"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.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
'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.
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.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
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.)
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.)
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
'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.
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.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
'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.
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.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
'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.)
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.)
Friday, August 15, 2008
'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.)
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.)
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