Short Cuts

Short Cuts: March '06

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Wed, 08 Mar 2006 08:15:00 +0000

Bubble
d. Steven Soderbergh, 2006

I'm most interested by the doll metaphor. You have these casts for various parts - a head, a leg, a torso, an arm. These basic parts are solid, concrete, generally necessary. Then you gussy it up - eyebrows, eyes of different colors, latex color, clothing - and you change the entire impression of the doll. That is, the basic parts remain intact, but the whole composition is altered by superficial gestures. Like a film, right? You have a camera, some film/video, actors, a story of some sort - but the things you do to that basic setup is what makes each film different. A filmmaker is a sort of faux-surgeon, just like a dollmaker. It goes along nice with the film: the characters & the plot are both detached, dehumanized. They're obvious "parts," not fully realized, not complete, not entirely organic. Of course, right? The filmmaker has to be separate from the subject, has to treat it like piecemeal, fake humans; hence, the really eerie outsider-looking-in tone maintained from frame one. The artifice is both admirable - it fits in well with the doll factory bit, it works well on the theoretical level - and irksome - it makes for stilted viewing, unfortunately. So, while Soderbergh is doing something interesting here, it doesn't lead to a compelling film, merely "something interesting."

Capote
d. Bennett Miller, 2005

Why, I now realize, Blake Edward's film version of Truman Capote's novella, Breakfast at Tiffany's, blushes in comparison to the book is the absence of the author. Capote is such a compelling and interesting character that, I imagine (not having actually read In Cold Blood), this "biopic" - it honestly hardly is that usually nasty descriptor - is a good deal more interesting than a strict adaption of Capote's book would be. Capote (the ever-adroit Philip Seymour Hoffman) is devoid of a personal life; all he has, it seems, are various modes of public life - he plays with the literary/social elite, empathizes with murderers, and plays house with the denizens of middle America, all with an equal amount of (in)sincerity (the clarifying of the ambiguity depends on your perspective.) Most of Capote's friends see his duplicitous relationship with the killers, specifically Perry Smith (the very good Clifton Collins Jr.), as unscrupulous, and the viewer might be too easily coerced into sympathizing with them. Capote is the consummate author - to write, for him, is to live; to examine the subject, to objectify what you're writing about, in cold blood, is requisite, at least for Truman, for writing well. Is it moral? Maybe, maybe not, but to see Truman Capote in this situation - this specific situation - makes for a much more complex and interesting film than traditional birth-to-death biopic.

Clans of Intrigue
d. Chu Yuan, 1977

There are plenty of reasons to dislike this kung-fu flick: the bad guy's identity is made obviously clear in scene one, then the possibility of him being the bad guy is taken away (turns out the bad guy's a girl), then the bad guy is unveiled to be the guy we originally thought (turns out the bad guy's actually a latent hermaphrodite.) The story is convoluted along the same lines as The Big Sleep. Et Cetera. But it's so damn likable, too! I could help but giggle during the last scene, when the aforementioned bad guy is pincushioned with two swords and a disembowled hand, bone-side first. The film is filled with ridiculous moments like this, and then held together by a really compelling lead and some unnecessarily good cinematography. Not great cinema in the traditional sense, but one of those films that helps one better understand just why Pauline Kael lost it at the movies.

Cowards Bend the Knee
d. Guy Maddin, 2003

Apparently fashioned autobiographically - but I don't know Guy Maddin, so it doesn't have much bearing here; moreover, I don't really care for biographical readings, auto- or otherwise - Cowards Bend the Knee is a bizarre avant-garde throwback to the infancy of film that channels the Greek tragedies of Sophocles, Euripides, and Aeschylus. Follow: man leaves woman for another woman (Jason & Medea); another woman kills her husband while he's having his hair washed (Clytemnestra & Agamemnon); son (here a stepson) feels need to revenge his father (ok, step-father) (Orestes & Clytemnestra); Step-son realizes - too late - that he did not actually need to kill, that it was all an accident, that it was fate - not his own hands - compelling him to kill his father, and sleep with his step-mother (Oedipus.) All this takes place within a drop of semen (what?), leading us to believe that this is the stuff of human life. It's this binding together of thematic integrity and formal absurdity (which I'll let you discover on your own) that makes Cowards Bend the Knee a great film.

A History of Violence
d. David Cronenberg, 2005

The opening sequence, where two people lay dead and one is murdered, is interrupted by a girl's scream, a girl waking up from a nightmare. While not a true dream sequence - it becomes perfectly clear later that these events definitely "happened" - there is an important play here between dreams and reality. A cook tells of a past girlfriend, future wife, who would wake up from a dream and attack him. He laughs about the time she stabbed him in the shoulder, unwittingly, with a fork. Combined with the stilted dialogue, wholesome familial tropes, and general facade over the first 2/3 of the film, we get a sense that the subject matter here is the debasement of the American Dream. The film is loaded with hometown goodness, Edward Hopper sheen, and referents to distinctly American ideals. But all this, we learn, is predicated on violence. That is, the history of the American Dream is a history of violence. Follow: Tom Stall (Viggo Mortenson) was Joey Cusack, a mobster/killer - his benign present in the small, Midwest town, the manifestation of the American Dream, is only made possible because of his violent past. The American Dream is not a pure, wholesome thing, but an accumulation of all that is desired - through any means possible - and then a denial of the means taken. Look at America herself - what she has, how far she's come, is on account of a good deal of violent measures taken to get here. The point of the film isn't to say that violence is present and integral to every person, but that violence is a much more powerful force behind what is called good than many care to realize.

Magnolia
d. Paul Thomas Anderson, 1999

The danger of having a three hour film is, generally, losing the interest of the audience. P.T. Anderson wouldn't know about that - Magnolia is a 185 minute orgasm caffeine sugar high adrenaline rush, always building, constantly peaking. The danger here is that those highs become mundane. And while it could be called overly long (I wouldn't say that), it can't be said the highs lose their power - for the first time in 3 years of watching movies, I cried watching the easy to fuck up non-diegetic primary cast Aimee Mann sing-along. Anderson earns this response, building up each of the 6 or so "mini-stories" that operate within the greater story without sacrficing the whole fabric of the thing. That is, the characters are built properly - fleshed out - and the narrative, in spite of being what some would see as too long by 100%, is comprised entirely of purely essential moments, each one operating as a significant piece of the whole. Ambitious, bravura filmmaking working damn near its finest.

The World
d. Zhang Ke Jia, 2004

The film's initial premise is interesting: we are now living in a democratized, abbreviated world, a world in which technology has made travel first necessary and now impossible, and communication even moreso. The primary setting is one loaded with possibility - a cheap theme park called "The World," wherein one can see all the famouse landmarks of the world without ever leaving Beijing. It's a miniaturized counterfeit of the real things, but one that work like an ersatz stand-in, an excuse to not move outside of Beijing. In a scene that works powerfully, partly because it doesn't influence the narrative of the film, a man chaperoning a troupe of Russian dancers takes away the passports of said dancers. The transaction is shady; the audience is lead to believe that these dancers will not get their passports back, making it impossible for them to leave "The World," which now works on two obvious levels: a theme park and as a stand-in for the world at large. History and Politics are ugly nadirs in my education, but I imagine this relates directly to China's recent political past and (possible) future. I'll leave that for now; what I do know is that here we have not a democratized world, but a subjugated one. America - let's get ethnocentric! - is a sort of dreamland. The Manhattan fixture in the park is an island - you can see it, but you can't touch it - with the WTC intact. America stands as a sort of idyll for the denizens of "The World," with English being the only common language. But - let's get rebellious! - it's a false ideal. Could American global power be responsible for this whacked out version of an egalitarian democracy? Is America proliferating a corrupt hegemony? These questions are posed, not answered, which is a smart move for. The problem is, so much of this is lost in the film. While the idea of travel and the difficulty of travel spines the film, Jia falls for a limp plot in the form of a couple - both employees of the park - who are having relational problems. The film begins as an ensemble piece, glancing from moment to moment, picking the points that support the the thesis; this relationship angle is only tangentially related, unfortunately, and it isn't very interesting. Moreover, Jia relies on the setting like a crutch - numerous shots of various landmarks (Pyramids, Eiffel Tower, others) punctuate the Beijing skyline to the point that the repetition is no longer interesting, merely repetitive. Jia spends the last 1 and 1/2 hours dwelling on these things, marring an otherwise very interesting, and very good, film.

Short Cuts: February '06

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Wed, 15 Feb 2006 19:34:00 +0000

Approach of Autumn
d. Mikio Naruse, 1960

Naruse's usual themes are on display here (FYI: Simultaneous empowerment and debasement (Word? Sure!) of women; Need/Desire for cash and social status; City V. Country. If you were unaware of these items, have no fear - I didn't know thing one about Naruse until 3 weeks ago.) The last of these is most prominently on display here, particularly the sincerity and power of the country as superior to the false simulacrum of the city. (Case in Point: a little boy - protagonist - is searching for a beetle, which he claims one can only find in the country. He spies two teenagers making out and sees a beetle on the strewn pile of the female's clothes. The boy grabs the beetle, but the girl's sweater follows the beetle. Turns out it was a beetle-imaged brooch, a mere simulacrum of reality.) This is a fun thread to follow, and one that I think there is a lot to say about. And Naruse does say a good deal: the early cityscape pocked with walking suits is match cut to a jungle gym crawling with kids - the insidious nature of the city begins right away; the young protagonist is confronted numerous times by city bullies, only to conquer them each time (Naruse's real deal is opposition, I think) - the sincerity of the country wins against the facade of the city. Unfortunately, a strange side story develops involving a little girl and her infatuation/pet amusement with the boy. It's cute, but the aside involves some pretty insidious ideas. Naruse generally is concerned with the state of 30-something women, and he has a good thing going, but the utilitarian way in which this young girl uses the young boy debases what Naruse says about older women. That is, because the young girl is so callow and callous, she causes the viewer to reevaluate Naruse's M.O. concerning the poor treatment of women (i.e. is he not criticizing and instead just "showing?") I admit, this is a bit silly, and the point is probably just to show that relationships between males and females are difficult and screwed up from day one, but look at how far we've come from that nasty little piece about city v. country. Naruse had a great thing going there, and missed the mark a bit when he chose to stray from it.

Short Cuts: January '06

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Mon, 02 Jan 2006 08:19:00 +0000

Lolita
d. Stanley Kubrick, 1962

The intro is most compelling, indeed; Peter Sellers' vocal-mimicry runs through the various stock characters of cinema, he attempts to create a sort of self-referential song, and a painting is shot through several times. The subject is art: its creation & destruction, and the difficulty of authenticity therein. Or so it would seem. The next two hours and twenty minutes masticate the blander parts of Nabokov's source material, steering clear of the lurid nature which makes the book so interesting. I do understand that Kubrick was working within a coded film industry, (kind of - he made this one in England) but surely he could have, I don't know, sped things up a bit so that the focus of the film had something to do with the novel. The aforementioned Sellers is fantastic as Clare Quilty, but practically everyone else is miscast. And any evidence of the ideas brought forth in the intro are lost to the bulk of the film. Disappointing.

March of the Penguins
d. Luc Jancquet, 2005

This goes quite beyond nature porn, stretching a 30 minute story into an 80 minute film. We're given far too many CU's of the penguins themselves: stare at the penguin's feet, look at its beak, gaze at its fur (feathers? skin? whatever). Now do it all again. I'm actually for this type of thing; the images of the animals are really interesting, allowing the viewer a for all intensive purposes complete visual understanding of the penguin. The big problem with the film, however, is the lack of science involved. A nature channel type documentary vibe would ruin the whole thing, but some simple identification would be nice. (For instance, we see a baby penguin attacked by some type of bird, and Morgan Freeman cites this as a predator of the animal, yet the bird is never ID'd. This is simple stuff, man.) Without any real knowledge gained, with the visuals waxing too much, I'm left with a feeling of what's-the-point?

The Notebook
d. Nick Cassavetes, 2004

I was biased from the start. I hate Gena Rowlands for what she's done posthumously to the work of her late husband, John Cassavetes. Post Love Streams, I have no sympathy for the woman. (Even though I dislike Ray Carney equally, go here for an explanation.) That taken into consideration, The Notebook is a hamfisted cheater of a film. For the first act, it falls into the traditional cliched class-stratified love story. She's rich, he's poor, &c. Then, toward the last part of the second act, the entire idea is dropped; anything or one keeping him from her (that's the M.O. this go 'round) is obliterated or pacified. Her only option, really, is to stay with him. But the pretense is upheld, and we get 15 more minutes of pseudo-will she/won't she dramatizing. Then, all the love between him and her that was built up in the preceding 1 3/4 hours is transferred to the couple, 50 years aged. Now, 1) it was a false love that consisted almost entirely of dry-humping, fire-stoking infidelity, and heated make-out sessions 2) James Garner and Gena Rowlands (playing the aged couple) don't really need all that, anyway. Their story is something else entirely, and the only redeeming part of the film. Consequently, I wanted a bit more of the sentimentality at the end and more understanding of why him and her loved each other so much. (Aside: there's a scene featuring James Garner and Gena Rowlands, their second to last together, that hints that Nick Cassavetes may have a little something of his father in him. Fun stuff.)

Punishment Park
d. Peter Watkins, 1971

Watkins' characters scream out against a polarized political climate, and both they and Watkins seem sincere, yet all we get is a portrait of this dichotomized landscape, and in terms that seem only to endorse the thing. Shot pseudo-doc, Punishment Park captures the workings of a Vietnam War-era, government instilled plan. That is, arrest the dissenters, draft-dodgers, uprisers, and long-haired, deny them habeas corpus, sentence them absurdly, and offer them, instead of 10-15 year sentence, 2 nights and 3 days in Punishment Park, where the ~~cops~~ pigs can get their ya-ya's out and the hippies are offered the illusion of choice. I write this largely from the perspective of the liberal dissenter only because the film is so clearly of that bent itself. Now, I tend to agree, politically, with the side that Watkins sympathizes, but such a slanted opinion is not great filmmaking. (Although I think Watkins would disagree, judging by his informative yet self-aggrandizing 30 minute introduction to the film.) It is a hard call to make, especially since we seem to be in a similar socio-political climate right now, but quiet moderation, not partisan shouting and name-calling, would have been the correct track for Watkins. (That is, assuming he wanted to affect some change of some sort, which, ibid. the director's intro, he did.) Furthermore, Watkins creation of the film was a sort of Stanford Prison Experiment, wherein each character had a role - really, just an opinion - and played that out against others. Even the credits read "militants," "semi-militants," "pacifists," etc. The characters, then, are to be read as simple ciphers, neither round nor deep. Yet there's something impressive about the film; the anger and frustration exacted from the viewer is rarely seen elsewhere, and the amount of thought I've put into this today must be worth something. The characters are ciphers, I think, because ciphers make a difficult problem easier to understand. Ultimately, Punishment Park is a valuable film, in that it demands reflection concerning the polarization found within the film, i.e. it requires to viewer to search himself for chauvinism as much as it itself is bi-chauvinistic, and the flaws within the film - the flaws that the viewer mulls over - are the medium by which this is accomplished .

Short Cuts: December '05

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Fri, 23 Dec 2005 18:46:00 +0000

Spend an Evening with Saddle Creek
d. Jason Kulbel/Rob Walter, 2005

Interesting enough, I guess, if you're smitten with Bright Eyes, et al (I am), but hardly a film. Its entirety consists of self-congratulatory back-patting interviews with the various members of the Lumberjack/Saddle Creek entourage. We learn that Cursive's Tim Kasher is the reigning genius, Conor Oberst is the wunderkind brat, and Ted Stevens is the unsung hero of the Omaha scene, but we don't get at the meat of a documentary. That is, why do these people make music? What are they trying to do with their label? The auto-answer is that the point of it is the music. Well then: give us some music to listen to and watch: a desert of concert footage, etc and dry, self-aggrandizing interviews are just not the stuff - at least not in their entirety - of a good documentary.

Short Cuts: November '05

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Sun, 06 Nov 2005 09:29:00 +0000

3-Iron
d. Ki-duk Kim, 2005

I do wish I understood a bit more about Buddhism, because I feel that it is at the heart of this film. (Certainly religion in general is central - enough portraits of spiritual figures, Jesus et al, are scattered about the mise-en-scene to hammer this home.) The sacred tone is compelling, though, even if one cannot understand the film. There's a bit in the middle where someone dies that leaves me perplexed - perhaps a misstep, or perhaps I just don't get it. The last 20 minutes are absolutely breathtaking.

A Very Long Engagement
d. Jean-Pierre Jeunet, 2004

Golly, Jeunet has one of the most poetic visual styles working today. And he puts it to very good use here, contrasting the beauty of his shots to the often-times gritty, squalid subject matter. Unfortunately, the cheekiness of Amelie (which, in spite of the cheekiness, I loved) creeps in, debasing the gravity of certain otherwise perfect battle/war-time scenes. The character quirks also pile up and wax irritating, e.g. Mathilde's limp & her temporal ultimatums, e.g. if this film ends before the audience is sick of me, Maneche is alive. Regardless, Jeunet (and Audrey Tatou - if my fiancee didn't exist, I'd be in love) is in his element concerning the "love" bits. I think he wanted to make a love story, got caught up in the anti-war aspect, and still terminated at a love story. It would've worked better w/ less bathos, but a good, entertaining film regardless. (And I should mention that the labrynthine plot is enough to turn off most, but I loved it, if for nothing else than the simple fact that it refused to condescend the viewer.)

The Ballad of Cable Hogue
d. Sam Peckinpah, 1970

What the hell is going on here? Comedy punctuating pathos, culminating in a preacher/cassanova asking God & The Viewer (one in the same?) not to take Cable Hogue (both the character and the film) lightly. Needless to say, I loved it. One year after The Wild Bunch, Peckinpah drops the violence and does a character study. (Although it is really a nasty bit of fun how he toys with the audience from word go, blasting the guts out of a desert lizard - the only bit of blood in the film.) Toward the end, the idea of mechanization v. nature surfaces (via the tenor of an automobile, of course.) Before that, though, it's anyone's guess. I would say, if pressed, that this is about the American Dream. Hogue (Jason Robards, in a brilliant performance), while stranded in the desert, promises to God not do what he did before, "Whatever is was [he] did" if God will just send him some water. And water the Good Lord sends. In the form of an extremely lucrative spring along a wagon route. Whether Hogue does what he promised not to do or not (is that understandable enough? Whatever.), the viewer must hazard a guess, but it is clear that he - pretty much - forgets God. American ingenue, really. Cable Hogue finds what he asked God for, and then forgets God, rendering God obsolete and unnecessary amidst all that water and money. Basically: rags-to-riches. I'm sure there is a good deal more there, I just cannot grasp onto it w/ one viewing under my belt. Clearly there is a good deal more to the relationship between Hogue and God, and to the entrepeneurial nature of Cable. Weird thing though: strange bits of fx play - a winking/smiling five dollar bill, some fast motion camera action that seems more Chaplin than Peckinpah. I can't make heads or tails, but I did love the thing.

Dallas 362
d. Scott Caan, 2003

Did you know that Scott Caan is James Caan's son? I did not until, I don't know, a year or so ago. The likeness is undeniable. Ditto that cute, bravado swagger. Anyway, just thought I'd let you know.

Now, Scott Caan is very likeable actor. Very. Whether he's good/great/awful/mediocre/whatever is for you to decide, but he's certainly a likeable kid. Kid probably working as the great signifyer here. Kids make fun first films, full of technical flourishes - slo-mo, still shots, strange editing tricks: that kind of thing. And Dallas 362, like Pi, like Boondock Saints, like Reservoir Dogs, does not disappoint in the bravura category. And, as with the aforementioned, the technical experimentation nearly sinks Dallas 362. There's so much good stuff here - a really fantastic eponym, a real-life hetero male-to-male friendship, dissent in the face of convention - but the ugly bits - over-acting, unnecessary tangential characters, Jeff Goldblum - almost overshadow all of it. Thankfully, the film ends where it should end - in the capable arms of the friendship story, leaving a mostly satisfying taste in this viewer's mouth. Recommended with reservations - that is, watch out for the freshman hijinx.

Naked
d. Mike Leigh, 1993

Erudition is about as attractive as it gets, and Johnny here (David Thewlis) has it in spades enough to turn me gay. Johnny, in spite of all his intelligence, is a man attempting to talk his way out of fate, as if pollicating the shitty state of humanity enough times somehow renders one supercedent to that unfortunate cesspool. Leigh writes just as deftly as he directs, blending the aforementioned intelligence/wit with a deep-seated pathos. (Or is this another of those improv jobs? If so, Thewlis should be given a damn Gold College Freshman Philosophical Bullshitting/Fucking Over Award. That is, assuming such an honor exists. Which it probably does not, 'cause who in their right mind likes freshmen?) The result of Leigh's talent is a deeply depraved film - one in which humanity really isn't given much of a nice nod - wherein the characters dash away the pretense of "reality" and show, instead, the awful - many would argue "true" - nature of the world we live in.

Oldboy
d. Park Chan-wook, 2003

There are some absolutely glorious things going on with this film. Setpieces, originality of the story, fine acting. To say much at all would be to ruin the whole damn thing, so I'm gonna keep mostly mum on the plot points. I'll just get straight to my problem, and the reason I don't wholeheartedly proclaim this to be one of the absolute best films of the year. Rather than leaving the details for the reader to figure out, and rather than make them plausible enough to be figured out, Park - in reverse order here - shrouds the explanation in improbabilities, strong improbabilities, and didactially lays out the circumstances of those improbabilities. And that's really it. Now: I'm doing a bit of back-cover recitation here, but Park is clearly influenced by Hitchcock. And I like that. The general Korean action/suspense flick style works well with a Hitchcockian thing. Also: there's a good deal of philosophizing here, and I like that too. Questions pondered, with vague spoilers: what are the boundaries of love? If you could erase those boundaries, given the opportunity and impunity, would you? Are the weight values given to various crimes & sins in Western Society valid?

Ride the High Country
d. Sam Peckinpah, 1962

Elegy for the dear departed, i.e. the West. Peckinpah contrasts the "old-timers" (Joel McCrea & Randolph Scott - both phenomenal) against the "new-breed" (ostensibly, everyone else.) The only hopeful amongst the bunch - that is, a scion of hope for the future - is a would-be rapist who supposedly looks up these old-timers, i.e. this one isn't too terribly optimistic. At first blush, this seems in direct opposition to Peckinpah's later "masterpiece" (naturally, I beg to differ), The Wild Bunch, but here Peckinpah's dealing mainly with the ideas of loyalty and honor, ideas that - pretty much - are at work in the "old-timers" of The Wild Bunch. Standing for the new-breed is the town of Coarse Gold - get it? In one of the better scenes, an innocent woman (madonnas or whores, Sam, madonnas or whores) is married and proceeds to deal - immediately - with attempted rape from the bridegroom's brother, essentially by his consent. Here the harbingers of the future have ruined the future's future as well as fucking up tomorrow's affair. No clean marriage = no clean birthing = no cleanliness forever. Or something like that. But there's no plot, or at least not much of one, and a hurried ending that probably had something to do with the studio. I.E. ("I'm going i.e. crazy lately.") usual Peckinpah fare, wherein what might have been a masterpiece is mitigated - like a good, stiff gin & tonic - into a relatively innocuous, docile "good film."

Style Wars
d. Chalmant/Silver, 1983

I'd very much like to write a full-length review about this one, but I simply don't have the time right now. Suffice it to say that it's a fantastic anthropological study (although that sounds a bit too stuffy for the tone of the film) of an oft maligned/misunderstood subculture, that of the graffiti artist. Highlights include, foremost, the work of the artists - some of these pieces are simply stunning. The crux of the film is the way in which it catches the art at a transitional point, either dying or blooming. In hindsight, the moment turned out to be a bit of both. Here the movement is seen as a candle burning at both ends, threatened by high art (made apparent by a proper gallery showing of canvas medium facsimiles of the pieces originally displayed on train cars - missing the point entirely that, as McLuhan says to some extent, the medium is the message) and low art alike (here a crass hillbilly going by the handle of "Cap" whose m.o. is quantity over quality. Although a strong argument could be made for the fact that his form of tagging is equally valid.) Most striking is the eloquence of many of these artists - they have a mostly clear sense of what it is they're doing and why they're doing it and why it is, ultimately, art.

Short Cuts: September '05

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Sat, 10 Sep 2005 18:05:00 +0000

Gates of Heaven
d. Errol Morris, 1978

What begins as an honest look at the Pet Cemetery business turns into an irreverent glance at the people behind the business (entrepreneurs and pet owners alike) and finally a becomes a serious gaze at life, love, and loss. The unifying aspect among Morris' subjects is a sense of belonging on account of their pets. (For the businessmen - and I do mean men, not a woman is found amidst - the unifier is chasing money and spirituality both, through what seems to be, at least for them, a venture combination of capitalism and spirituality.) Against Morris: his subjects aren't as compelling as he would like us to believe and the half tongue-in-cheek half solemn documentarian stance grows tiresome. On the whole, though, Gates of Heaven is a good film, and one that finds broad themes pertaining to all humanity where you wouldn't necessarily expect to find them.

Short Cuts: May '05

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Mon, 02 May 2005 07:34:00 +0000

A Thousand Acres
d. Jocelyn Moorhouse, 1997

Revisionist Shakespeare. The entire conceit is problematic: flip King Lear, making Regan & Goneril (here Rose & Ginny, Michelle Pfeiffer and Jessica Lange respectively) the 'good team' and Lear (here Larry Cook, Jason Robards) the bad guy. Whether it be a mistake in the novel (written by Jane Smile), the screenplay (Laura Jones), or the directing, one cannot reverse 400 years of evil by making the Lear character a child molestor. When Ginny's husband, in the last act of the film, throws just an inkling of shadow on the angelism of Ginny and Rose, I jump right then and there to believing his word as gospel. It seems that every "bitch" hurled at these women is well-deserved. Compounding this problem (which it seems the filmmakers were unaware of, at least if the film as it stands conforms in anyway to their ideal) is the fact that there is no real theme to speak of. Okay, incest is bad. Okay, families are tricky. Okay, life sucks. Why? What's the point? Excepting some choice moments by Pfeiffer and Robards, this is a terrible film all around. I strongly suggest avoiding it, especially if you have any respect for the original source material.

F for Fake
d. Orson Welles, 1974

There isn't a lot for me to say, as I'm still blown away by the geniuses of this film.

1. The editing genius of Welles.

We all knew he could work a camera, act, and direct, but this - this - is amazing. Really clever sound editing (bested only by The Conversation, at least as far as I know) and a visual track that's simultaneously symbolic, existential, tongue-in-cheek, "hanky-panky", and whimsical. Concomitantly serious and frivolous.

2. The geniuses within the film.

Fakes, forgers, and frauds, but - above all - geniuses. Welles shows himself foremost in creating a docu-something about an art forger, a book forger, and a...well...Howard Hughes. His (that is, Welles) trick is in creating an absolutely protean persona (rather: personae) that seems to be crying out for understanding while ensuring that this understanding can never be arrived at.

3. The genius of the idea.

Make a film about fakery whose form, content, and integrity are constantly on the verge of becoming falsified. The real genius is that in this film about fakery one gets closer to Welles than possible anywhere else. I get the sense that fakery is at the heart of Welles, and he hides behind it like the Wizard of Oz behind his curtain and glowing face. Here the impish side of Welles, Toto-like, peels back the curtain for 88 minutes, revealing (in cryptic form, of course) the realized jigsaw puzzle that is Orson Welles. It is a strange film, definitely, but one well worth the time. Bogdanovich is spot-on in his intro on the Criterion disc when he says something to the effect of you have to let the film take you without you trying to decide its course. If you can do that, give it a spin.

Hamlet
d. Franco Zeffirelli, 1990

A mediocre adaptation marred by an inconsistent Hamlet (Mel Gibson), questionable editorial decisions, and a laughably bad staging of the final duel. Mel Gibson is sometimes engaging, particularly in moments of passion or when playing opposite another actor. His soliloquies, of which Hamlet has many, are more reminiscent of Theatre Arts 101 than the work of a professional actor (his 'to be or not be' speech, the one exception, hits some high notes toward its beginning.) Gibson also missteps in those pivotal early scenes, wherein Hamlet feigns madness and toys with Polonius. Hamlet's supposed madness, in the hands of Gibson, becomes actual madness, as if both Mel & Zeffirelli missed the intention of the play. Later on when Hamlet mentions his sometimes-madness to Rosencrantz & Guildenstern, claiming it as feigned, it seems - rather than a substantial explanation - a contradiction. In the editorial choices - which of the original material to exclude - Zeffirelli, et al eliminate any semblance of Hamlet's extraordinary intelligence and balance, leaving him as a character driven solely by passion and revenge. The film is entertaining enough, and certainly not a waste of time, but - especially in relation to the source material - it little more than an occasionally engaging film without much soul.

The King is Alive
d. Kristian Levring, 2001

Those crazy danes [insert pseudo-recriminating finger-wagging that leads to that totally unfunny arms akimbo "you naughty boys" look.] Admittedly, the plot is ludicrous: a passenger bus full of tourists (and surprisingly devoid of a toilet) breaks down in the middle of the desert. One tourist leaves to get help, the remaining pass the time (sex helps, of course.) Being a dogme film, the usual hyperbole is a non-issue - no vultures, no "this is my last match, if I screw this up we don't have fire" moments, no fending off bad guys. What we're given though (and it is a mighty improvement) is Shakespeare. Namely, King Lear. The ersatz thespians take a crack at Lear, using a recalled script from a former actor, now Hollywood script-reader among the destitute. The film devolves toward the end, the nadir being a man peeing on a dying woman out of spite. (Are you sure it wasn't LvT who directed this?) Before that, though, things are pretty interesting. The parallels drawn between the characters and those found in King Lear are spot-on and Levring realizes (unlike most) that Lear is about much more than insanity and old age. Levring instead focuses on the "nothing" of the play, i.e. the subtraction/destruction of societal order and the vacuousness left over when all is said and done. These people are walking shells; one sarcastically says, "We're on holiday," getting it, but not quite, that this is about as far from a holiday as one can get. Solid execution of theme, really fun digital cinematography, and (more or less) a good plot.

The Man from Laramie
d. Anthony Mann, 1955

Much to my chagrin (mostly because of the 2 day turnaround @ Netflix and the dwindling amount of time left for me to complete my finals project for English), the assertions that The Man from Laramie has Learish themes is a little overblown. If anything from Shakespeare's play, it resembles the Gloucester/Edgar/Edmund storyline. I'm sorry: going blind from age does not even remotely equal going insane from being betrayed by your two daughters, whom you gave the world to. Luckily, it wasn't an entire waste of time. Even though I kept waiting for the Lear (which, I imagine, lessened the impact of the film as - you know - a film), Mann's flick was far from disappointing. It is a western by coincidence, focusing - rather than on the banalities of western life - on timeless ideas. Alec Waggoman is a man who wants to maintain the integrity of his ranch (i.e. his kingdom - ok, I guess that is sort of like King Lear, but it strikes me as coincidental. If it is the author's intent to conjure Lear, it is only a passing homage - a point of reference - and not a thematic foundation for the film.) Waggoman clearly wants immortality, for his life's work to live long after he ceases to. His son - capricious like all young bucks - wants pleasure, now. He wants to make his own fortune, but - and this is the rub - he cannot do it without his daddy's money. Naturally, people die. Jimmy Stewart (as the outsider) acts as a catalyst, setting this tragic series of events (not Lear tragic, asshole) into motion. It's nice as a change - instead of wagon teams and homesteaders and shoot-outs and sunsets and town drunks and cattle drives and Injuns and John Wayne and John Ford and hangings and liquor and ten-gallon hats we get this: a pitiful old man, going blind and grasping at straws.

Scotland, PA
d. Billy Morrissette, 2001

It isn't a very good film - it succumbs too often to low humor, which results in a nasty bit of bathos - but Scotland, PA is at least somewhat interesting for the trend it signifies. Since Gus Van Sant's My Own Private Idaho in 1991, Shakespeare has become, for lack of a better word, cool. Dropping lines verbatim (Intolerable Cruelty, Elephant), cribbing significant plot points (The Lion King), and adapting the Elizabethan English or locale out of the film (Scotland, PA, "O", William Shakespeare's Romeo + Juliet) have all become accepted and admired forms of acknowledging the influence of Shakespeare. Scotland, PA is one of the less successful of these, hampered by bad acting (everyone except Chris Walken) and a general low-budget aura (not the good kind, either.) Nonetheless, the idea of adapting Macbeth to a hamburger joint in 1970's Pennsylvania is inherently clever and provides the film with some solid moments (Duncan's death by deep fryer being the most of these.) Remarkably, the original plot is kept largely intact, which, if nothing else, makes it fun to go through and notice the di-/convergences.

Short Cuts: April '05

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Wed, 06 Apr 2005 05:39:00 +0000

Angels with Dirty Faces
d. Michael Curtiz, 1938

Remarkable not for its storyline (even though it is above average) or its acting (even though James Cagney is wonderful), but for the way in which - even in the height of the Code Era - the bad guy is portrayed not as a purely evil entity but as a product of chance and society. The story concludes with Rocky's best friend, the priest, remarking that Rocky (Cagney) was just a slower runner than himself, alluding to the incident that brought Rocky his first stretch in prison. Overall the film is marred by the Hays requisites - particularly the halo effect and choral music that hand-in-hand with the priest's monologues - but marred less than the usual late-30's gangster flick. In fact, Rocky's demise (spoiler? give me a break - you knew it was coming anyway) adds to the picture, showing his death as a product of a normal individual burnt by a corrupt society rather than the usual angelic society destroyed by the inherently corrupt individual. Also: The Adventures of Robin Hood, Casablanca, Mildred Pierce, Angels with Dirty Faces - is Michael Curtiz the most underrated director of the 30's/40's/50's or did he somehow arbitrarily become attached to pictures that were destined to work? I'm leaning toward the former, folks.

Big Wednesday
d. John Milius, 1978

For the first 2/3 of Big Wednesday, I was watching one of the most entertaining and absorbing films I had ever seen. The last 1/3 (a grab-bag of surfing cliches, dull character development, and knee-jerk social commentary), unfortunately, fails to live up to rest of the film. Regardless, Big Wednesday is a near-great film about the 60's, both early and late. In its purest essence an American Film (so much so that there's no way it could have been made in any other country), Big Wednesday indulges in several themes that are situated near the heart of the American Film: coming-of-age, the passing of an era, lost friendship, Vietnam, et cetera. Neither of these themes is built into anything, really. But that too does not matter; Milius' film so understatedly embodies the early-60's zeitgeist, and its doom spelled out by the late-60's, that the lack of real subtext seems to be part of the point. Entirely worthwhile for, if nothing else, the beautiful nature-porn/surfing cinematography.

Boxcar Bertha
d. Martin Scorsese, 1972

All of the hallmarks of Scorsese's technique (frenetic camera, complex tracking shots, zooms, montage) are there, and even his thematic territory (outcasts, rebelllion, politics) to some extent, but its clear that this is an early work before Scorsese became "sophisticated." Mind, not that this is a bad thing. Boxcar Bertha is 10x the film that both Casino and Gangs of New York (the former being 10x more excruciating than a nail slowly pounded through the patella.) Bertha is full of camp (a Roger Corman production) - inexplicable nudity and gratuitous violence being par for the course - and full of entertainment. I don't think I could make the argument that Boxcar Bertha is great film in terms of importance or theme (although Scorsese tries really hard with the latter), but I can unequivocally say that it's one helluva' good time watching it.

Bringing Up Baby
d. Howard Hawks, 1938

Am I the only who finds the Screwball Comedy, on the whole, more than just a little overbearing? I thoroughly enjoyed The Lady Eve, The Thin Man was grand, and Trouble in Paradise was just tops, but when the cases of mistaken identities and understandings are so damn obvious, the whole thing takes on an obvious and irritating character. Case in point: Bringing Up Baby. I understand I'm speaking about one of the hallowed and revered titles of the Golden Age of Cinema, but - frankly my dear - I don't give a damn. Cary Grant is miscast, Katharine Hepburn is magnificently obnoxious, and the whole cast makes due with a cache of facial tics and redundant hand gestures that are, generally speaking, hamfisted & hackneyed. Somewhere in the middle the film settles into a nice groove well-articulated humor, only to implode during the jail scene near the end. It wasn't not worthwhile, but it wasn't the great film I expected either. (Although something positive should definitely be said about the surreality of incorporating a leopard (!) into the main plotline.)

Life is Sweet
d. Mike Leigh, 1991

One beautifully leaden, irony filled balloon of a movie. (For the record, I have no clue exactly what that means.) A saccharine carnivalesque score punctuates the entire film, giving rise to the idea that life is a purely absurd balance between comedy and tragedy, with an inescapable bathos demarcating the two. The story pivots around a four person family composed of A) One husband/father (Jim Broadbent, fantastic) - a dreamer/sucker, attempting to become a self-made man and failing horribly B) One wife/mother (Alison Steadman) - a seeming-nymphomaniac who actually is just hungry for another baby in the house, a baby that would make up for and offset the disappointment of her C) Two daughters - twins, actually; one a bulimic (Jane Horrocks) who fancies herself the size of whale (even though her proportions are more akin to a spider monkey), one a tom-boy/plumber (Claire Skinner) who, although not a lesbian, is stuck in that frightfully gray ground between a masculine woman and an effeminate man. Add to this an equally quirky supporting cast (the highlight being Timothy Spall as Aubrey), and one would think the recipe's result a quaint situational exercise in bloated broad strokes. The remarkable thing is the Leigh and the cast keep things with within the realm of reality - in spite of what would seem to be flat caricatures, the characters are entirely human, capable of the entire palette of human emotion and action. (What I'm most blown away by is that this is the very same TImothy Spall - who here turns in a great performance as the grotesque, phlegmatic, and entirely pathetic man, Aubry - that would go on to play Maurice, the altruistic, tender and caring father/husband, in Leigh's 1996 film, Secrets & Lies. Got range?)

Mildred Pierce
d. Michael Curtiz, 1945

This might be Curtiz' best directorial effort, but the film itself left me somewhat flat. Mildred Pierce is roughly 20 minutes too long, hampered (unlike Double Indemnity) by its flashback narrative, which leaves me with the feeling of "get on with it already." (Although it should be noted that, also unlike Double Indemnity, Mildred Pierce does not entirely give away its ending in the beginning of the film, so the last 10 minutes or so are far more compelling than the preceding 20.) Joan Crawford is great as Mildred, playing a very complex character. The writers (James M. Cain being the source) and Curtiz should be applauded for - really - changing the position of women in film. If Pierce were the traditional femme fatale, the film would be an interesting excericise in style, but not much more. If Pierce were written devoid of character flaws, the film would be nothing but a rags-to-riches, feel-good flick. But Pierce is a bit of both; a little from column A, a little from column B. This complexity marks her as a true protagonist, a female character that - finally - could enjoy the same complexity and depth of character that her male counterparts had been enjoying for years. But that extra 20 minutes...Ultimately Mildred Pierce is an important film for its treatment of women, but stumbled by unnecessary verbosity.

Sweet Smell of Success
d. Alexander Mackendrick, 1957

Half Scarface, half Citizen Kane, half Night and the City. (Wait, what?) Mackendrick's noir weaves a complex tale about Sidney Falco (Tony Curtis), a press agent trying to get his client into J.J. Hunsecker's (Burt Lancaster) column - the most revered and read column in The Globe, a daily newspaper in New York City. The movie consists entirely of Falco's actions toward this end. Among the things he has to do to achieve this end: smear Hunsecker's sister's fiancee, find a dame for another columnist to sleep with, plant marijuana in a man's coat pocket, and appease his current client. It is a film about the nature of power (i.e. those who have it choose who gets what), the corrupted state of the media, the inability to come up in the world, and the depravity of a man plagued by jealousy. The film, from the outset, promises little in the way of sweet endings, and it becomes clear that Mackendrick is working with characters diseased by the sickness of modern man - the utter lack of concern for anyone but one's own self. Curtis turns in a stellar performance, while Lancaster isn't so far behind, playing a ruthless man completely out of touch with what it means to be human.

Short Cuts: March '05

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Thu, 03 Mar 2005 02:18:00 +0000

The Big Combo
d. Joseph H. Lewis, 1955

With relative safety, I'd like to file this one under 'overlooked.' Richard Conte turns in one helluva performance (aren't they all, though?), while Joseph H. Lewis keeps the ideas flowing - a hearing aid cum torture device, a drop-out soundtrack silent execution of a deaf man, twists and turns a'plenty. With these postives come some negative (overlooked he said, masterpiece he did not.) While Conte's turn reaches the heights (OK, the mid-heights) of thespianism, lead-man Cornel Wilde wallows in the depths. Most surprisingly, unlike even the most mediocre of noirs, The Big Combo features entirely quotidian camera-work - boring on the whole, with some interesting light-play here and there (mostly the bedroom scenes.) My favorite bits: the subtle, and not so subtle, homoeroticism between Fante (a young Lee Van Cleef) and Mingo (a young no-name.) How naughty!

Fat City
d. John Huston, 1972

A movie about grasping at last straws - and the inconsequential nature of that act - that also happens to have some boxing in it. Huston's direction, per usual, is austere, echoing both the urban landscape and the hard lives occupied by our two protagonists (Stacy Keach as the older, washed-up Billy Tully and Jeff Bridges as the young buck just entering the game, Ernie Munch.) Tully and Munch are two blips on the conveyor belt of life; one near the end, and the other at the beginning. Their lives are paralleled throughout - Tully used to be the best, the Great White Hope, Ernie is the current incarnation of that (impossible) hope. They share the same manager (former, in the case of Tully) who uses Ernie to spark his own hope - maybe he's found the great fighter he'd always dreamt of finding. Probably not, though. The last shot of the film is boundlessly poetic - Tully and Ernie share a cup of coffee in a medium two shot. They watch an old man serve them coffee at a snail's pace. Tully remarks that he never wants to end up like that, the irony being that he already is. Ernie isn't exempt from this harsh reality; even though he's young, it's made clear that Tully's path is his path. Just like Tully and the old man, he'll end up tired and beaten, just like the rest of us.

The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T
d. Roy Rowland, 1953

Fantastically bizarre in the same way that Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory is fantastically bizarre. Rowland may have directed the film, but this is Dr. Seuss' show. Arbitrary turns abound in the plot, which is quite obviously secondary to the impeccable set design (care also of the kind Doctor.) Not a great film by any means, The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T is nonetheless gallons of fun. The wires show throughout - the sound stagey quality, the terrible acting - but it hardly matters. All senses are overwhelmed by the sheer mania of the thing. Anyone else think that the get-up worn by Dr. T at the end contains prescient echoes of this guy?

In a Lonely Place
d. Nicholas Ray, 1950

This makes three films from 1950 that deal with The Buisness. (For those playing at home, the other two are Sunset Boulevard and All About Eve.) Surprisingly (or not), this, the least heralded of the three, is the greatest - not that the other two are slouches, neither. Humphrey Bogart plays Dixon Steele, a Hollywood screenwriter who takes pride in his work, therefore garnering little success. Gloria Grahame (beautiful, beautiful, beautiful) plays Laurel, Steele's love and muse. At face value alone, In a Lonely Place is a remarkable film. Ray has an eye for detail, supplying congruity between such elements as setting, acting, and story in such a way that the film feels less like a film and more like a self-contained universe placed somewhere between Burbank and Hollywood. Deeper still, the film is one of the most brilliant I have seen. Bogart outshines any other role I've seen him in, playing a dichotomous madman of sorts - a struggling, lonely artist attempting to fit in with the rest of the world. Most remarkable is the script; it is both self-aware and invisible, working to illustrate the importance, and lack of appreciation, of Steele's metier. All the while, the narrative ambles along, providing true, pure tension even when the audience is fully aware of its inevitable conclusion. In a Lonely Place is one of the all-time great combinations of technical excellence and outstanding art.

The Night of the Hunter
d. Charles Laughton, 1955

If a strangely uncomfortable noir with an oddly eerie gospel soundtrack and rather obvious projection shots and special effects, all set against a German Expressionist set design sounds intriguing to you, then The Night of the Hunter is your film. Charles Laughton's first film (and only - he was unfortunately discouraged from trying his hand at it again; seems the public didn't shine to his debut effort) jumps with excitement and spontaneity. Frankly, I haven't much of a clue about what he is actually getting at - certainly religious dogma, probably the pathetic nature of man - but it doesn't really matter. Gorgeous cinematography abounds, particularly with regards to the jagged, piercing light and abundant helicopter shots (illustrating that pathetic smallness of man, I'd say.) The whole thing devolves into a truly bizarre conclusion, seemingly ripped right out of It's a Wonderful Life, or something of that ilk. The charm of this film lies not in its depth, but in the same characteristics it shares with its child stars - dirty and disheveled, but eminently loveable.

Thieves' Highway
d. Jules Dassin, 1949

Rather than a typical noir in the vein of Double Indemnity or Out of the Past (not to imply that those pictures aren't fantastic), Thieves' Highway is a stylistically varied and broader noir, with a wider pallete of characters and themes. No femme fatale, no hard-bitten, terse poeticism - instead, Dassin's film tackles territory familiar to the likes of Steinbeck and Sinclair - the working class. Richard Conte is a son returning home (from the war maybe?) after a long time away. His father - a former produce trucker - has been steered wrong by crooked produce man, Mike Figlia (Lee Cobb), losing his legs in the process. Conte swears revenge and trucks a load of Golden Delicious apples to San Francisco in order to confront Figlia. The apples work as a metaphor - a glorious scene of them tumbling down a hill evokes the futile plight of the terminal working class. Figlia states it almost as eloquently when talking to another produce runner: "You know what you're gonna' be when you grow up," he says, "A truck jockey." The ending (saccharine, improbable) mars the film a bit, but, on the whole, Thieves' Highway is a very good film and one I am surprised I haven't heard mentioned more often.

Short Cuts: February '05

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Wed, 02 Feb 2005 03:15:00 +0000

Angels in America
d. Mike Nichols, 2003

I'll admit that I haven't read Tony Kushner's play upon which this film (film/mini-series = tomayto/tomahto - quit your kavetching) is based. I'll also admit that I'm going to the library first thing on monday in order to pick up a copy and read this beast. It falters a little bit in the bathos of the second half (Perestroika being the lovely title of part deux), but that still doesn't bedraggle this fantastic monstrosity of spectacle and proportion. Six hours in toto, it is probably best to split Angels in America up over two days. Al Pacino's scream-at-people schtick fits in nicely, and Meryl Streep is as good as ever. The real jewel of the thing is Jeffrey Wright, who steals pretty much every scene he is in. Nichols, although making some iffy decisions re: set design (although I've heard the "cheese" factor is something written into the play? Anyone? Bueller?), he is in mostly strong form. A nice even hand with the weighty plot and thematic material, i.e. homosexuality, AIDS, the blind eye of the Reagan era, Justice, Love, and Forgiveness. Ultimately, Angels in America is a moving portrait of a small group of people indicative of a society at large. Yes, it is somewhat marred by the schlock at the end, but, juxtaposed against the bile-filled cesspool of the rest of the film, you cannot blame Kushner or Nichols for supplying a little levity. Kinda' like Harper's little blue pills, doncha' think?

La Commare Secca
d. Bernardo Bertolucci, 1962

One part Rashomon (without the pathos), one part L'Avventura (but with a sense of humor), one part Mamma Roma (without the abstractions.) Bertolucci's first film? Cripes, the kid had talent - pretty fantastic cinematography, an oddly whimsical score, and a good mind for theme. Essentially the film centers on one day in the life of six different people with something in common - they all happened to be in the same park on the night a woman was murdered there. Rather than a thrilling whodunit, the result is a series of vignettes. Some meander pointlessly (I'm thinking of the first, in the forest.) While some amble brilliantly, building up to a fine crescendo - a marvelous reverse dolly shot of a weary man in a prostitute alley (here I'm thinking of the bit with the soldier.) La Commare Secca, of course, translates into The Grim Reaper. Being an Italian film from the early 60's, The Grim Reaper is - again - of course, the poverty that plagues a large number of the Italians, turning people against each other and generally wrecking shop. A lot of fun, rarely boring, and worth the time.

Elephant
d. Alan Clarke, 1989

I'm very, very torn on this. How far can one intellectualize 18 vignettes related only in their depiction of senseless and emotionless violence? Very far, it seems. A run through the interviews re: Elephant on the recent Alan Clarke Region 1 DVD retrospective shows that no small number of famous people are willing to call this short film brilliant and a work of true genius. I don't know about that, but there is something to it. Learning a bit about the context (the tumultuous N. Ireland of the late 1980's) helps, but a film should be able to stand on legs outside of context, right? So: 18 vignettes, beginning with a man (sometimes two) walking and ending with a man (again, sometimes two) killing. I imagine the reason I am torn is because Elephant does have something to say about the arbitrary and indefatigable nature of violence. Without context, without knowledge of prior events, death is still a powerful image. Clarke separates the audience from the action, leaving only the power of the action behind. Remarkably, it works - his images are enough. And if you want to place it in context, it becomes an even more powerful portrait of the mounting violence in Northern Ireland.

The Firm
d. Alan Clarke, 1988

Three English soccer "firms" compete with each other (via arms rather than, you know, the soccer field) for the chance to play in the World Cup. Bexie (Gary Oldman) pleads for unity - a national firm rather than a pissy district firm. His returns come in the form of violence. I now understand why Oldman is often described as animalistic - it is a vicious, brutal turn for him, and the most fascinating character I've seen him play. From the two Clarke films I've seen (the other being Elephant) his M.O. is examining societal problems (mainly civil violence) through metaphor. In Elephant it was senseless, contextless murder. In The Firm he uses soccer and district, rather than national, pride. His use of the wide-angle lens is worth noting - a scene with Bexie in his former room is the paradigm. Essentially the thesis of the film, Bexie, amidst his infinitesimal room wallpapered with soccer paraphernalia, assaults his pillow while shouting out the names of the other firms' leaders. Bexie's goal is not the World Cup, his goal is the eradication of the other firms. The wide-angle lens distorts the proportions of the room, giving space where there is none and implying that Bexie's ambitions have outgrown his soccer dreams.

The Man with a Movie Camera
d. Dziga Vertov, 1929

A fantastic study in kineticism, parallelism, and the mechanization of daily life. Outside of that, there isn't a whole lot I can say about this landmark of the avant-garde. Clearly, there is a lot going on. I can see, thematically, Vertov saying something about the quotidian life of the Soviet people. That is, the meaning of the images seems focused on that. In form, he's tackling all kinds of territory - the blurry line between fact and fiction, the artifice of film, the inherent voyeurism of film, as well as formally experimenting with the power of editing. No narrative, no star, no spectacle - yet never veering into tedium. Remarkable.

Mysterious Object at Noon
d. Apichatpong Weerasethakul, 2000

Mysterious Object at Noon is, if nothing else, a very intriguing experiment. Weerasethakul (who comes off as extremely humble and intelligent when interviewed) was inspired to make this by a Surrealist idea called Exquisite Corpse. The idea is that a group of people contribute to a piece of art in a linear fashion, without knowing exactly what it is that was created prior. Weerasethakul attempts to adapt this idea to cinema, with varying degrees of success. The inhabitants of Thailand are coaxed by Weerasethakul into weaving a narrative about a mysterious object that turns into a boy. The film succeeds in its attempt at creating a portrait of Thailand's lower class. The Exquisite Corpse idea devolves pretty quickly, though; the story meanders about with no real structure in narrative or plot. (Not that this isn't expected or anything.) But that success - the portraiture - is laudable. As the narrative of the story floats in and out, precious snippets of Thai life are captured by Weerasethakul's lens - boys playing soccer, a man and woman selling fish sauce, the Thai markets. The film drags at times (particularly in the third act when all idea of Exquisite Corpse is tossed aside), but it definitely makes me eager to see more of Apichatpong Weerasethakul's work. If his other films are anything like this, we're face to face with a truly innovative voice in cinema.

The Son
d. Jean-Pierre & Luc Dardenne, 2002

What would you do if you unwittingly encountered the person who murdered your child? Of course the question isn't a fair one - how could one possibly formulate an answer? Yet this is the question asked by the Dardenne Brothers in The son. Olivier Gourmet brilliantly portrays the father in the aforementioned scenario, Isabella Soupart his ex-wife, and Morgan Marinne the now 16 year old murderer. Olivier (actor and character share the same name) takes on Francis (Marinne) as an apprentice carpenter, fully aware that this child killed his own. The little dialogue present is efficient, utilitarian, and to the point, and it need not be any more than that. The cinematography - confined - does wonders in expressing Olivier's inner turmoil. Films such as Twentynine Palms and even the fairly laudable Son Frere could learn a thing or two from The Son - it is a slow, methodical French film with an actual depth of meaning. No cheap tricks. No tricks at all, for that matter.

Spirited Away
d. Hayao Miyazaki, 2001

Miyazaki's film (and I mean that ownership in the truest sense - the man wrote, directed, and helped animate the film) is flawed, but undeniably visionary. It plays like a series of vignettes rather than a cohesive whole, but the amount of invention and intelligence at the plate is remarkable. The schmaltz is thick at times - love conquers all sickness, pollution is bad, you can do anything if you just try - but this is to be expected in a film aimed at children. In the end, Miyazaki's creativy and dazzling visual invention overcomes any gripes I could come up with.

The Wild Bunch
d. Sam Peckinpah, 1969

I realize that this doesn't exactly gel with my positioning of The Wild Bunch on my 1969 list (#2, if you're too lazy to look yourself), but - damn - this film is overrated, buddy. Not that it isn't good - it is. Very good, actually. The way in which it deconstructs a genre (The Western) and demythologizes a time and place (The West during the late 1800's) is remarkable. You ever think that, due to the lack of running water and the omnipresence of dust, John Wayne, et al looked a little bit too clean? You ever think it was a bit strange how, when folks wanted to kill each other in the old Westerns, they thoughtfully measured out their paces and waited for the other guy to pull? The Wild Bunch snaps all of these artificial constructs back to reality, so Peckinpah succeeds on that level. There isn't a much more than that, though. The story is interesting enough, but, the aforementioned aside, it doesn't have much to say. Peckinpah could have done a lot more with the idea of progress and encroaching civilization. Instead he introduces modern mechanisms (cars, machine guns) only to use them as implements in his overwhelming desire to kill stuff. (Of course he is saying something about civilization by that, but he could have said so much more.) Like I said, very good, but no masterpiece. You want his masterpiece? Check out Straw Dogs.

Short Cuts: January '05

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Sat, 08 Jan 2005 09:55:00 +0000

The Dreamers
d. Bernardo Bertolucci, 2004

A set of twins: him looking like Jean-Pierre Leaud, her like Anna Karina. A young American boy arrives - blond hair, blue eyes, and an interminable appetite for film. Films are referenced (Breathless, Top Hate, Queen Christina, Band of Outsiders), a discussion about Chaplin v. Keaton ensues, and the plot - a troika of lust, love, and shame - echoes Jules et Jim and Les Enfants Terribles while taking place against the backdrop of Henri Langlois mandated exit from the Cinematheque Francaise. For the first twenty minutes I thought I was watching a bona fide personal Top 100 Film. So many references (with purpose) make a cinemaphile drool (and possibly convulse from time to time.) Rather, I was watching a film that - from the opening credits to the fantastic soundtrack - makes an admirable, but muddled attempt at conveying the atmosphere of late-60's France. Ideas such as communism, love, and peace are hinted at, but never fully mined. The NC-17 rating is used to full effect, but in an artistic manner that, if anything, is tasteful. Michael Pitt, as the American, is hardly convincing, and his monotone narration leaves much to be desired. But the visuals and the overall feeling of wandering youth lend a quality to the film that helps it to overcome (to some extent) the sullied thematic landscape.

Greendale
d. Neil Young, er...Bernard Shakey, 2004

Another one of those What To Make Of This? films. The first 20 minutes had me thinking: ok, a decent soundtrack, not Young & Crazy Horse's best, but good. But wait: the songs are the words of the film? Like a...rock opera? No no...this is like a pastiche of music videos. Oh ok. Pretty terrible acting though, huh? Yeah, this isn't very good a'tall. And then Young turns the thing into a political piece. And, by God, it works. Amazingly well, actually. Go to almost any era sans the current and Art almost always directly relates to Politics. Today (despite the growing number of political artists), that is the exception to the rule. And when art is political, it is also pretty bad. Usually. Young avoids the vitriol of Moore, et al by clinging to his hippy ideas of love and peace. He avoids the schmaltz by making the film so utterly banal. The events seem...real. But then the end: a big music number with Monsieur Young shown in several shots and lines akin to "the government sucks" volleyed upon mine ears. It breaks this beautifully fragile film right in two. In the place of a political piece of value we get a stand-in: a johnny-come-lately coterie member of Mr. Moore himself. Or, I don't know, Neil Young's heart isn't in that same place - his intentions seems pure, his filmic talent is just lacking. Rather than a coterie member, he can be the troubador.

Son Frere
d. Patrice Chereau, 2004

I cannot quite figure out why I like this one as much as I do. A "typical" (in the MTV-Diet sense of the word) foreign film - slow pacing, pensive dialogue, no explosions. The essence is that a man is dying. He deals with his sickness (some form of a blood disease causing a low-platelet count) as best he can on his own. Then he contacts his (estranged, it would seem) family, specifically his brother. It isn't a film so much about sickness, or homosexuality (the contacted brother is gay), but about the love lost - and found - between two brothers. Their love is pure, the type of love that allows physical contact without any hint at incestual homoeroticism. It's touching, really. Two lives begin together, and then they go their separate ways. They happen upon each other again, only to be ripped apart one last time. An old man says, "The weather will be better tomorrow. Even if it's fine today, it will always be better tomorrow."

Spartan
d. David Mamet, 2004

Mmmm: a deeply satisfying, contemplative thriller from the increasingly important Mamet. His plays mine the themes of trust, power, and aging. Here, on film, Mamet tackles the aforementioned power, along with loyalty and dignity. Val Kilmer (surprisingly) is fantastic as our Spartan hero - an army of one. Both Kilmer and the film are Spartan in more ways than one - brutal, unflinching, and streamlined in form and manner. The supporting cast is whittled down (by bullets, naturally) as the narrative unspools. Left in the end is the core of the film: our Spartan hero - Kilmer - and a realization of the inverse relationship between power and honor.

Tent City
d. Rick Charnoski & Coan Nichols, 2004

More than just another skate vid, but not because of its pseudo-philosophizing re: the "energy" of skating. The Anti-Hero team forms a tight-knit unit; more like a brotherhood, really. They sleep, eat, and, most importantly, skate together. It transcends the usual skate vid genre because of a) the really keen 8mm photography b) the aforementioned brotherhood. The latter is quite refreshing - here we have a unity - a team - in place of the ubiquitous 'I' found in most sports these days. Damn refreshing, I say.

Twentynine Palms
d. Bruno Dumont, 2004

A man and a woman go to the desert near L.A. They sleep and then have sex. They have an argument and then have sex. They go swimming and then have sex. She gives him a blowjob, he throws her out, he beats the crap out of her, and they have sex. Then they go back out to the desert proper - some Deliverance extras beat the crap out of, and proceed to rape, the man (while derobing the woman.) Not to ruin the ending, but, after making it back to the hotel she nurses his wounds and he kills her. It would be great if there were something - anything - said of importance. Something worthwhile about gender roles, something beyond perversions to spit about the perversions of sex. A terrible, terrible film - one of the worst I've seen, ever.

Short Cuts: December '04

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Sat, 04 Dec 2004 09:02:00 +0000

Crimson Gold
d. Jafar Panahi, 2003

Much like Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring in that it transcends its culture to delve into the universal. Hussein is an overweight pizza delivery man/petty criminal with a heart of gold. Constantly battered about because of his weight and financial standing (which could be aptly described pictorially by a three-legged, nearly diaphanous mutt), Hussein rolls with the punches and, eventually, has enough. I could reduce it to the pithy "Triumph of the Spirit" line, but Crimson Gold is more than that. Hussein is man trapped by his country, his body, and his social standing. He does everything he can to break though, but without success. Heartbreaking and hilarious in the same way that Beckett is.

Fargo
d. Joel Coen, 1996

As much as I've liked Fargo, there's always been something missing. I don't know what exactly - possibly sympathy for the characters - but, on my...fifth viewing or so, it was there. It's there in Frances McDormand's car ride soliloquy. It's there in the whole film actually. The austere landscapes that seem to envelope the people are no longer suffocating, they're more like familiar blanket. The accents, while garish, aren't poking fun at the Yoopers, just endearingly replicating their oral gait. The point is: no longer do I see this as just another great Coen Bros. film, but now I see it, alongside The Man Who Wasn't There, as their masterpiece.

Rififi
d. Jules Dassin, 1955

A good film with a very good heist sequence that has been (unfortunately for itself) diminished in the wake of the superior sequence in Melville's Le Cercle Rouge. The directing is good. The cinematography is good. The acting is good. The story is good. None of it is great. Add to this mixture of 'good' a dollop of 'great praise' and a smattering of 'slow spells' and you got yourself the much reviled Overpraised Pie. I'm glad I saw it (and, dammit, everyone should) but my final verdict is thus: meh.

Straw Dogs
d. Sam Peckinpah, 1971

Not a meditation on violence, as was The Wild Bunch (and as some of the misguided believe.) No no, Straw Dogs is much worse. Probably the most uncomfortable film for me to watch, as I recognize myself so terribly in it. David Sumner (Dustin Hoffman, in a role not entirely unlike his turn as Willy Loman) is the pathetic everyman: timorous, pithy, spiteful, and full of untimely gallantry. The editing is deftly creative, guiding the viewer along, walking the fine line between astute and obvious. Peckinpah's finest hour, and one of the finer hours in the whole of film.

Short Cuts: November '04

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Sun, 07 Nov 2004 06:01:00 +0000

Gimmer Shelter
d. Maysles/Maysles/Zwerin, 1970

There is a clear delineation in Gimme Shelter, dividing the film in half. The first half is The Mick Jagger Show (starring Mick Jagger!) The second half of the Maysles bros. documentary is less concerned with the Rolling Stones (or Mick Jagger, for that matter) and more concerned with what happened at the Altamont. Seeing the events post-mortem, and for the first time, I am struck by the fact that the violence was entirely unexpected. Clearly, today’s “defend first, ask questions later” mentality was not applicable in the 60’s. The question should be asked: was this the end of the 60’s or just an inevitable culmination of events? My guess would be the latter. Regardless, the Maysles Bros. captured it, and in strong form at that.

Pi
d. Darren Aronofsky, 1998

When I was 18 I loved this movie. It was in my top 20 all time. What was I thinking? I still like it, but top 20? Come on. This was probably my 6th viewing of the film (give or take a pop) and first in the last 2 years.

What's changed? Well:

1. The math is still as sexy as ever. That's for sure.

2. The acting has dropped a notch or three: Gullette is adequate most of the time, very good every once in awhile, and godawful on a few occasions. The supporting cast leaves much to be desired.

3. The intricate plot, with twists and turns abounding, is hardly as impressive as it once was. The writing, instead of being clever, now seems like it's trying to abstract it's inadequacy with a convoluted storyline.

4. The overly pyschological, impossibly cryptic, and ultimately sophomoric symbolism is now seen for what is.

All that said: the film is still laudable for Matthew Libatique's inventive cinematography, the really really sweet math, and, as much as I hate to admit it (especially following my #3 crit up there), the story is actually kinda clever.

Long Day's Journey Into Night
d. Sidney Lumet, 1962

Spanning three hours, Sidney Lumet's film version of Long Day's Journey Into Night holds remarkably true to the original play. For Lumet to leave the script so intact, he must have either loved the play dearly or had little imagination. His track record (Network, Dog Day Afternoon, 12 Angry Men, etc.) implies that it is probably the former. Why make a film version then? While there are some great cinematic flourishes, specific lighting to show isolation, crane pulls to show descent into madness, and several fine ECUs, the film seems more like one of Bergman's chamber plays; something that could be replicated fairly easily on the stage. I imagine that Lumet loved the play so dearly that he wanted more people to be aware of it.

Lumet captures the despondent remains of the Tyrone family in all their horrific glory. O'Neill wrote the play as a cathartic autobiographical endeavor. He gave it to his wife as an anniversary present, and she published it only after he had died. Like the play, the film reeks of alcoholism, familial distrust, and pierced, deflated egos. James Tyrone is a broken man, hobbling on metaphorical crutches while struggling to maintain a semblance of honor. His sons, James and Edmund, are both alcoholics (like their father) and Edmund is showing early signs of consumption. Mary Tyrone, wife and mother, is a morphine addict, possessed with nostalgia for her past and a loathing for her present.

Much has been made of Katherine Hepburn's performance - and I can see elements of greatness in it - but it's slightly over the top. This may be a flaw in either O'Neill's writing or Hepburn's reading. Regardless, whether the acting or writing is the culprit, Mary Tyrone has little nuance. She plays constantly the neurotic, without the variance that made Gena Rowlands, playing a similar character, so great in A Woman Under the Influence. Every moment is shadowed by the thought that Mary might snap. It makes for a hell of a closing scene, but tires for most of the second third.

Short Cuts: October '04

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Sat, 02 Oct 2004 06:43:00 +0000

American Buffalo
d. Michael Corrente

A heist is planned, replanned, and never gets out of that whole planning stage. Dennis Franz and Dustin Hoffman really pull this one through though. Both play relatively atypical characters (although less so for Franz), and play them extremely well. Hoffman is a kind of neurotic know-it-all that we can never trust, and Franz is rather insecure store-owner cum heist-maven. The thing is: nothing happens. The plot is most definitely the broken appendage of the film, but David Mamet's dialogue is a handy crutch. He explores the ideas of truth, trust, and relationships, coming to the 20th century realization that all are corrupt and we can do nothing about that. Not a great film, but not bad by a long stretch.

Dead Man Walking
d. Tim Robbins, 1995

More than I expected, less than it could have been. A personal (and, I'd venture to say, a communal) phenomenon is hype. Specifically: hype re: the "great" films of the early to mid 90's. Everyone (literally) (just kidding, not literally) tells me that The Usual Suspects, Dances with Wolves, or some such film is the end all to be all of cinema. I watch and am, with few exceptions (Schindler's List being the film coming to mind), entirely underwhelmed. Dead Man Walking is kind of a line walker in that regard. Penn and Sarandon give two grand performances as a murder/rapist and nun (obviously respectively) and Robbins is a competent director. The film engenders all kinds of discussion w/r/t the death penalty, religion, faith, culpability, and other great heady little 2nd-year philosophy items. Sadly, D.M.W. supplies these ideas in a cudgel-like manner; rather then being subtle or worthy of analysis. Worth the rental if only to view the phenomena first hand. (Umm, for what it's worth - I gave it 3 stars at Netflix.

Mon Oncle
d. Jacques Tati, 1958

Mon Oncle came out, obviously, between 1953's M. Hulot's Holiday and 1967's Playtime. Not quite as cheery as the former, not quite as cynical as the latter, Mon Oncle falls somewhere betwixt the two in both mood and theme. The protagonist, Monsieur Hulot, is existing in a dichotomous society; one where the East side of the road houses a quaint country village and the West side is a haven for the upper echelon of high society, replete with the Latest and Greatest marvels of technology. Hulot has the rare position of fitting in only with the villagers, but, at the same time, being required to hob-nob with High Society. As can, and should, be expected - hilarity ensues. Tati worked in set-pieces - he would carefully set up layer upon layer of jokes and then continually wrap back on each joke until absolute bedlam occured. The coup de grace set-piece of Mon Oncle is a luncheon party in which technology is admired and the intrinsic idiosyncracies of humanity are exploited. The absolute high point of this scene, and the encapsulating scene of the movie, is when the party eventually sits down to eat and has nothing to talk about. For 30 seconds we see them sit there, silent, murmuring about the current fiscal figures at work. And therein lies the rub: money can buy an unlimited amount of stuff, but cannot buy human interaction. Juxtaposed with Hulot's village, where music is played, birds sing, and the denizens converse, it seems like an extremely empty existence.

Scarlet Street
d. Fritz Lang, 1945

Edward G. Robinson plays a pathetic man beaten by both his wife and life - strongly against his type. At several points in the film he even wears a floral print apron. Added to this, he is a very talented artist. A mix-up ensues. (Not the funny type, more the tragic, Oedipal type. Not the complex y'all; the play.) A woman and her beau assume Robinson to be a famous artist, whom they can swindle big bucks out of. (Remember: I said he was talented, not famous.) The plot twists and turns, but Lang is a great director - the story avoids tripping over itself and never veers into the camp that Noir often does. (Did I mention this is a Noir? No? OK - it's a Noir.) As you can imagine, most everyone dies or terminates at a royally ruined point. A real upper. Bottom line: a really entertaining flick that should be seen more often.

Short Cuts: September '04

noreply@blogger.com (Michael K.) — Mon, 13 Sep 2004 21:58:00 +0000

Billy Madison
d. Tamra Davis, 1995

Can anyone think of a movie more asinine than Billy Madison? Lord knows, I cannot. From the ludicrous love story to the penguin (!) it makes absolutely no sense. But therein lay its wonder and merriment: not once does it try to make sense. If it allowed a single moment of believability or logic, the whole film would falter. Instead, we are given moment after moment, line after line, of surreal idiocy. And when the musical number kicks in, gosh, it gets me every time.

Days of Heaven
d. Terrence Malick, 1978

Looking at the visuals in Days of Heaven, I am most reminded of the Baja Californian vistas painted (with words) by Cormac McCarthy in his Border Trilogy and, even moreso, Blood Meridian. Malick's film does not possess the unmitigated violence that McCarthy favors, but is equally enamored with the pensive studies of agrarian landscapes that McCarthy finds so compelling. Malick's camera (via Nestor Almendros and Haskell Wexler) portrays people lost in sun, swallowed by their surroundings, and alone in the distance. Not since King Vidor's The Crowd has isolation looked so yummy. The story is narrated by Linda Manz, playing a naive child who somehow is omniscient. Even though her lack of understanding is apparent, one cannot help but agree when she says we are all half devil and half angel. From the mouth of babes...

Five Easy Pieces
d. Bob Rafelson, 1970

I fully intended to write a large-scale review of this film, but failed due my inability to remember the plot and characters as well as I would like. Naturally, a full review should be up in a couple months, or as soon as I see it again. What I do remember is this: a really great film about a man (and all men, really) trying to find out where they fit in life. And then, after finding where they fit, not liking it and trying to escape the environ. Jack Nicholson plays the protagonist, (for the life of me, I cannot remember his name and am too proud to check out imdb) a figurative ping-pong ball, vacillating between the upper class dreck and lower class ignorant. Needless to say, he isn’t terribly happy. As I said, full review pending.

Flesh for Frankenstein
d. Paul Morrissey, 1973

A satire’s worst enemy is often itself. There are two major pits to fall into:
1. Over-parody.
2. Taking itself too seriously.
It is the second pit that Flesh for Frankenstein falls into. Paul Morrissey, writer and director, attempts too much. Baron Frankenstein has a thick German accent (natural, it should be noted) and he talks of constructing the perfect man. Hmm…sound like someone you have heard of (coughHitlercough)? Almost every character displays signs of impulsive and destructive sexual tendencies. The overwhelming amount of gore can only be effacingly copying the horror genre. And, finally, the characters speak in horror clichés. (Although, one great line should be noted, “To know death, Otto, you have to fuck life in the gallbladder.”) So Morrissey is saying that sex is destroying our society, the horror genre is silly, and, well, I know the Nazis fit into it somehow. Right. I cannot quibble with his message, but the messenger is too convoluted, and too full of itself, to convey Morrissey’s points effectively.

Freaks
d. Tod Browning, 1932

Caused quite a stir in 1932 by using actual circus freaks for the title's namesake. Mostly an exercise in film history, Freaks still has some shock power. It is unclear whether Browning was making a compassion piece or an exploitation flick. The Freaks are, well, called freaks to begin with and they end up turning into murderous monsters. At the same time, the whole premise ("normal" folks swindling dwarfed "freak" out of his inheritance) alludes to the mistreatment of the "freaks" in society. For my money, all of the characters are freaks; not because of their outward appearances, but because of their inward ugliness. Most every character, barring an angelic few, are selfish, conniving, and cruel. Whatever the case, the Wedding Feast scene, in which the dwarf realizes what is going on, is one of the more powerful attempts at showing the human grotesque I have seen.

The Great Dictator
d. Charles Chaplin, 1940

Once I got over the novelty of hearing Chaplin's voice ("Dude, he sounds like Austin Powers!"), I found this film to be a mix of mediocrity and greatness. Essentially, it's a parody of the Nazi regime before people realized the extent of the horror Hitler inflicted. Chaplin plays two characters - the Hitler prototype, Hynkel, and a Jewish barber living in the ghetto. As roughly as the ghetto dwellers are treated, it is a far cry from the monstrosity that we now know it to have been. Remember though, this is a Chaplin movie, ergo a comedy. There are some great gags (Hynkel's speech, his dance with the world, the ghetto blindfight shenanigans), but it mostly seems that Chaplin is a fish out of water. In scenes that seem right out of one of his silent films, Chaplin, instead of adding music or something to fill the scene out a bit, keeps it silent. He relies solely on sound effects rather than fleshing out the scene with effects, dialogue, and music. Succinctly: it doesn't seem like he completely understands the talkies yet. Even with all of its flaws it is still a superb example of political satire. Admirably, Chaplin reigns in the satire and ends the film with a brilliantly written speech that managed to move even this stoic critic. So: moments of greatness, but not as good as Chaplin can be.

Pickup on South Street
d. Samuel Fuller, 1953

The Reds. A con working both teams. High contrast black & white. Who doesn't love the American Cinema of the early 1950's? Lord knows, I do. But as much as I love it, I will be the first to admit that it can easily, too easily, fall into that deplorable pit known as Cheesy. Working on a B-budget, it seems remarkable that Samuel Fuller did not fall into that pit in 1953 while making Pickup on South Street. All the elements are there: the aforementioned Commies, the tough criminal turned lover, and the inept, but well-intentioned, police force. Instead of getting bogged down in the muck and mire, Fuller weaves the plot around themes of patriotism (true patriotism, that is), retribution, and redemption. Most alarming: who is the protagonist? Not the tough-guy pick-pocket, definitely not the ditzy squeeze, can't be the cops (never the cops. gosh no, not the cops.)Fuller gives us an ensemble, allowing us to choose who we root for, and, most of all, telling us that it is OK if we decide not to root for anyone. Unheard of in 1953, possibly heard even less in 2004.

The Third Man
d. Carol Reed, 1949

Orson Welles is in this pic for a rather generous total of 30 minutes. And he steals the show. I, for one, cannot keep my eyes off of the guy. He nearly threatens to steal the show even from Carol Reed. But he fails. Combining a fantastic setting – a crumbling Vienna post WWII – and the canted angles and larger-than-life shadows of German Expressionism, Reed creates a true work of art out of what seems to be merely a thriller/mystery libretto. A rather ironic zither score underlines the decay and chaos of pretty much everything. It seems to say that these characters completely understand the game they’re playing, and what fate they’ll meet, but everything around them is in such shambles that it hardly matters.

The Usual Suspects
d. Bryan Singer, 1995

Pardon me for being entirely underwhelmed by this one. Everyone I know (admittedly, only a few cinemaphiles) recommended The Usual Suspects with highest aplomb. I was guaranteed to like it, they assured. Fun and all that it was, but hardly the greatness I expected. As everyone knows by now, there is a twist. I had managed for 9 years to keep myself in the dark regarding said twist, only to figure it out in first 20 minutes or so. That said, it was not a waste of my time. It kept me entertained for 106 minutes, so it cannot be all that bad. One thing is getting me though: how on God's green earth did Kevin Spacey win best supporting actor for his hack job on this one?