Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 29, 2006
The Simpsons: Favorite Moments
I've been a Simpsons fan for a long time, so long that my memories of anticipating it's airing every Thursday (before it was aired daily, such as now) predate almost any other data stored in the recesses of my brain. Just about everyone seems to have their favorite character, episode, scene or line from the show's many seasons. Below you will find my own personal favorite Simpsons moment ever. It isn't inappropriate to say that I nearly dehydrated from crying the first time I saw it, and it still manages to elicit a guffaw when I come across it.
Coming Soon: October 2006
Taking a hint from notcoming.com (one of my regular sites of attraction), for the upcoming month of October I'll be - at least theoretically - running something of a horror film marathon. My reasons for this are multiple. Part of me wants to see just how rigorous I can be with film watching, reviewing, analyzing and writing, and, paired with academic work, employment, familial concerns and the upkeeping of a relationship (all of which are substantial), this will be some sort of ultimate test as to my ability to manage my time and retain some composure and sanity under the conditions. Watching movies can be very hard work. Secondly, I simply love the horror genre, it being one of the formulative cinematic elements of my youth that has continued to grow over the years.My goal is to cover numerous milestones and aspects of the genre (directors, styles, subject matters, etc.) in a chronological fashion (so expect the first few entries to be from the silent era). Some of the films I touch upon will be expected Film History 101 material, but I've also tried to throw in some less familiar titles, as well as enough diversity that I'm not bound to love everything that I watch over the next month (one film that I've chosen is intended to be some sort of test for myself, and if nothing else, Bad Boys II will be given a run for its money for the title of Worst Movie I've Ever Seen).
So, if you like, stay tuned in to see if I can keep this up for the full 31 days. I make no predictions myself, and if other aspects of life should prove too great to ward off long enough to watch the next flick, well, it's not like I'm being paid.
World Trade Center (2006)
World Trade Center’s script is so bourgeois and reductive that one might mistake it for the latest output from Paul Haggis. Still, just as Clint Eastwood took a flawed script and nurtured it into a near-masterpiece with Million Dollar Baby, that fact only makes what Oliver Stone and his superlative cast managed here all the more impressive. It’s hard to imagine what, subject matter aside, attracted Stone to this particular script, which packages the events of September 11th so tidily as to render many real-life occurrences as potential Hollywood inventions, but it’s also reassuring to see them rendered as respectfully as they are. What was but inches away from a practical remake of The Towering Inferno is thankfully the ruminative work it was meant to be, even if it is a bit dodgy along the way.Both United 93 and World Trade Center approach the events of September 11th strictly within the context of that day. Neither film knows of any larger contexts, of wars and terrorism, or of the political brouhaha to come; like the people suffering the collective worst day of their lives, they only know the immediately observable details. But while United 93 and Paul Greengrass simply use their portrayal to make the viewer as miserable as possible from start to finish (as well as none too subtly underscoring the visceral elements of its subject matter), World Trade Center more aptly appreciates the horror that slowly dawned on that day. For many of those forced to watch the unfolding tragedy on television (as I cannot speak for the residents of the city that never sleeps), the horror, however obvious and potent, took some time to set it (and boy, did it ever). Stone is attuned to the power of the violent spectacle within the context of the city, and especially of the everyday-ness that was so abruptly shattered. United 93 treats the hijackings like the eerily foreshadowed events in a sequel to Turbulence; with but one miscalculation of direction (an incredibly stupid pan up towards the two towers followed by a title card reminding us of the date), World Trade Center has no idea of the events to come, they simply happen.
Some have criticized World Trade Center for diminishing the scope of the tragedy at hand, a possibility certainly exacerbated by the polished, Hollywood approach employed here (which, for my money’s worth, is no more or less acceptable than a bare-bones independent approach, all things considered equal; shaky camerawork and grainy film stock does not a realistic movie make). While I already addressed the film’s limited knowledge of the sheer mass of death and destruction, I think it important to acknowledge that no film could ever cover the entirety of that unfolding hell on earth. Like Titanic (quite possibly the most humane big-budget disaster film of last century), World Trade Center follows several stories within a larger framework, in this case, those of two Port Authority officers trapped beneath the rubble of the collapsing towers, and their panic stricken families. One could make thousands of films taking place on September 11th, 2001, and never cover the same details twice. What these do offer, however, are intimate details in the greater scale of it all, the events of World Trade Center providing but one look at the damage, both physical and intangible, from a microcosmic perspective.
In the case of World Trade Center, it’s hard to draw the line exactly where the faulty script ends and Stone’s more adept direction begins (and, of course, like all marriages of talent in the name of film, the line is somewhat blurry). The first act of the film is the most potently realized, arguably because it offers Stone the most freedom in how he portrays the many wordless events as they unfold (the newly installed digital projectors and sound systems at my local cineplex have thus far done little more than add another opportunity for advertisers and special effects to unconstructively attack my senses, but the use of sound and image during the collapse of the first tower, seen from within, makes it perhaps the most wrenchingly realized fifteen seconds of celluloid so far this year). Once the primary damage has been done, however, the film is more prone to the screenplay 101 pigeonholing, which is less attuned to nuances of character and the far-reaching scale of national tragedy than it is the importance of wrapping a crowd-pleaser with pretty paper and a big bow on top. Leave it to Stone, Cage, and the entirety of the cast, then, to lend the writing with the necessary component of soul, particularly during the agonizingly claustrophobic scenes of the two officers trapped beneath tons of concrete and assorted rubble. World Trade Center might follow the mold too much for a story such as this, but it ultimately knows well enough to acknowledge not only the scope, but the universality, of the tragedy it portrays. Artistically or historically, it may not be a definer, but is both a fitting memorial for the dead a uniter for the living.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1972)
Aguirre, the Wrath of God opens with a lightly image whose potency steadily accrues as the sheer scope of it all sets in: a band of humans slowly descending the steep terrain of a fog-shrouded mountainside, so miniscule amongst the landscape that they appear not unlike a line of ants. So too does the entire film feel the impossible weight of the natural world bearing down upon the fragility of mankind, who dares to suggest that he can conquer it and claim it as his own. Less of a criticism of imperialism than a somber, hypnotic mood piece that absorbs, digests, and regurgitates the vanity of mankind’s conquering spirit, Aguirre creeps into the psyche like an anesthetic through an IV tube. It may be the most hauntingly ethereal film even made.Herzog’s camera exists as an almost weightless presence amongst the events of the film, its detached observation at times reflecting the slowly degenerating sanity of its human subjects. This is largely aided by the on-location shooting, typical for Herzog, whose thematic fascination with impossible dreams and grand aspirations was often paralleled in his own cinematic endeavors (none more breathtaking than the physical centerpiece to his masterwork Fitzcarraldo). Here, his subject is the fictitious expedition led by Gonzalo Pizarro, which traveled into the Peruvian jungle in the 17th century in search of the city of gold, El Dorado, a legend forged by the natives they persecuted so as to thwart their conqueror’s efforts. In the uncivilized jungle, they wage a hopeless fight against the elements, prompting Pizarro to send a smaller team of men and slaves downriver to find the mythical city. If they do not return within a week, then the search will be assumed lost.
This sub-mission unravels quickly; one of the three rafts is irretrievably caught in a whirlpool, and the tide of the river takes away the remaining rafts during the night while all sleep on shore. Second in command, Don Lupe de Aguirre (Klaus Kinski), sees fame and riches at stake, and successfully mutinies against the leader, Don Pedro de Ursua (Ruy Guerra), when he chooses to abandon the mission and return to Pizarro. The remaining episodes of the journey are nary different than those beforehand, only in that their fruitlessness becomes increasingly more obvious. Having declared rebellion against the crown, Aguirre nominates and crowns a king to represent their new nation – robe, throne and all. Mankind’s rituals are desperately pathetic amidst the amoral and unforgiving jungle.
Aguirre exists somewhere between the role of a journeyman on the doomed expedition and a celestial presence existing outside of the unfolding events, the latter largely bolstered by the unique, nearly indescribable score contributed by the German band Popol Vuh (frequent collaborators with Herzog, music often being an integral part to the earthly vigor of his films); rousing choral chants are mixed and layered so as to suggest angels falling from heaven to earth. As Aguirre, Kinski delivers a performance so transfixing and penetrating that one must wonder if he’s really acting at all (the film’s legendary on-location production, which eventually led to threats of murder and suicide between the actor and director, suggests that such is far from unlikely). The low-budget production incidentally befits the material: the sound recorded on the raw footage was so poor in quality as to prove completely useless, forcing the entire soundtrack to be remixed in post-production, the dubbing and subtly unnatural audio adding to the hallucinatory, otherworldly effect projected upon the viewer. The experience of Aguirre is like a slowly disitengrating connection with reality.
The cumulative, overwhelming sense of Aguirre is of inescapable death, as both a part of the natural order and a horrifying destination, the course of which cannot be veered from. With delusions of grandeur and a totalitarian reign, Aguirre drives his expedition into the ground and then some, the silent arrows and poison darts lobbed by the native population feeling less and less like a mortal danger than a spiritual release through the demise of the flesh. Fever and hunger take their toll, the meditative images unbound to narrative and relentless in their trance-like persuasion. The final scenes see Aguirre marching across his raft, amongst the dead and dying, his failed civilization drifting hopelessly down the river, overrun by hundreds of tiny monkeys, like some sort of pathetic miracle. It is the effortlessly towering ending to a soulful, harrowing masterpiece.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Umm....I Told You So?
That basically sums it up, even though this is but one of many examples of late where I'd have been much happier being wrong with my predictions (and the last thing I want to become is smug). But nevertheless, while this recent onslaught of intelligence is confirming many of my worst political fears, what angers me the most is their timeliness in regards to the ongoing Democrat v. Republican battle. In other words: coming from Democrats and Republicans alike, "we more or less knew this already and simply waited until the most opportune time to tell you." This is no surprise: I've known that our actions since 9/11 have only increased the global terrorist threat against us (of course, who would listen to me, or anyone else that didn't vote for Bush), and I really doubt that all of those in power actually buy their own crap. Nevertheless, here's one of many similair news articles (from my perspective, about three years behind schedule):
New York Times.
New York Times.
WASHINGTON, Sept. 23 — A stark assessment of terrorism trends by American intelligence agencies has found that the American invasion and occupation of Iraq has helped spawn a new generation of Islamic radicalism and that the overall terrorist threat has grown since the Sept. 11 attacks.
The classified National Intelligence Estimate attributes a more direct role to the Iraq war in fueling radicalism than that presented either in recent White House documents or in a report released Wednesday by the House Intelligence Committee, according to several officials in Washington involved in preparing the assessment or who have read the final document.
The intelligence estimate, completed in April, is the first formal appraisal of global terrorism by United States intelligence agencies since the Iraq war began, and represents a consensus view of the 16 disparate spy services inside government. Titled “Trends in Global Terrorism: Implications for the United States,’’ it asserts that Islamic radicalism, rather than being in retreat, has metastasized and spread across the globe.
An opening section of the report, “Indicators of the Spread of the Global Jihadist Movement,” cites the Iraq war as a reason for the diffusion of jihad ideology.
The report “says that the Iraq war has made the overall terrorism problem worse,” said one American intelligence official.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
The Lake House (2006)
The Lake House employs a bourgeois narrative with a ripe sense of spirituality that borders on divine. For all its polished hoopla and handy-dandy supporting characters, thank director Alejandro Agresti for recognizing (and capitalizing on) the emotional power of a fine visual composition (not to mention his respect for his characters, who live and breath as part of the film rather than being whored out by the script). The titular architectural structure is a unique residence elevated above its shoreline domain on stilt-like appendages, build within and around its natural habitat (not unlike many Frank Lloyd Wright structures) rather than simply on top of it. It is here that Kate (Sandra Bullock) and Alex (Keanu Reeves) live, albeit two years apart, she in 2006 and he in 2004. When Kate moves out and leaves a note for the subsequent tenant in the mailbox, the two discover an inexplicable time portal, the post office’s property somehow existing outside of the timelines that otherwise guide their physical worlds. Subsequent letters sent back and forth through the newfound device instill an otherwise impossible relationship, compounded by the eventual realization of their own previous encounter(s). Certainly, the science fiction device makes little sense, but neither did it in Back to the Future, The Terminator or 12 Monkeys if you really think about it (at least when conforming to known physics), and for as easily as the premise could have slid into outright treacle, that alone makes The Lake House its own little miracle (it is worth noting, however, that this is a remake of a little known foreign film, as of now unseen by me). Aside from uncompounded character evocations, the most effective device here is the camera itself, constantly evoking a spiritual connection between the characters and their environments. Once established, the film takes full advantage of Alex and Kate’s time-defying intimacy, one magical sequence seeing them talking to each other on two separate park benches, passerby fading into and out of the composition, suggesting the intangibility of time, the fragility of prolonged existence and the wonder that any kind of love could ever arise out of such conditions.
Monday, September 18, 2006
"Why Do You Hate America?"
For the record, I do not (although I too am asked the question on a more than regular basis by flag-waving idiots), but I am also the kind of person who will be ruthless in their criticism when I truly believe that what currently exists can be improved upon (many times drastically so). If I really hated America, then I'd keep my mouth shut and watch it spiral downward into oblivion from a distance, rather than immersing myself into the knitty gritty in an effort to stop the Titanic from going under. So while I may try to invoke the "hate the sin, love the sinner" attitude more than the author below, I still find his words of great value.
Mickey Z.: Why I Hate America
Mickey Z.: Why I Hate America
"Why do you hate America?" This is a remarkably easy question to provoke. One might, for instance, expose elements of this nation's brutal foreign policy. Ask a single probing question about, say, U.S. complicity in the overthrow of governments in Guatemala, Iran, or Chile and thin-skinned patriots (sic) will come out of the woodwork to defend their country's honor by accusing you of being "anti-American." Of course, this allegation might lead me to ponder how totalitarian a culture this must be to even entertain such a concept, but I'd rather employ the vaunted Arundhati defense. The incomparable Ms. Roy says: "What does the term 'anti-American' mean? Does it mean you are anti-jazz or that you're opposed to freedom of speech? That you don't delight in Toni Morrison or John Updike? That you have a quarrel with giant sequoias?" (I'm a tree hugger remember? I don't argue with sequoias.)
When pressed, I sometimes reply: "I don't hate America. In fact, think it's one of the best countries anyone ever stole." But, after the laughter dies down, I have a confession to make: If by "America" they mean the elected/appointed officials and the corporations that own them, well, I guess I do hate that America-with justification.
Among many reasons, I hate America for the near-extermination and subsequent oppression of its indigenous population. I hate it for its role in the African slave trade and for dropping atomic bombs of civilians. I hate its control of institutions like the United Nations, World Bank, International Monetary Fund, and World Trade Organization. I hate it for propping up brutal dictators like Suharto, Pinochet, Duvalier, Hussein, Marcos, and the Shah of Iran. I hate America for its unconditional support for Israel. I hate its bogus two-party system, its one-size-fits-all culture, and its income gap. I could go on for pages but I'll sum up with this: I hate America for being a hypocritical white supremacist capitalist patriarchy.
After a paragraph like that, you know what comes next: If you hate America so much, why don't you leave? Leave America? That would potentially put me on the other end of U.S. foreign policy. No thanks.
I like how Paul Robeson answered that question before the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1956: "My father was a slave and my people died to build this country, and I'm going to stay right here and have a part of it, just like you. And no fascist-minded people like you will drive me from it.
Is that clear?"
Since none of my people died to build anything, I rely instead on William Blum, who declares, "I'm committed to fighting U.S. foreign policy, the greatest threat to peace and happiness in the world, and being in the United States I the best place for carrying out the battle. This is the belly of the beast, and I try to be an ulcer inside of it."
Needless to say, none of the above does a damn thing to placate the yellow ribbon crowd. It seems what offends flag-wavers most is when someone like me makes use of the freedom they claim to adore. According to their twisted logic, I am ungrateful for my liberty if I have the audacity to exercise it. If I make the choice to not salute the flag during the seventh inning stretch at Yankee Stadium, somehow I'm not worthy of having the freedom to make the choice to not salute the flag during the seventh inning stretch at Yankee Stadium. These so-called patriots not only claim to celebrate freedom while refusing my right to exploit it, they also ignore the social movements that fought for and won such freedoms.
There's plenty of tolerated public outcry against the Bush administration and the occupation of Iraq, but it's neither fashionable nor acceptable to go as far as saying, no, I do not support the troops and yes, I hate what America does. Fear of recrimination allows the status quo to control the terms of debate. Until we voice what is in our hearts and have the nerve to admit what we hate...we will never create something that can be loved.
The Black Dahlia (2006)
The Black Dahlia is sure to baffle and bewilder audiences everywhere on both sides of the spectrum (that is, to say, in ways perceived as both good and bad), and I’m sure Brian De Palma wouldn’t have it any other way. An adaptation of a fictionalized novel about a real-life Hollywood murder, the film has been shamefully marketed by industry whores as the next L.A. Confidential, and all I can say is it’s damn shame. The ilk of this film is nothing of the sort, genre overlap notwithstanding, and it’s hard to blame viewers expecting a more straightforward crime drama when they enter theaters. Instead, The Black Dahlia is a rampantly overwrought round of genre upheaval, equally indebted to its cinematic predecessors as it is to its director’s wonderfully obtuse visual sleight of hand. “Cocktail” is the only word that comes to mind when attempting to describe the mixture of classic noir and mystery elements with deliberate overdoses of campy magnification. The film harkens back to classic expressionism via its three main characters’ attendance at a screening of The Man Who Laughs, fitting, for like that film’s main character (a deformed carnival worker whose face is forever frozen in an eerie grin), The Black Dahlia is a film largely concerned with the nature of surface appearances, reveling in its self-imposed limitations within a world of pure cinema. The cast is almost equally excellent across the board (particularly Scarlett Johansson, who hits the archetype nail most directly on the head), although many will mistake their intentional embodiment of caricatures as flat-out wooden acting. It’s necessary to approach The Black Dahlia with these expectations if one is to experience the film on its own merits, but this is not all to say the film is without its downfalls. Visually, this is one of Brian De Palma’s most refined films yet (his swooping camera motions are both grand in scope and smooth in execution), yet his sense of reckless abandon seems to lose its track during the final act with a considerable drop in energy following suit. Perhaps the source material demanded this unfortunate muting, but either way, one can’t but think The Black Dahlia could have gone out with at least as strong of a bang as it starts.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
United 93 (2006)
Since this is my first “second” review on this blog, let me nip any potential criticisms in the bud this one time only (any future complaints will be pointed in this direction). My philosophy, unlike that of Pauline Kael, is that repeated viewings are as important – sometimes even more so – to appreciating a film than the initial experience. Of course, many of us watch movies more than once all the time, whether for a fun time with friends, to revisit a treasured experience, or, in my case from time to time, to clarify my thoughts on a difficult and unclear initial experience. Some films challenge our perspectives so much that a combination of hindsight and intense rumination is necessary in order to come to a firm conclusion on them, and I don’t like for any of my opinions to be something I am forced to “settle” on. Therefore, in any cases where a repeated viewing of a particular film yields a changed opinion on my part, a second review will be written; this will become my “official” coverage, but the original review will remain listed as a reference point. This site exists just as much for hosting my opinions as it does for tracking my grappling with the medium.My full respect goes to Paul Greengrass for even mounting United 93 in the first place. My views are such that film is, at its root, more of an art form than a series of products, and that the relentless “too soon” cries lobbed against both this and Oliver Stone’s (as-of-yet unseen by me) World Trade Center are naively cynical about cinema’s ability to heal the wounds of a collective people through reflection and introspection. A more open society should have been making movies about September 11th years ago (which, to an extent, it has been on a metaphoric level, from the likes of Spike Lee and Steven Spielberg, among others), but nonetheless, to do so even now still risks a ruthless public flogging. Greengrass, however, felt it necessary to add to the collective dialogue through his medium of choice, United 93 being the ultimate offspring of his efforts. As expected, reactions ranged wildly, from James Berardinelli’s outpouring of praise (the film will most likely top his Best of 2006 list) to Slant Magazine’s Keith Uhlich’s damning “kiss of death”. Both are opinions I respect, despite, now having revisited the film, disagreeing with on different points and levels. Like so many unnecessarily controversial movies, I fall somewhere near the middle of the polarities.
First and foremost, United 93 exists to recreate the events on September 11th, 2001, in practically real time, the emphasis lying on the unseen conflict that took place aboard United Airlines Flight 93, the one hijacked airplane to crash before reaching its intended target (factually unknown, but suggested to be the White House in the film). This in itself is achieved with great proficiency, but United 93 stops at the level of straightforward docudrama recreation when such should be the platform for a greater inspection into the events of the day. In simple terms, the movies aims to – and succeeds beyond a doubt – at making the viewer miserable from start to finish, the cinematic equivalent of being raped continuously for two hours. This approach proves, sadly, to be a hollow experience; a gaping whole is left at the film’s core by the complete lack of illumination or even inquisition. United 93 doesn’t so much want to consider the importance of September 11th or our relationship to it in hindsight as it does convert it into the most unnecessarily torturous roller coaster experience Michael Bay never made.
The structure alone indicates that Greengrass’ ambitions outweigh his filmmaking skills; rather than opting for a completely singular experience relegated entirely to the events aboard the flight, the film cuts back and forth between the innards of Flight 93, the air traffic control headquarters in Boston, the FAA, and NORAD, inadvertently setting the film up for standardized (and borderline exploitative) thriller tactics. The respectful approach to the individuals themselves (despite aggravatingly unrealistic performances by the entire cast) ensures that this isn’t the case (the non-judgmental portrayal of terrorist and victim alike is perhaps the most admirable quality of the film, as it allows one to weigh the good and the bad on equal ground), but it’s not hard to imagine what could have been done with an approach less bound to convention.
The ultimate downfall isn’t that United 93 fails to give us any answers, but that it doesn’t ask any questions in the first place. The importance of September 11th is so immense that only generations of hindsight will be able to amply measure it, and for as relentlessly as the film inflicts the unforgettable events on the viewer all over again (in and of itself wholly acceptable), it doesn’t once attempt to ponder the significance and effects of these potent actions and destructive images and the ways in which they’ve changed the world (unacceptable). United 93 exists wholly in the moment, and in doing so it suggests that, even five years after the fact, we have to learn or grow from the attacks; this, sadly, is very much true, but that in no way permits the film to get off for its lack of exploration. The film, perhaps in fear of tarnishing the memory of those who died, opts for as apolitical an approach to the material as possible, yet by removing a crucial sense of social importance, it forgets that we're supposed to move onward and upward from the sacrifices that were made, and United 93 converts a potential act of growth into an unfortunate case of regression.
Note: My first-take thoughts on United 93 can be found here.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Upcoming Updates
As you may have noticed, I'm continuing to tweak things with the look of the blog, from the header (I think I've settled my screen shot of choice, for now), as well as the visual representations of my "star" ratings. I don't want this blog to become focused more on the look than the content, but a little snazz can't hurt (and just to nip a potential complaint in the bud, no, I didn't "steal" the star graphics from James Berardinelli's site, although I did have them in mind when I designed them; fate would have it that they are very much alike, and I don't imagine he would have any quibbles with that). I'm more than open to any suggestions for how to potentially take things. I also plan, when time permits, to create a new category in which to archive my non-movie posts (such as my political rantings, for the minority of you, if any, who care) and those that host YouTube clips.
Coming soon in the review department: The Black Dahlia, a revisitation to United 93, my first experience with the wonderful The Bicycle Thief, a dissenting view on Little Miss Sunshine, and my thoughts on the underrated The Lake House. In less than an hour I'll be leaving for my first-ever sneak preview, at which I'll catch The Guardian, starring Ashton Kutcher (find a happy place, find a happy place...), for Slant Magazine, so you can expect a link to that review in the near future. On that note, check out A.O. Scott's article on Brian De Palma in today's New York Times (thanks for the heads-up, Ed), where Slant gets some major word of mouth for their coverage of the director's filmography.
Coming soon in the review department: The Black Dahlia, a revisitation to United 93, my first experience with the wonderful The Bicycle Thief, a dissenting view on Little Miss Sunshine, and my thoughts on the underrated The Lake House. In less than an hour I'll be leaving for my first-ever sneak preview, at which I'll catch The Guardian, starring Ashton Kutcher (find a happy place, find a happy place...), for Slant Magazine, so you can expect a link to that review in the near future. On that note, check out A.O. Scott's article on Brian De Palma in today's New York Times (thanks for the heads-up, Ed), where Slant gets some major word of mouth for their coverage of the director's filmography.
Flip-Flopper!
September 15th, 2006
Q: Thank you, Mr. President. Earlier this week, you told a group of journalists that you thought the idea of sending special forces to Pakistan to hunt down bin Laden was a strategy that would not work…recently you’ve also described bin Laden as a sort of modern day Hitler or Mussolini. And I’m wondering why, if you can explain why you think it’s a bad idea to send more resources to hunt down bin Laden, wherever he is?
The President: Pakistan is a sovereign nation. In order for us to send thousands of troops into a sovereign nation, we’ve got to be invited by the government of Pakistan.
Uhm...
2004 State of the Union Address
The President: America will never seek a permission slip to defend the security of our country.
Ahem?
Friday, September 15, 2006
Mash-Up: 2001 GoodFellas
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Gojira (Godzilla) (1954)
Greatness in film often derives less from manifest perfection than it does more debatable flaws. Perfection suggests rigid structure, a quality most in opposition to the exploratory nature of art (although not necessarily in opposition to cinema’s potency as a storytelling medium), and artistic approaches that instill unease or discomfort (or even revilement) on one hand are often the most aesthetically charged and cause for celebration on the other. This kind of introduction would, admittedly, be more appropriate for one of the medium’s many “flawed” masterpieces; Apocalypse Now and Gangs of New York come to mind. Yet in the case of Ishirô Honda’s original Godzilla (to be referred to as its native Gojira hereafter) – a serious examination on the effects of nuclear war that has since become clouded by endless, cheesy sequels, rip-offs, and remakes – there is a definite case of cinematic split personality that should at least be examined before being accepted or rejected. Is it a bad movie? Technically speaking, yes, but movies are much more than just a technical exercise, and to suggest otherwise is to blaspheme. Yet the tagline “The Original Japanese Masterpiece,” printed on the newly released DVD set, is equally misleading.Like many, monster movies were a staple of my youth, and, along with endless “versus” sequels, Godzilla was introduced to me not in the form of Gojira, but the stripped-down, re-edited version released into American several years later (officially known as Godzilla, King of the Monsters!). Purists will endlessly speak of the original version; its scathing indictment of nuclear testing, and of its potent allegory. However, looking at both cuts side by side for the first time, it’s easy to see that the American version doesn’t so much dampen the metaphor as it does negate the originals preachy attitude (not to mention badly editing in Raymond Burr talking to Japanese extras, but nonetheless). Godzilla himself isn’t just a metaphor for nuclear power, he is a physical manifestation of it, and to think that audiences in America wouldn’t have noticed the connection less than ten years after (unnecessarily) kicking Japan’s ass is more than a bit naïve (or, if such was really the case, indicative of their own shortsightedness). Gojira, unlike its American brother, rarely ceases in its agenda pushing (which is not to suggest that agenda pushing is a bad thing in this case), the dialogue ridden with references to the bomb and the dangers thereof. As a 50-meter tall prehistoric menace, Godzilla would be dangerous enough, but when his dorsal fins glow ominously and radioactive fire bellows from his mouth, the lethal side effects of the weapon pack quite a wallop.
It’s earnestness notwithstanding, though, Gojira hosts many aspects that would even have the Mystery Science Theater cast rolling their eyes (appropriately enough, they watched many of the sequels in the show’s earlier seasons). With few exceptions, the human performers can’t act a lick, and from strictly technical standards, the film feels assembled from sloppy piecemeal. The latter attribute, however, lends a sense of authenticity through imagination to the film. During its 2004 re-release, Roger Ebert (arguably the most humane and socially conscious movie critic) belittled the movies look and low-budget restrictions. “Godzilla at times looks uncannily like a man in a lizard suit, stomping on cardboard sets, as indeed he was, and did” How ironic (if not necessarily wrong) it is to criticize the output of a country that recently had two major cities wiped clean off the planet for sub-par technical standards, especially when the work in question is a rumination on that very tragedy. Roger continues: “This was not state of the art even at the time; King Kong was much more convincing.” True, but nobody ever thought Kong to be real, and the slight artificiality lent Kong the surreal quality that the best special effects need to instill themselves in our imagination. The same goes for the rubber-suit Godzilla smashing model sets. Unlike the 1998 CGI “Zilla” (for he took the “God” out of Godzilla), there’s personality and soul here, and proper submission to the film will remove concern from the fact that the crashing fire truck and toppling buildings are obviously toys.
Gojira’s greatest claim is its destructive centerpiece, in which, prompted by military attacks on his aquatic domain, Godzilla rises from Tokyo bay to pay back the mainland; he is an amoral force of nature as destructive as he is childlike. Most effective is Akira Ifukube’s tense and soulful score, even if it’s used to some maudlin extent at times. Bathed in murky blacks and grays, the destruction of the city is a harrowing sequence, as Godzilla’s lumbering form topples landmarks and crushes onlookers underfoot while his path is marked by a sea of flames rising well above the skyline. Honda shoots these sequences not for their monster mash value, but for their humanitarian undertones, an approach that would rarely be reprised even in the wake of the film’s extensive influence (to date, only Steven Spielberg has topped the film’s use of imagery as an examination of social trauma, in his 9/11-saturated War of the Worlds). Meanwhile, the film adds an extra layer of moral pontification though the subplot involving Dr. Serazawa (Akihiko Hirata), whose scientific research yields an invention capable of destroying Godzilla, but is even more powerful than the forces that triggered him in the first place. Gorjia is a long cry from Dr. Strangelove, but in a day where the leaders of the most powerful country in the world hope to change military regulations so as to allow for first strike with nuclear arms, Godzilla is still as relevant a monster as ever.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Special Comment: Good Night, and Good Luck
Breaking the Waves (1996)
My chief concern with this review is that it might fail in giving the movie in question enough credit, so let me abandon any sense of subtlety for a moment and lay it out in simple terms: Lars Von Trier's Breaking the Waves is the best film I have yet seen from the 1990’s. Influenced by – but not in complete accordance with the rules of – the Dogme 95 cinematic movement co-founded by von Trier himself, the film takes a relatively simple story and reinvigorates its potential by stripping its technical qualities down to the bare, earthly elements. We’ve seen this sort of tale before, from Hollywood classics to Oscar-tailored hackwork to Lifetime movies of the week, but never with as much pulsing life force as exhibited here. Of course, one could hotly debate that Emily Watson is the chief reason for the films’ success (I’m more of a parts-to-the-whole onlooker than one who singles out specific elements), her performance as the naïve but loving and faithful Bess McNeill one of magnificent range and staggering emotional potential. No offense, Francis, but you can’t hold a candle.The opening scene finds Bess asking her local church elders (to whom, after God, she has always been most committed) for permission to marry her love, Jan (Stellan Skarsgård), who works on an oil rig north of her Scotland home. Permission is granted, hesitantly, and Bess’ best friend Dodo (Katrin Cartlidge) openly expresses her initial distrust to the new husband. (spoilers herein) Bess’ regular, open prayers to God do little to ease her pain when Jan has to leave again to work, and when Jan comes back early from a devastating neck injury after Bess asks God to bring him home, she sees herself to blame for his potentially paralyzing accident. Through her selfless dedication to God and Jan, Bess believes herself to be the only one who can save Jan; perhaps due to overmedication and hallucinations, the nearly crippled Jan asks Bess to make love to other men so that the stories of her endeavors might keep him alive longer. The more his condition worsens, the more desperate and dangerous her behavior becomes. All in the name of love.
As someone who knows people who have a hard time separating the concepts of religion and faith, it’s nothing short of my own little miracle to come across a film with such a boundless sense of the latter while also mercilessly indicting the hatred so often present in more fundamentalist brands of organized worship. At Bess’ church, woman can neither talk nor attend the burial during funerals, and after the wedding ceremonies, one of Jan’s rig buddies remarks how dull it is to have a church with no bells. The God Bess looks to and that which her church imagines are two distinctly different entities, and it’s not hard to guess which one ultimately provides her with redemption in the darkest of hours (long after her family and community have turned their backs). The film’s cumulative emotional wallop (during which my emotional display was nothing short of violent) is inseparable from its no-bullshit aesthetic; shot on video and transferred to film, the stark, grainy look lends itself to human emotion infinitely more than polished production values. The end result is an awe-inspiring testament to the power of life over death, of goodwill in the face of despair, and of love of a higher good in the face of earthly oppression. Even the bells of heaven would toll for a girl like Bess.
Monday, September 11, 2006
9/11 Anniversary, Take Two
With the exception of types and other insubstantial quibbles, my aim is to use this blog as sort of a running documentation, something to mirror myself as a writer, movie-lover, and a citizen, and because of that I feel it would be immoral to edit past entries or to change it in retrospect to make myself feel better. But, I can add to it, and use those additions to comment on things from the past. The past I speak of now is only a few hours ago, today. Truthfully, I feel that I unintentionally muted myself and my thoughts in my earlier post, somehow thinking that being truly expressive about my feelings might be the honorable thing to do. Bullshit. If I - or anyone else - has been angered by the U.S.'s actions since the worst day of our collective lives, it's no fucking "honor" to the dead to hold it back. Doing just that is the most offensive thing possible, because, if one truly beleives that their deaths have been manipulated for greed, evil, and other virtues of corruption, then keeping our cans shut is the worst thing possible.
So, how do I feel about the United States? Its government? I'm ashamed that almost half (if not more) of our country has succumbed to fear since then, clinging to insecure patriotism rather than dealing with the facts. I'm ashamed that the people who represent me are so condescending ("They hate us because of our freedoms." No--they hate us because of our involvement in the Middle East. It's not who we are, it's what we do). I'm ashamed that we've rushed into battle without a well defined plan, and I'm ashamed that we accept such bullshit on a daily basis under the pretense of it keeping us safe. I'm ashamed that most of us would rather accept an easy solution than accepting the harder truths, especially after those truths came home and murdered over 3,000 innocent people. I'm ashamed that we have reciprocated those actions by senselessly murdering more innocent people, and then hiding behind a flag and a cross rather than persecuting the assholes who call themselves American soldiers.
I'm ashamed that I have done more yet to correct these wrongs.
Greg Saunders, over at This Modern World, sums up many of my thoughts better than I could.
http://thismodernworld.com/3146
So yet again we trip over the classic flaw of supporting mediocrity rather than demanding better standards. That we haven't impeached this egghead says enough about American standards this very day. I can only hope that the time period during which I've grown up will one day be read in textbooks as the dark ages from which the American people one day overcome. If not, then I'll at least make sure it isn't my fault.
So, how do I feel about the United States? Its government? I'm ashamed that almost half (if not more) of our country has succumbed to fear since then, clinging to insecure patriotism rather than dealing with the facts. I'm ashamed that the people who represent me are so condescending ("They hate us because of our freedoms." No--they hate us because of our involvement in the Middle East. It's not who we are, it's what we do). I'm ashamed that we've rushed into battle without a well defined plan, and I'm ashamed that we accept such bullshit on a daily basis under the pretense of it keeping us safe. I'm ashamed that most of us would rather accept an easy solution than accepting the harder truths, especially after those truths came home and murdered over 3,000 innocent people. I'm ashamed that we have reciprocated those actions by senselessly murdering more innocent people, and then hiding behind a flag and a cross rather than persecuting the assholes who call themselves American soldiers.
I'm ashamed that I have done more yet to correct these wrongs.
Greg Saunders, over at This Modern World, sums up many of my thoughts better than I could.
http://thismodernworld.com/3146
To me it’s impossible to separate 9/11 from Hurricane Katrina. For four years we’d been promised that the leadership of George Bush and the Republican party could keep us safe, yet the aftermath of a natural disaster showed us that the federal government can’t even protect us from a threat they have a week to prepare for. How could we expect them to respond to a dirty bomb attack, on electromagnetic pulse, a nuclear bomb smuggled in a shipping container, another anthrax attack, a few trucks filled with fertilizer explosives surrounding a sports arena, or more airliners hijacked with terrorists using ceramic or plastic blades and crashing them into chemical plants, the New York Stock Exchange, or the Capitol building during the State of the Union?
So, where does that leave us? Well, the presidential administration we’re stuck with for the next two years is a deadly combination of arrogance, stubbornness, and being-wrong-about-everything-ness. But it is an election year (which you may have guessed from the President’s suddenly sparked interest in Osama Bin Laden), so there’s still an opportunity to change course.
So on this fifth anniversary of the worst day of my life, I’m tired of watching the country be crippled by its grief and fear. We’re in danger, things aren’t getting better, and we need to keep asking the same goddamn questions until we get answers. Who’s keeping us safe? Well, I know who isn’t.
So yet again we trip over the classic flaw of supporting mediocrity rather than demanding better standards. That we haven't impeached this egghead says enough about American standards this very day. I can only hope that the time period during which I've grown up will one day be read in textbooks as the dark ages from which the American people one day overcome. If not, then I'll at least make sure it isn't my fault.
Thoughts on September 11th
What can be said, really, that hasn’t been yet? Only five years have passed, but my guess is there are few people out there who can honestly say they haven’t been of an epic stretch. Reactions, of course, have been wildly different, and almost too much so. We now live in a black and white world, when such a destructive event should have unified us. Everything is now us versus them, left and right, democrat and republican, and no one wants to look further to distinguish the grey areas between absolute right and wrong.
This attitude has, unfortunately, encompassed the rest of the world, to an extent. Some fellow countries and their populations have insensitively insinuated that we need to “get over” the attacks, a statement triggered by our leaders’ despicable manipulation of the events to drive and justify their political aims, but one that forgets the deep emotional wounds that need to be healed. The United States has not (nor has it ever) been the ultimate purveyor of good this past half-decade, but looking at how deeply divided our ideas are of late will tell you how committed many of us are to bringing about a sense of good in the world (even if many of us are, one way or another, misguided in out attempts). We’re not “the greatest country in the world,” and nor is any one in particular. The last time I checked, the earth was round, and all efforts should be communal, not self-servicing, as they too often prove to be. We’ve certainly strayed off that track lately through our zealous nationalism and irrational, impatient approach to protecting ourselves. In defending our own soil, we’ve created fertile ground elsewhere to breed more of the hateful ideas that hurt us in the first place.
The introspection brought about by the attacks and their political aftermath is one that I doubt will ever go away, at least in my lifetime or as regards myself personally. I can’t speak for everyone. I do know, however, in regard to the person I am now as opposed to the person I was before
I’m almost ashamed to only be writing this today. Certainly, I’ve written about this and many other related aspects of the whole misbegotten situation many days before, but to relegate it only to the dreadful anniversary seems an act of cowardice. We must carry these memories with us every day, but rather than dwelling on them, we must move on and make the best use of them in the future. I fear that we’re yet far from doing so, and that one tragedy will only lead to another. Only time will tell, but we are not fruitless in our actions. Now, more than ever, apathy is the greatest enemy we have to face. I can only hope we choose to avoid its stranglehold.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Renovations
I'm the kind of person who, every couple of months, rearranges all the furniture in his living space so as to distill any ongoing sense of monotony. Change, even if only superficial and on the surface, helps make life more interesting, so it is only appropriate that that notion should also extend here. I'm not entirely finished playing around with the look of the site, but I'm pretty happy with this standardized template I found online (at least until my own coding skills improve). The only major thing I yet want to do is to enlarge the title bar atop the page and link a photo for the header, hopefully a screenshot that can be rotated every now and then to highlight another of my favorite films. Also, one final note: I'm a stickler for little things, and while I'd be happiest to review movies without a rating system, I've realized that stars, not letters, are my preference, and I'm still not so far along here that converting my older reviews is an impossibility. The most problematic aspect of this is the alteration of outside links, so it might be a bit dodgy handling that, but otherwise, expect my assessments to evolve from letters to either a four or five-star system in the near future.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Uwe Boll v. Oso
Several months back, angered at the almost universal revilement critics (not to mention audiences) have had towards his body of films (which includes House of the Dead, Alone in the Dark, and BloodRayne), German director Uwe Boll proposed a challenge to his biggest detractors: a boxing match that would ultimately be featured in his next movie (entitled Postal, about a mailman going, well, you know).
What he failed to mention is that he's a semi-pro boxer. Well, la-de-da. It shames me to see that anyone who would even call himself a "critic" would sink to this kind of juvenile sparring; yes, obviously ones level of training in sports equates to their ability to make good movies (or, at the least, movies of which the act of watching isn't equatable to having one's insides carved out with a rusty spoon). Guess what, Uwe? Your movies still suck. Horrifically so. If human civilization should fall and all that remains is a copy of House of the Dead, whatever culture unearths it will celebrate out departure. Why not take up boxing, or, for that matter, anything which you're remotely good at. You can't even approximate the labour-of-love awfulness that is Ed Wood's filmography. And the truly ironic thing is, for as insignificant as is his boxing victory, the video you see above is of better quality than all the best elements of at least Uwe's first two feature-length films combined.
What he failed to mention is that he's a semi-pro boxer. Well, la-de-da. It shames me to see that anyone who would even call himself a "critic" would sink to this kind of juvenile sparring; yes, obviously ones level of training in sports equates to their ability to make good movies (or, at the least, movies of which the act of watching isn't equatable to having one's insides carved out with a rusty spoon). Guess what, Uwe? Your movies still suck. Horrifically so. If human civilization should fall and all that remains is a copy of House of the Dead, whatever culture unearths it will celebrate out departure. Why not take up boxing, or, for that matter, anything which you're remotely good at. You can't even approximate the labour-of-love awfulness that is Ed Wood's filmography. And the truly ironic thing is, for as insignificant as is his boxing victory, the video you see above is of better quality than all the best elements of at least Uwe's first two feature-length films combined.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Manderlay (2005)
Despite the departure of Nicole Kidman and James Caan (and the subsequent replacement by Bryce Dallas Howard and Willem Dafoe) and the passage of several years since Dogville, Manderlay continues the same path without missing a beat, although it begs the question of whether this slightly different material merited the same minimalist style as its predecessor. Surely a trilogy (to be concluded with Wasington - that's right, no "h") that largely concerns itself with the superficiality of appearances wouldn’t itself need to conform to a continuous thread of visual similarity, but perhaps this is less a case of misused devices than it is merely an acknowledgment of how exceedingly well Dogville employed the same challenging approach. Grace (now played by a red-haired Howard) and her father’s roving gangsters have just left (after having obliterated) Dogville, and, traveling through the heartland of America, happen upon an enclosed plantation where, over seventy years after the abolition of slavery, the practice is still very much in full swing. Her guilty liberal attitude in full upswing, Grace uses her familial power to correct these discovered ills, although it quickly becomes apparent that, her best intentions notwithstanding, she isn’t entirely able to convert these sheltered negroes into equal, democratic citizens; habit and ingrained mentalities initially caused by enslavement linger long after freedom has been bestowed. In this regard, Manderlay outdoes almost any recent effort of late when it comes to deconstructing racial relations in America (I’m talking to you, Crash), even if it does so on a relatively specific historical level. The artificial aesthetic of the film is less overtly handled this time around (if I recall, only once did a character mime knocking on an invisible door), but nor do its events conclude with the same wrenching aplomb, all in all making for a slightly more ponderous – if less dramatically satisfying – example of a Von Trier puppet show.
The Break-Up (2006)
Quality notwithstanding, the marketing campaign for The Break-Up - which cast the film as something of a follow-up to lead Vince Vaughn’s comedic mega-hit Wedding Crashers - is one of the more heinous recent moves on the part of the entertainment industry. Still, the Scenes from a Marriage reminiscent poster, culling the same imagery of a couple upright in bed, is quite appropriate in projecting the film’s general tonalities. A generally dark examination of the end of a relationship which, were it not for a mixture of embarrassingly slapdash comedic elements possibly edited in after test audiences demanded more humor, might have been able to hold a minute candle to Bergman’s masterpiece, The Break-Up suffers from an inappropriate adherence to Hollywood convention even when the script screams for otherwise. Vaughn and Aniston are Gary and Brooke, whose long-term union suddenly reaches a breaking point: his obsession with videogames and her workaholic attitude finding no similar grounds on which to unify. The film finds effective expressions of separation and internal conflict by means of the architectural placement within their condo unit, but the dialogue (which makes up most of the films’ backbone) generally fails to probe amply beneath the surface, dealing more in generalities than exploring the intimate details of these characters. There’s more to love than hate here, but even its high-aimed but low-fueled intentions are thrown horribly askew by the reliance on overtly homosexual and needlessly weird supporting characters for inconsistent laughs, seemingly meant to break the otherwise overriding tension.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Continuing Star Wars: Somebody Call a Cease Fire
I've said this before, but I'll state it again just for the record. I like Star Wars. I own the original trilogy on both VHS and DVD, and also have Episode II (however painful large portions of it are) on DVD (III will follow, when my budget is more accommodating). I saw the prequels in the theaters, the latter two at the infamous midnight showings. But, nonetheless, Star Wars is overrated. They're far from my favorite movies. Sure, they're great fun, but they don't give me much in the way of deep feeling like the best movies do (E.T. and The Terminator do this, to name two examples from within the same general genre). Nonetheless, I'm sure I'll watch the first two films at least several more times before I die.
However...
At some point, you need to draw the line. The more zealous of fans quite literally scare me from time to time. My physical safety has been threatened at times when I didn't speak of Star Wars as if it were some sort of deity. Now, this. This is one of those times.
From SFGate:
Uhm... no, no, no, and no. Am I being sexist here? I suppose one could interpret it that way, although that is not what I intend. If female fans out there want to dress up as Stormtroopers, by all means. But I imagine that is less the case than it is the demand for this kind of fetishistic indulgance by the mostly virginal fan base, one that, however slimly I might technically be a part of by means of simply liking the movies, I increasingly want to be disassociated from specifically for these reasons. Get out and get a life, please! Watch other movies! Go to a strip club, even! Then again, were it not for people this outrageously committed to but 6-12 hours of celluloid, we wouldn't have this to enjoy:
On another note: the is the same theater that I got to see 2001 at.
EDIT: Unfortunately, the video previously hosted by YouTube has now been removed due to copyright violations. Unable to host this myself, I can only recommend that you take a look at the Triumph DVD collection; the skits are often scattershot, but when it comes to mindless lowbrow humor, few things tickle me more than the cigar-chomping mutt insulting juvenile Star Wars fans and American Idol wannabes, or guest hosting a local Hawaii weather channel.
However...
At some point, you need to draw the line. The more zealous of fans quite literally scare me from time to time. My physical safety has been threatened at times when I didn't speak of Star Wars as if it were some sort of deity. Now, this. This is one of those times.
From SFGate:
Uhm... no, no, no, and no. Am I being sexist here? I suppose one could interpret it that way, although that is not what I intend. If female fans out there want to dress up as Stormtroopers, by all means. But I imagine that is less the case than it is the demand for this kind of fetishistic indulgance by the mostly virginal fan base, one that, however slimly I might technically be a part of by means of simply liking the movies, I increasingly want to be disassociated from specifically for these reasons. Get out and get a life, please! Watch other movies! Go to a strip club, even! Then again, were it not for people this outrageously committed to but 6-12 hours of celluloid, we wouldn't have this to enjoy:
On another note: the is the same theater that I got to see 2001 at.
EDIT: Unfortunately, the video previously hosted by YouTube has now been removed due to copyright violations. Unable to host this myself, I can only recommend that you take a look at the Triumph DVD collection; the skits are often scattershot, but when it comes to mindless lowbrow humor, few things tickle me more than the cigar-chomping mutt insulting juvenile Star Wars fans and American Idol wannabes, or guest hosting a local Hawaii weather channel.
R.I.P., Steve Irwin
I never watched any of his endeavors much, but as a lover of nature as well as one who respects those who commit themselves to that which they love, my hat comes off to Mr. Irwin. He leaves behind an example to us all (the passage below comes from Warren Demontague on Greg the Bunny, in regards to the passing of a fellow cast member. He didn't die from a stingray, but I think the words retain the same meaning). Crikey!
"I can think of nothing more beautiful than to depart this earth doing what it is that you love. And, in Rochester's case, performing, dancing under those bright lights, a hoofing cowboy dying with his boots on. So I salute you, Rochester, my rival, my friend, for going out in a grand, theatrical style. And I tip my hat to Greg. Son, you cared enough to give Rochester the greatest gift that a man can receive. A smile to shape his very last breath. So, to Rochester."
"I can think of nothing more beautiful than to depart this earth doing what it is that you love. And, in Rochester's case, performing, dancing under those bright lights, a hoofing cowboy dying with his boots on. So I salute you, Rochester, my rival, my friend, for going out in a grand, theatrical style. And I tip my hat to Greg. Son, you cared enough to give Rochester the greatest gift that a man can receive. A smile to shape his very last breath. So, to Rochester."
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Screening Log, September 2006
September 1st
A Cantor's Tale (2004)
Dir: Jack Mendelson
Source: Ergo Media Screener VHS
This little indie documentary doesn't even have its own IMDB page yet (updated September 14th); it opens in New York City on the 6th.
Full review here.
September 2nd
Kairo (2001)
Dir: Kiyoshi Kurosawa
Source: Magnolia Pictures DVD
Possibly the single best thing to emerge out of the recent J-horror wave (as opposed to The Grudge, which I stumbled out of laughing after but half an hour), Kurosawa's ruminating work employs conventions of the horror genre in service of a soul-stripping look at a culture descending into complete apocalypse as a result of its indulgances into technology. The living are estranged from each other, and the dead are resurfacing in the physical realm. The ghostly, repeating plea for help is one of the most frightening things I've ever heard in a film.
September 3rd
Click (2006)
Dir: Frank Coraci
Source: Theatrical Print
Well here's a movie I'm more than a bit bipolar about. At the halfway point, I was ready to award this latest Adam Sandler vehicle an early placement on my worst-of-2006 list. Then, in a series of completely unmerited (yet somehow still effective) steals from It's a Wonderful Life, whaddya know, it kind of won me over. Still, the movie is not without its problems, even if it ultimately does exhibit some very genuine insights that, although downtrodden by conventions taken from thousands of other films, still feel like they come from some true experience. Adam Sandler would be much better off, however, if he could divorce his attempts at imporating wisdom from his fondness for nasty (and often painfully unfunny) jokes involves swearing children, small penises, and horny canines.
September 4th
The Player (1992)
Dir: Robert Altman
Source: New Line DVD
Kind of the retroactive flipside to Spike Jonze's Adaptation., The Player takes a highly fictionalized look at the upper end of movie production, employing every convention in the book only to turn them on their head in a gloriously cynical indictment of cinematic superficiality. It's sad because it's so very true. And, I quote: "Where the fuck is your mother buried?"
Carrie (1976)
Dir: Brian De Palma
Source: MGM DVD
This is the first movie to be seen in my current attempt to catch up on all things De Palma (previously, I've only watched Scarface and The Untouchables, the two movies apparently most unlike his regular form). The regular charge against De Palma is that he too much emphasizes style over substance; chances are that most are unable to see the substance through the style, especially since De Palma likes to blow things slightly out of proportion to begin with, and to delicious effect. "Horror" is a limiting term to assign to this film, as it is equally about social cruelty (De Palma hit the nail on the head here long before Columbine) and religious oppression as it is its visceral destruction. I imagine my enjoyment of this will only grow with my knowledge of De Palma's catalogue and my becoming accustomed to his intentionally obtuse stylistics.
September 6th
The Break-Up (2006)
Dir: Peyton Reed
Source: VHS Screener
Full review here.
September 7th
Manderlay (2005)
Dir: Lars Von Trier
Source: IFC DVD
Full review here.
September 8th
September 10th
Dir: Ishirô Honda
Source: Sony DVD
Full review here.
September 15th
The Bicycle Theif (1948)
Dir: Vittorio De Sica
Source: DVD
It's about time I caught up with this much-deserved classic, a mournful look at the crushing effects of an employment shortage on the lower classes, and the economic circumstances that all but demand a compromise of one's ethics so that they and their family won't go hungry. And, to respond to Griffin Mill: No, we shouldn't remake this one.
The Black Dahlia (2006)
Dir: Brian De Palma
Source: Theatrical Print
That this one is getting almost vitriolic negative responses from critics and audiences alike is probably as satisfying an outcome as De Palma could have hoped for. To risk sounding snobbish (although I really don't care), The Black Dahlia's delicious mixture of intentionally overcooked genre conventions and overwrought campiness is something that will go over most people's formalism-demanding heads. Sure, the movie isn't without its misfires, and it all kind of fails to gel together in a wholly satisfying way in the end, but I'll be damned if De Palma's latest exercise in intentional cartoon-ery isn't one of the most entertaining things I've seen this year. Damn the studios for misadvertising a film and outright damning it once again, for this is not (and nor does it aspire to be) L.A. Confidential.
September 16th
The Guardian (2006)
Dir: Andrew Davis
Source: Theatrical Print
Ugh.
September 20th
Akeelah and the Bee (2006)
Dir: Doug Atchinson
Source: Lions Gate DVD
That Akeelah and the Bee's trailer was a perfect fit was, unfortunately, the worst kind of advertising imaginable, for while the film calls to mind thousands of others made in the same vein, the difference between that Akeelah brings honesty and emotional weight to material plundered for cheap effect countless times before. Some parts are a bit creaky, particularly some flirtations with racial stereotype, but while the film might exist within a well-known mold, even then it provides dimension and motivation. This one slipped under the radar in theaters; hopefully it will find its home on DVD with the right audience.
September 21st
Aguirre: The Wrath of God (1972)
Dir: Werner Herzog
Source: DVD
Quite possibly the most hauntingly ethereal film ever made, Herzog's masterpeice (one of many, I might add) follows the ficititious efforts of a Spanish religious expedition into the depths of the Peruvian jungle. Led by Don Lope de Aguirre (Klaus Kinski) after a successful mutiny, the small group (accompanied by women and captured natives) continues down the unforgiving river, eventually succumbing to the elements and their own slowly onsetting madness. The camera here feels as detached as the title characters psyche, and indeed, everyone else on the doomed voyage. As Aguirre, Kinski's face - particularly his blue eyes - proves to be one of the most haunting sights in all of cinema, seemingly the result of madness manifest. The opening shot sets the tone, as does the otherwordly score by German electronic band Popol Vuh; an impossibly long line of men slowly snakes its way down the side of a mountain, cutting through layers of jungle marked by the clouds and fog amongst them. Few images convey the impossible power of nature over man more aptly, and few films cut deeper into the dark recesses of the human spirit with such breathless ease.
A Cantor's Tale (2004)
Dir: Jack Mendelson
Source: Ergo Media Screener VHS
This little indie documentary doesn't even have its own IMDB page yet (updated September 14th); it opens in New York City on the 6th.
Full review here.
September 2nd
Kairo (2001)
Dir: Kiyoshi Kurosawa
Source: Magnolia Pictures DVD
Possibly the single best thing to emerge out of the recent J-horror wave (as opposed to The Grudge, which I stumbled out of laughing after but half an hour), Kurosawa's ruminating work employs conventions of the horror genre in service of a soul-stripping look at a culture descending into complete apocalypse as a result of its indulgances into technology. The living are estranged from each other, and the dead are resurfacing in the physical realm. The ghostly, repeating plea for help is one of the most frightening things I've ever heard in a film.
September 3rd
Click (2006)
Dir: Frank Coraci
Source: Theatrical Print
Well here's a movie I'm more than a bit bipolar about. At the halfway point, I was ready to award this latest Adam Sandler vehicle an early placement on my worst-of-2006 list. Then, in a series of completely unmerited (yet somehow still effective) steals from It's a Wonderful Life, whaddya know, it kind of won me over. Still, the movie is not without its problems, even if it ultimately does exhibit some very genuine insights that, although downtrodden by conventions taken from thousands of other films, still feel like they come from some true experience. Adam Sandler would be much better off, however, if he could divorce his attempts at imporating wisdom from his fondness for nasty (and often painfully unfunny) jokes involves swearing children, small penises, and horny canines.
September 4th
The Player (1992)
Dir: Robert Altman
Source: New Line DVD
Kind of the retroactive flipside to Spike Jonze's Adaptation., The Player takes a highly fictionalized look at the upper end of movie production, employing every convention in the book only to turn them on their head in a gloriously cynical indictment of cinematic superficiality. It's sad because it's so very true. And, I quote: "Where the fuck is your mother buried?"
Carrie (1976)
Dir: Brian De Palma
Source: MGM DVD
This is the first movie to be seen in my current attempt to catch up on all things De Palma (previously, I've only watched Scarface and The Untouchables, the two movies apparently most unlike his regular form). The regular charge against De Palma is that he too much emphasizes style over substance; chances are that most are unable to see the substance through the style, especially since De Palma likes to blow things slightly out of proportion to begin with, and to delicious effect. "Horror" is a limiting term to assign to this film, as it is equally about social cruelty (De Palma hit the nail on the head here long before Columbine) and religious oppression as it is its visceral destruction. I imagine my enjoyment of this will only grow with my knowledge of De Palma's catalogue and my becoming accustomed to his intentionally obtuse stylistics.
September 6th
The Break-Up (2006)
Dir: Peyton Reed
Source: VHS Screener
Full review here.
September 7th
Manderlay (2005)
Dir: Lars Von Trier
Source: IFC DVD
Full review here.
September 8th
The Covenant (2006)
Dir: Renny Harlin
Source: Theatrical Print
More special-effect soulless studio crap. Review here.
September 10th
Breaking the Waves (1996)
Dir: Lars Von Trier
Source: Artisan DVD
This is the kind of movie that tears you open, shakes you to the core, and changes your very life in the process. The ending is one of the most heavenly things I've ever seen.
September 13th
Dir: Ishirô Honda
Source: Sony DVD
Full review here.
September 15th
The Bicycle Theif (1948)
Dir: Vittorio De Sica
Source: DVD
It's about time I caught up with this much-deserved classic, a mournful look at the crushing effects of an employment shortage on the lower classes, and the economic circumstances that all but demand a compromise of one's ethics so that they and their family won't go hungry. And, to respond to Griffin Mill: No, we shouldn't remake this one.
The Black Dahlia (2006)
Dir: Brian De Palma
Source: Theatrical Print
That this one is getting almost vitriolic negative responses from critics and audiences alike is probably as satisfying an outcome as De Palma could have hoped for. To risk sounding snobbish (although I really don't care), The Black Dahlia's delicious mixture of intentionally overcooked genre conventions and overwrought campiness is something that will go over most people's formalism-demanding heads. Sure, the movie isn't without its misfires, and it all kind of fails to gel together in a wholly satisfying way in the end, but I'll be damned if De Palma's latest exercise in intentional cartoon-ery isn't one of the most entertaining things I've seen this year. Damn the studios for misadvertising a film and outright damning it once again, for this is not (and nor does it aspire to be) L.A. Confidential.
September 16th
The Guardian (2006)
Dir: Andrew Davis
Source: Theatrical Print
Ugh.
September 20th
Dir: Doug Atchinson
Source: Lions Gate DVD
That Akeelah and the Bee's trailer was a perfect fit was, unfortunately, the worst kind of advertising imaginable, for while the film calls to mind thousands of others made in the same vein, the difference between that Akeelah brings honesty and emotional weight to material plundered for cheap effect countless times before. Some parts are a bit creaky, particularly some flirtations with racial stereotype, but while the film might exist within a well-known mold, even then it provides dimension and motivation. This one slipped under the radar in theaters; hopefully it will find its home on DVD with the right audience.
September 21st
Aguirre: The Wrath of God (1972)
Dir: Werner Herzog
Source: DVD
Quite possibly the most hauntingly ethereal film ever made, Herzog's masterpeice (one of many, I might add) follows the ficititious efforts of a Spanish religious expedition into the depths of the Peruvian jungle. Led by Don Lope de Aguirre (Klaus Kinski) after a successful mutiny, the small group (accompanied by women and captured natives) continues down the unforgiving river, eventually succumbing to the elements and their own slowly onsetting madness. The camera here feels as detached as the title characters psyche, and indeed, everyone else on the doomed voyage. As Aguirre, Kinski's face - particularly his blue eyes - proves to be one of the most haunting sights in all of cinema, seemingly the result of madness manifest. The opening shot sets the tone, as does the otherwordly score by German electronic band Popol Vuh; an impossibly long line of men slowly snakes its way down the side of a mountain, cutting through layers of jungle marked by the clouds and fog amongst them. Few images convey the impossible power of nature over man more aptly, and few films cut deeper into the dark recesses of the human spirit with such breathless ease.