Or, I guess, at home, really.
This weekend, we watched two movies: Helen Hunt's directorial debut Then She Found Me and David Fincher's second attempt at defining a generation through film, The Social Network.
SPOILERALERTSPOILERALERTSPOILERALERTSPOILERALERT
Then She Found Me: 3/5
I really liked Helen Hunt's directorial debut. She cast herself as April, a late-30s urban school teacher, recently married to her long-time best friend and coworker, Ben (Matthew Broderick). One day, she comes home from work ready to make a baby, and Ben is sitting at the kitchen table wearing a tee-shirt and sneakers. They have a brief argument over who should stand up or sit down and who should take her coat off, and the argument ends with breakup sex. The next day, she meets Frank (Colin Firth), a recently single father of one of her students. They have instant chemistry, but they are both trying to get a handle on their new stations in life. Add April's heretofore unknown birth mother, Bernice (Bette Midler), and you have a recipe for interesting drama with some spice of real world comedy.
I've already said it once, but I'll say it again. I really liked TSFM. You have four likable actors playing three likable roles, and you instantly have characters I care about. This is one of those movies where I lost track of time and just enjoyed being with April and Frank as they tried to figure out how to be who they've become. The characters are the strong point of this movie, and Director Hunt did well to avoid distracting us with stunning visuals or swelling orchestral numbers or lampshaded plot metaphors. Instead, everything takes a backseat to the characters. And that's OK.
If there's one thing I didn't like about the movie, it would be that the relationship between April and Ben wasn't developed enough. At one point, April tells Bernice that Ben is the kind of guy that she knows she'll do whatever he asks. That point becomes painfully obvious twice. What confuses me is that I don't understand why she'll do whatever he asks. What does he bring to the table? I guess I just would have liked to have seen more pre-split development.
The Social Network: 3/5
David Fincher, once again, tries to define a generation. He did it the first time (very successfully, I think) with Fight Club. Now, he's taking a generation-defining technology and talking about it. I think he makes a subtle point about greed and loneliness and technology that might get lost without some post-viewing thinking.
The Social Network tells the tale of the founding of Facebook. We watch it mainly as it revolves around Mark Zuckerberg (Jesse Eisenberg), and we see what happens. It's hard to say who really did who wrong, but that's not really the point. The plot goes something like this: Zuckerberg is a brilliant computer scientist-in-training. He gains notoriety by developing a website overnight that allows users to vote on the various girls of Harvard in one-on-one competitions. The Winklevoss twins (played simultaneously by Armie Hammer) and their crony Divya (Max Minghella) call him up to see if he can put together a website they've dreamed up. They call it "Harvard Connection." He takes the idea, pitches it to his best friend, financial wizard Eduardo Saverin (Andrew Garfield), and Eduardo and he take the world by storm, making a million friends and a few enemies along the way.
My favorite thing about SN is that it tells the story through some type of legal proceeding several years down the road. Fincher cuts in interesting ways between the legal proceeding and the events as they happen, lending an air of credibility to the speaker at the legal proceeding (usually Eduardo). But---and this is what I like---he lampshades their incentive to lie. After Zuckerberg accuses somebody of lying, one of the lawyers points out that she was under oath. "Oh," he says, "then it's the first time anybody's ever lied under oath." It's a subtler version of the Rashomon effect, and it hearkens back to Fincher's Fight Club days. Where Kurosawa had four narrators tell the same story four times, Fincher has two narrators tell different parts of the same story. It all vaguely fits together, but we still don't really know what happened.
[Apostrophe: I saw Passengers at Safeway today for $6.99. Talk about untrustworthy narrators. I thought about buying it. And you thought you'd only get spoilers for Then She Found Me and The Social Network. Bah. I spoil it all.]
What did I dislike? Well, mainly, Mark Zuckerberg. And that's a problem. When you have a movie revolve around a guy, he has to be sympathetic in some way. Otherwise, you can't watch the movie. Thankfully, Eduardo hangs around long enough to make Zuckerberg palatable. (At least until Zuckerberg royally screws Eduardo.) Don't tell me that that's the point of the movie. It's not. Fincher bookends the movie (and throws in two lines at about the 1/3 and 2/3 marks) with references to Erica Albright. She is the only one he doesn't screw. Tell me what you think about that.
Conclusions
Rent them both.
Showing posts with label movies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label movies. Show all posts
Sunday, March 06, 2011
Friday, December 31, 2010
TAOJJBTCRF*: 4/5
*The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, written and directed by Andrew Dominik, based on the 1983 novel by Ron Hansen, starring Casey Affleck and Brad Pitt, featuring a bazillion other crazy talented actors, scored by Nick Cave and Warren Ellis, and shot by the renowned Roger Deakins.
Three Up:
1. The Cinematography--Movies ought to be a synergistic explosion of compelling characters saying interesting things in a beautiful-to-watch way. This movie was beautiful. I loved the vistas, I loved the coloring, I loved the costuming. BONUS. This is one of the few recent movies that realizes that movies are less about plot than they are about characters and visuals. A certain director of increasingly bad movies could learn a lesson.
2. The Acting--Casey Affleck, I think we all know, is an amazing actor. Brad Pitt is surprisingly underrated, despite creating great characters in a lot of movies lately. (Did you see him in Interview with the Vampire, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, or Mr. and Mrs. Smith?) Sam Rockwell, Jeremy Renner, and Paul Schneider support the leading duo like professional actors. Mary-Louise Parker turns her 6 lines in 24 minutes into a brilliant study of the devoted wife of a larger-than-life man, and Zooey Deschanel turns her 6 lines in 2 minutes into a fascinating study of the supporting girl of a crumpled man. There are too many brilliant actors doing too many brilliant things to list it all. When you watch it, pay close attention to the scene when Jesse James comes over for dinner. Brilliance on cellophane.
3. The Score--Long story short, I haven't enjoyed a score this much since Moon.
Three Down
1. The Running Time--First, a caveat. This movie is terribly long at 160 minutes. Second, an admission. I cannot think of 2 minutes that could be cut without taking away from the movie. Still, I can't see myself popping it in on a Tuesday night when there's nothing on TV.
2. The Mumbling--Being from the quasi-South (Is Texas Southern? Is Maryland? I never know.), I can appreciate a good Southern accent. Mumbling is part of it. But interesting dialog is only interesting if it is understood. I think I missed out on half of the great lines.
3. The Long Title--I dread telling my friends at work, "Have you seen The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford? It's great!" And, since I have a Texas mumbling drawl, they'll be all like "Wha--???" and I'll have to repeat it. And I can't shorten it because I despise shortening titles. Sigh.
Three Up:
1. The Cinematography--Movies ought to be a synergistic explosion of compelling characters saying interesting things in a beautiful-to-watch way. This movie was beautiful. I loved the vistas, I loved the coloring, I loved the costuming. BONUS. This is one of the few recent movies that realizes that movies are less about plot than they are about characters and visuals. A certain director of increasingly bad movies could learn a lesson.
2. The Acting--Casey Affleck, I think we all know, is an amazing actor. Brad Pitt is surprisingly underrated, despite creating great characters in a lot of movies lately. (Did you see him in Interview with the Vampire, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, or Mr. and Mrs. Smith?) Sam Rockwell, Jeremy Renner, and Paul Schneider support the leading duo like professional actors. Mary-Louise Parker turns her 6 lines in 24 minutes into a brilliant study of the devoted wife of a larger-than-life man, and Zooey Deschanel turns her 6 lines in 2 minutes into a fascinating study of the supporting girl of a crumpled man. There are too many brilliant actors doing too many brilliant things to list it all. When you watch it, pay close attention to the scene when Jesse James comes over for dinner. Brilliance on cellophane.
3. The Score--Long story short, I haven't enjoyed a score this much since Moon.
Three Down
1. The Running Time--First, a caveat. This movie is terribly long at 160 minutes. Second, an admission. I cannot think of 2 minutes that could be cut without taking away from the movie. Still, I can't see myself popping it in on a Tuesday night when there's nothing on TV.
2. The Mumbling--Being from the quasi-South (Is Texas Southern? Is Maryland? I never know.), I can appreciate a good Southern accent. Mumbling is part of it. But interesting dialog is only interesting if it is understood. I think I missed out on half of the great lines.
3. The Long Title--I dread telling my friends at work, "Have you seen The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford? It's great!" And, since I have a Texas mumbling drawl, they'll be all like "Wha--???" and I'll have to repeat it. And I can't shorten it because I despise shortening titles. Sigh.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang: 4/5
SPOILER ALERT
Basically, Harry Lockhart (Robert Downey Jr.) accidentally lands a role in some movie, gets shipped out west to L.A., meets Gay Perry (Val Kilmer), learns how to be a P.I., and reunites with his first love (Michelle Monaghan). Oh, Shane Black (Predator) writes and directs.
THREE UP
1. The Characters - A post is brewing in my head about how characters are the real meat of any story, be it written, spoken, or shown. The characters in a story are what brings people back to it years and years down the road. Harry, Gay Perry, and Harmony are the kind of people I want to hang out with for a couple of hours. (I don't know how long this movie was, sorta like losing track of time while hanging out with friends.) I can't say much about the characters that will explain why I like them, but I'll try. Harry is a lovable Every Man who walks the fine (in the movies) line between irrelevant brilliance and hopeless incompetence. Gay Perry has the competence and confidence that makes you want to be his friend, as well as the social resistance that makes him irresistible (especially when he agrees to be your friend). And Harmony has the brains, the body, and the face of the girl you hope you marry. Why wouldn't you want to hang out with these people?
2. The Opening Sequence - It reminded me of my favorite opening sequence of all time.
3. The Depth - I am POSITIVE that there is more to this than one viewing can reveal. For example, the title comes from an Italian movie poster which, translated, said simply, "Kiss Kiss Bang Bang." According to a famous reviewer, those four words are "perhaps the briefest statement imaginable of the basic appeal of movies." That is, we watch movies to imagine ourselves living a life full of sex and violence. A lot of bad movies will use sex or violence (usually both) to pump up a dead scene or draw in crowds that wouldn't otherwise watch the movie. I like to call that "gratuitous sex or violence (usually both)." Ironically, almost all the sex and violence in this movie serves some purpose within the movie, beyond mere gratuity. (The lone exception I can think of is itself an allusion to how Hollywood exploits young actresses, which, some say, is Shane Black's theme.) So, all that to say, a movie promising sex and violence from the title card that limits itself to meaningful sex and violence? There must be more here than meets the first viewing.
Three Down
1. End Credits - First, this was quite possibly the most disappointing end credits I've ever seen. Please note my use of the word "disappointing" rather than bad. The end credits were fine, but even bad movies usually get that part right. Happy (bad) movies end with happy music; sappy (bad) movies end with some sappy song. You want triumphant or introspective or celebratory music that resounds with the ending of the movie, not some random, disconnected song. Maybe these end credits can be explained by 3-Up, but this fan-of-end-credits-music was not happy.
2. The Plot - I know it's a parody, but I would have liked a little more sense. At least, something a little clearer about what the plot was supposed to be. I will admit, though, that using the telegraphed "hint" about the two deaths being connected (as in, a double murder) as a red herring was alright. After a week's thinking, I'll also admit that the plot falls clearly within 3-Up as well.
3. The Finger - I am really confused about (a) how a slamming apartment door could cut a finger off so cleanly and (b) how exactly he lost his right ring finger. I can't figure it out. Is Shane Black making fun of me? Try it and let me know what happens.
Basically, Harry Lockhart (Robert Downey Jr.) accidentally lands a role in some movie, gets shipped out west to L.A., meets Gay Perry (Val Kilmer), learns how to be a P.I., and reunites with his first love (Michelle Monaghan). Oh, Shane Black (Predator) writes and directs.
THREE UP
1. The Characters - A post is brewing in my head about how characters are the real meat of any story, be it written, spoken, or shown. The characters in a story are what brings people back to it years and years down the road. Harry, Gay Perry, and Harmony are the kind of people I want to hang out with for a couple of hours. (I don't know how long this movie was, sorta like losing track of time while hanging out with friends.) I can't say much about the characters that will explain why I like them, but I'll try. Harry is a lovable Every Man who walks the fine (in the movies) line between irrelevant brilliance and hopeless incompetence. Gay Perry has the competence and confidence that makes you want to be his friend, as well as the social resistance that makes him irresistible (especially when he agrees to be your friend). And Harmony has the brains, the body, and the face of the girl you hope you marry. Why wouldn't you want to hang out with these people?
2. The Opening Sequence - It reminded me of my favorite opening sequence of all time.
3. The Depth - I am POSITIVE that there is more to this than one viewing can reveal. For example, the title comes from an Italian movie poster which, translated, said simply, "Kiss Kiss Bang Bang." According to a famous reviewer, those four words are "perhaps the briefest statement imaginable of the basic appeal of movies." That is, we watch movies to imagine ourselves living a life full of sex and violence. A lot of bad movies will use sex or violence (usually both) to pump up a dead scene or draw in crowds that wouldn't otherwise watch the movie. I like to call that "gratuitous sex or violence (usually both)." Ironically, almost all the sex and violence in this movie serves some purpose within the movie, beyond mere gratuity. (The lone exception I can think of is itself an allusion to how Hollywood exploits young actresses, which, some say, is Shane Black's theme.) So, all that to say, a movie promising sex and violence from the title card that limits itself to meaningful sex and violence? There must be more here than meets the first viewing.
Three Down
1. End Credits - First, this was quite possibly the most disappointing end credits I've ever seen. Please note my use of the word "disappointing" rather than bad. The end credits were fine, but even bad movies usually get that part right. Happy (bad) movies end with happy music; sappy (bad) movies end with some sappy song. You want triumphant or introspective or celebratory music that resounds with the ending of the movie, not some random, disconnected song. Maybe these end credits can be explained by 3-Up, but this fan-of-end-credits-music was not happy.
2. The Plot - I know it's a parody, but I would have liked a little more sense. At least, something a little clearer about what the plot was supposed to be. I will admit, though, that using the telegraphed "hint" about the two deaths being connected (as in, a double murder) as a red herring was alright. After a week's thinking, I'll also admit that the plot falls clearly within 3-Up as well.
3. The Finger - I am really confused about (a) how a slamming apartment door could cut a finger off so cleanly and (b) how exactly he lost his right ring finger. I can't figure it out. Is Shane Black making fun of me? Try it and let me know what happens.
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Third Man: 3/5
SPOILER ALERT
The Third Man (1949) is my first exposure to Carol Reed and my second to the Joseph Cotten/Orson Welles duo. Graham Greene wrote the screenplay (and simultaneously released novelette). The basic premise is that Holly Martins (Cotten) reports to work in post-war Vienna only to find that his best friend and employer, Harry Lime (Welles), has been run over by a truck in front of his house. But something is amiss in Vienna, and Holly, a penniless Western pulp writer, tries to play sleuth and figure it out. Along the way, he kills his best friend and tries to steal his girl. He fails, so he ends up penniless and friendless. But he has the esteem of the British government, so that's nice.
Three Up
1. The best part of the movie is its ending. Holly lures Harry into a trap, helps chase him into the sewers, and eventually fires the shot that kills him. After Harry's second funeral (a nice bookend), Holly and Major Calloway drive past Harry's girl Anna (Alida Valli) walking back to the city. Holly gets out and waits for Anna. He's ready to inherit Harry's girl, but she walks right past him without even a sideways glance.
Why is that so awesome? Well, it suggests an answer to the film's central question: whether it is OK to kill one person so thousands may live. Reed doesn't tell us. Instead, he reminds us that, either way, there are consequences. Society's anonymous and short-lived appreciation but the condemnation of your friends and loved ones, or the opposite.
And second, it suggests a difference between men and women, Americans and Eastern Europeans. Men and Americans stereotypically view the world romantically, while women and Eastern Europeans stereotypically view the world pragmatically. Anna doesn't embrace Holly as the hero who saved countless children's lives; she rejects him as the bastard who trapped and killed the love of her life. And it is beautiful.
2. The unusual soundtrack is great. Anton Karas composed and performed the soundtrack on a zither, a native Austrian instrument. Sometimes, the jangly upbeat music jars with the noirish atmosphere, but it belongs to the scene. I also liked all the untranslated speaking in German. Not only do we see weird visuals, but we hear unfamiliar sounds. The cumulative effect is to help put us in Holly's shoes: we, too, are strangers in a strange land who (literally) don't know where to turn.
3. Major Calloway (Trevor Howard) is a great, great character. I know that Harry Lime is probably the most famous character from this movie (and even had his own radio show spin-off), but I preferred Major Calloway. He personifies the romantic pragmatism of the British so perfectly. Most movies that deal with the conflict of romanticism and pragmatism present one side as obviously right and the other as obviously wrong. Without Howard's suave performance as the British major trying to make Vienna safe for children, this movie would fall into the same trap.
Three Down
1. Meaningless name mix-ups. Holly kept calling Calloway "Callahan." Anna kept calling Holly "Harry." And Holly kept pronouncing Dr. Winkel's name wrong (with an American W instead of an Austrian V). As far as I can tell, these three don't do anything more than (a) show Holly's disregard for Calloway, (b) show that Anna still loves Harry, and (c) show Holly's stereotypical American ignorance. Faux symbolism annoys me, but accidental symbolism is even worse. Graham Greene and Carol Reed are professionals. They should have known the value of names and done something with it. They should have known that doing it three times makes me think it's worth something.
2. Some people love the almost constant Dutch angle. I don't. I get the artistic choice, but I don't dig it. That's all I got on that one.
3. I realize this is a classic film noir, but there was a little too much noir for my taste. I dig the deep blacks of film as much as anybody, but it annoys me when I can't figure out what's going on (not metaphysically; I mean I literally couldn't tell what was on my screen at some points). Blame it on my TV, blame it on Netflix Instant Queue, blame it on the bossanova, but I don't like it.
Closing Statement
The Third Man is regarded as a film noir classic. It's # 65 on IMDb and # 534 on FlickChart. The AFI ranked Harry Lime # 37 in its list of the top 100 villains in cinema, the movie # 57 on its first list of top 100 movies, # 75 on its list of top 100 thrills, and the # 5 mystery in its 10 Top 10 list. The BFI called it the greatest British film of all time (at least through 1999). There are probably other accolades to recommend it; you don't need mine.
The Third Man (1949) is my first exposure to Carol Reed and my second to the Joseph Cotten/Orson Welles duo. Graham Greene wrote the screenplay (and simultaneously released novelette). The basic premise is that Holly Martins (Cotten) reports to work in post-war Vienna only to find that his best friend and employer, Harry Lime (Welles), has been run over by a truck in front of his house. But something is amiss in Vienna, and Holly, a penniless Western pulp writer, tries to play sleuth and figure it out. Along the way, he kills his best friend and tries to steal his girl. He fails, so he ends up penniless and friendless. But he has the esteem of the British government, so that's nice.
Three Up
1. The best part of the movie is its ending. Holly lures Harry into a trap, helps chase him into the sewers, and eventually fires the shot that kills him. After Harry's second funeral (a nice bookend), Holly and Major Calloway drive past Harry's girl Anna (Alida Valli) walking back to the city. Holly gets out and waits for Anna. He's ready to inherit Harry's girl, but she walks right past him without even a sideways glance.
Why is that so awesome? Well, it suggests an answer to the film's central question: whether it is OK to kill one person so thousands may live. Reed doesn't tell us. Instead, he reminds us that, either way, there are consequences. Society's anonymous and short-lived appreciation but the condemnation of your friends and loved ones, or the opposite.
And second, it suggests a difference between men and women, Americans and Eastern Europeans. Men and Americans stereotypically view the world romantically, while women and Eastern Europeans stereotypically view the world pragmatically. Anna doesn't embrace Holly as the hero who saved countless children's lives; she rejects him as the bastard who trapped and killed the love of her life. And it is beautiful.
2. The unusual soundtrack is great. Anton Karas composed and performed the soundtrack on a zither, a native Austrian instrument. Sometimes, the jangly upbeat music jars with the noirish atmosphere, but it belongs to the scene. I also liked all the untranslated speaking in German. Not only do we see weird visuals, but we hear unfamiliar sounds. The cumulative effect is to help put us in Holly's shoes: we, too, are strangers in a strange land who (literally) don't know where to turn.
3. Major Calloway (Trevor Howard) is a great, great character. I know that Harry Lime is probably the most famous character from this movie (and even had his own radio show spin-off), but I preferred Major Calloway. He personifies the romantic pragmatism of the British so perfectly. Most movies that deal with the conflict of romanticism and pragmatism present one side as obviously right and the other as obviously wrong. Without Howard's suave performance as the British major trying to make Vienna safe for children, this movie would fall into the same trap.
Three Down
1. Meaningless name mix-ups. Holly kept calling Calloway "Callahan." Anna kept calling Holly "Harry." And Holly kept pronouncing Dr. Winkel's name wrong (with an American W instead of an Austrian V). As far as I can tell, these three don't do anything more than (a) show Holly's disregard for Calloway, (b) show that Anna still loves Harry, and (c) show Holly's stereotypical American ignorance. Faux symbolism annoys me, but accidental symbolism is even worse. Graham Greene and Carol Reed are professionals. They should have known the value of names and done something with it. They should have known that doing it three times makes me think it's worth something.
2. Some people love the almost constant Dutch angle. I don't. I get the artistic choice, but I don't dig it. That's all I got on that one.
3. I realize this is a classic film noir, but there was a little too much noir for my taste. I dig the deep blacks of film as much as anybody, but it annoys me when I can't figure out what's going on (not metaphysically; I mean I literally couldn't tell what was on my screen at some points). Blame it on my TV, blame it on Netflix Instant Queue, blame it on the bossanova, but I don't like it.
Closing Statement
The Third Man is regarded as a film noir classic. It's # 65 on IMDb and # 534 on FlickChart. The AFI ranked Harry Lime # 37 in its list of the top 100 villains in cinema, the movie # 57 on its first list of top 100 movies, # 75 on its list of top 100 thrills, and the # 5 mystery in its 10 Top 10 list. The BFI called it the greatest British film of all time (at least through 1999). There are probably other accolades to recommend it; you don't need mine.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Fahrenheit 451: 3/5
François Truffaut is one of those guys who is more familiar to me because of a side project than for his main thing. But I love Ray Bradbury's classic story, and I had heard that French cinema was interesting, so I thought I'd give it a try. The results? Not as good as I would have liked, but better than I expected.
Three Up
1. Julie Christie was nominated for the BAFTA for best actress that year for her roles as both Linda Montag and Clarisse.* The best way I can do justice to her performance is to point out that I had no idea she played both roles until after the movie was over. In my mind, there is no single higher feat in acting than to portray two characters so independently that nobody can tell. Plus, it makes me wonder what Truffaut was trying to tell us with that.
*Notably, she was nominated twice that year: for her role in Doctor Zhivago and her role in F-451.
2. Maybe it's a French New Wave thing, maybe it's a Truffaut thing, maybe it's an homage-to-Hitchcock thing, but I really dug the longer cuts. Sometimes I like to count off seconds between cuts while watching boring movies. This movie wasn't boring, but I noticed that the cuts were unusually long, so I tried to count. I lost count. And I was awesome at seeking in hide-and-seek, so you know I can count pretty high. But neatness isn't greatness. The long cuts became great because they contributed to the story and broke down walls between the audience and the characters. By keeping us in one place for so long (actually, we were moving around like somebody in the room), Truffaut tried to help us forget about the fourth wall. It felt more like we were actually in the room observing the events first-hand rather than outside the room observing the events through a TV.
3. Finally, I loved the deep irony about a movie that presented as dystopic a future where people only watch TV. Granted, the TV was terrible (with terrible acting and terrible storylines). So maybe Truffaut was trying to suggest that an appreciation for great books (like Bradbury's classic) leads to the making of great movies?
Three Down
1. Although I liked Montag, he never broke through for me. He never became more than a guy on a stage. His passive response to Linda's betrayal left me cold.
2. Although I generally liked the long takes, I don't get the point of the long takes of the fire trucks. I mean, it seems like the fire company was driving way the heck away from the firehouse, but why was that important? Was Truffaut fluffing? What's going on with that? The film is only 112 minutes long . . .
3. I found the "video wall" disappointingly small. This is supposed to be the future, and the illusion is supposed to actually convince us. There's just something not convincing about a little bitty screen. I know they had projection technology back then (as in, you know, movie theaters), so it's not a question of technology and effects. It seems to me that Truffaut made a choice with which I disagree. And I hate him for it. No, actually, I hate him for the long takes with the fire trucks.
Three Up
1. Julie Christie was nominated for the BAFTA for best actress that year for her roles as both Linda Montag and Clarisse.* The best way I can do justice to her performance is to point out that I had no idea she played both roles until after the movie was over. In my mind, there is no single higher feat in acting than to portray two characters so independently that nobody can tell. Plus, it makes me wonder what Truffaut was trying to tell us with that.
*Notably, she was nominated twice that year: for her role in Doctor Zhivago and her role in F-451.
2. Maybe it's a French New Wave thing, maybe it's a Truffaut thing, maybe it's an homage-to-Hitchcock thing, but I really dug the longer cuts. Sometimes I like to count off seconds between cuts while watching boring movies. This movie wasn't boring, but I noticed that the cuts were unusually long, so I tried to count. I lost count. And I was awesome at seeking in hide-and-seek, so you know I can count pretty high. But neatness isn't greatness. The long cuts became great because they contributed to the story and broke down walls between the audience and the characters. By keeping us in one place for so long (actually, we were moving around like somebody in the room), Truffaut tried to help us forget about the fourth wall. It felt more like we were actually in the room observing the events first-hand rather than outside the room observing the events through a TV.
3. Finally, I loved the deep irony about a movie that presented as dystopic a future where people only watch TV. Granted, the TV was terrible (with terrible acting and terrible storylines). So maybe Truffaut was trying to suggest that an appreciation for great books (like Bradbury's classic) leads to the making of great movies?
Three Down
1. Although I liked Montag, he never broke through for me. He never became more than a guy on a stage. His passive response to Linda's betrayal left me cold.
2. Although I generally liked the long takes, I don't get the point of the long takes of the fire trucks. I mean, it seems like the fire company was driving way the heck away from the firehouse, but why was that important? Was Truffaut fluffing? What's going on with that? The film is only 112 minutes long . . .
3. I found the "video wall" disappointingly small. This is supposed to be the future, and the illusion is supposed to actually convince us. There's just something not convincing about a little bitty screen. I know they had projection technology back then (as in, you know, movie theaters), so it's not a question of technology and effects. It seems to me that Truffaut made a choice with which I disagree. And I hate him for it. No, actually, I hate him for the long takes with the fire trucks.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
V for Vendetta: 4/5
There be spoilers here.
The fifth year of the new millennium was a good year for movies: three great comedies (40-Year-Old Virgin, Wedding Crashers, Fun with Dick and Jane); a great epic (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire); a great coming-of-age tale (Elizabethtown); one of my favorite movies (Match Point); and what may be the best adaptation of a comic book I've seen: V for Vendetta.
James McTeigue stepped up from the associate director's chair to direct this relatively concise telling of a sprawling tale about the last man on earth (V, played masterfully by Hugo Weaving) finding a suitable helpmate (Evey, played charmingly by Natalie Portman) with whom he can resuscitate civilization from the cultural death throes of 1984-style dystopia. The Wachowskis wrote and produced it, so you might think it would be Matrix redux, but it's not. It's better.
Three Up
1. First off, this is one of the best pragmatic adaptations I've ever seen. The Wachowskis take a long and complex story, written over the course of a decade, featuring dozens of characters---many based on contemporary (then-relevant, now-unfamiliar) personalities---and squeeze it into 127 minutes. How do they do it? They know what to keep and what to chuck, and what to shift into something that works better on film. Maybe the best example: V's alliterative introduction. It's not in the novel, but it uses one of film's defining differences from sequential art (i.e., sound) to introduce us to V's passion for the art of the moment.
2. If I had really thought about who ought to play V, I would have a hard time coming up with someone better than Hugo Weaving. You need someone with the flare of Johnny Depp, the menace of Al Pacino, and the ability to play from behind a mask. Hugo Weaving---whom you may recall as Agent Smith---uses body language and subtle intonation to turn a lifeless mask into something expressive and sympathetic. Put more simply, Weaving played V like I imagined.
3. Like 1984, V for Vendetta has aged remarkably well. Contemporary critics complained about the use of black hoods and words like "rendition"---they thought it smacked too loudly of political commentary and would age more quickly than organic bread. Watching the movie from half-a-decade out, however, those references slipped right past me. I didn't think, "Wow, this movie is about Bush!" I thought, "Wow, this movie is about how art keeps us free and censorship kills us." It worked for 1984, and it (so far) works for V for Vendetta.
Three Down
1. I must admit, first, that I missed some of the ambiguity surrounding the character V. In the novel, you didn't even know V's gender. By the end of the twelfth issue, you thought s/he might be some random concentration camp survivor, or maybe Valerie (who wrote the letter on the toilet paper), or maybe even Evey's dad/mom/brother. I think Moore and Lloyd intentionally kept it ambiguous, and I dig it. Obviously, with a movie, you can't do that. We can hear V talk, so we know instinctively his or her gender. That eliminates half the ambiguity right there, and I missed it. (Even so, I have to admit that the Wachowskis did an excellent job making up for it. See 1- and 2-up.)
2. One problem I have with a lot of movies is that, when the story's over, it's over. The war has been won and the future is secure. The Wachowskis slipped into the same rut. You remember: the masses converge in a (deliciously ironic) display of mass individualism and tear off their masks to reclaim their individual individualism, Big Brother dies, along with his Dragon, and a new day dawns on Mother England. But what if . . . V dies and Evey takes on his mantle, carrying forth the battle for freedom, beauty, truth, and love; Big Brother A is dead, but Big Brother B steps up to fight the fight for safety through conformity like nothing happened, and the war rages on? I find that ending more interesting. (Even so, I love the irony of the mass individualism.)
3. I'm having trouble coming up with a third down. The Missus didn't care for it (she fell asleep, an unmistakable sign of distaste), so that means I likely won't get to watch it again for some time. But if your complaint is that you can't watch it again as soon as you want, maybe that's really an up.
The fifth year of the new millennium was a good year for movies: three great comedies (40-Year-Old Virgin, Wedding Crashers, Fun with Dick and Jane); a great epic (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire); a great coming-of-age tale (Elizabethtown); one of my favorite movies (Match Point); and what may be the best adaptation of a comic book I've seen: V for Vendetta.
James McTeigue stepped up from the associate director's chair to direct this relatively concise telling of a sprawling tale about the last man on earth (V, played masterfully by Hugo Weaving) finding a suitable helpmate (Evey, played charmingly by Natalie Portman) with whom he can resuscitate civilization from the cultural death throes of 1984-style dystopia. The Wachowskis wrote and produced it, so you might think it would be Matrix redux, but it's not. It's better.
Three Up
1. First off, this is one of the best pragmatic adaptations I've ever seen. The Wachowskis take a long and complex story, written over the course of a decade, featuring dozens of characters---many based on contemporary (then-relevant, now-unfamiliar) personalities---and squeeze it into 127 minutes. How do they do it? They know what to keep and what to chuck, and what to shift into something that works better on film. Maybe the best example: V's alliterative introduction. It's not in the novel, but it uses one of film's defining differences from sequential art (i.e., sound) to introduce us to V's passion for the art of the moment.
2. If I had really thought about who ought to play V, I would have a hard time coming up with someone better than Hugo Weaving. You need someone with the flare of Johnny Depp, the menace of Al Pacino, and the ability to play from behind a mask. Hugo Weaving---whom you may recall as Agent Smith---uses body language and subtle intonation to turn a lifeless mask into something expressive and sympathetic. Put more simply, Weaving played V like I imagined.
3. Like 1984, V for Vendetta has aged remarkably well. Contemporary critics complained about the use of black hoods and words like "rendition"---they thought it smacked too loudly of political commentary and would age more quickly than organic bread. Watching the movie from half-a-decade out, however, those references slipped right past me. I didn't think, "Wow, this movie is about Bush!" I thought, "Wow, this movie is about how art keeps us free and censorship kills us." It worked for 1984, and it (so far) works for V for Vendetta.
Three Down
1. I must admit, first, that I missed some of the ambiguity surrounding the character V. In the novel, you didn't even know V's gender. By the end of the twelfth issue, you thought s/he might be some random concentration camp survivor, or maybe Valerie (who wrote the letter on the toilet paper), or maybe even Evey's dad/mom/brother. I think Moore and Lloyd intentionally kept it ambiguous, and I dig it. Obviously, with a movie, you can't do that. We can hear V talk, so we know instinctively his or her gender. That eliminates half the ambiguity right there, and I missed it. (Even so, I have to admit that the Wachowskis did an excellent job making up for it. See 1- and 2-up.)
2. One problem I have with a lot of movies is that, when the story's over, it's over. The war has been won and the future is secure. The Wachowskis slipped into the same rut. You remember: the masses converge in a (deliciously ironic) display of mass individualism and tear off their masks to reclaim their individual individualism, Big Brother dies, along with his Dragon, and a new day dawns on Mother England. But what if . . . V dies and Evey takes on his mantle, carrying forth the battle for freedom, beauty, truth, and love; Big Brother A is dead, but Big Brother B steps up to fight the fight for safety through conformity like nothing happened, and the war rages on? I find that ending more interesting. (Even so, I love the irony of the mass individualism.)
3. I'm having trouble coming up with a third down. The Missus didn't care for it (she fell asleep, an unmistakable sign of distaste), so that means I likely won't get to watch it again for some time. But if your complaint is that you can't watch it again as soon as you want, maybe that's really an up.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Synecdoche, New York: 5/5
***SPOILER ALERT***
The first time I watched Charlie Kaufman's Synecdoche, New York, I just watched it. I tried to follow the events and purposely let the metaphors and symbols slip right past my eyes and into my subconscious. When the ending came, I was floored. I didn't know why, but I was floored.
The second time I watched Charlie Kaufman's Synecdoche, New York, I knew what I was looking for. Subtle hints of time passing (something like 6 months in the first 10 minutes), covert suggestions about who was who (Sammy shows up a lot sooner than you think), dialog that makes clear we are living in Caden's memory (or are we?). Still, I got sucked into the story and the characters and their relationships. The metaphors and symbols slipped right past my eyes and into my subconscious. When the ending came, I was floored. I knew a little better why, but I was still floored.
What is SNY about? I really don't know. I know that we follow Caden's life from the moment it really begins for him until the day he dies. But what is his life about? Why are we following this particular character? Maybe this is just a giant exercise in Rashomon-like memory play. Maybe this is a direct assault on the tendency of modern American movies to have their plots play out over two or three days. Maybe Kaufman is trying to show us that the real poetry in life stretches out over decades.
Maybe that's why I was floored both times I watched SNY. Here is a movie that takes on the grand scheme of things and wrings out the poetic poignancy of life. A director who can put on a brilliant play in the theater but can't put on a decent show at home. The same director thinks that every ailment is life-threatening but survives every one---for thirty or forty years, no less. He doesn't die from some sickness or his inability to salivate or whatever holocaust is wreaking havoc on the outside world; he dies because he acquiesced to someone else's control.
Maybe, in the end, that's the key to unlocking SNY.
The first time I watched Charlie Kaufman's Synecdoche, New York, I just watched it. I tried to follow the events and purposely let the metaphors and symbols slip right past my eyes and into my subconscious. When the ending came, I was floored. I didn't know why, but I was floored.
The second time I watched Charlie Kaufman's Synecdoche, New York, I knew what I was looking for. Subtle hints of time passing (something like 6 months in the first 10 minutes), covert suggestions about who was who (Sammy shows up a lot sooner than you think), dialog that makes clear we are living in Caden's memory (or are we?). Still, I got sucked into the story and the characters and their relationships. The metaphors and symbols slipped right past my eyes and into my subconscious. When the ending came, I was floored. I knew a little better why, but I was still floored.
What is SNY about? I really don't know. I know that we follow Caden's life from the moment it really begins for him until the day he dies. But what is his life about? Why are we following this particular character? Maybe this is just a giant exercise in Rashomon-like memory play. Maybe this is a direct assault on the tendency of modern American movies to have their plots play out over two or three days. Maybe Kaufman is trying to show us that the real poetry in life stretches out over decades.
Maybe that's why I was floored both times I watched SNY. Here is a movie that takes on the grand scheme of things and wrings out the poetic poignancy of life. A director who can put on a brilliant play in the theater but can't put on a decent show at home. The same director thinks that every ailment is life-threatening but survives every one---for thirty or forty years, no less. He doesn't die from some sickness or his inability to salivate or whatever holocaust is wreaking havoc on the outside world; he dies because he acquiesced to someone else's control.
Maybe, in the end, that's the key to unlocking SNY.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The Fly: 3/5
***SPOILERS ALERT***
David Cronenberg directed the 1986 sci-fi horror The Fly, starring Jeff Goldblum and Geena Davis. It's a re-make of the 1958 Vincent Price thriller, but my understanding is that it only keeps the rudiments of the 1958 plot. Basic story: Seth Brundle (JG) is a scientist trying to solve the problems of motion sickness once and for all by mastering teleportation. He invites a reporter, Veronica Quaife* (GD) back to his warehouse apartment for a demonstration. They fall in love. One night, she leaves to break things off with her ex-boyfriend, and Brundle gets all nervous and insecure. He drinks a bit too much and tries to teleport himself. He succeeds, but (because he was drinking?) a fly came along for the ride, and the result is Brundlefly. The story then revolves around everybody coming to terms with Brundlefly.
*Weirdest last name I've heard in quite some time.
Three Up
1. Jeff Goldblum's acting is brilliant. It's not so difficult to portray a static character; it's not much more difficult to portray a character who experiences some instantaneous cathartic change; it is very difficult to portray a character who changes incrementally. Jeff Goldblum pulls it off.
2. Subtlety. In a movie known for being disgusting, maybe you don't think it's very subtle. But you're wrong. Take, for example, when Seth Brundle asks Veronica Quaife for something personal to prove that his teleporter pods can work. She demurely reaches up her skirt, unsnaps her stocking, and pulls it down. Cronenberg could have gone all fan-service on us, showing Geena Davis pull her skirt up to her waist, showing the audience her undies, and having her slowly, slowly pull the stocking off. Instead, it's a subtle hint that this girl is more interesting than we at first thought. Throughout the film, Cronenberg hits some things hard and other things very, very softly.
3. There might be more to this than we thought. Watching the film, I kept thinking that the whole thing was symbolic for something. Technology gone too far? Maybe. Man's desperate search for glory and immortality? Perhaps. The disastrous effects of trying to re-enter the womb? Feels a little cozy. As much as I did not enjoy physically watching the last half-hour, I can't stop thinking about what Cronenberg was trying to tell us.
Three Down
1. This movie was stomach-churningly disgusting. I normally have a strong stomach, but, especially during the last half-hour, I had to look away. But kudos to Cronenberg for his unwavering commitment to showing the disgusting effects of seeking immortality (or trying to re-enter the womb).
2. Veronica's pregnancy. A 96-minute movie shouldn't need tacked-on unnecessary conflict. Cronenberg could have done great things with that pregnancy (the grub nightmare is disturbingly great), but it felt less like "OMG?!" and more like "o. m. g." I see why (theoretically) it's the catalyst that propels us through the final act, but it felt over the top to me. Especially since it goes unresolved. Too much, too late.
3. Stathis Borans's descent into madness. Weird coincidence or valuable insight into Cronenberg's mind: both men who fall in love with Veronica Quaife slowly go mad and suffer irreversible physical deformations. If somebody can explain to me why this is neither simple misogynism nor junior high fear of commitment, this might be one of the more fascinatingly subtle parts of the movie.
David Cronenberg directed the 1986 sci-fi horror The Fly, starring Jeff Goldblum and Geena Davis. It's a re-make of the 1958 Vincent Price thriller, but my understanding is that it only keeps the rudiments of the 1958 plot. Basic story: Seth Brundle (JG) is a scientist trying to solve the problems of motion sickness once and for all by mastering teleportation. He invites a reporter, Veronica Quaife* (GD) back to his warehouse apartment for a demonstration. They fall in love. One night, she leaves to break things off with her ex-boyfriend, and Brundle gets all nervous and insecure. He drinks a bit too much and tries to teleport himself. He succeeds, but (because he was drinking?) a fly came along for the ride, and the result is Brundlefly. The story then revolves around everybody coming to terms with Brundlefly.
*Weirdest last name I've heard in quite some time.
Three Up
1. Jeff Goldblum's acting is brilliant. It's not so difficult to portray a static character; it's not much more difficult to portray a character who experiences some instantaneous cathartic change; it is very difficult to portray a character who changes incrementally. Jeff Goldblum pulls it off.
2. Subtlety. In a movie known for being disgusting, maybe you don't think it's very subtle. But you're wrong. Take, for example, when Seth Brundle asks Veronica Quaife for something personal to prove that his teleporter pods can work. She demurely reaches up her skirt, unsnaps her stocking, and pulls it down. Cronenberg could have gone all fan-service on us, showing Geena Davis pull her skirt up to her waist, showing the audience her undies, and having her slowly, slowly pull the stocking off. Instead, it's a subtle hint that this girl is more interesting than we at first thought. Throughout the film, Cronenberg hits some things hard and other things very, very softly.
3. There might be more to this than we thought. Watching the film, I kept thinking that the whole thing was symbolic for something. Technology gone too far? Maybe. Man's desperate search for glory and immortality? Perhaps. The disastrous effects of trying to re-enter the womb? Feels a little cozy. As much as I did not enjoy physically watching the last half-hour, I can't stop thinking about what Cronenberg was trying to tell us.
Three Down
1. This movie was stomach-churningly disgusting. I normally have a strong stomach, but, especially during the last half-hour, I had to look away. But kudos to Cronenberg for his unwavering commitment to showing the disgusting effects of seeking immortality (or trying to re-enter the womb).
2. Veronica's pregnancy. A 96-minute movie shouldn't need tacked-on unnecessary conflict. Cronenberg could have done great things with that pregnancy (the grub nightmare is disturbingly great), but it felt less like "OMG?!" and more like "o. m. g." I see why (theoretically) it's the catalyst that propels us through the final act, but it felt over the top to me. Especially since it goes unresolved. Too much, too late.
3. Stathis Borans's descent into madness. Weird coincidence or valuable insight into Cronenberg's mind: both men who fall in love with Veronica Quaife slowly go mad and suffer irreversible physical deformations. If somebody can explain to me why this is neither simple misogynism nor junior high fear of commitment, this might be one of the more fascinatingly subtle parts of the movie.
Verdict: I recommend it, if only because it's a classic of science-fiction cinema.
Friday, August 06, 2010
The Watchmen: 3/5
***SPOILER ALERT***
The Watchmen, is Zack Snyder's (at least) third try to take a property with a cult fan base and make it into a movie. You've read all the reviews about how he was damned because he did and damned because he didn't. I won't bore you with that. Instead: three up, three down.
Three Up
1. Jackie Earle Haley as Rorschach. Rorschach was my favorite character in the graphic novel, and he is most definitely my favorite character in the movie. He is so true to his morals---even if he is a bit absolutist. He is a black-and-white person lost in a world of greys; I love that his name is Rorschach. And Jackie Earle Haley plays him almost exactly as I imagined him. Finally: "You don't get it. I'm not locked in here with you. You're locked in here with me."
2. Jeffrey Dean Morgan as The Comedian. All I can really say is that, in the book, I found The Comedian a bothersome character. I didn't understand why anybody cared about why he was murdered. Jeffrey Dean Morgan made me care why he was murdered. (Though I still don't really get the plot.)
3. The Opening Credits. A great use of Bob Dylan. A lot of people thought this was the best part of the movie. I don't know that I'd go that far, but it's the first opening credits I've paid attention to in a long time. (Now closing credits . . . )
Three Down
1. Rorschach's Death. I know Snyder was true to Moore's conception, but I didn't like Rorschach's death in the novel either. My two cents: Dr. Manhattan should have let him walk off into the Antarctic wilderness. There's no way all-too-human Rorschach is making it anywhere in his trench coat and purple pin stripe pants, but he'll go down fighting.
2. Running time. At two hours and forty-five minutes (give or take) this movie is w a y t o o l o n g. Snyder should have broken it in two (or twelve?). He is damned because he did . . . too much.
3. The Ending. I felt no catharsis. The only guy I had been rooting for (Rorschach) gets obliterated like the human water balloon that he is, and then it's over. All I felt like was that I had spent two hours and forty-five minutes (give or take) watching this w a y t o o l o n g movie drag its feet and shuffle and then my man Rorschach dies. That's a big eff you.
The Watchmen, is Zack Snyder's (at least) third try to take a property with a cult fan base and make it into a movie. You've read all the reviews about how he was damned because he did and damned because he didn't. I won't bore you with that. Instead: three up, three down.
Three Up
1. Jackie Earle Haley as Rorschach. Rorschach was my favorite character in the graphic novel, and he is most definitely my favorite character in the movie. He is so true to his morals---even if he is a bit absolutist. He is a black-and-white person lost in a world of greys; I love that his name is Rorschach. And Jackie Earle Haley plays him almost exactly as I imagined him. Finally: "You don't get it. I'm not locked in here with you. You're locked in here with me."
2. Jeffrey Dean Morgan as The Comedian. All I can really say is that, in the book, I found The Comedian a bothersome character. I didn't understand why anybody cared about why he was murdered. Jeffrey Dean Morgan made me care why he was murdered. (Though I still don't really get the plot.)
3. The Opening Credits. A great use of Bob Dylan. A lot of people thought this was the best part of the movie. I don't know that I'd go that far, but it's the first opening credits I've paid attention to in a long time. (Now closing credits . . . )
Three Down
1. Rorschach's Death. I know Snyder was true to Moore's conception, but I didn't like Rorschach's death in the novel either. My two cents: Dr. Manhattan should have let him walk off into the Antarctic wilderness. There's no way all-too-human Rorschach is making it anywhere in his trench coat and purple pin stripe pants, but he'll go down fighting.
2. Running time. At two hours and forty-five minutes (give or take) this movie is w a y t o o l o n g. Snyder should have broken it in two (or twelve?). He is damned because he did . . . too much.
3. The Ending. I felt no catharsis. The only guy I had been rooting for (Rorschach) gets obliterated like the human water balloon that he is, and then it's over. All I felt like was that I had spent two hours and forty-five minutes (give or take) watching this w a y t o o l o n g movie drag its feet and shuffle and then my man Rorschach dies. That's a big eff you.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Out out brief Replicant
From Blade Runner:
I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I've watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.From Macbeth:
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrowCan there be anything more tragically beautiful than Shakespearean nihilism? Charlie Kaufman tries his hand at Shakespearean nihilism in Synecdoche, New York. Go check it out.
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Blade Runner: 2/5
My beef with Ridley Scott's Blade Runner:
1. The Characters. I did not connect to any single character. Not Deckard, not Roy Batty, not Tyrell, not even Rachael. Nor did I care for Roy Batty's arc. "Look! Even our genetically engineered pets aren't as horrible and destructive as we are!" That kind of theme ranks right up there with "You know, communism works on paper" in terms of originality and freshness. I don't even want to engage that line of thought. To me, the characters are the most important part of the story, and they fail to do anything for me here.
2. The Music. The music in Blade Runner hasn't aged very well, imho. The synthesizers instantly tell me the movie is stuck permanently in the 1980s. I don't hold that against Scott (how could he have known how quickly synthesizers would go out of vogue?), but it really interfered with my suspension of disbelief. Are you trying to tell me that in 2019, we have gone full circle and are back into synth pop? Maybe we will be, but watching the movie in 2010, I couldn't help but realize I was watching a movie made in 1982.
3. The Visuals. I don't care for cyberpunk. I know a lot of people love it, but it just isn't my cup of tea. I can't say much more about that.
My tea with Ridley Scott's Blade Runner:
1. It's right in the sweet spot at 117 minutes long.
2. I appreciate the contemplation on morality throughout.
1. The Characters. I did not connect to any single character. Not Deckard, not Roy Batty, not Tyrell, not even Rachael. Nor did I care for Roy Batty's arc. "Look! Even our genetically engineered pets aren't as horrible and destructive as we are!" That kind of theme ranks right up there with "You know, communism works on paper" in terms of originality and freshness. I don't even want to engage that line of thought. To me, the characters are the most important part of the story, and they fail to do anything for me here.
2. The Music. The music in Blade Runner hasn't aged very well, imho. The synthesizers instantly tell me the movie is stuck permanently in the 1980s. I don't hold that against Scott (how could he have known how quickly synthesizers would go out of vogue?), but it really interfered with my suspension of disbelief. Are you trying to tell me that in 2019, we have gone full circle and are back into synth pop? Maybe we will be, but watching the movie in 2010, I couldn't help but realize I was watching a movie made in 1982.
3. The Visuals. I don't care for cyberpunk. I know a lot of people love it, but it just isn't my cup of tea. I can't say much more about that.
My tea with Ridley Scott's Blade Runner:
1. It's right in the sweet spot at 117 minutes long.
2. I appreciate the contemplation on morality throughout.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Less Is More
So today I'm reading about movies, as I tend to do a lot these days, and I stumble across this:
[Orson] Welles would have loved [The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford], were it not for it being over his two hour maximum comfort zone[.]It seems Mr. Welles and I have something in common (other than mastering deep focus cinematography and the low-angle shot). As I (too) frequently tell The Missus, there is a spectrum to movie running times:
- Less than 90 minutes: something terrible happened to cut the movie short (e.g., the creators didn't realize the idea wouldn't pan out until way too late in the process). They feel like TV episodes run too long. Classic example: The Ex (89 minutes). When I see a less-than-90 running time, I expect holes and dissatisfaction.
- 90 to 120 minutes: the sweet spot, especially in the 100-110 zone. These movies are long enough to develop storylines and characters but still short enough to watch repeatedly. Classic example: The Graduate (105 minutes). When I see a 90-to-120 running time, I get excited about watching a director who understands less is more.
- 120 to 150 minutes: you're pushing it. Every minute past 120 better be important. The creators are on the verge of author appeal. But, if done right, those extra minutes don't feel extra. Classic example: The Empire Strikes Back (124 minutes). When I see a 120-to-150 running time, I check the director. If it's Quentin Tarantino, OK. Anybody else, I am pre-planning a bathroom break.
- 150 minutes to infinity: 9 times out of 10, the director has gone too far. The movie ceased being about communicating with the audience and started being about the director "expressing himself or herself"---only the audience doesn't know it. By the time the movie ends, almost any kind of tacked on ending will seem amazing because the audience has put so much effort and time into watching it. But when you sit back later and talk it out, the truth comes out. (See, e.g., Stephen King's It.) Classic example: Avatar. When I see a 150-plus running time, I put it back on the shelf until I have an entire afternoon free.
Listen, directors, if it's too long for Orson Welles, it's too long for me. Do like the Coen Brothers (average running time of 107.2 minutes, ranging from 94 (Raising Arizona) to 122 (No Country for Old Men---their only 2-hour-plus-er)), and not like James Cameron (average running time of 140.1 minutes, ranging from 94 (Piranha II---the only one less than a hundred and one of only two less than two hours) to 194 (Titanic)). A friend of mine likes The Godfather. I like The Godfather, too, but I refuse to watch it again. I don't have that much free time.
Who really wants to sit still for 2 hours and 55 minutes?
Mirrors freak me out
Since it's mid-July and time to start ramping up the scary movies, I spent an hour and a half this weekend watching Oren Peli's Paranormal Activity. And---I can't lie---I spent another hour and a half tossing in bed trying to escape my nightmare. The movie slithered into my subconscious, exploited a random nightmare I had in fourth grade, and held me in its grip for about half a day (until I fell back asleep and had a nightmare that I got way too deep into the drug industry).
I prefer my scary movies to slip just a little bit inside my head. I'm not really scared of people, so movies that use people as the main scare (e.g., Saw, The Silence of the Lambs, Hostel) may be entertaining, but they don't scare me. I prefer my scares with a hint of the supernatural.
My favorite scary movie ever is The Exorcist. It's creepy at parts, frightening at others, and satisfying in the end. I also like The Shining, but I don't find it very scary. But for the scariest movie ever? For the movie that stuck with me for days and weeks afterward, not letting me sleep? For the movie that found a fissure in the dam of my subconscious and turned that moon into a space station?
The Ring. The American version. Yep. I'm lame. In my defense, you have to admit that the washed out colors, the girl whose face hides behind a curtain of straight black hair, and---most importantly to me---the shot where the woman looks into the mirror and there's no effin camera. Oh and the end? When she takes the fly off the TV screen? F r e a k y. If Paranormal Activity scared me for 12 hours, The Ring scared me for 12 weeks. Like I said: fissure in the dam of my subconscious.
I prefer my scary movies to slip just a little bit inside my head. I'm not really scared of people, so movies that use people as the main scare (e.g., Saw, The Silence of the Lambs, Hostel) may be entertaining, but they don't scare me. I prefer my scares with a hint of the supernatural.
My favorite scary movie ever is The Exorcist. It's creepy at parts, frightening at others, and satisfying in the end. I also like The Shining, but I don't find it very scary. But for the scariest movie ever? For the movie that stuck with me for days and weeks afterward, not letting me sleep? For the movie that found a fissure in the dam of my subconscious and turned that moon into a space station?
The Ring. The American version. Yep. I'm lame. In my defense, you have to admit that the washed out colors, the girl whose face hides behind a curtain of straight black hair, and---most importantly to me---the shot where the woman looks into the mirror and there's no effin camera. Oh and the end? When she takes the fly off the TV screen? F r e a k y. If Paranormal Activity scared me for 12 hours, The Ring scared me for 12 weeks. Like I said: fissure in the dam of my subconscious.
Monday, June 28, 2010
In Defense of The Seven Year Itch
Three questions.
1. Is The Seven Year Itch an exercise in wish-fulfillment fantasy or a character study of thesix-months seven-years-later phenomenon? It seems to me that the driving question is not whether Richard will get together with The Girl but whether Richard will remain true to Helen. As evidence, I point to his jealousy when he finds out Helen went on a hayride with Tom MacKenzie. I further point to the fact that all his fitful wandering begins from the point when he imagines Helen laughing off his claims that he appeals to other women. This isn't a story about boy-meets-girl, this is a story about boy-figuring-out-how-to-stay-true-when-the-excitement-of-boy-meets-girl-has-worn-off.
And don't compare it to the play. The film and the play are two separate pieces of art. Take each for what it's worth.
2. Is Richard Sherman a wandering husband or a lost child finding his way into adulthood? Given his powerful imagination and his ineptness at wooing The Girl, I tend toward the latter.
3. Is The Girl an innocent, dumb blonde or a conniving seductress? I point to the major plot point of her kissing him on the lips and telling him not to wipe away the lipstick: "If she thinks that's cranberry sauce, tell her she's got cherry pits in her head." What she doesn't say, but we hear nonetheless, is, "And if she thinks you've been kissing other girls and asks for a divorce, I'll be upstairs all summer."
Watch the film again, ask yourself these three questions, and let me know what you conclude.
1. Is The Seven Year Itch an exercise in wish-fulfillment fantasy or a character study of the
And don't compare it to the play. The film and the play are two separate pieces of art. Take each for what it's worth.
2. Is Richard Sherman a wandering husband or a lost child finding his way into adulthood? Given his powerful imagination and his ineptness at wooing The Girl, I tend toward the latter.
3. Is The Girl an innocent, dumb blonde or a conniving seductress? I point to the major plot point of her kissing him on the lips and telling him not to wipe away the lipstick: "If she thinks that's cranberry sauce, tell her she's got cherry pits in her head." What she doesn't say, but we hear nonetheless, is, "And if she thinks you've been kissing other girls and asks for a divorce, I'll be upstairs all summer."
Watch the film again, ask yourself these three questions, and let me know what you conclude.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The Seven Year Itch: 4/5
So I have this pet peeve about people using well-known phrases ignorantly. Here is just another example:
Long live Marilyn Monroe!I'm just sayin.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Invictus: 4/5
***SPOILER ALERT***
First, the important characters are not flat. People think that since Morgan Freeman was (finally) cast as Nelson Mandela that he must be the main character. Or maybe it's Matt Damon---he's a big name. People are wrong on both points. The main character in the story is the people of South Africa. The motivating question isn't whether Mandela and Pienaar will accomplish their goal, but whether the South African people can figure out how to get along. Just think about how much time we spend watching nameless characters develop trust in each other. Think about the security guards who start off hating each other and end up playing rugby together. Or think about the poor kid who starts off refusing a free Springbok t-shirt and ends up listening to the game on the radio with two white men he doesn't know. South Africa wanted to figure out how to live as a nation, and the 1995 Rugby World Cup gave them a glimpse of national unity.
Second, Invictus heavily features a sport, but the game is used to show it's impact on the characters. If I wanted to watch a rugby match, I could have found one on TV. Instead, I wanted to watch a series of characters go through an ordeal and come out on the other side. This movie did exactly that. The most important aspect of the game is its impact on the important characters (i.e., South Africa). That's why Eastwood doesn't tell us how rugby works; that's why he only cuts to the game clock once; and that's why the winning points are scored with "minutes" to go in extra time. The movie isn't about the game or its players; it's about the spectators.
I think the best compliment you can give a director on seeing a movie is to say that it makes you want to watch more of his or her stuff. This is the third Clint Eastwood-directed film I've seen (fourth, if you count Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, which I don't, because I was high on Novocaine after having my wisdom teeth removed). Changeling didn't do it for me, but Gran Torino is one of those movies I keep thinking about. I think Invictus will be more like Gran Torino than Changeling. And I also think I'm going to watch some more of his stuff.
Starting with Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
The Matrix: 4/5
"There is no spoon." Keanu Reeves really should have said that about a dozen times in The Matrix. How great would it have been if, after Agent Smith empties a clip in Neo, Neo opens his eyes, looks Agent Smith in the eye, and quoth, "There is no spoon." Crowning moment of awesome!!
I first saw The Matrix almost ten years ago. I had been told how it was awesome, mind-bending, spectacular, and all the other meaningless adjectives we use. "Dude. It is sooooo crazy. It. Will. Change. Your. Life." Unfortunately for my expectations, I had just finished reading a bit of Descartes for school; the idea that we might be living in The Matrix was something I had just gotten through processing. (I applaud the Wachowskis for introducing a generation of young men to the philosophical dilemma of reality without making it a boring exercise in linguistics.) When I watched it today, I wasn't looking for mind-bending awesomeness; I was actually watching to hone up for potentially forthcoming philosophical debates.*
*Wittgenstein cured me of the desire to understand and explore ontology one fine Saturday afternoon, but I seem to be the only dab of paint who has given up on trying to see the painting. Still, everyone else seems to care about it, seems not to be conversant in Cartesian philosophy, and seems to be conversant in the philosophy of The Matrix. When in Rome and all that.
And in the process of philosophical edification, I got caught up in the story. How will Neo figure out whether he is The One? And what will that mean? How will Neo save Morpheus? How will Agent Smith be thwarted? By what miracle will the bad guys get what's coming? That, my friends, is good storytelling.
And this time, it gave me pause, asking a more interesting philosophical question than that of ontology: What is my place in the Universe? Am I Thomas Anderson---someone special for whom the rules don't really apply---or am I the homeless guy at the subway station---just another (expendable) brick in the wall? To go one step further: Who decides?
I first saw The Matrix almost ten years ago. I had been told how it was awesome, mind-bending, spectacular, and all the other meaningless adjectives we use. "Dude. It is sooooo crazy. It. Will. Change. Your. Life." Unfortunately for my expectations, I had just finished reading a bit of Descartes for school; the idea that we might be living in The Matrix was something I had just gotten through processing. (I applaud the Wachowskis for introducing a generation of young men to the philosophical dilemma of reality without making it a boring exercise in linguistics.) When I watched it today, I wasn't looking for mind-bending awesomeness; I was actually watching to hone up for potentially forthcoming philosophical debates.*
*Wittgenstein cured me of the desire to understand and explore ontology one fine Saturday afternoon, but I seem to be the only dab of paint who has given up on trying to see the painting. Still, everyone else seems to care about it, seems not to be conversant in Cartesian philosophy, and seems to be conversant in the philosophy of The Matrix. When in Rome and all that.
And in the process of philosophical edification, I got caught up in the story. How will Neo figure out whether he is The One? And what will that mean? How will Neo save Morpheus? How will Agent Smith be thwarted? By what miracle will the bad guys get what's coming? That, my friends, is good storytelling.
And this time, it gave me pause, asking a more interesting philosophical question than that of ontology: What is my place in the Universe? Am I Thomas Anderson---someone special for whom the rules don't really apply---or am I the homeless guy at the subway station---just another (expendable) brick in the wall? To go one step further: Who decides?
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Match Point: 4/5
***SPOILER ALERT***
The basic plot of Woody Allen's Match Point can be summarized thusly:
It's not a particularly original story, but no story really is. Many critics and viewers love or hate this movie based on the plot and its twists and tricks. The plot is interesting, and the idea is interesting (even if not original), but the originality, and the quality, of Match Point lies in its execution.
Poetry is more than rhyming words. Poetry uses the rhythms of speech to express a meaning deeper and more profound than the denotations and connotations of the words themselves. Similarly, a film is more than moving pictures with a sound track. A film uses the power of images, the power of sound, and the combined power of both to tell us something more profound than the plotpoints.
Let me give you an example. For about the first 2/3 of Match Point, Nola wears spikey heels and sexy outfits while Chloe wears ballet flats and "cute" outfits. The last time we see Nola, however, she is wearing low, almost kitten-style, heels and a knee-length, flared skirt. The point: Nola has lost the sexual sway she held over Chris.*
*I'm not trying to say that kitten heels and a knee-length skirt can't be sexy (though I despise kitten heels). I'm just trying to say that they connote much less sexually than do spikey heels and a tight or short skirt.
Similarly, in almost every scene with the whole family, Chris is apart somehow. In one scene, he literally stands in a different room. In another, he merely stands a few feet apart from a close quasi-group hug. And in one of my favorites, he is physically in the group, but, while everybody else is wearing white, he is wearing black. He is there, but he is not; he is a part of the family, but we know it is only because he makes Chloe happy.
Which may explain one of the most important idea in the movie. In one scene, Chris is about to tell Chloe about his relationship with Nola. He gets as far as admitting that he feels guilty, but can't go any further, can't give any details. She accuses him of infidelity, but he denies it. He turns the conversation to their travails getting pregnant. Fast forward to the haunting penultimate scene: Chris tells the ghost of Nola, "I didn't know if I could do it. It was hard. But when the moment came, I could pull the trigger." Put the two scenes together, and you have a striking juxtaposition: We had been led to believe Chris loved Nola more than Chloe, but he could only "pull the trigger" with Nola. It was easier for him to kill Nola than to break Chloe's heart.
Which makes it a difficult question: Does he love Chloe too much to hurt her feelings, or does he love his comfortable life so much that he would kill to keep it?
The basic plot of Woody Allen's Match Point can be summarized thusly:
- Chris Wilton wants to have it all: a comfortable life and passionate love.
- So Chris marries into a super-rich London family and cuckolds his brother-in-law.
- But you can't always get what everything you want, and Chris picks the comfortable life.
It's not a particularly original story, but no story really is. Many critics and viewers love or hate this movie based on the plot and its twists and tricks. The plot is interesting, and the idea is interesting (even if not original), but the originality, and the quality, of Match Point lies in its execution.
Poetry is more than rhyming words. Poetry uses the rhythms of speech to express a meaning deeper and more profound than the denotations and connotations of the words themselves. Similarly, a film is more than moving pictures with a sound track. A film uses the power of images, the power of sound, and the combined power of both to tell us something more profound than the plotpoints.
Let me give you an example. For about the first 2/3 of Match Point, Nola wears spikey heels and sexy outfits while Chloe wears ballet flats and "cute" outfits. The last time we see Nola, however, she is wearing low, almost kitten-style, heels and a knee-length, flared skirt. The point: Nola has lost the sexual sway she held over Chris.*
*I'm not trying to say that kitten heels and a knee-length skirt can't be sexy (though I despise kitten heels). I'm just trying to say that they connote much less sexually than do spikey heels and a tight or short skirt.
Similarly, in almost every scene with the whole family, Chris is apart somehow. In one scene, he literally stands in a different room. In another, he merely stands a few feet apart from a close quasi-group hug. And in one of my favorites, he is physically in the group, but, while everybody else is wearing white, he is wearing black. He is there, but he is not; he is a part of the family, but we know it is only because he makes Chloe happy.
Which may explain one of the most important idea in the movie. In one scene, Chris is about to tell Chloe about his relationship with Nola. He gets as far as admitting that he feels guilty, but can't go any further, can't give any details. She accuses him of infidelity, but he denies it. He turns the conversation to their travails getting pregnant. Fast forward to the haunting penultimate scene: Chris tells the ghost of Nola, "I didn't know if I could do it. It was hard. But when the moment came, I could pull the trigger." Put the two scenes together, and you have a striking juxtaposition: We had been led to believe Chris loved Nola more than Chloe, but he could only "pull the trigger" with Nola. It was easier for him to kill Nola than to break Chloe's heart.
Which makes it a difficult question: Does he love Chloe too much to hurt her feelings, or does he love his comfortable life so much that he would kill to keep it?
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Passengers: 2/5
As part of my quest to see all of Anne Hathaway's* movies, I watched Rodrigo Garcia's Passengers last night. It had a neat---but poorly executed---premise. Extremely well acted, rather well written, very poorly put together.
*All the most beautiful actresses are brown-eyed brunettes.
Ms. Hathaway plays Claire Summers (the name sounds meaningful but isn't), a therapist (who is either seeking a Ph.D. or already has one) trying to help the survivors of a plane crash deal with their guilt. There's a twist, but I won't ruin it for you because the movie depends so heavily on it.* Basically, it's a confusing 92 minutes that are supposed to be cleared up in the last 3.
*I read a great article recently about how it's the How of a story and not the If that keeps us coming back, but I can't seem to find it. Something to think about when you're writing your next graphic novel.
And that's fine. It worked for Shyamalan and countless others, so I don't begrudge Garcia going for it. I do, however, begrudge the poor editing. It's a bit like a brilliant philosopher who finds the meaning of life but can't put a sentence together in a meaningful way. No matter how brilliant he or his ideas are, I'll spend so much time figuring out the trees that I'll miss the forest.
I don't want to lambast Thom Noble too much, but he's been doing this since 1966. He ought to know that when I see two people talking in a car followed by a cut to what looks and sounds like a car driving on a street, I expect it to be the same car. Or that I need some kind of visual clue about where I'm at (i.e., is this Claire's apartment or Shannon's or Eric's?). Or that I get really confused when Shot 1---a daylight shot of one character saying to another "Hey, come check this out"---cuts to Shot 2, a nighttime shot of the same two characters getting on a motorcycle. Is the motorcycle what she was supposed to check out? Or is the director keeping something hidden from us?
It's not that my expectations ought to rule the movie. Instead, when little expectations---like a noun coming at the beginning of a sentence---aren't met, I have to stop and think about what's being said. I have to translate the visual sentence into something meaningful. I spent so much of this movie translating the trees that I would have missed the forest if Garcia hadn't burned the whole thing down in a Shyamalanian bonfire.
And I felt played at the end. What began as a mystery thriller turned into a paranormal thriller in the last act before phasing into a family drama for the epilogue. I'm just saying.
*All the most beautiful actresses are brown-eyed brunettes.
Ms. Hathaway plays Claire Summers (the name sounds meaningful but isn't), a therapist (who is either seeking a Ph.D. or already has one) trying to help the survivors of a plane crash deal with their guilt. There's a twist, but I won't ruin it for you because the movie depends so heavily on it.* Basically, it's a confusing 92 minutes that are supposed to be cleared up in the last 3.
*I read a great article recently about how it's the How of a story and not the If that keeps us coming back, but I can't seem to find it. Something to think about when you're writing your next graphic novel.
And that's fine. It worked for Shyamalan and countless others, so I don't begrudge Garcia going for it. I do, however, begrudge the poor editing. It's a bit like a brilliant philosopher who finds the meaning of life but can't put a sentence together in a meaningful way. No matter how brilliant he or his ideas are, I'll spend so much time figuring out the trees that I'll miss the forest.
I don't want to lambast Thom Noble too much, but he's been doing this since 1966. He ought to know that when I see two people talking in a car followed by a cut to what looks and sounds like a car driving on a street, I expect it to be the same car. Or that I need some kind of visual clue about where I'm at (i.e., is this Claire's apartment or Shannon's or Eric's?). Or that I get really confused when Shot 1---a daylight shot of one character saying to another "Hey, come check this out"---cuts to Shot 2, a nighttime shot of the same two characters getting on a motorcycle. Is the motorcycle what she was supposed to check out? Or is the director keeping something hidden from us?
It's not that my expectations ought to rule the movie. Instead, when little expectations---like a noun coming at the beginning of a sentence---aren't met, I have to stop and think about what's being said. I have to translate the visual sentence into something meaningful. I spent so much of this movie translating the trees that I would have missed the forest if Garcia hadn't burned the whole thing down in a Shyamalanian bonfire.
And I felt played at the end. What began as a mystery thriller turned into a paranormal thriller in the last act before phasing into a family drama for the epilogue. I'm just saying.
Friday, April 02, 2010
It Was HIs Sled
SPOILER ALERT
Jekyll is Hyde. Norman did it. I see dead people.
When I first read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, I already knew the twist. Since then, I've re-read it at least twice and watched several film adaptations.
When I first saw Psycho, I already knew the twist. Since then, I've watched it a few times, and I'm actually watching it right now. (Dadgummit, Arbogast, don't go up the stairs.) I asked for (and got) the DVD for my birthday.
When I first saw The Sixth Sense, I already knew the twist. I watched it to see the little tricks Shyamalan pulled to keep the twist secret. I haven't sat down and watched it since.
Another weird pattern. I enjoy each Stevenson book as its own piece of art. I enjoy each Hitchcock film as its own piece of art. But I watch each Shyamalan movie hoping to recapture the magic of The Sixth Sense.*
*For my money, The Village came closest.
Jekyll is Hyde. Norman did it. I see dead people.
When I first read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, I already knew the twist. Since then, I've re-read it at least twice and watched several film adaptations.
When I first saw Psycho, I already knew the twist. Since then, I've watched it a few times, and I'm actually watching it right now. (Dadgummit, Arbogast, don't go up the stairs.) I asked for (and got) the DVD for my birthday.
When I first saw The Sixth Sense, I already knew the twist. I watched it to see the little tricks Shyamalan pulled to keep the twist secret. I haven't sat down and watched it since.
Another weird pattern. I enjoy each Stevenson book as its own piece of art. I enjoy each Hitchcock film as its own piece of art. But I watch each Shyamalan movie hoping to recapture the magic of The Sixth Sense.*
*For my money, The Village came closest.
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