list http://www.spout.com/ Recent community activity around Psycho on Spout Copyright 2005-9 Spout, LLC Spout RSS http://www.spout.com/images/SpoutLogoRSS.jpg http://www.spout.com/ 136 30 http://www.spout.com/films/Psycho/129213/default.aspx Title: Psycho
Year: 1998
Director: Gus Van Sant
Plot: Independent film director Gus Van Sant attempts a first in American film history: a shot-by-shot remake of the classic 1960 Alfred Hitchcock film Psycho. With a few minor, modern-day changes (including filming it in color), his version is essentially the same film with a different cast and the same Bernard Hermann music. Psycho was and still is the story of Marion Crane (previously played by Janet Leigh and now by Anne Heche), an adulterous woman who steals a stack of money from her boss and hits the road hoping for financial freedom. Pulling over in an old motel for the night, she meets the creepy owner of the Bates Motel, Norman Bates (Vince Vaughn doing his best Anthony Perkins), who lives with his jealous nagging mother. Most people know the film Psycho for what happens next -- the shower scene, where Marion is brutally stabbed in the most over-analyzed scene in movie history. The money, the car, and Marion's remains are quickly sunk in a nearby swamp. As a detective (William H. Macy) and Marion's sister Lila (Julianne Moore) come looking for her, they begin to uncover the dark mysterious secret lurking in Norman Bates' life. ~ Arthur Borman, All Movie Guide
Times Tagged: 18
Number of Lists: 14
Number of blog posts: 4
Number of discussion threads: 3
SpoutRating: 2
]]>Fri, 31 Jul 2009 21:15:36 GMTPsycho1998Gus Van SantIndependent film director <a href="/players/P___115102/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Gus Van Sant</a> attempts a first in American film history: a shot-by-shot remake of the classic 1960 <a href="/players/P____94487/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Alfred Hitchcock</a> film Psycho. With a few minor, modern-day changes (including filming it in color), his version is essentially the same film with a different cast and the same Bernard Hermann music. Psycho was and still is the story of Marion Crane (previously played by <a href="/players/P____41670/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Janet Leigh</a> and now by <a href="/players/P____31463/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Anne Heche</a>), an adulterous woman who steals a stack of money from her boss and hits the road hoping for financial freedom. Pulling over in an old motel for the night, she meets the creepy owner of the Bates Motel, Norman Bates (<a href="/players/P___225542/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Vince Vaughn</a> doing his best <a href="/players/P___106120/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Anthony Perkins</a>), who lives with his jealous nagging mother. Most people know the film Psycho for what happens next -- the shower scene, where Marion is brutally stabbed in the most over-analyzed scene in movie history. The money, the car, and Marion's remains are quickly sunk in a nearby swamp. As a detective (William H. Macy) and Marion's sister Lila (<a href="/players/P____50325/default.aspx" style='text-decoration:underline'>Julianne Moore</a>) come looking for her, they begin to uncover the dark mysterious secret lurking in Norman Bates' life. ~ Arthur Borman, All Movie Guide18Tag Target (>10)14432http://www.spout.com/ProductImages/t03128bpaap.jpghttp://www.spout.com/films/Psycho/129213/default.aspxFilm http://www.spout.com/blogs/karina/archive/2008/11/25/37647.aspx Post By: Karina
Post To: Karina on SpoutBlog
Post Date: 11/25/2008 5:01:48 PM
Body: Gus Van Sant’s best-known films (which are not the same as his best films) have historically involved a certain grappling with What Hollywood Does. Hollywood saves a poor-but-smart kid from his environment (and himself) with the help of a bearded, platitude-spouting Robin Williams. Hollywood saves a poor-but-smart kid from his environment (and himself) with the help of a bearded, laughable slang-spouting Sean Connery. Hollywood flatters its flavors of the month by shoe-horning them into paint-by-numbers remakes of aged cinematic game changers. Etc. Anyone cognizant of Van Sant’s turn-of-the-century Hollywood period shouldn’t be surprised by his willing ability to play it straight. To say that Van Sant continues to “play it straight” with Milk isn’t meant as a pun regarding sexuality, exactly, but said pun wouldn’t be entirely off the mark. If his Hollywood trilogy was what Van Sant needed to get from his early meditations on the emotional lives of low-lifes to his much-vaunted Death Trilogy, then that most recent career phase may be what Van Sant needed to work through in order to merge the first two modes of his career. Milk takes the defining moments of a subculture once perceived by the mainstream as deviant, and runs it through the mill of What Hollywood Does, thereby sanitizing its hero for feel-good mainstream martyrhood. Van Sant’s laundering of an outsider hero through the very inside mechanism of the Hollywood biopic has been variously described as heroic and distasteful. As of press time, I think it’s somewhere in between. If you’ve seen the superior documentary The Times of Harvey Milk, you know the story: in his early 40s, a newly-out Harvey Milk (Sean Penn) moved from the East Coast to San Francisco and opened up a camera shop on Castro Street, in what would grow to become the mecca of gay San Francisco. In the early 70s, though, the gay community was still subject to the bigotry (and physical intimidation and attacks) of some straight neighbors and virtually all of the SFPD. As an activist fighting for better treatment of his community, Harvey Milk actively reached out to other groups–blacks, Hispanics, even Teamsters–to form coalitions against the powers that were. After losing a number of local elections but gaining in popularity and notoriety with each one, Milk won a seat on San Francisco’s Board of Supervisors alongside future senator Diane Feinstein, and Dan White, a conservative former firefighter from a neighboring Irish-Catholic district. After a serious of personal and political conflicts with Milk, White submitted his resignation to the Board, and then showed up at City Hall the next day and shot Milk and mayor George Moscone. White’s lawyer successfully argued that his client had been mentally incapacitated at the time of the killings due to an unusual consumption of sugar the previous evening. As in Good Will Hunting, here Van Sant does find a few spots to wedge in the haunting, contemplative beauty that governs his best films, but evocative imagery is not Milk’s primary concern. Van Sant and screenwriter Dustin Lance Black mold Milk out of historical fact and on the frame of disappointingly conventional biopic tropes, including an unnecessary and somewhat illogical framing device and a heavy dependence on thematic foreshadowing. Surprisingly, some of these tropes are employed with such grandness that they could potentially be read as something a step above Biopic 101; they could almost be read as clear-eyed camp. For instance, though Van Sant never gets into the alleged Twinkie binge nor White’s trial for Milk’s assassination and the riots that ensued, he does show Milk and lovers and friends bonding over sugary treats at several key points in the narrative, most notably in a birthday cake-in-bed scene after the (unseen) first coupling of Milk and his long-time lover Scott (a brooding, James Franco — so humorless as to be unrecognizable as an Apatow Player). At some level, this functions as not-so-veiled comment on the merit of the so-called “Twinkie Defense“; on the other, there’s something so incredibly heavy-handed about the image of Harvey Milk with whipped cream on his nose joking that he won’t live to the age of 50. It’s almost something out of Hold Me While I’m Naked-era George Kuchar — a dip into What Hollywood Does that somehow seems to simultaneously swipe at it. But not all of Milk’s nods to Hollywood expectations are as stylized; in fact, in its dealing with Milk’s own sexuality, the film is frustratingly restrained. Penn, though exemplary when embodying Milk in political mode (the film’s various scenes of rallies, protests and vigils are as rousing as this sort of thing gets), often comes off as cartoonish when the topic of sex comes up. Black’s script reduces its protagonist to a doddering, even stodgy old man in the midst of the 70s bacchanal. Often seen doting on young proteges but rarely flirting, when Milk does take lovers, their presence in the film is so awkwardly shoehorned in that when one of the live-in variety is disposed of suddenly, the hyper-speed with which Milk moves on seems so troublingly unrealistic that one wonders why the character was ever introduced in the first place. For a film about the fight for the right to sexual freedom, Milk is shockingly sexless. As baked into the script, this makes a certain kind of sense. Penn’s Milk encourages gays and lesbians all across the state to come out of the closet, based on the rationale that if bigots knew they were trying to restrict the rights of friendly, harmless faces in the community, said bigots would feel bad and back down. But Milk himself is concerned with managing an image of gayness in his personal life that’s based on reminding the straight world of his identity solely through words (no movie character has ever verbally announced his sexual preference so many times in a single film), and not appearance or actions. Just as he, after a powerful gay publishing tycoon warned that he was “too old to be a hippie,” traded in his faded denim twin sets and ragged pony tail for a three-piece suit and clean shave, Milk warns his boyfriends and friends to stay out of bathhouses and to not use canvassing as an excuse for cruising.  The character doesn’t see the irony in this — for him, it’s simply an effort to make sure their movement maintains credibility as a serious struggle for civil and human rights and is not reduced by outsiders to a fight for the right to get laid — but as a mirror to Milk’s mainstream ambitions, that irony is unavoidable. It’s a film about the politics of sex, in which the political process itself not only takes precedence over but seems to stand in for the complexities of real life sexuality. There’s an argument to be made that this is the only way to make a film about this man, set in that place and time, that could be palatable to a mainstream audience, to the point where maybe it could even make a point about a certain present-day political fight better than any number of ill-conceived boycotts. I’m not sure I buy that argument, although if in the end the film’s accidental timing helps to speed along the current fight for equal rights, that’s a good thing. But if such real-world issues weren’t on the table –– if the film wasn’t being asked to do triple-duty as biopic, Oscar contender and teaching tool –– I wonder: if it was going to require such homogenization, is the life and death of Harvey Milk something that should have been tailored for mainstream consumption in the first place? Originally posted on:SpoutBlog » Karina Longworth
]]>Tue, 25 Nov 2008 22:01:48 GMTKarinaKarina on SpoutBlog11/25/2008 5:01:48 PMGus Van Sant’s best-known films (which are not the same as his best films) have historically involved a certain grappling with What Hollywood Does. Hollywood saves a poor-but-smart kid from his environment (and himself) with the help of a bearded, platitude-spouting Robin Williams. Hollywood saves a poor-but-smart kid from his environment (and himself) with the help of a bearded, laughable slang-spouting Sean Connery. Hollywood flatters its flavors of the month by shoe-horning them into paint-by-numbers remakes of aged cinematic game changers. Etc. Anyone cognizant of Van Sant’s turn-of-the-century Hollywood period shouldn’t be surprised by his willing ability to play it straight. To say that Van Sant continues to “play it straight” with Milk isn’t meant as a pun regarding sexuality, exactly, but said pun wouldn’t be entirely off the mark. If his Hollywood trilogy was what Van Sant needed to get from his early meditations on the emotional lives of low-lifes to his much-vaunted Death Trilogy, then that most recent career phase may be what Van Sant needed to work through in order to merge the first two modes of his career. Milk takes the defining moments of a subculture once perceived by the mainstream as deviant, and runs it through the mill of What Hollywood Does, thereby sanitizing its hero for feel-good mainstream martyrhood. Van Sant’s laundering of an outsider hero through the very inside mechanism of the Hollywood biopic has been variously described as heroic and distasteful. As of press time, I think it’s somewhere in between. If you’ve seen the superior documentary The Times of Harvey Milk, you know the story: in his early 40s, a newly-out Harvey Milk (Sean Penn) moved from the East Coast to San Francisco and opened up a camera shop on Castro Street, in what would grow to become the mecca of gay San Francisco. In the early 70s, though, the gay community was still subject to the bigotry (and physical intimidation and attacks) of some straight neighbors and virtually all of the SFPD. As an activist fighting for better treatment of his community, Harvey Milk actively reached out to other groups–blacks, Hispanics, even Teamsters–to form coalitions against the powers that were. After losing a number of local elections but gaining in popularity and notoriety with each one, Milk won a seat on San Francisco’s Board of Supervisors alongside future senator Diane Feinstein, and Dan White, a conservative former firefighter from a neighboring Irish-Catholic district. After a serious of personal and political conflicts with Milk, White submitted his resignation to the Board, and then showed up at City Hall the next day and shot Milk and mayor George Moscone. White’s lawyer successfully argued that his client had been mentally incapacitated at the time of the killings due to an unusual consumption of sugar the previous evening. As in Good Will Hunting, here Van Sant does find a few spots to wedge in the haunting, contemplative beauty that governs his best films, but evocative imagery is not Milk’s primary concern. Van Sant and screenwriter Dustin Lance Black mold Milk out of historical fact and on the frame of disappointingly conventional biopic tropes, including an unnecessary and somewhat illogical framing device and a heavy dependence on thematic foreshadowing. Surprisingly, some of these tropes are employed with such grandness that they could potentially be read as something a step above Biopic 101; they could almost be read as clear-eyed camp. For instance, though Van Sant never gets into the alleged Twinkie binge nor White’s trial for Milk’s assassination and the riots that ensued, he does show Milk and lovers and friends bonding over sugary treats at several key points in the narrative, most notably in a birthday cake-in-bed scene after the (unseen) first coupling of Milk and his long-time lover Scott (a brooding, James Franco — so humorless as to be unrecognizable as an Apatow Player). At some level, this functions as not-so-veiled comment on the merit of the so-called “Twinkie Defense“; on the other, there’s something so incredibly heavy-handed about the image of Harvey Milk with whipped cream on his nose joking that he won’t live to the age of 50. It’s almost something out of Hold Me While I’m Naked-era George Kuchar — a dip into What Hollywood Does that somehow seems to simultaneously swipe at it. But not all of Milk’s nods to Hollywood expectations are as stylized; in fact, in its dealing with Milk’s own sexuality, the film is frustratingly restrained. Penn, though exemplary when embodying Milk in political mode (the film’s various scenes of rallies, protests and vigils are as rousing as this sort of thing gets), often comes off as cartoonish when the topic of sex comes up. Black’s script reduces its protagonist to a doddering, even stodgy old man in the midst of the 70s bacchanal. Often seen doting on young proteges but rarely flirting, when Milk does take lovers, their presence in the film is so awkwardly shoehorned in that when one of the live-in variety is disposed of suddenly, the hyper-speed with which Milk moves on seems so troublingly unrealistic that one wonders why the character was ever introduced in the first place. For a film about the fight for the right to sexual freedom, Milk is shockingly sexless. As baked into the script, this makes a certain kind of sense. Penn’s Milk encourages gays and lesbians all across the state to come out of the closet, based on the rationale that if bigots knew they were trying to restrict the rights of friendly, harmless faces in the community, said bigots would feel bad and back down. But Milk himself is concerned with managing an image of gayness in his personal life that’s based on reminding the straight world of his identity solely through words (no movie character has ever verbally announced his sexual preference so many times in a single film), and not appearance or actions. Just as he, after a powerful gay publishing tycoon warned that he was “too old to be a hippie,” traded in his faded denim twin sets and ragged pony tail for a three-piece suit and clean shave, Milk warns his boyfriends and friends to stay out of bathhouses and to not use canvassing as an excuse for cruising.  The character doesn’t see the irony in this — for him, it’s simply an effort to make sure their movement maintains credibility as a serious struggle for civil and human rights and is not reduced by outsiders to a fight for the right to get laid — but as a mirror to Milk’s mainstream ambitions, that irony is unavoidable. It’s a film about the politics of sex, in which the political process itself not only takes precedence over but seems to stand in for the complexities of real life sexuality. There’s an argument to be made that this is the only way to make a film about this man, set in that place and time, that could be palatable to a mainstream audience, to the point where maybe it could even make a point about a certain present-day political fight better than any number of ill-conceived boycotts. I’m not sure I buy that argument, although if in the end the film’s accidental timing helps to speed along the current fight for equal rights, that’s a good thing. But if such real-world issues weren’t on the table –– if the film wasn’t being asked to do triple-duty as biopic, Oscar contender and teaching tool –– I wonder: if it was going to require such homogenization, is the life and death of Harvey Milk something that should have been tailored for mainstream consumption in the first place? Originally posted on:SpoutBlog » Karina Longworth http://www.spout.com/blogs/spoutblog/archive/2008/11/25/37646.aspx Post By: SpoutBlog
Post To: SpoutBlog on spout.com
Post Date: 11/25/2008 5:01:38 PM
Body: Gus Van Sant’s best-known films (which are not the same as his best films) have historically involved a certain grappling with What Hollywood Does. Hollywood saves a poor-but-smart kid from his environment (and himself) with the help of a bearded, platitude-spouting Robin Williams. Hollywood saves a poor-but-smart kid from his environment (and himself) with the help of a bearded, laughable slang-spouting Sean Connery. Hollywood flatters its flavors of the month by shoe-horning them into paint-by-numbers remakes of aged cinematic game changers. Etc. Anyone cognizant of Van Sant’s turn-of-the-century Hollywood period shouldn’t be surprised by his willing ability to play it straight. To say that Van Sant continues to “play it straight” with Milk isn’t meant as a pun regarding sexuality, exactly, but said pun wouldn’t be entirely off the mark. If his Hollywood trilogy was what Van Sant needed to get from his early meditations on the emotional lives of low-lifes to his much-vaunted Death Trilogy, then that most recent career phase may be what Van Sant needed to work through in order to merge the first two modes of his career. Milk takes the defining moments of a subculture once perceived by the mainstream as deviant, and runs it through the mill of What Hollywood Does, thereby sanitizing its hero for feel-good mainstream martyrhood. Van Sant’s laundering of an outsider hero through the very inside mechanism of the Hollywood biopic has been variously described as heroic and distasteful. As of press time, I think it’s somewhere in between. If you’ve seen the superior documentary The Times of Harvey Milk, you know the story: in his early 40s, a newly-out Harvey Milk (Sean Penn) moved from the East Coast to San Francisco and opened up a camera shop on Castro Street, in what would grow to become the mecca of gay San Francisco. In the early 70s, though, the gay community was still subject to the bigotry (and physical intimidation and attacks) of some straight neighbors and virtually all of the SFPD. As an activist fighting for better treatment of his community, Harvey Milk actively reached out to other groups–blacks, Hispanics, even Teamsters–to form coalitions against the powers that were. After losing a number of local elections but gaining in popularity and notoriety with each one, Milk won a seat on San Francisco’s Board of Supervisors alongside future senator Diane Feinstein, and Dan White, a conservative former firefighter from a neighboring Irish-Catholic district. After a serious of personal and political conflicts with Milk, White submitted his resignation to the Board, and then showed up at City Hall the next day and shot Milk and mayor George Moscone. White’s lawyer successfully argued that his client had been mentally incapacitated at the time of the killings due to an unusual consumption of sugar the previous evening. As in Good Will Hunting, here Van Sant does find a few spots to wedge in the haunting, contemplative beauty that governs his best films, but evocative imagery is not Milk’s primary concern. Van Sant and screenwriter Dustin Lance Black mold Milk out of historical fact and on the frame of disappointingly conventional biopic tropes, including an unnecessary and somewhat illogical framing device and a heavy dependence on thematic foreshadowing. Surprisingly, some of these tropes are employed with such grandness that they could potentially be read as something a step above Biopic 101; they could almost be read as clear-eyed camp. For instance, though Van Sant never gets into the alleged Twinkie binge nor White’s trial for Milk’s assassination and the riots that ensued, he does show Milk and lovers and friends bonding over sugary treats at several key points in the narrative, most notably in a birthday cake-in-bed scene after the (unseen) first coupling of Milk and his long-time lover Scott (a brooding, James Franco — so humorless as to be unrecognizable as an Apatow Player). At some level, this functions as not-so-veiled comment on the merit of the so-called “Twinkie Defense“; on the other, there’s something so incredibly heavy-handed about the image of Harvey Milk with whipped cream on his nose joking that he won’t live to the age of 50. It’s almost something out of Hold Me While I’m Naked-era George Kuchar — a dip into What Hollywood Does that somehow seems to simultaneously swipe at it. But not all of Milk’s nods to Hollywood expectations are as stylized; in fact, in its dealing with Milk’s own sexuality, the film is frustratingly restrained. Penn, though exemplary when embodying Milk in political mode (the film’s various scenes of rallies, protests and vigils are as rousing as this sort of thing gets), often comes off as cartoonish when the topic of sex comes up. Black’s script reduces its protagonist to a doddering, even stodgy old man in the midst of the 70s bacchanal. Often seen doting on young proteges but rarely flirting, when Milk does take lovers, their presence in the film is so awkwardly shoehorned in that when one of the live-in variety is disposed of suddenly, the hyper-speed with which Milk moves on seems so troublingly unrealistic that one wonders why the character was ever introduced in the first place. For a film about the fight for the right to sexual freedom, Milk is shockingly sexless. As baked into the script, this makes a certain kind of sense. Penn’s Milk encourages gays and lesbians all across the state to come out of the closet, based on the rationale that if bigots knew they were trying to restrict the rights of friendly, harmless faces in the community, said bigots would feel bad and back down. But Milk himself is concerned with managing an image of gayness in his personal life that’s based on reminding the straight world of his identity solely through words (no movie character has ever verbally announced his sexual preference so many times in a single film), and not appearance or actions. Just as he, after a powerful gay publishing tycoon warned that he was “too old to be a hippie,” traded in his faded denim twin sets and ragged pony tail for a three-piece suit and clean shave, Milk warns his boyfriends and friends to stay out of bathhouses and to not use canvassing as an excuse for cruising.  The character doesn’t see the irony in this — for him, it’s simply an effort to make sure their movement maintains credibility as a serious struggle for civil and human rights and is not reduced by outsiders to a fight for the right to get laid — but as a mirror to Milk’s mainstream ambitions, that irony is unavoidable. It’s a film about the politics of sex, in which the political process itself not only takes precedence over but seems to stand in for the complexities of real life sexuality. There’s an argument to be made that this is the only way to make a film about this man, set in that place and time, that could be palatable to a mainstream audience, to the point where maybe it could even make a point about a certain present-day political fight better than any number of ill-conceived boycotts. I’m not sure I buy that argument, although if in the end the film’s accidental timing helps to speed along the current fight for equal rights, that’s a good thing. But if such real-world issues weren’t on the table –– if the film wasn’t being asked to do triple-duty as biopic, Oscar contender and teaching tool –– I wonder: if it was going to require such homogenization, is the life and death of Harvey Milk something that should have been tailored for mainstream consumption in the first place? Originally posted on:SpoutBlog
]]>Tue, 25 Nov 2008 22:01:38 GMTSpoutBlogSpoutBlog on spout.com11/25/2008 5:01:38 PMGus Van Sant’s best-known films (which are not the same as his best films) have historically involved a certain grappling with What Hollywood Does. Hollywood saves a poor-but-smart kid from his environment (and himself) with the help of a bearded, platitude-spouting Robin Williams. Hollywood saves a poor-but-smart kid from his environment (and himself) with the help of a bearded, laughable slang-spouting Sean Connery. Hollywood flatters its flavors of the month by shoe-horning them into paint-by-numbers remakes of aged cinematic game changers. Etc. Anyone cognizant of Van Sant’s turn-of-the-century Hollywood period shouldn’t be surprised by his willing ability to play it straight. To say that Van Sant continues to “play it straight” with Milk isn’t meant as a pun regarding sexuality, exactly, but said pun wouldn’t be entirely off the mark. If his Hollywood trilogy was what Van Sant needed to get from his early meditations on the emotional lives of low-lifes to his much-vaunted Death Trilogy, then that most recent career phase may be what Van Sant needed to work through in order to merge the first two modes of his career. Milk takes the defining moments of a subculture once perceived by the mainstream as deviant, and runs it through the mill of What Hollywood Does, thereby sanitizing its hero for feel-good mainstream martyrhood. Van Sant’s laundering of an outsider hero through the very inside mechanism of the Hollywood biopic has been variously described as heroic and distasteful. As of press time, I think it’s somewhere in between. If you’ve seen the superior documentary The Times of Harvey Milk, you know the story: in his early 40s, a newly-out Harvey Milk (Sean Penn) moved from the East Coast to San Francisco and opened up a camera shop on Castro Street, in what would grow to become the mecca of gay San Francisco. In the early 70s, though, the gay community was still subject to the bigotry (and physical intimidation and attacks) of some straight neighbors and virtually all of the SFPD. As an activist fighting for better treatment of his community, Harvey Milk actively reached out to other groups–blacks, Hispanics, even Teamsters–to form coalitions against the powers that were. After losing a number of local elections but gaining in popularity and notoriety with each one, Milk won a seat on San Francisco’s Board of Supervisors alongside future senator Diane Feinstein, and Dan White, a conservative former firefighter from a neighboring Irish-Catholic district. After a serious of personal and political conflicts with Milk, White submitted his resignation to the Board, and then showed up at City Hall the next day and shot Milk and mayor George Moscone. White’s lawyer successfully argued that his client had been mentally incapacitated at the time of the killings due to an unusual consumption of sugar the previous evening. As in Good Will Hunting, here Van Sant does find a few spots to wedge in the haunting, contemplative beauty that governs his best films, but evocative imagery is not Milk’s primary concern. Van Sant and screenwriter Dustin Lance Black mold Milk out of historical fact and on the frame of disappointingly conventional biopic tropes, including an unnecessary and somewhat illogical framing device and a heavy dependence on thematic foreshadowing. Surprisingly, some of these tropes are employed with such grandness that they could potentially be read as something a step above Biopic 101; they could almost be read as clear-eyed camp. For instance, though Van Sant never gets into the alleged Twinkie binge nor White’s trial for Milk’s assassination and the riots that ensued, he does show Milk and lovers and friends bonding over sugary treats at several key points in the narrative, most notably in a birthday cake-in-bed scene after the (unseen) first coupling of Milk and his long-time lover Scott (a brooding, James Franco — so humorless as to be unrecognizable as an Apatow Player). At some level, this functions as not-so-veiled comment on the merit of the so-called “Twinkie Defense“; on the other, there’s something so incredibly heavy-handed about the image of Harvey Milk with whipped cream on his nose joking that he won’t live to the age of 50. It’s almost something out of Hold Me While I’m Naked-era George Kuchar — a dip into What Hollywood Does that somehow seems to simultaneously swipe at it. But not all of Milk’s nods to Hollywood expectations are as stylized; in fact, in its dealing with Milk’s own sexuality, the film is frustratingly restrained. Penn, though exemplary when embodying Milk in political mode (the film’s various scenes of rallies, protests and vigils are as rousing as this sort of thing gets), often comes off as cartoonish when the topic of sex comes up. Black’s script reduces its protagonist to a doddering, even stodgy old man in the midst of the 70s bacchanal. Often seen doting on young proteges but rarely flirting, when Milk does take lovers, their presence in the film is so awkwardly shoehorned in that when one of the live-in variety is disposed of suddenly, the hyper-speed with which Milk moves on seems so troublingly unrealistic that one wonders why the character was ever introduced in the first place. For a film about the fight for the right to sexual freedom, Milk is shockingly sexless. As baked into the script, this makes a certain kind of sense. Penn’s Milk encourages gays and lesbians all across the state to come out of the closet, based on the rationale that if bigots knew they were trying to restrict the rights of friendly, harmless faces in the community, said bigots would feel bad and back down. But Milk himself is concerned with managing an image of gayness in his personal life that’s based on reminding the straight world of his identity solely through words (no movie character has ever verbally announced his sexual preference so many times in a single film), and not appearance or actions. Just as he, after a powerful gay publishing tycoon warned that he was “too old to be a hippie,” traded in his faded denim twin sets and ragged pony tail for a three-piece suit and clean shave, Milk warns his boyfriends and friends to stay out of bathhouses and to not use canvassing as an excuse for cruising.  The character doesn’t see the irony in this — for him, it’s simply an effort to make sure their movement maintains credibility as a serious struggle for civil and human rights and is not reduced by outsiders to a fight for the right to get laid — but as a mirror to Milk’s mainstream ambitions, that irony is unavoidable. It’s a film about the politics of sex, in which the political process itself not only takes precedence over but seems to stand in for the complexities of real life sexuality. There’s an argument to be made that this is the only way to make a film about this man, set in that place and time, that could be palatable to a mainstream audience, to the point where maybe it could even make a point about a certain present-day political fight better than any number of ill-conceived boycotts. I’m not sure I buy that argument, although if in the end the film’s accidental timing helps to speed along the current fight for equal rights, that’s a good thing. But if such real-world issues weren’t on the table –– if the film wasn’t being asked to do triple-duty as biopic, Oscar contender and teaching tool –– I wonder: if it was going to require such homogenization, is the life and death of Harvey Milk something that should have been tailored for mainstream consumption in the first place? Originally posted on:SpoutBlog http://www.spout.com/blogs/tenenbaums/archive/2007/9/20/19972.aspx Post By: Tenenbaums
Post To: Tenenbaums Blog
Post Date: 9/20/2007 4:51:19 PM
Body: Note: If you're really interested in seeing the film, don't read any reviews. Just watch it and then read the reviews. The game is Russian Roulette spliced with Telephone. In a circle, hold a gun to the player's head in front of you after spinning your barrel a good ten seconds. Wait for the single dangling light bulb in the circle's center to light up, and fire. Losers die, winners play on. Everyone starts with one bullet and increases the ammunition to match each subsequent round to three. The final round is a duel where two players with four slugs each point a spun barreled pistol at each other's forehead and squeeze the trigger. Survive, and you walk away with a load of cash. Oh yeah, and your life.Sound intriguing? For Sébastien, a poor Mr. Fix-It struggling to support his family, the money is enough to lure him without any knowledge of the game. The winnings are also plenty for the crowd of high stakes gamblers, many of whom travel the circuits of even larger such games, betting on players to make the next round. However, you can't bet unless you have players and apparently there are seasoned veterans who regularly and enthusiastically enter such competitions. Such is the strange underworld portrayed in Géla Babluani's 13 Tzameti, a film wholly about chance: it is the force that allows Sébastien to get the roof-mending job at experienced dueler Jean-François' house; it collapses at the right time and right place just above a crucial conversation about the money; it leaves the letter in the open; and it sweeps the letter by wind into the yard for Sébastien's finding. It is also chance that permits Sébastien to compete in the game after reaching the "arena" and controls how he performs while playing. Absolutely no skill is involved. The gamblers talk about "experience," especially in the final "duel" round, but what kind of background is necessary to succeed at such a game? Sébastien also gambles with his life by following through with the letter's contents. All he knows is that a great deal of money is up for grabs and that he'll do just about anything (so he thinks) to get it. Yet when he enters the game, it is clear that he is not up to the assignment. Only when he is faced with sure death does he comply, wearing a murderer's mask for the sake of survival.After such an intriguing build-up, it's sadly impossible to stop there and discuss 13 Tzameti without mentioning the heart of the film. Making mention to a mysterious letter that leads to riches may be enough for Entertainment Weekly's Fall Movie Preview, but not for a full review. Actually, referencing the game at all is a spoiler of sorts as the concept and its initial directorial execution are the film's only details worth remembering. So, here goes: The first time the game's concept is presented is by far the film's best scene and also one of the best in recent cinema. The pace, editing, lack of soundtrack, and camera movement are gripping, putting it in the ranks of obvious moments from Death Proof, The Departed, The Bourne Ultimatum, and Children of Men. The camera slowly weaves between the varied emotion-riddled faces of players and gamblers as the "referee" barks out the rules, which are new and frightening to Sébastien and us. The game is shocking and the incredible danger ripples through rookies both on screen and off. Guns rarely look this menacing on film and a light bulb hasn't played a better role since Stalag 17. The scene is presented nearly in full in the film's trailer, proving again that previews typically give away far too much information. The scene itself may exist more successfully as a short film than the full length feature as, unfortunately, the rest of the film lacks anything close to the same intensity. Each subsequent round is increasingly less tense and less surprising as it becomes yawningly clear that Sébastien will progress to the final round. If he had been killed early on, Janet Leigh in Psycho-style, and another protagonist/perspective emerged, the film potentially could have been far more moving. Instead, it's quite plain.In a poor attempt to make the film more complex, the standard police investigation is hot on the case. The authorities spy on Jean-François, are knowledgeable of the whole murderous operation, and are just about to law down the law when...Sébastien gets off his train one station earlier than expected. Ooh, so close! Furthermore, the confident, strong lead detective is rendered downright Cluseau-ish after apprehending Sébastien and then buying his simple fib. Never has an cinematic officer so sure of himself pulled such a quick 180. We may be witnessing world record time in fully trusting a suspect mere seconds after swearing to his face that he's a liar. Apparently even the French have Keystone Cops. Though I'm confused by 13 Tzameti's cult status and comparisons to the likes of Fight Club, I'm curious to see how the U.S. remake will look. Written and directed by Babluani, this isn't exactly Infernal Affairs-The Departed territory. 13 Tzameti exists fine on its own...unless it were to be adapted into the proposed short film. Gus Van Sant's shot-by-shot remake of Psycho made more sense. At least that disaster was an interesting experiment in filmmaking.Overall, 13 Tzameti feels too one-dimensional to have any lasting impact. It's like a pre-season NFL game: it happened, but did it really mean anything? 13 Tzameti is definitely worth a viewing to feel the excitement of the cornerstone scene, but unworthy of repeat screenings. I can't think of another film that I would heartily recommend yet also give a bad review. Perhaps it is in this irony that Babluani succeeds. If so, well done. You may move on to the next round.
]]>Thu, 20 Sep 2007 20:51:19 GMTTenenbaumsTenenbaums Blog9/20/2007 4:51:19 PMNote: If you&#39;re really interested in seeing the film, don&#39;t read any reviews. Just watch it and then read the reviews. The game is Russian Roulette spliced with Telephone. In a circle, hold a gun to the player&#39;s head in front of you after spinning your barrel a good ten seconds. Wait for the single dangling light bulb in the circle&#39;s center to light up, and fire. Losers die, winners play on. Everyone starts with one bullet and increases the ammunition to match each subsequent round to three. The final round is a duel where two players with four slugs each point a spun barreled pistol at each other&#39;s forehead and squeeze the trigger. Survive, and you walk away with a load of cash. Oh yeah, and your life.Sound intriguing? For S&eacute;bastien, a poor Mr. Fix-It struggling to support his family, the money is enough to lure him without any knowledge of the game. The winnings are also plenty for the crowd of high stakes gamblers, many of whom travel the circuits of even larger such games, betting on players to make the next round. However, you can&#39;t bet unless you have players and apparently there are seasoned veterans who regularly and enthusiastically enter such competitions. Such is the strange underworld portrayed in G&eacute;la Babluani&#39;s 13 Tzameti, a film wholly about chance: it is the force that allows S&eacute;bastien to get the roof-mending job at experienced dueler Jean-Fran&ccedil;ois&#39; house; it collapses at the right time and right place just above a crucial conversation about the money; it leaves the letter in the open; and it sweeps the letter by wind into the yard for S&eacute;bastien&#39;s finding. It is also chance that permits S&eacute;bastien to compete in the game after reaching the &quot;arena&quot; and controls how he performs while playing. Absolutely no skill is involved. The gamblers talk about &quot;experience,&quot; especially in the final &quot;duel&quot; round, but what kind of background is necessary to succeed at such a game? S&eacute;bastien also gambles with his life by following through with the letter&#39;s contents. All he knows is that a great deal of money is up for grabs and that he&#39;ll do just about anything (so he thinks) to get it. Yet when he enters the game, it is clear that he is not up to the assignment. Only when he is faced with sure death does he comply, wearing a murderer&#39;s mask for the sake of survival.After such an intriguing build-up, it&#39;s sadly impossible to stop there and discuss 13 Tzameti without mentioning the heart of the film. Making mention to a mysterious letter that leads to riches may be enough for Entertainment Weekly&#39;s Fall Movie Preview, but not for a full review. Actually, referencing the game at all is a spoiler of sorts as the concept and its initial directorial execution are the film&#39;s only details worth remembering. So, here goes: The first time the game&#39;s concept is presented is by far the film&#39;s best scene and also one of the best in recent cinema. The pace, editing, lack of soundtrack, and camera movement are gripping, putting it in the ranks of obvious moments from Death Proof, The Departed, The Bourne Ultimatum, and Children of Men. The camera slowly weaves between the varied emotion-riddled faces of players and gamblers as the &quot;referee&quot; barks out the rules, which are new and frightening to S&eacute;bastien and us. The game is shocking and the incredible danger ripples through rookies both on screen and off. Guns rarely look this menacing on film and a light bulb hasn&#39;t played a better role since Stalag 17. The scene is presented nearly in full in the film&#39;s trailer, proving again that previews typically give away far too much information. The scene itself may exist more successfully as a short film than the full length feature as, unfortunately, the rest of the film lacks anything close to the same intensity. Each subsequent round is increasingly less tense and less surprising as it becomes yawningly clear that S&eacute;bastien will progress to the final round. If he had been killed early on, Janet Leigh in Psycho-style, and another protagonist/perspective emerged, the film potentially could have been far more moving. Instead, it&#39;s quite plain.In a poor attempt to make the film more complex, the standard police investigation is hot on the case. The authorities spy on Jean-Fran&ccedil;ois, are knowledgeable of the whole murderous operation, and are just about to law down the law when...S&eacute;bastien gets off his train one station earlier than expected. Ooh, so close! Furthermore, the confident, strong lead detective is rendered downright Cluseau-ish after apprehending S&eacute;bastien and then buying his simple fib. Never has an cinematic officer so sure of himself pulled such a quick 180. We may be witnessing world record time in fully trusting a suspect mere seconds after swearing to his face that he&#39;s a liar. Apparently even the French have Keystone Cops. Though I&#39;m confused by 13 Tzameti&#39;s cult status and comparisons to the likes of Fight Club, I&#39;m curious to see how the U.S. remake will look. Written and directed by Babluani, this isn&#39;t exactly Infernal Affairs-The Departed territory. 13 Tzameti exists fine on its own...unless it were to be adapted into the proposed short film. Gus Van Sant&#39;s shot-by-shot remake of Psycho made more sense. At least that disaster was an interesting experiment in filmmaking.Overall, 13 Tzameti feels too one-dimensional to have any lasting impact. It&#39;s like a pre-season NFL game: it happened, but did it really mean anything? 13 Tzameti is definitely worth a viewing to feel the excitement of the cornerstone scene, but unworthy of repeat screenings. I can&#39;t think of another film that I would heartily recommend yet also give a bad review. Perhaps it is in this irony that Babluani succeeds. If so, well done. You may move on to the next round. http://www.spout.com/groups/Top_5/Top_5_Bad_Movies_by_Great_Directors/190/19827/1/ShowPost.aspx Post By: schulen
Post To: Top 5
Post Date: 9/16/2007 2:43:09 PM
Body: Planet of the Apes - Tim Burton.The Brothers Grimm - Terry Gilliam Bad News Bears - Richard LinklaterPsycho - Gus Van SantMost Woody Allen Movies Strange how great directors fuck up so many remakes. What do you think?
]]>Sun, 16 Sep 2007 18:43:09 GMTschulenTop 59/16/2007 2:43:09 PMPlanet of the Apes - Tim Burton.The Brothers Grimm - Terry Gilliam Bad News Bears - Richard LinklaterPsycho - Gus Van SantMost Woody Allen Movies Strange how great directors fuck up so many remakes. What do you think? http://www.spout.com/groups/Directors/Directors_and_remakes/406/18758/1/ShowPost.aspx Post By: ShaunHuston
Post To: Directors
Post Date: 8/25/2007 2:50:00 PM
Body: Over on the Top 5 group, tmoney mentioned the forthcoming remake of 3:10 to Yuma in one of his contributions to the Westerns thread. This got me thinking about other directors who have, seemingly at least, chosen to cash in their chips from a particularly good year or stretch of years on a remake. In this case it looks as if James Mangold is turning Walk the Line around into 3:10 to Yuma. I also thought of Peter Jackson and King Kong, Gus Van Sant and Psycho, and Steven Soderbergh and Ocean's 11. This got me wondering if there are other examples of filmmakers choosing this path, and, if so, who and what was the film, and also why a director might choose to do this. Remakes are, more often than not, greeted with growns and skepticism, even though the record is actually mixed (Soderbergh's Ocean's 11, for example, is a much better film than the original, which is almost painfully bad and boring). But, given the widespread perception that remakes are jokes or wrong somehow, what is the attraction for the filmmaker?
]]>Sat, 25 Aug 2007 18:50:00 GMTShaunHustonDirectors8/25/2007 2:50:00 PMOver on the Top 5 group, tmoney mentioned the forthcoming remake of 3:10 to Yuma in one of his contributions to the Westerns thread. This got me thinking about other directors who have, seemingly at least, chosen to cash in their chips from a particularly good year or stretch of years on a remake. In this case it looks as if James Mangold is turning Walk the Line around into 3:10 to Yuma. I also thought of Peter Jackson and King Kong, Gus Van Sant and Psycho, and Steven Soderbergh and Ocean&#39;s 11. This got me wondering if there are other examples of filmmakers choosing this path, and, if so, who and what was the film, and also why a director might choose to do this. Remakes are, more often than not, greeted with growns and skepticism, even though the record is actually mixed (Soderbergh&#39;s Ocean&#39;s 11, for example, is a much better film than the original, which is almost painfully bad and boring). But, given the widespread perception that remakes are jokes or wrong somehow, what is the attraction for the filmmaker? http://www.spout.com/blogs/emseetwo/archive/2007/2/9/5340.aspx Post By: emseetwo
Post To: emseetwo Blog
Post Date: 2/9/2007 3:10:52 PM
Body: There was some really great camera work in this movie, making it a remarkable remake. There are so many remakes that seem like they were made so they could have better special effects or so they could be in color... This one actually brought something new to the table. I enjoyed it.
]]>Fri, 09 Feb 2007 20:10:52 GMTemseetwoemseetwo Blog2/9/2007 3:10:52 PMThere was some really great camera work in this movie, making it a remarkable remake. There are so many remakes that seem like they were made so they could have better special effects or so they could be in color... This one actually brought something new to the table. I enjoyed it. http://www.spout.com/groups/PulpFiction1975/Re_Classics_thrown_into_the_present/66/3240/1/ShowPost.aspx Post By: Risselada
Post To: PulpFiction1975
Post Date: 10/13/2006 2:34:29 PM
Body: [quote user="paul"]A Fistful of Dollars (2006)Directed by Michael Bay[/quote] A remake of a remake? Go figure. But what would be more interesting, Will Smith as The-Man-With-No-Name or Yojimbo. Will Smith and the latter both seem more excitable.[quote user="paul"]I tend to not like remakes. A remake, like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, usually polishes off the dated aspects of the original. Costumes, special effects, action scenes, overall gratuity is usually improved. But the fatal flaw for most remakes is in an attempt to make the story more "relatable" to contemporary audiences. Case in point: the musical sequences with the Oompa Loompas that painfully reference pop culture.I wouldn't be surprised in the least if Disney tried to remake Mary Poppins with Beyonce Knowles. That, to me, is the territory most remakes explore.The best example of a remake is Gus Van Sant's Psycho, where he made every effort to pick up the pieces Hitchcock was forced to drop because of censorship norms.[/quote] Now I wouldn't call Charlie and the Chocolate Factory a remake of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory as you seem to be implying. If the the "Charlie" movie had been obviously derived from screenplay of the "Willy" movie, I may agree with you. But they both seem to be totally separate adaptations from the original novel. However, I'm not saying that just because it isn't technically a remake means that they should have filmed another movie based on a book that already had such a memorable film already made of it. Mary Poppins was also originally a book too. Or maybe a series of them. Whatever that means. Although Psycho was also originally a book, from what I hear the newer version was obviously a remake of the original screenplay. I also hear one of the most strictly shot for shot remakes as well. Planet of the Apes also came from a novel. And Dial M for Murder was originally a play. What really bugs me is a seemingly somewhat more recent phenomenon. The director of a successful foreign movie is conned by Hollywood into remaking the movie just a short time afterwards in the Hollywood system with American actors. Usually any edginess or creativity is removed from the script and even major important portions of the movie are changed. I'm sure you can think of plenty of examples. Here's a couple. The Ducth movie The Vanishing (also based on a book) was made in 1988 and remade by the same director George Sluizer in 1993 with Jeff Bridges. The original movie is one of the most fascinating and astounding thiller / character study movies I've ever seen. Although I haven't seen the remake I have read about how horrible it is and how Sluizer inconceivably allowed the ending to be changed in a way that I could imagine it would lose all of it's effect. And somehow my guess is that the remade movie didn't use the same music which is probably the creepiest music I've ever heard anywhere in my life. Robert Rodriguez essentially remade El Mariachi with Desperado albeit with an amazingly higher amount of money. Takashi Shimizu makes pretty much every version of The Grudge in any laguage. The original of which is pretty horrible anyways. Jean-Marie Poiré later remade his French comedy The Visitors into an American version but staring the same two original French actors in the lead. And now in what will probably be the most frustrating remake of this kind, Michael Haneke is remaking his Funny Games with an English speaking cast. From any past indication of the way these things go, there is virtually no chance that this remake will push the envelope even further on it's themes of audience alienation and helplessness. In fact it will probably be shamefully watered down. But it will probably end up getting too much praise, and I'll have to hear a lot of annoying chatter about it from people who aren't even aware of the original. Yeah, I'm a snob I guess.
]]>Fri, 13 Oct 2006 18:34:29 GMTRisseladaPulpFiction197510/13/2006 2:34:29 PM[quote user="paul"]A Fistful of Dollars (2006)Directed by Michael Bay[/quote] A remake of a remake? Go figure. But what would be more interesting, Will Smith as The-Man-With-No-Name or Yojimbo. Will Smith and the latter both seem more excitable.[quote user="paul"]I tend to not like remakes. A remake, like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, usually polishes off the dated aspects of the original. Costumes, special effects, action scenes, overall gratuity is usually improved. But the fatal flaw for most remakes is in an attempt to make the story more "relatable" to contemporary audiences. Case in point: the musical sequences with the Oompa Loompas that painfully reference pop culture.I wouldn't be surprised in the least if Disney tried to remake Mary Poppins with Beyonce Knowles. That, to me, is the territory most remakes explore.The best example of a remake is Gus Van Sant's Psycho, where he made every effort to pick up the pieces Hitchcock was forced to drop because of censorship norms.[/quote] Now I wouldn't call Charlie and the Chocolate Factory a remake of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory as you seem to be implying. If the the "Charlie" movie had been obviously derived from screenplay of the "Willy" movie, I may agree with you. But they both seem to be totally separate adaptations from the original novel. However, I'm not saying that just because it isn't technically a remake means that they should have filmed another movie based on a book that already had such a memorable film already made of it. Mary Poppins was also originally a book too. Or maybe a series of them. Whatever that means. Although Psycho was also originally a book, from what I hear the newer version was obviously a remake of the original screenplay. I also hear one of the most strictly shot for shot remakes as well. Planet of the Apes also came from a novel. And Dial M for Murder was originally a play. What really bugs me is a seemingly somewhat more recent phenomenon. The director of a successful foreign movie is conned by Hollywood into remaking the movie just a short time afterwards in the Hollywood system with American actors. Usually any edginess or creativity is removed from the script and even major important portions of the movie are changed. I'm sure you can think of plenty of examples. Here's a couple. The Ducth movie The Vanishing (also based on a book) was made in 1988 and remade by the same director George Sluizer in 1993 with Jeff Bridges. The original movie is one of the most fascinating and astounding thiller / character study movies I've ever seen. Although I haven't seen the remake I have read about how horrible it is and how Sluizer inconceivably allowed the ending to be changed in a way that I could imagine it would lose all of it's effect. And somehow my guess is that the remade movie didn't use the same music which is probably the creepiest music I've ever heard anywhere in my life. Robert Rodriguez essentially remade El Mariachi with Desperado albeit with an amazingly higher amount of money. Takashi Shimizu makes pretty much every version of The Grudge in any laguage. The original of which is pretty horrible anyways. Jean-Marie Poiré later remade his French comedy The Visitors into an American version but staring the same two original French actors in the lead. And now in what will probably be the most frustrating remake of this kind, Michael Haneke is remaking his Funny Games with an English speaking cast. From any past indication of the way these things go, there is virtually no chance that this remake will push the envelope even further on it's themes of audience alienation and helplessness. In fact it will probably be shamefully watered down. But it will probably end up getting too much praise, and I'll have to hear a lot of annoying chatter about it from people who aren't even aware of the original. Yeah, I'm a snob I guess. http://www.spout.com/members/0/tags/murder/MemberTagFilms.aspxmurder
Number of films tagged: 8748

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