And an island never cries

Trolljegeren (Trollhunter)

(2010)

Saturday morning tweak. Why no Friday night deaccesssion? Well, look, I didn't want to watch this last night--I wanted to watch it, of course, but Netflix inaccessibility screwed me midweek when I wanted to adjust my queue to get my next Big Love disc. And let me ask people who still use Netflix for disc rental: do they seem to be dragging their feet on turnarounds of late? I used to routinely get a new disc on day 2 after mailing the old one; now it's always day 3. I know they want to encourage the move to streaming--and I'd gladly go that way if everything I want were available--but would they really do it so hamhandedly?

A Norwegian entry in the low-budget faux-documentary tradition of The Blair Witch Project, cynical college filmmakers get in way over their heads--literally, in this case. Silly but delightful, and major props for having the gumption to show us a lot of trolls, and a wide variety.

Ratiocination

Cosmopolis

Crit

Saturday morning tweak--do I really have to start balancing a notepad and pen on my knee in the dark? It's just one sentence, but it's a sentence I like.

Don't get into that limo--that guy is a vampire!!!!

OK, yeah, I know: it's really just Robert Pattinson playing a completely unrelated role . . . though it is true that he's a pale, light-averse bloodsucker. This is based on a Don DeLillo novel of which I read only the excerpt that appeared in the New Yorker, but the combination of DeLillo and Cronenberg may explain how it can be a comedy while looking nothing like a comedy and having almost nothing to do with comedy. It's Waiting for Godot for the Occupy age. It's a comedy punctuated with sex and violence (including a signature Cronenbergian microsecond image) and the longest prostate palpation in the history of cinema and (I hope) the world.

"But did you like it?" you want to know. Yeah, I'd kinda like to know that myself.

The nest egg

Lost in America

(1985)

I should make a list of films that didn't really do it for me first time, then later joined the pantheon of my favorites: this, Bull Durham, The Gay Divorcee . . . those are the ones that come to mind immediately, but there must be others.

I was considering Broadcast News tonight but went with this because I didn't really have time for the other's 2-hour-plus running time . . . and didn't even think of the Albert Brooks connection until the film was almost over . . . and then flashed back to having made the same choice, also without considering the cast coincidence, the previous time I screened this.

Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters

Almost Famous

(2000)

Lots of people liked this better than I did when it was released, but the only other opinion I cared about was my daughter's: I thought I owed her another screening of a movie she loves.

And maybe now I owe her another, because I still didn't really connect with it, but it's also true that I was about as distracted as I've been in recent memory while watching a film.

This I'll say: I get intellectually, if not emotionally, why many love it, and I'll readily concede that the near-universal misperception that Kate Hudson was destined to become someone we'd long be thrilled to see on the screen is entirely understandable. But at bottom, I still find nothing surprising here, nothing that makes me see any of these familiar tropes in a new way. Sorry.

What reasons do you need?

Bowling for Columbine

(2002)

After the incident by the Empire State Building today, this seemed the logical choice among the films that had been sitting on my hard drive for more than 2 years, and an excellent choice it was, an even better film than I remembered--and, by Michael Moorean standards, not grotesquely unfair. Even the interview with Charlton Heston, which I remembered as being a cruel fish-in-a-barrel shoot of a senile old man, this time seemed at worst a borderline legitimate low blow. Also: I gotta get that Joey Ramone "What a Wonderful World."

A stately pleasure dome

The Queen of Versailles

Crit

Who'd'a thunk that a woman who, despite having brains enough to get an engineering degree, would opt to become a beauty queen and a serial trophy wife, packing on several pounds of pectoral silicone and landing with the man in the process of building the biggest timeshare empire in the world, helping him plan a 90,000-square foot palace, could come off as such a sympathetic figure? Not so her husband, who pretty much deserves everything bad that happens to him, and doesn't deserve her loyalty to him.

A film about money and credit and collapse and indomitability and refusal to accept reality and . . . dog shit, a surprising, appalling quantity of dog shit.

A baaad mother--

Shaft

(1971)

Forty-one years ago I was a little too young and way too white to see this, and it's just as well. An older man, one more steeped in cinema, can appreciate director Gordon Parks's meticulous grounding of his story and his protagonist in the private-eye tradition: the maverick who's almost as big a pain in the ass to the police as to the bad guys, not excepting his one friend on the force. And a much older Caucasian whose whiteness has eroded at least a bit over the years can at least imagine what a thrill it must have been for a black audience, maybe especially a young black audience (but maybe not), just 3 years after Dr. King's assassination, to watch a black dick with all the insouciance of generations of Spades and Marlowes, but not caring about all those white dicks, just reveling in the racial pride of this bad motherfucker's fuck-you to the man. Even Isaac Hayes's Oscar-winning theme song, which to a 17-year-old central Illinois white boy was just sort of academically cool; there seemed a tincture of minstrelsy about it that was supplied not by the source but by the audience. Contextually, it's an amazing song, part of an amazing score (also Oscar nominated) for an amazing film, and thanks to DirecTV for the free sample of Cinemax that encouraged me to scrape off a few more barnacles of residual racism.

Redemption songs

Marley

(2011)

Probably hard to resist hagiography with this guy, and to be fair, the subject's freedom with his sperm (11 children with 7 women) is mentioned, but there are times when you wish you could see a little more humanity--either that, or just go full-bore concert film. Incidentally, this is listed at 145 minutes, and I'm not sure how many of those VH1 showed, since I trusted the reported 2½-hour time slot, only to have the end cut off. Before that, at least 42 of those 150 promised minutes disappeared into the commercial black hole. But I got as far as Marley's death (I'd forgotten he was only 36--sad, sad, sad), so presumably they cut some in the middle, and there wasn't much left but end credits. Still, programming people: be honest with DirecTV, will ya? Unless it's a sporting event, we shouldn't have to fiddle with adding time at the end,

Fun with tiny phallic symbols

Celeste and Jesse Forever

Crit

From the first time I saw the trailer, I've feared this movie, feared that the premise of a divorcing couple who remain best friends might cut a little close to, or perhaps into, or maybe right through the bone. As it happens, Celeste (Rashida Jones, whom I otherwise love) and Jesse (Andy Samberg, whose entire career I've otherwise pretty much managed to miss, to no regret) are so insufferable and so unspeakably young, complete with puerile manifestations of the private language that characterizes all close relationships, for better or worse, that I didn't see much of anyone I know or am in them. And anyway, I always had a job, and while she often didn't, and was an artist, there was nothing unambitious about her.

Anyway, didn't much like it, but let's give it some credit: it doesn't take the easy-answer romcom approach to the genuinely serious (and grown-up) questions it poses. The ending may not be altogether satisfactory, but it's not rote.

Weed or wildflower

A Love Song for Bobby Long

(2004)

Recommended by a friend, this sat in my Netflix queue for maybe a couple of years and then on my DVR hard drive for a couple of more. It's a compilation of clichés--southern clichés, with the subset of New Orleans clichés, alcoholism clichés, writer's block clichés, academic corrosion clichés, parent-child estrangement clichés, education-of-the-ignorant/innocent clichés--you name it. And yet the commitment of John Travolta, Scarlett Johansson, and Gabriel Macht to this store-bought gumbo makes it almost palatable.

Negative capability

Ai Weiwei: Never Sorry

Crit

I tend to assume that polemics and art can't mix, or at least don't very effectively very often, and it is fair to say that Ai Weiwei could probably profit by limiting his autophotographed middle fingers and his "Fuck your mother" declarations, but most of the art we see here works both aesthetically and politically, and there's no denying the artfulness of his polemics--or his sheer heroism in extending that middle finger to a regime that has shown little hesitation to repress with extreme prejudice.

Multiple choice

Wild Things

(1998)

The opening-credits Glades flyover followed by the Miami skyline made me expect this to be based on an Elmore Leonard novel, or at least Carl Hiaasen; it's not, but their spirit governs the proceedings.

For more than half of the 108 minutes, this seemed like a solid, sexy neonoir, but apart from a beautifully goofy turn as a lawyer by Bill Murray, I couldn't really see why so many people like it so much. Then it gets twisty, then it gets crazy, and I get it, but I've probably already said too much. One thing I will say: don't even think about skipping the end credits.

Like family

Union Square

Crit

In the opening sequence, Lucy (Mira Sorvino) is composing a text to a lover on her smart phone. Apparently seeking the precise level of flirtiness desired, she erases 2 or 3 drafts before settling on "Time 4 a meeting today? Cal [sic] me" and hitting Send. We're seeing all of this as a close-up on the screen of the phone, and for a fraction of a second after the Send, we see the history of texts sent. It looks like something out of The Shining:

Time 4 a meeting today? Cal me.
Time 4 a meeting today? Cal me.
Time 4 a meeting today? Cal me.
Time 4 a meeting today? Cal me.
Time 4 a meeting today? Cal me.
Time 4 a meeting today? Cal me.
Time 4 a meeting today? Cal me.
[And then somewhere around here something different.]

Now, 3 months ago I would have seen that and thought, "odd," if I thought about it at all, but my post-Scary Normal self quickly does the math and realizes that no one on the set--Sorvino (or perhaps the hand stand-in for the shot), props person, script supervisor, DP, director, maybe even editor (though I suspect the brevity of the visibility can be credited to that operative)--ever said, "Hey, we need to clear the send history of this phone after every take!" And so if you get the DVD and freeze frame and count, you can probably tell exactly how many takes there were of this scene.

The film is a moderately interesting, extremely stagey (though seemingly not originally incarnated as a play) drama about one fucked-up honest sister and another (Tammy Blanchard) in denial about who she is, thus fucked up in a different way. (She has told her fiancé that her family is from Maine, and the fact that he doesn't seem even to begin to grasp the truth when Bronx-talking Lucy shows up suggests that Jenny will never have much trouble getting him to believe her lies.) Spoiler alert: they're fucked up because their mother is Patti LuPone.

Present tense, imperative mood

Ruby Sparks

Crit

Wow! I was fully prepared to be unimpressed by this, but instead it's in competition with Moonrise Kingdom for my favorite of the year so far.

It's the Pygmalion myth, of course, except with prose fiction instead of clay, but in terms of cinema it owes much less to the best-known adaptation of that theme than it does to Vertigo and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind--which is to say that it's far darker than I anticipated, with as squirm-inducing a sequence as you'll ever see. That ethical issues are allowed to intrude on an ostensible romantic comedy about a creation coming to life is unsurprising; that Hollywood would allow a sweet-natured boy played by the angelically baby-faced Paul Dano to make such an ethical hash of things is as unnerving as it was for people who were surprised to see James Stewart's Scottie Ferguson turned into such a manipulative monster by Hitchcock.

The screenplay is by Zoe Kazan, who plays the title character-character and who proves herself to be not merely the cutest young woman on the screen today, though she is that. Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris, who discovered Dano for Little Miss Sunshine, directed.

Trailers

• Won't Back Down--Parents stage a revolution to fix a failing school; looks ever so inspirational.
• The Master--Philip Seymour Hoffman as a spiritual guru, Joaquin Phoenix as a messed-up guy who seems in the market for same. Oh! Just noticed: directed by P. T. Anderson.

As if you'd seen a ghost

My Favorite Wife

(1940)

You know, if Gail Patrick's third wheel were as sympathetic as Randolph Scott's fourth, this would be a practically perfect comedy. But poor Patrick, whom I just saw in My Man Godfrey: did she ever get to play anything but a spoiled rich bitch?

Cary Grant's 45-degree-angle take when his Nick first spies his ostensibly late wife (Irene Dunne, never lovelier) may be his best single comic moment ever, which is tall cotton.

Shag the dog

The Campaign

Crit

If this had hit its comedic peak consistently, it would have been one of the great political comedies ever. As is, it's often hilarious, and sometimes even effective in making serious points about the massive role of money in the political system--it's worth your 8 bucks and your 85 minutes, though maybe wouldn't be worth $11 and 100m.

Trailers

• Trouble with the Curve--Eastwood (acting only), Amy Adams, and baseball: it's a math equation.
• This Is 40--"Sort of a sequel to Knocked Up"; it's a maybe.
• Silver Linings Playbook--Jennifer Lawrence and Bradley Cooper crazy in love.

Even though you're nowhere near me

High Fidelity

(2000)

Oh, gosh, would that it were that easy. This has always seemed pretty nearly perfect to me before, and I still love it dearly, but whoosh! we go from Rob and Laura being apart to Rob and Laura (and how can I never before have noticed the "Rob and Laura" of it? It could have been set in New Rochelle?) being back together, and, postreconciliation, from Rob still exhibiting symptoms of Peter Pan Syndrome to his being completely cured at a pace inconsistent with the rest of the film. Still . . . quibbles.

All my changes were there

Neil Young Journeys

Crit

Geez, for a peaceful man, Shakey (or maybe just director Jonathan Demme) has bullets flying in his first three songs, whether the targets are buffalo, midwestern college kids, or "my baby."

The concert is at Massey Hall in Toronto, but Demme intercuts footage of Young driving around in his childhood town in north Ontario--yes, the quotation of "Helpless" is his own, telegraphing the end-credits music--in fact, not one but two small towns where he did lots of stupid stuff that he gleefully narrates (being convinced by a prankster, for example, that road tar tastes like chocolate--but not at first, so you have to stay with it).

Young has aged into a facial resemblance to a benign Jack Nicholson, and watching him up close is an ugly delight--one of my favorite concert films, which makes Demme pretty much the king of that genre,

Trailers

• The Sessions--Didn't even recognize John Hawkes as the polio patient who is signing up for sex therapy. "Based on a true story," could be pretty syrupy.

Mad men

Vincent & Theo

(1990)

Tim Roth's Vincent van Gogh wears a constant expression that gives no clue what he'll do next, except that it seems unlikely not to be disastrous, which may explain why his brother, as played by Paul Rhys, wears a constant expression suggesting that he has no clue what might be coming next, except that he seems certain that it will be disastrous. A very un-Altmanesque film from Altman, about mad brothers, conjoined at the heart.

Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, . . .

Terminator 2: Judgment Day

(1991)

Nah, I wasn't really ever gonna term--, er, deaccession this. Fact is, there just aren't a lot of good deaccession candidates left (which is a good thing), so Friday night is evolving into the night when I just watch something I haven't seen for at least 5 years. When soccer season kicks in and I start filling my DVR with excess matches, then maybe I'll start deaccessioning films I have saved there.

Anyway, this is at least a half-hour longer than it ought to be (half of that excess was added for the DVD release, I guess), and it's got more sentimental bilge sloshing around its decks than that movie Cameron made about the boat and the berg, but when it kicks ass, it kicks ass of Schwarzeneggerian proportions. Speaking of whom, I was wondering at the start whether the fact that Arnold plays a good-guy Terminator this time was known or widely suspected by the time the picture was released; hope not: the audience should have had the same reluctance to trust him that the Connors do.

And speaking of Sarah Connor, I do recall that much was written at the time about Linda Hamilton's extraordinary physical transformation for the film, and it's as impressive as ever, if her acting is no more so than ever: she's as much a sexless death machine as any Terminator. The special effects, too--especially those pertaining to the T-1000--while not as mind-boggling as two decades ago, are still worth the trip. Summer eye candy at its best.