Love Actually (2003, Richard Curtis)
In what mostly amounts to a cinematic happy pill (a shot of simplistic optimism earned not through depth but from Hallmark schmaltz) the first movie from Richard Curtis gains a degree of levity from his propensity for light vulgarities -- porn stars finding love, a Prime Minister's aid who blurts out "fuck," etc. -- and a cast worthy of more than the gloppy simplicity of his lovey-dovey Christmas movie. (It may Curtis' idea of good writing to have Bill Nighy play an aging rock star who remakes the Troggs' "Love Is All Around" as a Christmas song and also use that song's theme to bookend the movie with images of loved ones reuniting in airports, but it's curious that he would so easily call the song shit -- and it is shit -- and not then be doubtful about the premise of his own movie.)
When it aims to be uplifting it's in a cutesy way that doesn't mean anything, as when a boy chases after a girl he's got a crush on and gets a kiss. That's fine on paper, but when you play it as some major set piece for a movie, and load it up with the pretension of saying that if the kid doesn't chase the girl now he'll regret it for the rest of his life, the movie becomes weirdly top-heavy. Curtis' movie may be thematically and emotionally lumpy, but he's got a keen eye for actors, and a number of them -- Nighy, Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman, Laura Linney -- navigate his script without succumbing to sentimentality, and Thompson in particular injects the most shaded performance of the lot by giving her hurt wife role some weariness. Nighy is an absolute hoot, and Rowan Atkinson and Hugh Grant are both pleasurable in their moments on screen. And in their segments that are shamefully neglected at the ending wrap-up, Linney and Rodrigo Santoro (a beautiful and suggestive actor) manage to give a tragically unworkable tinge to their budding relationship of co-workers whose feelings for each other have been left untouched for years.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Brief Crossing
Brief Crossing (2001, Catherine Breillat)
What is it about Catherine Breillat's films that are so beautiful? Aside from her reputation as a gory porn mistress, she is enormously tender (with the ability to make you feel like you're on the edge of a cliff emotionally and take everything away just as easily as she's given it to you). Her camera, documentary-like but often with poetic placement, observes minor, gentle inflections. She very strongly makes her characters exist in an environment -- here, a ship sailing. And even more strongly she can exploit a situation to great effect, such as one scene where the two newly acquainted lovers sit in a lounge, while the camera observes a magic show in the background with its cheesy mystery music scoring their drinking.
Breillat has a definite type -- dark, lean, nubile young men. But her female characters, demanding to be in the forefront with their frequent proclamations, are just as much of a type, intelligent and world-weary. In this, among the most affecting romance-while-traveling movies, she (Sarah Pratt) laments her age compared to his (Gilles Guillain) mere sixteen years. On their first meeting she seems mildly irritable, accepting his help (in the form of a cafeteria tray) only until she finds a better option elsewhere. As the two become more involved her insecurity around him reveals itself further, despite his gentle nature. With the ending you're unsure if this is a woman who breaks hearts along her way or if she ultimately views him as another in the line of brutes she generalizes men to be. This is a woman who isn't afraid to indulge in an affair, and she's not afraid to continue it -- but who selfishly, mechanically cuts herself off from feeling when it's necessary to do so. That's a lot for Breillat to put forth in the film's final scenes, but she does it, and it rests largely on the searching, wrenching face of Guillain, who frantically comes to the realization that, however cruelly, he's a little bit older now.
What is it about Catherine Breillat's films that are so beautiful? Aside from her reputation as a gory porn mistress, she is enormously tender (with the ability to make you feel like you're on the edge of a cliff emotionally and take everything away just as easily as she's given it to you). Her camera, documentary-like but often with poetic placement, observes minor, gentle inflections. She very strongly makes her characters exist in an environment -- here, a ship sailing. And even more strongly she can exploit a situation to great effect, such as one scene where the two newly acquainted lovers sit in a lounge, while the camera observes a magic show in the background with its cheesy mystery music scoring their drinking.
Breillat has a definite type -- dark, lean, nubile young men. But her female characters, demanding to be in the forefront with their frequent proclamations, are just as much of a type, intelligent and world-weary. In this, among the most affecting romance-while-traveling movies, she (Sarah Pratt) laments her age compared to his (Gilles Guillain) mere sixteen years. On their first meeting she seems mildly irritable, accepting his help (in the form of a cafeteria tray) only until she finds a better option elsewhere. As the two become more involved her insecurity around him reveals itself further, despite his gentle nature. With the ending you're unsure if this is a woman who breaks hearts along her way or if she ultimately views him as another in the line of brutes she generalizes men to be. This is a woman who isn't afraid to indulge in an affair, and she's not afraid to continue it -- but who selfishly, mechanically cuts herself off from feeling when it's necessary to do so. That's a lot for Breillat to put forth in the film's final scenes, but she does it, and it rests largely on the searching, wrenching face of Guillain, who frantically comes to the realization that, however cruelly, he's a little bit older now.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Welfare
Welfare (1975, Frederick Wiseman)
The degree to which the film is rewarding is partly based on the inherent drama of people in dire circumstances. Some are irritable, some are manipulative, some are defeated, some are confused, some are driven insane, and some are simply content making conversation while waiting. (The "waiting" aspect is brought poetically to the fore when one subject invokes Godot.) And while Wiseman may not make clear points about his feelings, his subjects often do, as with one white client asking a black security guard why blacks, who account for ten percent of the population, are responsible for sixty-three percent of the crime. We see many immigrants and minorities in the welfare office -- but so too do we see a great number of black security officers. We see a lot of legislative rules that prevent people from getting money NOW, which could be cynically seen as an act to kill off the needy, or push them to the limit so as to get help elsewhere first.
In a world pre-computer, the office is filled with a lot of paper and slips and ultimately disorder, resulting in clients repeating their stories over again, and with increasing urgency they often have a hard time being clearly understood. The officers who work at the welfare office are snippy, evasive (mentioning things to get clients to focus attention elsewhere, like continually suggesting they "come back tomorrow"), some are concerned, and some are interested primarily in their position in the office hierarchy. You would hope that new computerized systems would increase efficiency, transparency, and bring different offices together without endless telephone calls and letter writing, but the human drama -- the way people behave and interact to get what they want -- remains stark, complex, and unobstructed.
Space Cowboys, Finding Graceland, A Night in Heaven, Swimming with Sharks, Son of Rambow
Space Cowboys (2000, Clint Eastwood)
The limitations of Clint Eastwood's skill as a director -- his bluntness, for instance -- are overcome in "Space Cowboys" by the offhand fun in the exchanges between Eastwood, Tommy Lee Jones, Donald Sutherland, and James Garner. That fun never becomes slapstick, it retains some measure of weight -- it's the bullshitting of my father's generation, and the moments requiring a bit of gravity (the diagnosis of an illness, say) are done without sentimentality, but rather a restrained kind of acceptance. The last image in particular, a far-out scene that has the logic of magic realism (unlike the overall plot of the movie, which is mostly preposterous), is neither weighty nor frivolous; it's jazziness in space.
Finding Graceland (1998, David Winkler)
Although it occasionally veers into sentimentality, "Finding Graceland" has some charm to it, and it's a perfectly fine example of a road movie, albeit one tinged with tragedy. (The idea, someone who pretends to be someone else to escape from grief, is certainly good dramatic material. And the bookend structure of bringing closure to broken souls is somewhat touching.) Although Harvey Keitel has the flashier role, it's Johnathon Schaech who gives the movie some off-beat mileage. His angular, distinct beauty seems out of place in the South, and his hairdo sticks on his head like a wig, but he has the cornball innocence of the '50s and that seems right here. He's an enormously appealing actor, and I wish he had a more extensive resume. Keitel, on the other hand, is serviceable in his role, but his hamminess is sometimes grating, as with his overdone accent and his stereotyped squeal-cry of anguish. A performance scene of Elvis' most enjoyable song, "Suspicious Minds," is also undone by Keitel's singing which is most likely lip-synching.
A Night in Heaven (1983, John G. Avildsen)
A sturdy showcase for Christopher Atkins at his hard-bodied, all American boy peak, but the movie is a bit confused in what it's trying to say. When his teacher (Leslie Ann Warren) happens to be in the strip club where Atkins works he gives her an electrifying lap-dance. It might be something that sets the stage for an awakening in her home life, but the movie results in a messagey morality play something like "Eyes Wide Shut" but with a subplot about her husband's career that seems like another movie entirely. For some reason it's decided that Atkins' role must become a character demanding punishment. For what reason? Presumably because, despite the movie featuring a brave image of Atkins' penis during a sex scene, the movie was required to have a pro-marriage stance where no woman having an affair could ever think to leave her partner.
Swimming with Sharks (1994, George Huang)
Too dreary and one-note to be successful in what it tries to do (it comes across as a revenge movie aimed at cruel bosses), it lacks the fun of other boss-from-Hell movies like "The Devil Wears Prada." It attempts some kind of substance by sheepishly suggesting that even an awful boss has his reasons, and its dark and implausible ending suggests that the only way to be successful in Hollywood is to join the other assholes. Some people may find it brave that the movie shows a character who becomes what he loathes, but what little logical support there is for it is flimsy at best, and it comes across more like a movie trying to be truthful by simply being dark.
Son of Rambow (2007, Garth Jennings)
With a premise similar to that of "Be Kind Rewind," "Son of Rambow" has less going on as far as that film's statement on community, but it may be more simply entertaining. There's something pleasurable about watching the film's hero (Bill Milner), a self-styled son of Rambo involved in a do-it-yourself remake/sequel/pirate copy of "First Blood," find himself in situations that require his tiny little body to go flying through the air. It's a more simply heartwarming film than "Be Kind Rewind," something that imbues itself with sentiment so as to be emotionally satisfying to a large audience, but there's nothing that isn't genuine about the young performers in the movie. It's particularly on-target with a French foreign exchange student, styled in the latest New Wave trends, that the British schoolchildren fall in love with (and who is lightly satirized as a fair-weather friend seeking recognition).
The limitations of Clint Eastwood's skill as a director -- his bluntness, for instance -- are overcome in "Space Cowboys" by the offhand fun in the exchanges between Eastwood, Tommy Lee Jones, Donald Sutherland, and James Garner. That fun never becomes slapstick, it retains some measure of weight -- it's the bullshitting of my father's generation, and the moments requiring a bit of gravity (the diagnosis of an illness, say) are done without sentimentality, but rather a restrained kind of acceptance. The last image in particular, a far-out scene that has the logic of magic realism (unlike the overall plot of the movie, which is mostly preposterous), is neither weighty nor frivolous; it's jazziness in space.
Finding Graceland (1998, David Winkler)
Although it occasionally veers into sentimentality, "Finding Graceland" has some charm to it, and it's a perfectly fine example of a road movie, albeit one tinged with tragedy. (The idea, someone who pretends to be someone else to escape from grief, is certainly good dramatic material. And the bookend structure of bringing closure to broken souls is somewhat touching.) Although Harvey Keitel has the flashier role, it's Johnathon Schaech who gives the movie some off-beat mileage. His angular, distinct beauty seems out of place in the South, and his hairdo sticks on his head like a wig, but he has the cornball innocence of the '50s and that seems right here. He's an enormously appealing actor, and I wish he had a more extensive resume. Keitel, on the other hand, is serviceable in his role, but his hamminess is sometimes grating, as with his overdone accent and his stereotyped squeal-cry of anguish. A performance scene of Elvis' most enjoyable song, "Suspicious Minds," is also undone by Keitel's singing which is most likely lip-synching.
A Night in Heaven (1983, John G. Avildsen)
A sturdy showcase for Christopher Atkins at his hard-bodied, all American boy peak, but the movie is a bit confused in what it's trying to say. When his teacher (Leslie Ann Warren) happens to be in the strip club where Atkins works he gives her an electrifying lap-dance. It might be something that sets the stage for an awakening in her home life, but the movie results in a messagey morality play something like "Eyes Wide Shut" but with a subplot about her husband's career that seems like another movie entirely. For some reason it's decided that Atkins' role must become a character demanding punishment. For what reason? Presumably because, despite the movie featuring a brave image of Atkins' penis during a sex scene, the movie was required to have a pro-marriage stance where no woman having an affair could ever think to leave her partner.
Swimming with Sharks (1994, George Huang)
Too dreary and one-note to be successful in what it tries to do (it comes across as a revenge movie aimed at cruel bosses), it lacks the fun of other boss-from-Hell movies like "The Devil Wears Prada." It attempts some kind of substance by sheepishly suggesting that even an awful boss has his reasons, and its dark and implausible ending suggests that the only way to be successful in Hollywood is to join the other assholes. Some people may find it brave that the movie shows a character who becomes what he loathes, but what little logical support there is for it is flimsy at best, and it comes across more like a movie trying to be truthful by simply being dark.
Son of Rambow (2007, Garth Jennings)
With a premise similar to that of "Be Kind Rewind," "Son of Rambow" has less going on as far as that film's statement on community, but it may be more simply entertaining. There's something pleasurable about watching the film's hero (Bill Milner), a self-styled son of Rambo involved in a do-it-yourself remake/sequel/pirate copy of "First Blood," find himself in situations that require his tiny little body to go flying through the air. It's a more simply heartwarming film than "Be Kind Rewind," something that imbues itself with sentiment so as to be emotionally satisfying to a large audience, but there's nothing that isn't genuine about the young performers in the movie. It's particularly on-target with a French foreign exchange student, styled in the latest New Wave trends, that the British schoolchildren fall in love with (and who is lightly satirized as a fair-weather friend seeking recognition).
Friday, August 22, 2008
Who the Fuck is Jackson Pollock?
Who the Fuck is Jackson Pollock? (2006, Harry Moses)
A similar-styled expose of the art world as "My Kid Could Paint That," except flipped: where that film seemed to be about a fraud, this one seems to be about an authentic work. Teri Horton, the trucker who finds the discarded painting that looks like a Pollock, isn't dumb, but she's not an aesthete -- she's flabbergasted that people could be interested in Pollock's paintings. In many ways the film is drawing comparisons between Horton and Pollock. The art establishment -- by and large made up of businessmen -- doesn't much care for Horton and doesn't believe in her painting. The former director of the Met, Thomas Hoving (a man who contorts his body wildly when examining a painting for authenticity), claims she "knows nothing." The film portrays her as a hard drinking woman who's led an unconventional and sometimes tragic life, including the death of her daughter; it's easier to see similarities between her and Pollock than with Pollock and the Tiffany's heir and Princeton-educated Hoving.
Although the painting has no buyer history, striking scientific evidence seems to point in the direction of authenticity. A finger print on the back of the found painting matches a print on a paint can in Pollock's studio, as well as a Pollock painting in a gallery. A celebrated forger, whose fakes were sold by Christie's, says Pollock's painting method would be too much to think about and says he wouldn't be able to replicate them himself. Standing mostly on principle and turning down offers less than what she imagines the painting to be worth (in the millions), it's perhaps ironic that the painting Horton views as ugly is the same thing that's inspired her for a decade.
A similar-styled expose of the art world as "My Kid Could Paint That," except flipped: where that film seemed to be about a fraud, this one seems to be about an authentic work. Teri Horton, the trucker who finds the discarded painting that looks like a Pollock, isn't dumb, but she's not an aesthete -- she's flabbergasted that people could be interested in Pollock's paintings. In many ways the film is drawing comparisons between Horton and Pollock. The art establishment -- by and large made up of businessmen -- doesn't much care for Horton and doesn't believe in her painting. The former director of the Met, Thomas Hoving (a man who contorts his body wildly when examining a painting for authenticity), claims she "knows nothing." The film portrays her as a hard drinking woman who's led an unconventional and sometimes tragic life, including the death of her daughter; it's easier to see similarities between her and Pollock than with Pollock and the Tiffany's heir and Princeton-educated Hoving.
Although the painting has no buyer history, striking scientific evidence seems to point in the direction of authenticity. A finger print on the back of the found painting matches a print on a paint can in Pollock's studio, as well as a Pollock painting in a gallery. A celebrated forger, whose fakes were sold by Christie's, says Pollock's painting method would be too much to think about and says he wouldn't be able to replicate them himself. Standing mostly on principle and turning down offers less than what she imagines the painting to be worth (in the millions), it's perhaps ironic that the painting Horton views as ugly is the same thing that's inspired her for a decade.
Fabulous! The Story of Queer Cinema
Fabulous! The Story of Queer Cinema (2006, Lisa Ades, Lesli Klainberg)
Mostly affirms what we already know, but there are a handful of titles discussed that I was personally in the dark about, mainly lesbian ("Desert Hearts," "Go Fish," "All Over Me," "Watermelon Woman") or black titles ("Punks"). B. Ruby Rich makes the apt observation of how earlier in gay cinema men looked to beefcake physique films, and another commentator rightly laments the loss of the communal theater experience in favor of the DVD market, where going to the theater could sometimes be a gay bar for people who don't go to gay bars.
In the movie's chronological approach it feels as if the major gay films of the '60s and '70s (Warhol, Anger, Fassbinder, Visconti, Jarman, Pasolini, Akerman) are more substantial than what followed, at least until the New Queer Cinema of the likes of Todd Haynes, Gregg Araki, Gus Van Sant, et al. But John Waters makes the point of being interested in films that are more than just gay, as with his satirical idea about a mother who forces her straight son to be gay when he's not. The aims of gay films in the '90s may be to infiltrate the Hollywood mode and provide greater representation in mainstream media. But I don't feel that that has necessarily resulted in good films, and embracing the values of bland Hollywood formulas, even with those political aims, seems to me more like back-peddling from the already astonishing achievements in do-it-yourself, individual filmmaking that resulted from marginalized people creating their own modes of expression.
Mostly affirms what we already know, but there are a handful of titles discussed that I was personally in the dark about, mainly lesbian ("Desert Hearts," "Go Fish," "All Over Me," "Watermelon Woman") or black titles ("Punks"). B. Ruby Rich makes the apt observation of how earlier in gay cinema men looked to beefcake physique films, and another commentator rightly laments the loss of the communal theater experience in favor of the DVD market, where going to the theater could sometimes be a gay bar for people who don't go to gay bars.
In the movie's chronological approach it feels as if the major gay films of the '60s and '70s (Warhol, Anger, Fassbinder, Visconti, Jarman, Pasolini, Akerman) are more substantial than what followed, at least until the New Queer Cinema of the likes of Todd Haynes, Gregg Araki, Gus Van Sant, et al. But John Waters makes the point of being interested in films that are more than just gay, as with his satirical idea about a mother who forces her straight son to be gay when he's not. The aims of gay films in the '90s may be to infiltrate the Hollywood mode and provide greater representation in mainstream media. But I don't feel that that has necessarily resulted in good films, and embracing the values of bland Hollywood formulas, even with those political aims, seems to me more like back-peddling from the already astonishing achievements in do-it-yourself, individual filmmaking that resulted from marginalized people creating their own modes of expression.
Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008, Woody Allen)
To the girls vacationing in Spain (the engaged Rebecca Hall and the single Scarlett Johansson), Javier Bardem offers a romantic getaway, including sex -- but it's not a sordid sexual rendezvous so much as a chunk of time spent between adults. Bardem has a bluntness and sexual appetite, but also a courteousness, as in how he insists his ex-wife (Penelope Cruz) speaks English in front of Johansson. It may be a comically exaggerated version of a Latin lover (and in some respects, Bardem, an invisible actor, is a great actor in the mold of Mastroianni), but it doesn't play strictly as a comedy, and offers real freedom from the stasis of conventional romances (through non-monogamy and a threesome relationship). The acting is mostly free from the actor quirks we expect from actors in Woody Allen movies -- Bardem and Cruz in particular have an amazing chemistry. And it's a hopelessly romantic premise, based not just on the exotic locale but the world of lovers, painters, and artists, and Bardem in particular decked out in wonderful linens. (Perhaps simply, the American males are khaki and Lacoste-wearing businessmen.)
I have no idea how personal this is to Allen's own views of romance (it would be easy to draw comparisons between the non-conventional here and the highly-criticized aspects of Allen's private life) and I don't necessarily think it's valuable to judge a movie that way. And I may find it intellectually interesting that this movie, essentially a series of examples against traditional one-man one-woman monogamy and depictions of its loneliness and repression, shows negatively the kinds of things that, as a gay man, I consider Holy Grail (long-term monogamy). I don't think those readings illuminate the movie, but it's interesting how the freedom the film offers, which is readily available in the gay community, is ultimately as lonely and repressive as the depiction of marriage. That said, the kind of adult affair that Allen shows -- prior to the crazed Penelope Cruz -- can be the kind of awakening that livens people up and can refresh their lives, and in that respect (unconventional romances or affairs that aren't just sexual) it shows opportunities for happiness.
Ed Gonzalez, an interesting writer, finds fault with the movie's depiction of fleeting bisexuality (which he strangely calls lesbianism). But the scene is remarkably chaste and could hardly be viewed as Allen fantasizing. And the moment is hardly "lesbianism" but rather an introduction of a new kind of sexual expression for a character who's lived heterosexually. (I don't think that's insulting to gay people -- it's open-minded and free from black/white straight/gay politics.)
Allen's film doesn't ultimately come down in favor of long-term monogamy or the unconventional romances. Like Bardem's poet father, Allen, in a more misanthropic way, may be suggesting that the world simply hasn't learned how to love.
To the girls vacationing in Spain (the engaged Rebecca Hall and the single Scarlett Johansson), Javier Bardem offers a romantic getaway, including sex -- but it's not a sordid sexual rendezvous so much as a chunk of time spent between adults. Bardem has a bluntness and sexual appetite, but also a courteousness, as in how he insists his ex-wife (Penelope Cruz) speaks English in front of Johansson. It may be a comically exaggerated version of a Latin lover (and in some respects, Bardem, an invisible actor, is a great actor in the mold of Mastroianni), but it doesn't play strictly as a comedy, and offers real freedom from the stasis of conventional romances (through non-monogamy and a threesome relationship). The acting is mostly free from the actor quirks we expect from actors in Woody Allen movies -- Bardem and Cruz in particular have an amazing chemistry. And it's a hopelessly romantic premise, based not just on the exotic locale but the world of lovers, painters, and artists, and Bardem in particular decked out in wonderful linens. (Perhaps simply, the American males are khaki and Lacoste-wearing businessmen.)
I have no idea how personal this is to Allen's own views of romance (it would be easy to draw comparisons between the non-conventional here and the highly-criticized aspects of Allen's private life) and I don't necessarily think it's valuable to judge a movie that way. And I may find it intellectually interesting that this movie, essentially a series of examples against traditional one-man one-woman monogamy and depictions of its loneliness and repression, shows negatively the kinds of things that, as a gay man, I consider Holy Grail (long-term monogamy). I don't think those readings illuminate the movie, but it's interesting how the freedom the film offers, which is readily available in the gay community, is ultimately as lonely and repressive as the depiction of marriage. That said, the kind of adult affair that Allen shows -- prior to the crazed Penelope Cruz -- can be the kind of awakening that livens people up and can refresh their lives, and in that respect (unconventional romances or affairs that aren't just sexual) it shows opportunities for happiness.
Ed Gonzalez, an interesting writer, finds fault with the movie's depiction of fleeting bisexuality (which he strangely calls lesbianism). But the scene is remarkably chaste and could hardly be viewed as Allen fantasizing. And the moment is hardly "lesbianism" but rather an introduction of a new kind of sexual expression for a character who's lived heterosexually. (I don't think that's insulting to gay people -- it's open-minded and free from black/white straight/gay politics.)
Allen's film doesn't ultimately come down in favor of long-term monogamy or the unconventional romances. Like Bardem's poet father, Allen, in a more misanthropic way, may be suggesting that the world simply hasn't learned how to love.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Lucky You
Lucky You (2007, Curtis Hanson)
A supremely satisfying movie that I'd hesitate to call a genre picture because Curtis Hanson isn't so much a genre director as he is an old-style studio director moving from subject to subject. His style is spectacularly unshowy so you couldn't say he's trying to "leave his mark" on the genre, but rather respectfully add to it. (Although with the bad response this movie received, it's clear that the patience Hanson has in storytelling is not reflected with modern sensibilities.) He is enormously attentive to his actors: All of the performances have a light yet lived-in quality. Drew Barrymore is luminescent, her singing soft and lovely. Eric Bana's is a restrained, thoughtful performance (so too is Robert Downey, Jr.'s brief cameo). And Robert Duvall embodies his character without seemingly doing anything, and yet his subtle one-upmanship is deeply felt. Hanson is focused on the behavior of these characters and invariably when we feel tension (even from the sunglass-wearing oddball player) it's based on how the characters are interacting with each other from across the table rather than who's about to win the pot. And the score, made up of slide guitars and light piano and peppered with George Jones songs, adds a pleasantly amiable quality to the movie.
A supremely satisfying movie that I'd hesitate to call a genre picture because Curtis Hanson isn't so much a genre director as he is an old-style studio director moving from subject to subject. His style is spectacularly unshowy so you couldn't say he's trying to "leave his mark" on the genre, but rather respectfully add to it. (Although with the bad response this movie received, it's clear that the patience Hanson has in storytelling is not reflected with modern sensibilities.) He is enormously attentive to his actors: All of the performances have a light yet lived-in quality. Drew Barrymore is luminescent, her singing soft and lovely. Eric Bana's is a restrained, thoughtful performance (so too is Robert Downey, Jr.'s brief cameo). And Robert Duvall embodies his character without seemingly doing anything, and yet his subtle one-upmanship is deeply felt. Hanson is focused on the behavior of these characters and invariably when we feel tension (even from the sunglass-wearing oddball player) it's based on how the characters are interacting with each other from across the table rather than who's about to win the pot. And the score, made up of slide guitars and light piano and peppered with George Jones songs, adds a pleasantly amiable quality to the movie.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Wolf, The Hills Have Eyes, Harper
Wolf (1994, Mike Nichols)
Perhaps the most plainly enjoyable Mike Nichols movie that I've seen. With its zooms it seems heavily influenced by Kubrick's "The Shining," although Jack Nicholson's performance here is much more restrained, despite scenes requiring him to leap out of view and transform into a wolf. Nichols cleverly and rightly treats the wolf man aspect of the film as an everyday phenomenon, like a kind of sickness; there is little feeling of the supernatural. And Nichols just as rightly gives a great deal of focus to the simplicities of the characters' daily lives -- the movie works just as well as a story of corporate mergers and wheeling-and-dealing. James Spader brilliantly plays the conniving and sniveling foil to Nicholson's editor-in-chief role.
The Hills Have Eyes (1977, Wes Craven)
Some people may prefer the crazy-hick insanity of this film to Wes Craven's more glossy, commercial (and enjoyable) work, but I found it to be a second-rate impression of "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre," the kind of morally bankrupt freak-fest that shouldn't be idolized anyway.
Harper (1966, Jack Smight)
A movie that has signs of the cool factor of the '60s -- and even overripe spoofing of it, as with the dancing pool girl -- and yet the overly-convoluted plot goes on far too long and the script by William Goldman, a writer famous for the fraudulent, chintzy cleverness and sentimentality of scripts like "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" and "The Princess Bride," regards itself too highly to even make for a throwaway charmer vehicle for Paul Newman.
Perhaps the most plainly enjoyable Mike Nichols movie that I've seen. With its zooms it seems heavily influenced by Kubrick's "The Shining," although Jack Nicholson's performance here is much more restrained, despite scenes requiring him to leap out of view and transform into a wolf. Nichols cleverly and rightly treats the wolf man aspect of the film as an everyday phenomenon, like a kind of sickness; there is little feeling of the supernatural. And Nichols just as rightly gives a great deal of focus to the simplicities of the characters' daily lives -- the movie works just as well as a story of corporate mergers and wheeling-and-dealing. James Spader brilliantly plays the conniving and sniveling foil to Nicholson's editor-in-chief role.
The Hills Have Eyes (1977, Wes Craven)
Some people may prefer the crazy-hick insanity of this film to Wes Craven's more glossy, commercial (and enjoyable) work, but I found it to be a second-rate impression of "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre," the kind of morally bankrupt freak-fest that shouldn't be idolized anyway.
Harper (1966, Jack Smight)
A movie that has signs of the cool factor of the '60s -- and even overripe spoofing of it, as with the dancing pool girl -- and yet the overly-convoluted plot goes on far too long and the script by William Goldman, a writer famous for the fraudulent, chintzy cleverness and sentimentality of scripts like "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" and "The Princess Bride," regards itself too highly to even make for a throwaway charmer vehicle for Paul Newman.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Xanadu, Blow Out, Breathless, Rec, Roller Boogie
Xanadu (1980, Robert Greenwald)
More simply odd than a disastrous spectacle, it comes across as something that Gene Kelly would agree to do because he saw "Grease" and imagined it would revitalize screen dancing and wanted to be a part of whatever Olivia Newton-John did next. Kelly doesn't embarrass himself, but his dancing isn't inspired, either. Oddly, Newton-John fares fairly well -- the movie isn't any good, but her ethereal beauty remains unscathed. And Michael Beck is appealing thanks in large part to his hair. The movie isn't crazy enough to be exciting -- most of the time I wasn't sure if the characters were ghosts or dreaming -- but the ending has at least a little sparkle. More ELO would have made it much more enjoyable.
Blow Out (1981, Brian De Palma)
Perhaps too much of a rip-off movie to be entirely pleasing (I prefer De Palma when he rips off himself, as with "The Fury"), but as a pulpy thriller it's pretty successful. And while the train station ending doesn't equal the grandeur of "Carlito's Way," it nonetheless possesses an admirable degree of tragedy.
Breathless (1983, Jim McBride)
I find it odd that someone who found a degree of "experimental" credibility would remake someone else's masterpiece, and while the general consensus is that "Breathless" as a remake is sacrilege, McBride has his own weird style, more rockabilly than cool (because there are limits to Richard Gere as an icon of cool). And yet I would find it much more respectable to just make your own movie.
Rec (2007, Jaume Balagueró, Paco Plaza)
In the series of pointless, boring horror movies made to seem novel by approximating documentary techniques this one only stands out because it occasionally has children zombies, but there's nothing about it that will make you think for a second. George Romero's "Diary of the Dead" at least had some coy intelligence and I found it a more tolerable comment on everything-is-recorded modern society than the deadening "Cloverfield." But zombie movies have become so stale that the only way to make them interesting now may be to have an all-child zombie movie. Maybe in musical form.
Roller Boogie (1979, Mark L. Lester)
Pleasantly throwaway, it's an ideal movie to make about a fad. It may not be a definitive statement on roller skate parties of the late '70s, but its ephemeral quality goes in hand with the briefness of the subculture. What makes it particularly successful as a time piece are the amazing fashions: Short shorts, gold lamé, and tight-fitting everything in general.
More simply odd than a disastrous spectacle, it comes across as something that Gene Kelly would agree to do because he saw "Grease" and imagined it would revitalize screen dancing and wanted to be a part of whatever Olivia Newton-John did next. Kelly doesn't embarrass himself, but his dancing isn't inspired, either. Oddly, Newton-John fares fairly well -- the movie isn't any good, but her ethereal beauty remains unscathed. And Michael Beck is appealing thanks in large part to his hair. The movie isn't crazy enough to be exciting -- most of the time I wasn't sure if the characters were ghosts or dreaming -- but the ending has at least a little sparkle. More ELO would have made it much more enjoyable.
Blow Out (1981, Brian De Palma)
Perhaps too much of a rip-off movie to be entirely pleasing (I prefer De Palma when he rips off himself, as with "The Fury"), but as a pulpy thriller it's pretty successful. And while the train station ending doesn't equal the grandeur of "Carlito's Way," it nonetheless possesses an admirable degree of tragedy.
Breathless (1983, Jim McBride)
I find it odd that someone who found a degree of "experimental" credibility would remake someone else's masterpiece, and while the general consensus is that "Breathless" as a remake is sacrilege, McBride has his own weird style, more rockabilly than cool (because there are limits to Richard Gere as an icon of cool). And yet I would find it much more respectable to just make your own movie.
Rec (2007, Jaume Balagueró, Paco Plaza)
In the series of pointless, boring horror movies made to seem novel by approximating documentary techniques this one only stands out because it occasionally has children zombies, but there's nothing about it that will make you think for a second. George Romero's "Diary of the Dead" at least had some coy intelligence and I found it a more tolerable comment on everything-is-recorded modern society than the deadening "Cloverfield." But zombie movies have become so stale that the only way to make them interesting now may be to have an all-child zombie movie. Maybe in musical form.
Roller Boogie (1979, Mark L. Lester)
Pleasantly throwaway, it's an ideal movie to make about a fad. It may not be a definitive statement on roller skate parties of the late '70s, but its ephemeral quality goes in hand with the briefness of the subculture. What makes it particularly successful as a time piece are the amazing fashions: Short shorts, gold lamé, and tight-fitting everything in general.
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