Smooth_J Blog

Up

Smooth_J — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 22:34:44 GMT

With Up, Pixar has pulled off something magnificent--and old-fashioned adventure story and an aching comment on aging packaged in a family friendly studio film. Don't get me wrong, Up works brilliantly as a film "for the whole family," sacrificing none of Pixar's inherent charm in order to make a mature film (much like Wall-E, which addressed similarly advanced themes whilst maintaining the slap-stick, love-sick aura of a children's movie). However, what amazed this reviewer the most was the fact that the adult's in the multiplex, my mother included, and the children, my brother included, enjoyed the film equally and non-equivocally; the themes of the film appealed to both the adults and the kids, and both seemed moved, often to the point of tears. (My mom, as well as several elderly members of the audience, were moved to tears by several sequences.)

One can only imagine the excitement the Pixar creative team must have felt when they nabbed the idea of an old fart flying away in his house to escape subjection to a retirement home ("How does the house fly away?" "Colorful balloons." "JACKPOT." "And there's talking dogs too." "My God, what will we think of next?"). It fits the formula of any successful film, and with Pixar behind, this film could not have flopped.

I'm not going to beat the ragged drum and rave about the marvelous opening sequence, or the rollicking adventure scenes, or the hilarious dog scenes...but they are all magnificent.

The impressive achievement of the film, one that sets it apart from all Pixar efforts that precede it, is the feeling of content old-fashionedness (sorry, I invented a word) that coats each frame. The waltzy score is reminiscent of 1940's Hollywood musicals and love stories, brimming with wonder and nostalgia. The adventure strived for is meant as a return to Treasure of the Sierra Madre action, with a clear-cut morality and immorality, the forces of good-nature combating the old figure of greed, embodied by a disgraced adventurer hiding out in the enigmatic Paradise Falls. Much like Raiders of the Lost Ark (I think Allmovieguide made this connection as well), it is a tribute, not a knock-off, of old adventure stories; it attempts a revamp, using adventure films' best characteristics, and discarding or playfully paying homage to their bad ones, to create something entirely new. And, in the case of Up, the ones paying tribute have crafted something remarkably beautiful.

Part of what makes the approach so effective is the sympathy created for the characters--in the widely accoladed opening sequence, the audience is completely convinced of the timeless devotion Carl feels for his wife. There is no doubt that he would go to the ends of the Earth to express his love for her, even following her death. Russel, the stowaway "Wilderness Explorer," is quite possibly the most hilarious and heart-breaking part of the movie. Although the viewer never formally meets his family or glimpses into his home-life, small details are revealed in his gregariously self-conscious dialogue that his life sucks. That would be a minute detail, if Russel's character were not so lovable; his naivete is tragic, but one cannot help but feel as though it is his only saving grace. I, a heartless old wretch (at the staggering age of 17), cried like a baby when Russel discussed his relationship with his father, tinged with longing, as for some reason, his real mother is gone and his father is never around. The only thing he seems to have in his life is his Wilderness Scouts club, and he pursues his badges with hell-bent vigor.

Everything about Up is instilled with an insatiable melancholy, but it doesn't stop the film from being a fun-as-hell ride. The action's great, the comedy's perfect, and the emotional resonance is second to nothing in theaters right now.

Waltz With Bashir

Smooth_J — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 21:27:21 GMT

Waltz with Bashir is a profoundly unsettling film. Perfectly transitioning between a startlingly realistic animated frame and the hallucinatory thought processes of the film's creator, it is both original and powerful, managing a stylistic breakthrough as well as knocking the wind from the viewers gasping lungs with its stark beauty and resonance.

The film follows an aging Israeli film-makers attempts to recollect his experiences in the 1980s Lebanon War, specifically his role in the massacre at Sabra and Shatila refugee camps. Through psychological examinations and testimonials, done in a documentary format, he slowly begins to realize the horrors he has faced, and the difficulty he will now have in shaking them.

The visuals are magnificent. It is as though the audience is reliving memories with Ari, and is being sucked in by their dream-logic and brutal realities. The opening scene, in which vicious dogs charge, unfeeling, ruthless, to an unknown adversary, is perhaps the most indelible of the entire film, serving to introduce the viewer to the nightmare and never let them leave. The dogs are a representation of war, of human nature, itself--charging, lifeless, to a destination unknown, only thinking about what they will destroy at the end.

Sorry if I sound heavy, but that's the effect the film has. It definitely sticks with you; I can't wait until I can see it again, and sort through the intricacies of the images, the deeper relevance of the psychology, and the historical conflict that they mirror. The massacre, which makes the Israeli soldiers "unwittingly take the place of the Nazis", is a stunning revelation, punctuated by a jump back to reality, out of the dreamworld, where the sins of humanity must once again be faced personally.

The film not only examines the condition and suffering of the Middle-East (made all the more relevant by the recent Hamas conflict), but the suffering of the human condition. The animation serves to enhance the allegorical perspective that the film chooses to take--our memories are shifting, pulsating, figments of time and, possibly, total hallucinations. To escape life's realities, perhaps we invent them, if only to forget the brutalities; however, the saying remains true--we must not forget the mistakes of the past, if we are to avoid them in the future.

The Year My Parents Went on Vacation

Smooth_J — Sat, 24 Jan 2009 16:40:45 GMT

The Year my Parents Went on Vacation is a pretty involving little movie taking place during the military dictatorship in Brazil, with all things revolving around the impending World Cup. The second half of the movie is outstanding--it just took me a while to get there, because I was bored to tears with the first half.

The slow beginning is a result of lingering upon well-trodden and predictable plot devices. We know that we are in dictatorial Brazil, and Mauro's (the kid, played magnificently by Michel Joelsas) parents are going on vacation and leaving him behind. They are nervous, anxious, agitated, and keep looking long and sadly at their son. And we are led, basically spoon-fed, to believe that Mauro's parents are probably radical leftists, fleeing repression and an almost certain arrest. This would be fine if it were not dwelled upon for 10 minutes--there are so many innuendos as to the parents' political affiliation and the fact that they probably won't return from their vacation that it's difficult to believe that Mauro wouldn't catch on. Cao Hamburger attempts to capture the naivete of youth and does so successfully, but he lingers upon it too long, and it becomes irrelevant.

The next half an hour or so is spent resolving a sticky conflict that was made prominent when Mauro arrives at his grandfather's retirement community (I won't reveal it, but needless to say, you can see it coming). Everything is set up. Mauro is stuck at a mostly Jewish retirement community, with a reluctant old man named Schlomo (Germano Haiut, who also turns a solid performance) who is aloof about the boy for a while, but then later has a the Gratuitous Change of Heart and searches endlessly for the boy's parents.

The second half of the film abandons the cliched, unnecessarily emotional set-up for some politically charged and genuinely moving scenes. The characters are finally drawn to full potential. The plot finally thickens. The nostalgia of childhood is finally captured, making the finale all the more haunting. It is a great finish to an otherwise unimpressive movie.

Slumdog Millionaire and some Undeserved Animosity

Smooth_J — Sat, 17 Jan 2009 17:18:18 GMT

Over the past decade or so, the film community has watched a surge of independent directors make outstanding films that get absolutely no awards recognition except perhaps on the festival circuit. Some of these directors include David Fincher, Darren Aronofsky, Christopher Nolan, and Danny Boyle. Their movies prior to this year's releases expressed their talent significantly, and yet have been largely ignored by most "major" organizations, most notably the Academy and the Golden Globes--however, they have received awards or nominations from several of the other prestigious associations: aside from various critics awards, Christopher Nolan has a DGA nomination under his belt for Memento; Danny Boyle has been praised and awarded multiple times in the UK, most notably the BAFTA awards; David Fincher, apart from critics awards, has won a DGA for commercials (of all things); and Darren Aronofsky has tragically been shut out of all major awards circles.

And then there's this year. Christopher Nolan has another DGA nomination for The Dark Knight, and that along with the multitudes of accolades that the film's receiving, with the exception of the lack of love the Globes showed (cue self-indulgent and inevitable reference to Heath Ledger's Joker...); David Fincher now has a BAFTA nomination to brag about as well as two more DGA nominations (one for commercials), a Golden Globe nomination, and an NBR win--all for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button; Darren Aronofsky has directed one of the most acclaimed performances of the year in one of the most acclaimed films of the year (The Wrestler), although he has been mostly shut-out of recognition (his most well-known appearance has been flipping off Rourke); and Danny Boyle, a director no longer to be ignored, has been raking in endless attention, from a Golden Globe win, to a DGA nomination, to another BAFTA nomination, and all the way to what is shaping up to be a definite Oscar nomination, and if all goes well, a win.

And now to the movie that is the catalyst of his exaltations: Slumdog Millionaire, a film about an Indian "slumdog" who is chosen to be a contestant on India's version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? However, most people know almost everything there is to know about this movie already, so I won't continue to bombard you with the same synopsis and review.

It's a terrific movie. It's interminably entertaining, with great performances and a love-story that can only be described by the film's overlying theme: destiny. The love between the two leads is not necessarily fully developed, but that's the point. Jamal knows he loves Latika, and would go to the end of the earth to be with her, but the viewer never receives much explanation. Because of this, the film is mystical; it's a seemingly doomed romance, pushing onwards against all odds, with nothing but fate to tie it together. Latika at first seems confused at Jamal's passion, as is the audience, but she is soon enveloped in it, realizing with maturity beyond her age that it will never work. But Jamal sticks with his belief in love and destiny, and that is what brings him to the final round of the show, and an ultimate reunion with his love, and a tragic sacrifice by his brother.

Kevin Buist on Spoutblog referred to the film as "hectic and sloppy." I did not perceive that in the least. Slumdog Millionaire definitely has a frenetic, insatiable energy--but I saw it as the allure of youthfulness, which the characters all maintain despite their encounters with situations far beyond their levels of maturity. A particularly magnificent scene occurs when there is a montage of Jamal and Salim, his brother, hustling people on a train, with MIA's Paper Planes blaring on the soundtrack. It brings what I previously knew as a stoner tune, one to blast while driving down a college avenue in a shitty SUV, a whole new level of meaning; it was music and image meshed beautifully to form a scene of childlike wonder. Danny Boyle's masterful direction, as well as miraculously timed editing and grainy, dreamlike photography, allows the film to maintain the viewer's concentration, to captivate them, up to the final shot (of the story), where the magical realism of the film is summed up in a corny, cliched, and wonderful final exchange between lovers, including lines such as "It is destiny" and "Kiss Me."

Needless to say, the Bollywood dance sequence slaps a huge goofy smile on your face, no matter what your feelings about the film are--an intoxicatingly happy ending, punctuated by a final tribute to the country that the film owes its liveliness.

The film is becoming the subject of slight backlash, like Little Miss Sunshine and Juno before it--however, unlike those two films, I don't feel that Slumdog is deserving of the contrarian treatment. Crash began an era of awards contention is which films undeserving of major awards speculation are pushed to the top of year-end lists and critics awards. The awards season is driven not necessarily by quality of films but by the frenzied, rabid support that they draw from the louder patrons of Hollywood; Crash may not have even been nominated had it not been for an aggressive campaign strategy and an anti-Brokeback backlash. Crash was not a good film. It was an unsubtle, in-your-face anti-racism film--in other words, nothing but white noise. Little Miss Sunshine was a cute, entertaining little film that made it to the top through the support it gained at film festivals. Juno just rode the independent film wave, effortlessly driving its way to the top of contention despite it being corny fluff piece, a crowd pleaser that hid behind a too-hip-for-its-own-good script. Juno isn't necessarily a festival film even--it seemed to pretend it was, but it's my belief that it pretended to be to give it a lovable underdog status.

I don't dislike any of the films I just mentioned (except Crash--Paul Haggis sucks). However, I agree with the cynics in that all of them were undeserving of the infinite praise that they received.

Slumdog Millionaire is slightly different. It really is an underslumdog (I'm sorry) film--it was made with a low budget in the actual slums of Mumbai, with an entirely Indian cast and a British/Indian film crew. The only reason it is being recognized is because it is being loved consistently by (nearly) all that see it. It is incredible entertainment, a crowd-pleaser with timeless themes of love and destiny, as well as a genuine aesthetic achievement. Something about the film works in a way that none of the aforementioned films do--it is not in the least self-important, and despite its reliance on coincidence and fate, it never once feels forced. It flows, from the chase scene through the slums to the beautiful sequence on the train to the hokey Bollywood finale. It's escapism at its best.

Although some Indians are claiming the film as their own with pride, others are denouncing the film for depicting India as a slum. The movie is called SLUMdog Millionaire. It's about a kid from a slum who makes it on a gameshow. It's not claiming to represent India as a whole. It's merely depicting the struggles someone from a slum in Mumbai may face.

And do people really begrudge Danny Boyle the attention he's getting? The distinguished auteur behind Trainspotting, 28 Days Later, and Sunshine is getting his due for a film that almost no one had heard about less than a year ago. That's amazing.

I'm not saying the film is perfect--it has its flaws. I would not call it the best film of the year--yet. The Dark Knight was magnificent, and Christopher Nolan is overdue for some attention (although he has an Oscar nomination for writing already), as was Benjamin Button, and David Fincher is aching for a statue with such an impressive repertoire (let's just forget Panic Room). I have yet to see The Wrestler, let alone most of the other films in contention.

This year is going to be a tight race for the Oscars. I'm suggesting that people not focus on the mania behind films and actually watch the movies and make their own opinions about them. It isn't fair to renounce a movie just because of the attention it's getting; see the movie, and find out for yourself if it's deserving. Seeing movies with an open mind is the key to enjoying them, and fanatical incrimination of films prevents unbiased movie-watching from happening. It's a shame, because when it's time for a movie to receive its due, its achievements are often clouded by rancid smoke, expelled from the black and unwelcoming lungs of deliriously pretentious critics.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Smooth_J — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 02:53:34 GMT

After reading the short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, it is simple to figure out the reasons why they changed it so much to make an Oscar worthy, mainstream film. The story is wonderful, very satirical and beautifully written, but it would not translate well into a film, even if they had kept the general plot devices; yes, the only resemblance the film holds to the story is the arch, a man born a septuagenarian (what a useless word) aging backwards into eventual nothingness. The short story has a whimsical, detached feel, a meandering narrative structure despite its compact length. The movie maintains the structure and the arch, but nothing else.

That said, I loved the film.

David Fincher will undoubtedly be criticised for going soft, for appealing to the pathos of a mainstream audience. I unjustly made this assumption at first glance; there's a doomed romance, and a misplaced focus on realism in some of the scenes despite the mystical possibilities of the premise. However, after re-reading the short story, I came to realize that there was no way to successfully adapt the tone of the piece into a film; it focuses almost expressly on generational conflict, and the aging of a person making them even more naive than when they arrived on earth. The film needed to elaborate; and it did, into a well-deserved 159 minutes.

The opening sequence, beginning in a New Orleans hospital at the onset of Hurricane Katrina, is quite possibly the most beautiful of the entire film. A dying Daisy describes the efforts of a blind clock-maker to build a clock fit for a new train station. He makes it work in reverse, for reasons that I will not disclose in this review; it will suffice to say that what ensues, set to a poetic voiceover, is the most beautiful reverse-motion sequence I have yet seen (out of lots of reverse-motion sequences, believe me...). It serves to draw the viewer into the mysticism, to lose their sense of logical time--and to affect them emotionally from the onset.

The film is, however, a slave of consequence. This is where the inevitable comparisons to Forrest Gump will most likely be drawn. Some of the historical throw-ins are magical, such as Daisy and Benjamin witnessing a space-shuttle launch whilst sailing in the Gulf of Mexico. Others feel very forced, such as Benjamin's encounter with the woman who swam the English channel (although even that occurrence works in the context that it is used). An outright strange reference is the recurring joke of a man in a retirement home claiming to have been struck by lightning 7 times, a likely allusion to Roy Sullivan, the Virginia park ranger. (I looked him up on Wikipedia. This is slightly anachronistic, though strangely relevant to the short story; Roy Sullivan lived in Virginia, and the film takes place mostly in New Orleans, but the short story is in Baltimore.) The general premise of the film is reliant upon eventuality--evidenced by the fact that the revelation of the story is related with the climactic backdrop of Hurricane Katrina.

No matter how forced the film feels at times, it is genuinely moving. It is conveying a message that needs to be taken into account by all; life is fleeting, but don't take it for granted.

Belle de Jour

Smooth_J — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 06:22:42 GMT

I try and make it a habit to write something about every Bunuel film I see, if only to organize my thoughts and somehow make sense of what I just watched.

Belle de Jour is a particularly difficult one to figure out. A sexually frustrated housewife, Severine (Catherine Deneuve), hears that one of her friends is working as a prostitute in a Paris whorehouse. Her husband's creepy friend Husson (a briliant Michel Piccoli) gives her the address of a whorehouse that he knows of, and she is soon working afternoons, given the stage-name "Belle de Jour," or, a flower that blooms in the afternoon (because she can only work until 3, or else her husband will come home and find that she has been boning random high-class tourists).

Severine is haunted by sadomasochistic desires, and some of which include whips, bells, and gang-rape--Bunuel tastefully displays her visions with his trademark minimalist efficiency, only showing what needs to be shown to get his point across. It is these desires that lead Severine to the brothel, despite the fact that she cannot even bring herself to have sex with her husband.

It is difficult to decipher Severine's dreams and her reality, as they become increasingly intertwined in her new double-life, in which lustful abandon leads her to an affair with a young, brooding gangster. She is often shown being willingly punished for her decadence, although it is usually only her depraved imagination rendering such events on screen; however, in an early whorehouse scene, she submits to a client only after being forced upon the bed and held down ("Ah, you like it rough..."). Bunuel never delves very deep into the reality of Belle's apparent sadomasochism, but the tension she displays in sexual advances makes it obvious (along with her increasingly surreal dreams).

What's interesting about the film is the fact that Bunuel does not merely focus on sexual degeneracy, but on the liberty and subsequent guilt that Severine feels in her actions. Bunuel seems to be advocating prostitution in many ways; Belle de Jour loves her work, has fun, and is increasingly upbeat as she delves deeper and deeper into the profession. He almost seems to be suggesting that sexual connection between two people can be felt vicariously; Severine says she feels "closer than ever" to her husband Pierre, even though she denies his repeated advances and then proceeds to fornicate with the next man that strolls into the whorehouse. He loves to focus on this...on the look of intense pleasure on her face after an encounter, or on her impatience to return to her work. She says that she can't help but go back, and Bunuel seems to smile and say "But is that such a bad thing?"

Obviously, things go wrong--the guilt relieves her of her dreams, and she no longer feels the need to fulfill her sadistic desires. However, there is much more to the film than that; every nuance of meaning that Bunuel can throw in is used in surreal, minimalist fashion. His movies are a film-lover's joy, if they are willing to sift through the story to find the cynical, smiling auteur behind it, beckoning us to see life through his eyes.

Belle de jour (1967)

Delicatessen

Smooth_J — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 07:50:26 GMT

As opposed to the equally bizarre City of Lost Children, Delicatessen is slightly less of a head trip. However, that's not to say that CoLT is pure head trip--it is just bizarre. I find myself lost for words attempting to describe the feel of the two films, the only two by Jeunet (and Caro) that I have seen. I suppose it suffices to say that they are remarkably dark yet infectiously upbeat, utterly grotesque yet unsettlingly whimsical.

From Delicatessen's incredible opening sequence, we are introduced to a bleak, filth stained existence in which people and vermin are considered palpable sources of food. Social unrest and starvation are plaguing the city--the "outside"--and yet we never see what this outside world really is. The film is staged not unlike a play in that it primarily takes place in a single location, with only a certain number of set pieces and location set-ups. The first hour of the film is even the same group of 10 or so characters; no new ones are introduced until the plot thickens into a conspiracy involving a supposed terrorist group. But that's irrelevant. To know the film, you must see it, and enjoy every freakish moment of it.

Despite lack of outward scope, Jeunet and Caro really manage to make use of what they have, and that is a group of very strange looking actors and some wildly inventive set pieces. The delicatessen and accompanying tenant houses are drab, dirty things, heightened by a brown mist that seems to envelope everything in the picture. The scheme is obviously filth, but it's the commitment to this theme that allows the viewer to look around the slight errors or budgetary constraints of the film. It's a humble film, but a great one, and a brilliant one.

Some of the humor reminded me vaguely of the films of the Coen brothers--you feel disgusting for laughing, but you can't help it. The humor is so relentlessly pitch black that the only way to truly accept it is to put aside your gut and laugh hysterically. The movie's easier to handle if you look at it as pure comedy, but even this fact doesn't stop the film from sending a very serious, very unsettling message.

I can't help but bring up the final scene, which is the highlight of the film for me, but I'll try to be careful as to not give too many plot points away. The entire movie is set up (satirically, of course) like a tragedy; the build-up is there, with the inevitably doomed characters, small scale set (as in a play), and seemingly doomed romance. I may be pushing it, but the butcher seems to be set up as a Julius Caesar figure, a brutal dictator in the secluded delicatessen. In the final shot of him, as he falls into his chair, I feel as though it is no accident that his apron takes on the appearance of a toga; and then, as if to soften the blow of this finale, his final breath resembles that of a frog croaking.

And then there's the scene on the roof, where the two boys, who have remained on the fringe of the film throughout, climb to the roof to imitate Pinon and Dougnac playing their instruments, two humble conductors, with their childish view of things, observing the events but staying out of them. I could not help but to think of these two as Jeunet and Caro themselves, ending the film with their modest bows; and then the camera pans to the two leads, playing in their bizarre orchestral duo, to conclude the romance. What better way to end a dark, whimsical, unsettling, original comedy?

See Brazil, Leon, City of Lost Children, 12 Monkeys, Alphaville even

Review-My Winnipeg

Smooth_J — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 02:45:42 GMT

After various failed attempts at catching a showing of this at local independent film theaters, I finally found the DVD on sale on Candian Amazon.com (whoda thought?). Being a huge Guy Maddin fan, I cannot explain my anticipation for this film.

It is a difficult one to get into--you plunge instantly into Maddin's wonderful and bizarre psyche, and you do not leave until the snow stops blowing on the soundtrack and the credits roll to the film's haunting instrumental music. His trademark patchwork, kaleidoscopic style of editing and plotting is evident from this point, although it is slightly more restrained; only in select sequences does he harken to the silent film, frenzied montage style of his previous work. This is a more focused Maddin, albeit a more reflective and meditative one. His power of observation and his peculiar outlook and comparisons are demonstrated mostly through his poetic, longing narration (which he records himself, a very personal touch).

In a library of almost uncomfortably intimate films, this is by far his most personal. Every emotion that Maddin feels is felt by the viewer; every event that is described is visualized brilliantly as well. It is a film of uncanny power, and it is ambitious in its delivery--how is it possible to pull off a documentary on a city's history/his own personal languishment? Maddin manages the difficult task perfectly, infusing every aspect of his character used in his films thus far, and including parts untouched as of yet; it is a passage into his mind, and it is a hypnotizing experience.

If you are not a fan of Maddin, the film may be too much; it is surrealist and incredibly strange, and difficult to stomach if you are not in agreement of his very unique sensibilites. It also helps to have background on his previous films and on his general story, because it increases your understanding of the movie as a whole. However, it is highly recommended. From its dreamy opening to Maddin's heartbreaking final lament, it is an impelling film, deeply nostalgic and quietly powerful.

Review: Max Payne-Not Unbearable

Smooth_J — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 03:08:19 GMT

I cannot think of a movie easier to advertise than a hardcore as shit videogame movie starring Mark Wahlberg, in which he plays a hard-boiled disillusioned cop that hunts the prowls the underworld at night, endlessly seeking revenge. How can you go wrong?

Max Payne tries really, really hard to mess it up. Somehow, dark angels and some very solemn expressions get the job done.

The first thing you notice about the movie is that it is depressingly bleak. Everyone is perpetually pissed off, and the sky is overcast and constantly spewing all manner of atmospheric precipitation. (find the pun!) The opening scenes are generally God-awful--I condemned the movie within the first five minutes, with the terribly contrived dialogue, played out by terribly contrived characters within an incredibly cliched precinct. Mark Wahlberg sits behind his desk, brooding under a single lamp in the "cold case" unit (which is aptly labeled with a sign the says "Cold Case Unit"...I wonder if all office labels in a police station are hung like shopping center signs). Marky Mark seems to be saying, "I can't wait to get out of this shithole and kick some ass." The viewer hopes for the same thing.

Lo and behold, next thing we know Marky's framed, standing still, looking down an empty subway terminal, complete with flickering lights, dreary decors, and three strung out, sweaty druggies sitting on a bench. The movie, from then on, kicks in to gear, goes from 6 to 12, and starts busting out everything at its studio approved disposal.

The movie is at its most entertaining when it is completely absurd...the viewer is never quite able to make sense of the events. Valkries fly around and send drug addicts to their deaths, but somehow they're only seen by the ones under the influence, or fiending for their next dose. Then, when the climax is building, and you think that this will be explained, it abandons it and goes for a conventional ending. While this is the most noticable, there are dozens of abandoned plot lines and continuity errors that may be pure screw-ups, but seem as though the film-makers forgot about them and moved on. It's all for the best--if the film lasted five minutes longer, it would've surpassed its barriers of escapism and become pure bombardment of Disney sequel proportions.

Although it's fun, it seems as though every scene has been done before in some form. There are the jump cuts, the yellow-tinged flashbacks, the betrayals, and the eye candy of almost every recent mainstream man-flick (which is what I've taken to calling this sort of movie). Some of it even seems Guy Ritchie-esque, which was just a slap in the face considering RocknRolla was sold out...but I guess it was good to see this first, so that Ritchie's apparent triumphant return will seem all the more victorious and awesome.

There's not much to say about the film, except that it's a good time, and just as fun to make fun of during the most ludicrous sequences. I just wish it had stopped brooding for a minute to laugh at itself.

Suggestions: action movies in general

Review: Team Picture

Smooth_J — Sun, 05 Oct 2008 23:05:58 GMT

I had no idea what the term "mumblecore" meant before I saw this movie. I had a general idea--the type of stuff that is seen frequently on IFC and is worshipped in smaller circles but would never last two seconds in the fleeting interest of the mainstream (or even the very fringe of it). This movie cemented what it means to be completely meaningless in my brain.

The plotline: Two young whipper-snappers (Kentucker Audley and Tim Morton) live together in Memphis and do absolutely nothing all day, except Kentucker Audley has a job at a sporting goods store that his mom's boyfriend owns. However, he soon quits that job to "pursue...uhm...other things", such as spending more time around the kiddy pool in his front yard. Or, possibly, playing the guitar and singing. He and his roommate soon meet girls, they fall for them, and then get screwed over and realize that they're going to move.

Everything else is white-noise.

It has the picture quality of a home-made movie (which it basically is) but the actors are all surprisingly convincing. Kentucker Audley is excellent, but one gets the feeling that he is portraying himself onscreen, as are all of the other characters. It doesn't take much ability to mumble repetitive and brain-fried lines, but towards the end of the film where actual emotions are shown for the first time, Audley and co-star Tim Morton show commendable skill in bringing a small sense of longing and sadness to their heartbroken characters. The other characters don't have very much screen time, except for possibly Kentucker's fling, who does a respectable job.

The film's meaninglessness is its only strong point--it's just a story, a parable about the ethics of doing absolutely nothing. It's when the resemblance of a plot develops that the film sputters and loses its blissful sense of nothingness. In the first half of the movie, almost no expressions (not even laughter) are shown any of the character's faces, besides a well-acted portrayal of Kentucker's mom's boyfriend, who is an obnoxiously upbeat type, the kind that angers even the most calm of slackers. Luckily, Kentucker IS the most calm (or heavily sedated--it's never specified) of slackers, and he just gets rid of his presence in the simplest of ways--he quits his job, in which the boyfriend is his boss. However, it's when a sense of sadness acutally enters the facial expressions of the characters that something is lost in the movie. The viewer feels the intentionally melancholy nature of the film, with its meandering players and overly stressed mediocrity; but the film breaks that artful barrier when the viewer begins to actually see this realization on the character's faces.

As I mentioned before, the actors do a good job, even when they actually have to act. The subplots of Kentucker's parents, obviously divorced, are pretty run-of-the-mill, and the film seems to be imposing too much on itself--meaning that it is not so whimsical, not quite so enchantingly pointless. The best scenes are the ones that show complete vacuity, and some of them are actually pretty beautiful, such as a scene where Kentucker wanders through a bug-ridden meadow, sipping a cup of coffee (most likely containing whisky as well) and looking vacantly at his surroundings. Kentucker sees nothing in it, and neither does the viewer. And that's strangely comforting.

The film's not necessarily original. I was constantly reminded of Stranger Than Paradise, with its completely inactive characters and artfully aimless dialogue. What makes STP so much better is that the character interactions are far more meticulously rendered, and the improvisation of Jarmush's characters brings an originality and unpredictability to the seemingly senseless exchanges. STP is also one of the most wonderfully shot films I have ever seen, with its rambling black and white photography perfectly capturing the foreign atmosphere of an American landscape. Team Picture is shot with the home-grown feeling of 'been there, done that' and does not dwell on the romanticism and artistic possibilties of aimlessness; which is fresh in a way, but also somewhat disappointing.

I guess an opinion on Team Picture really depends on what you would define artfulness as; I would still consider Team Picture to be an adreftly intriguing film, but it fails to reach a level even close to previous efforts in similar subjects. It is just not a particularly profound, and it's just not a very strong movie, despite an obviously noble effort by Kentucker Audley.

Recommendations: The far superior Stranger Than Paradise, and now that I think about it, it's thematically similar to Kicking and Screaming, just minus the intellectuals.