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BigJeffLebowski Blog

  • "Hell will hold no surprises for you."

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    The Devils  (1971)

    Metropolis  (1927)

    Bold, brutal, blasphemous, and utterly brilliant, Ken Russell's The Devils is easily one of the most unjustly overlooked films of its time, surely due in no small part to its limited availability.  Taking place in 1634, the film explores the unconscionable atrocities committed by the Catholic church in the seventeenth century, especially in regard to social and sexual politics.

    As Urbain Grandier, a French priest whose interpretation of the clergy allows for sexual daliance, Oliver Reed gives one of the most underrated performances of the '70s.  He is galvanizing: powerful, charismatic, and sympathetic.  Even his questionable actions and beliefs are rendered understandable, if not likable, by his charm and presence in the role.  "Saint Paul says that he who marries does a good thing," Grandier is admonished, "but he who remains chaste does something better," to which he simply responds, "Then I am content to do a good thing, and leave the best to those that can face it."

    Vanessa Redgrave, in one of her earlier performances, is also superb as Sister Jeanne, the head nun whose obsession with Grandier is the impetus for the rampant sexuality that overtakes the convent and, subsequently, the Cardinal's takeover of Loudon.  That hers is not the most memorable performance is not a criticism of her, but rather a compliment to the entire cast; rarely has Russell assembled a troupe of actors who get his twisted blend of history, satire, and surrealism as well as he has here.

    And what a unique blend it is.  The film is joyfully anachronistic, with sets admittedly modelled less after Victorian architecture than after Fritz Lang's Metropolis.  (And by Derek Jarman, no less.)  Russell's pageantry is not of the stuffy variety one usually expects of a period piece; instead, his brilliant screenplay comes to vivid life with the kind of absurd theatricality to which only 1971 could give birth.  Everything about the film is bold: its colors, its sets, its costumes, its performances, they all jump off of the screen with a brazen confidence that defies you to turn away, knowing well that you won't, in spite of your outrage at what you're seeing.

    This is marvelously subversive cinema, a film with ideas and the conviction to deliver them as fearlessly and as confrontationally as possible.  The Devils is less cautionary than A Clockwork Orange, less willfully obtuse than The Holy Mountain, and less obstinately grotesque than Salo or the 120 Days of Sodom; yet it stands easily alongside these classics and paints, along with them, a picture of a disquieted generation learned enough to understand its place within a greater context yet determined to fight oppression in all its forms.  If ever there was a film absolutely begging to be brought back into the spotlight by the Criterion Collection, The Devils is that film.


  • "The lord used you, brother."

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    There are many people who will find David Petersen's documentary Let the Church Say Amen inspiring.  I am not one of them.  This is not to say that there are not individuals portrayed in the film whose personal crusades are inspiring, but I am not of the school of thought that the benefits of religion -- specifically organized religion -- outweigh its detriments.

    The film follows the proprietors and congregants of the World Missions for Christ Church in Washington DC.  Battling poverty, hunger, drugs, violence, and mass dismissal by the affluent, these people fight a never ending crusade to help themselves and their brethren rise above their regrettable situation.  Many of these individuals have stories which are touching, but their militant theism is alienating.  It is not enough for Pastor Bobby Perkins and his brothers and sisters to help the destitute; all the good in the world it seems must be done by and for Jesus Christ.

    The old saw that "God helps those who help themselves," is possibly the greatest example of a pernicious, self fulfilling prophecy ever recorded and the most transparent proof of organized religion's gleeful appropriation of autarchic acts of altruism and chance; that theists will still use this expression unironically baffles me.  And this is what upsets me the most about institutions such as the World Missions for Christ Church.  Why must the benevolence of these groups be so rooted in religious fundamentalism?  I am of the opinion that organized religion -- and the concept of the afterlife, specifically -- developed as an empty solace for those who wondered, What is the point of this after we die?  Rather than embrace the temporal nature of life, and in doing so value every choice and every action that much more, so many of us prefer to believe that there is an eternal reward waiting for us on another plane.

    I could argue (as I have frequently to many people) that the question of an afterlife is irrelevant.  All of our knowledge comes through our physical experiences, experiences which are filtered through our five senses.  Without our physical bodies, we would experience the afterlife in ways we cannot even fathom now; we would be entirely different beings in an entirely different context with no relation to who we were before our death.  This seems self evident to me.  It also seems largely hypothetical, as I don't believe in an afterlife of any sort.  But regardless, I am still hard pressed to understand why so many people in our world need the hollow comfort of organized religion.  I am not one of those agnostics who will attack religion on all fronts; rather, I accept and appreciate the good that it does for those who live better lives for it.  What bothers me is the inability of those people to accept an objective, relativist view of life and act generously to their fellow men for reasons that are not self serving.  For ultimately, isn't all of this a little selfish?  Aren't we all just trying to secure ourselves a spot in heaven with the angels?  And escape eternal damnation and hellfire?

    I admittedly haven't said much about the film, which is a competent, if somewhat uneven documentary.  But when you're shouting at people with megaphones and singing "We're gonna kick the devil's butt!" with the fervent zeal of a man possessed by some unholy spirit, you can surely understand having a reaction more than a response.


  • Delivers On Its Premise and Its Hype

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    Under discussion:

    Transformers  (2007)

    Cloverfield  (2008)

    I have unabashadly been looking forward to Cloverfield since I first saw the teaser at an advance screening of Transformers last summer.  Granted, very few hype films live up to their hype, and very few gimmick films work as well in practice as they do in theory.  Cloverfield, I am giddily pleased to announce, is an exception.  The film lives up to its hype and delivers on its premise; it is tense, emotionaly gripping, and mercifully free of the extraneous explanation of events that so frequently deflates movies of this sort.  In short?  It could be the perfect monster movie.

    The film is presented as a piece of declassified evidence from the files for "Cloverfield," the code name for the recent devastating attacks on Manhattan by a creature of unknown origin.  This piece of evidence is, more specifically, the contents of a camcorder's SD card recovered from the "former site of Central Park."  To the filmmakers' immense credit, there is no frame story.  There are no flashbacks or flashforwards (save for some cleverly executed and judiciously sprinkled bits of what the attacks were recorded over).  There is no explanation of where the monster came from, how far it got, or the specifics of how it was stopped.  Ignore everyone who criticizes this supposed "lack of resolution"; this is a monster movie wherein the monster is secondary.  Cloverfield is a film about people trying to survive a catastrophic event.  That event could be an earthquake, a flood, a terrorist attack -- it just so happens it's a monster.

    Also to the credit of producer J. J. Abrams, director Matt Reeves, and screenwriter Drew Goddard, there is humor in the film.  Not action movie one-liners or Corman-esque goofiness, but rather humor that stems from the characters and is entirely appropriate for the circumstances of the film.  (Most of which comes from primary cameraman Hud (T. J. Miller), who proves a most enjoyable guide through a series of increasingly unsettling events.)  Were this levity not present to occasionally difuse the tension of the film, audiences would be laughing inappropriately.  But Cloverfield rarely loses its audience, and only strains credulity during the few money shots of the monster, mainly due to the inherent unbelievability of CGI.

    Ultimately, it is only the lazy, reductive, simple-minded moviegoer who will watch Cloverfield and miss the craft with which it is constructed.  These are the viewers who watch movies based on James Patterson novels and pride themselves on being able to guess the "twist" in a movie before it happens, but well after it has been thoroughly telegraphed through a series of red herrings and vapid, expository dialogue.  Cloverfield is a visceral, thrilling film which takes a surprising number of risks in its execution, subverting the puerile and obtuse expectations of the genre which have become trite and cliche.  Say what you will about J. J. Abrams and his proclivity for hype and gimmickry, at least he trusts and respects his audience to appreciate something outisde and above the norm.


  • To The Academy: Educate, Don't Placate

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    Under discussion:

    Casablanca  (1942)

    Spartacus  (1960)

    Gladiator  (2000)

    Crash  (2005)

    The Departed  (2006)

    Underdog  (2007)

    Juno  (2007)

    In the January 14th issue of Time, film critic Richard Corliss eschews reviewing the week's releases (it is January, after all) to instead pontificate on the state of the Oscars ("How to Save the Awards Shows").  As many are wont to do, Corliss offers his suggestion on how to improve the Oscars.  He throws out the notions usually bandied about in bids for cheap audience thrills, and suggests something that he considers self-evidently simple: give the awards to popular movies.

    Now, with all respect to Mr. Corliss, I agree that the Oscars don't have the finest track record for nominations, let alone for awards.  But if I may be granted my say, the problem with the list is that it usually slants too commercial.  Does anyone really think The Departed was the best picture of 2006?  Or Crash the best picture of 2005?  Or Million Dollar Baby the best picture of 2004?  Or... well, you get the idea.

    Granted, these are not bad films.  (Okay, Crash is a bad film.)  But they are populist films.  And whether or not they make as much money as unsophisticated comedies or franchises or sickeningly saccharine schmaltz is regardless.  These are films with big names both in front of and behind the camera, with money to spare on production and promotion.  By now, they even have a subgenre of their own: Oscar-bait.

    Corliss points out that "In the old days, the Best Picture prize went to box-office hits like Casablanca, The Bridge on the River Kwai, The Sound of Music."  Is anyone really going to debate that Casablanca and The Bridge on the River Kwai are classics in all senses of the word?  (Let's not debate The Sound of Music; as far as I'm concerned, that's one of the most erroneous awards the Academy has ever given.  But I digress.)  There's a difference between saying Gladiator is in the spirit of Spartacus and saying that Gladiator is as good as Spartacus.  There's an intelligence, a tastefulness, and an artistic merit in a Spartacus that is lacking in favor of the bombast and the superficial showmanship of a Gladiator.

    I am of the opinion that Little Miss Sunshine, though brilliant, was overpraised.  I do not feel it was the best original screenplay of the year, nor do I believe that it was among the five best pictures of the year.  But let's put that aside and consider not the film itself, but what it meant within the context of its fellow nominees.  Little Miss Sunshine was "the little indie that could," a film that could have gone straight to DVD and had a small devout following, but because of early critical praise and festival buzz, worked its way up to the Oscars.  How precious.  No one seemed to notice that Steve Carrell is one of our most bankable stars at the moment, not to mention the presence of other big name players such as Alan Arkin, Toni Collette, and Greg Kinear.  No one that would necessarily pull a record breaking opening based on their name alone, but this isn't an indie in the Jim Jarmusch sense of the word.  (Or -- excuse me, I forgot I was on Spout for a moment -- the Joe Swanberg sense of the word.)

    I would love to see Juno nominated for Best Picture and Best Original Screenplay, and Ellen Page nominated for Best Actress.  To my delight, if the pre-Oscar buzz is to be trusted, there's a strong possibility of this coming to pass.  But, as Karina has so eloquently pointed out on her blog, Juno is, like Little Miss Sunshine before it, not an indie.  But if/when it gets nominated this year, it's going to be this year's "little indie that could."  There will be those who champion it for it's decidedly outsider aesthetics and subversive attack on the general public; there will be those who lash out against it, saying it was only nominated to fill a quota.  Both of these camps are wrong, and I find each one equally disheartening.

    Until the Academy is required to sit down and watch every film that comes out over the course of a year -- Oscar bait or not -- their awards are always going to be slanted and biased.  Now, I'll admit that I don't think it would hurt if someone lost their copy of, say, Underdog, but once again, this is a slippery slope.

    I think back to my halcyon days of working video retail, when a precocious teen could stand behind the register, content and safe in his sense of cinematic superiority.  I had a phrase, a credo if you will, for why I would never let a customer blindly refuse a letterbox edition of a film.  "Educate, don't placate," I would say, as I took out a piece of (approximately) 2.35:1 paper and demonstrated, "This is how a movie is shot, but this is all you're getting to see," while ripping the paper in half.  (I also had diagrams I would draw, but that would take too long to explain.)

    I would like to instruct the Academy to do the same thing: don't simply placate the masses who want validation that the films they paid to see are good.  Chances are, they're not.  No offense.  Educate them on some of the better films they may have missed or not bothered to see.  The film critic is always going to be hated by the populace, who routinely declare "I always disagree with reviews."  There's no reason for intelligent, discerning people to sacrifice their integrity and pander to a constituency that isn't going to listen to them either way.

     

    EDIT: A very truncated version of this rant was printed in the Letters to the Editor section of the January 28 issue of Time magazine, several pages away from an interview with Woody Allen.  I plan to gloat that Woody Allen and I were both published in the same issue of Time for many years to come. 


  • "It's funnier in the original Pashtu."

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    Primary Colors  (1998)

    Junebug  (2005)

    For better or for worse, Charlie Wilson's War plays pretty much exactly like one would expect a film written by Aaron Sorkin and directed by Mike Nichols would.  It's talky, snarky, ever so slightly rigid, but far too much fun to let those qualities be to its detriment.

    As Charlie Wilson, a boozing, womanizing Texas congressman, Tom Hanks brings his trademark charm to the proceedings, but thankfully leaves most of his sentimentality at home.  After visiting Afghanistan as a favor to political lobbyist and sometime paramour Joanne Herring (Julia Roberts), Wilson teams with Gust Avrakotos (Philip Seymour Hoffman, in top form) a CIA agent ecstatic to finally drum up some support for the Afghani cause.

    Sorkin is very much at home writing about what goes on backstage in American politics (and the film does tend to drown its audience in facts, figures, and jargon that it is presumptuous to assume we all understand with equal aplomb), but it is what Nichols and his cast bring to the screenplay that elevates Charlie Wilson's War to the level of great cinema.  Sorkin's dialogue is always sharp, but tends to become cluttered; Nichols directs his actors to spit it out in quick, rapid fire bursts, creating a tone not unlike the screwball comedies of the 30s and 40s.  Granted, the topics are a little headier, but even if some of the specifics of the governmental politics overshoot some viewers' heads, the film wisely focuses on the personal politics of those involved.  (One can't help but be reminded of Nichols' similar approach to Primary Colors, his fictionalized account of the Clinton campaign.)

    Though Tom Hanks may occasionally seem to be too much of the everyman to portray a character of Wilson's calibre, this actually works for the film.  By playing it straight -- and subtle -- the eccentricities of Wilson's circumjacent compatriots become more pronounced without any needless histrionics from the ensemble.  Julia Roberts is acceptable, but ignites little chemistry with Hanks.  Amy Adams, on the other hand, begins to reestablish some of the credibility that she's lost due to basically every role she's taken since being nominated for Junebug.  Ned Beatty's is a small role, but his performance is superb.

    Nonetheless -- and unsurprisingly -- the film belongs to Philip Seymour Hoffman.  Is there a better actor working today?  Every part he has played has been infused with greatness, and this ranks among his best and funniest.  The film's best lines go to him, not necessarily because it was written that way, but because Hoffman is an incredibly smart actor who can turn his most mundane lines into gold through impeccable timing and delivery.  He brings out the best in his costars (Hanks' scenes with Hoffman are his best) and it would be an unforgivable oversight if the Academy doesn't nominate him for at least one of his several brilliant performances this year.

    The film is not without its flaws -- some of the backstory could stand to be elaborated upon, and much of the third act feels somewhat abrupt -- but neither was Charlie Wilson.  And just as the film instructs us to do for the man himself, I am willing to overlook the few things it does wrong in favor of the many things it does right.


  • "I hang out with all the pariahs."

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    Hard Candy  (2004)

    Superbad  (2007)

    Juno  (2007)

    There are so many wonderful things I would like to say about Juno.  That its cast is impeccable, that its soundtrack conveys the perfect emotions, that its details ring both true and hilarious.  But most of all, I want to say how good -- no, how GREAT -- watching it made me feel.

    Ellen Page plays the eponymous sixteen year old heroine with a startingly endearing blend of precociousness, arrogance, cynicism, feigned independence, and aloof self-determination that is so right in so many ways, I cannot help but declare -- after having seen her only in this, Hard Candy, and X-Men: The Last Stand (in my reviews for all of which I've swooned for this girl) -- that Page is going to be among the greatest actresses of her generation.  It would have been so easy for a film like this to degrade into silliness or ugliness, and yet somehow, Diablo Cody, Jason Reitman, and Page have colluded to create one of the greatest cinematic outcasts and one of the most unique, interesting, beguilling, and utterly irresistable coming of age films I've ever seen.  It's a winner, and it's a classic.

    Juno (both the film and the character) has an interesting sneak attack, a way of skittering into your heart through the back door and falling asleep on the couch before you're even aware of its/her presence.  And it's aware of this.  There's an effortless charm, an intrinsic inveiglement that stems from being so awkward and so ill at ease that there is no alternative (excluding self destruction, a masturbatory martyrdom that this film is miles above) other than to fully embrace that which is uniquely you.  Page nails it.  Cody nails it.  And Michael Cera has built an entire career upon it.  Anyone who doesn't like Cera has deep seated issues which they need to resolve on their own terms.  From Arrested Development to Superbad to Juno, Cera has shown an interesting arc as an actor.  Every line of dialogue and every action is utterly believable; Cera may play variations upon the same character, but he invests that character with everything he's got and plays it like his life depends upon it.

    And that's the charm of Juno: these characters know who they are and where their boundaries lie.  They are not ones to be bogged down by relativism or morbidity.  Instead, they celebrate their quirks, their limitations and their passions, without regard for what others may think.  The film's greatest moment, which unabashedly put a lump in my throat and a misty coat over my vision, is when Juno tells Paulie Bleeker (Cera) that he's the coolest person she's ever met without even trying to be, and he confides "I try really hard, actually."  It's a moment of honesty that few films -- hell, few people -- would dare.  These are people who understand they are not mass-marketable.  They will appeal to their small coterie of friends, and they will cherish them for all their flaws and failings as much as for their virtues.  But if they're going to be disliked by the world at large, they're going to be disliked on their own terms.

    Characters like these could travel one of three roads: they could try to fit in with the so called popular kids and feel the sting of rejection, they could actively alienate people to prove a point, or they could become irrepressibly themselves in spite of the social acceptance they may forfeit.  To many, the last two options may seem like the same thing in different words, but anyone who appreciates this film with their heart in addition to their brain will know that one will leave you empty whereas one will leave you edified.  And those are the people who will champion these characters and smile uncontrollably during the film's indefectible finale.


 

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