It should be no secret by now that I love Pixar movies. No, not love. Love. That's right. It's earning that capital letter. Pixar Animation Studios continually churn out some of the most inspired, intrepid, and affecting film-making to come out of the studio system today. So, in the spirit of list-making and finishing a blog post before dinner, I'm going to run down Pixar's efforts from best to least best (I couldn't bring myself to say worst. Even the worst Pixar film is still head and shoulders over most of the crap that comes out nowadays). Enjoy!
(note: some of these reviews might sound a little critical; this is simply because I need to provide some faults to differentiate #10 from #1. Please remember that all of these films hold some place in my heart.)
10. Cars
Alas, this 2006 offering is Pixar's weakest feature. Its plot, continuing the 'anthropomorphic objects' theme, surrounds the derring-do of one Lightning McCloud, a hotshot young race car whose arrogance is taken down a peg or two when he finds himself stranded in a small 'average American' town. The world in which Cars takes place is, uncharacteristically, never fully realized. It appears that it's identical to our own world, save that cars take the place of humans, but is that it? A guaranteed feature of most Pixar films is that the world the characters inhabit feels real and plausible within the constrains of animation. The film is also, by far, the most unoriginal and conservative (arrogant young man learns error of his ways through studious application of small-town life). This isn't to say that the film doesn't offer up its own special pleasures: my favorite has to be the Italian tire-store owner and his hapless forklift assistant, whose pit-stops must be seen to be believed.
9. A Bug's Life
This second entry into the Pixar canon represents one of their most timid works to date, which is to say that the Pixar artists don't attempt anything new. So, A Bug's Life is familiar territory, but still does great things with said territory. Most notable is the gang of circus bugs who pose as warriors to pick up some extra cash; each character, from the uber-masculine ladybug Francis, to the joyfully gluttonous caterpillar Heimlich, are all carefully created and wonderfully realized. Unfortunately, not all the characters are so lucky. The villain, Hopper, is at a loss for interesting characteristics, and attempts to make up for it by snarling a lot. A well-known axiom: a grasshopper cannot be intimidating, regardless of how much he snarls. Indeed, his villain status makes him rare in the Pixar Pantheon: most Pixar films have characters with flaws, but few all-out villains that are given no humanistic traits. Oh well. Still a fun piece of work.
8. Ratatouille
Most top 10 Pixar lists have this one near the top, but, for the love of all that is good and holy, I just can't put it up there. I respect Ratatouille's technical proficiency, inventiveness, and joyous creativity, but, for whatever reason, it doesn't do too much for me emotionally. Suffice to say that I was entertained, but not moved. This isn't to say that it's a bad film: indeed, Ratatouille is great fun, with some very inventive and amusing moments. I respect it, but I don't love it. And, as you may remember me saying before, respect without love can only take things so far.
7. Up
I cry for the potential of this movie. The first two acts are wonderful, top-form Pixar, but the last act is a bit of a let-down. The first ten minutes (mostly silent) is some of the best film-making to come out this year: it chronicles the lifelong relationship of Carl and his wife Elly; how they meet as children, become sweethearts, create dreams together, get married, and realize that the realities of everyday life slowly suck their dreams away. The first bit is so bittersweet and heartbreaking: I thought the film was going to blow me away. The next part, which chronicles Carl's journey to the Amazon, as well as his burgeoning relationship with young boyscout Russell, is also fantastic. It's full of the right blend of warm humor, sharp characterization, and quiet empathy. Hell, even when they get to the jungle, and encounter the sillier supporting characters (Doug the talking Dog and Kevin, the gratuitously colorful bird), the film retains its original emotional core. Where it falters, however, is in the ending. We meet the villain, Charles Muntz, whose use in the film should be the masterstroke: He is the man who inspired a young Carl to have his travelling dreams. Carl meeting his hero and realizing his shortcomings fits with the rest of the film's themes wonderfully. Instead of something with a light touch, however, we get dogs in an aerial biplane battle and two octogenarians fencing. Why the sudden B-Movie action? It's completely incongruous to the spirit of the rest of the film. Sadly, Up trips in the last leg. What could have been one of Pixar's best is relegated to being #7. Oh well.
6. Toy Story 2
Rarely is a sequel this successful. Toy Story 2 isn't a rehash of the first film, or a sad attempt to continue the franchise. It's its own piece, full of light, humor, and surprisingly touching themes. The film is most concerned with loss and abandonment: as Andy gets older, and the toys start losing their lustre, they begin to contemplate what will happen to them when the person they love stops loving them back. The scenes with the new toys (owned by Crazy Al, the toy collector) are particularly affecting. Only someone with a heart of stone could be completely unmoved by the scene, told in silent montage set to "When Somebody Loved Me," that chronicles Jessie's relationship with her owner, and her subsequent abandonment. I'm making the movie sound like a terrible downer, but it's also full of great humor as well. Toy Story 2's take on Barbies is something for the ages. The only slight qualm I have with the film is that it goes a little overboard with film references; careful viewers can spot homages to Star Wars, Jurassic Park, 2001, This is Spinal Tap, etc. I feel it detracts from the film on repeated viewings. Other than that, this film is near perfect.
5. Monsters, Inc.
This is one of Pixar's great concepts. What if the monsters in your closet are just blue-collar guys trying to make a living who are just as terrified of you? Monsters, Inc. allows Pixar to create one of its most detailed and original worlds: the city of Monstropolis. Its inhabitants are monsters of such varying shapes and sizes that Darwin's head would explode after one minute of observation. The film's voice-cast is especially worth noting, comprised by the likes of Billy Crystal, John Goodman, Steve Buscemi, Jennifer Tilly, and James Coburn. The film works as comedy, thrill-ride, and corporate satire, and its central theme is potent: love and laughter are more powerful than fear. the final shot, a Chaplin homage, is a beautifully realized ending.
4. Toy Story
It's hard for me to put this one all the way up at #4, but that's how it goes. This, the original film, the one that started over a decade of successes, is still a classic in its own right. It's rightly praised for its visual inventiveness and technical acuity, but to focus on its superficial aspects is to ignore its unusually perceptive and complex portrayal of jealousy, pride, and the simple desire to be loved. The film is stuffed to the brim with great comedic moments (my personal favorite: "You're a sad, strange little man, and I pity you") and moments that ring true emotionally (the part where Buzz discovers he's a toy, attempts to fly anyway, and falls and breaks, always gets me). Toy Story, upon its release was a bolt from the blue that revolutionized the medium of animation. Yes, I respect it for its contributions to film, but I also love it for being a great movie.
3. Finding Nemo
Sometimes the best stories are the simplest ones. This tale of a father trying to find his son is full of warmth, love, quiet insight, and sights of astonishing visual beauty. It also boasts some of the most well-realized characters in Pixar's history. A write has no choice but to give a shout-out to Ellen DeGeneres as Dory, in what may be, perhaps the best, definitely my favorite voice-over performance in the movies. The movie is filled with great stand-alone sequences with their own colorful cast: the Shark Support Group, the Sea Turtles, the Sea Gulls. And who could forget Darla, perhaps the only character since Norman Bates to earn her shrieking violin music. This isn't just great animation. It's great film-making, period. And, let's be honest: Who here hasn't tried to speak Whale at least once?
2. The Incredibles
Unarguably the most complex effort on Pixar's behalf, it's also one of the best and most intelligent. Brad Bird's film is a sharp-edged satire of contemporary values; its plot concerns superheroes who are forced to pretend to be normal in the face of lawsuits from people who didn't want to be saved, or objected to the manner in which they are saved. As Bob Parr, or Mr. Incredible, points out society "keeps finding ways to celebrate mediocrity." What on earth is that line doing in a children's film? The answer, of course, is that this isn't a children's film. The Incredibles also explores a recurrent Pixar theme, which involves characters meeting their god and becoming disillusioned (see Up, Monsters, Inc., and Cars for other examples...even if I didn't write about that aspect of them. Oops.). Only in this film, however, does the character in question (Buddy, or Syndrome, depending on whose side you're on) decide to commit the rest of his life to killing that god. The Incredibles speaks volumes about societal mistrust of the extraordinary, dissatisfaction with life, and the inability for ideals to live up to reality. Plus, it gives us Edna Mode, who is, for my money, the best character to come out of a Pixar movie.
1. WALL-E
It was always going to be this one at the top, wasn't it? WALL-E is a singularly unique and staggering cinematic achievement. In its first forty minutes, it establishes its world and its characters entirely without dialogue. Even when speaking parts are introduced, the prevailing interactions are actions, not words. This is the closest thing to a silent film release since 1928. If not for a certain animated Israeli documentary that I can't shake, I would call this the best film of 2008. Even so, I would lay money on the fact that of all films from last year, WALL-E will be remembered for the longest. Much of its power comes from its simplicity. Sure, there's plenty around the edges about wastefulness, laziness, and stagnation (Pixar does love to to show people whose dreams have slowly died, don't they?), but the central conceit is almost impossibly simple: boy meets girl, boy falls in love, girl does the same. The emotion in this movie is so palpable and tangible. What's more impressive is that it's done with a glorified trash compacter and an egg-shaped iPod. WALL-E finds something universal at the core of the human experience and plugs into it, channelling it to the greatest extent. As an added bonus, the "define dancing" sequence is Movie Magic at its best.
Well, there you have it. Have y'all seen all of these? Or at least some? Am I perhaps to lenient with Pixar? What ranks as the best effort in your mind? Don't be shy. I love arguing.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Your Slice of Zen for the Day
"Some people feel like they don't deserve love. They walk away quietly into empty spaces, trying to close the gaps of the past."
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Love in the Movies: a beginning
Love. What the hell does that mean? I think it's safe to say that no one really, fully understands the concept of love. Allow me to rephrase: love is something too fluid a concept to nail down with a fixed definition. It's too complex to be able to put into one conveniently arranged sentence. It's something that's felt, not quantified. Simply put, it's confusing as hell.
This, of course, has not stopped Hollywood from attempting to define it at every turn. I would hazard an estimate that at least 50% of films coming out today concern love in any of its various incarnations, mostly one of the 'big four' types as defined by the Greeks: Agape (sacrificial or romantic), Storge (familial), Philos (brotherly/friendly), and Eros (sexual). Sometimes more than one at a time. Sometimes all of them. Though that doesn't happen frequently, as incest is a decidedly taboo subject (I'm looking at you, Sweet Hereafter).
I don't think any movie can definitively say what love is. I do think, however, that if we put enough of these movie ideas together, we can create an interesting, richly detailed mosaic that attempts to showcase some of the many facets of that trickiest emotion. So, here begins what I hope will become a recurring series (though my other recurring series have yet to earn that adjective), in which I will attempt to take an analytical look at love (in any of its incarnations) in film.
To begin with? Moulin Rouge!.
(Note: I originally intended to write this about Hair, which has a wealth of ideas about this particular subject, but it occurred to me that none of my faithful readers have seen that movie. All of them, however, have seen and can claim some degree of familiarity with Moulin Rouge!, so I changed topics. This is for y'all. Go watch Hair.)
Moulin Rouge! is a great starting point for this series because it offers such a rich tapestry of all different types of love. I'm sure most of you thought of Christian and Satine upon hearing that Moulin Rouge! would be the subject of interest, but I think spending time with the supporting characters will be more enlightening. Yes, Christian and Satine are in love (or believe they are), yes, it ends in tragedy, and, as much as I love the movie, it's nothing we haven't seen before, and it's something I'm sure we'll see again. Star-crossed lovers, maligned fates, etc. If I want to run with that angle, we'll talk about West Side Story. What I find of more interest is all of the conflicting emotions of the supporting cast, and how the film de-prioritizes them in the wake of Christian and Satine's more obvious machinations.
The most obvious choice for examination among the supporting cast is The Duke. This might be an unpopular statement, but I'm not willing to write his emotions off entirely. He is cast as an almost entirely sympathetic character, and I'm more than willing to admit that most of his ideas fall under the 'Eros' label, which, in my opinion, is by far the least noble and compelling of the types of love, but still: I believe there are moments in which he truly does care for her. He does a poor job of showing it, and works for all the wrong reasons, but the seed is there. Look at it from this perspective: had the writers been in a different mindset, Moulin Rouge! would have been about a courtesan falling in love with a Duke who loves her back, while a jilted writer plots to seduce Satine. It could have been. The major difference between Christian and The Duke's relationships with Satine is that Satine only returns the feelings for one of them. So, it can be inferred that Moulin Rouge! places a premium on mutual love; repressed or one-sided love is not as important as a duet.
Next: Harold Zidler, the impresario. His feelings for Satine fall entirely within the 'Storge', or familial, category. I'm not sure whether or not Zidler is Satine's father. It feels obvious, but, looking back, it's never stated one way or the other. Blood relation, however, matters not: if not her legitimate father, he has certainly taken the place as father figure. His character is one of the more heartbreaking aspects of the film: everything he does, he does in Satine's best interests. His actions may seem cold or distant at times, but he's only working to protect that which he loves. For this, I'm sure, he can be forgiven. Still, his paternal affections for Satine are no use against the full-on infatuation for Christian.
Moving on: I might catch some crap here, but I think that Toulouse-Latrec harbors a bit of a crush on Christian. Looking for proof? Watch the bedroom scene, right after Satine lies to Christian about loving The Duke: what Toulouse says is full of tenderness and repressed emotion. Watch how he speaks about how he knows about love, if only because 'he craves it with every fiber of my being,' but can't have it. Watch how he looks at Christian. You may not be convinced, but this is my ballgame, so I call the shots. I'm going to file repressed love under 'Agape' (romantic or sacrificial). Particularly sacrificial: it takes work to swallow your emotions day in and day out so the person you care about can be happy. This is what Toulouse does, and I feel like he's one of the more sympathetic characters of the film. Perhaps I'm biased because his definitions of love align most closely with mine: caring for someone more than you care for yourself. It sounds ridiculously simple, but consider it: acting without regard for yourself, because you aren't as important as the person you care about. And so Toulouse does that: he puts himself at risk to warn Christian about The Duke's plot to kill him. Indeed, he puts even more effort into guaranteeing that Christian can be with the woman he loves. And, by golly, it works.
So what are we to glean from the four types of love as demonstrated by Moulin Rouge! I feel that the movie's thesis in this area is as follows: romantic love trumps all other forms, regardless of intensity or legitimacy. Now, don't think I'm being critical of Satine and Christian. Far from it. This is a perfectly legitimate viewpoint. If we look at it from a purely analytical, non-biased perspective, however, it's impossible to ignore the bevy of other emotions that are trampled in the great romantic stampede.
Final conclusion, to be added to our film treatise on love, which one day I might compile?
Romantic love is the most important emotion, and must be purchased at the expense of lesser feelings.
Agree? Disagree? Is my interpretation too harsh? Let me hear it.
(Once again, I just want to stress that I don't intend to belittle Christian or Satine's feelings. They are perfectly legitimate. I'm just taking notice of the smaller issues that most people throw aside.)
This, of course, has not stopped Hollywood from attempting to define it at every turn. I would hazard an estimate that at least 50% of films coming out today concern love in any of its various incarnations, mostly one of the 'big four' types as defined by the Greeks: Agape (sacrificial or romantic), Storge (familial), Philos (brotherly/friendly), and Eros (sexual). Sometimes more than one at a time. Sometimes all of them. Though that doesn't happen frequently, as incest is a decidedly taboo subject (I'm looking at you, Sweet Hereafter).
I don't think any movie can definitively say what love is. I do think, however, that if we put enough of these movie ideas together, we can create an interesting, richly detailed mosaic that attempts to showcase some of the many facets of that trickiest emotion. So, here begins what I hope will become a recurring series (though my other recurring series have yet to earn that adjective), in which I will attempt to take an analytical look at love (in any of its incarnations) in film.
To begin with? Moulin Rouge!.
(Note: I originally intended to write this about Hair, which has a wealth of ideas about this particular subject, but it occurred to me that none of my faithful readers have seen that movie. All of them, however, have seen and can claim some degree of familiarity with Moulin Rouge!, so I changed topics. This is for y'all. Go watch Hair.)
Moulin Rouge! is a great starting point for this series because it offers such a rich tapestry of all different types of love. I'm sure most of you thought of Christian and Satine upon hearing that Moulin Rouge! would be the subject of interest, but I think spending time with the supporting characters will be more enlightening. Yes, Christian and Satine are in love (or believe they are), yes, it ends in tragedy, and, as much as I love the movie, it's nothing we haven't seen before, and it's something I'm sure we'll see again. Star-crossed lovers, maligned fates, etc. If I want to run with that angle, we'll talk about West Side Story. What I find of more interest is all of the conflicting emotions of the supporting cast, and how the film de-prioritizes them in the wake of Christian and Satine's more obvious machinations.
The most obvious choice for examination among the supporting cast is The Duke. This might be an unpopular statement, but I'm not willing to write his emotions off entirely. He is cast as an almost entirely sympathetic character, and I'm more than willing to admit that most of his ideas fall under the 'Eros' label, which, in my opinion, is by far the least noble and compelling of the types of love, but still: I believe there are moments in which he truly does care for her. He does a poor job of showing it, and works for all the wrong reasons, but the seed is there. Look at it from this perspective: had the writers been in a different mindset, Moulin Rouge! would have been about a courtesan falling in love with a Duke who loves her back, while a jilted writer plots to seduce Satine. It could have been. The major difference between Christian and The Duke's relationships with Satine is that Satine only returns the feelings for one of them. So, it can be inferred that Moulin Rouge! places a premium on mutual love; repressed or one-sided love is not as important as a duet.
Next: Harold Zidler, the impresario. His feelings for Satine fall entirely within the 'Storge', or familial, category. I'm not sure whether or not Zidler is Satine's father. It feels obvious, but, looking back, it's never stated one way or the other. Blood relation, however, matters not: if not her legitimate father, he has certainly taken the place as father figure. His character is one of the more heartbreaking aspects of the film: everything he does, he does in Satine's best interests. His actions may seem cold or distant at times, but he's only working to protect that which he loves. For this, I'm sure, he can be forgiven. Still, his paternal affections for Satine are no use against the full-on infatuation for Christian.
Moving on: I might catch some crap here, but I think that Toulouse-Latrec harbors a bit of a crush on Christian. Looking for proof? Watch the bedroom scene, right after Satine lies to Christian about loving The Duke: what Toulouse says is full of tenderness and repressed emotion. Watch how he speaks about how he knows about love, if only because 'he craves it with every fiber of my being,' but can't have it. Watch how he looks at Christian. You may not be convinced, but this is my ballgame, so I call the shots. I'm going to file repressed love under 'Agape' (romantic or sacrificial). Particularly sacrificial: it takes work to swallow your emotions day in and day out so the person you care about can be happy. This is what Toulouse does, and I feel like he's one of the more sympathetic characters of the film. Perhaps I'm biased because his definitions of love align most closely with mine: caring for someone more than you care for yourself. It sounds ridiculously simple, but consider it: acting without regard for yourself, because you aren't as important as the person you care about. And so Toulouse does that: he puts himself at risk to warn Christian about The Duke's plot to kill him. Indeed, he puts even more effort into guaranteeing that Christian can be with the woman he loves. And, by golly, it works.
So what are we to glean from the four types of love as demonstrated by Moulin Rouge! I feel that the movie's thesis in this area is as follows: romantic love trumps all other forms, regardless of intensity or legitimacy. Now, don't think I'm being critical of Satine and Christian. Far from it. This is a perfectly legitimate viewpoint. If we look at it from a purely analytical, non-biased perspective, however, it's impossible to ignore the bevy of other emotions that are trampled in the great romantic stampede.
Final conclusion, to be added to our film treatise on love, which one day I might compile?
Romantic love is the most important emotion, and must be purchased at the expense of lesser feelings.
Agree? Disagree? Is my interpretation too harsh? Let me hear it.
(Once again, I just want to stress that I don't intend to belittle Christian or Satine's feelings. They are perfectly legitimate. I'm just taking notice of the smaller issues that most people throw aside.)
Your Slice of Zen for the Day
"Don't know. Sorta feels good. Sorta stiff and that, but once I get going, then, I, like, forget everything, and sorta disappear. Sorta disappear. Like I feel a change in my whole body. And I've got this fire in my body. I'm just there. Flying like a bird. Like electricity. Yeah, like electricity.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Your Slice of Zen for the Day
"The buses! The buses are empty and look almost menacing, threatening, as so many yellow dragons watching me with their hollow, vacant eyes. I wonder how many little black and white children have yellow nightmares, their own special brand of fear for the yellow peril...Damn it. It's got to be more...More positive. No, more negative! Start again. Yellow is the color of caution. No. Yellow is the color of cowardice. Yellow is the color of sunshine. And yet I see very little sunshine in the lives of all the little black and white children. I see their lives, rather, as a study in grayness, a mix of black and...Oh, Christ, no. That's fascist. Yellow! Yellow, yellow, yellow. Yellow fever..."
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
Review: The Road
The Road (***/****)
I've heard it said that The Road, Cormac McCarthy's apocalyptic war novel, is unfilmmable. John Hillcoat's film attempts to prove this statement false, and succeeds to some degree. I suppose the question should not be whether or not the book is filmable; the worthier question is if it should be filmed in the first place.
The Road concerns the travels of a father (Viggo Mortensen) and his son (Kodi Smit-McPhee) as they travel toward the coast through a bleak, lifeless landscape, constantly harried by bands of roving cannibals eager for a meal. Their journey is peppered with flashbacks to the father and his wife, before the world destroyed itself, as well as many a campfire chat about carrying "the fire," aka goodness and decency. John Hillcoat's film is at its best when it is most bleak: the film is riveting and compelling when it details the day-to-day struggles of Man and Boy, or when it evokes the true evil roaming the world. In these passages, Hillcoat achieves something akin to post-apocalyptic neo-realism, bringing urgency and tension to an already extreme scenario. The movie falters, however, when it attempts become didactic. The conversations the father has with his son are admirable attempts, but ultimately feel rather hokey and contrived. Similarly, the scenes with the man and his wife (played by a seemingly disinterested Charlize Theron) appear compelling at first glance, but are unable to sustain the dramatic tension that is achieved throughout the rest of the film.
Technically speaking, the film is fantastic. Javier Aguirresarobe's cinematography is starkly beautiful and mood-enhancing, while Nick Cave and Warren Ellis's score is a gorgeous exercise of simple, mournful melodies that lend more emotional weight than some scenes deserve. The production design, as well, as incredibly effective in its evocation of a world past its expiration date. The film feels, at times, like a documentary on a world after an apocalyptic event.
Performance-wise, the film has trouble sustaining its quality. Viggo Mortensen is fantastic, as always. He brings a quiet dignity and stoicism to his role, which makes his few moments of emotional breakdown to be all the more affecting. Kodi Smit-McPhee, as the child, is less proficient. It's not a bad performance, per se: he simply fails to reach the heights that the source material provides for him. McPhee is capable at crying and looking scared, but fails to delve into his character beyond that.
Overall, the film is a success, of a fashion. It's certainly proficient enough, it provides some striking visuals, and contains some harrowing moments. As a whole, however, The Road fails to live up to its origins. An interesting experiment, and certainly not a failure, but not the best that the year has to offer.
I've heard it said that The Road, Cormac McCarthy's apocalyptic war novel, is unfilmmable. John Hillcoat's film attempts to prove this statement false, and succeeds to some degree. I suppose the question should not be whether or not the book is filmable; the worthier question is if it should be filmed in the first place.
The Road concerns the travels of a father (Viggo Mortensen) and his son (Kodi Smit-McPhee) as they travel toward the coast through a bleak, lifeless landscape, constantly harried by bands of roving cannibals eager for a meal. Their journey is peppered with flashbacks to the father and his wife, before the world destroyed itself, as well as many a campfire chat about carrying "the fire," aka goodness and decency. John Hillcoat's film is at its best when it is most bleak: the film is riveting and compelling when it details the day-to-day struggles of Man and Boy, or when it evokes the true evil roaming the world. In these passages, Hillcoat achieves something akin to post-apocalyptic neo-realism, bringing urgency and tension to an already extreme scenario. The movie falters, however, when it attempts become didactic. The conversations the father has with his son are admirable attempts, but ultimately feel rather hokey and contrived. Similarly, the scenes with the man and his wife (played by a seemingly disinterested Charlize Theron) appear compelling at first glance, but are unable to sustain the dramatic tension that is achieved throughout the rest of the film.
Technically speaking, the film is fantastic. Javier Aguirresarobe's cinematography is starkly beautiful and mood-enhancing, while Nick Cave and Warren Ellis's score is a gorgeous exercise of simple, mournful melodies that lend more emotional weight than some scenes deserve. The production design, as well, as incredibly effective in its evocation of a world past its expiration date. The film feels, at times, like a documentary on a world after an apocalyptic event.
Performance-wise, the film has trouble sustaining its quality. Viggo Mortensen is fantastic, as always. He brings a quiet dignity and stoicism to his role, which makes his few moments of emotional breakdown to be all the more affecting. Kodi Smit-McPhee, as the child, is less proficient. It's not a bad performance, per se: he simply fails to reach the heights that the source material provides for him. McPhee is capable at crying and looking scared, but fails to delve into his character beyond that.
Overall, the film is a success, of a fashion. It's certainly proficient enough, it provides some striking visuals, and contains some harrowing moments. As a whole, however, The Road fails to live up to its origins. An interesting experiment, and certainly not a failure, but not the best that the year has to offer.
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