Films Seen - February 2004
[Pre-'96 films not included.]
ONCE UPON A TIME IN MEXICO (41) (dir., Robert Rodriguez) Antonio Banderas, Johnny Depp, Salma Hayek, Mickey Rourke, Ruben Blades, Willem Dafoe [Exhibit A for the plaintiffs, Disgruntled Film Buffs vs. Robert Rodriguez: Depp shoots the cook responsible for a pork dish because the meat is too good (he has to "restore the balance"). Is Rodriguez also afraid of making something "too good", keeping things cheesy as a mark of authenticity and/or staying in touch with his roots? (Discuss.) "Shot, chopped and scored" by the writer-director, but he doesn't shoot or chop the action very interestingly - never mind playful De Palma tricks, we barely get master-shots or geographical space-establishing; mostly we just see either the shooter or the person getting shot - and the casual violence towards 'disposables' (minor characters whose only function is to die or suffer, usually for a cheap laugh) leaves a nasty taste. Testifying for the defendant: Johnny Depp, quite funny though too much in love with himself, and a certain expansiveness in the criss-crossing cast of characters. Open-and-shut case, really...]
TERE NAAM (62) (dir., Satish Kaushik) Salman Khan, Bhoomika Chawla, Ravi Kishan [Highly enjoyable Bollywood (my first on the big screen) except that it's totally schizophrenic, with a brightly comic first half giving way to melodrama and tragedy (someone on the IMDb claims the film is really a depiction of the stars' real-life affair, so maybe the halfway rupture is just code for some well-known event familiar to Indian audiences). Notable mainly for its hero, who's charismatic but also a thug - not in the goofy way of Ben Affleck in GIGLI but an out-and-out bully (albeit with a touch of Robin Hood), ruling the roost through violence and intimidation and telling the heroine he can even fix her grades if she wants (the setting is a college), which is all the ballsier considering Mr. Khan has (apparently) been in trouble over alleged links to the underworld in real life. Couldn't get such a flawed hero in a Hollywood blockbuster - even something like CONSPIRACY THEORY loses its nerve - and there's other exotic detail too, from faith in alternative medicine to interior decoration that looks like the Batcave; also weird how the song numbers literally express the characters' desires, so a romantic montage turns out to be just wishful thinking (though nothing in the film's grammar makes this clear, except the fact that the lovers clearly aren't together after the song ends) - but the major weirdness is simply how a film can start out as an MTV Bombay Special (teeny-boppers, bare midriffs, zooming camera, etc) and end in a mental hospital with catatonia, madness and suicide. Is the world really ready for Bollywood?...]
ANYTHING ELSE (42) (dir., Woody Allen) Jason Biggs, Woody Allen, Christina Ricci, Stockard Channing [Objectively, Woody Allen's best film in at least 4 years - but the presence of a halfway-solid structure and dialogue that's actually about something makes it easier to see how curdled he's become, like a crafty old whore who can still turn the tricks but has lost something - some sense of empathy with people - along the way. Would a young woman of today - especially a wannabe actress, i.e. not an English student or anything - say of someone, "She's like Madame Bovary"? (She might say Scarlett O'Hara, at a stretch.) Wouldn't 21-year-old comedy writer Biggs be writing material for 'stand-up routines' rather than "nightclub routines", which is what they called them 40 years ago when Woody was himself a young writer? (It doesn't help that Biggs never seems to have enough going on to convince as a writer.) How many young couples - as opposed to sixtyish bespectacled jazz-lovers - impulsively decide to round off an evening out with a visit to a place playing smoky old-school jazz rather than, say, a club? (It's not that they never do, just the lack of any acknowledgment that such things are uncommon.) Details perhaps, debatable perhaps, but there's no avoiding the sense that Woody's now so self-absorbed he can't (or won't) see other characters except as variations on himself (or younger self), hence perhaps his shocking lack of generosity for the girlfriend played by Ricci - presumably the only one he can't see as a variation on himself - and bland indulgence of the mentor figure played by (yes) himself, never really called on his shallow truisms, crap jokes or pseudo-intellectual airs (and btw, "tiflosis" doesn't mean blindness but the process of becoming blind, at least in the Greek). "It's always about fascism," he says, and the film doesn't disagree, though it shows the dangers in prickly individualism becoming paranoia - even his unhappy ending has more dignity than our last glimpse of faithless Ricci, already homed in on another man to tease and torment (interesting that her equally selfish mother gets the BULLETS OVER BROADWAY / DECONSTRUCTING HARRY excuse of being an Artist, therefore free to act like an asshole; maybe, being middle-aged, she's easier for Woody to project himself onto); what the characters do - details of seduction, breakup, relationships in trouble - is convincing and sometimes funny, but the lack of balance or real understanding is a bit repulsive, and deliberate reminders of ANNIE HALL are just sad. Note to Vadim: we may not be told in so many words what they see at The Quad, but the overheard comment makes it pretty clear it's THE EXTERMINATING ANGEL; playing it as coy in-joke seemed to me even more pretentious than the old m.o., to be honest...]
SEABISCUIT (34) (dir., Gary Ross) Tobey Maguire, Jeff Bridges, Chris Cooper, William H. Macy [Once upon a time there was this jockey. He was just a little fella - but he had heart. He'd been kicked around some, deserted by his folks, never really got much of a break; but he kept going - because he had heart. Turned out he was blind in one eye. But it didn't matter - because he had heart. Then a horse threw him, dragged him along the ground and shattered his leg in eleven places. But he didn't give up. Because he had heart ... Runs on the admirable philosophy that winning is less important than competing against the odds, though of course it's never tested since its heroes win anyway - I swear that rating would've shot up at least 5 points had Seabiscuit finished a respectable fourth or something in that final race (ROCKY would cause a sensation if it came out today). The Spirit of America is located in a bizarre triumvirate of Bridges, representing cold hard cash and salesmanship ("public relations"), Cooper as the crackpot individualist acting as a Chuck Yeager figure, and of course Maguire (and horse) representing "heart", i.e. pluck, never-say-die - though also, it seems, aggression and hyper-competitiveness (does the film even realise what kind of message it's ending up with?). Illustrated lectures at regular intervals make it clear this isn't just a story of a horse but a tale of the Depression and the resilience of the "little guy", with Seabiscuit's main rival being noted mainly for its "breeding" (boo! elitism!), though it's hard to see how it all fits in with assembly lines and the Model T and the over-confidence that led to the Crash: surely we're not saying - are we? - that modern, industrialised America suffers from hubris, and needs to regress to a visceral reliance on strength (throw away your poetry books!) and 'fighting spirit'? Cinematically dull, going for that deadly 'burnished' look, and it's funny what a big deal it makes anytime someone says "shit" or "crap" (didn't people cuss in the Good Old Days?). Cinephile Nitpicks Dept.: how can the announcer call 'Biscuit the "greatest four-legged sensation since Hope and Crosby" when the film is set in the 30s and ROAD TO SINGAPORE wasn't till 1940? Do I win a prize?]
ABOUNA (46) (dir., Mahamat-Saleh Haroun) Ahidjo Mahamat Mousah, Hamza Moctar Aguid, Zara Haroun [Probably a cultural thing. Local theatre in this Chadian village plays a nicely eclectic program of YAABA, THE KID and STRANGER THAN PARADISE (though of course it's Haroun paying tribute to his influences), and it must be said this looks a lot better than the Ouedraogo - striking visuals (e.g. shot through a bead curtain), use of silhouettes, action that starts in the back of the frame then moves to the front - while proving even more opaque than the Jarmusch. Probably unwise to generalise about African movies being reticent, esp. since most of the ones I've seen come from the barren Sahel countries - Chad, Burkina Faso, Mali - where the people and culture may be naturally more austere (Ousmane Sembene, from coastal Senegal, is a lot more cosmopolitan and sensual), but it's still a struggle trying to connect with this one; sounds like a detail but it's weird how (e.g.) no-one ever seems to say 'please' or 'thank you' in this village, nor do the kids act 'like kids' (holding themselves quite still, even when they're being childish). Not much rhythm, isolated pleasures, general sense of visual rigour - Death is an offscreen wail and a camera pull-back - way too much plot introduced in the final act. Most memorable shot: young hero walking on his hands (he looks like a human scorpion) in the middle of a vast, empty field. [Addendum: To read everything I missed about this film, check out Michael Sicinski's hugely more sophisticated take (look for it in his "6" bracket). Looking at the film again, I don't know if its colour scheme is "orchestrated" but it's certainly conscious, i.e. there are pretty obviously large splashes of primary colour in most shots - so obvious, in fact, that I'm quite embarrassed to have missed them. I can only assume the barren landscape and emotional quietude led me to remember it as a drab film, when it's actually quite festive (and yes, fairly stylish) to look at; that's my excuse, anyhow. At least Michael agrees about the final act trying to do too much...]
FREDDY VS. JASON (47) (dir., Ronny Yu) Monica Keena, Ken Kirzinger, Jason Ritter, Robert Englund [What can you say when the DVD options include "Jump To A Death"? Gory stuff in fine blood-and-thunder style, though the lurid images grow old before the (endless) climax; title evokes musical mash-ups, idea being that F&J are brought together like opposing song samples, which makes a twisted kind of sense given that Freddy's clearly a coded pedophile - "My children" - and Jason a child who never grew up. Not that anything's done with it, thematically, and the teens are pretty faceless too; entertaining mostly for the style (missing-kids posters on the wall coming to life so their eyes follow the heroine around, stuff like that) and incidental pleasures, incl. moments of blissful bad-movieness. Hero enjoining his friends not to fall asleep: "Want some free advice? Coffee! Make friends with it!". Heroine coming up with the Answer, apropos of nothing at all: "Wait a minute! Freddy died by fire, Jason by water! How can we use that?". The gang Google a mystery drug, and instantly come up with a full explanation headed "Experimental Drug / Suppress Your Dreams" in big bold letters - then one of them actually reads aloud from the text, presumably for illiterates in the audience: "Used ... in the suppression of dreams". Bonus points for the fakest-looking silicon boobs I've ever seen on a woman.]
THE FLOWER OF EVIL (64) (dir., Claude Chabrol) Nathalie Baye, Benoit Magimel, Mélanie Doutey [Definition of Pure Chabrol: a man's corpse is being dragged up a staircase by two women (one of whom has just killed him); they have to get him up to the bedroom to make it look like an accident; they wince at the strain, and sit down on the stairs to take a breath; suddenly the body slips and starts sliding down the stairs, like the piano in Laurel and Hardy's MUSIC BOX; the women look stunned - then suddenly burst out laughing, at the sheer absurdity of it all. Everything in that scene could've come from Hitchcock - esp. the casual black-comedy sadism of the sliding body - but only CC would add the laughter at the end: he makes films about (and for) people as sophisticated as he is, able to appreciate the comedy in dark forbidden urges leading to disaster. It's a film where everything conspires to warn of Dark Secrets - a family held hostage by the lies of the past - and the joke is precisely how ubiquitous the warnings are (camera prowls, music plays significantly when a name is mentioned; even when the family sit down to play Scrabble, the winning word is "cachiez" - from "cacher", to hide); tragedy looms, genre expectations are allowed to grow more and more oppressive - then finessed away in a flourish of ironic compassion, as a lie in the past is cancelled (or at least made bearable) by a lie in the present, allowing the bourgeoisie to muddle through unscathed. The other joke is they're indestructible, these pretentious phonies - forever sipping fine wines, breaking the law in small, wink-and-a-nudge ways, complacently comparing themselves (favourably, of course) against American philistines - which has been Chabrol's trademark joke for decades; whole film is a bit familiar, and a bit half-hearted - it's all sensibility - but still a Good Thing, amusing and amused as a Gallic shrug. Movie In A Nutshell: "Hypocrisy is what being civilised is all about".]
THE HUMAN STAIN (66) (dir., Robert Benton) Anthony Hopkins, Nicole Kidman, Gary Sinise, Ed Harris [Should perhaps be further down, with the flawed-but-fascinating 59s, but the combination of snowy landscapes and trapped half-lives, allusively treated, left me with that haunted SWEET HEREAFTER feeling - though the film is a lot less impressive, refusing to cohere just like the lives it depicts. The plot is just implausible (a case of miscasting more than anything) and it doesn't feel much like Philip Roth - genteel rather than spiky - but it has a rare rawness and intimacy, getting physically close to the characters (esp. couples lying in bed after making love, talking quietly, exploring bumps and scars on each other's bodies), staying on moments like younger hero's seduction of the beautiful, naive student, and the way he stretches out the moment before kissing her lips, nuzzling her neck while she quivers with her eyes shut. The connecting metaphor is Truth - political correctness as a lie, perverting the natural meanings of words; relationship between Kidman and her ex a tangle of contradictions, the truth lost somewhere between husband's and wife's competing versions; Monicagate a case of truth used, and distorted, for political ends; hero's own life a 50-year lie - and the delicate ending leaves it unredeemed and unspoken, forever a might-have-been that could (perhaps) have brought some kind of salvation. Benton is hugely underrated (imho), though his only real assets are a tender humanism and a way with actors: Hopkins hasn't been this authoritative in years - a roistering bull, panic-stricken at the dying of the light - and Kidman too is powerful, though the script indulges her terribly (she's Monster and Life Force, all rolled into one). Is she supposed to be mad, or brutally honest? What's the significance of boxing (a recurring motif), or the axiom that "Action is the enemy of Thought"? Must a film supply those answers to be a true 66?...
BLUE CAR (49) (dir., Karen Moncrieff) Agnes Bruckner, David Strathairn, Margaret Colin ["A whole world emerges from little details," says English teacher Strathairn, and maybe that's my problem with these self-consciously 'small' character dramas (most recently THE STATION AGENT) - they work like short stories, but a writer can guide you to the little details whereas a film, just by virtue of unfolding before you can drink it all in (offering too much detail, one might say), is much more about scenes and structure and what the characters do. Not that good directors can't focus on the little bits of life, but even those with some sense of poetry (e.g. David Gordon Green) risk seeming precious and pretentious when they do, and Ms Moncrieff has little sense of poetry - her imagination works in terms of troubled little sisters who like to cut themselves ('What, no anorexia?' asks the viewer - and wishes he hadn't), absent fathers driving away in totemic blue cars, and our teenage heroine going on the road to the strains of a song that cries, "Fly, baby, fly...". The relationship with Strathairn also seems to end rather prosaically - he as a pervert to be punished, she a chastened girl going back to her real (i.e. non-idealised) father figure, having learned her lesson - but it's easily the best thing in the movie, made believable by his rumpled weary air and her terrible, youthful alertness, the wide-open look she gives him which he knows he can never live up to (then he thinks he can, and his joy at being "transformed" blinds him to the fact that he's using her). Can actors' personalities and quirks of expression be the little details from which a world emerges? Maybe - but not in a blue-car way.]
A MIGHTY WIND (52) (dir., Christopher Guest) Michael McKean, Christopher Guest, Harry Shearer, Eugene Levy, Catherine O'Hara, Bob Balaban [Anyone who's ever improvised (or watched "Whose Line Is It Anyway?") will know the temptation of the Quick Fix - dropping a name, or a buzzword, or an out-and-out joke to break the tension, get a quick laugh, when you sense the audience getting restless and you yourself aren't sure where you're going with the character. Seems to be a lot of that going on here, pushing scenes in outlandish directions even if it wrecks any real sense of story, esp. when the folkies reminisce - a mother so over-protective she made her son wear a helmet even to play chess, a father so mean he locked his son in a room with only Percy Faith LPs, a record company so small their records didn't even have a hole in the centre ("But if you punched yourself a hole, you could have a good time"); punchlines include dysentery, catheters and porno-movie titles, like the final out-of-nowhere sex change that slightly cheapens the Spinal Tap reunion (it's the equivalent of saying, 'Of course you know we're only joking here'). Still very affectionate - albeit more for the obvious affection the comedians have for each other than any particular affection they seem to have for their characters - the final 'kiss at the end of the rainbow' is a Perfect Moment, and there's a certain feel for the tawdry life of singing corny folk-songs at trade-shows and amusement parks; only a churl would point out that scenes like the dinner between Mitch, Mickey and Mickey's husband - with its matching cuts and reaction shots - mean it isn't really a mockumentary at all. Line To Quote At Parties: "Norwegian fishermen have used hand-cream for centuries".]
THE RUNDOWN (61) (dir., Peter Berg) The Rock, Seann William Scott, Christopher Walken, Rosario Dawson ["Have fun," says Arnold Schwarzenegger (as, presumably, himself), passing on the torch to the Next Action Hero - but The Rock is more alive than dear old Arnie ever managed, not just showing off the moves that made him "People's Champion" on WWE but also noting down a recipe for porcini mushrooms, talking baby-talk while under the influence of some strange Amazonian drug, worrying about his penis, falling down a mountain and doing a CASABLANCA, putting aside the profit motive to help the ragtag Resistance led by luscious Rosario. He's also a kinder gentler breed of action hero, abjuring the use of guns - prompting a bystander to exclaim "Never met an American who didn't like guns!", which may or may not be a political statement but certainly (along with being a 'person of colour') cements the star's status as an outsider. All kinds of fun, from Indiana Jones-ish exotic adventure and a fight with manic kung-fu jungle pygmies to Ewen Bremner doing a fuddled, Dylan Thomas-spouting variation on Gyro Captain from MAD MAX 2 and Christopher Walken at his most unblinking and hilarious as the villain, whether trying to explain the concept of the Tooth Fairy to a gang of henchmen or smiling pleasantly - in the icy Walken way - after going back on a deal. "I paid you!" protests our straight-talking hero. "Mm-hm ... Fortunately, I had my fingers crossed the whole time."]
BUFFALO SOLDIERS (67) (dir., Gregor Jordan) Joaquin Phoenix, Ed Harris, Scott Glenn, Anna Paquin [Scabrous military comedy, not in the superior, cocking-a-snook way of MASH - much as I love MASH - but the more humane absurdism of THE VIRGIN SOLDIERS or "Catch-22": hero's a more delinquent Milo Minderbinder, with his constant wheeling and dealing - and, like Milo, looking for control above all (his recurring nightmare is falling in a void, helpless), equal parts steely and ingratiating and allergic to the truth, like all good salesmen (he gets a great moment when the girl asks "Did you ask me out just so you could piss off my Dad?" - and he flounders, looking for an angle, before slowly realising that the truth is exactly what she wants to hear). The film is all tensions and barracks politics, soldiers going stir-crazy while officers compete to brown-nose the general - best scene is the party, with Harris pathetically insisting on his noble lineage from an obscure Civil War general while his rival one-ups him and tries to trash his ancestor ("He lost an arm, I believe"; "Not an arm. Just the use of an arm"), and his ambitious wife needles his machismo ("You're a soldier - go on the attack!"). David Holmes score adds edgy humour, drab German locations - all bare trees and rain - help ground the satire, and though the climax is overdone it's still amusing that things get (literally) hot as the Cold War comes to an end. Also of course prophetic, but those (e.g. "Sight & Sound") who dismiss it as anachronistic in a post-9/11 world are missing the point: military types will always try to pump up their importance; people will always look for angles and try to screw each other when they're trapped together in a small space; Anna Paquin will always be enchanting. War just ups the ante.]
SO CLOSE (58) (dir., Corey Yuen) Shu Qi, Zhao Wei, Karen Mok [A geek's fantasy: various hi-tech gadgets (I like the cellphone with surveillance-camera feed, so you can check every room in your house while you're out having dinner), fun with computers and a trio of babes not just kicking ass but relaxing with some horseplay round the bathtub, looking sultry from behind elevator doors or pulling pants over bra-and-panties (shot from behind, naturally) as they get up in the morning. Mix of ogling and Girl Power recalls a more straight-faced CHARLIE'S ANGELS, even if the style isn't quite so delirious - though it does do the filters and computer screens reflected off people's faces, and zooms back from an office in Hong Kong all the way up to a satellite in outer space (whoa!), and stages a fight to the strains of the Carpenters' "Close to You"; 70+ for the first 20 minutes, then it runs out of steam, though it could just be I'm not a massive fan of straight-ahead chop-socky action, even when the girls are jackknifing off the walls to land on each other's shoulders, or pinning a villain's hand with their leg, twisting his gun around and forcing him to shoot himself. Also thought the goofier, more human Zhao Wei was actually a lot sexier than ethereal cult goddess Shu Qi. Sorry geeks.]
CABIN FEVER (29) (dir., Eli Roth) Rider Strong, Jordan Ladd, James DeBello, Giuseppe Andrews [Doomed to fail, not just because the people are obnoxious (which they are, above and beyond the call of duty) but also because it tries for the wrong genre - not a slasher movie, which at least allows the audience to work out its animosity in a few short sharp shocks, but a killer-virus drama, which requires you to actually care about these characters as they die slow painful deaths. Deliberate echoes of TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE (low-angle shot of girl approaching house) and NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD (over-zealous cops finish off survivor) seem pretty desperate; introduction of comic-relief lecherous cop whose every other word is "party!" is undoubtedly desperate; final gag involving old man, rifle and "niggers" - seemingly borne of some bizarre wish not to offend the inbred-redneck market - is beyond desperate. Obviously designed for the midnight-movie college crowd, and they're welcome to it; 'don't drink the water' is admittedly a neat idea for a killer-virus movie, though.]
SOLDIER'S GIRL (65) (dir., Frank Pierson) Troy Garity, Lee Pace, Shawn Hatosy, Andre Braugher [Obviously an earnest, worthy, modestly budgeted, made-for-TV Message Movie, in which someone actually says "Sexual orientation isn't black or white: very few people are 100% anything these days" (the script is by the heavy hand behind PHILADELPHIA); transformed by its wise decision not to explain or justify the central relationship - a coup de foudre between a seemingly straight boy and a transsexual - raising it to the status of a Grand Passion (as opposed to 'true nature' coming out, emanation of a childhood trauma, etc), and of course by a trio of superb performances. Pace supplies "the sequins", as she puts it (plus vulnerability), Garity has presence and a doleful big-lug charm with his slurred, stumbling speech and occasional lopsided smile, and Hatosy tames the showiest role - deranged macho turned low-rent Iago - just through sheer force of personality ("I would lay down my life for you," he says, and the conviction is unshakeable). Not a huge amount to talk about - it is pretty much a position-paper entitled "The Myth of Masculinity", and how convenient is it that the tranny used to be a soldier himself, only to reject it? - and it does look like TV, Paul Sarossy or no Paul Sarossy: something about the flatness of the image, and stuff like the minimal production design of the barracks when our hero first arrives (it just looks like a room). But it's great that the 'girl' isn't made to confront her parents (no glib solutions), and even greater that the guy isn't made to look like a clueless hetero in need of Education - "Welcome to the other side of the looking-glass," she tells him, but she's just as overwhelmed as he is - and generally great that it's so sincere and balanced, and seldom does the crude tendentious stuff that knocks you out of the storytelling. That's all I'm asking, really...]
GIGLI (48) (dir., Martin Brest) Ben Affleck, Jennifer Lopez, Justin Bartha, Lainie Kazan, Al Pacino [Misconceived and not too enjoyable, but there's obviously more going on here than in the majority of Hollywood star vehicles (the critical response proves nothing, except that too many critics read the gossip sheets instead of watching movies); not so much in what it's saying, perhaps - macho men are basically unhappy but conditioned since childhood not to show weakness, ergo not in touch with their feelings, etc - but the outlandish network of thematic strands it builds in order to say it, from lesbians to domineering mothers to testosterone-laden gangsters to Bennifer (plus mentally-retarded young hostage) setting up house as a dysfunctional family with our hero as abusive father (also the second film in a row for me where a belligerent Alpha-male is revealed - or just assumed - to have secret homosexual urges; kind of incredible how firmly that's become the conventional wisdom). Strange and intriguing, but Brest tends to misjudge his effects: the florid dialogue ("absconded", "seeds of cruel doubt to sprout in your soul", etc) is presumably intended as stylisation - giving it a Damon Runyon feel - but comes across as trying to be clever, the boldness often feels like tastelessness, and a lot of it is just too intense for the jocular tone (comedy music sits ill with lesbian lover slashing her wrists and retard used as figure of pathos); also it's unclear how the film views its hero, i.e. whether he's a male-chauvinist dinosaur - all the women he meets without exception are too smart for him - or a symbol of Unreconstructed 00s Man (can it be both?). No surprise that audiences didn't go for it - plot's incoherent, some of it is borderline-grotesque - but it does allow Affleck to play a full-blown jerk for the first time since DAZED AND CONFUSED (the kind of role he does best, in the same way that Richard Gere comes to life when he plays a slimeball) and gives J. Lo. an Ode to Pussy every bit as touching as Mickey Rourke's in SPUN. When did she get so buff, though?...]