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writ. and dir. Lars von Trier
feat. Nicole Kidman, Harriet Andersson, Lauren Bacall, Jean-Marc Barr, Paul Bettany, Blair Brown, James Caan, Patricia Clarkson, Jeremy Davies, Ben Gazzara, Philip Baker Hall, Thom Hoffman, Siobhan Fallon, John Hurt
Not all movies earn a long running time, frequently growing bloated and redundant, a sure sign of directors in love with their own words and images (see Inglorious Basterds). But Dogville is an exception, a story that carefully, often painfully, charts a course toward a surprisingly twisted and delightfully deserved conclusion.
The film plays like a fable, Grace (Kidman) on the run from bad men and finding respite in the goodly arms of Tom (Bettany) and the people of Dogville. John Hurt's amiable narration guides the story, occasionally stepping in for longer stretches to mend gaps that the action can't sew up alone. The much-discussed design of the set, a series of chalk outlines that depict the town's buildings with spare furniture inside reads as novel at first, raising the question of its value, the viewer asked to watch little but faces and acting for the long haul. Such doubts are quickly quelled as this spare, simple choice serves to quicken the action, accentuate the transparency of life in a small town, and unveil the willingness of citizens to turn a blind eye to the seemingly obvious and undeniable.
Grace is a mystery to the small insular community and given the gunshots that announce her arrival, an understandably dubious addition to the town. It seems reasonable that she's required to win the affections of the local folk before being offered safe harbor. Yet, the people of the town gradually overshadow Grace's questionable past, their manipulative ways advancing into territory that could compete with the most sordid background. Here is where the time serves most effectively, the slow but steady shift from kind citizens to venomous abusers creeping along deceptively into the absurd, remaining plausible as only a fable can.
All of this leads to a finale both unpredictable and deeply satisfying that throws a bludgeoning monkey wrench at lefty social theory with an argument that the neo-cons, if they actually sat through long foreign films, would champion as gospel.
writ and dir. Michael Mann
series created by Anthony Yerkovich
feat. Colin Farrell, Jamie Foxx, Gong Li, Naomie Harris, Ciaran Hinds, Justin Theroux
We all have our guilty pleasures, and having been a religious viewer of the original Miami Vice series, my impressionable young self struck by the sex, violence, and those jaw-dropping surprise endings, I couldn't help but eventually get around to the feature film.
Most striking here is the devotion to the original characters that Mann employs in his update of the material. I remember reading an interview at the time of release, noting how much of the old pastel and stucco of the 80s is long gone from Miami, all of which is gladly abandoned. But the characters, in both their strengths and flaws are faithful to the source. Tubbs (Foxx) remains the verbose, less than genius, unconvincingly tough-talking loyal brother, always ready to clarify the details, the officer in charge of exposition. He has his girl and will protect her at all costs, perhaps endangering the case to do so. This frees Crocket (Farrell) to play the wild man, hooked on the job, losing his identity over the course of long stints undercover. He works it fast and loose, racing off to chase the femme fatale, bonding over their shared high-risk lifestyles. Shying away from the morose, when Sonny and Isabella (Li) recognize their relationship can't last, they immediately realize that it means there is nothing to lose, only stoking their fires for one another.
Mann delivers the whole batch relatively seamlessly and deserves credit for his honorable update when he could have easily offered up a wild buddy cop story that simply cashed in on the brand. However, the pieces don't add up to a stellar film even if the elements are true. The sex scenes are requisite (apparently one shower per star) and devoid of heat, even with attractive players, and though one criminal (Luis Tosar) actually has the presence to seem truly threatening, the film fails to realize a climax that feels worthy of the big screen. Any pleasures, guilty or otherwise, could be just as easily sated by watching an episode of the TV show.
dir. Akira Kurosawa
writ. Akira Kurosaw, Hideo Oguni, and Masato Ide
feat. Tatsuya Nakadai, Akira Terao, Jinpachi Nezu, Daisuke Ryu, Mieko Harada, Yoshiko Miyazaki
Kurosawa melds stage and screen with stunning results in his epic rendition of King Lear, transposed to feudal Japan. With astonishing depth, blazing color, and carefully composed lighting, the imagery overflows the screen, alternately hypnotizing and assaulting the viewer, just as Tsurumaru's combination of flute notes and blazing fire bring Lord Hidetora to his knees. Kurosawa combines a gripping yet often simple approach to shooting with elements of Kabuki - blocking, movement, costume and makeup - deepening the drama and expanding the story. These seeming contradictions also appear in the legendary battle scene, possibly unrivaled in all of cinema, where an incredible balance of beauty and horror is struck, defiantly lulling and revolting at once.
While the theatrical formalism occasionally slows the pace of the picture and accentuates the predictability of certain outcomes, the sweeping scope and greater success of the film begs that Ran sit beside the dictionary definition of masterpiece.
dir. Lindsay Anderson
writ. David Storey (story and screenplay)
feat. Richard Harris, Rachel Roberts, Alan Badel, William Hartnell, Colin Blakely, Vanda Godsell
Richard Harris exploded onto the film scene in his first major role, as Frank Machin, a miner that ascends to local sports hero as a city league rugby star. Brutal determination carries Machin far enough to catch the eye of an elderly benevolent scout who takes Machin under his wing, forming bond enough that the eager upstart calls the gentleman Dad. But after stampeding his way onto the field, Machin doesn't find life much easier than the mines as a minor celebrity, thwarted by the politics of team management and confused by his inability to stir amorous reactions, or even relative warmth, from his widow landlady, Mrs. Hammond (Roberts).
Machin stumbles through life, operating like his namesake (one letter away from machine), taking what he can when he sees the opportunity. His vague ideas of success and its spoils drive him to grab wildly, playing the game to his advantage as he discovers small ways to make gains, such as courting Mrs. Hammond's children as a course to her. But his lack of foundation, and arguable inability to feel emotions other than anger and frustration, make him an ultimately destructive force, a conqueror without care who leaves those he uses behind, damaged and forgotten.
