October 12, 2010 · 11:46 pm

TV Corner

As you well may have noticed, my updates have been spotty for the past couple of weeks.  Mainly, this is because I’ve been seduced from the big screen to the small screen.  The culprits aren’t the new fall season, however, but shows I’d been meaning to watch for ages and have been hooked on since starting them.

The first is Deadwood, HBO’s series set in the old west, loosely based on true events. As with many HBO or Showtime offerings, it’s got a heaping portion of nudity, profanity and violence, so do brace yourself for that if it’s not your cuppa; however, I have little trouble believing that all three happened in spades in the time and place depicted.

Much has been made of the acting, and rightly so.  Ian McShane’s Al Swearington is a tour de force, and would probably carry the series on its own.  Thankfully, it doesn’t have to – Robin Weigert’s Calamity Jane, John Hawkes’ Sol Star, Paula Malcomson’s Trixie, Brad Dourif’s Doc Cochran, and many others are all nuanced, intriguing performances, and the strength of the characters keep me hooked.

The story runs hot and cold; while the dialogue is always varied and textured, the plot can sometimes lag or meander. It’s interesting but sometimes problematic that the two characters who can loosely be termed the ‘romantic leads’ have almost no chemistry at all, and that the crackshot sheriff becomes the unmoving center of events, rather than the protagonist driving them. On the one hand, I do think that it was smart to make the show a series of overlapping arcs, rather than one epic story – it serves what the show is trying to do better. On the other hand, some arcs are more interesting than others, and it risks fragmentation at times.  Still, on the strength of its characters, it does better than most shows.

The production values are strong, as you would expect. The costumes, especially, are beautifully done, though I don’t have the knowledge to comment on their accuracy. There’s a sense of dust and detail and weight in all the design aspects of the show that serves as a vivid backdrop and both ties the series too and disconnects it from classic Westerns.

Grade: B I’m invested and entertained, consistently, even by the weaker episodes

The other show that’s to blame for my lack of film viewing is the BBC’s Being Human. I just finished series one, and I’m well and truly hooked.  I can’t remember the last time I cared so quickly about a character, much less three of them.  It’s the kind show where I constantly change who my favorite is, and I was instantly invested in all three main characters’ happiness and well being.

A classic “better than it sounds,” I expected kitch from a show that’s about a vampire, a werewolf and a ghost as housemates.  And though it is generally a fairly light show, Being Human has a sweet sincerity that is incredibly disarming. The urban fantasy is well handled, neither ignored nor too heavy-handed.  There’s a bit of romance, a bit of suspense, some decent werewolf effects (for once) but the story is the heart of the show.

I can’t wait to get to series two. Being Human is fluff, true, but it’s thoughtful fluff with some genuine heart.

Grade: A- It knows what it wants to do, and does it well.  Hard to ask much more.

 

And, though not a full review for now, I am also rewatching the miniseries Jekyll with a friend. As of this writing, it’s available to stream on Netflix, and I highly recommend it if you enjoy thrillers, genre deconstructions, or just generally being entertained by a modern take on Jekyll and Hyde.

 

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September 30, 2010 · 6:59 pm

Flame and Citron

Flame and Citron (Flammen & Citronen) is a historical semi-thriller from Denmark, released in 2008.  One of its two co-stars, Mads Mikkelsen, will be familiar to American audiences (most notably as Le Chiffre, the villain in the recent Casino Royale), but the rest of the cast is likely not to be unless you watch a great deal of Danish cinema. (Which, I confess, I can’t say that I do.)

Still, the cast is really excellent, especially Mikkelsen and his co-star, Thure Lindhardt.  Though my feelings for the movie as a whole are lukewarm, both of them created really subtle, nuanced performances in what could have easily been fairly wooden roles.

The title comes from these two men’s nicknames: “Flame” because Lindhardt’s character has hair red enough to be a missing Weasley brother, and “Citron” (or Lemon) because Mikkelsen’s character once used to repair cars.  The two of them  are members of the Danish resistance in WWII, assassinating German officers whenever and wherever they can get away with doing so.  In many ways, Flame and Citron could be an interesting double feature with Inglourious Basterds as an examination of how far one is justified to go when fighting evil.

Or it would be, if it were slightly more interesting.  Flame and Citron drags, and while a languorous pace is not, in and of itself, a default, it doesn’t make the most of the space it decides to take.  Though the film is aesthetically pleasing, it doesn’t nothing very interesting with its lovely visuals; likewise, though the characterizations explore a bit of nuance here and there, the movie never really goes anywhere with them.

The film is loosely based on true events, but it occupies an uneasy middle ground between fact and fiction, not quite sure whether it wants to document a moment in history, or use that moment as a jumping-off point for a political thriller.  The question of who is telling the truth and to whom becomes as close to a central problem as the movie ever comes, but really, it becomes a series of vignettes that work with varying levels of success.

As such, there were individual scenes in the movie that worked quite well for me.  Probably the most memorable is Flame’s visit to a German civilian.  His superior warns him not to let the man speak, just to shoot him; Flame, however, is lured in by the man’s amiable small talk about war and motivations for it.  It’s also the first true seed of doubt about the selection of the men’s targets, and the greater morality of their actions.

There are also smaller scenes that linger.  Citron’s wife leaves him for another man, and in a brief scene, Citron turns up to tell him to take care of his wife and daughter.  It’s strung with tension, the wife standing in the background with the little girl and Citron calmly warning the man that if he hears his daughter is ever mistreated, he will return, then returning her wave with the smallest lift of his fingers.

But these gem-like moments are strung together with long stretches where, to be frank, not much of emotional or intellectual interest happens.  Flame’s romance is less than compelling, and his relationship with his pragmatic, appeasement-favoring father is only briefly touched upon.  Citron’s life slowly comes apart at the edges, but you feel the war will catch up with him before the process is complete.  And there are really no characters other than the protagonists to whom the viewer feels much attachment at all.  As they wander, numbly, through the end of the war, their numbness insulates even that from breaking through.

Though the production values are good, and there are some moments worth the effort, on the whole Flame and Citron was forgettable and left me somewhat indifferent.  It tried to be an art film and a thriller, and fell through the gap between.

Grade: C Not a bad film, in its way, but it never really got off the ground.

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September 23, 2010 · 10:14 pm

The Man In the Iron Mask

The same friend with whom I watched The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo was all hitting a third Dumas adaptation on a separate evening.  So, in order to keep the time periods symmetrical, we watched one made between the other two: 1998’s The Man In the Iron Mask.

I had seen this movie only once before, when it was actually out in theaters, and I can say that my opinions on it have changed in almost everything except that I am still in love with Jeremy Irons. Hilariously, with the five year gap between watching the two musketeer movies the first time around, I didn’t notice that Irons plays the role Charlie Sheen plays in the 1993 film.  The casting directors were clearly reading different books.

Speaking of which, both films definitely made me want to read them, especially considering the different dynamics between the characters in each.  If you consider all the comparative casting, the only characterization that’s truly similar is Gerard Depardieu and Oliver Platt as Porthos and, in the sole case of the four, Platt does better despite the much worse dialogue.

One of the big factors that changed in my assessment between ’98 and ’10 is Leonardo DiCaprio.  I was not the world’s biggest DiCaprio fan at the time – please remember it was just one year since Titanic had hit theaters, and I was irked by everyone’s assumption that, as a teenage girl, I should be in love with Jack Dawkins. (Victor Garber was much better looking, I always thought, if we’re being shallow.)

But as he’s gotten older, I’ve come to respect DiCaprio as an actor. (The Departed helped a lot.) And now that my opinions of him have changed, it’s interesting to go back and watch this performance, or set of performances, with what he’ll become in mind.  It’s still not staggering acting, but it’s not a movie that allows for staggering acting.  Even so, it’s remarkable how clearly he distinguishes the brothers with small choices and details; he almost looks physically different in each part. There’s some real craft even in the middle of a movie this silly.

(Also, Peter Sarsgaard is in it! I was happy to see him, even if in such a minor role.)

This is not to say all the acting was stellar.  Besides Depardieu, Judith Godrèche was a hot mess.  I wasn’t thrilled with her in L’Auberge Espagnol either, but in English she’s just wretched. And Gabriel Byrne, as he so often does, approaches a role that is fundamentally silly with a hand-wringing earnestness that seemed occasionally out of place. (His character kills an assassin by using a rapier as a thrown weapon. Hand to god. That should be your sign, Mr. Byrne, that your movie is fundamentally silly.)

The filming is also fairly lackluster, if serviceable.  It’s blandly pretty without being at all distinctive; it could be one of a dozen Hollywood costume dramas from the sets and the cinematography.  Still, there was nothing objectionable, really, just nothing that grabbed me as a viewer.

Still, between Irons and DiCaprio and a decent if mediocre screenplay, it’s an entertaining hour or two.  Neither as good as the one, nor as bad as the other, this third Dumas adaptable falls squarely in the “Well, it was okay” camp for me.

Rating: C+ A few merits kick it up beyond average, but on the whole, a decent if unremarkable film.

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September 21, 2010 · 7:31 pm

What To Watch Tonight

Three more movie recommendations. All available for instant view on Netflix.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) –
Your silent recommendation for this round is a classic, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Yes, it’s maybe the seminal early Expressionist film, and yes, it’s an important milestone in film history. But more importantly, it’s just so interesting. The twisted, asymmetrical visuals are sort of proto-Burtonesque, and some shots are haunting in how long they stick with you.

The plot has to do with a carnival and a somnambulist, insanity and murder. But really, if you’re into films like, say, Inception, you really need to check out the story in this film and shiver at how prescient it was. I may rewatch this one myself. Also, it’s only 72 minutes, so if you’ve got other things to do, it’s less than 2 episodes of most television dramas – without commercials.

The Third Man (1949) –
Literally one of my very favorite movies. The Third Man never gets old for me. I love its cinematography, and its screenplay, and its kicky little zither theme. I love Joseph Cotton as the protagonist who doesn’t know to quit, and I love the post-war Vienna setting.

It’s based on a Graham Greene novel, and follows Cotton as an unemployed novelist who finds out his friend Harry Lime died under mysterious circumstances. In grand movie tradition, the novelist just has to know what really happened, despite people telling him he might be better off not knowing. Enjoy your first viewing; it’s a movie I’d dearly love to be able to see again for the first time.

Excalibur (1981) –
Though I saw Camelot first, this remains my seminal childhood version of the Arthurian legend. (Funny, because it’s a fairly hard R in both sex and violence, but… whatever.) It’s full of 80s bling and Wagner and very hammy performances from actors great and small.

Highlights include: Gabriel Byre’s Uther, who takes Ygraine while wearing his full plate, and in front of tiny!Morgan. Liam Neeson as a very blustery Gawain. Patrick Stewart. Helen Mirren. And more fog than you can shake a stick at. It may not be a very good movie, but a fun riff on the Camelot legend.

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September 16, 2010 · 6:56 pm

Memento

(If, somehow, you haven’t yet seen Memento and you intend to, go out and watch it right now. I’ll wait. It’s on Netflix Instant. Go and come back – you really don’t want to know anything going in the first time.)

It has been several years since I last rewatched Memento, and I have to say it only gets better with age. Christopher Nolan has been all over the news in the past few years, between the critical acclaim for The Dark Knight and the slightly more mixed but still enthusiastic reaction to this summer’s Inception. But in rewatching Memento, I couldn’t help but wonder if he’ll ever make another film this tightly constructed again.

I am certainly not the first to wonder if filmmakers under constraint make better films, and I will be far from the last. But I think that giving the whole credit to the film’s minimalism is to undersell what an excellent neo-noir it really is. It’s not just good for a small, independent film; it’s good, period.

The acting is really quite stellar, from the entire cast. Guy Pearce is an actor I still expect to become a big deal, and he hasn’t quite managed yet; he was in the semi-blockbuster Count of Monte Cristo, and pretty much everyone agrees he was excellent in L.A. Confidential, but in trying to come up with more recent examples of his skill, everyone seems to be stuck beyond about 2003. (I’d forgotten, but I had a small moment of glee seeing him ever so briefly in The Hurt Locker.) But here, he’s in top form, making a conceit that could easily swing into ridiculousness utterly believable, heartbreaking and terrifying. Carrie-Anne Moss also turns in a remarkably cutting, chilling performance as Natalie.

The cast also really has a handle on the black humor that leavens the script; I forgot until I rewatched it how often the movie coaxes a genuine laugh, if one tinged with nerves. The atmosphere, while terse, is not without tenderness or levity, which makes the terrible things that happen all the worse.

The filming is clever without looking clever. The black and white forward-moving section and the color backward-moving section are both sharply lit, and look of a piece with one another. When they merge, it seems appropriate. As an audience member, it doesn’t feel like a trick but like a reveal. The nods to classic noir are certainly there: windows and window-coverings like blinds and curtains are everywhere in the frame.  The lighting is really remarkable, but doesn’t grab your attention on first viewing. We’re constantly given information that, like Leonard, we have a limited ability to decode.

No review of Memento can ignore the strength of its screenplay. The idea of tiny segments, arranged backward, is so elegantly simple it’s insane. The film puts the viewer in its protagonist’s shoes, repeatedly dropping us in medias res to try and decode the story as best we can. Unlike Leonard, however, we can retain what happens next, adding it on to what we learn each time. By adding the forward-moving half the narrative, the filmmakers also ensure we have some sort of context.

(I also love how the phone conversations seem, at first, simply a convenient way to unload exposition, but then turn out to be a character reveal for Teddy as well as a small building block in Leonard’s interaction with the hotel clerk.)

The thing about Memento is that is genuinely thrilling. The sense of isolation it creates is pervasive and complete, moreso than even the characters can be fully aware of. The subtle ways in which is builds paranoia are remarkable. What’s crossed out on the back of Natalie’s photograph? Why are things missing from the police files? How does he have a Jaguar when he clearly can’t work?

I imagine, though I don’t know, that The Prestige would have been a bit more like this film if it weren’t, by necessity, a creature of Hollywood. But that’s just speculation.

What’s not speculation is that Memento is one of my very favorite modern noirs, and rewatching it is always a pleasure. Rewatching it with someone who’s never seen it before is doubly rewarding. It is not for everyone, I admit – I’ve had several people I respect tell me they loathe it. But for me, I think it already looks timeless, and I look forward to watching it 20 or 30 years from now with the same pleasure I do today.

Grade: A I can think of nothing I would change in this movie; even its imperfections support the whole.

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September 14, 2010 · 7:41 pm

Open

I apologize, readers, but I have no meta for you tonight.  My brain is mush and I don’t want to ramble incoherently at you.

Instead, have a farewell to summer movies, as we start looking toward the award-season bait of fall/winter. I will miss you until next year, big explode-y action flicks. (Okay, at least until Christmas.)

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September 9, 2010 · 8:49 pm

A Perfect Getaway

A Perfect Getaway is the sort of movie you have to be in the perfect mood for to appreciate. That mood is “silly,” but for what it is, it’s quite satisfying.

I hadn’t seen any trailers or publicity for the film at all – I found it because I’m going through a big Timothy Olyphant phase right at present, and started investigating some of his filmography. Also, I’ve loved Steve Zahn ever since That Thing You Do!, so it had a bonus casting lure.

After watching the film, out of curiosity, I looked up the trailer.

And it does give you a good sense of the movie – lovely scenery, characters hiking along, and then sudden INTENSE things happen.

The script is fairly uncomplex and moves along nicely without getting to stretched out. One particular sequence toward the end felt a bit ham-handedly expository, and one particular monologue from Milla Jovovich felt a bit off, but on the whole, the screenplay was sturdy. Serviceable.

The four lead actors all do a nice job of not over-acting; a movie like this would not benefit from an Oscar-worthy performance, because it couldn’t bear the weight of it. Instead, the four of them match each other well. (Hey, congrats Kiele Sanchez, I no longer hate you for being Nikki from Lost.) Both couples have interesting chemistry, and are developed enough that you at least care on the surface what happens to them.

It is also just pretty. The cinematography is nothing special, but the locations are lush and gorgeous, and all the people are fairly easy on the eyes as well.

I suppose the bottom line is that it’s an easy movie to sit back and enjoy. It doesn’t make a ton of sense, but it makes enough that it doesn’t throw me out of itself to question things, and I care enough about the characters for the plot to create some sort of stakes.

Sometimes, you don’t need Hitchcock. (Well, I suppose you could argue that you always need Hitchcock, but that’s another discussion entirely.) Some nights, you are just in the movie to order some Chinese food, kick back on your bed, and watch a mindless summer movie. If you aren’t in the mood to be hypercritical, and you just want to turn your brain off and coast, A Perfect Getaway is a good choice. Not life-changing, but I didn’t feel cheated either.

I leave you with this short interview clip. How silly are they?

Grade: C+ Enjoyable, but in no way remarkable.

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September 7, 2010 · 7:01 pm

Life of the Party

Watching a movie at a party is a particular sort of movie experience. It suits some movies well, and others it threatens to ruin; I’d never want to try and watch The Quiet American in a room full of people chattering and drinking, but this weekend’s Die Hard With a Vengeance was more or less perfect.

Here are some of the reasons I thought our movie choice worked:

1. Most, but not all, of the people present had seen the movie before. Even for those who hadn’t, the plot is basic enough to come in late and to miss chunks of dialogue. This is a crucial feature for an enjoyable party movie. Nothing is more frustrating than trying to follow an intricate plot in the middle of chaos, or feeling guilty when the person next to you tries to make conversation, forcing you to choose between rudeness or giving up on the film.

With the Die Hard movies, especially, everything moves at a fast clip but remains delightfully uncomplex. (Who are the bad guys? The ones with the fake German accents and the sunglasses. Who are we rooting for? Bruce Willis and Samuel L. Jackson. Oh, let’s blow something up.) This is a feature, not a defect: these movies are great to talk to, play along with, and pick up and put down as necessary.

Also, with an older movie, if you do get hopelessly lost, any number of fellow guests can fill you in, even if they haven’t been paying attention. (Equally, if the movie is abandoned before it ends, you’re not left on such a cliffhanger you’re upset; presumably, good triumphs and our hero prevails.)

2. Collectively watching a movie is also fun if there are puzzles or mysteries, to a point. No, you don’t want someone blurting out the end of The Usual Suspects. But in Die Hard With a Vengeance, for example, there’s a delightful scene in which our heroes have a 3 gallon jug and a 5 gallon jug, and must weight a scale with exactly 4 gallons of water.

Everyone had, of course, forgotten how this was done from their earlier experiences with the movie, so the party was suddenly involved in a quick mental exercise, throwing out and rejecting solutions playfully almost as fast as the characters do. They figured it out before we did (having a script helped, I imagine). But the attempts to figure out the problem briefly untied the party before we broke back into smaller sub-conversations again.

3. Humor. I find that action movies with a touch of comedy are perfect for parties. You can play with the action to humor axis, of course – Speed is delightfully mindless, and Sandra Bullock brings a few laughs, while Hot Fuzz skews more toward comedy, but has some really delightful chases. But regardless, giving people something to laugh at when they’re socializing (and possibly drinking) never goes amiss. And an action film with humor is less tricky to sell than trying to gauge a collective sense of humor. (Should we watch Animal House or Monty Python? The Hangover or Arsenic and Old Lace? Much harder.)

As a side note: Our movie was on TV, which also led to some unintentional humor in the deletion of profanity. It never ceases to amaze me how obvious it is what the original word was, and how much more attention we pay when it’s not there, but that’s another post in the making.

4. Recognizable actors, good or bad, are a conversation starter. Jeremy Irons turns up, and there’s a host of “I loved him in –” or “I always mix him up with” or “Why hasn’t he been in a Harry Potter move?” Samuel L. Jackson leads to Snakes on a Plane jokes, quoting Pulp Fiction, and mocking the Star Wars prequels.

Movies with big stars aren’t necessarily better than those without. But for party purposes, everyone knows and has opinions on the stars, and it’s one more way to interact with the film.

5. Speaking of interacting with the film, this last factor was serendipitous, but fun. A lot of Die Hard With a Vengeance was filmed on location in New York City. A friend of mine, who had never seen the film before, was amused and delighted to recognize places he was familiar with, even 20x years after the film was made. (Why hello, Gray’s Papaya.)

As someone who grew up in the Midwest, the joy of seeing places I recognized in films was severely limited. (PS, Steven Spielberg: There are no mountains in Muncie, Ind.) But now that I’ve been in Manhattan (and, to a lesser degree, Westchester) for long enough, there is a delicious feeling at being able to place a film scene in your own mental map. Recognizing exactly where something was shot is a pleasure best shared with friends, and seeing who can correctly identify a place first becomes a sort of game in itself.

Scouting NY recognizes this; the blog features the occasional movie to street comparison, and asks readers to identify certain movie scenes for fun.

Unless you happen to live in New York, L.A. or London, this sort of thing is hard to plan for. But if it does work out, it’s a bonus.

Ultimately, any film can be good background filler at a party, or (if the party’s going poorly) it can entertain more reticent guests. But if the right movie’s in the background, movie and party will work together, instead of pulling in two different directions. And sometimes, that’s all you need.

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September 2, 2010 · 7:08 pm

A Tale of Two Dumas Movies

I recently re-watched both the 1993 version of The Three Musketeers and the 2002 The Count of Monte Cristo, in one double feature. My friend and I had originally intended to watch just the former, but it was so laughably bad that we decided we needed a palate cleanser. (Plus Michael Wincott is in both of them, if in a rather minor role in the later, so there was a secondary connection besides the Dumas adaptation factor.  The same friend and I have also recently watched The Man In the Iron Mask, but that, if it appears, will be another review.)

The Count of Monte Cristo is not a great movie in the sense that The Godfather Part II is a great movie. It’s campy and light, and was not designed to win any awards, but it still fulfills its purpose almost perfectly. The Three Musketeers, not a great movie when it came out, has also dated terribly. But even with the decade between the two films, comparing and contrasting may be in order.

First, and probably foremost, is the screenplay. Both, by necessity, radically simplify their source material. There is simply no way to make a two hour feature from books this long without simplifying, and sometimes changing, the original plot. As I haven’t yet read The Three Musketeers, I will judge these movies based only on their own plots, not as adaptations.

Even when you’re writing an adventure film, the rules of basic logic should apply. Albert can be Dantes’ son, because the film makes sure you know he was conceived the night Dantes is arrested. Villefort’s motivation for setting Dantes up is well-explained. The pieces of the Count’s revenge are, if simple, laid out in an enjoyable and understandable way.

With Three Musketeers, my friend and I asked each other many questions. Why does D’Artagnan attack the queen’s guards? Who is the random guy who shows up to arrest Milday De Winter? Are those cannonballs exploding? Why on earth would Richelieu make a move against the crown before an alliance with Buckingham, and was Oliver Platt drunk for the entirety of filming?

If he was, I can hardly blame him. The dialogue is absurd, whether delivered with staunch earnestness by Chris O’Donnell or with theatrical melodrama by Tim Curry.

Watch it without laughing. I dare you.

While Monte Cristo has an unnecessary line or two (I’ve never been fond of “I’m a count, not a saint,” because it doesn’t make sense), it’s mostly straight ahead dialogue. It’s theatrical, but not flowery, often straight to the point – and the screenwriter bothered to make different characters sound different, which is more than Musketeers bothered to do.

Granted, some of this gets mixed up in delivery, which is the realm of actors and directors. Monte Cristo has a solid cast all around: Jim Caviezel is perfect in his combination of hapless naïveté and cold revenge, Guy Pearce’s drunken discontent gets better every time I see the film, Dagmara Dominczyk is competent and very pretty, and Richard Harris is Richard Harris, so there’s that. Like the Errol Flynn pictures of the ’30s, the acting furthers the story; you have heroes to cheer, pretty girls to look at, and villains to boo. It’s not complicated, and it has its issues, but it’s a familiar, reliable plot structure.

I think Kiefer Sutherland’s Athos is supposed to be the person we root for in Musketeers, but the film can’t decide whether it’s him or D’Artagnan. Which is fine, because neither of them quite work as the hero, dramatically. Sutherland seems to be doing a dry run for Jack Bauer, and seems like a refugee from a totally different sort of plot. D’Artagnan is the unattractive Gryffindor: bold, arrogant, and often stupid. I suppose I don’t want the child-king to die, but hell if I care for their sake. As for the other two Musketeers, Platt is affable but clownish, as his Porthos as nothing to do except wench and make cracks about the Empress of America; Charlie Sheen shows up, says his lines, and collects his paycheck. The only one who really acquits himself is Michael Wincott, who is actually rather menacing as Roquefort (especially compared to Curry’s scenery-chewing Richelieu).

Monte Cristo has the slightly better design, even allowing for the differences in technology, and is much more competently lit. The fight choreography is Musketeers is, even to my semi-untrained eye, quite terrible. And Monte Cristo boasts an excellent score for an adventure movie, while every time I hear the power chords for “All for Love,” I can’t help cracking up.

The greater point I took away from watching both films back to back is that just because you’re making a silly pseudo-historical adventure doesn’t mean you should give up on demanding the basic pillars of good cinematic storytelling. You need a story that the audience can follow, characters that they actually care about, and stakes that keep their interest. Musketeers is a mess of nonsensical subplots, and is peopled by one-dimensional cutouts. Monte Cristo is a simple tale of a man who goes through hell and comes back out on the other side (after a great deal of adventure and revenge, but even so). Doing something simple, and doing it well, is hard.

And no matter what the genre, demanding a movie make sense is never too much to ask.

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August 31, 2010 · 6:53 pm

What to Watch Tonight

Three movies available to stream instantly on Netflix.

The Cat and the Canary (1927) –
This is a silent film, so be warned if silents aren’t your thing. But really do consider checking this out. I saw it almost by chance on Turner Classic Movies a few years ago, and loved it. The heirs to a fortune have to spend the night in their dead benefactor’s house; the woman first in line to inherit must be declared of sound mind or she won’t get the money. This is all well and good and just mildly creepy until the family’s lawyer turns up dead and a lunatic escapes from a nearby asylum. (As they do.)

This movie has all kinds of things going for it. It mixes German Expressionism with humor – no, really, it does – and it plays into several solid tropes. The people locked in a mansion together, the maniac on the loose, men trying to manipulate a woman into believing (or having others believe) that she’s crazy… it’s kind of fabulous. The filming is also really impressive for ’27. Very enjoyable.

Murder on the Orient Express (1974) –
The most high-profile film adaptation of the Agatha Christie novel is star-studded in the most classic sense. Everyone is either a high profile movie star (Lauren Bacall, Sean Connery, Anthony Perkins) or at the very least someone who looks dead familiar (Martin Balsam, Richard Widmark). Albert Finney plays Poirot, and while he will always be Tom Jones in my head, Finney does a great job with the part.

Though the pacing could be better, the film captures the fun who-dunnit feeling of the classic locked room mystery that, for me, is what Christie does best. It is a bit over-acted and broad, but that suits the piece, and it’s a very fun use of a couple hours. It’s self-aware enough not to be pompous, with a solid enough story to keep you hooked.

Ugetsu (1953) –
This Japanese film is perhaps one of the most atmospheric movies I’ve ever seen. My strongest memories of seeing it the first time are of fog and mist weaving in and out of scenes; things dissolve in front of you, and then the scene dissolves in the cinematic sense as well. It’s considered a classic of Japanese cinema, and Kenji Mizoguchi’s direction is masterful.

The movie is based on several short stories, but are framed by two peasants from a farming village. They flee their homes in the late 16th century, as an army sweeps through and subsequently find themselves caught up in all sorts of intrigue and… well, I hesitate to say adventures, but perhaps “events.” The film moves relatively slowly, but takes its time with both the viewer’s gaze and character developments. There’s also a nice supernatural overtone that makes it feel like a story told at a campfire, or late at night. A beautiful film.

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August 26, 2010 · 7:03 pm

American Psycho

(Note: This review discusses the uncut version of the movie. I’ve never seen the theatrical release.)

When I drafted the voiceover post for Tuesday, I hadn’t yet watched American Psycho, so I had no idea how thematically appropriate it would be.

So I suppose the narration is as good a place as any to begin. I was neither thrilled by nor horrified by the use of a first person narrator in American Psycho. Given that it’s based on a novel, I imagine the first person narration is a crucial feature of the source material. For what it is, it’s integrated decently, and gives some nice moments to the film, forcing the viewer into complicity with Bateman.

There’s not much to complain about in general about the technical finesse of American Psycho. The cinematography is solid (and also clearly done with an eye on popular trends in the way 80s films were shot; I had to keep reminding myself the film was made in 2000). Christian Bale delivers a truly impressive performance, conveying a great deal with subtle facial expressions and detailed acting choices. For me, his quiet pseudo-rationality may be the film’s greatest strength. The pacing is good, and the screenplay is solid.

I appreciated this movie intensely. So why didn’t I love it?

I realize this could, at some point, lead to deeper questions. Why does anyone like anything? But I don’t mean to say it’s a simple matter of taste; of course taste factors in, but I think I can pinpoint a few things.

The alienation that this movie creates works almost too well, for one thing. I understand that it avoids allowing you to connect meaningfully with any of the characters and sequences events episodically on purpose; I even feel I’ve as sense as to why it does so. When the subject of your movie is a man with no ability to connect whatsoever, having your form reflect his mindset is a reasonable artistic choice.

But it also makes it hard for me to emotionally invest in the film. And if the emotional connection is gone, the art can’t be just good. It has to be amazing, to leap over the gulf of emotional abstraction. The craft of this film is ahead of the curve, but it’s not that far ahead of the curve.

The film is an above average character study, and the fact that the character’s a psychopath does give the film an extra boost. But until the ending, it’s variations on a theme. It’s the cinematic equivalent of Philip Glass music; minimalist variations on a theme, explored over and over.

I love Glass, in fact, but I understand why some people don’t. And while watching how this movie builds and resolves around its central conceit of the homicidal maniac as a natural outgrowth of Wall Street culture, I can admire the subtlety of its craftsmanship. (I have to wonder how many movies, ever, can include a homicide by chainsaw and still count as “subtle.”) The film’s central metaphor, on first viewing is fairly overt, but the constant re-contextualizing and reexamining of the character, both from within and without, is worth seeing.

That said, the ending left me unsatisfied. I liked the ambiguity, I liked the reveal, but the final monologue seemed a bit forced. Capping the film by saying “None of this meant anything” is a strong choice, and I want the character to believe it in this case, but I don’t know if I want the director to agree.

It’s only fair to confess, I’m prejudiced in favor of plot, as anyone who knows me in real life will attest. So a movie that pushes the boundaries of plotlessness will have an uphill climb with me.

I’ve since heard the movie described as a feminist critique of a certain form of masculinity, and I can see where this comes from. I’d be interested to rewatch it, eventually, and be able to apply a more critical eye (in the sense of film criticism, not the more casual sense of picking it apart negatively).

Grade: B Overall, it left me a bit flat, but I can appreciate how well the film is made, and I can certainly understand why other people think it’s excellent.

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August 24, 2010 · 7:31 pm

Marlowe, First Person, and the Voiceover

I recently finished reading Farewell, My Lovely, the second Philip Marlowe novel. (The second one to be written, at least – there’s nothing in it that requires a reader to have any familiarity with The Big Sleep, the prior book.) I enjoy Chandler a lot, even if I’m a Hammett girl in my heart of hearts.

But one thing I think Chandler handles really skillfully is the nuance of first person narration. Sam Spade is described from without, but Marlowe unfolds slowly, subtly from within. “I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat and a gun. I put them on and went out of the room.” It sums up the classic private eye succinctly and vividly.

And his dry, self-deprecating narration is conversational, as if he’s telling you the story over drinks in a dark bar. Even in action scenes the tone remains: “He bent me. I can be bent. I’m not the City Hall. He bent me.”

This style became iconic, and I’ve seen its influence in Mickey Spillane’s Dead Street and Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files novels, for two examples off the top of my head. The narrator who’s not untrustworthy, per se, but whose perspective you learn to allow for is a clever device in thrillers that allows the reader to root for a protagonist who can vary from jerk with a heart of gold to anti-hero.

Between this tendency and the prevalence of private eye radio dramas in the early 20th century, it was perhaps inevitable that voiceover would become an iconic component of film noir. But I have a confession.

I’m not a fan of the voiceover, 9 times out of 10. Especially in private eye movies.

It can be done well, of course, and certain films are so perfect with it that it’s hard to imagine them without (Sunset Boulevard springs to mind). And when the narration occurs because the character is describing something to another within the film, I almost never object (Double Indemnity and Out of the Past, for a couple examples).

But I think Howard Hawks made an excellent decision not to use voiceover in The Big Sleep, tempting as it might have been. Marlowe’s voice is distinctive, but films aren’t about voice. Though sound is important, film remains a visual medium. We don’t need to learn about Marlowe through his own descriptions and asides. We can see what he does in front of us, without a filter. Adding his take is redundant.

This is not to say there’s no place for voiceover, ever. With a film like Detour, that seems to be checking off every box on the film noir checklist, the structure rests on the narration, and the accusatory “you” creates distance rather than complicity. (In a more complex film like Sunset Boulevard, it serves multiple purposes, and rises above being a narrative buttress of sorts.) It’s a tool, but it’s a tool that works better with context, most of the time.

And, for a modern viewer, a certain layer of self-awareness is necessary. Sin City could use voiceover, and in fact required it, because of its nature as a pastiche; it deliberately evoked the hardboiled crime stories of the past. Blade Runner, in its theatrical release, just felt a little clunky in tipping its hat to noir using the voiceover, without accomplishing much by doing so. (Though this is hardly the only reason most people seem to prefer the director’s cut.)

It feels a little pat to say “I don’t object to voiceover if you do it well.” But I think that the device undermines itself, in some ways, by trying to marry the devices of classic crime fiction to crime cinema. Now, of course, there’s a whole history of narration in film to riff on and play with (Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, anyone?), and it can be clever.

But with your Marlowes and your Spades, they don’t have to tell us the story. They’re too busy living it. And the pleasure of watching them is more than enough.

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