Isn't it amazing how the same songs can be used to such varying effects? The two (equally enjoyable and hilarious) videos below add further proof. Enjoy (and thanks to Ryan for turning me on to the latter).

Posted by rob humanick at 7:46 PM | Permalink | Comments

With apologies to a good friend of mine: criticizing Sin City for it’s multiple storylines (of which only locations and several characters are shared) and stylistic indulgence over plot is to completely miss the point (or, at the very least, avoids it by shooting down the model before addressing the composition). Sin City does not exist in the real world, and nor does it entirely exist within the realms of traditional cinema. To experience the film is to crawl inside the imagination of its creator, Frank Miller, who has created a surreal vision of reality that comments on our world by exaggerating the corruptions of society to the point where criminals, hookers, and cop-killers are the good guys, if only because they own up to their flaws. Adapted directly from its pulpy comic roots to the screen by Robert Rodriquez with absolute authenticity, the film suggests film noirs’ wet dream of itself on steroids: the inky blacks run deep amongst the murky grays, ties flap in the wind of open convertibles and characters speak with the self-aware grizzle of someone whose seen it all many times over. Some films exist entirely for style, and Sin City would do quite well enough on that turf alone, but to say that the glorious black-and-white (and occasionally red-all-over) visuals are wholly devoid of substance is a sad disowning of the mythic stories of vigilante justice and criminal honor that make up the films narrative core. Three of the seven “Sin City” stories are brought together here in somewhat overlapping fashion: “The Hard Good-Bye,” “That Yellow Bastard” and “The Big Fat Kill.” That Frank Miller wrote his stories in somewhat cinematic fashion helps tremendously in maximizing the reverent approach taken here, although the page-to-screen approach occasionally limits the possibilities of the newfound medium. What really sells the believability of such a unique vision, however, is the pitch-perfect casting, with the likes of Bruce Willis, Clive Owen, and Benicio Del Toro channeling their acting chops into their characters with equal part genre convention and human vulnerability. None of the excellent cast is better than Mickey Rourke, who inhibits the murderous Marv with righteous indignation and a burrowed maniacal glee. When he finally confronts the corrupt authority he’s been relentlessly pursuing, he responds to the inquiry as to whether or not killing a defenseless individual will satisfy him with one of the film’s many immortal lines. “The killing? No. No satisfaction. But everything up until the that, will be a gas.”

Posted by rob humanick at 11:04 PM | Permalink | Comments

Along with Kevin Smith’s debut film Clerks, Office Space represents the cinematic bible of the 90’s slacker generation, a true-to-life ode to the virtues of doing absolutely nothing (and even better, being paid for it). His inner spirit almost completely eroded away by the deadening routines and repeated (not to mention unnecessary) chastisement at his programming job, Peter Gibbons (Ron Livingstone) seeks help with an “occupational hypnotherapist” whose methods prove more successful than anticipated after an unpredictable coincidence during his first session. Freed from his financial anxieties and employment-inspired woes, Peter absolves himself of all responsibility and simply enjoys life. Ironically, his newfound attitude actually gets him promoted at work while his hard-working friends are unceremoniously ejected from their occupations, prompting a plan by the trio to hack the company’s computers and steal their profits from right out under their noses. The plotline to Office Space is secondary to its attention to the details of everyday life, from the difficulties of technology to the soulless demeanor of ones supervisor, its subtlety and intelligence finding humor where lesser films would have to place poorly crafted stupidity in its place. All this is typical of the work of Mike Judge, whose works (including “Beavis and Butt-Head” and “King of the Hill”) have been consistently smart and cunning satires on the standards of society with an affinity for memorable characters and inward reflection. The glue that holds Office Space together, however, is the tertiary character Milton (Stephen Root), a squirrelly employee whose introverted nature is repeatedly abused by the upper management until he reaches the breaking point. He speaks for every working person when he demands his red stapler back.

Posted by rob humanick at 10:29 PM | Permalink | Comments

Quickly adopted by college-aged hipsters and declared fans of “quirky” films, Napoleon Dynamite is quite possibly the worst thing to happen to cinema since the birth of Michael Bay. Some have been quick to liken Jared Hess’ droll, deadpan style of humor to Wes Anderson’s deliberately tranquil style of filmmaking. These comparisons seem to only notice the surface-deep similarities of static screen compositions and the focus on character interaction over dynamice plot details; far more critical are the differences, most notably the fact that Wes Anderson actually cares about his characters and their existential plights, whereas Napoleon Dynamite exists only to parade them around for ninety minutes worth of soulless ridicule. The cast of characters: Napoleon Dynamite (Jon Heder), a socially handicapped loser of the lowest order, Pedro Sanchez (Efren Ramirez), a walking Mexican stereotype seemingly on a steady stream of Thorozine, and Uncle Rico (Jon Gries), an ex-college football athlete who hopes to time travel back to 1982, where things should have turned out differently. The film’s structure (something like intentional piecemeal) only reinforces its contempt for its characters, not that they particularly deserve any sympathy in the first place. The film is content to allow these sad souls to wander from one set piece to another, engaging in pointless behavior that aims to inspire laughs the movie pretends it doesn’t recognize; all the viewer can do is sit back and watch to see what gags work and which ones don’t (for me, only the poorly-timed execution of a sick cow counts as genuine humor). Laughter multiplies, and, like the convicted murderers who look back with horror at their lynching of an innocent man in Fritz Lang’s Fury, I too was mortified upon second viewing at the fact that I fell for the film’s hateful indulgence the first time around. That the screening of the movie I attended was one of my few social encounters with the fraternity members amongst my dorm is a telling piece of evidence; Napoleon Dynamite is equivalent to the relentless mockery of social outcasts by the popular folk on a school playground: nasty, undeserved, and completely fucking pointless.

Posted by rob humanick at 9:14 PM | Permalink | Comments

While very much an Iranian take on many of the same themes in Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver, such an appropriate description should in no way suggest that Crimson Gold isn’t a challenging and engrossing study of one character amidst the destructiveness of society on its own. Hussein (Hossain Emadeddin) is a medication-addled pizza deliveryman, a close friend and soon-to-be brother-in-law with Ali (Kamyar Sheisi). The film immediately puts its audience into a chokehold; the opening scene (filmed in a single, stationary take) is a botched robbery attempt that ends with Hussein shooting himself in the head before the authorities arrive. Flashback to several days prior where life is seemingly going about business as usual, but beneath the deadening, oppressive routine of it all, Hussein is a basic human being whose patience is being slowly worn down to reveal a violently ticking time bomb. Every image of Crimson Gold, from Hussein and Ali endlessly cruising the city traffic on their moped to a young boy standing arm with an assault weapon he is obviously not learned enough to use properly, suggests the crushing weight of the upper classes bearing down on the oppressed poor. His senses dulled by the drugs needed to keep him "healthy," Hussein wanders about his have-not lifestyle while the haves impose holier-than-thou attitudes and the authorities senselessly exercise their power. The film suggests parallels with politics between the U.S. and Middle East, but is most effective in examining the oppressive behavior of society towards the lower classes who contribute just as much as everyone else. Eventually the meager scraps meant to satiate the poor fail to keep them tranquil, much like Hussein's sedative medication. As stated by a homeless man to an overbearing police officer: "Show some mercy, please."

Posted by rob humanick at 8:45 PM | Permalink | Comments

Life has me terribly busy at the moment, for reasons both good and bad. Hopefully time will arise soon so I can cover the most recent crop of movies that I've seen, including the scathing political satire Bulworth (if Bill Hicks had ever made a film, I'd imagine this would have been it), the funny and touching Planes, Tranes and Automobiles (which I can with some assurance say is the best thing John Hughes ever made), the dreadful Napoleon Dynamite (to which I granted a second viewing out of the goodness of my heart--never again), and, in no particular order, Sin City, Office Space, and Crimson Gold.

Two other films that I've seen recently are among the best I've ever come across, so much that I want to take extra time and effort into my writings on them. They are Roman Polanski's Chinatown (which, I might add, also qualifies for the most shocking plot twist in cinema) and Oliver Stone's Born on the Fourth of July.

Finally, I'm undertaking the first of what I hope to be many larger essays and dissertations to be hosted on this blog. Some time soon I hope to post a massive essay and in-depth review of George Romero's Dead films, including Night of the Living Dead, followed by Dawn, Day, and Land of the Dead. Contrasting of themes, qualities, and styles will all be included.

For today, myself and fellow cinephile friends Kyle Graper and Ryan Kelly (neither of whom have ever met before) will be united for some fun and mayhem. Expect chaos to ensue, so if an earthquake should strike, stay away from any windows.

Posted by rob humanick at 10:47 AM | Permalink | Comments

The Terrorist focuses on the philosophical dilemma of suicide in the name of a greater cause, or at least, what one believes to be the case. The tale of a young, patriotic girl named Malli (a fine performance from Ayesha Dharker) who wishes to follow in the footsteps of her brother (who died as a martyr year ago) is stripped of all political, religious, and social contexts, instead choosing to charge the story exclusively with the gravity of self-induced destruction in the name of a greater cause. Malli is selected from a group of wiling females to infiltrate the welcoming ceremonies of an unnamed V.I.P., ready with a bomb pack and detonator when the individual is close and unprotected. The film succeeds in illuminating the motivation for an act that is all too common in this modern world’s political turmoil, as individuals in baseless societies, many easily swayed by religious promises of glory and honor, quickly find that what they achieve in death can be far more beneficial to their cause than what the accomplish in life. Its choice to present its story without specifics allows for more freedom of ideological exploration without being hampered by contextual details, but is also paradoxically limiting in its ultimate commentary on real-world violence (the use of a plot twist to help justify Malli's ultimate decision on whether to go through with the suicide attack or not is an argumentative disappointment as well). Nonetheless, The Terrorist operates above the misguided belief that violence can end violence, and argues in favor of peaceful resolution over acts that can only lead to endless bouts of retribution. With lush cinematography and a stunning use of contrasting focus between the foreground and background (which often simulates the heavy psychological burden Malli bears, as she shifts from determined to indecisive in her call to martyrdom), the film emphasizes the many values that can be found even in a life hampered by oppression. The final, quite perfect shot is a triumph of the human spirit over the seduction of its destructive tendencies, and a call for peace amidst senseless chaos.

Posted by rob humanick at 2:04 PM | Permalink | Comments

A gold-tinged amber waves of grain palate illuminates the stage of Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium during Neil Young’s two evenings of performance there for his 2005 Prairie Wind tour, the ember glow of which lends Jonathan Demme’s intimate concert film Heart of Gold a distinct sense of spiritual comfort and communal unity. A brief intro of interview footage from Neil Young and his fellow friends and musicians contextualizes the unhampered concert that is to follow, which consists of roughly one half cuts from his current album (which was recorded in the midst of a brain aneurysm) and one half classic tracks. Unlike numerous other concert films that misguidedly shatter the essence of the concert environment via unnecessary technical panache, Jonathan Demme simply allows his camera to take in all that the stage has to offer, waxing the performer-audience relationship with a sublimely effective mixture of close-ups and long shots that emphasize both the deeply personal nature of the songs performed as well as the collaborative, familial ties on stage (and quite wisely, the film completely avoids the pointless audience shots so typical of this genre). Fans of Young’s music will be more immediately lent to his performance, but even as only a passive listener of his catalogue over the years, I was very quickly won over by the simple, soul-baring immediacy of his craft. Experiencing Young’s set list is like attending an autobiographical dream theater, drawing from decades of wisdom and a lifetime of experience whilst touching on mortality, memories, relationships and things to come. The elegant camerawork invites the viewer into this fine fabric at a subconscious level, with Young often framed on either side of the screen rather than in the center while the supporting musicians and background singers are equally involved in the compositions, while the tight facial work on more personal songs unites the visual and audio experiences at even deeper level. Be sure to stay through the end credits; Young’s solo performance to an empty theater lingers like vast expanse of memories from a life well spent. Heart of Gold’s absolute purity seems proof that this collaboration between Young and Demme was indeed a match made in heaven.

Posted by rob humanick at 1:35 PM | Permalink | Comments

Penned by Godfather scribe Mario Puzo and shot with the same epic breadth as any film by David Lean during the previous twenty years, Superman aims high for an aura of grandeur that it never manages to reach, a fact that renders this two-and-a-half hour superhero epic as something of a collective conflict of interests. Unlike the character of Superman, who manages to juggle his two identities (the other being mild-mannered journalist Clark Kent) with relative ease, Richard Donners' film never finds the right mixture for both its reverent seriousness towards the Superman mythology and the silly undercurrents inherent in such a story, the result being an awkward mishmash that will seemingly only appeal to those already won over by the titular character. Granted, Superman himself is the most appealing aspect of the film, warmly portrayed by the young Christopher Reeve and given remarkably human characteristics, despite his abilities being anything but human. Gene Hackman would be an inspired choice as supervillian Lex Luthor - with a better script. Here, bogged down by bad dialogue and a comic-relief sidekick so irritating as to make Jar-Jar Binks look tolerable by comparison, we never get to see his full chops on display (whereas Marlon Brando, in perhaps the most expensive cameo in movie history, never cared less about a role than he does here). The somewhat hammy, dated special effects give the film a nostalgic touch, and the action set pieces are generally engaging, but neither of these aspects is able to offset the simultaneously overreaching and uninspired direction. Sadly, Richard Donners' vision isn't nearly up to par with the standards of the Man of Steel.

Posted by rob humanick at 3:49 PM | Permalink | Comments

Cowardly manipulation and nonexistent mystery embellished out of thin air make up the bulk of The Usual Suspect's justification for existence, and – despite critical praise and absurdly high placement on imdb's Top 250 films list – they don't make a very strong case once all the pieces have settled. A botched crime and subsequent explosion aboard a ship docked in California that leaves many dead lands lone witness Verbal (Kevin Spacey) in a demanding investigators office, easily allowing for roughly thirty minutes worth of plot to be stretched out to feature length as the audience is jerked back and forth between tepid interrogation and UPN-quality flashbacks to earlier heists Verbal took part in with four other prominent henchmen. Dumbasses will be amazed by the film's ultimate twist, but it doesn't take much sniffing around to realize from the outset that some obvious puzzle pieces are being intentionally hidden from sight, if only to conjure a sense of mystery when there really is none in sight. The film condescends its audience by pretending to have far more cards up its sleeve than it actually has, and even if it's crass manipulation actually bore a worthwhile payoff, The Usual Suspects commits further offenses by failing to employ any form of consistency in its perspective-filtered presentation of critical events. In other words, the film might appear crafty in piecemeal (what with such deliberately enunciated, obviously profound dialogue - "the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he did not exist" - you don't say!), but get up close and the transparency of it all is terribly obvious. Nothing matters save for the orchestration of the final jerk-around, and The Usual Suspects' attempts at such a payoff come across as an atrociously orchestrated bluff.

Posted by rob humanick at 12:09 AM | Permalink | Comments

I Am a Fugitive From a Chain Gang achieves greater illuminating into the inhumanities of the corrupt penal system by sidestepping the easy moralizing to be had from the issue and delivering its many blows via pure dramatic grizzle. James Allen (Paul Muni) is a traveling veteran out of work during the depression. Lured by the offer of a free hamburger, he is tricked and forced at gunpoint into aiding a would-be criminal; when the cops show up at the scene, he bears the blame for the crime, and receives the incredibly harsh sentence of ten years hard labor on a chain gang. While the location is never stated outright but heavily implied (and outright confirmed when the film was banned there for many years after its release), the chain gang system so commonly employed in Georgia is the main villain of the film, although greed and vengeance from other small players ultimately play into the many obstacles James encounters. After over a year of excruciating time served, he manages to escape with his life, ultimately taking refuge in Chicago where, under a new name, he rises to become a prominent architect heralded by the city. When the Georgia authorities finally track him down, he agrees to return to serve a much-shortened sentence so as to clear his name and move on with his life, only to learn that his promised pardon is to be delayed indefinitely so as to exact vengeance for the embarrassment he brought upon the state. While the story itself is quite harrowing, guided in large part by the soul-searing performance by Paul Muni, the lingering focus on the inhuman treatment of the gang members – from the endless lines of chains to the beating of members who suffer fatigue on the job – is perhaps the film’s most directly affecting aspect. That the film, based on the true story of Robert E. Burns, aided in raising public awareness of the chain gang practices so much as to outlaw them is something of a reprieve to its utterly bleak conclusion, where the destructiveness of the state ultimately makes a criminal out of the honest man they so ruthlessly castigated. James, continuously on the run or in hiding, finds his once-to-be fiancé so as to impart a final farewell. At the sound of approaching sirens, he shrinks back into the shadows, and when asked how he will survive, states with equal parts delirium and spiritual defeat: “I steal!”

Posted by rob humanick at 11:29 PM | Permalink | Comments

By avoiding the conniving tactics and overly slanted attitudes that have plagued so many politically minded documentaries of the past few years, and in doing so allowing its human elements to speak for themselves (and all the more clearly because of it), Balseros proves to be an illuminating breath of fresh air. The title refers to the Cuban immigrants who attempted to enter the United States during the 1990’s via rafting from their homeland to Florida, a dangerous task that left many dead when the unpredictable ocean waters destroyed their tiny vessels. With U.S. discourse on the subject lacking any form of empathy or real knowledge as to the state of living in Cuba, these refugees are regularly seen as miscreants who exist only to rupture the United States economy; Balseros watches with unflinching realism the decrepit Cuban society that provides happiness but little in the way of opportunity (very much exacerbated by the U.S. embargo, which succeeds more in lowering the standards of living than in placing any real political pressure on premier Fidel Castro). Ultimately, the only thing that separates the U.S. citizens from the Cuban balseros is the formers luck of being born in the States in the first place. Balseros follows the stories of several individuals rooted in the “balseros crisis” (as it came to be known), some of whom are separated from their family, some who never get the opportunities they strive for so diligently. The filmmakers make no judgments or impose no opinions on the directions these people take over the years, some finding happiness upon reaching America and others remaining in just as much an economic rut in the new capitalist economy as in their homeland Cuba. Whilst certainly reflective of major social and political strains present in this divide, Balseros is most effective in portraying the perseverance of the human spirit under the crushing circumstances of an unaccommodating society.

Posted by rob humanick at 10:51 PM | Permalink | Comments

Sarah Silverman is one of the potentially great up-and-coming American comedians, already exhibiting her talent for intentional, perfectly-timed stupidity and subversively offensive humor in everything from minor parts in School of Rock and The Aristocrats to the underrated "Greg the Bunny" series during its brief incarnation on Fox (go figure). By employing racist, sexist and other prejudice-laden staples of comedy from across the spectrum with a no-nonsense matter-of-fact attitude (“…the best time to have a baby is when you’re a black teenager…”), she undercuts the inherent (and misguided) social anxieties and, extensively, makes the joke just as much on the audience as the stereotyped subject matter. Her first starring film is part stand-up, part variety sketch show, alternating between the two for the duration of a live performance. Sarah’s crassness is often hit-or-miss, with some of the ultimate punch lines not being quite worth their build up, but the overall spectacle is entertaining enough to carry it through the rougher patches. If only the same could be said of the various backstage skits edited into the proceedings, most of which start out flat and go nowhere, although some of the musical interludes (among them, a tween dressed Sarah jubilantly singing her song “You’re Gonna Die Soon” to a crowd of senior citizens) are gut-bustingly shocking enough in their own right to make up for twice as many failed efforts. Sarah’s talent is still developing, but if Jesus is Magic indicates anything, it’s that we have only better things to see from this gorgeous and incisive voice.

Posted by rob humanick at 8:19 PM | Permalink | Comments

Few films have ever been more appropriately titled. His first film made in America after fleeing both the Nazi party and his homeland of Germany, Fritz Lang's Fury is an engrossing dissertation on the barbarous impulses that drive human nature and the need to restrain them in order to live in a decent and civilized society. Part commentary on civic laziness in America, part look at the flaws of a legal system that holds the power to sentence people to death, and part reflection on the horrors of fascism, the film magnifies it's small love story to monolithic proportions in the midst of the hard times of the depression. Separated by financial burdens for over a year, Joe Wilson is driving from Chicago into the country to reunite with his fiancé Katherine Grant (Sylvia Sidney) when he's inexplicably arrested for the recent kidnapping of a local girl. With only minor circumstantial evidence to hold against Joe, the sheriff continues through the proper legal processes, knowing that he is just as likely to be innocent as guilty. The townsfolk, on the other hand, take hold of the news and twist the facts until his guilt is certain beyond any doubt; justice must be had, and it may as well be the first man arrested. Lang's multi-layered film uses its violent spectacle to the same effect as Spike Lee's Do the Right Thing; the viewer acts as a horrified witness to the inhumanity at hand, unable to alter the events unfolding. Through a series of unexpected events, the film reverses the roles of the criminals and the victims in a tense, illuminating legal battle that highlights, among other things, the futility of revenge and the fallibility of human judgment. Fury is a slap in the face to anyone who thinks that the life of any citizen should be entrusted to a legal system so easily subjected to the whims of irrational, bloodthirsty recklessness.

Posted by rob humanick at 1:05 PM | Permalink | Comments

Whether viewed as an allegory to the physically corrosive nature of cancerous diseases or the equally destructive progression of the sexually transmitted type, the thematic undercurrents of David Cronenberg's The Fly (a re-imagination of its cheesy 1958 counterpart) are what elevate the film's viscerally horrifying images to more profoundly disturbing notions that infest the viewer on a philosophical and psychological level, remaining there long after it’s devastating conclusion. Jeff Goldblum (in a career-best performance) is Seth Brundle, a reclusive science nerd whose big experiment becomes the long-term project of journalist Veronica Quaife (Geena Davis) after a seductive meeting at a science expo brings the two together. Seth's invention: a molecular transporter, using computer technology to move matter instantly across space from one isolated telepod to another. Romantic entanglements soon develop, but a mishap during an experiment alters the future course of events to that of the worst-case scenario. While testing the telepods on himself, Seth unknowingly transports himself with a housefly occupying the same vessel; confused by the two separate entities, the computer fuses both Seth and the insect into one being at a genetic level. While this initially elevates the unaware Seth's strength with little in the way of side effects, the physical ramifications of this unintended gene-splicing quickly shift from beneficial to horrific depravation. Cronenberg has always been intrigued by the nature of humanity under pressure, from the sexual masochism of Crash to the split-soul implications of Dead Ringers, but The Fly compounds these notions by wrenching the viewers stomach into about seventeen separate knots at a pure gut level, all of them made the more harrowing because of the tangibility of the human spirit slowly being eaten away by the terrible transformation Seth undergoes (no small thanks to the masterful makeup work - a deserving Academy Award recipient). Ultimately, he is cancer incarnate, and then some. By the end, the horror isn't so much a result of the physical anguish at hand but the realization of what depths of trauma humanity is capable of inflicting upon itself. The Fly is splatter horror with the gravity of Shakespeare.

Posted by rob humanick at 10:32 PM | Permalink | Comments

A charming, pseudo-fantastical nostalgia for the past is the life force of Robert Altman's delightful A Prairie Home Companion, the fictitious account of the final performance of Garrison Keillor's long-running NPR variety radio program. Recollecting better days and old friends whilst also striving for the future, and, at times, mourning the losses of the present, the program's cast encapsulates the many ranging feelings and emotions that naturally arise from the end of one era of life and the beginning of another. Some elements of the show, such as the radio persona Guy Noir, aren't effectively contextualized for the unfamiliar viewer, but quickly become absorbed into the whole of the proceedings nonetheless. The overall buoyant nature of the film, reinforced by the show's musical-comedy slant, might make it appear somewhat slight at first, and while this is certainly no Nashville or Short Cuts, the whimsical delicacy of the film strikes a deeply emotional nerve that bears no embarrassment towards sporting genuine human feeling. As is expected of any Altman film, the ensemble cast is universally excellent (including Lindsay Lohan, proving beyond a doubt that, despite her tween appeal, she is one of today's most gifted young actresses), walking the fine line of serious affection and, when the script lends itself to some moderate genre cheekiness, restrained self-awareness. Virginia Madsen plays a sort of guardian angel of death (who's death as a human is humorously linked to the radio program) who reveals herself only to certain people at certain times; her spiritual relationship suggests a divine connection between the memories of the past and their resonance in the present. With old age and a recently revealed heart transplant surely heavy on Altman's mind, A Prairie Home Companion's sense of mortality represents the fragility of life's beauty at its most sincere.

Posted by rob humanick at 9:59 PM | Permalink | Comments

Despite my lack of activity here in the past few days, my movie watching habits have not waned. Unfortunately, between both official and under-the-table summer jobs, independent academic work and research for graduate school (PhD in film, here we come!), time to write about all that I've watched has been slim to none. My aim to is play catch-up this weekend, and perhaps squeeze in some screenings of new releases, including Cars and the expected-to-be-wretched remake of The Omen. Coming soon, in no particular order: Sin City, Cronenberg's The Fly, I Am a Fugitive From a Chain Gang, Fury, The Usual Suspects, The Terrorist, Balseros, Chinatown and Office Space. Hint: I only disliked one of them. For now, a mini-review of Spike Lee's involving but restrained Malcolm X can be found below.

Posted by rob humanick at 1:38 AM | Permalink | Comments

Spike Lee’s sprawling, indulgent Malcolm X is incidentally reflective of its historical persona in that both the film and its titular character can be largely characterized by their conflicting qualities. As a historical figure, Malcolm X was an impassioned activist who fought for the rights of blacks in America, but upon discovering the corrupt nature of the organization he had dedicated much of his life to (the Nation of Islam) as well as how his own efforts had been manipulated and misused, he found enlightenment, forsook the black supremacy he had previously taught, and instead pursued racial equality and acceptance rather than segregation. In similarly bipolar fashion, Malcolm X the film is an epic production that cumulates into a powerful, prolonged character study, but is itself limited by the incredibly conservative nature of its own aesthetic. For a film such a confrontational filmmaker, the film loses much of its potential effect as a result of forgoing Lee’s more distinctive style; likewise, one imagines that such a traditionally structured film could never do complete justice to such a radical figure. Nevertheless, while Malcolm X might embody many of the trademarks and qualities of the modern biography genre, the work itself is so impassioned and tightly knit that it almost completely makes up for it’s lack of willingness to tread new ground. The centerpiece to the film’s moderate success is a towering Denzel Washington, who creates Malcolm X’s screen persona and evolves him believably as the film covers entire decades of his life. If the film ends on a somewhat disappointing note, it’s because, in a completely contradictory turn, the film disowns the encompassing acceptance its social freedom fighter found by presenting its concluding “I am Malcolm X” montage with exclusively black actors. The film's prodigious salute to the importance of history is stirring, but at the height of it all it seems to forget that the life of Malcolm X is one that should be remembered by everyone.

Posted by rob humanick at 1:34 AM | Permalink | Comments

Joel and Ethan Coen's Fargo abandons the romantic conventions of the crime genre, reducing it's story of kidnap, murder and moral squandering to basic, to-the-point realisms. The criminals are witless, the cops regular folk, and the sex anything but sexy. In this much, the film succeeds. Yet in it's observations of common human behavior, Fargo reveals itself as the product of nasty elitism, the Coen Brother's removed presence creating an air of superiority that mocks the small-town quaintness and quirky local accents at hand more than it does embrace them as the norm. The intended crime involves a car salesman, Jerry Lundegaard (William H. Macy), who, in a bit of (somewhat unclarified) financial trouble, makes a deal with two thugs to kidnap his wife. Jerry's rich, tyrannical father-in-law will pay the ransom, and he and the kidnappers will split the money. Needless to say, not all goes as planned. Like Reservoir Dogs, the film achieves satire and humor by looking behind the scenes as a crime gone wrong whilst also poking at the standards of its genre, tongue firmly in cheek, but it's class condescension quickly overtakes any of the film's more agreeable nuances. The performances are often very good in the context, but that context is what makes the film itself so off-putting. These aren't real people we're watching, but simplistic caricatures who exist only to be ridiculed, with every overwrought utterance of the regional language trademarks of "ya" and "you betcha" delivered with guileless exaggeration. This callousness renders any less malicious intentions on the filmmaker's parts as little more than accomplices to the nasty mockery of middle American culture at hand (and yes, the Coens grew up in the same region as the film takes place - despite that fact, I'm still not buying the joke). In the end, the film doesn't purport any sense of morality, instead looking for laughs amongst the bloodshed at the expense of any real human feeling. Fargo is little more than technical moviemaking proficiency employed in the name of anti-human snobbery; in other words, it's a high brow Napoleon Dynamite.

Posted by rob humanick at 6:33 AM | Permalink | Comments

This was too funny to not post. The scary thing, however, is that while this trailer is fake, a real movie is actually in the works. From the same anti-Christ who brought up both Baby Genuises. And they wonder why the box office is down...

Posted by rob humanick at 8:16 PM | Permalink | Comments

As a coming of age drama that tackles the greater social issues of violence and drugs the plague urban environments (here, Los Angeles, specifically), Boyz N the Hood is both affectingly traditional in it's storytelling and aggressively frontal in portraying these darker tales. After breaking out into a fight in school over a pointless argument, young Tré Styles (Desi Arnez Hines II) is sent to live with his father, Jason 'Furious' Styles (Laurence Fishburne), a hardened, cynical man who has seen the widespread corruption that intentionally encourages the violent lifestyle he hopes for his own son to overcome. Seven years later, with college on the horizon, Tré (Cuba Gooding, Jr.) is wrestling with the typical teenage woes of sex and relationships, while his freinds, without the same parental guidance, dabble in drugs, violence, and unprotected sex. Despite being predictable and even formulaic at times, the film is often effortlessly wrenching, equivalent to a cold bucket of water in the face. For any of the teens in this L.A. hell, living through high school is an accomplishment in itself, the commonplace violence bearing no regard for the lives it cuts down, often at random. The ultimate tragedy of Boyz N the Hood lies in the fact that even those who make the right decisions can meet premature ends, while others mindlessly continue to feed the downward spiral. After it's bleak but nonetheless hopeful conclusion, the film's message hits home hard when the optimistic tagline appears at the beginning of the end credits: "Increase the Peace."

Posted by rob humanick at 7:57 PM | Permalink | Comments

In the smoldering physical and emotional aftermath of September 11th, 2001, the people of New York, the United States, and much of the world had a period of turbulent unrest in which to reflect on their lives and everything in them they had previously taken for granted. No moment in American history shook the foundations of an entire cultural identity harder at it’s very roots, and while everyone experienced that day and the time afterwards slightly differently, the need to heal the wounds inflicted and the importance of understanding how and why they occurred in the first place was of chief importance before anyone could begin to think about going on with their lives, so as they were. Less of a mirror of American life during those troublesome times than an emotive time capsule of the ranging emotions stirred up by those events, Spike Lee’s 25th Hour works to sort through the rubble created by that tragedy, paralleling it with the more immediate personal predicament of it’s main character. Edward Norton is Monty Brogan, a formerly successful drug dealer sentenced to seven years in prison for his narcotics crimes. When the film begins, he has but one day left on parole before he must report for his sentence.

25th Hour opens with a haunting credits sequence composed of images at ground zero, where high beam lights have replaced the destroyed towers, coalescing together into the night sky like a divine force at the very center of destruction. A feeling of immense spiritual anguish lies at the center of the film, and if the complaint often arises that 25th Hour feels meandering or confused, then I respond with the charge that that attribute is the very point. Guided by Monty’s impending sentence, the film looks at the varying effects of his date with destiny on him, his girlfriend Naturelle (Rosario Dawson), his closest friends Jacob and Frank (Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Barry Pepper, id and ego, respectively) and his father (Brian Cox), a retired firefighter. Tied together with pummeling but illuminating images and feelings from the distraught city, 25th Hour uses the ticking clock of it’s plot to suggest that, even if we know tragedy is upon us, how we react to it’s chaotic effects can ultimately be more important than avoiding it in the first place. The parallels between Monty’s character and the larger framework of the city are never quite complete or even in line with each other, but neither should they be. 25th Hour is a film as confused and searching for truth and meanings as its characters are. It’s dawning realization comes at the end, when neither Monty nor the audience have quite found what they’ve been looking for, but have nonetheless begun the difficult search within.

Lee’s aesthetic finds transcendence in what would be banality in lesser hands. The simple imagery of the city lifestyle and Monty’s personal experiences suggests deeper currents of regret, resentment, trust and acceptance, to name but a few of the ethereal feelings running through the film’s life blood. Monty (yet another brilliant character from Edward Norton) is presented sympathetically enough (he deals drugs, but is well aware of the damage they bring to his clients), especially when it is revealed that his arrest only served to find higher crime authorities that he in turn reported to. His character comes most clearly into focus, however, during a scene when, prompted by graffiti scribbled on a bathroom window, he launched into a verbal tirade of hatred against every group, place and person in the city that comes to mind. The brilliance of it all comes full circle in the end, when he realizes that he and no one else is responsible for the direction his life has gone. More poetic, however, is the final montage, aided by Brian Cox’s understated narration, which suggests the endless, however fleeting possibilities present even in when it seems that all hope is lost. In accordance with Monty, the film’s title represents the bleak future on the horizon. Yet it also suggests that the day of destruction has just past, and that only compassion and inward focus will allow us to correct those ills and to forge ahead in a newly enlightened state. The scars will always remain, but what matters is how we carry them after the initial wounds have healed.

Posted by rob humanick at 1:55 AM | Permalink | Comments

For as satisfying a cornball summer movie as X2 was, it’s emphasis on characters (what with so many mutants on hand) was occasionally a bit overwhelming, indicating that some trimming of narrative fat would have helped to tighten things up viscerally without losing the emotional emphasis. On the other hand, X-Men: The Last Stand is all flash and no genuine substance, the multitude of characters and recurring parallels to minority rights social issues all purely incidental to it’s completely superfluous plot (which proudly features dialogue worthy of a PS2 exposition cut scene and action sequences that seem crafted solely with the theatrical trailer ‘wow’ factor in mind). For as much mayhem that takes place, there’s very little tension going on beneath the surface for any of it to register as anything more than expensive CGI effects; the characters carefully nurtured in the previous two films serve as little more than justification for destruction-focused action scenes. In this installment, Magneto (Ian McKellen) again rallies his (considerably larger) anti-human army of mutants together to take action against a mutant “cure” that has been developed, with only the surviving X-Men to stand in their way from destroying mankind in their revolt. Enter Phoenix (Famke Janssen), a resurrected Jean so powerful that her capabilities quickly grow beyond her ability to control them. The social implications present are ripe with ideas, but The Last Stand is more concerned with showing off its cool factor before looking at the food for thought inherent in it’s subject matter. Yet for all the touted machismo on hand, the action is terribly under whelming, lacking in both emotional investment to be put on the line, as well as pure visual craft (and there’s something terribly callous about a film that treats the deaths of the masses as nothing more than another eye-popping special effect). Fanboys in my midst at the screening were up in arms over deviations from the original comics’ storyline; did they notice the title of the movie when they bought their tickets? Artistic liberties (a stretch of a term to use for this movie) are among The Last Stand’s least concerns; the flimsiness of the script (packed with forced dialogue that yearns to be meaningful, obvious set-up and payoff devices, and undeveloped character conflicts so hollow they appear to be filler more than anything else) instills no reason to care about the over ballyhooed mess of it all in the first place. Ultimately, the film serves solely to give undemanding comic book geeks the chance to see all their favorite heroes exercising their powers in full form. The story seems like a mere afterthought.

Posted by rob humanick at 1:05 AM | Permalink | Comments