Mel Brooks
1974
There are few actors to have graced the screen with the particular quality of line delivery possessed by Gene Wilder. These talents are showcased to their peak sublimity in "Young Frankenstein." This is a comedy of such subtle nature that I'm quite surprised it has become the hit it is today; it seems ill suited for the general public and more crafted to a specific set.
This is a picture with excellent performances, indeed it is difficult to forget the contribution of any major character. Wilder's cadence is perfect for the neurotically plagued grandson of Frankenstein while Marty Feldman's skull defying pop-eyes, hooked nose, and wry smile make him a perfect Igor. The three female roles are memorable in their distinct characterizations. Teri Garr is the perfect embodiment of the Brooksian sex object, ridiculous accent and all, while Madeline Kahn's Elizabeth is at once tantalizing, yet prudishly infuriating. Cloris Leachman's old bat of a castle-caretaker is played so straight and serious that it becomes one of the film's funniest performances. Of course there's Peter Boyle's depiction of Frankenstein that, in its own comic way, is as engaging and titillating as Karloff's.
In the age of the "Scary Movie" franchise, a series that originated as a parody of a parody, the use of references in "Young Frankenstein" is utterly inaccessable limiting itself to the first three installments of the "Frankenstein" series: "Frankenstein," "Bride of Frankenstein," and "Son of Frankenstein."
Frankenstein is a cultural icon, created by, but in many ways divorced from the original Karloff picture. While many viewers from 1974 would still remember Frankenstein from television viewings as youths, few people of my generation have ever actually seen the original. Part of the success of "Young Frankenstein" is that it is not simply a series of jokes based on a few original pictures, but is instead a successful stand-alone film in its own right.
Wilder's cinephilic screenplay is bolstered with gags by Mel Brooks, who was brought on more as a script editor than writer. The sheer nuance and sophistication of much of "Young Frankenstein's" humor is perfectly complemented by a range of "silly" jokes and sketches excellently acted out by the players.
Review by Brett Scieszka
Monday, March 21, 2005
Friday, March 18, 2005
Mystery of the Wax Museum / House of Wax
Michael Curtiz / Andre De Toth / Vincent Price
1933 / 1953
A great example of early non-Universal horror and depression era cinema, The Mystery of the Wax Museum is a two strip technicolor gem that satisfies on multiple levels. An obsessive wax sculptor, played expertly by Lionel Atwill and less so later by Vincent Price, begins to acquire human corpses by theft and murder to recreate a collection of figures that were lost in an insurance fraud fire. Hotheaded newshound Glenda Farrell needs a scoop for her unsatisfiable boss and begins to get wise to Atwill's little game.
The earlier version is far superior to the latter in terms of charm and entertainment value. Taking an "everything but the kitchen sink" approach Curtiz throws in various disparate elements to great effect. The comic quick-talk of Miss Farrell is worthy of His Girl Friday, the gruesome makeup worn by Atwill as well as the tawdry gothic plot set this film squarely in the horror section of the video store, throw in some signature Warner Bros fistfights and you've got an entertaining picture.
It seems kind of a shame that Fay Wray (RIP) got top female billing simply based on her dough-like vulnerability, ladylike scream and name, when Glenda Farrell definitely steals this show. Despite a head-scratcher of an ending where she forgoes the affections of a boozy yet handsome playboy for her dick boss, Farrell portrays a wonderful female role model in 1930's film.
The remake is disappointing in contrast to the original but not without some merit of its own. Vincent Price is a charismatic actor regarding of the role, and the lavish production design is excellent. However, the conservative treatment of plot and character can't compare to the risky qualities of the pre-code original.
Review by Brett Scieszka
1933 / 1953
A great example of early non-Universal horror and depression era cinema, The Mystery of the Wax Museum is a two strip technicolor gem that satisfies on multiple levels. An obsessive wax sculptor, played expertly by Lionel Atwill and less so later by Vincent Price, begins to acquire human corpses by theft and murder to recreate a collection of figures that were lost in an insurance fraud fire. Hotheaded newshound Glenda Farrell needs a scoop for her unsatisfiable boss and begins to get wise to Atwill's little game.
The earlier version is far superior to the latter in terms of charm and entertainment value. Taking an "everything but the kitchen sink" approach Curtiz throws in various disparate elements to great effect. The comic quick-talk of Miss Farrell is worthy of His Girl Friday, the gruesome makeup worn by Atwill as well as the tawdry gothic plot set this film squarely in the horror section of the video store, throw in some signature Warner Bros fistfights and you've got an entertaining picture.
It seems kind of a shame that Fay Wray (RIP) got top female billing simply based on her dough-like vulnerability, ladylike scream and name, when Glenda Farrell definitely steals this show. Despite a head-scratcher of an ending where she forgoes the affections of a boozy yet handsome playboy for her dick boss, Farrell portrays a wonderful female role model in 1930's film.
The remake is disappointing in contrast to the original but not without some merit of its own. Vincent Price is a charismatic actor regarding of the role, and the lavish production design is excellent. However, the conservative treatment of plot and character can't compare to the risky qualities of the pre-code original.
Review by Brett Scieszka
Monday, March 14, 2005
The Lady From Shanghai
Orson Welles
1947
Irish rogue Michael O'Hara gets more than he bargained for when he rescues a beautifully elegant Rita Hayworth in a Central Park mugging: he becomes an employee of her reptilian husband. The love triangle that ensues between the dame, the lawyer, and the blue collar brute is rarely about true emotions, and often about ulterior motives. The despicable power plays and schemes that follow are film noir hallmarks that trap every character in the film.
In Orson Welles' post-war, post Kane, pulp jaunt there are no more great adventures, no more maidens-fair, and the charming idle class has disappeared. Instead, these romantic notions have been replaced by high priced pleasure(less) cruises, trophy wives, and wealthy-come-bitter lawyers. The physical frailty, and profuse sweating of the jaded rich, contrast sharply with Welles' "Black Irish" Michael O'Hara. It seems semi ironic though seeing as how this hard drinking, hard living, salt of the earth type couldn't be farther from Welles' actual aristocratic upbringing if he was carrying a hobo bundle.
The pacing is painfully erratic, slicing the film into segments that don't fit together so nicely. However, there are a few key scenes in "The Lady From Shanghai" that are worth their weight in cinematic gold. Welles' shark speech for example, wonderfully conveys the lost state of the rich, and the double printing in the aquarium scene is beautiful in a ridiculous kind of way. Finally, the funhouse mirror showdown not only predicts the climax of "Enter the Dragon," but does it better and to greater effect. If there was ever a showdown, this is it.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
1947
Irish rogue Michael O'Hara gets more than he bargained for when he rescues a beautifully elegant Rita Hayworth in a Central Park mugging: he becomes an employee of her reptilian husband. The love triangle that ensues between the dame, the lawyer, and the blue collar brute is rarely about true emotions, and often about ulterior motives. The despicable power plays and schemes that follow are film noir hallmarks that trap every character in the film.
In Orson Welles' post-war, post Kane, pulp jaunt there are no more great adventures, no more maidens-fair, and the charming idle class has disappeared. Instead, these romantic notions have been replaced by high priced pleasure(less) cruises, trophy wives, and wealthy-come-bitter lawyers. The physical frailty, and profuse sweating of the jaded rich, contrast sharply with Welles' "Black Irish" Michael O'Hara. It seems semi ironic though seeing as how this hard drinking, hard living, salt of the earth type couldn't be farther from Welles' actual aristocratic upbringing if he was carrying a hobo bundle.
The pacing is painfully erratic, slicing the film into segments that don't fit together so nicely. However, there are a few key scenes in "The Lady From Shanghai" that are worth their weight in cinematic gold. Welles' shark speech for example, wonderfully conveys the lost state of the rich, and the double printing in the aquarium scene is beautiful in a ridiculous kind of way. Finally, the funhouse mirror showdown not only predicts the climax of "Enter the Dragon," but does it better and to greater effect. If there was ever a showdown, this is it.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Wild At Heart
David Lynch
1990
Its not exactly like I've ever seen a bad David Lynch film, but I do think "Wild At Heart" may be his weakest. Lynch excels at displaying the seedy underbelly of a supposedly civilized society, and the subsequent consequences that come with unmasking . Each time the rock is turned over we are witness to the hidden vagaries of human nature. "Twin Peaks" and "Blue Velvet" showed a Pandora's box of depraved activity hidden just beneath the surface of suburban middle America, while "Mulholland Drive" illuminated the rotten-core nightmare of Hollywood's elite. Perhaps the biggest failure of 1990's Palme d'Or winner is that Lynch presents us a world where the characters are no good from the get go.
The story seems simple enough, Lula and Sailor are in love, but the little lady's mother does not approve the rough-edged beau. Of course Mom can't exactly control the whims of her daughter's heart so she puts a contract on Sailor's head. Meanwhile, Sailor breaks his parole by crossing state lines with Lula in tow. Thus Lynch gives us two young lovers, wild by nature, let loose in a dangerous and often senselessly violent world.
This freakshow of white-trash rape victims, snake skin bedecked Elivs impersonators, (literally) filthy mouthed ex-marines, and serial killers is pure pulp fantasy, low on subtlety and high on madness. Lynch's signature directorial style is at work, albeit more exaggerated, lending the film an air of high melodrama and kitsch. Its still a good picture, but the classic Lynchian moral contrast is painfully apparent.
One thing's for sure though: Nicolas Cage can dance like a madman.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
1990
Its not exactly like I've ever seen a bad David Lynch film, but I do think "Wild At Heart" may be his weakest. Lynch excels at displaying the seedy underbelly of a supposedly civilized society, and the subsequent consequences that come with unmasking . Each time the rock is turned over we are witness to the hidden vagaries of human nature. "Twin Peaks" and "Blue Velvet" showed a Pandora's box of depraved activity hidden just beneath the surface of suburban middle America, while "Mulholland Drive" illuminated the rotten-core nightmare of Hollywood's elite. Perhaps the biggest failure of 1990's Palme d'Or winner is that Lynch presents us a world where the characters are no good from the get go.
The story seems simple enough, Lula and Sailor are in love, but the little lady's mother does not approve the rough-edged beau. Of course Mom can't exactly control the whims of her daughter's heart so she puts a contract on Sailor's head. Meanwhile, Sailor breaks his parole by crossing state lines with Lula in tow. Thus Lynch gives us two young lovers, wild by nature, let loose in a dangerous and often senselessly violent world.
This freakshow of white-trash rape victims, snake skin bedecked Elivs impersonators, (literally) filthy mouthed ex-marines, and serial killers is pure pulp fantasy, low on subtlety and high on madness. Lynch's signature directorial style is at work, albeit more exaggerated, lending the film an air of high melodrama and kitsch. Its still a good picture, but the classic Lynchian moral contrast is painfully apparent.
One thing's for sure though: Nicolas Cage can dance like a madman.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Song of the South
Harve Foster / Wilfred Jackson (Walt Disney)
1946
Its a shame that the only way to get your hands on a copy of this movie is to buy a Japanese laserdisc version on Ebay. Its an even bigger shame that this movie will probably never be re-released.
Despite a more positive depiction of African Americans than any film to appear pre-1960 the implicit fact that the black characters are slaves makes it as untouchable as a snake covered in thorns that spits out scorpions that spit out plague carrying fleas.
Little Bobby Driscoll is taken away from the city to live with his mother on Grandma's plantation. Daddy takes off, in an effort to support his family, leaving Bobby D fatherless. This is a kid at a tender age who is left with no playmates, save for a couple slack-jawed hick children who are more concerned with tearing his fancy-boy collar than to make nice. Things start looking up however when he meets elderly Uncle Remus, possibly Disney's most lovable character ever. Fuck Samuel L. Jackson in the "Shaft" remake, I want a black role model who reminds me of Santa Clause and uses his superior intellect to teach me life lessons. I dare Denzel Washington try a role where he has to be half as charismatic as Remus. Mom provides a great G-rated villain in her cluelessness at what is best for an 8 year old boy, favoring the Southern Belle school of mothering which is more concerned with dressing children in red velvet sailor suits than concerning themselves with emotional well being. Its not that she's a bad guy by any means, but WIll Smith put it best when he said "parents just don't understand."
The animated sequences are a bit weak. The aesthetic seems way more Warner Bros than Disney, and watching a wholesome Brer Rabbit use his wits to evade various predicaments instead of Bugs Bunny's madcap lunacy doesn't seem to gel. The film's real triumph is its live action performances. Driscoll and Ginny (Luana Patten) are possibly the most adorable kids to grace the screen, and James Baskett's Uncle Remus is one for the ages. First black Oscar winner Hattie McDaniel also appears in a memorable role.
I'm as liberal as the next guy, but when political correctness prevents people from looking at questionable material with an open mind, knee-jerk politics have gone too far.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
1946
Its a shame that the only way to get your hands on a copy of this movie is to buy a Japanese laserdisc version on Ebay. Its an even bigger shame that this movie will probably never be re-released.
Despite a more positive depiction of African Americans than any film to appear pre-1960 the implicit fact that the black characters are slaves makes it as untouchable as a snake covered in thorns that spits out scorpions that spit out plague carrying fleas.
Little Bobby Driscoll is taken away from the city to live with his mother on Grandma's plantation. Daddy takes off, in an effort to support his family, leaving Bobby D fatherless. This is a kid at a tender age who is left with no playmates, save for a couple slack-jawed hick children who are more concerned with tearing his fancy-boy collar than to make nice. Things start looking up however when he meets elderly Uncle Remus, possibly Disney's most lovable character ever. Fuck Samuel L. Jackson in the "Shaft" remake, I want a black role model who reminds me of Santa Clause and uses his superior intellect to teach me life lessons. I dare Denzel Washington try a role where he has to be half as charismatic as Remus. Mom provides a great G-rated villain in her cluelessness at what is best for an 8 year old boy, favoring the Southern Belle school of mothering which is more concerned with dressing children in red velvet sailor suits than concerning themselves with emotional well being. Its not that she's a bad guy by any means, but WIll Smith put it best when he said "parents just don't understand."
The animated sequences are a bit weak. The aesthetic seems way more Warner Bros than Disney, and watching a wholesome Brer Rabbit use his wits to evade various predicaments instead of Bugs Bunny's madcap lunacy doesn't seem to gel. The film's real triumph is its live action performances. Driscoll and Ginny (Luana Patten) are possibly the most adorable kids to grace the screen, and James Baskett's Uncle Remus is one for the ages. First black Oscar winner Hattie McDaniel also appears in a memorable role.
I'm as liberal as the next guy, but when political correctness prevents people from looking at questionable material with an open mind, knee-jerk politics have gone too far.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Shaolin Master Killer
Chia-Liang Liu (Shaw Bros Studios)
1978
Solid Kung-Fu flick. Lots of sweet fight scenes and some especially sweet training scenes. Without the Shaw Bros the RZA, GZA, Ghostface Killah and the rest of the Wu-Tang clan would still be selling drugs in the rugged lands of Shaolin, er, Staten Island.
There's a particularly sweet monk who fights with butterfly swords and the triple stick chain weapon that the master killer makes is equally sweet.
Sweet.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
1978
Solid Kung-Fu flick. Lots of sweet fight scenes and some especially sweet training scenes. Without the Shaw Bros the RZA, GZA, Ghostface Killah and the rest of the Wu-Tang clan would still be selling drugs in the rugged lands of Shaolin, er, Staten Island.
There's a particularly sweet monk who fights with butterfly swords and the triple stick chain weapon that the master killer makes is equally sweet.
Sweet.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Secret Honor
Robert Altman
1984
"Secret Honor", made during a lull in Altman's career in which he was at outs with much of the film community, is an account of a drunken and disgraced Lear-like Richard Nixon relating his defense into a tape recorder while waving a pistol. It would seem that absolutely nothing is gained from committing the stage play of the same name to film as the picture appears in almost every respect to be a simple filmed play.
Despite exquisite production design by Altman's son the overwhelming absence of an outside world stifles any kind of verism, and those four familiar walls never manage to become anything more than a set. Phillip Baker Hill's depiction of tricky Dick is overly theatrical, and the exaggeration in his characterization, while sympathetic, seems to undermine the fact that old RMN left us a very dark, very serious legacy.
The cartoon-characterization of the president is ham-fisted and the humor is far from subtle. I picture people who are still clinging to their Kerry-Edwards bumper stickers and wish they had the balls to smoke their kids' pot would find this film wildly entertaining.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
1984
"Secret Honor", made during a lull in Altman's career in which he was at outs with much of the film community, is an account of a drunken and disgraced Lear-like Richard Nixon relating his defense into a tape recorder while waving a pistol. It would seem that absolutely nothing is gained from committing the stage play of the same name to film as the picture appears in almost every respect to be a simple filmed play.
Despite exquisite production design by Altman's son the overwhelming absence of an outside world stifles any kind of verism, and those four familiar walls never manage to become anything more than a set. Phillip Baker Hill's depiction of tricky Dick is overly theatrical, and the exaggeration in his characterization, while sympathetic, seems to undermine the fact that old RMN left us a very dark, very serious legacy.
The cartoon-characterization of the president is ham-fisted and the humor is far from subtle. I picture people who are still clinging to their Kerry-Edwards bumper stickers and wish they had the balls to smoke their kids' pot would find this film wildly entertaining.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
The Unknown
Tod Browning
1927
Tod Browning's "Freaks" is the most popular example of the drunkard/director's fascination with the American sideshow and its grotesquerie, yet half a decade earlier (before the advent of talkies) Browning put pen to paper and film to camera to create gothic circus picture worthy of his bizarre tastes.
Lon Chaney plays "Alonzo the Armless," a man who earns his bread by chucking knives with his toes at rotating targets. Strapped around these bullseyes is slinky-slender Nanon (Joan Crawford), a seemingly perfect mol for Alonzo due to her bizarre fear of men's hands. Of course, Alonzo has two arms, two hands, and an extra third thumb to top it off. His charade, made possible by the aid of a wicked leather girdle, is one of necessity due to Alonzo's habit of murdering people (indeed, Nanon's oafish father becomes a victim). Because of his cursed arms, Alonzo is unable to wed Nanon so he finds a way to remove them surgically. While in recuperation his ladylove, with the aid of beefcake Malabar the Mighty, manages to overcome her handphobia, and thus leave old Alonzo totally fucked.
The gothic air and low-class life of the circus folk give the picture a leg up in the pulp dept. Plus the conscious choice of centering on a murderous anti-hero as protagonist makes the picture outwardly lurid. While Alonzo gets his deserved comeuppance, he is by far more sympathetic than Malabar, a doofus just asking to be a hate-magnet. If you were a lame-o in highschool who never got the girl and got beat up by alpha males then you probably shouldn't watch this movie, it'll piss you off.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
1927
Tod Browning's "Freaks" is the most popular example of the drunkard/director's fascination with the American sideshow and its grotesquerie, yet half a decade earlier (before the advent of talkies) Browning put pen to paper and film to camera to create gothic circus picture worthy of his bizarre tastes.
Lon Chaney plays "Alonzo the Armless," a man who earns his bread by chucking knives with his toes at rotating targets. Strapped around these bullseyes is slinky-slender Nanon (Joan Crawford), a seemingly perfect mol for Alonzo due to her bizarre fear of men's hands. Of course, Alonzo has two arms, two hands, and an extra third thumb to top it off. His charade, made possible by the aid of a wicked leather girdle, is one of necessity due to Alonzo's habit of murdering people (indeed, Nanon's oafish father becomes a victim). Because of his cursed arms, Alonzo is unable to wed Nanon so he finds a way to remove them surgically. While in recuperation his ladylove, with the aid of beefcake Malabar the Mighty, manages to overcome her handphobia, and thus leave old Alonzo totally fucked.
The gothic air and low-class life of the circus folk give the picture a leg up in the pulp dept. Plus the conscious choice of centering on a murderous anti-hero as protagonist makes the picture outwardly lurid. While Alonzo gets his deserved comeuppance, he is by far more sympathetic than Malabar, a doofus just asking to be a hate-magnet. If you were a lame-o in highschool who never got the girl and got beat up by alpha males then you probably shouldn't watch this movie, it'll piss you off.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Kandahar
Viewed: 9/14/04
Written: 9/14/04
Mohsen Makhmalbaf continues to uphold the cutting edge of the new Iranian cinema with his latest work Kandahar. Like many other Iranian movies Kandahar strongly features a loose plot structure, episodic documentary-like vignettes, and gorgeous landscape photography.
Iranian film snobs may not be as thrilled with Makhmalbaf’s latest effort as they would with something a little edgier or more poetic, but Kandahar’s great strength lies in the true-to-life struggles and battles of the people who live in and around Afghanistan’s borders. The plot is simple and engaging: Nafas, a Canadian citizen returns to her homeland to prevent her little sister from committing suicide after the last eclipse of the century. This loose, beat-the-clock structure provides a travel filled with several different encounters, all rooted in fact.
Unlike many films with a social conscience, Makhmalbaf does not throw misery and hardship in our face. Instead of being forced to look at what the camera shows us we are instead made curious and want to look along with it. Makhmalbaf’s tone, while compassionate, is never angry, and therefore pleasantly objective. Indeed, nearly half the characters Nafas meets on her way to Kandahar are bandits, hucksters, religious zealots, and dishonest thieves. One scene shows us the inside of a religious school that could be easily construed as an Al-Qaida training camp. As a young boy brandishes his Kalishikov AK-47 and recites a prayer we do not see him as evil, nor is he romantically portrayed religious warrior, we just see him as a hungry kid.
The first thing that comes to mind when I think of Iranian film is a strong visual sense: poetic and heartbreakingly beautiful images that build toward the story’s tone. While I was not blown away by Kandahar’s visuals there were several instances where Mokhmalbaf’s eye amazed me. Tow instances in particular: a group of amputees hobbling towards prostheses parachuted down by Red Cross planes, and a small army of fully burqa’d women traversing an empty landscape on their way to a wedding impressed me particularly. While the former image had an acheingly realistic feel, the latter seemed completely surreal as if the singing blankets would be just as reasonable on the moon or at the bottom of the ocean.
As far as timeliness is concerned, you can’t do much better than Makhmalbaf did with Kandahar. Filmed before 9-11 and then released at a time when most of America was trying to figure out what the hell Afghanistan was it gave us a first-hand account of what that part of the world is like. I kind of feel like Kandahar would be a good movie to rent when your feeling really “tuned in” on a lazy Sunday afternoon. You can pretend you’re doing something really intellectual and productive, but you’re really just enjoying the honest human moments of the film (which is what all good movies are anyway).
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Written: 9/14/04
Mohsen Makhmalbaf continues to uphold the cutting edge of the new Iranian cinema with his latest work Kandahar. Like many other Iranian movies Kandahar strongly features a loose plot structure, episodic documentary-like vignettes, and gorgeous landscape photography.
Iranian film snobs may not be as thrilled with Makhmalbaf’s latest effort as they would with something a little edgier or more poetic, but Kandahar’s great strength lies in the true-to-life struggles and battles of the people who live in and around Afghanistan’s borders. The plot is simple and engaging: Nafas, a Canadian citizen returns to her homeland to prevent her little sister from committing suicide after the last eclipse of the century. This loose, beat-the-clock structure provides a travel filled with several different encounters, all rooted in fact.
Unlike many films with a social conscience, Makhmalbaf does not throw misery and hardship in our face. Instead of being forced to look at what the camera shows us we are instead made curious and want to look along with it. Makhmalbaf’s tone, while compassionate, is never angry, and therefore pleasantly objective. Indeed, nearly half the characters Nafas meets on her way to Kandahar are bandits, hucksters, religious zealots, and dishonest thieves. One scene shows us the inside of a religious school that could be easily construed as an Al-Qaida training camp. As a young boy brandishes his Kalishikov AK-47 and recites a prayer we do not see him as evil, nor is he romantically portrayed religious warrior, we just see him as a hungry kid.
The first thing that comes to mind when I think of Iranian film is a strong visual sense: poetic and heartbreakingly beautiful images that build toward the story’s tone. While I was not blown away by Kandahar’s visuals there were several instances where Mokhmalbaf’s eye amazed me. Tow instances in particular: a group of amputees hobbling towards prostheses parachuted down by Red Cross planes, and a small army of fully burqa’d women traversing an empty landscape on their way to a wedding impressed me particularly. While the former image had an acheingly realistic feel, the latter seemed completely surreal as if the singing blankets would be just as reasonable on the moon or at the bottom of the ocean.
As far as timeliness is concerned, you can’t do much better than Makhmalbaf did with Kandahar. Filmed before 9-11 and then released at a time when most of America was trying to figure out what the hell Afghanistan was it gave us a first-hand account of what that part of the world is like. I kind of feel like Kandahar would be a good movie to rent when your feeling really “tuned in” on a lazy Sunday afternoon. You can pretend you’re doing something really intellectual and productive, but you’re really just enjoying the honest human moments of the film (which is what all good movies are anyway).
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Resident Evil: Apocalypse
Viewed: 9/12/04
Written: 9/12/04
I had pretty high expectations going into Resident Evil Apocalypse. Its predecessor was a solid zombie flick based on the wonderfully modern and groundbreaking storyline from the videogame. Thanks to the 80’s, George Romero’s nightmare attack of the living dead has turned into more of a goofball laugh along. Don’t get me wrong, I think Dead Alive and the Evil Dead series are masterpieces, but lately I’ve been praying for a serious zombie picture to devour the light hearted fare of Return of the Living Dead (no relation to Romero), and Re-Animator. Unfortunately for me, Apocalypse is by no means a solid film, not even living up to Resident Evil’s pleasant mediocrity.
The tragedy of the film lies in the fact that the Resident Evil premise (videogame, not movie) is so strong. The high profile and extremely powerful Umbrella Corporation, in its development of chemical weapons, has created a virus that reanimates dead cells. Of course all hell breaks loose as the best laid plans of mice and men are murdered and then risen from the grave when the T-Virus is accidentally let loose. Raccoon City, a brilliant portrayal of sleepy, small-town America ultimately pays the price for Umbrella’s tinkering in the form of a zombie holocaust.
Why the writer’s of the Resident Evil films decided to complicate the plotline is beyond me. If they had any sense at all they would stick to a plotline closer to the videogame, perhaps centered around S.T.A.R.S taskforce members, or around a plucky, determined heroine trying to find her brother amongst the carnage of Raccoon City.
Stylistically, Apocalypse is a disaster. Every MTV-era bell and whistle is put to use here. Remember that thing in Chungking Express that almost (almost) worked, where they slowed down the frame rate and everything became all choppy? Well its put to use here to mortifying effect, (I suppose) to illustrate the shambling, unnatural movement of zombies. The editing is also terrible, fluctuating between times and setpieces nonsensically. The quasi-futuristic industrial design of the Umbrella facilities, not to mention the foreign accents and attitudes of its management and employees are equally ridiculous, making the propaganda of corporate evil cartoonish and facile. The computer animated “lickers” are a joke as well. They just plain suck. A big problem with Apocalypse also is the trade in of decent exposition and story for quick, barely explained references to the videogame.
And I haven’t even mentioned Nemesis yet. A giant mutated moppet who was once Jovovich’s bud, gets fitted with a gatling gun and a rocket launcher and is tested on Raccoon City as Umbrella’s ultimate weapon. Think Andre the Giant in a Cenobite Halloween mask. I accept the whole mutated super-monster spiel as part and parcel of the Resident Evil storyline, but this is by no means a way to portray it.
I think Resident Evil: Apocalypse will be the end of this franchise. I can’t imagine a film this awful being profitable. However, I can’t help feeling a little sad about this. Resident Evil is a concept that has enormous potential to it, both as a story in its own right and as a symbol of hope for the serious zombie movie. Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later was a gesture of hope for the genre, but not really anything to write home about either. For now I’ll bide my time and endure the agony of waiting for a more adult zombie film. I’ll Enjoy Shaun of the Dead and tell you how good it is while secretly hoping that the producers of Resident Evil will offer me a shot at writing the third installment.
Until then…remember to aim for the head.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Written: 9/12/04
I had pretty high expectations going into Resident Evil Apocalypse. Its predecessor was a solid zombie flick based on the wonderfully modern and groundbreaking storyline from the videogame. Thanks to the 80’s, George Romero’s nightmare attack of the living dead has turned into more of a goofball laugh along. Don’t get me wrong, I think Dead Alive and the Evil Dead series are masterpieces, but lately I’ve been praying for a serious zombie picture to devour the light hearted fare of Return of the Living Dead (no relation to Romero), and Re-Animator. Unfortunately for me, Apocalypse is by no means a solid film, not even living up to Resident Evil’s pleasant mediocrity.
The tragedy of the film lies in the fact that the Resident Evil premise (videogame, not movie) is so strong. The high profile and extremely powerful Umbrella Corporation, in its development of chemical weapons, has created a virus that reanimates dead cells. Of course all hell breaks loose as the best laid plans of mice and men are murdered and then risen from the grave when the T-Virus is accidentally let loose. Raccoon City, a brilliant portrayal of sleepy, small-town America ultimately pays the price for Umbrella’s tinkering in the form of a zombie holocaust.
Why the writer’s of the Resident Evil films decided to complicate the plotline is beyond me. If they had any sense at all they would stick to a plotline closer to the videogame, perhaps centered around S.T.A.R.S taskforce members, or around a plucky, determined heroine trying to find her brother amongst the carnage of Raccoon City.
Stylistically, Apocalypse is a disaster. Every MTV-era bell and whistle is put to use here. Remember that thing in Chungking Express that almost (almost) worked, where they slowed down the frame rate and everything became all choppy? Well its put to use here to mortifying effect, (I suppose) to illustrate the shambling, unnatural movement of zombies. The editing is also terrible, fluctuating between times and setpieces nonsensically. The quasi-futuristic industrial design of the Umbrella facilities, not to mention the foreign accents and attitudes of its management and employees are equally ridiculous, making the propaganda of corporate evil cartoonish and facile. The computer animated “lickers” are a joke as well. They just plain suck. A big problem with Apocalypse also is the trade in of decent exposition and story for quick, barely explained references to the videogame.
And I haven’t even mentioned Nemesis yet. A giant mutated moppet who was once Jovovich’s bud, gets fitted with a gatling gun and a rocket launcher and is tested on Raccoon City as Umbrella’s ultimate weapon. Think Andre the Giant in a Cenobite Halloween mask. I accept the whole mutated super-monster spiel as part and parcel of the Resident Evil storyline, but this is by no means a way to portray it.
I think Resident Evil: Apocalypse will be the end of this franchise. I can’t imagine a film this awful being profitable. However, I can’t help feeling a little sad about this. Resident Evil is a concept that has enormous potential to it, both as a story in its own right and as a symbol of hope for the serious zombie movie. Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later was a gesture of hope for the genre, but not really anything to write home about either. For now I’ll bide my time and endure the agony of waiting for a more adult zombie film. I’ll Enjoy Shaun of the Dead and tell you how good it is while secretly hoping that the producers of Resident Evil will offer me a shot at writing the third installment.
Until then…remember to aim for the head.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Napoleon Dynamite
Viewed 7/3/4
Written 7/12/4
Jared Hess’ overly comical look at high school loserdom and exaggerated vision of lower class middle America, suggests two things: A.) While Hess may have been an angsty, alienated student he still operated and interacted with a depth far superior to that of the nearly-retarded Napoleon and B.) Hess did not live in an underprivileged home. This creates a bit of a conundrum for the film seeing as Napoleon and his miscreant friends are meant to be a downtrodden-yet-noble, identifiable-yet-laughable group of rejects. In writing this I can already name (I won’t) several students from my own pre-college academic life that spring to mind while watching Pedro, Napoleon, and Deb. These are people that at the same time I felt sorry for, liked, and picked on (One of which was said to have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich stuck to the wall of his squalid living room). The end result is a juvenile and simplistic look at young-adulthood, an adult director working through the locus of his middle school self.
In fact, only thing Hess and Napoleon Dynamite have in common is the desire to be liked and accepted. Napoleon would love to be liked and popular or get chicks (with his “skills”) and Hess wants desperately to be ranked among the likes of Wes Anderson, Harmony Korine, and Todd Solondz. I think it’ll be more likely to see Napoleon Dynamite on a midnight movie bill alongside Supertroopers and Wet Hot American Summer than on critics’ lists with Rushmore and Welcome to the Dollhouse.
But let’s get real here: Napoleon Dynamite has very little, if anything, to do with plot, character, or human emotions. It is a film about things and quirks. Jared Hess clearly puts his all into the production design of the film. His effort to re-create a fantasy version of the late 80s to mid 90s creates a far more appealing brass ring than say, interesting or realistic challenges or problems. From the opening credits, presented in a sequence of a series of unappetizing and low-class food items, to the small mid-west affectations that many people of my generation have grown up with, to the pat nerd-dances-cool-and-earns-approval ending we are proven that if a Meade Trapper-Keeper could be a lead than Hess would have it made.
Despite the fact that Napoleon Dynamite misses the mark a bit in terms of sincerity, identity, and let’s face it, humanity, it is hilarious nevertheless. Basically every time Napoleon (Jon Heder) delivered a line I laughed more heartily and honestly than I do for most of my favorite comedies. While unsubtle acting magnifies the shallow nature of the film the dialogue and delivery redeem it. Think of it in terms of your funniest friend doing the funniest imitation in the funniest voice ever
After all, its not important that Napoleon’s date Trisha callously ditches him at the dance: instead it is important that Napoleon stuffs a mouthful of Big League Chew (blast from the past!) and later swallows it while wearing his awkward, yet pseudo-vintage-chic formal wear.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Written 7/12/4
Jared Hess’ overly comical look at high school loserdom and exaggerated vision of lower class middle America, suggests two things: A.) While Hess may have been an angsty, alienated student he still operated and interacted with a depth far superior to that of the nearly-retarded Napoleon and B.) Hess did not live in an underprivileged home. This creates a bit of a conundrum for the film seeing as Napoleon and his miscreant friends are meant to be a downtrodden-yet-noble, identifiable-yet-laughable group of rejects. In writing this I can already name (I won’t) several students from my own pre-college academic life that spring to mind while watching Pedro, Napoleon, and Deb. These are people that at the same time I felt sorry for, liked, and picked on (One of which was said to have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich stuck to the wall of his squalid living room). The end result is a juvenile and simplistic look at young-adulthood, an adult director working through the locus of his middle school self.
In fact, only thing Hess and Napoleon Dynamite have in common is the desire to be liked and accepted. Napoleon would love to be liked and popular or get chicks (with his “skills”) and Hess wants desperately to be ranked among the likes of Wes Anderson, Harmony Korine, and Todd Solondz. I think it’ll be more likely to see Napoleon Dynamite on a midnight movie bill alongside Supertroopers and Wet Hot American Summer than on critics’ lists with Rushmore and Welcome to the Dollhouse.
But let’s get real here: Napoleon Dynamite has very little, if anything, to do with plot, character, or human emotions. It is a film about things and quirks. Jared Hess clearly puts his all into the production design of the film. His effort to re-create a fantasy version of the late 80s to mid 90s creates a far more appealing brass ring than say, interesting or realistic challenges or problems. From the opening credits, presented in a sequence of a series of unappetizing and low-class food items, to the small mid-west affectations that many people of my generation have grown up with, to the pat nerd-dances-cool-and-earns-approval ending we are proven that if a Meade Trapper-Keeper could be a lead than Hess would have it made.
Despite the fact that Napoleon Dynamite misses the mark a bit in terms of sincerity, identity, and let’s face it, humanity, it is hilarious nevertheless. Basically every time Napoleon (Jon Heder) delivered a line I laughed more heartily and honestly than I do for most of my favorite comedies. While unsubtle acting magnifies the shallow nature of the film the dialogue and delivery redeem it. Think of it in terms of your funniest friend doing the funniest imitation in the funniest voice ever
After all, its not important that Napoleon’s date Trisha callously ditches him at the dance: instead it is important that Napoleon stuffs a mouthful of Big League Chew (blast from the past!) and later swallows it while wearing his awkward, yet pseudo-vintage-chic formal wear.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
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