Robocop (Paul Verhoeven, 1987)

For many years, even as I understood more strongly what he was doing to undermine the very genres he was inhabiting, I still maintained that Robocop was my favorite Verhoeven film. Despite my propensity to abandon nostalgia, I had grown up with Robocop. It helped that it was one of the few films from my youth that, upon adult reflection, is still actually good. But I think there's a reason for my holding onto it that demonstrates an adolescence of taste and need for cinema to be a certain thing that I had always expected it to be. That is to say, I wanted it to be grounded in a level of reality and, for want of a better word, sentiment about its world and characters. Despite its more satirical and incisive political elements, Robocop still takes its story more-or-less seriously. Its view of a man who becomes a robot and interest in the loss of human psyche to machinery/technology is one based in pathos. And, in a lot of ways, this is what makes the movie more limiting than Verhoeven's later American films. It is about a man and, despite some hints of ambivalence, his triumph at the end is a real triumph. This is a stark contrast to Verhoeven's very next feature, Total Recall, in which none of the characters represent real people so much as postmodern representations of film iconography and the ending triumph is a lampoon of action film wish fulfillment/escapism.

I find it a little hard to say that a movie that cares about its characters as real people, and wants the audience to care about them, somehow makes it worse than other movies that don't do this. Fortunately, I guess, Robocop is still a good movie, even if I will no longer call it my favorite (or, perhaps, even include it in my top 5 Verhoevens). Made on a relatively small budget, it says some surprising things about privatization and American corporate fascism -- surprising mostly for their context in the still Red world of Ronald Reagan (and, soon, Bush, Sr.). I suppose its context as a sci-fi film and its low budget were the only things that allowed this fairly clear anti-Red message to get through. Or, to be a little more bleak about it, perhaps corporations already realized that they could be made easy scapegoats for the world's ills without affecting their bottom line. While there were no doubt earlier examples, I suspect they were less successful, so in some ways Robocop can be seen as the precursor to the modern action/thriller formula, in which corporate greed threatens to destroy a lone man or woman just trying to make it in the world. Especially in television, in which a huge number of modern sci-fi/action show made in the last 10 years has some elusive, privately backed "Company" as its big boogey man (Heroes, Alias, Lost, Dollhouse, others). I suppose the way it justifies it is the way capitalism justifies everything, that is not All Companies that are evil, greedy, shameless abusers of human rights, but rather This Specific Company. In a way, I am sad to say, even Robocop plays a little fast and loose with its intentions. The older, real head of OCP is seen as mostly genial and unaware of the machinations of his head underling, and the film's main villain, Dick Jones. And, despite the ambivalence of transforming a human into a robot crime fighting machine, the movie does imply that Robocop is making things safer and better.

This, I guess, would be the main reason that Verhoeven's attachment to Murphy/Robo as a character makes this a lesser film than his later works. Because we are supposed to like him, and see him as the good guy, in a way it means we must endorse his methods, which mostly involve violent abuse of criminals and a willingness to ignore the way socio-economic factors affect crime. These are ideas that are vaguely hinted at throughout the film, but Verhoeven mostly skirts them in favor of less pointed attacks on Jones and the other ruthless executives. I will say, however, that the way he ties Jones to Kurtwood Smith's wonderfully slimy Clarence J. Boddicker, and the implication that moving up the criminal ladder really isn't so far from moving up the corporate one (in that they both involve a willingness to be heartlessly opportunistic) is, of course, fairly obvious, but Verhoeven isn't out to hit you over the head too hard with it. And its observation that Detroit would become a gutted urban wasteland seems frighteningly prescient (though my history is a little stiff, perhaps it was apparent even by 1987 that the American automobile was going to lose the race badly).

The ending, too, is surprising and, sadly, completely implausible in a modern action movie. It ends on exactly the note it should, without wearing out its welcome with an unnecessary epilogue about Robocop returning to the streets and having come to terms with his existence as part man, part robot. I guess it's strange to contemplate the '80s, which are often held aloft as the worst decade in American history, in terms of social and political progress -- and to yet even see that the films being made in that era take wild chances that would be unheard of in a modern Hollywood picture. I guess bemoaning the fate of Hollywood is another boring standard of the critical world, but here I am. The main reason is, likely, that it's difficult for me to put my finger on what it is about Robocop that is so interesting to me, still. I mean, there are the obvious factors, like that it moves efficiently and still looks fantastic. There's the mirroring elevator scenes with Miguel Ferrer that, while obvious, that still have a disturbing casualness to them. Honestly I wish I'd written this two weeks ago when I first watched the movie. Now, it feels like there's something missing from my brain that I wanted to say about it.

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (Michael Bay, 2009)

I have a difficult time defending Michael Bay, sometimes even to myself. There is so much wrong with his movies from an ideological perspective that it often threatens to overwhelm the qualities that are good about them. Other things that bother me less, like the consistently poor quality of his scripts on a dialogue level, seem to define the critical reception of his films. I think this, in a way, is what inspires me to defend him on certain levels. I think that analyzing what are, primarily, action movies, based on the relatively thin context filmmakers provide as an excuse for that action is only relevant if the filmmakers clearly wish it so. Something that aspires to be a more cerebral, more "intellectual" piece of genre filmmaking is worth looking at for what it attempts to do. The recent Anton Corbijn film, The American, stripped of all context save its three action scenes, would be a pretty effectively tense action movie. It would also be about 8 minutes long. The rest of the film has pretenses of elevating the action thriller to a realm of philosophical discourse and, in these aspirations, it fails mightily. Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen never threatens to be anywhere close to an intellectual pursuit. It dodges and flees any notions of wit and self-reflection. It is, however, an occasionally beautiful and balletic action film. And, because it has no higher aspirations than that, I feel it should be judged mostly on these facets. Having said that, it is also worth exploring the ideological ramifications of much of what Michael Bay takes for granted in his pursuit of adolescent satisfaction. These, I feel are issues that could easily be avoided and, even if he does not encourage you to consider them, are still worth considering for what they say about Bay as a filmmaker and, perhaps, us as a culture. But even these are much different than the dialogue and plot, which are the main things reviewers seem to latch onto in dismissing his works (and, by extension, his abilities as a craftsman). Perhaps reviewers are just as guilty of taking what is problematic about his films for granted as he does.

So it is, with a strange sense of regret, that I must admit I did not enjoy Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, with anywhere near the pleasure I did upon my first two viewings. The very first time, in the theatre, I fell into the crowded mess of conceits that bloated the film to 2.5 hours long as a symptom of Bay's generosity. I believe he believes he only wants to make movies that make people happy. There were so many movies he would like to make, that he ended up stuffing them all into one movie as a way to give people everything. Comedy, drama, romance, action, suspense -- the things people sometimes insist they want to see all of in a movie. So we have a strange military scenario, with meddlesome Washington administrators getting in the way of Real Heroes trying to fight terrorists with a college comedy about a freshman trying to cope with an expanding world and maintain a long distance relationship and then thrown in the middle is a plot about robots fighting each other and someone trying to destroy the planet. Because of Bay's skill at rapid pacing, the movie's expansive overreaching and mixy-matchy-ness went down smoothly, and I appreciated his gusto and willingness to look silly by giving far more than was probably necessary. The second viewing was not as fond, though I still appreciated much of what I did previously. Now, perhaps my eyes are less tightened by fandom for Armond White and a desire to defend Bay for his formal qualities (which are considerable) at the expense of everything else. I see what people are saying when they complain about his unabashed conservatism. I see the weird, and frankly ridiculous and gross, ways Bay has likened Decepticons to underground terrorist cells. And the flat, personality-less Fox who exists as teenage boy titillation and nothing else. The movie clearly assumes that girls are never going to watch it, ever. Unlike many people, I have no problem with Shia LeBouf. His rat-tat-tat stream of neurotic pseudo-geek consciousness does, at least, feel like a cartoon version of a possibly real person. But what do they have in common? It falls into the same poisonous trap that John Hughes spent much of his career suggesting, that nerdy guys deserve to date girls because the guys are sweet and caring and the girls they deserve to date are the "hot" popular girls, because they're the girls "all guys" want to date. The women are reduced to objects and it's really just strange that this continues to be un-addressed and is continually gaining popularity. Is this an accurate reflection of what women want -- that the ideal woman continues to be thin and popular and pretty, but the ideal man is now a neurotic guy with no chin? Is this a terrified mass exodus of the female population for something Ben Affleck, former hearthrob and symbol of all that is chiseled and chinful did?

All these problems and more (the twins -- siiiiigh, the twins) begin to dissipate from memory, though, the moment Optimus Prime goes crashing through a forest, sliding along the hillside, flipping and twisting in a dance of mechanical violence. There's a fluidity to the pleasure of these moments, and their brutality is tempered by their existence as fictional constructs made of machinery (in the movie) and computer-generated images (in reality). The separation from anything resembling real-life creates a detachment that allows torn off limbs and exploding faces to exist as a pure kinetic pleasure, delightful for the ways in which they move and conflict with each other. I have no idea if this detachment presents any problematic implications in the long run, but for the short term I am willing to accept them as an effective substitute to pretending real human beings are disposable (the way much of the rest of the movie does, as countless infantry die without any explanation as to why they are even there to begin with). I don't know, Michael Bay, why can't the whole movie be super robot battle ballet. I would like that movie a lot. Instead I like these parts a lot, and the rest of the movie kind of not a lot.

Fast Five (Justin Lin, 2011)

There's a certain, somewhat admirable quality to Fast Five. In an IM the other day Reuben asked me whether it was 5x as fast as the previous ones. While it may have been a glib joke, the answer, somewhat surprisingly, is yes it is. If the original The Fast & the Furious was Rob Cohen's often hammy and awkward love letter to the burgeoning Los Angeles street car scene, reveling in car porn of all facets (construction, movement, destruction) then by now the series has stripped itself of all that social context and, other than a few sleek rides, much of the car porn in order to transform itself into what hackneyed TV blurbs call "a non-stop thrill ride." Gone is much of the characterization, using slivers of hyper-sentimental platitudes as emotional and relational placeholders. The entirety of the script has been boiled down to that one infamous scene from the first film, when Vin Diesel's Dominic Toretto describes the events that landed him in jail, then repeated throughout the film so that nearly every scene with dialogue is a variation on that motif. Platitudes, almost laughably earnest delivery, seriousness. The other characters, notably Tyrese Gibson, show up to try to (fuel) inject the movie with some fun and laughter, but it mostly gets lost in the neck-deep syrup of Diesel and protege Paul Walker.

The purpose for all this condensation, and what I consider admirable about the film, is so the filmmakers could stuff more explosions and action sequences into the movie. I have long been a proponent of the idea that an action movie does not require characterization or political stance in order to be successful. Because a movie is a series of images supplanted to the screen, the interplay of these images through composition and editing can certainly be compelling on their own, and without the need for explicit motivation and character development (the best music videos are a prime example, reveling in their status as visual/audio kinesis). One person wants something, the other person wants to stop them from getting it. A filmmaker, quite honestly, never needs a more compelling conflict than that if they have the skill to put together a great sequence.

The only problem with Justin Lin, despite his returning the series to mostly real crashes and explosions, rather than the overreliance on CGI that has plagued it since 2 Fast 2 Furious, is that he doesn't have the knack. Many of the action sequences feel like watching nothing. There's no reason two cars dragging a flipping, moving, crashing giant steel safe down a road shouldn't be a fantastic action sequence. It's a pretty ingenius conception on its own, so it would almost suggest that even a midlevel hack could pull it off with a bit of panache. And Lin almost does. Despite the fact that it is never quite exciting, it is memorable for its uniqueness, and the sheer amount of creative destruction the safe wreaks as it slides and tumbles down freeways and through crowded metro streets.

Add to this the increase in action apparently means an equal or greater increase in beefy testosterone, as perpetually sweaty Dwayne Johnson faces off with Diesel in two separate Rocky-esque fisticuff showdowns that simultaneously feel a little gross and parodic while also being the closest to a compelling action sequence the movie has. I suppose one reason is that it manages to convey the feeling that something is at stake. The rest of the sequences lack a feeling of improvisation, of mistakes and re-calculation. Even when, narratively, things go wrong, it still feels like, cinematically, everything is going according to plan. There's no push and pull. No feeling that one side has the upper hand, now the other is going to take it back. This, I think, could've partially overcome the fact that Lin fails to make the camera part of the action. Set-ups are rudimentary and cuts seem below the level of utilitarian. The best I can say, I guess, is that it never relies on quick pans and shakiness to obscure, rather than show, the action.

Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives (Apichatpong Weerasethakul, 2010)

In addition to what I wrote previously, I would say my second viewing of Uncle Boonmee definitely helped to solidify the feeling of ongoing class tension and resentment going on in Thailand. However, it does so without mean-spirited self-righteousness. Despite their classist attitudes, both Uncle Boonmee and Auntie Jen feel like compassionately realized characters. Weerasethakul understands their biases, even if he does not accept them, and works hard to demonstrate that having these attitudes does not make you not a human being. Because of the strict structure of the Thai government, much of what he has to say must be veiled in metaphor, or hinted at obliquely through small patches of dialogue.

There are two mirroring sequences, one of a Thai princess and the other of a modern-day Buddhist monk, in which the characters remove the social and cultural signifiers of their status and are then reborn as normal people. These suggest, to me, Weerasethakul's desire, which is in stark contrast to much of the Thai cinema I've seen, to embrace modernity and a new set of values. But, surprisingly, he does this while still maintaining a connection to Thai roots and avoiding romanticizing (or villifying) metropolitan areas like Bangkok. He recognizes the strength and beauty of the forests and rural areas of his country, while still being willing to question the way traditional values have been twisted to create a controlling government. A flashback evocative of both 2001 and La Jetee suggests a future where those who disagree with the government are made to disappear, their lives projected onto a flickering screen until they are forgotten. Upon first viewing, I was baffled by this long sequence and what he was suggesting. Now, on contemplation and another viewing, it seems obvious he is talking specifically about censorship of film and media. The way those who disagree are forced to hide their stories and ideas in the media world, but can even then only put them in when they are obscured almost beyond recognition.

But even these struggles are not the main thrust of the film. Merely one facet of a movie that also meditates on the nature of mortality. The title, Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives, suggests concepts about Buddhist reincarnation. This much is true, as we do see Uncle Boonmee's life first as a cow, then as the aforementioned Thai princess. Other past lives are hinted at. But more than just this more expected (and, for what it is, literal) definition of past lives, the film also recognizes that our memories are, in a way, our past lives -- that within our brain are millions of past lives, almost like movies, and we can recall the ways in which we have changed and progressed. This, I think, is part of what encapsulates what is great about the movie: something so simple attains a kind of revelatory status, merely by being shown in a way that hasn't been before. Long, unbroken, almost actionless takes reflect the presumed feelings that, when one knows he/she is approaching the end of his/her life, each moment seems memorable and worthy of consideration -- that there is no more time to move fleetingly through life. Because it takes its time, these moments are also memorable to the viewer, sticking out long after other, faster and less careful, films are forgotten. Honey, dialysis, dinner, all these words (and likely more that I can't think of at the moment) suggest moments of a life that is rendered unforgettable, regardless of its fiction, by the power Weerasethakul invests in it.

There is also, in a way, a sense of tension and dread about the movie. While I think he is completely uninterested in the idea, many aspects show that Weerasethakul is capable of making an extremely taut and terrifying horror/suspense film. That he melds these easily and casually with the many other aspects of his filmmaking is a testament to his skill and craft. The film transitions gracefully from hazy, dreamlike idyll to a kind of haunting, unexpected tension. He could take a place next to (Kiyoshi) Kurosawa as a master of spellbinding, uncomfortable exercises in modern life examination. But Weerasethakul is more sardonic, more bemused by modern living than the clearly frightened and offput Kurosawa (who is not without a sardonic himself, it should be mentioned). Perhaps it comes from the difference in their upbringing. The stereotypes about the two countries are wildly different, with Thai people known for their friendly easy-going nature, while Japan is more notorious for a kind of polite rigidity. In any case, the two are probably not worth spending all this time comparing, but they do share a small spat of similarity I thought it worth noting. And, as always, I am never quite sure how to end these things. This is good enough, I suppose.