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The Return of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1994)
As far as terrible movies go, this one is fun. Seriously.
If I tell you this is not a good movie you ought to--by instinct and by reason--ask "Well, what exactly IS a movie, anyway?" Is a movie a cinematic expression of the art of storytelling? Most people would say yes, yes it is. Or, is a movie an audio/visual spectacle whose primary purpose is to thrill, shock or terrorize its audience? Others would embrace this crude but satisfying description, perhaps those among us who are more entertained by more visceral, more primal, more base forms of stimulation. So, if your tastes run more towards the crude and primitive, the unrefined and irrational, the dumb and dopey, then you'll very likely get a kick out of this silly weird freak of a film. I know I did.
It's just plain insane. Don't ask me to explain or justify my, um, acceptance of this demented deranged devolved bit of theatrical nonsense, but there ya have it: It's one fuggin wacky wild ride. Maybe it's the offbeat, compelling, convincing performances by as-yet-still-relatively unknowns Renee Zellweger and Matt McConaughey? Or maybe it's the surprisingly well paced if awkward action that seems to be consciously gauged to wind us up with some disturbingly understated foreshadowing and then set us off with sudden outbursts of confusingly callous hysterics that struck me as genuinely bizarre and creepy.
It's not as if the threadbare, nearly non-existent narrative cares one way or another if we're invested in arriving at any sort of reasonable explanation for what we're witnessing. On the contrary, this nasty, naughty little scamp of a movie is obviously relishing its audience's inevitable bewilderment. I also got the feeling that the oddly obnoxious cinematic creation fully approves of my increasingly genuine amusement. This is a comedy?! Oh, well why didn't you tell me!!
I chuckled and snickered all the way through. Thank you very much, you weird, wacky, near-worthless movie experience.
The Elephant Man (1980)
A Wondrously Gorgeous Monster Movie
This is a very early film in Lynch's professional career, his 1st major studio production following his much more personal, intimate and outrageously bizarre masterpiece, Eraserhead. That freshman effort is perhaps Lynch's most pure expression of cinematic artistry—a fiercely idiosyncratic, absurdly inscrutable gesture of audio/visual mischievous of the most masterful kind. Contained within Lynch's debut feature length movie can be found the bulk of the sublime ideas and ingenious cinematic techniques which infused all his later films with such shockingly vivid & visceral emotionalism. Eraserhead is such a powerfully effective bit of cinematic wizardry that upon witnessing it—no, upon being assaulted by it!—Mel Brooks was convinced that its mad genius creator had to be the director of the unusually odd film which he was producing, and thus David Lynch was hurled into the gaping, yawning, voracious orifice that is Hollywood film-making.
Luckily, David Lynch had a magnificently talented cast (Anthony Hopkins, John Gielgud, Anne Bancroft, Freddie Jones, and of course a brilliant John Hurt) as well as a superb script (Christopher De Vore, Eric Bergren & David Lynch) with which to fashion his quaint Victorian period piece/archly Gothic nightmare monster movie. The narrative is strikingly concise and terse, almost bleak in its unadorned simplicity, yet more than ample to support the gargantuan mass of barely tolerable pathos which burdens nearly every scene. That's not to say it's a tortuous slog—no, not hardly. The Elephant Man is only as emotionally crushing as David Lynch has astutely calculated we can endure, and it regularly assumes a surprisingly delicate & buoyant demeanor. In other words, it's an intensely disturbing, wonderfully rich & rewarding emotional roller coaster.
Lynch's monster is a ghastly creature dwelling in the darkest, dankest recesses of the human psyche, and it's by dragging us kicking & screaming down to those formidably threatening depths that he's able to then kindly usher us to the shimmering splendor of an equally remote but welcoming inner realm where resides compassion, empathy & genuine humanity.
It seems it's only by directly facing life's most daunting, most ugly, most horrific truths can we hope for any real joy, or at least any relief. That's heavy, isn't it?
The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call - New Orleans (2009)
Is it really as outrageously wild and wacky and dark as its reputation? Yes
Nic Cage is a living, breathing cartoon character, both as a person and as an actor, and the best filmmakers seem to grasp intuitively that the best way to have Nic in a movie--the only way, really--is to first be sure they've got for him an appropriately comical, ironic, melodramatic or surreal story. This one happens to be all four, to a serious degree. It also features compelling and offbeat relationships and unexpected, wild action, all of it slyly hypnotic and even gripping.
It'd be fair to describe this film as a tense crime drama that's regularly relieved by comical gags if it weren't for the fact that the perfectly timed humorous beats are so damn hysterical--and so weird. The outrageously absurd, profoundly wacky moments so thoroughly overwhelm the more somber, dark and disturbing moments--not in quantity but in sublime intensity--that they thoroughly dislodge us from any dependable emotional or psychological perch and it's hard to know with any confidence from instant to instant what we're expected to feel or think, which, apparently, is very much intentional. We're being toyed with, and not coyly but blatantly, maybe even wickedly.
The director, Werner Herzog, is a connoisseur of contradiction and paradox as he's masterfully demonstrated in many of his films, such as the bleakly absurd "Aguirre, the Wrath of God," or the incredibly preposterous "Fitzcarraldo," or the often delightfully campy "Nosferatu the Vampyre" where subtle humor is so effectively collided against genuinely poignant drama. But this one's on a whole different level, and it's entirely the fault of Nic Cage and his nearly demented, turbocharged performance as an increasingly crazed, spiraling out of control, drug addicted crooked cop.
As his character's condition deteriorates and his affliction and corruption possess him to the core not only does Nic begin to distort his appearance and posture to match his deepening pathology but his voice as well becomes increasingly warped as it grows more high pitched and nasal, as though the mounting stress is compressing him like a squeeze toy. It's beyond silly but it somehow works, at least on the level of his character's distorted, perverted perspective.
Often the soundtrack is emphatically offbeat, quirky and disruptive, working in counterpoint to the pace and tone of the unfolding action. But the musical score might then quickly shift to more traditional rhythms more in sync with the apparent mood of the scene, which only renders those moments all the more unsettling. It's a very subversive technique inciting a creeping, crawling uncertainty deep within the subconscious, at a primal level; a sincerely surreal experience punctuated so ridiculously, so blatantly by the hallucinogenic appearances of those damn freaky iguanas. So freaky...
It's disorienting--in the best way--to be so constantly jerked, jolted and yanked around by a movie, especially when it's all being done so well, so confidently. Werner Herzog has crafted a sincerely bizarre, wild ride; a rare and special cinematic experience that will appeal to--and thrill--aficionados of superior, if idiosyncratic storytelling. Very much recommended above all else for its uniquely unorthodox, unhinged vibe.
The Maze Runner (2014)
Sometimes Exciting but Usually Annoying
There's a lot of visually interesting action sequences that are quite effective even for being completely CGI created, and some of the acting is above average, especially the three lead boys, but the dialog is often corny and even boring. More importantly, the story makes little to no sense--why couldn't the adults running the "experiment" just put the boys in computer simulated tests?! There's absolutely no good reason for the boys--and one girl--to have to actually endure all the terrifying nightmare violence and horrific deaths of their fellow captives. The explanation by the Director for why the boys were in the Glade and Maze is just so completely illogical and silly and stupid.
Some kids will love this movie if they're the sort that doesn't question movies--or things--too deeply or if they're easily entertained by shallow, visually stimulating spectacles. Personally, I prefer a more intelligent, better thought out story, and I think a lot of kids do, too.
Gone Girl (2014)
It Thinks It's a Smart Satire But It's Mostly a Flimsy Farce
Ben Affleck has a few compelling, convincing scenes where his boyish innocence and modest charm are exploited to considerable effect, as though daring me to believe anything coming out of his mouth. Rosamund Pike's performance is much more ineffectual and troubling; Miss Pike is clearly just as new to and unfamiliar with the character she's playing as we are. Rather than eliciting profound wonder at the impossibly fickle and treacherous mystery that is the scorned female psyche, Pike's portrayal only manages to provoke some mild ire and a lot of disbelief. I simply couldn't tolerate what that scheming spouse--as well as the rest of this dumb movie--was demanding of my patience. Too much, man.
The production values are sufficiently high that its appearance and soundtrack are both fairly seductive. I was drawn in more by the luxury of their lives than through the lead characters' personalities. Almost right from the start I wasn't buying what this disingenuous and manipulative film was emphatically, desperately selling.
I was initially interested, mildly, with how this lumbering, plodding schlock fest would resolve itself only because I quickly became aware that it would require a tremendously skillful and tactful twist to bestow any sort of honor upon itself, but no, it merely continues to lamely drone on and on, wallowing in its own inflated sense of importance. It's a clunky, corny, spastic, tone deaf, silly sham of a cinematic experience. If you're entertained or even amused by this overly clever, self fascinated triviality then that says some pretty unappealing things about you. Perhaps you enjoy being cynically conned and openly mocked? Me, not so much.
Sitting through this too-ridiculous-by-a-half stunt of a film is more daunting than actually being married to the cunning manipulative psychopath into which Rosamund Pike's stoic anti-hero methodically morphs. "You're delusional!" Ben Affleck's outwitted, out maneuvered husband accuses his crafty spouse, as though the thought hadn't already occurred to us. He complains that their relationship has become something very bad, something very nasty--I dunno exactly, I stopped paying much attention by that point--and she replies so mechanically "That's marriage." Wow, hysterical. Or not. Who knows, or cares. Not me.
Wreck-It Ralph (2012)
A Visual Feast with a Generous Helping of Clever Wit and a Big Scoop of Genuine Heart
The visual splendor alone of every scene, of every frame, elevates this modest but heartfelt film to classic status, but it's the inspired storytelling which truly distinguishes this tribute to those innocent days at the very dawn of our video game saturated culture. Easily one of the most clever, entertaining and satisfying children's computer animated films I've ever seen, up there with the Toy Story trilogy, Wall-E, the Incredibles, and Finding Nemo.
Like Toy Story and Wall-E, Wreck-It Ralph relies on a very potent mix of bittersweet nostalgia for a bygone age and an acid sharp cynicism for an increasingly uncomfortable future. The result is an endlessly endearing cautionary tale warning us to be wary of the myriad increasingly complex and seductive technological innovations which are threatening to overwhelm us with their irresistible electronic magic. That's a dicey position for a computer generated film to take and it acknowledges its own potential hypocrisy with some very astute and hilarious self deprecating humor.
The movie is also saved from descending into self parody on the strength of the very fine performances of its leads. John C. Reilly's naturally affable manner imbues Ralph with a nuanced blend of restrained self pity and emphatic hopeful pride, enriching his character with genuine humanity. And Sarah Silverman is a shear delight as the quick witted pixie faerie who blithely coaxes and goads Ralph to fulfill his destiny as savior of their realm.
Pixar's Toy Story is the original classic computer animated film and rightfully lays claim to the title as Champion of the form, and Pixar's Wall-E certainly upped the stakes with its positively mature and sophisticated theme of catastrophic environmental abuse by an increasingly contented and oblivious populace, but Disney's Wreck-It Ralph achieves greatness by virtue of its unbounded love for its subject and the infectious joy with which it's brought to life. Effervescent glee bursts from every detail. Wreck-It Ralph cheerfully destroys all resistance on its whimsical mission of mass appeal.
The King of Marvin Gardens (1972)
The Last Gasp of Hope for a Dying Nation...
Alienation and disconnection -- the uncomfortable mood gripping the nation would soon degrade into deep malaise and acute paranoia as America was stunned and traumatized by revelations of the government's deceptions and lies about the failing war in Viet Nam and then soon enough the vaudevillian scandal of Watergate. This film strives to capture the infinitely subtle drama of when innocence isn't so much lost as it's cynically packaged and sold. Dreams may die hard, but delusions usually expire with barely an audible whimper, and there was no more epic delusion expiring at that moment in our history than the vainglorious belief in the USA's infallibility. God, himself, had ordained this vast land exceptional and anointed its multitudinous inhabitants, or so we'd been told.
Like the crumbling, decrepit, musty seaside resort town which plays host to this tragicomic farce, America was not living up to its slogan as the Shining City on the Hill. Atlantic City in the early 70's not only manifested the startling decay of so much of this nation's urban spaces, but also poignantly symbolized the inner decay of our national psyche. And while it's certainly sad and scary to witness the gruesome, slow, writhing death of the Great American Delusion, it's also somehow comforting and reassuring to know that just beneath the still warm corpse germinates tender seedlings incubating the merest wisps of hope for our nation's future. Amidst the emphatically strained and tortured metaphors which comprise this modest cinematic tragedy lurks genuineness and sincerity and psychological resonance. It's an awkward, peculiar little picture story that will haunt your psyche, if you're not already dead, or too delusional.
The Wicker Man (1973)
A Slightly Corny & Silly, but Very Fun Fantasy/Thriller
I detest most religions and religious beliefs so it was easy for me to cheer for the Heathen islanders, even if they were a bit wacky. Edward Woodward's uptight, self righteous police officer, Sergeant Howie, is a barely sympathetic character, entirely confined and controlled by his demented, pointless Christian faith, and therefor is the perfect target for some devious, mean spirited, soul testing pranks.
Christopher Lee is compelling as the aristocratic wizard, his innate sinister yet sophisticated charm perfectly suited for his role as gracious host of his private island's Pagan Party. Few other actors could so effectively generate such a charismatic image of formidable worldliness. Think of a more modest, more homey Gandalf.
There's a very memorable scene of a very gorgeous and very nude Britt Ekland writhing in possessed, ritualistic desire. The risqué scene functions not just as a salacious exploitation of Brit's sensuous physique but also as a stylized Rorschach test by which we are very emphatically prompted to measure our own level of prurient repression. Sexual desire, as Christianity would have us believe, is unnatural and evil. Ha!
Some of the dialog, especially in the later half, is unnecessarily deliberate and expository - it would have been much more mysterious and suspenseful to not have the motives and meanings so literally explained. Heathenism, even more so than Christianity, embraces irrational, nonlinear thought and so it isn't necessary to have the pagan islander's ideas and actions any more comprehensible than those of the good Detective's. In fact, I much prefer my Paganism entirely inscrutable, thank you.
The finale is positively gruesome, aesthetically inspired, and undeniably satisfying. In spite of it's modest flaws - the most obvious one being why the islanders would bother to continue to deceive the Detective once he's trapped on their island - this nasty little thriller will definitely tickle your spiritual funny bone.
Contact (1997)
Contact "Touches" Greatness
This potentially remarkable film falls just short of the cosmic realm to which it aspires, but it does frequently soar to dizzying heights. Unfotunately, it's occasionally pulled back down to less rarefied atmospheres under the weight of its overwrought, clunky romantic malfunctions. Jody Foster's character's atheism may be used against her to deny her the opportunity to fulfill a lifetime dream, and her attraction to the man responsible for this possible denial is played for all it's melodramatic, soap opera worth.
And Jodie Foster - a consummate pro whose career credits are the envy of any working actor - is here just so relentlessly earnest and strident, and as focused as a cobra poised to strike. It's a bit of a one note performance, and maybe a little tiring. She does, of course, posses a wonderfully photogenic face which we are invited to scrutinize at great length in the countless increasingly tight close ups of her tense square jaw and piecing baby blue eyes.
The special effects are a bit sketchy by today's astronomically high standards, but 15 years ago I imagine audience's were sufficiently impressed. The most glaring weakness are the matte painting backgrounds upon which has been place a considerable responsibility to generate awe and wonder, but their unnatural cartooniness is distracting. Most of the other digital effects are executed sufficiently well enough to serve the increasingly exciting action.
The effects, and in fact the entire film very effectively plays off our collective memory of other classic landmark Sci-Fi films, such as 2001: A Space Odyssey, Close Encounters of the 3rd Kind, and even The Andromeda Strain with its terse and clinical scientific dialog executed with icy cold precision. These three films are certainly very fine company to be keeping and Contact earns its position by virtue of the challenging and unique questions raised by its intelligent script. It might come off as self important and smug of me to be nit picking this film, but my petty criticisms can be read as a testament to the high standard to which Contact strives and largely achieves.
Hostel: Part III (2011)
An Sad Expression of Emotional & Mental Illness, Despicable
Imagine people making bets of who can more savagely sexually violate your child and you begin to get a sense of how shockingly sick is the premise, and the people responsible for conceiving this ridiculous crap. You understand how disturbing my analogy is, don't you, that there exists human beings in the world who have premeditated the production of this valueless, worthless bit of cultural excrement? There should be laws here prohibiting this sort of careless, demented stupidity, but those laws would only make this sort of depraved reckless behavior that much more appealing to its emotionally crippled, mentally malfunctioning fans. The first "movie" in this series should have triggered a SWAT team response to the producers' homes to liberate the abducted sex slaves in their basements. Hmmmph.
The Minus Man (1999)
A Serial Killing Postal Worker?! Hmmm, Ya Don't Say...
There's a curious mood to this odd film that belies the grim, grisly subject matter. It's almost a waking dream - a gauzy, hazy, half conscious remembrance of something vaguely unpleasant. The film takes such deliberate time in revealing the magnitude of the killer's pathology that it eventually feels as inevitable as a lazy canoe ride down river towards an unseen waterfall. What's most disturbing, most curious is that the fateful waterfall never arrives. The film just idly slips away into the murky mist of our most primal, most unnamed terrors. Owen Wilson's laconic demeanor and syrupy drawl effectively paint a compelling picture of a desperately disconnected but amiable loner. His eternally forlorn expressions are matched by an insistently melancholic soundtrack creating a tone that's unusually restrained and subdued for a genre that normally revels in overblown melodramatic spectacle. With so much technology today meticulously and cavalierly contriving obscenely graphic, hyper real vistas of nightmarish hell, it's actually refreshing to encounter a film that relies almost exclusively on the power of suggestion to implant deep within our psyches its special horror. Be patient and this nasty little movie will whisper some horribly dark voodoo into your soul.
Moonrise Kingdom (2012)
Youth is Not Wasted on the Young. It's Abused by Adults
The two lead kids are a curious, quirky revamping of Shakespeare's star-crossed adolescent lovers from Verona, but the inexorable obstacle thwarting Sam and Suzy's eternal union is not their feuding clans but the increasingly bizarre, malfunctioning society into which they've been born. The 60s in America were a time of drastic, profound social changes and 1965 was a year immediately on the threshold of some of the most drastic, most disorienting upheavals to the status quo. A generation of educated, financially advantaged, and chemically motivated young people were beginning to reject the many negative, outdated beliefs that afflicted the unsteady, faltering nation, and they did this by adopting radical new attitudes, fashions, and philosophies. They molded these into their personal arsenals of weapons of defiance, and would deploy them against the powers that be. Parents often were the most convenient and most deserving targets of the generational revolution, and this certainly is the case for the two precocious 'tweens here. Suzy's parents' disintegrating marriage is a potent catalyst in moving her to take moderately drastic action and escape to the far side of the mythically quaint New England island, New Penzance, along with the stoic, strange, but charming Sam, whose parents are guilty of the even more heinous and inexcusable injustice of having died and left him an unwanted orphan.
Throughout the film there are plenty of subtle - very subtle - hints at the many classic stories from recent and distant history that deal with childhood traumas, triumphs, and treacheries, such as Lord of the Flies, Oliver Twist, The Tempest, Hamlet, The Hardy Boys, Old Yeller, Barn Burning, and many others. None of these sources is bluntly, crassly, overtly referenced or quoted. Rather, these many appropriate influences are only faintly detectable through the unquestionably clear, but curiously distorting prism of Wes Anderson's now exceptionally well developed cinematic method. Interestingly, all the well known literary antecedents from which Wes draws upon have been inverted - flipped on their heads - so that it's only by a very definite spinning around and turning inside out of the increasingly outlandish situations that we might guess and appreciate from whence it all comes. That's a hard feat to pull off even just once or twice in a movie, but Moonrise Kingdom is a jam packed solid 94 minute parade of exactly this trick. For example, in The Tempest Miranda is alone and isolated on a nearly deserted isle with her father and - like any creature inexperienced in the crass ways of the wider world - she naively assumes that all new visitors to her island posses hearts of gold. But Suzy, in the incessant company of only her younger three brothers, is shockingly sexually aware and sophisticated, or at least appears to be if you chose to judge her by her mod mini skirts and her lavish eye makeup and her brutally honest and sharp tongue. Another example of how the film cleverly compliments it's literary sources is the tightly militaristic coordination of Wes' khaki clad kids, which plays so nicely against our memories of the increasing ragged and savage shipwrecked gang in Lord of the Flies. The subtle contrast is made doubly resonant when, unlike the inhuman treatment dealt out to the incompetent misfit Piggy, Wes' clean cut, spotlessly uniformed scout troop - in spite of their well meaning but bumbling chain smoking troop leader played exquisitely by Ed Norton - independently conspires to heroically rescue the self ostracized Sam from the clutches of the nefarious adults in a brilliantly choreographed Seal Team 6 style maneuver. The deft allusions to literary teen dramas are here only to help us grasp just how upside down their world around them has gotten, and by implication, our world around us today. And then there's the spectacularly understated beach camp scenario with Sam and Suzy that develops into a preposterous spoof of that most ridiculous of all teen love fantasies, The Blue Lagoon. I bet almost nobody who has seen this film gets the joke, but I did and it's a touch of genius in an already superbly intelligent and genuinely funny film.
Wes has made it look deceptively simple and natural, and therefor many viewers will likely miss the full brilliance of his masterful achievement. That's not to say that those possibly oblivious viewers won't enjoy his surprisingly nuanced and deeply satisfying fable; they just won't admire and cherish it and be raving about it as emphatically as I am. It's so confidently, and efficiently, and stylishly executed that all the sly nods to its cultural heritage finally are icing on a sincerely delicious and satiating cake. I kept catching myself thinking "I need to see this scene again," and "I really wanna see that scene again!" Well, I just gotta have me another big fat slice of the whole damn movie.
Duel (1971)
I Was A Kid When I First Took This Thrill Ride
One night - I think it was a Friday - in 1971 my whole family was downstairs watching something on the 25 inch color TV, but I was alone in my parents' room glued to the 13 inch black and white screen. For a week or so prior I had been catching glimpses of an upcoming movie that if the previews were to be trusted promised to be the most exciting thing a 10 year old human could hope to experience. So I had camped out in the my parents' room right after dinner, giddy with anticipation.
And it more than lived up to my fantastic, wild, juvenile imaginings. It was unlike anything I had experienced before, and I'm pretty sure, since. Duel was a unique statement - no, not a statement - a proclamation that cinema, moving pictures, is how you really tell a story in a film. Not with cold, dry jibber jabber, but with captivating eloquent action. Eloquent wasn't a term I used when I was 10 but that's how I'm now interpreting the masterful techniques that had inspired in me an exhilarating sense of wonder.
What an incredible, harrowing ride it was! And I wasn't just captivated by the superbly filmed action, but also fascinated by the not-too-subtly implied metaphor. I had understood that this motorized battle, this treacherous contest of mismatched machines was also a bold and brash retelling of the biblical tale of David and Goliath. But I didn't need the Bible to get me to cheer for Dennis Weaver in his puny sedan. Rooting for the underdog, it seems, is a natural, even primal instinct, and so no back story, character development, ulterior motives, or subtext, or anything was needed. Steven knew and exploited this advantage to the max, and what would probably have amounted to little more than a clever, stylish stunt in anyone else's hands, Spielberg had elevated to archetypal art.
Hostel (2005)
It's So Much Worse Than It's Trying To Be.
I don't want to spend too much of my time or energy on this review because this terrible movie doesn't deserve even the 24 words I've already typed. Slasher films historically were low budget, inconsequential forgettable nonsense that Hollywood depended upon to bring in just enough teenage cash to cover their costs and maybe help finance another more creative, worthy endeavor. But Hostel actually aspires to something more. It actually has lofty ideals, and it sincerely strives to be profound. It wants to be taken seriously. And that's the sickest, most depraved aspect of a film that has no moral or ethical qualms about plunging to the lowest depths of depravity in its quest to shock the most unshockable, desensitized, deadened generation of film goers ever. Director Eli Roth has exquisitely exploited the most modern technological cinematic methods in crafting his damaged, deranged Frankenstein of a film. It barely lives in any human sense. It lurches and lumbers like a lobotomized linebacker, slowly and deliberately strangling the life out any sentient being in its path. By the last half hour I felt so ashamed and so disgusted to be in the same species as the wretched creature that contrived this horrendous mistake. It's just so deeply, sadly, desperately sick. Just like the deeply, desperately sick society that would ever consider this mess to be anything else but a complete tragic abortion.
So maybe Hostel is deep and profound in that regard, the way it reflects just how hopelessly corrupt is our culture and how it's all coming to a horrible, grisly end so much faster than anyone cares to imagine. The feeling of helpless despair I have for our poor, crippled world I also feel for the makers and fans of this poor, crippled film.
Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist (1995)
Your Mental Woes are No Match for Dr. Katz!
As a life long sufferer of chronic sadness, I hold tight to anything, ANYTHING, that helps lift, for even a few moments, that pesky dark cloud hovering over my head. I've tried drugs - legal and otherwise, illicit sex, adrenaline fueled extreme sports, petty crimes, felonious crimes, Zen Buddhist meditation, Cabalistic incantations, Indian sweat lodge retreats, and even once watched Oprah, but nothing works quite so magically as quality TV comedy. Dr. Katz is my prescription to you for whatever has got you down. There's no mood too blue, no funk too sunk that a dose of Dr. Katz can't fix. It's a sure fire, works-every-time, miracle cure for the blahs that carries no side effects, other than maybe a cramped face from all the prolonged intense grinning.
It's such an outrageous conceit to have top comedians - the majority of which are clearly disturbed individuals - venting the same annoyances, anxieties, fears, and phobias that constitute their acts, but as sessions with a mental health professional. Putting these peculiar characters on the couch is a stroke of genius. How crazy is it that what easily passes for legitimate therapeutic conversation is actually the stuff of inspired comedy routines?! The are a few exceptions to the parade of stand up pros such as when actresses Winona Ryder and Lisa Kudrow appear as patients, and they, too, are marvelously compelling and witty. There are a few comedian patients with whose work I was not previously familiar, and I was motivated to seek out examples of them in real world action.
All the regular characters are absolutely superb with long time stand up comedian Jonathan Katz voicing the titular doctor. The doctor is divorced and living with his unemployed son, Ben, played by H. Jon Benjamin who has created the archetypal Gen X slacker loser. Ben's self obsessed, self deprecating, self loathing version of post-adolescent angst is poignantly endearing, when it's not comically tragic. Dr. Katz's equally self obsessed, but self satisfied twenty-something secretary, Laura, is a sly creature of the most sinister design, who is perhaps repulsive in attitude but undeniably alluring in appearance and style. Ben incessantly makes awkward advances to a decidedly disinterested Laura who is voiced by Laura Silverman, sister to the also maniacally designed Sarah Silverman. Dr. Katz often ends his working day with drinks with an amiable acquaintance, Stanley, served to them by an attractive and pleasant bartender, Julie, who seems to genuinely enjoy the gentlemen's glib conversation. It's a great treat for me to compare all the performers' real faces to their weirdly squiggly animated ones.
This show never fails to brighten my day. It shines a very warm ray of light onto my burdened heart. Dr. Katz truly is the comedic equivalent of chicken soup for the soul.
The Prestige (2006)
Illusion In The Service Of Great Story Telling
The art of prestidigitation is an apt metaphor for the contrived artifice of cinema. Christopher Nolan, like the master magicians depicted here, is intent on capturing our attention & imagination with his very skillful cinematic sleight of hand. And then in his bid for recognition as the ultimate showman, he risks his entire production on our natural human inclination to WANT to be deceived. He nudges & prods us into accepting this - our complicity in this deception - and then proceeds to taunt us for it. He smugly shows us the props & tools of his nefarious trade, and still he gains our confidence. As he entrances us with his magical visions we hand over to him our faith - and our cash. That's Hollywood, folks.
This film is essentially a mystery thriller that is doubly confounding because we are continually being reminded that everything we are witnessing may well be an illusion. We are repeatedly put on notice that our perception of the film's reality is to be doubted, and therefor the reliability of the actions & identities can only be highly suspect. Yet we are compelled to persist in our assumptions, our suspicions, as Nolan is quite masterful at charming us deeper into his ploy. Just past the mid point of the film I became aware that I was being set up for an exceptionally confounding deception. And so I doubled my intense analysis & scrutiny of every action, of every character, of every word, intent on detecting a clue to the approaching "twist." I am not embarrassed to say that I did not figure it out. I was damn surprised by the very clever, very ingenious gimmick that is finally revealed. Only because the set up was so wonderfully watchable do I not resent this film's blatant manipulations. Just as you must respect, ultimately, anyone who fairly outsmarts you, I tip my hat to Christopher Nolan. And I am STILL not completely sure of what I witnessed.
Hugh Jackman is a true Hollywood star and plays Robert Angier, an ambitious magician who competes with an old counterpart, Alfred Borden, for the title of finest in the land. Jackman's mere presence illuminates the screen, and he easily handles his character's subtle shifts in mood and tone. Christian Bale as his professional and then personal arch enemy certainly had the more challenging, less attractive role but somehow manages to maintain our sympathy. Michael Cain as Cutter, their one time boss and mentor is, as always, wonderfully natural & convincing. David Bowie, who previously seemed to always be playing a slightly grander version of his already expansive self, is here surprisingly low key and centered. He role was a fun, recurring element. But the women are a little less remarkable in their portrayals, as Scarlet Johansson's reading is often muddled and unfocused. She is, however, absolutely stunning to watch, her voluptuous curves and magical face seemingly created expressly for the big screen. Rebecca Hall as Alfred's put upon but loving wife is quite compelling despite her somewhat underwritten, sometimes clichéd role.
As we are so emphatically informed at the outset of this fanciful con, the real trick, the real Prestige of a magical illusion is in bringing back the disappeared object or person. So, thus warned, I was eagerly anticipating the magical return of a vanished element. What or who should we expect to be returning is the persistent question that this film begs. And just as consistently, it foils and thwarts your every guess. The Prestige is remarkably effective at raising the bar on the challenge of openly conceding to us cinema's deviously dubious nature, while still dazzling us with its superior artistry.
Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me (1992)
As Weird & Wonderful as Twin Peaks was, This Is Even More So
On the fractured landscape of TV fiction, in terms of pure creativity and shear audacity, David Lynch's Twin Peaks is the towering summit (summits?!). For us rabid fans Twin Peaks reigns as the most original, most compelling, most memorable television series ever broadcast. Lynch's creations are often unclassifiable, never confined to a single genre, but Twin Peaks, more so than not, is a mystery thriller that also abounds with outrageous humor. The comedy normally arose from his deft handling of the intensely melodramatic atmosphere which he often interrupts with moments of unparalleled bizarreness. David exacerbates scenes of heightened sentimentality with audaciously maudlin music, nudging it into the realm of farce or parody. These tactics often illicit from the viewer a nervous chuckle that then grows into full throated guffaws as the scene plays out to increasingly demented proportions. The program ended abruptly after only its second season, and as it never truly revealed the mystery of Laura Palmer's murder there were substantial questions lurking in the minds of its disappointed viewers. The film set out to answer many of those questions and also manages to raise a few new ones, just to keep things interesting.
Fire Walk With Me certainly isn't Lynch's finest film, and it really doesn't have to be because it only needed to conclude what the TV series had initiated. Freed from the confines of broadcast TV's censorship the film more confidently employs morally challenging, shocking elements. Nudity and profanity are effectively exploited to instill a more palpable, more visceral anxiety. Laura's sordid home life, which was only suggested in the series, is here fully revealed in all of its Freudian horror. The series leisurely developed its quirky rhythm by relying on its recurring hour long format for its unusual pacing, often taking three or four episodes to reveal a plot line. It was almost random in it's approach to narrative, jumping from one character to the next as the story veered and strayed. The film, however, is a much more focused character study with nearly every scene centered on Laura Palmer, with a single arching story line, progressively escalating in dramatic intensity.
Fire Walk With Me very nearly succeeds as a fully independent film that is not entirely dependent on our familiarity with its particulars, yet it does derive much of its impact by how masterfully it takes advantage of our prior knowledge of the heroine's demise. Many films are built around the conceit that its destination is no secret, and a gifted storyteller makes that ride worthwhile. Lynch makes it thrilling. And hypnotic, and gorgeous, and entirely unique. There's no one even close to him for exploiting an audience's willingness to suspend disbelief, elegantly balancing an impossibly absurd combination of outlandish fantasy and soul gripping realism. His stunning visuals are matched by his irresistibly compelling audioscapes. Importantly, he is diligent to keep us acutely aware that what we're experiencing is in fact a contrived, fabricated illusion, which is exactly what a true artist aught to do - acknowledge the artifice of his (her) creation while dazzling us with superb technique. David understands intimately the magical & unspeakable role that cinema plays in the human psyche, and he tailors his art to our deepest desires, fears, and mysteries. It doesn't always make sense or obey common rules of logic but it is always thoroughly captivating. So even if you're baffled by the oblique plot and convoluted structure you can still be helplessly entranced by the macabre parade of lurid paranoia that marches across the screen. David Lynch's images and sounds are the best in the business.
Mulholland Dr. (2001)
The Rosetta Stone To David Lynch's Mind, Amazing...
Puzzles can really tie up your mind. After hours, days, years of toiling to resolve a conundrum you may abandon it, defeated. But a good puzzle - a truly great one - will always beckon you back mercilessly. After first experiencing Mulholland Drive in 2001 I was completely baffled. Had the 2 1/2 hours of cinematic hysteria merely been a hoax? A highly stylized scam? Could it be that this confounding, bewildering pantomime of Classic Hollywood tropes only been contrived to taunt me? That's certainly what it felt like, sitting there in that velvety shrine as the credits rolled past. Had I been conned? Deceived, duped, swindled? Or had I missed something? I decided, as did my group of fellow film goers - because we somehow intuited that David Lynch had wanted us to be so initially mystified - that we had best reexamine this daunting riddle. We sat through another showing that very same night & damn if we weren't just as flummoxed afterward. No one had a convincing theory to explain the relentless parade of captivating confusion that we'd just again witnessed. The solution, apparently, was going to require some diligence.
Deciphering this film became a chronic challenge for my group of determined detectives. Over the next 3 or 4 weeks we spent countless hours analyzing, discussing, dissecting, & debating its meaning, but nothing felt conclusive. Eventually we watched the queer dark spectacle yet again & came away with a whole fresh crop of notions, but these all soon withered under the intense heat of our examinations. We would ruthlessly eviscerate one another's forced & impractical conjectures. We each began clinging defensively, helplessly, to our own feeble theory, mechanically repeating it to one another in a tragic display of denial. We were all stumped but refused to accept it. It started to get ugly, even vicious, as we'd denigrate one another in our fury to be relieved of this terrible burden. We had to desist or we'd all end up with our throats torn out.
Fast forward five years to the low key, un-hyped, nearly unnoticed release of INLAND EMPIRE & the 3 core members of that old gang of Lynch fans. We were going to a Special Screening at a specially selected theater to which a friend of a friend had connections & we'd be among the very first in the entire tri-state area to attend Lynch's latest cinematic psychic assault. We were as giddy as school girls, but strangely, undeniably, we were all unusually polite with one another. We were treating each other rather gingerly, as though tip-toeing around some unseen sleeping monster. The heavy weight of our old Mulholland Drive encumbrance was upon us once again, but no one spoke of it. At least not then, not till after we had experienced that unbelievably, impossibly gargantuan Goliath of a mind f#@% that is INLAND EMPIRE.
INLAND EMPIRE so utterly crushed us, so completely destroyed us. Our awareness, our consciousness, our wit, our entire being - thoroughly pulverized. It was astonishing just how nullified we were by what we had just witnesses, had just endured. Our minds were arid, desolate, vacant expanses of vacuous nothingness. What WAS that?!! A horrendous demonic courier from the deepest, vilest recesses of David's Gothic psyche had just delivered to us a most outrageously sinister parcel that was now demanding to be inspected. It felt as though I had been immersed in a vat of pure uncut dread. A cloying, claustrophobic curtain of doom had descended, obliterating all light of reason. That unrelenting barrage of horrific paranoia had overwhelmed me with an unbearably thick avalanche of hopelessness. This was going to be a very hard movie to "get", is what we all three were thinking.
I have veered off here onto the INLAND EMPIRE trail because it had inadvertently rekindled our debates of Mulholland Drive. We seemed to sense that perhaps there may possibly be a key to unlocking Mulholland somewhere in the dense, impenetrable quagmire of INLAND EMPIRE. But where, and in what form would it be, and how would we even recognize it? Gaining entrance to INLAND EMPIRE was just too intimidating, and so soon, by default, we focused again on Mulholland Drive. Someone suggested that there seemed to be something of a circular form to its structure, but was clueless as to a point of entry. That phrase "Point of Entry" echoed in my gauzy mind, and then I recalled something that the agitated Polish men at the beginning of INLAND EMPIRE were discussing so emphatically: A way in. A way in to WHAT, I pondered? A way into the Rabbit Hole? What does that mean? I dunno. A way into America? Maybe. A way into the meaning of that damn movie?! Hmmm... AHA! OMFG! Lynch, you devious, sick bastard! I think I'm onto something here, I thought to myself. And indeed, I was because soon, and very effectively, I was scaling that formidable facade that had so discouraged me with its pretension to impenetrability. As I figured & felt my way into the INLAND EMPIRE labyrinth, I became aware of a very definite, precise mechanism at work in the action of its structure. The astounding realization of just exactly WHY INLAND EMPIRE was initially so impossible to fathom ignited within me a tremendous realization of just exactly what was also going on with Mulholland Drive. I began to test this theory, to see if the parts lined up, and it all very soon clicked perfectly into place. WOW! The whole film, rearranged & reconstructed in my mind, had gelled into a superbly coherent, fiendishly rational tale. Amazing! Absolutely gorgeous, the elegant beauty of its convoluted design. Mulholland Drive Solved!!! I didn't tell my two friends what I had discovered for at least one week, I was savoring that sweet rich feeling of superiority. It eventually occurred to me that they both might be doing the same...
Get Well Soon (2001)
A Talk Show Film That Says The Wrong Things.
I was going to criticize the movie for expecting me to believe that the nasal, twangy Vincent Gallo could ever be a real world talk show star, but then I remembered Conan O'Brien. So I'll criticize this movie for all of it's other unfortunate glaring shortcomings. Firstly, it's way too in love with itself, constantly pausing for us to admire it's daring brilliance and hip, snarky outrageousness. Some people might find it edgy but it's actually a rather staid, unremarkable, conventional study of celebrity life and all the attendant madness. It's more than common knowledge that many, if not most, talented performers are also afflicted with various forms of mental illness. Depression, bi-polar disorder,and even schizophrenia are frequently driving creative stars to exceptional extremes. So this analysis of the successful talk show host Bobby Bishop is redundant. Just witnessing a talk show star's actual performance is in fact a clinical analysis of their pathology. Dave Letterman, for instance, nightly exposes his damaged, twisted psyche to the nation. We are entertained by his otherwise socially aberrant behavior. If, however, we daily had to encounter such a bitter, cantankerous conflicted personality we would most likely move to another state. There's so many stories, many told by Dave himself, of just how antisocial he actually is. But he's managed to direct his neurosis into an entertaining and lucrative direction. And what about Johnny Carson or Jack Parr who we now know were sufferers of bouts of extreme depression? And Regis Philbin? He has admitted the same.
So exposing mental illness in the entertainment industry is old news, no longer a headline. Nor was it in 2001 when this film was released, but we're expected to be shocked and confused and fascinated by our hero's condition. It's a mildly interesting personal fact, nothing more, if you're judging by society's enthusiastic consumption of the latest varieties of mood elevating medications; we ARE the Prozac nation.
Anyway, Gallo has been in a few very interesting, off beat, challenging, controversial films, normally portraying quirky, troubled somewhat threatening but charismatic types. He's trying it again here, but that personality profile just doesn't work for this role. He comes off so self conscious and distracted that it's impossible to believe he was ever anything but repulsively narcissistic. A true talk show star is able to at least present a credible appearance of interest for others. Even the preposterous Larry King had an uncanny ability to stare his guests straight in the eye while his mind drifted to thoughts of what he'll order at Katz's deli later that evening. Actually, later that afternoon, you know, while they're still offering the early bird special.
So the love story is interesting, many of the conversations are entertainingly witty and clever, and a few of the situations are comical and original. But the timing is too often way off - stilted, rushed, erratic or rambling - probably because much of it seems improvised. And badly edited. Or rather, overly obviously edited, calling attention to its precious, wacky insouciance. I have never before used that word, insouciance, in writing, but this film demanded it of me. That should tell you just how frustrated I am with this well intentioned, but ultimately fatally flawed bit of stylized indulgence.
The Invention of Lying (2009)
If I'm Lying I'm Dying - It's Mostly OK, But...
Religion in film is such a heavy, daunting, disastrous subject unless handled by sensitive, insightful, gifted artists. Ricky at times is expert at pointing up the inherent absurdities of faith, particularly in the scene where he's struggling to explain to a dumbfounded crowd just who and where "The Man In The Sky" actually is. It's such a juvenile conception - the idea of a God in the heavens looking down upon us all - that Ricky has little choice but to depict the townsfolk as imbecilic buffoons. It's fun to witness their childish reactions to his decrees, both gleeful wonder and bewildered outrage. But this farcical contrivance also undermines the gravity of this grand ancient delusion's disastrous impact on the world's populations throughout recorded history; the horrible atrocities that have been committed in its defense. Ricky, who is well known to be a strident atheist, is here diluting the intensity of his contempt and rage for the ignorant, superstitious, hypocritical masses. It's this type of compromise with truth that too often has sabotaged so many well intentioned Hollywood projects, and that's exactly what's nearly happening here.
There are some genuinely funny moments all through this fanciful bit of Tinsel Town nonsense, but the story is too divided between the twin purposes of exposing the idiocy of religion and commenting on the absurd nature of male/female attraction. I suppose there's a Theological Delusional Mythological Fantasy vs. Darwinian Genetic Natural Law kind of duality at work here, but it's never made clear. There's no meeting of the two opposing forces. These conflicting ideologies are kept apart, never colliding in a dramatic climactic showdown, thus failing to once and for all finally resolve this age old controversy. Rather, the whole sticky question of the folly of faith vs. the folly of romance is avoided when the protagonist, Mark Bellison, played by Ricky Gervais, refuses to fully commit himself to his true beliefs. He finds this compromise with his own ideals to be only a bit distasteful and not prohibitively repellent. He's OK with his deal with the Devil. We are then meant to understand that there has to be a limit to our honesty with our fellow citizens if we are to have a functioning society. The moral is that deception is necessary to finding any happiness, even if that means deceiving the people you most love.
Strange kind of morality to be preaching to an audience that likely came to this film because of Gervais' well known and appreciated fondness for exposing the lunacy of our cultural deceptions. Ricky has achieved phenomenal success as an uninhibited purveyor of shockingly frank honesty. His two BBC series, The Office and Extras, are superlative expressions of truth and honesty, albeit delivered via a ridiculously flawed and tragic clown. That is the only concession he needed to make to continually win us over to his side. He only had to repeatedly denigrate and humiliate himself for us to accept his philosophy. But in this film it isn't enough that he again presents himself as the eternal pathetic loser we've come to love, but he now must also compromise himself - deny his own truth in order to be the victor. His reward is the girl of his dreams, the occasionally sweet and lovely Anna McDoogles, played by Jennifer Garner, who comes to love him for who he is. But who is he? Well, he's a self absorbed, tedious, deceptive, scheming, LYING phony. But somehow - miraculously! - even after she learns this truth she still finds him irresistible. Really?! This is sort of truth that we've come to expect from Ricky? No, it's exactly the opposite. The tenets of Truth and Honesty that Ricky has so fanatically, heroically championed his whole career could only have her rejecting him, and he ultimately realizing and glumly accepting the justice of this bitter fate. But no, in Hollywood, apparently, the boy must get the girl. Even if it completely contradicts the film's whole premise, silly as it is. The truth, I believe, is that Ricky would hope that people who routinely practice deception for their own gain would find themselves forever tormented in the everlasting fires of hell. But here he is, lying his way into her pants, and then being rewarded with a happily-ever-after life. I don't know if Ricky is personally to blame for this transgression or if the Studio imposed its will, but either way it's just too stupid...
But there are some fantastic performances all through this fractured fairytale. Ricky, of course, is wonderfully engaging as a reluctant messiah impostor. His subtle changes of facial expression and deft timing are like comedy jazz, so oddly rhythmic and uniquely accented. Tina Fey has a couple of fantastic scenes as his disdainful disgusted secretary. She, too, is able to suggest so much with a minimum of effort, sometimes with just a single word. Rob Lowe plays a very cartoon-y stereotype that could easily have come off flat and dull, but he somehow imbues his vain, shallow, evil antagonist with considerable edge and charm (Much like his slick, slimy characters in Tommy Boy and Austin Powers). Louis C.K. as Mark's slovenly slacker friend is a suitably unattractive presence. And Jonah Hill is likewise repulsive and tragic as Mark's pathologically lonely neighbor. There's also a few surprise cameo appearances by somewhat disguised A-list celebrities. Pay attention, they're on and gone very fast. And they're very funny.
The "message", if any, I was then left with is that Hollywood survives only on deception, and we, the paying patrons, are responsible for sustaining the morass of absurd, unrealistic, worthless crap that passes for entertainment. Luckily, in this film's defense, the bulk of the dialog and the whole of the cast are good and funny. Honestly... 6.5/10
The Last Days of Disco (1998)
Are You Kidding Me?! I Dance On This Turd's Grave!!
Disco was a high energy, drug fueled, frantic, primal experience that was beyond rationality, that defied nature, that reveled in absurdity. But this film is a bland, somber, melancholic chat fest that demands that its audience forget everything its ever heard about or seen of or actually experienced at a disco. It's beyond stupid. The whole premise is flawed, that disco died in the early eighties - it didn't, it mutated into an even more frantic, outrageous club scene. But this true fact doesn't deter the film's creators from their inaccurate pointless fantasy.
A couple of discos may have closed down or changed style in Manhattan but clubs where people danced were actually even more popular and numerous. The celebrity glitz factor may have faded, but the intense social scene was charging ahead. Cocaine was everywhere by the bucket fulls at the time, not just up Hollywood's noses, and the nightlife was running hot on its power. It was insane, deranged, unbelievable. But this dumb flick wants you to believe that a whole world was collapsing, that an entire generation of party animals quickly went extinct. Wrong.
If this movie is meant to be a comment on the virus like spread of Reagonomics into every aspect of American culture throughout the 80s, then having a grand Disco as the setting pretty much mandates that the film be a broad parody. But it isn't, it's just a self conscious exercise in style. But even the style is wrong. Power suits and ties wouldn't be fashionable till the next decade. No real urban hipster in the 80's would be seen dead in a pinstripe. Designer jeans were what the heavy weights were sporting, even the upper crust. So the "look" is off, which leaves the substance to carry the project. What substance there is is vacuous, vapid, and very annoying.
The dialog is all stilted, awkward and overly literate - unnatural. It's like listening to a lit student read his or her first script. The acting is uneven and unfocused. No one seems to know what the point of this movie is, and all the talk and gestures don't add up to anything greater than themselves. It's just a series of smugly clever comments and shallow observations, but there's no direction to any of it. Chloë Sevigny is interesting to look at for a little bit but her "acting" is so flat and boring. Her partner, Kate Beckinsale, tries to do pump some life into the lame words she's given but there's only so much she can do with this corpse of a script. As wrong, and absurd, and demented as it was, Disco was a massive whale of an international phenomenon, but you'd never know it from this puny limp fish of a failure.
Without Limits (1998)
Why Dying Young Is Such a Tragedy
Knowing exactly when you're gonna die, as Edward Bloom realizes in Tim Burton's Big Fish (2003), can give you courage and strength to endure everything else in your life. Nothing you encounter then seems as awful or impossible. But most people live their lives as though they believe they're going to live forever. Pre must have had a premonition of his early demise as he lived every day as though it were his last. He refused to "pace" himself as his wise coach Bill Bowerman attempted to advise him and as all us mere mortals must do if we hope to make the "finish line." Though Pre was not limited by conventional concerns or constraints as an athlete, he did have definite obstacles to overcome as a person. These seemingly negligible human concerns can sometimes trip up and cripple even the most gifted athletes, and Pre is almost undone by his own negligent hubris. But, as if on a divine mission, he heroically persisted in his own unique quest for excellence, for immortality.
Thanks in no small part to this fine film, Pre may in fact succeed at his lofty goal of immortality, as anyone who has had the good fortune to experience Without Limits will never forget it. While it excels as a fairly accurate portrait of a truly remarkable individual, it absolutely soars as a tribute to that indomitable spirit that moves men to greatness. Robert Towne has captured the essence of the mystery of our competitive natures, of how it's more than just about winning, or being the best, or being known for it. There's still something else undefinable that drives athletes, that eludes description, just beyond the grasp, but of which we all somehow have intimate knowledge. This is Without Limits' most admirable attribute; it's subtle and graceful exploration of the human soul. People oblivious to this aspect of Towne's creation will likely find the film to be only average or even dull. That's their loss.
Billy Crudup inhabits the role of Steve Prefontaine so effortlessly, and is so physically similar that it's still jarring for me to see actual footage of Pre; the two are indiscernible. Donald Southerland as the curiously mannered coach is a delight, so relaxed yet commanding. Monica Potter is very attractive and alluring as Steve's main squeeze.
That Pre would die at 24 in a car crash is almost fitting for someone who lived life so fully, so intensely. But he wasn't reckless, he wasn't self destructive, and that's why his death is all that more tragic. There are so many people that had it all and threw it away out of pride, ignorance, fear, or weakness, but Pre seemed to have conquered his demons and was well on the right track to a life of genuine meaning and joy when he was suddenly cut down in his prime. It's a tragedy of epic proportions, the stuff of legends.
The Trip (2010)
A Near Perfect Gastro-Comic Excursion
One part Gourmet Orgy, one part North of England Postcard, one part Buddy Road Picture, and one part Indulgent Vanity Piece, The Trip serves up thoroughly sating entertainment. While on a one week sojourn through the picturesque countryside to review haute cuisine for a Sunday newspaper, Steve Coogan's character - a rather melancholic version of himself - struggles to salvage a failing relationship with his distant American actress girlfriend over awkward, difficult cell phone calls. It's a clever ploy that personifies Steve's escaping opportunities to land a substantial role in a major Hollywood production. His spirit is so crushed by his fractured romance, or by his unfulfilled professional ambitions, or by both - you decide! - that it casts a shadow over his days' adventures.
Though he indulges his libido at will with a string of attractive young ladies along the way, he still implores us to empathize with his misery. It is hard to commiserate with a guy who's meanwhile indulging, at every meal, in spectacularly sumptuous delicacies and exquisite vintages, all the while engaged in wonderfully hysterical banter with a fellow comedic master, Rob Brydon, who is sarcastically presented as just a casual work acquaintance. Steve's spot on executions of Michael Caine, Roger Moore, Sean Connery, Billy Connolly, and even Woody Allen are nearly matched by Rob, whose uncanny Hugh Grant he employs in his ridiculous nightly phone sex calls to his wife back home. Rob seems unaware of just how awful is his Al Pacino, which he isn't shy to use. Even Rob's lesser talents, especially his trademark Small Man in a Box, are very entertaining, at least in as much as they severely irritate Steve, who secretly envies the amusing skill.
The conceit that drives the six episode series is that we are in fact encouraged to despise Steve to some degree for his prideful self obsession, all-the-while vicariously reveling in the bacchanalian indulgences. Rob's genial, boyish charm is just as likely to provoke as it is to dampen a condescending, scolding retort from Steve. Rob, it seems, is content to have such a knowledgeable, if critical, audience for his theatrics. The heavy moods, however, are overplayed a bit, prodded by Mr. Coogan's genuine(?) desire to be recognized as an artist. Apparently true comedians are not satisfied with their rare talent for making people laugh. It's a dilemma similar to that explored by Ricky Gervais in Extras series 2, where Ricky's character, Andy, is often despondent over his stalled career, trapped in a low brow sitcom, mechanically repeating a tedious, tiresome catch phrase. The Trip manages to avoid Alan Partridge's signature "Aha!" for all but a few utterances where it's used to great effect. The Trip also shares considerable psychic terrain with the 2004 film Sideways with Paul Giamatti as a morose failed writer and Thomas Haden Church as a better adjusted minor TV star on a cross country wine tasting excursion. The Trip plays it much less dramatically, more subtly.
As brilliant as this hybrid amalgam is, I left off one half a star for it's less-than-funny, even distracting, self fascinated pathos. Steve's hubris is initially compelling but it eventually grew just a bit tiresome. In all fairness watching the six episodes straight through in one sitting may have contributed to this impression. Even so, that leaves nine and one half gleaming stars of supremely fulfilling rich humor and stunning visual treats, plus a few savory historical morsels.
Miral (2010)
It's Meant to be a Subtle, Poignant Question, but it Feels Like a Movie.
Movies are not important. Despite what critics, producers, writers, directors, actors, IMDb commentors, or anyone else thinks, there's nothing about a movie that is inherently, genetically important. There are rarely, if ever, any dire consequences in choosing to watch a movie — no one's life is depending on it. The country, the planet, the universe could not care less about your film going habits.
But a great film can certainly affect us profoundly. This is an experience that we cherish and revere, and since we are so defensive of our emotional lives we define these compelling moments as important. The experience may be important, but the film is not. The film's just a vehicle, a messenger, a ploy to insinuate into our lives someone else's experience. That's why this film, Miral, is not nearly as wonderful as it could have been. It seems to have the attitude that it's important. This pompous disposition is not obvious, not flagrant, but it is persistent and distracting. And the great irony of it is that Julian Schnabel has purposely contrived his film hoping to avoid this very accusation.
It's a decidedly modest, nuanced and low key depiction of the terrible situation in the middle east as seen almost exclusively from the view point of Palestinian women. The film is self consciously playing against the thunderous, deafening roar of western media coverage of the conflict. Today we are daily deluged with horrific videos, graphic images and hysterical hyperbolic reports of the conflict; a formidable din over which sincere voices labor to be heard. So by playing it softly - speaking under the crowd - Miral draws attention to itself. Isn't that what a film is supposed to do, distinguish itself? Well, normally yes, a film doesn't have much choice but to flaunt itself, toot its own horn. But when the subject is so fundamentally daunting, so depressingly perplexing, so infuriatingly confounding - so important - it's bad taste to insist that we acknowledge the story teller as much as the story. By going so blatantly against the grain with his curious cinematic style Schnabel has directed our attention more so to his creation - and himself - at the expense of his film's subject. His artful approach served him so well in his previous films but here it sabotages his efforts. And just to be sure he's torpedoed the whole enterprise he closes it with the doleful, raspy croak of that beloved Palestinian crooner, Tom Waits. Tom Waits?! Oy vey, that's meshugenah!
Avoiding the cliché, dodging the obvious, scorning the conventional is the mortal pledge of any worthwhile artist, and so Julian can be partly forgiven his miscalculations. But an unpardonable fault is the lack of a truly capable, compelling character for us to focus on. His stars are beautiful and photogenic but so overwhelmed with the responsibilities with which they have been charged. They just don't have the chops to command our attention, and so our gaze and thoughts fix on other things, such as the film's distinctive stylization, and it's leap-frog time sequencing. The dialog is so stilted and labored; the actresses too often "reading" their lines. (Except, of course, Vanessa Redgrave, who should have been in much more of the film, maybe even reading everyone else's lines!) Though it's based on a true story many scenes ring false. I often found myself thinking "what a clever, well meaning film." That's a thought no film should ever illicit, at least not till it's over. While it's happening you should be engulfed in an experience, oblivious of yourself.
Set in the locale of what may well be "ground zero" in determining the fate of our world, Schnabel should have played up to the roiling, cacophonous, volcanic environment into which his film softly whispers. Despite that old corny expression about whispers and wanting to be heard, this is one time when it would have been better to be bold. Its tag line, "Is this the face of a terrorist?," sadly points to the film's greatest weakness - for all its gestures towards profundity, it's too focused on the "face" and not the heart and soul. Miral is too cute for its own good.
Saxondale (2006)
It's a solid 2, at best... on a scale of 0 to 1, that is! BRILLIANT!!!
The Character that Steve Coogan has created, or rather perfected, of Tommy Saxondale is deeply, profoundly demented. But it's Coogan's mastery of the nuances of bitter, disillusioned, middle aged neurosis that makes his character so appealing, so universal. It's impossible not to identify with the short tempered, self centered, frustratingly inflexible, outrageously arrogant pest exterminator. And he's joined in his excellent performance by a rich constellation of equally quirky and brilliant supporting characters, such as the chatty, oddly attractive pest control company dispatcher so wonderfully played by Morwenna Banks. It's hilarious, the casual ease with which she presses his excruciatingly sensitive buttons - perhaps lovingly teasing him - and thus with a few sharp, well placed jabs utterly undermines his ruggedly assembled self-image. It's like watching a Medieval fortress collapse under the weight of a playful butterfly.
Saxondale's life is all behind him. He lives in the past where all his great heroes and great ideals were born and died along with his philosophy & references & hair style & car. Actually, the yellow fastback Mustang is quite fashionable and very cool, but that's about all he's got left to show for his former career as a professional rock band roadie where everything, understandably, was so much more exciting, outrageous, wonderful, vivid and meaningful. Tommy now finds himself nearly alone in an absurdly shallow & tedious world of crass, corny, crappy materialism overly populated by semi-intelligent optimists; his once noble passions increasingly doused by the conspiring encroaching forces of suburban mediocrity, or so he likes to believe.
His adoring and sweet but occasionally flustered wife, Magz, owns an alternative lifestyle shop in the mall where she conceives tee shirt slogans to shock and disgust the straight world which she does this with the casual innocence of a florist. Magz may sometimes test Tommy's brittle patience but somehow she avoids his fiery wrath because, well, he loves her. His rage unleashes at the most absurd inappropriate moments, usually after someone has failed to grasp the obviously stunning genius of one of his savagely witty if awkwardly esoteric quips.
Saxondale is a hostile hybrid of Ricky Gervais' "The Office" and any other show in the history of broadcast TV that features a misunderstood dreamer. It's an undervalued, criminally ignored treasure of a programme that has saved me from many a laugh-less evening. Series 2 actually surpasses the first. One of my all time favorites that grows more wonderful each time I climb aboard for another action packed adventure in the fast paced, wild & wacky world of commercial pest control.