Well, this set of movies has been begging for review since the concept of review was invented, or since each of these movies came out -- whichever came last.
Or maybe reviewers willed these movies into being just so they'd have something awesome to review.
Fight Club was listed in all relevant sources and in out-of-my-mouth recitations as "my favorite movie" for several years. That doesn't mean I liked it the first time I saw it.
In fact, it took a thorough knowledge of the worst graphically violent scenes in the movie, and my studiously avoiding watching those scenes (though I did listen with my eyes averted) to get Fight Club to my-fave-movie status. There is an at-best uncomfortable level of violence in this movie.
But that's the point, or part of it, which saves it from being gratuitous, I think.
Of course, anyone can claim that their overly violent film is "about gratuitous violence" and then cram in so much of it that the Saw series looks tame by comparison (though from what I've heard about the Saws, I'm not sure that anything short of a legitimate snuff film involving four kinds of power tools and an entire Equestrian Club could do this). But Fight Club isn't American Psycho (also worth watching in its way if you can stomach Christian Bale, chainsaws and very foul language).
Fight Club is art. And it's exactly the kind of art I love a movie to be: It's art that knows it's art.
Self-referential and self-aware without being self-conscious --that's the genius of putting Brad Pitt in this film, who likely couldn't play self-conscious on the most self-conscious day of his life with an electrified insecurity machine -- Fight Club the movie is in part about film; in part about modern-day masculinity; in part about consumerism; in part about personal demons and the exploration of their exorcism.
David Fincher, my since-Fight-Club favorite director, plays with film. Brad Pitt points out "cigarette burns" that show when the reel is going to change, and they actually do signify the change in the theater, where you're watching the film; this is happening as Edward Norton is speaking directly to the camera and Brad is splicing single cells of porn into campy children's movies.
Cut to the audience watching the cat and dog learn to get along in the animated feature they're watching in the theater -- see their reactions as they see, but don't consciously recognize, the single cell of pornography -- feel the illicit thrill of knowing what those unsuspecting audience members have seen.
But later, realize that you've been in the theater, watching a movie that wasn't a Disney flick, but that also contained a single cell of pornography.
The only difference between you and that audience is that you likely knew what you were in for when you went to see Fight Club; and you get the pleasure of dramatic irony, seeing them upset while you are feeling gratified by being let in on the secret.
Dramatic irony is half the thrill of Fight Club. The second viewing is better than the first.
And I think I'm qualified to say the seventh viewing is better than that.
There's a well-known twist to the ending of Fight Club, but for those who may still not have seen it and are being convinced by my review, I won't spoil it here. (And please don't spoil it in any comments, the two of you reading.)
But the twist is not the greatness of the movie, and if you watch it repeatedly trying to figure out how every jot and tittle align, you'll get bored or frustrated or both, eventually.
Similarly, if you watch it looking for answers, like people who watch The Simpsons to get the moral at the end of the story, you'll be disappointed.
Fight Club, like most art, or at least most postmodern art that works, asks questions and explores them. It doesn't definitively answer them.
In fact, it's just as important to recognize what Fight Club is not about as what it is about. It's not about women; it's not about creating a comprehensive new world order; it's not a solution to capitalism or human malaise or ennui or American over-consumption; it's not actually about fighting. Anyone looking to get boxing tips from this movie will be disappointed. And it's not a morality play.
But playing with morality is a worthwhile pursuit of art, particularly self-aware art that forces the question back on the viewer -- and Fight Club does that very, very well.
*****
Battle Royale, the Japanese version, is the only movie I've ever started and shut off multiple times.
Other movies I typically give about half an hour, and if I have to shut them off, they usually stay off permanently. But in general, particularly thanks to my childhood of Saturday afternoon WTXX horror movies, I finish even the worst of what's put in front of me.
Battle Royale, or the first seven minutes of it, though, just plain freaked me out.
Before the melodrama of the rest of the movie, which I eventually watched with the support of Spencer as fellow viewer, and which is ridiculous, the camera introduces us to an ordinary- looking Japanese young boy in a normal school uniform. He goes home on a typical day. And finds his father hanging from the ceiling by an extension cord, in their apartment.
His father had committed suicide. We don't see the violence of the act or even the body, except for the swinging feet. We do see the boy's reaction: the drop to his knees, hands to his face. This is all tamped further down into chillingly uncanny by the boy's voiceover explaining his father's death.
Cut to a passle of press people crowding around a descending helicopter. The door opens and a frantic anchorwoman, hair flying about her head, takes us up to it. Inside sits a little girl, clutching a stuffed animal, and covered in blood. She smiles broadly, teeth showing.
This was the point where I'd shut off the movie.
Turns out I didn't need to, though; as with the first Scream, the first ten minutes is the only part that could possibly be considered scary. The rest is a melodramatic morality tale -- or would be if a Westerner could understand what the moral was.
The premise is that the world is overcrowded. To deal with this problem, a new game show has developed in which classes of students are chosen to participate in a "battle royale": They're required to fight to the death until only one of them remains. The class chosen is fitted with collars that will cause their heads to explode if they try to leave the island they're on, or if they are in danger zones at certain times of day -- the zones will be announced over loudspeakers, and presumably are meant to herd the remaining kids in toward each other to make the killing easier, though they appear to be randomly selected. The kids have some time to get out of the zones, but that doesn't prevent at least one kid's head from getting exploded.
The special effects in this movie are similar to those used in Shogun when the samurai gets his head cut off: That is, they're practically nonexistent. Spurting blood is theatrical, to match the melodramatic speeches impassioned pre-teens give each other while sacrificing themselves (or a classmate) to the necessities of the game. The movie quickly becomes a parody of itself.
There's nothing wrong with a parody, even one in which a lot of kids get killed. It would probably be more worthwhile, though, if less attention was paid to how the kids die, which is depicted in exhaustive and exhausting detail (I mean, there are so many of them), and more to why they're dying.
The horror seems to be self-evident, or at least the director thinks so, or at least in a such a way that Japanese could understand. It may be a classic horror film. I won't dispute this, because I don't know much about Japanese culture, which in general (and as a person who's lived in China) confuses and alarms me. But to me, the movie leaves the valley of the uncanny far behind with the first glimpse of the "winner" of the competition, clutching her stuffed animal in that helicopter, and enters some other valley. (The "Valley of Interesting Ways To Be Decapitated," perhaps.)
So watch it for the thrill of the macabre in the first ten minutes, and the thrill of camp melodrama thereafter.
And once you've gotten all the nourishment you can from that, there's only one thing left to do when watching a foreign-language film.
Ignore the subtitles and make up your own dialogue.
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query movie review. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query movie review. Sort by date Show all posts
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Movie Review: Fievel Goes West
The best sequel ever, "Fievel Goes West" follows the sappier and Somewhere-Out-There'd "An American Tail" and includes a list of star voices unimaginable in a Disney movie. (According to IMDB, John Cleese turned down the part of Cogsworth in "Beauty and the Beast" to be Cat R. Waul in FGW.)
It was produced by Steven Spielberg (like the first Fievel movie), and features the voices of John Cleese, Dom DeLuise and Jimmy Stewart -- in fact, it's Stewart's last performance. Ever.
James Horner did the music.
And it's hilarious.
If you don't like the contrivance of the Mousekewitz family heading further west thanks to the grunginess and lack of opportunity in NYC (a contrivance that appeals to me a great deal), dancing buffalo bones in the desert (funniest moment in the whole movie), the rousing chorus to "The Girl You Left Behind," or the fake-romantic moment when Cat R. Waul uses his hand to fake-dance with Tanya, or the idea of a cat learning to act like a dog, or the "laaaaaaaazzzyyy eeeyyyyyyye" or the "flying aaahghgh" ("Ooh, I love the flying aaahghgh"), you'll probably still find something to laugh at in this movie.
But if you don't love any of those things, I don't see how we can still be friends.
There are frustrating points in FGW. Sherriff Wylie Burp (Jimmy Stewart) is slow-talking and slow, at first, to agree to train Tiger the cat (Dom DeLuise) to stand up to the other cats -- who are waiting to eat the mice they've lured to the West. Since we know he'll eventually give in and train Tiger, these scenes feel like playing hard-to-get more than like a real tension.
There's a Freudian preoccupation with breasts (and smothering), as in "The Last Unicorn" or the original "Neverending Story." The excessively-endowed woman doesn't even have a face in FGW; she is only a giant pair of breasts and an annoying, whiny voice saying "Ooh, kitty! Kitty-poo!" (See how annoying it is even to read?)
Too much time is spent on the Tiger-is-believed-to-be-a-god portion of the story -- but this is forgivable, since it ends with one of the best scenes in the movie as a transition: a version of "Rawhide" over a traveling montage that includes sets of animals singing directly into the "camera."
If you're a long-time friend, short-time reader, you probably suspected I'd write about this movie eventually. You probably suspected this because I've been forcing friends to watch it for at least seven years, now -- and if you still own a VCR, I've probably tried to gift you a copy.
But there's not much more that can be said in a review of a cartoon movie that does what it's supposed to do -- makes you laugh more than think -- so I'll just make the plug official here:
See this movie. See it with friends. See it with popcorn. See it expecting to laugh. See it now.
Amen.
It was produced by Steven Spielberg (like the first Fievel movie), and features the voices of John Cleese, Dom DeLuise and Jimmy Stewart -- in fact, it's Stewart's last performance. Ever.
James Horner did the music.
And it's hilarious.
If you don't like the contrivance of the Mousekewitz family heading further west thanks to the grunginess and lack of opportunity in NYC (a contrivance that appeals to me a great deal), dancing buffalo bones in the desert (funniest moment in the whole movie), the rousing chorus to "The Girl You Left Behind," or the fake-romantic moment when Cat R. Waul uses his hand to fake-dance with Tanya, or the idea of a cat learning to act like a dog, or the "laaaaaaaazzzyyy eeeyyyyyyye" or the "flying aaahghgh" ("Ooh, I love the flying aaahghgh"), you'll probably still find something to laugh at in this movie.
But if you don't love any of those things, I don't see how we can still be friends.
There are frustrating points in FGW. Sherriff Wylie Burp (Jimmy Stewart) is slow-talking and slow, at first, to agree to train Tiger the cat (Dom DeLuise) to stand up to the other cats -- who are waiting to eat the mice they've lured to the West. Since we know he'll eventually give in and train Tiger, these scenes feel like playing hard-to-get more than like a real tension.
There's a Freudian preoccupation with breasts (and smothering), as in "The Last Unicorn" or the original "Neverending Story." The excessively-endowed woman doesn't even have a face in FGW; she is only a giant pair of breasts and an annoying, whiny voice saying "Ooh, kitty! Kitty-poo!" (See how annoying it is even to read?)
Too much time is spent on the Tiger-is-believed-to-be-a-god portion of the story -- but this is forgivable, since it ends with one of the best scenes in the movie as a transition: a version of "Rawhide" over a traveling montage that includes sets of animals singing directly into the "camera."
If you're a long-time friend, short-time reader, you probably suspected I'd write about this movie eventually. You probably suspected this because I've been forcing friends to watch it for at least seven years, now -- and if you still own a VCR, I've probably tried to gift you a copy.
But there's not much more that can be said in a review of a cartoon movie that does what it's supposed to do -- makes you laugh more than think -- so I'll just make the plug official here:
See this movie. See it with friends. See it with popcorn. See it expecting to laugh. See it now.
Amen.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Movie Review: V-day double feature -- House on Haunted Hill (1999), The Lazarus Project
Well, the Valentine's Day horror movie marathon this year was only half a disaster, and that half was (disappointingly) the 1999 remake of the Vincent Price classic "House on Haunted Hill."
Instead of remaking the narratively complex original version, wherein the characters all turn out to be linked in unexpected ways, and human agency is responsible for all the "haunting" going on -- and in which a vat of acid figures prominently -- the makers of HoHH '99 seemed to feel that those 1950's writers had simply used storyline as a crutch because they hadn't had the advantages of the kinds of special effects that we have nowadays.
To correct the drama-heavy character-development of the past, the writers of HoHH '99 (or producers or what-have-you; everyone involved) squished in all the special effects available to them in 1999, thus realizing what they must feel was the original dream for the movie. "If they'd had CGI, they could have gotten rid of all this extraneous plot!" they must have been thinking.
Instead of human machinations leading to death and destruction, it was now the insane-asylum house itself that was getting revenge on the descendants of some other people who had died there. Instead of Vincent Price and his on-screen wife engaging in witty banter that only danced on the line between "sarcastic and sharp" and "going too far," the billionaire and his wife engage in a hate-fest that only cuts through the lack of plot thanks to the purity of its vitriol. Instead of doubles and who-done-its, we got actual ghosts. Instead of acid, we got a meaningless tank of blook that hurt no one, but was somehow meant to be creepy.
There were a few moments of good fun, but they're all tangential, and most happen in the first ten minutes. Lisa Loeb has a cameo, as does the guy who played "Spike" on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a stroke of genius in casting; Taye Diggs does a decent job at a terrible role, as does Ali Larter (Nicki/Jessica from Heroes), and Geoffrey Rush is brilliant as ever, but the inclusion of Peter Gallagher could only have been justified by an attempt at self-referential humor -- one that the movie did not make.
The movie is a failure, but many horror movies are. The difference with this one was the name-branding and the high expectations it created. I'm left now with more than the simple disdain I hold for "Gravedancers" or the strangely ambitious failings of "Unspeakable": I'm left with contempt for a movie that's probably ruined the chances of viewers going back in time to see the original, far superior, "House on Haunted Hill."
Our second feature, "The Lazarus Project," was a much more successfully done horror film. It, like HoHH '99, also features a prolonged stay at an insane asylum, but that is where the similarities end. It's in the vein of "Life of David Gale," though I know that movie doesn't read immediately as horror, and that makes "The Lazarus Project" unique in my experience: it is essentially a horror film for liberals.
The main character is basically innocent of all crimes, which is important to mention, and is convicted of assisting in three homocides in Texas, which is also important -- Texas being the state most likely to kill you. The main thrust of the movie's argument (I told you it was for liberals) is that we shouldn't get to manipulate people's lives, even if we're saving them. It's an interesting movie, even if the anti-death-penalty plot has been done better in "David Gale" and the crazy-guy-who's-not-really-crazy has been done better in a dozen other places (including a TNG episode).
At any rate, it was a fun night, started off with an episode of Criminal Minds, from season 1, which is always a good starter. As a celebratory drink, we had what you see above, which is not champagne -- it's actually Green Tea Pomegranate soda, which P.C. and I have taken to calling "fixins soda" because it tastes like all the extra ingredients on a fast-food hamburger -- and drunk from the plastic champagne glasses from my brother's wedding.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Movie Review: Monster's Ball
I saw Monster’s Ball recently, after having avoided it since it came out five or six years ago. My hesitation had been caused by a general distaste for “regional” films, especially “Southern” ones; my desire to hold onto a shred of hope that Halle Berry had won her Oscar through talent, not politics, and my belief that seeing the movie would kill that hope; my lack of respect for the Oscars, even in the case that they do reward talent; and the reviews I had heard or read from others who criticized the movie, mainly for being gratuitously explicit.
Monster’s Ball proved each of my reasons for delay meaningless. The fact that the movie is set in the South does not make it either the indictment or glorification of Southern culture that so many annoying films are. Halle Berry did an excellent job in her role, and though I still have no respect for the Oscars, I do not fault the Academy for picking her. As for the objection that the movie was too full of sex and not enough substance, this view can only be held by those whose purpose in watching a movie is to police its content for a moral message—and that is not the point of this movie.
In some ways, this film could be considered a part of the recently popular “theme of significance” drama genre, the edges of which are described by The Butterfly Effect or Sliding Doors (one small circumstance alters the rest of one’s life), Garden State (apathy gives way to empathy), Little Miss Sunshine or Napoleon Dynamite (relatively unimportant events lead to an apparent, but also meaningless, resolution). The main characters of Monster’s Ball experience apparently meaningless tragedies in their lives—meaningless because they are unexplained, because they did not have to happen, or because they are the results of small, discrete actions that the characters had taken, compounded over years.
The two main characters' reactions to the deaths in the film, and in some cases the deaths themselves—I would argue that there are, metaphorically, four, including Hank’s father—are the result of a misapprehension or inability to make direct contact with the world on the parts of Hank and Leticia. Hank is unable to love his son, and is unable to realize that he does not, until confronted; as Hank wakes up to the reality of how he functions in the world, he realizes that he is not what he had assumed himself to be. He cannot continue as a corrections officer. He cannot continue to support his harsh, racist father. Leticia does not seem to be so divorced from her feelings, but she distracts herself from her husband’s execution (with alcohol), and she expresses her anxieties for her son through nagging about his weight. Their indirect approaches to dealing with themselves and the contents of their lives connects this movie to others that deal with questions of significance, and specifically the significance of everyday life.
But there Monster’s Ball departs from the thematic genre of in/significance. Things happen in this film—big things—and they happen unexpectedly. The death of Sonny is emphatic and startling because it is unexpected; the death of Leticia’s son is the same, though not to the same degree. The sheer body count of this movie vaults it from quotidian drama to the level of tragedy.
And yet, the tragedy does not devolve into a City of Angels melodrama, precisely because of its grounding in the everyday, insignificant details of life. Each decision Hank or Leticia makes is both ordinary and deeply rooted in their emotional realities; this is what makes the depiction of intimacy necessary and not gratuitous. They encounter one another on a visceral level—a painful one, reinforced by hard edit cuts instead of the typical soft-focus lens of bittersweet nostalgia—almost exclusively in these scenes. The rest of the time, they appear to be ordinary people attempting to manage ordinary circumstances.
As well they should. Death is both ordinary and traumatic. Any depiction of this level of loss should admit that.
The ultimate triumph of Monster’s Ball on this count can be credited to its score, which refuses to add a single falsely cheerful note. Most composers would emphasize triumph over adversity through grand, sweeping runs and excessive instrumentation. (Cue characters looking to the horizon, where dawn is breaking, “looking to a new day”…ugh.) Instead of this, the three collaborative composers of the Monster’s Ball score wrote music that seems to come up through the middle of a scene, such that the viewer accepts its effect as a natural extension of the story—as another method, even, of story-telling. It conveys a sense of exploration rather than resolve—that hollow resolve of romantic comedies attempting to tie everything into a “happily ever after”—and, in its floating above the action of the film, sympathizes with the viewer rather than the actors. The gentle, coming-alongside nature of the music pulls the viewer into a film that might otherwise have been off-puttingly difficult to watch.
In the end, Monster’s Ball is a tragedy that succeeds in rising above the mawkish and the mundane, both. Despite the number of deaths and their attendant complications, and despite the quotidian focus of the characters’ (especially Hank’s) transformation, despite the difficulty of the material at hand, Monster’s Ball artfully and sensitively portrays what feels like a true story.
Monster’s Ball proved each of my reasons for delay meaningless. The fact that the movie is set in the South does not make it either the indictment or glorification of Southern culture that so many annoying films are. Halle Berry did an excellent job in her role, and though I still have no respect for the Oscars, I do not fault the Academy for picking her. As for the objection that the movie was too full of sex and not enough substance, this view can only be held by those whose purpose in watching a movie is to police its content for a moral message—and that is not the point of this movie.
In some ways, this film could be considered a part of the recently popular “theme of significance” drama genre, the edges of which are described by The Butterfly Effect or Sliding Doors (one small circumstance alters the rest of one’s life), Garden State (apathy gives way to empathy), Little Miss Sunshine or Napoleon Dynamite (relatively unimportant events lead to an apparent, but also meaningless, resolution). The main characters of Monster’s Ball experience apparently meaningless tragedies in their lives—meaningless because they are unexplained, because they did not have to happen, or because they are the results of small, discrete actions that the characters had taken, compounded over years.
The two main characters' reactions to the deaths in the film, and in some cases the deaths themselves—I would argue that there are, metaphorically, four, including Hank’s father—are the result of a misapprehension or inability to make direct contact with the world on the parts of Hank and Leticia. Hank is unable to love his son, and is unable to realize that he does not, until confronted; as Hank wakes up to the reality of how he functions in the world, he realizes that he is not what he had assumed himself to be. He cannot continue as a corrections officer. He cannot continue to support his harsh, racist father. Leticia does not seem to be so divorced from her feelings, but she distracts herself from her husband’s execution (with alcohol), and she expresses her anxieties for her son through nagging about his weight. Their indirect approaches to dealing with themselves and the contents of their lives connects this movie to others that deal with questions of significance, and specifically the significance of everyday life.
But there Monster’s Ball departs from the thematic genre of in/significance. Things happen in this film—big things—and they happen unexpectedly. The death of Sonny is emphatic and startling because it is unexpected; the death of Leticia’s son is the same, though not to the same degree. The sheer body count of this movie vaults it from quotidian drama to the level of tragedy.
And yet, the tragedy does not devolve into a City of Angels melodrama, precisely because of its grounding in the everyday, insignificant details of life. Each decision Hank or Leticia makes is both ordinary and deeply rooted in their emotional realities; this is what makes the depiction of intimacy necessary and not gratuitous. They encounter one another on a visceral level—a painful one, reinforced by hard edit cuts instead of the typical soft-focus lens of bittersweet nostalgia—almost exclusively in these scenes. The rest of the time, they appear to be ordinary people attempting to manage ordinary circumstances.
As well they should. Death is both ordinary and traumatic. Any depiction of this level of loss should admit that.
The ultimate triumph of Monster’s Ball on this count can be credited to its score, which refuses to add a single falsely cheerful note. Most composers would emphasize triumph over adversity through grand, sweeping runs and excessive instrumentation. (Cue characters looking to the horizon, where dawn is breaking, “looking to a new day”…ugh.) Instead of this, the three collaborative composers of the Monster’s Ball score wrote music that seems to come up through the middle of a scene, such that the viewer accepts its effect as a natural extension of the story—as another method, even, of story-telling. It conveys a sense of exploration rather than resolve—that hollow resolve of romantic comedies attempting to tie everything into a “happily ever after”—and, in its floating above the action of the film, sympathizes with the viewer rather than the actors. The gentle, coming-alongside nature of the music pulls the viewer into a film that might otherwise have been off-puttingly difficult to watch.
In the end, Monster’s Ball is a tragedy that succeeds in rising above the mawkish and the mundane, both. Despite the number of deaths and their attendant complications, and despite the quotidian focus of the characters’ (especially Hank’s) transformation, despite the difficulty of the material at hand, Monster’s Ball artfully and sensitively portrays what feels like a true story.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Movie Review Double-Feature: Mr. Smith Goes to Washington/The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer
Jimmy Stewart and Carey Grant make for a great double feature, I can tell you that.
"The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer," 1947, stars Carey Grant with Myrna Loy as his eventual romantic opposite, Shirley Temple as a 17-year-old, and some other people. Mostly it's Carey Grant we care about.
It's horribly unfeminist, this movie -- let's get that out on the table right off. (It would be anti-feminist if it had come after or during the feminist movement.) As with "Song of the South," the prevailing theory of the movie, and the basis for the reasonableness of the romantic connection between "Dickie" (Richard Nugent, Carey Grant's character) and Judge Margaret Turner (OMG, A WOMAN JUDGE -- the movie startles itself, here), is that what women really need is a man around the house.
Uncle Max, the court psychiatrist and uncle to Margaret and Susan (Shirley Temple), sets up the need for Margaret to marry from his first scene. In an appalling breach of all ethical considerations, he also discusses Margaret's "Oedipus complex" with Richard Nugent when Nugent is sitting in a jail cell awaiting trial for punching an assistant D.A. (It's a long story.)
Max, in the end, becomes the "Deus ex Max-china" that manipulates Margaret and Richard into getting together.
But before that, there's greatness.
For one, there's the scene in which younger-Turner-sister Susan corners Richard after he gives a lecture at her high school. She claims to be the editor of the school paper and gets him alone in a room before he can escape. She insists that he tell her everything about his life; he insists that it's been a dull one. She presses. Realizing he won't get anywhere if he doesn't give her the sort of story she wants, he says "alright then, I'll tell you."
You can see the transition plainly on Carey Grant's face -- the amused bemusement, the decision to make up a story to suit Susan -- and it's laugh-out-loudable. It's also so clear he's making stuff up that it tells us a lot about Susan: how immature she is, and how infatuated with Nugent.
Like all old-tyme comedies, this one relies heavily on contrivances to be funny; since they are funny, I mainly forgave them for being so contrived.
And they allow for lines from Myrna Loy, who gets most of the best dialogue -- like "I'm sorry. I've never been subjected to so much charm before."
The best line of the movie is delivered by Loy as Judge Margaret Turner, at a date-gone-awry at which every side character has arrived: As she stands up to go, distraught, she shouts with equal, desperate emphasis on all parts of the line, "Shut up! And thank you for a lovely evening!"
Like most comedies relying on contrivance, the failure of "The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer" is how contrived its ending is -- but hey. If we can forgive Shakespeare (and some of us can't) for the end of "As You Like It" (or any of his comedies), we can forgive Sidney Sheldon for the end of this one.
Note: Bizarrely, the IMDB.com page for this movie suggests that if you liked it, you might also like "American Beauty." Uh, right, IMDB. Thaaaaanks.
Spurred on by the success of "The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer," that Cary Grant/Shirley Temple vehicle (depending, you know, on who you like), and inspired by my own upcoming jaunt to D.C., I decided it was finally time to see "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington," that Jimmy Stewart/Frank Capra vehicle. On the list of classics every American is supposed to see before she dies, "Mr. Smith" hasn't had much of a chance with me -- I saw "Gone With the Wind" in college, and was dis-impressed enough to stop watching the Great Classics.
One cliche after another, with these movies, I thought. (Citizen Kane being an always-notable exception: See it.)
But in addition to having had recent success with old-tyme Carey Grant, I'd also seen (most of) "You Can't Take It With You," another Jimmy Stewart-Frank Capra movie. It was quirky and worthwhile, and I had hope that "Mr. Smith" would fall more into this category than the good but treacle-filled "It's a Wonderful Life."
It did.
But it also fell into the category of "HOORAY FOR AMERICA!!" which aren't typically movies I list in my top hundred. (With the possible exception of "Independence Day," because who doesn't love Will Smith saving the world??)
Still, "Mr. [Jefferson] Smith" surprised me. Of course, I'd heard about the filibuster scene, but I didn't know particulars. I won't tell them here, just in case you haven't seen it and want to, but I was impressed with how relatively normal these things were.
What most impressed me among the surprises was how small and understandable Mr. Smith's ambitions were: All he wanted was a boy's camp.
Of course, the camp was a metaphor for the ideals of American life, etc. And it seems to me that it was the small-time focus that allowed for some of the statements that amounted to a practical communism. Mr. Smith waxed eloquent on the idea of boys of "all nationalities" and economic backgrounds coming together in the wilderness of his (unidentified) state.
Much of the rest of my impressed-ness is reserved for how scary parts of the movie are. When a whole state -- even a fictitious, midwestern state seventy years ago -- can be trampled on by a political machine, especially when that machine controls the press, that's scary. And maybe a little too close to home.
The violence against the Boy Rangers defending Mr. Smith (by spreading newsletters that tell the truth) escalates admirably, so that each new level of hushing-up done by the Taylor political machine is startling and ultimately sickening. It gave me chills.
I liked the end, too, though it wasn't until that point that I understood why certain things had happened earlier in the storyline than they typically would (the romantic interest subplot, for instance, was clumsily handled and finished off before the final third of the movie or so -- but major points, there, for the girl-friend winning over the terribly attractive incompatible floozy).
While I don't know that I would have taken to Mr. Smith's patriotic prattle in real life, it was a good movie. (And who doesn't love Jimmy Stewart saving the world??)
"The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer," 1947, stars Carey Grant with Myrna Loy as his eventual romantic opposite, Shirley Temple as a 17-year-old, and some other people. Mostly it's Carey Grant we care about.
It's horribly unfeminist, this movie -- let's get that out on the table right off. (It would be anti-feminist if it had come after or during the feminist movement.) As with "Song of the South," the prevailing theory of the movie, and the basis for the reasonableness of the romantic connection between "Dickie" (Richard Nugent, Carey Grant's character) and Judge Margaret Turner (OMG, A WOMAN JUDGE -- the movie startles itself, here), is that what women really need is a man around the house.
Uncle Max, the court psychiatrist and uncle to Margaret and Susan (Shirley Temple), sets up the need for Margaret to marry from his first scene. In an appalling breach of all ethical considerations, he also discusses Margaret's "Oedipus complex" with Richard Nugent when Nugent is sitting in a jail cell awaiting trial for punching an assistant D.A. (It's a long story.)
Max, in the end, becomes the "Deus ex Max-china" that manipulates Margaret and Richard into getting together.
But before that, there's greatness.
For one, there's the scene in which younger-Turner-sister Susan corners Richard after he gives a lecture at her high school. She claims to be the editor of the school paper and gets him alone in a room before he can escape. She insists that he tell her everything about his life; he insists that it's been a dull one. She presses. Realizing he won't get anywhere if he doesn't give her the sort of story she wants, he says "alright then, I'll tell you."
You can see the transition plainly on Carey Grant's face -- the amused bemusement, the decision to make up a story to suit Susan -- and it's laugh-out-loudable. It's also so clear he's making stuff up that it tells us a lot about Susan: how immature she is, and how infatuated with Nugent.
Like all old-tyme comedies, this one relies heavily on contrivances to be funny; since they are funny, I mainly forgave them for being so contrived.
And they allow for lines from Myrna Loy, who gets most of the best dialogue -- like "I'm sorry. I've never been subjected to so much charm before."
The best line of the movie is delivered by Loy as Judge Margaret Turner, at a date-gone-awry at which every side character has arrived: As she stands up to go, distraught, she shouts with equal, desperate emphasis on all parts of the line, "Shut up! And thank you for a lovely evening!"
Like most comedies relying on contrivance, the failure of "The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer" is how contrived its ending is -- but hey. If we can forgive Shakespeare (and some of us can't) for the end of "As You Like It" (or any of his comedies), we can forgive Sidney Sheldon for the end of this one.
Note: Bizarrely, the IMDB.com page for this movie suggests that if you liked it, you might also like "American Beauty." Uh, right, IMDB. Thaaaaanks.
Spurred on by the success of "The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer," that Cary Grant/Shirley Temple vehicle (depending, you know, on who you like), and inspired by my own upcoming jaunt to D.C., I decided it was finally time to see "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington," that Jimmy Stewart/Frank Capra vehicle. On the list of classics every American is supposed to see before she dies, "Mr. Smith" hasn't had much of a chance with me -- I saw "Gone With the Wind" in college, and was dis-impressed enough to stop watching the Great Classics.
One cliche after another, with these movies, I thought. (Citizen Kane being an always-notable exception: See it.)
But in addition to having had recent success with old-tyme Carey Grant, I'd also seen (most of) "You Can't Take It With You," another Jimmy Stewart-Frank Capra movie. It was quirky and worthwhile, and I had hope that "Mr. Smith" would fall more into this category than the good but treacle-filled "It's a Wonderful Life."
It did.
But it also fell into the category of "HOORAY FOR AMERICA!!" which aren't typically movies I list in my top hundred. (With the possible exception of "Independence Day," because who doesn't love Will Smith saving the world??)
Still, "Mr. [Jefferson] Smith" surprised me. Of course, I'd heard about the filibuster scene, but I didn't know particulars. I won't tell them here, just in case you haven't seen it and want to, but I was impressed with how relatively normal these things were.
What most impressed me among the surprises was how small and understandable Mr. Smith's ambitions were: All he wanted was a boy's camp.
Of course, the camp was a metaphor for the ideals of American life, etc. And it seems to me that it was the small-time focus that allowed for some of the statements that amounted to a practical communism. Mr. Smith waxed eloquent on the idea of boys of "all nationalities" and economic backgrounds coming together in the wilderness of his (unidentified) state.
Much of the rest of my impressed-ness is reserved for how scary parts of the movie are. When a whole state -- even a fictitious, midwestern state seventy years ago -- can be trampled on by a political machine, especially when that machine controls the press, that's scary. And maybe a little too close to home.
The violence against the Boy Rangers defending Mr. Smith (by spreading newsletters that tell the truth) escalates admirably, so that each new level of hushing-up done by the Taylor political machine is startling and ultimately sickening. It gave me chills.
I liked the end, too, though it wasn't until that point that I understood why certain things had happened earlier in the storyline than they typically would (the romantic interest subplot, for instance, was clumsily handled and finished off before the final third of the movie or so -- but major points, there, for the girl-friend winning over the terribly attractive incompatible floozy).
While I don't know that I would have taken to Mr. Smith's patriotic prattle in real life, it was a good movie. (And who doesn't love Jimmy Stewart saving the world??)
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
In Defense of Poppery: Inception
Inceptinated!
This defense of poppery won't include a score or a reasoning for my opinion on the recent "summer blockbuster" Inception, starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Ellen Page, a bunch of other guys who did a really decent job, and Joseph Gordin-Leavitt, who finally seemed to come into his own as the possible-next-Heath-Ledger I've always felt he could be. (Go find a DVD of Manic, people, and tell me how it ends; my Chinese copy never included the last chapter. That movie also includes the awesome Don Cheadle. It's as far from Third Rock from the Sun as that third rock is...uh...from the sun.)
Instead, I will use this first defense in a long while to knock down a straw man: the idea that movies (or stories of any kind) should have morals to them, and as a bonus, the idea that they could possibly be "without morals."
I'm responding, in short, to this comment posted at the NYTimes review of Inception:
That first question I think is a well-stated version of what I sometimes wonder about life itself. Unfortunately, I don't think it's as aptly applied to the question of what the "moral" is in movies.
When people refer to "the moral of the story," they usually mean they want to be told outright what the writers/actors/directors believe about a certain topic (Revolutionary Road's abortion, The Beach's drug lording, Inception's dream-stealing), so that we can agree with them and love the movie or disagree with them and hate it.
Any film critic will tell you this adherence to a didactic morality that determines likes and dislikes will only impede the "true" experience of the movie/story. I'm not going to go that far, since I suppose people who limit their likes and dislikes in reference to a moral compass have every right to do so -- like people who read books to see how many times the word "the" is used -- but I will say that they're doing something different than people who watch for other purposes, aesthetic, emotional, or intellectual.
To be fair, TM isn't necessarily eschewing an aesthetic reading of the movie in deference to a moral one. But TM does use the buzzwords "moral relativism" in a way that enforces the idea that TM expects the movie to offer a "moral."
(It's particularly odd to me that this is TM's criticism, as Inception seems to go out of its way to establish that meddling with other people's minds is very dangerous, criminal, and ultimately self-defeating...but then, this isn't actually a review of Inception, but a review of expectations and viewing habits.)
What TM wants, somehow, is an Aesopian statement at the end of the film, insisting that "it's not good to meddle with other people's minds." Which TM already knows, and which is otherwise peppered throughout the film in more subtle ways. So what TM is asking for, what TM needs to feel safe experiencing this "empty spectacle," is reassurance that Christopher Nolan (who directed Memento, you'll recall) believes the same thing TM believes.
Movies, like the Bible, are not designed for reassurance of preconceived notions. They're challenging, like all the stories we tell -- even the ones with interpretive "moral" statements at the end. Only "Christian fiction" "art" or similarly didactic genres fall into the trap of trapping the subjects absolutely, so that the good always ultimately win and the bad are appropriately punished.
Those genres are about a specific fantasy, and I would like to use this opportunity to suggest that no matter what the subject matter ("romantic," "tragic," or otherwise -- Christian fiction rarely delves into comedy, which usually works by irreverently upsetting the status quo), they should be grouped together under one generic umbrella. Some attempt at this has been made by designations of "family films," though this is not satisfactory to everyone.
Creating this genre would mean the end of statements like "where's the moral of this story?" It's not that the movie is "bad"; it's that you went to the wrong kind of film. I don't expect my romantic comedies to all have shoot-em-up scenes in them; it's inappropriate to the genre. So let morality mongers stick to their own genre, too, and stop complaining when they don't get what they're looking for from other films.
From now on, those who look for other things should be free to reply "you should have gone to the "moral films" section and rented something from there."
This defense of poppery won't include a score or a reasoning for my opinion on the recent "summer blockbuster" Inception, starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Ellen Page, a bunch of other guys who did a really decent job, and Joseph Gordin-Leavitt, who finally seemed to come into his own as the possible-next-Heath-Ledger I've always felt he could be. (Go find a DVD of Manic, people, and tell me how it ends; my Chinese copy never included the last chapter. That movie also includes the awesome Don Cheadle. It's as far from Third Rock from the Sun as that third rock is...uh...from the sun.)
Instead, I will use this first defense in a long while to knock down a straw man: the idea that movies (or stories of any kind) should have morals to them, and as a bonus, the idea that they could possibly be "without morals."
I'm responding, in short, to this comment posted at the NYTimes review of Inception:
"What exactly is the moral of this overly-complicated tale? The essential question of the ethics and morality of invading and manipulating the dreams of others is simply ignored, and we are left with the moral relativism of pure empty spectacle.
— TM, New York, NY"
That first question I think is a well-stated version of what I sometimes wonder about life itself. Unfortunately, I don't think it's as aptly applied to the question of what the "moral" is in movies.
When people refer to "the moral of the story," they usually mean they want to be told outright what the writers/actors/directors believe about a certain topic (Revolutionary Road's abortion, The Beach's drug lording, Inception's dream-stealing), so that we can agree with them and love the movie or disagree with them and hate it.
Any film critic will tell you this adherence to a didactic morality that determines likes and dislikes will only impede the "true" experience of the movie/story. I'm not going to go that far, since I suppose people who limit their likes and dislikes in reference to a moral compass have every right to do so -- like people who read books to see how many times the word "the" is used -- but I will say that they're doing something different than people who watch for other purposes, aesthetic, emotional, or intellectual.
To be fair, TM isn't necessarily eschewing an aesthetic reading of the movie in deference to a moral one. But TM does use the buzzwords "moral relativism" in a way that enforces the idea that TM expects the movie to offer a "moral."
(It's particularly odd to me that this is TM's criticism, as Inception seems to go out of its way to establish that meddling with other people's minds is very dangerous, criminal, and ultimately self-defeating...but then, this isn't actually a review of Inception, but a review of expectations and viewing habits.)
What TM wants, somehow, is an Aesopian statement at the end of the film, insisting that "it's not good to meddle with other people's minds." Which TM already knows, and which is otherwise peppered throughout the film in more subtle ways. So what TM is asking for, what TM needs to feel safe experiencing this "empty spectacle," is reassurance that Christopher Nolan (who directed Memento, you'll recall) believes the same thing TM believes.
Movies, like the Bible, are not designed for reassurance of preconceived notions. They're challenging, like all the stories we tell -- even the ones with interpretive "moral" statements at the end. Only "Christian fiction" "art" or similarly didactic genres fall into the trap of trapping the subjects absolutely, so that the good always ultimately win and the bad are appropriately punished.
Those genres are about a specific fantasy, and I would like to use this opportunity to suggest that no matter what the subject matter ("romantic," "tragic," or otherwise -- Christian fiction rarely delves into comedy, which usually works by irreverently upsetting the status quo), they should be grouped together under one generic umbrella. Some attempt at this has been made by designations of "family films," though this is not satisfactory to everyone.
Creating this genre would mean the end of statements like "where's the moral of this story?" It's not that the movie is "bad"; it's that you went to the wrong kind of film. I don't expect my romantic comedies to all have shoot-em-up scenes in them; it's inappropriate to the genre. So let morality mongers stick to their own genre, too, and stop complaining when they don't get what they're looking for from other films.
From now on, those who look for other things should be free to reply "you should have gone to the "moral films" section and rented something from there."
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Movie Review: Smokey and the Bandit, 2
(UK: "Smokey and the Bandit Ride Again")
The perfect tagline for this movie would have been "All the fun and thrills of NASCAR without any of the heady intellectualism."
It was that good.
From the very first frame, Smokey and the Bandit 2 promises to be all action, no exposition. We join our heroes -- or no, some other people, actually -- in the air above some kind of rally attended by well-dressed, clearly Southern ladies and gentlemen, who are gathered around the caboose-end of a stationary train. Two men in a plane, apparently a bomber dating back to WWI, and presumably high above the train (there is no establishing shot), dump buckets of shit into the air to fall onto the crowd (apparently) below. So goes the opening proposition of what (according to my mom) proves to be the best sequel to Smokey and the Bandit ever made: "Shit falling on people is funny."
The shitfall is followed soon after by another plane ride, this time taken by other people we don't know -- the ones the shit has fallen on, probably -- who dump red paint from a cropduster over a party of equally (exactly equally) well-attired garden party guests. Some ten minutes later, if we listen closely, we can deduce that the feuding parties are Texas gubernatorial candidates who are trying to earn the endorsement of the current Texas governor, who declares that he will not endorse either of them (due to their shenanigans). Luckily (for the movie), one set of candidates overhears the governor then insisting that he must get a shipment from Miami to Dallas in only nine days, or else.
Enter the Bandit.
Bandit's truck-driver pal "Snowman" is commissioned by the governor-hopefuls to get the Bandit to drive (with) the cargo from Miami to Dallas for a payout of half a million dollars. Snowman finds the Bandit drunk in a hotel room and gives the longest speech of the movie, which serves as a frame for every "man, that guy is drunk" gag invented before 1980. Bandit belches, stumbles, is unable to articulate even the simplest response; after a few seconds of this, the performance annoys the savvy viewer...but it continues. In fact, it continues so long that it becomes funny again, the way that Sideshow Bob stepping on those rakes in "Cape Feare" comes back to funny. (Or, in the case that you don't appreciate "man that guy is drunk" gags initially, it becomes funny for the first time.)
The Bandit's love interest from the first movie, again at the altar with Junior, the son of Sheriff Buford T. Justice, leaves in the middle of her wedding (when the preacher picks up a phone placed to the side of the altar, then insists that she take the call because "it's long distance") to join Snowman in helping the Bandit back to his Trans-Am-driving feet. They put him through a Rocky-style montage that involves him using one of those machines that's supposed to vibrate fat away, and he's ready to hit the road.
No one ever asks what makes the Bandit, who drives a Trans-Am and not an 18-wheeler, necessary. It appears to be a complete, bald-faced contrivance.
Over the course of the movie, which I won't recount scene-by-scene here (in order to not ruin it for you), the following plot points are also contrived: the cargo turns out to be an elephant; the elephant requires medical attention, which is provided by an "Italian gynecologist" who is left behind by an ambulance at a refueling station and gets the elephant drunk on Italian wine (from which we see no fallout); the elephant is, of course, pregnant; Sheriff Buford T. Justice, whose jurisdiction is apparently infinite, chases the Bandit and Snowman across three states, meeting Mean Joe Green along the way and having his car destroyed in a fall off a bridge being pulled up; the Bandit becomes the love interest of aforementioned elephant; Sheriff Justice calls in his Canadian relatives, named Gaylord (exactly as it sounds) and Reginald (who [for no discernible reason] comes in singing an opera duet with an unidentified woman who rides along in his police car), to help capture the Bandit; trucks and police cars clash to predictable end in the middle of a desert mesa, in what can only be described as a trucker revenge-orgy; the Bandit and Snowman get away from Justice but are waylaid by the elephant's giving birth; the Bandit eventually wins the girl by caring more about the elephant (her tears are like people tears!) than finishing the run.
Now, movies that use Deus ex machina contrivances to sew up otherwise ordinary or reasonable plotlines are annoying; we get the impression that the writers just weren't trying hard enough. It's a cop-out.
Smokey and the Bandit 2, however, is comprised so completely of contrivances that it cannot possibly be considered a betrayal of a reasonable universe. Reason simply does not exist in this movie.
The writers prove their mettle in their dedication to absolute absurdity by leaving plot points dangling left and right -- not one gets tied up by the end, in fact; the two elephants are hitched in chariot-style circus carriers to the back of the Trans-Am -- as though to say "We don't have time for plot or explaining things or making any kind of sense! We're making a movie!" This kind of exuberant disregard for all reason can only be respected -- respected and laughed at -- the way one would respect a particularly talented snake-oil salesman. You don't actually buy what he's selling, but you like listening to his spiel, despite yourself.
After a certain point, in fact, I began to wonder if the writers were making fun of us, the viewers, in the way one feels Monty Python's (incomparable) Flying Circus abuses its audience. "How much will they put up with?" you can almost hear them asking each other, giggling, enraptured. "Let's see if we can add something else! Ooh! Fart joke!! That's a good one!!"
I can't wait to see what they came up with for Smokey and the Bandit 3 (1983).
The perfect tagline for this movie would have been "All the fun and thrills of NASCAR without any of the heady intellectualism."
It was that good.
From the very first frame, Smokey and the Bandit 2 promises to be all action, no exposition. We join our heroes -- or no, some other people, actually -- in the air above some kind of rally attended by well-dressed, clearly Southern ladies and gentlemen, who are gathered around the caboose-end of a stationary train. Two men in a plane, apparently a bomber dating back to WWI, and presumably high above the train (there is no establishing shot), dump buckets of shit into the air to fall onto the crowd (apparently) below. So goes the opening proposition of what (according to my mom) proves to be the best sequel to Smokey and the Bandit ever made: "Shit falling on people is funny."
The shitfall is followed soon after by another plane ride, this time taken by other people we don't know -- the ones the shit has fallen on, probably -- who dump red paint from a cropduster over a party of equally (exactly equally) well-attired garden party guests. Some ten minutes later, if we listen closely, we can deduce that the feuding parties are Texas gubernatorial candidates who are trying to earn the endorsement of the current Texas governor, who declares that he will not endorse either of them (due to their shenanigans). Luckily (for the movie), one set of candidates overhears the governor then insisting that he must get a shipment from Miami to Dallas in only nine days, or else.
Enter the Bandit.
Bandit's truck-driver pal "Snowman" is commissioned by the governor-hopefuls to get the Bandit to drive (with) the cargo from Miami to Dallas for a payout of half a million dollars. Snowman finds the Bandit drunk in a hotel room and gives the longest speech of the movie, which serves as a frame for every "man, that guy is drunk" gag invented before 1980. Bandit belches, stumbles, is unable to articulate even the simplest response; after a few seconds of this, the performance annoys the savvy viewer...but it continues. In fact, it continues so long that it becomes funny again, the way that Sideshow Bob stepping on those rakes in "Cape Feare" comes back to funny. (Or, in the case that you don't appreciate "man that guy is drunk" gags initially, it becomes funny for the first time.)
The Bandit's love interest from the first movie, again at the altar with Junior, the son of Sheriff Buford T. Justice, leaves in the middle of her wedding (when the preacher picks up a phone placed to the side of the altar, then insists that she take the call because "it's long distance") to join Snowman in helping the Bandit back to his Trans-Am-driving feet. They put him through a Rocky-style montage that involves him using one of those machines that's supposed to vibrate fat away, and he's ready to hit the road.
No one ever asks what makes the Bandit, who drives a Trans-Am and not an 18-wheeler, necessary. It appears to be a complete, bald-faced contrivance.
Over the course of the movie, which I won't recount scene-by-scene here (in order to not ruin it for you), the following plot points are also contrived: the cargo turns out to be an elephant; the elephant requires medical attention, which is provided by an "Italian gynecologist" who is left behind by an ambulance at a refueling station and gets the elephant drunk on Italian wine (from which we see no fallout); the elephant is, of course, pregnant; Sheriff Buford T. Justice, whose jurisdiction is apparently infinite, chases the Bandit and Snowman across three states, meeting Mean Joe Green along the way and having his car destroyed in a fall off a bridge being pulled up; the Bandit becomes the love interest of aforementioned elephant; Sheriff Justice calls in his Canadian relatives, named Gaylord (exactly as it sounds) and Reginald (who [for no discernible reason] comes in singing an opera duet with an unidentified woman who rides along in his police car), to help capture the Bandit; trucks and police cars clash to predictable end in the middle of a desert mesa, in what can only be described as a trucker revenge-orgy; the Bandit and Snowman get away from Justice but are waylaid by the elephant's giving birth; the Bandit eventually wins the girl by caring more about the elephant (her tears are like people tears!) than finishing the run.
Now, movies that use Deus ex machina contrivances to sew up otherwise ordinary or reasonable plotlines are annoying; we get the impression that the writers just weren't trying hard enough. It's a cop-out.
Smokey and the Bandit 2, however, is comprised so completely of contrivances that it cannot possibly be considered a betrayal of a reasonable universe. Reason simply does not exist in this movie.
The writers prove their mettle in their dedication to absolute absurdity by leaving plot points dangling left and right -- not one gets tied up by the end, in fact; the two elephants are hitched in chariot-style circus carriers to the back of the Trans-Am -- as though to say "We don't have time for plot or explaining things or making any kind of sense! We're making a movie!" This kind of exuberant disregard for all reason can only be respected -- respected and laughed at -- the way one would respect a particularly talented snake-oil salesman. You don't actually buy what he's selling, but you like listening to his spiel, despite yourself.
After a certain point, in fact, I began to wonder if the writers were making fun of us, the viewers, in the way one feels Monty Python's (incomparable) Flying Circus abuses its audience. "How much will they put up with?" you can almost hear them asking each other, giggling, enraptured. "Let's see if we can add something else! Ooh! Fart joke!! That's a good one!!"
I can't wait to see what they came up with for Smokey and the Bandit 3 (1983).
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Movie Review: Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Her
Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Her is a quiet movie. The minimalist piano tones that carry through the five women’s stories are mostly carrying the quiet, not the sound, through the vaguely interlocking women’s lives.
If you know anything about how and why I love movies, you know I love these interlocking, clever ones. But Things You Can Tell isn’t just clever, and isn’t just interlocking. It doesn’t have that semi-claustrophobic feel of Playing By Heart, or the fragmented but same-themed sense of Nine Lives. It doesn’t even have the mysterious sense of the universe at work that Kieslowski’s Three Colors trilogy has. These women are all alike in how alone they are in their own worlds; their separation is their most common element, even when they’re on screen together.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing, though, which is what I love about this movie – that it’s complicated. It’s not a polemic against loneliness or a reassurance that you won’t always be lonely (like romantic comedies inevitably are), and it’s not a celebration of women’s independence, either (like…well, I can’t think of any movies that are. Girly friend movies? That’s still interdependence. Hmm. I’m going to have to think about this for awhile).
The first woman, Dr. Keener (Glenn Close, who is superb) is staying home with an elderly woman who’s more or less unaware of her surroundings. Dr. Keener cares for this woman conscientiously, so we know she’s a good woman, though we don’t really know why – maybe she lives with this woman and gets free board, or maybe this is her mother.
But Dr. Keener is also obsessed with a man from the office, obsessed enough to check the phone every few minutes and to call in a tarot card reader (Calista Flockhart) to see if they have a chance together. Dr. Keener is obviously conflicted about the choice, and dresses herself up – borrows earrings from the old woman – to meet the card reader, then sits enigmatic as the Sphinx or the Mona Lisa when she comes.
Flockhart tells her she’ll meet a man, but not the man at the office. Dr. Keener takes the news with suppressed disappointment.
The whole movie is like this. There are good things in it, but they’re second-good things, not the things the women originally wanted.
The second story, Rebecca’s, is the most honest, un-propaganda-ed account of a woman getting an abortion that I’ve ever seen.
Before we find out she’s pregnant, we see Rebecca (Holly Hunter) naked (cleverly positioned, though, so sorry guys and Knocked Up fans) in bed, being left – though lovingly – by a man we find out later she’s been seeing for three years. Later, she’s in the bank, and after that, she’s approached while smoking next to her car, by a homeless woman who asks for a cigarette.
Since the movie is set in southern California (and this part mainly outside), an airbrushed, espanished land of perfect people, the homeless woman stands out. Her diction is theater-perfect, too, but her presence is anathema.
Based on her appearance, which is tailored and perfect, you’d expect Rebecca to be put off by this woman, but she isn’t. She gives the woman a cigarette, doesn’t back off when the homeless lady comes close for a light, listens to everything she says and responds, even when the homeless woman calls her a whore. Twice.
To compress the story a bit, Rebecca finds out she’s pregnant, schedules an abortion, tells her boyfriend emotionlessly and gets even less emotion in return – she confirms he doesn’t want her to have the child, though it’s probably her last chance (she’s 39) – rebels against him by sleeping with an underling from the bank, then rejects that underling. As she’s sitting in the car with him in the morning before the afternoon abortion, the homeless woman comes up again.
Rebecca seems to take solace in the woman’s recognition of what she really thinks of herself, but it’s a complicated relationship – much more complicated and honest, despite being thirty seconds long, than any of the other relationships we see Rebecca in. The homeless woman calls her a whore again, and when underling tries to stop her, Rebecca says “no, go on” and listens with rapt attention.
The homeless woman concludes, “It’s not that I don’t like you – I like you, princess. I feel sorry for you.”
Dr. Keener performs the abortion. The antiseptic camerawork keeps the angles on close-ups of Rebecca’s face, Dr. Keener’s, the nurse’s. Rebecca gasps in the middle of the procedure and the nurse’s hand enters the frame and pats her hair. This is the only human contact we see at all.
Rebecca’s lied and said she was being picked up by her boyfriend. As she walks out of the clinic, she wobbles and suddenly bursts out sobbing – she stands by a manicured bush for comfort, then a parking meter. Time passes. She continues down the street and sees the homeless woman on the other side.
This is the only comfort she gets; the scene ends.
You don’t get the impression from this movie that abortion is more wrong than other options this woman had, or that she regrets her choice and wishes she had chosen differently (though either of those themes would sit well with my beliefs); you get the impression instead that there are situations in life that are really, really hard. We’re not victims of them – we get to make choices and often choose wrong – but we’re not completely in control of them, either.
Rebecca’s entire life up to this point is to blame for bringing her to this existential crisis and to a point where only a mentally ill homeless woman can understand her, and she’s both responsible for that life and determined by it.
The next section, in which Kathy Baker's character falls in love with a dwarf, is the one that’s stuck with me since I first saw this movie a few years ago. It’s sweet and strange, and I’ll let you see it for yourself.
I’ll let you see the entire rest of the movie for yourself, in fact – as long as you do. It is, above all, thoughtful. You shouldn’t be disappointed.
If you know anything about how and why I love movies, you know I love these interlocking, clever ones. But Things You Can Tell isn’t just clever, and isn’t just interlocking. It doesn’t have that semi-claustrophobic feel of Playing By Heart, or the fragmented but same-themed sense of Nine Lives. It doesn’t even have the mysterious sense of the universe at work that Kieslowski’s Three Colors trilogy has. These women are all alike in how alone they are in their own worlds; their separation is their most common element, even when they’re on screen together.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing, though, which is what I love about this movie – that it’s complicated. It’s not a polemic against loneliness or a reassurance that you won’t always be lonely (like romantic comedies inevitably are), and it’s not a celebration of women’s independence, either (like…well, I can’t think of any movies that are. Girly friend movies? That’s still interdependence. Hmm. I’m going to have to think about this for awhile).
The first woman, Dr. Keener (Glenn Close, who is superb) is staying home with an elderly woman who’s more or less unaware of her surroundings. Dr. Keener cares for this woman conscientiously, so we know she’s a good woman, though we don’t really know why – maybe she lives with this woman and gets free board, or maybe this is her mother.
But Dr. Keener is also obsessed with a man from the office, obsessed enough to check the phone every few minutes and to call in a tarot card reader (Calista Flockhart) to see if they have a chance together. Dr. Keener is obviously conflicted about the choice, and dresses herself up – borrows earrings from the old woman – to meet the card reader, then sits enigmatic as the Sphinx or the Mona Lisa when she comes.
Flockhart tells her she’ll meet a man, but not the man at the office. Dr. Keener takes the news with suppressed disappointment.
The whole movie is like this. There are good things in it, but they’re second-good things, not the things the women originally wanted.
The second story, Rebecca’s, is the most honest, un-propaganda-ed account of a woman getting an abortion that I’ve ever seen.
Before we find out she’s pregnant, we see Rebecca (Holly Hunter) naked (cleverly positioned, though, so sorry guys and Knocked Up fans) in bed, being left – though lovingly – by a man we find out later she’s been seeing for three years. Later, she’s in the bank, and after that, she’s approached while smoking next to her car, by a homeless woman who asks for a cigarette.
Since the movie is set in southern California (and this part mainly outside), an airbrushed, espanished land of perfect people, the homeless woman stands out. Her diction is theater-perfect, too, but her presence is anathema.
Based on her appearance, which is tailored and perfect, you’d expect Rebecca to be put off by this woman, but she isn’t. She gives the woman a cigarette, doesn’t back off when the homeless lady comes close for a light, listens to everything she says and responds, even when the homeless woman calls her a whore. Twice.
To compress the story a bit, Rebecca finds out she’s pregnant, schedules an abortion, tells her boyfriend emotionlessly and gets even less emotion in return – she confirms he doesn’t want her to have the child, though it’s probably her last chance (she’s 39) – rebels against him by sleeping with an underling from the bank, then rejects that underling. As she’s sitting in the car with him in the morning before the afternoon abortion, the homeless woman comes up again.
Rebecca seems to take solace in the woman’s recognition of what she really thinks of herself, but it’s a complicated relationship – much more complicated and honest, despite being thirty seconds long, than any of the other relationships we see Rebecca in. The homeless woman calls her a whore again, and when underling tries to stop her, Rebecca says “no, go on” and listens with rapt attention.
The homeless woman concludes, “It’s not that I don’t like you – I like you, princess. I feel sorry for you.”
Dr. Keener performs the abortion. The antiseptic camerawork keeps the angles on close-ups of Rebecca’s face, Dr. Keener’s, the nurse’s. Rebecca gasps in the middle of the procedure and the nurse’s hand enters the frame and pats her hair. This is the only human contact we see at all.
Rebecca’s lied and said she was being picked up by her boyfriend. As she walks out of the clinic, she wobbles and suddenly bursts out sobbing – she stands by a manicured bush for comfort, then a parking meter. Time passes. She continues down the street and sees the homeless woman on the other side.
This is the only comfort she gets; the scene ends.
You don’t get the impression from this movie that abortion is more wrong than other options this woman had, or that she regrets her choice and wishes she had chosen differently (though either of those themes would sit well with my beliefs); you get the impression instead that there are situations in life that are really, really hard. We’re not victims of them – we get to make choices and often choose wrong – but we’re not completely in control of them, either.
Rebecca’s entire life up to this point is to blame for bringing her to this existential crisis and to a point where only a mentally ill homeless woman can understand her, and she’s both responsible for that life and determined by it.
The next section, in which Kathy Baker's character falls in love with a dwarf, is the one that’s stuck with me since I first saw this movie a few years ago. It’s sweet and strange, and I’ll let you see it for yourself.
I’ll let you see the entire rest of the movie for yourself, in fact – as long as you do. It is, above all, thoughtful. You shouldn’t be disappointed.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Movie Review: Spring Subway (Chinese)
It is with trepidation that I write this review of my favorite movie.
Which is probably fitting, because so much of it is taken up by questions of fear, the impulse to speak (versus the impulse to be well-thought-of, to hide what seems like a shameful truth) and the results of people's reactions to speaking about or from fear.
It's a Chinese film, which viewers should bear in mind; the cultural differences don't overshadow the "universal" concerns of the characters, and anyone should be able to understand the basic plot of the movie without extensive knowledge of Chinese culture -- but I'm not sure a viewer can really empathize with Jianbin's (the husband's) dilemma without at least a cursory understanding of what it means to speak directly in Chinese culture. It's harder than all but the most painfully shy Americans can understand.
Amid flashbacks to the happy couple arriving in Beijing young and carefree seven years earlier, we learn that Jianbin and his wife, Xiaohui, seem to be drifting apart. They each speak directly to the camera -- Jianbin shyly, Xiaohui candidly -- about how they feel about their marriage, their fears that the other is about to throw in the towel, their desires to start other relationships.
The main tension in their relationship, and in the movie, results from Jianbin's having been laid off three months before the events of the movie, but not telling Xiaohiu about it. He imagines scenarios in which he tells her and she accepts and embraces him -- and ones in which she berates him for being defective. He brings himself to the point of almost telling her half a dozen times, but cannot; instead, he dresses as if for work every day and rides the subway around the city, killing time and listening in on others' conversations.
From Jianbin's peregrinations, we learn about two other couples at the beginnings of their relationships. The other four people are well-developed enough to catch our attention, but not enough to satisfy us. At the end of the movie, I find myself wondering what happened to them, but I consider this a strength rather than a weakness, and a sign of being true-to-life. (How many of us get total closure on conversations we overhear on a subway?)
The soundtrack carries the subway scenes, knitting together the forced intimacy of the interior of a subway car with the flash-and-dash exterior of Beijing's new subway. It moves us through the city and through time, refreshing instead of irritating (which is rare for moving-along-montage music).
Xiaohui and Jianbin both consider affairs: Xiaohui with a client of hers named "Tiger," Jianbin with an injured kindergarten teacher he learned about from one of the four subway characters. They each find respite in their flirtations with infidelity, but only because their own relationship is so intensely fraught with conflict -- mostly internal, and mostly Jianbin's.
The fact that they experience this conflict as fading love, as a "seven year itch" or feeling neutral toward each other, strikes me as truth. They each wonder whether the relationship, so apparently devoid of love and hope, is worth it, but neither can address the question directly. Jianbin comes home from riding the subway one night to find Tiger's shoes outside his door -- Chinese often remove their shoes when they enter a home -- and moves one; Xiaohiu, letting Tiger out after a friendly get-together, sees that it has been moved and knows that Jianbin has been by. Still, they do not discuss it.
In one scene, Xiaohui tries to discuss the relationship casually, attempting to make light of what weighs on them both, at dinner. She laughs half-heartedly, making an effort; she begins to talk more directly, but falters as Jianbin, sitting across from her, stuffs vegetables into his mouth, barely chewing and not swallowing at all. They sit in silence as he chews. The scene is painful to watch; as viewers, we know what Xiaohui wants to say, and that Jianbin does not need to fear it -- but we also know that he expects her to admit to an affair, and that he does not feel he could handle this knowledge.
In a flashback, Jianbin and Xiaohui lay in their bathtub, relaxing and talking, and Xiaohui asks a riddle: If a stick of bamboo has a bitter end and a sweet end, which one do you eat first? The bitter, Jianbin answers, and Xiaohui says he is a pessimist. She splashes him, laughing, and the solemnity vanishes -- but it sticks with the viewer, and Jianbin's answer seems to give us a window into how he thinks.
It may tell us more about Xiaohui, though. I thought about this riddle for a long time after my second or third viewing of the movie: Why would someone who ate the bitter before the sweet be a pessimist? That's what I would do; I'd use the sweet as a reward for having endured the bitter. It eventually occurred to me that perhaps the bitter would not need to be endured -- an optimist may eat the sweet first in the belief that the bitter would never have to be eaten. Perhaps more sweet was to come.
The gestures toward affairs -- neither of which is consummated -- become a way for both Jianbin and Xiaohui to express themselves without fear. Xiaohui realizes, talking to Tiger, that she does still love Jianbin; Jianbin is able to tell the injured kindergarten teacher, who has been temporarily blinded, secrets that he had long kept hidden. Having said these things, they are able to approach each other more honestly in the end, despite the still-intense conflict in their relationship.
The resolution of their relationship is metaphorical, though I believe it's clear what happens in the end. (One of my Chinese students, though, said it was "a sad movie" because she thought they broke up in the end; I had to rethink my interpretation after this, but I still think it's clear that they stay together.)
There is no happily-ever-after for Spring Subway, whose title would be better translated as "Heading toward Spring Subway," but there is a renewed sense of hope, and that also strikes me as true. Jianbin and Xiaohui, like people in real-life relationships, do not need to be perfect, or even "perfectly committed" like the couples conveniently left at the meeting point at the end of most romantic comedies. They need to be willing to work past each other's -- and, more importantly, their own -- issues to reconnect with each other and make the relationship work. They are, and they do, and the result is affecting and inspiring.
That's my kind of happy ending.
Which is probably fitting, because so much of it is taken up by questions of fear, the impulse to speak (versus the impulse to be well-thought-of, to hide what seems like a shameful truth) and the results of people's reactions to speaking about or from fear.
It's a Chinese film, which viewers should bear in mind; the cultural differences don't overshadow the "universal" concerns of the characters, and anyone should be able to understand the basic plot of the movie without extensive knowledge of Chinese culture -- but I'm not sure a viewer can really empathize with Jianbin's (the husband's) dilemma without at least a cursory understanding of what it means to speak directly in Chinese culture. It's harder than all but the most painfully shy Americans can understand.
Amid flashbacks to the happy couple arriving in Beijing young and carefree seven years earlier, we learn that Jianbin and his wife, Xiaohui, seem to be drifting apart. They each speak directly to the camera -- Jianbin shyly, Xiaohui candidly -- about how they feel about their marriage, their fears that the other is about to throw in the towel, their desires to start other relationships.
The main tension in their relationship, and in the movie, results from Jianbin's having been laid off three months before the events of the movie, but not telling Xiaohiu about it. He imagines scenarios in which he tells her and she accepts and embraces him -- and ones in which she berates him for being defective. He brings himself to the point of almost telling her half a dozen times, but cannot; instead, he dresses as if for work every day and rides the subway around the city, killing time and listening in on others' conversations.
From Jianbin's peregrinations, we learn about two other couples at the beginnings of their relationships. The other four people are well-developed enough to catch our attention, but not enough to satisfy us. At the end of the movie, I find myself wondering what happened to them, but I consider this a strength rather than a weakness, and a sign of being true-to-life. (How many of us get total closure on conversations we overhear on a subway?)
The soundtrack carries the subway scenes, knitting together the forced intimacy of the interior of a subway car with the flash-and-dash exterior of Beijing's new subway. It moves us through the city and through time, refreshing instead of irritating (which is rare for moving-along-montage music).
Xiaohui and Jianbin both consider affairs: Xiaohui with a client of hers named "Tiger," Jianbin with an injured kindergarten teacher he learned about from one of the four subway characters. They each find respite in their flirtations with infidelity, but only because their own relationship is so intensely fraught with conflict -- mostly internal, and mostly Jianbin's.
The fact that they experience this conflict as fading love, as a "seven year itch" or feeling neutral toward each other, strikes me as truth. They each wonder whether the relationship, so apparently devoid of love and hope, is worth it, but neither can address the question directly. Jianbin comes home from riding the subway one night to find Tiger's shoes outside his door -- Chinese often remove their shoes when they enter a home -- and moves one; Xiaohiu, letting Tiger out after a friendly get-together, sees that it has been moved and knows that Jianbin has been by. Still, they do not discuss it.
In one scene, Xiaohui tries to discuss the relationship casually, attempting to make light of what weighs on them both, at dinner. She laughs half-heartedly, making an effort; she begins to talk more directly, but falters as Jianbin, sitting across from her, stuffs vegetables into his mouth, barely chewing and not swallowing at all. They sit in silence as he chews. The scene is painful to watch; as viewers, we know what Xiaohui wants to say, and that Jianbin does not need to fear it -- but we also know that he expects her to admit to an affair, and that he does not feel he could handle this knowledge.
In a flashback, Jianbin and Xiaohui lay in their bathtub, relaxing and talking, and Xiaohui asks a riddle: If a stick of bamboo has a bitter end and a sweet end, which one do you eat first? The bitter, Jianbin answers, and Xiaohui says he is a pessimist. She splashes him, laughing, and the solemnity vanishes -- but it sticks with the viewer, and Jianbin's answer seems to give us a window into how he thinks.
It may tell us more about Xiaohui, though. I thought about this riddle for a long time after my second or third viewing of the movie: Why would someone who ate the bitter before the sweet be a pessimist? That's what I would do; I'd use the sweet as a reward for having endured the bitter. It eventually occurred to me that perhaps the bitter would not need to be endured -- an optimist may eat the sweet first in the belief that the bitter would never have to be eaten. Perhaps more sweet was to come.
The gestures toward affairs -- neither of which is consummated -- become a way for both Jianbin and Xiaohui to express themselves without fear. Xiaohui realizes, talking to Tiger, that she does still love Jianbin; Jianbin is able to tell the injured kindergarten teacher, who has been temporarily blinded, secrets that he had long kept hidden. Having said these things, they are able to approach each other more honestly in the end, despite the still-intense conflict in their relationship.
The resolution of their relationship is metaphorical, though I believe it's clear what happens in the end. (One of my Chinese students, though, said it was "a sad movie" because she thought they broke up in the end; I had to rethink my interpretation after this, but I still think it's clear that they stay together.)
There is no happily-ever-after for Spring Subway, whose title would be better translated as "Heading toward Spring Subway," but there is a renewed sense of hope, and that also strikes me as true. Jianbin and Xiaohui, like people in real-life relationships, do not need to be perfect, or even "perfectly committed" like the couples conveniently left at the meeting point at the end of most romantic comedies. They need to be willing to work past each other's -- and, more importantly, their own -- issues to reconnect with each other and make the relationship work. They are, and they do, and the result is affecting and inspiring.
That's my kind of happy ending.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Movie Review: Oldboy (Korean)
An idiomatic expression whose meaning is revealed in one of the final scenes of the film (so I won’t tell you here), “Oldboy” also causes me to compare the hero of this South Korean flick to old classic-epic heroes: Odysseus, for instance. Oh Dae-su goes through as many challenges before reaching the end of his quest as Odysseus did—with the difference that Oh Dae-su does not come out virtuous and unscathed.
In fact, the main reason this film seems so epic is Oh Dae-su’s driving sense of revenge, fueled by fifteen years of unexplained imprisonment. It isn’t Dae-su’s sense of wronged innocence so much as an outraged confusion that compels him, on his return to the world, to seek out his captor and exact revenge. (That, and a threat by the captor that Dae-su must seek him out.) His motives and his methods are messy. In fact, not much in this movie is “pretty”—but that’s what makes it epic.
In one scene, for instance, shot brilliantly (and digitally, if I’m not mistaken), Dae-su takes on the typical gang of martial artists you’d see in any Bruce Lee movie. Normally, the staging of this scene would have our hero in the center with a circle of bad guys surrounding him, waiting their turns to attack, and the hero would dispatch each with efficient ease, barely breaking a sweat (or, if so, breaking a sexy sweat that causes chest muscles to glisten and gleam, etc). Dae-su, however, is in a narrow hallway, and has enemies coming at him from both sides; he fights desperately, as though he has nothing to lose; he is stabbed, but barely acknowledges it. Sweat flies everywhere, and Dae-su has to take a second to breathe in between wild kicks and punches he likely invented himself. It is as difficult to turn away from this scene as the ones in which Daniel Day-Lewis wields a butcher’s knife in Gangs of New York, with the difference that you really don’t want to.
Oldboy is an almost unceasingly brutal movie, and in the end, it is revealed to be even more brutal than you had thought.
What saves this movie from being only sickening, blood-spattered Jerry Springer-type material are the efforts of the director and director of photography. The hallway scene, for instance, is shot as though a cross-section had been done of the hall; this allows us to see all the action, but keeps us out of it at the same time. We are voyeurs, not participants—and by this point (unlike on an episode of Jerry Springer), we sympathize with Dae-su. We can be drawn into the action without being overwhelmed or threatened by it. The movie also uses a framing device that allows us to enter and exit the story conclusively (though confusingly, in the first viewing).
Still, the end is sickening. After so many trials, Dae-su gets his answers, and they are likely not what we (or he) expected. The sense that he must now live with these answers is more stifling than the fight scenes; what stretches ahead of him now may be more challenging than what had come before. And yet, the acute initial trials after being set free have prepared him for this new challenge. There is hope that he can rebuild and live in peace, even with the answers he received.
Oldboy is not for everyone, but if you’re in the mood for Korean martial arts epic, this is your winner.
Now if only I could find some good cold noodles.
In fact, the main reason this film seems so epic is Oh Dae-su’s driving sense of revenge, fueled by fifteen years of unexplained imprisonment. It isn’t Dae-su’s sense of wronged innocence so much as an outraged confusion that compels him, on his return to the world, to seek out his captor and exact revenge. (That, and a threat by the captor that Dae-su must seek him out.) His motives and his methods are messy. In fact, not much in this movie is “pretty”—but that’s what makes it epic.
In one scene, for instance, shot brilliantly (and digitally, if I’m not mistaken), Dae-su takes on the typical gang of martial artists you’d see in any Bruce Lee movie. Normally, the staging of this scene would have our hero in the center with a circle of bad guys surrounding him, waiting their turns to attack, and the hero would dispatch each with efficient ease, barely breaking a sweat (or, if so, breaking a sexy sweat that causes chest muscles to glisten and gleam, etc). Dae-su, however, is in a narrow hallway, and has enemies coming at him from both sides; he fights desperately, as though he has nothing to lose; he is stabbed, but barely acknowledges it. Sweat flies everywhere, and Dae-su has to take a second to breathe in between wild kicks and punches he likely invented himself. It is as difficult to turn away from this scene as the ones in which Daniel Day-Lewis wields a butcher’s knife in Gangs of New York, with the difference that you really don’t want to.
Oldboy is an almost unceasingly brutal movie, and in the end, it is revealed to be even more brutal than you had thought.
What saves this movie from being only sickening, blood-spattered Jerry Springer-type material are the efforts of the director and director of photography. The hallway scene, for instance, is shot as though a cross-section had been done of the hall; this allows us to see all the action, but keeps us out of it at the same time. We are voyeurs, not participants—and by this point (unlike on an episode of Jerry Springer), we sympathize with Dae-su. We can be drawn into the action without being overwhelmed or threatened by it. The movie also uses a framing device that allows us to enter and exit the story conclusively (though confusingly, in the first viewing).
Still, the end is sickening. After so many trials, Dae-su gets his answers, and they are likely not what we (or he) expected. The sense that he must now live with these answers is more stifling than the fight scenes; what stretches ahead of him now may be more challenging than what had come before. And yet, the acute initial trials after being set free have prepared him for this new challenge. There is hope that he can rebuild and live in peace, even with the answers he received.
Oldboy is not for everyone, but if you’re in the mood for Korean martial arts epic, this is your winner.
Now if only I could find some good cold noodles.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Movie Review: Gidget, Gidget Goes To Rome
In honor of upcoming Roomie Reunion 2008, a review of a "classic" set of movies.
The Gidget movie franchise stopped, mercifully, at three: Gidget, Gidget Goes To Rome, and Gidget Goes Hawaiian. Despite only having three movies in its pantheon, the actress who plays Gidget is different in each film; the only constant is actor James Darren, singer-heartthrob of the era, aka "Moondoggie," Gidget's main squeeze.
Moondoggie is such a good boyfriend, he even sings a song about "Gidge," the chorus of which is as follows:
"No means yes"? Okay, Moondoggie, but don't let her dad hear you say that.
(In fact, don't let me hear you say that. How much more offensive could this be? The answer is none. None more offensive.)
The Gidget movies are full of Freudian overtones -- none more blatant than when Gidget's friend teaches Gidge to "surf" by putting her surfboard on Gidget's bed and having Gidget stand on it while rhythmically pushing on the edge of the bed to simulate "waves."
Gidget Goes To Rome is a bit more avant-garde, with dinner party attendees dancing mysteriously, to equally "mysterious" music, around Gidget, Moondoggie, and other party patrons. It also features a chase scene through Rome, including a trip down the Spanish steps, which is the highlight of the movie for those who are watching it purely as Romaphiles.
James Darren sings a song in Gidget Goes To Rome about Gidget, too, which is just as well -- since it's a different Gidge, he's got to impress her anew. This song is a bit less objectionable in content, though its insidious earworm-melody more than makes up for the less offensive lyrics:
Gidget Goes Hawaiian features a brunette bombshell Gidget, much taller and more curvy than her Gidget and Gidget Goes To Rome counterparts. That's all I know about the movie, gleaned from the cover picture -- I've never actually seen it.
And that's all you ever need to know or remember about the Gidget movies.
Watch them with friends, a bucket of cheese popcorn, and an MST-3000 attitude, and you'll have a great time despite them.
The Gidget movie franchise stopped, mercifully, at three: Gidget, Gidget Goes To Rome, and Gidget Goes Hawaiian. Despite only having three movies in its pantheon, the actress who plays Gidget is different in each film; the only constant is actor James Darren, singer-heartthrob of the era, aka "Moondoggie," Gidget's main squeeze.
Moondoggie is such a good boyfriend, he even sings a song about "Gidge," the chorus of which is as follows:
If she says she loves you
You can bet your boots she loves you
If she says she hates you
That can also mean she loves you
"No means yes"? Okay, Moondoggie, but don't let her dad hear you say that.
(In fact, don't let me hear you say that. How much more offensive could this be? The answer is none. None more offensive.)
The Gidget movies are full of Freudian overtones -- none more blatant than when Gidget's friend teaches Gidge to "surf" by putting her surfboard on Gidget's bed and having Gidget stand on it while rhythmically pushing on the edge of the bed to simulate "waves."
Gidget Goes To Rome is a bit more avant-garde, with dinner party attendees dancing mysteriously, to equally "mysterious" music, around Gidget, Moondoggie, and other party patrons. It also features a chase scene through Rome, including a trip down the Spanish steps, which is the highlight of the movie for those who are watching it purely as Romaphiles.
James Darren sings a song in Gidget Goes To Rome about Gidget, too, which is just as well -- since it's a different Gidge, he's got to impress her anew. This song is a bit less objectionable in content, though its insidious earworm-melody more than makes up for the less offensive lyrics:
Gidget, when you go to Rome
You'll never be the same
You'll even change your name...to Gegetta...
As unforgettable
As bellisima
And Gegettable as...
Gegetta, make Italy your own
Gidget Goes Hawaiian features a brunette bombshell Gidget, much taller and more curvy than her Gidget and Gidget Goes To Rome counterparts. That's all I know about the movie, gleaned from the cover picture -- I've never actually seen it.
And that's all you ever need to know or remember about the Gidget movies.
Watch them with friends, a bucket of cheese popcorn, and an MST-3000 attitude, and you'll have a great time despite them.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Special Features Commentary: Calendarsthenics on CU
Well, all, on the eve of failing for a second month to do all I tacitly promised to do here on CU, I decided my first month of meeting my post-number goals should end with a listing of all I haven't done, and more.
Over the last eight months or so, I've built up a set of expectations that have slowly congealed and eventually hardened into requirements for CU. You may have sensed the presence of these internal regulations already, but thanks to my not always following them, you might have figured they were more like guidelines than rules.
You were wrong. They're rules. I just keep breaking them.
So as to keep your scorecard more accurately riddled with my errors, and to cleanse my guilt over not posting a movie review for two months in a row, now, here's what you can expect from CU, both in the past and in the future.
Remember, though, the telos of Continue Unprotected: My posting a schedule of events is just as likely to cause me to aspire to offend you by continually flouting it as it is to keep me on task.
Posting frequency: I expect myself to post two items a day, ideally one long and one short.
Type of post, and frequency:
Once a week: At least one PSA and one Local Trivia; SYD reviews in season
Twice a month: Confessions
Once a month: Movie Review, In Defense of Poppery, Quantifiable Living, Accusations, Unsolicited Advice, New word, something involving Freud, something involving my personal life or family
Special features, to be posted as inspired: Phrases That Never Help, Mix CD lists, Carte Blanche answers
Anyone who wants to count up the percentage of this schedule I've stuck to and give me some kind of score is welcome to.
Just don't tell me about it.
Over the last eight months or so, I've built up a set of expectations that have slowly congealed and eventually hardened into requirements for CU. You may have sensed the presence of these internal regulations already, but thanks to my not always following them, you might have figured they were more like guidelines than rules.
You were wrong. They're rules. I just keep breaking them.
So as to keep your scorecard more accurately riddled with my errors, and to cleanse my guilt over not posting a movie review for two months in a row, now, here's what you can expect from CU, both in the past and in the future.
Remember, though, the telos of Continue Unprotected: My posting a schedule of events is just as likely to cause me to aspire to offend you by continually flouting it as it is to keep me on task.
Posting frequency: I expect myself to post two items a day, ideally one long and one short.
Type of post, and frequency:
Once a week: At least one PSA and one Local Trivia; SYD reviews in season
Twice a month: Confessions
Once a month: Movie Review, In Defense of Poppery, Quantifiable Living, Accusations, Unsolicited Advice, New word, something involving Freud, something involving my personal life or family
Special features, to be posted as inspired: Phrases That Never Help, Mix CD lists, Carte Blanche answers
Anyone who wants to count up the percentage of this schedule I've stuck to and give me some kind of score is welcome to.
Just don't tell me about it.
Friday, September 4, 2009
PSA: You have the power.
The He-Man movie (yes, I think it is the same He-Man movie that led to some of us writing seminar people calling ourselves "the green light of jealousy" and "the yellow light of fighting," thanks to the use of obvious color-coding of scene types in this big-screen He-Man) is on sale on DVD at Amazon.com.
It is only $5.79.
But before you put your money where your blue light of dialogue is, consider the people in your company in the virtual line to make such a purchase. Read the reviews. One reviewer states, for instance, that "the true highlight of the movie is Frank Langella as Skeletor. He was made to play the role. He is very scarey and at most very evil in the movie."
The reviewer means, of course, that Frank Langella was born to play Skeletor, that he's perfect for the part -- which I realized about a minute after I assumed the first interpretation that popped into my mind, which was that he'd been forced, possibly at gunpoint, to play Skeletor, despite his objections.
The next most helpful reviewer explains why this version of He-Man is so weird to those of us who loved him in the 80's: This movie is actually based on a different comic book series, and uses He-Man characters the way a puppeteer might use Hansel and Gretel puppets to tell the story of Snow White.
It's no three wolves howling at the moon T-shirt, but it's not bad for ironic/camp purchase and review.
Consider adding your own voice to the masses'.
It is only $5.79.
But before you put your money where your blue light of dialogue is, consider the people in your company in the virtual line to make such a purchase. Read the reviews. One reviewer states, for instance, that "the true highlight of the movie is Frank Langella as Skeletor. He was made to play the role. He is very scarey and at most very evil in the movie."
The reviewer means, of course, that Frank Langella was born to play Skeletor, that he's perfect for the part -- which I realized about a minute after I assumed the first interpretation that popped into my mind, which was that he'd been forced, possibly at gunpoint, to play Skeletor, despite his objections.
The next most helpful reviewer explains why this version of He-Man is so weird to those of us who loved him in the 80's: This movie is actually based on a different comic book series, and uses He-Man characters the way a puppeteer might use Hansel and Gretel puppets to tell the story of Snow White.
It's no three wolves howling at the moon T-shirt, but it's not bad for ironic/camp purchase and review.
Consider adding your own voice to the masses'.
Friday, July 31, 2009
In Defense of Poppery, XI: Movies based on self-help books.
Pop Example: Movies based on self-help books, such as "He's Just Not That Into You" and "The Ugly Truth"
What redeems it: I’d intended to defend movies based on self-help books a few months ago, when I saw “He’s Just Not That Into You,” but I let it go – until this week, when I saw “The Ugly Truth.”
To be clear, some movies based on self-help books are better than others, and “He’s Just Not That Into You” is better than “The Ugly Truth.” But that may be part of why this subgenre of film deserves our attention: These films offer a bit of a book review in advance of our actually buying copies of books to live our lives by. It would be like seeing workout videos used and populated by people on the South Beach diet, or Atkins, before trying those diets out on your own digestive system, or watching a video of a Weight Watcher’s meeting that would help you understand both how supportive and how excruciatingly boring such meetings can be in advance of paying for the plan. This is all useful information.
In the case of movies based on self-help books, though, plots are necessary. What would normally be a list of Do’s and Don’ts has to be put into narrative practice for a Hollywood blockbuster – a recitation of principles would amount to an instructional video, and nobody past their first day at Drugstore USA wants to watch a whole bunch of those.
Self-help movies, then, end up showing a Hollywood version of how these books would theoretically work out in “real life” – in other words, they espouse the harsh critique of male-female relations the books they’re based on do, but then they undercut that message with a Hollywood happy ending.
Thus, self-help romantic comedies end up critiquing the books they’re based on – but because the majority of the movie is intended to narrate and support the principles of the book, the movie also critiques itself.
At the end of “He’s Just Not That Into You,” for instance, Justin Long’s character realizes that the girl who according to the book’s principles should stop obsessing and just get a life (Ginnifer Goodwin), is right. He is, in fact, THAT into her, and he needed her to point it out in order to realize the truth.
At the end of “The Ugly Truth,” Katherine Heigl and her “Ugly Truth” host (Gerard Butler), who’s been spouting an “everything is sex and sex is everything” view of men (and women), realize they’re in love with each other. He admits that it’s happened for no reason, which just makes her happier. Apparently, love is beyond reason – even beyond the reason of the self-help book the movie is based on.
And that’s the crux of the matter, the answer to the questions “how did that couple in that movie end up together?” and “what are principles I can live my life by in order to trick love into finding me?”: It’s a mystery. Nobody knows. It seems astonishing yet inevitable when it happens, and no two stories of how it happened are the same.
In the end, the one consistent message these movies send, despite themselves and despite the books they’re “based on” is that you might as well just keep being yourself. Ultimately, that’s what’s most likely to make you happy and get you into a satisfying relationship.
I can buy into that.
What redeems it: I’d intended to defend movies based on self-help books a few months ago, when I saw “He’s Just Not That Into You,” but I let it go – until this week, when I saw “The Ugly Truth.”
To be clear, some movies based on self-help books are better than others, and “He’s Just Not That Into You” is better than “The Ugly Truth.” But that may be part of why this subgenre of film deserves our attention: These films offer a bit of a book review in advance of our actually buying copies of books to live our lives by. It would be like seeing workout videos used and populated by people on the South Beach diet, or Atkins, before trying those diets out on your own digestive system, or watching a video of a Weight Watcher’s meeting that would help you understand both how supportive and how excruciatingly boring such meetings can be in advance of paying for the plan. This is all useful information.
In the case of movies based on self-help books, though, plots are necessary. What would normally be a list of Do’s and Don’ts has to be put into narrative practice for a Hollywood blockbuster – a recitation of principles would amount to an instructional video, and nobody past their first day at Drugstore USA wants to watch a whole bunch of those.
Self-help movies, then, end up showing a Hollywood version of how these books would theoretically work out in “real life” – in other words, they espouse the harsh critique of male-female relations the books they’re based on do, but then they undercut that message with a Hollywood happy ending.
Thus, self-help romantic comedies end up critiquing the books they’re based on – but because the majority of the movie is intended to narrate and support the principles of the book, the movie also critiques itself.
At the end of “He’s Just Not That Into You,” for instance, Justin Long’s character realizes that the girl who according to the book’s principles should stop obsessing and just get a life (Ginnifer Goodwin), is right. He is, in fact, THAT into her, and he needed her to point it out in order to realize the truth.
At the end of “The Ugly Truth,” Katherine Heigl and her “Ugly Truth” host (Gerard Butler), who’s been spouting an “everything is sex and sex is everything” view of men (and women), realize they’re in love with each other. He admits that it’s happened for no reason, which just makes her happier. Apparently, love is beyond reason – even beyond the reason of the self-help book the movie is based on.
And that’s the crux of the matter, the answer to the questions “how did that couple in that movie end up together?” and “what are principles I can live my life by in order to trick love into finding me?”: It’s a mystery. Nobody knows. It seems astonishing yet inevitable when it happens, and no two stories of how it happened are the same.
In the end, the one consistent message these movies send, despite themselves and despite the books they’re “based on” is that you might as well just keep being yourself. Ultimately, that’s what’s most likely to make you happy and get you into a satisfying relationship.
I can buy into that.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Valentimes: Horrorfest 2011, a review
Horrors: Dead Silence, Dawn of the Dead (2003), Subject 2
Reviews: Well, gentle readers, this was by far the best of the three years' worth of horrorfests. Some of you may remember last year's disastrous run-in with a terrible, terrible remake of the 1958 classic House on Haunted Hill. So many of the horror films I've watched in the last year have also been remakes of good films -- ones that should simply have been rewatched rather than redone -- and even ones I didn't know were remakes disappointed me. (Finding out The Collector was a remake, for instance, explained why the plot wasn't as clear as I wished it was, and why there was such a focus on the kind of gore that only modern technology can focus on.)
As a result, I was skeptical about including a remake in the lineup for Monday night. I was also skeptical about including Dead Silence, a movie by the makers of the Saw movies, since it was about (evil) dolls. I was torn on which of these potential disasters to inflict on myself and P.C., but shored up the choice by including Subject Two, a quiet, spare horror film I've seen twice on my own.
So we embarked on the horrorfest early, starting with Dead Silence.
True, it was a movie about evil dolls, but let's face it, dolls are creepy -- and the evil doll subgenre has been well established by Chucky and other shorter horror vignettes. True to the word of the back of the DVD box, this one did end with what I can only assume (because I haven't seen them yet) was a "Saw-like twist." There was some gimmickery, but one expects a certain amount of that in an evil-doll movie, and it really wasn't enough to remove the enjoyment of the twist at the end. It was also cleverly placed directly alongside the twist at the end, so that similar to the "spoonful of sugar" principle, you hardly even had time to groan in recognition of "what they did there" before you were once again enjoying the twistyness.
I also didn't realize until the end that the weird cop character was played by a New Kid on the Block. I'll let you guess which one -- or imdb it.
So Dead Silence was a winner, in comparison to many of the other horrors I've experienced. Even better, it made a nice lead-in to the even more surprisingly solid Dawn of the Dead.
I haven't seen the original Dawn of the Dead, though I am a fan (in the way people can be fans of old films or swimming lessons -- it takes extra prep but once you're in, you enjoy it) of Night of the Living Dead. But not having seen the original in the past has not necessarily prevented me from seeing the gaping errors in a remake; in fact, I suspect that many directors/screenwriters/producers re-making a classic horror film may fall into the trap of assuming the audience knows the story, and then attempting to depart from it to "make their mark" on the story, or to "do something a little different" (which is to say, "make a bad film"). Re-makes should be able to do justice to the original and the genre while still standing alone as good films in their own right.
So while I can't comment on whether Dawn of the Dead is in any way true to the original, I can say that it does stand on its own as a good zombie horror flick. As in the original Romero zombie movies, no one ever uses the word "zombie" -- since before Night of the Living Dead, zombies didn't really exist -- and as in the original Romero movies, there are no explanations of how scientific madness or hubris created this disease (think I Am Legend and 28 Days Later). Those are also modern concerns, but Romero's concern was over consumerism, the anti-individuality of cookie-cutter houses and the cookie-cutter products filling them and the cookie-cutter malls around them, and the way people crumble when faced with even a slow-moving hoard of the undead.
The director of the remake pointed out that remakes were a kind of offense (an attitude I was happy to have him share), that they had attempted to make a significantly different movie with the 2003 version than the original, which he thought was "perfect," and that one of the differences was that in 2003, the war that Romero had placed between people's individuality and agency, and the consumerism and lifestyle represented by the suburban mall, had already been lost. Malls are now a part of the common suburban psyche; it makes sense to us that people would run to a mall for survival. (After all, it's stocked with all kinds of provisions, and it's really one of the only public places left in suburbia.) The question in 2003 is less about whether we will become mindless consumers, defined by merchandise, and more about whether we can escape that label and become something else in addition.
It was a well-done zombie film, with plenty of gore and plenty of plot twists. It had fewer people that you wish would just die than some other recent zombie flicks (though it was not free of them). And more than the typical number of characters were well-defined, yet flexible enough to adapt, which gave them (and in some cases their deaths) more gravitas than, say, the teens in 28 Weeks Later. Yet the writer/director did not give in to the temptation to either keep all the favorites alive or have the "best" character become an obvious Christ-figure. (There is no "best" character, which is the sign of a solid script in this kind of film.)
If you watch this movie, you need to watch it all the way through, including the credits. The ending, for me, was the best connection to Romero's movies, which are purposefully bleak. The end of Night of the Living Dead is unflinchingly cruel, and while the DotD remake flinches, it seems also to offer little asylum to the viewer. There is no "homerun Jesus" for the zombie apocalypse.
And finally, post-apocalypse, P.C. stumbled on to the cold, bleak mountain winter of Subject Two. A reimagining, in my mind, of the Frankenstein story, the gorgeous setting of the film -- a cabin somewhere in a snowy mountain range -- gives the story both an attractive smallness (the characters being stuck in a cabin for warmth most of the time, though there are never snowstorms, and no cabin fever), and a sense of the largeness of the universe and of the scientific pursuits that are changing parts of it forever.
It's difficult to describe this film without giving parts of it away, but I approach it like a meditation: watching every frame, but reflectively rather than with the trepidation of a Nightmare on Elm Street, and allowing the ending to sink in fully. The screenplay is tight and effective, especially in its ending, but the efficiency of the plot is balanced and at times overwhelmed by the setting and the melancholy of the story -- as it should be. The story of Frankenstein's monster, after all, was a melodrama about a single post-human; so it is with Subject Two, minus the cloying Victorian phrases that make you as likely to want to punch the monster as sympathize with him. The snow cools all that off, leaving just the awareness of being alone, acutely and irretrievably alone, in the face of infinity.
So it was an excellent Valentimes, and I would recommend any of these movies to horror fans.
Hope yours was good, too.
Reviews: Well, gentle readers, this was by far the best of the three years' worth of horrorfests. Some of you may remember last year's disastrous run-in with a terrible, terrible remake of the 1958 classic House on Haunted Hill. So many of the horror films I've watched in the last year have also been remakes of good films -- ones that should simply have been rewatched rather than redone -- and even ones I didn't know were remakes disappointed me. (Finding out The Collector was a remake, for instance, explained why the plot wasn't as clear as I wished it was, and why there was such a focus on the kind of gore that only modern technology can focus on.)
As a result, I was skeptical about including a remake in the lineup for Monday night. I was also skeptical about including Dead Silence, a movie by the makers of the Saw movies, since it was about (evil) dolls. I was torn on which of these potential disasters to inflict on myself and P.C., but shored up the choice by including Subject Two, a quiet, spare horror film I've seen twice on my own.
So we embarked on the horrorfest early, starting with Dead Silence.
True, it was a movie about evil dolls, but let's face it, dolls are creepy -- and the evil doll subgenre has been well established by Chucky and other shorter horror vignettes. True to the word of the back of the DVD box, this one did end with what I can only assume (because I haven't seen them yet) was a "Saw-like twist." There was some gimmickery, but one expects a certain amount of that in an evil-doll movie, and it really wasn't enough to remove the enjoyment of the twist at the end. It was also cleverly placed directly alongside the twist at the end, so that similar to the "spoonful of sugar" principle, you hardly even had time to groan in recognition of "what they did there" before you were once again enjoying the twistyness.
I also didn't realize until the end that the weird cop character was played by a New Kid on the Block. I'll let you guess which one -- or imdb it.
So Dead Silence was a winner, in comparison to many of the other horrors I've experienced. Even better, it made a nice lead-in to the even more surprisingly solid Dawn of the Dead.
I haven't seen the original Dawn of the Dead, though I am a fan (in the way people can be fans of old films or swimming lessons -- it takes extra prep but once you're in, you enjoy it) of Night of the Living Dead. But not having seen the original in the past has not necessarily prevented me from seeing the gaping errors in a remake; in fact, I suspect that many directors/screenwriters/producers re-making a classic horror film may fall into the trap of assuming the audience knows the story, and then attempting to depart from it to "make their mark" on the story, or to "do something a little different" (which is to say, "make a bad film"). Re-makes should be able to do justice to the original and the genre while still standing alone as good films in their own right.
So while I can't comment on whether Dawn of the Dead is in any way true to the original, I can say that it does stand on its own as a good zombie horror flick. As in the original Romero zombie movies, no one ever uses the word "zombie" -- since before Night of the Living Dead, zombies didn't really exist -- and as in the original Romero movies, there are no explanations of how scientific madness or hubris created this disease (think I Am Legend and 28 Days Later). Those are also modern concerns, but Romero's concern was over consumerism, the anti-individuality of cookie-cutter houses and the cookie-cutter products filling them and the cookie-cutter malls around them, and the way people crumble when faced with even a slow-moving hoard of the undead.
The director of the remake pointed out that remakes were a kind of offense (an attitude I was happy to have him share), that they had attempted to make a significantly different movie with the 2003 version than the original, which he thought was "perfect," and that one of the differences was that in 2003, the war that Romero had placed between people's individuality and agency, and the consumerism and lifestyle represented by the suburban mall, had already been lost. Malls are now a part of the common suburban psyche; it makes sense to us that people would run to a mall for survival. (After all, it's stocked with all kinds of provisions, and it's really one of the only public places left in suburbia.) The question in 2003 is less about whether we will become mindless consumers, defined by merchandise, and more about whether we can escape that label and become something else in addition.
It was a well-done zombie film, with plenty of gore and plenty of plot twists. It had fewer people that you wish would just die than some other recent zombie flicks (though it was not free of them). And more than the typical number of characters were well-defined, yet flexible enough to adapt, which gave them (and in some cases their deaths) more gravitas than, say, the teens in 28 Weeks Later. Yet the writer/director did not give in to the temptation to either keep all the favorites alive or have the "best" character become an obvious Christ-figure. (There is no "best" character, which is the sign of a solid script in this kind of film.)
If you watch this movie, you need to watch it all the way through, including the credits. The ending, for me, was the best connection to Romero's movies, which are purposefully bleak. The end of Night of the Living Dead is unflinchingly cruel, and while the DotD remake flinches, it seems also to offer little asylum to the viewer. There is no "homerun Jesus" for the zombie apocalypse.
And finally, post-apocalypse, P.C. stumbled on to the cold, bleak mountain winter of Subject Two. A reimagining, in my mind, of the Frankenstein story, the gorgeous setting of the film -- a cabin somewhere in a snowy mountain range -- gives the story both an attractive smallness (the characters being stuck in a cabin for warmth most of the time, though there are never snowstorms, and no cabin fever), and a sense of the largeness of the universe and of the scientific pursuits that are changing parts of it forever.
It's difficult to describe this film without giving parts of it away, but I approach it like a meditation: watching every frame, but reflectively rather than with the trepidation of a Nightmare on Elm Street, and allowing the ending to sink in fully. The screenplay is tight and effective, especially in its ending, but the efficiency of the plot is balanced and at times overwhelmed by the setting and the melancholy of the story -- as it should be. The story of Frankenstein's monster, after all, was a melodrama about a single post-human; so it is with Subject Two, minus the cloying Victorian phrases that make you as likely to want to punch the monster as sympathize with him. The snow cools all that off, leaving just the awareness of being alone, acutely and irretrievably alone, in the face of infinity.
So it was an excellent Valentimes, and I would recommend any of these movies to horror fans.
Hope yours was good, too.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
PSA: Blogger ruins my one moment of inspiration in May
I did try to post something once this month. It just happened to be at exactly the same time Blogger was down.
I'll try to recapture the magic I'm sure was in store for us all then. I haven't quantified any living lately, or told famous people how they should live, or even complained a lot about my recent car quests, which have wiped out my brain and bank account. I've mostly (when I'm not complaining in person to P.C. about my car problems, or requiring that he give an opinion on something I've determined is a dilemma) been watching comedy TV and horror films.
Perhaps I'll elaborate on my recently invented half-hour comedy TV show category "observational comedy," as opposed to the "sitcom." Perhaps I'll give you all my opinion on Hostel as compared to the recently reviewed Saw movie cycle. Or perhaps I'll watch these two "trapped!" subgenre horror films I just rented -- Devil (trapped in an elevator) and Frozen (trapped on a ski lift) -- and review those.
But I think what you, my three-person public, probably want is something funny and possibly cute, and if that fails, something delicious.
I'll work on that. In the meantime, look at these delicious blogged things from friend Maryellen at Love & Scraps.
I'll try to recapture the magic I'm sure was in store for us all then. I haven't quantified any living lately, or told famous people how they should live, or even complained a lot about my recent car quests, which have wiped out my brain and bank account. I've mostly (when I'm not complaining in person to P.C. about my car problems, or requiring that he give an opinion on something I've determined is a dilemma) been watching comedy TV and horror films.
Perhaps I'll elaborate on my recently invented half-hour comedy TV show category "observational comedy," as opposed to the "sitcom." Perhaps I'll give you all my opinion on Hostel as compared to the recently reviewed Saw movie cycle. Or perhaps I'll watch these two "trapped!" subgenre horror films I just rented -- Devil (trapped in an elevator) and Frozen (trapped on a ski lift) -- and review those.
But I think what you, my three-person public, probably want is something funny and possibly cute, and if that fails, something delicious.
I'll work on that. In the meantime, look at these delicious blogged things from friend Maryellen at Love & Scraps.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
2008 in CU review, cont.
Movie reviews:
Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer
Fievel Goes West
Gidget, Gidget Goes To Rome
Monster's Ball
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
Oldboy
Smokey and the Bandit, II
Spring Subway
Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Her
Phrases that never help:
"All is lost!"
"...by golly."
"Calm down."
"Chill out."
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Don't do anything stupid."
"...I always say."
"I might as well be dead!"
"I only say this because I love/care about you."
"...I reckon."
"...I swear!"
"It's not you, it's me."
"No offense, but..."
"Really?"
"Stop obsessing."
"Stop worrying."
"The dog ate my homework."
"We're NEVER going to get there/finish this!"
"You're not ugly."
As always, if you'd like a copy of any of these mixes, send your address to Alicia's email.
Mixes:
@#%$ [Explicit]
Anaerobic
Animals
B*tches & Ho's
Chill Outz
Colors
Computer Future
Fire + Water
Free 5
GRRL PWWR
GRRL PWWR 2
I'm just sayin'
Lloyd Dobler
LUVV 4-EVR
Music to Die For
NO, it's NOT country, SHUT UP, LA LA LA
NOW 1.0
NOW 2.0
"Oh Trevor! I pine for you..."
Plants
Scientology
Stalkermix
Their eyes were watching YOU.
What should I be for Halloween?
Year
Political mixes:
All Together Now: Pinko-Commie mix for Hippies
Democratic Republic Patriots (In a Consumer Age)
Fascism Familiar
Long Live the Patrolling Militia!: Anarchy Mix
Road trip mixes:
Get the hell outta Dodge
To all the Homies, in honor of Homecoming
I Heart Road Trips
End-of-the-world mixes:
Apocalixx
Apocalixx 2
Apocalypse is Fun!!
Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer
Fievel Goes West
Gidget, Gidget Goes To Rome
Monster's Ball
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
Oldboy
Smokey and the Bandit, II
Spring Subway
Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Her
Phrases that never help:
"All is lost!"
"...by golly."
"Calm down."
"Chill out."
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Don't do anything stupid."
"...I always say."
"I might as well be dead!"
"I only say this because I love/care about you."
"...I reckon."
"...I swear!"
"It's not you, it's me."
"No offense, but..."
"Really?"
"Stop obsessing."
"Stop worrying."
"The dog ate my homework."
"We're NEVER going to get there/finish this!"
"You're not ugly."
As always, if you'd like a copy of any of these mixes, send your address to Alicia's email.
Mixes:
@#%$ [Explicit]
Anaerobic
Animals
B*tches & Ho's
Chill Outz
Colors
Computer Future
Fire + Water
Free 5
GRRL PWWR
GRRL PWWR 2
I'm just sayin'
Lloyd Dobler
LUVV 4-EVR
Music to Die For
NO, it's NOT country, SHUT UP, LA LA LA
NOW 1.0
NOW 2.0
"Oh Trevor! I pine for you..."
Plants
Scientology
Stalkermix
Their eyes were watching YOU.
What should I be for Halloween?
Year
Political mixes:
All Together Now: Pinko-Commie mix for Hippies
Democratic Republic Patriots (In a Consumer Age)
Fascism Familiar
Long Live the Patrolling Militia!: Anarchy Mix
Road trip mixes:
Get the hell outta Dodge
To all the Homies, in honor of Homecoming
I Heart Road Trips
End-of-the-world mixes:
Apocalixx
Apocalixx 2
Apocalypse is Fun!!
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