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dir. Sam Wood
writ. James Kevin McGuinnes (story), George S. Kaufman & Morrie Ryskind (screenplay)
feat. Groucho Marx, Chico Marx, Harpo Marx, Kitty Carlisle, Allan Jones, Walter Woolf King, Sig Ruman, Margaret Dumont
What praise hasn't been written about the Marx brothers? Somewhere, some joker has surely penned a doctoral dissertation on Harpo as a symbol of the unfettered id, likely deliberately omitting his importance as the one who gets the job done, even if that job is banging someone on the head with a hammer. I can only skirt the fray on the bros, their sharp circular word play reminiscent of the needful escapism of my high school years when a friend and I would run similar language loop-de-loops in efforts to alternately confuse, irritate and entertain each other. But no one else found those gags funny (or coherent), where the writers behind the Marx routines rouse the viewer to delightfully absurd, and lofty, heights. The contract negotiations between Groucho and Chico play illiteracy against the nonsense of legalese, the latter ensnaring the former until the men stumble into a verbose mess and simply tear their way free. In the process, the brothers' way of handling the world is demonstrated; they create the problem, then leave it behind.
But it is aggressive lunacy, best personified by hammer wielding Harpo but embraced by the whole troupe, that pushes both the humor and craftsmanship to transcendent peaks. Groucho's casual acceptance of the overcrowded stateroom, welcoming each new and increasingly ridiculous arrival, amplifies the humor, his easygoing manner highlighting the chaos by remaining above it. He is the master of ceremonies and won't be drawn into the turmoil.
And to remind the audience that these boys aren't just about comedy, the song and dance scene where Chico and Harpo take up instruments on the ship showcases the range of their talents. First, a dance number that seems to spout from a feverish Busby Berkeley, the participants whirling in a frenzy, just shy of collision, followed by Chico's nimble turn at the piano, his fingers dancing as wildly as those preceding him. Harpo steps in next, pretending to be all fists at the keys, but cleverly so, banging in rhythm, all for show, before changing gears to demonstrate his elegance on the instrument of his namesake. These musical interludes might seem like a pleasant diversion to some, a break from the breathless comic antics and verbal sparring. But without them the Marx brothers would be so much less. They add depth to the reality of the films, where not only do the fellas connive, disrupt, and deceive, but where they stop to play, to bring joy and beauty to those around them.
dir. Wes Anderson
writ. Wes Anderson & Noah Baumbach (screenplay), Roald Dahl (book)
feat. George Clooney, Meryl Streep, Jason Schwartzman, Bill Murray, Wallace Wolodarsky, Eric Chase Anderson, Michael Gambon, Willem Dafoe
Things were beginning to look bleak. It had been over a decade since any genuine emotion had been slipped into a Wes Anderson film, traded time and time again for hipster-chic ennui, until even that was depleted for The Darjeeling Limited. But here, in an animated adaptation of a not-so-popular children's story, a heart beats. Maybe it's the perfect combination, the often sticky sweet moral tales aimed at children balanced by Anderson's impulse to drain the breath out of his subjects.
Whatever the chemistry, Fantastic Mr. Fox springs forth in all its stop-motion glory, introducing living creatures full of energy and ambition facing challenges both physical and emotional. The fur flies at a pleasantly gripping pace, Mr. Fox (Clooney) leading the adventurous charge. And while this struggle for survival is peppered with humorous reminders that these are actually wild animals, conflicted in their sophisticated, anthropomorphic pursuits, it also pauses for several heartfelt moments, one that is remarkably touching, that explore that contradiction with satisfying depth.
With risks of violent death, broken relationships, and potentially irreversible alienation, the film challenges categorization as a children's tale. And though the youngsters behind me in the theater were frequently distracted, even singing little songs during long bouts of dialogue, they fell silent in the more riveting action-packed scenes, then whispered about their favorite parts. While our lists may not match, I was pleased to know that we both enjoyed the ride.
dir. Maurice Pialat
writ. Arlette Langmann & Maurice Pialat
feat. Sandrine Bonnaire, Maurice Pialat, Christophe Odent, Dominique Besnehard, Cyril Collard, Jacques Fieschi, Valerie Schlumberger, Evelyne Ker
Pialat's twist on the coming-of-age story of a teenage girl unravels like real life, without any easy answers and plenty of room for judgment from outsiders. Suzanne (Bonnaire) hops from bed to bed, casually taking new lovers at the slightest show of interest on their part. Whether she is a free spirit or a misguided young girl one can't rightly say, likely a combination of both. The film works like a play, throwing the viewer into the mix without the common introduction to ordinary life, a delightfully unsettling way to reveal the characters. When Suzanne's father (Pialat) announces his departure, claiming he can't take it any longer, we've yet to discover the hell in which he has left her, both brother and mother constantly hysterical and abusive (sadly to a degree that challenges their plausibility).
It's hard to blame Suzanne for finding solace in sex, the only joy that stirs her, the only connection she makes with others aside from her father. Armchair psychologists might casually insist that she's trying to fill that hole, failing to find a man substantive enough to live up to expectations, with which she can share the same obvious and easy connection that she does with Dad. But that would be an overly simplistic interpretation of a character more complex and difficult to pinpoint. It is this defiance of convenient analysis, paired with with compelling performances by Bonnaire and Pialat, that makes A nos amours such a lively and absorbing film.
dir. Mario Monacelli
writ. Angenore Incrocci, Furio Scarpelli, Suso Cecchi d'Amico & Mario Monacelli (screenplay), Angenore Incrocci & Furio Scarpelli (story)
feat. Vittorio Gassman, Renato Salvatori, Memmo Carotenuto, Rossanna Rory, Carla Gravina, Claudia Cardinale, Carlo Pisacane, Tiberio Murgia, Marcello Mastroianni, Toto
This loose-limbed send up of Rififi rolls amiably through a tale of a hodgepodge gang of bums and crooks joining together to rip off a pawn shop. Trading the taut procedural style of its target for a meandering yet engaging series of gags and character introductions, the story moves joyfully along, winsome and relaxing, with plenty of easy laughs. The inept batch of hoodwinks fall on luck both good and bad, eventually leading them to the big night. Oddly, this is where the plan falters, for the film as much as the heist, the charismatic mood betrayed by sudden seriousness, the laughs slipping, actions suddenly predictable and uninspired. Fortunately, the story soon rights itself with a blissful turn, restoring the airy feeling and scoring a handful of winning moments that complete the tale more effectively than on might have thought possible.
dir. Martin Scorsese
writ. Edith Wharton (novel), Jay Cocks & Martin Scorsese (screenplay)
feat. Daniel Day-Lewis, Michelle Pfeiffer, Winona Ryder, Alexis Smith, Geraldine Chaplin
I suppose that rules make stories of tension and rebellion possible, the needed restrictions against which to chafe and, if lucky, break free. But I can't see my way around The Age of Innocence, even its trite title too deliberate in its intentions. A key problem is that I can't be sold on shallow characterization being blamed on a time period, a type of forged history based on slack romantic texts and and legal documents of an era. Films have long leaned on these conventions for weak shows of melodrama, trading a well-rounded reality for lazy storytelling. Just watch Gone with the Wind for a prime example. Thankfully, there is also relief, refreshing depth flashing on the screen in very early films, such as those of Murnau, Pabst, and Ozu. Granted, they have a limit in their reach, only able to save people from entrapment in a batch of dull stereotypes as far back as the moving picture medium existed.
So, we suffer the stories of earlier centuries, by writers and directors guided by nostalgia and a desire to pity those foolish, unenlightened primitives. Here we are tormented by a dry, deadened tale by Edith Wharton, her so-called incisive wit and criticism of late 19th century upper-class New Yorkers suspect for her position within the fold. I've not read the book, but the gratingly snide narration by Joanne Woodward, screams of someone far more despicable than the characters she mocks. This is no whistle-blower, eager to reveal the faults of the system, but a gossiping spinster, reveling in the private pain of conservative, emotionally handicapped rich people.
Perhaps, it's a revenge fantasy, Wharton's smack back at a husband who would rather spend time with other women, her secret wish to bind him up emotionally, saddle him with otherwise absent conflict. But it requires not just an old-fashioned appreciation for minor drama (big oohs and aahs please when it's revealed that she thought that he thought so-and-so the whole time), but also a withered husk's sense of humor, tittering behind gloved hands coyly, and ineffectually, covering smug grins. This it seems should read as sophisticated, instead of childish. Sorry, no dice. Worse yet, in its over emphasis of small details and a push to wring pain from conflicted desire, the film attempts to be aggressively sublime, seeking a reaction that must be gradually earned, finessed, not demanded like it's some kind of gangster picture.
dir Claude Sautet
writ. Jose Giovanni (novel & dialogue), Claude Saute, Jose Giovanni and Pascal Jardin (adaptation)
feat. Lino Ventura, Sandra Milo, Jean-Paul Belmondo, Marcel Dalio, Michel Ardan, Simone France, Stan Krol
In Sautet's French twist on American noir, the focus shifts from the crime to the personal lives of the criminals. Abel Davos (Ventura) is a family man on the run, clearly still hooked on the adventure of his chosen life, but currently more concerned with moving his family to a safe new home. Tragedy and deceit naturally ensue, but so does an unexpected new friend and ally, in Eric Stark (Belmondo). As Eric joins forces with Abel, he slips into the family dynamic, a fraternal cameraderie between the two men and an avuncular role with Abel's young boys.
The film bounces between Abel's dual quest for safety and revenge and lingering moments of normalcy, family being family or Eric trying to get the girl. Trust and loyalty are tested and punishments administered, though the outcome of the story (particularly given an ending that seems uncertain of the filmmaker's conviction) comes second to the theme that an ordinary life is the ultimate goal even for killers and thieves.
dir. Ivan Reitman
writ. Dan Aykroyd and Harold Ramis, Rick Moranis (uncredited)
feat. Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, Sigourney Weaver, Harold Ramis, Rick Moranis, Annie Potts, William Atherton, Ernie Hudson, David Margulies
Ghost Busters is an astounding example of pitch perfect storytelling, a near miraculous balance of action, comedy, and pacing. The jokes fly wildly (not carelessly), moving with the story, never slowing it down for a slack jawed audience to obediently laugh before waiting for the next one. In early slower moments, the filmmakers wisely use Bill Murray to charm his way through character development. Exposition is revved up with the techno-geek patter of Aykroyd and Ramis, with Murray breaking it down for the layman with amusing interruptions.
And of course, there are ghosts, still fun and functional 25 years later, despite advances in special effects, thanks largely to the sharp decision not to make the appearance of the ghosts particularly important to the story. Also, when you climax with a giant, round, soft-edged marshmallow man, you make it easier for 80s effects wizards to create something both plausible and entertaining.
A few 80s songs off the soundtrack sting the ears, though the film largely escapes the worst pains of aging. This enduring success and survival is the result of Ghost Busters swift and limber pacing, a head of steam fueled by a terrific roster of top talent, in synch in tone and commitment to an energized, playful story.
writ. and dir. Louis Malle
feat. Lea Massari, Benoît Ferreux, Daniel Gelin, Michael Lonsdale, Ave Ninchi, Gila von Weitershausen, Fabien Ferreux, Marc Winocourt
With convincing offbeat scenes of bonding and budding adolescence, Louis Malle establishes a family that appears natural and appealing, like a bunch of kooky neighbors with whom it would be fun to share a drink now and then. With this familiarity, he slyly disarms the viewer, altering expectations and inhibitions over the course of his deceptively airy film as the story moves toward a climax that is both horrifically unsettling and inevitable. With masterful sleight of hand, he reduces the revulsion to a mere flinch, its impact overwhelmed by Laurent's sunny disposition and newfound manhood.
dir. Ronald Neame
writ. Muriel Spark (novel), Jay Presson Allen (play and screenplay)
feat. Maggie Smith, Robert Stephens, Pamela Franklin, Gordon Jackson, Celia Johnson, Diane Grayson, Jane Carr
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie has all the character and complexity of a woman unabashedly certain that she is in the prime of her life. Jean Brodie (Smith) struts the school grounds, her pride stoked by her effect on men and the girls she not only teaches, but coaches into teenage life. At the height of her charismatic powers, her ego verily bursts from her attractive and well-postured body, rendering her romantic notions about heroic dictators, passion, and art incontestable, her ideology above reproach.
But Jean's ideas about the world were born of her own young experiences of love and loss, then harbored and fueled in the safe haven of the classroom, encouraged by a regularly replenished tribe of adulating girls on the brink of adolescence, all too susceptible to a seemingly worldly mentor professing the importance of love and truth. Over the years, Jean's vague, static utopia grates against reality, and though she feigns preparation for change and the unavoidable results of aging, her purely philosophical defense crumbles quickly and easily when challenged. In the end, it is her narcissism that both creates and destroys Jean Brodie's so-called prime, the time spent protecting and prolonging her perfect self wasted, her ensuing decline calling into questioning the value of every aspect of her character- as a teacher, a leader, a lover, a woman.
Yet even in her departing speech, there is pride and strength in Jean Brodie's voice and plans for the future. This resilience and Jean's qualities, both troubling and admirable, evident in the treacherous former pupil who orchestrates her downfall leaves the viewer with the lingering difficult question of what makes a proper role model.
writ. and dir. Cristian Mungiu
feat. Anamaria Marinca, Laura Vasiliu, Vlad Ivanov, Alexandru Potocean
Director Cristian Mungiu deftly weaves a story of black market abortion in Ceausescu regime Communist Romania by choosing the perspective of the pregnant woman's friend. In selecting an approach that would seem to distance the viewer from the subject, he instead focuses even more pointedly on the pain and resounding emotional effects of a difficult decision.
From the outset, Otilia (Marinca) proves resilient and reliable, making arrangements, booking a hotel room and bringing the abortionist (Ivanov) there, while the the pregnant Gabriela (Vailiu) botches important details, a lack of preparedness that stems from a combination of personality and an understandable reaction to the daunting predicament of securing a highly illegal, terrifying operation. When it comes to it, far more tense and threatening than the procedure itself is the negotiation leading up to it, a kind of black market drug deal where the dealer is well aware that he has the upper hand. Here the full cost of the choice is brought to bear, desperation forcing the friends to pay more than their friendship may be able to afford, and pushing Otilia to the brink, challenging her sanity and beliefs as she calls her whole life into question.
As thoughtfully and thoroughly the film explores emotional pain, it decisively avoids gruesome imagery, instead leading the viewer to the moment, then leaving the rest to the imagination. One key exception is an unforgettably searing shot that will challenge some to keep their eyes open, a singular image that is arguably mandatory. Without it, the subject would not be fully realized.
dir. Lindsay Anderson
writ. David Sherwin (screenplay), David Sherwin & John Howlett (script "Crusaders" that screenplay was based upon)
feat. Malcolm McDowell, David Wood, Richard Warwick, Christine Noonan
This story of a strict British private school smacks of Dickens and Lean via Billy Liar with a hint of the yet-to-come A Clockwork Orange, a touch of fantasy escapism and rebellious violence spawned by abusive schoolmasters and restricted adolescence. Though it drifts toward the suggestion that creativity may be provoked, if sporadically and explosively, by the attempt to control and inhibit youngsters, whenever this notion is raised, it is all too briefly nurtured, returning the film to the tired old tropes of the lash and egotistical authorities.
While there is a degree of satisfaction in seeing McDowell in a role that grooms him for A Clockwork Orange, and the film is likely a landmark in shock value and surely loaded with a few delightfully absurd flights of fancy, it doesn't age well, too closely tied to the lifelessness enforced by its power wielding elite.
dir. Louis Malle
writ. Louis Malle & Roger Nimier (adaptation), Roger Nimier (dialogue), Noël Calef (novel and pre-adaptation)
feat. Jeanne Moreau, Maurice Ronet, George Poujouly, Yori Bertin, Jean Wall
Louis Malle rolls out a hip noir tale of murder and suspense in his directorial debut, defying a title that dares to give away too much plot with numerous twists to keep the viewer guessing. As Julien (Ronet) awaits discovery in the eponymous lift, Florence (Moreau) roams the streets of Paris longingly searching for him, fearing that she's been left for another woman. Meanwhile, Louis (Poujouly) and Veronique (Bertin) race around town in Julien's car, a younger, imaginary version of the older couple, as prone to trouble but wilder and less experienced.
There are fast cars, curious characters, dangerous deeds, and violence, but it's the improvised score by Miles Davis that really fuels the film, lending life and anguish to the action. It is the mood modulated by the music that brings Elevator to greater heights than its relatively simple story.
writ. and dir. Nuri Bilge Ceylan
feat. Muzaffer Ozdemir, Emin Toprak, Zuhal Gencer, Nazan Kirilmis
The opening shot of Distant show Yusuf (Toprak), a dark figure, crossing a snowy plain, the quiet crunching of his boots the only sound in the desolate landscape. Far in the background, a band of sunlight illuminates the high trees along the mountainside. Immediately, Ceylan has set up the themes of his film, the cold distance between people and a vague, almost invisible glimmer of hope.
Yusuf leaves the barren land for icy Istanbul to visit his cousin, Mahmut (Ozdemir), a photographer whose career consists mainly of corporate shots for a tile manufacturer. In brief glimpses, we see that Mahmut has let his aspirations slip and has also lost his wife, possibly for an inability to express his still-existing feelings for her. Meanwhile, Yusuf searches for work in the city, dreaming of a life at sea, something bigger and brighter than his meager existence back in a dying factory town. As Yusuf disrupts Mahmut's isolated and dull, but stable lifestyle, the film manages to depict simultaneously the frustration of an unwanted visitor and a desperate need for further human contact.
Ceylan skillfully evokes emotion from minimal sources, plaintive expressions and awkward gestures offering more information than dialogue. The anguish that fuels his stories (here and in Climates) lies deeply buried and isn't easily voiced. With his mix of frosty gray exteriors, dimly lit interiors, and openly wounded characters, Ceylan has found a beautiful way to communicate pain.
dir. John Schlesinger
writ. Penelope Gilliatt
feat. Peter Finch, Glenda Jackson, Murray Head, Peggy Ashcroft, Tony Britton, Maurice Denham
John Schlesinger's followup to Midnight Cowboy returns to questions of sexual identity and relationships, this time examining an atypical love triangle. Bob Elkin (Head) bounces between his two loves, Alex Greville (Jackson), a business-stressed woman, and Daniel Hirsh (Finch), a patient-weary doctor. Bisexuality and homosexuality are presented without a glint of shock value, permitting the story to lunge directly into the differing ways in which men and women handle love, possessiveness, and jealousy.
Schlesinger utilizes shadow, editing, and sound cues to effectively arouse tension, hinting at a suspense film, encouraging the viewer to look for a gimmick or sudden dark twist. But this technique, while somewhat misleading, serves to illustrate the discomfort Alex and Daniel feel in sharing their lover, each occasionally left jilted as Bob scurries off to see the other or cancels a date at the last minute. By making Alex and Daniel fully aware and vaguely respectful of one another, even sharing a few of the same friends, the film both avoids common scenes of surprise and outrage and plumbs greater depths of feeling, adding a face, personality and details to what Bob experiences when away from home.
As a character, Bob disappoints, too flighty and without the substance to seem worthy of the affection of these educated, critical lovers. But therein lies the message in their messy, imperfect relationships- the joy of love, not matter its faults can be worth the compromise.
dir. Spike Jonze
writ. Maurice Sendak (book), Spike Jonze & Dave Eggers (screenplay)
feat. Max Records, Catherine Keener, James Gandolfini, Paul Dano, Catherine O'Hara, Forest Whitaker, Michael Berry Jr., Chris Cooper, Lauren Ambrose, Mark Ruffalo
Oftentimes, a great film adaptation requires transformation, perhaps never more so the case than with Where the Wild Things Are. Sendak's book is just a handful (or two) of pages, nowhere near the substance needed for a feature film. And substance is exactly what Spike Jonze and Dave Eggers bring to the story in their near miraculous production. Jonze must have some serious cache in Hollywood to have pulled off (and released) this murky, frightening tale that reminds the viewer of just how deeply children feel from a very young age.
The film bursts open with Max (Records) racing around the house, chaotically chasing and wrestling his dog, laughing and crashing like a wild child. In the subsequent scene, Max plays in the snow alone, yearning for companions, only to surge with excitement when he finds friends for a snowball fight, then plummet into loss and sadness when his igloo is carelessly destroyed, a scene that perfectly captures the mercurial nature of childhood joy. Jonze doesn't shy away from the difficult feelings, recognizing that loneliness and despair are intrinsically tied to hope and love. The young cling to simple ideals, notions of right and wrong that are self-centered, easily challenged and upset by the frequent disappointments of the real world. When things don't add up, distress arouses fury, and Max runs, eager to escape the pain, certain that a world exists where everything and everyone is fair and well-meaning all the time.
This foundation that Jonze establishes permits him to open the door to a fantasy realm where Max can explore his utopian hopes and dreams, even making them a reality for awhile, before he learns that no such place exists or can exist. By playing king, Max discovers that one cannot please everyone all the time, and that hard choices must be made, feelings sometimes hurt, and strength developed to deal with it all. Eventually, it is this lesson that brings him around to the realization he's just a visitor in this strange and wild domain and that his own patiently and lovingly awaits him at home.
dir. Neil Jordan
writ. Patrick McCabe (novel), Neil Jordan and Patrick McCabe (screenplay)
feat. Eamonn Owens, Stephen Rea, Alan Boyle, Brendan Gleeson, Aisling O'Sullivan, Sinead O'Connor
It's hard to determine where The Butcher Boy goes wrong. The film suffers for two equally important reasons, a child actor who shows no range and a story that has no notable arc. Francie Brady (Owens) springs forth as a devil child, not easily explained away as a result of a drunken, virtually absent (at least mentally) father. And while his terrorizing of the small Irish town is spirited, it lacks depth or more importantly charm. Rea's narration as the adult Francie manages a skillful bit of wit despite a deadpan tone that suggests a sense of humor for evil deeds done long before, but that doesn't translate to Owens' monotonous performance. Whether this is a result of asking too much of a young actor or that Francie has nowhere to go and nothing much to learn over the course of his young life is left an open question.
Not that Jordan doesn't make a sincere effort. His usual attention to detail is evident, particularly in the dark, claustrophobic rooms of the boy's home as contrasted by a fort hideaway along a lush stream bank to which Francie escapes with his best pal Joe (Boyle). And Rea's ever understated performance is beautifully rendered throughout. But other creative lunges fail, namely Francie's frequent conversations with the Virgin Mary (O'Connor,) a device that begins as a curious bit of faked revelation that develops into something more substantial, but then falters, quickly turning into a bland, implausible conscience for Francie. This external (and, in casting Sinead O'Connor, deliberately controversial) voice undercuts the chance for believable character development as a result of actions and consequences, as though the filmmakers don't have faith in the story itself without yet another narrator to help communicate their ideas.
dir. Martin Scorsese
writ. Robert Getchell
feat. Ellen Burstyn, Albert Lutter, Kris Kristofferson, Diane Ladd, Harvey Keitel, Vic Tayback
Scorsese draws on his influences in Italian neorealism in this stunningly human story of a single mother, Alice (Burstyn,) struggling to bring up her son, Tommy (Lutter,) after the sudden loss of her husband. Alice reenters the working world for the first time since her marriage, finding the challenge in making it as a lounge singer in her mid-30s and the risks of that world for an attractive woman who must protect herself and her child.
The stress of their meager existence, always just a few dollars shy of broke, tries both mother and son, cracks appearing in their fragile veneers. But it's the way in which the two deal with dire moments, when it all becomes too much, where the characters shine brightest. Alice doesn't sugar coat their troubles, instead occasionally snapping and subsequently pleading with Tommy to understand how hard she's working. And this isn't a new way of relating for the two, Tommy's foul mouth and worldly (or at least advanced for a boy of about 12 years) knowledge clear signs that Alice has treated him like an adult for quite some time. But he's still a boy after all, evident in his favorite endless and possibly pointless joke and the routine temper tantrum.
It is the love shared by Alice and Tommy that binds the two, keeping hope and joy alive in troubled times. And it is the security that this love provides that is threatened when well-meaning interloper David (Kristofferson) works his charms on both mother and son, upsetting their balance and ease. With so little in life to rely upon, employment and residence both tenuous at best, Alice could easily retreat from a chance that can't be guaranteed, a chance at a different kind of love. But that wouldn't be much of a life at all.
dir. Sam Mendes
writ. Dave Eggers & Vendela Vida
feat. John Krasinski, Maya Rudolph, Carmen Ejogo, Catherine O'Hara, Jeff Daniels, Allison Janney, Jim Gaffigan, Samantha Pryor, Conor Caroll, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Josh Hamilton
For a moment, Away We Go hints at a great movie idea, exploring the lives of a couple in their mid-thirties about to have a baby who haven't yet figured out their place in the world. When Burt (Krasinski) and Verona (Rudolph) discuss whether or not they are "fuck ups," there is a whiff of timely territory, the chance to tap into the hearts of a generation that has put off marriage and children for a decade longer than their parents, who arguably have lived more of their youth as individuals, or have simply extended adolescence. I know those people. They are my friends and myself. I haven't seen that movie.
Alas, no. Instead, we are driven roughshod through a weak road movie with implausible, unamusing characters and a badgering score, desperate to make the viewer feel deeply at appropriate times. Burt and Verona pass as real people, even if Burt falls a bit close to Krasinski's role on The Office and Verona comes up short of spirited, charismatic, or even interesting. But from there forward, a slew of cartoon characters fill the screen, from Burt's parents (Daniels and O'Hara) swiped from a Christopher Guest film to Verona's sister for a forced moment of nostalgia for their deceased parents to a series of good friends and old acquaintances jam-packed with quirks and "crazy" parenting techniques.
All of this would be fine if the film wasn't so eager, so needy in its pursuit of truth and answers to big questions. Every time the music swells, Alexi Murdoch's songs plead with the viewer to forget the trite conversation and gut-clenchingly false characters and just feel the pain and yearning of these good, pregnant people. And ultimately, therein lies the biggest crime of the picture. From the outset, it neglects the very basic idea of this visual medium of showing and not telling. Whether in the many supposedly philosophical conversations or the pushy soundtrack, no feeling is earned but instead demanded.
dir. Frank Capra
writ. Robert Riskin (screenplay), George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart (play)
feat. Jean Arthur, Lionel Barrymore, James Stewart, Edward Arnold
This particular Capra jab at a life of joyless greed starts like a fever dream, the world and company of Martin Vanderhof (Barrymore) both absurd and captivating, only to wheeze through exhausted lungs into a protracted illness that one begs to end. The charm and eccentricity of Vanderhof and his family hint at the Addams Family (coincedentally first a comic strip begun in '38,) slightly crazed and possibly dangerous yet successful and happy. All of these qualities are quickly conveyed, leaving no doubt in the viewer, nor anywhere to effectively go with the characters.
Of course, banker and patriarch, Anthony P. Kirby, has a long road to travel from his avaricious post to humble father and decent man, a painfully slow path to be eked along by his son, Tony, whose love for young Alice (Arthur,) granddaughter to Vanderhof, is only rivaled by his distaste for the family business. It's this journey that makes one yearn for the speed and efficiency of a dentist, the predictable ending playing out in slow motion for nearly the full final third of the film.
And it's unfortunate to lose the momentum generated so winsomely. Early scenes paint Tony as a clear mismatch for the fast-talking world of finance, his thoughts operating in a more circular manner, swirling slowly, while somehow not awkwardly, into a proposal of marriage to Alice. And Tony's abandoned dream simply and beautifully suggests a future in solar power technology, a small idea that might be nurtured into something important if not forced to live up to the immediate demands of a quick return. If these inklings could have been developed and sustained as themes, a resonance may have been achieved to surpass another story of a banker learning his lesson.
dir. Sam Raimi
writ. Ivan Raimi and Sam Raimi
feat. Alison Lohman, Justin Long, Lorna Raver, Dileep Rao, David Paymer
Sam Raimi's return to horror naturally arouses unfair expectations. This is the man behind two astonishingly inventive and frightening Evil Dead films, and a hilariously campy one. Granted, another spook-ride, The Gift, proved dissatisfying, showing a bit too much formula, a claim repeated by some for Raimi's Spider-Man movies. However, such blockbuster successes also seemed to promise an even deeper trove of resources for Drag Me to Hell.
On one hand, it's nice to have the old boy back, still committed to mechanical effects, both elaborate and simple, eager and able to evoke maximum squirms and subsequent laughs out of a propulsive bloody nose. He attends to detail and simple human problems amidst the hellfire and damnation with equal concern. And if those humans seem a bit shallow, Christine (if not Lohman) too much the dopey blonde and Clay (Long) too broadly drawn (the character telling us he's a geek doesn't pass as character development,) we're still in standard genre territory.
But that's where Drag disappoints the most. It all feels too easy, a mishmash of horror films we've seen before without that extra edge to top them. This is Raimi on autopilot, slapping together a topical setup (home loan foreclosure), a gypsy curse, a soul damned to Hell, disbelieving loved ones, and a couple experts to help chart the challenging, perhaps impossible, course back to safety. The gross-outs are appropriately timed and stomach-curdling, the scares reasonably seat-grabbing, and the laughs genuinely satisfying, but as a whole, the film only reaches middling. And while I'd like to write off this response to a touch of hero worship, it's not just a case of those expectations rearing their ugly, if well-made-up, heads.
dir. Peter Weir
writ. C.J. Koch (novel), C.J. Koch, Peter Weir, and David Williamson (screenplay)
feat. Mel Gibson, Sigourney Weaver, Linda Hunt, Michael Murphy
Mid-60s Indonesia, amidst the political turmoil under the regime of President Sukarno proves a challenging assignment for Guy Hamilton (Gibson,) in his first role as foreign correspondent. Eager and naive, Hamilton must adapt quickly to the politics, both governmental and interpersonal, of his new home. Photographer Billy Kwan (Hunt, in her Oscar-winning role as a man) guides him along, quickly introducing the dilemma of how one interacts with disastrous poverty and human suffering without offering a helping hand.
This question informs the film, whether in another reporter's patronage of cheap prostitutes, the way Hamilton colors the facts with melodrama, or his conflicted compulsion to use information gathered in bed with likely spy, Jill Bryant (Weaver). With depth and intelligence, Weir successfully explores such shady terrain without attempting to assert impossible and therefore deceptive clear answers. But, even above the thoughtful investigation into one's responsibility in the world is the film's sense of atmosphere. Dark rooms sweat with tropical heat and torrential rain drives people into cramped cars, arousing libidos and the cloying sense of discomfort of a strange land hostile to white Westerners.
writ. and dir. Paul Thomas Anderson
feat. Adam Sandler, Emily Watson, Luis Guzman, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Mary Lynn Rajskub
Barry Egan (Sandler) battles his unnamed phobias and conditions (agoraphobia, mild autism,) squirming through social situations and lashing out when overwhelmed. But there is a cure for Barry in concentrated focus. When he has a mission, he is clear headed and unstoppable. And what better mission than the pursuit of true love.
Punch-Drunk Love plays like a tense epic song, winding increasingly and painfully tight before exploding in release, the knotted stomach unclenching, blood rushing warm.
dir. Hayao Miyazaki
writ. Maurice Leblanc (characters), Monkey Punch (graphic novel), Hayao Miyazaki, Tadashi Yamazaki
Miyazaki's first feature film explodes onto the screen, coming delightfully unhinged within minutes, as Lupin and his buddy (looking a great deal like Captain Beefheart) launch into a chase and shootout, the characters clearly invigorated by the burst of action. This tone is sustained throughout the film, the threat of violence always exciting the characters, a call to adventure.
Though the animation lacks the sophistication of later Miyazaki films (Spirited Away, Howl's Moving Castle,) his storytelling skill is already evident, the plot skipping along, slowing only to build up for the next rush, a balance of pacing and sheer joy.
writ. and dir. Whit Stillman
feat. Carolyn Farina, Edward Clements, Chris Eigeman, Taylor Nichols, Alison Parisi, Dylan Hundley, Isabel Gillies
Did we really need another Molly Ringwald? Audrey (Farina) in Metropolitan feels lifted directly out of Sixteen Candles or Breakfast Club, complete with whining, insecure prattle about painful societal conventions. Except this time around, we lack the humor, and ignore that Audrey should be older and better adjusted. But to single out Audrey is unfair. All the characters in Metropolitan sound canned and half-witted, that kind of movie dialogue that feels read off the page, or the transcription of a conversation by a group of first-year philosophy majors, neither too bright nor too experienced. It's all so tiresome and mewling, the supposedly caustic friend (Eigeman) too often boring and agreeable in his sentiment to the critical viewer. These people seem both phony (as in written, not merely shallow) and dull, just about your worst combination of movie poison.
writ. & dir. Joel and Ethan Coen
feat. Gabriel Byrne, Albert Finney, Marcia Gay Harden, John Turturro, John Polito, J.E. Freeman
Tom Reagan (Byrne) is a good man, and it will ruin him. The Coen bros obscure this fundamental truth that rules Miller's Crossing, Tom's mean-spirited, defiant demeanor and a complexly woven plot disguising his well-meaning motives. Tom's venomous mantra, "Nobody knows anybody. Not that well," intended to declare his distrust for anyone and everyone, bites back, effectively showing that he can't trust himself, his self-serving attitude merely a cover, even a wish, while his deeply buried moral compass guides him to unavoidably help those he loves. Loyalty burns Tom, forcing his hand, even his seemingly traitorous acts circling back to prove him trustworthy.
And just because he's a good man doesn't make him a nice man. He's brutally righteous, and in the wrong business, ultimately forced to choose righteousness over love and friendship with devastating results.
writ. and dir. Philippe Claudel
feat. Kristin Scott Thomas, Elsa Zylberstein, Serge Hazanavicius, Frederic Pierrot, Claire Johnston, Olivier Cruveiller
I've Loved You So Long pulls off a clever bit of deception, disguising itself as the mystery of a quiet, onetime murder, Juliette (Thomas), her return to civilization after a long stint in prison, and the question of why she murdered her young son. In fact, it's about the distance between people and the sometimes slow, awkward process of bridging that gap. Elsa (Zylberstein), Juliette's much younger sibling, barely knew her sister at the time of the crime and initially takes her in upon her release largely out of familial obligation. Their parents rejected Juliette after the crime, never visiting her in prison nor speaking of her, leaving Elsa in the cold, without even reminiscence to paint a picture of the missing family member.
Working to provide a warm and welcoming home for a virtual stranger, Elsa struggles to connect with her sister, battling Juliette's withdrawn, taciturn, and often angry demeanor. Without much warmth and seeming unapologetic for the murder of her son, Juliette's attempt to rebuild her life proceeds slowly and fitfully. This painfully slow and stumbling progress works beautifully and believably, free of the easy and conveniently timed psychological catharsis of Hollywood cinema. Most impressively, the greatest leaps forward are not in Juliette's ability to adapt to the world, nor in the revelation of her reasons for that tragic act, but in the depth and understanding between the two sisters.
dir. Robert Aldrich
writ. Lukas Heller (screenplay), Henry Farrell (novel)
feat. Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Victor Buono, Wesley Addy, Marjorie Bennett, Maidie Norman
It's refreshing to see Hollywood superstars of the classic era so willing to play characters as grotesque and weak as Davis and Crawford do in Baby Jane. Both are cast directly against type as though specifically selected to run their old characters through the ringer. And the tale itself, one of gothic decay, is played against its setting of Los Angeles, land of sunshine and success. Unfortunately, despite a number of wonderfully unsettling scenes where Davis sinks to discomfiting depths, the story seems to have missed a meeting or two to flesh out the middle.
Instead, we're stuck with a redundant (and implausible) series of "race against the clock" scenes as Jane (Davis) twaddles around LA on errands and Blanche (Crawford) desperately tries to think of ways to escape or alert authorities, only worsened by Blanche's poor choices. The woman is being starved and tortured and she calls the local shrink! Of course, one grants concessions in a stylized piece but the missed opportunities keep piling up, and when Blanche neglects to call for help when Edwin (Buono) is milling about downstairs, it's difficult to remain sympathetic to her plight.
The richest scenes and characterization are dealt solely to Jane, making Crawford's presence and numerous solo scenes merely perfunctory, thus committing the greatest cinematic sin with frequency, that of boring the audience. And when a late revelation is finally coughed up, it seems more a joke than a twist, laughably misguided, throwing the whole story in front of the bus by suggesting that a short conversation between the two women conducted anytime in the past 30 years might have prevented all the horror. By then, it's too late to play the Twilight Zone theme music and pull off the shift in meaning, the bloated tale already sunk by its own inertia.
writ. and dir. Quentin Tarantino
feat. Brad Pitt, Melanie Laurent, Christoph Waltz, Eli Roth, Michael Fassbender, Diane Kruger...
It's unfortunate that his ADHD is beginning to interfere instead of serve Quentin Tarantino in his filmmaking. There has long been the risk and occasional problem in his self-love, creating scenes that are overly long, meandering, even pointless, but at least, in some cases, the films have rallied, their energy and humor overcoming these dregs. Sadly, Basterds offers up all the faults without any of the magic.
From the very first scene, when our villain, Landa (Waltz,) rambles on in a dull, stereotypical monologue likening Jews to rats, the trouble to come is laid out. Never will we see a scene that wouldn't benefit from substantial trimming. The entire film reeks of being cut to an early draft of the script instead of to the needs of pacing and the old-fashioned notion of not boring your audience to tears.
It's just one misstep after another, with tiresome interruptions by the voice of Samuel Jackson to explain unnecessary details, largely as a chance for Tarantino to masturbate to his understanding of a few basic bits of cinematic history. A David Bowie music video segment also sidetracks the story, another stylistic cul-de-sac clearly intended to stoke the weak story that instead reminds the audience of how bad such videos were (and are) while offering nothing entertaining or purposeful. Eli Roth's turn as an especially violent member of Brad Pitt's team of Nazi killers comes off as an alternate universe Jonathan Silverman, stepping out of his crappy sitcom, The Single Guy, to smite all Jew-haters who have obviously been the cause of his poor luck with women. This would be mildly funny, if intentional. And even Pitt, who has a talent for quirky, limited characters (Burn After Reading, 12 Monkeys), stumbles in this painfully narrow aping of an already underdeveloped simpleton, even if the cross between a Warren Oates and John Wayne type might have worked if given a little more thought.
But it's a waste of time to list all the shortcomings of Basterds (though I feel obligated to note that Melanie Laurent struggles to act both convincingly and subtly through the film, something that can be easily and sadly overlooked given how little help she is given). Ultimately, one is left wondering what is the possible point of the film. It's too disjointed to flow, too bloated to engage, and too stupid to be funny. As revisionist history, it has no teeth despite the deliberately unsettling violence. Or maybe I'm trying too hard. Perhaps this random sampling of ripped off story elements and styles and the batch of gruesome images is all Tarantino really has going anymore. He's showing off what he can do instead of actually doing something worthwhile.
dir. Joseph Losey
writ. Harold Pinter from novel by Robin Maugham
feat. Dirk Bogarde, Sarah Miles, Wendy Craig, James Fox
It's almost surprising to find that The Servant is adapted by Harold Pinter and not an original work of his own given its delightfully twisting path from demure, almost boring drama, into subversive, psychologically tormenting role reversal. Hugo Barrett (Bogarde) quietly transforms from butler to master with a minimum of exertion, inviting the question of whether this is the normal course charted by the character or simply his polite reaction to this specific boss (Fox). The absence of explanation for Barrett's actions are a large part of what makes the story so engaging, as though the fantasy of lording over one's employer is so natural that no reason is necessary.
Vera (Miles) slips in as a wonderful seductress, giving much needed vigor to the film and to Barrett, who develops a sly smile as his libido is stoked and the game progresses. My only complaint is in the victim of Tony (Fox) who seems such an easy target, so smoothly duped, that there isn't much accomplishment in the conquest. While he may be a stand-in for a class of moronic wealthy weaklings, a greater challenge would have proved Barrett's skills even more astonishing. Still, the manipulation and ultimate destruction of one man's will and soul, portrayed in such a wonderfully seedy Pinter fashion, are deeply satisfying.
dir. Nora Ephron
writ. Nora Ephron (screenplay), Julie Powell (book), Julia Child & Paul Prud'homme (book - My Life in France)
feat. Meryl Streep, Amy Adams, Stanley Tucci, Chris Messina
The internet age turns a new corner in this film which presents the following message: Emulating one of your heroes by doggedly imitating one small aspect of her grand accomplishments might lead you out of self-pity and to great wealth and fame. Nora Ephron sets a new low on the scale of success, celebrating a girl with limited writing skill (as presented in the film, I've not read the blog or book) and zero charisma. This is not to say that Julie doesn't show astounding effort in her conquest of Julia's cookbook, making some 500-odd recipes in 365 days. But that isn't the subject at hand, nor is the occasionally forcibly resurfaced notion that as a girl who never finishes a project, the commitment is the greater purpose of the story, not the resultant undue glory.
This is the fable of the loser. Julie deserves pride the equivalent of a lottery winner. Her relationships in the film could stock a couple of antiquated self-help books for the meek and soulless. Her friends and husband play as tired, poorly sketched caricatures.
Sure, the film will distract you from all this dreck with delightful turns by Streep and Tucci as Julia Child and her husband, Paul. But the contrast (and relief) in these uplifting scenes, devoid of subtextual prattle, permitting actions and consequences to speak for themselves only accentuates the lack of depth in the characters of Julie and her husband, who constantly self-analyze and spew the tired results, intending them as the drama so sorely missing from their lives and the film.
dir. and writ. Roy Andersson
feat. Lars Nord, Stefan Larsson, Bengt C.W. Carlsson, Torbjorn Fahlstrom, Sten Andersson
From the first frame of Songs from the Second Floor, a sense of ill ease permeates the film, a missed connection between people, each other and the world initially illustrated by a hunching businessman struggling to discuss layoffs with his virtually invisible boss, hidden by a tanning bed with only his wriggling feet exposed. Life doesn’t get any easier for the characters in Songs, this breach seemingly impossible to bridge in Andersson’s attack upon the state of modern society. Though his assault is rooted in the conditions of his native Sweden, the message translates effectively. And it's an ambitious breadth of notions he skewers and mocks, with swipes at health care, employment, the military, religion, and poverty.
Andersson's scenes play out like paintings in motion, a single static shot with meticulous production design and pronounced perspective and depth, with slow, deliberately limited movement by the characters. This gentle presentation permits the often absurd imagery to assert itself more casually than one might believe possible, avoiding cheap and easy shock value. That isn’t to say that certain images aren’t shocking (try to quell a queasy feeling at the sight of crucifixes being kicked around a dumping ground,) but they somehow belong to the world of the film even when one can’t imagine them existing anywhere in the real world.
While those seeking a strong narrative might get lost in the film, forced to wait quite some time to even meet the main character (if that term is even appropriate,) the overarching theme and mood never strays. And though the action may proceed at a glacial pace, surprisingly striking details emerge as each scene progresses, and this near lack of momentum mirrors Andersson’s portrayal of a damaged, inert society.
There may be something perverse about so thoroughly enjoying a film that is as persistently unsettling as Songs from the Second Floor, but it’s hard to fight the feeling that the protracted sorrow and anguish is hopeful, intended to stir the viewer to think, and even act.
dir. Marjane Satrapi & Vincent Paronnaud
writ. Marjane Satrapi (comic), Vincent Paronnaud (scenario)
feat. Chiara Mastroianni, Catherine Deneuve, Danielle Darrieux, Simon Abkarian
It's unfortunate that we've come to a time when even unusual films that might tread the margins of cinema, perhaps foreign animated features that explore life in a war torn country, follow a tiresome formula. Persepolis starts well, with a spirited child showing precocious rebellious spunk under the tutelage of wise elders as revolution brews in Iran. Sadly, it's all downhill from there, the lead losing all signs of a personality as the broad strokes of war and virtual exile take over.
If the story felt like the tragic tale of losing one's home land, or that of one enduring great difficulty and becoming a stronger, better person in the process, I might succumb to the formula. But this isn't either, our character showing very little love for home or life (though plenty of tragedy and horror in the mix).
And don't turn to the animation for relief either. Aside from a handful of inspired and beautifully rendered sequences, the production team leans on a majority of simple, inelegant standard frames like a lazy documentary approach of talking heads with halos of light and slashes of black in the background. However, those few sequences are stunning and worth noting, though they leave one yearning for such ambition throughout the picture.
dir. and writ. Neil LaBute
feat. Aaron Eckhart, Matt Malloy, Stacy Edwards
LaBute's diatribe against awful men wears thin in the first scene, when Chad (Eckhart) grouses about the cutthroat world of business. The dialogue and characterization are never smart enough to seem real, nor sharp enough to feel truly acidic. Chad is a caricature without the depth to exist in our world, therefore tumbling down into garbage. There might have been some meat on Christine (Edwards,) but instead he steers clear of this territory, inviting the viewer to wonder but failing to explore an idea with some substance. And a tacked on ending serves no further purpose either, only reaffirming what the viewer already knows with no additional punch despite appearing to have some such intent.
dir. and writ. Woody Allen
feat. Woody Allen, Helena Bonham Carter, Mira Sorvino, F. Murray Abraham
An Academy Award, huh? Really!? Mighty Aphrodite is a heap of crap, a tired, pointless film that barely explores its single thoughtful notion of one doubting the source of his adopted child. The Greek chorus comes off like a recycled Mel Brooks gag, or one he disposed of, opting for better, funnier tactics when making History of the World. Were we really in such heady days back in '95 that a squeaky voiced prostitute made for great entertainment? Did people feel like they missed the boat on Pretty Woman and wanted to be sure to recognize anyone playing to such depths as being a hooker? I see it was a lean year (yeah, you know you still haven't sat through Georgia or Nixon) but c'mon.
And if I were to play the sucker, lowering all expectations, we still have a film that goes nowhere, wastes a big chunk of time on a moderately amusing, complete failure of a matchmaking attempt, then tosses off a storybook ending with a character we barely meet. But I suppose there is the important lesson Woody Allen's character learns, that... Oh right, nothing there either. So, we have annoying characters, very little comedy, and no point. Great.
dir. Neil Jordan
writ. Neil Jordan (screenplay), Graham Greene (novel)
feat. Ralph Fiennes, Stephen Rea, Julianne Moore, Ian Hart
Jordan's film about love and faith creeps up on the viewer, its very English outward manner holding to a terse delivery through most scenes, punctuated with bursts of passion that reveal the hearts of the characters. It's deceptive in this way, its deliberate pacing trying one's patience, casting doubt on the film's worth or the hope for a satisfying story as vital revelations, keys to questionable motives, are withheld for a painfully long time before being released powerfully and cathartically.
Graham Greene has always toyed with faith and in this story (from his novel based on an actual affair of his own), it comes as an unwelcome intruder, challenging Bendrix's (Fiennes) atheism, a promise to God proving His power if not His existence. And though this conflict provides lofty philosophy (and wonderfully venomous narration,) it is the human details- Bendrix's insane jealousy, Henry's pathetic yet sympathetic dullness, Sarah's reluctant discovery of faith, Parkis's inevitable emotional involvement in Bendrix's life- that provide the undercurrent that sustains the film and leaves the viewer moved by each individual character.
writ. and dir. Martin McDonagh
feat. Colin Farrell, Brendan Gleeson, Ralph Fiennes, Clémence Poésy, Jérémie Renier,
Thekla ReutenI guess it takes a British first time feature director with a background in theater to orchestrate a deeply funny film with deadly serious themes that doesn't neglect the visuals. It's a wonder that we don't have more films this attentive to cinematography that still aim squarely for laughs and the mainstream market. Woody Allen largely abandoned the effort (though he shows some signs of reconsidering) and the major comedy players of today seem content with head-on TV framing and lighting.And the praise doesn't stop with mere appearance, even if the stunning cityscape imagery is deserving of a kickback from the Bruges tourism board. Not only do we find a tight script that unfolds patiently and builds suspense by withholding the introduction of the long anticipated and dreaded Harry Waters (Fiennes,) but also the gift of vital supporting characters, contributing in a way rarely found in such films, more often wasted filler good for a laugh or a spot of random violence. And they work in deceptively simple ways, woven in and out of the story seamlessly, without hijacking the main plot or ever appearing intrusive, yet maintaining the possibility for welcome surprise.Heck, I'm still finding it a bit hard to believe that I watched a Colin Farrell performance that didn't leave me feeling he's a shallow, if spirited, simpleton. Maybe the trick, one that Martin McDonagh pulled off rather slickly, was to make his character, Ray, a wounded simpleton, caged by regret, permitted to whine, mope and charm within the limits of his pain. And thankfully, Ray also makes us laugh.
And it would be shameful to mention both Farrell and Fiennes without noting Brendan Gleeson's anchoring performance in the film. He keeps the plot moving while allowing Farrell to showboat, providing the fulcrum around which the other two spin, and serving as the catalyst for change in all three characters. And no, this is not overstatement for a comedy about hitmen in Bruges, exactly why the film works so damn well and is so thoroughly satisfying.
dir. Ron Fricke
writ. Constantine Nicholas & Genevieve Nicholas (treatment)
It's a slick trick to pull off a feature length film without actors, dialogue, narration, or a distinct narrative thread. Godfrey Reggio has his followers from his -qatsi films (Koyaanisqatsi being the first, much of it shot by Fricke) though they can smack of stock footage festivals. Bill Morrison's Decasia, a collection of decaying film clips with a score of slightly out of tune instruments meant to match the faltering visual imagery, has a more profound impact, repetition of certain images seeming to yearningly attempt to convey some mystical message impossible to translate into words.
Fricke manages a similar feat, passages of Baraka flowing into a parable of modern life, the distance between the spirit and the western world of work and city living. While the message may seem familiar from the -qatsi films, Fricke avoids preaching better than Reggio, frequently shifting gears and letting the images spread more thinly, permitting ambiguity.
That's not to say he isn't above editorial direction, though even then he gives more than guides. One of the more powerful sections shows a factory, following a conveyor belt of eggs that soon become chicks, rolled and shuffled, finally arriving in tightly packed cages of adult chickens, and cross cuts it with city folk packing in and out of subways, grimly commuting through life. Instead of just the obvious comparison and aroused disgust at the treatment of animals, the scene suggests that we should expect no better, for why wouldn't we mass-produce captive animals as food when we so willingly subject ourselves to the same conditions.
writ. & dir. Paul Greengrass
feat. James Nesbitt, Allan Gildea, Gerard Crossan, Mary Moulds, Carmel McCallion, Tim Pigott-Smith, Nicholas Farrell
Greengrass delivers an intense account of that pivotal Sunday in the history of the Troubles in Northern Ireland. Using his now trademark documentary style camera work, hand-held and constantly on the move, he handily captures the chaos and confusion of a mob scene and sudden military assault, keeping the film racing and breathless. In quieter moments, the camera flits anxiously, while also settling for needed moments of focus (something lost in the last Bourne film), the risk of the day's intended peaceful protest apparent to those pushing the plan forward.
Greengrass adds to the verisimilitude by using almost entirely non-professional actors from the area, some of them relatives of participants in the actual day back in '72. The chief exception, Nesbitt, performs stunningly as Ivan Cooper, the politician leading the protest, harried and well-meaning, knowing that he must proceed with the march despite the chance for violence. Through him, the frustration of the cause is brilliantly illustrated, in desperate attempts to calm both a violent crowd packed with stone-throwing boys and soldiers with itchy trigger fingers, eager to put down the protest once and for all. His devotion and failure portray a heroic character who is not a hero, the ideal leader (and film lead).
dir. Aki Kaurismaki
writ. Aki Kaurismaki
feat. Markku Peltola, Kati Outinen, Juhani Niemela, Kaija Pakarinen, Sakari Kuosmanen
Kaurismaki's tale of a man who suffers amnesia as a result of a brutal beating rambles along in typical dry indie comedy fashion with plenty of awkward moments, simple static shots that are cleverly framed and heavily saturated, and hands-off parable intentions, never quite putting a finger on a decisive point yet hinting at a list of reassessed life values. It strips the histrionics out of the lost amnesiac story, instead detailing the quiet plodding actions of a man with the need (and chance) to start over, the struggle to begin with nothing, and to figure out the simple things that make life worth living.
M (Peltola) faces the problems of rebuilding a life with gentle good nature, unflustered by insults or threats, weaving his way to better things. Unfortunately, in this calm plodding, the humor and pathos are kept on such a low flame, that though engaging, the film never bubbles over into something more gripping and transcendent. Though the picture may have set it sights lower, the delivery and action is so deliberately down tempo, the viewer is left wanting, in need of something more to give the story purpose.
dir. Bent Hamer
writ. Bent Hamer and Jim Stark from novel by Charles Bukowski
feat. Matt Dillon, Lily Taylor, Marisa Tomei, Fisher Stevens
Dillon pulls off a convincing Bukowski/Chinaski, smartly veering away from a direct impression of Bukowski's nasal delivery and nailing the swaggering drift between arrogance and humble self-loathing that seeps from his work. And the well-selected quotes dropped into the narration are some of the best examples of Bukowski's ethic, more direct and pointed than many of his ramblings.
As this is Bukowski, drink and destitution are always close at hand, but also bouts of sex, near-love, damaged beauty and strange brushes with wealth and success.
The film manages to vindicate without glorifying Bukowski's life, best illustrated by a scene in which he slips through his briefest held job, cleaning an enormous lobby statue at a newspaper where he'd hoped to be a reporter. As his consideration of his odd situation leads him astray, off to the bar to think it over, it becomes clear that he's more than a drunken lout with a penchant for the pen, but a confused yet driven man who can't escape his singular need to write, everything else falling by the wayside.
