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.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
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.)
Sunday, August 10, 2008
'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.
"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.
Friday, August 1, 2008
'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.
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.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
'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.
“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.
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