Saturday, February 26, 2011
The Housemaid (Sang-Soo Im, 2010)
A gorgeous house is more or less the only reason to watch this movie, especially the crazy and beautiful chandelier. Well, it's not a reason to watch the movie, but it is a thing to enjoy if you somehow find yourself having to watch it. And despite the production team's obvious adoration for beautiful aesthetic, it's just another dull hodgepodge of a poor, naive, innocent, unadulterated, sweet, childlike, etc. etc. girl being manipulated into the Machiavellian machinations of the twisted, evil, greedy, self-involved, cruel, heartless, etc. etc. rich upper classes. Other than Yeo-Jong Yun as a self-loathing servant the characters and performances are all dully one-note. And the "erotic" part of this supposedly erotic thriller is mostly comical, featuring silly camera placement that feels completely abnormal and Jung-Jae Lee as the male lead exclaiming some weird things you're unlikely to even hear a guy shouting in your average porno flick. The thrills don't add up to much, either, unless you get your jollies watching a helpless girl being slowly trapped into a situation you know she will never escape from (maybe Lars Von Trier is a fan). The ending, too, is a confused mess, seemingly poking fun at the naivete and uselessness of the very character the film spent its time trying to get us to root for.
Uncle Boonmee
Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives (Apichatpong Weerasethakul, 2010)
A Letter To Uncle Boonmee (Apichatpong Weerasethakul, 2009)
While this is neither the first, last, nor probably the best or the worst example of this idea, it is AN example, and so I am going to use this film to talk about a broader aspect of filmmaking. It is true that Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives occasionally moves at a pace that a snail would laugh at. But what it accomplishes in this slowness is the reclamation, or, at least, reinvigoration, of editing. At one point a cut in a film was a surprise. Eventually, it became the norm, and so now there is a heavy expectation to cut. The audience may find itself bored if there aren't enough cuts. What Uncle Boonmee does is take the idea that the audience can be bored by not enough cutting and use it against itself, making the audience look at a still frame for so long that the viewer's eyes become so accustomed to looking at it that they might begin to think the movie may never cut again. The benefit of this is that when the cut does happen (which is usually not long after, at least to me, I began to feel that feeling), suddenly editing is surprising again and the juxtaposition of images becomes even more pronounced and more affecting. No longer is he simply telling a story through a series of different pictures, but he is actively inviting us to contemplate how the previous picture and the one you're seeing now work together (as well as conflict) with each other. There are very few cuts that I remember specfically in films, but a couple of them are in Uncle Boonmee.
As to the rest, and the reason I put A Letter to Uncle Boonmee as part of the same review, is that I think that short film helps clarify much of what is difficult, at first, to comprehend in the feature film. There are implications of class tensions, and of Thailand's battle against communists during the '70s, and the slaughter that many governmental soldiers carried out. But all these things are implied rather than stated, and much of the viewer's work comes in piecing these hints together to form a coherent vision of familial separation and anxiety and loss. Of the otherness that can sometimes stem between adults and their children as those children also become adults. The divide between generational politics and ideas and the abuse that can stem from failing to recognize the humanity of others. I have not yet seen his other features, but I intend to soon. There is more to write, but I'm not quite sure how to put it in words and I fear that the longer I put off writing this the less satisfied I'll be with the results. It is, so far, my clear winner for the Portland International Film Festival and the best movie I've seen in theatres in the last two years.
A Letter To Uncle Boonmee (Apichatpong Weerasethakul, 2009)
While this is neither the first, last, nor probably the best or the worst example of this idea, it is AN example, and so I am going to use this film to talk about a broader aspect of filmmaking. It is true that Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives occasionally moves at a pace that a snail would laugh at. But what it accomplishes in this slowness is the reclamation, or, at least, reinvigoration, of editing. At one point a cut in a film was a surprise. Eventually, it became the norm, and so now there is a heavy expectation to cut. The audience may find itself bored if there aren't enough cuts. What Uncle Boonmee does is take the idea that the audience can be bored by not enough cutting and use it against itself, making the audience look at a still frame for so long that the viewer's eyes become so accustomed to looking at it that they might begin to think the movie may never cut again. The benefit of this is that when the cut does happen (which is usually not long after, at least to me, I began to feel that feeling), suddenly editing is surprising again and the juxtaposition of images becomes even more pronounced and more affecting. No longer is he simply telling a story through a series of different pictures, but he is actively inviting us to contemplate how the previous picture and the one you're seeing now work together (as well as conflict) with each other. There are very few cuts that I remember specfically in films, but a couple of them are in Uncle Boonmee.
As to the rest, and the reason I put A Letter to Uncle Boonmee as part of the same review, is that I think that short film helps clarify much of what is difficult, at first, to comprehend in the feature film. There are implications of class tensions, and of Thailand's battle against communists during the '70s, and the slaughter that many governmental soldiers carried out. But all these things are implied rather than stated, and much of the viewer's work comes in piecing these hints together to form a coherent vision of familial separation and anxiety and loss. Of the otherness that can sometimes stem between adults and their children as those children also become adults. The divide between generational politics and ideas and the abuse that can stem from failing to recognize the humanity of others. I have not yet seen his other features, but I intend to soon. There is more to write, but I'm not quite sure how to put it in words and I fear that the longer I put off writing this the less satisfied I'll be with the results. It is, so far, my clear winner for the Portland International Film Festival and the best movie I've seen in theatres in the last two years.
Friday, February 25, 2011
The Double Hour (Giuseppe Capotondi, 2009)
Apologies if my last few (and next few) reviews don't seem up to their already low standards of quality. I've seen a lot of bad movies at the Portland International Film Festival and I'm trying to plow through them as quickly as possible to get on to the good stuff (also I'm blocked on my totally rave review of Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives, which looks like it's gonna be the far away winner unless Alex de la Iglesia's new movie blows me away tomorrow (a possibility, de la Iglesia is awesome!)). Promise they'll get better once I start writing about stuff I like again.
One might call director Giuseppe Capotondi generous, in a way. Instead of one bad movie he decided to give us two, loosely connected by a mid-section twist that works in the sense that it would be impossible to predict, but doesn't in that the only reason it is impossible is because it makes almost no sense. Given the buzzing conversation of patrons as I walked out (and the fact that the festival arranged for an extra screening, because the movie was proving so popular), it seems that this kind of mystery-weaving is what people want these days. The forsaking of ideas for the minute pleasure of confounding us. It's a neat trick -- a sort of magician's distraction -- showing people two things that don't go together, but feel as though they should, and letting people use that as a means for discussion, causing them to ignore the bigger issues of why the director even asked us to watch it in the first place. It even goes to the effort to throw in a last-minute reference the way Inception does, inviting the viewer to wonder what is real and what is not real as they throw their leftover popcorn and soda in the trash can.
I don't know, to me it's a thriller without any thrills (mostly lame jump scares, and zero scenes with a hint of built up tension), a romance without much chemistry, and features a main character who early on has sex with a woman and then basically tells her to get the fuck out and the movie somehow appears to be on his side. He's sad and dark and conflicted, so it's sorta okay that he treats some poor lady like a prostitute he didn't have to pay. Nah, not buying it. The movie, the actor, the character, the gimmick, none of it.
One might call director Giuseppe Capotondi generous, in a way. Instead of one bad movie he decided to give us two, loosely connected by a mid-section twist that works in the sense that it would be impossible to predict, but doesn't in that the only reason it is impossible is because it makes almost no sense. Given the buzzing conversation of patrons as I walked out (and the fact that the festival arranged for an extra screening, because the movie was proving so popular), it seems that this kind of mystery-weaving is what people want these days. The forsaking of ideas for the minute pleasure of confounding us. It's a neat trick -- a sort of magician's distraction -- showing people two things that don't go together, but feel as though they should, and letting people use that as a means for discussion, causing them to ignore the bigger issues of why the director even asked us to watch it in the first place. It even goes to the effort to throw in a last-minute reference the way Inception does, inviting the viewer to wonder what is real and what is not real as they throw their leftover popcorn and soda in the trash can.
I don't know, to me it's a thriller without any thrills (mostly lame jump scares, and zero scenes with a hint of built up tension), a romance without much chemistry, and features a main character who early on has sex with a woman and then basically tells her to get the fuck out and the movie somehow appears to be on his side. He's sad and dark and conflicted, so it's sorta okay that he treats some poor lady like a prostitute he didn't have to pay. Nah, not buying it. The movie, the actor, the character, the gimmick, none of it.
The Six Dollar Fifty Man (Mark Albiston & Louis Sutherland, 2009)
Kudos, at least, for packing an awful 90 minute formula of the bullied school kid overcoming obstacles to get the girl and win his classmates' respect into a 15 minute movie. I don't have much positive to say besides applauding its brevity. Nor much to say at all, really. It's sappy, rote and filled with a dim kind of nostalgia for the simplicity of youth. Exactly the kind of short film I would expect to be nominated for an Oscar (and it was).
Little Children, Big Words (Lisa James-Larsson, 2010)
The only of the bad children's shorts that I had more execution problems with than ideological problems. The idea, that it's important to teach children about language and what words mean, even when doing so is uncomfortable and fraught with pitfalls, is something that isn't brought up enough in works intended for children.
Unfortunately the film mishandles the premise with melodramatic close-ups, the main character's performance, filled with aching, glassy-eyed remembrance of some past traumatic event, and the strangely fantastical and aura-like lighting that rob the idea of its weight, rather than infusing it. It's a textbook case of a director not trusting the material to speak for itself, so she feels the need to hit the audience hard over the head with it. Makes me appreciate even the relative subtlety and poignance Pixar, despite their many flaws, are capable of bestowing children's films.
Unfortunately the film mishandles the premise with melodramatic close-ups, the main character's performance, filled with aching, glassy-eyed remembrance of some past traumatic event, and the strangely fantastical and aura-like lighting that rob the idea of its weight, rather than infusing it. It's a textbook case of a director not trusting the material to speak for itself, so she feels the need to hit the audience hard over the head with it. Makes me appreciate even the relative subtlety and poignance Pixar, despite their many flaws, are capable of bestowing children's films.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The Wonder Hospital (Beomsik Shimbe Shim, 2010)
After watching Cyriak's experiments in turning the everyday into something frightening and nightmarish, this comes across pretty dull and flat-footed. Mirrors the previous short, Flawed, in that it is possibly for children and about perceptions of attractiveness and the terror of cosmetic surgery. Though not only cosmetic surgery, but hospitals in general. Which draws a very fine line when crafting entertainment for children, raising some chicken/egg questions with regard to its depiction of hospitals as a terrifying and monstrous world. Like, at what point are we no longer reflecting children's views, but instead supplanting them and making them afraid of an entity that, for very many practical reasons, we should be encouraging them under all circumstances NOT to be afraid of. As a child I was never afraid of hospitals, because I never thought that I should be. In fact, I was always weirdly jealous of children who got to spend the night in a hospital for various ailments (usually tonsils being removed). To me it seemed adventurous, like when we'd go traveling and get to stay in a hotel. A new place! Had I seen this short I might've thought otherwise.
But to an adult none of the imagery is as frightening or mind-boggling as it seems to think it is. Only a pair of gloves flapping in the wind of a small desk fan, blowing empty fingers across a clacking typewriter seem like the kind of strange and imaginative imagery the entire movie seems to be trying very hard for. And even it is emphasized for so long that it ceases to be weird and becomes just another thing in the large number of things that sit there and don't do anything. There's never a feeling of tension that something bad might actually happen to the child, as everything is so outlandish and feels more like decoration than something existing in an unreal world, that it's a bit like a dull museum of oddities. Atonal soundtrack does much to increase this feeling of bored annoyance.
But to an adult none of the imagery is as frightening or mind-boggling as it seems to think it is. Only a pair of gloves flapping in the wind of a small desk fan, blowing empty fingers across a clacking typewriter seem like the kind of strange and imaginative imagery the entire movie seems to be trying very hard for. And even it is emphasized for so long that it ceases to be weird and becomes just another thing in the large number of things that sit there and don't do anything. There's never a feeling of tension that something bad might actually happen to the child, as everything is so outlandish and feels more like decoration than something existing in an unreal world, that it's a bit like a dull museum of oddities. Atonal soundtrack does much to increase this feeling of bored annoyance.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Flawed (Andrea Dorfman, 2010)
If Panahi can consistently find the perfect balance of emotional thrust to be affecting without being cloying, then Andrea Dorfman's Flawed would be a sort of antithesis to that, coming off as a pandering, endlessly didactic film that must be aimed at children, as it has absolutely no value to any reasonably well-thinking adult. But, like the worst of children's literature, it suffers from a lack of self-awareness about the message it purports to be teaching. It suggests the old platitude that we should accept people for who they are and not judge them based on superficial looks, but it does so by relating the story of a woman who ends up in a relationship with a plastic surgeon. I suppose because it is told from the woman's point of view (and narrated by the director, implying an autobiographical quality to the film) it somehow justifies that her opinion on the matter is the one that is depicted and the film achieves its happy ending when she has convinced her surgeon boyfriend to see things from her perspective, yet it comes off as narcissistic and braggy. What about his opinion? What about encouraging children not only to look deeper than the surface, but also to have healthy and meaningful conversations with the people around them rather than resorting to manipulation and celebrating "winning" the argument. She never once asks why he became a plastic surgeon, only telling him why she resents them and our superficial culture. She also somewhat suggests that people with things that make them different should be okay with martyring themselves to ridicule and emotional suffering for the greater good of eventually convincing everyone it's okay to be different.
As a person who generally feels that cosmetic surgery is a bad way to stem the tide of superficial prejudice, this film somehow made me walk out being more okay with it than I was walking in. It convinced me that maybe, if I sounded like her, I might be the one who was wrong.
As a person who generally feels that cosmetic surgery is a bad way to stem the tide of superficial prejudice, this film somehow made me walk out being more okay with it than I was walking in. It convinced me that maybe, if I sounded like her, I might be the one who was wrong.
The Accordion (Jafar Panahi, 2009)
Am I allowed to use "sentimental" as a positive description? I don't even know if sentiment can be considered a positive thing in this day and age, but I am about to. Based on the two Panahi movies I've seen, Offside and now this short by him, I would definitely say he at least leans towards the sentimental side. Perhaps I'm just so unaccustomed to this level of sweet, honest caring for humanity that it strikes me as sentiment. Either way, I cannot say enough good things about both of these movies. The only thing keeping me from rating The Accordion even higher is that it is a short, albeit one that somehow almost made me cry in almost 9 minutes. But no short, no matter how good, can quite grab me the way a feature can. I need time to let myself breathe into a movie, to get a feeling for what it's trying to do while it takes me wherever it's going. But the 9 minutes of this movie bodes extremely well for the feature film Panahi was making that goes along with it, assuming he is ever released from prison and allowed to make it. Now I don't know if I can ever watch this again, actually. At least, not until he's released.
The film, as it is, succinctly addresses ideas of forgiveness and solidarity in the face of adversity. It is a moving portrait, powerful not because of ideas it tackles (which would fit just as easily in an after-school special), but in Panahi's patience in handling them. The pacing, in particular, uses a soft and quiet kind of reflection to emphasize the emotions without thrusting them upon the viewer. It's a delicate balance when it comes to dealing with emotional material, and one Panahi (again, based on the small amount of his work I've seen) may be better at handling than any living director I'm familiar with. As a small aside, and something absolutely worthy of note, is his continuing interest in female androgyny in Iran. It's a much smaller aspect of the whole than in Offside, but is a less explored facet than other female rights issues and yet another reason to wish for his speedy release. I wish I hadn't waited until he was in prison to start caring about his work.
The film, as it is, succinctly addresses ideas of forgiveness and solidarity in the face of adversity. It is a moving portrait, powerful not because of ideas it tackles (which would fit just as easily in an after-school special), but in Panahi's patience in handling them. The pacing, in particular, uses a soft and quiet kind of reflection to emphasize the emotions without thrusting them upon the viewer. It's a delicate balance when it comes to dealing with emotional material, and one Panahi (again, based on the small amount of his work I've seen) may be better at handling than any living director I'm familiar with. As a small aside, and something absolutely worthy of note, is his continuing interest in female androgyny in Iran. It's a much smaller aspect of the whole than in Offside, but is a less explored facet than other female rights issues and yet another reason to wish for his speedy release. I wish I hadn't waited until he was in prison to start caring about his work.
Incident By A Bank (Ruben Ostlund, 2009)
Since the Portland International Film Festival started I've managed to catch two separate programs of short films, totaling 13 small movies. Of those I only liked one of them. This was not it, though I would hesitantly call it the second best, mostly due to conception and execution. It's a ten-minute, single-take view of an attempted bank robbery from what would be someone's balcony or maybe second-story window. The point-of-view gives a nice feeling of voyeurism, as it pans and tilts and occasionally slowly zooms into the action. Even though the zoom is by far the least natural of camera movements, here it comes as close as possible to replicating the way our eyes focus on faraway objects, ignoring things in our peripheral vision.
And the film begins well enough, introducing us to two characters who will become, if there is such a thing in this movie, the protagonists. One of them thinks some guys pulling up on a moped intend to rob the bank. What follows is an attempt to examine the strange surreality of witnessing an event we've seen countless times in movies actually happening. What actually follows is a bit of a muddled mess, which often feels more like a cinematic version of those Dumb Criminal stories that were all over the internet 10 years ago than any real attempt at asking why we experience such strange occurrences with an odd sense of detachment. And to further complicate matters, the film eventually switches gears and becomes inexplicably serious, showing bank guards manhandle the would-be robbers in a way that is not funny and actually kinda sad. But, based on the previous material, the director doesn't seem to have all that much sympathy for them. Then a joke at the end diffuses the seriousness, giving me tonal whiplash. For something that took so much time and effort to orchestrate, one would think they'd have spent more time getting a better handle on what they were trying to communicate.
And the film begins well enough, introducing us to two characters who will become, if there is such a thing in this movie, the protagonists. One of them thinks some guys pulling up on a moped intend to rob the bank. What follows is an attempt to examine the strange surreality of witnessing an event we've seen countless times in movies actually happening. What actually follows is a bit of a muddled mess, which often feels more like a cinematic version of those Dumb Criminal stories that were all over the internet 10 years ago than any real attempt at asking why we experience such strange occurrences with an odd sense of detachment. And to further complicate matters, the film eventually switches gears and becomes inexplicably serious, showing bank guards manhandle the would-be robbers in a way that is not funny and actually kinda sad. But, based on the previous material, the director doesn't seem to have all that much sympathy for them. Then a joke at the end diffuses the seriousness, giving me tonal whiplash. For something that took so much time and effort to orchestrate, one would think they'd have spent more time getting a better handle on what they were trying to communicate.
Exit Through The Gift Shop (Banksy, 2010)
If Exit Through the Gift Shop were merely an elaborate hoax carried out by Banksy to comment on the way hype has supplanted genuine artistic excitement in the world of upper-class art patrons it would be, well, funny enough, if not exactly profound. The idea that most people who buy art know almost nothing about art is something that has probably been around as long as art and commerce have co-existed. While many of the reasons seem obvious, I think it's much more interesting to think about why artists are so resentful of the very people who continue to make their world possible. Banksy can certainly say the money means nothing to him, but to me that's always been something only people who don't have to worry about money can say. I would guess he certainly appreciates the extra time he can devote to his work that comes from not having to bag groceries or sit in an office all day. Though, given that the words were directly from his (heavily modified, anonymous witness-esque) lips and were said in this movie, perhaps Banksy is doing what he often does -- saying something fatuous and cliche with a kind of self-aware irreverence.
What sets the movie above the status of entertaining, if not that interesting, prank is the closeness of Mister Brainwash's work to Banksy's own. If it is sorta-bad art created by Banksy for the purpose of this elaborate hoax (and I don't see how it can't be), it's interesting that he chose to make this bad art seem so much like the (good, in my opinion) work he puts out. It gives the movie a strange, and endearing, insecurity. Like Banksy is trying to come to terms with his own mild disbelief at the fame and notoriety he's achieved as an artist. The feeling that I'm sure strikes most successfully creative people from time to time -- that they really aren't as good or worth as much as everyone else seems to think they are. The personal doubt and worry of spinning your wheels creatively and no longer contributing to a larger discussion. I think viewing Mister Brainwash less as a broad lampoon of art's more self-aggrandizing impulses and more as an alter-ego built to, with a level of bemused detachment, investigate Banksy's own neuroses gives the piece a much more interesting level of poignance. Though, again, due to that detachment, it's entirely possible I'm just making this all up.
What sets the movie above the status of entertaining, if not that interesting, prank is the closeness of Mister Brainwash's work to Banksy's own. If it is sorta-bad art created by Banksy for the purpose of this elaborate hoax (and I don't see how it can't be), it's interesting that he chose to make this bad art seem so much like the (good, in my opinion) work he puts out. It gives the movie a strange, and endearing, insecurity. Like Banksy is trying to come to terms with his own mild disbelief at the fame and notoriety he's achieved as an artist. The feeling that I'm sure strikes most successfully creative people from time to time -- that they really aren't as good or worth as much as everyone else seems to think they are. The personal doubt and worry of spinning your wheels creatively and no longer contributing to a larger discussion. I think viewing Mister Brainwash less as a broad lampoon of art's more self-aggrandizing impulses and more as an alter-ego built to, with a level of bemused detachment, investigate Banksy's own neuroses gives the piece a much more interesting level of poignance. Though, again, due to that detachment, it's entirely possible I'm just making this all up.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
X-Men Origins: Wolverine (Gavin Hood, 2009)
Seals the deal on Gavin Hood's irrelevance as a filmmaker. Back when Tsotsi came out I never bought into the hype, feeling it a pretty sloppy and stickily sentimental movie that seemed much more at home with bland feel good television than the indie social examination of African destitution it was being trumped up to be on the festival circuit and in the local art house.
In between that and this (something that is not exactly worse than Brett Ratner's excursion into the world of X-Men, but is, at least, a different kind of bad) he made some movie with Reese Witherspoon that a lot of people seem not to have liked. I guess I'm glad he didn't waste time revealing himself to be a bland shill with no more aspiration than collecting paychecks.
All one really needs to know about this movie is that it has not one, but TWO, scenes in which someone falls to their knees, looks up at a birds-eye camera angle and screams NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. The whole movie is a little like that. Lots of lazy, over the top melodrama with forced emotional cues.
The action sequences are, at least, coherent enough, if just as lazily conceived and executed. I guess now that this movie exists we can be glad it's over, though the new X-Men movie coming out in a couple months looks no better. I guess now that Bryan Singer has left it's time for me to stop believing this can be one of the few decent superhero franchises in the movie world.
In between that and this (something that is not exactly worse than Brett Ratner's excursion into the world of X-Men, but is, at least, a different kind of bad) he made some movie with Reese Witherspoon that a lot of people seem not to have liked. I guess I'm glad he didn't waste time revealing himself to be a bland shill with no more aspiration than collecting paychecks.
All one really needs to know about this movie is that it has not one, but TWO, scenes in which someone falls to their knees, looks up at a birds-eye camera angle and screams NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. The whole movie is a little like that. Lots of lazy, over the top melodrama with forced emotional cues.
The action sequences are, at least, coherent enough, if just as lazily conceived and executed. I guess now that this movie exists we can be glad it's over, though the new X-Men movie coming out in a couple months looks no better. I guess now that Bryan Singer has left it's time for me to stop believing this can be one of the few decent superhero franchises in the movie world.
Friday, February 18, 2011
The Woodmans (Scott Willis, 2010)
Manages to overcome its relatively dull execution with one thing (and one thing only, for the most part): Giant, beautifully displayed images of Francesca Woodman's photographs. As someone who is distressingly uninformed about the art world, I had never seen any of Woodman's photographs before. But, to spin that in a positive way, there is almost no better way I can think of to see them for the first time than blown up to awe-inspiring proportions in a darkened movie theatre. They are as incredible as the movie makes them out to be, at least from this amateur enthusiast's perspective.
The rest, however, is an experience that is, at best, not bad. I feel that the talking head documentary is such a compositionally and structurally restricting format that it makes all the other cinematic devices a director has (editing & sound foremost) of even more importance than usual in order to be successful. The cuts must be so smooth and emphatic and perfect that the viewer could never suggest there might have been a better way to do that. Scott Willis has not done that. The Woodmans, as a crafted cinematic expierence, is only a few shades above middling. Some sections even descend into outright amateurism, as the camera shifts and makes slight zooms to better arrange the composition as the person is talking. Perhaps he thought these moments of haphazard improvisation would lend more credence to the talking head formula, as if to convince us that there wasn't any rehearsal for what's going on -- one take and that's it. To me, this is not so important. I have an inherent awareness that nothing I watch in a movie is there for the first time and, quite frankly, I prefer that kind of practiced artifice to the strange, stage-y feeling artifice of unrehearsed reality television.
On top of the rather static, uninteresting creation of the movie, is the strangeness of the people talking. There is always going to be an element of suspicion in watching people talk about someone who is famous, dead, and has been dead quite a long time. Nostalgia seems like an inescapable aspect of these interviews, and one which is never actually addressed. No one they spoke to is willing to admit they weren't amazed, astounded, floored by her photographs when they saw them. The world, the movie posits, was not ready for her pictures when she was alive. This is no doubt true, in a way, because she is famous now and could not sell her pictures then. But it would be interesting to find people who were active in the late-'70s and early-'80s New York art world and find out why people weren't ready. I mean, can you do that? It's not as if she wasn't putting herself out there. The only moments of strange revelation come from later interviews of her father, both watching him work and hearing what he says. There's something decidedly weird and creepy about the way he talks about his daughter, and then the way he emulates her work with his photography as something like a coping mechanism. The whole movie could've been about that and it would've felt like something that was about a real moment -- something inescapable and odd and human in a messy, uncomfortable way.
So it somewhat fails as a movie, yet to anyone, like me, who was unlucky enough never to have seen Francesca Woodman's photographs before, I would not hesitate to recommend it while it's in the theatres.
The rest, however, is an experience that is, at best, not bad. I feel that the talking head documentary is such a compositionally and structurally restricting format that it makes all the other cinematic devices a director has (editing & sound foremost) of even more importance than usual in order to be successful. The cuts must be so smooth and emphatic and perfect that the viewer could never suggest there might have been a better way to do that. Scott Willis has not done that. The Woodmans, as a crafted cinematic expierence, is only a few shades above middling. Some sections even descend into outright amateurism, as the camera shifts and makes slight zooms to better arrange the composition as the person is talking. Perhaps he thought these moments of haphazard improvisation would lend more credence to the talking head formula, as if to convince us that there wasn't any rehearsal for what's going on -- one take and that's it. To me, this is not so important. I have an inherent awareness that nothing I watch in a movie is there for the first time and, quite frankly, I prefer that kind of practiced artifice to the strange, stage-y feeling artifice of unrehearsed reality television.
On top of the rather static, uninteresting creation of the movie, is the strangeness of the people talking. There is always going to be an element of suspicion in watching people talk about someone who is famous, dead, and has been dead quite a long time. Nostalgia seems like an inescapable aspect of these interviews, and one which is never actually addressed. No one they spoke to is willing to admit they weren't amazed, astounded, floored by her photographs when they saw them. The world, the movie posits, was not ready for her pictures when she was alive. This is no doubt true, in a way, because she is famous now and could not sell her pictures then. But it would be interesting to find people who were active in the late-'70s and early-'80s New York art world and find out why people weren't ready. I mean, can you do that? It's not as if she wasn't putting herself out there. The only moments of strange revelation come from later interviews of her father, both watching him work and hearing what he says. There's something decidedly weird and creepy about the way he talks about his daughter, and then the way he emulates her work with his photography as something like a coping mechanism. The whole movie could've been about that and it would've felt like something that was about a real moment -- something inescapable and odd and human in a messy, uncomfortable way.
So it somewhat fails as a movie, yet to anyone, like me, who was unlucky enough never to have seen Francesca Woodman's photographs before, I would not hesitate to recommend it while it's in the theatres.
Son of Babylon (Mohamed Al Daradji, 2010)
I am willing to partially blame myself for my mostly negative assessment of this film. Due to the crowdedness of the screening, and my lack of an advance ticket purchase, I was forced to sit about three rows from the front -- a distance I work hard to avoid whenever possible. It made the entire experience feel too close, too pushy. So when the director employed a fairly typically commercial style involving many sharp focus close-ups, the faces just looked too close. It felt claustrophobic and fisheyed. So, perhaps in different conditions, I might have liked this better.
As it is, I didn't. What I saw was several occasionally beautiful long shots that never felt like they had enough time to breathe. For all the supposed tumult and endlessness of the characters' journey, it never felt as though they were having as hard a time with it as it seemed. I like the idea of using a son searching for his father as a metaphorical representation of the cultural confusion and uncertainty that Iraq has had to deal with, both during and after the Saddam era. But the pathos is only successfully explored in vague, intermittent pieces, and the idea itself is stated and then left to sit for the rest of the movie. It becomes a piece that is more about the narrative than exploring the ideas the narrative posits. The sadness is what we're supposed to feel, but, either because the movie just isn't that good or because of my poor positioning (or, more likely, a bit of both), I didn't. Every time it used a close-up of the little boy crying, I felt like I was being manipulated rather than like I was watching something real unfold. Manipulation isn't necessarily a bad thing, of course, as long as you own up to it. Movies are, necessarily, all artifice. But we're mostly willing to believe that they aren't, as long as the filmmaker is willing to help out. Here, I felt like I was doing most of the work.
As it is, I didn't. What I saw was several occasionally beautiful long shots that never felt like they had enough time to breathe. For all the supposed tumult and endlessness of the characters' journey, it never felt as though they were having as hard a time with it as it seemed. I like the idea of using a son searching for his father as a metaphorical representation of the cultural confusion and uncertainty that Iraq has had to deal with, both during and after the Saddam era. But the pathos is only successfully explored in vague, intermittent pieces, and the idea itself is stated and then left to sit for the rest of the movie. It becomes a piece that is more about the narrative than exploring the ideas the narrative posits. The sadness is what we're supposed to feel, but, either because the movie just isn't that good or because of my poor positioning (or, more likely, a bit of both), I didn't. Every time it used a close-up of the little boy crying, I felt like I was being manipulated rather than like I was watching something real unfold. Manipulation isn't necessarily a bad thing, of course, as long as you own up to it. Movies are, necessarily, all artifice. But we're mostly willing to believe that they aren't, as long as the filmmaker is willing to help out. Here, I felt like I was doing most of the work.
The Green Hornet (Michel Gondry, 2011)
For once I am left without much to say about a movie, not because I didn't like it (I liked it a lot), but because other people have already said it better than I could. Both Armond White's review and a nice piece by Adam Nayman in Cinema Scope addressed all the positives I'd thought of while watching the movie and then some. White even mentioned the great Sugar Water reference Gondry pulls 2/3rds of the way through the movie.
What I guess I can add is that, despite lampooning the superhero film genre and recontextualizing Seth Rogen's usual extended adolescence motif to fit our own recent cultural obsession with superhero movies, it actually manages to have much better action than just about any of the movies it's parodying. It moves with an unforced grace that is exactly what drew me to martial arts movies to begin with -- the idea of cinematic fisticuffs being an extension of (and, somewhat sadly, mostly a replacement for) dancing in movies. It seems we would rather see people hit each other than love each other and, while I find that a little problematic, I would at least like the hitting to be as close as possible to being as delirious and beautiful as the dancing was. The Green Hornet mostly pulls it off, working in semi-long takes that revel in the movement of characters from place to place, rather than a simple, choppily rendered series of action and reaction shots. I have heard the 3D ruins much of the grace of these sequences, so I was fortunate to have waited to see it until I could watch it the normal way.
But, of course, there is all the other stuff that makes it great. The use of superhero fantasy as a way to expose upper-class white entitlement, the willingness not to be afraid to confront the problematic racial ideologies of both the previous series and with the American adventure genre in general, as well as confronting some of the sexist ideas inherent in that same genre. Not to mention pretty cleverly lampooning narcissistic image-obsession (James Franco's cameo at the beginning was what made me realize I was in for something special). It's everything Kick-Ass should've been, but was too busy trying to look cool to do. The only thing keeping it from being even better is that, even though Gondry does a good job reigning him in, the Seth Rogen Riff Machine does get a little tiring after a while.
Adam Nayman review
Armond White
What I guess I can add is that, despite lampooning the superhero film genre and recontextualizing Seth Rogen's usual extended adolescence motif to fit our own recent cultural obsession with superhero movies, it actually manages to have much better action than just about any of the movies it's parodying. It moves with an unforced grace that is exactly what drew me to martial arts movies to begin with -- the idea of cinematic fisticuffs being an extension of (and, somewhat sadly, mostly a replacement for) dancing in movies. It seems we would rather see people hit each other than love each other and, while I find that a little problematic, I would at least like the hitting to be as close as possible to being as delirious and beautiful as the dancing was. The Green Hornet mostly pulls it off, working in semi-long takes that revel in the movement of characters from place to place, rather than a simple, choppily rendered series of action and reaction shots. I have heard the 3D ruins much of the grace of these sequences, so I was fortunate to have waited to see it until I could watch it the normal way.
But, of course, there is all the other stuff that makes it great. The use of superhero fantasy as a way to expose upper-class white entitlement, the willingness not to be afraid to confront the problematic racial ideologies of both the previous series and with the American adventure genre in general, as well as confronting some of the sexist ideas inherent in that same genre. Not to mention pretty cleverly lampooning narcissistic image-obsession (James Franco's cameo at the beginning was what made me realize I was in for something special). It's everything Kick-Ass should've been, but was too busy trying to look cool to do. The only thing keeping it from being even better is that, even though Gondry does a good job reigning him in, the Seth Rogen Riff Machine does get a little tiring after a while.
Adam Nayman review
Armond White
Saturday, February 12, 2011
The Art of the Steal (Don Argott, 2009)
Pretty typical documentary paint-by-numbers. Filmmaker has an opinion on divisive issue, uses a series of images and talking heads and one-sided information to attempt to sway the viewer to his/her side of the story. How did documentary, the genre that by its very title suggests the closest film has to reality, become the most shamelessly manipulative of all film genres?
The movie somewhat "works" I guess in that its emotional heartstring tugging and complete villainization of the opposing side more or less made me think that I probably sided with the filmmakers on the issue, but the problem with these movies is that as soon as one starts to do their own research the entire thing falls apart. I guess it exists the way most news does, as something that assumes its viewer will take what it says at face value and buy into it for no other reason than because they state it with great authority.
And especially in this case, when they argue for the Barnes Foundation as a refuge for true art lovers to come and appreciate good art away from the horrors of silly faux-intellectual upper class elitists, just reeks of its own kind of elitism. Now that Barnes is dead who gets to appoint themselves the cultural gatekeeper who decides what a real patron of the arts is, as opposed to a phony who only pretends at art-loving? And why should we feel bad that the city of Philadelphia isn't going to let them?
The movie somewhat "works" I guess in that its emotional heartstring tugging and complete villainization of the opposing side more or less made me think that I probably sided with the filmmakers on the issue, but the problem with these movies is that as soon as one starts to do their own research the entire thing falls apart. I guess it exists the way most news does, as something that assumes its viewer will take what it says at face value and buy into it for no other reason than because they state it with great authority.
And especially in this case, when they argue for the Barnes Foundation as a refuge for true art lovers to come and appreciate good art away from the horrors of silly faux-intellectual upper class elitists, just reeks of its own kind of elitism. Now that Barnes is dead who gets to appoint themselves the cultural gatekeeper who decides what a real patron of the arts is, as opposed to a phony who only pretends at art-loving? And why should we feel bad that the city of Philadelphia isn't going to let them?
Jellyfish (Shira Geffen & Etgar Keret, 2007)
A precious Israeli Magnolia meets You and Me and Everyone We Know. A story of intersecting lives that is too caught up in its own narrative symmetry and quirky magical realism to invest the drama with the necessary heft. Fails to explore its ideas beyond superficial statements about struggling to please seemingly unpleasable people. Also spends quite a lot of time making people seem one-dimensional and thus easy villains for the more sympathetic protagonists, but then at the end shows them doing something nice and expects us to suddenly go "aww, they are real people after all!" No thanks.
Wish I had more to say about this movie, but I felt nothing through the whole showing except severe apathy and a constant need to check the clock to see if it was almost over.
Wish I had more to say about this movie, but I felt nothing through the whole showing except severe apathy and a constant need to check the clock to see if it was almost over.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The A-Team (Joe Carnahan, 2010)
I've been putting off writing about this one because I honestly have no idea what to say. I was very drunk by the time I got to watching it, which you would think would help in the case of a dumb action movie remake of a terrible '80s television show, but being drunk appears to make me more difficult to please instead of less. My attention wanders more frequently, leading me to blame the movie for not keeping me drawn in and fixated. This causes me to look for things I don't like.
With A-Team it's not all that difficult. Three of the four leads have a kind of charm to them -- equal to if not better than the original cast members if you ask me (whoever plays Murdock is the one out, but it's tough to blame that on the actor -- it's just that the crazy guy archetype is a terrible one), but it doesn't make up for mostly unconvincing and poorly staged action. There's an overreliance on unconvincing CGI that mostly does the movie in, giving the feeling of tinkertoys more than anything real. I don't mind CGI, for the most part, but it takes a lot of effort to give something nonexistent the right kind of weight in the real world. The A-Team fails, especially with its crazy shipyard explosions at the finale. It's a great idea, actually, but never amounts to feeling like anybody is in real danger (and they aren't).
With A-Team it's not all that difficult. Three of the four leads have a kind of charm to them -- equal to if not better than the original cast members if you ask me (whoever plays Murdock is the one out, but it's tough to blame that on the actor -- it's just that the crazy guy archetype is a terrible one), but it doesn't make up for mostly unconvincing and poorly staged action. There's an overreliance on unconvincing CGI that mostly does the movie in, giving the feeling of tinkertoys more than anything real. I don't mind CGI, for the most part, but it takes a lot of effort to give something nonexistent the right kind of weight in the real world. The A-Team fails, especially with its crazy shipyard explosions at the finale. It's a great idea, actually, but never amounts to feeling like anybody is in real danger (and they aren't).
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Kick-Ass (Matthew Vaughn, 2010)
Without even having read Ebert's review "morally reprehensible" was the exact phrase that popped into my head while watching this movie. Unlike Ebert I was not convinced by the film's opening as it meticulously and dully went about crossing items off the Nerdy High School Dude cinematic checklist. The only thing setting it apart is just how unattractive the main character is. Between this and Bandslam it appears that the only advances in Nerd Dudes in the years since the '80s is the widening gap of attractiveness between the men and their idolized objects of desire (though Bandslam at least has the courtesy to treat said women as a somewhat close approximation of real people). Those in search of a social trainwreck will be heartened to know that this rote chauvinism paint-by-numbers is, indeed, the least of Kick-Ass' problems.
The main thrust of Kick-Ass is that if superheroes existed in the real world they'd be socially maladjusted nerds and crazy people. This is an obviously fair point to suggest, yet the movie is far more eager to embrace its comic book origins and deal in easy, one-dimensional views of crime and social disarray than it is to satirize notions of hero worship and fantasy. Other than fairly numerous injuries and mishaps nothing is really suggested about the main character's desire for justice. In many ways he's just a teenage rehash of Travis Bickle, seeing the world as a dirty cesspool filled with casual indifference. But the movie is no better, inviting us to laugh and jeer at the deaths of human beings on a regular basis. Tonally, it has no idea where it's at or what it's trying to accomplish. While the main character lacks Bickle's sociopathy, this is eventually made up for via the film's other superheroes -- the father-daughter duo of Big Daddy and Hit Girl. But, much like Taxi Driver, the film can't help romanticizing the characters' iconoclasm and thus becomes problematic whenever it tries to make any real points about their fascism and the blurred, possibly not even there line that separates them from their adversaries.
It's a shame, because Matthew Vaughn has real talent as a visual stylist. Through partial coincidence I ended up watching three action movies in one day and Kick-Ass had by far the best sense of spatial relations and kineticism. The fight scenes, as ugly and squemish as they were conceptually, had a verve and sense of movement I wished existed in a better movie. But, like Michael Bay, Vaughn is likely too entrenched in his own narcissistic adolescence to ever put his visual ideas to use in something that isn't at least somewhat offensive. Unlike Bay, Vaughn is too hip and detached and interested in phony realism to make anything as stupidly sincere and cartoonish as Revenge of the Fallen.
The main thrust of Kick-Ass is that if superheroes existed in the real world they'd be socially maladjusted nerds and crazy people. This is an obviously fair point to suggest, yet the movie is far more eager to embrace its comic book origins and deal in easy, one-dimensional views of crime and social disarray than it is to satirize notions of hero worship and fantasy. Other than fairly numerous injuries and mishaps nothing is really suggested about the main character's desire for justice. In many ways he's just a teenage rehash of Travis Bickle, seeing the world as a dirty cesspool filled with casual indifference. But the movie is no better, inviting us to laugh and jeer at the deaths of human beings on a regular basis. Tonally, it has no idea where it's at or what it's trying to accomplish. While the main character lacks Bickle's sociopathy, this is eventually made up for via the film's other superheroes -- the father-daughter duo of Big Daddy and Hit Girl. But, much like Taxi Driver, the film can't help romanticizing the characters' iconoclasm and thus becomes problematic whenever it tries to make any real points about their fascism and the blurred, possibly not even there line that separates them from their adversaries.
It's a shame, because Matthew Vaughn has real talent as a visual stylist. Through partial coincidence I ended up watching three action movies in one day and Kick-Ass had by far the best sense of spatial relations and kineticism. The fight scenes, as ugly and squemish as they were conceptually, had a verve and sense of movement I wished existed in a better movie. But, like Michael Bay, Vaughn is likely too entrenched in his own narcissistic adolescence to ever put his visual ideas to use in something that isn't at least somewhat offensive. Unlike Bay, Vaughn is too hip and detached and interested in phony realism to make anything as stupidly sincere and cartoonish as Revenge of the Fallen.
The Mechanic (Simon West, 2011)
A fun, well-staged enough Jason Statham sexy machismo action fest that suffers greatly from an ending that, from any kind of thematic standpoint, makes almost no sense. It feels as though it exists almost completely as a fuck you to the idea of genre formula endings. Which is fine in a way, but when you've spent the rest of your work fully embracing the audience-placating aspects of your formula it feels a bit like you're just pulling the rug out at the end for the simple sake of doing it. "Gotcha!" isn't inherently worthwhile as a statement, especially when it means sacrificing whatever narrative and thematic cohesion that has been previously built.
Though narratively the movie isn't all that streamlined or confident, either. Individual setpieces work, but the movie feels like it's just about to introduce some big twist and instead ends. The twist is there's five minutes of movie left. Like The 36th Chamber of Shaolin, it's a movie that is almost all set-up. But unlike that film, the finale goes so smoothly and according to plan that there's never any dramatic weight, which is part of how it confuses things and seems to suggest there's more to come.
Statham is as perfect as he's consistently been: understated, suave but with a rough-hewn chisel, able to look far more fantastic in expensive clothing than most anyone ever will, and Ben Foster's erratic over-acting is a nicely defined contrast. A rather perfect bit of stunt-casting that deserves a director more willing to explore the contours of their chemistry, to let the movie breathe so that the ending can move with the weight it wants to suggest.
Though narratively the movie isn't all that streamlined or confident, either. Individual setpieces work, but the movie feels like it's just about to introduce some big twist and instead ends. The twist is there's five minutes of movie left. Like The 36th Chamber of Shaolin, it's a movie that is almost all set-up. But unlike that film, the finale goes so smoothly and according to plan that there's never any dramatic weight, which is part of how it confuses things and seems to suggest there's more to come.
Statham is as perfect as he's consistently been: understated, suave but with a rough-hewn chisel, able to look far more fantastic in expensive clothing than most anyone ever will, and Ben Foster's erratic over-acting is a nicely defined contrast. A rather perfect bit of stunt-casting that deserves a director more willing to explore the contours of their chemistry, to let the movie breathe so that the ending can move with the weight it wants to suggest.
Runaway (Kanye West & Hype Williams, 2010)
The Fifth Element meets Victoria's Secret in Kanye West's continually problematic relationship with women. His approach has softened since the infamous and banned album cover for My Twisted Dark Fantasy, as well as the infamous and not banned video for Monster, but is no less "uhhhhhhh......." inducing. He wants to explore ideas of the exploitation of innocence and the way social conditioning, especially among the upper-class, strips people of their messy uniqueness, but the video never reaches the power promised by the unexpectedly haunting and apocalyptic first shot of West running through the woods, ominous red fog seeping through the background.
Kanye vocalizes his troubles with women, singing about his status as a douchebag and his inability to talk to women (also referenced in the We Were Once a Fairytale video), but this is only a small piece of the problem. The romanticized ideal of a sweet, untouched woman lost in an ugly world is just as chauvinistic as the issues he is attempting to address. At least in Monster and the banned album cover it seemed to be suggesting something about outward social perceptions of black men and white women, rather than West's own idyllic views.
As a piece of frustrated, confused, self-indulgent confessional it is often visually striking and freed from commercial film's narrative constraints by its dubious status as a music video, though I wish it had gone even further with this idea -- stretching comfort and not being afraid to use his literal self as the cipher, rather than asking us to identify with the awkwardly depicted lingerie model angel. It makes sense from a cinematic perspective, as years of conditioning have taught us to sympathize more readily with vulnerable women than men, but, in the interest of moving forward, we should please try to get away from relying on that, especially without any real attempt to acknowledge that convoluted past. His detachment throughout the film, right down to his monotone delivery, makes connecting artist to product much harder than it should be and, when it comes to the baring of heart and soul and making people give a shit, this is more necessary than all the pretty pictures stylists can conjure.
Kanye vocalizes his troubles with women, singing about his status as a douchebag and his inability to talk to women (also referenced in the We Were Once a Fairytale video), but this is only a small piece of the problem. The romanticized ideal of a sweet, untouched woman lost in an ugly world is just as chauvinistic as the issues he is attempting to address. At least in Monster and the banned album cover it seemed to be suggesting something about outward social perceptions of black men and white women, rather than West's own idyllic views.
As a piece of frustrated, confused, self-indulgent confessional it is often visually striking and freed from commercial film's narrative constraints by its dubious status as a music video, though I wish it had gone even further with this idea -- stretching comfort and not being afraid to use his literal self as the cipher, rather than asking us to identify with the awkwardly depicted lingerie model angel. It makes sense from a cinematic perspective, as years of conditioning have taught us to sympathize more readily with vulnerable women than men, but, in the interest of moving forward, we should please try to get away from relying on that, especially without any real attempt to acknowledge that convoluted past. His detachment throughout the film, right down to his monotone delivery, makes connecting artist to product much harder than it should be and, when it comes to the baring of heart and soul and making people give a shit, this is more necessary than all the pretty pictures stylists can conjure.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Cabin Fever (Eli Roth, 2002)
Having recently, for the first time ever, seen both Hostel and Cabin Fever in close succession I an now state definitively that I prefer Hostel. And it's not even very close (though Cabin Fever is still good!).
Hostel is, in essence, a remake of the previous Cabin Fever. Hostel is actually on my list of 25 movies to write about, so I won't concern myself too much with their differences and similarities here (it's more relevant to do it later), but suffice to say I think the cleaning up and honing done to the films' shared themese makes Hostel the far sharper, more acidic picture.
Cabin Fever is not without strengths, of course. As a precursor it does a very able job of setting up the ideas Roth will eventually come close to knocking out of the park with the follow-up. But, unlike many times in filmmaking history, the revelations of the latter film do not serve to make the former irrelevant. Two sequences in specific are so haunting they make me (literally, seriously, completely) shudder every time I think about them. Combining body horror with acute psychological observation in a way that, to be hyperbolic, is actually kinda mind-blowing. The first works to undermine the film's only semi-likable male protagonist. He climbs into bed with a girl he's been harboring a not-so-secret crush on for years. She never speaks and somehow, obliviously, he mistakes her feverish discomfort for sexual pleasure. The scene is shown from his point of view, so that the audience is fooled just as he is, making us complicit when Roth pulls the carpet out from under it. Like Hostel would later, Roth here shows his excellence in exposing male movie archtypes for their self-involved sense of entitlement. Because he was enjoying what he was doing to her, he naturally assumed she must be enjoying it too (especially because she didn't tell him to stop). Of all the things I was expecting from the movie, a treatise on sexual consent was not one of them.
The other scene comes later, after things have gone so wrong that nearly everyone has forgotten what it was to be right. Its place within the film is important, structurally, as it wouldn't have quite the impact had it come earlier. A girl, infected with the horrible illness the movie revolves around, shaves her legs. Unlike many horror films, in which the gore is a means to an end, Roth uses blood and effects intelligently, communicating layers of ideas beneath the superficial. Here he suggests an obstinate desire to achieve some shred of normalcy while everything descends into a horrific nightmare. The film sympathizes with her anguish, even as she is partially responsible for her place in the situation. Roth's ability to straddle the line between villifying and sympathizing with his characters is what distinguishes him as a horror auteur. At least, in his first two films. I remember Hostel II being awful.
Another aspect that sets Cabin Fever apart as more than just a practice run is the notion of leadership in a crisis. The film posits a depressing, but mostly pretty believable, idea that leadership has more to do with assertiveness than with any strong moral compass. Throughout the film Bert, who speaks most vocally, ends up swaying the more morally conflicted characters into things they mostly believe they shouldn't be doing. Thus the film introduces both the ideas of people's ability to rationalize doing terrible things in a crisis, along with their inability to stand up to the strongest voice, even when it is obviously motivated only by self-interest.
Where the film falls short, though, is in its depiction of the locals. Both Hostel and Cabin Fever are built around two sets of people: the main characters and everyone else. Hostel gains some of its success by not making it clear which is which at several points, while Cabin Fever keeps the line between the two always distinct. Both films, perhaps by necessity of their structure, are guilty of drawing upon uncomfortable aspects of the so-called Others, yet Cabin Fever fails harder by awkwardly alternating between jeering and understanding. Sometimes it's parodying the xenophobia of Deliverance and sometimes it just is Deliverance. This weaving back and forth is handled far less elegantly than it is with the main characters, making the film stumble and labor when it should be chugging smoothly. The budgetary constraints, too, as well as Roth's own inexperience, hinder the film as well. Much of the worst parts of the film are built on a kind of horror movie referentialism, expending energy to recall some of Roth's favorite films without properly tying those moments to the themes and narrative of the movie itself. The score, too, is terrible -- heavy-handed and distracting, pounding the viewer with an unnecessary aural assault.
Hostel is, in essence, a remake of the previous Cabin Fever. Hostel is actually on my list of 25 movies to write about, so I won't concern myself too much with their differences and similarities here (it's more relevant to do it later), but suffice to say I think the cleaning up and honing done to the films' shared themese makes Hostel the far sharper, more acidic picture.
Cabin Fever is not without strengths, of course. As a precursor it does a very able job of setting up the ideas Roth will eventually come close to knocking out of the park with the follow-up. But, unlike many times in filmmaking history, the revelations of the latter film do not serve to make the former irrelevant. Two sequences in specific are so haunting they make me (literally, seriously, completely) shudder every time I think about them. Combining body horror with acute psychological observation in a way that, to be hyperbolic, is actually kinda mind-blowing. The first works to undermine the film's only semi-likable male protagonist. He climbs into bed with a girl he's been harboring a not-so-secret crush on for years. She never speaks and somehow, obliviously, he mistakes her feverish discomfort for sexual pleasure. The scene is shown from his point of view, so that the audience is fooled just as he is, making us complicit when Roth pulls the carpet out from under it. Like Hostel would later, Roth here shows his excellence in exposing male movie archtypes for their self-involved sense of entitlement. Because he was enjoying what he was doing to her, he naturally assumed she must be enjoying it too (especially because she didn't tell him to stop). Of all the things I was expecting from the movie, a treatise on sexual consent was not one of them.
The other scene comes later, after things have gone so wrong that nearly everyone has forgotten what it was to be right. Its place within the film is important, structurally, as it wouldn't have quite the impact had it come earlier. A girl, infected with the horrible illness the movie revolves around, shaves her legs. Unlike many horror films, in which the gore is a means to an end, Roth uses blood and effects intelligently, communicating layers of ideas beneath the superficial. Here he suggests an obstinate desire to achieve some shred of normalcy while everything descends into a horrific nightmare. The film sympathizes with her anguish, even as she is partially responsible for her place in the situation. Roth's ability to straddle the line between villifying and sympathizing with his characters is what distinguishes him as a horror auteur. At least, in his first two films. I remember Hostel II being awful.
Another aspect that sets Cabin Fever apart as more than just a practice run is the notion of leadership in a crisis. The film posits a depressing, but mostly pretty believable, idea that leadership has more to do with assertiveness than with any strong moral compass. Throughout the film Bert, who speaks most vocally, ends up swaying the more morally conflicted characters into things they mostly believe they shouldn't be doing. Thus the film introduces both the ideas of people's ability to rationalize doing terrible things in a crisis, along with their inability to stand up to the strongest voice, even when it is obviously motivated only by self-interest.
Where the film falls short, though, is in its depiction of the locals. Both Hostel and Cabin Fever are built around two sets of people: the main characters and everyone else. Hostel gains some of its success by not making it clear which is which at several points, while Cabin Fever keeps the line between the two always distinct. Both films, perhaps by necessity of their structure, are guilty of drawing upon uncomfortable aspects of the so-called Others, yet Cabin Fever fails harder by awkwardly alternating between jeering and understanding. Sometimes it's parodying the xenophobia of Deliverance and sometimes it just is Deliverance. This weaving back and forth is handled far less elegantly than it is with the main characters, making the film stumble and labor when it should be chugging smoothly. The budgetary constraints, too, as well as Roth's own inexperience, hinder the film as well. Much of the worst parts of the film are built on a kind of horror movie referentialism, expending energy to recall some of Roth's favorite films without properly tying those moments to the themes and narrative of the movie itself. The score, too, is terrible -- heavy-handed and distracting, pounding the viewer with an unnecessary aural assault.
Rabbit Hole (John Cameron Mitchell, 2010)
There isn't much deep-digging to figure out what this movie is about. There are no buried subtleties or intricate explorations tucked beneath the surface. It wears exactly what it's about right there in the open, for everyone to see. But it does what it does with such a (mostly) deft touch that it ends up being an unexpectedly moving experience.
Most movies of the Family Tries To Survive Tragedy variety pretend at some greater knowledge of the human condition -- existing as a way to demonstrate to you what it must be like. There's an insistence to their tone that is off-putting, to say nothing of the unshakeable feeling of exploitation that usually comes with it. Rabbit Hole is not these things. The main reason that it works, other than the unified strength of the performances (even Nichole Kidman!), is that it seems more interested in asking questions than in offering answers. It feels aware of itself as not necessarily real, but like something that might be real. It's exploratory, as if it's just as unsure of where it's going as we are. This feeling of spontaneity, even if one acknowledges its artifice, makes it easier to forgive moments that might seem trite or possibly too neat. And there are a few, but they tend to fade from memory as the film's strengths grow sharper. I wish I'd seen it last year, so that my list of favorites wouldn't seem quite so anemic.
Most movies of the Family Tries To Survive Tragedy variety pretend at some greater knowledge of the human condition -- existing as a way to demonstrate to you what it must be like. There's an insistence to their tone that is off-putting, to say nothing of the unshakeable feeling of exploitation that usually comes with it. Rabbit Hole is not these things. The main reason that it works, other than the unified strength of the performances (even Nichole Kidman!), is that it seems more interested in asking questions than in offering answers. It feels aware of itself as not necessarily real, but like something that might be real. It's exploratory, as if it's just as unsure of where it's going as we are. This feeling of spontaneity, even if one acknowledges its artifice, makes it easier to forgive moments that might seem trite or possibly too neat. And there are a few, but they tend to fade from memory as the film's strengths grow sharper. I wish I'd seen it last year, so that my list of favorites wouldn't seem quite so anemic.
The Hole (Nick Hamm, 2001)
Has several ideas, though none of them are executed well. Begins wanting to be a Rashomon meets police procedural story about unreliable narration, but poor direction keeps the film from ever sustaining a plausible point of view and about halfway through the film the Rashomon-esque quality is abandoned as a mere pretense for extending the film's running time. The film then somewhat attempts to become about the dissolution of humanity when faced with entrapment -- sort of a miniatuare Lord of the Flies. But this, too, is bungled by the film's attempts to continually withhold information from the viewer, cutting back and forth between the present and the past, consistently letting every character know more than the audience does before big reveal after big reveal. We are never allowed to live in a moment as if it's actually happening, as the movie is much more interested in trying to trick us than in trying to make us believe anything we're seeing. Thus we are removed from their suffering and, as a consequence, any ability to sympathize with their plight. Bodies begin to pile up before we even have a firm handle on who the characters are. Perhaps the comparisons to Rashomon were unfounded, actually, as this script clearly has another, more recent, movie in mind with its ending: The Usual Suspects. And, like that movie, ends up revealing nothing other than the fact that it has revealed nothing. But The Hole lacks the meta self-awareness of The Usual Suspects, pretending that its ending reveals some dark truth about ourselves. It does not. Because sociopaths are boring. They can do horrible things and not feel bad about it. Why is that interesting? There is something biologically wrong with them. I can understand being interested in that from a scientific perspective. How is it caused? Is it genetic? Can it be cured? These are things worth being curious about. Wondering exactly what kind of awful things they're capable of, I hope for obvious reasons, is not.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)