"Fantastic Mr. Fox" is quirky, endearing, hand-crafted and fun. In other words, it's a Wes Anderson film. For the kids.
Mr. Fox joins a long line of dreamers in Anderson's films, from Dignan to Max Fischer to Royal Tanenbaum. These characters inevitably see their ambitions derailed, but they never lose heart.
As in Roald Dahl's novel, Mr. Fox is a master farm thief. He's forced into the safer field of journalism when he starts a family, but his mischievous itch remains. With the help of a delightfully inept possum, he tries to plunder from three neighboring farms for old times' sake.
Of course, it wouldn't be a Wes Anderson film without father issues. The director has added a subplot involving Ash, Mr. Fox's son, and Kristofferson, a visiting cousin. Kristofferson is physically and intellectually superior to Ash in every conceivable way, so much so that Mr. Fox is too dazzled not to show his preference. This conflict fills out the story but adds little else.
Nonetheless, there are some excellent sequences and jokes to be enjoyed here. Mr. Fox's capers have breathed new life into Anderson's old bag of tricks. After the career nadir of "Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou," Anderson has rebounded nicely by going outside his comfort zone with a road movie set in India ("Darjeeling Limited") and the animated "Mr. Fox." Anderson's conventions are well known to us by now. It would seem his challenge is to find new formats to invigorate his familiar sensibility.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Inglourious Basterds
From its opening scene, we can see that "Inglourious Basterds" is going to be a different kind of Quentin Tarantino movie. It's an encounter between Col. Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz), a member of the Third Reich known as the "Jew Hunter," and a French farmer harboring Jews. Much of the dialogue is spoken in French. Deprived of his native tongue, Tarantino reverts to simple, formal dialogue which aptly underlines the tension running through the scene. He's relying on storytelling rather than verbal wit. The scene also draws strength from a couple of other more "conventional" filmmaking strategies: terrific acting and an effective instrumental on the soundtrack. Waltz delivers a monologue which is all the more disturbing because of his pleasant demeanor. Then, as he identifies where the Jews are hiding, frenzied strings arise to amplify the horror of what is to come.
The underhanded, classical approach to the scene is a big departure for Tarantino, who frequently relies on pop songs for his soundtrack and mediocre actors for his cast. He seems to understand that a World War II story cannot be delivered entirely tongue-in-cheek.
Yet "Inglourious Basterds" is still unmistakably a Tarantino production; no one else could have made this film. Following the opening scene, we meet the titular bastards, nine Jewish soldiers led by Lt. Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt), a Tennessee native who demands 100 Nazi scalps from each of his recruits. Pitt is almost a comical version of Humphrey Bogart in this movie; he's supposed to be the calm tough guy, but his lines make him more of a cartoon character.
After a scene introducing the Basterds, told with Tarantino's typical verve and energy, we meet Shosanna, who escaped Landa in the opening scene and went on to open a movie theater under a new name. Through a series of events, a Nazi propaganda film is slated to premiere at her theater; she plots to burn the building down with top Third Reich officials inside.
These plot developments come out a little slowly, but from here things start to take off. The British instigate a separate plot to blow up the theater during the premiere, and enlist the Basterds to help them pull it off. It all leads to a gruesome set piece which would fall apart in the hands of a lesser filmmaker.
What gives the second half of the movie its strength is that it's told chronologically. Again, this may seem like an elementary approach, but it's different for Tarantino, who likes to jump back and forth in time. He used this method strategically to great effect in "Reservoir Dogs" and "Pulp Fiction," but since then his films have seemed to bounce around at random. As a result, his works have been more a series of great scenes, rather than great films. Here, however, the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. As usual, Tarantino's overflowing gifts are all on display in "Inglourious Basterds," but he has harnessed them here to create his first great film since "Pulp Fiction."
The underhanded, classical approach to the scene is a big departure for Tarantino, who frequently relies on pop songs for his soundtrack and mediocre actors for his cast. He seems to understand that a World War II story cannot be delivered entirely tongue-in-cheek.
Yet "Inglourious Basterds" is still unmistakably a Tarantino production; no one else could have made this film. Following the opening scene, we meet the titular bastards, nine Jewish soldiers led by Lt. Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt), a Tennessee native who demands 100 Nazi scalps from each of his recruits. Pitt is almost a comical version of Humphrey Bogart in this movie; he's supposed to be the calm tough guy, but his lines make him more of a cartoon character.
After a scene introducing the Basterds, told with Tarantino's typical verve and energy, we meet Shosanna, who escaped Landa in the opening scene and went on to open a movie theater under a new name. Through a series of events, a Nazi propaganda film is slated to premiere at her theater; she plots to burn the building down with top Third Reich officials inside.
These plot developments come out a little slowly, but from here things start to take off. The British instigate a separate plot to blow up the theater during the premiere, and enlist the Basterds to help them pull it off. It all leads to a gruesome set piece which would fall apart in the hands of a lesser filmmaker.
What gives the second half of the movie its strength is that it's told chronologically. Again, this may seem like an elementary approach, but it's different for Tarantino, who likes to jump back and forth in time. He used this method strategically to great effect in "Reservoir Dogs" and "Pulp Fiction," but since then his films have seemed to bounce around at random. As a result, his works have been more a series of great scenes, rather than great films. Here, however, the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. As usual, Tarantino's overflowing gifts are all on display in "Inglourious Basterds," but he has harnessed them here to create his first great film since "Pulp Fiction."
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Slap Shot
Lurking within "Slap Shot" is an idea for a good movie. Unfortunately, it's buried under so much clumsy screenwriting and filmmaking that one can't really appreciate that conceit.
Paul Newman stars as Reggie Dunlop, the player-coach for Charlestown Chiefs, an independent league hockey team whose future looks about as bleak as the economic prospects of the Pennsylvania steel town in which it plays. The club is losing game after game and is set to fold at the end of the season.
But predictably, redemption awaits. After the club acquires the Hanson brothers, three players whose style consists of knocking their opponents' heads off, Dunlop hits upon a new strategy. Soon the Chiefs are savagely going to fisticuffs with foes, sometimes before the game has even started. They ride this tactic all the way to the championship game (in the film's skewed universe, violence leads to victories, not ejections).
This may not sound like a promising set-up. But the film does offer a couple of interesting perspectives on the anti-hero. First, "Slap Shot" forces us to root for a team pursuing a strategy which even they acknowledge at times is unfair. Second, Dunlop is possibly an even bigger jerk off the ice; even as he's trying to persuade his estranged wife to return to him, he's convincing another player's spouse to live with him.
However, all of this undone by two major blunders. First, the film is far too slow in setting up the premise and dwelling on the Chiefs' new violent tactics: it takes 45 minutes for the Hanson brothers to even take the ice. A half-hour could easily be cut from this film. It would be much tighter and stronger for it.
More seriously, "Slap Shot" is a comedy which is painfully unfunny. The screenplay seems to mistake coarseness for wit. Thus, the characters drop references to masturbation, lesbianism and private parts and are forced to pass them off as jokes. The filmmakers also seem to think that violence is inherently humorous. But there's a big difference between a punch in the face and genuine slapstick.
It's a shame, because "Slap Shot" offers some rich ironies in its denouement. This could have been one of the great anti-hero films of the '70s. Unfortunately, it was too interested in being a mediocre sex comedy.
Paul Newman stars as Reggie Dunlop, the player-coach for Charlestown Chiefs, an independent league hockey team whose future looks about as bleak as the economic prospects of the Pennsylvania steel town in which it plays. The club is losing game after game and is set to fold at the end of the season.
But predictably, redemption awaits. After the club acquires the Hanson brothers, three players whose style consists of knocking their opponents' heads off, Dunlop hits upon a new strategy. Soon the Chiefs are savagely going to fisticuffs with foes, sometimes before the game has even started. They ride this tactic all the way to the championship game (in the film's skewed universe, violence leads to victories, not ejections).
This may not sound like a promising set-up. But the film does offer a couple of interesting perspectives on the anti-hero. First, "Slap Shot" forces us to root for a team pursuing a strategy which even they acknowledge at times is unfair. Second, Dunlop is possibly an even bigger jerk off the ice; even as he's trying to persuade his estranged wife to return to him, he's convincing another player's spouse to live with him.
However, all of this undone by two major blunders. First, the film is far too slow in setting up the premise and dwelling on the Chiefs' new violent tactics: it takes 45 minutes for the Hanson brothers to even take the ice. A half-hour could easily be cut from this film. It would be much tighter and stronger for it.
More seriously, "Slap Shot" is a comedy which is painfully unfunny. The screenplay seems to mistake coarseness for wit. Thus, the characters drop references to masturbation, lesbianism and private parts and are forced to pass them off as jokes. The filmmakers also seem to think that violence is inherently humorous. But there's a big difference between a punch in the face and genuine slapstick.
It's a shame, because "Slap Shot" offers some rich ironies in its denouement. This could have been one of the great anti-hero films of the '70s. Unfortunately, it was too interested in being a mediocre sex comedy.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay
"Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle" was a joyless wisp of a film, a stoner ramble that barely even bothered to make jokes, let alone funny ones. The sequel, "Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay," is a major improvement, if not quite a good film.
The film picks up right where the first one left off. Kumar is now on a mission to reach Texas and win back his ex-girlfriend, who is about to marry an upper class twit. Along their journey, he and Harold visit a whorehouse with Neil Patrick Harris (playing a bizarre version of himself, as he did in the first film), smoke pot with President Bush and, yes, escape from Guantanamo Bay.
They wind up there after Kumar boards a plane with a bong, which is mistaken for a bomb. A nitwit Homeland Security official played by Rob Corddry is determined to bring them to justice. Corddry's blatant racism gives the film an opportunity to explore racial profiling. While the jokes here are never subtle, they are effective; Corddry assumes that Harold and Kumar are North Korean and Arab, respectively (he's wrong on both counts) and hires an interpreter to speak to Harold's American-born parents. The film also examines racism in other contexts, observing that stereotypes are often false but sometimes all too true.
Of course, "Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay" is still filled with flaws. Predictably, the direction is lousy and the acting is overly broad. There are also still some of the bizarre moments that made the first film so awkward, such as a one-eyed inbred boy chasing the heroes through a basement. Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg, who wrote both films, still need to realize that carnival freak shows are not a good source for comedy. Nonetheless, their sequel is a step in the right direction.
The film picks up right where the first one left off. Kumar is now on a mission to reach Texas and win back his ex-girlfriend, who is about to marry an upper class twit. Along their journey, he and Harold visit a whorehouse with Neil Patrick Harris (playing a bizarre version of himself, as he did in the first film), smoke pot with President Bush and, yes, escape from Guantanamo Bay.
They wind up there after Kumar boards a plane with a bong, which is mistaken for a bomb. A nitwit Homeland Security official played by Rob Corddry is determined to bring them to justice. Corddry's blatant racism gives the film an opportunity to explore racial profiling. While the jokes here are never subtle, they are effective; Corddry assumes that Harold and Kumar are North Korean and Arab, respectively (he's wrong on both counts) and hires an interpreter to speak to Harold's American-born parents. The film also examines racism in other contexts, observing that stereotypes are often false but sometimes all too true.
Of course, "Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay" is still filled with flaws. Predictably, the direction is lousy and the acting is overly broad. There are also still some of the bizarre moments that made the first film so awkward, such as a one-eyed inbred boy chasing the heroes through a basement. Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg, who wrote both films, still need to realize that carnival freak shows are not a good source for comedy. Nonetheless, their sequel is a step in the right direction.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Nashville
"Nashville" is a sprawling masterpiece, touching on just about every juicy topic you can think of: money, politics, fame, religion, sex, and plenty more. You won't find a better encapsulation of America in the 1970s.
However, it is a hard film to describe. "Nashville" follows 24 characters over the course of five days in the titular city. Almost all of them are at least tangentially connected to the country music industry. Some are also involved in the campaign of Hal Phillip Walker, a "Replacement Party" candidate for president. We never meet Walker, but we frequently see a campaign van driving through town, spouting his populist bromides. The action culminates with a rally for the candidate which features two of the country stars we've met earlier.
Nashville is the perfect city to capture America's irrational, can-do optimism. In one scene, singer Connie King implores a few children to study hard in school, since anyone can grow up to be president.
But the film spends more of its time examining America's seedy side. Its characters tend to be hypocritical cynics, reflecting the nation's post-Watergate mood. (Actually, this has always been a dominant feature of American history. We became a superpower in part by herding Native Americans like cattle.)
The amazing thing about "Nashville" is that it never feels indulgent, despite running over two and a half hours and pulling in seemingly every topic it can fit. The credit here is owed to director Robert Altman. He films with a clinical eye, eschewing close ups in favor of shots that utilize his excellent sense of framing. He's also not afraid to suddenly cut away from a scene, once he's made his point.
The odd thing about "Nashville" is that it could easily be a half hour longer or shorter without gaining or losing much. None of the scenes are essential, but they frequently feel that way, and that's all you can ask of a film.
However, it is a hard film to describe. "Nashville" follows 24 characters over the course of five days in the titular city. Almost all of them are at least tangentially connected to the country music industry. Some are also involved in the campaign of Hal Phillip Walker, a "Replacement Party" candidate for president. We never meet Walker, but we frequently see a campaign van driving through town, spouting his populist bromides. The action culminates with a rally for the candidate which features two of the country stars we've met earlier.
Nashville is the perfect city to capture America's irrational, can-do optimism. In one scene, singer Connie King implores a few children to study hard in school, since anyone can grow up to be president.
But the film spends more of its time examining America's seedy side. Its characters tend to be hypocritical cynics, reflecting the nation's post-Watergate mood. (Actually, this has always been a dominant feature of American history. We became a superpower in part by herding Native Americans like cattle.)
The amazing thing about "Nashville" is that it never feels indulgent, despite running over two and a half hours and pulling in seemingly every topic it can fit. The credit here is owed to director Robert Altman. He films with a clinical eye, eschewing close ups in favor of shots that utilize his excellent sense of framing. He's also not afraid to suddenly cut away from a scene, once he's made his point.
The odd thing about "Nashville" is that it could easily be a half hour longer or shorter without gaining or losing much. None of the scenes are essential, but they frequently feel that way, and that's all you can ask of a film.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Wackness
"The Wackness" is made up of lukewarm leftovers of other films. See, there's this teenager who just graduated high school. (What a promising premise!) He's spending his summer slumming it, selling pot in Manhattan. And you're not going to believe this, but his parents are total jerks! Boy, parents suck, amIright?
What could possibly lift this social outcast out of his depressed stupor? Hmm...wait a minute...maybe...a girl! One who's fun and outgoing! One who can teach our young hero to look on the bright side! How uplifting!
But wait...we need another character...someone who the protagonist can talk to about his problems, so we can witness his evolution. Wait! What about...a psychiatrist! Such a brilliant conceit! I can't believe it hasn't been done before, except in a million other mediocre films from "Good Will Hunting" to "Ordinary People".
OK, you get the picture. The "twist" here is that the shrink is also one of the customers of the protagonist, Luke. (It's also worth mentioning that the shrink is played by Ben Kingsley. His presence here is puzzling but his performance is strong.) This isn't quite as original as it might seem, as two years before another indie flick, "Driving Lessons", gave us a teen guided by an old, washed up alcoholic actress.
What saves this film from total banality is its last half hour. First, we get a refreshingly honest sex scene, which shows us what a real encounter between a virgin male and a more experienced female is like. (Most films are more like "Driving Lessons", which cuts away just as the lovers are starting to kiss and assumes that the young man receives some great sexual education overnight.)
Following that, the film meanders, which makes things feel less telegraphed. And it's honest enough to deny any easy resolution for its characters.
One other point is worth mentioning: the film is set in 1994, and some have praised it for giving a true sense of the time. But mostly this leads to a tiresome exercise in throwback references to Zima and "Melrose Place". The only real sense of the times is given by repeated references to Mayor Guiliani's harsh crackdown on crime in the city. The setting mostly seems like an excuse for writer-director Jonathan Levine to play his favorite mid-90s rap tunes.
What could possibly lift this social outcast out of his depressed stupor? Hmm...wait a minute...maybe...a girl! One who's fun and outgoing! One who can teach our young hero to look on the bright side! How uplifting!
But wait...we need another character...someone who the protagonist can talk to about his problems, so we can witness his evolution. Wait! What about...a psychiatrist! Such a brilliant conceit! I can't believe it hasn't been done before, except in a million other mediocre films from "Good Will Hunting" to "Ordinary People".
OK, you get the picture. The "twist" here is that the shrink is also one of the customers of the protagonist, Luke. (It's also worth mentioning that the shrink is played by Ben Kingsley. His presence here is puzzling but his performance is strong.) This isn't quite as original as it might seem, as two years before another indie flick, "Driving Lessons", gave us a teen guided by an old, washed up alcoholic actress.
What saves this film from total banality is its last half hour. First, we get a refreshingly honest sex scene, which shows us what a real encounter between a virgin male and a more experienced female is like. (Most films are more like "Driving Lessons", which cuts away just as the lovers are starting to kiss and assumes that the young man receives some great sexual education overnight.)
Following that, the film meanders, which makes things feel less telegraphed. And it's honest enough to deny any easy resolution for its characters.
One other point is worth mentioning: the film is set in 1994, and some have praised it for giving a true sense of the time. But mostly this leads to a tiresome exercise in throwback references to Zima and "Melrose Place". The only real sense of the times is given by repeated references to Mayor Guiliani's harsh crackdown on crime in the city. The setting mostly seems like an excuse for writer-director Jonathan Levine to play his favorite mid-90s rap tunes.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, "It's Blitz"
Few bands have evolved as much as the Yeah Yeah Yeahs over three albums while remaining winsome. Their debut, "Fever to Tell," was a guttural punch of garage rock, with piercing vocals, rollicking chords and heavy drums. Underrated follow-up "Show Your Bones" consolidated the band's strengths while proving that they could construct four minute songs just as captivating as their two minute numbers.
And now, "It's Blitz". The YYYs' third album is less a progression than a wholesale reinvention. It's a shit-hot electro pop record, the kind of music Madonna would make if she knew how to write songs.
On "It's Blitz," the YYYs take a genre frequently reserved for hacks and make it their own. Karen O's vocals are more polished, yet still sound every bit as human. Guitarist Nick Zinner now spends more time behind a synthesizer but still puts out soaring hooks. Brian Chase's beats are more industrial while losing none of their impact.
The formula is established on album opener "Zero," easily the best song here. Starting out with O's voice and one chord on a synthesizer, the song constantly builds, adding new flourishes from the percussion and synths. After the first chorus, the drums cut away and the band takes a breather. They frequently employ this trick to mix things up and increase their impact when they switch back to full-throttle mode. Later we get a spiraling synth solo (which is far better than it sounds on paper). By the time O kicks back in with the catchy chorus, the band has built up a towering wall of sound. You can't help but sing along.
The album's other bangers are also keepers. "Heads Will Roll" has a similar chord progression to "Blue Monday". It manages to rip from the '80s while still sounding fresh and modern. "Dull Life," with its foot stomping beat, is a veritable indie hoedown.
The slower songs are more of a mixed bag. "Soft Shock" is a grower, slowly climbing with help from a bittersweet synth hook. "Dragon Queen" offers an absurdly danceable bass line and some dense fretwork from Zinner. Repeating a trick she used on breakthrough single "Maps," on "Hysteric" O repeats a line in the chorus while slowly pushing her voice higher. O doesn't have half the range of Beyonce or Mariah, yet she comes off as far more convincing.
But the band also stumbles on the slower material. The two longest songs are probably the two worst: "Skeletons" is all ether, while "Runaway" feels a bit too syrupy with its piano hook. Album closer "Little Shadow" has several brilliant melodies which end up being drowned out by a thudding beat.
The bigger complaint from some fans is that Zinner is being pulled away from his guitar. While it does seem to be a shame that one of rock's heaviest six stringers is now spending more time on keyboards, we'll always have "Fever to Tell." Besides, had the YYYs simply repeated their debut album, they would have found increasingly diminished returns. We would likely have viewed them as yet another one-album wonder. Instead, we're all wondering how they can possibly top this record.
And now, "It's Blitz". The YYYs' third album is less a progression than a wholesale reinvention. It's a shit-hot electro pop record, the kind of music Madonna would make if she knew how to write songs.
On "It's Blitz," the YYYs take a genre frequently reserved for hacks and make it their own. Karen O's vocals are more polished, yet still sound every bit as human. Guitarist Nick Zinner now spends more time behind a synthesizer but still puts out soaring hooks. Brian Chase's beats are more industrial while losing none of their impact.
The formula is established on album opener "Zero," easily the best song here. Starting out with O's voice and one chord on a synthesizer, the song constantly builds, adding new flourishes from the percussion and synths. After the first chorus, the drums cut away and the band takes a breather. They frequently employ this trick to mix things up and increase their impact when they switch back to full-throttle mode. Later we get a spiraling synth solo (which is far better than it sounds on paper). By the time O kicks back in with the catchy chorus, the band has built up a towering wall of sound. You can't help but sing along.
The album's other bangers are also keepers. "Heads Will Roll" has a similar chord progression to "Blue Monday". It manages to rip from the '80s while still sounding fresh and modern. "Dull Life," with its foot stomping beat, is a veritable indie hoedown.
The slower songs are more of a mixed bag. "Soft Shock" is a grower, slowly climbing with help from a bittersweet synth hook. "Dragon Queen" offers an absurdly danceable bass line and some dense fretwork from Zinner. Repeating a trick she used on breakthrough single "Maps," on "Hysteric" O repeats a line in the chorus while slowly pushing her voice higher. O doesn't have half the range of Beyonce or Mariah, yet she comes off as far more convincing.
But the band also stumbles on the slower material. The two longest songs are probably the two worst: "Skeletons" is all ether, while "Runaway" feels a bit too syrupy with its piano hook. Album closer "Little Shadow" has several brilliant melodies which end up being drowned out by a thudding beat.
The bigger complaint from some fans is that Zinner is being pulled away from his guitar. While it does seem to be a shame that one of rock's heaviest six stringers is now spending more time on keyboards, we'll always have "Fever to Tell." Besides, had the YYYs simply repeated their debut album, they would have found increasingly diminished returns. We would likely have viewed them as yet another one-album wonder. Instead, we're all wondering how they can possibly top this record.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
McCabe & Mrs. Miller
I watched "McCabe and Mrs. Miller" on the Encore Western channel. You might not initially think of "McCabe" as a western; it features no tumbleweed, shootouts at high noon or bloodthirsty injuns.
That's because "McCabe" is a western for realists. The action is set in a frontier mountain town in the Pacific northwest. It may not look like the standard western settlement, but it's every bit as lawless. Onto the scene steps McCabe (Warren Beatty), a successful poker player looking to move on to bigger things. He sets up a saloon with little knowledge or experience of how to run one. Luckily, a mysterious Brit named Mrs. Miller (the lovely Julie Christie) comes into town and offers to help manage the business. She effectively turns the saloon into a profitable whorehouse.
McCabe and Mrs. Miller are both first and foremost capitalists, looking to make a buck by hook or by crook. But their cynical exteriors can't entirely hide the burgeoning love they share for one another. This may sound like a few million other movie love affairs, but thankfully Altman doesn't overplay his hand.
The conflict doesn't arise so much as it creeps up on you. McCabe's property happens to have significant mining potential. A company offers to buy him out, but he puts them off, hoping to use his poker skills to bluff them into a higher offer. The firm responds by sending men to kill him.
Whether McCabe is up to the challenge is an open question. He initially projects himself as a classic cool customer, but the film goes back and forth about whether this is truth or just masculine bluster. The uncertainty gives "McCabe," which ambles in its first half, some impressive tension in its second.
The film is directed and co-written by Robert Altman. His trademark overlapping dialogue is in abundance here. While this technique adds a touch of realism, it makes it damn hard to hear what's being said at times. Likewise, Altman doesn't like to spell things out, which gives the viewer opportunities for discovery but can also make events a bit incoherent.
That's because "McCabe" is a western for realists. The action is set in a frontier mountain town in the Pacific northwest. It may not look like the standard western settlement, but it's every bit as lawless. Onto the scene steps McCabe (Warren Beatty), a successful poker player looking to move on to bigger things. He sets up a saloon with little knowledge or experience of how to run one. Luckily, a mysterious Brit named Mrs. Miller (the lovely Julie Christie) comes into town and offers to help manage the business. She effectively turns the saloon into a profitable whorehouse.
McCabe and Mrs. Miller are both first and foremost capitalists, looking to make a buck by hook or by crook. But their cynical exteriors can't entirely hide the burgeoning love they share for one another. This may sound like a few million other movie love affairs, but thankfully Altman doesn't overplay his hand.
The conflict doesn't arise so much as it creeps up on you. McCabe's property happens to have significant mining potential. A company offers to buy him out, but he puts them off, hoping to use his poker skills to bluff them into a higher offer. The firm responds by sending men to kill him.
Whether McCabe is up to the challenge is an open question. He initially projects himself as a classic cool customer, but the film goes back and forth about whether this is truth or just masculine bluster. The uncertainty gives "McCabe," which ambles in its first half, some impressive tension in its second.
The film is directed and co-written by Robert Altman. His trademark overlapping dialogue is in abundance here. While this technique adds a touch of realism, it makes it damn hard to hear what's being said at times. Likewise, Altman doesn't like to spell things out, which gives the viewer opportunities for discovery but can also make events a bit incoherent.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Casino
Watching "Casino" and "Goodfellas," two late-period Martin Scorcese films, is sort of like listening to U2's music from the past ten years. The themes are the same, the personas are the same, but somehow the work just seems like a hollow imitation of former glories.
Based on a true story, "Casino" is not a complicated film. It's an excruciating, three-hour tale of the rise and fall of Sam Rothstein (Robert De Niro) and Nicky Santoro (Joe Pesci). The two childhood friends form an empire in Vegas, only to be brought down by their egos, the feds, and Sam's drug-addled wife (Sharon Stone).
The film has three major problems. The first is the incessant use of voice-over narration. Critics will usually bristle at too much of this technique, yet Scorcese uses voice-overs for almost the entirety of the first half of the film and gets a free pass, much as he did for the same offense in "Goodfellas."
The voice-overs reduce the film to a book on tape with pretty pictures accompanying it. They suck the drama out of the story, giving us just the facts, ma'am. Perhaps most egregiously, they completely waste the talents of one of the greatest actors of all time, De Niro, who's asked to nothing more than walk around in a suit and narrate his actions for much of the film.
A related problem is the excessive running time of "Casino." A standard treatment of this story would give us a few scenes of Sam's early days as a bookie, followed by his big break into Vegas and rise to the top. The second half of the movie would show his demise after meeting his future wife.
It could all be done in two hours. But Scorcese spends too much time in the casino, comprehensively cataloging Sam's strengths as a manager and the mob bosses' shady dealings behind the scenes. The level of detail is excessive; most of it can be inferred. Moreover, all of these crooks' maneuverings are complicated, which is why Scorcese has to rely on the narration as a crutch to explain it to us.
And speaking of crutches, we now come to the third major problem: the incessant pop songs on the soundtrack. Scorcese generally has good taste, but when music is used constantly it loses its effectiveness, becoming more like white noise. He doesn't help his cause by choosing a lot of similar sounding songs, mostly soul and whatever Rolling Stones track he has in his head at a given moment. (I'm a big Stones fan, but Scorcese's obsession is ridiculous. Someone at the MPAA needs to put a limit on the number of songs he can use per film by Mick and the boys.)
The shame of it is that if even half of what Scorcese recounts is true, this is a hell of a story. At one point Santoro apparently needed to change cars six times to lose his tail--six times!
Truth be told, Scorcese does find his rhythm in the final third of the film, chronicling the downfall of his three central characters with the brutal energy that made him a legend. Unfortunately, that vitality is buried underneath so much exposition and gloss that "Casino" feels more like an all-night bender than a jolt of adrenaline.
Based on a true story, "Casino" is not a complicated film. It's an excruciating, three-hour tale of the rise and fall of Sam Rothstein (Robert De Niro) and Nicky Santoro (Joe Pesci). The two childhood friends form an empire in Vegas, only to be brought down by their egos, the feds, and Sam's drug-addled wife (Sharon Stone).
The film has three major problems. The first is the incessant use of voice-over narration. Critics will usually bristle at too much of this technique, yet Scorcese uses voice-overs for almost the entirety of the first half of the film and gets a free pass, much as he did for the same offense in "Goodfellas."
The voice-overs reduce the film to a book on tape with pretty pictures accompanying it. They suck the drama out of the story, giving us just the facts, ma'am. Perhaps most egregiously, they completely waste the talents of one of the greatest actors of all time, De Niro, who's asked to nothing more than walk around in a suit and narrate his actions for much of the film.
A related problem is the excessive running time of "Casino." A standard treatment of this story would give us a few scenes of Sam's early days as a bookie, followed by his big break into Vegas and rise to the top. The second half of the movie would show his demise after meeting his future wife.
It could all be done in two hours. But Scorcese spends too much time in the casino, comprehensively cataloging Sam's strengths as a manager and the mob bosses' shady dealings behind the scenes. The level of detail is excessive; most of it can be inferred. Moreover, all of these crooks' maneuverings are complicated, which is why Scorcese has to rely on the narration as a crutch to explain it to us.
And speaking of crutches, we now come to the third major problem: the incessant pop songs on the soundtrack. Scorcese generally has good taste, but when music is used constantly it loses its effectiveness, becoming more like white noise. He doesn't help his cause by choosing a lot of similar sounding songs, mostly soul and whatever Rolling Stones track he has in his head at a given moment. (I'm a big Stones fan, but Scorcese's obsession is ridiculous. Someone at the MPAA needs to put a limit on the number of songs he can use per film by Mick and the boys.)
The shame of it is that if even half of what Scorcese recounts is true, this is a hell of a story. At one point Santoro apparently needed to change cars six times to lose his tail--six times!
Truth be told, Scorcese does find his rhythm in the final third of the film, chronicling the downfall of his three central characters with the brutal energy that made him a legend. Unfortunately, that vitality is buried underneath so much exposition and gloss that "Casino" feels more like an all-night bender than a jolt of adrenaline.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Billy Liar
It's hard to believe that coming-of-age dramedies about young men are still being released. Not only have plenty of them already been made, but none can hope to top 1963's "Billy Liar."
A clerk at a funeral home in northern England, Billy is even more irresponsible than most characters of his ilk. He's convinced two women that they are engaged to him and routinely steals from his boss. He frequently daydreams, picturing himself as the ruler of an imaginary nation called Astoria.
Yet it's not hard to sympathize with Billy, who is constantly browbeaten by his parents at home and his boss at work. When his ideal arrives--a beautiful girl played by the wonderful Julie Christie, ready to whisk him away to London--he backs down and returns to his parents.
This ending is just about perfect. We learn that Billy is selfish but not a bad person. He's also a dreamer, not a doer. Like so many who rage against the stultifying dullness of suburbia, Billy would be lost without its safety and comforts.
The film was directed by Joel Schlesinger, most famous for his work in "Midnight Cowboy." Schlesinger is far better here, with energetic camerawork and a terrific sequence involving Christie waltzing through the city. Schlesinger also neatly handles Billy's reveries, which are often interrupted suddenly by nuisances such as his parents. As is so often the case with great works, many would imitate Schlesinger, but few could compare.
A clerk at a funeral home in northern England, Billy is even more irresponsible than most characters of his ilk. He's convinced two women that they are engaged to him and routinely steals from his boss. He frequently daydreams, picturing himself as the ruler of an imaginary nation called Astoria.
Yet it's not hard to sympathize with Billy, who is constantly browbeaten by his parents at home and his boss at work. When his ideal arrives--a beautiful girl played by the wonderful Julie Christie, ready to whisk him away to London--he backs down and returns to his parents.
This ending is just about perfect. We learn that Billy is selfish but not a bad person. He's also a dreamer, not a doer. Like so many who rage against the stultifying dullness of suburbia, Billy would be lost without its safety and comforts.
The film was directed by Joel Schlesinger, most famous for his work in "Midnight Cowboy." Schlesinger is far better here, with energetic camerawork and a terrific sequence involving Christie waltzing through the city. Schlesinger also neatly handles Billy's reveries, which are often interrupted suddenly by nuisances such as his parents. As is so often the case with great works, many would imitate Schlesinger, but few could compare.
Bruno
"Bruno" is a very funny movie, superior to at least 90 percent of Hollywood's new releases. It features great acting, ridiculous costumes, social commentary, and plenty of penis jokes.
But "Bruno" is not as good as "Borat," Sacha Baron Cohen's previous incendiary travelogue. The problem is this: Cohen's conceit is to use his characters--a clueless Kazakh in "Borat," an extremely gay TV host in "Bruno"--to say and do outrageous things, then have ordinary people go along with them to reveal their small-mindedness and bigotry.
But in "Bruno," Cohen rachets up the shock value, which often makes his victims' outraged reactions seem reasonable. When Bruno gets Paula Abdul to sit on a Mexican because he has no furniture, it's queasily funny, especially as she talks about helping the less fortunate. But when she is horrified to be offered hors d'oeuvers served on a naked man's body, you can only sympathize with her--the last thing Cohen wants.
Only briefly does Cohen tap into the serious homophobia that plagues much of our nation. One such segment is his interview with a pastor who claims to convert homosexuals. It's not the funniest part of the film, but it's easily the most socially important.
To be fair, Cohen is also skewering other targets, most notably our celebrity-obsessed culture. Posing as a photo shoot coordinator, Bruno gets parents to agree to have their small children operate heavy machinery, be exposed to lead phosphorus and lose 10 pounds in a week. And "Bruno" has plenty of moments which are funny for their own sake, such as when a charity PR consultant urges him to help with the situation in "Derfar."
Also not to be overlooked are Cohen's tremendous acting abilities. Most actors can have dozens of takes to get their lines right. Cohen has only one shot--and he doesn't know how his victims will respond to his antics.
It should also be noted that "Bruno" doesn't have as much narrative coherence as "Borat." Granted, the latter film had a thin wisp of a plot: Borat traveled across the country to meet Pamela Anderson. But "Bruno" feels even more haphazard: the titular character is merely trying to get famous, which allows Cohen to basically do whatever he wants.
This may seem like a small quibble; plot is certainly not why we watch these films. But it's indicative of a larger problem, a lack of overarching satirical vision which prevents "Bruno" from becoming a classic.
But "Bruno" is not as good as "Borat," Sacha Baron Cohen's previous incendiary travelogue. The problem is this: Cohen's conceit is to use his characters--a clueless Kazakh in "Borat," an extremely gay TV host in "Bruno"--to say and do outrageous things, then have ordinary people go along with them to reveal their small-mindedness and bigotry.
But in "Bruno," Cohen rachets up the shock value, which often makes his victims' outraged reactions seem reasonable. When Bruno gets Paula Abdul to sit on a Mexican because he has no furniture, it's queasily funny, especially as she talks about helping the less fortunate. But when she is horrified to be offered hors d'oeuvers served on a naked man's body, you can only sympathize with her--the last thing Cohen wants.
Only briefly does Cohen tap into the serious homophobia that plagues much of our nation. One such segment is his interview with a pastor who claims to convert homosexuals. It's not the funniest part of the film, but it's easily the most socially important.
To be fair, Cohen is also skewering other targets, most notably our celebrity-obsessed culture. Posing as a photo shoot coordinator, Bruno gets parents to agree to have their small children operate heavy machinery, be exposed to lead phosphorus and lose 10 pounds in a week. And "Bruno" has plenty of moments which are funny for their own sake, such as when a charity PR consultant urges him to help with the situation in "Derfar."
Also not to be overlooked are Cohen's tremendous acting abilities. Most actors can have dozens of takes to get their lines right. Cohen has only one shot--and he doesn't know how his victims will respond to his antics.
It should also be noted that "Bruno" doesn't have as much narrative coherence as "Borat." Granted, the latter film had a thin wisp of a plot: Borat traveled across the country to meet Pamela Anderson. But "Bruno" feels even more haphazard: the titular character is merely trying to get famous, which allows Cohen to basically do whatever he wants.
This may seem like a small quibble; plot is certainly not why we watch these films. But it's indicative of a larger problem, a lack of overarching satirical vision which prevents "Bruno" from becoming a classic.
Friday, July 24, 2009
The Conversation
Say you're a visionary director who's just made one of the greatest films in American history. You're working on the sequel, another classic, and you've got a little time on your hands. What do you do? How about making a low-key suspense film with almost no cast and a few locations?
That movie is "The Conversation," Francis Ford Coppola's minor masterpiece. The wispy plot revolves around Harry Caul (Gene Hackman), a surveillance expert hired to record a conversation between two people who appear to be having an affair. Their talk seems to indicate that they are in danger. Harry, who has already seen his work lead to three killings, attempts to intervene, with nasty consequences.
The paradox of the film is that Harry is the nation's top surveillance man, yet he fiercely guards his own private life, refusing even to give out his phone number. His hypocrisy and just desserts are the stuff of Hitchcock.
Coppola's direction is precise yet effortless; here is a master at the top of his game. The camerawork and soundtrack help to elevate what could have been merely a clever little film. Hackman is just right for the stolid and stoic role of Harry.
The one problem with the film is its glacial pacing. Do we really need to see Harry fiddling with his recording equipment before playing back the tapes? Here is yet another Hollywood film that would have been cut down to 90 minutes in the hands of a European director (including Hitchcock, a Brit).
Nonetheless, "The Conversation" is a historically significant work. It's a film from one of America's greatest directors during his relatively brief peak. It also leads one to wonder how Coppola's career could have turned out if he chose a different path. He could have made three or four films like "The Conversation" in the time it took him to make "Apocalypse Now," without suffering the creative burnout and collapse which that debacle wrought.
That movie is "The Conversation," Francis Ford Coppola's minor masterpiece. The wispy plot revolves around Harry Caul (Gene Hackman), a surveillance expert hired to record a conversation between two people who appear to be having an affair. Their talk seems to indicate that they are in danger. Harry, who has already seen his work lead to three killings, attempts to intervene, with nasty consequences.
The paradox of the film is that Harry is the nation's top surveillance man, yet he fiercely guards his own private life, refusing even to give out his phone number. His hypocrisy and just desserts are the stuff of Hitchcock.
Coppola's direction is precise yet effortless; here is a master at the top of his game. The camerawork and soundtrack help to elevate what could have been merely a clever little film. Hackman is just right for the stolid and stoic role of Harry.
The one problem with the film is its glacial pacing. Do we really need to see Harry fiddling with his recording equipment before playing back the tapes? Here is yet another Hollywood film that would have been cut down to 90 minutes in the hands of a European director (including Hitchcock, a Brit).
Nonetheless, "The Conversation" is a historically significant work. It's a film from one of America's greatest directors during his relatively brief peak. It also leads one to wonder how Coppola's career could have turned out if he chose a different path. He could have made three or four films like "The Conversation" in the time it took him to make "Apocalypse Now," without suffering the creative burnout and collapse which that debacle wrought.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Pickup on South Street
Film noir arose in the 1940's as a reaction against typical Hollywood storytelling. As such, it has certain inherent strengths. Noir films are realistic in the sense that they usually lack traditional heroes and villains; at best, the protagonist is willing to do some rather terrible things. Noir also frequently explores the seamier side of life, inspiring dramatic and effective lighting and camerawork.
Unfortunately, noir films also tend to feature hectic pacing, which can lead to slapdash filmmaking and ridiculous plot twists. The best noir explores the grittiness of its characters and settings without resorting to silliness.
"Pickup on South Street," written and directed by Samuel Fuller, is mostly successful in this regard. Skip McCoy is a skillful pickpocket who lifts a purse containing a film intended for delivery to Communists. Soon he finds both G-men and Communists on his trail. The momentum builds to some very energetic action sequences. Particularly effective is a scene involving a man hiding from the police on a dumbwaiter. Fuller knows how to film men throwing punches; small wonder that Martin Scorcese counts him among his influences.
Unfortunately, there are still some goofy little plot twists here. Candy, the owner of the purse Skip lifts, falls hard for him within minutes of meeting him: she's soon risking her life on his behalf. Noir frequently features such sudden swoons; it adds to the drama, by giving the characters new motivations, but it also seems especially unlikely for individuals who are supposed to be hardboiled.
Still, Fuller manages to use his characters to make a couple of points. First, the criminals respect one another; even when being double crossed, Skip recognizes that it's just business. They even manage to assist one another on occasion. Second, they have no use for politics. Skip will help the commies or the cops, whichever will get him cash and keep him out of the clink.
One other gift the film offers is the terrific performance of Thelma Ritter. Playing a stoolie at least twenty years older than her actual age, Ritter received one of her six Academy Award nominations in twelve years for the film, though she never won. Like her character in "Pickup," Ritter didn't get much attention, but she was terrific at her craft.
Unfortunately, noir films also tend to feature hectic pacing, which can lead to slapdash filmmaking and ridiculous plot twists. The best noir explores the grittiness of its characters and settings without resorting to silliness.
"Pickup on South Street," written and directed by Samuel Fuller, is mostly successful in this regard. Skip McCoy is a skillful pickpocket who lifts a purse containing a film intended for delivery to Communists. Soon he finds both G-men and Communists on his trail. The momentum builds to some very energetic action sequences. Particularly effective is a scene involving a man hiding from the police on a dumbwaiter. Fuller knows how to film men throwing punches; small wonder that Martin Scorcese counts him among his influences.
Unfortunately, there are still some goofy little plot twists here. Candy, the owner of the purse Skip lifts, falls hard for him within minutes of meeting him: she's soon risking her life on his behalf. Noir frequently features such sudden swoons; it adds to the drama, by giving the characters new motivations, but it also seems especially unlikely for individuals who are supposed to be hardboiled.
Still, Fuller manages to use his characters to make a couple of points. First, the criminals respect one another; even when being double crossed, Skip recognizes that it's just business. They even manage to assist one another on occasion. Second, they have no use for politics. Skip will help the commies or the cops, whichever will get him cash and keep him out of the clink.
One other gift the film offers is the terrific performance of Thelma Ritter. Playing a stoolie at least twenty years older than her actual age, Ritter received one of her six Academy Award nominations in twelve years for the film, though she never won. Like her character in "Pickup," Ritter didn't get much attention, but she was terrific at her craft.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Public Enemies
"Public Enemies" is a robotic sort of film. It's technically proficient, but it doesn't have much of a soul.
Those familiar with the director, Michael Mann, who also helped write the screenplay, will hardly be surprised that he's produced another well-crafted, gritty crime drama. This one follows famed 1930's bank robber John Dillinger (Johnny Depp) as FBI agent Melvin Pervis (Christian Bale) hunts him down.
Mann seems to be going for a crime movie that's as realistic as possible. Most of the time "Public Enemies" gives us just the facts, ma'am, with little in the way of characterization or Hollywood touches.
This approach yields some very effective heist and chase sequences. But Mann is so busy chronicling events that we don't really get to know Dillinger: we learn that he's impatient, egotistical and loyal, but that's about it. As for Pervis, he's more of a plot device than a character. This seems like quite a waste, partly because Bale can do a lot more than look tough in a suit, and partly because in real life Pervis committed suicide at 56; surely his job took a large psychological toll on him.
Moreover, Mann still indulges in some inaccuracies. For example, Baby Face Nelson was killed after Dillinger, but the film reverses this to make the latter the last gangster standing. Also ridiculous is a scene in which Dillinger walks into an FBI office hunting him down; the G-men are too caught up listening to a ballgame over lunch to notice him.
One other issue: Mann's use of digital film. This also serves his instincts for realism, with lots of handheld, ultra-sharp shots, but I'm not convinced digital is preferable to film. Digital shots tend to show fast motion--and there is a lot of that in this film--as a distracting blur.
Mann wants to create a grim, documentary-like film, but he still recognizes the need for dramatization. He would have been better served by giving in to the second impulse. It might have taught us more about Dillinger and Pervis; more importantly, it might have made us care.
Those familiar with the director, Michael Mann, who also helped write the screenplay, will hardly be surprised that he's produced another well-crafted, gritty crime drama. This one follows famed 1930's bank robber John Dillinger (Johnny Depp) as FBI agent Melvin Pervis (Christian Bale) hunts him down.
Mann seems to be going for a crime movie that's as realistic as possible. Most of the time "Public Enemies" gives us just the facts, ma'am, with little in the way of characterization or Hollywood touches.
This approach yields some very effective heist and chase sequences. But Mann is so busy chronicling events that we don't really get to know Dillinger: we learn that he's impatient, egotistical and loyal, but that's about it. As for Pervis, he's more of a plot device than a character. This seems like quite a waste, partly because Bale can do a lot more than look tough in a suit, and partly because in real life Pervis committed suicide at 56; surely his job took a large psychological toll on him.
Moreover, Mann still indulges in some inaccuracies. For example, Baby Face Nelson was killed after Dillinger, but the film reverses this to make the latter the last gangster standing. Also ridiculous is a scene in which Dillinger walks into an FBI office hunting him down; the G-men are too caught up listening to a ballgame over lunch to notice him.
One other issue: Mann's use of digital film. This also serves his instincts for realism, with lots of handheld, ultra-sharp shots, but I'm not convinced digital is preferable to film. Digital shots tend to show fast motion--and there is a lot of that in this film--as a distracting blur.
Mann wants to create a grim, documentary-like film, but he still recognizes the need for dramatization. He would have been better served by giving in to the second impulse. It might have taught us more about Dillinger and Pervis; more importantly, it might have made us care.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The Deer Hunter
"The Deer Hunter" has some very promising ideas and nice moments. The trouble is that the film runs over three hours, which means there's a lot of chaff to separate from the wheat.
The film tells the story of three Pennsylvania steelworkers, Michael (Robert De Niro), Nick (Christopher Walken), and Steven (Nick Savage). In the film's first hour, Steven gets married and goes hunting with his buddies. This part of the movie is by far the most effective. It gives us the most realistic look at male comradery I have seen on film: the backslapping, the pranks, the crude banter, the drinking.
After their hunting trip, the men are shipped off to Vietnam. Predictably, the film shifts in tone here. The first scene in Vietnam is absolutely harrowing: having been captured by the Viet Cong, the men are forced to play a deadly version of Russian roulette. One bullet is put in a pistol and each man is forced to fire the gun at his own head, praying that the bullet is not in the chamber that fires.
Upon their escape, however, the film begins to drag considerably. Steven is injured, while Michael and Nick wander the streets.
In the film's final section, Michael returns home, only to find out that Steven has lost three limbs and Nick is AWOL. Michael can no longer engage in macho roughhousing; he can't even bring himself to shoot a deer, his previous favorite pastime. He has seen the logical conclusion of the masculine mindset, and it horrifies him.
If "The Deer Hunter" were focused on this theme, it would be a powerful statement. But director Michael Cimino has too much else on his agenda. His sequences are bloated and often unnecessary; for example, the ending, which explains Nick's fate, adds nothing that we couldn't already have inferred.
Had "The Deer Hunter" been made five years earlier or later, the studio would likely have forced Cimino to trim it down. Alas, it was made at the height of '70's Hollywood excess. The film could have been a punch to the stomach; instead, it's more of a sedative.
The film tells the story of three Pennsylvania steelworkers, Michael (Robert De Niro), Nick (Christopher Walken), and Steven (Nick Savage). In the film's first hour, Steven gets married and goes hunting with his buddies. This part of the movie is by far the most effective. It gives us the most realistic look at male comradery I have seen on film: the backslapping, the pranks, the crude banter, the drinking.
After their hunting trip, the men are shipped off to Vietnam. Predictably, the film shifts in tone here. The first scene in Vietnam is absolutely harrowing: having been captured by the Viet Cong, the men are forced to play a deadly version of Russian roulette. One bullet is put in a pistol and each man is forced to fire the gun at his own head, praying that the bullet is not in the chamber that fires.
Upon their escape, however, the film begins to drag considerably. Steven is injured, while Michael and Nick wander the streets.
In the film's final section, Michael returns home, only to find out that Steven has lost three limbs and Nick is AWOL. Michael can no longer engage in macho roughhousing; he can't even bring himself to shoot a deer, his previous favorite pastime. He has seen the logical conclusion of the masculine mindset, and it horrifies him.
If "The Deer Hunter" were focused on this theme, it would be a powerful statement. But director Michael Cimino has too much else on his agenda. His sequences are bloated and often unnecessary; for example, the ending, which explains Nick's fate, adds nothing that we couldn't already have inferred.
Had "The Deer Hunter" been made five years earlier or later, the studio would likely have forced Cimino to trim it down. Alas, it was made at the height of '70's Hollywood excess. The film could have been a punch to the stomach; instead, it's more of a sedative.
Alexander Nevsky
Sergei Eisenstein is justly acclaimed as one of the most influential directors in history. Unfortunately, I must take issue with one of his most lauded films, "Alexander Nevsky."
The plot of "Nevsky" could not be any more straightforward. The Germans invade 13th-century Russia. Prince Alexander must lead his countrymen against them. Since the film was funded by the Soviets, you can guess who wins.
Most of the film is very stiff and wooden. It feels like a silent movie with spoken dialogue put in--which makes sense, since Eisenstein started in the silent era. Each time a different character must speak, there is a brief pause as the camera cuts to that character.
This sort of filmmaking was necessary, even preferable, in the silent era because we couldn't hear any of the dialogue, and we needed to know who was speaking. But by 1938, film had advanced quite a bit; "Nevsky" was made the year after "Grand Illusion" and the year before "Gone With the Wind." Yet we still get shot after static shot of one character, delivering dialogue.
However, the film is mostly praised not for these sequences but for the "Battle on the Ice" scene. This scene was extremely influential, but it's not particularly effective.
The scene fails for the same reason that most battle scenes fail: we can't get a good grasp on what's happening. There are thousands of things happening on a battle field at any one time. It's impossible to capture all of them, so instead Eisenstein does the only thing he can: he gives us lots of shots of people swinging swords, interspersed with shots of people running around. After a half an hour, we're told the Russians won. But since we couldn't really understand what was going on, there was no sense of suspense or urgency.
Contrast this with, say, the "Odessa Staircase" sequence in Eisenstein's "Battleship Potemkin." Here, we see the Tsar's men chasing civilians down a staircase. There is a real sense of terror here, since we can actually comprehend what we're seeing.
Again, this isn't Eisenstein's fault. The challenges of filming a good battle scene have still only partially been overcome. Some things just don't work well on film. We'd be better off if directors stuck to action sequences that the audience can get a handle on.
The plot of "Nevsky" could not be any more straightforward. The Germans invade 13th-century Russia. Prince Alexander must lead his countrymen against them. Since the film was funded by the Soviets, you can guess who wins.
Most of the film is very stiff and wooden. It feels like a silent movie with spoken dialogue put in--which makes sense, since Eisenstein started in the silent era. Each time a different character must speak, there is a brief pause as the camera cuts to that character.
This sort of filmmaking was necessary, even preferable, in the silent era because we couldn't hear any of the dialogue, and we needed to know who was speaking. But by 1938, film had advanced quite a bit; "Nevsky" was made the year after "Grand Illusion" and the year before "Gone With the Wind." Yet we still get shot after static shot of one character, delivering dialogue.
However, the film is mostly praised not for these sequences but for the "Battle on the Ice" scene. This scene was extremely influential, but it's not particularly effective.
The scene fails for the same reason that most battle scenes fail: we can't get a good grasp on what's happening. There are thousands of things happening on a battle field at any one time. It's impossible to capture all of them, so instead Eisenstein does the only thing he can: he gives us lots of shots of people swinging swords, interspersed with shots of people running around. After a half an hour, we're told the Russians won. But since we couldn't really understand what was going on, there was no sense of suspense or urgency.
Contrast this with, say, the "Odessa Staircase" sequence in Eisenstein's "Battleship Potemkin." Here, we see the Tsar's men chasing civilians down a staircase. There is a real sense of terror here, since we can actually comprehend what we're seeing.
Again, this isn't Eisenstein's fault. The challenges of filming a good battle scene have still only partially been overcome. Some things just don't work well on film. We'd be better off if directors stuck to action sequences that the audience can get a handle on.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Mystic River
"Mystic River" is a reasonably well-done crime thriller. Like the career of its director, Clint Eastwood, it's solid, if a bit overrated.
The plot, based on a novel by Dennis Lehane, is the strongest part of the film. Jimmy Markum (Sean Penn), a Boston born and bred ex-con, is out for blood following the murder of his daughter Katie. A great deal of circumstantial evidence points to the guilt of his childhood friend, Dave Boyle (Tim Robbins). Boyle, who is still haunted by a nightmarish childhood molestation experience, is becoming mentally unhinged and struggles to defend himself. The only person who seems skeptical of Dave's guilt is Sean Devine (Kevin Bacon), another childhood friend of Boyle and Markum who is now investigating the case.
The film is an actor's showcase, and Penn and Robbins make the most of it. They provide a nice point-counterpoint, Penn's coiled rage contrasted with Robbins' withdrawn and troubled demeanor.
The trouble is that there are too many other juicy roles, including that of Boyle's wife, who believes her husband guilty, and Devine, who has separated from his wife in a rather pointless subplot. The film never gets a chance to breathe; it's constantly jumping from one scene of emotional turmoil to another.
Another problem is that Bacon lacks the chops to handle his role. When called upon to provide anger during an interrogation scene, he instead seems merely irritated. In addition, some of the line readings feel a bit rushed and rote. Laura Linney, who plays Markum's wife, has a particularly undercooked monologue at the end of the film. (However, the fault may not lie with Linney, who is quite talented. "Gran Torino," another recent Eastwood film, occasionally suffered the same problem.)
As usual, Eastwood's direction is solid but unspectacular; he does what is needed. The editing is particularly good during the climax of the film, which cuts between two scenes at just the right moments.
"Mystic River" garnered some deserved praise, including two Academy Awards: Penn for Best Actor, and Robbins for Best Supporting Actor. But it could have been a classic, if only it hadn't overplayed its hand.
The plot, based on a novel by Dennis Lehane, is the strongest part of the film. Jimmy Markum (Sean Penn), a Boston born and bred ex-con, is out for blood following the murder of his daughter Katie. A great deal of circumstantial evidence points to the guilt of his childhood friend, Dave Boyle (Tim Robbins). Boyle, who is still haunted by a nightmarish childhood molestation experience, is becoming mentally unhinged and struggles to defend himself. The only person who seems skeptical of Dave's guilt is Sean Devine (Kevin Bacon), another childhood friend of Boyle and Markum who is now investigating the case.
The film is an actor's showcase, and Penn and Robbins make the most of it. They provide a nice point-counterpoint, Penn's coiled rage contrasted with Robbins' withdrawn and troubled demeanor.
The trouble is that there are too many other juicy roles, including that of Boyle's wife, who believes her husband guilty, and Devine, who has separated from his wife in a rather pointless subplot. The film never gets a chance to breathe; it's constantly jumping from one scene of emotional turmoil to another.
Another problem is that Bacon lacks the chops to handle his role. When called upon to provide anger during an interrogation scene, he instead seems merely irritated. In addition, some of the line readings feel a bit rushed and rote. Laura Linney, who plays Markum's wife, has a particularly undercooked monologue at the end of the film. (However, the fault may not lie with Linney, who is quite talented. "Gran Torino," another recent Eastwood film, occasionally suffered the same problem.)
As usual, Eastwood's direction is solid but unspectacular; he does what is needed. The editing is particularly good during the climax of the film, which cuts between two scenes at just the right moments.
"Mystic River" garnered some deserved praise, including two Academy Awards: Penn for Best Actor, and Robbins for Best Supporting Actor. But it could have been a classic, if only it hadn't overplayed its hand.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Gran Torino
"Gran Torino" is an R-rated after-school special. It's much more interested in teaching its characters lessons than in storytelling.
Clint Eastwood stars as Walt Kowalski, but he's really more of a caricature than a character here. In case you ever forget that Kowalski is old as dirt, Eastwood grimaces, groans and delivers lines about how Young People Today Have No Respect in about three-quarters of the scenes.
Kowalski is a lonely widower living in suburban Michigan. His life takes a turn when he befriends the family next door to him. This friendship is unlikely, to say the least, because the family is of the Hmong ethnicity, while Kowalski is racist enough to fit in at a Klan meeting.
He seems to have a particular contempt for Asians, perhaps because of his service in the Korean War. Even when visiting his neighbors' house, he tosses around the word "gook" as often as Tony Montana drops F-bombs. It seems improbable that Kowalski could overcome his racism to see that his neighbors are better people than his own children. It's downright absurd that the family would put up with his open ignorance and contempt ("I thought Asian girls were supposed to be smart").
Kowalski forms a particularly close bond with Thao, a teenage boy. Thao's father has died and he clearly needs guidance. He looks to Kowalski to provide it, even though the old man accuses him of being a "pussy" enough times in one monologue to set some sort of Hollywood record.
Thao and his family are harassed by a gang, which leads to a confrontation between Kowalski and the young punks. The ending is telegraphed from a mile away.
Not surprisingly, a movie this preachy features some ham-handed dialogue, particularly between Kowalski and a priest ("I've been thinking about our conversation about life and death"). Eastwood directs, and as usual, he is competent. He deserves credit for making the gang scenes passable, considering he's working with actors sixty years his junior.
In a recent interview, Eastwood was asked who he makes movies for now. He pointed to himself. That sums up "Gran Torino" pretty well. It's an opportunity for Eastwood to berate young whippersnappers, show he's racially enlightened and play a martyr.
Clint Eastwood stars as Walt Kowalski, but he's really more of a caricature than a character here. In case you ever forget that Kowalski is old as dirt, Eastwood grimaces, groans and delivers lines about how Young People Today Have No Respect in about three-quarters of the scenes.
Kowalski is a lonely widower living in suburban Michigan. His life takes a turn when he befriends the family next door to him. This friendship is unlikely, to say the least, because the family is of the Hmong ethnicity, while Kowalski is racist enough to fit in at a Klan meeting.
He seems to have a particular contempt for Asians, perhaps because of his service in the Korean War. Even when visiting his neighbors' house, he tosses around the word "gook" as often as Tony Montana drops F-bombs. It seems improbable that Kowalski could overcome his racism to see that his neighbors are better people than his own children. It's downright absurd that the family would put up with his open ignorance and contempt ("I thought Asian girls were supposed to be smart").
Kowalski forms a particularly close bond with Thao, a teenage boy. Thao's father has died and he clearly needs guidance. He looks to Kowalski to provide it, even though the old man accuses him of being a "pussy" enough times in one monologue to set some sort of Hollywood record.
Thao and his family are harassed by a gang, which leads to a confrontation between Kowalski and the young punks. The ending is telegraphed from a mile away.
Not surprisingly, a movie this preachy features some ham-handed dialogue, particularly between Kowalski and a priest ("I've been thinking about our conversation about life and death"). Eastwood directs, and as usual, he is competent. He deserves credit for making the gang scenes passable, considering he's working with actors sixty years his junior.
In a recent interview, Eastwood was asked who he makes movies for now. He pointed to himself. That sums up "Gran Torino" pretty well. It's an opportunity for Eastwood to berate young whippersnappers, show he's racially enlightened and play a martyr.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Virgin Suicides
In "The Godfather" Part 3, Sofia Coppola proved she could act about as well as a professional wrestler.
But in "The Virgin Suicides," Coppola proves she can direct the hell out of a movie.
Based on a novel by Jeffrey Eugenides, the story is economical. In 1970's suburban Michigan, the five teenage Lisbon sisters live under the aegis of their strict Catholic parents. When rules are relaxed and the girls are allowed to bring boys over, their behavior takes a predictable turn. A stern crackdown ensues, which leads to the tragic events heavily implied in the title.
A plot summary can't really do this film justice, though, because it leaves out the eerie atmosphere which pervades "The Virgin Suicides." There are two major reasons for this disturbing mood. First, we barely get to know all but one of the Lisbon sisters; they remain mysterious pretty things throughout the film. Secondly, we are warned at the outset and throughout the film of the tragedy to come.
Coppola helps build this atmosphere not with fancy tricks, but with an understated direction. She uses straightforward camera angles and provides only brief glimpses of the misdeeds, large and small, committed by the sisters.
As for the music, Coppola has always shown she has good taste, but she hasn't always known the right time to use it. (Putting the Strokes on your soundtrack is rarely a wrong move, but it certainly is in a film about Marie Antoinette.) Here she eschews quality--save for a nice recurring score by the French duo Air--in favor of songs which encapsulate adolescence in the 1970's.
The faults of "The Virgin Suicides" lie mostly in the plot. We are told that everything changes when the girls are allowed to invite boys over, but they attend a public coed school. Haven't they already been exposed to plenty of testosterone? More puzzling is that the film continually insists that the events of its climax are a mystery, impossible to explain, even though the reasons are all laid out for us.
In fact, this explanation may be the film's greatest strength. "The Virgin Suicides" is a first-rate portrait of adolescence: the ignorance and immaturity of the boys, the sexual allure of the girls, and the persecution complex of both genders which can sometimes lead to unspeakable acts.
But in "The Virgin Suicides," Coppola proves she can direct the hell out of a movie.
Based on a novel by Jeffrey Eugenides, the story is economical. In 1970's suburban Michigan, the five teenage Lisbon sisters live under the aegis of their strict Catholic parents. When rules are relaxed and the girls are allowed to bring boys over, their behavior takes a predictable turn. A stern crackdown ensues, which leads to the tragic events heavily implied in the title.
A plot summary can't really do this film justice, though, because it leaves out the eerie atmosphere which pervades "The Virgin Suicides." There are two major reasons for this disturbing mood. First, we barely get to know all but one of the Lisbon sisters; they remain mysterious pretty things throughout the film. Secondly, we are warned at the outset and throughout the film of the tragedy to come.
Coppola helps build this atmosphere not with fancy tricks, but with an understated direction. She uses straightforward camera angles and provides only brief glimpses of the misdeeds, large and small, committed by the sisters.
As for the music, Coppola has always shown she has good taste, but she hasn't always known the right time to use it. (Putting the Strokes on your soundtrack is rarely a wrong move, but it certainly is in a film about Marie Antoinette.) Here she eschews quality--save for a nice recurring score by the French duo Air--in favor of songs which encapsulate adolescence in the 1970's.
The faults of "The Virgin Suicides" lie mostly in the plot. We are told that everything changes when the girls are allowed to invite boys over, but they attend a public coed school. Haven't they already been exposed to plenty of testosterone? More puzzling is that the film continually insists that the events of its climax are a mystery, impossible to explain, even though the reasons are all laid out for us.
In fact, this explanation may be the film's greatest strength. "The Virgin Suicides" is a first-rate portrait of adolescence: the ignorance and immaturity of the boys, the sexual allure of the girls, and the persecution complex of both genders which can sometimes lead to unspeakable acts.
Friday, June 12, 2009
The Good Girl
"The Good Girl" does not have a very promising premise. It's an indie movie--cue the spare acoustic guitars--starring Jennifer Aniston. Aniston is a bored suburban retail worker who has an affair with a younger man. Looks like we're going to get a rote version of "American Beauty" crossed with "Madame Bovary."
But "The Good Girl" has some tricks up its sleeve. By its conclusion, it seems more like a cross between a milder version of a Coen brothers movie and a milder version of "Revolutionary Road." Like the former, its seemingly plain characters are actually capable of some dastardly acts. Like the latter, it tests the limits of its protagonist's willingness to escape suburban malaise.
To be clear, "The Good Girl" is not as ambitious or jarring as the above references; these characters are never quite at each other's throats. The filmmaking signals this throughout. Like its score, the camera reflects the film's modest aims, sitting back to encompass the relevant characters and letting them tell the story.
But "The Good Girl" is never boring either. The film is briskly paced, picking up momentum as it runs along. Director Miguel Arteta manages to surprise us frequently by momentarily withholding information in a scene. The screenplay by Mike White offers some light comic touches to keep things moving.
The acting is serviceable, if not spectacular. Aniston gives us a passable Texas accent and manages to do what is needed. (Luckily, the plot is interesting enough that she doesn't have to carry it.) John C. Reilly is her dopey husband. He's frequently cast in roles like this because he looks the part, and he's more than up to the task. Jake Gyllenhaal, Aniston's lover, already had plenty of experience playing a brooding young man from "Donnie Darko."
"The Good Girl" will not change your life. But there are much worse ways to spend 90 minutes.
But "The Good Girl" has some tricks up its sleeve. By its conclusion, it seems more like a cross between a milder version of a Coen brothers movie and a milder version of "Revolutionary Road." Like the former, its seemingly plain characters are actually capable of some dastardly acts. Like the latter, it tests the limits of its protagonist's willingness to escape suburban malaise.
To be clear, "The Good Girl" is not as ambitious or jarring as the above references; these characters are never quite at each other's throats. The filmmaking signals this throughout. Like its score, the camera reflects the film's modest aims, sitting back to encompass the relevant characters and letting them tell the story.
But "The Good Girl" is never boring either. The film is briskly paced, picking up momentum as it runs along. Director Miguel Arteta manages to surprise us frequently by momentarily withholding information in a scene. The screenplay by Mike White offers some light comic touches to keep things moving.
The acting is serviceable, if not spectacular. Aniston gives us a passable Texas accent and manages to do what is needed. (Luckily, the plot is interesting enough that she doesn't have to carry it.) John C. Reilly is her dopey husband. He's frequently cast in roles like this because he looks the part, and he's more than up to the task. Jake Gyllenhaal, Aniston's lover, already had plenty of experience playing a brooding young man from "Donnie Darko."
"The Good Girl" will not change your life. But there are much worse ways to spend 90 minutes.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
The Silence of the Lambs
"The Silence of the Lambs" is regarded by many as one of the greatest thrillers ever made. I fully agree--if we're talking about Michael Crichton thrillers.
Unfortunately, "Silence" can't hold a candle to the truly great, as opposed to merely entertaining, thrillers.
Why not? First off, the ridiculous premise. Jodie Foster is Clarice, an FBI agent-in-training who is called on to interview Hannibal Lecter, one of the most dangerous serial killers on the planet. Lecter is believed to have information on Buffalo Bill, a serial killer who is still on the loose. Why is Clarice chosen for this job, despite her total lack of experience? Because Jodie Foster is an extremely attractive woman. In fact, throughout the film we are reminded that Jodie Foster is a woman, that Jodie Foster is hot and that men will behave irrationally in the presence of hot, hot women like Jodie Foster.
If you can get past this silliness, you may enjoy the movie. But you'll also have to deal with ridiculous plot twists. Such as: when Hannibal uses the word "yourself," Clarice realizes that this is unusual and must be a clue. (Apparently she is a master linguist in addition to being an ace amateur detective.) This tips Clarice off that Hannibal has a unit at the "Your Self Storage Facility," where she finds...a severed head. Which is gross. But not particularly frightening.
In fact, many of the "scary" moments in "Silence" are really just gross-out moments, not much different than what you would see these days on your average CSI episode. And that's part of the problem: when you rely on shock value, your movie becomes dated very quickly.
A good thriller works by making us afraid of what will happen next. "Silence" only achieves this at the very end, and even then, it can't resist another silly moment as the killer is gunned down.
It's a shame "Silence" couldn't be a better film. It squanders a couple of artful twists, along with a very good performance by Anthony Hopkins. But most of this movie leaves one too incredulous to be scared.
Unfortunately, "Silence" can't hold a candle to the truly great, as opposed to merely entertaining, thrillers.
Why not? First off, the ridiculous premise. Jodie Foster is Clarice, an FBI agent-in-training who is called on to interview Hannibal Lecter, one of the most dangerous serial killers on the planet. Lecter is believed to have information on Buffalo Bill, a serial killer who is still on the loose. Why is Clarice chosen for this job, despite her total lack of experience? Because Jodie Foster is an extremely attractive woman. In fact, throughout the film we are reminded that Jodie Foster is a woman, that Jodie Foster is hot and that men will behave irrationally in the presence of hot, hot women like Jodie Foster.
If you can get past this silliness, you may enjoy the movie. But you'll also have to deal with ridiculous plot twists. Such as: when Hannibal uses the word "yourself," Clarice realizes that this is unusual and must be a clue. (Apparently she is a master linguist in addition to being an ace amateur detective.) This tips Clarice off that Hannibal has a unit at the "Your Self Storage Facility," where she finds...a severed head. Which is gross. But not particularly frightening.
In fact, many of the "scary" moments in "Silence" are really just gross-out moments, not much different than what you would see these days on your average CSI episode. And that's part of the problem: when you rely on shock value, your movie becomes dated very quickly.
A good thriller works by making us afraid of what will happen next. "Silence" only achieves this at the very end, and even then, it can't resist another silly moment as the killer is gunned down.
It's a shame "Silence" couldn't be a better film. It squanders a couple of artful twists, along with a very good performance by Anthony Hopkins. But most of this movie leaves one too incredulous to be scared.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Sophie's Choice
"Sophie's Choice" wants desperately to be a Great Hollywood Epic. Instead, it has to settle for merely being worthwhile.
Superficially, the film does feature the hallmarks of an Oscar-winning classic. It's an actor-driven drama featuring a love triangle with two principals who harbor Dark Secrets. Even better, one of those characters is a Holocaust survivor.
But only one of the film's assets can fairly be described as timeless: Meryl Streep's Oscar-winning performance as a Polish immigrant who has only recently survived Auschwitz. Streep has to carry this film and she absolutely nails it. The acrobatics required for her emotionally ravaged character would be difficult enough to negotiate without her also affecting a Polish accent. Her phrasing and mannerisms as a non-native English speaker are impeccable.
Streep's performance alone makes the film worth seeing. She is assisted by Kevin Kline, who turns in a strong effort as her unstable lover. Alan Paluka's austere directing also pays dividends at times, as when the camera lingers over the suffering masses of Auschwitz. The other point to recommend the film is its plot, which features enough twists to keep us interested most of the way.
But these strengths are undermined throughout "Sophie's Choice." Chief among the film's weaknesses is the performance of Peter MacNicol as a young writer who befriends the two lovers. With his overly earnest acting, MacNicol seems like he's wandered in from the set of a bad '80s B-movie. He threatens to derail every scene in which he is a focal point; the film works best when he is merely an observer of Streep and Kline.
Another major issue is the score, which is a total clunker. From the opening strains of strings in the first scene--more awkward than stirring--we know we will have to suffer through some maudlin music at moments which should be genuinely moving.
Pakula's patient approach also outlasts that of the audience at times. He seems determined to draw every last scene out, and throws in a brief romantic dalliance involving MacNicol which is utterly pointless.
The plot also has a couple of leaps that strain credulity. They are symptomatic of the film as a whole: when "Sophie's Choice" should be soaring, we are reminded that it's only a movie.
Superficially, the film does feature the hallmarks of an Oscar-winning classic. It's an actor-driven drama featuring a love triangle with two principals who harbor Dark Secrets. Even better, one of those characters is a Holocaust survivor.
But only one of the film's assets can fairly be described as timeless: Meryl Streep's Oscar-winning performance as a Polish immigrant who has only recently survived Auschwitz. Streep has to carry this film and she absolutely nails it. The acrobatics required for her emotionally ravaged character would be difficult enough to negotiate without her also affecting a Polish accent. Her phrasing and mannerisms as a non-native English speaker are impeccable.
Streep's performance alone makes the film worth seeing. She is assisted by Kevin Kline, who turns in a strong effort as her unstable lover. Alan Paluka's austere directing also pays dividends at times, as when the camera lingers over the suffering masses of Auschwitz. The other point to recommend the film is its plot, which features enough twists to keep us interested most of the way.
But these strengths are undermined throughout "Sophie's Choice." Chief among the film's weaknesses is the performance of Peter MacNicol as a young writer who befriends the two lovers. With his overly earnest acting, MacNicol seems like he's wandered in from the set of a bad '80s B-movie. He threatens to derail every scene in which he is a focal point; the film works best when he is merely an observer of Streep and Kline.
Another major issue is the score, which is a total clunker. From the opening strains of strings in the first scene--more awkward than stirring--we know we will have to suffer through some maudlin music at moments which should be genuinely moving.
Pakula's patient approach also outlasts that of the audience at times. He seems determined to draw every last scene out, and throws in a brief romantic dalliance involving MacNicol which is utterly pointless.
The plot also has a couple of leaps that strain credulity. They are symptomatic of the film as a whole: when "Sophie's Choice" should be soaring, we are reminded that it's only a movie.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Adventureland
"Adventureland" is a coming-of-age dramedy about a recent college graduate. No one will applaud it for originality. But neither will they accuse it of insincerity.
At a time when it seems like 40 percent of Hollywood releases are blood and or boob vehicles for adolescent men, it's nice to see a film explore the male perspective in a more intelligent vein.
Written and directed by Greg Mottola, "Adventureland" stars Jesse Eisenberg as James, a socially awkward pseudo-intellectual. He plans to take the requisite trip to Europe before beginning graduate school. But when his parents' finances take a hit, his plans get downgraded to working at a theme park in Pittsburgh in the summer of 1987.
Here he meets a motley band of amusingly written stereotypes, including the crazy park manager, the hot girl and the brooding depressive. But his most important new acquaintance is Em (Kristen Stewart). As soon as Em and James meet, we know their fate. But Mottola creates enough reasonable obstacles in their courtship that the plot doesn't feel labored.
The chief barrier is Em's affair with the park's maintenance guy, Mike Connell (Ryan Reynolds). Inside the park Connell gives off an impenetrable aura of coolness. Outside, he takes women to his mother's basement to cheat on his wife.
Em's attraction to Connell is a symptom of her low self-esteem, which is explained by her dysfunctional family situation. Her mother has died of cancer and her father has remarried a wicked stepmother. James' own parents are similarly unsupportive and irresponsible: his father hides a bottle of liquor in the car, which James uses with unfortunate consequences.
These characters amount to yet another lampooning of the Baby Boomers for irresponsibility. There's some truth and some unfairness in the accusation, but at least it's used here to help explain the protagonists' background and motivations.
Mottola's previous work was as director of "Superbad," but he has replaced most of that film's crude humor here with quality filmmaking. He strikes just the right balance between comedy and drama, and moves the film along at a varied pace. Some scenes fly by, while other plotlines are drawn out. This pacing matches the speed of life; time can seem to drag on forever, and then suddenly events happen in a flurry.
Mottola also aptly evokes the '80s with a soundtrack featuring the Replacements and the Cure. The cinematography always feels appropriate for the scene, varying from close-ups to hand held shots.
"Adventureland" is hardly perfect. The final quarter of the movie veers a bit wildly, as Mottola seeks to bring James down before his inevitable redemption. But with well-made, charming films as rare these days as slasher flicks are common, we should celebrate "Adventureland" in spite of its flaws.
At a time when it seems like 40 percent of Hollywood releases are blood and or boob vehicles for adolescent men, it's nice to see a film explore the male perspective in a more intelligent vein.
Written and directed by Greg Mottola, "Adventureland" stars Jesse Eisenberg as James, a socially awkward pseudo-intellectual. He plans to take the requisite trip to Europe before beginning graduate school. But when his parents' finances take a hit, his plans get downgraded to working at a theme park in Pittsburgh in the summer of 1987.
Here he meets a motley band of amusingly written stereotypes, including the crazy park manager, the hot girl and the brooding depressive. But his most important new acquaintance is Em (Kristen Stewart). As soon as Em and James meet, we know their fate. But Mottola creates enough reasonable obstacles in their courtship that the plot doesn't feel labored.
The chief barrier is Em's affair with the park's maintenance guy, Mike Connell (Ryan Reynolds). Inside the park Connell gives off an impenetrable aura of coolness. Outside, he takes women to his mother's basement to cheat on his wife.
Em's attraction to Connell is a symptom of her low self-esteem, which is explained by her dysfunctional family situation. Her mother has died of cancer and her father has remarried a wicked stepmother. James' own parents are similarly unsupportive and irresponsible: his father hides a bottle of liquor in the car, which James uses with unfortunate consequences.
These characters amount to yet another lampooning of the Baby Boomers for irresponsibility. There's some truth and some unfairness in the accusation, but at least it's used here to help explain the protagonists' background and motivations.
Mottola's previous work was as director of "Superbad," but he has replaced most of that film's crude humor here with quality filmmaking. He strikes just the right balance between comedy and drama, and moves the film along at a varied pace. Some scenes fly by, while other plotlines are drawn out. This pacing matches the speed of life; time can seem to drag on forever, and then suddenly events happen in a flurry.
Mottola also aptly evokes the '80s with a soundtrack featuring the Replacements and the Cure. The cinematography always feels appropriate for the scene, varying from close-ups to hand held shots.
"Adventureland" is hardly perfect. The final quarter of the movie veers a bit wildly, as Mottola seeks to bring James down before his inevitable redemption. But with well-made, charming films as rare these days as slasher flicks are common, we should celebrate "Adventureland" in spite of its flaws.
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