The Getaway

Sam Peckinpah
1972

Probably the most straightforward and easily digestible Peckinpah film I've seen to date. The boozy director takes a pretty basic story and spins it into cinematic gold through raw emotion and snarling animalistic perseverance. Bank robber Steve McQueen is released from jail when his main squeeze Ali McGraw sleeps with parole board bigwig Ben Johnson (an act that'll come to bite her in the ass). Johnson hires McQueen to pull a heist that goes sour, leaving Doc and his gal no choice but to stash the loot and evade a posse of gun-toting cronies, as well as a psychotic thug responsible for botching the robbery. This film may as well be an ode to the shotgun - with our hero defending himself and Ms. McGraw from harm by popping-off shell after shell from a 12-gauge pump. Car windshields, headlights, dry wall, and wood burst or splinter in slow-mo to a dizzying tune of destruction. The rocky relationship between Doc and Carol is understandably tense and with every harsh word, slap, and near death experience it's painfully believable that the couple could unravel at any moment. For all the macho male fun there's a real sensitivity to the way Peckinpah treats Doc's first day out of jail, with a joyous dive into a nearby river, and the awkward anxiety of the couple's first night together. There's some comic relief provided by wounded gunman Rudy as he accosts a rural veterinarian and his overripe wife (Sally Struthers!). The hapless husband soon becomes chauffeur and sad witness to his wife's all too willing seduction. It's may not be the most socially acceptable take on women psychology, but it's definitely good for a few yuks.

Phantom

F.W. Murnau
1922

This silent rarity from the famed director of "Nosferatu" (1922), F.W. Murnau, is of little interest, being mostly a cut -and-dried morality tale. City clerk Lorenz begins to spend above his means and covet fancy dames when a local bookstore owner claims his poems are genius and that his writing will surely bring him celebrity. The old man's judgement is flawed however as the poems are of little interest to the publisher, and thus Lorenz's debts escalate into a financial quagmire. With the help of his fallen sister and her petty-crook husband, Lorenz first borrows and then attempts to steal money from a beloved and wealthy aunt. Inevitably, things come to a predictably dreary conclusion that gives way to the naive hero's eventual redemption. The film's title refers to the fantastic vision Lorenz sees of a beautiful women driving a coach lead by snow-white horses. It's a metaphor for desire which is both fascinating and evocative, but is unfortunately buried in the morally black-and-white melodrama of long-suffering mothers on deathbeds, disgraced children, slippery hucksters, and busybody widows. For my money, "Sunrise" (1927) is a far more complex, satisfying, and enjoyable picture.

Ariel

Aki Kaurismaki
1988

"Ariel," the second installment in Kaurismaki's proletarian trilogy, continues in the same quirky stylistic vein as the previous "Shadows in Paradise," but also stretches the thematic content a bit by being something of a caper film as well. The local mine's just closed forcing Nordic bumpkin Taisto to empty his bank account and head to Helsinki in a permanently borrowed Cadaillac land-barge. He's divested of his money through naivety, and winds up living in a flophouse doing shitty jobs when work is available. An unfortunate revenge assault lands Taisto in prison, where he plots escape from the clink and Finland altogether with his newfound widow love interest. Matti Pellonpaa returns to the trilogy as Taisto's awkward and thuggish cellmate who's nearly catatonic exterior belies a psychotic rage beneath. The humor is as tight as ever, though the romantic angle comes off forced. The switch from down-and-out loser slice o' life to comedy crime film is a completely unexpected treat that manages to remain firmly affixed to Kaurismaki's trademark tone. Like "Shadows in Paradise" this one ends with an escape as well, albeit more desperate, and one is left to wonder if Finland can possibly be as soul-crushingly banal and depressing as the director's take on it.

The Wild Bunch

Sam Peckinpah
1969
Second Viewing

It may not be apparent on the surface, but I see Sam Peckinpah as the natural heir to John Ford in terms of Westerns. Each exemplified their respective cinematic zeitgeist - Ford, a holdover from the silent era with his static frames, macho humor, and earnest morality couldn't have been anymore "classic Hollywood." Meanwhile, Peckinpah with his gonzo violence, maniac anti-heroes, and roving-camera extremes would make a fine bratty poster child for the so called New Hollywood of the late 60's and 70's. "The Wild Bunch" put Peckinpah back on the map after a blackball period when he was shut out of films due to the debacle surrounding "Major Dundee" (1965), and from having been kicked off another picture. This neo Western is all blunt-force trauma with it's brick subtle metaphors and appalling humanity. The famous opening shot, children feeding giant scorpions to a swarm of fire-ants (and then setting the whole thing on fire) pretty much sums it up as the eponymous gang of crooks decide on a whim to turn a Mexican general's camp into a bloodbath of epic proportions. No matter how ghastly their sins, a charming, surprisingly vulnerable performance by William Holden, and a charismatic turn by Ernest Borgnine make these bloodthirsty rogues undeniably appealing. Forget the romantic notion of a quickly disappearing "old West," with it's freedom and lawlessness now anachronism - it's the cult of personality, the hero worship and star appeal that becomes most satisfyingly disturbing.

Beneath the Planet of the Apes

Ted Post
1970

It's sad to see how far production values dropped in the first sequel to this legendary franchise. The ape makeups come off even more rubbery, with awkward mouth movements and a plastic hardness less apparent in the original. Chuck Heston appears briefly in the beginning (as this one starts exactly where the last left off), and hands the reigns over to shameless Heston lookalike James Franciscus, who's crashed on the planet in nearly identical circumstances to Taylor. The satire of conflict between religion, politics, and militarism in ape society is painfully trite, but things get cooking once Brent stumbles onto a cave-dwelling race of bomb-mutated humans worshiping a golden doomsday nuke. In contrast to the lousy monkey masks the mutant makeups come off excellently, strongly suggestive of man-sized talking penises. Besides the makeup effects there are some baffling inconsistencies in the rest of the visual effects. Most strikingly is the quality difference between a shot in which a rift tears through the ground (a gorgeous matte and miniature shot), vs. one in which ridiculously animated lightning crackles over the barren landscape. While this sequel is definitely less monumental than it's forebear it does offer some solid sci-fi scripting and an adequate execution

House

Nobuhiko Obayashi
1977

Quite possibly the single weirdest picture I've seen to date. Ostensibly a play on the horror film, Nobuhiko Obayashi seems far more interested in creating a lysergic phantasmagoria of kitschy sets and liberally employing goofy pre-MTV music video effects. A gang of schoolgirls named for their singular personality traits (Melody plays instruments, Kung Fu knows Kung Fu), escape Tokyo for the countryside to an Aunt's mansion. Unfortunately for the gals, the Auntie is a sort of cosmic vampire/witch with her pulsating green-eyed fluffy white cat acting as hatchet man. The girls are picked off one by one in some of the strangest kill scenes imaginable: one girl is literally mauled to death by attacking mattresses, another is eaten alive by a hungry piano, and another is electrocuted by a rampaging light fixture. There's a little early Sam Raimi sensibility going on ("Evil Dead 2" (1987) in particular), but it's pushed way beyond the limits of reason and coherence. I can't even begin to imagine what it would be like to watch this movie high. Definitely worth a viewing if you ever get the opportunity.

Demons

Lamberto Bava
1985

For all intents and purposes Lamberto Bava's 80's fright flick is your standard (above average) zombie film. Most of the regular rules apply: bitten or scratched and you become one, they're only killed through serious physical trauma, and due to the last two reasons they proliferate like rats. A solid fun-times gore-fest, Bava's picture doesn't bother with needless and extraneous plotting or labored characterizations, but instead gets to the good stuff quick when a sneak-preview audience is forced to fight for their lives when folks start growing fangs, talons, and exploding face pustules. Lamberto is of course the son of Italian horror great Mario Bava, and this particular film boasts a "presented by Dario Argento" credit, but while some of the stylistic choices of these heavyweights are present in "Demons" none of the pretensions are (for better or for worse). Highlights include a hilariously stereotypical black brother, his two ladies, a katana-swinging motorcycle massacre, and a hapless gang of punk rock cokeheads. The shocks and kill scenes are fun and plentiful, and while the green slime spewing from the demons' mouths is a touch over the top, the practical makeup effects are a treat. Due to the film's slow start I was going to make some quip about how the slasher movie-within-the-movie would have been better viewing, but now I've got to eat those words.

Shadows in Paradise

Aki Kaurismaki
1986

Kaurismaki kicks off the first part of his proletarian trilogy with a socialist-grey Finland made of expansive landfills, alienating supermarkets, and existential confinement. It's also a romantic comedy. Laconic garbageman Nikander realizes he's no spring chicken when his longtime partner croaks in front of him on their trash route. In loneliness he reaches out to grocery-store cashier Ilona, who proves to be something of an expert at playing "hard to get." Theirs is a rocky romance beset by false starts and complicated by their respectively fierce individualism. It's no surprise that contemporary director Jim Jarmusch and Kaurismaki are buds as their stylistic sensibilities are nearly identical. Nikander's slicked-back chain-smoking cool and violent machismo are saved from cliche and made endearing by his diminutive size and pathetic situation. Ilona's about as warm as a glacier and friendly as a hornet's nest, but her unique looks (think heroin-chic with a boatload of freckles), difficult personality, and perennial hard luck make her an alluring male fantasy. The couple makes their grand getaway on a Soviet cruise-liner(?), but garbage water still smells once it's dried and rent is always due on the first. This is an ephemeral escape that raises more doubts and uncertainties than happily-ever-afters.

Dr. Akagi

Shohei Imamura
1998
Multiple Viewings

One of my favorite Japanese films by one of my favorite Japanese directors. Shohei Imamura's "Dr. Akagi" has it's titular crazy-legged physician running all over a rural war-weary Japan. In doc's neck of the woods every diagnosis is hepatitis, and this nasty ailment doesn't limit itself to the liver but is instead a monstrous metaphor for a society wracked by it's terminally ill military campaign. Akagi's surgeon pal has hepatitis in the form of morphine addiction, the military police have hepatitis in their bullying and abuse of prisoners, and even Akagi himself comes down with a slight case when his obsession to eradicate the root of the disease causes him to neglect his patients. This picture has one of the better jazz scores I've heard with an unforgettably wobbly theme that kicks in every time the good doctor scrambles from one house call to the next. Imamura sneaks in his recurring preoccupation with sex in the form of semi-reformed prostitute. Sonoko, who begins working as the doc's assistant, puts a human face on the film - outspoken in love and free in expressing emotion, she lights a small fire under Akagi's clinical humanism.

Showgirls

Paul Verhoeven
1995

My camp/kitsch obsessed sister made the whole family sit down and watch this notorious albatross together over the Thanksgiving holiday, and after viewing I can definitely say that it stands up to it's reputation as one of the worst movies ever made (in the best way possible). Respectable actors (mainly Gina Gershon and Kyle MacLachlan) come off as "in on the joke" hamming it up and reveling in all the sleaze, but the rest of the cast, Elizabeth Berkley included, play it painfully serious, providing some unintended(?) schadenfreude-tinged laughs. Say what you want about the cheese factor, but Verhoeven doesn't skimp on the flesh and shamelessness. Berkley's sex scenes and dances invariably involve a high and somewhat disturbing degree of thrashing, and when she's actually wearing clothes the wardrobe is jaw-droppingly tacky. Verhoeven's European status makes this gaudy take on the "American Dream" all the more rewarding. I couldn't see a U.S. director tackling the heights of bad taste with such a quixotic earnestness. In an age where Ashley Dupre, the hooker NY gov Spitzer was caught diddling, is now achieving minor celebrity, I find Berkley's steadfast determination to "keep her soul" by avoiding prostitution plain preposterous. The film makes the boundaries so hazy, and the lines so shaky, as to make any sort of moral question a flat tire.

Torn Curtain

Alfred Hitchcock
1966

This late Hitchcock picture dealing with Cold War espionage is practically handed it's element of suspense as Julie Andrews and Paul Newman are outed as spies in totalitarian East Germany. Despite the difference in time, no other Hitch film comes to mind that so starkly references the paranoia and persecution of Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union under Stalin. Paul Newman proves a decent hero, but Julie Andrews comes up short as the ideal Hitchcock heroine - too plain-Jane in an underwritten role suited for a shallow blonde beauty. The singular highlight is the drawn-out murder of motorcycle thug Gromek who has the misfortune of meddling too closely in the couple's affairs. With the help of a stern underground house-frau the blue-eyed King of salad-dressing bludgeons, stabs, and eventually smothers this villain in a delightfully macabre and hackle-rasing battle of wills. After that, escape becomes the name of the game as the body is found and the dragnet tightens. "Torn Curtain" proves more spiritually and politically uplifting than most of Hitchcock's somewhat misanthropic ouvre as the resistance network of spies/citizens has the noble and hell-bent streak of undermining the government's iron fist at any cost.

Three Times

Hou Hsiao-Hsien
2005

A couple years ago I saw a rental copy of this film sitting ontop of my Grandpa's television. I had read about it and asked him what he thought. He furrowed his brow and like a good sport hesitantly told me that it was "interesting." The only Hou picture I've seen prior to this is "Millenium Mambo" (2001), a solid if slightly dull foray into disaffectedly "cool" Taiwanese 20-somethings solipsistically navigating newfound adulthood. This time around Hou takes on three different relationships in three different eras (hence the title). The first, a tale of longing set in the 60's, comes off as wannabe Wong Kar-Wai with long slow takes and fetishistic languor. The second segment, set in a turn of the century brothel, suffers grossly from the unnecessary pretension of replacing all dialogue with title cards a la silent cinema. The final section takes place in the present, and is similar in tone and content to "Millenium Mambo." A young photographer vacillates between two women, one of which is a seductive rock singer. This last portion is a little cringe-inducing with Hou's painfully tacky ideas of what's hip with the kids. There's a solid stylistic thread unifying the three parts but the film comes off as leaden and overwrought, neither beautiful, poignant, or poetic despite it's best efforts. A clunker indeed.

The Tomb of Ligeia

Roger Corman
1964

This is the second of Roger Corman's Poe films I've gotten the chance to see, and it holds up much better than "The House of Usher" (1960). Vincent Price reappears in the leading role, this time sensitive only to light as opposed to all stimuli, but also hopelessly enslaved to the memory of his deceased wive. A fateful encounter leads to a romance with wifey number 2, the Lady Rowina being eerily similar to dead Ligeia since both women are played by Elizabeth Shepherd. Despite his penny-pinching tendencies Corman manages to achieve a deliriously romantic sense of creepiness through atmosphere rather than flashy effects or snappy setpieces. Ligeia's blasphemous will to live is nicely complemented by references to Egyptian art - bringing some welcome notions of pagan immortality to the table. Hypnotism, slashed wrists, and a secret chamber (complete with sacrificial pyre!) spice up a pretty satisfying outing. It's worth noting that while Corman's "House of Usher" feels like little more than an exploitation quickie, this one feels genuinely closer to the tone of Poe's work.

Black Moon

Louis Malle
1975

Up until now every Louis Malle picture I've seen has been gangbusters, but this ludicrously indulgent Alice In Wonderland rehash is mostly tedious and uninteresting. The majority of the action revolves around a prim golden-haired lass navigating the absurd and surrealist mysteries of a provincial mansion with the encroaching specter of large-scale armed conflict uncomfortably seething in the background. An overweight and inelegant Unicorn, gangs of naked children tending hogs, and breast-fed old women are thrown in for color, but it all sounds better in print than in it's onscreen execution. Warhol film vet Joe Dallesandro is underused and leaves the screen with a whimper instead of the bang he deserves. Cathryn Harrison does her best as the Alice stand-in, with a mutable temperament, switching from innocent victim, to indignant snob, to motherly provider on a per-scene basis, yet no amount of lead actress bravado could get this lame duck off the ground. Based on all the great Malle films I've seen prior to this stinker I'm willing to give him a "get-out-of-jail free card" just this once.

Le the Right One In

Tomas Alfredson
2008

Not that it ever went out of style, but it appears the vampire film is on an upswing with HBO's decent series "True Blood," the upcoming "Twilight" adaptation (sure to be a hit with nerdy teenage girls) and this dandy of an import from Sweden. This one goes the arthouse route being shot mainly in excellent shallow-focus closeups and distant longshots, with a muted/measured color scheme. Bullied blonde moppet Oskar gains a much needed friend in the form of Eli (sounds like Elly not E-lie), who's just moved into his apartment building. Eli may be a vampire, but that doesn't stop them from "going steady." Scenes of violence and supernatural happenings are handled exceptionally well with the preteen vampire scuttling up walls, a woman massively combusting in a hospital bed, and an acid-burn suicide attempt. Even at it's most grandiose, gory, and wicked Alfredson plays his big setpieces with an amusing deadpan frankness. The film benefits from ambiguity with an easily interpretable, yet not overtly stated epilogue. This knife cuts both ways however, as the more in-your-face elements like a pride of crappy CGI housecats on the attack, and Eli lifting her dress to reveal a disturbing lack of genitalia, end up doing more harm than good to a generally excellent effort.

Street of Shame

Kenji Mizoguchi
1948

The final installment in the "Kenji Mizoguchi's Fallen Women" box is an accessible portrait of a gaggle of prostitutes living under the same brothel roof. This examination of the circumstances that have forced the hapless gals into hooking, and the psychological quirks developed as a result is framed with a political debate as to whether or not to outlaw the oldest profession in Japan. The sob stories on hand are effective but one dimensional - a prostitute works to support her sickly husband and child, another possesses a single minded drive to earn money as her current predicament is the result of family poverty, and the westernized brat refuses an invitation home when she realizes it's based less on familial love than on her father's desire to keep up appearances. The Mom and Pop proprietors of the best little whorehouse in Tokyo are pragmatic businessfolk, interested in the well-being of their charges as long as it contributes to the bottom line. They're an untrustworthy lot with their fuddy-duddie warmth belying a complete disinterest in the emotional life of the girls, and a careful eye on the iron-clad debt that keeps many of the girls in indentured servitude. Mizoguchi capably handles his favorite subject matter in this broad tragedy, but it lacks the righteous rage of the box's other entries.

A Face in the Crowd

Elia Kazan
1957

It's hard for me to dig on Elia Kazan what with his cowardly betrayal during the blacklist hearings, but historically he remains an undeniable cinematic heavyweight. "On the Waterfront" (1954) is an uncontested masterpiece, and "East of Eden" (1955) is nothing to sneeze at either, but this time around I found the heavy satire cloying, and the rise-and-fall narrative generally unsympathetic. Andy Griffith's braying media sensation 'Lonesome' Rhodes has the throaty roar of a busted engine, and his perpetual crowing quickly becomes fingernails-on-chalkboard shrill. This hard-drinking loose hipped country boy is more of a con-man than a folk-hero to begin with, just asking for his inevitable "Citizen Kletus" downfall. Patricia Neal provides the most interest with her square-jawed Southern sensibility at odds with her irrational (and self-desturctive) devotion to the Frankenstein's monster she's created. A pre-jowles Walter Matthau makes for the most interesting supporting character with his jaded television writer hopelessly pining after Neal. I've got to admit some surprise at not recognizing the majority of the supporting actors in this picture. Despite my ingrained distaste for Kazan on principle I've always been impressed by his treatment of character actors in smaller roles.

The Last Wave

Peter Weir
1977

Much like he would in 1985's Harrison Ford vehicle "Witness" (1985), Peter Weir employs an exotic and offbeat culture to color his drama. Whereas Ford lams it in Pennsylvania's Amish community, the lawyer at the center of "The Last Wave" deals with a group closer to Weir's own experience - urban Australian aboriginals. The picture maintains a degree of mystery and danger from the get-go, but the steadily spiraling cosmic freakout that ensues is enough to make Haruki Murakami smile. The use of water as apocalyptic agent is excellently conveyed in it's drearily constant menace. In the first few shots the dusty outback gets deluged before being pounded by fist-sized hail stones. Soon the downpour drifts to the city where it batters the windshields and roofs of Sydney's residents - and even more violently within the mind of hero Richard Chamberlain. Aboriginal lore gives the film a nice hook, but it's the visual treatment of the sullen tight-lipped natives that really ups the intrigue. It's a nicely offbeat film, but as far as Weir is concerned I still prefer "Picnic at Hanging Rock" (1975).

House of Usher

Roger Corman
1960

For cheapie studio American International Pictures, Roger Corman's take on the writing of Edgar Allan Poe (which would birth a cycle), is huge in budget with it's semi-lavish sets and real name actor in the form of Vincent Price. The great Richard Matheson pens an adequate feature-length screenplay from the short story, successfully incorporating new elements and ideas that gel with the original's spirit. Yet it remains fundamentally flawed with it's lack of action and proper atmosphere. Price has an undeniable screen presence, but his intendedly villainous Roderick Usher comes off as little more than a invalid sissy, and brylcreemed alpha male Mark Damon shows the charisma and acting chops of a lawn jockey. This leaves Myrna Fahey to put in the best turn with her wide-eyed bloody-clawed madness. Finally, the physicality of the slowly crumbling foundation is a powerful visual tool, but the lion's share of the effects budget clearly went into photographing the Usher mansion consumed in flames. It's an impressive ending to a mostly mediocre picture.

Women of the Night

Kenji Mizoguchi
1948

In a struggling and shamed postwar Japan, Kenji Mizoguchi illuminates the hardships that drive his nation's women onto nighttime streets, and the dangers of this desperate life. Unlike the culturally-loaded world of "Sisters of the Gion" (1936), the genteel traditions, costumes, and courtesies are replaced with the hardscrabble realities of syphilis, defilement, and unwanted pregnancies. Sisters Fusako and Natsuko are reunited after suffering their fare share of wartime heartbreak in the form of dead parents, dead offspring, and forced rape at the hands of soldiers. The girls try and stick to the straight and narrow despite these scars, but are pushed over the edge after one-too-many emotional disappointments. While not a true noir, the picture borrows some of the genre's touches with a nifty jailbreak from lady prison, angry hooker street beatdowns, and the downfall of a seedy drug-dealing businessman. Mizoguchi gets a lot of mileage out of the skin trade, but the sisters are left with short shrift in character development - Fusako's transformation from innocent to bad girl is too quick, and the seemingly steely Natsuko devolves into victimhood at the drop of a hat. I couldn't help but feel this picture predicted or inspired some of Seijun Suzuki's output, particularly in the angry unrepentant whores ("Gate of Flesh" 1964) and the squalid semi-surrealistic finale complete with a hefty dose of Christian imagery.

Together

Lukas Moodysson
2000

Before he made bleak films about preteen Russian prostitutes and desperate amateur pornographers, Lukas Moodysson made this much warmer, much fuzzier picture about a battered mother and her two children taking shelter in a hippy commune run by her brother. The colorful cast of social misfits and radicals include a self-proclaimed lesbian, her bitter ex-husband, their amusingly named child (Tet), a homosexual with a Prince Valiant 'do, an overly serious Marxist, a couple of die-hard crunchies, and gentle leader Goran, who provides a perpetual doormat for his sexually adventurous girlfriend. Visually, Moodysson employs a curious device where nearly every shot of the quasi-documentary camerawork involves a zoom. This aesthetic choice isn't nearly as dreadful as it sounds, lending additional quirk to an already uncommon picture. The abusive husband is given a fair shake, and despite his alcohol fueled fuck-ups, is presented as a three dimensional individual worthy of sympathy. While the mother begins to seriously enjoy her consciousness-expanding time at the commune, cozying up with her new lesbian pal, the children miss eating meat and loathe being driven to school in the stereotypically painted VW bus. There's a lot of great situational humor in the character interactions, starting with a bang when the camera reveals that one of the women is naked from the waist down during a house discussion about dishwashing (fungal infections are a bitch). The film's conflicts tend to wrap up a little too easily, but this remains an extremely pleasant and satisfying picture.

Family Plot

Alfred Hitchcock
1976

The last realized project by the Master of Suspense may not be considered among his finest, but it does have the same devilish sense of danger and black humor that many of his best films do. Fraud psychic Blanche (an easy on the eyes Barbara Harris) and her low-rent cabbie boyfriend (unlikely leading man George Lumely) do all they can to hoodwink little old ladies for extra loot when a whopper lands in their boat. All they need to do is track down jeweler/kidnapper Arthur Anderson (an exceptionally slippery William Devane) and his main squeeze (a two-Vicodin-too-many Karen Black). The film is part caper flick with high stakes ransoms, and part detective story with a mysteriously falsified grave marker. I remember reading (probably in Truffaut's famous interview book) that Hitchcock lamented the increasingly graphic depictions of sex and violence, as well as the use of courser language, in 70's cinema. However, Hitch seems to embrace these more risque elements with an unsubtly horny Babs Harris and some well placed cuss-words. The couples' parallel transgressions - petty scams vs. big time scores - pleasantly predicts Woody Allen's "Crimes and Misdemeanors" (1989), and despite it's generally lighter tone, it's one of the better of Hitchcock's minor works. It's nice to see that the old bulldog never lost his touch, even after a handful of late career disappointments.

Eaten Alive

Tobe Hooper
1977

Hooper's first directorial effort after his horror masterpiece "The Texas Chansaw Massacre" sees him returning to the fertile fields of rural psychos. Neville Brand runs a shabby motel deep in swamp country. When he's not mumbling to himself and scratching figures in a notepad, the wooden-legged nut feeds folks to the massive pet croc (from Africa!) on his property. This one gets off to a slow start with a by-the-books murder of a failed hooker, the evidence being promptly erased by Brand's reptilian garbage disposal. Luckily the picture picks up when a seemingly normal family is forced to bunk down in the menacing motel - the family dog has become crocodile chow, leaving their little girl traumatized. In private, the father proves to be a bonafide wackjob, and the mother a pill-popper. When the family's situation goes South, the daughter winds up beneath the motel porch hiding from a scythe wielding Brand. The sets are a touch wooden and the heavily colored lighting is tacky, but Hooper excels in instilling terror not from sudden scares, but in morbidly lingering on the horror of an unsound mind - the alien otherness of psychosis. The presumably animatronic crocodile prop works with varying success. At times it's terrifyingly large but appears comically small when the pooch gets mowed down. Top it off with Robert Englund (Freddy Kruger!) as the town stud and lots of lady toplessness and you've got a winning chiller.

Saw III

Darren Lynn Bousman
2006

After viewing the first three Saw installments I've come to the conclusion that while these films aren't particularly good, they are definitely addictive. So far number three has proved best in the franchise, being on par or better than the first, and far superior to part two. The hokey cops are finally done away with for the most part, as they're either violently dispatched or shoved deep in the background. Crazy grandpa Jigsaw is still kicking around with his ex-junkie sidekick, and cooks up another overly elaborate plan involving a dedicated doctor and a revenge obsessed father. This being a Saw film there's a surefire twist ending (a little more far-fetched than usual) and a handful of nutty traps. Thankfully Tobin Bell gets to chew up the screen a little more, and is more involved in the action, receiving some frontier medicine in the form of a power-drill trephined skull. Gore aside, the most rewarding element here is the rocky sensei/pupil relationship between Amanda and Jigsaw, one in which the learning curve is severely hampered by an inoperable brain tumor. The ice-locker trap is a complete throwaway, but the pig-slop one - in which a man risks drowning beneath frapped pork bits - sufficiently makes up for it. Unlike the first two efforts this one seems far less sequel friendly, which is definitely making me interested in "SAW IV." I'm ready for another dose of cheap cinema crack.

Sisters of the Gion

Kenji Mizoguchi
1936

The second film in the Criterion Eclipse "Kenji Mizoguchi's Fallen Women" box is the most well known, with it's debate on the Geisha profession in a rapidly modernizing and militarizing Japan. The titular sisters are day-and-night opposites with older sis Umekichi willing to forfeit financial gain in the name of personal satisfaction in a job well done. The younger Omocha, embittered by a profession she finds degrading (her name literally translates to "plaything"), opts to con her clients and fleece them for all she can. Like the character motivations in the prior "Osaka Elegy" (1936), Mizoguchi imbues a rare quality of complexity in the depiction of his Geishas' philosophies. While Umekichi's humanity and sympathy for her downtrodden patron makes her the more appealing of the two, her unthinking servile self-sacrifice ultimately paints her as a bovine rube. Omocha's conniving verges on villainous - plying men with drinks and meddling in Umekichi's affairs behind her back - but her final sickbed howl evokes a genuine agony leveled against her forced servitude. "Sisters of the Gion" is not a subtle picture in terms of structure and drama, but is a powerful provocation for a strongly traditional society in transition. With this film, Mizoguchi poses a question he does not intend to answer.

Mysterious Island

Cy Endfield
1961

Based on the Jules Verne novel of the same name, this adventure yarn proves dizzyingly entertaining due to the sheer weirdness of it's content. Things get rolling when a handful of Union POWs break prison and escape in a hot air balloon(!) with a Confederate soldier and a journalist in tow. Somehow the airborne gang travels all the way from the American South to a remote island in the Pacific...a mysterious island. Strange things begin to happen to the balloon-wrecked men as they find the titular isle populated by giant crabs, giant bees, regular sized goats, and British women. The giant animals (including a wicked flightless buzzard) are brought to screen by incomparable effects genius Ray Harryhausen. Unlike other Harryhausen efforts (all the Sinbad pictures come to mind) the stop motion wizardry is supplemental to the film as opposed to being the only attraction, making for a pleasantly well-rounded outing. The mastermind behind the island's mystery is the wily Captain Nemo (played by Herbert Lorn looking like a homosexual Peter Stormare), and if this movie doesn't already seem to be saturated with fantastic elements there's also marauding pirates, seashell-based scuba gear, a lost Atlantis-like civilization, an erupting doomsday volcano, and a malevolent seamonster. It's as if the script came straight from the fevered imagination of a hyperactive 12 year old boy.

Osaka Elegy

Kenji Mizoguchi
1936

The first entry in Criterion Eclipse's four volume DVD box "Kenji Mizoguchi's Fallen Women" is a prewar social issues picture similar to those made in the States by Warner Brothers. In order to prevent her embezzling deadbeat-Dad (fish faced Akira Kurosawa regular Takashi Shimura) from being thrown in the clink, prim switchboard operator Ayako gives into her pervy boss's sexual advances, becoming his mistress. Unlike the aforementioned Warner Bros films this one retains a welcome element of subtlety and ambiguous character motivations. Ayako's sugar daddy is proved to be more than a simple manipulative fiend as we witness his badgering wife taunting his sexuality and pushing him towards adultery. Ayako herself seems to genuinely relish the fine apartment, clothes, and theater outings (Bunraku Puppet play!) bestowed upon her by her benefactors. Even Ayako's hunky "true love" interest shows himself to be a cowardly twerp when grilled by police. After saving her father, paying for her brother's schooling, and mending her ways, our heroine remains utterly shunned by a thoroughly hypocritical society, left to walk the nighttime streets alone in a trademark Mizoguchi shot.

Saw II

Darren Lynn Bousman
2005

Splat pack member Bousman takes the helm of this sequel as he would for the next two after it. This outing has little of the original's style and cleverness, though benefits greatly from plenty of face time with Tobin Bell's Jigsaw. The dreary and alienating industrial sets of the original are watered down here, with the majority of the action taking place in an abandoned house set that comes off as woefully artificial. The participants of this game suffer from the old horror flick problem of shallow characterizations and unsympathetic personalities. Once again, the cop drama angle is tired and cliched with Donnie Wahlberg as a central casting detective, and a gaggle of lifeless SWAT members along for the ride. Also, the use of Sarin Gas slowly permeating throughout the house, making it's captives vomit blood, is plain ludicrous. In low doses Sarin causes spasms, drooling, and loss of control of bodily functions, which would frankly have been a far more compelling gross-out than the occasional bloody loogie. I was a little disappointed at how few traps there were this outing, with more than a few of the prisoners/players falling at each other's hands. However, the hypodermic needle pit is handled well and the razor box (your hands can get in but won't come out) is pretty neat as well. For all it's numerous faults, the twist ending is solid and the film remains watchable. I'm definitely willing to give round three a chance.

Fahrenheit 451

Multiple Viewings
Francois Truffaut
1966

Who better to commit Ray Bradbury's book burnin' dystopia to the screen than lifelong bibliophile Francious Truffaut? The shitty dead-end society of pacified drones that hero Montag becomes increasingly dissatisfied with is excellently illustrated in a "not too distant future" idiom - no rocket cars or robots here, but there are giant televisions, interesting architecture, and jetpacks. Oskar Werner's face subtly and effectively conveys his disillusionment with an inward melancholy, though its Julie Christie who steals the show in the dual role of Montag's living-corpse wife and seductive rebel bookworm. Truffaut liberally indulges in the cinematic allure of fire, meditating on engulfed libraries in closeup, and delights in presenting the ironically manipulative programming Montag's vapid wife views on the idiot box. There's plenty of memorable scenes straight from the book - Montag discovering his OD'd wife cold and blue only to have plumber-like EMT's resurrect her, and my personal favorite, the badass old woman going up in flames alongside her vast library. There's no mistaking the 60's counterculture vibe given off by the forrest-dwelling "book people" either, a timely touch that must have jived great with radical chick Christie. Seeing as how Truffaut was never able to learn English (though not for lack of trying), I'm curious as to how the direction of this English language picture went down on set. I also wonder if the director didn't have at least a twinge of guilt in burning what appears to be actual books, and not blank-paged film props. It's been over 5 years since I've last seen this one and was pleased to find it even better than I remembered.

Saw

James Wan
2004

I didn't catch the original entry of this tentpole franchise when it first hit theaters, since it didn't look all that exceptional to me. However, year after year, each successive installment lands front and center on the cover of my beloved Fangoria's October issue, and as a result my curiosity has steadily percolated over a four year period. Wan's film (his only directorial effort in the series) is loaded to the gills with sequel-friendly tropes. The graphic violence and body based horror echoes great Italian fright fare, and the liberal use of plot twists, while admittedly hit or miss, prevents things from getting dull. Serial killer Jigsaw's central conceit, that the majority of people take their lives for granted, and should therefore be tested, is quite compelling, and while the concept of gruesome "games" is hardly original for a horror flick, the masterfully measured unfolding of narrative sets this one apart. The predicament of Cary Elwes and Leigh Whannell being sadistically manipulated while trapped in a grimy industrial bathroom plays out brilliantly, the police investigation angle and endangerment of Elwes's family is trite filler in comparison. In this sense, the film may have been more successful as a short, but of course shorts don't end up as cash cow blockbusters.

Lola Montes

Max Ophuls
1955

I can't say I was particularly impressed with this iconic classic, and left the theater puzzled as to why it retains such a prominent place in cinema history. "Lola Montes" is a would-be epic yarn about a fallen woman, strong willed and libertine, brought down by societal restrictions and emotional caprices. The soft candy colors and tendency towards theatricality is stylistically similar to many of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger's productions, particularly "The Red Shoes" (1948), and "The Life and Death of Lolonel Blimp" (1943). While the sickly and broken Lola is left to whore herself out to gawking crowds under the bigtop, her supposedly scandalous and amazing life story isn't all that remarkable. Given, Martine Carol conveys all the stoic grace-under-fire required of the role, and her cigar smoking Lady-Godiva schtick is compelling, but it's unfortunately wasted in the face of unsatisfying dramatic conceits. Oskar Werner's wholesome and virginally youthful presence is all but wasted as Lola discloses to him that her true love is the half-daft near-deaf King of Bavaria that she's been living for as a kept woman. This purported passion is so unconvincingly conveyed as to make her confession comic. As far as Max Ophuls's ultra-genteel classical ouvre goes, I much prefer "The Earrings of Madame de..." (1953) to this.

Secret Ceremony

Joseph Losey
1968

Expat American director Joseph Losey offers this psychodrama with a remarkable and compact cast. Two women with deep seated emotional scars, (sad prostitute Elizabeth Taylor unable to let go of her tragically drowned daughter, and mentally stunted incest victim Mia Farrow as a woman-child in a babydoll dress) discover their neuroses perfectly complement each other. Hard up Taylor moves into Farrow's dusty old mansion and takes up the mantle of mommy, adorning herself in the furs and jewelry of her deceased doppelganger. This "Grey Gardens" idyll is threatened by pervy old Robert Mitchum, stalking the grounds in hopes of getting a little sugar from his former stepdaughter, and uncovering the impostor taking residency in his old home . The picture gets a lot of mileage out of it's atmosphere with the big drafty house providing a stage of expansive drawing rooms chock full of upholstery, and a yesteryear sense of decor perfect for arrested timelessness. Farrow's performance is a treat, if a bit campy, and Mitchum creates an expectedly imposing villain. Taylor's turn is less mannered than her costars,' and comes off as merely adequate. It's a decent picture that's sometimes rewarding, but nothing to get hot and bothered about.

The Flower of My Secret

Pedro Almodovar
1995

I can't easily think of a director who's had as comparable a string of artistic successes as Almodovar has of late. Since 1999's "All About My Mother," every successive installment in his estrogen drenched ouvre has been a homerun. I don't have much experience with his earlier pictures though I found "Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown" (1988) to be intolerably campy compared to the mature melodrama's he's been churning out as of late. "The Flower of My Secret" appears to be something of a bridge to his recent work - not quite as accomplished or assured in craft and tone, but on the right track. Marisa Paredes stars as a disillusioned romance novel scribe, scratching away under the pen name Amanda Gris. Struggling with professional dissatisfaction and a crumbling marriage to military man Paco, Paredes takes a gig at a newspaper, slamming the sappy fiction that she has written. This being an Almodovar film there's plenty of performances both theatrical and musical, and plenty of adoration devoted to the pre-menopausal diva under fire. The picture's solid, though some of the plotting feels a tad clinical, not having the emotional weight of "All About My Mother," or the awkward honesty of "Talk to Her" (2002).

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

MIke Nichols
1966

Mike Nichols brings Edward Albee's original Lockhorns from stage to screen expertly in this Hollywood classic. Boozy beefy Elizabeth Taylor and elegantly wasted Richard Burton bring a green young couple into the perpetual bad-trip of their marriage during a hooch-fueled nocturnal crawl towards day. George Segal and Sandy Dennis play the entrapped couple with cocksure blonde swagger, and awkwardly accented naivety (respectively). Haskell Wexler's lighting and photography is a masterpiece in black and white. The DVD I viewed was stunningly beautiful and I can only imagine how this would look on Blu-Ray. On the surface it appears to be an actor's film as the principals chew up the screen with their dizzy dialogue and breathless tension, but the camera moves frequently and with balletic panache to keep up with the grand gestures and proclamations. There's definitely a somewhat shocking quality in the intensity of cruelty employed by all the characters save passively bovine Honey, and a surprisingly risque quality in the flaccidly aborted adultery perpetrated by Taylor and Segal. Nichols picture is quite the accomplishment and transcends the "filmed play" quality suffered by many theater to cinema adaptations.

Night of the Lepus

William F. Claxton
1972

"Psycho" shower victim Janet Leigh and DeForest Kelley (Dr. Bones!) somehow make their way into this drive-in chiller about bloodthirsty cattle-sized rabbits run amok in the American Southwest. Despite the seemingly goofy subject matter the flick's played poker-faced serious and boasts high quality special effects, camerawork, and acting. The carnivorous rodents in question are effectively brought to the screen in a variety of ways, mostly relying on live rabbits with miniature backgrounds(!), and the occasional matte shot. The attacking bunnies usually pounce in puppet form, and there's gloriously grisly quantities of blood used in the assaults, and scenes of grim aftermath. This one reminds me of 1959's "The Killer Shrews," which is also fairly serious in spite of it's seemingly comical titular monsters. Of course the big difference between "Lepus" and "Shrews" is the vast gulf in visual sophistication - these wascally wabbits are head and shoulders above the dressed up dogs (with prosthetic chompers) passed off as shrews.

W.

Oliver Stone
2008

Oliver Stone directs the film he was born to make: one that takes the piss out of a failed unpopular President, and released while said President is still in office. The depiction of Bush Jr. is expectedly snide and glib, hiding under the guise of straight biopic. Josh Brolin does a magnificent job inhabiting a man in constant struggle, whether it be against familial expectations and growing pains, to the loneliness of a personal conviction at odds with common sense and public opinion. While there was plenty of snickering in the theater at Bush's fumblings and reliance on rhetoric, I found the whole affair extremely depressing considering this comedy of errors has cost a butt-load of American lives, and all but ruined the reputation of the United States. The triumph of the picture comes from it's impeccable casting and styling. Nearly all the recognizable public figures are done well, but Richard Dreyfuss as Cheney, Toby Jones as Karl Rove, and Thandie Newton as Condoleezza Rice are pitch perfect. Unfortunately, James Cromwell's turn as George HW Bush leaves plenty to be desired, as the eminently recognizable actor fails to play the former President beyond the page - a shame considering the dramatic importance thrust upon the role. The film is also flawed in the sense that it plays directly to the national nightmare Americans have suffered the last eight years. "W." relies just as heavily on our contextual experience as it does on it's script's take on history - an interesting cinematic milestone from a cultural standpoint, but one that cannot stand up on it's own weight.

Ed Gein

Chuck Parello
2000

This abysmal throwaway effort is a sad biopic on America's most interesting maniac. Fellow ghouls out there probably know all about Gein, and how he provided partial inspiration for "Silence of the Lambs," "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre," and Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho." Parello's film is amateur hour all around, with crappy production values, hammy acting, and unnecessary low-budget CGI effects. The flat/dull cinematography lacks any sort of inspiration (let alone style), and is aesthetically more reminiscent of an episode of "The Gilmore Girls," than a horror flick. I do appreciate the stock footage that bookends the film with Plainfield, Wisconsin residents interviewed about their community monster, and the actual Gein, looking benign as milk, being lead around in handcuffs. Gein's reputation as one of America's most insidious serial killers has always interested me considering he only actually killed two women, and made most of his macabre arts and crafts projects from materials dug out of the local graveyard. The picture does a disappointing job of depicting farmer Gein's chamber of horrors with the matter-of-fact discovery of skullcap soupbowls and salted noses. It's a an emotionless and distant finale, in which the seemingly uninterested tone makes the props look even more like latex flesh and resin bone than the ghastly crimes deserve. I'm a little curious if 2007's "Ed Gein: The Butcher of Plainfield," starring Kane Hodder (Jason Voorhees!) is any better, though something tells me it's not.

Futurama: The Beast With a Billion Backs

Peter Avanzino
2008

was happy to hear that Matt Groening's Futurama would live on after it's network cancelation as a string of feature-length direct to video outings, but actually seeing one really highlights this proposed format's shortcomings. The writing is generally solid, though there's a weak reliance on slapstick humor. Due to the extended running time nearly every bit character in the universe gets trotted out for a joke or two, though these efforts would be much better spent in developing the story or making funnier situation based jokes instead of lame character hooks. The semi-amusing title is mostly apocryphal with David Cross providing the voice of an inter-dimensional monster looking for love in our universe. Everything here is passable, but it'll definitely make fans of the series nostalgic for the superior 30 minute broadcast. Still, you could do a hell of a lot worse with an hour and a half

Strait-Jacket

William Castle
1964

It doesn't get much better than schlockmeister William Castle teaming up with a waning "crazy era" Joan Crawford, and turning the former Hollywood heavyweight into a reformed axe murder recently released from the funny farm! As expected, Castle lays the tension on thick with hilariously unsubtle symbolism and jittery Joan's nervous tic of slicing inanimate objects to ribbons. Heads roll with a ballsy amount of onscreen violence, whether it be a silhouette of a recently severed melon, or a direct hatchet job complete with arterial gushing. The garishly basic low-budget lighting provides the perfect B-movie look and ups the pulp ante of Castle's cheapie sensibilities. While Joan Crawford may not have been a tinseltown high-roller at this point of her career, she's definitely still got chops. The most unforgettable scene comes when mommy dearest is introduced to her daughter's beau. The meek and skittish Crawford 180's into a provocatively sexual predator (I loathe to use the term "cougar," but it's kind of unavoidable in this case), swilling whiskey, swiveling her hips, and laying hungry hands on the blonde country boy. The twist ending may be visible a mile off, but works satisfactorily as an expected genre convention. This one is DVD worthy.

Cemetery Man

Second Viewing
Michele Soavi
1994

Definitely one of the weirder horror flicks I've seen in it's unfocused meandering, alternately humorous and melancholic tone, and obsessively self-conscious camera moves/angles. Rupert Everett puts in a chilly performance as the eponymous caretaker of a small town graveyard - a job requiring him to bury the dead twice, once upon arrival, and again after the dead rise and are put down with a bullet to the head. The zombie makeups are only so-so, heavy on the grey pancake look, but Soavi makes up for it with some pleasantly bizarre undead encounters: an entire troupe of boyscouts, the talking/floating severed head of the Mayor's daughter, and a (literally) hellbound biker riding his trashed hog beyond the grave. The visuals are hyper-stylized and owe a lot to the mid 90's music video aesthetic. You could make a very successful drinking game out of this movie by knocking one back every time the camera peers out from inside something: a zombie's jaws, a smashed television, and the many 6-feet-deep holes. The film's unusual indulgences are primarily what make it great, particularly in the three-time resurrection of Everett's love as different women (all played by actress Anna Falchi), and the cemetery man's foray in cold blooded murder. This one's pretty damn unique.

Ballast

Lance Hammer
2008

This much ballyhooed debut feature won the director's prize at this year's Sundance festival, and considering the festival's long suffering decline in quality standards, it's nice to see a worthy picture take a big prize. The film would mainly be a three person chamber drama were Hammer not so taken with the bleak and muddy expanse of winter in the Mississippi Delta. Some dangerous social cliches are skirted here, with an adolescent boy in deep to local drug dealers, a mother with an addict past, and a predictably broken family. However, Hammer succeeds in letting these dramatic moments breathe to at least a quasi-reslolution. The youth is able (if momentarily) to escape drugs, and mother and brother-in-law are able to manage a believably uneasy truce. Michael J. Smith Sr.'s performance is the cornerstone of the film with his unflappable gentleness and soulful sorrow belying a massively imposing frame. The intensity of attempted suicide and drug abuse in the first act gives way to a rockily recuperative second and third - an unorthodox move that provides a vague blueprint for the complex tone and rich atmosphere of the picture's world. Unfortunately, the cinematography's leaves a little to be desired with it's overly blue coloring and murky, low-contrast palette. Still, this is one of 2008's better films.

The Giant Claw

Fred F. Sears
1957

While it fits pretty squarely into the 1950's red-scare communist-anxiety horror genre with it's emphasis on military men, scientists, and an obsessive preoccupation with national security, "The Giant Claw" is one of the more surprisingly unique entries in the trend. The film is nothing if not for it's monster: an invincible and enormous bird from outer space - remarkably ugly with a naked turkey's head, curved beak full of jagged teeth, and mohawk like haircut(!). Thanks to this solid creature design, the dirty bird gets a generous amount of screen-time, and the majority of the effects shots are of a similarly high quality, particularly those in which the cosmic chicken swoops in to chow down on parachuting servicemen. While the puppet may be the star of this show, television vet Jeff Morrow and female lead Mara Corday exchange some genuinely clever dialogue in a romantic back-and-forth that's much better than the usual filler-between-action scenes. While it may not be of the same caliber as films like "Them!" or "The Thing From Another World" It's definitely in the same ballpark.

Amarcord

Multiple Viewings
Federico Fellini
1973

One of the lighter, easier digested films in Fellini's career, this one makes for a good introduction to the director's work. Ostensibly a collection of episodic remembrances from Fellini's childhood during Mussolini's regime, made cohesive by the communal nature of small town life and peppered with the maestro's signature flights of fancy. The best moments tend to come from the sexual hysteria of the male teenage mind: hilarious anti-masturbation lectures from the priest, the horn-dog obsession with ladies butts plopping down on bicycle seats, the fixation on a massive breasted tobacconist, and a puppy love yearning for town beauty Gradisca, clad in red with a frequently wiggling booty. The natural insubordination of the students towards their teachers is a treat as well, and in this respect makes Amarcord the most Truffaut-like of Fellini's films. There's lots of good stuff here, and it's definitely required viewing, but this rewatching made me really appreciate the mastery of some of the director's more complex and challenging pictures. Weirdest moment of the film: when the gargoyle-ugly melon-seed vendor winds up in the harem of a visiting Sheik.

Nobody Knows

Hirokazu Koreeda
2004

Painting an un-sensationalized portrait of child abuse (something rare in the cinema), this Japanese picture presents a neglect that is innocuously un-monstrous and quotidian. While no lashing belts or overt emotional cruelty is inflicted upon the four Fukushima kids, the heart of the mother's crime remains, and director Koreeda's relentless scrounging for beauty in the children's freedom gives way to the painful realities of having to collect rainwater and handouts for sustenance, and burying your little sister in a suitcase coffin on the outskirts of Haneda airport. The child actors are the core of this reverse Lord of the Flies with "breadwinning" oldest child Akira, sullen big sister Kyoko, goofball brother Shigeru, and button-cute 'lil sis Yuki. The film mostly concerns itself with Akira's experience which seems a bit unfair considering he's the only child allowed to leave the house while the other three rot away in forced captivity. However, as the increasingly truant mother (played with disturbing ditziness by the singularly named You) becomes more of a ghost the rules are broken as the children freely leave the apartment, plant an ersatz garden on the balcony, and cover the walls in crayon scrawls. For all the visual poetics and meditative tone, it seems like a missed opportunity that Koreeda mostly glosses over the difficulty of surviving without utilities - no water equals no working toilet after all.

The Godfather: Part II

Multiple Viewings
Francis Ford Coppola
1974

I was always of the opinion that part two of this 70's cinema phenomenon was the best in the trilogy, but after watching the Coppola restorations of both this and the original, I might have to rescind that opinion. Beginning with an ascendant Michael Corleone, things begin to fall apart in a karmic undoing which leaves him utterly isolated in his lonely position of power. To keep this mephistophelian decline from being a total drag Michael's evolution towards sad robot is intercut with his father's exile from Sicily and immigrant experience in New York, leading up to his own criminal blossoming. This father and son dichotomy makes for an almost embarrassingly nostalgic view as Vito's rise is all romanticized morality-in-gangsterism while Michael's modern mafioso life involves dodging assassins' bullets while your understandably freaked out wife walks out on you. It's nice to see Diane Keaton and perennial player of losers John Cazale get meatier roles in this outing, but the real treat is the inclusion of acting genius Lee Strasberg as Jewish gambling scion Hyman Roth. Coppola isn't exactly known for his restraint, and the wildly indulgent 200 minutes of running time hurts the overall impact (also: ending the film on a flashback?), but this still remains one Hollywood's best films of the 70's.

The Man From Laramie

Anthony Mann
1955

A guy whose name rhymes with "Ron Gord" takes the title for my favorite director of westerns, but Anthony Mann comes in at a close second. His frontier America is serious as a heart attack and peppered with complex character motivations and morality. Jimmy Stewart stars here as he does in others (Winchester '73, The Naked Spur) delivering supplies to a town thoroughly under the yoke of bigwig beef baron Alec Waggoman (Donald Crisp, making little effort to mask his British accent). Waggoman's a decent sort but his kid's a spoiled brat verging on psychotic, and his seemingly level-headed right hand man Vic proves a scheming back-dealer. Unglamorous revenge and ugly americans abound in the picture - repeated hallmarks of Mann's westerns. Not only does Junior burn down Stewart's wagons for accidentally trespassing on Waggoman ranch land, he takes it upon himself to personally murder the mules as well. I've always thought Stewart was at his best when his avuncular folksiness gives way to seething rage, and seethe he does. There's a great scene early on in which Jimmy fistfights with the bullies who wronged him, kicking up a diaphanous cloud of dust in the Cinemascope frame while the tightly packed cattle bellow away. Of course, it's a little dicey that the Apache Indians are presented as a MacGuffin of mass destruction, and the female lead is tacked on and superfluous, but overall The Man From Laramie remains a solid picture.

A Nightmare On Elm Street

Wes Craven
1984

When I was growing up the two biggest screen baddies on my radar were Freddy Kruger and Jason Voorhees. Years later I'd come to find that many (if not most) of the the franchise entries for these two horror heavyweights are bigger on schlock than they are on scares. Craven's dream-haunting child killer lends himself more to expressionistic psychological terror, and benefits from surreal touches like a phone receiver turning into Kruger's flicking tongue. On the surface it's scarier than Friday The 13th with it's free form lack of rules and unpredictability, yet once the film's atmospheric nightmare fantasy ends (this time with one of those cop-out "no resolution" endings) a more traditional hack and slash teen killer seems closer to home - it's plausibility far more unsettling. Johnny Depp makes his debut here as the quintessentially vacuous 80's teen male, a far cry from the eccentric wizard he's become, and his character definitely seems to set the template for the window crashing best bud Sam of Clarissa Explains it All. In addition to the nocturnal frights Craven injects some real-life social bummers as the heroine suffers a distant workaholic father (John Saxon!) and a vacant souse mother. With folks like these its a surprise that Nancy's prematurely grey hair didn't develop before Freddy came calling.

Beverly Hills Chihuahua

Raja Gosnell
2008

I saw this one on a lark expecting little more than a bananas amount of camp and some uncomfortable inadvertent racism, but amazingly this talking-dog flick is a million times better than it has any right to be. Being mostly canine-centric, and wisely keeping the humans, particularly shrill enormous-mouthed Piper Perabo, out of the majority of the action, the doggie drama delves into such lengths of endearing absurdity as including an evil assassin Doberman, police film cliches, Cheech Marin as a CGI rat, and an encounter with an ancient society of warrior chihuahuas. There's more than enough here to make a stoner's head explode, yet Beverly Hills Chihuahua succeeds beyond it's tacky ironic pleasures and sticking to a weirdly ambitious script in which all the hoary Hollywood cliches seem distinctly fresher and more genuine when played out by a ragtag group of pooches. The computerized chicanery of moving mutt mouths looks great, but there's a weird disconnect with the dogs calmly chatting while their bodies heave like a bellows because they're panting. Cheech Marin's rat is disappointingly cartoonish looking, but his iguana pal is rendered remarkably well. CGI animals have come a long way since Cats & Dogs. This is honestly the most fun I've had in a theater all year. I am completely serious about this.

Supervixens

Russ Meyer
1975

While it doesn't have the hell-bent hard edge of Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill! or the trash-epic sweep of Beyond The Valley of the Dolls this Russ Meyer classic is plenty watchable considering it concerns itself mainly with glorifying and exhibiting large breasts. The throwaway plot is a bit dull, but maintains an episodic structure in which framed fugitive good-guy Clint (Charles Pitts) is forced to fend off horny buxom women at every turn in the road. Unsurprisingly, the starlets in question are gorgeous and the cheesecake good-times breeziness of the picture's tone makes it perfect for any beer-soaked lazy-Saturday viewing. It's particularly strange that while violence against women tends to be a corner stone of much of exploitation and horror cinema (The Gore Gore Girls anyone?), the ills inflicted upon gals in this schlocky outing, which amounts to one prolonged murder and one quasi-torture scene, are presented in a genuinely disapproving fashion. After all , sex can bee all fun and games, but murder is a serious bummer. The wanton lust of the supervixens in question is heavy on male fantasy, but also gives credence to the revisionist feminist view that Meyer is something more than a scumbag, by flaunting a bevy of willfully sexual women oppressed or manipulated by a lineup of goofy and uptight males.

Total Recall

Paul Verhoeven
1990

Nobody treats a firearm quite like Paul Verhoeven. His depiction of guns, particularly machineguns, is an action-centric cinema of well-oiled industrial menace, and thanks to effects genius Rob Bottin (The Thing!), when the bullets hit the gruesomely messy impact squibs bear ample witness to the consequences. Total Recall offers an excellent story inspired by a Philip K. Dick short, but is sadly bogged down by the cheesy inevitabilities of big budget Hollywood filmmaking. Meathead hero Arnie Schwarzenegger fails in the charisma department while the overblown futuristic production design feels like a Miami lawyer's cocaine hangover. It's a hoot to see Sharon Stone decked out in an early 90's frizz 'do, and Michael Ironside achieves his metier in the role dickhead henchman, but there's far too much convention - business as usual - to make the picture memorable. Of course Rob Bottin's prosthetics are above reproach, particularly with mutant parasitic twin come rebel underground leader Kuato, and there's a fair amount of color in touches like the inclusion of a dwarf prostitute and plenty of futuristic carnage. My reading of the film favors an interpretation in which Schwarzenegger is stuck in a medical chair with his brain fried, living in his dreams as a vegetable. In retrospect this looks more like a warmup for Verhoeven's brilliant return to the sci-fi genre with Starship Troopers, a movie where his glorious machineguns chatter freely.

Opening Night

John Cassavetes
1977

You know it's a Cassavetes film when the majority of the camera's intimate affections are dedicated to a boozy Gena Rowlands flitting about on the verge of hysteria. So goes Opening Night, another sweetly sadistic and painfully human installment in the working relationship between John Cassavetes (who also appears in front of the camera in this outing) and wife Gena. The "last straw" opening of an adoring fan, accidentally slain by an automobile, sets up Rowlands's mid-career crisis in heavy-handed cornball fashion, though thankfully this device transmutes into an eerily complex and menacing doppelganger - Gena at 17. This portrait of a slapped actress manages to be even more hackle raising than Rowlands's previous turn as a mentally ill housewife (A Woman Under the Influence) due to the suspenseful live performances that can so easily go to hell based on the whims of the unbalanced leading lady. The majority of the picture is a distressed potboiler leading up to the titular event where a late Rowlands shows up completely blotto - barely able to speak or walk let alone perform. Once onstage this trainwreck of trainwrecks evolves into a black coffee infused passion play complete with epic apotheosis.

Burn After Reading

Coen Brothers
2008

The usual criticism leveled at the brothers Coen is that their slick cinema lacks "heart." Yet even at their most insect-unfeeling they manage to keep things interesting by lacing their pictures with masterful filmmaking gestures and cartoonishly exaggerated characters. This time around the Coens neglect their usually colorful characterizations with an unconvincingly alcoholic John Malkovich ranting ceaselessly in his distinctive diction, Tilda Swinton scowling about as a British ice queen, and Brad Pitt hamming it up as a one-note gym rat boob. Also, the conceit that Frances McDormand's lovelorn character is willing to risk life and limb for fake tits and a tummy tuck is preposterous. The only characters that really get the royal (read proper) treatment are George Clooney's philandering internet Cassanova and puppy-dog-eyed saddie Richard Jenkins. The biggest disappointment comes from the impression that a sendup of the flourishing National Security/CIA genre seems like the ripest of plums - something Carter Burwell's over the top score taps into nicely. The D.C. milieu makes a great backdrop for the action with its crowded urban parks and gorgeous townhouses, and suggests a high stakes game of power and wealth even if its a mirage. The only part of this generally unremarkable film the Coens nail are the two briefings (one of which acts as a coda) to a CIA bigwig (played perfectly by J.K. Simmons). These absurdist meetings are examples of the brothers at the top of their game - its a shame it couldn't carry over to the rest of the picture.

Mr. Freedom

William Klein
1969

This is the product of inputting politics into the category 5 hurricane that is William Klein's brain. The manic, meth injected, satire is low on any sort of nuance, subtlety, cogent message, or political thoughtfulness, and it's clear that Klein couldn't care less, instead putting all his OCD meticulousness into an expressionistic explosion of superhero jingoism, frothing cheerleaders, and bullets a-go-go. Klein must have pulled a decent amount of water in Paris as the impressive cast features an over-the-hill yet still sexed up Delphine Seyrig, big brother Donald Pleasance, and inflatable evildoer Philippe Noiret, amongst other wacky cameos and bit parts. The film comes off as a synthesized outputting of Klein's new found political convictions, and takes its distinctly lynch mob/carnivalesque pep rally form from his essence - the guy isn't Chris Marker, Ken Loach, or Sergei Eisenstein - he's the director of Who Are You, Polly Maggoo? Considering how gloriously elaborate and powerful Mr. Freedom's costume is (it makes the Power Rangers look like pussies) it's a little disappointing that his nemeses are so underdeveloped: Moujik Man is little more than a red foam blob while Red China Man (clever name) is nothing more than a Macy's Thanksgiving Parade mylar balloon. There is something distinctly late 60's about the ubber-shrill gatherings with their (not so) latent violence and sexuality, which is made all the more heady with liberal dollops of bodypaint and skimpy athletic costumes.

The Wackness

Jonathan Levine
2008

Full disclosure: I fully expected to hate The Wackness. The graffiti themed promotional materials displaying a hip-hop loving whiteboy pot-dealer, who pays his troubled shrink in weed, appeared to be the absolute zenith of trite indie-film posturing. Add a heap of Sundance buzz, an Oscar winning legend, and a young actor in a crossover bid and you’re asking for a perfect storm of self-consciously “edgy” cinema. Yet despite my preconceptions The Wackness manages to be a seriously well-crafted effort, and an earnest piece of storytelling. The film is also a bit of a period picture, set in New York City’s summer of ’94, with a great rap soundtrack featuring some of the era’s most classic jams.

College bound Luke Shapiro (Nickelodeon vet Josh Peck) has just graduated high school and is in the throes of some mondo teenage angst. His extracurricular drug dealing makes him the life of parties he’s not invited to, and like most young men, he’s far more concerned about losing his cursed virginity than his family’s looming financial problems. Friendless Luke vents his woes to off kilter shrink Dr. Squires (Sir Ben Kingsley), a shaky and conflicted man stuck in a loveless marriage. It’s the doc’s stepdaughter Stephanie (Olivia Thirlby) that Luke is after, and thanks to the typically desolate New York summer this admittedly “out of his league” girl unexpectedly latches onto him. Meanwhile, the specter of Rudy Giuliani’s citywide crackdown serves as an ominous harbinger of things to come, and the suicide of Kurt Cobain still hangs like a pall in the air.

Not to be overly cynical, but this sort of film seems made for Sundance success. Its the ultimate shout-out to wiggerdom – where black music and culture are celebrated and glorified, but made easily digestible by filling the bill with a lovably dopey white kid. It would appear that the only thing keeping The Wackness from multiplexes would be the inclusion of sexually active teenagers and some heavy drug use. Otherwise, the romance between Luke and Stephanie, and Dr. Squire’s midlife crisis could easily be the stuff of Hollywood focus-groupthink.

The film’s biggest problem comes from Kingsley’s character and performance, which for starters is complicated by a completely unconvincing and inconsistent accent. It would seem that Jonathan Levine has never put in face time with a real shrink considering that nothing even close to psychiatric help transpires in Luke and Squire’s meetings. Instead the office acts more as a crucible to both exercise and conjure up the generation gap’s demons. Squires wants to escape while Luke wants to fit in, Luke wants mind-numbing meds while Squires wants Luke’s youth. In a wonderfully clichéd move, the doc flushes his many medications and goes on a much needed bender with Luke which culminates in a night in jail and a makeout session with a ridiculously dreadlocked druggie (Mary Kate Olson in a jaw droppingly weird bit part). This emancipation isn’t particularly ridiculous from a scripting standpoint as Squires is stuck with a stepdaughter that barely tolerates him and a wife who treats him as if he were invisible (Famke Janssen with a cigarette perpetually glued between her fingers), but Sir Ben’s performance is so over the top as to leave the impression that the older actor is having a blast on the job, leaving Levine too intimidated to bring him down.

That said the film is quite well done overall. Peck’s performance as Luke in particular, is played with a mouth-breathing stoner charm that isn’t so much stupid as enthrallingly naïve and sincere. There’s also a pleasant level of sophistication in the depiction of Luke and Stephanie’s families. Both are troubled and imperfect, yet there’s no direct claim that either is abusive or “bad,” and despite the seemingly inflammatory moral shortcomings of the kids (promiscuity, the distribution of illegal drugs), you’d be hard pressed to consider either of them as truly bad seeds. The film’s sex scenes range from genuinely hilarious to embarrassingly overwrought, and while the drug use is generally handled with an elegant naturalism, there are a few scenes in which the actors are guilty of overdoing it. Still, Levine shows tremendous aptitude for depicting teenage pathos in a way that’s simultaneously amusing and honest.

Review by Brett A. Scieszka

Mongol

Sergei Bodrov
2007

Award winning director Sergei Bodrov’s Mongol is a research-informed cobbling of the early life and rise to power of the boy/man who would eventually become the infamous Genghis Khan. Genre nuts will be delighted to see Tadanobu Asano (Ichi the Killer, Vital) taking over the role of the famed barbarian king. Filmed in the same windy steppes in which Genghis himself was reared Bodrov strives for an earnest verisimilitude in depicting the life of twelfth century Mongols in a film of Russian production, subtitled from Mongolian, and starring a multiethnic cast.

Ostensibly, the film takes the form of the historical epic with its sweeping, omnipresent landscape and tale of a hero rising from dire circumstances. However, there’s only one large-scale battle, and Temudgin’s (Genghis Khan’s birth name) presumably Machiavellian rise to power is glossed over in a few title cards. What’s left is the many hardships suffered by a thrice enslaved boy, a complicated and competitive relationship with his blood brother Jamukha, and most prominently, a romance between him and wife Borte. Think Braveheart minus all those expensive battle scenes.

Of course, the stereotypical view of Genghis Khan is that of a loin-clothed brute surrounded by a harem of slave wenches, wolfing down a mutton shank and sucking liquor from a wineskin (you remember Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, right?). This is the old legend that Bodrov intends to rectify. There’s a tremendous remoteness in Asano’s performance that’s also in opposition to the classic Khan myth. The hedonistically rampant Id of legend is played as a soft-spoken introspective man who frequently prays, and appears completely unimpressed by material gain.

No attempt has been made to candy-coat Mongol life, in which prepubescent boys pick out their wives for marriage and men raid other tribes when they’re not drunkenly wrestling before the bonfire or heading to a nearby kingdom to unload slaves. Yet the rule of law remains vital and is oft mentioned (though sometimes broken), while the dual bonds of family and society hold together a certifiably bona fide culture. It is in this milieu that Temudgin marries for love in youthful defiance of his father, and secretly breaks Mongol law by going to war over a woman when his wife is apprehended by a rival tribe. There’s definitely a degree of tried and true movie magic in Bodrov depicting Temudgin as the sentimental Casanova in a decidedly unsentimental culture – an exaggeration in favor of provocation.

The majority of the film takes place outdoors, making the foreboding hard-scrabble landscape a perpetual backdrop to the action. The cinematography devoted to the steppes is a bit of a letdown, adequate, but by no mean awe inspiring. Instead the empty land acts as a brilliant stage for the audio in which the pound of every hoof cuts through a nearly oppressive stillness. This amplified sense of sound lends a tremendously visceral nature to the storytelling too, as Temudgin runs from would-be captors his fatigue doesn’t come so much from the weary look on Asano’s face, but from the sound of his ragged footsteps.

Out of the three battle scenes the first two, smaller in scale, feel much more satisfying than the final climax. The use of CGI blood has really come a long way and looks excellent here as Temudgin hacks away at masked assailants from a rival tribe and litters the ground with the corpses of Jamukha’s army in another. A particularly effective device is used in the latter of these two fights in which a time cut brings us to the end of a battle to find the ferocious Temudgin still making mincemeat out of enemies after all his comrades have bought the farm. The final showdown is much less exciting in its predictability with aerial shots full of little CGI ants on each side against a sandy, unconvincing CGI backdrop.

Bodrov does a hell of a job in inventing a new mythos for an established historical figure. Considering the film is supposed to be the first installment of a trilogy on Genghis Khan it will be particularly interesting to see what the director does with this unique take on a man whose empire covered half the globe.

Reprise

Joachim Trier
2006

Joachim Trier’s debut feature Reprise is a solid art house import with an incisively penetrating tendency towards character study – a film that elegantly portrays the youthful condition in which anything is possible, both for better and for worse. Despite the remarkable display of candor and insight there is an unpleasant degree of filler in the form of woefully conventional and hackneyed devices: the party scene music video, the young protagonist meeting and receiving advice from his hero, the boorish fratboy eventually sucking face with a girl he had previously offended, and a wedding epilogue. Ironically these are all clichés that the two young authors at the center of Reprise would find genuinely hokey.
Fast friends Phillip (Anders Danielsen Lie) and Erik (Espen Klouman-Hoiner) chide each other and giggle nervously as they are preparing to send out their first manuscripts to publishers. A self-conscious zoom into the mailbox-slot heightens the couple’s anxious optimism and zips ahead in time to where the butterflies have subsided and we find that gaunt, beaky Phillip’s book has achieved a minor cult success leading to a heavy dose of insecurity and psychological damage. Erik, disappointed but undaunted by his manuscript’s rejection, continues plugging away while becoming increasingly wary of Phillip’s fragile wellbeing.

The majority of the film’s success lies in the tremendous performances of these lead roles. Erik’s “straight-man” is full of youthful yearning and a palpable striving for greatness, which Trier takes to task by imbuing the blonde moppet with a harmlessly comic does of pretension. The film starts in earnest with Phillip being released from the pysch-ward after a suicide attempt, and the core of Danielsen Lie’s performance suggests a jaded world-weariness so profound that becomes no longer a question of whether he’ll publish another novel, but whether he’ll make it through the night. Its a show-stealing performance in which nearly every scene involving Phillip is so charged with tension, so riddled with anxiety, that there’s a strong element of classic suspense ingrained within the drama.

On the periphery of these sad young literary men are friends, girls, and the humdrum lull of life in Oslo. Phillip’s girlfriend Kari (Viktoria Winge) is primarily, though unintentionally, responsible for his growing dementia, and their mutual refusal to let go is a constant source of concern. Its not hard to see how one could lose his mind over such a gal considering that Winge’s radiant beauty is frequently and hungrily meditated upon in Trier’s starry-eyed lens. If there’s such a thing as “screen presence,” than she’s got it in spades. Most of Erik and Phillip’s leisure time is spent with a small coterie of friends, mostly ex-punks who’ve eased into advertising jobs and chronic beer swilling. These are the kind of guys who will keep one grounded, a colorful and necessary entourage of jokesters that adds a sense of fun and lightheartedness to a film mainly concerned with a pair of heavy-minded boys.

While many of the stylistic devices in Reprise verge on annoying, (superfluous use of flashbacks, an amateurish reliance on voiceover) the use of sound in key emotional scenes is stunning. Many conversations between Phillip and Kari are imbued with a poetic disjoint between sound and image, with conversation taking place while the screen presents tender touches, and close-ups of neck napes, hair wisps, and furtive glances. It would be the stuff of cheesy romance fiction were it not handled with Trier’s exuberant heart-on-sleeve sensibility – the kind of openness and vulnerability presented by many great authors.
While all the cutesy male bonding and quasi-macho pose is funny and familiar, the depiction of women is a bit troubling. When Phillip flies Kari to Paris in an identically retrace of the trip where they fell in love, she’s subjected to some of Phillip’s most unhinged mental malaise yet acts fairly oblivious to the awful position she’s been thrust into. Its an outrageous display of passivity, more the fault of the script and direction than that of the actress. Meanwhile Erik’s long-suffering girlfriend is used more as a device then presented as a real character. Finally, there’s plenty of discussion between the boys about how women are the bane of male creativity. None of this proves to be much of a deal-breaker however, as Trier’s light touch prevents things from becoming a royal PC bummer.

Mr. Lonely

Harmony Korine
2007

For a long time I've been fairly dismissive of Harmony Korine, but after recently reexamining his work I was pleased to find that my relationship to the auteurist art punk has become more of a love/hate affair than one of total disinterest. Korine's latest film, clearly his most mature and arguably most accomplished, now threatens to tip the scale in his favor. Mister Lonely may be the director's turning point from sleazy quasi-exploitative youth shockers, to well crafted adult cinema.

Barely successful Michael Jackson professionally impersonates the King of Pop, but has been relegated to honing his craft in Parisian parks and hosting the occasional gig at the local old folks home. After a flirtatious run-in with a Marilyn Monroe (Samantha Morton) impersonator Michael is swept away to a castle in the Scottish highlands, and is introduced to a seemingly utopian community of celebrity impersonators ranging from James Dean to the Queen of England - from The Pope to the Three Stooges. Theirs is a childish fantasy world marred by the love triangle between Michael, Marilyn, and her capricious and abusive husband Charlie Chaplin. These impersonators' well meaning escapism is further complicated by the stony realities of diseased livestock and an apathetic public. After all, what's a performer without an audience?

For Korine, this is a remarkably restrained film in which the signature white trash/ghetto-fab freak show is replaced with competent acting and believably honest sentiment. In dealing with a cultural phenomenon like celebrity impersonation Korine benefits by bringing forth a host of characters that create certain presupposed impressions. Therefore unsurprisingly, both Michael and Marilyn have a childlike naivety, James Dean and Sammy Davis Jr. are preoccupied with style, while Abraham Lincoln and the Pope are prone to spout off in blustery bouts of public address.

The major roles are superbly acted, with Morton's Marilyn as the proverbial cherry on top in a performance that trumps the real McCoy in its delicate vulnerability. Her imperfect looks and non-cover-girl figure lend her a satisfying accessibility: the cinematic equivalent of comfort food. Along with Marilyn, Diego Luna's Michael is given more dimension with characterization beyond his self-assumed identity. At times he seethes with the quality of an awkward tween in a man's body, something like a low self esteem Peter Pan. Denis Lavant as Chaplin effectively creates a two-faced clown with his tomfoolery and pratfalls masking a wickedly pitted face, and cruel dark eyes. Also of note, Werner Herzog puts in his second appearance in a Korine film, after his turn as the maniacal patriarch of Julien Donkey-Boy. This time he plays Father Umbrillo, a wisdom imparting missionary priest who leads a troupe of flying nuns. As an actor, one can only expect Werner Herzog to play Werner Herzog - not necessarily a bad thing considering his powerful presence and subtly comic delivery.

Seeing as it hardly pertains to the main action, Father Umbrillo's clucking and kibitzing is the kind of superfluous indulgence that could weaken or muddy the film, however Director of Photography Marcel Zyskind's photography of miraculous nuns falling through clear blue is genuinely breathtaking, and ads a playful layer to the wide-eyed tone. Much of the cinematography is effortlessly intimate with probing closeups and candid performances. Sammy Davis Jr. practices his routine on the castle parapet, and Buckwheat swoons over the chickens he's charged with caring for.

Mister Lonely is not wholly without its detractions. Abe Lincoln possesses a notably foul mouth, and his frequent cussing is played more for cheap laughs than worthwhile characterization. Michael's jaunt in the old folks' home gives us a hefty dose of Korine's standby anthropological gawking, as the near-catatonic elderly grotesques are wheeled up to the camera lens. Admittedly this scene is played with a degree of playful fun as opposed to the bratty pretensions of Gummo's (1997) "Down Syndrome beauty," but nevertheless the scene retains a hokey element of misplaced comic relief.

It would be trite to say that Mister Lonely is a coming of age picture, yet it has many of the genre's trappings, and many familiar tropes are used. Questions of identity, longing, and confusion with one's place in the world are core themes of the film, and if that doesn't speak volumes of the modern teenage experience I don't know what does. The film ends with an uncertain future for the commune, and not all characters make it through. Michael has returned to the Parisian streets Marilyn found him on, but his Scottish adventure has created a sea change in his identity which provides a new set of challenges and a new purpose. For Korine, like Michael, this appears to be a step towards a change in his identity as an artist. He's the same man at heart, just a little more grown up now.

Son of Rambow

Garth Jennings 2007

Read my review for the Knoxville Metro Pulse!

http://www.metropulse.com/news/2008/may/28/second-blood/

Paranoid Park

Gus Van Sant
2007

With the release of Paranoid Park Gus Van Sant sadly caps a cinematic hat trick that started with 2002's Gerry and ended with 2005's Last Days. A hallmark of this trilogy (that also included the superb Columbine meditation, Elephant) was the participation of Director of Photography Harris Savides, whose lensing skills are noticeably absent from this production. In breaking this fruitful partnership, and opting for Christopher Doyle to shoot instead (also a prior collaborator), Van Sant's film suffers from an aesthetic confusion unbecomingly amateurish in light of his prior achievements.

The picture borrows its story from the YA book of the same title, a teenage Crime and Punishment in which skater Alex is wracked by guilt over his part in the accidental murder of a railway security guard. The simple plotting is complemented by a fractured chronology that provides a measured and candid view into Alex's inner life. His mundane interactions with parents, adults, and peers comprise the bulk of the picture, and are far more deft and illuminating than the hokey murder mystery anyway. Van Sant's been good with youth actors in the past, but unfortunately only Gabe Nevins' lead performance comes off as something more meaningful than the cloying quality a failed non-actor performance always seems to possess, though to be fair, Lauren McKinney's bleach-streaked alternateen has charm to spare.

The Oregon grey and copious amounts of concrete on display add to the muted and washed out aesthetic, creating a cliched look which screams "disaffected youth." This drab-by-default palette is puzzling considering the look is directly at odds with the anti-fashion, anti-buzzword portrait Van Sant attempts to bring out of his subjects. Additionally, the practice of filming skate sessions in super-8 (or some identical looking process) and co-opting skateboard video devices is an appallingly trite riff on the subculture. Its a cheesy cop-out that places the filmmaker's age squarely and unnecessarily on his sleeve.

What seems most frustrating is that this is ground Van Sant has previously trod, and done so with sincerity and panache. It feels as if something's missing this time around, an amorphous discord between direction and performance, photography and tone. I can't help but imagine what may have been were Savides behind the camera. For an accomplished and increasingly admirable artist, this feels like two steps back.

Review by Brett A. Scieszka

Criterion Eclipse Series 7: Postwar Kurosawa

I've taken quite a shine to Criterion's Eclipse line series of reasonably priced (for Criterion) DVD sets highlighting a specific era of a noted or overshadowed director's work. Series 3: Late Ozu goes down like pure cinematic opiate, and Series 5: The First Films of Sam Fuller is nothing short of required viewing. One of the more recent volumes takes a look at 5 films Kurosawa made over a roughly ten year period follow Japan's WWII defeat. Its an interesting crop of films, made all the more interesting because they're not all that successful. Its also worth taking into account that the best Kurosawa films of that period have already been released in proper Criterion DVD editions. Still, the Eclipse series is a very watchable portrait of a young director just starting to hit his stride.

No Regrets For Our Youth
1946
Fans of Yasujiro Ozu will be shocked to see his perennial star Setsuko Hara, leave behind her crisp kimono and prim shyness for dirty peasant rags and manual rice paddy labor. Centering on bourgeoisie Hara's journey from activist, to the wife of a radical, to filial daughter-in-law, to a champion of rural labor, the film is splintered in focus and poorly paced, missing the mark until its satisfying third act. Hindsight being 20/20 it looks a little disingenuous of Kurosawa to make a film celebrating student protests in the face of imperial Japan's rising fascism considering he was complicit in the war effort. The film instead provides a too-late apology from a defeated and occupied country. I'm curious as to how the film's final message, which has all the gooey sweetness of communist propaganda, made it through U.S. occupation censors.

One Wonderful Sunday
1947
This is a nice Capra-esque social-realist comedy that does a great job of conveying the stifling poverty and frustrations of postwar Japan, spiced with a youthful glimmer of a brighter future. A young couple, essentially broke, meet on their Sundays for cheap dates. He's mopey, she's sunny, and the two go back and forth between enjoying their time together, and lamenting their current situation. Kurosawa in no way skirts harsh reality and presents it memorably onscreen in the form of a lost-soul child beggar, and an upscale nightclub that fronts a low-rent yakuza whorehouse. This down and dirty approach pleasantly contrasts and justifies the schmaltzy Disney-like sequences of hope, as the young man pantomimes running his own imaginary cafe amongst a literally ruined cityscape, and conducts a nonexistent orchestra in a desolate venue. This unexpected treat is one of the better films in the box.

Scandal
1950
The weakest selection in the set features Toshiro Mifune as a hunky painter who is inadvertently caught up in tabloid notoriety after an innocent encounter with a famous chanteuse at a rural inn. Taking a quasi-courtroom drama form, the picture has almost none of the genre's signature tension and feels woefully rote in its plotting. Pocketed lawyer Takashi Shimura's legal and moral predicament is fairly interesting but predictable, and the depiction and inclusion of his angelic, tubercular daughter as a sickly sweet golden child makes for near unforgivable cliche. Its hard to believe that this weak effort is bookended in Kurosawa's career by the genuinely intriguing (and very postwar) Stray Dog and the utterly classic Seven Samurai.

The Idiot
1951
A very decent adaptation of Dostoevsky's novel considering the overly ambitious production ran into trouble with the studio and thus Kurosawa's grand vision was compromised (the original cut was supposed to run close to three and a half hours). Its fairly remarkable how the easily 19th century Russian characters are altered to fit Japanese ones in a snow-blanketed postwar Hokkaido. Fans of Ozu will again be shocked to see goody-good Setsuko Hara's image twisted under Kurosawa's direction into a vampy kept-woman of the world. Lead actor Masayuki Mori's subtly un-Japanese features aid the "pure soul" outsider innocence his performance . The film has several great setpieces chock full of the rich turmoil and laden with all the madness of some of Dostoevsky's most fevered writing, particularly a defiant Setsuko Hara chucking a hefty bundle of Yen into a fireplace, and Mifune and Mori's addled chatter as they share a cold room with Mifune's murder victim.

I live in Fear
1955
The most well known film in the box also contains one of Toshiro Mifune's best roles as the overly-physical young actor transmutes his trademark swagger and growl to the bent stoop and clipped terseness of an elderly magnate. The deep seated nuclear terror of Hiroshima/Nagasak has convinced Mifune that he must move his family, mistresses and bastard children included, to the remote safety of the Brazilian countryside. Unsurprisingly, the Nakajima family has little interest in this proposed displacement and takes the issue to family court which eventually leads part-time lawyer Takashi Shimura to examine his own atomic fears. Mifune's cockeyed plan smacks of male fantasy. His vision of Brazil is a polygamist Eden that he can dictate and preside over as a wise, greying patriarch. While Nakajima senior's personal a-bomb demons tend to manifest theatrically in tortured expressions and manic fits during thunder storms, Takashi Shimura's dread is more realistic in its chilling inward contemplation. Disturbingly, the fear of these characters is not the simple vestigial zeitgeist of 50's Japan, as we continue to, and will most likely always, live in a world mere push-buttons away from annihilation.

Review by Brett A. Scieszka

Diary of the Dead

George A. Romero
2007

I entered George Romero's latest undead opus with a fair amount of trepidation. Diary of the Dead takes its form from the Blair Witch/Cloverfield school of passing off edited first person "documentary" footage as a fictional film. Let's call it for what it is: a gimmick. However, after having seen the film I'm a bit ashamed I ever doubted the maestro as Diary is not only brilliantly executed in its chills and satirical relevance, but is also on par with the best installments of the series, Night of The Living Dead and Dawn of the Dead.

We open with the first reported case of the rising dead, as the victims of a family's murder/suicide spring from their gurneys to prey on witless EMT and news-crew workers. When a group of film students (shooting a corny mummy movie) catch wind of the rising panic they decide its high time to get the hell out of Dodge, and begin trekking across Pennsylvania in a Winnebago with the hopes of returning to their parents' homes. Diary of the Dead becomes a road movie, an apocalyptic travelogue in which the film's "director" becomes singularly obsessed with documenting society's disintegration for posterity.

At 68 Romero shows more understanding of our technologically aided information saturation than most Youtube brats and "new media" propagators. Student director Jason Creed's impulse to record isn't presented preciously as a moral or philosophical imperative, but instead as a sick impulse, leaving the zombie ass-whooping to his proactive gal-pal Debra. Romero has always used diagetic media to brilliant effect in the form of radio broadcasts, televised punditry and government spin, but its never been quite so satisfying as it is here, at the conception of the crisis. As expected, Romero keeps things fun with the creative juxtaposition of fantastically macabre subject and ho-hum reality. Treats include a zombie birthday clown, the undead siege of an opulent mansion, a squad of no-nonsense Black Panther-esques stockpiling supplies, and the oft referenced "acid head" shot.

What sets Diary of the Dead apart from prior installments in the series is its (comparatively) positive tone.
Whereas prior pictures tended to focus on precarious survival situations unraveling through human selfishness, stupidity, greed, and a general pall of "ugliness," this time we're introduced to a younger, more appealing human race, one that actually seems worth saving. Land of the Dead may have opened Romero up to a scope of Hollywood filmmaking previously unavailable to him, but now, back on the outside, he's closer to his creation's pulse.

Review by Brett A. Scieszka