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| FINDING NEVERLAND |
| 10.29.04 (9:04 am) [edit] |
FINDING NEVERLAND
Cast: Johnny Depp, Kate Winslet, Julie Christie, Freddie Highmore, Radha Mitchell, and Dustin Hoffman
Directed by: Marc Forster
Written by: David Magee
Distributor: Miramax Films (US 2004)
Rated: PG for mild thematic elements and brief language
As Reviewed by: Gabriel Shanks
Neverland. The word alone conjures up eternal metaphors, the pleasures of youth, the wishes of immortality, the nostalgic glimmer reflected in the innocent existence of children. The playwright J.M. Barrie, in creating Peter Pan's mythical world a century ago, did much more than add a word to the lexicon; he gave vivid, colorful expression to one of humanity's most deeply-held dreams...that of escaping back to the relatively untroubled times of our childhood. It is a seductive, charming, and enticing fantasy.
As with most things that are seductive, charming, and enticing, however, the idea of Neverland has always drifted from its intended innocence to cluelessness or, even worse, stunted emotionality. Steven Spielberg, in his blunted film Hook, took on Barrie's iconography with a severely mature concern: what if the world's eternally young boy had to grow up? In FINDING NEVERLAND, director Marc Forster (Monster's Ball) takes an equally recalcitrant path to Barrie's world...by exploring Barrie himself. What makes a grown man write such a thing as Peter Pan, and how much of our daily lives fit into the magic of Neverland (and vice versa)?
The conceit in Forster's vision (based on a play by Allan Knee, with a screenplay by David Magee) is to intertwine imaginative fantasy with real life -- and like Neverland itself, it is a beguiling, intoxicating mix. Elements of daily existence bleed into Barrie's whimsical play...and back again, especially Barrie's relationship with the recently widowed Sylvia Llewelyn Davies (Kate Winslet) and her four sons. Intrigued by and drawn to the mournful Davies clan, Barrie begins visiting their home, creating elaborate fantasies with the children and falling into an unspoken but tenderly complex relationship with Sylvia. As their innocent afternoons begin to scandalize Sylvia's mother Emma (Julie Christie) and Barrie's social-climbing wife Mary (Radha Mitchell), the young Davies boys, especially the morose and thoughtful Peter (Freddie Highmore), capture the imagination of the playwright. Their evening playtime jumping on their beds inspires flights of fancy (literally), while their stern grandmother conjures up a villainous captain with a hook.
Before long, the play begins to almost write itself in Barrie's head; the transcendent moment of the film comes when the play and the world meet -- first in the theatre, then in the imagination of Sylvia. FINDING NEVERLAND ultimately pushes Barrie's central metaphor beyond its bounds, to wonderful cinematic effect. This Neverland is not just a repository for our lost youth or our cherished dreams...it is everything we need, everything we want, and everything promised by the creator. It is the answer to every man's prayers.
Whether you're willing to hop aboard FINDING NEVERLAND's magic realism bus, however, is not entirely dependent upon whether or not you believe in fairies. Truthfully, the first half of the film is erratic and confused, fitfully trying to get through stilted exposition. There are some much-needed details missing, both great and small; we see how inspiration ignites the creative spark and becomes an idea, but not how the idea develops into a cultivated work of art. Relationships beyond the central ones are facile and thinly conceived (Barrie's shrewish wife, his uncertain producer, et al). At the halfway point, you may find yourself checking your watch. As we approach the final hour, however, FINDING NEVERLAND's screenplay settles into a strong construction that develops bit by bit into a surprisingly moving climax. Most films these days seem to start strong and finish weak; there's something marvelous about a film that does the reverse, getting better in every moment.
Credit the performances for much of the film's continuous improvement. Johnny Depp is always a fine actor, and his restrained, delicate touch gives Barrie a vaguely mysterious edge. Depp is effortless in both the whimsy and charm departments, and his palpable affection for Sylvia and young Peter hold the tremulous emotional threads of the film together. Winslet, one of the world's most underrated performers, makes it immediately clear why Barrie would be mesmerized by this gently grieving woman: light shines from her luminous eyes, a trace of sadness behind her generous smile, a firm dedication to her family that doesn't hide the strain of single parenting. For Barrie, Sylvia is a discovery, not unlike Neverland...a woman that shares his creative worldview and can embrace its peculiarities. Winslet is, dare I say it, perfect in the role.
One cannot talk about FINDING NEVERLAND without mentioning Freddie Highmore, the astonishing child actor who plays Peter Davies. Burdened with being the inspiration for one of the greatest tales of the 20th century, Highmore brings an emotional honesty and fearlessness to Peter that often escapes actors three or four times his age. Although this is not his debut (he appeared in the odd tiger tale Two Brothers last year, and with Helena Bonham Carter in Women Talking Dirty), it is without a doubt one of those performances that announces itself on the world stage. Currently filming the lead role in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (at the recommendation of his returning costar, Johnny Depp), one can expect big things from him in the future. Any young actor who can hold their own in scenes with Winslet, Depp, and the mighty Julie Christie (also in fine, crusty form) is one worth watching.
The ideas of "play" and "pretending" take on many different connotations in FINDING NEVERLAND: as children's games, as theatrical practice, as strategies to recapture wonder in our lives. Reality, Barrie might argue, is a construction of the imagination anyway, and therefore, why limit it to its most mundane nature? There's much to enjoy in the search for meaning and fulfillment on the trip to Neverland, but rarely has the journey been so heartfelt, or so successful.
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| TV: MIDSEASON REPLACEMENTS |
| 10.29.04 (7:22 am) [edit] |
As freshman Fall series start to tank, I always look forward to their mid-season replacements. And if well thought-out shows like [i]Commando Nanny[/i] and [i]Method & Red[/i] can't finish the season, what hope is there for marginal debuts like [i]Kevin Hill[/i]? Per my well-placed industry sources, here are the shows on deck:
[b]Punk'd: Election Edition[/b]
Ashton Kutcher returns to impish form as he tricks hundreds of Broward County voters into using election booths equipped only with Atari 2600s. [u]They say[/u]: Since votes aren't counted anymore, why shouldn't people learn their States and Capitals? [u]We say[/u]: Syndicators must be betting at least one of the Supreme Court justices is in a Nielsen family.
[b]What Kind of Girl...[/b]
A high-priced escort (Ashlee Simpson) finds her life and loves in a tizzy as everyone mistakenly assumes she's also a prostitute. [u]They say[/u]: It's [i]Mary Tyler Moore[/i] where Ted and Lou keep unexpectedly taking out their dicks! [u]We say[/u]: Ashlee's catch-phrase, "And this was supposed to be my day off!" sure to spread like wildfire.
[b]Rick Santorum's Manhunt![/b]
Conservative Senator Rick Santorum hosts this celebration of American male virility. Watch 100% straight studs compete at Greco-Roman wrestling, shirtless equestrian sports, and couture modelling to determine which Santorum will crown the all-American man. [u]They say[/u]: Finally, a show for the gals! [u]We say[/u]: Rick, Rick, Rick.
[b][i]Television Without Pity[/i] Forums Live: Wing Chun Chat[/b]
Talk live with notorious recluse and TWoP editor Wing Chun. Callers must memorize and follow a few dozen simple rules, the breaking of which will result in their home phones being permanently disconnected. [u]They say[/u]: As fun as a pajama party where only the host gets to talk! [u]We say[/u]: The people who brought all the wackiness of medical transcription to bear on TV sure deserve their day on the idiot box.
[b]Sanford y Hijo[/b]
Tommy Chong stars in an all-Latino redo of [i]Sanford and Son[/i]. While Jimmy Smitts has been signed to play the role of Lamont, a last-minute challenge to his contract may keep this laugh riot in siesta mode until the summer. [u]They say[/u]: Estoy muriendo. Mi corazón es malo. ¡Elizabeth, estoy viniendo ensamblarle en cielo! [u]We say[/u]: Wake us when it's time for the Dame Edna version of [i]Maude[/i], with Graham Colton as Stanley.
[b]CSI: Stars Hollow[/b]
After her Inn burns down in a series-opening suspected arson, Gilmore Girl Lauren Graham embarks on her new career in forensics. Which was her evening school minor. [u]They say[/u]: Look for Chad Michael Murray to guest star as Tristan, a lovable rogue who may hold the secret to the abrupt disappearance of Miss Patty. [u]We say[/u]: Rumors abound that the role of Rory has been recast with Paris Hilton. As always, LIC demands to see the videotape.
[b]Slasher Stan: King of Hearts[/b]
A reality courtship show with a twist: the man whose love the twelve women contestants pine for, who they believe to be a millionaire orthopedics salesman from San Diego, is none other than "Slasher" Stan Sullivan, a relentless serial killer with an appetite for human flesh. Will Ms. Right fall for Mr. Wrong? [u]They Say[/u]: It's [i]The Bachelor[/i] meets [i]Saw[/i]. [u]We Say[/u]: There's no chance Michelle Malkin wants to play?
[b]Not Reviewed[/b]: [i]Don't Be Judgin', Charlie Brown[/i]; [i]Susie Bright and Suze Orman's Guide to Cost-Effective Whoopee![/i]; and [i]Shields and Yarnell: Behind the Silence[/i].
[b]LIC[/b]
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| THE MOTORCYCLE DIARIES |
| 10.25.04 (8:15 pm) [edit] |
A shoo-in for the [i]Beyond Borders[/i] Hall of Cinematic Shame, [b]THE MOTORCYCLE DIARIES[/b] stars a young, middle-class, hottie do-gooder overwhelmed! upon discovering the sufferings of the world. This time our protagonist is Gael Garcia Bernal, one of the boychicks from the endlessly overhyped [i]Y Tu Mama Tambien[/i]. He and his weight-challenged comic relief companion travel up the coastline of South America, Opening Their Heart To the Poor. Apparently, the lads lived 20-some years each in Buenos Aires and never encountered an indigent person. But Chile, Peru, and Venezuela? You can't wipeout on your endearingly unreliable motorcycle without hitting a hut full of the wide-eyed and oppressed. Who are filmed, I shit you not, in James Agee [i]Let Us Now Praise Famous Men[/i] black-and-white.
Of course, compassion is a virtue. But why, exactly, does virtue only come to the silver screen when it stirs in the heart of the taut model sort? Why make movies about fine, charitable sentiments as they sporadically arise among the priviledged and leave untold the stories of the destitute themselves? There's narcissism afoot, and it rubs even a well-disposed audience very much the wrong way.
Consider the heart of the movie, the leper colony. Bernal's medical student serves three weeks at the colony. Instantly, he becomes its most celebrated doctor because He Treats the Lepers As People. The colony sets doctors on one side, the patients on the other, the mighty Amazon dividing the embankments. Bernal's character, who suffers from severe and chronic asthma, nevertheless resolves to grace the lepers with his presence on his birthday. Panting and gasping like a porn star on deadline, Bernal crosses The River That No-one Has Ever Crossed and presents himself to the lepers for their adulation, which they duly proffer. Because this means... what to the lepers?
Oh, and the Bernal character winds up being Marxist revolutionary Ernesto "Che" Guevara de la Serna. The film deals so little with the shadow side of communist revolutions, it wouldn't be a stretch to call [b]MOTORCYCLE DIARIES[/b] an unexpected renaissance in Soviet filmmaking. This is the sort of pure hearts, clean hands revisionist agitprop that ignores a subsequent generation of profound moral compromise. Communism here is monolithic, optimistic, and indisputably justified. Would that it were so.
[i]Beyond Borders[/i] may have sucked, but the worst thing Jolie went on to do was [i]Sky Captain[/i].
[b]LIC [/b]
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| I HEART HUCKABEES |
| 10.16.04 (11:58 pm) [edit] |
[b]Starring[/b]: Jason Schwartzman, Dustin Hoffman, Lili Tomlin, Mark Wahlberg, Jude Law, Naomi Watts, Tippi Hedren and Isabelle Huppert
[b]Director[/b]: David O. Russell
[b]Writing Credits[/b]: David O. Russell and Jeff Baena
[b]Distributor[/b]: Twentieth Century Fox (US 2004)
[b]Rated[/b]: R for language and a sex scene
Reviewed by: [b]Martin Scribbs[/b]
Sometimes you know right away that you're in love. And sometimes quiet reflection brings to the surface levels of affection that you may never have noticed in the bustle of the day. [b]I HEART HUCKABEES[/b] is the too-hastily discarded valentine you come across again and reconsider.
Existential detective Vivian Jaffe (Tomlin) tells her new client that a person's life can be reconstructed from the tiniest fragment. Albert (Schwartzman) balks at having the agency watch his bathroom habits. Vivian retorts, "you floss, or masturbate, that can be the key to your entire reality."
This moment of [b]I HEART[/b], taken alone, merits praise. Like much of the film, I saw it as enjoyable, lightweight kookiness. Then I re-read my notes, and started to write, and that germ of a thought sank in.
Let's take for starters the idea that each person's reality requires an interpretive key. That's a very peculiar notion for any product of pop culture to champion. The logic of pop culture can only imagine genuine authenticity to be a dead end. Suppose every movie not only told its own story, but created its own language in which to do so. That would be uneconomical; impossible to mass produce; incompatible with existing markets; and in the unlikely event that you make and gain currency for such a one-off product, there's no return business. Yet in a movie with more star power than a globular cluster, that's just the sort of radicalism that David O. Russell is talking about.
Vivian's fellow detective and husband Bernard (Hoffman) introduces Albert to the Infinite. He encourages the greasy young poet and eco-activist to see the unified field of matter and energy, the blanket of existence in which there can never be a hole or disconnect. Bernard shakes Albert out of his mental habits. He encourages Albert to erase the artificial distinction he had imposed between himself and Everything Else. In Bernard's worldview, the universe overflows with connectedness and meaning. So Bernard adopts an unflaggingly happy and confident, if nattily distracted, attitude. Everything is cool! and neat! and important! even though no situation in particular is worth getting upset over.
In sharp contrast, a French nihilist (Huppert) talks to Albert of a cruel, meaningless, and manipulative universe. On Albert's behalf, Caterine takes his individual concerns [i]very[/i] seriously. She learns from Albert's journals that as a small boy, his dog died. Albert's mother shunted him into his room when he expressed a little sorrow. Caterine confronts Albert's mother. She forces Albert to see how he has short-changed his emotional self, continually, because of his mother's betrayals. She rouses Albert from spiritual impotence with the shocks of justified anger, and later, lust. No-one is really connected. No pattern really matters. There is only and ever the Self, its truths, and the present.
It's been said that the opposite of every profound truth is also a profound truth. What Bernard and Caterine peddle aren't so much profound truths as bite-sized truths about profound things. Think about these opposite but equally valid attitudes as components in the philosophical equivalent of a first aid kit. The medicine that can be performed in the field, with minimal equiptment, as events break, is radically different from surgery in a world-class hospital with state-of-the-art instruments and adequate prep time. Still, profound ideas like hygeine, pressure, temprature regulation, and the like find quick, life-saving expression. Likewise, Bernard and Caterine aren't doing academic philosophy. They, like we, are in the shit, making it up as they go along.
The value of [b]I HEART HUCKABEES[/b] lies in its encouraging attitude towards this process of everyday field philosophy. Disgrunted firefighter Tommy (Wahlberg) asks, "why do people only ask the deep questions when things get bad?" And he's right. It's only events that break our hearts, what theologian Karl Jaspers called shipwreck events, that permit us a period of socially-acceptable questioning. In fact, every day without reflection may be another day that an undiagnosed sickness spreads over our soul. We believe in preventive medicine, but not preventive philosophy. [b]I HEART HUCKABEES[/b] posits a world in which the latter is as common-sense as the former.
LIC
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| PRIMER |
| 10.11.04 (9:51 pm) [edit] |
PRIMER
Cast: Shane Carruth, David Sullivan, Casey Gooden, Anand Upadhyaya and Carrie Crawford
Directed by: Shane Carruth
Written by: Shane Carruth
Distributor: ThinkFilm (US 2004)
Rated: PG-13 for brief language
As Reviewed by: Gabriel Shanks
Sundance winner PRIMER, by novice director/writer/actor Shane Carruth, should have film school graduates all over the country quaking in their boots. Made for a paltry $7,000, Carruth is a self-taught filmmaker whose work shows more maturity, polish and imagination than most artists of his generation. There are a few stumbles in this fascinating, twisting science fiction tale about the perils of prescience, but even so, PRIMER is one of the most auspicious debuts in recent memory.
The low-key demeanor of the first few minutes of PRIMER are the first indication that Carruth is worth your attention -- four young engineers, working out of their garage, hoping that innovation and inspiration will strike like lightning (making them rich in the process). These expositional moments are directed by Carruth with an assured, calm hand; the film eschews emotionality for an honesty that most films are hard to come by. As the central conceit reveals itself -- two of the young men accidentally stumble on a time/space paradox that makes the future knowable -- you forget that you're watching an indie that costs less than the monthly rent of a house in Manhattan. Dramatic, pungent cinematography invades your senses; crisp, focused performances leave no room for escape. The idea that nothing will ever be the same for these characters overwhelms...indeed, nothing may be the same for anyone. You are sucked into the world of PRIMER, hook, line and sinker.
Outside of the clean lines of narrative, though, Carruth is slightly less assured. The scenes that deal with the paradox’s personal cost, involving wives, friends, and girlfriends, are a bit too obvious to challenge the viewer. More crucially, the scientific jargon bandied about fails to distract from the fact that the science doesn't quite add up; while the terminology certainly imbues the characters with an aura of authority, PRIMER still can't escape the bonds of its dramatic conceit...that these are young kids are way out of their depth. It is as if knowledge exceeds ability, as if the characters might wander into Star Trek and launch into a detailed analysis of the warp coil's dilithium crystals.
But in its quiet moments of awestruck contemplation, PRIMER evokes the burnished 1970's classics of the genre like Close Encounters of the Third Kind -- cinematic visions tethered to our reality but leaping out beyond what we imagine to be possible. As the scope of their discovery becomes apparent and their control of it comes unglued, the boys of PRIMER confront their humanity and their competency...can they manage such an awesome responsibility? It is the stuff that great films are made of, and PRIMER, periodically, rides the winds of greatness.
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| TEAM AMERICA: WORLD POLICE |
| 10.10.04 (8:18 pm) [edit] |
[b]Starring[/b]: hundreds of marionettes
[b]Directed by[/b]: Trey Parker
[b]Written by[/b]: Pam Brady, Trey Parker, Matt Stone
[b]Distributor[/b]: Paramount (US 2004)
[b]Rated[/b]: R for vulgarity, sex, and violence
Reviewed by [b]Martin Scribbs[/b]
[i]A-mer-ica --
Fuck yeah!
Lick my butt and
Suck on my balls![/i]
So goes the rocking anthem of Team America as they jet out of the Presidents' heads on Mount Rushmore. Their mission: to foil WMD-toting terrorists around the world. Too bad that the world is so ambivalent about the help -- apparently, blowing up the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, and the Pyramid at Giza plays poorly among the free peoples of the world.
Pussies.
There's no overstating how funny TEAM AMERICA is. Laugh 'til you cry funny. Laugh and immediately feel guilty and laugh again funny. Or, as the Team would put it "Sweet Jesus Tittyfucking Christ" funny. Marionettes in a send-up of Jerry Bruckheimer by the creators of [i]South Park[/i] funny.
Marionettes? Yep, every character, from Hans Blix to Michael Moore, is acted out by a puppet with very visible strings attached. And, much more than a gimmick, the puppetry provides jokes throughout the film. An early gutbusting sequence has a Team member kung fu fighting with a terrorist -- given their very limited range of motion, the greatest threat either faces is getting his wires tangled. The by-now infamous puppet sex scene -- edited by the order of the MPAA to secure an R-rating -- runs through almost all of the possibilities suggested by human anatomy. Whatever got cut would probably have added a chapter to the Kama Sutra.
When we first meet our main protagonist, Gary Johnson, he's starring in a Broadway musical called Lease. The whole cast sings an up-beat toe-tapper called, and I shit you not, "Everybody's Got AIDS". I laughed, I felt bad, I laughed again. By the line "C'mon everybody we've got quiltin' to do," I was doubled over and in need of Confession.
Gary, more than anyone on the Team, stands as a proxy for the real-life United States. He's given to believe that without his power -- of acting -- the terrorists will win. Gary doesn't want that responsibility, nor the shame, guilt, and regret that inevitably ensues when something goes wrong. In the end, reluctant pugilist Gary has to justify the Team's ass-kicking tactics to a world audience. If he fails to convince them, they'll keep the Team from defusing a crisis in North Korea.
TEAM AMERICA isn't so serious a movie. No film with the line "Gary, you can't blame yourself for what gorillas did" can be. Everyone gets a healthy dose of ridicule, from doe-eyed celebrity pacifists to ugly Americans to batshit loony Kim Jong Il. But mostly, TEAM's a spoof on big-budget Hollywood action films. Explosions, high-tech weaponry, and balletic violence all take on a more-than-slightly ridiculous dimension when the combatants are two feet tall and move like Howdy Doody. When Kim Jong Il's "panthers" attack two of the Team members, it's pretty obvious that they're really household kitties.
With so many gags pushing so many envelopes, a few are bound to be duds. A running joke about the peaceniks at the Film Actors' Guild being members of F.A.G. bombs. Likewise, there are only so many yuks to be had from Kim Jong Il's replacement of "L"s with "R"s. The boys hit and exceed that limit with Kim's song, "I'm So Ronery."
For all its faults, TEAM AMERICA lets us laugh at the most dire problems we face post-9/11. It's a much-needed catharsis. Make sure to stick around for the Kim Jong Il song at the end of the credits, "You Are Worthless, Alec Baldwin." Well, it's not so much Kim singing as the alien cockroach that used to inhabit his body. You know what I mean.
LIC
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| TROPICAL MALADY |
| 10.06.04 (1:31 pm) [edit] |
TROPICAL MALADY
Cast: Banlop Lomnoi, Sakda Kaewbuadee, Huai Dessom, Sirivech Jareonchon and Udom Promma
Directed by: Apichatpong Weerasethakul
Written by: Apichatpong Weerasethakul
Distributor: Strand Releasing (US 2005)
Rated: Not Rated
As Reviewed by: Gabriel Shanks
To say that audiences will find Apichatpong Weerasethakul's TROPICAL MALADY difficult is an understatement; it's like saying Paris Hilton is only a little slutty. Okay, yes, that's facile and cheap...but after viewing the esteemed Thai director's Cannes prizewinner, it is hard not to run screaming back into the safe, comfortable arms of cheesy American infotainment. For TROPICAL MALADY is a major brain teaser, a purposefully incomplete vision of magic, myth, and love that requires the viewer to fill in the gaps, rewarding those who attend films like they are New York Times crossword puzzles...and, conversely, irritating those in search of coherence and unambiguous answers. It is, in short, an incredibly intelligent film...with all of the good and bad things that come with that appellation.
TROPICAL MALADY begins as a spartan tale of romance between the soldier Keng (Banlop Lomnoi) and a young man from the country, Tong (Sakda Kaewbuadee). Shy but clearly enamored, the two men go through the timeworn conventions of young love: a date at the movies, the thrill of the first touch, etc. Clearly informed by the countryside and the Buddhist culture of Thailand, the film moves toward its romantic climax. But at a moment of intense emotion between the two men, halfway through TROPICAL MALADY, the film literally stops...and becomes something else entirely. Delving into Thai myths and legends that underscore Buddhist philosophies, the actors become highly stylized metaphors for the romantic pair of the earlier section...one, a man hunting a demon in the forest, the other the ghostly presence of the spirit world. Connections are there for the committed filmgoer, but they are not easily discovered; bringing together the disparate styles, stories, and messages of TROPICAL MALADY's two halves is, to say the least, a trying experience.
Set against images of majestic jungles, overgrown meadows, and a wide variety of literal (and metaphorical) animals, it becomes clear that Weerasethakul isn't very interested in his actors beyond their abilities as archetypes; this dependence upon arcane and obtuse myth leads to more questions than answers for the viewer. For me, the film intermittently had interesting insights into love, but not love that one can live in happily. Rather, the TROPICAL MALADY of the title refers to the all-consuming love we have for those who are dead, or those who are gone. Framed by hints about a long-dead lover and a frightening beast that has been killing cows in the area, there are suggestions that ghosts can become animals and vice versa...in Weerasethakul's slowly-paced vision, this mutability has both a terrorizing danger to our psyches and an awesome spiritual beauty.
As an American, I profess near-complete ignorance of the particulars of Thai spirituality; I am certain that story elements that flew over my head might add resonance to the experience. But, having recognized my status as a cultural outside, I can say that TROPICAL MALADY is disappointing even beyond its cultural roots. Weerasethakul's lazy indulgence in extended scenes dampened the power of their symbolic energy; in the second half, which basically is an hour-long chase through the forest, there is little that informs the plot until the last five minutes. Beautiful, yes; profound too, on some level. But TROPICAL MALADY feels unfinished and unfocused…which is particularly troubling if one is trying to skip plot, theme, and style like rocks across the surface of a lake. There is much to enjoy in Weerasethakul’s magical shamanic ride, especially if one likes to create their own connective tissue at the cinema...but on the whole, the truh cannot be ignored that there's much less than meets the eye.
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| UNDERTOW |
| 10.06.04 (12:23 am) [edit] |
UNDERTOW
Cast: Jamie Bell, Josh Lucas, Dermot Mulroney, Devon Alan and Shiri Appleby
Directed by: David Gordon Green
Written by: Joe Conway and David Gordon Green
Distributor: United Artists (US 2004)
Rated: R for violence
As Reviewed by: Gabriel Shanks
Despite audience reaction to the contrary, the most telling moment of the opening credits of UNDERTOW, the latest Southern-twang drama by David Gordon Green (George Washington), is not the shocking, gasp-inducing act that rivets the filmgoers to the screen. (I will, of course, preserve its secret to protect the innocent and the spoiler-free experience.) That moment audiences responde to so viscerally is indeed a powerful moment, but not nearly as powerful as the realization that Terrence Malick has become one of Green's producers, laying his hands directly upon his cinematic heir. Malick, the famed director of Badlands, Days of Heaven, and The Thin Red Line, is the master of American dreaminess in modern cinema; his lush, luxurious portraits of Americana were certainly a major inspiration to the young director Green, who in just three films has established himself as the preeminent cinematic chronicler of the New South.
Malick is more appreciated than loved these days, when speed and narrative thrust seem to be more appealing to audiences than leisurely pace or detailed cinematography. Which may be why UNDERTOW shows so many signs of acquiescence...while it's still far removed from anything that might be termed "going Hollywood", it is still paying attention to a more mainstream sensibility. For the first time in his career, Green has employed bona fide movie stars, including on-screen flames of Julia Roberts (Dermot Mulroney, in My Best Friend's Wedding) and Reese Witherspoon (Josh Lucas, known best for Sweet Home Alabama). The story follows a young teen played by none other than Jamie Bell, known to millions of moviegoers as the adorable dancer/kid Billy Elliot. Green's screenplay and direction also suggest a more audience-pleasing sensibility, with a streamlined story of family strife and runaway kids, peppered with 1970's freeze-frame cuts that enhance the emotional energy the way they might have in the best Starsky and Hutch episodes.
Although UNDERTOW is more commercial than Green's previous efforts, it is probably not enough to gain him mainstream success; conversely, it's not really original enough to please his longtime fans, who may be expecting the attention to humanity's detail that marked earlier efforts George Washington and All The Real Girls. Sure, the acting is good (better than his usual amateur performers at any rate), but the film trades a professional gloss for the verity of his previous efforts. There's something vaguely plastic about UNDERTOW, a hollow quality that inhabits the floorboards of the broken-down house, the cars on the dirt roads, even the freeze-frames themselves.
It's really too bad, in some way; the performances, especially those of Lucas and Bell, are well delivered and sensitively wrought. Tim Orr's cinematography, while missing the plush richness that has made him the best of his generation, has flashes of opulence that rival any film made this year. And unlike Green's previous efforts, the screenplay has been crafted with a sparse economy that is most welcome. Still, for all this, UNDERTOW passes by the viewer without making a lasting impression; it lacks the gravity and the power to transcend its genre roots. Ultimately, UNDERTOW is a non-plussed experience, with little of the force and pull its title suggests.
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| Going Upriver: The Long War of John Kerry |
| 10.02.04 (4:24 pm) [edit] |
[b]Written by[/b]: Douglas Brinkley (novel) and Joseph Dorman
[b]Directed by[/b]: George Butler
[b]Starring[/b]: John Kerry
[b]Distributed by[/b]: ThinkFilm Inc. (USA 2004)
[b]Rated[/b]: Not Rated
Reviewed by: [b]Martin Scribbs[/b]
Bad and boring movies can be made on deeds of valor. [b]GOING UPRIVER: THE LONG WAR OF JOHN KERRY[/b] proves that and almost nothing else.
[b]GOING UPRIVER[/b] focuses almost exclusively on John Kerry's service in and opposition to the Vietnam War. We see the swift boats roaring up the green waters, leaving burnt-out huts and scores of civilian deaths in their wake. Kerry led his men, the aggressors in Vietnam, in incursions through a so-called "free-fire zone." Later, before the Senate Foreign Relations committee, Kerry testifies that after the war he discovered that what they had done was contrary to the Geneva Convention and the rules of warfare.
Any documentary that aimed to be more than a puff piece would have called Kerry on this "we were only following orders" nonsense. Another member of Vietnam Veterans Against the War shows an assembly a photo of himself standing over a dead Vietnamese boy, grinning. The veteran tells the crowd that he is ashamed of himself for what he did in Vietnam. That seems like an appropriate, moral reaction. Where's John Kerry's shame, as he makes his service in this bad war a touchstone of his campaign, an ornament in his self-decoration?
On the other hand, what sort of documentary on Vietnam doesn't let any voice be heard in support of the war? [b]UPRIVER[/b] does sport a few particularly sweaty appearances by Nixon. We also see John O'Neill, Nixon's war veteran surrogate, getting massacred in a debate with Kerry. Otherwise, one would get the impression from [b]UPRIVER[/b] that no-one was in favor of that war's continuation. The film never authenticates nor disputes startling claims of atrocity by the Vietnam Veterans Against the War. The group's moral right to speak for soldiers still in the field is taken as a matter of course.
But [b]UPRIVER[/b] does provide reel after reel of John Kerry looking presidential, or, more specifically, Kennedy-esque. We're even treated to a Nixon briefing where his Tricky Dick's minions describe Kerry as looking and talking like Kennedy. The briefing, of course, had been secretly taped. That's just the sort of furtive hobgoblins who were prolonging the war to save their own face, [b]UPRIVER[/b] implies... with, of course, no implied modern-day parallel.
Michael Moore at least had the decency to be obviously, stridently, supplanting history with gloss. [b]UPRIVER[/b]'s director, George Butler, has made a film that could pass as non-partisan to anyone who didn't know how controversial a figure John Kerry has become. Butler's sins of omission are disquieting exactly because they are so quietly committed.
John Kerry may well be the conscience that America needs at its helm. But I'd never trust a 90-minute campaign ad like [b]UPRIVER[/b] to tell me that.
LIC
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| A DIRTY SHAME |
| 10.01.04 (3:35 am) [edit] |
[b]Starring[/b]: Tracey Ullman, Johnny Knoxville, Chris Isaak, Selma Blair
[b]Written By[/b]: John Waters
[b]Directed By[/b]: John Waters
[b]Distributed By[/b]: Fine Line Features (US 2004)
[b]Rated[/b]: NC-17 for full frontal male and female nudity, glorification of just about every sex act imaginable
Reviewed by [b]Martin Scribbs[/b]
"I'm going to report you to the Postmaster General, if [i]he's[/i] not too busy whacking off!" -- concerned citizen Mink Stole to her onanistic mail carrier.
[b]A DIRTY SHAME[/b], a very funny movie, overcomes its limitations by playing to director John Waters' strengths -- great one-liners, non-actors in scenery-chewing performances, and the theater of repressive hysteria.
Every John Waters film concerns a violent clash of culture. Waters makes heroes of libertines and villians of the forces of reaction. But he doesn't traffic in the lovable slobs and frigid snobs that populate other, less original comedies of manners. The radicals of Waters' world are every bit as militantly self-regulated as his conservatives. Both groups march in lockstep to the tune of their very different drummers, willing to get violent if necessary to impose their cartoonish value systems on world. Waters discovered early on that the more dogged and desperate the characters he wrote, the more extreme the statements he could fit in their mouths.
[i]Cecil B. Demented[/i] and [i]Pecker[/i] flopped because the stakes were so low that the conflict wasn't believable. [i]Patch Adams: The Director's Cut[/i] and the *gasp!* slightly shallow New York art scene just aren't opponents worthy of Watersian derangement. Certianly not in the same league as bêtes noir like segregation ([i]Hairspray[/i]), the oppressive juvenile justice system ([i]Crybaby[/i]), and white shoes after Labor Day ([i]Serial Mom[/i]).
In contrast, [b]A DIRTY SHAME[/b] is about as dogged and desperate as things can get. In [b]SHAME[/b], sexually frustrated suburbanite Sylvia (Ullman) finds her volcanic libido unleashed after a freak accident. She becomes drawn into the cult of Ray-Ray (Knoxville), a Messianic leader of self-professed sex addicts. They wait for the "ressur-sex-tion," which can only be triggered by the discovery of a truly original sex act. (Apparently, Waters' own invention of "teabagging" hadn't done the trick.) As Sylvia's neighborhood falls increasingly under the sway of horndog fetishists, a group of anti-sex advocates led by Sylvia's mother, Big Ethel, mobilize a resistance movement of "neuters".
And away we go.
John Waters, now 58, has the same giggly attitude towards sex that most fourth-graders do. As a result, [b]SHAME [/b]is the dirtiest movie you will ever see that is not in the least bit erotic. Sure, on an intellectual level, [b]SHAME [/b]celebrates eros. Lust literally raises the dead. Flowers and trees start humping one another, including my favorite shot of the year, an incongrously horizontal pine tree bashing up against another pine tree. But each jaunt into some new kink is played for pure comedy -- Waters clearly finds the bears and age regressionists and frottage fanatics and other fetishists pretty dopey. And, though [b]SHAME[/b]'s characters go into exhaustive and stomach-churning detail about their respective vices, sufficiently to make a hardened hooker blush, there are far too many touched on to work up any real revulsion in the audience. By the time we understand what the sherriff in diapers is up to, its time to talk to the couple who vomit on each other or the chronic masturbator who strangles herself with telephone cords. And don't even ask about "Mr. Payday". Breathlessly hopping from one "deviated prevert" to another, [b]A DIRTY SHAME[/b] really doesn't have time to do much more than point and laugh. The humor comes from the mania with which the characters follow their libidos, much more than in particular destinations to which their libidos lead.
Some Waters fan suggest that [b]SHAME [/b]serves the serious purpose of expressing the transcendant qualities of eroticism. The thinking goes that (1) if you buy that sex is good, and (2) that all sex that is safe, consensual, and hurts no-one is equal, then (3) even the most transgressive of fetishes meeting those criteria can be a vehicle of grace if pursued with adequate fervor. Given that [b]SHAME [/b]ends with a geyser of spooge coming out of Johnny Knoxville's head and coating the camera lens, there's a limit to how seriously I can take a theological reading of [b]SHAME[/b]. I don't expect one could defend Waters' often squicky movies other than for their wickedly droll humor. Certainly, the straight-faced argument that sexual enjoyment of dirt should enjoy the same respect as, say, sex in a monogamous committed relationship, would require more radical work on our basic ideas of beauty, dignity, and health than Waters is willing to do.
[b]SHAME [/b]certainly improves when viewed as a visual meditation on pansexualism rather than as a straight narrative. And a really delightful time can be had by willfully misreading [b]SHAME [/b]to be a skewering of conservative cassandras. When right-wingers talk about gay marriage bringing society one step closer incest and bestiality, [b]SHAME [/b]is there to gleefully confirm, "oh, sure, you;re onto us... and then we'll invade your neighborhood with tree-humping, scat play, and blimp-sized breast implants, you rubes!"
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