. But whereas I found Lost in Translation boring, uneventful, tedious, and, the film’s greatest undoing, shallow, Code 46 is the opposite. To be cynical for two sentences, Lost In Translation had a scene of Bill Murray singing karaoke during which the film wanted me to think about Bill Murray singing karaoke. In Code 46, there’s a scene of the two main characters in a nightclub, dancing, during which the film gives me time to think about the many ideas presented so far.

For example, take Winterbottom’s presentation of the future. It’s not drastically different from our own. But just enough to be slightly alien. In most science fiction flicks, the cars and buildings are futuristic but everything else is the same as it is now. Language, morals, ethics, religion, and manners do not change. Code 46 reverses that. William drives a regular car, but speaks a form of English that’s been influenced by other languages to the point that it’s littered with foreign phrases. It’s akin to the English and Russian meld in A Clockwork Orange. Along with the law in the film’s title, whose function is to prevent two people with closely related DNA from having a child, the idea of injecting oneself with viruses in order to boost, or deaden, certain feelings or abilities, and a myriad of other half-ideas liberally sprinkled throughout, Code 46 always has something for the viewer to ponder.

Some critics have accused the film of being devoid of emotion, of lacking any sort of warmth (the same criticisms I have of ‘Hero’). But that’s exactly the point of Code 46. What’s love if it has to be regulated by computers and machines, watched over by hospitals and strictly guarded by the law? There’s no room for emotion when everything is bleached by science and reason. There’s no room for love. And Code 46 illustrates this wonderfully, by forcing us to experience this futuristic, diluted romance. By pointing out the film’s fault, critics are pointing out its theme.

But it’s misleading to pass off Code 46 as just a depressing tale of a Dystopian future. It is that, but it’s also one of the most romantic films I’ve seen in a long time. When William and Maria finally shatter the restraints of society and, in an incredible piece of acting by Morton, emotion makes its unabashed entrance into the film, it’s anything but depressing. The scene, like the experience, doesn’t last forever but its impact is felt on the events that follow. Smartly, there are consequences for both characters and, in a great final shot, Maria weighs these consequences against the act and silently declares: “It was worth it.”

The Art of Watching (pt.2)

2004-09-08T13:15:00.000-05:00

In the last post, I stated that people see films they believe will be good in theatres, films they don’t have anything against on DVD, and all others on television. This is “when” on a scale of one year, or in some cases a few years. But what about “when” on both a smaller and larger scale?

2. When?

One of my favourite films is Fellini’s 8 ½. I’ve seen it on two occasions. I’ve loved it both times. But I haven’t seen the same film twice. What am I going on about?

It’s noon. Outside, it’s a beautiful spring day. The sun is shining. Inside, it’s warm. The blinds are open. There’s a slight breeze. It’s quiet.

That’s the first viewing. That’s what motivated my interpretation and experience of the film. It was a film of celebration. I remember specific scenes, like one of schoolboys watching a woman dance on the beach. And the film’s ending, in which the main character engages in a procession with clowns, acrobats, dancers, and everyone important in his life, was calm, playful and life affirming. I’m sure it was.

Past midnight. Although it’s not raining anymore, it was a few minutes ago. The moon is hidden by clouds. Darkness. A train faintly rattles by.

That’s the second viewing. And what a difference! Scenes that I was sure took place during the day, now seemed to take place at night. Damn it, most of the film seemed to take place at night. And the definite day scenes, such as the woman dancing on beach, seemed synthetic and unremarkable. Instead, I clearly remembered an audition sequence in a darkened theatre and lush shots of night time in the city. And the ending, it was tragic. There wasn’t any joy. This was depressing, like a funeral procession.

My perception and understanding of the film were coloured by the setting in which I watched it. I could have seen it only twelve hours apart and probably had the same reaction. So, which interpretation of the ending was right? Which scenes actually took place during the day and which during the night? And what time is the best time to watch the film?

For 8 ½ there isn’t an answer, as far as I’m concerned. It’s great at any time. But other films should perhaps come with a small instruction booklet. The Blair Witch Project for example, as laughable as it can be during the day, is a whole different experience when watched at night (in the forest!). Indiana Jones or Conan the Barbarian are fantastic day movies. The Flight of the Phoenix, which takes place in the desert under the scorching sun, is better if you’re sweating along with the characters. At night it’s decidedly more boring. But these are all my opinions which, if I think back a few sentences, means that an instruction booklet should come personalized for each and every one of us.

Unfortunately, there are very few actual hints to tell us when we should watch a film. For the most part, I like watching when it’s dark outside (which I think is the popular position, since theatres are dark even at noon). And the only time I’ll voluntarily watch a film when the sun’s still out is when I know that most of it takes place during the day. (In case you’re wondering what the hell I’m blabbing on about, I lost any reasonable linking thought a while ago. Now I’m just improvising.)

Applying “when” on a much larger scale comes down to the question of at what age a particular film should be viewed. And, just to be clear, I don’t mean in terms of “suitable” content or anything about a Ratings system. I mean the perfect age to fully understand and enjoy a work of cinema. Now, since I’m too young and confused to say anything wise and informative on the topic, I offer two passages from Roger Ebert:

“I saw 'Ikiru' first in 1960 or 1961. I went to the movie because it was playing in a campus film series and only cost a quarter. I sat enveloped in the story of Watanabe for 2 1/2 hours, and wrote about it in a class where the essay topic was Plato's statement, 'the unexamined life is not worth living.' Over the years I have seen 'Ikiru' every five years or so, and each time it has moved me, and made me think. And the older I get, the less Watanabe seems like a pathetic old man, and the more he seems like every one of us.”

“As Benjamin and Elaine escaped in that bus at the end of ‘The Graduate,’ I cheered, the first time I saw the movie.…Today, looking at 'The Graduate,' I see Benjamin not as an admirable rebel, but as a self-centered creep whose put-downs of adults are tiresome.”

So, in an attempt to bring some order back to this post, I’ll try my hand at a conclusion. Some films work better during the day. Some are better when viewed at night. There’s no rule. It’s all subjective. And our ideas and opinions about films, and everything else, change as we get older. As a result, was reading all this a waste of your concentration? Maybe. Or maybe you just read it at the wrong time.

The Art of Watching (pt.1)

2004-09-05T17:52:00.000-05:00

Before television, video stores, and internet; VHS and DVD; HDTV and Surround Sound; people saw films in the Theater. They saw films in large groups, at exact times, in big rooms, on big screens, in the dark. There were no other options. Viewing was rigid. And films reflected it.

No longer is watching a film so straightforward.

1. Where?

“Hey, listen. You wanna go see ‘Troy’ tonight?

“Nah. I heard it sucks. I’ll wait ‘til it’s out on DVD.”

It’s a common slice of conversation. I’m sure you’ve heard it before. Maybe someone’s said it to you. Maybe you’ve even said it yourself. I have. And it’s interesting.

There’s now a choice of where you’ll see a film that wasn’t available fifty years ago. You can still see something in theatres. But you can also wait a few months and rent it on cassette or disc. Or, you can wait a few months longer than that, and see it on cable. It’s up to you. You know you’ll probably see it anyway, so the real question is where.

Part of your answer most likely depends on how badly you want to see the movie in the first place. There’s a direct relationship between how good you believe a film will be, and where and when you’ll see it. If you’ve heard good opinions, like the actors, read sparkling reviews, are hooked on the premise, and enjoy the advertisements, chances are you’ll drive out to the nearest theater and pay $10 to see it the old fashioned way as soon as you can. If you know you want to see the film, but maybe the critics haven’t been kind to it, or you don’t like one of the leads, you’ll probably wait until it hits the video store and then pay $4 to see it in your home. If you hate the idea, don’t particularly enjoy the genre, and have heard some bad things from your friends, you may catch the film anyway, on television, for free, a few years after it has left theatres. And, hell, you may even like it!

So, you should see great films in the theatre, average films on DVD, and bad films on TV.

Not quite. What about that latest flick you saw on HBO? (Band of Brothers perhaps) It was pretty good, wasn’t it?

Just because it was made for television doesn’t mean it’s worse than Baby Geniuses 2: Superbabies. Then why was it on HBO and not in theatres, you ask? There are many reasons. But, to generalize and count out any financial ones, it was on TV because the material was better suited for TV. Smaller stories for smaller screens. But smaller doesn’t mean worse. Spielberg made a movie for TV called Duel that is better than some, if not most, of the movies he’s made for The Screen. In fact, Duel is still more entertaining to watch on TV than Saving Private Ryan or Jaws, both of which would trump Duel on the big screen. I’m rambling, but that’s alright.

Lawrence of Arabia, Lord of the Rings, and Star Wars are all good films. They’re bombastic, extravagant, and are about big, world changing events. Viewed on TV, they lose some of their appeal. Gandalf and Darth Vader are larger-than-life characters. They should be twenty feet tall. Compressed to twenty inches, they just aren’t as impressive.

Taxi Driver and As Good As It Gets are good films, too. Do they gain anything from being on the big screen? In my opinion, not really. I even think they’re better to watch on the small screen because it’s easier to listen to the dialogue and relate to the characters. You can always go back and watch parts again, too. Plus, Melvin Udall is just as sarcastic at twenty inches as at twenty feet. And Travis Bickle is just as tragic.

That's why as a film viewer you have a choice as to where to see a film that’s more important than you think. In a simple, incorrect conclusion: Films that impress and immerse are better on the big screen. Films that articulate and connect are better on the small screen. So, in terms of being entertained and getting the most out a film, it may just be better to hold off seeing Garden State until it’s on DVD. And to see Vanity Fair in theatres instead.

Review: Oldboy

2004-09-03T14:24:00.000-05:00

Asian cinema is prospering. It’s producing some of the finest motion pictures in the world. And few are better than South Korean director Chan-wook Park’s Oldboy.

The film is about Oh Dae-su, a family man and occasional drunk who, while making a call from a telephone booth, is mysteriously abducted. Upon regaining consciousness, he finds himself imprisoned in a hotel room. Confusion is too mild a word for what he’s feeling. Then, his wife is found murdered. His blood is at the scene. To his whole world, he appears to have vanished to evade capture. His life is gone. But he’s still alive. Somewhere. In a room. He’s fed and clothed. And taken care of.

Fifteen years pass.

And, just as abruptly as he was abducted, he’s released. Free, Oh Dae-su vows to take revenge on those responsible, and more importantly to find out the reason, for his imprisonment.

But Oldboy isn’t a typical revenge story. It’s much deeper than that. In fact, we learn that Oh Dae-su is driven far more by the second part of his vow than by the first. He has the chance to take revenge several times but doesn’t, because it would mean never knowing The Reason. And that’s what he’s really after, like a child persistently asking its parents, “why does it rain?”, “what happens to the sun at night?” or “why do people die?” Oh Dae-su wants to know: “Why was my life stolen?”

To transpose this to a different culture, one that I know much better, Oldboy is like the Biblical story of the Garden of Eden. Oh Dae-su thirsts for a bite of the apple from the Tree of Knowledge. But is some knowledge better left unknown? Is some knowledge a crushing burden to bear?

That’s what the first viewing of Oldboy is. It’s a quest for knowledge, for the truth, and for a reason. Like in a mystery, the plot unfolds one step at a time until, at the end, everything is revealed. And it’s devastating. So much so, that it’s hard to even imagine watching some of the film’s scenes placed into the context that the ending provides.

Yet that’s exactly what happens upon a repeat viewing. It’s a different film. The revenge and search for reason, so prominent before, become overpowered by tragedy. It’s almost painful to watch, knowing the outcome, as Oh Dae-su hurls himself toward the inevitable. Suddenly, opportunities for salvation become visible. But Oh Dae-su is blind to them all. His purpose propels him forward. Dae-su, like Oedipus, to use another Western example, is a victim of his Fate.

Lauded at the Cannes Film Festival, where it won the Grand Jury Prize and lost out to only Fahrenheit 911 for the Golden Palm, Oldboy begs to be seen. Unfortunately, it won’t be hitting U.S. theatres any time soon. At least not in its original form.

In some dark, damp cave a mysterious yet powerful and influential movie mogul has had the bright idea of authorizing an American remake of the film. So, Chan-wook Park’s masterpiece will be deconstructed and reconstructed under the watchful eye of Justin Lin, the director of the ultra-gimmicky Better Luck Tomorrow (a teen flick with an all Asian-American cast!). I guess the rationale is that if one Asian can make a great film, allowing another to work from the same concept is a sure thing.

My advice: See Oldboy. See it now. See it any way you can.

UPDATE: In a recent television interview, Quentin Tarantino discussed Oldboy and plainly said that original film will, indeed, be coming to North American theaters. Whether it will be re-edited or not remains to be seen.

A Hero is Born

2004-09-01T14:11:00.000-05:00

In early August, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) protested the decision, by a silent theater in California, to screen D.W. Griffith’s landmark and controversial film Birth of a Nation. The protest was successful. The screening was cancelled.

(see 'Guardian' article)

For Birth of a Nation, this isn’t anything new. The film, first released in 1915, has been a lightning rod before. Debates have raged since its release about whether its technical innovations could, or should, be separated from its racist content. Recently, there have been attempts to censor the film to make it less offensive. Undeniably, it demonizes blacks and glorifies the Ku Klux Klan. Undeniably, it is a revolutionary piece of filmmaking that will forever hold a place in cinema history. My opinion on the subject is close to that of popular critic Roger Ebert who says, “If we are to see this film, we must see it all, and deal with it all.” In California, the decision was not to see it.

(see Ebert's Article)

How appropriate then, that a mere few weeks later the film that tops the American Box Office is another technically excellent film with a reprehensible message. This time, it’s a Chinese import. A colourful, vivid work of director Yimou Zhang that stars Jet Li and Ziyi Zhang. A film being hailed as a perfect by a plethora of criitcs. A fantastic, wonderful, and very pretty celebration of fascism. The English title is Hero. And it’s a film that only Mussolini should love.

At the centre of the story is Nameless, a master of martial arts whose goal is the assassination of a powerful warlord. This provides the story’s Frame, as Nameless recites various stories in order to move close enough to his target to deliver his fatal blow. But the film turns ugly at the end. And, without spoiling things too much, Nameless comes to the understanding that the life, values and opinions of any individual are always less important than the well being and optimum effectiveness of the State. In other words, “Mussolini is always right.”

(see Fascinating Fascism)

Hero damns us all. And, in that way, it is different than Birth of a Nation. Its message is egalitarian. We are all worthless. Equally worthless.

So, is it strange that there were no protestors at the theaters showing Hero? Not really.

Should there have been protestors, and should the screening have been stopped? No.

Should the screening of Birth of a Nation have been stopped? No.

Review: Open Water

2004-08-31T15:19:00.000-05:00

The trailers deceive. Open Water isn’t about a group of screaming teenagers armed with video cameras who go swimming in search of shark with a big jaw and get lost. It’s about a marriage, amidst all that. Minus the teenagers.

It’s a straightforward story simply told. Susan and Daniel are the two main characters. They’re young, attractive people who lead busy lives. Naturally, they’re quickly vacationing on an exotic isle. They go scuba diving. They enjoy themselves. Then, their boat leaves and leaves them stranded. The rest of the film is spent with the two leads as they cope with their situation (which Daniel says isn’t as rare as most people think). While attempts are made by the duo to save themselves, they can’t do much, and their interaction soon becomes the focus of the film.

Unfortunately, Open Water doesn’t build a relationship strong enough to sustain itself. The characters are too thin (She’s a workaholic. He watches a lot of television). And, in a film that runs less than 80 minutes, too much time is wasted on filler. For example, what’s the point of a gratuitous nude scene near the beginning?

However, Open Water isn’t totally without merit. There are some interesting ideas presented in the film. Consider a scene in which Susan and Daniel, floating in the ocean, can see their salvation in the form of two boats. But they can’t decide which one to swim to. Not long after, an airplane buzzes by. It’s a great image of a world brimming with means of communication, in which people are still disconnected.

Even a sequence that explains how Susan and Daniel were left behind is interesting. In short, it involves an observational error and an over reliance on math. Had the boat operator been more personal in his approach to his customers, and not viewed them as units, the whole fiasco could have been avoided. It’s significant that he finally realizes his error only when he finds the pair’s belongings on board his ship, and looks at their photographs.

On the visual side, Open Water relies on a rough, realistic look. And it succeeds. An atmosphere is created of expansive claustrophobia. For Susan and Daniel, the ocean is big place and a tiny, confined space at the same time.

Another good decision is the restricted use of underwater photography. The two main characters are up to their necks in shark infested, jellyfish teeming water and they don’t know what’s going on below the surface. The audience is forced to fear that unknown as well.

The cinematography helps create tension. And the only breaks, which come jarringly, are brief scenes of life back on land that serve to show the passing of time as well as to juxtapose the reality of Susan and Daniel’s vacation with the vacation they thought they were getting. Vacation could easily stand for marriage.

Had the filmmakers been able to supplement these ideas and their style with better characters, Open Water would have been both intriguing and satisfying. As it is, the film is only intriguing. The film’s conclusion, a nicely subtle final scene, should have produced a strong emotional response. It doesn’t. Instead, it serves to underline the weaknesses of the entire film.

The Duck Mafia Has Landed.

2004-08-30T20:07:00.000-05:00

We've settled around the pond.

But ain't regular birds, us. I mean, we can talk and type and all that Blues. But, besides those details, we kinda got a little taste for something most birds don't. Namely Films. And everythin' associated wit 'em. Screenwriting. Film History. Film Theory. Directing. Cinematography. Editing. And, of course, watching the damn things.

We like to gather together, all us ducks, and talk 'bout what we seen. Argue. Yell. Learn. (That's what we got this pond for, see.) We're an opninionated bunch. Sometimes loud. Sometimes wrong. But always honest.

Ain't exactly the communal types either, but we respect the odd Pigeon or Osprey stopping by for a few bites of soggy, whole wheat bread and some talk. As long as they has an opinion to share and ain't afraid to use their beaks, that is. Hell, flap yer wings too. But don't be chirpin' for the sake of making noise. 'Cause we don't take kindly to 'dat. And you don't wanna have us not takin' kindly.

Now, I'd love to stay and chat some more, but we just got a shipment of seed in from outta town. And it needs to get distributed. Ain't gonna do it itself.

Cheers,
Quack Corleone