Blog For Free!
Archives
Home
2005 October
2005 August
2005 July
2005 June
2005 March
2005 February
2005 January
2004 December
2004 November
2004 October
2004 September
2004 August
2004 July
2004 June
2004 May
2004 April
2004 March
2004 February
2004 January
2003 December
2003 November
2003 October
2003 September
2003 August
My Links
Mixed Reviews Home
Modern Fabulousity
Brilliant at Breakfast
Cinemarati
Film Snobs
Filmsnobs's Blog
Low IQ Canadian
The Nedpages
Nick's Flick Picks
The Film Experience
The Flick Filosopher
Strictly Film School
Dan Jardine's Cinemania
Slant Magazine
CineMe
Window to the Movies
Then Fuck You Jack: The Life and Art of Vern
Flim Flam Flummox at Movie Poop Shoot
Deep-Focus
Catherine Cantieri
Critical Eye
tBlog
My Profile
Send tMail
My tFriends
My Images
Sponsored
Blog
Visit us at: 
|
| UNDERWORLD |
| 09.23.03 (2:15 pm) [edit] |
[b]
Cast:[/b] Kate Beckinsale, Scott Speedman, Shane Brolly, Michael Sheen, and Bill Nighy
[b]Directed by:[/b] Len Wiseman
[b]Written by:[/b] Kevin Grevioux, Len Wiseman and Danny McBride
[b]Distributor:[/b] Screen Gems (USA 2003)
[b]Rated:[/b] R for strong violence/gore and some language
Reviewed by: [b]GABRIEL SHANKS[/b]
The question for werewolves and vampires these days is, to paraphrase Rodney King -- can we all just get along? And the only real answer any of us can give them is, Who Knows. But the larger, more salient question for us mere mortals who watch this epic battle splayed on the screen in UNDERWORLD is not whether peace among ghouls is possible, or even to be or not to be. The question is -- is UNDERWORLD simply derivative, or an inspired derivation?
The first few moments of Len Wiseman's moody actioner would clearly argue the former. Perched on a ledge overlooking Gotham City -- er, Prague, or some other gothic-inspired Euroburg -- is Catwoman. Or someone who looks astonishingly like Catwoman but is not. Actually, it is Selene (Kate Beckinsale), gorgeously decked out in black vinyl from head to foot, surveying the architecture. Against an industrial blue-filtered landscape that would make Tim Burton proud, Trinity leaps to find Neo...oops, rather, Kate leaps to find the vampires. She chases down The One, an unknowning mortal who has yet to be awakened to his very special existence. I mean The Human One. Where is Wesley Snipes' Blade when you need him?
So, okay, you get the picture -- this is horror thrills for the MATRIX generation, and the urban sci-fi scenic design, moody lighting, pouty acting, and oversized guns (that shoot silver bullets, natch) all signal you to the clues that, yes, you've been down this road before.
But maybe you haven't. For about twenty minutes in, UNDERWORLD starts to surprise and startle with its exploration of modern-day vampirism. The story -- chronicling a centuries-old blood feud between the two races of immortals -- is fascinating, an imaginative revision that energizes the genre more than anything has since Anne Rice started interviewing. What emerges is nothing less that an otherworldly class war: the downtrodden werewolves are looking to conquer their darkside nemeses the vampires, who have become slothful and lazy in their indulgences.
But not all vampires have gone to seed. Selene is one of the last of the Death Dealers, a super-spy/bounty hunter division of the vampire hierarchy. As she investigates the werewolves' sudden interest in a human (Speedman), things begin to intensify and coalesce into an entertaining race for a prize that neither side is truly ready for.
High concept? In spades. But the cool-blue iciness of Tony Pierce-Roberts' cinematography and the stony ferocity of Beckinsale's Selene keep everyone's feet firmly on the ground, and lend it a kicky, infectious energy. Speedman dutifully supplies the clueless hunk factor, and Wiseman sagely casts the major bad-guy vampire and werewolf with brilliant character actors Sheen (Wilde) and Nighy (Antonia and Jane).
The simple recipe here is that UNDERWORLD is familiar enough, while being different enough. Fans of Dracula will like it, fans of THE MATRIX will like it, and fans of PULP FICTION will like it...without punishing the movie for its thefts from those earlier, better films. It's Hollywood's new formula -- plagarize, but improve -- done as well as one is likely to see. When one goes digging in the UNDERWORLD, derivative isn't a dirty word at all.
|
|
|
| |
| LOST IN TRANSLATION |
| 09.19.03 (7:06 pm) [edit] |
[b]
Cast:[/b] Bill Murray, Scarlett Johansson and Giovanni Ribisi
[b]Directed by:[/b] Sofia Coppola
[b]Written by:[/b] Sofia Coppola
[b]Distributor:[/b] Focus Features (USA 2003)
[b]Rated:[/b] R for some sexual content
Reviewed by: [b]GABRIEL SHANKS[/b]
Ah, to be a movie lover in the new millennium. Sigh.
Sure, there are some good people working in Hollywood. Sure. Even a great one here and there. But the undeniable truth is that greatness is hardly the norm, as anyone who has seen any of Ben Affleck's 2003 releases can tell you.
The real finds -- oh, so lamentably precious nowadays (whine whine) -- are when something [i]arrives[/i]. A shock. A breath of unfiltered air. A talent. And the oh-so-rare ecstacy is most giddily exciting when a grade-A, bona fide [i]talent[/i] for the history books emerges. Ah, what bliss.
Which is what makes the imminent world domination of Sofia Coppola sweeter than the best Italian wine. Her second film, LOST IN TRANSLATION, does more than erase the memories of her teenage indiscretion performing in her father's GODFATHER PART III; it does more than prove that her dreamy debut masterpiece, THE VIRGIN SUICIDES, was no fluke. This assured, rich, luxuriant stroke of genius moves her onto the very short list of the most interesting, most inviting, and yes -- most important -- directors working today.
LOST IN TRANSLATION is a gossamer creation of the most exquisite design, not necessarily because of what it shows, but what it doesn't. Restraint is the name of the game in this chamber piece, where a former Hollywood star (Murray) meets a young, disenchanted newlywed (Johansson) while staying one lonely, desolate week in Tokyo. Their attraction is barely recognized on the film's surface, and their deeper emotional and psychological connections are expressed most poignantly in the glances, sighs, and exhalations that pepper their conversations in the hotel bar. Arguably the most important line in the film is one that the audience never hears; Coppola ingeniously leaves it to the characters to whisper it to one another, leaving our pulsing imaginations to fill in the gaps.
LOST IN TRANSLATION shows tremendous growth in Coppola's already formidable talent. Her first original screenplay, TRANSLATION trades in the sun-kissed surreality of SUICIDES for elegant melancholy, a mood that contrasts sharply with the garish entertainment theme park that Toyko is rapidly becoming. Never rushed, never pushed, Coppola's steady hand is felt in almost every frame, gently coaxing her subjects and story to a deeper, invigorating resolution.
To say that the performances are Oscar-worthy is certainly an understatement; it may, in fact, do them a disservice, since their lack of showiness is their most appealing quality. Bill Murray, who has spent the last ten years turning in magnificent performances in small films (RUSHMORE, GROUNDHOG DAY, HAMLET, THE ROYAL TENENBAUMS), may final strike gold with his finely textured work here. Entire scenes are told in silence, with Murray's expressive face telling us everything we need to know.
Scarlet Johansson, who has already won the Best Actress award at the Venice Film Festival for her performance, finally supplants Thora Birch as the best young actress working in Hollywood. LOST IN TRANSLATION allows Johansson a maturity and complexity that her previous roles have not. Her naturally cool demeanor is a perfect fit for Coppola's cool storytelling, and the marriage of actor and director reminds one of the great partnerships of Hollywood's heyday: DeNiro and Scorsese, Newman and Hill, Pacino and Lumet.
By modern movie standards, the steady pace and quiet heartbreak of LOST IN TRANSLATION may have some audiences checking their watches after the jokes die away. But here is a rich pleasure for those who will commit to follow its path. Like many of the great directors, it is a film that accumulates as it goes along -- think of Bertolucci's LAST TANGO IN PARIS, or Sofia's papa, Francis Ford Coppola, and APOCALYPSE NOW or THE COVERSATION. It is a sublime experience; even if the translation is hard to follow, it is worth the time, the energy, and the money to learn Sofia Coppola's language.
|
|
|
| |
| ONCE UPON A TIME IN MEXICO |
| 09.15.03 (7:48 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Antonio Banderas, Johnny Depp, Salma Hayek, Ruben Blades, and Cheech Marin
[b]Directed by:[/b] Robert Rodriguez
[b]Written by:[/b] Robert Rodriguez
[b]Distributor:[/b] Dimension Films (USA 2003)
[b]Rated:[/b] R for strong violence and for language
Reviewed by: [b]GABRIEL SHANKS[/b]
A candy-coated, violence-saturated extravaganza, ONCE UPON A TIME IN MEXICO is noteworthy for its mindless jubilance and its infectious energy. But despite its eagerness to please, its most fascinating legacy may be the vision of its maker, Robert Rodriguez. Film 101 students, take note: any time a film is directed, written, edited, shot, and even scored by one person, it is safe to assume that the film in question is a [i]very[/i] personal creation. And ONCE UPON A TIME IN MEXICO, blockbuster though it may be, is quite a bit more -- it is indisputably, irrefutably an auteurist experience.
Rodriguez, the blockbuster-on-the-cheap force of nature behind the SPY KIDS trilogy and MEXICO's two predecessors, EL MARIACHI and DESPERADO, has proven with his latest film to have both the potential and the pitfalls seen in earlier efforts: an astounding mastery of camera technique, an intuitive sense for visual impact, a thorough understanding of the action genre, and a complete inadequacy when it comes to narrative and plot.
Which is not unimportant. In fact, it's the nagging problem that keeps ONCE UPON A TIME IN MEXICO from being a perfect slice of late-summer fun cake. Borrowing characters and lost story threads from MARIACHI and DESPERADO, the messy nonsense includes some vague business about a [i]coup d'etat[/i] of the Mexican government and a corrupt CIA agent (Johnny Depp) who hires a gunslinging guittarista (Antonio Banderas) to stop it. And Enrique Igleisias. Yeah, I don't get it, either.
But it must be said that on some level, what MEXICO is or is not about is completely beside the point. Who wants to argue plot points when the explosions are so (is there any other word) beautiful? Shot on digital video, the blindingly bright colors of rural Mexico pop and crackle against the adobe buildings and the whipsmart costumes. Large production sequences, especially an extended Day of the Dead celebration, are so marvelous that one forgets about watching the movie in the first place.
Once could nitpick other points: the character inconsistencies, the bad acting (Enrique Iglesias? Why oh why?), or the choppy-furious editing that demands a Ritalin prescription. Any of these thoughts, however, are drowned out by Rodriguez's fascinating parade of violent-joyous imagery. It's as if the director is saying quietly in the background, hey...it's all parlor tricks, but they aren't half bad, are they?
Robert Rodriguez is a artist of limited gifts, certainly, but those gifts are exquisite -- and he uses them to great effect in ONCE UPON A TIME IN MEXICO. Certainly Shaw enthusiasts, budding screenwriters, and audiences that enjoy tidier endings (or heck, any ending at all) would do well to stay away. But for those who can enjoy spectacle and talent in equal measure...Go. Inhale. Enjoy.
|
|
|
| |
| A MIGHTY WIND |
| 09.12.03 (7:07 am) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Catherine O'Hara, Eugene Levy, Bob Balaban, Christopher Guest, Michael McKean, Harry Shearer, John Michael Higgins, Ed Begley Jr., Fred Willard, and Parker Posey
[b]Directed by:[/b] Christopher Guest
Written by: Christopher Guest and Eugene Levy
[b]Distributor:[/b] Warner Bros Pictures (USA 2003)
[b]Rated:[/b] PG-13 for sex-related humor
Reviewed by: [b]Gabriel Shanks[/b]
It's really not enough to describe Christopher Guest's savvy, specialized oeuvre of pop-culture mockumentary. His films, which include the polished diamonds [i]Waiting For Guffman[/i], [i]Best In Show[/i], and [i]This Is Spinal Tap[/i], are glimpses into the outer fringes of Americana, sure. But that description simply does not do them justice; more than any other filmmaker in recent history, Guest fpregrounds cinema's experiential nature. He revels in lampooning and deconstructing America's obsession with eavesdropping as entertainment, as theatrical a conceit as Artaud ever hoped for. Guest and his faithful company do not simply create a movie, they create a universe, one that we get not only to peer into, but to live in. Guest has done more than reinvent a genre; he has embraced cinema's immediacy and its intimacy, and in doing so, breathed fresh life into the stale air of American cinematic comedy.
That air metaphor might lead to an impressive pun about Guest and [b]A MIGHTY WIND[/b], but I'll leave the jokes to Guest's miraculous ensemble, who find both guffaws and heartbreak in their sendup of 60's folk musicians attending a reunion concert at Town Hall. There are ghosts from the past in these walls, none more potent that the ones made into delirious fun by Mitch and Mickey, aka Eugene Levy and Catherine O'Hara, who imbue their failed musical and romantic partnership with a knowing pathos. Secrets abound, including the cult-like leanings of The New Main Street Singers (led by the marvelous John Michael Higgins) and the charming bass player of The Folksmen (Harry Shearer, in a joke that's too good to give up here). Watching this ensemble makes an impressive case for the validity of long-term collaboration; they've worked together for so long now, they bring an effortless ease to their banter, and a spirited flow missing even from most scripted movies. Songs written by the group are dead-on perfect imitations of the folk hits of the period, making this the must-have, bad-music soundtrack of the year. Go, sit back, relax and enjoy professionals at the top of their game; and if you don't fall out of your chair watching O'Hara strum her autoharp while she sings about hygiene products, you have no soul. Or no funny bone, at least.
|
|
|
| |
| SHAOLIN SOCCER |
| 09.11.03 (3:01 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Stephen Chow, Vicky Zhao, Man Tat Ng, and Patrick Tse
[b]Directed by:[/b] Stephen Chow
[b]Written by:[/b] Stephen Chow and Kan-Cheung Tsang
Distributor: Miramax (USA 2003)
[b]Rated: [/b]PG for martial arts action and some thematic elements
A virtual one-man hit machine in Asia, director/actor Stephen Chow has hit on a masterstroke of lunacy in his latest film, a so-bad-its-good mix of genre cliches, sports films and martial arts called [b]SHAOLIN SOCCER[/b]. A master of idiotic, nonsensical plotlines, Chow's screenplay is paper-thin and his special effects are weak...but when something is such blissful stupid fun, how can you hate it?
Quickly now, since plot is not really the point: a down-on-his-luck former soccer star, Golden Leg (Man Tat Ng), would like to triumph over the evil coach who sold him out years ago (Patrick Tse). Walking down the street, he finds Sing (Chow), a street urchin who is a former acolyte of the ancient Shaolin tradition, a mythic combination of spiritual resonance and martial arts. Sing wants the world to discover Shaolin; Golden Leg needs to win a soccer match. It doesn't get much deeper than that.
But laughs, of course, are in store, as the superhuman power of Sing and his Shaolin "brothers" create opportunities for imaginative (although badly-designed) special effects with soccer balls. And there is a healthy dollop of self-aware wit, as Chow sends up not only himself, but other cinematic genre tricks; you'll find camera references to Bruce Lee, Sergio Leone, Spielberg's [i]Jurassic Park [/i]and [i]E.T.[/i], and Martin Scorsese in amongst the penalty kicks. For the most part, though, these smart sleight-of-hands are besides the point; it is the sheer lunacy of [b]SHAOLIN SOCCER[/b], combined with the earnest, goodnatured appeal of Chow and his ensemble, that make the film irresistble to watch. It's the highest-grossing film ever in Hong-Kong; expect it to have a long, enjoyable life here in the U.S. as a cult favorite. Check your brain at the door, and enjoy being entertained.
|
|
|
| |
| X2: X-MEN UNITED |
| 09.11.03 (2:59 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Patrick Stewart, Hugh Jackman, Ian McKellen, Halle Berry, Famke Janssen, James Marsden, Rebecca Romijm-Stamos, Brian Cox, Alan Cumming, Bruce Davison, Kelly Hu, and Anna Paquin
[b]Directed by:[/b] Bryan Singer
[b]Written by:[/b] Michael Dougherty, Daniel P. Harris, and David Hayter
[b]Distributor:[/b] 20th Century Fox (USA 2002)
[b]Rated:[/b] PG-13 for sci-fi action/violence, some sexuality and brief language
The comic-book movie is rapidly becoming a summer-season staple in Hollywood, and critics can often find them easy to dismiss as geek-boy entertainment. Certainly, some studios are just cashing in -- obvious enough to anyone who's had to sit through Daredevil -- but some directors, on the other hand, are recognizing a dramatic potential in the drama, one that Stan Lee and other comic-book creators have known for some time...that in telling the stories of heroes (even super ones), we end up creating a wholly new, distinctly American mythology. And if you've ever read The Odyssey, you know that myths have a way of hanging around. People need them; people want them.
Certainly Bryan Singer is a director who realizes that comic books are more than just pulp. For in his new film, [b]X2: X-MEN UNITED[/b], Singer has made a surging leap forward, bringing his tale of mutants and superpowers into a larger social context of governmental overreaction, the relationship between prejudice and violence, and a populist discussion of the nature of genocide. It is a credit to him, and to his writers, that X2 takes such a dramatic, fascinating, and satisfying turn from its exciting but clunky predecessor. For like [i]The Empire Strikes Back[/i], it is the rare fantasy sequel that is light-years better than its original; like [i]Spider-Man[/i], [i]Batman Returns [/i]and [i]Superman[/i], it moves its story from mere entertainment to the realm of high drama and back again, becoming an instant classic among films based on this very American art form
An impressive screenplay delves deep into social paranoia around the "mutant problem", with a new villain (the military scientist Striker, played with devilish ferocity by Brian Cox) leading a military coup against Professor Xavier's (Patrick Stewart) mutant school. The tale gives more screen time to characters neglected in the first X-Men film, especially the telepath Jean Grey (Famke Janssen), who is undergoing a personal and psychic metamorphosis, and Storm (Halle Berry), the newly-Oscared member of the ensemble who now (perhaps thanks to her Oscar) gets to kick a lot more butt. Newcomer Nightcrawler (Alan Cumming) is torn between fear and his religious beliefs, and the teenager Iceman (Shawn Ashmore, in a much larger role) has to deal with coming out as a mutant to his parents while beginning a romance with Rogue (Anna Paquin). Perhaps most exciting is the realization that the only hope of mutants may lie with the evil Magneto (Ian McKellen), forging an unholy alliance between the last film's heroes and villains to stop a new threat...namely, Us.
It is some credit to Hugh Jackman, then, that he still manages to be the most arresting presence on the screen; as Wolverine, Jackman is that rare case of performer wedded perfectly to character. Whether extending his claws, fighting the bad guys, or wrestling with his inner demons, Jackman is magnificent. This is what any film, comic-book or other, strives for. It is the stuff, to paraphrase another great, talented mythmaker, that dreams are made of.
|
|
|
| |
| MAX |
| 09.10.03 (2:36 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] John Cusack, Noah Taylor, Molly Parker, Leelee Sobieski
[b]Directed by:[/b] Menno Meyjes
[b]Written by:[/b] Menno Meyjes
[b]Distributor:[/b] Lions Gate Films (USA 2002)
[b]Rated:[/b] R for language
The extent to which you may or may not like Menno Meyjes' new film MAX, I think, depends not on your love for its producer/star John Cusack or its clear command of the medium. Truthfully, there's only one question to ask yourself before you plop down your hard-earned cash at the ticket window. And that is: how much leeway are you willing to give Adolf Hitler as a fictional character?
This isn't a sensationalized question, for Hitler is the central character and concern of [b]MAX[/b]...or at least, a young artist named Hitler is, a man who we know will grow up to become the most barbaric killer of the 20th century. In Meyjes' brooding film, however, he is not yet Hitler, Capital H; he is just Dolf (Noah Taylor), an angry, insecure painter whose search for self-expression torments both him and his erstwhile friend, Max (Cusack), a Jewish gallery owner. As the two men quarrel over the nature of art, politics, and the need for an honest experience, Meyjes quietly suggests that Hitler, Capital H, may never have existed if his artistic career had gone in a different direction. Are monsters born, or made?
It's an interesting intellectual argument, but one that is completely overshadowed by the reality of Hitler, Capital H. It is nearly impossible to ask audiences to feel empathy for Hitler, even as a fictional construct...especially empathy for, of all things, his cry-babyish inability to paint a decent picture. The discussions between Max and Adolf, constructed to show the possible development of Hitler's ethical and political barbarism, seem forced and contrived beyond believability, despite their basis in historical fact. For why would anyone want to befriend, much less support, such a man as Noah Taylor's Hitler -- a self-aggrandizing, whiny, immature, insecure little brat? Humanizing Hitler is an interesting goal for a filmmaker, but in this instance it's virtually impossible and well beyond the talents of Mr. Meyjes.
Fundamentally flawed in this way, it should be noted that MAX is beautifully shot, with some remarkable performances. Cusack, in particular, is marvelous, detailed but assured in his portrayal of this man who believes in little besides the passion of modern art. As his beleagured wife, Molly Parker brings quiet heartbreak to her rare scenes.
As an academic exercise, [b]MAX [/b]is intermittently absorbing. But when the full weight of reality is laid to rest on its thin shoulders, it crumbles like the house of cards it ultimately is.
|
|
|
| |
| NARC |
| 09.10.03 (2:34 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Jason Patric, Ray Liotta, Chi McBride, and Busta Rhymes
[b]Directed by:[/b] Joe Carnahan
[b]Written by:[/b] Joe Carnahan
[b]Distributor:[/b] Paramount Pictures/Lions Gate Films (USA 2002)
[b]Rated:[/b] R for strong brutal violence, drug content and pervasive language
Much has been made in industry circles of the making of [b]NARC[/b], the new drugs-and-cops thriller written and directed by newcomer Joe Carnahan. Shot on a shoestring budget in a matter of days, the film became the center of heavy Oscar buzz before it was even released. Essentially an actors' showcase for Ray Liotta ([i]Goodfellas[/i]) and Jason Patric ([i]Rush[/i]) as flawed narcotics officers prone to mistakes (and violent outbursts), the film is solid work that easily achieves its modest aspiration: to wonder aloud at the nature of goodness and reputation in a world of depravity and dishonor.
Shot in a blue-cool urban landscape, the icy winter of [b]NARC[/b] contrasts sharply with the fiery emotions of its characters: Nick (Patric), a former undercover narc suffering guilt over a bust gone wrong, is asked by his commander (Chi McBride) to look over the baffling case of Michael Calvess, a cop murdered under mysterious circumstances. When Nick takes the case, he ultimately becomes paired with Calvess' former partner, Henry Oak (Liotta), a loose cannon whose runaway emotions often bleed over into the job.
Dirty cops, good cops: this is William Friedkin territory, and [b]NARC[/b] owes more than just a few plot points to Friedkin's classic [i]The French Connection[/i]. Why not crib from the best, I say? It's a very effective formula, and Carnahan knows exactly how to twist his whodunit story on a dime. Even as the story reaches its convoluted conclusion, it remains powerful enough to allow Ray Liotta an 11th-hour conversion that leaves the audience speechless. [b]NARC[/b] is a cop story that understands the medium amazingly well, and succeeds in provoking and entertaining.
Those who thought Al Pacino a bit overblown in films like [i]Serpico[/i] and [i]Dog Day Afternoon [/i]might be well-advised to stay away, though. Ray Liotta, as Lt. Oak, is an incadescent ball of fury-fueled rage, and his grand theatrics would be off-putting if not for their cold calculation. Patric matches Liotta moment for moment; as two actors who suffer from the reputation of never having lived up to their promise, these two solid pros work in exquisite tandem. Oak and Nick are opposite sides of the same coin, and it is eerily fascinating to watch them go at it.
[b]NARC[/b] hearkens back to a different era in storytelling, a darker one, a pre-9/11 one, a time when Hollywood could pull back the veil on policeman without being accused of being unpatriotic. It jolts out of the screen differently from any film in recent memory. This is not to say it's brilliant, but it's different. Enter at your own discretion.
|
|
|
| |
| CHICAG0 |
| 09.10.03 (2:32 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Renee Zellwegger, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Richard Gere, Queen Latifah, John C. Reilly, Christine Baranski, Colm Feore, and Taye Diggs
[b]Directed by:[/b] Rob Marshall
[b]Written by:[/b] Bill Condon
[b]Distributor:[/b] Miramax (USA 2002)
[b]Rated:[/b] PG-13 for sexual content and dialogue, violence and thematic elements
Like Bob Fosse with a candy-colored coating, the new film version of the Broadway hit [b]CHICAGO[/b] is both dazzling and sugar-sweet, a blast of shallow magnificence that only sex, scandal, and a chorus line of dangerous damsels can deliver. Legit director Rob Marshall, in his first film outing, imbues Kander and Ebb's classic musical with a virtual minefield of little theatrical earthquakes, glossing over the material's thin spots with a veneer of pure showmanship. Add up all of the details, and it's something just shy of bliss...and the best movie musical since that other Kander and Ebb masterpiece, Cabaret.
For unlike last year's Moulin Rouge, [b]CHICAGO[/b] embraces its theatricality while keeping its story straight...coherent, energetic and simple seem to be the rule. In this stylized Windy City, gangsters' molls line up waiting to become stars -- not in Hollywood, mind you, but in the scandal-ridden front pages of Chicago's newspapers, where salacious murderers (and murderesses) thrill an eager populace. [b]CHICAGO[/b] follows two of them: Roxie Hart (Renee Zellwegger), a wannabe starlet looking for the fast road to fame, and Velma Kelly (Catherine Zeta-Jones), a fading cabaret star seeking to rejuvenate a flagging career. Both end up in the Big House, to be defended at trial by the star lawyer Billy Flynn (Richard Gere), a huckster who's learned that, in Chicago, cases are won in the press, not the courtroom.
Admittedly, it's a tried-and-true story of corruption played for giggles. What makes [b]CHICAGO[/b] so special, however, is the unflagging exuberance of its telling. Marshall and his Oscar-winning screenwriter Bill Condon ([i]Gods and Monsters[/i]) have hit upon a glorious conceit, that the musical numbers happen inside Roxie's star-addled mind. This disconnect between the reality of crime and the glamour of fame solves the problem of having people sing their feelings, and allows the songs to become something akin to character motifs. Especially impressive are "Roxie", a showcase for the astounding Zellwegger, and the simply magnificent production number "Cellbock Tango", where the women on Death Row tell us, in song and dance, who and why they killed. It's funny, powerful, touching, and disturbing all at once.
Zellwegger, an actress who seems to get better with every film, imbues Roxie with her natural spunky innocence, a trait that proves quite effective when she reveals the hardened killer underneath. Leading the award brigade, though, is Zeta-Jones, a stage-trained talent whose dancing and singing abilities are simply jaw-dropping. It's too bad that Richard Gere, who is a merely competent song-and-dance man, looks so awkward by comparison. As prison matron Mama Morton, Queen Latifah has a blast with her signature number, but John C. Reilly (as Roxie's dweeb husband) and Christine Baranski (as newswoman Mary Sunshine) suffer in roles for which neither is especially suited.
It's not rocket science, this business of making movies. [b]CHICAGO[/b] is not complex. And it is not challenging. Its narrative is bone-basic, barely more than a coatrack to hang musical numbers upon. But as coatracks go, it's a damn sturdy one, and in the hands of the impressive Marshall, it revels in its theatrical roots. One may be hard-pressed not to smile from first frame to last. It may not change the world, but [b]CHICAGO[/b] is, simply, What Movies Are For.
|
|
|
| |
| ABOUT SCHMIDT |
| 09.09.03 (2:59 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Jack Nicholson, Hope Davis, Dermot Mulroney, Howard Hesseman, and Kathy Bates
[b]Directed by:[/b] Alexander Payne
[b]Written by:[/b] Alexander Payne and Jim Taylor
[b]Distributor: [/b] New Line Cinema (USA 2002)
[b]Rated:[/b] R for some language and brief nudity
After knocking his first two films out of the park, Alexander Payne ([i]Citizen Ruth[/i], [i]Election[/i]) has become surburbia's most savvy and witty chronicler. It's unfortunate, then, to see the trite, uninspired conventions of [b]ABOUT SCHMIDT[/b], Payne's latest excursion into what makes the Modern Midwesterner tick. While this specific scenario -- a man's search for purpose in the world after his retirement -- may click with a certain demographic, it's really a lazy effort peppered only sparingly with inspiration.
Payne's beast of burden this time around is Jack Nicholson, who -- like Election's Reese Witherspoon and Ruth's Laura Dern -- is an actor of substantial heft. As Schmidt, Nicholson carries the entire movie on his back, appearing in nearly every scene with at least one major close-up on his face. This, one can only surmise, is so we can see Jack's Impressive Facial Reactions to the events happening to and around him. Don't get be wrong, Jack has an Impressive Face. But as good as Jack is, it's simply not enough to hang a movie on.
Furthermore, [b]ABOUT SCHMIDT[/b] is seriously confused in tone -- one minute a quirky comedy, the next a dramatic meditation. This teeter-tottering ultimately ends up as uninspired comedy and feather-light drama, neither of which satisfies. The comedy, for its part, has two major sources: a letter-writing device (Schmidt has 'adopted' an African child named Ndugu who he writes constantly about his problems), and Kathy Bates. Bates, as the ex-hippie mother of Schmdt's soon-to-be son-in-law, exhibits perfect comic timing and an over-the-top wackiness. Unfortunately, she's only in about 20 minutes of the movie. So we're back to the Close-Ups On Jack's Face. Ugh. As the supporting players, Hope Davis (as Schmidt's willful daughter) and Dermot Mulroney (as her waterbed-selling fiancee) and mirthless.
If you are retired, or will be soon, or if you're searching for alchemical meaning in your life, maybe [b]ABOUT SCHMIDT[/b] will hit a chord. Everyone else should just skip Payne and Nicholson's misguided foray, and go rent
|
|
|
| |
| 25TH HOUR |
| 09.07.03 (5:26 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Edward Norton, Rosario Dawson, Barry Pepper, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Anna Paquin and Brian Cox
[b]Directed by:[/b] Spike Lee
[b]Written by:[/b] David Benioff
[b]Distributor:[/b] Touchstone Pictures (USA 2002)
[b]Rated:[/b] R for strong language and some violence
Let's get the details out of the way: [b]25th HOUR[/b], Spike Lee's examination of the last day in a drug dealer's freedom before going to jail, is beautifully shot, directed, and (for the most part) acted. It attracted top talent, from Edward Norton to Philip Seymour Hoffman to Lee himself, arguably the most underrated director in the universe. This thing has Pedigree, with a capital P.
So how can so much talent be so utterly wasted on such weak material? David Benioff, the leaden screenwriter who based[b] 25th HOUR [/b]on his own book of the same name, has turned Lee's film into the biggest disappointment of 2002. For Benioff, a novice screenwriter, has made almost every mistake imaginable -- repetitive, unremittingly downbeat, riddled with clumsy dialogue and weakly-made plot points. Even worse are the secondary characters, stereotypes that Lee has never allowed in his work before. (Catch the menacing cops or the fat Russian gangster.) Fundamentally, Benioff doesn't understand cinematic structure -- and how a movie must move to sustain interest and grow.
The cast works very hard to make something meaningful out of this mess. Hoffman and Pepper, as Norton's lifelong friends, are marvelous: very different people connected by their ties to Norton, neither compromises the other. As Norton's father, Brian Cox gives the film its best moments, from a revealing dinner discussion at the family's Irish bar to a meandering monologue near the film's end (that screewriter again!) that Cox gives shape and pathos.
On the minus side: as Norton's live-in girlfriend, Rosario Dawson adds little to the proceedings. Truthfully, she has never been an exceptional actress; here, she is neither embarrassing nor revelatory. The biggest surprise in [b]25TH HOUR[/b], though, may be Norton himself, who plays his good-guy-gone-wrong on autopilot. Watching his lethargic performance, one wonders if this is truly the same incendiary actor who made [i]Fight Club [/i]and [i]American History X[/i] come alive. Hard to believe.
And writing this, I am SO sad...if I had to make a list of great living directors, he'd easily be top 5, maybe top 3 on my list. I love his work. ([i]Girl 6[/i] is one of my favorite films of all time, as are Do the right Thing, [i]4 Little Girls[/i], [i]Malcolm X[/i], [i]Summer of Sam[/i], [i]Mo' Better Blues[/i], and others.) I hate that this screenplay is so weak.
Julianne Moore, like countless actors before her, has said that in choosing scripts, "It's all about the writing." And indeed, it is; if your script is a stinker, no amount of talent or sleight-of-hand can hide the face. Let [b]25TH HOUR[/b] be an object lesson to aspiring filmmakers everywhere.
|
|
|
| |
| GANGS OF NEW YORK |
| 09.07.03 (5:09 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Leonardo DiCaprio, Daniel Day-Lewis, Cameron Diaz, Liam Neeson, Brendan Gleeson, and Jim Broadbent
[b]Directed by:[/b] Martin Scorsese
Written by: Jay Cocks, Steven Zaillian, and Kenneth Lonergan
[b]Distributor:[/b] Miramax/Touchstone (USA 2002)
[b]Rated:[/b] R for intense strong violence, sexuality/nudity and language
After innumerable delays, uncountable reshoots, and public spats with his producer, Martin Scorsese's GANGS OF NEW YORK arrives on screens over a year later than planned. And having lost over an hour's run time in the interim, it's perhaps not surprising that, watching it, one cannot help but feel that things are missing. Not missing, perhaps...maybe just absent, details that might have enriched and illuminated, turning this GANGS into the triumph it longs to be (and almost is). Perhaps it's the aura of missed opportunity that hangs so palpably in the air over Civil War-era Manhattan -- for this is an epic tale that isn't quite epic enough, a classic tale that never quite becomes a classic. It's as if a very good film sits in the place where a masterpiece should be.
Lest anyone accuse me of sour grapes, though, know that GANGS OF NEW YORK is a very good film, and worth anyone's trip to their local megaplex. Scorcese, perhaps America's greatest living director, has invigorated the demimonde of lower Manhattan in the 1860's with a coursing energy and vitality that is infectious and mesmerizing. Sagely exploring the intersections of class, race, and ethnic background in the Five Points neighborhood at this time, Scorses creates a physical and emotional tinderbox where his well-drawn characters can clash magisterially. This is Julius Caesar, American Style.
Another cause for celebration is the return of Daniel Day-Lewis to the cinema, pulled out of self-imposed retirement by Scorsese to play the maniac gangster/showman Bill The Butcher. As Bill, Day-Lewis is rapturous, showing a commitment and dedication to his character that seems to elude the rest of his contemporaries. Violent, charming, street-smart, and power-hungry, Bill is at once a complete original and an American archetype, both the success and failure of the American Dream. His charisma and magnetism nearly blow the film's actual lead, Leonardo DiCaprio, off the screen. DiCaprio, for his part, is at his most impressive as the vengeful young Irishman Amsterdam, but Day-Lewis' formidable presence has the unfortunate side-effect of imbalancing a film that was precariously weighted to begin with. Cameron Diaz, as Amsterdam's pickpocket girlfriend, does the best work of her career, and the supporting players -- including Brendan Gleeson, Henry Thomas, John C. Reilly, Liam Neeson, and Jim Broadbent as Boss Tweed -- are solid without fail. The design team's recreation of historic Manhattan is exquisite.
Who knows what has been left on Miramax's cutting room floor that could have made GANGS even better; perhaps on the film's eventual DVD, we'll find out. But for now, one can celebrate a film director's marvelous vision and enjoy an impressive effort. And, as the credits roll, perhaps we can bittersweetly miss what ultimately isn't there.
|
|
|
| |
| LORD OF THE RINGS: THE TWO TOWERS |
| 09.07.03 (4:38 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Elijah Wood, Viggo Mortensen, Ian McKellen, Sean Astin, John Rhys-Davies, Orlando Bloom, and Liv Tyler
[b]Directed by:[/b] Peter Jackson
[b]Written by:[/b] Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens, Stephen Sinclair and Peter Jackson
[b]Distributor:[/b] New Line Cinema (USA 2002)
[b]Rated: [/b] PG-13 for epic battle sequences and scary images
Conventional wisdom tells me that you, Dear Readers, should know this first: if you liked the first cinematic installment of J.R.R. Tolkien's fanciful trilogy, Fellowship of the Ring, you will not be disappointed with its sequel, [b]THE TWO TOWERS[/b]. And, I guess, if you didn't like Ring, the reverse is probably also true. But to dismiss Peter Jackson's second visit to the world of Middle Earth as simply 'more of the same' would be to do it a great disservice. The films may cover the same terrain and feature many of the same characters, but [b]THE TWO TOWERS[/b] is no carbon copy: deeper and darker in tone, complex overlapping storylines, and -- freed from setting up the situation that was done in Fellowship of the Ring -- a decided emphasis on action make this a wholly singular, ecstatic experience.
Frodo (Elijah Wood), our hobbit hero, is still making his way toward the evil kingdom of Mordor with the ever-burdensome titular ring, with his stalwart companion Samwise Gamgee (Sean Astin). THE TWO TOWERS, though, really belongs to the human rebel Aragorn (Viggo Mortensen), who leads the remainder of the Fellowship in pursuit of a band of villainous Uruk-Hai and into a battle to defend the most surprising race of people in this world...mankind. As dark forces grow in strength across the land, new players emerge: the marvelously schizophrenic Gollum (a CGI character based on Andy Serkis, and a major step forward in visual effects creation -- perhaps the single most stunning feature of the film), the fiery damsel Eowyn (Mirando Otto) , and the brittle human prince Faramir (David Wenham), faced with the battle of releasing Frodo to his task, or keeping the evil ring of power for himself.
[b]THE TWO TOWERS[/b] isn't a morality play, though, and the tug-of-war between being good and being evil isn't the major theme it was in Fellowship. No, Jackson's second epic chapter is concerned with the idea of personal engagment: how we engage in the world around us, choosing friends and enemies, moving from individuality to community. Like its predecessor, though, its themes play out against a jaw-dropping canvas, with grand natural settings, valiant characters, and two imaginations -- Tolkien and Jackson's -- working in tandem to create the most exciting vision captured on cinema two years running.
Certainly, [b]THE TWO TOWERS [/b]will inevitably suffer comparison; the thrill of the new is gone, and as a sequel, it has to work much harder to thrill and dazzle. But dazzle it does, with style to spare. Jackson's films are clearly destined to be classics. Catch them now, so you can say you were there. It's a reward that is simply unmatched in contemporary Hollywood cinema.
|
|
|
| |
| PUNCH-DRUNK LOVE |
| 09.06.03 (5:18 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Adam Sandler, Emily Watson, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and Luis Guzman
[b]Directed by:[/b] Paul Thomas Anderson
[b]Written by:[/b] Paul Thomas Anderson
[b]Distributor:[/b] New Line Pictures/Sony (USA 2002)
R[b]ated:[/b] R for strong language including a scene of sexual dialogue
Certain to be remembered as the Head-Scratcher of the Year, Paul Thomas Anderson's [b]PUNCH-DRUNK LOVE [/b]is a love story best described with words like "quirky" and "offbeat." To reduce it to such descriptive clichés, however, is to diminish it. It's Odd with a capital O, yes, but also suprising, whimsical, charming (and often frustrating). Despite a patchy screenplay and more than a few unworkable moment, Anderson is an artist of formidable prowess which, ultimately, overcomes the film's pitfalls. If it's not quite as satisfying as his previous efforts ([i]Magnolia[/i], [i]Boogie Nights[/i]), it's still compelling, captivating, and - to use yet another cliché - heartwarming.
Take its leading man, for example: Adam Sandler, the former SNL'er and party boy who gained worldwide fame in idiotic comedies like The Waterboy and Big Daddy. Like fellow klutz comic Jim Carrey, Sandler yearns to be taken seriously; I'm not sure [b]PUNCH-DRUNK LOVE [/b]will do that, but it's a start. As a geeky novelty salesman with communication issues, Sandler doesn't embarrass himself, even in romantic scenes with Emily Watson ([i]Hilary and Jackie[/i]), arguably one of the best actresses working in Hollywood today. The fact that his role is neither very difficult nor very different from Sandler himself only helps the film find its footing, as does a saucy subplot with Philip Seymour Hoffman as a Utah phone-sex entrepreneur.
And ah, the direction: as glorious as you'll perhaps ever see on screen, inventive but never show-offy, dynamic but never overreaching. Likewise, Robert Elswit's vibrant cinematography is award-worthy, creating complex and satisfying visual tableaus. (Check out the poster for one of them.) And if that's not enough to entice you, try this: the love theme is originally from Robert Altman's [i]Popeye[/i].
|
|
|
| |
| HEAVEN |
| 09.06.03 (5:15 pm) [edit] |
Cast: Cate Blanchett, Giovanni Ribisi and Remo Girone
Directed by: Tom Tykwer
Written by: Krzysztof Kieslowski and Krzysztof Piesiewicz
Distributor: Miramax (USA 2002)
Rated: R for a scene of sexuality
The final screenplay of noted film director Krysztof Kieslowski ([i]Red/White/Blue[/i], [i]The Decameron[/i]), HEAVEN was planned to be the first film of a new trilogy by the master. After his untimely death in 1996, the screenplay made its way into the hands of German director Tom Tykwer, who made an enormous splash in 1998 with [i]Run Lola Run[/i]. The marriage of the two directors, from different times and with such different styles, is likely to disappoint devotees of either one. But for those with a taste for imagination, [b]HEAVEN[/b] is a fascinating combination on screen.
Led by the superb Cate Blanchett ([i]Elizabeth[/i]) in what may be her best screen performance to date, Kieslowski's screenplay details one woman's arrest for bombing an office building. Intended to kill only her dead husband's drug dealer, she inadvertantly murders four innocent people. [b]HEAVEN[/b] emerges as a penitent, thoughtful meditation on guilt, revenge, sacrifice, and redemption, both for Blanchett and the young officer who falls in love with her, played with startling nuance by Giovanni Ribisi ([i]Saving Private Ryan[/i]).
The screenplay is dynamic, with characters more alive and developed than any movie released this year; if only every film could have this much depth. (Sigh.) Tykwer's assured and thoughful direction rachets up the colors and mood, but he is smart enough to foreground the film's quiet poignancy. ([b]HEAVEN[/b] is much more akin to Tykwer's meditative drama The Princess and the Warrior than the frenetic [i]Run Lola Run[/i].)
|
|
|
| |
| BOWLING FOR COLUMBINE |
| 09.06.03 (4:29 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Michael Moore, George W. Bush, Dick Clark, and Charlton Heston
[b]Directed by:[/b] Michael Moore
[b]Written by:[/b] Michael Moore
[b]Distributor:[/b] MGM (USA 2002)
[b]Rated:[/b] R for some violent images and language
From the opening moments of the new documentary [b]BOWLING FOR COLUMBINE[/b] - in which he opens an account at North Fork Bank to receive the complimentary rifle they offer - you know that you're visiting Michael Moore's America. Moore, famous to millions for his films and his television show TV Nation, is America's zhlubby political troubador, and his talent (if you will) is seeing our country in its most unsettling contexts, a land at once hilarious and terrifying, confusing and confused. It is where Moore flourishes.
[b]BOWLING FOR COLUMBINE[/b] is Moore's exploration of gun control, American insularity, and the commercialization of fear; it is also his strongest work since Roger and Me. The closing scenes, in which Moore interviews NRA President Charlton Heston, is not the incendiary finale one might expect; instead, it is a sad, smoldering moment that lingers indelibly in the memory.
To be sure, Moore's cinematic flaws are still apparent: self-aggrandizing and self-congratulatory, Moore sometimes seems more interested in himself than in the issues. At times the narrative meanders, and his political points alternate between piercingly salient and questionably dubious. But [b]BOWLING FOR COLUMBINE[/b]'s strength isn't in its details, but in the larger picture it paints - of a culture in conflict with itself, with the thin veneer of nationalism that covers our deepest, media-soaked fears. It is the perfect antidote to these war-happy times, a piercing interrogation of America and its contradictory nationalistic impulses regarding fear and freedom. [i]-- Gabriel Shanks[/i]
|
|
|
| |
| FAR FROM HEAVEN |
| 09.06.03 (4:26 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Julianne Moore, Dennis Quaid, Dennis Haysbert, and Patricia Clarkson
[b]Directed by:[/b] Todd Haynes
[b]Written by:[/b] Todd Haynes
[b]Distributor:[/b] USA Films (2002)
[b]Rated:[/b] PG-13 for mature thematic elements, sexual content, brief violence and language
As the Oscar race heats up, expect great things from FAR FROM HEAVEN, Todd Haynes' spectacular journey into sex, race, and America. Set in the 1950's and created as a loving homage to the melodramatic films of Douglas Sirk (All That Heaven Allows), the film feels both timely and relevant in our (supposedly) advanced era. A superbly written story of a Connecticut housewife's emotional struggles to keep social standing and personal connection, FAR FROM HEAVEN is a minor miracle - exquisitely executed in almost every artistic and technical detail.
First on the honor list is Julianne Moore, whose portrayal of Cathy Whitaker has already won kudos at the Venice Film Festival. If there is a more expressive actress working today, I'd be hard pressed to name her; watching Moore effortlessly balance the precarious threads of Haynes' narrative, one can't help but be awed by her abundant talent. As her family begins to self-destruct, Moore vulnerable, passionate, decorous, and tormented, sometime all simultaneously. It can only be described as a riveting performance.
FAR FROM HEAVEN is not a solo tour-de-force, though. Moore is ably assisted by a trio of actors who contribute exceptional performances. Dennis Quaid, as Cathy's conflicted husband Frank, turns in the best work of his career, clearly relishing the complexities and contradictions in the couple's conflict. As their gardener, Dennis Haysbert exudes charm and warmth, while Patricia Clarkson, as Cathy's best friend Eleanor, plays deliciously against stereotype with unexpected rewards.
Haynes' recreation of Sirk and the period is flawless, even as he beguilingly plays with the conventions of the genre. Credit his design team for the assist, with impeccable art direction. Edward Lachman's cinematography is revitalized by the color scheme and camera work of the 50's, which (with any luck) will win him his first, long-deserved Oscar. I'll also pull for composer Elmer Bernstein and his dreamy, evocative score to win his first Oscar in thirty-five years.
It's a brave film for Haynes to make, in some ways...thematically uncommercial, fervently anachronistic, emotionally challenging, and a fitful journey. But these elements gel beautifully, and are responsible for the film's wealth of cinematic riches. Reward yourself. [i]-- Gabriel Shanks[/i]
|
|
|
| |
| THE QUIET AMERICAN |
| 09.01.03 (6:37 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Michael Caine, Brendan Fraser, Rade Serbedzija, Do Hai Yen, and Do Thi Hai Yen
[b]Directed by:[/b] Philip Noyce
[b]Written by:[/b] Christopher Hampton and Robert Schenkkan
[b]Distributor:[/b] Miramax (USA 2002)
[b]Rated:[/b] R for images of violence and some language
Graham Greene's classic THE QUIET AMERICAN is really a moderately-entertaining war tale than aspires to epic greatness; Phillip Noyce's new film, similarly, is a low-budget Apocalypse Now that wants to be The English Patient. Admirable, certainly, but not much fun to watch.
The awards buzz has already begun for Michael Caine's performance as a British correspondent covering the French occupation of Vietnam in 1952. His complacency is shattered when the Pyle, the titular American charmingly played by Brendan Fraser, makes a play for his Vietnamese girlfriend Fong (Do Thi Hai Yeh). Against the backdrop of wartime horror and atrocity, a rather lackluster mystery is unraveled by Caine, without much payoff or excitement.
Director Phillip Noyce, who seems to be on something of a roll these days, brings an uninspired weariness to the proceedings, making even street bombings and a secret ambush duller than they should be. The beautiful Do Thi is not much of an actor either, a real problem for a film about a love triangle. For Caine Lovers Only. [i]-- Gabriel Shanks[/i]
|
|
|
| |
| DIE ANOTHER DAY |
| 09.01.03 (6:32 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Pierce Brosnan, Halle Berry, Rick Yune, Toby Stephens, Judi Dench, John Cleese, and Madonna
[b]Directed by:[/b] Lee Tamahori
[b]Written by:[/b] Neil Purvis and Robert Wade
[b]Distributor:[/b] MGM (USA 2002)
[b]Rated:[/b] R for action violence and sexuality
First, a disclaimer: I am a Bondaholic. I've got the books, got the DVDs, still got the Junior Spy Kit from my childhood. So it is not without a significant bit of excitement and trepidation that I approach the subject of DIE ANOTHER DAY, the 20th film in the James Bond franchise. Because when I tell you it's good, believe me -- I've seen them all, and I know what I'm talking about.
Disclaimer done, let the praise begin for director Lee Tamahori, the dynamic director (Once Were Warriors) who electrifies Brosnan's Bond, propelling him into personal danger of a sort we've not seen before...and to the best 007 outing in modern times. Arguably, this DNA-swapping thriller is the best since Roger Moore's debut in Live And Let Die almost thirty years ago.
Why, you may ask? Because DIE ANOTHER DAY is the kick in the pants the Bond franchise so desperately needs. Sure, it's still got gadgets, guns, and girls...not to mention those so-implausible-they're-co ol action sequences. (An ice palace! A Cuban fortress!) But it's also got 007 in a desolate Korean prison camp -- tortured, bloody, fighting for his life, his reputation, and his job. While this subversion of the cool-as-ice history may upset those who like their Bond familiar and cozy, I say, with all of my critical faculties at hand...tough noogies. Tamahori's world makes for a much better film experience than, say, A View To A Snore, I Mean Kill.
Supported by Oscar winner Halle Berry as a sexy-but-not-dumb secret agent, and fighting two worthy adversaries in Toby Stephens and especially Rick Yune, Brosnan finally assumes the mantle of the world's favorite spy with the right combination of wit and sincerity. It's not everyday a Bondaholic like me can say this: see the new James Bond film, because it's hands-down the best action film of the year. [i]-- Gabriel Shanks[/i]
|
|
|
| |
| TALK TO HER |
| 09.01.03 (6:28 pm) [edit] |
[b]Cast:[/b] Dario Grandinetti, Javier Camara, Rosario Flores, Leonor Watling, Roberto Alvarez, and Geraldine Chaplin
[b]Directed by:[/b] Pedro Almodovar
[b]Written By:[/b] Pedro Almodovar
[b]Distributor:[/b] Sony Pictures Classics (USA 2002)
[b]Rated: [/b] R for nudity, sexual content and some language
There is perhaps no contemporary international filmmaker like Almodovar. For unlike many of his contemporaries, Almodovar has actually improved from film to film, both as a storyteller and as a director, over the last twenty years. After winning more than fifty awards for his last film, the sumptuous All About My Mother (including the Foreign Film Oscar), Spain's cinematic alchemist of passion, comedy, and regret has returned with an even more provoking meditation on loss and loneliness.
In comparison to Almodovar's other films, the most striking difference in TALK TO HER is the awe-inspiring writing; his career-long dalliances with camp and farce are held almost completely in check, employed only when they can support and deepen the plot. It's definitely not for everyone; TALK TO HER is as intense as it is meditative, as disturbing as it is passionate. The tale of two men who find they share a unique experience -- caring for two women who are in comas due to tragic accidents -- is a mix of absurdity and pathos that fits this director so well.
As in many of his films, Almodovar has stacked the deck by casting some of the world's best actors. The only real question about Dario Grandinetti, as the conflicted and overemotional Marco, and Javier Camara, as the pathetic romantic Benigno, is whether they could both win the Oscar. Grandinetti and Camara create tortured, heartbreaking characters more developed than any you'll see in 2002. The distressing ethics that Begigno and Marco apply to their relationships are fueled by their destructive natures and self-delusions, in some way...but they also lay bare the need for connection, which ultimately they find in each other.
Among Almodovar's collaborators on this film are three superb artists: Pina Bausch, whose dances form the prelude and coda of the film; Caetano Veloso, whose breathtaking song transforms the film's middle section; and Geraldine Chaplin, who makes a rare screen appearance. The title of the film is the easy answer; the struggle to communicate and express one's heart is the timeless battle that Almodovar illuminates so poetically. [i]-- Gabriel Shanks[/i]
|
|
|
| |
|
Welcome to Mixed Reviews Single Servings. Here you'll find short reviews of current and past movies for people too busy to read a full review.
You can find full-length reviews of present and past films, from Hollywood releases to independent films to "hidden treasures" that haven't been released yet, at our main site, Mixed Reviews. Please browse our archive for links to reviews of films dating back to 1998.
For more smart stuff about movies, please visit the Cinemarati Roundtable.
|
