Second Viewing of 'Burn After Reading' Exposes Me As a Fool with No Sense of Humor

Second viewings should be a fear of anyone who writes about movies. Not in the sense that you should be frightened of watching a film twice. But a second viewing can give you a better idea of what you think about a film, and sometimes your opinion can change drastically.

Months ago I reviewed the Coen brothers' 2008 comedy "Burn After Reading" and implied the idiotic characters of the film were not as entertaining as those found in "Fargo" and others. (I also used a pretentious Fellini reference like a Whore.)

Well Mr. President, I was wrong. I fucked up on that intel.

Throughout my second viewing of "Burn After Reading," I found myself laughing considerably more. I could easily watch it again. Yeah, I still think Swinton was weak, and it's nothing that original for the Coens. But it is insane and well crafted, just like that Dildo Machine.

Same thing happened years ago with "The Big Lebowski." I thought the characters were too contrived, so I kept missing the punchlines.

OK, I'm cutting out the confessions. I can forgive you for thinking I was a dumbass if you can forgive me for being one.

No, no, no. No need for formal apologies and mercy and grace. This is getting shameful and Pathetic.

(And hot damn! "Burn After Reading" made it to DVD quick, my friends!)

I do not get it, Spielberg.

I do not get it, Spielberg.

Your wallet is already Immense, so maybe you just wanted to play with George. If that is the case, I am disappointed in you and I wish that goddamn robot shark had worked and given your first blockbuster less of a suspenseful and horrifying Grip.

Fuck man. The same year you take the Third Risk in your life, you serve a bogus and inconsistent H.G. Wells family drama instead of ... well, I'm convinced the movie would have sucked no matter what.

"At least I don't do shitty special effects" is an old excuse you cunning bastard--and one that no longer is the truth. Those goddamn gophers you let George shove into an Orifice ... we all saw that in May.

You are in TROUBLE. Get it together or the respect you earned will be gone. You had better not Fuck Up our 16th President.


JP, a sometimes Spielberg defender

Consistently Absurd: 'Fando y Lis'

Because I am a manic collector, some of my happiest dreams involve finding films that I would never see in Mississippi stores. And when I wake up, I'm pissed at my teasing mind.

Last weekend I was in Princeton and visited an establishment not unlike those in my dreams. Elusive films at reasonable prices. I was tempted to throw hundreds of dollars on the counter like a fiend, but I decided only one purchase was enough: an Alejandro Jodorowsky collection.

Having seen "El Topo," I decided to hold off on "The Holy Mountain" and watch Jodorowsky's first feature length film, "Fando y Lis."

Months ago I wrote that "El Topo" was a mindfucker but a positive experience. True, I had to view it again to really get it, but from the beginning I knew I would be able to decipher its secrets.

Not so with "Fando y Lis." I may never be satisfied with it. Initially I felt confident, looking at the back of the DVD and spotting the 96-minute running time, almost a half hour shorter than the confounding "El Topo." But that bastard Jodorowsky was particularly absurd in 1967. I would never spoil "El Topo," but I am fed up with Jodorowsky's psychological bullshit, so stop reading if you don't want any rash spoilers.

I understand the General Story. Fando and Lis are a couple searching for Tar, a legendary city they believe will cure the crippled Lis. Throughout the film, Fando gives into frustration and abuses Lis but soon apologizes and the two travel on. In the final act Fando goes too far and kills Lis. He lies by her grave in mourning so long that ivy overtakes him, and you see Lis escape the ground and scurry off, naked and happy. The straightforward message? Fando was a depraved dick, and Lis was only happy after death. The search for Tar should have been an Unnecessary Endeavor if the two loved each other.

The only reason the description above makes sense is that I have edited out the numerous vague and insane events of the film. "El Topo" is wacky but never boring, and its various chapters add up despite the weirdness. Sometimes, "Fando y Lis" is unentertaining drivel.

But it's hard not to admire Jodorowsky's willingness to do anything. In a flashback, we see Lis as a child chased by adult male perverts. They finally catch her and lie down beside her. You never see literal molestation. Instead, Jodorowsky cuts to male hands squeezing eggs until they crack and seep yoke. The writer/director delves into uncomfortable territory but pulls back and yet retains the wretchedness of the moment.

And as a Fellini fan, I enjoyed how Jodorowsky takes the surreal scene from 8 1/2--where Marcello Mastroianni dominates women with a whip--and turns it around, this time with the male, Fando, being whipped by a female as other women toss bowling balls at him.

And some people call Jodorowsky a misogynist.

(A Final Note: The DVD transfer of "Fando y Lis" is flawed. Lis's whiteness was Blinding, and other images are mysteries. My vision has worsened over the last year, but the contrast on this DVD was Disturbingly Abnormal.)

'The Wild Child,' Philosophy and Science and Heart

"The Wild Child" is my first exposure to Francois Truffaut and French New Wave. (Yeah, I'm behind, but I live in Mississippi and don't find online rental services that appealing.) Before going any further, let's not confuse this film with the upcoming "Wild Child," which appears to tell the story of a spoiled bitch who trashes her dad's girlfriend's stuff and is sent to boarding school in England for more bitchy adventures before the epiphanic "Hey, I'm a stupid bitch" occurs and her heart is purified and she and a group of new friends jump into an ocean. I apologize in advance if I spoiled a potential experience for you.

But back to Truffaut's movie. It reminds me of "The Elephant Man," which was released a decade later. Both films raise the question, What makes a human? Of course, the protagonist of each film is seen as inhuman for very different reasons. The Elephant Man is a disfigured circus freak, so his appearance is the perceived shortcoming. But when that film concludes, we see him as a human. We learn he can recite Shakespeare, that he understands our social norms, that he wishes to sleep on his back without suffocating.

With the forest boy in "The Wild Child," his appearance isn't what raises the question, especially after he is taken in and cleaned up by a doctor (portrayed well by Truffaut himself). But his behavior is that of an ape. As you watch the boy relax his savage gait and learn words, you see a human finally taking shape ...

But wasn't he already human? What the hell would we be doing if not for socialization?

The Elephant Man's big line, delivered beautifully by John Hurt, was "I am not an animal! I am a human being!" If The Wild Child could talk, his line would be "I am not a human being! I am an animal!"

Along with the philosophical element, there's a lot to appreciate in the "The Wild Child." Truffaut puts the outmoded iris shot to effective use. (I could not find a helpful page on the iris shot. It is simply a fade involving a circle. So if it is a fade out, the screen shrinks into a circle. This technique was invented by Billy Bitzer, who worked with D.W. Griffith.) Jean-Pierre Cargol is believable as the jungle boy, definitely one of the greatest child performances I've seen. The film can also feel like a scientific exercise, as the majority is dedicated to the doctor testing the boy and writing in a journal.

But you've gotta have a heart while watching this movie. That's the only way it can be fully appreciated. Otherwise, it could be seen as a pointless story about a stubborn doctor tampering with an idiot kid.

'W.': Oliver Stone on a Needed Leash

I was afraid my friends would abandon me when I told them I wanted to see Oliver Stone's "W." (Somehow I got three people to go with me.) And I read all the bullshit. Some Democrats thought Stone was too soft on Bush. Some Republicans thought he was too harsh on Bush. The majority of comments I read about "W." stemmed from the commentators' own previous evaluations of the president. In other words, they weren't talking about the movie but sharing their better wisdom.

Rolling Stone movie critic Peter Traver's review puzzled me. He implies the film has no balls, that Stone censors himself. But isn't the opposite Stone's fucking problem? I don't know about Travers, but the last thing I needed in "W." was Stone's balls. The director has a serious illness of letting things go too far, not being able to pace a film, his completely insane tendencies hanging over the viewer's head like 20 savage dicks ready to pound one person's face. I wonder if any humans can watch "JFK," "U Turn," "Any Given Sunday," and "Alexander" in a marathon of madness and come out of the experience without feeling like an elephant hasn't defiled them.

Not counting his documentaries (I haven't seen any of them), this is Stone's second restrained film in a row, though no form of desperation has yet led me to view Nicolas Cage among the wreckage of "World Trade Center." Like the overlooked 1987 film, "Talk Radio" (highly recommended), "W." is short on preaching and therefore actually enjoyable.

The cast is the drawing point. Josh Brolin was the reason I gave the film a chance, and he nails another great good ole boy performance (the other being his role in "No Country For Old Men"). Brolin's portrayal of Bush isn't copycat acting. It's surprising how much dimension he brings to a character we thought we knew. James Cromwell does the same for George H. W. Bush, and when Brolin and Cromwell share the screen, the film really works. The other cast members range from appropriate (Richard Dreyfuss as Dick Cheney) to disturbingly accurate (Thandie Newton as Condoleeza Rice).

Ultimately, the film still needs editing. Stone's baseball metaphor grows tiring, the movie sometimes trudges through boring muck, and you still get a few of the director's trademark in-your-fuckin'-face camera angles (though a couple of them are appropriate). But if you don't take yourself or politics too seriously, W. is a pleasant comedic drama.

The Tension of 'sex, lies, and videotape'

Director/writer Steven Soderbergh is a guy I thought I knew. "Out of Sight." "Ocean's Eleven." "Traffic." "The Good German." They all pointed to a filmmaker with a slick eye. You could see all he had to offer, the style sometimes excessive.

Different story for his debut, "sex, lies, and videotape." The charm of this 1989 picture is not visual slickness but an underlying tension, ranging from awkwardness to innocence to depravity. The feeling can be as understated as the clamor of utensils at the dinner table. There is something wrong, a deranged secret to be told.

The film makes you feel dirty but never resorts to nudity. The sex is suggested, no simulation. You want it to go further, but Soderbergh keeps a distant angle, appropriate considering that the strange and aloof James Spader is his lead character. (The movie also has a few odd laughs, a completely different sort than what you could get from "Ocean's Eleven" or "Erin Brockovich" or, hell, the majority of films that may make you laugh.)

More than halfway through the movie, I arrived at the idea that sex is not necessarily the physical act but a conversation revealing the flawed past of a person, a burst of frightening honesty. And perhaps it is a lie to say otherwise.

But that's masturbation on my part. If you have yet to feel during a Soderbergh film, I think his first feature will take care of that.

(And like me, you might wish the bastard would make more films like this instead of sequels to a heist/comedy remake.)

'The Straight Story,' There's a Gentleness About It

David Lynch, we know him for the rum "Mulholland Dr." and "Blue Velvet," maybe "The Elephant Man" and others for some viewers. You hear about "The Straight Story," G-rated and Disney. But its opening scene is not indicative of what we normally associate with Lynch or tame family films. Maybe at first the director is up to his weird play, when we hear a sound from inside a house, obviously a person hitting the floor, and Lynch pans away to focus on an unhealthy old woman stretched out on a cheap lawnchair. The scene suggests natural death that no one wants to think about.

An old man had fallen in the house. In the next scene, we see him on his back on the floor, and he's fine. Just needs help getting up. His daughter comes in and starts to freak out. It's funny because of the relief. You know the old bastard is fine.

The old man learns his brother had a stroke more than a couple of hundred miles away. The man's hips aren't hardly worth nothing. He can't drive to his brother in a car. But he tries with a riding lawnmower. It breaks down. He has to go back. He buys another lawnmower, a John Deere one. And you watch him leave his daughter behind again.

He meets a lot of people on the way and at one point notices a stream of younger people on bicycles and he pulls his lawnmower off the road and watches the alien crew zip in front of him and onward, they are passing him, an old man off the road. He watches their youth pass him.

There's a gentleness about it.

'Burn After Reading': Insert Stupid Play On Words Here

The Coen brothers' latest film does not suffer from a comparison to their previous masterpiece, "No Country For Old Men." "Burn After Reading" is a different kind of movie but an obvious entry from the Coens. I cannot remember who used the term, but "deranged film noir" seems to be the most accurate way to describe it and its predecessors: "Fargo," "The Big Lebowski," and "The Man Who Wasn't There."

The biggest flaw of "Burn After Reading" is its contrived idiotic characters. Nothing wrong with idiotic characters as the Coens have proved, but whereas the characters in "The Big Lebowski" were lovable and worth quoting, they rarely come to life in "Burn After Reading."

Most of the film seemed like the Coens were making it up as they went along. If you watch the extras on the "No Country For Old Men" DVD, it is very clear the Coens are directors known for knowing exactly what they want. Many of their pictures can be absurd, but the absurdity is controlled and crafted into something viewers can understand and enjoy.

There is not a lot of direction in "Burn After Reading." I was impressed by much of the cinematography and other technicalities, but the substantive aspects were thrown together. You can tell the picture was rushed, especially when you think about the awkward self-referencing ending as you leave the theater. Brad Pitt manages to energize the movie when he is on the screen, but most of the cast is lost or unused. Tilda Swinton is the worst case of the latter. She adds absolutely nothing to the film, and I cannot blame her. Her dialogue is forced and lacks vitality. She was a puppet without great puppeteers, to reference the words of Federico Fellini.

Perhaps the saddest moment of my experience was that I found myself laughing more at a particular audience member. He was sitting in the center of the theater, and his laugh was like the ridiculous call of an extinct bird. That weird bastard was more entertaining than a lot of "Burn After Reading," although I am sure he would disagree with this evaluation given his frequent squawking.

I have made this film sound pretty bad, but it isn't. It is alright, better than "Intolerable Cruelty" and "The Ladykillers" but not quite as capable as "The Man Who Wasn't There." It is well shot and offers a few surprises and jokes that I would have probably spoiled if the movie were better.

And of course, the Coens will have another chance next year, when their next movie, "A Serious Man," is released.

'Death Sentence': An Unlikely Primer.

So the first question I would have reading this title would be: Why the hell did you bother with yet another vigilante flick?

The answer is sometimes you need to watch anything to come back to film. Before Labor Day weekend, I was tired of movies. I would put a disc in the player, watch up to half of the film, and stop.

I wake up Sunday morning. Flip through about 50 movie channels. I land on "Knocked Up," the Judd Apatow film all my friends told me to see. I decide to watch it. I never had any real interest in it, but I didn't have anything else to do. Just watch a movie, I thought.

A trend started. I hit up "An Inconvenient Truth" on another movie channel, notwithstanding my distaste for most American politicians and whatever their activities might be.

Finally, "Death Sentence" happened to me, just like a car wreck would.

Ask many critics/viewers to name the best film from these disparate three, and most will say either "Knocked Up" or "An Inconvenient Truth"--and you would be lucky to get some people to shut up about those two as well. (And ultimately, it is fine if you want to blather about them. Talk to me and you will likely remember the term "Oldboy" for quite some time.)

I have to be candid. "Death Sentence" is technically the worst film of the three, but I would watch it first if I had to choose. Despite numerous problems, it reinvigorated my passion for film. Maybe "Knocked Up" and "An Inconvenient Truth" are more consistent, but they don't have a shot this well done.

They also don't have a performance as crushing as Kevin Bacon's, who makes the film too hard to watch. The best summation I can give of "Death Sentence" is that it is an action movie that will not let you enjoy the blood. And before you think that is a good thing, it isn't. The film doesn't work on any level. It's not a good drama because it's too exploitative. It's not a good action flick because it's too depressing. (It's not good unintentional comedy, either. Some critics said otherwise, and I hope I never have to meet the depraved bastards. These critics need "Bloodsport" as a reference.)

Yet I am primed. "Death Sentence" was fascinating enough to get me back to film and updating this damn blog.

(A quick note: James Wan directed "Death Sentence." Same guy who did the first "Saw" movie. If you watch "Death Sentence" closely, you will see a picture of Billy, the stupid puppet from the "Saw" series.)

'Tropic Thunder': It Features a Child Firing a Bazooka

"Tropic Thunder" was scheduled to start at 7:25 p.m., but I walked in around 7:27, just in time to catch the last 20 seconds of the "Max Payne" trailer. A video game movie trailer, no matter how short, is a depressing way to kick off a theatrical experience.

A few minutes later, I thought we as a country were fucked. A rapper was advertising a drink called Booty Sweat with women showing their skin and enough horrid dancing to kill my hope for today's wayward youth. Why didn't these vicious bastards show off the product before the trailers?, I thought. Then I heard the rapper's name: Al Pacino. What the hell. He commenced to jabber on and on about how he loved "Pussy." I laughed, I had been duped, and this kind of outrage set the tone for the following 100+ minutes.

I had been introduced to the fictional actor Alpa Cino, played by actor/comedian Brandon T. Jackson, someone I hope to see more of. Three more trailers presented the other "stars" of the "movie" (this metatextual drivel is confusing here but straightforward when you see it): Tug Speedman (Ben Stiller), Jeff Portnoy (Jack Black), and Kirk Lazarus (Robert Downey Jr.).

That was the biggest surprise: four trailers being the actual beginning of the film. The second biggest surprise, occurring as I recovered from laughing so much throughout "Tropic Thunder," was revealed with the first closing credit: "Directed by Ben Stiller." In contrast to my initial reaction to the Booty Sweat trailer, I felt hope after that credit. If Stiller, utterly flaccid after the terrible "The Heartbreak Kid," can direct a reasonably intelligent comedy, we can fix the education system. We can.

(I don't feel like I need to write anything else but will confirm that Downey Jr. is a freak. He nails playing an Australian actor playing a black man. Downey's role called for him to satirize method acting by method acting, and this accomplishment solidifies him as one of the best actors in the world. It is highly unlikely Downey will get an Oscar nomination for this performance, but I would slap my grandmother if it would get him a nod.)

'The Lives of Others': A Bald Man Can Smile

As a friend said to me recently, it is hard to get excited about watching a two and a half hour movie involving the Stasi. After finishing "The Lives of Others," the debut of German director Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, it is hard to get excited about writing this entry, but I have not been updating as often as I promised and this is the only film I have seen this week.

"The Lives of Others" is a great and unsettling movie, but the material is very dull on paper. So why in God's name did I watch it? Because "Pan's Labyrinth" lost Best Foreign Language Film to it, and I wanted to see whether the Academy blundered as usual or if "The Lives of Others" had any merit.

It took me a long time to sit down and watch the movie, much less pick it up. Reading the plot description on its DVD case in a rental store brought up a troubling question: what poor bastard had to watch the movie in order to write this description? The last thing I wanted was to end up like that writer, too bored to do his job anymore.

I also do not want you to end up like me. I almost did not put the DVD in my player because some people were stubborn enough to mention the story, virtually impossible to render into interesting language. Another futile attempt would torture you and me and give this movie an even smaller pool of potential viewers.

Perhaps the best approach here is to casually remark on a few seemingly random pieces of fascination within "The Lives of Others." A fat bald politician pulls down his embarrassing underwear to force himself on a writer's insecure girlfriend. A bald play director commits suicide and inspires an article that tangles the collective panties of the East Germany government. And the Main Bald Man finally smiles after frowning so much.

The bottom line is baldies drive the story of "The Lives of Others," and you will not find a more enticing comment than that.

'El Topo,' or When Confusion Is Delightful

Here to be divulged is my reaction after seeing Alejandro Jodorowsky's 1970 film "El Topo" the first time. Notwithstanding my love for spoilers evident from previous entries, I serve you by withholding details (hence, no wikipedia link for the movie itself). I was delighted to be confused. I will say this much. Both for its protagonist and whoever watches it, a large part of "El Topo" is not finding the way, not stumbling near understanding, being blinded by the sun.

A thought followed after watching the film. That "El Topo" was David Lynch before David Lynch. But having recovered from confoundment, I am not sure I can agree with myself.

With his trademark abstractness, Lynch utilizes not knowing for mood. This can be frightening as anyone with "Inland Empire," Lynch's most abstract film, checked off his or her to-see list will attest.

Jodorowsky has another mind game. Not to say mood does not come into play during "El Topo," but the film does not feed as heavily on it as Lynch's pictures. "El Topo" affects you more after you watch it than it does during its two hours.

The confusion inherent in much of Lynch's work gets me talking. Hey there, were you freaked out, did bunnies doing the family sitcom show up in your nightmares? I simply look back at the experience.

After "El Topo," I am looking at the future. What is coming. What I may not ever understand.

And one other thing. A concern of mine and many others I assume: is "El Topo" a western? Not really, but any genre should be proud of being confused with it.

'The X-Files: I Want to Believe' But Cannot

To be honest, I feel slightly foolish for writing about, of all films, “X-Files: I Want to Believe.” Considering the pleading title and disastrous latter seasons of the 1990s television show, this essay demonstrates I must have really wanted to believe in something for no good reason other than a careless and fun leap of faith.

“I Want to Believe” could have been a witty and intelligent mystery. It is witty a few times, maybe even touching a couple of times, but mainly left me wondering why I had attempted to be a believer.

The film does not fall prey to the traditional flaws of many summer blockbusters. It is not filled with gratuitous and poorly conceived special effects. It is not trying to be bigger than what it should or can be. It is not a badly acted spree of stupid writing. But “I Want to Believe” cannot ultimately stand due to its shortsighted reliance on director/writer Chris Carter’s solid visuals and the chemistry between David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson.

With the exception of Fox Mulder (Duchovny) and Dana Scully (Anderson), the characters can be cut in half with scissors. Billy Connolly plays a psychic and former Catholic priest and boy molester and that description and a scene where he cries blood are about as interesting as he gets. His character is written as a penitent paranormal talent, but Connolly’s performance is guiltless scruffy hair notwithstanding. Two FBI agents played by Amanda Peet and Xzibit move the plot along like robots. Skinner, a main character from the television show, makes an unsurprising and pointless appearance. No one but those familiar with the show could know why he is there.

The story offers a mystery, but the unraveling is clockwork because everyone can follow a psychic. The disturbing revelation is that a group has kidnapped a woman with the goal to remove her head and sew the head of a man on her body. This idea might fascinate you for a few minutes as it involves decapitation and surgery and identity, but its execution is only for the sake of that brief fascination. Which is usually fine within the body of a 50-minute television program. In the theater the flippant scene sets off a gigantic so what.

Admittedly, the subplot detailing Scully’s struggle to cure a deathly ill boy with a risky procedure raises an admirable discussion about faith.

Just read the above line as a small compliment. Proselytized I am not.

'The Dark Knight': Villain, My Hero

The status quo of "The Dark Knight" is pandemonium. The opening heist sequence sets the tone for director Christopher Nolan's anti-comic book film in which the Joker meticulously kills his henchmen and avoids police in a school bus. It is the Joker's plan to destroy all plans. That is all. A scarred past? He tells a mob leader his father gave him the quasi Glasgow smile. We learn the story is unreliable, simply a device to make us think we can figure him out. Money? He claims at first if he is good at something not to do it for free but later burns a pyramid of money. Does he just want to kill Batman? Of course not. Batman completes him he adoringly quips.

Heath Ledger is the unequivocal lifeblood of this film. Without him Nolan could not have transcended the expectation of hero defeating villain. For all the positive traits of "Batman Begins" and the praise it received for reviving the Batman franchise, you realize how immature it really was. Nolan built a limited foundation in "Begins" and obliterates it here and digs into the dark hoping to reach Hell.

Ledger is unrecognizable. No trace of Cesar Romero, Jack Nicholson, or Mark Hamill, all great interpreters of Joker. Ledger interprets nothing. I believe he drove himself insane. I would call the performance inspiring if I could shake the scares. Some have compared Ledger's power to Marlon Brando. I call that and raise you Daniel Day-Lewis, who weeped on Oprah after Ledger died.

Day-Lewis indeed commanded the audience to react in a number of ways during the screening of "There Will Be Blood" I attended. Unbelievable to observe a similar charisma only months later and in of all things a movie based on mainstream comic book characters. But it surely happened. Ledger repulsed everyone around me and seconds later had them laughing.

Because Ledger was so bereft of anything holy or just, I tear down my character to say he was my hero during "The Dark Knight." I knew those feelings would be gone--the anticipation of glorified destruction, the inhuman glee, the life I sucked from death on the screen--without Ledger, the unstoppable force.

They are gone now and I want to go back to "The Dark Knight."

Film Binge

Weeks ago I viewed “The Pianist” and “La Dolce Vita” and “Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid” and “Manhattan" and “The Big Sleep” and “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” and “The Incredibles” and “The Grapes of Wrath” not in that particular order but day by day for the first time each and every one and I was indeed bloated but altogether different from the aftermath of a drinking binge where pleasure is soon forgotten and the foundation for more liver destruction is laid.

Share your film binges here but do not stumble about too much. Check back in a day or so for words on “The Dark Knight” and such.

An Unfortunate Dispute Between Directors Abel Ferrara and Werner Herzog

They are very different filmmakers. Abel Ferrara is known as a master of trash cinema, often utilizing sex and violence to illustrate the depravity of his characters and settings. Werner Herzog is known as a quirky documentarian, recently directing two of his most accessible films, "Grizzly Man" and "Rescue Dawn" (the latter being a fictional film based on Herzog's previous documentary, "Little Dieter Needs to Fly").

"Bad Lieutenant" is the conflict. Ferrara directed the 1992 original with Harvey Keitel starring as a perverse cop finally seeking redemption by investigating the rape of a nun. The film was obviously personal for Ferrara, and he held nothing back. "Bad Lieutenant" was rated NC-17 for theaters, and five minutes were cut from the theatrical cut so that Blockbuster would carry it.

Ferrara's comments on everyone involved in Herzog's planned remake of "Bad Lieutenant" were blunt: "I hope they're all in the same streetcar, and it blows up." Ferrara also said he would fight to stop the remake from happening.

Herzog was then interviewed by Defamer.com. Among his responses to Ferrara's anger:

"Let him fight. He thinks I'm doing a remake."

"It [Herzog's film] has nothing to with his [Ferrara's] film. But let him rave and rant; it's good music in the background."

"I've never seen a film by him. I have no idea who he is. Is he Italian? Is he French? Who is he?"

"Maybe I could invite him to act in a movie. Except I don't know what he looks like."

As an admirer of both filmmakers, I am disappointed if these words are true. But honestly, I understand Ferrara's position more than Herzog's.

Here is a common promotional image of Ferrara's film. Pay special attention to the font style of the title. Now glance at a poster (scroll down to first image in article) of Herzog's film used at this year's Cannes Film Festival.

I understand Herzog when he says he is not doing a remake. If he is telling the truth, he has not seen Ferrara's version. Instead of New York, Herzog is taking the story to New Orleans. Plus, Nicolas Cage will star in Herzog's picture, and he has little in common with Keitel as a performer.

But look at the posters again. If Herzog is not filming a remake, why are the title fonts of the posters so similar? Why is he filming a penis scene with Cage? Is he not aware Keitel's penis was shown in the original? Herzog keeps saying this is not a remake, but it bears obvious similarities with the original.

Herzog claims he does not understand the passion behind Ferrara's frustration. It is puzzling a director like Herzog, who has given us so much work about people and their creative obsessions, cannot understand why Ferrara would be upset over a movie with the same name as his own starring Cage, who has performed in mainstream remakes in the past ("Gone in Sixty Seconds" and "The Wicker Man").

Admittedly, Ferrara went too far wishing death on everyone involved in Herzog's film, but as far I know, he has not specifically attacked Herzog.

Apparently, the title of Herzog's film has been expanded to "Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans." This is a right step for Herzog. Still, I doubt Ferrara will be satisfied.

Of course, knowing the controversial Ferrara and witty Herzog, this fight could be a hoax. If not, an unfortunate and unnecessary dispute between two gifted artists.

'WALL-E': Brilliance Was Once Your Art

Seeing the trailer to Pixar’s newest film, my jadedness told me this was an extended R2-D2 feature, a cute harmless voyage.

Seeing the first 10 minutes of Pixar’s newest film, I forgot my jadedness. Lap dissolves reveal wasted land and places people once called home, evoking the technique and tone of John Ford’s “Grapes of Wrath.” A computer animated film with an opening on par with American cinema’s finest. This might be the one that transcends “Toy Story.”

WALL-E is the titular protagonist. His name is appropriately a forced acronym given our society’s current and likely undying obsession with words in words—Waste Allocation Load Lifter: Earth class. He is a product of Buy N’ Large (as you might guess, a fictional organization ripe for satirical thrusting). Lonely and contemplative his design is to shovel the leftovers of absent humankind and shape them into blocks and stack the blocks like a child building nothing.

He is a bit of a naughty robot. If he finds something he likes—for him it is the jewelry case rather than the ring within he trashes—he keeps it for his collection of forgotten culture and highlights the sad irony that we like WALL-E distance ourselves from the drudgery of production with products themselves.

The film shifts from bleak satire to romantic comedy with the introduction of EVE (Extraterrestrial Vegetation Evaluator), a floating and feminine and feisty machine WALL-E falls for. I laughed at the robots clumsy in their attempts to introduce themselves. As T.S. Eliot and Quentin Tarantino claimed, great art steals from other great art, and “WALL-E” channels Ford and Woody Allen among others within the first 30 minutes while creating its own identity.

After things go outer space to the Axiom ship, we see where humans have gone and what they have become. In one respect or another, they remind me of people I see and talk to now—both amusing and horrifying. Director Andrew Stanton leaves behind the mediocre and antiseptic Finding Nemo to challenge us in the vein of Jonathan Swift.

Unfortunately, the film loses its smarts around the last third. Earlier, Captain McCrea of the Axiom was introduced as a captain only in name, seemingly a hair away from being as stupid as the rest of humankind. He inexplicably becomes the hero in an all-too-easy action sequence, and as Stephanie Zacharek of Salon.com writes, we are expected to forgive the shortcomings of humankind at the conclusion.

For all its morbid lessons about our planet and caustic swipes at consumerism and effective romantic humor, the film takes the easy and traditional way out and briefly transforms into the cute harmless voyage I had feared but trusted would not materialize after such a beautifully crafted first hour.

Oh “WALL-E,” brilliance was once your art.

***1/2 (out of four stars)

'Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid': Sam Peckinpah's Final Valediction to the Old West.

Sam Peckinpah is the director who revolutionized violence—from both thematic and technical standpoints—in American cinema with one 1969 western: "The Wild Bunch." At the beginning of the film, children marvel at an ant colony killing two scorpions and eventually set fire to all. Toward the end of the film, the central character, played by an ornery and tough William Holden, kills enemy after enemy with a machine gun but is finally shot down by a child.

This unflinching portrayal of children as violent beings is groundbreaking enough. But I have not mentioned the slow motion gun battles staged by Peckinpah, scenes that undoubtedly inspired countless modern action directors, the most obvious example being Hong Kong filmmaker John Woo. We take slow motion for granted as a technical feature. In 1969 it was shocking. Akira Kurosawa and others had toyed with it but not to this extent.

Four years later, Peckinpah returned to the western with “Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid.” Unfortunately, Peckinpah and much of the film’s cast and crew disowned the theatrical version because of several edits that cut the running length from just more than two hours to 106 minutes. However, now on DVD you can see the version Peckinpah wanted: the 1988 director’s cut.

The sadness of the Old West’s passing is inherent in “Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid” as it was in “The Wild Bunch” but on a more personal level. During the opening credits—restored for this version, heavily edited for the maligned theatrical cut—we see clips of Garrett shot down from his horse juxtaposed with clips of Billy the Kid firing at chickens for target practice (and yes, in mesmerizing slow motion). Subtitles tell us the former occurred during the early twentieth century and the latter during 1881. Essentially, the remainder of the film explains this strange juxtaposition.

The Kid and the lawman Garrett meet at the beginning of the film having been apart for years. They were fellow outlaws, and evidence suggests Garrett played a fatherly role to the Kid. We do not see this, however. We only see the relationship go from awkward, when Garrett tells the Kid to straighten up or else, to violent, when Garrett and the Kid are killing each other’s allies. The Kid is captured but escapes, sparking Garrett’s quest to take the Kid down for good.

The Kid’s goal is simple. He would continue his legendary parade and shooting up whatever he wants and taking whatever he wants and the Old West embodied in his belligerent spirit as if he rode with The Wild Bunch itself.

Garrett’s goal is complex. He would live old in a New West and stand for order but at the expense of his old friend, his unofficial son.

Throughout the film I wondered whether Garrett cared about killing the Kid. I wondered if maybe James Coburn or Peckinpah missed a dramatic opportunity for Garrett is ever determined to strike a new path for himself by destroying the path of another. Until the end. He learns where the Kid is hiding. He brings two men with him slipping up on the Kid like assassin dogs. He sees the woman the Kid has taken to bed and the empty space beside her. He knows the Kid is around and stops to contemplate his deed.

Garrett sits on a porch for a night at the conclusion. He walks from the porch to his destiny alone. The Kid is dead and Garrett is forlorn. And you discover the irony of the opening sequence—Garrett killed the Old West to be shot down in the New West.

An irrelevant but interesting note:

Slim Pickens has a small supporting role in “Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid.” His character speaks of abandoning the ground of the West to venture on water. When shot in the gut he walks and walks and walks finally reaching a river and dies. A heartbreaking moment from an actor we usually remember for a laugh.

What To Expect.

I have a passion for writing and reading about films. I hope this blog can serve the dual purpose of giving me a chance to highlight both inspired and uninspired filmmaking and giving you the opportunity to discuss or comment on the topics at hand. Any feedback--outside of the hostile type--is encouraged and will be appreciated.

I plan to update this blog at least twice each week. I will also include wikipedia links with certain terms, such as actors, camera techniques, etc., so we can always be on the same page.

Notwithstanding the title of this blog, this site will feature more than reviews, sometimes covering news and other topics related to film.

Another important thing to remember: There Will Be Spoilers. So beware.