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| CONTROL ROOM |
| 04.29.04 (8:15 pm) [edit] |
CONTROL ROOM
Cast: Hassan Ibrahim, Samir Khader, John Rushing, George W. Bush, Donald Rumsfeld, David Shuster, and Tom Mintier
Directed by: Jehane Noujaim
Written by: Jehane Noujaim
Distributor: Magnolia Pictures (US 2004)
Rated: Unrated
As Reviewed by: Gabriel Shanks
Oliver Stone once called his historical drama [i]JFK [/i]a 'counter-myth'...and by that, he meant that the film was a filmmaker's answer to the larger cultural, social, and political myths surrounding the Kennedy assassination. I was reminded of the idea when I watched Jehane Noujaim's insightfully aware new documentary [b]CONTROL ROOM[/b], which might be called, cribbing Oliver's terminology, a 'counter-reality'. Because unlike Stone's purposeful drift into fantastical supposition, Noujaim deals with the presentation of actual, documentable events...in this case, the government-approved images of the Iraq War that fill American news reporting these days.
Noujaim (who made a marvelous debut a few years back with [i]Startup.com[/i]) flew directly into the belly of the media-drench beast for [b]CONTROL ROOM[/b]...which in this case happens to be a 20-mile stretch of the tiny Middle Eastern country of Qatar. This is where the larger war in Iraq -- the ones for hearts and minds across the world -- is being fought. Here is the headquarters of Al Jazeera, the first independent news channel in the Arab world, watched by 40 million people by satellite feed. Down the road from Al Jazeera is Central Command, the high-tech headquarters for U.S. press and publicity about the war in Iraq, as well as for embedded journalists who depend on the military's cooperation for stories and content.
Very few American citizens have seen Al Jazeera, but its name is well known to political junkies. Over the last two years, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, President George Bush, and other Administration officials have constantly demonized Al Jazeera as a source of anti-American instigation and disinformation. In truth, Al Jazeera does not play ball with the U.S. publicity machine set up at Central Command; it attends press conferences and frequently broadcasts literal translations of American reports and speeches, but it also breaks embargoes on showing dead bodies, captured soldiers, and bombing attacks. It is emotionally different too...as centered in the Arab view as Fox News or MSNBC are centered in the American view. On both sides of that divide, principled journalistic objectivity often fights with the urge to present a nationalistic perspective.
[b]CONTROL ROOM[/b] is particularly concerned with this changing nature of journalism and editorializing. News is not only information in the current climate, but a force that shapes perception. You can see it in President Bush's refusal to attend soldiers' funerals, or to allow any news outlet to print pictures of dead bodies in the field or flag-draped coffins coming home. Thanks to this media blackout, the Iraq War has been bloodless for most American viewers; we know that soldiers and civilians are dying daily, but it isn't grounded in a hard reality because we never see the images.
Whatever one might say of Al Jazeera, one must admit that it doesn't edit out these distressing truths from its coverage. Graphic, shocking images that we simply don't see on American television are regular programming on Al Jazeera, often presented without comment. An equal opportunity offender, the network has been banned even in some Arab countries (when it dared to criticize their leaders) and has been disparaged by U.S. leaders as "the mouthpiece of Osama Bin Laden." While its true that they scooped the world by showing videos of bin Laden after 9/11, it is certain that any news organization worth their salt would have done the same if presented with the opportunity. If bin Laden had sent tapes to CNN, Paula Zahn would finally have something to do on her show.
Al Jazeera's staff doesn't deny where it sides in the war, but it also prides itself on presenting both sides of the argument. [b]CONTROL ROOM[/b] documents this in detail, especially when following Samir Khader, a senior producer at Al Jazeera and one of the film's most engaging personalities. Joking about taking a dream job at Fox News, Samir burns furious one moment -- when the U.S. bombs his Baghdad offices and kills a correspondent -- and then seems acquiescent the next when he reveals his dream to send his children to study, and then live, in the United States. The most provocative thing about [b]CONTROL ROOM[/b] may be the realization that these two things are not in conflict, an emotional fury at the damage to Arab nations balanced with a respect for American achievement.
Samir and the staff of Al Jazeera let fly many statements that may come as revelations to American viewers. Remember Saddam's statue falling after the taking of Baghdad? In their convincing dissection of the event, it is revealed to be a carefully orchestrated publicity stunt by the U.S. military. Think the war in Iraq has nothing to do with Israel? Guess again...while Samir notes that most Americans would never link the two struggles, in the minds of most Arabs, the destruction of Palestine and the occupation of Iraq are seen as part of the same problem...imperialist encroachment on traditionally Arab lands.
"Any way has a human cost," Samir sagely observes at one point. Indeed, it is the humanity on display in [b]CONTROL ROOM[/b] that makes it so affecting. Some, like well-known journalists Tom Mintier and David Shuster, struggle to accurately report the war in the tightly controlled information environment of Central Command. Others, like the Marine public relations representative Lt. John Rushing, reveal ambivalence that sometimes makes it difficult to stay on message. Perhaps most disturbing is watching a groups of Arab men soundlessly watch George Bush declare war on Iraq, carried live on Al Jazeera. Their anger, sadness, fear, and frustration are all on display, a fully realized picture that American media would never show us. [b]CONTROL ROOM[/b] reveals the humanity of our opponents...and our government's attempt to deny that humanity at all costs.
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| SUPER SIZE ME |
| 04.28.04 (7:53 pm) [edit] |
SUPER SIZE ME
Cast: Morgan Spurlock, Ronald McDonald, Daryl Issacs, Lisa Ganjhu, Stephen Siegel, Alexandra Jamieson, David Satcher, and Secretary of Health Tommy Thompson
Directed by: Morgan Spurlock
Written by: Morgan Spurlock
Distributor: Samuel Goldwyn Films (US 2004)
Rated: Unrated
As Reviewed by: Gabriel Shanks
You may find yourself swearing off Big Macs forever after watching Morgan Spurlock's award-winning documentary [b]SUPER SIZE ME[/b], a hilarious but nevertheless shocking critique of the American fascination with (and addiction to) fast food. Spurlock hits everything from Pepsi to school lunchrooms to veganism in his scattershot examination of our national food fixation, but his main target is the fast food industry, and in particular, its undisputed pacesetter McDonald's. To challenge the prevailing wisdom of recent court decisions -- where judges found that plaintiffs were unable to prove the damaging effects of eating under the Golden Arches -- Spurlock decides to document a personal journey as a self-selected lab rat. For an entire month in 2002, Spurlock ate nothing but McDonald's food at every meal. The devastating effects this initially flighty decision has on his physical, mental, and emotional health make [b]SUPER SIZE ME[/b] an invigorating, ingenious piece of social commentary.
There's no way to watch Morgan Spurlock in action without thinking of Michael Moore ([i]Bowling For Columbine[/i]), the reigning clown prince of American documentary filmmaking. Like Moore, Spurlock concerns himself with socio-economic forces that negatively affect the culture. He's unafraid to take on the captains of industry, or to dally in political baiting when the mood strikes him. But most tellingly, he shares Moore's comic approach and self-aggrandizing nature. Both men are witty experts in finding humor in horrific situations, and are engaging screen presences...but neither can resist becoming their own leading actor, which reduces the effectiveness of their arguments at times. They are fascinating examples of inconsistency, advocates for the common man who succumb to the pull of celebrity culture. They are perfectly imperfect filmmakers, and their rough edges are what make them simultaneously engaging and irritating.
Unlike some of Moore's work, however, Spurlock's gadfly routine has a clear motif. In his view, the confluence of Big Media (advertising dollars) and Big Economy (cheap ingredients, mass production) is wreaking nutritional havoc on the world populace. One of the many experts in [b]SUPER SIZE ME[/b] calls today's food culture "toxic", and judging from the events in the film, it's hard to argue otherwise. Factoid after factoid comes flying from the screen in spunky, witty graphics -- the Fruit and Yoghurt has more calories than the Chocolate Sundae! There's sugar in the Garden Salad! The mounting data is a powerfully convincing tool.
But it's nothing compared to Spurlock's personal journey. As a filmmaker, he well understands the comic absurdity of his Mac Attack Adventure, and his first day of binging is colored with the glee of a kid who expects a junk-food banquet. As the days pass, however, the colorful veneer begins to fade, and then disappears entirely -- Spurlock gains 17 pounds in 12 days, sees a 50% increase in his cholesterol, and begins to suffer night sweats, chest pains and headaches. His crew of doctors and nutritionists become seriously concerned; one of them, Dr. Daryl Issacs, becomes so worried about the damage to his liver that he thinks death may not be completely out of the question. The registered shock in Spurlock's eyes shows tellingly. It is a brilliant cinematic moment, when the film leaves Spurlock's control entirely.
Still, it's not all depressing...nor is it all one big diet infomercial. Spurlock's girlfriend, Alexandra, is a vegan chef who bemoans this fast-food experiment, which she sees as unnecessary and damaging. (One of the most surprising moments in the film come with Alex's blunt revelations about the detrimental effects McDonald's has had on Morgan's sexual performance abilities...funny, touching, and sad all at once.) Still, when Alex leaps to proselytizing about the dangers of meat, Spurlock stops her cold. While veganism has its clear benefits, the resistance to go too far saves [b]SUPER SIZE ME[/b] from becoming a mere polemic.
There's priceless humor as well. When Alex compares the jones for hamburgers to the jones for heroin, Spurlock immediately pumps the soundtrack with Pete Shelley's "Pusher Man." A testy confrontation about school lunches -- the school district argues that kids need healthy and unhealthy options, to "teach them to make choices" -- turns absurd when a young girl orders a lunch of french fries and milk. It's Spurlock's light touch that ultimately keeps [b]SUPER SIZE ME[/b] entertaining and educational, without sacrificing one for the other.
[b]SUPER SIZE ME[/b] also acknowledges the hard, cold reality that fast food, and unhealthy food in general, is here to stay. The economics make it too profitable; the prioritizing of short-term gratification over long-term health makes it too easy. Spurlock is arguing that change, if it happens at all, will have to come from us. As an overweight man myself, I can attest to the difficulty of that struggle. But as a viewer of [b]SUPER SIZE ME[/b], I can also say that the difficulty is irrelevant...if America wants to find itself, it will have to put down the Quarter Pounder and pick up the mirror that Spurlock offers us.
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| CONNIE AND CARLA |
| 04.24.04 (5:12 am) [edit] |
[b]CONNIE AND CARLA[/b]
[b]Cast[/b]: Nia Vardalos, Toni Collette, David Duchovny, Alec Mapa, Dash Mihok, and Stephen Spinella
[b]Directed by[/b]: Michael Lembeck
[b]Written by[/b]: Nia Vardalos
[b]Distributor[/b]: Universal Pictures (US 2004)
[b]Rated[/b]: PG-13 for thematic elements, sexual humor and drug references
Here's what [b]CONNIE AND CARLA[/b] has to teach us about gay people:
1. Gay men, as a rule, don't have boyfriends or partners, only "roommates." They certainly don't flirt with each other or talk about prospective or past lovers.
2. While avid appreciators of song and dance, homosexuals really have very little talent in those areas.
3. No-one in a supportive gay crowd of hundreds can see through the least effectual gender-bending since Juwanna Mann -- even when invited to grope the women's breasts.
4. Based on the bottomless enthusiasm of the audience, most cabaret-goers have never seen nor heard of a [i]tough-talking[/i] drag queen. What a revolution that would be!
5. When a gay man makes a pass at a straight male friend, a perfectly acceptable response is to walk away in shock and disgust. I mean, that's how you catch the gay.
6. Gay men are only ever friends with their own kind. Again, it's a measure of consideration to avoid spreading the condition to others.
7. Even when they own a business, gay men have very little talent for it.
8. In addition to being sexless, talentless, clueless, and communicable, homosexuals are very forgiving -- even if you've been making fools of them for weeks and weeks.
Thanks, Nia Vardalos! And best of luck on your next project, which I understand will put you in blackface as a rising star at the Apollo Theater.
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| BORED IN BRNO |
| 04.23.04 (10:47 am) [edit] |
BORED IN BRNO
Cast: Katerina Holanova, Jan Budar, Miroslav Donutil, and Martin Pechlat
Directed by: Vladimir Moravek
Written by: Jan Budar and Vladimir Moravek
Distributor: Prvni Verejno Pravni (Czechoslovakia 2003)
Rated: Not yet rated by the MPAA
A TRIBECA FILM FESTIVAL PREVIEW
read more previews from Tribeca at [url=http://www.mixedreviews.net]Mixed Reviews[/url]
As Reviewed by: Gabriel Shanks
When one thinks of Czechoslovakia's second largest city, Brno -- if one indeed does ever think of Czechoslovia's second largest city at all -- the first thought for most people is probably not wild, sexual abandon. It's a blue-collar, buttoned-down kind of city, one with everyday joes like you or me. But even everyday joes find love every now and then, and maybe they find a little lust, too.
Director/writer Vladimir Moravek is out to change the perception of Brno into a town filled with erotic delights in his gritty and witty debut feature [b]BORED IN BRNO[/b]. The surprise winner of last year's Czech Lion Award (beating the Oscar-nominated [i]Zelary[/i]), [b]BRNO[/b]'s muted, mannered comedy follows one night of sexual exploits by the residents of a Brno apartment building. Despite a few dryly comic performances and viscerally sharp cinematography by Divis Marek, [b]BORED IN BRNO[/b] -- subtitled "a comedy about defying fate" -- really should have spent more time trying to defy conventionality.
As Moravek's film moves from couple to couple and scene to scene, there's an odd sense of been-there, done-that -- a working-class fatigue that brusquely blunts the aromatic blooms of love and passion. Rarely has sex been so unimportant in a film that cares so deeply about the subject; as sex comedies go, it's light on both. Oh, there's a few weird moments of non-erotic eroticism, but mainly [b]BORED IN BRNO[/b] prefers just talking about sex, and about being uncomfortable about sex...and talking about being uncomfortable talking about sex. Moravek pins his film's success on the hope that such banter is funny enough to sustain a full-length film. It is not.
There is a thesis at work in [b]BORED IN BRNO[/b] -- that geek love, the romantic quirkiness of peculiar people, is inherently charming in and of itself. The first scene begins with posters of bodybuilders on the bedroom walls of the wide-eyed blond young man Standa (Jan Budar), but truthfully, everyone in this particular romantic world is the antithesis of bodybuilders, socially clumsy and conventionally plain. The main plot thread concerns Standa and Olinka (Katerina Holanova), two young people who met at the Czech version of the Special Olympics. With mild learning disabilities, the two young lovers (who have been corresponding in letters) are coaxed into their first romantic evening by stern but loving friends. As the time of their first date approaches, other residents of Olinka's building have plans of their own. There are Pavel and Honza, best friends from childhood. Pavel is a sex-starved, girl-crazed lout and Honza his secretly pining homosexual buddy. A floor above, there is Richard, a spanking freak who is trying to tutor his wallflower girlfriend. Down the hall from them, a semi-famous actor, bored with his marriage, is tempted into a one-night stand with a lonely female doctor. And then there's a party of women, gathered for a special event...to wait and watch over the nervous Olinka while her stern mother is away and her evening with Standa comes to, um, a head.
The shenanigans one might expect from such divergent, thinly connected storylines are less entertaining than one might hope for. After an inexplicably retributive ending, one even wonders if Moravek wasn't using the cover of a romantic comedy to secretly bait-and-switch, warning of the otherworldly repercussions of wanton behavior. The whole film loses its tonal ballast, devolving into resolutions that are neither cathartic nor illuminating. [b]BORED IN BRNO[/b] may be titillating to those in its titular hometown, but for those who have a less confined sense of comedy and morality, it barely registers a chuckle.
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| CONNIE AND CARLA |
| 04.21.04 (8:37 pm) [edit] |
CONNIE AND CARLA
Cast: Nia Vardalos, Toni Collette, David Duchovny, Alec Mapa, Dash Mihok, and Stephen Spinella
Directed by: Michael Lembeck
Written by: Nia Vardalos
Distributor: Universal Pictures (US 2004)
Rated: PG-13 for thematic elements, sexual humor and drug references
As Reviewed by: Gabriel Shanks
I'll make this quick, because by the time you read this, [b]CONNIE AND CARLA[/b] should already be skulking out of movie theatres towards a well-deserved life in bargain DVD racks and rental obscurity. And that's too bad. There's great camp-classic potential in this follow-up vehicle for writer/performer Nia Vardalos ([i]My Big Fat Greek Wedding[/i]), and a cast of game supporting cast, including the vastly underrated Toni Collette ([i]Muriel's Wedding[/i]), Stephen Spinella ([i]Love! Valour! Compassion!), [/i]Alec Mapa ([i]I Remember Mapa[/i]), and in a sardonic comedic turn, David Duchovny ([i]X-Files[/i]). Sadly, Vardalos' script -- a gender-reversed rip-off of [i]Some Like It Hot[/i] mixed with Broadway show tunes and a Mafia subplot -- is so cliché-ridden and obvious that any sparks the performers may have are quickly smothered in dullness. Director Michael Lembeck ([i]Santa Clause 2[/i]) is haplessly inept when it comes to overcoming thin writing, creating a budget-cheap drag cabaret bar setting that is ridiculous at best and insensitive at worst. For this is another romantic comedy for heterosexuals set against a backdrop of supposed gay subculture -- the straights, however, are the ones who find thoroughly predictable love while the drag queens provide the local color. Only the fiercely gay Spinella and the confounded straight Duchovny, who play estranged brother, manage to occasionally overcome the dreck. For fans of Broadway, there are selections performed from nearly two dozen shows, [i]Evita[/i], [i]Jesus Christ Superstar[/i], and [i]Oklahoma![/i] among them. (And a Debbie Reynolds cameo that reminds you what star power truly is.) But for most viewers, I suggest passing it by on your next trip to NetFlix, and renting [i]The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert [/i]again instead.
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| SIXTEEN YEARS OF ALCOHOL |
| 04.18.04 (1:12 pm) [edit] |
SIXTEEN YEARS OF ALCOHOL
Cast: Kevin McKidd, Laura Fraser, Sinclair Blyth, Susan Lynch
Directed by: Richard Jobson
Written by: Richard Jobson
Seen At: The Philadelphia Film Festival
Rated: NR, but would be at least R for violence and language
As Reviewed by: Martin Scribbs
“Hello, my name is Frankie. And I am a violent man.”
An unusual précis to an Alcoholics Anonymous introduction, but perfectly apt for Frankie Mac, protagonist and narrator of festival fare SIXTEEN YEARS OF ALCOHOL. Scottish hooligan Frankie, played fearlessly by Kevin McKidd (“Tommy” from Trainspotting), hears two very different worlds calling to him, both insistently. The first, a world of whisky, horrific violence, and no love, offers a dull sort of predictability. You fight until someone finally kills you. But, through the agency of two women, Frankie also sees the prospect of laying down arms. He knows from past experience that “love can [turn into] a frightening thing… cold, dangerous, violent.” Will Frankie risk having a life?
Every sound in SIXTEEN YEARS sounds exactly right – from the thud a shot glass makes on the bar in front of a recovering alcoholic, to the unnerving scratch of a record skipping after a brawl, to the misleadingly mellow tones in which Frankie and his father speak. Even so, the film loves its own voice a little much. When your protagonist gets savagely gut-punched and his inner narration is Frost’s Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening, the audience can take neither the poetry nor the violence particularly seriously. A few times throughout the film, characters become more vessels for wordplay than living, breathing people. Frankie's journey has sufficient joy and nobility. Sometimes even the finest-wrought words only get in the way.
Writer and director Richard Jobson sprinkles homage to A Clockwork Orange throughout the movie, from his pugilist’s love of music and huge hi-fi system to Frankie’s gang having four members, one of them dim. (For the hard of reference, there is also a Clockwork Orange album cover up on Frankie’s wall.) There are a few surface similarities, but tonally, and as regards to their assumptions and ends, SIXTEEN YEARS and Clockwork Orange are completely different films. They are companion pieces, tackling the same issue (the fragility of reform) from opposite ends of the ideological spectrum.
Clockwork’s Alex doesn’t want to change. Change is imposed on him. Frankie starts to genuinely repent from the creature he had been. Moreover, Kubrick pried our eyes open to possibility that beauty and joy could coexist with extreme violence. SIXTEEN YEARS, more often than not, eschews showing the actual violence. Jobson’s focus isn’t on the action, but on the motivations behind it. Where violence does appear in SIXTEEN YEARS, it isn’t stylish, but ugly, reprehensible.
Kubrick, like the psychologists in his movie, takes a Skinnerian view of Alex. Alex does what he does because he associates it with pleasure (for what reason, who cares) and refrains only when he begins to associate violence with pain. Jobson does something very different with Frankie, rooting Frankie’s belligerence in the childhood trauma caused by his father’s infidelity. Any man can be Frankie’s enemy because any can stand in for the father who broke his heart. Alex can only be counter-conditioned, while Frankie can hope for a cure, can hope to let “the violence melt away.”
Frankie is the film’s only fully-formed character. Helen (Fraser) and Mary (Lynch) exist only to provide a pretext, a reason for Frankie to come out of his shell. This isn’t their story. That said, Frankie easily carries the movie on his own. A bravura sequence recounting Frankie’s childhood gives heft to the character for the rest of the film, and every hallucinogenic episode of violence that follows seems but a refrain of his oldest troubles. As Frankie-as-a-boy surveys the wreckage of yet another fight between his parents, the narrator suggests that “every second here [in childhood] is another education in the art of destruction.”
SIXTEEN YEARS suggests that destruction can be taught and dysfunction imposed by the world, but turning from the ruins can only be accomplished by each person's own self-discovery and self-discipline. Right or wrong, that is a powerful perspective, and this a powerful film.
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| KILL BILL: VOL. 2 |
| 04.14.04 (2:00 pm) [edit] |
KILL BILL: VOL. 2
Cast: Uma Thurman, David Carradine, Michael Madsen, Daryl Hannah, Gordon Liu, and Caitlin Keats
Directed by: Quentin Tarantino
Written by: Quentin Tarantino
Distributor: Miramax Films (US 2004)
Rated: R for violence, language and brief drug use
As Reviewed by: Gabriel Shanks
In [b]KILL BILL: VOL. 2[/b], that scream you may be hearing in the distance is not the sound of The Bride (Uma Thurman), slaughtering her way to vengeful justice the way she did in [i]VOL. 1[/i]. No, that is the sound of millions of irritated fanboys, those devoted followers of director Quentin Tarantino who, expecting a continuation of The Bride's bloody, Asian-flavored romper room ruckus, will find a character-driven love story in its place. And despite their certain disappointment over such a bait and switch, the shift in tone, narrative and style between Tarantino's two-parter is in actuality not all bad. If [i]VOL. 1[/i] was inherently more fun -- more action, more style, more cool combat -- this latest effort is vastly deeper, more resonant, and complex. [b]KILL BILL: VOL. 2[/b] is a not a great film, and it does have serious structural flaws: a ponderously indulgent third act, an abruptly forced beginning, and lugubrious sections of overkill. But as a surface-thin, flawed homage to Asian cinema, exploitation classics, and popcorn entertainments of every international flavor, [b]KILL BILL: VOL. 2[/b] can still be a heckuva lot of fun.
In the first scene, Bill asks The Bride, almost wistfully, "Can't we just forget the past?" Although she pauses before speaking, Tarantino's answer is firmly and unequivocally No, We Can't. [b]KILL BILL[/b], it turns out, is a chopsocky meditation on choices and consequences, a hyperstylized vision of the metaphorical ripples that occur when we fling a rock into the lakes of our lives. Tarantino resists a moralizing read on such choices, but the inescapable realities of life, death, murder, betrayal, love, and pain come with their own emotional baggage for each viewer. All of the characters of [b]KILL BILL[/b] are ruthless assassins, but very few of them are of the cold-blooded variety...they kill, but they're not made of emotional stone.
Bill (David Carradine), the ruthless leader of assassins featured in the film's title, scores significantly more screen time than he did in Tarantino's first installment. It's fitting that he's omnipresent in [b]VOL. 2[/b]; as both The Bride's ultimate nemesis and prize, he must face her both on the battlegrounds of reality and of memory. The film, divided into chapters, jumps between The Bride's real-life hunt for Bill and flashbacks from their shared history. In case you missed [i]VOL. 1[/i]: The Bride, after being left for dead on her wedding day by Bill and her former associates, used the first film to gain the ultimate revenge on two of them, Vernita Green (Viveca A. Fox) and O-Ren Ishii (Lucy Liu). Now hot on Bill's trail in [b]VOL. 2[/b], she must first get through Bill's brother, Budd (Michael Madsen) and Elle Driver (Daryl Hannah), before going after her former boss and mentor. But Bill's got surprises in store -- as if you didn't guess -- that will call all of The Bride's bloodthirst into question.
The story is culled from the classic plot conventions of 1970's international cinema, terrain that Tarantino mined less colorfully but more successfully in [i]Pulp Fiction[/i], [i]Jackie Brown[/i], and [i]Reservoir Dogs[/i]. There are some magnificent pop-cultural flourishes here, however; when Carradine evokes his [i]Kung Fu[/i] character by playing a wooden flute, one can only gasp at Tarantino's brash but brilliant cinema of appropriation. Still, many moments go flat. Jokes about pregnancy tests are trite and easy, belonging to the realm of TV sitcom more than cinema. It's not lost on the audience that while the women of the film have to fight each other constantly, the men rarely get in a scrape at all -- think of it as the not-quite-lesbian porn element of Tarantino's world, where women with swords are hot...and women fighting women with swords is even hotter.
If the plotting and dialogue remain as problematic as they were in [i]VOL. 1[/i], there are still buckets of style to cover it all. And it is style where [b]KILL BILL[/b] truly triumphs. Shovel loads of dirt hit the ground with sound effects like claps of thunder, scenes are illuminated by flashlights to enhance the visceral terror...even the eating of rice becomes an aural and visual triumph. Although Kumiko Ogawa and Catherine Marie Thomas' dynamic costumes work overtime to steal the show, it is Robert Richardson's glorious, Cinemarati Award-nominated cinematography that remains the defining feature and major triumph of [b]KILL BILL[/b]. The camera shorthand homages to 70's kung-fu classics are flawlessly realized -- comic yet brutal, dramatically taught yet colorfully entertaining. The opening sequences, which includes a hammy expositional recap of [i]VOL. 1[/i] and the first flashback, is styled by Richardson as intense film-noir, and the expressiveness of black-and-white film hasn't been used so majestically since [i]The Man Who Wasn't There[/i] three years ago. In all of the forms, Richard captures the stark beauty of his rough-hewn landscapes, the claustrophobia of space, and the power of the characters. It is truly remarkable work. If only editor Sally Menke (or even producer Harvey Weinstein) had been able to rein in Tarantino's wild flights of indulgence with a crisp, sharp editing hand, the entire film might have reached fluffily transcendent heights.
And speaking of remarkable things...there's Uma Thurman. Despite [b]KILL BILL[/b]'s evident flaws, the one unassailable fact that comes out of watching the now-completed series is that Thurman is a world-class actress, capable of holding the screen not only with her classical screen beauty but with her formidably iconic acting. Thurman roots [b]KILL BILL[/b] in accessibility, keeping its lofty pretensions and stylistic pirouettes firmly grounded to the plot and the character. As The Bride, Thurman reaches not only the heights of her contemporary field, but also to the indelible screen performances of yesteryear. In [b]KILL BILL[/b], Thurman seems as unforgettable as John Wayne in a Western, Al Pacino in a gangster picture, or Katharine Hepburn in a romantic drama. She has breathtakingly come into her own. Carradine, on the other hand, is reaching for a career rejuvenation along the lines of the one John Travolta achieved in [i]Pulp Fiction[/i]; although he is good, I doubt it is enough to vault him into the realm of the A-List (or even B-List). While Tarantino regular Michael Madsen turns in a wickedly witty performance as the fatigued Budd, Daryl Hannah plays the high camp of Elle with far too much arch. It is in her moments onscreen that [b]KILL BILL[/b] reveals itself to be the translucent tracing paper it actually is.
But is that so bad? It is easy to take a cursory look at [b]KILL BILL[/b] and dismiss it as two-dimensional. Yes, it is two-dimensional, but that's not really the point. In Tarantino's ongoing video-store history lesson -- a career that seeks to honor personal favorites as much as emulate them -- his latest effort is enhanced for those who perceive it on a meta-level of cinematic awareness. There, in character parts, are legendary kung-fu actors Sonny Chiba and Gordon Liu; over there, a nearly unrecognizable cameo by Samuel L. Jackson. It's the kind of film where the possibilities of film are primary, and its dramatic elements are a distant second. So while those hungry for a good story will go home starving, for those who love the flash and the zing, the Pow! and the Zap! -- [b]KILL BILL[/b] is an all-you-can-eat banquet.
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| THE ALAMO |
| 04.11.04 (5:19 pm) [edit] |
THE ALAMO
Cast: Billy Bob Thornton, Dennis Quaid, Jason Patric, and Patrick Wilson
Directed by: John Lee Hancock
Written by: Leslie Bohem, Stephen Gaghan, and John Lee Hancock
Distributor: Touchstone Pictures (US 2004)
Rated: PG-13
As Reviewed by: Gabriel Shanks
In the annals of American history, the Battle of the Alamo is a curiously odd surprise. Most of the celebrated military actions of our nation's early days -- at least those that do not involve our self-inflicted Civil War -- are told as breathless victories, triumphs of war but also of the will and spirit. Sure, there's the occasional Custer's Last Stand, but overwhelmingly the message passed to generations of American schoolchildren is...we are the winners, and it is because we are the righteous.
What, then, are we to make of [b]THE ALAMO[/b]? Here's a chapter of history that runs directly counter to the myth of America: we lost, and lost bad, and we probably should have. We abandoned a ragtag group of men, trapped in an indefensible fort, to the brutal legions of Mexico's general Santa Anna. They died not for America, but for Texas, which at the time was hoping to become an independent country. To be fair, there is exceptional valor in the story, but is mitigated by its decided lack of heroic exploit and middling dramatic tension. It was a rout, plain and simple...and Americans were on the losing end.
It seems that director John Lee Hancock ([i]The Rookie[/i]) knows that he is fighting an uphill battle in turning this particular subject into a sweeping movie epic. The Alamo, as important as it may be historically and culturally, is not the stuff of cinema. It lacks both obvious heroes and complex villains, featuring few surprises on its way to its inevitable end. It is a story of bodies and numbers -- Mexico had more soldiers, and quantities made the difference. Even the presence of famous Western legends like Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, and Sam Houston aren't of much help, having no direct leadership in the battle (and having had their greater exploits elsewhere). [b]THE ALAMO[/b] is a telling history lesson, especially in a world that seems to distrust and dislike America more and more each day. Even so, however, it is structurally and fundamentally poor quality entertainment. As war pictures go, it's a well-intentioned disaster.
For what's a war movie without a hero? Well, [b]THE ALAMO[/b], for starters. There are four major characters jockeying for title billing in the tale: Davy Crockett (Billy Bob Thornton), Jim Bowie (Jason Patric), Sam Houston (Dennis Quaid), and William Travis (Patrick Wilson). Rugged, charismatic men worthy of film treatments in their own right, none of them truly take charge of the specific events leading to the battle of the Alamo. This is the truth of history, but it is also the stuff of movie flopdom...too many P.O.V.s to keep track of. The movie begins with Mr. Houston in Tennessee, where he is luring Crockett to Texas with the promise of land. Then Houston disappears suddenly from the film, and Crockett ends up at the Alamo with Travis. Jim Bowie is hanging out there too, but he's gravely ill. It's not that these characters aren't interesting, but that there's a fundamental jockeying for position, an imbalance bred of too many larger-than-life temperaments. There is no one to center and ground [b]THE ALAMO[/b], no magnetic presence to spin the story around.
And then we wait. It is the nature of all films of this genre -- the slow build to the historical, cathartic final battle. But in [b]THE ALAMO[/b], we have no story to build. Santa Anna (Emilio Echevarria) surrounds the fort within the first twenty minutes. And then...he proceeds to wait for Houston to arrive...who, as the history books will tell you...never showed up. So, while the audience patiently sits waiting for the main event to start, they are treated to incessant historical minutiae (minor characters work titillating tour-bus tidbits into the dialogue: the Alamo is a former mission, sculptures of St. Francis are in the back, there are not enough cannons to defend the rear wall, Bowie had a drinking problem, and on and on it goes ad nauseum). The sense of impending doom and the characters' seeming inability to think constructively about turning the tide makes [b]THE ALAMO [/b]feel as exciting as a big, flat cyclorama exhibit at your local historical society.
For [b]THE ALAMO[/b] is not formed from the misty-eyed, nostalgic patriotism of [i]Saving Private Ryan[/i] nor the postmodern recontextualizing of violence in [i]Black Hawk Down[/i]. Instead, it attempts to push patriotic emotional buttons with cinematic shtick -- a stirring score, a smoke-scarred battlefield -- for a story in which America is questionably on the side of the righteous. The actors push and strain against the material, looking for ways to make their characters come alive beyond Daniel Orlandi's impeccable costumes. Echevarria takes Santa Anna's Napoleonic foppishness to a limp-wristed extreme, while Patric makes Bowie's mortal wounds into a two-hour marathon of overacting. Thornton and Wilson are able to use their flinty characters to strike a little fire, especially in their scenes together. But the men and women of the Alamo remain mostly a mystery, background players that we never get to know.
In addition to directing, Hancock also co-wrote the screenplay with Oscar winner Stephen Gaghan ([i]Traffic[/i]) and Leslie Bohem ([i]Dante's Peak[/i]); one wishes that Gaghan might have written it alone, if only to tone down the pomposity and faux grandeur of the dialogue. Every line has the ring of poetic proclamation; no one ever just speaks. Instead, They Speaketh, mellifluously and grandly. One half-expects Patrick Henry to have a cameo, screeching about giving him liberty or death. It's Greek tragedy without the hummus...or the tragedy.
At the end of the film, Hancock does make one last stab at creating a dramatic arc in [b]THE ALAMO[/b]...by leaving it entirely. In a lackluster coda, after the battle has ended, we catch up with Houston, who is on the run from Santa Anna's soldiers. It is immediately evident that the makers of the film knew that the Alamo battle itself would never cut it with audiences; moreover, every person who's ever lost a fight dreams of a rematch. And that's what we ultimately get in [b]THE ALAMO[/b], a chance to take on the bully on Houston's own terms. It is again well-intentioned, but as an attempt to manipulate the audience's final reactions, it is weak, shameless, and just shy of pathetic.
Although there are many important, salient reasons to remember the Alamo -- not the least because it pierces the fragile illusion of American invincibility and righteousness -- I can't think of even one good reason to remember this [b]ALAMO [/b]beyond its end credits. Viva Texas!
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| THE BOOK OF LIFE |
| 04.06.04 (8:18 pm) [edit] |
THE BOOK OF LIFE
Cast: Martin Donovan, P.J. Harvey, Thomas Jay Ryan, Miho Nikaido
Directed by: Hal Hartley
Written by: Hal Hartley
Distributor: Fox Lorber (US 1998)
Rated: : NR, but would be at least PG-13 for language and brief violence
As Reviewed by: Martin Scribbs
“What twisted fairy tale had I allowed myself to be dragged into? Why hadn’t I interfered more, questioned more, agitated more?” On the eve of destruction, Jesus-who’s-come-again (Donovan) asks Himself these soul-searching questions in what might’ve been called The Lack of Passion of the Christ, or, What If Jesus Came Back as a Well-Adjusted Californian?
After the soulless certitude of Gibson’s Christ, it is bracing to hear the King of Kings confide in narration, “I had returned at last to judge the living and the dead, but I still, as always, had my doubts.” Jesus, here presented as a clean-cut, well-dressed, and polite-to-the-verge-of-be ing-Canadian businessman, finds himself in Manhattan on December 31, 1999. Four seals on the Book of Life have been broken. Three more must go before the bitter end. It is Christ's God-given mission to pull the plug on the world. Director Hal Hartley poses the question: What if He, after all this time, chose not to accept it?
Magdalena, His traveling companion, confides to the attorneys at His Father’s law firm that Jesus is considering just “forgiving everyone. Completely.” Counsel objects. “Who does he think he is, anyway?,” one blusters. “My Client’s authority rests on that threat [Revelations] alone.” Which prompts the viewer to ask, is that true? And if so, what does that say about God?
We never see God the Father directly in THE BOOK OF LIFE, and so are left with His proxies, the above-mentioned lawyers at the venerable firm of Armageddon, Armageddon, and Jephosophat. Jesus says of His Father, ““Still, to this day, lawyers are his favorite. The law to Him is everything.” The lawyers don’t like Christ, don’t understand him, don't trust him. Given the sour legalism that runs through so much of Christianity, lawyers might indeed prove better oracles of the Father’s will than do artists, or authors, or even the clergy.
THE BOOK OF LIFE is a wonderful exercise in religious fantasy, at least in part because it addresses the obvious divide between God as revealed in Christ, and the bloodthirsty religions with which He is bracketed historically. Hartley’s Christ isn’t concerned with the fact that the End is prophesied: “I don’t give a damn about the prophets. I never liked those guys, anyway.” This Christ is distinctly uncomfortable with the wild-eyed bloodlusting martyrs he raises from the dead by breaking the Fifth Seal. They want vengeance; and He sees no point in it.
The only appreciative audience Jesus finds for his eschatlogical doubts is fellow exile Satan (Ryan). Satan, here a scruffy, seedy barfly, had been spending his last day wheedling a woman’s soul away from her compulsive gambler boyfriend. (Theologically, that’s nonsense, of course). The boyfriend falls for it, and comes looking for J.C.’s help: “I think I gambled my girlfriend’s soul away to the Devil by accident. Look, I’m an atheist. How was I supposed to know he was the Devil? They don’t teach atheists stuff like that.”
When Jesus calls Satan’s cellie, and sets up a power lunch, there’s no way to predict how the meeting will unfold. Satan has been dismayed by the prospect of eternity crashing in, as his Kingdom prospers best in the mundane minutes and seconds of mankind’s life. The Devil also floats some principled reasons to stop the End Days -- “the tug of war between Heaven and Hell keeps people honest” – which even he can’t quite sell with sincerity. But, desperate as the Devil is, he has no idea what to make of the renegade Son of God.
They find one point upon which they can agree: us. Satan tells Jesus, “You start out being infatuated by their free will… thinking of all the possibilities… then, pow! You’re addicted to human beings.” The denouement of the 63-minute film depends on how hooked the Son has become. Does Christ have enough love for human beings, who, as “frightening as it [is] to admit, [are] all equally deserving of forgiveness,” and their life here and now, “crowded with possibilities – the possibility of disaster, the possibility of perfection”? Or will His sense of duty to the Eternal Kingdom, and the world’s sense of inevitability win out?
Visually, Hartley makes some odd and probably unjustifiably arty choices. The whole film is full of unfocused lights, a gauzy atmosphere, the world filmed on a tilt. Was this meant to convey a sense of divinity? Urgency? Imminence? The soundscape of the movie makes more sense, with dramatic moments being underscored by static and noise. PJ Harvey, in addition to a bizarro “To Sir With Love” that Magdalena obviously means for Jesus, contributes the hypnotic singsong closing track, ‘Love Too Soon,” I think also about Him:
In the sun
Light of day
I can see
Your face change
MS/lic
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| BLIND SPOT: HITLER'S SECRETARY |
| 04.02.04 (7:41 pm) [edit] |
BLIND SPOT: HITLER'S SECRETARY
Cast: Traudl Junge
Directed by: André Heller & Othmar Schmiderer
Written by: André Heller & Othmar Schmiderer
Distributor: Sony Pictures Classics (US 2002)
Rated: PG for "thematic material"
As Reviewed by: Martin Scribbs
Looking slapped together like a last-minute junior high project, BLIND SPOT: HITLER'S SECRETARY puts the "banal" back in evil. With bargain bin production values, even by documentary standards, and with just one subject telling her story, this film owes it to viewers to draw from Junge a real, riveting, morally awake tale. And it utterly fails to deliver. Tuesdays with Traudl this ain't.
In SPOT, an 81-year old Frau Junge goes on and on (and on) about her feckless youth taking dictation from der Fuhrer in his Last Days bunker. The premise of a hand-wringing confessional by a junior Nazi fellow traveler apparently so captivated SPOT's makers that they failed to notice the finished product's complete lack of insight.
Our anti-heroine, then little Fraulein Humps, started in Hitler's employ at age 13. She claims never to have been made privy to the Reich's program of atrocities. Kind of like a Bush White House intern never having heard a joke about her boss's intelligence, but who am I to correct "Evening Star"a Braun? Let the teeth-gnashing continue!
Junge typed up Hitler's speeches and personal correspondence. She asserts she had no idea about the true nature of the camps. Well, suppose that's so -- though I don't believe it -- is there a more pointless history to recount than that of a naïf? Is "What I Saw While I Had A Bag Over My Head " a worthwhile memoir?
Junge's story isn't really that of willful ignorance, even though she tries that language on for size once or twice. Mostly, she's (1) denying that she had any reason to suspect the barbarity of the Reich, and, at the same time, (2) publicly savaging herself (i.e. asking for pity) for failing to sense the Beast where she worked. Viewers get the blameless victim-of-circumstance Junge and the penitent sackcloth-and-ashes Junge without Junge offering up a self-indictment which would bear a moment's serious examination. I tend to agree with Junge's detractors, who argue that she (and all Adolf’s little minions) pretty much knew the party’s policies and didn't care until the Nazis lost the war. The alternative, that Fraulein Humps didn't know her boss’s intentions, implies not lesser culpability but none at all. You can't split this particular loaf.
Junge's post-war epiphanies -- oh, Hitler WAS a monster and a criminal! Oh, why, he DID mislead us! -- are so cliché for reconstructed Germans of her generation that they must be written down in some dog-eared script. When the stories of Central Africa and the former Yugolavia's massacres get told, expect a lot more like this, earnest hangdogged old people admitting to only the most minor and institutional of transgressions. No-one held the knife. At least, no-one willing to star in a movie about it.
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| THE LADYKILLERS |
| 04.02.04 (2:40 pm) [edit] |
THE LADYKILLERS
Cast: Tom Hanks, Irma P. Hall, Marlon Wayans, J.K. Simmons, Stephen Root, Tzi Ma, and Ryan Hurst
Directed by: Joel and Ethan Coen
Written by: Joel and Ethan Coen
Distributor: Touchstone Pictures (US 2004)
Rated: R for language including sexual references
As Reviewed by: Gabriel Shanks
[b]THE LADYKILLERS[/b] is the latest quirky vision of the writing/directing team of the Coen Brothers, but those hoping for another [i]Fargo [/i]or [i]O Brother Where Are Thou?[/i] should reduce their expectations; in truth, their new film was never designed to be more than a slight remake of an earlier slight comedy. Skimming the surface of its subjects, [b]THE LADYKILLERS[/b] is really an acting showcase for its ensemble -- especially Tom Hanks, who clearly delights in playing the overly verbose Southerner (and daft criminal mastermind) Professor G.H. Dorr. Played with a vague hamminess but obvious fondness for Mississippi, gospel music, and caper comedy, the actors delight in their over-the-top caricatures. Viewers may find their efforts, however, a little distancing...missing the honesty, complexity and heartfelt twang of [i]O Brother[/i]. Despite its Southern locale, [b]THE LADYKILLERS [/b]actually shares more in common with the Coen's [i]Intolerable Cruelty[/i], another basics-only comedy that left only lukewarm chuckles in its wake.
There are reasons to see [b]THE LADYKILLERS[/b], though. Three of them, to be precise. The first is Hanks, playing a bad guy and having the time of his life. While not quite as deft with circumulatory language as George Clooney was with a similar character in [i]O Brother[/i], Hanks exhibits a devilish glee and geeky earnestness as Dorr, a man magisterially in love with the sound of his own voice. Whether planning a heist of the nearby gambling riverboat, or reading the poems of Edgar Allan Poe to a room full of church ladies, Hanks' twinkling eyes and bumbling enthusiasm are contagious. It is the best he has been since [i]Saving Private Ryan[/i].
The second-best reason to see [b]THE LADYKILLERS[/b] is the long-overdue recognition for the inimitable Irma P. Hall, who shines in her first leading role after years of superb supporting work in films like [i]Soul Food[/i] and [i]Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil[/i]. As Professor Dorr's landlady and primary obstacle, Hall finds a pitch-perfect balance between no-nonsense and passionate, a God-fearing woman who's not afraid to speak her mind or do the dirty work. What is astonishing, but not surprising, is how Hall holds the screen in such rapt attention. Like many character actors given a chance to shine, she knows that roles like this are all too rare, and she makes the absolute most of it.
Hall and Hanks are surrounded by the third reason: the ensemble. As a hearty but ultimately inept band of thieves, they bristle and rub against each others' personalities with excellent comic timing. Marlon Wayans dazzles as he interacts with Hall, who sees him as a "hippity hoppity" young man in need of saving from sin...with smacks upside the head, if need be. J.K. Simmons, one of the most versatile and underrated players in Hollywood today, gutsily embraces his role as a dimwitted munitions expert with a, um, unfortunately physical condition. It's not easy to make broad jokes play on film -- just ask everyone since the Marx Brothers -- but Simmons makes it work. Tzi Ma is all razor-sharp edges as the General, while Ryan Hurst plays the resident good with good-natured energy.
If only the screenplay was better. Ongoing gags about Hall's cat and body waste wear out their welcome quickly, exacerbated by an uneven, lagging pace. Roger Deakins, one of the most imaginative cinematographers working in Hollywood today, chooses a conventional approach that limits the visual dazzle the Coens are known for. [b]THE LADYKILLERS[/b] is disturbingly predictable and unfortunately uninspired...audiences who may enjoy the performers will still roil at the cliches and obvious ploys that bog down the proceedings. A-list talent, a great cast, foot-tapping music, impeccably-created atmosphere...it's very sad that the Coens missed the opportunities afforded to them this time around. O Coens, where are thou?
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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.
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