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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.
