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.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
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.
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