Broken English etc

Broken English (2007, Zoe Cassavetes)
This one came as a real surprise to me. To me it's about the purest kind of "romantic comedy" you're likely to get. And I hesitate to use that description because what romance there is, and the comedy, comes directly from the feelings of life. It's incredibly accurate about the way people experience feeling, and it's anchored by two great performances by Parker Posey and Melvil Poupaud. It has similarities to "Lost in Translation" and "Before Sunset" in its adult sense of longing, but it's more earthbound than either of those -- Posey, in particular, is a character who reveals the desperation and loneliness inherent in dating. Some of the film's best strengths are in how it understands the power games that people play -- the little things they say and do to change who holds the "power" in a conversation or relationship. (When, out in a grocery store with Poupaud, Posey runs into a male friend who wants to get together, as Poupaud listens on.) It's a strong statement on the feelings a person can give you, and the loss and confusion it inspires. Poupaud's the much simpler partner of the two, while Posey frantically needs to know whether or not individual moments "mean" something or not (and needs confirmation from her partner either way).

The House Bunny (2008, Fred Wolf)
There's nothing offensive or problematic about the movie from a moral or philosophic standpoint, but that doesn't make it any more entertaining as a light comedy. What few points it makes are conventional ones about "being yourself." The gem quality is of course Anna Faris, the dopiest comedienne since Goldie Hawn or Elaine May. (The physical humor of one of the other actresses has its charms, too.) As a vehicle for Faris it's not quite up to her level, but it doesn't stunt her either. But I long for Faris to be given more demanding material -- she perfected the stoner-doofus role in Gregg Araki's "Smiley Face."

Frost/Nixon (2008, Ron Howard)
About as good as Hollywood historical dramas get, and to our benefit it focuses mostly on acting between two people (although it may work better on the stage). Frank Langella is a towering force and no actor can stand up to him, and his version of Nixon is that Shakespearean thing of a flawed, tragic hero. (The reminiscences that serve as exposition point the movie in the direction of being a topical drama that's more concerned with business than being human, though.) I don't think the easiness of the movie allows Nixon to be explored as thoroughly and deeply as could be possible, but as a light history lesson it makes for decent entertainment.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008, David Fincher)
At its best -- that is to say the opening parts -- it resembles a Jean-Pierre Jeunet fantasy. But Fincher, seemingly trying to combine "The Great Gatsby" and "Forrest Gump," is too earthbound a director to fully let fly with his fantasy. The second half of the film drags, and the slowness doesn't provide deepness or reflection. Some of Fincher's touches have inventiveness to them, like the way a character continually tells the story of how he was hit by lightning on multiple occasions and how the occurrences are shown to us in grainy, old-timey footage for comic effect. But the cleverness of the story -- a man who ages backwards but whose love life still manages to dovetail with that of a young dancer, played by Cate Blanchett -- never fulfills itself into something either emotionally grand or as something with genuine insights into the nature of love -- or aging. (Cate Blanchett's performance as her own older self is so mannered that even if Fincher did have something noteworthy to say about aging it would be hindered by Blanchett's look-at-me performance.)

Compared to his other movies you can admire Fincher's less showy approach here, but he hasn't brought any kind of insight or feeling with him to replace his formerly over-the-top directorial shenanigans. Brad Pitt's work, at least when he's only supplying a heavily make-up'd face on another person's body, is maybe the best of his career -- but it's hard knowing whether it's his, the stand-in's, or the benefit of computer technology. When he assumes his own body he's less effective -- his body movement and voice don't have the strangeness or the sadness that makes his earlier segments interesting. Blanchett's problem is the inverse: She's so luminescent as a young woman that when she's resigned to dying in bed Fincher has short-circuited her natural grace.

In Search of a Midnight Kiss (2007, Alex Holdridge)
I think Alex Holdridge compromises his own vision with some overly comedic touches that don't ring true when compared to the rest of his film -- like a crazy ex-boyfriend -- but at its best the film is an entertaining little movie about the disappointment inherent in our age of disconnection. Holdridge's film does bear similarities to Richard Linklater's love couplet, not just because it's about similar subject matter but because he believes in the light romance that he's telling. What gives the film a little weight is how he doesn't shy away from the feelings of patheticness that come with having to meet lovers online instead of in person, not to mention the first steps towards getting to know someone who you don't know at all. Although it's similarly filmed in black and white it doesn't have the fashionable irony of Jim Jarmusch or Hal Hartley -- when it's funny it's in a direct way, like when one character tells another to wear condoms because his balls are "full of green cards." What makes the drama work is that the characters don't sweep each other off their feet -- they get mad at each other and make up, all within the first night of meeting.

The Puffy Chair (2005, Duplass brothers)
This feature by the Duplass brothers really blew me away. It's such an amazing depiction of a handful of people who are as cleanly and deeply portrayed as any in the movies. (The way Mark Duplass and his girlfriend use babytalk to mask their embarrassment and discomfort.) It's a movie about the tenuous threads that keep people connected and the things we do to destroy those threads -- our obsession with unnecessary gadgets; our ignoring of other people; the way we misunderstand others' best intentions. I can't imagine why someone would criticize this movie for lacking an obvious visual flair when it touches on so many fascinating experiences of life. (Like how we will nonchalantly lie to others and then be furious when others lie to us.) The couple in the film, the frail connection they have, is enough to maintain a film, but the Duplass' also introduce us to Mark's hippie brother Rhett, a character so doofy that our initial reaction is to write him off -- but you can't write him off; to do so would be to reject his complicated actions. When he says he loves a girl he just met, you're not sure whether to be touched or whether to laugh at him. (In a Will Ferrell comedy this would be a punchline of patheticness.) But Rhett's irrational actions make the characters forget their obsession with ultimately inconsequential details (does an artifact couch -- a symbol -- really matter, when you should be reconnecting with your parents?). I've heard this movie referred to as solipsistic, but it couldn't be further from that: its focus on minutia isn't to ignore a bigger world, but to emphasize the uniqueness and the details that we take for granted in our individual lives.

Baghead (2008, Duplass brothers)
I was a huge fan of the Duplass' previous film "The Puffy Chair," and while "Baghead" isn't as immediately mind-blowing as that film it's still a rich, demanding experience. At first it feels as if the Duplass' have moved from intermingling minutia into social critiques, and in some cases they have -- they offer a skewering of the banal questions at film festivals that make you wonder whether we're engaged with the art we watch or only interested in the trivia details of production. When a filmmaker writes off scripts by asking, "Is there a script in real life?" one of our characters scoffs at the pretension of the line -- but it would be a serious detriment to take him at his laugh, since the entire movie follows with proving that way of thinking. (How the characters surprise and shock each other -- that's the element of it that's a horror movie or a comedy, not in the usual way.) If you view it as a story it may be predictable, but its value is in the tones of voice and the way characters try to manipulate each other (without the filmmaker trying to manipulate the audience). The acting by everyone involved is up to the wonderfully specific standards that the Duplass' have set, but Greta Gerwig by nature of maybe just her genetics is particularly fascinating. (But the other woman uses some amazing tones of voice.)

Sound and Fury (2000, Josh Aronson)
Like a human variant of the ethicist Jonathan Glover's book "Choosing Children," this film offers an example of the cochlear implant dilemma in the deaf community. Does implanting deaf children take them out of the deaf community? Should they be taught to embrace their deafness, when so many deaf individuals have succeeded in life? Or is it child abuse to neglect implanting children with a device that can partially correct a handicap that can burden a life? When deaf parents are worried that implanting their deaf children with cochlear implants means that their own lives would have been unsuccessful by comparison, you understand their hurt. But you also understand when people urge them not to let their children remain handicapped purely to keep the deaf community alive. The questions this film raises about identity and moral obligations to help our children are terrifically involving, an example of film broaching the area of personal ethics.

The Last Mistress (2008, Catherine Breillat)
Fitting into Breillat's overall oeuvre rather well, "The Last Mistress" is her latest mixture of blood, tears, and sex. A commingling of two fiery, hot and unlikely lovers (he views her as "ugly" at first), the affair within the film proves the Joyce Carol Oates aphorism that love combined with hate is more powerful than love (or hate). Argento's particular brand of unpredictability goes well with Breillat's temperamental nature, and Aattou is nothing less than extraordinary, particularly when he's filmed in close-up in a discussion with his wife's grandmother's questioning him. Breillat's vision of sex continues to be one of the most tactile and amoral -- and sensitive.

Into Great Silence (2005, Philip Groning)
The reviews for "Into Great Silence" seem stuck between either rhapsodizing over the images as if the film was a travelogue, or pontificating about its length. To get that out of the way: It has some arresting images, and it is indeed very long. But I doubt that either of those points were the point of the film, which seems to me much more rooted, simply, in an approximation of what it means to live a life of solitude and near silence. There are so many interesting avenues that that opens up for us that to focus on length or visuals seems wholly beside the point. The documentary is not a history or an explanation of why the monks do what they do, but a heady chunk of example of them doing what they do.

The slowness, repetition, and lack of external influence like narration helps to slow down our circadian rhythm, but it should be said that viewing of the film should be done when attentive. (To fully appreciate slowness you should be wide awake.) The film is a monumental document of a dwindling way of life, but more importantly it brings us into the act of doing. The questions the film brings up are ones like, Is this a valuable use of one's time, for the rest of your life? (Surely living a monastic life could be beneficial for a short period, in how it would influence regular life after the fact.) It makes you wonder if these highly disciplined and devoted individuals, supposedly worshipping in the name of a higher power, might be better used in the service of people in need. And it makes you ask if a monastic life isn't an inherently selfish one -- depriving yourself not just of human interaction, but refuting the existing tangible society and not contributing to it.

Of course the other side is that these are a brave few who limit themselves so much and have their lives pared down to such essentials that they prove how unnecessary the accessories of modern life are. When on rare occasions the monks do interact, laugh, and do things as surprising as tobogganing (once a week I believe) you realize that their enjoyment of life is not humorless or one of scorn. (Interestingly, for the tobogganing footage, the director films it from afar, as if to let the monks enjoy their "free time" as much as possible.) Is the film slow, repetitious, and devoid of historical context and details? Yes. But it makes you think deeply about how a person can, or should, live their life. If that's not the aim of good art I don't know what is.

Hannah Takes the Stairs (2007, Joe Swanberg)
The biggest achievement of Swanberg's film must be the way he lets loose an inexplicable mess of emotions -- the way that Greta Gerwig falls apart, almost in slow-motion, when her boyfriend does a trick with an ice cube. An unexpected moment for a relationship to unravel, and throughout the film the problems people have in relationships aren't dramatic, they continue to be uncomfortably specific as in that scene. Swanberg's capturing of the late-20s generation comes across as quite accurate (even though I'm sure plenty of 20-somethings would hate to see themselves this way), but the best things about his film are his deeper observances -- like the way people kiss someone not to give in, but to escape from pain.

Wendy and Lucy (2008, Kelly Reichardt)
The initial problem with "Wendy and Lucy" and films like it is that it requires a series of bad things to happen to a character so that they find themselves in a hopeless position. (They have to be caught stealing, lose their dog, and have their car break down.) But getting those narrative roadblocks out of the way, Reichardt's film is a rather gentle view of America. Williams never greets the world with animosity. The manager of a store she steals from is reluctant to call the police (but begrudgingly acquiesces as it is their policy). A security guard follows his procedures in asking her to move her car, but offers suggestions for places she might go, and lets her use his cell phone. Perhaps the more accurate description would be that Reichardt's film has a gentle view of most Americans -- the American system, without being overtly criticized, is up for criticism simply by nature of this woman's situation. The store boy who catches her stealing comes off as a little bit of a prick, but he makes the apt observation that maybe people who can't afford dog food shouldn't have dogs. And yet the larger issue at stake is that how can we go on criticizing the less fortunate and not simultaneously note how the system is fixed? (You can't get an education without money; you can't get a job without an address; you can't get an address without money; you can't get money without a job.)

Team Picture (2008, Kentucker Audley)
I really found myself taken with this unassuming little movie. I loved the alternate ways of life that the film depicted, of the lead character choosing to live life in a different way (willfully choosing to not work for a while). When he quits his job, it's not a dramatic moment, not some major life decision, simply an act that comes from the fact that there are other ways he'd like to spend his time. I loved the light romance with a neighbor that comes when Kentucker Audley (also the director) fumbles his way into interacting with her. Nothing in the movie is underscored, and yet its pleasant amiability (which shouldn't be mistaken for frivolity) maintains subtle observances of life, like how dissimilar Audley and his sports apparel store-managing father seem. Only later do we learn that it's his step-dad, and when we see his biological father the casualness with which Audley lives his life (short shorts, flip flops, unshaven face) makes a little more sense. But it's never a wacky, bizarre indie, nor does it have contempt for any of its characters. (Imagine that: A movie about slackers in the south that's neither fashionably quirky nor hateful.) There's a difference between Audley and his step-father, but we're never meant to laugh at this aging jock; he's understanding when his step-son informs him of his decision to quit working at the store. What makes the film so pleasant, aside from Audley's winning personality (and beauty) is the combo of his interest in the less dramatic moments in life, and his character's slight beguiled feeling in the face of it.

Reprise (2006, Joachim Trier)
Though I found it offputting at first -- it seemed to me too focused on telling a story rather than delving deeply into its characters or ideas -- eventually it won me over. Trier definitely has a sense for visual ingenuity and visual cues -- he can indicate different things with a gesture as simple as air-quotes -- and a talent for creating friction when characters interact. I didn't find Trier's technicalities to be gimmicky -- I think he's made a genuine statement on frustrated youth -- but I think he could go even deeper.

Damned If You Don't (1987, Su Friedrich)
At first you don't quite know where you are. You're not sure if Friedrich is going to give you a revised history of lesbianism in the movies, or if she wants to provide a commentary for the images that enticed lesbians when they were young. The film does contain commentary on the act of viewership, both in the way a woman watches "Black Narcissus" on TV as we watch her doing so, and in the broader scope of Friedrich populating her film with voiceover reminiscences where we can hear the collaboration as the speakers mess up their words or think of new ways of saying something as they are coached to either continue narrating or incorporate their new thought into what they're telling us. It's in this way that Friedrich includes the creative process within the film, and also how she requires that we not get "lost" in the film and remain attentive at all times.

Friedrich's films are not so much narrative as an intermingling of forms -- documentary, fiction, reenactment. They are also demanding aesthetic experiences. I have warmed to her vision more with this film than I did with her previous "The Ties That Bind," which to me was too repetitious and not as wide-ranging or sensual as this film. As I ask less that her films adhere to traditional forms, I welcome them more as they continue to twist and weave as themselves. Her films are preeminent examples of time in film that asks that you stop and consider, to appreciate different and longer experiences, as with an amazing sequence in which a nun watches a dolphin twirl and writhe in an aquarium.

The film becomes increasingly more powerful as it progresses, as elliptical sequences gain an importance when continued later (picking out an artwork; sewing onto it). We begin to appreciate the oceanic waves of subtlety and evasive meanings as Friedrich's themes and observances come together -- but never in a finite way. Friedrich focuses less on the lesbianism of institutions (nunnery) as she does on the more personal process of sex as a tactile and spiritual discovery (a scene without sound). The film's title evokes a complicated rebellious streak, which is beautifully accented as the closing song begins to play: "Break It Up."