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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.
