"Live each day as if it were your last." This is dumb advice. It is highly likely that today will not be your last day. If you were to follow this mindset every day, you'd soon be left penniless and destitute. But however misguided this philosophy may be, it's a little easier to understand when you've had a close brush with death.
The recent allegations against Lance Armstrong are damning. The U.S. Anti-Doping Agency's findings--which Armstrong has not contested--depict Armstrong as one of the most blatant cheaters in sports history. Plenty of athletes have used steroids, but who else has made using them a requirement for membership on his team? His gall is simply amazing.
But then, his background is pretty amazing too. At the age of just 25, Armstrong was diagnosed with stage three testicular cancer. The cancer spread to his abdomen, his lungs, his brain.
Of course he recovered, and in just 18 months, he was back on the Tour de France. But it's easy to imagine how a scare like that would get you thinking about the meaninglessness of your life. At the time, Armstrong wouldn't even have merited a footnote in history. If he was lucky, he might get a three-minute segment on the evening news: a pretty good cyclist beats cancer and rides again. A nice story and nothing more. But if he won the Tour, he would make his mark. And not only would he be known as a great athlete; he could use his success to promote his new cancer foundation. His name would live on.
None of this absolves Armstrong from blame. The man is a cheat and a liar. There are plenty of ways to support cancer research without servicing his ego by promoting Livestrong.
But Lance Armstrong is a cautionary tale in the dangers of refusing to accept one's mortality.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Bernie
An ongoing conundrum: when a good movie is based on a true story, who deserves the credit? The real-life individuals responsible for the events depicted? Or the filmmakers? Is it the tale, or the telling?
In the case of "Bernie," the answer has to be a bit of both. Bernie Tiede is the rare individual interesting enough to hang a movie on, an incredibly generous man who committed one heinous act. Danny Buck, the shameless, condescending prosecutor in Bernie's case, is an excellent antagonist. (His real last name is Davidson, but he goes by Buck. The showy moniker is almost too perfect.)
Still, much credit goes to those who brought the story to life. Jack Black shows excellent restraint as Bernie, showing off just enough of his talents for histrionics and singing without going over-the-top. Matthew McConaughey has a lot of fun uglying himself up to play Buck. Director Richard Linklater deserves high marks for including numerous interviews with people from the real-life Texas town where the movie is set. The commentary gives the movie a down-home feel that prevents it from becoming another rote indie.
To the average viewer this may all be a futile accounting exercise. Art can't be quantified; you can't assign statistics to determine who did what in a movie. I confess that I can't give a reason why it should matter to you. But I can say that no matter who gets the credit for it, you'll be charmed and entertained by "Bernie."
In the case of "Bernie," the answer has to be a bit of both. Bernie Tiede is the rare individual interesting enough to hang a movie on, an incredibly generous man who committed one heinous act. Danny Buck, the shameless, condescending prosecutor in Bernie's case, is an excellent antagonist. (His real last name is Davidson, but he goes by Buck. The showy moniker is almost too perfect.)
Still, much credit goes to those who brought the story to life. Jack Black shows excellent restraint as Bernie, showing off just enough of his talents for histrionics and singing without going over-the-top. Matthew McConaughey has a lot of fun uglying himself up to play Buck. Director Richard Linklater deserves high marks for including numerous interviews with people from the real-life Texas town where the movie is set. The commentary gives the movie a down-home feel that prevents it from becoming another rote indie.
To the average viewer this may all be a futile accounting exercise. Art can't be quantified; you can't assign statistics to determine who did what in a movie. I confess that I can't give a reason why it should matter to you. But I can say that no matter who gets the credit for it, you'll be charmed and entertained by "Bernie."
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Adolescence in suburbia isn't typically characterized by big events. There aren't many epic romances, shocking betrayals, or dark secrets. It's the smaller moments that usually mark growing up in this setting: being ignored by a popular kid, getting an answer wrong in class, seeing a crush holding hands with someone else. These may seem like minor slights, but when you're a self-absorbed teenager, they feel momentous.
Unfortunately, it's not easy to portray this on film. (Though 2011's "Terri" does a pretty good job of it.) So high school movies tend to amp up the drama. They may capture the insecurities and angst of coming of age. But they also make it seem a lot more justified by pairing the outsized emotions with outsized events.
"The Perks of Being a Wallflower" is a case in point. There's enough melodrama here for both a John Hughes movie and a Zach Braff film. One character is in a relationship with a closeted captain of the football team. Another always loses her crushes to a prettier friend. The two main characters harbor deep, dark secrets which, naturally, they will help one another work though.
It's a shame, because the film is quite well-directed by Stephen Chbosky, author of the novel upon which the film is based. He nails the details of 1990s suburbia. He sports an impeccable soundtrack and doesn't just use it as a lazy method of characterization; he comments on teens' relationship with pop culture knowingly. He pulls off several visually arresting sequences, no small feat for a first-time director. And he gives his characters quirks and contradictions that make them feel like people you know.
Unfortunately, while the characters here feel true to life; the things that happen to them don't.
Unfortunately, it's not easy to portray this on film. (Though 2011's "Terri" does a pretty good job of it.) So high school movies tend to amp up the drama. They may capture the insecurities and angst of coming of age. But they also make it seem a lot more justified by pairing the outsized emotions with outsized events.
"The Perks of Being a Wallflower" is a case in point. There's enough melodrama here for both a John Hughes movie and a Zach Braff film. One character is in a relationship with a closeted captain of the football team. Another always loses her crushes to a prettier friend. The two main characters harbor deep, dark secrets which, naturally, they will help one another work though.
It's a shame, because the film is quite well-directed by Stephen Chbosky, author of the novel upon which the film is based. He nails the details of 1990s suburbia. He sports an impeccable soundtrack and doesn't just use it as a lazy method of characterization; he comments on teens' relationship with pop culture knowingly. He pulls off several visually arresting sequences, no small feat for a first-time director. And he gives his characters quirks and contradictions that make them feel like people you know.
Unfortunately, while the characters here feel true to life; the things that happen to them don't.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Friends with Kids
I tend not to like movies where I know what's going to happen. It usually feels like a chore to get to the inevitable conclusion. I prefer movies that keep me on my toes. That's why I like indie films; their directors don't feel obligated to have the characters live happily ever after; they may not even live at all.
"Friends with Kids" is not a surprising film. The premise: two best friends see marriages breaking down around them once kids enter the equation. They have a kid together so that they can pursue their romantic dreams without parenting getting in the way. Zero points for guessing who these two end up with.
But despite its predictability, writer-director Jennifer Westfeldt makes "Friends with Kids" work thanks to her spot-on observations about marriage: how some relationships can run too hot and cold to be healthy, how even solid marriages hit bumps after childbirth, how the desire for comfort clashes with the wish for something new and exciting. Westfeldt also displays a deft touch in showing how people really interact; a dinner party scene that ends in tears is especially well-orchestrated. She executes poorly in the predictable final scene, but it's still a worthwhile film.
I'm not a big fan of the "journey, not the destination" mindset, but with a film that's smart and poignant, I can see the appeal.
"Friends with Kids" is not a surprising film. The premise: two best friends see marriages breaking down around them once kids enter the equation. They have a kid together so that they can pursue their romantic dreams without parenting getting in the way. Zero points for guessing who these two end up with.
But despite its predictability, writer-director Jennifer Westfeldt makes "Friends with Kids" work thanks to her spot-on observations about marriage: how some relationships can run too hot and cold to be healthy, how even solid marriages hit bumps after childbirth, how the desire for comfort clashes with the wish for something new and exciting. Westfeldt also displays a deft touch in showing how people really interact; a dinner party scene that ends in tears is especially well-orchestrated. She executes poorly in the predictable final scene, but it's still a worthwhile film.
I'm not a big fan of the "journey, not the destination" mindset, but with a film that's smart and poignant, I can see the appeal.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
God Bless America
Comedian Bobcat Goldthwait has made a name for himself writing and directing comedies with outrageous premises and unexpected depth. Sleeping Dogs Lie was about a woman who had once blown a dog, but it was really about how we deal with the past with our significant others. World's Greatest Dad was about a father who writes an eloquent suicide note after his son kills himself, but used this set-up to explore how we remember the dead.
God Bless America, by contrast, is pretty much exactly what it seems: a middle-aged man and a teenage girl going on a killing spree to express their outrage at America's moral degradation. Frank loses his job on a bogus sexual harassment charge and soon learns he has terminal cancer. With the help of a truly twisted teen named Roxy, he decides to use his newfound freedom to take down some of the best exemplars of America's celebrity-driven culture, sex-obsessed mores, and fear-mongering political culture. Along the way he rants about Twitter and young people's insistence on taking pictures everywhere, the greatness of Alice Cooper and the horror that is Diablo Cody. (As if the movie didn't have enough of a "Get off my lawn" vibe already.)
I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop in this film, for some sort of nuance or second layer to emerge. But it never really happens. The best Goldthwait can do is show some minor areas of disagreement between Frank and Roxy, like whether high-fives are an abomination (yes, really). In this way he suggests that not everyone might agree on who deserves to be killed. What an incisive point!
The inevitable closing monologue in God Bless America is just a restatement of a rant Frank gives early in the film. There really is no deeper meaning or evolution to this film. It's a stand up comedy rant masquerading as a movie, Taxi Driver for 10-year-olds.
God Bless America, by contrast, is pretty much exactly what it seems: a middle-aged man and a teenage girl going on a killing spree to express their outrage at America's moral degradation. Frank loses his job on a bogus sexual harassment charge and soon learns he has terminal cancer. With the help of a truly twisted teen named Roxy, he decides to use his newfound freedom to take down some of the best exemplars of America's celebrity-driven culture, sex-obsessed mores, and fear-mongering political culture. Along the way he rants about Twitter and young people's insistence on taking pictures everywhere, the greatness of Alice Cooper and the horror that is Diablo Cody. (As if the movie didn't have enough of a "Get off my lawn" vibe already.)
I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop in this film, for some sort of nuance or second layer to emerge. But it never really happens. The best Goldthwait can do is show some minor areas of disagreement between Frank and Roxy, like whether high-fives are an abomination (yes, really). In this way he suggests that not everyone might agree on who deserves to be killed. What an incisive point!
The inevitable closing monologue in God Bless America is just a restatement of a rant Frank gives early in the film. There really is no deeper meaning or evolution to this film. It's a stand up comedy rant masquerading as a movie, Taxi Driver for 10-year-olds.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
Watching "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" is a bit like seeing an obsessive-compulsive fourth-grader working on a diorama for school. The attention to detail is incredible. But what's the point?
Director David Fincher has painstakingly crafted every frame of the film, as he always does. There are lots of terrific touches, like the sound of a whirring janitor's vacuum adding a sense of dread to one scene. Or the terrifying black make-up that shrouds the heroine's eyes in key scenes. Or a shot from the point of view of a hostage, with a plastic bag over the camera.
Unfortunately, this is all in the service of a silly potboiler. "Tattoo" is one of those mysteries which throws out tons of details, most of which mean nothing. It features a comical number of montages of our heroes doing detective work: riveting stuff like computer hacking, looking at files, and questioning the elderly. The thing is over two-and-a-half hours long, yet it still feels rushed.
What's worse, "Tattoo" shamelessly throws in some disgusting material that wouldn't be out of place in an exploitation film. There are three scenes featuring sexual assault and, of course, Nazis. (Though not together. Really a missed opportunity.)
Now, I don't mind depravity in some contexts. Tarantino uses lots of crude violence, but it's all so cartoonish and stylized that it's mostly entertaining, rather than sickening. Fincher's "Se7en" included numerous disgusting killings, but used them to explore the moral degradation of society and how we should respond to it. "Tattoo," by contrast, is just using some "CSI" style gross-outs as a cheap way to hold the audience's attention.
(Another craven ploy: showing off Rooney Mara's naked body. The filmmakers really ought to be ashamed. It's 2012 and Mara is asked to bare flesh at every turn, with nary a male booty in sight.)
The bigger problem here, as is usually the case in Hollywood, is money. The strings attached to studio financing are now so great that it's incredibly difficult to make a good movie for eight figures or more. So a talent like Fincher has to work on a pointless commercial exercise like this if he wants to get the budget to which he's accustomed.
I've long felt that directors need to scale down their films so that they can avoid the inane ideas of Hollywood producers. Take Martin Scorcese. For years, he's wanted to make "Silence," a film about two Jesuit priests in Japan in the 17th century. But studios are (understandably in this case) reluctant to back it. So instead he wasted his time on "Shutter Island," a piece of schlock that did well at the box office. (Scorcese is said to be working on "Silence" now, so hopefully he's learned to keep the budget in check.)
Fincher is so meticulous that making a film on the cheap may be impossible for him. For "Tattoo" he spent an entire afternoon shooting close-ups of drawings of flowers, which are shown for only a few seconds in the film. You simply can't spend that kind of time on a smaller production.
I wish he'd learn to cut a few corners, though. The prospect of seeing Fincher slog through the two sequels to "Tattoo" is enough to make a Swedish winter seem appealing.
Director David Fincher has painstakingly crafted every frame of the film, as he always does. There are lots of terrific touches, like the sound of a whirring janitor's vacuum adding a sense of dread to one scene. Or the terrifying black make-up that shrouds the heroine's eyes in key scenes. Or a shot from the point of view of a hostage, with a plastic bag over the camera.
Unfortunately, this is all in the service of a silly potboiler. "Tattoo" is one of those mysteries which throws out tons of details, most of which mean nothing. It features a comical number of montages of our heroes doing detective work: riveting stuff like computer hacking, looking at files, and questioning the elderly. The thing is over two-and-a-half hours long, yet it still feels rushed.
What's worse, "Tattoo" shamelessly throws in some disgusting material that wouldn't be out of place in an exploitation film. There are three scenes featuring sexual assault and, of course, Nazis. (Though not together. Really a missed opportunity.)
Now, I don't mind depravity in some contexts. Tarantino uses lots of crude violence, but it's all so cartoonish and stylized that it's mostly entertaining, rather than sickening. Fincher's "Se7en" included numerous disgusting killings, but used them to explore the moral degradation of society and how we should respond to it. "Tattoo," by contrast, is just using some "CSI" style gross-outs as a cheap way to hold the audience's attention.
(Another craven ploy: showing off Rooney Mara's naked body. The filmmakers really ought to be ashamed. It's 2012 and Mara is asked to bare flesh at every turn, with nary a male booty in sight.)
The bigger problem here, as is usually the case in Hollywood, is money. The strings attached to studio financing are now so great that it's incredibly difficult to make a good movie for eight figures or more. So a talent like Fincher has to work on a pointless commercial exercise like this if he wants to get the budget to which he's accustomed.
I've long felt that directors need to scale down their films so that they can avoid the inane ideas of Hollywood producers. Take Martin Scorcese. For years, he's wanted to make "Silence," a film about two Jesuit priests in Japan in the 17th century. But studios are (understandably in this case) reluctant to back it. So instead he wasted his time on "Shutter Island," a piece of schlock that did well at the box office. (Scorcese is said to be working on "Silence" now, so hopefully he's learned to keep the budget in check.)
Fincher is so meticulous that making a film on the cheap may be impossible for him. For "Tattoo" he spent an entire afternoon shooting close-ups of drawings of flowers, which are shown for only a few seconds in the film. You simply can't spend that kind of time on a smaller production.
I wish he'd learn to cut a few corners, though. The prospect of seeing Fincher slog through the two sequels to "Tattoo" is enough to make a Swedish winter seem appealing.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Dirty Harry
There are plenty of ways to explore the tension between constitutional protections and justice. You can take the hyper-realistic approach of "The Wire," which shows police officers' limitations--and their creative solutions--in painstaking detail. You can take the more abstract approach of 1969's "Point Blank," which casts doubt on the whole notion of authority and bureaucracy. You can also create a metaphor for the war on terrorism, as "The Dark Knight" does.
Or you blast all those constitutional protections ratified by our Founding Fathers away with a .44 Magnum, as "Dirty Harry" does.
"Dirty Harry" stacks the deck as heavily as possible. A psychopathic killer has taken a young girl hostage and threatened to kill her. The only way to save the girl is to violate his constitutional rights against search and seizure. Naturally, the killer also pays someone to beat him up so he can claim police brutality. I'm sure these kinds of scenarios occur all the time.
When it's not peeing on the Constitution, "Dirty Harry" has plenty of time for hypocrisy and stereotyping. Our titular hero shakes his head at the strip clubs that blight San Francisco, but the film has no problem taking us inside a club and showing a few shots of the girls--you know, just to demonstrate how depraved they are. The camera also lingers over the naked body of an ostensibly 14-year-old girl. And Harry engages in a little Peeping Tom action while on surveillance.
And, hey, since we're in San Francisco, why not throw in a few homophobic caricatures? Oh, and of course, all the black characters are thugs, but that's par for the course for this time period.
Get past all the bigotry and you'll find the film is almost charmingly lo-fi. There are plenty of poorly shot night scenes and dubbed dialogue. In one set piece, Harry has to run from pay phone to pay phone to prevent the killer from executing the girl. The scene is meant to be gripping, but it amounts to 10 minutes of watching Clint Eastwood run.
But all the amusing mediocrity in the world couldn't redeem a film this pig-headed.
Or you blast all those constitutional protections ratified by our Founding Fathers away with a .44 Magnum, as "Dirty Harry" does.
"Dirty Harry" stacks the deck as heavily as possible. A psychopathic killer has taken a young girl hostage and threatened to kill her. The only way to save the girl is to violate his constitutional rights against search and seizure. Naturally, the killer also pays someone to beat him up so he can claim police brutality. I'm sure these kinds of scenarios occur all the time.
When it's not peeing on the Constitution, "Dirty Harry" has plenty of time for hypocrisy and stereotyping. Our titular hero shakes his head at the strip clubs that blight San Francisco, but the film has no problem taking us inside a club and showing a few shots of the girls--you know, just to demonstrate how depraved they are. The camera also lingers over the naked body of an ostensibly 14-year-old girl. And Harry engages in a little Peeping Tom action while on surveillance.
And, hey, since we're in San Francisco, why not throw in a few homophobic caricatures? Oh, and of course, all the black characters are thugs, but that's par for the course for this time period.
Get past all the bigotry and you'll find the film is almost charmingly lo-fi. There are plenty of poorly shot night scenes and dubbed dialogue. In one set piece, Harry has to run from pay phone to pay phone to prevent the killer from executing the girl. The scene is meant to be gripping, but it amounts to 10 minutes of watching Clint Eastwood run.
But all the amusing mediocrity in the world couldn't redeem a film this pig-headed.
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