Over the past five years, the "mumblecore" movement has gained steam in indie film circles. Shot on digital cameras with very low budgets, mumblecore films are typically dramas featuring improvised dialogue and non-professional actors. The strength of mumblecore is the level of realism it achieves: it captures the gestures, glances and awkward pauses of real people that Hollywood invariably misses.
Mark and Jay Duplass became heroes of the movement with their 2005 film, "The Puffy Chair". Their follow-up, "Baghead," takes their craft to new heights. The film follows four friends, Matt, Chad, Michelle and Catherine, who go to a cabin in the woods to write a movie.
On one level, this is a relationship drama. Chad is hopelessly in love with Michelle. Michelle, however, is more interested in Matt, who wouldn't mind sleeping with her. This quickly creates problems, due to the (rather hilarious) bromance between Chad and Matt--not to mention the fact that Catherine and Matt have been dating on and off for eleven years.
Clearly, there's melodrama to spare. But then you realize that the film is working on another level: it's a horror pastiche. Someone with a bag on their head is sneaking around in the night. All of the elements of a horror film are there: four potential victims who aren't too bright, isolated in the woods, with the requisite pretty blondes.
The film achieves a solid level of suspense and mystery with this plotline. But "Baghead" is also working on still another level, as a commentary on the mumblecore movement. This becomes clear in the opening scene, when the friends watch a ridiculous film by real-life actor and screenwriter Jett Garner. The film's "meta" aspect becomes fully apparent at the climax.
The Duplass brothers are working on high and low levels here. This is a film that works as both melodrama and realism. It's both a B-movie entertainment and a commentary on their films. And it's a sign that the brothers may be ready to take the movement they spearheaded in new directions.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
A Serious Man
In "Hannah and Her Sisters," Woody Allen's character asks his parents how there could be God in a world with Nazis.
In response, his father barks, "How the hell do I know why there were Nazis? I don't know how the can opener works!"
If you want 100 minutes of variations on that theme, then the Coen brothers' "A Serious Man" is for you. Otherwise, stay away.
Set in a Jewish suburb in 1960s Minnesota--which also happens to be where the Coen brothers grew up--"A Serious Man" focuses on the travails on Larry Gopnik (Michael Stuhlbarg). A math professor who's up for tenure, Gopnik is faced with anonymous letters which declare him incompetent and a student who insists he accept a bribe for a higher grade. Meanwhile, his wife is sleeping with another man and demanding a divorce. He also lives with a somewhat deranged brother whose violations of the law are escalating. His young son views him as nothing more than a source of money and a TV repairman. And so on.
In short, Gopnik is a cinematic Job, and like that famous figure, he seeks out God to explain his troubles. He visits two rabbis who prove to be comically inept at defending faith. The first asks that Gopnik see the wonder of God in a parking lot, while the second tells the story of a small miracle but fails utterly to glean any insight from it.
These scenes are easily the highlights of the movie. Amidst all the bleakness, they're uproariously funny, while simultaneously posing the question of how a God could punish us in such cruel and random ways.
Unfortunately, the Coens are too busy heaping more abuse on Gopnik to mine that humor or, more importantly, to explore the questions of faith which they're raising. The brothers deserve credit for being honest; they show no illusions of knowing whether God, fate or mere chance are torturing Gopnik. But what is the value of their honesty if they won't use it to make a real inquiry into the nature of faith? The rabbis can't provide a credible defense of religion, while Gopnik is too upright to question it.
With "A Serious Man," the Coens ask, "What's the point?" It's funny--I asked the same thing about this movie.
In response, his father barks, "How the hell do I know why there were Nazis? I don't know how the can opener works!"
If you want 100 minutes of variations on that theme, then the Coen brothers' "A Serious Man" is for you. Otherwise, stay away.
Set in a Jewish suburb in 1960s Minnesota--which also happens to be where the Coen brothers grew up--"A Serious Man" focuses on the travails on Larry Gopnik (Michael Stuhlbarg). A math professor who's up for tenure, Gopnik is faced with anonymous letters which declare him incompetent and a student who insists he accept a bribe for a higher grade. Meanwhile, his wife is sleeping with another man and demanding a divorce. He also lives with a somewhat deranged brother whose violations of the law are escalating. His young son views him as nothing more than a source of money and a TV repairman. And so on.
In short, Gopnik is a cinematic Job, and like that famous figure, he seeks out God to explain his troubles. He visits two rabbis who prove to be comically inept at defending faith. The first asks that Gopnik see the wonder of God in a parking lot, while the second tells the story of a small miracle but fails utterly to glean any insight from it.
These scenes are easily the highlights of the movie. Amidst all the bleakness, they're uproariously funny, while simultaneously posing the question of how a God could punish us in such cruel and random ways.
Unfortunately, the Coens are too busy heaping more abuse on Gopnik to mine that humor or, more importantly, to explore the questions of faith which they're raising. The brothers deserve credit for being honest; they show no illusions of knowing whether God, fate or mere chance are torturing Gopnik. But what is the value of their honesty if they won't use it to make a real inquiry into the nature of faith? The rabbis can't provide a credible defense of religion, while Gopnik is too upright to question it.
With "A Serious Man," the Coens ask, "What's the point?" It's funny--I asked the same thing about this movie.
Friday, January 1, 2010
MY Top 20 Albums of the Decade
My criteria for this list:
1. Influence on my musical taste
2. Replayability (a word I just made up)
3. General ass-kicking
20. Coldplay, “Parachutes”
Coldplay is not as good as my teenage self believed. Still, as Newsweek said, they were “Oasis without the ego.” At their best, they still are.
19. The Libertines, “Up the Bracket”
Ramshackle garage rock at its finest. I will never understand criticisms of this album.
18. MIA, “Kala”
“Kala” is basically a great hip-hop album; T.I., Jay-Z, Kanye and Lil Wayne proved this by ripping off “Paper Planes” for “Swagga Like Us.” But “Kala” was so inventive that the press couldn’t label it as such. Look past the globe trotting, though, and the album’s formula is pretty simple: great samples, hooks, beats and, yes, plenty of swagger.
17. Feist, “The Reminder”
Feist revealed my taste for pretty female pop with “Let it Die,” but this album was so much better that I had to put it on. It’s playful, delicate and fun without ever being trite.
16. Elliott Smith, “New Moon”
This album introduced me to Smith and Nick Drake. It’s absolutely amazing that he had this many great unreleased songs.
15. Bloc Party, “Silent Alarm”
An early indicator that maybe this dance-rock thing was for me; they got me into the Gang of Four. Just a great album, top to bottom: the songs range from aggressive to moody to beautiful.
14. Beck, “Sea Change”
Props to Sam for helping me re-evaluate this one. At first, I gave it a few listens and discarded it. But I found it surprisingly replayable after Sam’s recommendation. This is our generation’s “Blood on the Tracks.”
13. TV on the Radio, “Dear Science”
These guys reinvent themselves with every album. This time, they aped Prince and Talking Heads. They stay consistent despite changing styles because they’re excellent songwriters. It doesn’t hurt to have rock’s best vocalist, Tunde Adebimpe, and superb production from Dave Sitek.
12. Spoon, “Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga”
My first Spoon album and still the one I like best. Jim Eno’s beats are impeccable. Britt Daniel can do more with a hook and a beat spaced by silence than most bands can do with 14 synthesizers and 29 vocal overdubs.
11. Kings of Leon, “Aha Shake Heartbreak”
Before they were the (often insufferable) southern U2, they were a cross between the Rolling Stones and the Strokes.
10. Clipse, “Hell Hath No Fury”
Clipse got me to appreciate the wordplay in rap. I also love that the Neptunes produced the whole thing; this album has a cohesion that most hip-hop records lack. I’ve also found it to be the most replayable of the admittedly few hip-hop albums I own.
9. Green Day, “American Idiot”
Hipsters can blow me. “Jesus of Suburbia” and “Homecoming,” the two nine-minute numbers, take rock to heights few bands even attempt today.
8. Mclusky, “Mclusky Do Dallas”
Hands down the most kick-ass album of the decade. A punishing rhythm section, piercing guitars, and lyrics that never seem to lose their piss and vinegar.
7. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, “It’s Blitz”
The perfect marriage of dance with rock, this album felt like the culmination of a lot of stuff I’d been listening to this decade.
6. LCD Soundsystem, “Sound of Silver”
If you had told me a few years ago that I would love an artist who makes eight-minute dance songs, I wouldn’t have believed you. But James Murphy has a knack for reeling you in and keeping you interested. His best songs start with great foundations, then slowly evolve till they reach a completely different place. Plus, as “Someone Great” and “New York, I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down” show, he’s become a great songwriter even without four-on-the-floor beats.
5. Kanye West, “College Dropout”
Michael Jackson abused little children and is (rightfully) hailed for his music, but I’m supposed to hate Kanye West’s music because he interrupted a starlet at a meaningless awards show? (This is an awards show where Howard Stern once showed his butt as “Fartman.”)
Oh wait, I forgot, Michael Jackson died, and Kanye insulted a white girl. (Seriously, would there be this much fuss if Alicia Keys had been interrupted?)
Anyway, Kanye’s amazing production skills got me to appreciate rap. Kanye is one of the very few pop stars we have who is pushing the boundaries of music. Thirty years from now, when no one under 40 will know who Taylor Swift is, Kanye’s music will still be influencing artists. That matters more to me as a listener.
4. The White Stripes, “White Blood Cells”
In this decade, Jack White made amazing music with a semi-incompetent drummer. Then he started two other cool bands. He also produced a great album by Loretta Lynn and co-wrote a cool song with Beck. He was also featured in an underrated film (“Coffee and Cigarettes”) and an interesting documentary (“It Might Get Loud”). Plus, he beat the shit out of Von Bondies frontman Jason Stollsteimer. There is nothing this man can’t do.
3. The Arcade Fire, “Funeral”
If this list were just about favorites, not influence, then “Funeral” would top it. A couple other bands reached me first, but no one this decade could top the Arcade Fire for soaring melody and heartfelt emotion. They write their songs from the heart; they are our generation’s U2. (Let’s just hope they don’t become washed-up superstars recycling the same tired formulas.)
Bonus: This album featured the first lyrics to which I could really relate that weren’t about girls sucking.
2. The Strokes, “Is This It”
1. Interpol, “Turn on the Bright Lights”
These are the albums that turned me into a (partial) music snob. They showed me that music could be fun while also being well-made, multi-faceted and thought-provoking (in other words, while not being Creed).
The Strokes broke me into garage rock, but they also showed that things like melody and musicianship didn’t have to go out the window when a band is rocking out. Interpol showed me the wonders of a killer rhythm section.
The notion that good music must be difficult to listen to is simply a myth. Complexity can be a virtue, certainly, but there’s no reason that good tunes can’t also be enjoyable. The Strokes and Interpol sent me in search of music that doesn’t sacrifice quality for fun. It’s a path I look forward to following over the next decade.
1. Influence on my musical taste
2. Replayability (a word I just made up)
3. General ass-kicking
20. Coldplay, “Parachutes”
Coldplay is not as good as my teenage self believed. Still, as Newsweek said, they were “Oasis without the ego.” At their best, they still are.
19. The Libertines, “Up the Bracket”
Ramshackle garage rock at its finest. I will never understand criticisms of this album.
18. MIA, “Kala”
“Kala” is basically a great hip-hop album; T.I., Jay-Z, Kanye and Lil Wayne proved this by ripping off “Paper Planes” for “Swagga Like Us.” But “Kala” was so inventive that the press couldn’t label it as such. Look past the globe trotting, though, and the album’s formula is pretty simple: great samples, hooks, beats and, yes, plenty of swagger.
17. Feist, “The Reminder”
Feist revealed my taste for pretty female pop with “Let it Die,” but this album was so much better that I had to put it on. It’s playful, delicate and fun without ever being trite.
16. Elliott Smith, “New Moon”
This album introduced me to Smith and Nick Drake. It’s absolutely amazing that he had this many great unreleased songs.
15. Bloc Party, “Silent Alarm”
An early indicator that maybe this dance-rock thing was for me; they got me into the Gang of Four. Just a great album, top to bottom: the songs range from aggressive to moody to beautiful.
14. Beck, “Sea Change”
Props to Sam for helping me re-evaluate this one. At first, I gave it a few listens and discarded it. But I found it surprisingly replayable after Sam’s recommendation. This is our generation’s “Blood on the Tracks.”
13. TV on the Radio, “Dear Science”
These guys reinvent themselves with every album. This time, they aped Prince and Talking Heads. They stay consistent despite changing styles because they’re excellent songwriters. It doesn’t hurt to have rock’s best vocalist, Tunde Adebimpe, and superb production from Dave Sitek.
12. Spoon, “Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga”
My first Spoon album and still the one I like best. Jim Eno’s beats are impeccable. Britt Daniel can do more with a hook and a beat spaced by silence than most bands can do with 14 synthesizers and 29 vocal overdubs.
11. Kings of Leon, “Aha Shake Heartbreak”
Before they were the (often insufferable) southern U2, they were a cross between the Rolling Stones and the Strokes.
10. Clipse, “Hell Hath No Fury”
Clipse got me to appreciate the wordplay in rap. I also love that the Neptunes produced the whole thing; this album has a cohesion that most hip-hop records lack. I’ve also found it to be the most replayable of the admittedly few hip-hop albums I own.
9. Green Day, “American Idiot”
Hipsters can blow me. “Jesus of Suburbia” and “Homecoming,” the two nine-minute numbers, take rock to heights few bands even attempt today.
8. Mclusky, “Mclusky Do Dallas”
Hands down the most kick-ass album of the decade. A punishing rhythm section, piercing guitars, and lyrics that never seem to lose their piss and vinegar.
7. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, “It’s Blitz”
The perfect marriage of dance with rock, this album felt like the culmination of a lot of stuff I’d been listening to this decade.
6. LCD Soundsystem, “Sound of Silver”
If you had told me a few years ago that I would love an artist who makes eight-minute dance songs, I wouldn’t have believed you. But James Murphy has a knack for reeling you in and keeping you interested. His best songs start with great foundations, then slowly evolve till they reach a completely different place. Plus, as “Someone Great” and “New York, I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down” show, he’s become a great songwriter even without four-on-the-floor beats.
5. Kanye West, “College Dropout”
Michael Jackson abused little children and is (rightfully) hailed for his music, but I’m supposed to hate Kanye West’s music because he interrupted a starlet at a meaningless awards show? (This is an awards show where Howard Stern once showed his butt as “Fartman.”)
Oh wait, I forgot, Michael Jackson died, and Kanye insulted a white girl. (Seriously, would there be this much fuss if Alicia Keys had been interrupted?)
Anyway, Kanye’s amazing production skills got me to appreciate rap. Kanye is one of the very few pop stars we have who is pushing the boundaries of music. Thirty years from now, when no one under 40 will know who Taylor Swift is, Kanye’s music will still be influencing artists. That matters more to me as a listener.
4. The White Stripes, “White Blood Cells”
In this decade, Jack White made amazing music with a semi-incompetent drummer. Then he started two other cool bands. He also produced a great album by Loretta Lynn and co-wrote a cool song with Beck. He was also featured in an underrated film (“Coffee and Cigarettes”) and an interesting documentary (“It Might Get Loud”). Plus, he beat the shit out of Von Bondies frontman Jason Stollsteimer. There is nothing this man can’t do.
3. The Arcade Fire, “Funeral”
If this list were just about favorites, not influence, then “Funeral” would top it. A couple other bands reached me first, but no one this decade could top the Arcade Fire for soaring melody and heartfelt emotion. They write their songs from the heart; they are our generation’s U2. (Let’s just hope they don’t become washed-up superstars recycling the same tired formulas.)
Bonus: This album featured the first lyrics to which I could really relate that weren’t about girls sucking.
2. The Strokes, “Is This It”
1. Interpol, “Turn on the Bright Lights”
These are the albums that turned me into a (partial) music snob. They showed me that music could be fun while also being well-made, multi-faceted and thought-provoking (in other words, while not being Creed).
The Strokes broke me into garage rock, but they also showed that things like melody and musicianship didn’t have to go out the window when a band is rocking out. Interpol showed me the wonders of a killer rhythm section.
The notion that good music must be difficult to listen to is simply a myth. Complexity can be a virtue, certainly, but there’s no reason that good tunes can’t also be enjoyable. The Strokes and Interpol sent me in search of music that doesn’t sacrifice quality for fun. It’s a path I look forward to following over the next decade.
Up in the Air
"Up in the Air" is the story of a cynic who is taught the power of love. This conceit is at least as old as "A Christmas Carol." Hollywood never seems to tire of recycling it.
But unlike the standard cynic-sees-the-light story, "Up in the Air" has a contemporary resonance. It tackles America's currently pervasive economic anxieties head-on.
About the love story: Ryan Bingham (George Clooney), is a man who abhors being tied down. He spends most of his time traveling the country on business, loathing the rare occasions when he's stuck at his spartan bachelor pad in Omaha. He falls for the lovely Alex (Vera Farminga), in part because she seems just as resistant to commitment as he is.
So far, so formulaic. But Bingham is not just any businessman. He fires people for a living, so that their bosses don't have to do it. His profession makes him seem like a cad, until a young co-worker, Natalie Keener (Anna Kendrick), proposes that the firings be done via videoconferencing. Even Bingham recognizes that these employees need a real human being to deliver their terrible news. Bingham takes Keener across the country, demonstrating the shock and devastation expressed by terminated employees.
The two storylines dovetail nicely: as Bingham shows Keener that business should be about more than impersonal efficiency, he also begins to realize that life may have better things to offer than bachelorhood and casual flings. The ending appears to be projected from a mile away, yet "Up in the Air" keeps the audience on its toes.
As with his previous two films, "Thank You for Smoking" and "Juno," director Jason Reitman delivers a bittersweet look at the difficult choices life forces on us. His direction has become less gimmicky and more assured. His shots are based on what's needed for the scene: rapid-fire cuts which show Bingham's clinical approach to travel, a smooth pan as he delivers a motivational speech. He captures the absurdity and harshness of corporate America well, integrating interviews with real-life laid-off workers into the story.
If Reitman deserves a criticism, it's that his films seem a bit stuffed with twists and turns, leaving the viewer slightly rushed. But his commitment to quality filmmaking within the Hollywood juggernaut is encouraging; hopefully, his storytelling will grow more economical with time.
But unlike the standard cynic-sees-the-light story, "Up in the Air" has a contemporary resonance. It tackles America's currently pervasive economic anxieties head-on.
About the love story: Ryan Bingham (George Clooney), is a man who abhors being tied down. He spends most of his time traveling the country on business, loathing the rare occasions when he's stuck at his spartan bachelor pad in Omaha. He falls for the lovely Alex (Vera Farminga), in part because she seems just as resistant to commitment as he is.
So far, so formulaic. But Bingham is not just any businessman. He fires people for a living, so that their bosses don't have to do it. His profession makes him seem like a cad, until a young co-worker, Natalie Keener (Anna Kendrick), proposes that the firings be done via videoconferencing. Even Bingham recognizes that these employees need a real human being to deliver their terrible news. Bingham takes Keener across the country, demonstrating the shock and devastation expressed by terminated employees.
The two storylines dovetail nicely: as Bingham shows Keener that business should be about more than impersonal efficiency, he also begins to realize that life may have better things to offer than bachelorhood and casual flings. The ending appears to be projected from a mile away, yet "Up in the Air" keeps the audience on its toes.
As with his previous two films, "Thank You for Smoking" and "Juno," director Jason Reitman delivers a bittersweet look at the difficult choices life forces on us. His direction has become less gimmicky and more assured. His shots are based on what's needed for the scene: rapid-fire cuts which show Bingham's clinical approach to travel, a smooth pan as he delivers a motivational speech. He captures the absurdity and harshness of corporate America well, integrating interviews with real-life laid-off workers into the story.
If Reitman deserves a criticism, it's that his films seem a bit stuffed with twists and turns, leaving the viewer slightly rushed. But his commitment to quality filmmaking within the Hollywood juggernaut is encouraging; hopefully, his storytelling will grow more economical with time.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Fantastic Mr. Fox
"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.
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.
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.
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