Alice in Wonderland
*1/2/****
I had to think for quite some time about the rating that Alice and Wonderland would receive. Was it really bad enough to warrant less than two stars? I thought for a while, attempting to come up with reasons that would endear this film to me slightly, and, quite frankly, I drew a blank. It's an entertaining enough film on its own terms, but it's certainly not a good film. And, honestly, if removed from 'its own terms,' which is to say with friends in a crowded theater, I don't think I would have enjoyed myself here. Hence the one-and-a-half stars. The half is for the enjoyment that it offers while in the company of others.
I think it's quite safe to say that Tim Burton has hit a creative rut. With the exception of the muted, lovely Corpse Bride, Burton hasn't made an original (aka not a sequel, franchise, or previous work) film since Ed Wood in 1994. Nor has his style changed in any discernible fashion. No, let me rephrase that: his macabre, Gothic affectations, which once felt fresh and innovative, have since congealed into something stilted, dull, and altogether devoid of life. Alice in Wonderland is, without a doubt, one of his most generic, lifeless films yet.
Mind you, I've never found myself squarely in the Tim Burton camp. I'll admit that he can make wonderful films when he wants to (though he hasn't wanted to since the early 90s), but, generally speaking, he's not a very interesting film-maker. I've always thought that Burton would be an endlessly fascinating painter or sculptor: the images and designs he conjures are extraordinary. But is film really the correct medium for him to manifest his images? Yes, he creates bizarre, surreal tableaus, but he rarely marries them to any form of film-making style. Tim Burton, technically speaking, fits the traditional definition of an auteur by virtue of his distinct visual style, endlessly repeating themes, and slave-like dedication to perfecting his 'type' of movie. Yet, for all that, I've always found him to be lacking the cinematic bravura and visual panache that most other anointed auteurs possessed. In laymans' terms? Tim Burton makes pretty pictures, but he doesn't make interesting movies. His compositions are tedious, his bag of film techniques woefully limited, and his structure repetitive. Every now and again, Burton uses his few tricks to makes something wonderfully compelling. Alice is not one of those circumstances.
I suppose what surprised me more than the lack of directorial flair was how uninspired I felt Wonderland's design to be. On the surface, it's all dazzling, but if one looks for a bit, it's all too easy to see the same basic machine that labor behind every Tim Burton world, and I, for one, am getting a little bit tired of them. The decision to shoot this film almost entirely on green-screen doesn't help either. I don't have a problem with CGI when necessary, but it's all too easily used to make up for laziness.
Speaking of laziness, I confess that I find myself less than thrilled by the acting involved. The notable exception is Helena Bonham Carter as the Red Queen, who is by turns petulant and intimidating. She alone captures the right amount of crazy that the film needs. I suppose I can't be too hard on Mia Wasikowska: the role of Alice has always been one of a passive viewer, so I guess I shouldn't fault her for being nothing more than politely confused throughout the film. Anne Hathaway is likable as always, but skin deep. And Johnny Depp. God, Johnny Depp. I regard Depp as one of the better working actors, whose chameleon-like abilities allow him to completely and believable immerse himself in any role. Readers, I've been shown what happens when Johnny Depp takes it too far. Never mind that every now and again he adopts a Scottish brogue only to drop it in favor of a silly lisp. He just doesn't feel...authentic. I know, I know, he's the Mad Hatter, he's not authentic, he's mad. But I never believed for a second that I was watching anything other than Johnny Depp flop around with metric tons of makeup. There was no character: only a celebrity seeing how goofy he could get before his producers committed suicide.
And...that dance. That goddamn dance. The moment in which the movie becomes a parody of itself. The moment in which the movie gives the finger to the audience and gleefully jumps off the rails. Like the whole third act, really. Was a large battle scene, complete with a Lord-of-the-Rings-inspired catapult, really necessary? Complete with punny one-liners? Anyone who argues for the dazzling originality of Alice's vision must tell me how this battle scene, looking for all the world like a low-rent Narnia movie, possibly serves to further Burton's singular achievement. Because it feels like desperation to me. No, not desperation. Apathy. This whole damn movie reeks of apathy. Apathy in Mediocreland. New title. Go nuts.
Showing posts with label review. Show all posts
Showing posts with label review. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Review: Shutter Island
Shutter Island
**/****
Shutter Island. Hmmm. It's hard to describe my feelings for this one. Let's try this for an opening bit: never have I seen so many incredibly talented artists doing such admirable work in service of such a worthless effort. Shutter Island follows Federal Marshall Teddy Daniels (Leonardo Dicaprio) and partner Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo) as they travel to Shutter Island, a penitentiary for the criminally insane. One of the island's prisoners have gone missing, and the hospital staff has requested assistance. What begins as a routine missing-person case quickly twists into a labyrinth of lies, charades, and emotional baggage.
Let me start off by saying that almost everyone involved with this film is immensely talented, and is clearly giving it their all. Leonardo Dicaprio, who has been described as 'a character actor stuck in a leading man's body' produces yet another intriguing character study; doubtlessly, he's one of Hollywood's best young actors. Mark Ruffalo provides a believable and charismatic foil for Dicaprio's sullen brooding. The 'evil psychiatrist' roles are fleshed out beautifully by Ben Kingsley and Max Von Sydow, and extended cameos from the likes of Michelle Williams, Emily Mortimer, and Jackie Earle Haley are intensely acted and fiercely memorably. The below-the-line work is stunning: cinematographer Robert Richardson, a frequent Scorcese collaborator, creates images of astounding beauty, with almost tactile stylizations. Production design by Dante Ferretti is inspired by Grand Guignol horror films, but takes on its own noirish sensibilities. Thelma Schoonmaker, editing demigod, effortlessly draws tense rhythms from the scenes and creates a pushing, grating suspense that will leave more than a few viewers shaken. And of course, one must mention the maestro behind it all, Martin Scorsese: a vibrant, kinetic film-maker who appeals to all five senses, Scorsese is at the top of his game here. The flash-back sequences in particular are stunning: one scene, set in Auschwitz, in which American soldiers gun down unarmed prisoners, is an astounding piece of film-making: its unrelenting horror combined with its ability to immerse the viewer, did more to dramatize the horrors of The Holocaust for me than the entirety of the more stiffly and formally made Schindler's List (...with the exception of the Warsaw ghetto liquidation sequence. That still messes with my head). Additionally, the imagined scenes between Dicaprio's character and his dead wife are jaw-droppingly gorgeous.
So where the hell did this film go so terribly, terribly wrong?
The review has been glowing thus far, so I imagine you must think I'm over the moon about this film. Wrong. I very, very strongly disliked it. That second star is in acknowledgement of the potential film, lurking under the surface of this one. Shutter Island could have been a masterpiece; instead, it's well-made crap. My best guess for pointing out where this one shot off the rails must point toward the screenplay. No, before the screenplay even: the story. The source material, a Dennis Lehane mystery potboiler, is just a terrible, terrible story that follows this infuriating movement in Hollywood that dictates that all horror/thriller films must have some grand twist at the very end. Well, readers, Shutter Island has a twist, but what's the point? Does the point deepen the story, or comment upon it? Does it enrich the viewing experience? No. It's done entirely for that 'Gotcha!' moment that, for whatever reason, our moviegoing culture has deemed necessary. Well, I may have been gotten, but I sure didn't like it. An ending like this only serves to show that the writers and film-makers were too nervous about the quality of their story to allow it to speak for itself. Throw in a hokey twist, and bam! No one cares about the crappy story that came before it.
The screenplay certainly doesn't help, either. Most of the lines fall somewhere between banal and absolutely ridiculous. That all the actors were capable of giving such impassioned performances whilst working with dialogue from my seventh grade English notebook is miraculous.
...Do you ever get the feeling that you're watching a movie that should have been made as a silent film? I do, increasingly frequently. Shutter Island is one of those films. Indeed, Scorsese seems to recognize that as well. Take the fantasy sequences, for example: the images are beautiful, compelling, and tell a story in their own right. The dialogue needlessly and clumsily retreads what we've already seen. Imagine how perfect these sequences might have been without dialogue, or, if we must, a title card every now and then offering a bit of information. The same applies for almost all of Shutter Island. If only Scorsese had the balls to cut the chatter, this could have been a real work of art. Instead, we get a veritable gaggle of talented artists doing their best to save a story that has long since given up on redemption.
**/****
Shutter Island. Hmmm. It's hard to describe my feelings for this one. Let's try this for an opening bit: never have I seen so many incredibly talented artists doing such admirable work in service of such a worthless effort. Shutter Island follows Federal Marshall Teddy Daniels (Leonardo Dicaprio) and partner Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo) as they travel to Shutter Island, a penitentiary for the criminally insane. One of the island's prisoners have gone missing, and the hospital staff has requested assistance. What begins as a routine missing-person case quickly twists into a labyrinth of lies, charades, and emotional baggage.
Let me start off by saying that almost everyone involved with this film is immensely talented, and is clearly giving it their all. Leonardo Dicaprio, who has been described as 'a character actor stuck in a leading man's body' produces yet another intriguing character study; doubtlessly, he's one of Hollywood's best young actors. Mark Ruffalo provides a believable and charismatic foil for Dicaprio's sullen brooding. The 'evil psychiatrist' roles are fleshed out beautifully by Ben Kingsley and Max Von Sydow, and extended cameos from the likes of Michelle Williams, Emily Mortimer, and Jackie Earle Haley are intensely acted and fiercely memorably. The below-the-line work is stunning: cinematographer Robert Richardson, a frequent Scorcese collaborator, creates images of astounding beauty, with almost tactile stylizations. Production design by Dante Ferretti is inspired by Grand Guignol horror films, but takes on its own noirish sensibilities. Thelma Schoonmaker, editing demigod, effortlessly draws tense rhythms from the scenes and creates a pushing, grating suspense that will leave more than a few viewers shaken. And of course, one must mention the maestro behind it all, Martin Scorsese: a vibrant, kinetic film-maker who appeals to all five senses, Scorsese is at the top of his game here. The flash-back sequences in particular are stunning: one scene, set in Auschwitz, in which American soldiers gun down unarmed prisoners, is an astounding piece of film-making: its unrelenting horror combined with its ability to immerse the viewer, did more to dramatize the horrors of The Holocaust for me than the entirety of the more stiffly and formally made Schindler's List (...with the exception of the Warsaw ghetto liquidation sequence. That still messes with my head). Additionally, the imagined scenes between Dicaprio's character and his dead wife are jaw-droppingly gorgeous.
So where the hell did this film go so terribly, terribly wrong?
The review has been glowing thus far, so I imagine you must think I'm over the moon about this film. Wrong. I very, very strongly disliked it. That second star is in acknowledgement of the potential film, lurking under the surface of this one. Shutter Island could have been a masterpiece; instead, it's well-made crap. My best guess for pointing out where this one shot off the rails must point toward the screenplay. No, before the screenplay even: the story. The source material, a Dennis Lehane mystery potboiler, is just a terrible, terrible story that follows this infuriating movement in Hollywood that dictates that all horror/thriller films must have some grand twist at the very end. Well, readers, Shutter Island has a twist, but what's the point? Does the point deepen the story, or comment upon it? Does it enrich the viewing experience? No. It's done entirely for that 'Gotcha!' moment that, for whatever reason, our moviegoing culture has deemed necessary. Well, I may have been gotten, but I sure didn't like it. An ending like this only serves to show that the writers and film-makers were too nervous about the quality of their story to allow it to speak for itself. Throw in a hokey twist, and bam! No one cares about the crappy story that came before it.
The screenplay certainly doesn't help, either. Most of the lines fall somewhere between banal and absolutely ridiculous. That all the actors were capable of giving such impassioned performances whilst working with dialogue from my seventh grade English notebook is miraculous.
...Do you ever get the feeling that you're watching a movie that should have been made as a silent film? I do, increasingly frequently. Shutter Island is one of those films. Indeed, Scorsese seems to recognize that as well. Take the fantasy sequences, for example: the images are beautiful, compelling, and tell a story in their own right. The dialogue needlessly and clumsily retreads what we've already seen. Imagine how perfect these sequences might have been without dialogue, or, if we must, a title card every now and then offering a bit of information. The same applies for almost all of Shutter Island. If only Scorsese had the balls to cut the chatter, this could have been a real work of art. Instead, we get a veritable gaggle of talented artists doing their best to save a story that has long since given up on redemption.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Review: Edge of Darkness
Edge of Darkness
1/2/****
As I sat in the theater, Edge of Darkness unraveling itself in front of me, I couldn't help but be gripped with apprehension. I shifted in my seat, anxious, tense, totally involved. I had to know how this mystery would play out. The wait was almost unbearable, and the potential consequences severe.
I'm referring, of course, to the burned-out light bulb in the right corner of the ceiling. The theater was dark. Someone could have tripped.
Obviously, you must be aware of my general stance on this film, given both its rating, and that I spent the majority of the film looking at the ceiling, but allow me to break Edge of Darkness down a little further.
Mel Gibson stars as Thomas Craven, a simple man touchingly afflicted with horrific mental illness...Nope. I'll start again. Mel Gibson stars as Ridiculous Caricature McI'mFromBoston,YouCanTellBecauseofMyAccent...Smith. His relationship with his daughter might be described by some as loving, but this writer shall hereby refer to it as 'creepily infatuated to the point of incest.' When his daughter is poisoned (briefly), and then shot in the stomach (so the poison can take effect, I guess), Gibson launches into a Shakespearean tale of grief, revenge, and intrigue.
Or at least the film would like you to think it's Shakespearean. I hate how seriously Edge of Darkness takes itself. Some movies can get away with referring to themselves in hushed third-person, but not this one. Its attempts at drama are blocked at every corner by Gibson's thoroughly terrible performance. All levity aside, what the hell is with that accent? Or anything in the performance, for that matter? I'm not fond of Mel Gibson as a director, but it might be worth it to keep him behind the camera, so innocent people never have to suffer this kind of torture again. Watching Gibson's thirty-foot tall face mope across the screen is akin to waterboarding, in that it feels like drowning, and after ten seconds you're likely to beg for death. Gibson is joined in ridiculousness by the normally formidable Ray Winstone, whose shady, death-obsessed special agent is an exercise in stupidity, and Danny Huston, whose corporation leader might as well wear a "kick me, I'm the antagonist" sign on his back.
The script was penned by Peter Monaghan, whose most famous film is The Departed. Now, The Departed had a great script: tense, lean, and resonant. You can tell that Monaghan desperately wants to write another Departed, but, sadly, this movie ain't gonna cut it. The script supplies all the actors with endless amounts of poor dialogue, ridiculous observations, and supposedly-revealing platitudes. Fortune cookies contain far more insight than this movie.
Theoretically, Edge of Darkness is an action movie. What it lacks most, however, are action scenes. Mel Gibson gets to throw a punch or two, but never in any appealing sense. The film tries too hard to be a serious drama, and fails miserably at that. Tragically, it doesn't toss in enough action to distract the masses, and, as such, fails as an action film as well. In fact, Edge of Darkness fails at absolutely everything. Please, do me a favor, and never see this movie. It deserves to be hidden away where no one will ever, ever find it.
1/2/****
As I sat in the theater, Edge of Darkness unraveling itself in front of me, I couldn't help but be gripped with apprehension. I shifted in my seat, anxious, tense, totally involved. I had to know how this mystery would play out. The wait was almost unbearable, and the potential consequences severe.
I'm referring, of course, to the burned-out light bulb in the right corner of the ceiling. The theater was dark. Someone could have tripped.
Obviously, you must be aware of my general stance on this film, given both its rating, and that I spent the majority of the film looking at the ceiling, but allow me to break Edge of Darkness down a little further.
Mel Gibson stars as Thomas Craven, a simple man touchingly afflicted with horrific mental illness...Nope. I'll start again. Mel Gibson stars as Ridiculous Caricature McI'mFromBoston,YouCanTellBecauseofMyAccent...Smith. His relationship with his daughter might be described by some as loving, but this writer shall hereby refer to it as 'creepily infatuated to the point of incest.' When his daughter is poisoned (briefly), and then shot in the stomach (so the poison can take effect, I guess), Gibson launches into a Shakespearean tale of grief, revenge, and intrigue.
Or at least the film would like you to think it's Shakespearean. I hate how seriously Edge of Darkness takes itself. Some movies can get away with referring to themselves in hushed third-person, but not this one. Its attempts at drama are blocked at every corner by Gibson's thoroughly terrible performance. All levity aside, what the hell is with that accent? Or anything in the performance, for that matter? I'm not fond of Mel Gibson as a director, but it might be worth it to keep him behind the camera, so innocent people never have to suffer this kind of torture again. Watching Gibson's thirty-foot tall face mope across the screen is akin to waterboarding, in that it feels like drowning, and after ten seconds you're likely to beg for death. Gibson is joined in ridiculousness by the normally formidable Ray Winstone, whose shady, death-obsessed special agent is an exercise in stupidity, and Danny Huston, whose corporation leader might as well wear a "kick me, I'm the antagonist" sign on his back.
The script was penned by Peter Monaghan, whose most famous film is The Departed. Now, The Departed had a great script: tense, lean, and resonant. You can tell that Monaghan desperately wants to write another Departed, but, sadly, this movie ain't gonna cut it. The script supplies all the actors with endless amounts of poor dialogue, ridiculous observations, and supposedly-revealing platitudes. Fortune cookies contain far more insight than this movie.
Theoretically, Edge of Darkness is an action movie. What it lacks most, however, are action scenes. Mel Gibson gets to throw a punch or two, but never in any appealing sense. The film tries too hard to be a serious drama, and fails miserably at that. Tragically, it doesn't toss in enough action to distract the masses, and, as such, fails as an action film as well. In fact, Edge of Darkness fails at absolutely everything. Please, do me a favor, and never see this movie. It deserves to be hidden away where no one will ever, ever find it.
Review: Legion
Legion
1/2/****
Legion: Thus far, the best feel-good comedy of the year. This delightful little film is like Juno meets Little Miss Sunshine: it's rife with single mom jokes, hilarious small town life, lovable encounters with the elderly, two (2) colored people (Twice the fun! They Shuck! They Jive! They speak Ebonics! Fried Chicken while you wait!), and Paul Bettany as Michael, a free-wheeling, rule-breaking angel, ready to learn quirky life lessons in the local diner. Also, a guy named Jeep (you may have heard about his siblings, Dodge and Chrysler, who were recently killed in Detroit) blows away a possessed, ceiling-crawling Grannie with a shotgun. What? This wasn't supposed to be a comedy?
Legion has got to be one of the worst movies I've seen in a while. It's completely inane 'plot' involves Archangel Michael, who gives up his divine powers to come save Dennis Quaid and friends from the coming Apocalypse. Michael will test his (and the ridiculous supporting cast's) mettle against an army of angels. And by angels, I mean people with shark teeth (that's what the movie calls them, not me) and prodigious head-banging/ceiling crawling/limb-extending abilities. So, it's like, I dunno, The Exorcist meets Jaws meets The Fantastic Four. That's heaven, folks. Somehow, our Angel and his lovable group of adorable scamps manage to take a stand, stationed in the local diner that must give Fort Knox a run for its money, as far as heavily fortified locations are concerned.
Recurring horror motifs faithfully march across the screen, without ever really attempting to make sense as part of a whole. We get the crazy old woman, the murderous child with an adult voice, the summary execution of the minorities in the group (yup, the oldest horror motif in the book happens twice in this movie), the young couple upon whom everything, improbably relies, and, of course, that oldest film adage: the man who is crucified upside down, before erupting into acid-y puss. Not even joking here, folks. It's that kind of movie, I guess.
The cast approaches something near perfection in its total embrace of one-dimensional, wooden line reading. If Keanu Reeves had an acting school, these performances would be used there as examples of how to act poorly. I suppose Paul Bettany tries hard, and Willa Holland, as a rebellious teen, manages to not embarrass herself (though the script does it for her). From there on out, however, it's a dignity massacre of biblical proportions. Dennis Quaid, whose general silliness can sometimes be used for the greater good, seems to be convinced that he's starring in some kind of regional comedy, and Tyrese Gibson and Charles S. Dutton undoubtedly attended many minstrel shows to gain insight into how to play their characters. The acting laurels, however, must be given to Lucas Black. His character's name is Jeep, which is really rather wonderful, because I've seen many a jeep give better performances than this perfect exercise in the profoundly retarded. This actor would struggle to play a mannequin.
Technically speaking, the film looks cheap, which, admittedly, it was. Still, that's not swaying me: District 9 cost less than this film, and looks amazing. Legion's special effects look like they were created by orphans. The rest of the visual concept for this film is similarly sub-par. It's rare to find a film this universally awful.
One factor I have yet to really comment on: you will enjoy this film, because it's hilarious. It's one redeeming quality is being able to watch a complete and utter train-wreck from the safety of a theater seat. Or better yet, your couch. This movie should get its DVD release in about three weeks. If you have to see this movie, wait for it: for the love of all that is good and holy, do not see it in theaters. The people who waste ten dollars on this abomination go straight to the Special Hell. I might be going there. You don't have to.
1/2/****
Legion: Thus far, the best feel-good comedy of the year. This delightful little film is like Juno meets Little Miss Sunshine: it's rife with single mom jokes, hilarious small town life, lovable encounters with the elderly, two (2) colored people (Twice the fun! They Shuck! They Jive! They speak Ebonics! Fried Chicken while you wait!), and Paul Bettany as Michael, a free-wheeling, rule-breaking angel, ready to learn quirky life lessons in the local diner. Also, a guy named Jeep (you may have heard about his siblings, Dodge and Chrysler, who were recently killed in Detroit) blows away a possessed, ceiling-crawling Grannie with a shotgun. What? This wasn't supposed to be a comedy?
Legion has got to be one of the worst movies I've seen in a while. It's completely inane 'plot' involves Archangel Michael, who gives up his divine powers to come save Dennis Quaid and friends from the coming Apocalypse. Michael will test his (and the ridiculous supporting cast's) mettle against an army of angels. And by angels, I mean people with shark teeth (that's what the movie calls them, not me) and prodigious head-banging/ceiling crawling/limb-extending abilities. So, it's like, I dunno, The Exorcist meets Jaws meets The Fantastic Four. That's heaven, folks. Somehow, our Angel and his lovable group of adorable scamps manage to take a stand, stationed in the local diner that must give Fort Knox a run for its money, as far as heavily fortified locations are concerned.
Recurring horror motifs faithfully march across the screen, without ever really attempting to make sense as part of a whole. We get the crazy old woman, the murderous child with an adult voice, the summary execution of the minorities in the group (yup, the oldest horror motif in the book happens twice in this movie), the young couple upon whom everything, improbably relies, and, of course, that oldest film adage: the man who is crucified upside down, before erupting into acid-y puss. Not even joking here, folks. It's that kind of movie, I guess.
The cast approaches something near perfection in its total embrace of one-dimensional, wooden line reading. If Keanu Reeves had an acting school, these performances would be used there as examples of how to act poorly. I suppose Paul Bettany tries hard, and Willa Holland, as a rebellious teen, manages to not embarrass herself (though the script does it for her). From there on out, however, it's a dignity massacre of biblical proportions. Dennis Quaid, whose general silliness can sometimes be used for the greater good, seems to be convinced that he's starring in some kind of regional comedy, and Tyrese Gibson and Charles S. Dutton undoubtedly attended many minstrel shows to gain insight into how to play their characters. The acting laurels, however, must be given to Lucas Black. His character's name is Jeep, which is really rather wonderful, because I've seen many a jeep give better performances than this perfect exercise in the profoundly retarded. This actor would struggle to play a mannequin.
Technically speaking, the film looks cheap, which, admittedly, it was. Still, that's not swaying me: District 9 cost less than this film, and looks amazing. Legion's special effects look like they were created by orphans. The rest of the visual concept for this film is similarly sub-par. It's rare to find a film this universally awful.
One factor I have yet to really comment on: you will enjoy this film, because it's hilarious. It's one redeeming quality is being able to watch a complete and utter train-wreck from the safety of a theater seat. Or better yet, your couch. This movie should get its DVD release in about three weeks. If you have to see this movie, wait for it: for the love of all that is good and holy, do not see it in theaters. The people who waste ten dollars on this abomination go straight to the Special Hell. I might be going there. You don't have to.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Review: Crazy Heart
Crazy Heart
**1/2/****
Perfunctory. There's just no other word for this movie. Or maybe there is. Let me try. Perfunctory. Stale. By-the-numbers. Routine. Staid. Stolid. And I didn't even have to open my thesaurus.
Crazy Heart revolves around Bad Blake (Jeff Bridges), a boozy, broken-down country singer travelling around the country, playing small venues for pocket change. His life changes, however, when he meets Jean Craddock (Maggie Gyllenhaal), a journalist and single mother who inspires him to change his life. Now, raise your hand if you've heard that plot description before. Crazy Heart sure ain't reinventing the wheel. Now, any story can be elevated by a good script, strong performances, or a unique stylistic view. Sadly, Crazy Heart only has one of these qualities, and even that's stretching it.
Let me say this right now: I don't understand the veritable avalanche of awards that has buried Jeff Bridges this season. His Bad Blake isn't a terrible performance. Best of the year, though? Bridges has all the mannerisms, but none of the soul. His performance is skin-deep. Having seen the film, I still know little about Bad Blake as a human being. He drinks a lot, he performs, every now and again he throws up in the bathroom and cries, but I don't know him. I don't understand him as a human the way that strong performances make possible. The fact that Bridges will almost undoubtedly win an Oscar for this, as opposed to fellow nominees Jeremy Renner (The Hurt Locker), Colin Firth (A Single Man), and George Clooney (Up in the Air), as well as other, better, not nominated performances like Joseph Gordon-Levitt (500 Days of Summer), Sam Rockwell (Moon), Willem Dafoe (Antichrist), Sharlto Copley (District 9) and plenty of others is almost insulting. I understand that these awards are more of a career achievement than for this particular performance, but I admit that I'm not fond enough of Jeff Bridges' career to want to award him over his other, more effective peers. Maggie Gyllenhaal (also Oscar-nominated for this film) fares slightly better. Her character is more of a person and less of an impersonation, and I suppose I'm more OK with her accolade than his. Gyllenhaal is an appealing actress, and deserves her first nomination. Not necessarily for this movie, but I suppose we all have to take what we can get.
Beyond acting, the film has little to offer. The script, by Scott Cooper, is amusing and times, but is most likely the source of the problems I have with Jeff Bridges' performance. The same can be said for Cooper's directorial style. For lack of a better phrase, the man doesn't really have any vision. This is fine, I suppose. The world needs directors who make average, standard, pedestrian films. Crazy Heart, however, needed a stylistic edge to elevate it from its shoddy source material, and one can only fault Cooper for not giving it that edge.
I suppose I might have also enjoyed this film more were I a country music fan. Crazy Heart is chock-full of new tunes, penned by T-Bone Burnett and Ryan Bingham, but I can't say many of them moved me. The notable exception is the final song, "The Weary Kind," which is sort of beautiful in its own melancholy way, and "Feels Like Flyin'," which isn't a great song, but is damnably catchy.
Final verdict? Movie of the week. Not a complete waste of time, but not memorable either. Why awards voters keep mistaking this mediocre film for a memorable one is anybody's guess. I'm sure stumped.
**1/2/****
Perfunctory. There's just no other word for this movie. Or maybe there is. Let me try. Perfunctory. Stale. By-the-numbers. Routine. Staid. Stolid. And I didn't even have to open my thesaurus.
Crazy Heart revolves around Bad Blake (Jeff Bridges), a boozy, broken-down country singer travelling around the country, playing small venues for pocket change. His life changes, however, when he meets Jean Craddock (Maggie Gyllenhaal), a journalist and single mother who inspires him to change his life. Now, raise your hand if you've heard that plot description before. Crazy Heart sure ain't reinventing the wheel. Now, any story can be elevated by a good script, strong performances, or a unique stylistic view. Sadly, Crazy Heart only has one of these qualities, and even that's stretching it.
Let me say this right now: I don't understand the veritable avalanche of awards that has buried Jeff Bridges this season. His Bad Blake isn't a terrible performance. Best of the year, though? Bridges has all the mannerisms, but none of the soul. His performance is skin-deep. Having seen the film, I still know little about Bad Blake as a human being. He drinks a lot, he performs, every now and again he throws up in the bathroom and cries, but I don't know him. I don't understand him as a human the way that strong performances make possible. The fact that Bridges will almost undoubtedly win an Oscar for this, as opposed to fellow nominees Jeremy Renner (The Hurt Locker), Colin Firth (A Single Man), and George Clooney (Up in the Air), as well as other, better, not nominated performances like Joseph Gordon-Levitt (500 Days of Summer), Sam Rockwell (Moon), Willem Dafoe (Antichrist), Sharlto Copley (District 9) and plenty of others is almost insulting. I understand that these awards are more of a career achievement than for this particular performance, but I admit that I'm not fond enough of Jeff Bridges' career to want to award him over his other, more effective peers. Maggie Gyllenhaal (also Oscar-nominated for this film) fares slightly better. Her character is more of a person and less of an impersonation, and I suppose I'm more OK with her accolade than his. Gyllenhaal is an appealing actress, and deserves her first nomination. Not necessarily for this movie, but I suppose we all have to take what we can get.
Beyond acting, the film has little to offer. The script, by Scott Cooper, is amusing and times, but is most likely the source of the problems I have with Jeff Bridges' performance. The same can be said for Cooper's directorial style. For lack of a better phrase, the man doesn't really have any vision. This is fine, I suppose. The world needs directors who make average, standard, pedestrian films. Crazy Heart, however, needed a stylistic edge to elevate it from its shoddy source material, and one can only fault Cooper for not giving it that edge.
I suppose I might have also enjoyed this film more were I a country music fan. Crazy Heart is chock-full of new tunes, penned by T-Bone Burnett and Ryan Bingham, but I can't say many of them moved me. The notable exception is the final song, "The Weary Kind," which is sort of beautiful in its own melancholy way, and "Feels Like Flyin'," which isn't a great song, but is damnably catchy.
Final verdict? Movie of the week. Not a complete waste of time, but not memorable either. Why awards voters keep mistaking this mediocre film for a memorable one is anybody's guess. I'm sure stumped.
Review: The White Ribbon
The White Ribbon
****/****
Michael Haneke's The White Ribbon would play wonderfully as a companion piece to 2009's Antichrist. Originally, I thought the major similarity between films, besides certain stylistic sensibilities, was the attempt to convey a world free of moral or ethical bounds. Upon reflection, however, I've decided that, rather than showing a world with no rules, The White Ribbon and Antichrist portray worlds governed by merciless, absolute rules: you play by the game, and if you break the rules, you're punished. The White Ribbon isn't as openly graphic or aggressive, but it's disturbing nonetheless. I don't know if I've ever before encountered a movie so casually horrific. Terrible, terrible things happen in this film that go largely unnoticed, unpunished, and unspoken. Terrible things happen, and people move on. End of story.
The White Ribbon takes place in a small German Village the year before World War One announces itself across the continent. Small, violent events begin to happen to members of the town. A trip wire is strung for someone's horse. Cabbages are destroyed. A barn is lit on fire. The events soon escalate into truly horrific punishments. One villager finds a note at the scene of the crime which quotes a verse from the Bible about how the Israelites' children will be punished for the sins of their parents.
The film never directly reveals who is behind the attacks (though many an inference can be drawn), but the who isn't terribly important in this story. No, what The White Ribbon is concerned with is the how and the why. The plot supplies five households to watch the goings-on: the local pastor, a conservative, abusive father of six children. The doctor, whose wife has died, and relies on the local midwife to help with his two children. The Baron and Baroness, whose plantation provides work for most of the villages. The farmer, whose wife dies early in the film by a plantation-related accident, and whose children may or may not want revenge. And finally, the school teacher, just a decent young man trying to live his life. The film is told via flashback narration from his perspective. The film sets itself up as a mystery: surely, we think, we'll spend the film wondering what terrible human beings could be responsible for the heinous crimes committed. And we do wonder, to an extent. The mystery falls into the background, however, yielding first billing to the horrific crimes that occur in almost every household. Without giving away too much, I'll simply say that there's enough abuse, incest, rape, adultery, and deceit to fill two good-sized Wal-Marts. And therein, I think, lies the point of the film. The mysterious crimes committed are undeniably terrible, but are they worse than the events happening at the core of every home? Director Michael Haneke might be trying to say something about the tolerance of evil: when it's out in the open, it causes quite a stir. But when it's considered "a family matter," it's swept under the rug. Indeed, the perpetrators of the plot's central crimes could almost be considered the heroes of the story: they see the evil that no one else sees, and they dole out punishment as they see fit. It's a chilling idea: that someone is always watching, and will punish you in ways you can neither expect nor fully comprehend.
The below-the-line work is all fantastic: the sets are both sparse and evocative, and the editing is wound as tightly as a trip-wire. The cinematography deserves special mention: Christian Berger's black-and-white template is hauntingly beautiful.
The film's true success may be dependent on its fantastic ensemble, which takes the concept of community and runs with it for all it's worth. Without this sense of established social order, the film might have lost some of its power. The social order is there, however, as well as all the mistrust, secrets, and hidden agendas incumbent of any small community. The final shot, of a group of churchgoers, all unsure of who is attacking whom, and who will be attacked next, is enough to make the blood run cold. The White Ribbon isn't for all tastes, but those who are willing to try it will find something endlessly thought-provoking and all together worthwhile.
****/****
Michael Haneke's The White Ribbon would play wonderfully as a companion piece to 2009's Antichrist. Originally, I thought the major similarity between films, besides certain stylistic sensibilities, was the attempt to convey a world free of moral or ethical bounds. Upon reflection, however, I've decided that, rather than showing a world with no rules, The White Ribbon and Antichrist portray worlds governed by merciless, absolute rules: you play by the game, and if you break the rules, you're punished. The White Ribbon isn't as openly graphic or aggressive, but it's disturbing nonetheless. I don't know if I've ever before encountered a movie so casually horrific. Terrible, terrible things happen in this film that go largely unnoticed, unpunished, and unspoken. Terrible things happen, and people move on. End of story.
The White Ribbon takes place in a small German Village the year before World War One announces itself across the continent. Small, violent events begin to happen to members of the town. A trip wire is strung for someone's horse. Cabbages are destroyed. A barn is lit on fire. The events soon escalate into truly horrific punishments. One villager finds a note at the scene of the crime which quotes a verse from the Bible about how the Israelites' children will be punished for the sins of their parents.
The film never directly reveals who is behind the attacks (though many an inference can be drawn), but the who isn't terribly important in this story. No, what The White Ribbon is concerned with is the how and the why. The plot supplies five households to watch the goings-on: the local pastor, a conservative, abusive father of six children. The doctor, whose wife has died, and relies on the local midwife to help with his two children. The Baron and Baroness, whose plantation provides work for most of the villages. The farmer, whose wife dies early in the film by a plantation-related accident, and whose children may or may not want revenge. And finally, the school teacher, just a decent young man trying to live his life. The film is told via flashback narration from his perspective. The film sets itself up as a mystery: surely, we think, we'll spend the film wondering what terrible human beings could be responsible for the heinous crimes committed. And we do wonder, to an extent. The mystery falls into the background, however, yielding first billing to the horrific crimes that occur in almost every household. Without giving away too much, I'll simply say that there's enough abuse, incest, rape, adultery, and deceit to fill two good-sized Wal-Marts. And therein, I think, lies the point of the film. The mysterious crimes committed are undeniably terrible, but are they worse than the events happening at the core of every home? Director Michael Haneke might be trying to say something about the tolerance of evil: when it's out in the open, it causes quite a stir. But when it's considered "a family matter," it's swept under the rug. Indeed, the perpetrators of the plot's central crimes could almost be considered the heroes of the story: they see the evil that no one else sees, and they dole out punishment as they see fit. It's a chilling idea: that someone is always watching, and will punish you in ways you can neither expect nor fully comprehend.
The below-the-line work is all fantastic: the sets are both sparse and evocative, and the editing is wound as tightly as a trip-wire. The cinematography deserves special mention: Christian Berger's black-and-white template is hauntingly beautiful.
The film's true success may be dependent on its fantastic ensemble, which takes the concept of community and runs with it for all it's worth. Without this sense of established social order, the film might have lost some of its power. The social order is there, however, as well as all the mistrust, secrets, and hidden agendas incumbent of any small community. The final shot, of a group of churchgoers, all unsure of who is attacking whom, and who will be attacked next, is enough to make the blood run cold. The White Ribbon isn't for all tastes, but those who are willing to try it will find something endlessly thought-provoking and all together worthwhile.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Review: The Fantastic Mr. Fox
The Fantastic Mr. Fox
****/****
This movie is, well...fantastic. Magical, even. Wes Anderson proves that, once again, animated films are no longer 'just for kids,' rather, a fascinating medium in which anything is possible. This is one of the year's most entertaining, clever, and heartfelt films.
The fantastic Mr. Fox is reformed. His days as a chicken thief ended with the birth of his son, and now he spends his time writing a weekly column that no one reads. Unable to deny his true nature, however, Mr. Fox plans one last grand heist (three heists, really, but who's counting?) to relive the glory days. What he didn't count on however, is the reactions of his victims, Boggis, Bunce, and Bean. The human world declares all-out war on Mr. Fox and his fellow animals, leading to a conflict both epic and sublimely ridiculous.
I love this movie. A lot. I love the way that it skips lightly over so many genres, both satirizing them and playing into them: in this film we can find evidence of the great caper movies a la Steve McQueen, a hint of the John Hughes teenager movie, a tiny bit of West Side Story, and, in my favorite flourish, a shootout on Main Street straight out of the best Spaghetti Westerns. In a lesser film, these switches could be detrimental to narrative and tonal continuity, but somehow, improbably, Wes Anderson makes every segment work in the context of the other.
Speaking of Wes Anderson: he wrote the script, and what a great script it is. Not only is it sharp as a tack and full of quirky humor, but it also contains wonderful moments of truth, and, dare I say, emotional honesty. I humbly submit this line for your consideration:
Mr. Fox: Who am I, Kylie?
Kylie: Who how? How what?
Mr. Fox: Why a fox? Why not a horse, or a beetle, or a bald eagle? I'm saying this more as, like, existentialism, you know? Who am I? And how can a fox be happy without, you'll forgive the expression, a chicken in its teeth?
Kylie: I don't know what you're talking about, but it sounds illegal.
What on earth is that doing in a kids' movie? The answer, of course, is that this isn't a kids' movie. It can be appreciated by anyone with enough film-going maturity to ignore the stereotypes associated with animation and simply evaluate it as a piece of work. Those who can do that won't be disappointed.
The film looks fantastic. I, for one, am absolutely astounded by any form of stop-motion animation, so when a feature-length stop-motion animation film comes along, I have all that I can do to keep from losing it. Admittedly, this year's other stop motion flick, Coraline, is more visually complicated, but The Fantastic Mr. Fox is still wonderful to look at. Worthy of particular notice are the impeccable costumes (all the animals are straight out of GQ-Rural Edition). Also highly enjoyable is Alexandre Duplat's gleeful score, which utilizes snapping, whistling, and 'small instruments' like banjos, chimes, and spoons. Yes. Spoons. It's a great mix of fun orchestration and simple, resonant musical themes.
The Fantastic Mr. Fox is endlessly enjoyable, well-paced, and one hell of a ride. On top of that, it's smart, witty, and emotionally resonant. This is one of the best movies of the year.
****/****
This movie is, well...fantastic. Magical, even. Wes Anderson proves that, once again, animated films are no longer 'just for kids,' rather, a fascinating medium in which anything is possible. This is one of the year's most entertaining, clever, and heartfelt films.
The fantastic Mr. Fox is reformed. His days as a chicken thief ended with the birth of his son, and now he spends his time writing a weekly column that no one reads. Unable to deny his true nature, however, Mr. Fox plans one last grand heist (three heists, really, but who's counting?) to relive the glory days. What he didn't count on however, is the reactions of his victims, Boggis, Bunce, and Bean. The human world declares all-out war on Mr. Fox and his fellow animals, leading to a conflict both epic and sublimely ridiculous.
I love this movie. A lot. I love the way that it skips lightly over so many genres, both satirizing them and playing into them: in this film we can find evidence of the great caper movies a la Steve McQueen, a hint of the John Hughes teenager movie, a tiny bit of West Side Story, and, in my favorite flourish, a shootout on Main Street straight out of the best Spaghetti Westerns. In a lesser film, these switches could be detrimental to narrative and tonal continuity, but somehow, improbably, Wes Anderson makes every segment work in the context of the other.
Speaking of Wes Anderson: he wrote the script, and what a great script it is. Not only is it sharp as a tack and full of quirky humor, but it also contains wonderful moments of truth, and, dare I say, emotional honesty. I humbly submit this line for your consideration:
Mr. Fox: Who am I, Kylie?
Kylie: Who how? How what?
Mr. Fox: Why a fox? Why not a horse, or a beetle, or a bald eagle? I'm saying this more as, like, existentialism, you know? Who am I? And how can a fox be happy without, you'll forgive the expression, a chicken in its teeth?
Kylie: I don't know what you're talking about, but it sounds illegal.
What on earth is that doing in a kids' movie? The answer, of course, is that this isn't a kids' movie. It can be appreciated by anyone with enough film-going maturity to ignore the stereotypes associated with animation and simply evaluate it as a piece of work. Those who can do that won't be disappointed.
The film looks fantastic. I, for one, am absolutely astounded by any form of stop-motion animation, so when a feature-length stop-motion animation film comes along, I have all that I can do to keep from losing it. Admittedly, this year's other stop motion flick, Coraline, is more visually complicated, but The Fantastic Mr. Fox is still wonderful to look at. Worthy of particular notice are the impeccable costumes (all the animals are straight out of GQ-Rural Edition). Also highly enjoyable is Alexandre Duplat's gleeful score, which utilizes snapping, whistling, and 'small instruments' like banjos, chimes, and spoons. Yes. Spoons. It's a great mix of fun orchestration and simple, resonant musical themes.
The Fantastic Mr. Fox is endlessly enjoyable, well-paced, and one hell of a ride. On top of that, it's smart, witty, and emotionally resonant. This is one of the best movies of the year.
Review: The Lovely Bones
The Lovely Bones
***/****
I'll just go ahead and say it: The Lovely Bones should have been better. It draws from wonderful, sincerely affecting source material, it features an incredibly talented cast, and boasts the work of a wonderful technical crew. So how did this film seem so...unfullfilling? Sadly, I have no choice but to lay most of the blame on Peter Jackson. Though, I suppose if one has the balls to write, direct, and produce a film, one must be prepared to shoulder the burden if the film fails. Because, really, who else is there to blame?
The Lovely Bones attempts to tackle life, death, and everything that comes after. Susie Salmon (Saoirse Ronan, of Atonement fame) seems destined for a bright future, until her hopes and dreams are swiftly and cruelly ended by neighborhood serial killer George Harvey (Stanley Tucci). The film follows her grieving family (featuring Rachel Weisz and Mark Wahlberg as mom and dad) and killer on Earth, as well as attempting to create an afterlife for Susie.
There is such great material here, but the film fails to take advantage of it from the first step onward. My first issue is the script. The book, written by Alice Sebold, is chock-full of complexities, unafraid to shy away from the harsh realities of death and grief, and unwilling to whitewash its protagonists. Now, let me get this straight: I'm not one of the people who thinks that Jackson should have shown the murder in graphic detail (for those of you who don't know, Jackson caught some crap for refusing to show the assault/murder of a fourteen year old girl on screen). The scene is horrific enough in the book; filming it truthfully would have been impossible. Instead, I applaud Jackson for his decency and faith in the audience. No, what bugs me is what else he doesn't show: as mentioned before, the book is full of complexities regarding what grief drives people to do, how children manage to cope when their parents aren't, sexuality and smallmindedness, and the sad reality that out-of-sight-out-of-mind applies to the dead, as well. Instead, the script attempts to turn the story into a whodunit crime story, laced with supernatural elements and, of all things, screwball comedy. Seriously. I'm not sure who thought of the idea, but this film is going to win every award in the "worst use of Susan Sarandon in a cleaning montage" category. The Lovely Bones is incredibly uneven, tonally speaking, and, as such, keeps the emotionally honest moments (of which there are many) from gaining too much traction.
The cast, in general, puts on a great show. Most notable is the fantastically talented young actress Saoirse Ronan. In Atonement, she found a breakthrough role that earned her an Oscar nomination at the age of fifteen. In The Lovely Bones, she proves that she isn't a one hit wonder. Instead, Ronan shows that her gifts have only deepened and improved considerably in the past two years. It's a fantastic performance, given what she has to work with. Rachel Weisz also works wonders with her underwritten and undervalued part. Her grieving mother is instantly believable and heartbreaking. Hell, even Susan Sarandon turns Grandma Lynn, who is written as a terrible caricature, into an almost three-dimensional person. Unfortunately, the men in the cast don't fare as well. Stanley Tucci has received multiple accolades for his performance, but I, for one, saw nothing incredibly special. Tucci is appropriately chilling, and more than a little creepy, but that's it. We've seen serial killer before. It's a good performance, but nothing groundbreaking. Likewise, Mark Wahlberg struggles with the largest adult character in the film. Sure, Marky Mark ain't bad, but he just doesn't have the dramatic chops to tackle this role yet.
As I said earlier, the technical crew is spectacular, and their efforts shine through well. I'm particularly fond of Andrew Lesnie's impressionistic cinematography, though the set design, makeup, and visual effects are all properly otherworldly as well. My only complaint on this front concerns the original score by U2 producer Brian Eno. Eno's score has some beautiful themes, and is full of wonderfully resonant music, but every now and again, he throws in some sort of ridiculous freestyle guitar that, while at home with U2, completely destroys any scene it occupies.
The Lovely Bones isn't a bad movie. Indeed, it has many great moments (the scenes in which Susie's parents are first informed that their daughter wasn't found, or the moment where Susie meets all the other girls Harvey killed are particularly affecting), but the film itself is undermined by an overly simplistic take on the story, and a surprisingly inept directorial turn. This film had the potential to be great, but it sure didn't capitalize on it.
Review: The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus
The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus
*1/2/****
As you may or may not have noticed by now, I have a thing for directors. If a film is made by a director I dislike, I have trouble praising the film, regardless of its strengths. If a film is made by a director I love, I tend to look more kindly at its various faults. I realize that the goal of a reviewer should always be objectivity, but, alas, on the subject of directors, objectivity is something I just can't achieve. How, you ask, does this pertain to The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus in any way?
Well, simply put, I'm not very fond of director Terry Gilliam. In films, I generally prefer substance over style, or at least some substance to balance the style, and readers, Gilliam is all style. Gilliam's films are, by nature, loud, frenetic, confusing, and caving in under their own ferocious weight. All of this could be fine, however, if Gilliam saw fit to write films with storytelling heft, or emotional honesty. Sadly, he doesn't, and, as such, his films amount to nothing more than large, somewhat pretty piles of nothing.
The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus tells the story of the titular M.D. (Christopher Plummer), an immortal conjurer whose multiple deals with the devil have left him in a pickle, a word which here means 'he's sold his daughter to the devil in exchange for magic and crap.' The magic in question? Why, Parnassus's Imaginarium, which allows him to enter the imagination of passers-by, forcing them to engage in a spiritual battle between the venerable Parnassus, and the Devil (Tom Waits), who is, for all intents and purposes in this film, a silent melodrama villain, complete with thin mustache and a sneer. His archaic lifestyle is thrown into chaos, however, when Tony (Heath Ledger) comes into the picture. A man with a dark past, but full of businessman-like ideas, Tony reboots the Imaginarium just in time for a final duel with the devil to save Parnassus's daughter.
All this makes some sense, I suppose, and could even be compelling in the right hands. This film is not compelling, however. Not by any stretch of the imagination. And my, does the imagination stretch in this film. The scenes set within the Imaginarium are visually striking and clever enough, but fail to take really take advantage of a location in which absolutely anything is possible, nor do the Imaginarium scenes ever add up to anything within the confines of the film's plot. The real-world scenes also contain moments of visual beauty. It's obvious that Gilliam is trying his best to create something mind-bending and altogether new here, but I can't help but think of other films this year (Avatar or The Lovely Bones) that create more interesting and plausible new worlds, or other films (like A Single Man, District 9, or Coraline) that find the mystical or unique in the real world far more capably than The Imaginarium does. In short? The film fails on its own terms.
It's a pity that this is Heath Ledger's last film. Ledger does his damnedest with the role, and he makes more out of it than it had to be, but it's just a shame that he didn't get one more great role. I think I'll just pretend The Dark Knight was the last film he did. Christopher Plummer, as well, does the most with what he's given, which, of course, isn't much. Particularly cloying is Verne Troyer, the little person of reality TV fame. I'd like to introduce a truism here which I would like film-makers to take to heart: the presence of a dwarf itself simply isn't funny. You can't just put a dwarf on screen and assume that the comedy will happen by itself. Take In Bruges for instance. Funny things happen that involve a dwarf. But you aren't laughing simply because there's a dwarf on screen. That's called a sideshow, and most people grow out of that. So please: if you really must include a dwarf in your screenplay, give the poor fellow something to do other than be short.
Overall, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus is a complete and utter failure, redeemed slightly by mildly interesting visuals and some not entirely terrible acting. Is this enough to warrant a viewing? Not in the slightest. The only draw I imagine that this film will have is the final performance of Heath Ledger. Reader, do yourself a favor: if you want to see Heath Ledger's last performance, go rent The Dark Knight. It will be time much better spent.
*1/2/****
As you may or may not have noticed by now, I have a thing for directors. If a film is made by a director I dislike, I have trouble praising the film, regardless of its strengths. If a film is made by a director I love, I tend to look more kindly at its various faults. I realize that the goal of a reviewer should always be objectivity, but, alas, on the subject of directors, objectivity is something I just can't achieve. How, you ask, does this pertain to The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus in any way?
Well, simply put, I'm not very fond of director Terry Gilliam. In films, I generally prefer substance over style, or at least some substance to balance the style, and readers, Gilliam is all style. Gilliam's films are, by nature, loud, frenetic, confusing, and caving in under their own ferocious weight. All of this could be fine, however, if Gilliam saw fit to write films with storytelling heft, or emotional honesty. Sadly, he doesn't, and, as such, his films amount to nothing more than large, somewhat pretty piles of nothing.
The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus tells the story of the titular M.D. (Christopher Plummer), an immortal conjurer whose multiple deals with the devil have left him in a pickle, a word which here means 'he's sold his daughter to the devil in exchange for magic and crap.' The magic in question? Why, Parnassus's Imaginarium, which allows him to enter the imagination of passers-by, forcing them to engage in a spiritual battle between the venerable Parnassus, and the Devil (Tom Waits), who is, for all intents and purposes in this film, a silent melodrama villain, complete with thin mustache and a sneer. His archaic lifestyle is thrown into chaos, however, when Tony (Heath Ledger) comes into the picture. A man with a dark past, but full of businessman-like ideas, Tony reboots the Imaginarium just in time for a final duel with the devil to save Parnassus's daughter.
All this makes some sense, I suppose, and could even be compelling in the right hands. This film is not compelling, however. Not by any stretch of the imagination. And my, does the imagination stretch in this film. The scenes set within the Imaginarium are visually striking and clever enough, but fail to take really take advantage of a location in which absolutely anything is possible, nor do the Imaginarium scenes ever add up to anything within the confines of the film's plot. The real-world scenes also contain moments of visual beauty. It's obvious that Gilliam is trying his best to create something mind-bending and altogether new here, but I can't help but think of other films this year (Avatar or The Lovely Bones) that create more interesting and plausible new worlds, or other films (like A Single Man, District 9, or Coraline) that find the mystical or unique in the real world far more capably than The Imaginarium does. In short? The film fails on its own terms.
It's a pity that this is Heath Ledger's last film. Ledger does his damnedest with the role, and he makes more out of it than it had to be, but it's just a shame that he didn't get one more great role. I think I'll just pretend The Dark Knight was the last film he did. Christopher Plummer, as well, does the most with what he's given, which, of course, isn't much. Particularly cloying is Verne Troyer, the little person of reality TV fame. I'd like to introduce a truism here which I would like film-makers to take to heart: the presence of a dwarf itself simply isn't funny. You can't just put a dwarf on screen and assume that the comedy will happen by itself. Take In Bruges for instance. Funny things happen that involve a dwarf. But you aren't laughing simply because there's a dwarf on screen. That's called a sideshow, and most people grow out of that. So please: if you really must include a dwarf in your screenplay, give the poor fellow something to do other than be short.
Overall, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus is a complete and utter failure, redeemed slightly by mildly interesting visuals and some not entirely terrible acting. Is this enough to warrant a viewing? Not in the slightest. The only draw I imagine that this film will have is the final performance of Heath Ledger. Reader, do yourself a favor: if you want to see Heath Ledger's last performance, go rent The Dark Knight. It will be time much better spent.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Review: A Single Man
A Single Man
****/****
My God. What a pretty, pretty movie. If nothing else, see this film for its style. Debut director Tom Ford comes to the world of film as a fashion designer, and it shows. This film is a gorgeous little wind-up toy of a film, whose striking images are made all the more resonant for its emotional depth and complexity. A Single Man is a scalpel: it cuts close and hard.
George Falconer (Colin Firth) is disintegrating. A closeted gay man in repressive 1962 L.A., his lover Jim (Matthew Goode) has died in a car-crash, but he must continue to live as per normal. Each morning, he wakes up and takes time to "become George," aka don the appearance of the kind of man that should be a professor in the early 60s. The film takes place over the course of one day, and this day, he adds one extra step to his routine: he puts a gun in his briefcase. Whether he intends to kill himself or someone else is not immediately evident. What is evident, however, is that George is drowning, no one can see it, and he is unable to draw any attention to himself to get help.
One cannot talk about this film without giving proper credit to the lead performance by Colin Firth. Firth's character is a fascinating study in facades of perfection to cover up inner turmoil. Firth's George Falconer is always immaculate, well-spoken, and bland: exactly what he needs to be to blend in. When we see him alone, however, we see him begin to disintegrate. Even with others, cracks begin to show: my personal favorite is the speech he gives to his class. He teaches Aldous Huxley, and one of his students asks if the author is an Anti-Semite. Firth's character goes on a tangent about fearing minorities, and how the scariest minorities are the ones who can pretend to be like everyone else. It's a great piece of acting and writing, (most notably the end, where Falconer lists a few of the real fears in the world), but also a great director's showpiece and a great scene in general. Notice how the camera picks out two students in the class. Watch how uncomfortable they become when their professor starts talking about hiding in plain sight.
I can't believe this is director Tom Ford's first film. A Single Man shows a remarkable mastery of the craft, demonstrating all the subtleties and nuances that are an enigma to lesser directors. First and foremost, A Single Man is a style piece. The film constantly experiments with different levels of color saturation, editing techniques, sound, and compositions. Yet, miraculously, it isn't to the detriment of the film. Somehow, the style serves to deepen the emotions portrayed onscreen. Notice how the color changes when something beautiful or honest enters George's life, and notice how the film finds evocations of his dead lover in everything around him (my favorite has to be how everyone's eyes change colors to match the color of his lover's).
I have yet to mention the production design, which is impeccably gorgeous, or the music, which is heart-breaking in its quiet longing and intensity. All this would be for naught, however, without the solid emotional anchor of Colin Firth. His performance, in conjunction with the stylistic musings of Tom Ford, allow this film to achieve greatness.
(I have to link to the trailer, just to give you some idea of the kind of film this is:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=aypyJtHzC70
I also highly recommend previewing the soundtrack on iTunes, which is just one of the best soundtracks you'll hear all year. My favorites: George's Waltz, Swimming, Snow, Stillness of the Mind, and Going Somewhere, though you really can't go wrong here.)
****/****
My God. What a pretty, pretty movie. If nothing else, see this film for its style. Debut director Tom Ford comes to the world of film as a fashion designer, and it shows. This film is a gorgeous little wind-up toy of a film, whose striking images are made all the more resonant for its emotional depth and complexity. A Single Man is a scalpel: it cuts close and hard.
George Falconer (Colin Firth) is disintegrating. A closeted gay man in repressive 1962 L.A., his lover Jim (Matthew Goode) has died in a car-crash, but he must continue to live as per normal. Each morning, he wakes up and takes time to "become George," aka don the appearance of the kind of man that should be a professor in the early 60s. The film takes place over the course of one day, and this day, he adds one extra step to his routine: he puts a gun in his briefcase. Whether he intends to kill himself or someone else is not immediately evident. What is evident, however, is that George is drowning, no one can see it, and he is unable to draw any attention to himself to get help.
One cannot talk about this film without giving proper credit to the lead performance by Colin Firth. Firth's character is a fascinating study in facades of perfection to cover up inner turmoil. Firth's George Falconer is always immaculate, well-spoken, and bland: exactly what he needs to be to blend in. When we see him alone, however, we see him begin to disintegrate. Even with others, cracks begin to show: my personal favorite is the speech he gives to his class. He teaches Aldous Huxley, and one of his students asks if the author is an Anti-Semite. Firth's character goes on a tangent about fearing minorities, and how the scariest minorities are the ones who can pretend to be like everyone else. It's a great piece of acting and writing, (most notably the end, where Falconer lists a few of the real fears in the world), but also a great director's showpiece and a great scene in general. Notice how the camera picks out two students in the class. Watch how uncomfortable they become when their professor starts talking about hiding in plain sight.
I can't believe this is director Tom Ford's first film. A Single Man shows a remarkable mastery of the craft, demonstrating all the subtleties and nuances that are an enigma to lesser directors. First and foremost, A Single Man is a style piece. The film constantly experiments with different levels of color saturation, editing techniques, sound, and compositions. Yet, miraculously, it isn't to the detriment of the film. Somehow, the style serves to deepen the emotions portrayed onscreen. Notice how the color changes when something beautiful or honest enters George's life, and notice how the film finds evocations of his dead lover in everything around him (my favorite has to be how everyone's eyes change colors to match the color of his lover's).
I have yet to mention the production design, which is impeccably gorgeous, or the music, which is heart-breaking in its quiet longing and intensity. All this would be for naught, however, without the solid emotional anchor of Colin Firth. His performance, in conjunction with the stylistic musings of Tom Ford, allow this film to achieve greatness.
(I have to link to the trailer, just to give you some idea of the kind of film this is:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=aypyJtHzC70
I also highly recommend previewing the soundtrack on iTunes, which is just one of the best soundtracks you'll hear all year. My favorites: George's Waltz, Swimming, Snow, Stillness of the Mind, and Going Somewhere, though you really can't go wrong here.)
Review: Brothers
Brothers
*/****
There are moments in Brothers that hint at a good film that could have been made from this material. Those moments are lost, however, like piglets in a meat-packing plant: quickly, brutally, so horrifically that any positive memories are burned away by the slaughter you witnessed. Brothers is terrible. No, not just terrible: offensive. Offensive that it thought it could take on the material it attempts, and offensive that it all but reams the material with its startlingly inane delivery.
Brothers, directed by Jim Sheridan, is based on a 2004 Danish film of the same name. It follows Sam Cahill (Tobey Maguire), a marine who goes missing in Afghanistan and is presumed dead. The film jumps between his experience as a POW with the experience of his wife (Natalie Portman), children, and brother (Jake Gyllenhaal), who must fix the whole that his (supposed) death has created.
Portman and Gyllenhaal do as much as they can. My God, do they try. And you know, for a few minutes, they almost succeed. Some of the scenes involving Sam's wife and brother are tender, emotionally honest, and (almost) dramatically fulfilling. Then Jim Sheridan, a usually competent director, destroys any attempts at legitimacy with his ridiculous sense of juxtaposition. The quiet domestic scenes are harshly cut with the Afghanistan scenes, which are poorly made, gratuitously bloodthirsty, and melodramatic. Sheridan doesn't even have the good sense to let individual scenes play out before switching locales: this film contains a scene in which two young children are making pancakes. We see them making pancakes, then talking to Gyllenhaal's character. Quick cut to Tobey Maguire's friend having hot irons pressed into his skin. Back to the pancakes. The children show them to mommy. Cut back to Afghanistan. Questions are asked during torture. Cut back to the kitchen. Mommy seems pleased. Perhaps I'm not looking into this enough, but I see absolutely no narrative or stylistic advantage to editing these scenes together. Perhaps Jim Sheridan is trying to show that children cooking is similar to torture. Perhaps pancakes and branding irons are both tools of horror. We'll never know. Assuming, however, that his goal wasn't to liken pancake batter to sizzling flesh, all the film achieves is losing the narrative and dramatic thread of both scenes. Neither scene works, because the other scene continues to interrupt it. And it doesn't help that the Afghanistan scenes are so bad.
Which leads us to Tobey Maguire. Maybe this is a personal shortcoming of mine, but I just can't take Tobey Maguire seriously as an actor, and frankly, this film doesn't exactly help change my mind. Maguire puts on his serious face lots, and there are many close-ups of angry stares, jutting jaws, and half-grins, and we even get some shrieking and keening, but it's all a whole lot of nothing. Maguire's performance is like a bad melodrama: if people aren't booing and hissing in your theater, they certainly should be.
Brothers' greatest sin, however, is arrogance. It takes very heavy, dark material (war widows, torture, POWs, grief, growing up with one parent, etc.), and takes a gigantic dump on them. I'm not saying one must approach these things with complete reverence and awe, but for the love of Cthulu, don't make them ridiculous. Brothers is so over the top that it destroys any chance it has of saying something intelligent, or hell, of even looking intelligent. Instead, what it does is cheapen the experiences of the people who have to go through the hell of being a POW, or losing a loved one in a war, by reducing all of it to exploitative schlock. And I just can't forgive the film for that. Maybe I'm being too hard on the film's positive aspects, but the fact of the matter is it raises its yo-yo finger to real pain and goes for banal melodrama.
*/****
There are moments in Brothers that hint at a good film that could have been made from this material. Those moments are lost, however, like piglets in a meat-packing plant: quickly, brutally, so horrifically that any positive memories are burned away by the slaughter you witnessed. Brothers is terrible. No, not just terrible: offensive. Offensive that it thought it could take on the material it attempts, and offensive that it all but reams the material with its startlingly inane delivery.
Brothers, directed by Jim Sheridan, is based on a 2004 Danish film of the same name. It follows Sam Cahill (Tobey Maguire), a marine who goes missing in Afghanistan and is presumed dead. The film jumps between his experience as a POW with the experience of his wife (Natalie Portman), children, and brother (Jake Gyllenhaal), who must fix the whole that his (supposed) death has created.
Portman and Gyllenhaal do as much as they can. My God, do they try. And you know, for a few minutes, they almost succeed. Some of the scenes involving Sam's wife and brother are tender, emotionally honest, and (almost) dramatically fulfilling. Then Jim Sheridan, a usually competent director, destroys any attempts at legitimacy with his ridiculous sense of juxtaposition. The quiet domestic scenes are harshly cut with the Afghanistan scenes, which are poorly made, gratuitously bloodthirsty, and melodramatic. Sheridan doesn't even have the good sense to let individual scenes play out before switching locales: this film contains a scene in which two young children are making pancakes. We see them making pancakes, then talking to Gyllenhaal's character. Quick cut to Tobey Maguire's friend having hot irons pressed into his skin. Back to the pancakes. The children show them to mommy. Cut back to Afghanistan. Questions are asked during torture. Cut back to the kitchen. Mommy seems pleased. Perhaps I'm not looking into this enough, but I see absolutely no narrative or stylistic advantage to editing these scenes together. Perhaps Jim Sheridan is trying to show that children cooking is similar to torture. Perhaps pancakes and branding irons are both tools of horror. We'll never know. Assuming, however, that his goal wasn't to liken pancake batter to sizzling flesh, all the film achieves is losing the narrative and dramatic thread of both scenes. Neither scene works, because the other scene continues to interrupt it. And it doesn't help that the Afghanistan scenes are so bad.
Which leads us to Tobey Maguire. Maybe this is a personal shortcoming of mine, but I just can't take Tobey Maguire seriously as an actor, and frankly, this film doesn't exactly help change my mind. Maguire puts on his serious face lots, and there are many close-ups of angry stares, jutting jaws, and half-grins, and we even get some shrieking and keening, but it's all a whole lot of nothing. Maguire's performance is like a bad melodrama: if people aren't booing and hissing in your theater, they certainly should be.
Brothers' greatest sin, however, is arrogance. It takes very heavy, dark material (war widows, torture, POWs, grief, growing up with one parent, etc.), and takes a gigantic dump on them. I'm not saying one must approach these things with complete reverence and awe, but for the love of Cthulu, don't make them ridiculous. Brothers is so over the top that it destroys any chance it has of saying something intelligent, or hell, of even looking intelligent. Instead, what it does is cheapen the experiences of the people who have to go through the hell of being a POW, or losing a loved one in a war, by reducing all of it to exploitative schlock. And I just can't forgive the film for that. Maybe I'm being too hard on the film's positive aspects, but the fact of the matter is it raises its yo-yo finger to real pain and goes for banal melodrama.
Review: The Young Victoria
The Young Victoria
**1/2/****
The Young Victoria probably just isn't my cup of tea. There's nothing really to hate here, and even a few things to like, but, alas, I find it impossible to work myself up about this piece. It's rather nice, but completely pointless.
The Young Victoria chronicles the early life of Queen Victoria (Emily Blunt), the second to last of the English Hanoverian line. The film details her early struggles with an attempted forced regency, aka giving up the throne for purposes of age, health, and experience, and later, her romance with potential suitor Albert (Rupert Friend). Together they experience many fan-waving, tea-swilling, and throne-sitting shenanigans. Which is all very well and good, but here is the signature problem for me, I suppose: I am not an Anglophile. I believe history can be incredibly interesting, or incredibly dull, depending on the treatment thereof. I simply don't have any vested interest in young Victoria going into the film, and director Jean-Marc Vallee doesn't see fit to provide me with any interest either. His touch is reverent, serious, and staid, except for a few moments in which he, for reasons unknown, decides to lift stylistic tips from music video directors. So, The Young Victoria, tonally speaking, alternates between the Victorian Recreation Skit club and Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance." While this sounds fun enough on paper, in practice it's very, very difficult to compellingly realize. Sophia Coppola chose to follow a similar pseudo-hipster music video track with Marie Antoinette. Coppola, however, had the guts to aim for straight-out anachronism, whereas Vallee's Victoria spends too much time attempting to please historical purists. What results is a strikingly uneven film.
Admittedly, Vallee doesn't get much help from the screenplay. Writer, Julian Fellowes, whose Gosford Park is one of the best screenplay in recent memory, seems at a loss for any sense of depth or interest here. Instead, he force-feeds the audience with characters explaining to the nth degree things that everyone around them already knows, whilst liberally spicing the film with nauseatingly ham-fisted symbolism ('why, they're...They're...Playing Chess!'). The Young Victoria desperately needed a script doctor, though one suspects that any visit to the doctor would result in the cinematic equivalent of euthanasia.
Films of this period can normally boast lavish technical details. Not so for The Young Victoria. The production and costume design is nice enough, I suppose, but hardly feels inspired. There's no evidence of the wicked creative flair that graced the costumes of last year's Victoria equivalent, The Duchess, nor do the sets ever feel more than hallowed locations, or, heaven forbid, community theater backdrops. The film's overall look is also rather pedestrian. And we have yet to mention the music, which is, lightly put, overbearing ('is the audience not crying yet? Turn up the STRINGS! Make them play LOUD! The STRINGS are LOUD because THIS IS SAD.').
And yet, the film doesn't fall flat on its face due to wonderful turns from the two principles, Rupert Friend and, most notably, Emily Blunt. Jim Broadbent also turns in a fantastic performance in a role that is little more than an extended cameo. Blunt and Broadbent are wonderfully talented actors, and deserve all credit for their proficiency, as I doubt the director gave them much to work with.
So there you have it. Not great. Rather disposable. Disappears immediately after viewing. There's no real reason to seek this one out, but, if you must, I suppose you won't hate it.
**1/2/****
The Young Victoria probably just isn't my cup of tea. There's nothing really to hate here, and even a few things to like, but, alas, I find it impossible to work myself up about this piece. It's rather nice, but completely pointless.
The Young Victoria chronicles the early life of Queen Victoria (Emily Blunt), the second to last of the English Hanoverian line. The film details her early struggles with an attempted forced regency, aka giving up the throne for purposes of age, health, and experience, and later, her romance with potential suitor Albert (Rupert Friend). Together they experience many fan-waving, tea-swilling, and throne-sitting shenanigans. Which is all very well and good, but here is the signature problem for me, I suppose: I am not an Anglophile. I believe history can be incredibly interesting, or incredibly dull, depending on the treatment thereof. I simply don't have any vested interest in young Victoria going into the film, and director Jean-Marc Vallee doesn't see fit to provide me with any interest either. His touch is reverent, serious, and staid, except for a few moments in which he, for reasons unknown, decides to lift stylistic tips from music video directors. So, The Young Victoria, tonally speaking, alternates between the Victorian Recreation Skit club and Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance." While this sounds fun enough on paper, in practice it's very, very difficult to compellingly realize. Sophia Coppola chose to follow a similar pseudo-hipster music video track with Marie Antoinette. Coppola, however, had the guts to aim for straight-out anachronism, whereas Vallee's Victoria spends too much time attempting to please historical purists. What results is a strikingly uneven film.
Admittedly, Vallee doesn't get much help from the screenplay. Writer, Julian Fellowes, whose Gosford Park is one of the best screenplay in recent memory, seems at a loss for any sense of depth or interest here. Instead, he force-feeds the audience with characters explaining to the nth degree things that everyone around them already knows, whilst liberally spicing the film with nauseatingly ham-fisted symbolism ('why, they're...They're...Playing Chess!'). The Young Victoria desperately needed a script doctor, though one suspects that any visit to the doctor would result in the cinematic equivalent of euthanasia.
Films of this period can normally boast lavish technical details. Not so for The Young Victoria. The production and costume design is nice enough, I suppose, but hardly feels inspired. There's no evidence of the wicked creative flair that graced the costumes of last year's Victoria equivalent, The Duchess, nor do the sets ever feel more than hallowed locations, or, heaven forbid, community theater backdrops. The film's overall look is also rather pedestrian. And we have yet to mention the music, which is, lightly put, overbearing ('is the audience not crying yet? Turn up the STRINGS! Make them play LOUD! The STRINGS are LOUD because THIS IS SAD.').
And yet, the film doesn't fall flat on its face due to wonderful turns from the two principles, Rupert Friend and, most notably, Emily Blunt. Jim Broadbent also turns in a fantastic performance in a role that is little more than an extended cameo. Blunt and Broadbent are wonderfully talented actors, and deserve all credit for their proficiency, as I doubt the director gave them much to work with.
So there you have it. Not great. Rather disposable. Disappears immediately after viewing. There's no real reason to seek this one out, but, if you must, I suppose you won't hate it.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Review: Invictus
Invictus
**1/2/****
I was actually pleasantly surprised by Invictus. Pleasantly surprised in that it rarely made me think about killing myself, when I was expecting to use the cyanide pills I had brought along within the first half hour. This isn't a good film, but it's not painful.
Invictus chronicles the early years of Nelson Mandela's presidency. The economy is in the tubes, jobs are scarce, and ethnic tensions are at an all-time high. What better way to unite the country than by playing rugby? More specifically, spurring The Springboks, South Africa's rugby team, to win the 1995 World Cup. It would be laughably unbelievable if it weren't a true story. As fate would have it, it is a true story, and as such, I can't complain about how false the film feels. Miracles do happen, I suppose, and God knows that Clint Eastwood's going to be the first one on scene to bastardize them into feel-good cinema, assuming that Chris Columbus doesn't get there first, of course. (...Mind you, that's the director Chris Columbus, not the explorer.)
And bastardize he does. I feel like the political calculations shown onscreen were far more shrewd and planned than conveyed, as well as messier to execute. In Invictus, everything feels like it's been gift-wrapped for the camera. Inspirational montage is followed by stirring speech is followed by inspirational montage is followed by Big Important Symbolic Imagery. Such is par for the course, as far as Eastwood's newest films are concerned. The man isn't concerned with subtlety. Dammit, there is ROAD separating the WHITE people from the BLACK people, until MANDELA UNITES THEM, people. Eastwood will show this in the most literal terms possible.
Morgan Freeman seems born to play Nelson Mandela. Going into the film, I assumed that, at the least, I would see another fine Freeman performance. Strangely, I was mistaken. Freeman seems to have the mannerisms and physicality of the man down pat, but fails to delve any farther than skin-deep. What's on display is impersonation, not performance. Freeman looks and talks like Mandela, but he doesn't think like Mandela. He doesn't become Mandela. The same can be said for Matt Damon's fairly listless performance. How these two men have been nominated for SAG (Screen Actors Guild) Awards, and, in all probability, Oscars, is completely beyond me. The smaller supporting performances are, as expected, fairly awful. Eastwood doesn't take the time to instruct his actors, and it shows. The line readings by anyone whose last name doesn't rhyme with Speedman or Cayman are almost painful in their High School Drama Club feel. The original music by Clint Eastwood's brother Kyle is particularly galling and derivative. I swear, if I never hear another simple trumpet melody in another film, it will be too soon. And I have yet to even mention the film's worst mistake: it never tries to explain the game of rugby, assuming that all viewers can claim familiarity with the game. Thus, the sports scenes are well-shot and edited, but make no sense. One can only stare at so many close-ups of Matt Damon grappling with a veritable pigpen of sweaty asses before zoning out.
And yet, the film isn't terrible. There are a number of inspirational moments and pieces of heartfelt drama. Still, for every good moment, there are another two or three poor moments that have could easily have been lost; seriously, at two hours and fifteen minutes, this film is far too long.
So how on Earth did this film earn its two and a half stars? You know, I'm not entirely sure. It's easy to focus on the negative in a review, but while in the theater, the film isn't terrible. Not great, but not terrible.
**1/2/****
I was actually pleasantly surprised by Invictus. Pleasantly surprised in that it rarely made me think about killing myself, when I was expecting to use the cyanide pills I had brought along within the first half hour. This isn't a good film, but it's not painful.
Invictus chronicles the early years of Nelson Mandela's presidency. The economy is in the tubes, jobs are scarce, and ethnic tensions are at an all-time high. What better way to unite the country than by playing rugby? More specifically, spurring The Springboks, South Africa's rugby team, to win the 1995 World Cup. It would be laughably unbelievable if it weren't a true story. As fate would have it, it is a true story, and as such, I can't complain about how false the film feels. Miracles do happen, I suppose, and God knows that Clint Eastwood's going to be the first one on scene to bastardize them into feel-good cinema, assuming that Chris Columbus doesn't get there first, of course. (...Mind you, that's the director Chris Columbus, not the explorer.)
And bastardize he does. I feel like the political calculations shown onscreen were far more shrewd and planned than conveyed, as well as messier to execute. In Invictus, everything feels like it's been gift-wrapped for the camera. Inspirational montage is followed by stirring speech is followed by inspirational montage is followed by Big Important Symbolic Imagery. Such is par for the course, as far as Eastwood's newest films are concerned. The man isn't concerned with subtlety. Dammit, there is ROAD separating the WHITE people from the BLACK people, until MANDELA UNITES THEM, people. Eastwood will show this in the most literal terms possible.
Morgan Freeman seems born to play Nelson Mandela. Going into the film, I assumed that, at the least, I would see another fine Freeman performance. Strangely, I was mistaken. Freeman seems to have the mannerisms and physicality of the man down pat, but fails to delve any farther than skin-deep. What's on display is impersonation, not performance. Freeman looks and talks like Mandela, but he doesn't think like Mandela. He doesn't become Mandela. The same can be said for Matt Damon's fairly listless performance. How these two men have been nominated for SAG (Screen Actors Guild) Awards, and, in all probability, Oscars, is completely beyond me. The smaller supporting performances are, as expected, fairly awful. Eastwood doesn't take the time to instruct his actors, and it shows. The line readings by anyone whose last name doesn't rhyme with Speedman or Cayman are almost painful in their High School Drama Club feel. The original music by Clint Eastwood's brother Kyle is particularly galling and derivative. I swear, if I never hear another simple trumpet melody in another film, it will be too soon. And I have yet to even mention the film's worst mistake: it never tries to explain the game of rugby, assuming that all viewers can claim familiarity with the game. Thus, the sports scenes are well-shot and edited, but make no sense. One can only stare at so many close-ups of Matt Damon grappling with a veritable pigpen of sweaty asses before zoning out.
And yet, the film isn't terrible. There are a number of inspirational moments and pieces of heartfelt drama. Still, for every good moment, there are another two or three poor moments that have could easily have been lost; seriously, at two hours and fifteen minutes, this film is far too long.
So how on Earth did this film earn its two and a half stars? You know, I'm not entirely sure. It's easy to focus on the negative in a review, but while in the theater, the film isn't terrible. Not great, but not terrible.
Review: Nine
Nine
*1/2/****
I think Nine is fascinating for exactly one reason. The film itself follows the exploits of Guido Contini (Daniel Day-Lewis), a film-maker who has ten days before he starts filming, yet has yet to write a script, or even a plot. During the ten days, he seeks advice from the women in his life, including his dead mother (Sophia Loren), his leading lady and muse (Nicole Kidman), his wife (Marion Cotillard), the whore of his childhood home (Fergie, of the Black Eyed Peas. Really.), an American journalist (Kate Hudson), his mistress (Penelope Cruz), and his costume designer and confidante (Judi Dench). He doesn't quite many answers, but he sure finds a lot of vaginas. What's interesting about Nine is that is sets out to dramatize a director without vision or purpose, to convey his listlessness through images. Nine fails in doing that intentionally, but is a wonderful piece of film because it is a film by a director without vision or purpose. It doesn't dramatize its subject so much as exemplify it.
This film is just a mess. No other word for it. Director Rob Marshall obviously had no idea what he was trying to accomplish, so he just added more colors, more quick edits, and more musical numbers (two extra were written for the film), hoping that if he pushed more ingredients into the creative blender, there would be a better chance of something working well. Tragically, the exact opposite happened: nothing in the film works because so much is trying to work at the same time. The musical numbers are lifeless to begin with, but any chance of entertainment is stripped away by frenetic pacing. The cinematography can be gorgeous, but is mostly undermined by frantic editing and no proper sense of rhythm. The performances elevate themselves every now and again, but mostly stagnate in a soup of unfocused ambitions.
Speaking of which: The performances. I've never seen so many talented actors squandering their gifts in one place. Let's take a look at some statistics: Out of the major roles (Day-Lewis, Loren, Kidman, Cotillard, Hudson, Cruz, and Dench), only one actor (Hudson) hasn't won at least one Oscar. And hell, Hudson very nearly did. For those counting at home, these six people have six acting Oscars between them. So how on Earth did so many of the performances go wrong? Daniel Day-Lewis, normally one of the best working actors, suffers from terrible miscasting. He can't sing, and doesn't fit the part of Guido at all. He doesn't even seem to try to make it work: he stumbles along, slurring his words and looking at the floor, as if fully cognizant of his performance's inadequacy. The same can be said for Kidman, who fails to exude the charisma required of her in any of her scenes. Sophia Loren is sweet enough, but skin deep. Poor Kate Hudson gets very little to do, and doesn't even manage to do the little that she's afforded. Only Cruz, Cotillard, and Dench emerge unscathed. Cruz is wonderful; by turns sexy, vulnerable, and pitiful. Cotillard has a larger dramatic arc, and plays it well, always allowing herself audience empathy without pity. The acting laurels, however, must be taken by Judi Dench, whose costume Designer Lilli is a wickedly gleeful invention.
Perhaps some of the problems stem from the material itself. Admittedly, Nine has little in the way of plot, and as such, must propel itself through sheer energy and forward motion alone. Rob Marshall (who previously directed Chicago and Memoirs of a Geisha) just isn't a skilled-enough artisan to make the film work in the way it needs to. It's as if he realized his lack of substantial material, and, instead of trying to fix it, just threw a bunch of colors together and crossed his fingers.
Overall, Nine is messy, drab despite its hectic color schemes, and a complete disappointment. Moments of competent acting can't save this film from its fate. If you have to see this one, rent it: it's not worth the theater admission fee.
*1/2/****
I think Nine is fascinating for exactly one reason. The film itself follows the exploits of Guido Contini (Daniel Day-Lewis), a film-maker who has ten days before he starts filming, yet has yet to write a script, or even a plot. During the ten days, he seeks advice from the women in his life, including his dead mother (Sophia Loren), his leading lady and muse (Nicole Kidman), his wife (Marion Cotillard), the whore of his childhood home (Fergie, of the Black Eyed Peas. Really.), an American journalist (Kate Hudson), his mistress (Penelope Cruz), and his costume designer and confidante (Judi Dench). He doesn't quite many answers, but he sure finds a lot of vaginas. What's interesting about Nine is that is sets out to dramatize a director without vision or purpose, to convey his listlessness through images. Nine fails in doing that intentionally, but is a wonderful piece of film because it is a film by a director without vision or purpose. It doesn't dramatize its subject so much as exemplify it.
This film is just a mess. No other word for it. Director Rob Marshall obviously had no idea what he was trying to accomplish, so he just added more colors, more quick edits, and more musical numbers (two extra were written for the film), hoping that if he pushed more ingredients into the creative blender, there would be a better chance of something working well. Tragically, the exact opposite happened: nothing in the film works because so much is trying to work at the same time. The musical numbers are lifeless to begin with, but any chance of entertainment is stripped away by frenetic pacing. The cinematography can be gorgeous, but is mostly undermined by frantic editing and no proper sense of rhythm. The performances elevate themselves every now and again, but mostly stagnate in a soup of unfocused ambitions.
Speaking of which: The performances. I've never seen so many talented actors squandering their gifts in one place. Let's take a look at some statistics: Out of the major roles (Day-Lewis, Loren, Kidman, Cotillard, Hudson, Cruz, and Dench), only one actor (Hudson) hasn't won at least one Oscar. And hell, Hudson very nearly did. For those counting at home, these six people have six acting Oscars between them. So how on Earth did so many of the performances go wrong? Daniel Day-Lewis, normally one of the best working actors, suffers from terrible miscasting. He can't sing, and doesn't fit the part of Guido at all. He doesn't even seem to try to make it work: he stumbles along, slurring his words and looking at the floor, as if fully cognizant of his performance's inadequacy. The same can be said for Kidman, who fails to exude the charisma required of her in any of her scenes. Sophia Loren is sweet enough, but skin deep. Poor Kate Hudson gets very little to do, and doesn't even manage to do the little that she's afforded. Only Cruz, Cotillard, and Dench emerge unscathed. Cruz is wonderful; by turns sexy, vulnerable, and pitiful. Cotillard has a larger dramatic arc, and plays it well, always allowing herself audience empathy without pity. The acting laurels, however, must be taken by Judi Dench, whose costume Designer Lilli is a wickedly gleeful invention.
Perhaps some of the problems stem from the material itself. Admittedly, Nine has little in the way of plot, and as such, must propel itself through sheer energy and forward motion alone. Rob Marshall (who previously directed Chicago and Memoirs of a Geisha) just isn't a skilled-enough artisan to make the film work in the way it needs to. It's as if he realized his lack of substantial material, and, instead of trying to fix it, just threw a bunch of colors together and crossed his fingers.
Overall, Nine is messy, drab despite its hectic color schemes, and a complete disappointment. Moments of competent acting can't save this film from its fate. If you have to see this one, rent it: it's not worth the theater admission fee.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Review: It's Complicated
It's Complicated
**1/2/****
It's Complicated isn't complicated, by any stretch of the imagination. It's a familiar romp through uninspired territory, elevated by the paragon of cinematic perfection that is Meryl Streep.
It's Complicated revolves around Jane (Meryl Streep), a mother of three who has just sent her last child off to college. Facing a very large empty nest, Jane stagnates in her new-found freedom. On a whim (and by whim, we here mean "lots and lots of alcohol"), she finds herself hooking up with her now married ex-husband Jake (Alec Baldwin). She begins to have an affair with her old husband, which is made more complicated by her smitten architect (Steven Martin), and the confused paternal feelings of her brood of Aryan spawn.
Writer/director Nancy Meyers isn't exactly renowned for reinventing the wheel. Her previous films include The Holiday, Something's Gotta Give, What Women Want and the 1998 remake of The Parent Trap. Not exactly groundbreaking material. Still, she's a great success for the demographic to which she pitches: older, boozy women fresh off of menopause that like to think that romantic shenaniganry still occurs with regularity while on the darker side of fifty. And kudos to them, I suppose. If Nancy Meyers is what makes the baby-boomers happy, then I'm glad they've found someone who's willing to cater to their needs.
Alas, I am not an older, boozy woman, and, as such, have trouble enjoying Nancy Meyers. I'm willing to accept the cliches inherent in the romantic comedy genre, and, indeed, the end of this film feels bracingly realistic. Still, there are moments of scriptwriting sloppiness and general embarrassment that I can't ignore. I don't feel like divulging too many details here, but I do have a direct message for Nancy Meyers: Do not, I repeat DO NOT make Meryl F-ing Streep talk about how much semen she likes in your stupid, stupid little movie. She is MERYL STREEP. She owns Hollywood. Which is to say that she owns you. She does not need to bother herself with forays into jokes about jizz. So please, for the love of God, if by some miracle she decides to do one of your films, CLASS IT UP A BIT. Try not to aim for the gutter.
Which brings us to Meryl. Awww, Meryl. No matter what she's in, she's always brilliant. Streep is the shining beacon of light that keeps It's Complicated from being American Pie for older women. Everything she touches she turns to gold.
Can Streep save the film completely? Not by a long shot. But she makes it watchable, which is awfully nice. It's Complicated is enjoyable enough, amusing at times, and mostly painless, with another memorable turn by Meryl Streep, but it evaporates the second you leave the theater.
**1/2/****
It's Complicated isn't complicated, by any stretch of the imagination. It's a familiar romp through uninspired territory, elevated by the paragon of cinematic perfection that is Meryl Streep.
It's Complicated revolves around Jane (Meryl Streep), a mother of three who has just sent her last child off to college. Facing a very large empty nest, Jane stagnates in her new-found freedom. On a whim (and by whim, we here mean "lots and lots of alcohol"), she finds herself hooking up with her now married ex-husband Jake (Alec Baldwin). She begins to have an affair with her old husband, which is made more complicated by her smitten architect (Steven Martin), and the confused paternal feelings of her brood of Aryan spawn.
Writer/director Nancy Meyers isn't exactly renowned for reinventing the wheel. Her previous films include The Holiday, Something's Gotta Give, What Women Want and the 1998 remake of The Parent Trap. Not exactly groundbreaking material. Still, she's a great success for the demographic to which she pitches: older, boozy women fresh off of menopause that like to think that romantic shenaniganry still occurs with regularity while on the darker side of fifty. And kudos to them, I suppose. If Nancy Meyers is what makes the baby-boomers happy, then I'm glad they've found someone who's willing to cater to their needs.
Alas, I am not an older, boozy woman, and, as such, have trouble enjoying Nancy Meyers. I'm willing to accept the cliches inherent in the romantic comedy genre, and, indeed, the end of this film feels bracingly realistic. Still, there are moments of scriptwriting sloppiness and general embarrassment that I can't ignore. I don't feel like divulging too many details here, but I do have a direct message for Nancy Meyers: Do not, I repeat DO NOT make Meryl F-ing Streep talk about how much semen she likes in your stupid, stupid little movie. She is MERYL STREEP. She owns Hollywood. Which is to say that she owns you. She does not need to bother herself with forays into jokes about jizz. So please, for the love of God, if by some miracle she decides to do one of your films, CLASS IT UP A BIT. Try not to aim for the gutter.
Which brings us to Meryl. Awww, Meryl. No matter what she's in, she's always brilliant. Streep is the shining beacon of light that keeps It's Complicated from being American Pie for older women. Everything she touches she turns to gold.
Can Streep save the film completely? Not by a long shot. But she makes it watchable, which is awfully nice. It's Complicated is enjoyable enough, amusing at times, and mostly painless, with another memorable turn by Meryl Streep, but it evaporates the second you leave the theater.
Review: Sherlock Holmes
Sherlock Holmes
**/****
Y'know, I completely intended to start this tactfully. I would mildly extol Sherlock Holmes' virtues before citing its problems, and then finish with some succinct, not-quite enthusiastic final note. Well, the hell with that.
I can't love this movie. It's enjoyable, it has funny moments, but there's one very, very large problem that I need to address.
I hate director Guy Ritchie. No, I hate director Guy Ritchie. To me, he exemplifies all the worst possible things that could have been learned from the Quentin Tarantino style of film-making. Ritchie's films are full of sound and fury, but they sure don't mean anything. Ritchie is a whirling dervish of cinema: he thrashes around like a child in a temper tantrum, throwing explosions, colors, actions scenes, fast edits, and pithy one-liners at the screen in a perfect maelstrom of creative inanity, hoping that some form of entertainment will distill itself out of the mess he has created. And you know, he's not entirely unsuccessful on that front. He makes movies that entertaining enough. And I get it: I completely understand that anyone who goes to a Guy Ritchie movie looking for any form of substance deserves what they find. Still: it's just not enough to make things explode and throw in some fight scenes and repeat the phrase "ginger midget" enough times to make me want to eat my tongue. Film is one of the most powerful art mediums in the modern world, and it's borderline offensive that someone as clearly sophomoric as Mr. Ritchie has not only a career, but a veritable bevy of devoted followers who will go to the grave swearing that the man is a master.
Perhaps I should tone it down a bit. Right now, I'm assuming you think that I absolutely hated this movie. Not true. As stated before, I was completely entertained throughout, and the film isn't without its selling points. Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law are both wonderfully talented, charismatic actors, and both do as much with the material as humanly possible, creating characters that are both funny and (somewhat) plausible, though the level of bromance threatens to become more than angsty gazing. Seriously, if I were the future Mrs. Watson, I would be more than a little concerned about some of the goings-on at 221B Baker Street. The film itself looks rather lovely; I mean this in respect to the art direction and costumes, not as much to the cinematography, which is passable, but rather pedestrian. The music by Hans Zimmer is endlessly inventive and wicked--I haven't heard music this gleefully malevolent for quite some time.
Alas, the film also has its share of problems. Rachel McAdams is woefully miscast as the love interest. McAdams can be wonderful in the right circumstances. Such is not the case here, and her robotic line-reading may very well earn her a Razzie nomination before too long. The film itself is overstays its welcome; several scenes could have been cut with little to no effect on the plot, and trim the film's fat in several places (I honestly can't find a good defense of the underground boxing club sequences, and would love for someone to tell me why they were needed. I, for one, had to suppress more than a few giggles here).
And yet the film works, I suppose, on its own ridiculous terms. I realize that this has been a nutty review. I start ranting about how Guy Ritchie is the cinematic equivalent of the Antichrist, then I praise the film for its acting and humor, then I criticize it again, and then tell you the film works. I really don't know how to distill my opinions on this movie into some clear, easy-to-interpret sentence, so I'll give you this: if you're looking for an entertaining, forgettable experience, full steam ahead. If you're looking for a good movie, steer clear.
**/****
Y'know, I completely intended to start this tactfully. I would mildly extol Sherlock Holmes' virtues before citing its problems, and then finish with some succinct, not-quite enthusiastic final note. Well, the hell with that.
I can't love this movie. It's enjoyable, it has funny moments, but there's one very, very large problem that I need to address.
I hate director Guy Ritchie. No, I hate director Guy Ritchie. To me, he exemplifies all the worst possible things that could have been learned from the Quentin Tarantino style of film-making. Ritchie's films are full of sound and fury, but they sure don't mean anything. Ritchie is a whirling dervish of cinema: he thrashes around like a child in a temper tantrum, throwing explosions, colors, actions scenes, fast edits, and pithy one-liners at the screen in a perfect maelstrom of creative inanity, hoping that some form of entertainment will distill itself out of the mess he has created. And you know, he's not entirely unsuccessful on that front. He makes movies that entertaining enough. And I get it: I completely understand that anyone who goes to a Guy Ritchie movie looking for any form of substance deserves what they find. Still: it's just not enough to make things explode and throw in some fight scenes and repeat the phrase "ginger midget" enough times to make me want to eat my tongue. Film is one of the most powerful art mediums in the modern world, and it's borderline offensive that someone as clearly sophomoric as Mr. Ritchie has not only a career, but a veritable bevy of devoted followers who will go to the grave swearing that the man is a master.
Perhaps I should tone it down a bit. Right now, I'm assuming you think that I absolutely hated this movie. Not true. As stated before, I was completely entertained throughout, and the film isn't without its selling points. Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law are both wonderfully talented, charismatic actors, and both do as much with the material as humanly possible, creating characters that are both funny and (somewhat) plausible, though the level of bromance threatens to become more than angsty gazing. Seriously, if I were the future Mrs. Watson, I would be more than a little concerned about some of the goings-on at 221B Baker Street. The film itself looks rather lovely; I mean this in respect to the art direction and costumes, not as much to the cinematography, which is passable, but rather pedestrian. The music by Hans Zimmer is endlessly inventive and wicked--I haven't heard music this gleefully malevolent for quite some time.
Alas, the film also has its share of problems. Rachel McAdams is woefully miscast as the love interest. McAdams can be wonderful in the right circumstances. Such is not the case here, and her robotic line-reading may very well earn her a Razzie nomination before too long. The film itself is overstays its welcome; several scenes could have been cut with little to no effect on the plot, and trim the film's fat in several places (I honestly can't find a good defense of the underground boxing club sequences, and would love for someone to tell me why they were needed. I, for one, had to suppress more than a few giggles here).
And yet the film works, I suppose, on its own ridiculous terms. I realize that this has been a nutty review. I start ranting about how Guy Ritchie is the cinematic equivalent of the Antichrist, then I praise the film for its acting and humor, then I criticize it again, and then tell you the film works. I really don't know how to distill my opinions on this movie into some clear, easy-to-interpret sentence, so I'll give you this: if you're looking for an entertaining, forgettable experience, full steam ahead. If you're looking for a good movie, steer clear.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Review: Up in the Air
Up in the Air
****/****
Jason Reitman. I think I'd like to strangle him. At thirty-two years old, he's made exactly three films: Thank You For Smoking, Juno, and Up in the Air. Each perfectly tiptoes the line between comedy and drama, each show immaculate control of the medium, and they're only getting better. I'm jealous, Mr. Reitman. I'm very jealous.
Up in the Air follows the exploits of Ryan Bingham (George Clooney), a corporate shark whose job entails flying around the country, firing employees for companies without the stones to do it for themselves. A self-described loner, in his spare time, he delivers motivational speeches on how to live without obligations. His world is shaken by the introduction of two women with whom he can't help but connect: Alex (Vera Farmiga), a fellow road warrior who describes herself as Ryan "with a vagina," and Natalie (Anna Kendrick), an up-and-coming business ingenue whom Ryan must teach. Both relationships come together to facilitate a completely believable character arc that lights the fire under the film's fast-moving two hours.
Director Jason Reitman is a master of balance. Up in the Air jumps easily between comedic interludes and taut relationship drama, all while being liberally spiced with contemporary relevance. All the tonal balance in the world, however, would be for nothing without the film's fantastically literate screenplay. The dialogue is consistently witty, incisive, and overall worth hearing. If this doesn't win the Adapted Screenplay Oscar, then something is very, very wrong with the universe.
The actors across the board take advantage of such a boffo screenplay. Anna Kendrick is particularly impressive as Natalie; her character attempts to be the consummate professional, but, every now and again, cracks begin to show. Kendrick's performance is subtle, beautifully controlled, and moving. Clooney provides her perfect foil: he's as jaded and quiet as she is optimistic and upbeat. The two will easily land nominations the morning of February 22nd. Vera Farmiga also turns in an interesting performance: the script doesn't give her as much to do as Kendrick and Clooney, but Farmiga runs with what she has (much like she did in The Departed), turning a character written with less depth into a singularly believable individual.
Up in the Air hits all the right spots in all the right ways: the laughs are big, the events are plausible, and the drama is engrossing. Some might complain about the open-ended ending, but I say this: Up in the Air isn't about events or plot. What happens to the characters in the end isn't that important. No, the film is about the people themselves; how they change, who they've become. Does it matter what they do after the movie? No. What matters is that they aren't the same people they were at the beginning of the film. Jason Reitman continues his solid gold streak: this is one of the year's best films.
****/****
Jason Reitman. I think I'd like to strangle him. At thirty-two years old, he's made exactly three films: Thank You For Smoking, Juno, and Up in the Air. Each perfectly tiptoes the line between comedy and drama, each show immaculate control of the medium, and they're only getting better. I'm jealous, Mr. Reitman. I'm very jealous.
Up in the Air follows the exploits of Ryan Bingham (George Clooney), a corporate shark whose job entails flying around the country, firing employees for companies without the stones to do it for themselves. A self-described loner, in his spare time, he delivers motivational speeches on how to live without obligations. His world is shaken by the introduction of two women with whom he can't help but connect: Alex (Vera Farmiga), a fellow road warrior who describes herself as Ryan "with a vagina," and Natalie (Anna Kendrick), an up-and-coming business ingenue whom Ryan must teach. Both relationships come together to facilitate a completely believable character arc that lights the fire under the film's fast-moving two hours.
Director Jason Reitman is a master of balance. Up in the Air jumps easily between comedic interludes and taut relationship drama, all while being liberally spiced with contemporary relevance. All the tonal balance in the world, however, would be for nothing without the film's fantastically literate screenplay. The dialogue is consistently witty, incisive, and overall worth hearing. If this doesn't win the Adapted Screenplay Oscar, then something is very, very wrong with the universe.
The actors across the board take advantage of such a boffo screenplay. Anna Kendrick is particularly impressive as Natalie; her character attempts to be the consummate professional, but, every now and again, cracks begin to show. Kendrick's performance is subtle, beautifully controlled, and moving. Clooney provides her perfect foil: he's as jaded and quiet as she is optimistic and upbeat. The two will easily land nominations the morning of February 22nd. Vera Farmiga also turns in an interesting performance: the script doesn't give her as much to do as Kendrick and Clooney, but Farmiga runs with what she has (much like she did in The Departed), turning a character written with less depth into a singularly believable individual.
Up in the Air hits all the right spots in all the right ways: the laughs are big, the events are plausible, and the drama is engrossing. Some might complain about the open-ended ending, but I say this: Up in the Air isn't about events or plot. What happens to the characters in the end isn't that important. No, the film is about the people themselves; how they change, who they've become. Does it matter what they do after the movie? No. What matters is that they aren't the same people they were at the beginning of the film. Jason Reitman continues his solid gold streak: this is one of the year's best films.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Review: The Princess and the Frog
The Princess and the Frog
***1/2/****
When I first heard about this film, I couldn't help but regard it with a little cynicism. Disney's last few films have flopped, so what better way to make money than to cash in on the nostalgia that a return to the hand-drawn musical would bring? Well, perhaps that was the motivation behind this film, but The Princess and the Frog plays the nostalgia card very, very well. More than that, it's an incredibly entertaining, humorous, and altogether memorable Disney experience.
Where else can one start but the songs? True to its roots, The Princess and the Frog packs itself with toe-tapping bayou and jazz-inspired ditties, making clear from the opening frames that yes, this will be a musical. On the whole, the songs were pleasant, though none will become Disney classics, and are, for the most part, integrated organically into the body of the film. My personal favorites were the by-turns joyful and bittersweet "Almost There," the sort-of theme song "Down in New Orleans," and the heart-wrenchingly sweet and romantic "Ma Belle Evangeline." The scoring in between the songs is a little sparse (with the exception of the gorgeous opening suite for brass), but I suppose we can forgive Randy Newman for now. He is, after all, only Randy Newman, and one can only expect so much of him out of any given film.
The vocal performances are stellar across the board. Anika Noni Rose (Dreamgirls) is stellar as the titular Princess Tiana. She brings a warmth and drive to the role that is never lost. Equally good is Bruno Campos as Prince Naveen. He believably and accurately traverses the most complex character arc in the film. Watch out for cameos from Oprah and Terence Howard as well (they play Tiana's parents in the prologue).
The actors would be lost, however, without the fantastic screenplay, which doesn't leave them at a loss for words. The film is unusually sharp and witty for a new Disney film, as well as emotionally resonant and thematically mature. Indeed, watching The Princess and the Frog feels like a Pixar film; it's not afraid to tackle difficult 'adult' emotions. Plus, the film is filled with just enough bizarre throw-away lines ("Dance with me, fat man!") to make this writer downright giddy.
Overall, The Princess and the Frog is an immensely satisfying cinema outing sure to remind viewers of the old Disney classics and, one day, take its place among them.
***1/2/****
When I first heard about this film, I couldn't help but regard it with a little cynicism. Disney's last few films have flopped, so what better way to make money than to cash in on the nostalgia that a return to the hand-drawn musical would bring? Well, perhaps that was the motivation behind this film, but The Princess and the Frog plays the nostalgia card very, very well. More than that, it's an incredibly entertaining, humorous, and altogether memorable Disney experience.
Where else can one start but the songs? True to its roots, The Princess and the Frog packs itself with toe-tapping bayou and jazz-inspired ditties, making clear from the opening frames that yes, this will be a musical. On the whole, the songs were pleasant, though none will become Disney classics, and are, for the most part, integrated organically into the body of the film. My personal favorites were the by-turns joyful and bittersweet "Almost There," the sort-of theme song "Down in New Orleans," and the heart-wrenchingly sweet and romantic "Ma Belle Evangeline." The scoring in between the songs is a little sparse (with the exception of the gorgeous opening suite for brass), but I suppose we can forgive Randy Newman for now. He is, after all, only Randy Newman, and one can only expect so much of him out of any given film.
The vocal performances are stellar across the board. Anika Noni Rose (Dreamgirls) is stellar as the titular Princess Tiana. She brings a warmth and drive to the role that is never lost. Equally good is Bruno Campos as Prince Naveen. He believably and accurately traverses the most complex character arc in the film. Watch out for cameos from Oprah and Terence Howard as well (they play Tiana's parents in the prologue).
The actors would be lost, however, without the fantastic screenplay, which doesn't leave them at a loss for words. The film is unusually sharp and witty for a new Disney film, as well as emotionally resonant and thematically mature. Indeed, watching The Princess and the Frog feels like a Pixar film; it's not afraid to tackle difficult 'adult' emotions. Plus, the film is filled with just enough bizarre throw-away lines ("Dance with me, fat man!") to make this writer downright giddy.
Overall, The Princess and the Frog is an immensely satisfying cinema outing sure to remind viewers of the old Disney classics and, one day, take its place among them.
Review: Avatar
Avatar
****/****
Every thirty-odd years, a film like King Kong or Bonnie and Clyde or Star Wars comes along and completely redefines cinema, changing the way that movies are made. As a budding film critic and avid film lover, I've always wondered what it would be like to have been on the ground-floor of these masterpieces' accomplishments; seeing them for the first time, having to scoop my jaw off the floor in response to a type of cinema I'd never seen. Well, dear reader, I now know what that feels like.
Let's just get it out right now: Avatar is like no other movie that has ever been made, and every movie that is made after Avatar will owe something to it. Everyone should see this regardless of its quality: it's not every day that one can take part in cinema history.
Luckily for us, however, the film's quality is not to be questioned. The first time I saw it, I had trouble articulating what exactly the film made me feel. All I knew was that I wanted it to happen again. Two more viewings (in two days, no less) later, I know now: Avatar makes me feel like a little kid. As a piece of cinema, it has the ability to strip me of all my preconceptions, my cynicism, my anger or bitterness, and replace it with something joyous on a primal level. Avatar touched a deep, resonant chord somewhere inside me, transporting me to a place that I can never return to in reality. Avatar reminds the viewer what it's like to look at the world for the first time.
Not that I need to state this by now, but Avatar is one of the prettiest films you will ever see. The world of Pandora, all created by James Cameron, is singularly unique and beautiful, and seeing this on a big screen (preferably in 3-D) is the only way to truly enjoy it. The visual effects, of course, cannot be adequately described. I have no comparisons to draw. Either you've seen this film, or you haven't. I can't capture what the film looks like with something as simple as words. Suffice to say that everything is photo-realistic, and the motion-capture technology allows the acting performances to shine through completely.
Admittedly, James Cameron is not the best writer in the world. No, let me rephrase that: James Cameron can create compelling, entertaining stories with the best of them. Writing them, on the other hand, seems to be more of a challenge. Such is the only complaint I can raise about Avatar: The story is moving, compelling, and supremely entertaining. Sometimes, though, the dialogue clunks. Not frequently. Not as much as it could have for a James Cameron movie. But every now and again, the dialogue can hurt. What a masterwork Avatar would have been as a silent film.
These are just tiny complaints, however, and only really noticed after exiting the theater. Avatar is a singular accomplishment, a technical achievement of unparalleled proportions, and an incredibly entertaining film. Anyone with any self-respect as a film-lover, or film-goer of any kind, needs to see this film. And you won't be disappointed.
****/****
Every thirty-odd years, a film like King Kong or Bonnie and Clyde or Star Wars comes along and completely redefines cinema, changing the way that movies are made. As a budding film critic and avid film lover, I've always wondered what it would be like to have been on the ground-floor of these masterpieces' accomplishments; seeing them for the first time, having to scoop my jaw off the floor in response to a type of cinema I'd never seen. Well, dear reader, I now know what that feels like.
Let's just get it out right now: Avatar is like no other movie that has ever been made, and every movie that is made after Avatar will owe something to it. Everyone should see this regardless of its quality: it's not every day that one can take part in cinema history.
Luckily for us, however, the film's quality is not to be questioned. The first time I saw it, I had trouble articulating what exactly the film made me feel. All I knew was that I wanted it to happen again. Two more viewings (in two days, no less) later, I know now: Avatar makes me feel like a little kid. As a piece of cinema, it has the ability to strip me of all my preconceptions, my cynicism, my anger or bitterness, and replace it with something joyous on a primal level. Avatar touched a deep, resonant chord somewhere inside me, transporting me to a place that I can never return to in reality. Avatar reminds the viewer what it's like to look at the world for the first time.
Not that I need to state this by now, but Avatar is one of the prettiest films you will ever see. The world of Pandora, all created by James Cameron, is singularly unique and beautiful, and seeing this on a big screen (preferably in 3-D) is the only way to truly enjoy it. The visual effects, of course, cannot be adequately described. I have no comparisons to draw. Either you've seen this film, or you haven't. I can't capture what the film looks like with something as simple as words. Suffice to say that everything is photo-realistic, and the motion-capture technology allows the acting performances to shine through completely.
Admittedly, James Cameron is not the best writer in the world. No, let me rephrase that: James Cameron can create compelling, entertaining stories with the best of them. Writing them, on the other hand, seems to be more of a challenge. Such is the only complaint I can raise about Avatar: The story is moving, compelling, and supremely entertaining. Sometimes, though, the dialogue clunks. Not frequently. Not as much as it could have for a James Cameron movie. But every now and again, the dialogue can hurt. What a masterwork Avatar would have been as a silent film.
These are just tiny complaints, however, and only really noticed after exiting the theater. Avatar is a singular accomplishment, a technical achievement of unparalleled proportions, and an incredibly entertaining film. Anyone with any self-respect as a film-lover, or film-goer of any kind, needs to see this film. And you won't be disappointed.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Review: Antichrist
Antichrist (****/****)
It took me a while to decide what star rating to give this film. Eventually, I whittled it down to two options: 4 or 0. With Lars Von Trier's film, only the extremes seem appropriate.
Antichrist tells the story of a grieving couple whose child fell to his death out of a window while they made love. The woman, referred to only as 'she', blames herself, and the man, referred to as, you guessed it, 'he,' a psychiatrist, decides that he can cure her depression of his own accord. He decides to place her in the place that she is most terrified; their cabin in the woods, named Eden. What follows is almost impossible to describe. It's not a plot so much as a montage of horrific vignettes.
I'll be honest: I have never been so profoundly disturbed or scared by a film as I was by this one. Antichrist made me feel physically uncomfortable. There were times when I wanted to leave. The film is almost unbearably graphic and explicit, and its atmosphere, tone, implication, etc. are all terrifying. Not scary in the slasher/ghost sense of the word. Perhaps unsettling is a better word. This is the kind of film that crawls under your skin and dies there. It's the kind of film that finds any break in your psychosis, sneaks in, and grates on you psychologically until you want to die. I can't ever recall a more unpleasant cinema experience.
So why the hell did I give Antichrist four stars?
The answer is simple. One must judge a film based on what it intends to do: Antichrist clearly intends to shock, disturb, and cause despair. And my god, but it succeeds. I heard a great defense of this film which I will rehash: films are supposed to reflect the breadth of the human condition. This includes all forms thereof, not just the ones that elevate us, or make us feel sanctimonious, or improve the quality of life. Antichrist sets out to evoke an unpleasant and unpopular cinematic emotion: despair. Loss of hope. But, let's be honest with ourselves: despair and suffering are huge parts of the human condition. Rare are the films that attempt to tackle these feelings. Rarer still are the ones that do it with such laser-focus and determination.
This isn't to say that I'm only giving the film four stars because its intention was to make me feel sick, and it succeeded. The film incredibly complex and dense; indeed, far too dense to fully appreciate on first viewing (though a second or third viewing is almost inconceivable). Antichrist is a treatise on humanity at its worst. Some have interpreted it as an inverse reflection of the Bible story of the Garden of Eden: in the Bible, man and woman are born pure, but turn to sin and are cast out, forced to live in the real world. In Antichrist, man and woman begin as evil creatures, and retreat to Eden to enact their downfall in a surreal environment. I feel like I could write for hours about the messages, both implicit and explicit, in Antichrist. It's a work of staggering thought and power. Its apparent demonization of sexuality is of particular interest: the film is chock-full of very explicit sex scenes, but it can hardly be construed as erotic in any sense of the word. This is, in part, due to the fact that every sex scene is either juxtaposed with or immediately followed by an act of horrific violence. A couple has passionate sex, and their child falls three stories onto a concrete sidewalk. The couple makes love again, and then the woman beats herself senseless on the rim of the toilet. Later, sex will be followed by unspeakable horrors (I'll give you a hint: it involves lots of genital mutilation and witch-craft-punishing parallels). What point could Von Trier be making with this? The female character also makes a point to point out the evil inherent in every person, specifically (in her opinion) women. She has been studying gynocide (mass murder of women), and through it has concluded that "nature is Satan's church." She believes that nature is evil, and that nature is in every person. Thus, if nature is evil, and it's in everyone, then everyone must be evil. She falls into this archetype with little difficulty, becoming one with her darker nature. Though her actions are more severe, it's undeniable that her husband has already beaten her to embracing his darker nature. The two characters suffer a complete and total break from moral rectitude, and the film punishes them for it. One of the many points that the film might be making (I repeat, might. It's very open for interpretation) is that their downfall was facilitated by partaking in pleasures of the flesh. Perhaps it's when not in moderation, or perhaps at expense of others, but Antichrist is not kind to a healthy psychosexual mindset. Antichrist also makes compelling arguments about the nature of original sin. Some believe that, according to the Bible story, the original sins are pride and despair. All other sins have their root in these two: pride, believing that you can be better than God, and despair, believing that God can't change things. In Antichrist, the man's sin is pride (he thinks he can cure his wife on his own), and the woman's is despair (she remains mired in grief, and allows it to overtake her). Indeed, the film is divided into four chapters: Grief, Pain, Despair, and the Three Beggars (the Three Beggars being a constellation of grief, pain, and despair). Throughout the film, the three emotion's avatars make their presence known: Grief is a doe with a dead deer fetus hanging out of its womb, Pain is a fox who eats its own intestines, and despair is a crow that refuses to die. The Three Beggars appear throughout the film, finally uniting in the last chapter to provide the catalyst for the finale. Is Von Trier saying that all negative emotions can be boiled down to these three beggars? Is he saying that to allow any of them to find footing in life is to start the descent into moral turpitude? I can't know. No one will ever know for sure. The thesis statement of the film could very well be delivered by Pain (yes, the fox.) The Man has just stumbled onto Pain in the forest, and recoils. Pain rips its intestines out, looks up at the man, and says "chaos reigns." That could be the crux: Von Trier is creating a world that isn't fettered by the confines of ethics or morality.
Apologies for that tangential tirade. As I said, I could write for hours about this film. I suppose I must conclude, though I haven't mentioned the acting, which is phenomenal, or the cinematography, which is jaw-droppingly gorgeous. I must finish the review with a warning: this film is incredibly worth seeing for being a completely unique cinematic experience of singular complexity and profound impact. It is, however, not for the faint-hearted. I mean it. There are acts of unspeakable cruelty and violence shown in gory detail, and there are moments of sexuality that would be pornographic if not for their incredibly gruesome nature. This is a film that, if you watch it, you will never unsee. I guarantee that you will be profoundly disturbed and unsettled by this film. Should you not watch it? I don't know. You can if you feel up to it, if you want to view a very thought-provoking look at man's darker nature. But it's going to cost you some sanity.
(I have to include a trailer, just to give you some sense of the film's aesthetic sensibilities. The trailer is appropriate for all audiences. www.youtube.com/watch?v=hw03QayJ2fU&feature=related
It took me a while to decide what star rating to give this film. Eventually, I whittled it down to two options: 4 or 0. With Lars Von Trier's film, only the extremes seem appropriate.
Antichrist tells the story of a grieving couple whose child fell to his death out of a window while they made love. The woman, referred to only as 'she', blames herself, and the man, referred to as, you guessed it, 'he,' a psychiatrist, decides that he can cure her depression of his own accord. He decides to place her in the place that she is most terrified; their cabin in the woods, named Eden. What follows is almost impossible to describe. It's not a plot so much as a montage of horrific vignettes.
I'll be honest: I have never been so profoundly disturbed or scared by a film as I was by this one. Antichrist made me feel physically uncomfortable. There were times when I wanted to leave. The film is almost unbearably graphic and explicit, and its atmosphere, tone, implication, etc. are all terrifying. Not scary in the slasher/ghost sense of the word. Perhaps unsettling is a better word. This is the kind of film that crawls under your skin and dies there. It's the kind of film that finds any break in your psychosis, sneaks in, and grates on you psychologically until you want to die. I can't ever recall a more unpleasant cinema experience.
So why the hell did I give Antichrist four stars?
The answer is simple. One must judge a film based on what it intends to do: Antichrist clearly intends to shock, disturb, and cause despair. And my god, but it succeeds. I heard a great defense of this film which I will rehash: films are supposed to reflect the breadth of the human condition. This includes all forms thereof, not just the ones that elevate us, or make us feel sanctimonious, or improve the quality of life. Antichrist sets out to evoke an unpleasant and unpopular cinematic emotion: despair. Loss of hope. But, let's be honest with ourselves: despair and suffering are huge parts of the human condition. Rare are the films that attempt to tackle these feelings. Rarer still are the ones that do it with such laser-focus and determination.
This isn't to say that I'm only giving the film four stars because its intention was to make me feel sick, and it succeeded. The film incredibly complex and dense; indeed, far too dense to fully appreciate on first viewing (though a second or third viewing is almost inconceivable). Antichrist is a treatise on humanity at its worst. Some have interpreted it as an inverse reflection of the Bible story of the Garden of Eden: in the Bible, man and woman are born pure, but turn to sin and are cast out, forced to live in the real world. In Antichrist, man and woman begin as evil creatures, and retreat to Eden to enact their downfall in a surreal environment. I feel like I could write for hours about the messages, both implicit and explicit, in Antichrist. It's a work of staggering thought and power. Its apparent demonization of sexuality is of particular interest: the film is chock-full of very explicit sex scenes, but it can hardly be construed as erotic in any sense of the word. This is, in part, due to the fact that every sex scene is either juxtaposed with or immediately followed by an act of horrific violence. A couple has passionate sex, and their child falls three stories onto a concrete sidewalk. The couple makes love again, and then the woman beats herself senseless on the rim of the toilet. Later, sex will be followed by unspeakable horrors (I'll give you a hint: it involves lots of genital mutilation and witch-craft-punishing parallels). What point could Von Trier be making with this? The female character also makes a point to point out the evil inherent in every person, specifically (in her opinion) women. She has been studying gynocide (mass murder of women), and through it has concluded that "nature is Satan's church." She believes that nature is evil, and that nature is in every person. Thus, if nature is evil, and it's in everyone, then everyone must be evil. She falls into this archetype with little difficulty, becoming one with her darker nature. Though her actions are more severe, it's undeniable that her husband has already beaten her to embracing his darker nature. The two characters suffer a complete and total break from moral rectitude, and the film punishes them for it. One of the many points that the film might be making (I repeat, might. It's very open for interpretation) is that their downfall was facilitated by partaking in pleasures of the flesh. Perhaps it's when not in moderation, or perhaps at expense of others, but Antichrist is not kind to a healthy psychosexual mindset. Antichrist also makes compelling arguments about the nature of original sin. Some believe that, according to the Bible story, the original sins are pride and despair. All other sins have their root in these two: pride, believing that you can be better than God, and despair, believing that God can't change things. In Antichrist, the man's sin is pride (he thinks he can cure his wife on his own), and the woman's is despair (she remains mired in grief, and allows it to overtake her). Indeed, the film is divided into four chapters: Grief, Pain, Despair, and the Three Beggars (the Three Beggars being a constellation of grief, pain, and despair). Throughout the film, the three emotion's avatars make their presence known: Grief is a doe with a dead deer fetus hanging out of its womb, Pain is a fox who eats its own intestines, and despair is a crow that refuses to die. The Three Beggars appear throughout the film, finally uniting in the last chapter to provide the catalyst for the finale. Is Von Trier saying that all negative emotions can be boiled down to these three beggars? Is he saying that to allow any of them to find footing in life is to start the descent into moral turpitude? I can't know. No one will ever know for sure. The thesis statement of the film could very well be delivered by Pain (yes, the fox.) The Man has just stumbled onto Pain in the forest, and recoils. Pain rips its intestines out, looks up at the man, and says "chaos reigns." That could be the crux: Von Trier is creating a world that isn't fettered by the confines of ethics or morality.
Apologies for that tangential tirade. As I said, I could write for hours about this film. I suppose I must conclude, though I haven't mentioned the acting, which is phenomenal, or the cinematography, which is jaw-droppingly gorgeous. I must finish the review with a warning: this film is incredibly worth seeing for being a completely unique cinematic experience of singular complexity and profound impact. It is, however, not for the faint-hearted. I mean it. There are acts of unspeakable cruelty and violence shown in gory detail, and there are moments of sexuality that would be pornographic if not for their incredibly gruesome nature. This is a film that, if you watch it, you will never unsee. I guarantee that you will be profoundly disturbed and unsettled by this film. Should you not watch it? I don't know. You can if you feel up to it, if you want to view a very thought-provoking look at man's darker nature. But it's going to cost you some sanity.
(I have to include a trailer, just to give you some sense of the film's aesthetic sensibilities. The trailer is appropriate for all audiences. www.youtube.com/watch?v=hw03QayJ2fU&feature=related
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