Larry Charles / Sacha Baron Cohen
2006
The high-buzz big-screen translation of Sacha Cohen's most popular character comes off a bit too hokey, and much less effectively than its boob-tube beginnings. Here, the ersatz Kazakh may be reaching a wider audience (emphasis on the "may"), but in return Cohen gives up a good cut of laughs in exchange for a fluffy road story with a lot of superfluous filler. Essentially the film boils down to a season of "Da Ali G Show's" Borat segments padded with a hasty, insincere, rigidly-structured plotting. Through it all the Borat character is played true to form, and there's plenty of good, familiar laughs here, but the forced nature of the writing and direction disappoint when compared to the nimble and concise television version.
The filmmakers opt for a more digestible mockumentary style that broadly personalizes Borat, giving him accessible emotions, and an absurdly specific quest: to track down and marry Pamela (Pam-ay-la) Anderson, by force if necessary. The picture would greatly benefit by taking the form it claims to - an informational documentary about American culture for Kazakh viewers. Cohen is brilliant at victimizing his unwitting subjects through improvisation, but unfortunately meticulous scripting robs the film of much of its wit. Its a shame that Cohen is willing to take the piss out of some of his own jokes. Showing his Kazakh town (a weak visual portrayal at best) ruins all the dead-wife and prostitute-sister jokes that are staples of the act. Also, the use of a hired actress for Borat's working-girl love interest, and Pamela Anderson's complicity in the wedding sack gag is contrary to the core of Sacha Cohen's comedy. Borat's usually hilarious interviews are clipped and shortened, rarely giving time for the brutally uncomfortable faux pas to set in.
The only advantage the film has over the show is the inclusion of Borat's "producer" Azamat, a perfectly cast and costumed squat penguin man who manages to rub his naked hairy ass and scrotum on Borat's face (Kazakh wrestling!) before the film's end. Also, the scene where a hitchhiking Borat is picked up by drunk, racist, chauvinist, frat boys in a too-cramped RV is as good and as classic as anything from the TV series.
I've always been under the impression that a motion picture version of a successful comedy show should pull at least one gargantuan stunt to get butts in seats and sell tickets. There's no such moment here, and Borat's laughing all the way to the bank with the box office returns. I'm curious to see how Cohen's next movie (mit Bruno!) works out, but if this is any indication I'll stick to reruns on HBO.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Goke, Body Snatcher From Hell
Hajime Sato
1968
This neat little Japanese horror/sci-fi mishmash is apparently a favorite of pop-culture-junkie loudmouth Quentin Tarantino. The film borrows heavily from Don Siegel's "Invasion of the Body Snatchers," with a stock vampire flavor, and most intriguingly, a Romero-esque take on human nature in crisis.
An orange spaceship flying through a strange red sky causes a commuter jet to crash in a craggy no man's land. One of the passengers, a white clad assassin by trade, becomes host to the gelatinous Gokemidoro, a murderous alien hellbent on annihilating the human race. Parasite and host begin to prey upon the crash survivors who are having a rough time getting along. The assortment of character types are a hoot: a corrupt politician, a morally bankrupt businessman and his trophy wife, a would-be terrorist youth, a psychologist, a professor, a grieving American widow, and the noble flight crew. Each character is unsubtly caricatured and melodramatically portrayed, easily falling victim to the survival instinct of their Id. This makes for some pretty great moments.
There's not a lot of money up on the screen, but a one-two punch of clever filmmaking and decent special effects makes the film sufficiently creepy and fun. The photography's garish color palate complements exaggerated acting and slick aircraft models. Split heads, bodies drained of blood, and desiccated corpses mount in the waterless fever pitch of the crashed jet. Nothing is quiet or quaint here, as the passengers' predicament is highly politicized, mirroring the turbulent climate of the times. Political assassination, the Vietnam War, and the growing rift between classes are stuffed into a plane and smashed upon rocks. And of course, no Japanese sci-fi would be complete without its ubiquitous superstar the mushroom cloud, which makes its appearance here both onscreen and through metaphor in the film's apocalyptic finale.
The naive antiwar statement in cautionary-tale clothing makes a nice backdrop for all manner of bizarre and terrifying invaders, and for all independence days and wars between worlds, the Gokemidoro know its a little too late for us this time around.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
1968
This neat little Japanese horror/sci-fi mishmash is apparently a favorite of pop-culture-junkie loudmouth Quentin Tarantino. The film borrows heavily from Don Siegel's "Invasion of the Body Snatchers," with a stock vampire flavor, and most intriguingly, a Romero-esque take on human nature in crisis.
An orange spaceship flying through a strange red sky causes a commuter jet to crash in a craggy no man's land. One of the passengers, a white clad assassin by trade, becomes host to the gelatinous Gokemidoro, a murderous alien hellbent on annihilating the human race. Parasite and host begin to prey upon the crash survivors who are having a rough time getting along. The assortment of character types are a hoot: a corrupt politician, a morally bankrupt businessman and his trophy wife, a would-be terrorist youth, a psychologist, a professor, a grieving American widow, and the noble flight crew. Each character is unsubtly caricatured and melodramatically portrayed, easily falling victim to the survival instinct of their Id. This makes for some pretty great moments.
There's not a lot of money up on the screen, but a one-two punch of clever filmmaking and decent special effects makes the film sufficiently creepy and fun. The photography's garish color palate complements exaggerated acting and slick aircraft models. Split heads, bodies drained of blood, and desiccated corpses mount in the waterless fever pitch of the crashed jet. Nothing is quiet or quaint here, as the passengers' predicament is highly politicized, mirroring the turbulent climate of the times. Political assassination, the Vietnam War, and the growing rift between classes are stuffed into a plane and smashed upon rocks. And of course, no Japanese sci-fi would be complete without its ubiquitous superstar the mushroom cloud, which makes its appearance here both onscreen and through metaphor in the film's apocalyptic finale.
The naive antiwar statement in cautionary-tale clothing makes a nice backdrop for all manner of bizarre and terrifying invaders, and for all independence days and wars between worlds, the Gokemidoro know its a little too late for us this time around.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Old Joy
Kelly Reichardt
2006
Kelly Reichardt isn't exactly a new voice in American independent cinema per se, but hopefully her latest picture, "Old Joy," will edge her further into the spotlight. This latest offering is a simple meditation on the exact point of a friendship's organic disintegration in the vacuum of an isolated weekend getaway.
Expecting father Mark (Daniel London) gets a call from out-there buddy Kurt (memorably but over-comically played by musician Will Oldham), who wants to know if he'd be interested in hitting up some hidden hot springs in the mountains. After an awkward exchange with third-trimester wife Tanya, Mark sets off in the family station wagon to meet Kurt. What follows is a minor journey between two men, contemplative and reflective, but far from serene. It slowly emerges that Mark and Kurt are a pair of puzzle pieces that no longer fit: seemingly hippy-calm Kurt is an aimlessly drifting bundle of anxieties, while grownup Mark bought into square society a long ways back.
Oddly enough, borders and confinement crop up frequently in a movie that spends much of its time outdoors. The confinement of the car provides an inescapable forum for bouts of uncomfortable catch-up and chitchat. Mark focuses on the road while Kurt regresses into himself with puffs off a weed pipe. The austere scenery is frequently focused on, but is perpetually passing, and one can palpably feel a yearning to reverse this inside-looking-out view. When the two camp out for the night they are just as confined within the low light of the bonfire and a tight camera frame. Finally at the springs, they break from each other and cocoon themselves in separate bathing tubs. The closeness and confrontation of the trip provides no jarring change or concrete resolve, just the solemn, mostly wordless, and bittersweet parting of friends no longer able to connect,
The performances are physically spot-on, and while Oldham and London tune in perfectly to the film's desired tone, delivered lines feel woefully scripted throughout the first half of the picture. Much like its subjects the film is bristling with honesty and control, and only slips when a beer-buzzed Kurt breaks the social contract by verbally lamenting the dissolving friendship. The soundtrack by Yo La Tengo is an unexpected treat, and easily the best film score I've heard in awhile. The steady, free-spirited guitar and gentle drumming provide an integral and life giving heartbeat that tends to provide a reflective segue way between key scenes. Being an ex Yo La Tengo fan I feel a bit embarrassed that I never saw the band's potential for film music.
While Kurt and Mark's relationship is clearly the focus of the film, the two supporting ladies leave powerful imprints, and have a strong, if ethereal hand in shaping it. Wife Tanya has only a few minutes of sreen time and a brief handful of lines, but her quasi- disapproving attitude and semi-nagging presence bind Mark in a way that is completely alien to Kurt's sensibilities. Her cellphone presence is Yoko Ono intrusive, not in an overtly vulgar sense, but as concrete proof of how far gone Mark is. The second lady, Mark's fabulously photogenic canine Lucy, comes along for the ride. Her reciprocated affections towards Kurt provide a subtle layer of tension. Wayward Kurt gets to goof off and play with Lucy, while sensible Mark is burdened with actuality of owning her and dealing with her "separation anxiety" as she barks from the unattended auto.
"Old Joy" really succeeds in its combination of performance, photography, and tone. Its a subtle mood piece that lingers with, and haunts you for awhile after viewing. Unspoken communication has rarely felt this intense on screen, and I think everyone can relate to the to the sad reality of drifting away from a once loved friend. Its this universal factor of human experience, realistically played to the hilt, that is the triumph of "Old Joy."
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
2006
Kelly Reichardt isn't exactly a new voice in American independent cinema per se, but hopefully her latest picture, "Old Joy," will edge her further into the spotlight. This latest offering is a simple meditation on the exact point of a friendship's organic disintegration in the vacuum of an isolated weekend getaway.
Expecting father Mark (Daniel London) gets a call from out-there buddy Kurt (memorably but over-comically played by musician Will Oldham), who wants to know if he'd be interested in hitting up some hidden hot springs in the mountains. After an awkward exchange with third-trimester wife Tanya, Mark sets off in the family station wagon to meet Kurt. What follows is a minor journey between two men, contemplative and reflective, but far from serene. It slowly emerges that Mark and Kurt are a pair of puzzle pieces that no longer fit: seemingly hippy-calm Kurt is an aimlessly drifting bundle of anxieties, while grownup Mark bought into square society a long ways back.
Oddly enough, borders and confinement crop up frequently in a movie that spends much of its time outdoors. The confinement of the car provides an inescapable forum for bouts of uncomfortable catch-up and chitchat. Mark focuses on the road while Kurt regresses into himself with puffs off a weed pipe. The austere scenery is frequently focused on, but is perpetually passing, and one can palpably feel a yearning to reverse this inside-looking-out view. When the two camp out for the night they are just as confined within the low light of the bonfire and a tight camera frame. Finally at the springs, they break from each other and cocoon themselves in separate bathing tubs. The closeness and confrontation of the trip provides no jarring change or concrete resolve, just the solemn, mostly wordless, and bittersweet parting of friends no longer able to connect,
The performances are physically spot-on, and while Oldham and London tune in perfectly to the film's desired tone, delivered lines feel woefully scripted throughout the first half of the picture. Much like its subjects the film is bristling with honesty and control, and only slips when a beer-buzzed Kurt breaks the social contract by verbally lamenting the dissolving friendship. The soundtrack by Yo La Tengo is an unexpected treat, and easily the best film score I've heard in awhile. The steady, free-spirited guitar and gentle drumming provide an integral and life giving heartbeat that tends to provide a reflective segue way between key scenes. Being an ex Yo La Tengo fan I feel a bit embarrassed that I never saw the band's potential for film music.
While Kurt and Mark's relationship is clearly the focus of the film, the two supporting ladies leave powerful imprints, and have a strong, if ethereal hand in shaping it. Wife Tanya has only a few minutes of sreen time and a brief handful of lines, but her quasi- disapproving attitude and semi-nagging presence bind Mark in a way that is completely alien to Kurt's sensibilities. Her cellphone presence is Yoko Ono intrusive, not in an overtly vulgar sense, but as concrete proof of how far gone Mark is. The second lady, Mark's fabulously photogenic canine Lucy, comes along for the ride. Her reciprocated affections towards Kurt provide a subtle layer of tension. Wayward Kurt gets to goof off and play with Lucy, while sensible Mark is burdened with actuality of owning her and dealing with her "separation anxiety" as she barks from the unattended auto.
"Old Joy" really succeeds in its combination of performance, photography, and tone. Its a subtle mood piece that lingers with, and haunts you for awhile after viewing. Unspoken communication has rarely felt this intense on screen, and I think everyone can relate to the to the sad reality of drifting away from a once loved friend. Its this universal factor of human experience, realistically played to the hilt, that is the triumph of "Old Joy."
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Cache
Michael Haneke
2005
Its been a fairly terrible year for art-house movies thus far, and as far as I'm concerned the only really exciting cinema (besides the excellent "Wassup Rockers") has been pure genre. Therefore, I find it somewhat ironic that Haneke's latest stateside fare has a pervasive genre feel to it. This horror-tinged meditation on guilt and victimization benefits from an excellent pared-down cast, and thoughtful, deliberate visual direction.
Fancy-pants intellectual talk show host Georges Laurent (played by gallic perennial Daniel Auteuil), his book publishing wife Anne (Juliette Binoche!) and pubescent son are intimidated and threatened by a series of videocassettes showing a fixed frame of the Laurent house, complete with all the comings and goings of the family. The ante is upped to creepsville when graphically violent kid's drawings start accompanying the tapes, as well as footage of Georges childhood home. Through these drawings, tapes, and his own anxious nightmares Georges is forced to confront his relationship with a pseudo-adopted brother from his salad days, now a sadsack schlub who vehemently denies any relation to the Laurent family's misery.
Despite being a darling of the global film community, Haneke doesn't always hit the mark. With the utterly superfluous "Code Unknown" and the irritating genital-mutilating sensationalism of "The Piano Teacher" I had pretty much given up on this ex-pat Wunderkraut. However, Haneke's auteurist tendencies do wonders for this film, which is in essence, an incredibly basic stock horror story. The technical aspects of the film are praise worthy: great photography and editing really drive the story and compound the introspective quality the performances take on.
Auteuil does a superb job of conveying anxiety and dread, and as the skeletons begin leaping from the proverbially closet they leave lasting impressions on Laurent's face throughout the film's latter half. A nervous, and confrontational Georges begins to emerge and his caustic denial of guilt shifts sympathy towards the targets of his frustation. Often, Georges' frustration with prime suspect Majid, and his own wife is ugly and disconcerting.
This mystery manages to be wildly captivating and suspenseful. A prolonged scene involving a rooster beheading perfectly embodies childhood trauma, and no amount of forewarning can prepare the viewer for the wickedly graphic razor setpiece. This latter example is an apex that answers no questions and leaves the film to its unresolved nature, an ultimately melancholy and unsatisfying proposition. The last few long shots, an elegiac coda, remind us all of our own unresolved guilts waiting for us beneath the bedsheets
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
2005
Its been a fairly terrible year for art-house movies thus far, and as far as I'm concerned the only really exciting cinema (besides the excellent "Wassup Rockers") has been pure genre. Therefore, I find it somewhat ironic that Haneke's latest stateside fare has a pervasive genre feel to it. This horror-tinged meditation on guilt and victimization benefits from an excellent pared-down cast, and thoughtful, deliberate visual direction.
Fancy-pants intellectual talk show host Georges Laurent (played by gallic perennial Daniel Auteuil), his book publishing wife Anne (Juliette Binoche!) and pubescent son are intimidated and threatened by a series of videocassettes showing a fixed frame of the Laurent house, complete with all the comings and goings of the family. The ante is upped to creepsville when graphically violent kid's drawings start accompanying the tapes, as well as footage of Georges childhood home. Through these drawings, tapes, and his own anxious nightmares Georges is forced to confront his relationship with a pseudo-adopted brother from his salad days, now a sadsack schlub who vehemently denies any relation to the Laurent family's misery.
Despite being a darling of the global film community, Haneke doesn't always hit the mark. With the utterly superfluous "Code Unknown" and the irritating genital-mutilating sensationalism of "The Piano Teacher" I had pretty much given up on this ex-pat Wunderkraut. However, Haneke's auteurist tendencies do wonders for this film, which is in essence, an incredibly basic stock horror story. The technical aspects of the film are praise worthy: great photography and editing really drive the story and compound the introspective quality the performances take on.
Auteuil does a superb job of conveying anxiety and dread, and as the skeletons begin leaping from the proverbially closet they leave lasting impressions on Laurent's face throughout the film's latter half. A nervous, and confrontational Georges begins to emerge and his caustic denial of guilt shifts sympathy towards the targets of his frustation. Often, Georges' frustration with prime suspect Majid, and his own wife is ugly and disconcerting.
This mystery manages to be wildly captivating and suspenseful. A prolonged scene involving a rooster beheading perfectly embodies childhood trauma, and no amount of forewarning can prepare the viewer for the wickedly graphic razor setpiece. This latter example is an apex that answers no questions and leaves the film to its unresolved nature, an ultimately melancholy and unsatisfying proposition. The last few long shots, an elegiac coda, remind us all of our own unresolved guilts waiting for us beneath the bedsheets
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Friday, September 01, 2006
House of Wax
Jaume Collet-Serra
2005
This film got a nice shot of hype due to Paris Hilton's shameless supporting role, but I think this kind of buzz may have negatively effected the film's release. Hilton's complete inability to act, coupled with her kitten-in-a-box level of cluelessness and exploited sexuality are genuinely cringe worthy - but enough with the all too easy dead-horse-beating that is Paris bashing - "House of Wax" is a surprisingly satisfying and genuinely rewarding horror movie.
The setup is straight stock - teens on the road in a rural area get massacred by completely nutzo locals. In this case the teens are on their way to a big football game and the wackjobs in question are twin brothers: one with a sadistic yen for "creative surgery," and the other, a talented wax-sculpture artist, who uses live unfortunates for models. Most of the action takes place in a classically desolate, creepy small-town complete with a wax museum literally made of the stuff.
There's some really good and creative slasher type violence here complemented by competent effects and makeups. The visceral horror elements are surprisingly hardcore and include but are not limited to: a finger severed with tinsnips, live third degree burn victims encased in wax, and an epically disgusting road kill pit that is brought so faithfully to the screen that it is physically nauseating to watch. Along with the stylized violence there's also a nice plot and story line that feels a little similar to Alexander Aja's remake of "The Hills Have Eyes." The complex backstory combination of mother-love, siamese twins, and macabre ghost town could easily become cheap sensationalism, or empty posturing, but is instead controlled and tamed to create a fine genre film.
On the downside, all the characters with the exception of the end survivors are dull and generally unsympathetic. There's also a lot of down time taken for exposition before the film kicks into gear, which feels like unnecessary dead air considering how unappealing these kids are. Also the quasi twist-ending, leaving the possibility of a sequel, seems like crass justification for a weak and underused plot point wasted earlier in the film.
The apocalyptic "Usher's House" climax is definitely worth a viewing. Its also important to note that this is not a remake of the 1953 Vincent Price movie of the same name. There's a few influences and references here and there but for the most part this is a completely different animal. Its a highly recommended film especially because I doubt many people have actually seen it.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
2005
This film got a nice shot of hype due to Paris Hilton's shameless supporting role, but I think this kind of buzz may have negatively effected the film's release. Hilton's complete inability to act, coupled with her kitten-in-a-box level of cluelessness and exploited sexuality are genuinely cringe worthy - but enough with the all too easy dead-horse-beating that is Paris bashing - "House of Wax" is a surprisingly satisfying and genuinely rewarding horror movie.
The setup is straight stock - teens on the road in a rural area get massacred by completely nutzo locals. In this case the teens are on their way to a big football game and the wackjobs in question are twin brothers: one with a sadistic yen for "creative surgery," and the other, a talented wax-sculpture artist, who uses live unfortunates for models. Most of the action takes place in a classically desolate, creepy small-town complete with a wax museum literally made of the stuff.
There's some really good and creative slasher type violence here complemented by competent effects and makeups. The visceral horror elements are surprisingly hardcore and include but are not limited to: a finger severed with tinsnips, live third degree burn victims encased in wax, and an epically disgusting road kill pit that is brought so faithfully to the screen that it is physically nauseating to watch. Along with the stylized violence there's also a nice plot and story line that feels a little similar to Alexander Aja's remake of "The Hills Have Eyes." The complex backstory combination of mother-love, siamese twins, and macabre ghost town could easily become cheap sensationalism, or empty posturing, but is instead controlled and tamed to create a fine genre film.
On the downside, all the characters with the exception of the end survivors are dull and generally unsympathetic. There's also a lot of down time taken for exposition before the film kicks into gear, which feels like unnecessary dead air considering how unappealing these kids are. Also the quasi twist-ending, leaving the possibility of a sequel, seems like crass justification for a weak and underused plot point wasted earlier in the film.
The apocalyptic "Usher's House" climax is definitely worth a viewing. Its also important to note that this is not a remake of the 1953 Vincent Price movie of the same name. There's a few influences and references here and there but for the most part this is a completely different animal. Its a highly recommended film especially because I doubt many people have actually seen it.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Snakes on a Plane
David R. Ellis
2006
As the dust settles from opening weekend, it comes as a bit of a disappointment that this B movie concept inflated to juggernaut size thanks to an obscene amount of hype, didn't irrevocably change the face of cinema. It wasn't even really a 'quality' movie as camp-wary director David R. Ellis posed. Thankfully Ellis is completely full shit and SOAP is the best cheesy, campy, good-bad picture you're likely to see rake in the dough this year.
After witnessing the baseball bat murder of his father by an asian ganglord (check) an extreme sports enthusiast (check) agrees to testify under the protection of a no-nonsense, bad-assed FBI agent (check) hammed up wonderfully by Samuel L. Jackson. In an attempt to snuff the young witness ruthless Eddie Kim packs his Los Angeles bound plane with box after box of lethal viper, adder, and asp (check) upping the ante by driving them nuts with sexy smelling snake pheromone (check). At this point most people are pretty much either in or out.
Once loosed the snakes make a hell of an entrance by going straight for passenger genitals. From pissed-on dick snapping to a serpent-threesome fake breast nipple chomp the initial scares are played up splendidly for crowd reaction. Once every private part is accounted and encountered the film switches tone and turns the tide of adequately and ephemerally rendered CG snakes into an actual menace. Cornball stock characterizations (including, a doting rat-dog mother, a successful rap mogul and his entourage, two innocent white kids, a crass co-pilot, a chinese kickboxer, and a twinkle-toed male flight attendant) take over in their effort to stay alive.
In spite of the film's goofy/unique premise there's absolutely nothing new here. Its a familiar and highly comfortable string of comedy/aciton film tropes and for once it's actually a pleasure to see them. "Snakes on a Plane" will most likely be remembered as a novelty, but its a nice example of how Hollywood can have fun with genre, sit back and laugh at film conventions, and make money for a change.
Actually the film will probably be most remembered for a particularly lovely line of dialogue written specifically for Sam Jackson. Feel free to say it out loud.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
2006
As the dust settles from opening weekend, it comes as a bit of a disappointment that this B movie concept inflated to juggernaut size thanks to an obscene amount of hype, didn't irrevocably change the face of cinema. It wasn't even really a 'quality' movie as camp-wary director David R. Ellis posed. Thankfully Ellis is completely full shit and SOAP is the best cheesy, campy, good-bad picture you're likely to see rake in the dough this year.
After witnessing the baseball bat murder of his father by an asian ganglord (check) an extreme sports enthusiast (check) agrees to testify under the protection of a no-nonsense, bad-assed FBI agent (check) hammed up wonderfully by Samuel L. Jackson. In an attempt to snuff the young witness ruthless Eddie Kim packs his Los Angeles bound plane with box after box of lethal viper, adder, and asp (check) upping the ante by driving them nuts with sexy smelling snake pheromone (check). At this point most people are pretty much either in or out.
Once loosed the snakes make a hell of an entrance by going straight for passenger genitals. From pissed-on dick snapping to a serpent-threesome fake breast nipple chomp the initial scares are played up splendidly for crowd reaction. Once every private part is accounted and encountered the film switches tone and turns the tide of adequately and ephemerally rendered CG snakes into an actual menace. Cornball stock characterizations (including, a doting rat-dog mother, a successful rap mogul and his entourage, two innocent white kids, a crass co-pilot, a chinese kickboxer, and a twinkle-toed male flight attendant) take over in their effort to stay alive.
In spite of the film's goofy/unique premise there's absolutely nothing new here. Its a familiar and highly comfortable string of comedy/aciton film tropes and for once it's actually a pleasure to see them. "Snakes on a Plane" will most likely be remembered as a novelty, but its a nice example of how Hollywood can have fun with genre, sit back and laugh at film conventions, and make money for a change.
Actually the film will probably be most remembered for a particularly lovely line of dialogue written specifically for Sam Jackson. Feel free to say it out loud.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Just One of the Guys
Lisa Gottlieb
1985
This popcorn (pillow?) muncher is a nice little piece of 80's teen fluff, walking the line between the vacuous yet wish-fulfilling hijinks of Corey filled flicks like "License to Drive" and the sentimental, well-crafted tear-laughers of John Hughes.
Rich teen/suburbanite Terry Griffith (Joyce Hyser) busts her buns to nab the local paper's school sponsored internship but is rejected due to her dull cafeteria food-centric article. Convinced she's a victim of sexism, and exasperated by her obnoxious Ken-doll boyfriend, Terry vows to win the contest by attending another local high school in order to submit a fresh article - in the guise of a male student...
Terry deals with the trials and tribulations of her ballsy plot and attempts to adjust to being the new kid. Navigating the boys locker room, avoiding a weightlifting yet oddly feminine bully, and evading the advances of an in-heat coed (Twin Peaks' Sherilyn Fenn) are but of a few of the wacky ordeals in store. Terry ends up befriending a hunky loner (who looks to be in his late thirties despite playing a teen role), getting him a date for the prom, and then falling in love with him (of course). Let's not forget the great little brother character thrown in for good measure. I don't care how many 80's movies you've seen. You've never seen a hornier little brother character EVER.
Its particularly important to note that Hyser's "guy" impression is in no way convincing. While a baggy outfit, accessorized to the nines, hides her feminine figure, her goofy guy voice is simultaneously preposterous and amusing, giving the film a nice light quality. One of the film's most interesting facets is the near complete lack of parents. Terry and her beer swilling bro swim in the pool and eat pizza off the dining table as if the palatial California home's mortgage was theirs; Mom only calls to check in twice. Of course a lot of this is necessity, seeing as how its much more difficult to skip school for a week in drag with nagging, clueless parents around.
Amongst other delightfully tacky eightiesisms (the importance of a cool car and the fetishization of American Express) The ubiquitous presence of teen alcohol consumption is played to such a casual extent that its comical. Judging by this movie it would seem perfectly normal for an 80's teen to offer a pal a "brewski" after school. That's real teen wish fulfillment for you.
Aside from a few chuckles provided by period wardrobe and wooden acting "Just One of the Guys" never really finds its step. Often taking itself too seriously to be fun or sexy, and keeping the gender bending squarely in the PG ballpark while playing up other risque elements, the film seems to have severe identity issues. Terry isn't questioning her gender in any way, and any concept of sexism and male chauvinism is pretty much abandoned after the first 15 minutes. What's left is a fairly entertaining romantic comedy that oozes missed comic opportunity. There's also this disturbing bit where the little brother takes off his shirt to reveal a totally ripped, muscle sculpted body with an outie bellybutton. Ewww.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
1985
This popcorn (pillow?) muncher is a nice little piece of 80's teen fluff, walking the line between the vacuous yet wish-fulfilling hijinks of Corey filled flicks like "License to Drive" and the sentimental, well-crafted tear-laughers of John Hughes.
Rich teen/suburbanite Terry Griffith (Joyce Hyser) busts her buns to nab the local paper's school sponsored internship but is rejected due to her dull cafeteria food-centric article. Convinced she's a victim of sexism, and exasperated by her obnoxious Ken-doll boyfriend, Terry vows to win the contest by attending another local high school in order to submit a fresh article - in the guise of a male student...
Terry deals with the trials and tribulations of her ballsy plot and attempts to adjust to being the new kid. Navigating the boys locker room, avoiding a weightlifting yet oddly feminine bully, and evading the advances of an in-heat coed (Twin Peaks' Sherilyn Fenn) are but of a few of the wacky ordeals in store. Terry ends up befriending a hunky loner (who looks to be in his late thirties despite playing a teen role), getting him a date for the prom, and then falling in love with him (of course). Let's not forget the great little brother character thrown in for good measure. I don't care how many 80's movies you've seen. You've never seen a hornier little brother character EVER.
Its particularly important to note that Hyser's "guy" impression is in no way convincing. While a baggy outfit, accessorized to the nines, hides her feminine figure, her goofy guy voice is simultaneously preposterous and amusing, giving the film a nice light quality. One of the film's most interesting facets is the near complete lack of parents. Terry and her beer swilling bro swim in the pool and eat pizza off the dining table as if the palatial California home's mortgage was theirs; Mom only calls to check in twice. Of course a lot of this is necessity, seeing as how its much more difficult to skip school for a week in drag with nagging, clueless parents around.
Amongst other delightfully tacky eightiesisms (the importance of a cool car and the fetishization of American Express) The ubiquitous presence of teen alcohol consumption is played to such a casual extent that its comical. Judging by this movie it would seem perfectly normal for an 80's teen to offer a pal a "brewski" after school. That's real teen wish fulfillment for you.
Aside from a few chuckles provided by period wardrobe and wooden acting "Just One of the Guys" never really finds its step. Often taking itself too seriously to be fun or sexy, and keeping the gender bending squarely in the PG ballpark while playing up other risque elements, the film seems to have severe identity issues. Terry isn't questioning her gender in any way, and any concept of sexism and male chauvinism is pretty much abandoned after the first 15 minutes. What's left is a fairly entertaining romantic comedy that oozes missed comic opportunity. There's also this disturbing bit where the little brother takes off his shirt to reveal a totally ripped, muscle sculpted body with an outie bellybutton. Ewww.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Scoop
Woody Allen
2006
I'm sure it would make veteran director Woody Allen's teeth grind to hear this but moving his current productions to Britain has done wonders for his stagnating work. Not to knock "Curse of the Jade Scorpion" or even "Hollywood Ending," they are both cute and pleasant to watch, but sometimes it is easy to forget that this is the guy who made "Annie Hall," "Love and Death," and "Sleeper." These are the standards I think he should be held to, he's proven the talent after all.
"Scoop" brings us the story of ace reporter Joe Strombel (Ian McShane) who has just snagged what is arguably the biggest story of his already illustrious career, one involving murder, prostitution, and the House of Lords. Of course Joe happens to pick up this hot item postmortem, as he has recently died of coronary thrombosis and is on Charon's ferry crossing the river Styx. The good reporter won't be robbed of his story however and crosses over to give the tip-off to budding american journalist Sondra Pransky (Scarjo), while she is locked in the trick box of ham magician Splendini (Allen), real name Sid Waterman. Sondra and Sid become unlikely pals and slowly but surely start to unravel the case of the Tarot Card murderer who may or may not be aspiring politician and dashing aristocrat Peter Lyman (Hugh Jackman). Thanks to a thin and humorous ruse, Sondra (alias Jade Spence) becomes close to Peter and starts falling for him. This is proves to be quite the journalistic conflict of interest and not even the appeals of ghostly Joe Strombel can keep her out of Lord Fauntleroy's sack.
Along with "Match Point" this picture is as good as anything Allen's done since "Deconstructing Harry." Where New York's stuffy upper East side provided an appropriate background for his 70's and 80's films it seems that London's ultra stuffy high society gives Allen's scripts a breath of life in terms of modern perspective and locale. Its a milieu that suits his tastes and sensibilities, and tailors itself well to the script. The characters are solid with the exception of Splendini, who doesn't have quite enough personal quirks or affectations to set him apart from any other hackneyed stock role Allen writes for himself. Sondra Pransky is great for light comedy with her eyeglass-bound librarian sexual charisma, and enthusiastic innocence. Its always nice to see a starlet as bankable as Johansson take a less glamorous, even goofy role. Of course this isn't the case with Peter Lyman's upper-crust playboy which Jackman plays as sleek and unscuffed as pressed Gucci.
The biggest flaw here is the tiring relationship between Pransky and the magician. When the faux father/daugther duo aren't crashing countryside fetes to dig up clues their inane banter becomes incredibly repetitive and tiring. Its also notable that the story is very predictable, however its written and lensed so expertly that its less of a mystery to be figured out as much as a familiar story pleasantly enjoyed. As for the jokes, Allen's character only hits about one in three, but Johansson gets a much higher percentage due to her awkward and infectious geekiness. The sarcasm and borderline animosity between Pransky and Waterman is particularly delightful. Its always fun to see an old fogey crack jokes at youngster's expense.
This film is rough and imperfect, but a gem nonetheless. Perfect for die-hard Allen fans and worthwhile for newcomers (particularly dates). Keep an eye out for the casual filming of Charon's boat, its as visually and stylistically reminiscent of some of Allen's best 70's work. The stepdaughter-trysting bastard may be old as dirt, but he's certainly not dead yet.
Review By Brett A. Scieszka
2006
I'm sure it would make veteran director Woody Allen's teeth grind to hear this but moving his current productions to Britain has done wonders for his stagnating work. Not to knock "Curse of the Jade Scorpion" or even "Hollywood Ending," they are both cute and pleasant to watch, but sometimes it is easy to forget that this is the guy who made "Annie Hall," "Love and Death," and "Sleeper." These are the standards I think he should be held to, he's proven the talent after all.
"Scoop" brings us the story of ace reporter Joe Strombel (Ian McShane) who has just snagged what is arguably the biggest story of his already illustrious career, one involving murder, prostitution, and the House of Lords. Of course Joe happens to pick up this hot item postmortem, as he has recently died of coronary thrombosis and is on Charon's ferry crossing the river Styx. The good reporter won't be robbed of his story however and crosses over to give the tip-off to budding american journalist Sondra Pransky (Scarjo), while she is locked in the trick box of ham magician Splendini (Allen), real name Sid Waterman. Sondra and Sid become unlikely pals and slowly but surely start to unravel the case of the Tarot Card murderer who may or may not be aspiring politician and dashing aristocrat Peter Lyman (Hugh Jackman). Thanks to a thin and humorous ruse, Sondra (alias Jade Spence) becomes close to Peter and starts falling for him. This is proves to be quite the journalistic conflict of interest and not even the appeals of ghostly Joe Strombel can keep her out of Lord Fauntleroy's sack.
Along with "Match Point" this picture is as good as anything Allen's done since "Deconstructing Harry." Where New York's stuffy upper East side provided an appropriate background for his 70's and 80's films it seems that London's ultra stuffy high society gives Allen's scripts a breath of life in terms of modern perspective and locale. Its a milieu that suits his tastes and sensibilities, and tailors itself well to the script. The characters are solid with the exception of Splendini, who doesn't have quite enough personal quirks or affectations to set him apart from any other hackneyed stock role Allen writes for himself. Sondra Pransky is great for light comedy with her eyeglass-bound librarian sexual charisma, and enthusiastic innocence. Its always nice to see a starlet as bankable as Johansson take a less glamorous, even goofy role. Of course this isn't the case with Peter Lyman's upper-crust playboy which Jackman plays as sleek and unscuffed as pressed Gucci.
The biggest flaw here is the tiring relationship between Pransky and the magician. When the faux father/daugther duo aren't crashing countryside fetes to dig up clues their inane banter becomes incredibly repetitive and tiring. Its also notable that the story is very predictable, however its written and lensed so expertly that its less of a mystery to be figured out as much as a familiar story pleasantly enjoyed. As for the jokes, Allen's character only hits about one in three, but Johansson gets a much higher percentage due to her awkward and infectious geekiness. The sarcasm and borderline animosity between Pransky and Waterman is particularly delightful. Its always fun to see an old fogey crack jokes at youngster's expense.
This film is rough and imperfect, but a gem nonetheless. Perfect for die-hard Allen fans and worthwhile for newcomers (particularly dates). Keep an eye out for the casual filming of Charon's boat, its as visually and stylistically reminiscent of some of Allen's best 70's work. The stepdaughter-trysting bastard may be old as dirt, but he's certainly not dead yet.
Review By Brett A. Scieszka
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Graveyard of Honor
Kinji Fukusaku
1975
This barn-burner Jitsuroku (true account) flick is a manic four-minute-mile through the grimy bombed-out alleys of postwar Tokyo, and the sleazy smash-and-grab experience of a yakuza's tattooed life. At the center, real life gangster Rikio Ishikawa is played against type by Tetsuya Watari in an aviator-clad downward trajectory towards ignominy and the unyielding surface of the jailyard blacktop.
After a series of costly and violent faux-pas' against other families Rikio is tossed from Tokyo's yakuza network. Serving only one of his ten year banishment he returns from exile freshly hooked on smack. From here, its a jerky and prolonged ending for him and his prostitute-turned-geisha gal, Chieko. Not even an assassination attempt from the spurned bosses, or a few lengthy stints in prison can get rid of cockroach like Rikio who, is finally (mercifully) killed by his own hand after scrawling a farewell on his cell wall: "30 years of madness, what a laugh."
To say it is difficult to identify with the film's protagonist is modest in the extreme. Our hero is a man who rapes his future wife on the first date, and turns an angry blade to any hand offering aid. This extreme behavior leads to some excellent setpieces, particularly Rikio proving he's a "crazy motherfucker" by munching on the bones of his freshly cremated spouse. A tramp junkie with a hand-cannon provides some great moments as well, adding even more chaos to the shit-shit storm surrounding public enemy number one.
Fukusaku's visual sense is as unrelenting as his subject. Shaky cameras mix it up in both haphazard brawls (there's a lot of them), and topless, sake soaked, parties alike. There's a dizzy, canted-angle sense of frustration in the wake of the great war, that only the yakuza seem to profit from. Societal infrastructure only comes across in the forms of the Japanese police and occupying forces, who are painted just as corrupt as the yakuza, yet devoid of a sense of honor and propriety.
Rikio is the embodiment of Japan's postwar rage, masochistically lashing out against a fulfilled fate. While the gang bosses appear to be wise and benevolent bastions of power, they turn to flabbergasted children with Rikio's audacious defiance. This utter disregard and complete disrespect for any kind of authority (even the outsider/underworld variety) is the only way to come to grips with this knockabout gangster in a heroic light. This ultimate uncompromising individual, simultaneously worthy of our pity and disgust, gets his in the end. For all its downbeat subject matter "Graveyard of Honor" never really feels depressing, Fukusaku shoots like a candle alight at both ends, and the penultimate suicidal leap feels strangely like a triumph. What a laugh.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
1975
This barn-burner Jitsuroku (true account) flick is a manic four-minute-mile through the grimy bombed-out alleys of postwar Tokyo, and the sleazy smash-and-grab experience of a yakuza's tattooed life. At the center, real life gangster Rikio Ishikawa is played against type by Tetsuya Watari in an aviator-clad downward trajectory towards ignominy and the unyielding surface of the jailyard blacktop.
After a series of costly and violent faux-pas' against other families Rikio is tossed from Tokyo's yakuza network. Serving only one of his ten year banishment he returns from exile freshly hooked on smack. From here, its a jerky and prolonged ending for him and his prostitute-turned-geisha gal, Chieko. Not even an assassination attempt from the spurned bosses, or a few lengthy stints in prison can get rid of cockroach like Rikio who, is finally (mercifully) killed by his own hand after scrawling a farewell on his cell wall: "30 years of madness, what a laugh."
To say it is difficult to identify with the film's protagonist is modest in the extreme. Our hero is a man who rapes his future wife on the first date, and turns an angry blade to any hand offering aid. This extreme behavior leads to some excellent setpieces, particularly Rikio proving he's a "crazy motherfucker" by munching on the bones of his freshly cremated spouse. A tramp junkie with a hand-cannon provides some great moments as well, adding even more chaos to the shit-shit storm surrounding public enemy number one.
Fukusaku's visual sense is as unrelenting as his subject. Shaky cameras mix it up in both haphazard brawls (there's a lot of them), and topless, sake soaked, parties alike. There's a dizzy, canted-angle sense of frustration in the wake of the great war, that only the yakuza seem to profit from. Societal infrastructure only comes across in the forms of the Japanese police and occupying forces, who are painted just as corrupt as the yakuza, yet devoid of a sense of honor and propriety.
Rikio is the embodiment of Japan's postwar rage, masochistically lashing out against a fulfilled fate. While the gang bosses appear to be wise and benevolent bastions of power, they turn to flabbergasted children with Rikio's audacious defiance. This utter disregard and complete disrespect for any kind of authority (even the outsider/underworld variety) is the only way to come to grips with this knockabout gangster in a heroic light. This ultimate uncompromising individual, simultaneously worthy of our pity and disgust, gets his in the end. For all its downbeat subject matter "Graveyard of Honor" never really feels depressing, Fukusaku shoots like a candle alight at both ends, and the penultimate suicidal leap feels strangely like a triumph. What a laugh.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Wassup Rockers
Larry Clark
2005
Larry Clark's latest effort is a pleasant surprise to say the least. While the story once again centers on outsider youth, Clark eschews his tendency towards exploitative sensationalism and shock value tactics in favor of a more honest representation of the joys and difficulties of being a teen. While Clark's fans may find this less inflammatory picture a hokey cop-out, there's still enough hell-raising mayhem to give the film some bite and backbone.
The opening is an intimately awkward video interview with one of the film's infectiously likable non-actor moppets. From here we learn that he and his variously aged friends are a cultural oddity in their south central environs due to their attraction towards skateboarding, punk, and tight pants. The film picks up with the regular routine of a Friday in the life, and follows into a very eventful Saturday in which the kids hop the bus to skate in Beverly Hills. Once the wrong side of the tracks have been crossed things start to go haywire, but the ever charming devil-may-care attitude of skateboard ethos carries the group back home, well most of it anyway.
The most striking element of the film is that all the usual Larry Clark staples are in place here, namely a wayward group of overly sexual, drug abusing teens with a rebellious streak, albeit its a little watered down here. What makes "Wassup Rockers" so successful as opposed to other Clark films is the tone. Whereas "Kids" and "Bully" feel like films made by an adult trying to shock other adults (and entertain kids in the process), here's a film made by an adult with a genuine understanding of his subjects portraying them simply as they are, without excessive stylization. There's all the familiar sex and drugs, but for once its not the focus, and some of it even happens tastefully offscreen. The affection and appreciation for these kids is palpable even as the camera hones in on common teenage foibles, bizarrely grown nipple hairs, and zits.
The visual emphasis on skateboarding is pure eye candy. Clark clearly knows the power of the skate video and elevates it in a gloriously cinematic manner. The score is solid, with a much more unified feel than past Clark films aided in no small part by contributions from the actors' band who have a great little on screen performance themselves. Also the score is pretty much punk-centric giving the film a unified, uncluttered sound.
The film's most apparent misstep comes from an overly long (pre? post? coital) conversation between hispanic skater Kiko and a rich Beverly Hills admirer. The overly sentimental exchange is cute at first, but loses its appeal rapidly once it turns into trite, scripted exposition as Kiko explains life in South Central ("Its complicated out there..."). The picture's party crashing last reel is a bit jarring also, but easy to get into once it starts going. The indictment of Hollywood and L.A. cool is mercilessly funny, and effective in it's unsubtlety. When a none-too-veiled Clint Eastwood lookalike brings out the big guns (literally) and a preposterous Janice Dickinson parodies herself it is, at the very least, worth watching.
While this picture may be a fluke for Larry Clark, its definitely a step in the right direction. "Wassup Rockers" is the best film I've seen so far this year, and it would be nice to think that a director known for bandying pat sensationalism about could also turn to making fun, effective films like this.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
2005
Larry Clark's latest effort is a pleasant surprise to say the least. While the story once again centers on outsider youth, Clark eschews his tendency towards exploitative sensationalism and shock value tactics in favor of a more honest representation of the joys and difficulties of being a teen. While Clark's fans may find this less inflammatory picture a hokey cop-out, there's still enough hell-raising mayhem to give the film some bite and backbone.
The opening is an intimately awkward video interview with one of the film's infectiously likable non-actor moppets. From here we learn that he and his variously aged friends are a cultural oddity in their south central environs due to their attraction towards skateboarding, punk, and tight pants. The film picks up with the regular routine of a Friday in the life, and follows into a very eventful Saturday in which the kids hop the bus to skate in Beverly Hills. Once the wrong side of the tracks have been crossed things start to go haywire, but the ever charming devil-may-care attitude of skateboard ethos carries the group back home, well most of it anyway.
The most striking element of the film is that all the usual Larry Clark staples are in place here, namely a wayward group of overly sexual, drug abusing teens with a rebellious streak, albeit its a little watered down here. What makes "Wassup Rockers" so successful as opposed to other Clark films is the tone. Whereas "Kids" and "Bully" feel like films made by an adult trying to shock other adults (and entertain kids in the process), here's a film made by an adult with a genuine understanding of his subjects portraying them simply as they are, without excessive stylization. There's all the familiar sex and drugs, but for once its not the focus, and some of it even happens tastefully offscreen. The affection and appreciation for these kids is palpable even as the camera hones in on common teenage foibles, bizarrely grown nipple hairs, and zits.
The visual emphasis on skateboarding is pure eye candy. Clark clearly knows the power of the skate video and elevates it in a gloriously cinematic manner. The score is solid, with a much more unified feel than past Clark films aided in no small part by contributions from the actors' band who have a great little on screen performance themselves. Also the score is pretty much punk-centric giving the film a unified, uncluttered sound.
The film's most apparent misstep comes from an overly long (pre? post? coital) conversation between hispanic skater Kiko and a rich Beverly Hills admirer. The overly sentimental exchange is cute at first, but loses its appeal rapidly once it turns into trite, scripted exposition as Kiko explains life in South Central ("Its complicated out there..."). The picture's party crashing last reel is a bit jarring also, but easy to get into once it starts going. The indictment of Hollywood and L.A. cool is mercilessly funny, and effective in it's unsubtlety. When a none-too-veiled Clint Eastwood lookalike brings out the big guns (literally) and a preposterous Janice Dickinson parodies herself it is, at the very least, worth watching.
While this picture may be a fluke for Larry Clark, its definitely a step in the right direction. "Wassup Rockers" is the best film I've seen so far this year, and it would be nice to think that a director known for bandying pat sensationalism about could also turn to making fun, effective films like this.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Army of Shadows
Jean-Pierre Melville
1969
While JPM's insider ode to the French Resistance is full of cool spy antics and tense secrecy it feels much more like a funeral dirge, or a reminiscence of a terminally ill loved one.
Lino Ventura plays Gerbier, the head of a tightly knit network of freedom fighters, an underground faction at odds with the Nazi occupation of France. The performances, particularly Ventura's, are above reproach in granting a sense of humanity and quiet determination to this group of plainclothes turned unlikely heroes. Melville revels in picking apart the maddeningly covert lifestyle of the resistance to the point of obsession. This becomes doubly effective in the near nonchalant lensing of the "army's" activities. Indeed, the seemingly documentary like attitude towards such extreme cloak and dagger exploits gives the underground a wildly romantic feel.
What seems most striking about "Army of Shadows" however is the Resistance's utter inability of harry or harass the Germans in any meaningful way. Gerbier's Resistance force seems only capable of two things: existing and getting caught. There are some excellent suspense and action sequences in the film, but nearly all revolve around escaping imprisonment and rescuing imprisoned allies. Uncle Fritz's iron monocle hardly suffers a smudge.
While the shadows may make an army, they are definitely not soldiers, and the portrayals are that of citizens inexperienced at war. While the Nazi's are a one dimensional monster all too capable of atrocious violence, the Resistance lacks that cold military professionalism. This plays out most awkwardly in the underground's difficulty in snuffing out a cherub-faced turncoat, and the usually tough and stern Gerbier is comically humbled in his hesitancy to parachute from an allied British plane. Melville's honest and humane treatment of this group is as touching as it is endearing, and eventually they become very pathetic bunch indeed.
For all its hardy veneer "Army of Shadows" belies a somber sentimentality, albeit a sober one. Its an excellent film that feels like a genuine labor of love, but I wonder what real Resistance fighters would think of it: The men who were bombing German supply trucks and honing hunting rifle crosshairs on grey uniforms.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
1969
While JPM's insider ode to the French Resistance is full of cool spy antics and tense secrecy it feels much more like a funeral dirge, or a reminiscence of a terminally ill loved one.
Lino Ventura plays Gerbier, the head of a tightly knit network of freedom fighters, an underground faction at odds with the Nazi occupation of France. The performances, particularly Ventura's, are above reproach in granting a sense of humanity and quiet determination to this group of plainclothes turned unlikely heroes. Melville revels in picking apart the maddeningly covert lifestyle of the resistance to the point of obsession. This becomes doubly effective in the near nonchalant lensing of the "army's" activities. Indeed, the seemingly documentary like attitude towards such extreme cloak and dagger exploits gives the underground a wildly romantic feel.
What seems most striking about "Army of Shadows" however is the Resistance's utter inability of harry or harass the Germans in any meaningful way. Gerbier's Resistance force seems only capable of two things: existing and getting caught. There are some excellent suspense and action sequences in the film, but nearly all revolve around escaping imprisonment and rescuing imprisoned allies. Uncle Fritz's iron monocle hardly suffers a smudge.
While the shadows may make an army, they are definitely not soldiers, and the portrayals are that of citizens inexperienced at war. While the Nazi's are a one dimensional monster all too capable of atrocious violence, the Resistance lacks that cold military professionalism. This plays out most awkwardly in the underground's difficulty in snuffing out a cherub-faced turncoat, and the usually tough and stern Gerbier is comically humbled in his hesitancy to parachute from an allied British plane. Melville's honest and humane treatment of this group is as touching as it is endearing, and eventually they become very pathetic bunch indeed.
For all its hardy veneer "Army of Shadows" belies a somber sentimentality, albeit a sober one. Its an excellent film that feels like a genuine labor of love, but I wonder what real Resistance fighters would think of it: The men who were bombing German supply trucks and honing hunting rifle crosshairs on grey uniforms.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Stick It
Jessica Bendinger
2006
Screenwriter Jessica Bendinger's first film proves that there's no accounting for good direction. Her surprisingly accomplished script for 2000's "Bring it On" came to the screen a gem of a movie thanks to Peyton Reed's expert (and fun) direction. It would seem however, that Bendinger is largely incapable of handling her own ultra-modern, ubber-pop takes on teen competition.
Haley is a hellcat teenage tomboy with a penchant for "extreme" sports, graffiti, and punk rock (if her T-shirts are anything to go by). After busting up some private property during a rad thrash session she ends up in juvie court, and instead of winding up in children's village with a gang of mouth-breathing arsonists, her dad and the judge arrange for her to attend a prestigious gymnastics school. This is a sort of punishment of course, because Haley walked out on gymnastics years ago causing her team to forfeit the world gymnastics championship.
Despite some charming performances (particularly from Jeff Bridges and Nikki SooHoo), and a decent dramatic concept (gymnasts bucking the rules of the cruel and unusual judges) the film is scattered and unfocused, choosing to gorge itself on watered-down-riot-grrl bubblegum visual sequences as opposed to fleshing out major plot points and character motivations. This is particularly apparent in Haley's relationship with her parents. Bendinger's intention is to show a fairly common dysfunctional family, the kind that would raise a child who's into junk food and skateboarding, yet there is a heavy fog surrounding Haley's family affairs due to lazy scriptwriting and direction. For all we're given her father could easily be an abusive sadist, and the mother a trampy alcoholic trophy wife. That's definitely a little rougher than this film wants to be. Bridges' semi-disgraced instructor has a wash of unsettled loose-ends as well. For a guy who's reputation is based on having girls push themselves to injury it seems more than a little amateur and awkward that this prophecy is never consummated on screen.
We'll blame this one on the fact that its a directorial debut, but in the future Bendinger needs to leave the MTV crap at the door and concentrate on better character writing. Also it wouldn't hurt to spend some more time with the dialogue. The distinctive language comedy that was a brilliant cornerstone of "Bring it On" seems forced and trite this time around.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
2006
Screenwriter Jessica Bendinger's first film proves that there's no accounting for good direction. Her surprisingly accomplished script for 2000's "Bring it On" came to the screen a gem of a movie thanks to Peyton Reed's expert (and fun) direction. It would seem however, that Bendinger is largely incapable of handling her own ultra-modern, ubber-pop takes on teen competition.
Haley is a hellcat teenage tomboy with a penchant for "extreme" sports, graffiti, and punk rock (if her T-shirts are anything to go by). After busting up some private property during a rad thrash session she ends up in juvie court, and instead of winding up in children's village with a gang of mouth-breathing arsonists, her dad and the judge arrange for her to attend a prestigious gymnastics school. This is a sort of punishment of course, because Haley walked out on gymnastics years ago causing her team to forfeit the world gymnastics championship.
Despite some charming performances (particularly from Jeff Bridges and Nikki SooHoo), and a decent dramatic concept (gymnasts bucking the rules of the cruel and unusual judges) the film is scattered and unfocused, choosing to gorge itself on watered-down-riot-grrl bubblegum visual sequences as opposed to fleshing out major plot points and character motivations. This is particularly apparent in Haley's relationship with her parents. Bendinger's intention is to show a fairly common dysfunctional family, the kind that would raise a child who's into junk food and skateboarding, yet there is a heavy fog surrounding Haley's family affairs due to lazy scriptwriting and direction. For all we're given her father could easily be an abusive sadist, and the mother a trampy alcoholic trophy wife. That's definitely a little rougher than this film wants to be. Bridges' semi-disgraced instructor has a wash of unsettled loose-ends as well. For a guy who's reputation is based on having girls push themselves to injury it seems more than a little amateur and awkward that this prophecy is never consummated on screen.
We'll blame this one on the fact that its a directorial debut, but in the future Bendinger needs to leave the MTV crap at the door and concentrate on better character writing. Also it wouldn't hurt to spend some more time with the dialogue. The distinctive language comedy that was a brilliant cornerstone of "Bring it On" seems forced and trite this time around.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
The Mask of Fu Manchu
Charles Brabin
1932
Quite the sweet plum indeed. One made all the more rewarding by being dismissed almost completely in critical history for being racist and of poor quality. Those with an overabundance of sensitivity need not apply, but let it be known that there are no teeth present in the filmmakers' naive depictions of the Orient. Part of the film's charm is that it hearkens a time when it was kosher for different cultures to be exotic, and more importantly, a foil for high adventure. And let's be honest here: for all it's outdated faults there's little difference in mentality between this film and Spielberg's "Indiana Jones" series.
The wicked Dr. Fu Manchu wishes to acquire the sword and mask of Genghis Khan from its entombed interment. The master plan is to unite all of Asia under this symbolic banner to utterly crush the Western world. The mask prop is criminally unadorned but thankfully the sword prop makes up for it in sheer size. Fu Manchu's opposition is a group of snooty British archaeologists determined to nullify the oriental tide.
Karloff's Fu Manchu is adequate but not stellar. Instead, the bizarre trappings of a fictional East, and the amusing and quaint depiction of a strange land imbue the film with enough genuine fun and intrigue to race it through runtime. Fu Manchu's various methods of torture are a riot, as is all the science-fictioney equipment in his laboratory (when the audience is first introduced to the bad M.D. he's whipping up a crazy mad-genius concoction with tons of smoke floating everywhere). He's also got a giant tesla coil with which he melts wringer swords brought to him by treacherous Brit-dogs. His daughter Fah Lo See, memorably played by Myrna Loy, is also a wonderful addition as she exchanges bitchy insults with her father and drools lustily over the visiting white men. Her twisted desires come to fruition when she orgasmically whips her beefy round-eye hero/prisoner. This scene is a one-of-a-kind, gold nugget of pre-code psychosexual sadism.
The film is, for the most part, a lost treasure but things are nearly soured by a stomach-churning instance of genuine racism in the form of a final gag. Words don't do it justice, so come for the great film, but stay for the awkward ending!
1932
Quite the sweet plum indeed. One made all the more rewarding by being dismissed almost completely in critical history for being racist and of poor quality. Those with an overabundance of sensitivity need not apply, but let it be known that there are no teeth present in the filmmakers' naive depictions of the Orient. Part of the film's charm is that it hearkens a time when it was kosher for different cultures to be exotic, and more importantly, a foil for high adventure. And let's be honest here: for all it's outdated faults there's little difference in mentality between this film and Spielberg's "Indiana Jones" series.
The wicked Dr. Fu Manchu wishes to acquire the sword and mask of Genghis Khan from its entombed interment. The master plan is to unite all of Asia under this symbolic banner to utterly crush the Western world. The mask prop is criminally unadorned but thankfully the sword prop makes up for it in sheer size. Fu Manchu's opposition is a group of snooty British archaeologists determined to nullify the oriental tide.
Karloff's Fu Manchu is adequate but not stellar. Instead, the bizarre trappings of a fictional East, and the amusing and quaint depiction of a strange land imbue the film with enough genuine fun and intrigue to race it through runtime. Fu Manchu's various methods of torture are a riot, as is all the science-fictioney equipment in his laboratory (when the audience is first introduced to the bad M.D. he's whipping up a crazy mad-genius concoction with tons of smoke floating everywhere). He's also got a giant tesla coil with which he melts wringer swords brought to him by treacherous Brit-dogs. His daughter Fah Lo See, memorably played by Myrna Loy, is also a wonderful addition as she exchanges bitchy insults with her father and drools lustily over the visiting white men. Her twisted desires come to fruition when she orgasmically whips her beefy round-eye hero/prisoner. This scene is a one-of-a-kind, gold nugget of pre-code psychosexual sadism.
The film is, for the most part, a lost treasure but things are nearly soured by a stomach-churning instance of genuine racism in the form of a final gag. Words don't do it justice, so come for the great film, but stay for the awkward ending!
Friday, February 24, 2006
Outfoxed: Rupert Murdoch's War on Journalism
Robert Greenwald
2004
Robert Greenwald seems to have a good thing going here. His politically charged documentaries have the feel of genuine news exposes. He makes them economically, frequently, and effectively, and has worked with such left-wing-agenda topics as Walmart, the post 9/11 clamp on civil liberties, and the Iraq war. And yes, this is same man who directed the 1980's "modern musical," Xanadu.
Outfoxed takes a look at the journalistically repugnant nature of Rupert Murdoch's Fox News machine. There's a lot to work with here and very little elaboration is needed thanks to a hefty dose of genuine Fox News footage. The clips speak volumes for themselves: the highlight being a lengthy montage of Bill O'Reilly telling guests to "shut up" preceded by his on-air claim that he's only ever used the phrase once in broadcast.
Its pretty clear that this film was made on the cheap. The lousy graphics and hokey production value add a subtle sense of urgency to the message, and as long as the actual info is cleverly delivered in a crystal clear package then who really cares?
This supremely efficient form of political commentary is a far cry from the excesses of Michael Moore's flamboyant enterprises. While Moore's filmmaking is grand, sweeping, and entertaining to boot his polarizing personality and oppressive screen presence tend to overshadow his statements a bit. While Greenwald sticks extremely close to the empirical evidence, Moore gravitates towards tantalizing conspiracies. There's nothing wrong with Moore's approach, but in the age of political pundits it seems that Greenwald may be a little more adept at reaching the people.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
2004
Robert Greenwald seems to have a good thing going here. His politically charged documentaries have the feel of genuine news exposes. He makes them economically, frequently, and effectively, and has worked with such left-wing-agenda topics as Walmart, the post 9/11 clamp on civil liberties, and the Iraq war. And yes, this is same man who directed the 1980's "modern musical," Xanadu.
Outfoxed takes a look at the journalistically repugnant nature of Rupert Murdoch's Fox News machine. There's a lot to work with here and very little elaboration is needed thanks to a hefty dose of genuine Fox News footage. The clips speak volumes for themselves: the highlight being a lengthy montage of Bill O'Reilly telling guests to "shut up" preceded by his on-air claim that he's only ever used the phrase once in broadcast.
Its pretty clear that this film was made on the cheap. The lousy graphics and hokey production value add a subtle sense of urgency to the message, and as long as the actual info is cleverly delivered in a crystal clear package then who really cares?
This supremely efficient form of political commentary is a far cry from the excesses of Michael Moore's flamboyant enterprises. While Moore's filmmaking is grand, sweeping, and entertaining to boot his polarizing personality and oppressive screen presence tend to overshadow his statements a bit. While Greenwald sticks extremely close to the empirical evidence, Moore gravitates towards tantalizing conspiracies. There's nothing wrong with Moore's approach, but in the age of political pundits it seems that Greenwald may be a little more adept at reaching the people.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
High Tension
Alexandre Aja
2003
This French rarity is proof that the slasher genre hasn't gone stale, or worse, died. "High Tension" is a clever, well made, psycho flick definitely worth the hour and a half running time. While the film keeps the slasher concept morbidly fun, it never lessens itself by falling for the ever so played head-over-heels cheese tropes of the 80's.
The plot is charmingly simple. Two feisty coeds, Marie and Alexia, head into rural France to get some studying done at the remote home Alexia's family. As the two exchange banal girltalk it becomes clear that Marie has a bit of a lesbian fixation on Alexia, who generally seems content to screw around casually with guys. As the girls bed down a beefy maniac enters the house, promptly murders the family, and takes Alexia hostage. Marie follows undetected, determined to save her love interest cum best friend, while trying to stay alive herself.
There's a few goofy touches here and the extreme color correction is ghastly, but then again, these are pretty much par for the slasher course. The film's real achievement comes from the brilliant special effects makeup by Giannetto de Rossi. This is arguably the most artful and convincing blood makeup of the decade. In this case the effects become a visually powerful aesthetic motif as the film's characters are progressively knocked around and cut up more and more. The film also benefits from Marie's continued refusal to flee for safety in order to rescue her hostage friend. Its a great dramatic device that works wonders for the picture's pacing and tone. Of course another great aspect of the film is the creative use of weapons. While the maniac killer flashes old stand-byes like a straight razor (yawn), Marie upgrades her self defense from kitchen knife to fence-post-wrapped-in-barb-wire, to industrial grade hand-op buzz-saw. Pretty sweet. As far as the twist ending goes, its not exactly brilliant or jaw-dropping but it does manage to wrap the film up nicely and makes sense out of a cold, cruel world.
This isn't the best horror movie of the last ten years or anything, but it certainly can call itself a high quality specimen of contemporary horror.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
2003
This French rarity is proof that the slasher genre hasn't gone stale, or worse, died. "High Tension" is a clever, well made, psycho flick definitely worth the hour and a half running time. While the film keeps the slasher concept morbidly fun, it never lessens itself by falling for the ever so played head-over-heels cheese tropes of the 80's.
The plot is charmingly simple. Two feisty coeds, Marie and Alexia, head into rural France to get some studying done at the remote home Alexia's family. As the two exchange banal girltalk it becomes clear that Marie has a bit of a lesbian fixation on Alexia, who generally seems content to screw around casually with guys. As the girls bed down a beefy maniac enters the house, promptly murders the family, and takes Alexia hostage. Marie follows undetected, determined to save her love interest cum best friend, while trying to stay alive herself.
There's a few goofy touches here and the extreme color correction is ghastly, but then again, these are pretty much par for the slasher course. The film's real achievement comes from the brilliant special effects makeup by Giannetto de Rossi. This is arguably the most artful and convincing blood makeup of the decade. In this case the effects become a visually powerful aesthetic motif as the film's characters are progressively knocked around and cut up more and more. The film also benefits from Marie's continued refusal to flee for safety in order to rescue her hostage friend. Its a great dramatic device that works wonders for the picture's pacing and tone. Of course another great aspect of the film is the creative use of weapons. While the maniac killer flashes old stand-byes like a straight razor (yawn), Marie upgrades her self defense from kitchen knife to fence-post-wrapped-in-barb-wire, to industrial grade hand-op buzz-saw. Pretty sweet. As far as the twist ending goes, its not exactly brilliant or jaw-dropping but it does manage to wrap the film up nicely and makes sense out of a cold, cruel world.
This isn't the best horror movie of the last ten years or anything, but it certainly can call itself a high quality specimen of contemporary horror.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Thursday, January 26, 2006
How to Eat Your Watermelon in White Company (and Enjoy it)
Joe Angio
2005
By all means this should not be a good documentary, yet it manages to be terribly appealing in spite of its poor quality as a film. Its a perfect example of why the digital democratization of cinema is a mixed blessing at best. Now the festival market is awash with a slew of documentaries bereft of talented, thoughtful filmmaking, but saved by brilliant subject matter. This is such a film.
The long titled portrait of human/dynamo Melvin Van Peebles, is inspiring and a joy to watch....the archival footage that is. Thankfully this excellent (though already canonized) hero of black cinema is complemented with the right photographs, film clips, and historical material needed to make it a presentable representation of a phenomenal career. Problems arise when Mr. Angio attempts to make his own film, shooting sloppy, consumer-quality DV that's a hair away from degrading his subject. Simply put, it is a chore to view.
Thankfully there's a wealth of great moments that embody Van Peebles' own irrepressible spirit (and save the picture). From the story about watermelon air-spray to the recurring references to Melvin's epic sexual exploits (made all the sweeter by 3 different Van Peebles children being interviewed), we are given enough of his unique personality and romantic life to be enrapt throughout the running time. It could be argued that the crummy aesthetic complements Van Peebles' own do-or-die mentality, but I think that's a severe cop-out. Personally I'd like to know what Mr. Van Peebles' has to say about the finished product.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
2005
By all means this should not be a good documentary, yet it manages to be terribly appealing in spite of its poor quality as a film. Its a perfect example of why the digital democratization of cinema is a mixed blessing at best. Now the festival market is awash with a slew of documentaries bereft of talented, thoughtful filmmaking, but saved by brilliant subject matter. This is such a film.
The long titled portrait of human/dynamo Melvin Van Peebles, is inspiring and a joy to watch....the archival footage that is. Thankfully this excellent (though already canonized) hero of black cinema is complemented with the right photographs, film clips, and historical material needed to make it a presentable representation of a phenomenal career. Problems arise when Mr. Angio attempts to make his own film, shooting sloppy, consumer-quality DV that's a hair away from degrading his subject. Simply put, it is a chore to view.
Thankfully there's a wealth of great moments that embody Van Peebles' own irrepressible spirit (and save the picture). From the story about watermelon air-spray to the recurring references to Melvin's epic sexual exploits (made all the sweeter by 3 different Van Peebles children being interviewed), we are given enough of his unique personality and romantic life to be enrapt throughout the running time. It could be argued that the crummy aesthetic complements Van Peebles' own do-or-die mentality, but I think that's a severe cop-out. Personally I'd like to know what Mr. Van Peebles' has to say about the finished product.
Review by Brett A. Scieszka
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Ten Best of 2005
Here are the ten best movies of 2005 as according to Bleach Bypass' own Brett Scieszka.
10.) Frank Miller's Sin City - Robert Rodriguez
Anyway you cut it this movie is a load of fun. Made with an enthusiastic spirit and a true love of original subject material. The whole Tarantino "guest director" thing is a bit goofy, but it certainly fits with the feel of the picture. Let's not forget that the film's visual sense is one of the few, but precious, examples of of computer imaging working towards good instead of evil. Finally, let's also remember that a film featuring a talking, nearly severed head, and a penis hand-ripped from a body was in theaters the week the Pope passed.
9.) Syriana - Stephen Gaghan
Screenwriter Stephen Gaghan manages to make one of the most engaging and politically intelligent films of the year, one that is leaps and bounds better than the pat, easily compartmentalized "Traffic." Easily the best sound design of the year: muted backgrounds amplify the almost surreal insularity of the film's world. An excellent example of storytelling with only one superfluous plotline (namely the young boys turned muslim terrorists). Great cinematography on this one as well.
8.) 2046 - Wong Kar Wai
Wong Kar Wai isn't exactly the least indulgent director on the planet and lots of things about "2046" made it look like it was a train-wreck in the making. Yet Wong manages to make a remarkably restrained picture. "2046" is nothing really new for him, same themes and visuals for the most part, but if 'aint broke don't fix it. As usual, this is an excellent example of mood and atmosphere in an extremely asian context. He won't be able to make too many more of these before they get old, but its great while it lasts.
7.) A History of Violence - David Cronenberg
David Cronenberg's most commercially viable movie to date manages to be an excellent film. Based off a graphic novel (an increasingly popular film trend), Cronenberg plays this one exactly as its supposed to be played. The simplicity of the film's morality is an excellent complement to its brilliant action sequences. Walking a taut line between cold distance and intense visceral rage, the former always manages to win, to a terrifically unsettling effect.
6.) Me and You and Everyone We Know - Miranda July
Miranda July's first feature proves that this fine arts darling can piece together a wonderful narrative for the screen. This film as sweet is as pie, tender as veal, and has a comedic sense worthy of the best stuff out there. July's performance is exactly is un-annyoingly quirky, and the child actors make the picture. All the hype concerning the sensational nature of the child sexuality is so off the mark that you are allowed to punch anyone who brings it up.
5) Last Days - Gus Van Sant
The one-two punch of Gus Van Sant and DP Harris Savides is one of the great art-house pairings of our time. Gus Van Sant's heavily modified take on Kurt Cobain's icon-making end may be (sadly) lacking in fanboy accuracy, but is undeniably beautiful and often cleverly made at the same time. There's plenty of uber-indulgent cringe worthy moments, but the sum total is better than the parts on this one. I also worked on a student film with one of the actors from this movie once. Shout out to Nicole Vicius. Bemoana herself.
4.) Good Night and Good Luck - George Clooney
There's obviously a slew of cogent political implications that go with this movie. It may be vogue to say its "timely" or that "we need to learn from history," and that's all true, but it also does this great film injustice by leaving it at just that. Its notable that of all people, Mr. celebrity himself, George Clooney, makes this list twice (Syriana, doi), and here he's in the director's chair. David Strathairn's Murrow is flawless, but this is also coming from the guy who played Pierce Patchett in "L.A. Confidential." Great stylistic choice to portray McCarthy only in stock footage and to limit the world of CBS journalism to the studio, making the film a kind of historical chamber drama with the outside world nearly knocking down the gates.
3.) The Squid and the Whale - Noah Baumbach
Quite simply an excellent film. A heartrending autobiography with a wry Wes Anderson sense of humor and brilliant performances. As a period picture it stinks. "The Squid and the Whale" feels as much as it was set in the 80's as "That 70's Show" is true to its namesake decade. Luckily for Buambach his script and direction is so good that it never seems to matter. While a couple movies on this list were beacons of political and social intelligence, Buambach manages to bring it much closer to home with a divorce as emotionally real as familial relations are funny (in that way where you have to have a sense of humor). This is a near perfect combination of drama and humor despite the preposterously shaky cinematography.
2.) King Kong - Peter Jackson
Its hard not to like a film that's made with all the honesty and love of a good home cooked meal. Devotion oozes out of every cell of this classic remake. Through its sense of adventure, heart, and wonder audiences get one of their best ticket buys of the year. Jackson's "Kong" possesses all the soft-center that was absent in the original but reassuringly resurfaced in another Merian Cooper production "Mighty Joe Young (1949)." I'm willing to say that the giant pink long-toothed worms are the single greatest cinematic moment of the year. Simply put, Peter Jackson loves his subject matter and it shows up crystal-clear onscreen. Though this Kong is digitally immaterial as opposed to solid armature draped in rabbit fur, he possess just as much personality as his predecessor. The extensive use of digital effects is also a beacon to would-be computer animators as proof that the medium doesn't necessarily have to be schlocky looking. See the original before you see this one if you're new to Kong. If not, you already know what I'm talking about.
1.) Land of the Dead - George Romero
The cream of the crop and the icing on the cake. We as film fans should be grateful that a brilliant talent like George Romero is still going strong. Times may have changed a bit since the last zombie installment, but the brilliance of themes and craft aren't a bit dusty. While Romero's zombie films tend to be a realistic series of human portraits in crisis situations, the latter ones tend to have the weight of bible parables. You can watch all the funny zombie movies you want but I'll give you ten of those for one good serious one.
10.) Frank Miller's Sin City - Robert Rodriguez
Anyway you cut it this movie is a load of fun. Made with an enthusiastic spirit and a true love of original subject material. The whole Tarantino "guest director" thing is a bit goofy, but it certainly fits with the feel of the picture. Let's not forget that the film's visual sense is one of the few, but precious, examples of of computer imaging working towards good instead of evil. Finally, let's also remember that a film featuring a talking, nearly severed head, and a penis hand-ripped from a body was in theaters the week the Pope passed.
9.) Syriana - Stephen Gaghan
Screenwriter Stephen Gaghan manages to make one of the most engaging and politically intelligent films of the year, one that is leaps and bounds better than the pat, easily compartmentalized "Traffic." Easily the best sound design of the year: muted backgrounds amplify the almost surreal insularity of the film's world. An excellent example of storytelling with only one superfluous plotline (namely the young boys turned muslim terrorists). Great cinematography on this one as well.
8.) 2046 - Wong Kar Wai
Wong Kar Wai isn't exactly the least indulgent director on the planet and lots of things about "2046" made it look like it was a train-wreck in the making. Yet Wong manages to make a remarkably restrained picture. "2046" is nothing really new for him, same themes and visuals for the most part, but if 'aint broke don't fix it. As usual, this is an excellent example of mood and atmosphere in an extremely asian context. He won't be able to make too many more of these before they get old, but its great while it lasts.
7.) A History of Violence - David Cronenberg
David Cronenberg's most commercially viable movie to date manages to be an excellent film. Based off a graphic novel (an increasingly popular film trend), Cronenberg plays this one exactly as its supposed to be played. The simplicity of the film's morality is an excellent complement to its brilliant action sequences. Walking a taut line between cold distance and intense visceral rage, the former always manages to win, to a terrifically unsettling effect.
6.) Me and You and Everyone We Know - Miranda July
Miranda July's first feature proves that this fine arts darling can piece together a wonderful narrative for the screen. This film as sweet is as pie, tender as veal, and has a comedic sense worthy of the best stuff out there. July's performance is exactly is un-annyoingly quirky, and the child actors make the picture. All the hype concerning the sensational nature of the child sexuality is so off the mark that you are allowed to punch anyone who brings it up.
5) Last Days - Gus Van Sant
The one-two punch of Gus Van Sant and DP Harris Savides is one of the great art-house pairings of our time. Gus Van Sant's heavily modified take on Kurt Cobain's icon-making end may be (sadly) lacking in fanboy accuracy, but is undeniably beautiful and often cleverly made at the same time. There's plenty of uber-indulgent cringe worthy moments, but the sum total is better than the parts on this one. I also worked on a student film with one of the actors from this movie once. Shout out to Nicole Vicius. Bemoana herself.
4.) Good Night and Good Luck - George Clooney
There's obviously a slew of cogent political implications that go with this movie. It may be vogue to say its "timely" or that "we need to learn from history," and that's all true, but it also does this great film injustice by leaving it at just that. Its notable that of all people, Mr. celebrity himself, George Clooney, makes this list twice (Syriana, doi), and here he's in the director's chair. David Strathairn's Murrow is flawless, but this is also coming from the guy who played Pierce Patchett in "L.A. Confidential." Great stylistic choice to portray McCarthy only in stock footage and to limit the world of CBS journalism to the studio, making the film a kind of historical chamber drama with the outside world nearly knocking down the gates.
3.) The Squid and the Whale - Noah Baumbach
Quite simply an excellent film. A heartrending autobiography with a wry Wes Anderson sense of humor and brilliant performances. As a period picture it stinks. "The Squid and the Whale" feels as much as it was set in the 80's as "That 70's Show" is true to its namesake decade. Luckily for Buambach his script and direction is so good that it never seems to matter. While a couple movies on this list were beacons of political and social intelligence, Buambach manages to bring it much closer to home with a divorce as emotionally real as familial relations are funny (in that way where you have to have a sense of humor). This is a near perfect combination of drama and humor despite the preposterously shaky cinematography.
2.) King Kong - Peter Jackson
Its hard not to like a film that's made with all the honesty and love of a good home cooked meal. Devotion oozes out of every cell of this classic remake. Through its sense of adventure, heart, and wonder audiences get one of their best ticket buys of the year. Jackson's "Kong" possesses all the soft-center that was absent in the original but reassuringly resurfaced in another Merian Cooper production "Mighty Joe Young (1949)." I'm willing to say that the giant pink long-toothed worms are the single greatest cinematic moment of the year. Simply put, Peter Jackson loves his subject matter and it shows up crystal-clear onscreen. Though this Kong is digitally immaterial as opposed to solid armature draped in rabbit fur, he possess just as much personality as his predecessor. The extensive use of digital effects is also a beacon to would-be computer animators as proof that the medium doesn't necessarily have to be schlocky looking. See the original before you see this one if you're new to Kong. If not, you already know what I'm talking about.
1.) Land of the Dead - George Romero
The cream of the crop and the icing on the cake. We as film fans should be grateful that a brilliant talent like George Romero is still going strong. Times may have changed a bit since the last zombie installment, but the brilliance of themes and craft aren't a bit dusty. While Romero's zombie films tend to be a realistic series of human portraits in crisis situations, the latter ones tend to have the weight of bible parables. You can watch all the funny zombie movies you want but I'll give you ten of those for one good serious one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)