30 August 2009

Vespers

Batman Begins

(2005)
Ah, yes, OK, this more in tune with morality we're comfortable with: vengeance in constant tension with compassion. Holds up nice-and-darkly on repeated viewings, though there's no denying the upgrade in the sequel in Rachel (Maggie Gyllenhaal rather than Katie Holmes) and in villain (from an unfocused several to Heath Ledger).

Unexpected poignant moment: when Liam Neeson's character (call him Ducard or Ra's al Ghul) speaks of his familiarity with personal loss, specifically, in a wife cruelly taken away.

[sic]

Inglourious Basterds

Crit
Having had my expectations lowered by lukewarm-at-best reviews, I thought at the start that the most interesting thing about the film was going to be the music: "Green Leaves of Summer" (theme song from the 1960 The Alamo) segueing into Beethoven and then into spaghetti-western Ennio Morricone. But in fact, while the musical pastiche remains intriguing (Bowie shows up later, with the theme song [and best element] from the 1982 Cat People, with no firmer connection than the inflammability of the song's gasoline and the present film's silver nitrate film stock), I found the film itself a lot more worthwhile than I'd been led to expect, and a lot more satisfying Jews-with-a-vengeance pic than Defiance. It's a counterfactual history comic book, and understood on those terms, it's pretty darned good.

Trailers

29 August 2009

The Newport story

High Society

(1956)
A few weeks ago I'd intended to unfairly subject this to viewing right after the nearly perfect nonmusical (well, mostly) original, but I accidentally erased it from my DVR a few minutes in. Tonight I unfairly subjected it to viewing a night after a nearly perfect musical. Still, I think it's fair to say that this is just disastrously awful.

I watched it nearly a quarter of a century ago and remembered it as awful--and I remembered Cole Porter's songs as mostly undistinguished, except for the big love song, "True Love," which is execrable (that it was a hit in a version by Pat Boone should tell you all you need to know)--and my recollection is generally accurate, but I didn't retain a sharp sense of how completely this version drains almost all the wit from The Philadelphia Story, even while keeping a large share of the dialogue. It is astonishing that anyone who thought it was a good idea to remake the film with three other stars could have failed so completely to notice what made the original great.

Let's take just two examples: for the flirtation between Tracy and Mike to be convincing, and to represent even a long-shot possibility of providing the romantic denouement, there has to be an inciting incident of mutual respect--she of him because she discovers his writing talent, he of her for essentially the same reason--followed by a slow buildup of mutual attraction whose inhibitions fall away under the influence of champagne, first at the party and then crucially at poolside. Here they're at loggerheads until suddenly he's singing a love song to her. So why should we care about (or understand) such an obviously superficial attraction? (Incidentally, Mike doesn't volunteer to fall on the matrimonial sword to bail Tracy out of her tight fix in this version.)

Then there's C. K. Dexter Haven. Aside from Bing Crosby's being a sad substitute for Cary Grant, this Haven is not an alcoholic; no, the weakness that led him to be dismissed by Tracy is . . . he writes pop songs. No, seriously, that's it: he could have been a symphonic composer, but he chose to write pop songs, so she dumped him. Now, that's lame enough, but think of the original: one of the beauties of it is that Tracy falls prey to the very weakness for which she has shunned her true love. But here, everyone's having champagne, including Dex (granted, in moderation), so the weakness she exhibits has nothing to do with the arguable one she has attributed to him. It's parallel lost.

I could go on and on and on, but why? A dreadful mistake of a film.

Guess I'll set a course and row

Taking Woodstock

Crit

OK, first things first: can somebody tell me who plays the male half of the couple in the hippie van who give Elliot acid? It's an extremely familiar face, which I was that close to figuring out, but before I got there, I tripped and fell, as it were. Young, callow boy--I'm thinking he played a really engaging but devious and maybe ultimately evil character in something, but what? Credits are no help, but I think it must be "Hippie Guy," credited via the obvious pseudonym Spadaque Volcimus, whose only other credit is in the upcoming Misunderstood--oh, unless that's the guy trying to score tickets early. Anyway, can anyone help? Oh! Duh! Was looking too far down in the credits: Paul Dano, of course! (See how honest I am? I'm leaving in my dumb frustration even having overcome it!)

Now to the "did I like it?" part that I've been scolded recently for omitting: yeah, but not as much as I expect to like an Ang Lee flick. He seems a little unsure where he wants to take the pic, which is at heart a coming-out and coming-loose-from-repressive-family story. I don't have any problem with not hearing more of the festival's music; what I object to is that the festival essentially functions as a distraction from Elliot's: the familiar images (and the familiar camera tricks from Woodstock, which when in hell is Netflix gonna send it to me?) and so many winks (all the talk about tickets to the famously accidentally free event, Max Yasgur's insistence that his fields be cleaned up afterward ["Of course!"], "It's August! It's not gonna rain!" and so on) welcome us into a certain mindset that we really don't to want to be in if we're supposed to be paying attention to one young man's story.

Still, a good look and fine performances by everyone, particularly Demetri Martin as Elliot, Henry Goodman as his beleaguered father, and Liev Schreiber as Vilma, just Vilma.

Trailer

  • Der Baader Meinhof Komplex--Not sure why the trailer was a red-band: no naughty words heard, no naughty bits seen. Anyway, I'm in, if it really comes here.

28 August 2009

What a glorious feeling

Singin' in the Rain

(1952)
Could there be anything better to watch on a rainy night? I think I need to upgrade to the two-disc special edition, don't you? Next year, that is, when I have a fresh year's quota.

Shameful confession: I didn't used to think Cyd Charisse's dance was all that hot.

23 August 2009

Urge to merge

Silk Stockings

(1957)
Ninotchka may stack the deck in favor of the capitalistic West, but at least in 1939 it could allow some honor to a system with which the West still had a jumbled relationship. By 1957, it's impossible for any credit to be extended to the Cold War enemy--instead of crown jewels whose purchase price was the blood of the workers, the bone of contention here is a Russian composer yearning to breathe free, and Comrade Nina is not allowed to win a single doctrinal point. (Moreover, the romantic lead--granted, here, a far more romantic Fred Astaire--is here not a morally questionable quasi-gigolo but merely a morally questionable movie producer.) At the 90-minute mark, Ninotchka stands on nationalistic principle, and the principle is at least arguably legitimate, but when love later conquers all, the principle isn't even given a pro forma nod.

But hey, it's a Cole Porter musical and a dance flick, and it stands up nicely. Cyd Charisse as Ninotchka actually outshines the nearly-sixty-year-old Astaire, and the most notable dance is her ballet solo to the title instrumental: where Garbo merely spirited away a hideous hat, Charisse locks her door and draws the shade to don an entire Parisian wardrobe, from titular footwear up, in one of the first filmic female masturbatory fantasies I know of.

(365/524) days/recipes of Meryl


(500) Days of Summer

Crit
OK, I'm feeling unusually effusive about this film, but much of the effusion will of necessity be in the form of spoilers, so let me just say up front that it's a terrific film that I highly recommend. Now I'll hide much of the rest of this in invisible ink and warn that if you're planning to see it and don't want to know too much, keep your mouse away from the blank spaces. If you want the whole thing, drag your mouse over the holes.

But let's face it: that parenthetical 500 in the title is a bit of a spoiler itself, isn't it? A finite number, bracketed with a defined beginning and end? If you're paying attention, you know going in that this is going to be a sad-bastard romantic comedy.

The number in the title makes possible a very skillfully exploited narrative gimmick, a sort of game clock that appears on the screen at various intervals, clicking through the numbers, leaping far forward or backward--or, sometimes, incrementing only a bit: always orienting you specifically in the narrative, unlike some chronologically jumbled stories that pointedly want you to be disoriented from time to time. The obvious narrative touchstone (without the gimmick) is Annie Hall, the all-time greatest sad-bastard romcom, and in fact this can be viewed as an Annie Hall for Gen Y (or whatever generation today's 20-somethings are). It even has a pair of scenes analogous to the lobster wranglings, except here it's faucets at Ikea, and the critically different reactions are by the same woman.

Another explicit source is The Graduate--the filmmakers may be a little too self-satisfied about recognizing that the classic final sequence of that film is often carelessly misread, but that misreading is nonetheless crucial to this one, and other allusions are nicely done.

In short, there's nothing brand-new here, but the echoes are fresh, the characters (erstwhile indie angels Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel) are people we care about, and the jumbled narrative is handled with panache. Moreover, Geoffrey Arend is a twenty-first-century Oscar Levant (complete with musicianship, of a sort) as the best friend--and, oh, yeah, my new musical crush Regina Spektor has two songs on the soundtrack, including the opening-credits track.

So if the final scene suggests the happy ending of Alvy Singer's first play rather than the deliciously bittersweet conclusion of Annie Hall, well, cut director Marc Webb and writers Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber some slack: hey, it's their first feature.


Julie & Julia

Crit
OK, there's no denying a certain number of sweet-and-sour Nora items on the prix fixe here, but good lord, with a main course like Streep, and with side dishes like Amy Adams, Stanley Tucci, and Chris Messina (you'll remember him as Claire's conservative boyfriend in Six Feet Under) , who's going to send anything back? If you can resist it, you have a more disciplined palate than I, my friend.
The weekend's trailers

22 August 2009

Just so

Adam

Crit
OK, I'd long wondered whether I might be a little bit Asperger's myself, but this clears it up: Adam has multiple boxes of Kellogg's (spelled "Kellogs" in the end-credits thank-you's, incidentally) All-Bran lined up in his pantry, and he eats it every day for breakfast. I, on the other hand, buy many different varieties of breakfast cereal, classifying them only according to types--crumblies (your granola, your Smart Start, your Honey Bunches of Oats; Monday and Thursday), small bites (your Life, your Honey-Nut Cheerios; Tuesday and Friday), and big bits (Frosted Mini Wheats, Shredded Oats; Wednesday and Saturday), rotating different specifics into the lineup as the boxes empty. Sunday is muffin (or scone, or donut) day. So I guess I don't need to worry.

21 August 2009

"I should hate to see our country endangered by my underwear"

Ninotchka

(1939)
OK, this is not a perfect film: for one thing, that hat is seriously horrible--what were they thinking? And Melvyn Douglas? C'mon--couldn't they get William Powell? Or maybe Fred Astaire? (Oh, wait--maybe we'll see that later in the weekend.) And the "Garbo laughs" scene--it starts well, but couldn't they do better than a slapstick conclusion? Sorry: not persuasive.

On the other hand, Garbo herself is perfect, or nearly so, and the script is wonderful, if not perfect. And the very fact that neither capitalism nor communism gets an edge has to make it unique among American films from the movies' best year. An arguably great film, and an unarguably very good one.

Garbanzo mates

Cold Souls

Crit

A near-great film--they really needed Charlie Kaufman to write the screenplay to reach great. Still, thought-provoking and original--who the hell is this Sophie Barthes, anyway?

16 August 2009

Restack the pillows

Lovely & Amazing

(2002)
A lovely and amazing film by Nicole Holofcener, and what the hell has she done lately? (Friends with Money and some TV, including a couple of episodes of Six Feet Under, though she does have something called Please Give, starring Catherine Keener [duh! that's 4 for 4 in Holofcener's features], in the can.)

First I'd ever seen of Jake Gyllenhaal, most I'd ever seen of Emily Mortimer.

Prawn like me

District 9

Crit
Reminiscent of 28 Days Later in that it takes a familiar genre and deconstructs it, subverting many of the expectations associated with the genre. Outer space aliens arrive--parking the mother ship over Johannesburg, which should have been an early indication of disorientation--and instead of threatening life on Earth, they become victims of same.

Clichés of redemption, heroism, and escape are all floated, but each time the rug is pulled out from under the cliché, en route to a satisfyingly unsettling conclusion. Only unfortunate element is the nod to Transformers near the end. And then of course there's the question whether the aliens were just arriving early for World Cup 2010.

Gake no ue no Ponyo (Ponyo)

Crit
Boy meets fish, boy loses fish, fish turns into girl, boy gets girl, kinda like Splash, only with delightful Japanese cartoon logic and an absolutely gorgeous look that has nothing to do with the hint of Daryl Hannah naked. If Yellow Submarine is insufficiently trippy for your small child, give this a look.
Trailers
Interesting: all creepout-flick trailers before District 9, all Disney stuff before Ponyo.

14 August 2009

Best severance pay in the business

Broadcast News

(1987)
I was a little worried that this would start to grow Big Chill stale, but perhaps in part because of the timeliness of imploding news organizations, it continued to work for me. Some scenes--the last-minute tape delivery, the flopsweatted anchoring, the reading-and-singing-at-the-same-time--seem impervious to staleness.

Shag the dog

In the Loop

Crit

A brilliantly written, beautifully acted (particular credit to James Gandolfini and Mimi Kennedy) Iraq war riff on Wag the Dog, except that while that is a fake war for a real reason, this is a real war for a fake reason.

09 August 2009

With diamonds

Yellow Submarine

(1968)
As the Onion put it, the film "introduce[d] children to magical world of LSD hallucinations," and so I showed it to my 3-year-old granddaughter, who loved it. And who would not?

07 August 2009

Blame it on the pin

Otac na sluzbenom putu (When Father was away on business)

(1985)
A worthy companion piece to Ano em Que Meus Pais Saíram de Férias and La Faute à Fidel! and Le souffle au coeur: kids and communism (and sex), this time in Stalinist Yugoslavia, waiting for Tito to declare independence.

Seas incarnadine

The Cove

Crit

I tried to get the author of a book I edited recently to tone down a parallel between the Holocaust and the ongoing slaughter of elephants in Africa. I tried because I know that many readers, perhaps most, will be outraged to the point of rejecting everything the book has to offer if the author clings to a stance that the worst thing humans can do to nonhuman animals has even the remotest equivalency with the worst thing humans have done to other humans.

So I tried to get her to tone it down a bit--tried but mostly failed. And now I'm kinda glad I failed (and also glad that scarcely anyone reads this, so I won't have to fend off angry commentary), because if the bloodfest I just saw--not Hollywood blood but dolphin blood, the footage captured with hidden high-def cameras planted by genuine guerrilla filmmakers--if that had nothing to do with holocaust, then we might as well abandon all pretense to being the planet's most evolved species, or even its smartest. If lancing a corralled dolphin until it spouts red and sinks, then lancing another, and another, and another, until the massacre of trapped animals is complete--if that doesn't merit the most profound censure we can summon, if the savagery that motivates it isn't the equal of that that motivated the sickest SS commandant, then point the way to the Lower Species Consulate, because I'd like to petition for a change in citizenship.

And this will be sort of a hot-button anticlimax, I suppose, but the part of the film that isn't holocaust is slave trade: the dolphins that are killed for food (mercury-rich food, incidentally, much of it falsely labeled as having come from whales) are the ones that aren't handsome enough to attract buyers for all the Sea World clones around the world. These are essentially aquatic circuses, and like terrestrial circuses, they treat their animals like the cash cows they are. The difference between intentional cruelty and good intentions is the difference between the sadistic overseer and the benign slaveowner. And I've come to believe that zoos are only marginally better.

OK, that's my annual quota of preachiness, and then some. I'll just leave you with a link to the Oceanic Preservation Society's website.

Trailers

02 August 2009

Bad trip

Rich and Strange

(1931)
Yes and yes: an odd and mostly delightful hybrid. Bored schlemiel Fred (Henry Kendall) and his uncomplaining wife Em (the luminous Joan Barry) voyage to the Far East after his uncle gives him an advance on his inheritance. In a comedy wrapped around a near tragedy, their marriage sinks with the rise in their fortunes; as their fortunes go south, and they move from luxury liner to tramp steamer to pirate junk, they remember love. An early Hitchcock talkie, and some of the best bits are silent-style comic visuals in the first couple of reels.

Create some more blackness

Soul Power

Crit

The makers of this documentary--a sort of musical companion to When We Were Kings, about the festival organized to coincide with the Rumble in the Jungle but actually held six weeks earlier, when George Foreman suffered a cut that delayed the fight--clearly consider James Brown the star, as did the concert organizers, but with all due respect to the GFOS, some of the best bits occur off the stage.

A common theme among those involved in both the concert and the fight is the opportunity for African Americans (and Afro-Caribbeans) to return to their homeland and mix and match with the culture and musical styles of black people not hijacked and hybrided 400 years ago, and several clips show the professional musicians' fascination with the street music of Kinshasa. Brown and Don King discuss the need for black economic independence: "You can't be liberated broke," Brown summarizes. Ali tells of his amazement to find cities and not just forbidding jungle in Zaire--and of having been flown there from Paris by an African pilot and crew. He looks on unsmiling from the ring as one of the Spinners--Billy Henderson, I think--profanes the tools of Ali's trade, light and heavy bags, before climbing into the ring to spar. The once-and-future-champ baits overmatched white sportswriters about racism, something he always delighted in. Well, hell--let's just say every moment with Ali onscreen is as good as any musical moment

And the musical moments are damned good, especially Miriam Makeba, a percussion group called Big Black (not to be confused with the '80s group), and a tiger-impersonating dance troupe whose name I can't find either on IMDb or the film's official site.

01 August 2009

To behave herself[,] naturally

The Philadelphia Story

(1940)
This has been, at one time in my life, my favorite movie of all time, and it may still be my favorite screenplay. Except for the sort of squirmy father-daughter relationship, it couldn't get much closer to perfect. According to an academic friend of mine, C. K. Dexter Haven was a minor character in the stage play, which tells me that the film is better than the play, given that Haven gets many of the best lines onscreen.

I intended to watch High Society tonight as well, but after 15 minutes or so I accidentally deleted it from my DVR while flipping between it and the Mets game (Ángel!) , so even though I saw it a quarter of a century or so ago, I can't authoritatively say that it's a pale turd in comparison. But the first 15 Sinatra-less minutes are pretty lame--not nearly as good as a Mets' victory on an 8th-inning grand slam, e.g.

I killed

Funny People

Crit
More interesting than good, but pretty good. Another brave performance by Adam Sandler, convincing as someone so self-centered that he has everything in his life except people who care. As the reviews have suggested, this continues along the road Judd Apatow has been driving toward serious engagement of questions like "What is a man, and how does one become that mysterious thing?"

In fact, trailer yuks notwithstanding, and funny moments acknowledged, this really isn't a comedy at all. Some of the biggest laughs are provided by Marshall Mathers and some peanut butter-loving dogs; what does that tell you?

Trailers