Tenenbaums Blog

Play On, Bleeker

Tenenbaums — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 14:14:07 GMT

The novel on which Nick & Nora's Infinite Playlist is based was written by David Levithan, author of "Boy Meets Boy," and like that work, the action and characters exist in an alternate reality. It's still New York, but the amount of freedom enjoyed by 17 and 18-year-olds in addition to the overacceptance of homosexuality doesn't mesh with real life. That overall feel works for and against the film, allowing it to teeter into fantasy that's both wonderful and difficult to accept.

The Mark Mothersbaugh score is quality, but the rest of the unending music fails to live up to the titular hype (if that's even what it was going for). Michael Cera and Kat Dennings make for an appealing pair, and their friends are even more interesting as they embark on a wild night (and early morning) in search of an elusive concert. A bit too indy to hit the quirky heights its cast is capable of, but entertaining nonetheless.

Gonzo Lite

Tenenbaums — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 14:04:38 GMT

It's been over a year since I saw Gonzo at the Full Frame Documentary Film Festival, so I guess the press embargo has been lifted....

A good, cumulative retrospective of Thompson's life, but Hunter fans have seen most of this elsewhere and, though fun (it's Hunter; it's can't not be fun), it has a lot of problems.

The film has plenty going for it, including significant celebrity participation (i.e. Johnny Depp reading passages from Hunter's work), but director Alex Gibney really stumbles in certain places, notably by visually reenacting multiple passages. The only one that works is the "Taco Stand" scene from "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." The dialogue here is strong enough to stand on its own, and Gibney honors it by shooting Duke and Dr. Gonzo from below the waist. However, in a passage describing a werewolf running through the streets, Gibney turns to a literal interpretation, and the scene's hokiness goes beyond ridiculous.

It's nice to see footage from Hunter's funeral and in-depth coverage of the McGovern campaign, but Gibney loses significant credibility by failing to mention or depict the years of physical pain that led to Hunter's suicide. In an interview included in Entertainment Weekly, the director says, "'I think it's bullshit, the idea that Hunter's killing himself is a heroic act — it's the act of a narcissist. I never met [Thompson], so I went in fresh and cold, and I wasn't on anybody's side.''

Try as Gibney may, Hunter is automatically a polarizing character and any effort to depict his life is going to include honest footage of Hunter's unforgivingly consistent personality. Such footage will give viewers with all ranges of interest in the good doctor an honest portrayal of him, regardless of the personal bias of a rogue director. To omit the reason behind Hunter's suicide is doing the man and those who followed his career a disservice. As such, Gibney's editorializing handicaps a potentially great work.

Tenenbaums — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 14:02:21 GMT

Lies! All Lies!

Tenenbaums — Sun, 01 Mar 2009 23:27:49 GMT

It's hard not to like a Ridley Scott film, especially when it's written by the same guy who wrote The Departed and stars Leonardo DiCaprio and Russell Crowe. Unfortunately, things never really gel between these big names and the film feels half-baked as a result.

With so much potential, including an appealing (on paper) story, Body of Lies can only be called a disappointment, despite the various thrills it manages to deliver. Scott provides plenty of his textbook explosions and excitement, but his stars feel tired and underdeveloped. A good deal of blame falls on the script, which never quite feels smooth, but DiCaprio and Crowe additionally never find their groove.

Body of Lies is interesting enough to keep watching, but you know that the film's contributors are capable of better work. The promise of them returning to form remains strong, even if this go-round isn't their best.

Wonderball

Tenenbaums — Sun, 01 Mar 2009 23:11:58 GMT

As a baseball fan since I was 7 (that's 18 years, if you'd like to know), I'm embarrassed that I just got around to this one. But maybe I wasn't ready for it until now. The more age-appropriate baseball films of my era include Angels in the Outfield, Rookie of the Year, and The Sandlot. All of these feature happy endings where the bad guys and good guys get what they deserve. None of them ask tough questions or are true stories.

Eight Men Out does. It's the big boy baseball film and, besides Ken Burns' Baseball, is the best film about the sport. John Sayles is flawless here as a writer, director, and even an actor. John Cusack has never been better and he's surrounded by an impressive group of supporting actors, including Charlie Sheen, D.B. Sweeney, and David Strathairn. Together, they bring the 1919 White Sox to vivid realization and do a remarkable job of exploring the personal and athletic sides of the sport's most notorious scandal. As with the best Ron Howard films, even knowing the outcome can't stop the action from being suspenseful and captivating. Eight Men Out can't lose, even if it's players can.

Wham-Bam, Thank You Ma'am

Tenenbaums — Sun, 01 Mar 2009 22:58:04 GMT

Joe Carnahan's Narc is enough of a directorial statement to get me to watch any of his films. That's not to say I wasn't hesitant to see Smokin' Aces after I couldn't find a decent review upon its release, but it's still enjoyable. Don't expect the depth and auteur stamp that was all over Narc and this film will provide enough thrills, laughs, and twists to be a worthwhile experience.

But if that's not enough incentive to check it out, here you go: Jason Bateman in a thong.

OK, I Get It

Tenenbaums — Sun, 01 Mar 2009 22:49:46 GMT

Finally watched this one to see what the fuss was about. While I understand why viewers feel compelled to watch 5 installments of this series, it's not for me. Jigsaw is an interesting villain and it would be neat to see what other kinds of mental games he will concoct, but the sadistic torture required to get to the "stunning conclusion" isn't worth it to me, especially 4 more times. I'd much rather catch up on any of my "must-see" lists or, if it's horror I need to stick with, then I choose John Carpenter.

Review: August Blues

Tenenbaums — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 17:51:26 GMT

Remember when Yahoo! went public and their stock price eclipsed $200 per share? The fast-money frenzy swept up investors and computer nerds alike, transforming the internet into a new-age gold rush where fame and fortune was to be found for hard workers.

However, for many talented go-getters, the party did not last long. In August, director Austin Chick rewinds the clocks to late summer 2001 when Ben Affleck entered rehab, Aaliyah died, and the young upstart internet companies who were millionare-hot in January cooled off in a big way.

Tom Sterling (Josh Hartnett, in his best grown-up performances) is a cocky young dotcom entrepreneur and CEO of LandShark. His brother and co-founder Joshua (Adam Scott) is the programming genius behind the company, but Tom is LandShark's mouth and a very knowledgable one at that. Chick sticks with Tom in nearly every scene and fully captures his swagger and way with words, none better than in the first example of Tom at work. With stock prices beginning to dip, Tom successfully convinces a client to hire LandShark without seeing a proposal, his track record and bravado confidence enough proof that LandShark is the right choice. The client is initially insulted by Tom's lack of preparation, yet amidst Joshua's apologies, the client is drawn to Tom's attitude.

A similar scene occurs at an information conference where Tom, the keynote speaker, fails to prepare a speech, yet out of nowhere pulls a rousing soliloquy on the future of the internet. His fellow young technophiles are thrilled by the passion of his words and his doubting co-workers, who minutes before were sure of on-stage disaster, congratulate him on his unscripted brilliance. Tom is an interesting man, one whose company is desirable due to his electric personality, yet who is equally despicable for his abundant ignorance.

This love/hate relationship with Tom lasts throughout the film. He is a character with appealing energy and a thirst for success, but he's also so infatuated with the boom rise LandShark had that he's unwilling to change his business tactics once the market shifts. As with many wunderkinds who peak early, Tom's confidence, which when mixed with millions of dollars transforms into ego, becomes his downfall. At work, he has surrounded himself with a business-saavy COO (Robin Tunney) and CFO (Andre Royo), but while they consistently look out for LandShark's future, Tom views their lifesaving advice as cowardly. He's unable to accept that he is no longer on top and his risky plan to outlast current threats to his company are downright scary.

His home life is just as self-destructive. His parents (Rip Torn and Caroline Lagerfelt) are skeptical of the longevity of their sons' success and that doubt leads to angry confrontations on Tom's part. Joshua increasingly cannot handle his brother's poor business skills, especially when he has a wife a new baby to support. And when an old flame (Naomi Harris) reenters his life, sparks fly but Tom's consistent inability to change likewise results in disaster on the personal front.

Chick presents the tragedy of Tom amidst a somewhat convincing 2001. The styles, attitude, Seattle graininess, and soundtrack (including a well-placed Radiohead number) are there, but the time-appropriate news footage feels superfluous and gimmicky. August is fine without such tricks. It's a gangster/drug lord film without the violence and narcotics, a portrait of ambition gone awry in a time when opportunity felt widespread. Tom represents the entrepreneur in everyone, another cautionary tale of demise by greed. But because he struggles during a recent era, in the now-distant memory of immediate pre-9/11 society to which the U.S. strives to return, the tragedy is far more complex and appealing than August's Scarface cousins.

Just Say No

Tenenbaums — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 19:28:04 GMT

Last week, I told you about the best film of 2008. Today, I'll tell you about the worst.

This particular stinker has the distiction of being on several critics' year-end Best Of lists (including both Adam and Matty from my beloved Filmspotting) and of earning a score of zero on the Metacritic score from the honorable A.O. Scott of the New York Times, thereby placing it in the ranks of the worst of all time. The film is cloaked as a high-brow commentary, meant to inspire dialogue strumming up the brilliance of its writer/director. It is also a shot-by-shot remake of the German original from 10 years ago, translated to English so that the original target audience can experience the message without subtitles. And it is a huge failure. The film is Funny Games.

A film isn’t brilliant because it tells viewers that it’s brilliant. Audiences should not allow a filmmaker to convince them that a film is masterful, that it’s meant to challenge them and the conventions of Hollywood by playing with their emotions and viewpoints on violence. Writer/director Michael Haneke is a talented filmmaker, but it's excruciating to see worthy issues of cinema and audience preconceptions invalidated by patronizing.

A startling creepiness factor is noticeably present in the film's opening half hour or so, in which two young men (Michael Pitt and Brady Corbet), dressed in white complete with white gloves, terrorize a wealthy family (Naomi Watts, Tim Roth, and Devon Gearhart) at their lakeside vacation home. But when the violence begins, the audience is in for a forced lesson so telling in style that it robs itself of any legitimacy.

Haneke plays with suspense-film standards that audiences have come to accept. Instead of graphic scenes of violence, all such scenes take place off camera and are replaced with long, close-up reactionary shots of the survivors; Pitt's character talks directly to the audience multiple times, ironically checking in on their natural responses; A scene runs beyond its tolerable length, thereby drawing attention to itself; When the payoff of good defeating evil occurs, a scene so satisfying that the audience is nearly salivating for it, Haneke provides that gratification and then immediately erases it. Haneke has been banking on the audience's thirst for justice from the first scene of discomfort, and though the message is effective, it is immediately lost in the filmmaker's out-of-control ego.

All of Haneke's devices are noteworthy in theory, but his execution is beyond heavyhanded. Contrastingly, Stanley Kubrick (with the help of Anthony Burgess' novel) achieves true brilliance with his handling of ultra-violence in A Clockwork Orange. In that film, the institutional dismantling of protagonist Alex's sadistic past through prolonged exposure to drugs and that very same ultra-violence pulls the audience along through the treatment. These scenes are intense and difficult, but the film up to that point has meticulously prepared the audience for such a redemption by fire. Kubrick is inviting the audience, after enduring some of the most brutal scenes they've ever seen, to decide whether the transformation is effective. Based on the resulting heartbreak of the rehabilitated Alex, the film stands a giant success without being preachy. In Funny Games, the audience is given no such freedom, leaving to question whether Haneke respects his viewers' intelligence at all.

Additionally, instead of an intelligent meditation on film audiences' perception of violence and thrillers, the brutal, pointless cruelty evoked by the torturers is the primary message to shine through. Haneke is working with the above brand of terror that rivals that of The Dark Knight, yet he fails to provide any accompanying thought or escapism. This is full-throttle malice with no parachute, and though such safe refuge is not required in film (see The Bicycle Thief or most classic European cinema), Haneke's approach comes off as pointlessly damaging. Combined with the filmmaker's overstated contrivances, the film overall provides nothing other than frustration.

There is an authentic feeling of wasted time and empty manipulation felt at the conclusion of Funny Games, and that gut reaction is what the film deserves. The abundant cruelty, however depicted, is the film's legacy along with the ever-present strings of a puppetteer. The tools for brilliance are there, but Haneke is just too damn smart to make the film work.

A "Curious" Defense of an Exceptional Film

Tenenbaums — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 03:30:25 GMT

David Fincher's The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is a remarkable film and the best of 2008. It's been nominated for 13 Academy Awards, more than any other film this year, and deserves at least one more for Cate Blanchett. Yet despite being the 6th most positively reviewed film of the year, there has been an inordinate amount of critical backlash toward it.

For all the snobiness inherent in so many film reviewers, the hatred makes sense. Buzz has been surrounding the film for nearly a year when the first trailer appeared and Benjamin Button was anointed the Best Picture front runner long before its release date. Critics hate hype, especially when it comes from a star-studded, big budget film begging to be lauded with awards that it may or may not deserve. A film like that is the equivalent of the Patriots in last year's Super Bowl: no one, besides die hard Patriots fans, wanted an undefeated, record-setting team to win. The team was too loaded, just like to many critics Benjamin Button is too loaded to warrant being a respectable film. "Real" sports fans retained their reputation by bashing the Patriots and critics who champion purely independent and foreign films have already begun the crusade against Benjamin Button. They want to see the film fail and they'll take any shot possible to knock it down.

The current favorite critical noogie is to closely link Benjamin Button to Forrest Gump and claim that little separates the two. Critics make this claim because the films share a screenwriter (Eric Roth), and, according to Spout's Karina Longworth, they "both put groundbreaking special effects to the service of sprawling stories, spanning many decades and weaving a breadcrumb trail through modern American history, in which a man holds a torch for a woman who can’t reciprocate his love until her dreams of autonomy are spectacularly dashed."

For Longworth, "the Gump comparison is a pejorative, a shorthand way to say, 'This film will likely make a lot of money and win a lot of awards, and yet is so phony and cloying and gimmicky that its success will some day be seen by some as a tragedy,'" just as "true" cinema fans (myself included) cry foul that Gump beat out their beloved Pulp Fiction for Best Picture in 1994. Longworth furthers her attack by saying that "[i]t’s a film about the feat of its own whiz-bang, Frankensteinian digital imagery, drunk on its own accomplishment to an extent that feels quasi-ethical."

While the effects are stunning, critics like Longworth are missing the point of the film. In turn, these viewers deny themselves the wondrous discovery that The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is far too complex to be a child of Gump.

Exceptional effects are capable of furthering a film's story and making audiences feel deeply about the characters. In a story as unusual as Button (for those who don't know, Benjamin, played by Brad Pitt, is born an old man the size of a baby, and gets younger on the outside as he grows older) , why shouldn't the effects play a major part? How else are we to experience the unique feeling of being around Benjamin without us, too, being in awe of him? Never is this more true than when he shows up in Daisy (Blanchett)'s studio as a beautiful-faced teen. Benjamin is a one-of-a-kind human being, and it takes likewise original effects to fully flesh out his story.

Additionally, Longworth is perturbed by very small pieces of the film, including the 4-second scene of Benjamin and Daisy resting on his sailboat off the Florida coast while a NASA launch is seen behind them. However, it's scenes like this that distance Benjamin Button from its Best Picture predecessor. Forrest Gump hit audiences over the head with its protagonists' interaction with history. In Benjamin Button, the references, like the NASA launch, are far more subtle. Additionally, Benjamin and Daisy watch the Beatles on "Ed Sullivan" from their living room and, as discussed later, Benjamin has a refreshingly anonymous brush with war. In Gump, Vietnam took up a bulk of the film, and if placed in Benjamin's situations, Forrest would have accidentally blasted into space or accidentally kept an astronaut from going on a doomed mission, and would certainly have made a dim-witted reference to insects to inspire the Beatles' name. Even telling the story from Daisy's death bed via Benjamin's journal with Hurricane Katrina rapidly approaching (another of Longworth's thorns) is more of a tribute to New Orleans, the story's primary setting, than an arbitrary plot device. No other piece of the city's history is worthy to be symbolically linked to the end of Benjamin's (as filtered through Daisy's) life. Each was a titan in its own right, and the demise of both is notably tragic. When minute details begin to affect one's reviews, it's time for such critics to stop nit-picking and focus on why they love film in the first place.

Ironically, one of the more remarkable things about Benjamin is that he never does anything that remarkable in the sense of teetering on celebrity. Unlike Gump, he doesn't come across many famous people. Instead, they're mostly ordinary folk, many of whom are poor blue collar workers. When WWII hits, Benjamin accidentally becomes a part of the combat and is involved in only one major scene. Even there, the heroism is largely accidental and Benjamin is refreshingly quick to deflect chances to wax nostalgic (as opposed to Forrest's "Jenny and the sky" montage). With the exception of the lone rousing battle scene, all we see of Benjamin's time "in" the war is his affair with Elizabeth Abbott (Tilda Swinton), a clear indication that Fincher is concerned with the nuances of his characters and not merely CGI. Additionally, it is through Benjamin's first major interaction with someone outside of his New Orleans bubble that the film introduces its primary conflict: Benjamin's role in the world.

As such, the underlying piece of fascination is how Benjamin is able to stay below the social radar. His condition is one that the media (or the circus) would love to get a hold of, and yet he is able to live a somewhat normal life.

How is one who knows Benjamin supposed to act? Is his "curious case" one that should be shared or kept secret? Apparently, it's the latter. As it happens, Benjamin surrounds himself with a cluster of loyal friends who keep his secret (though he doesn't ask them to) and people who either die (the old folks' home residents, who give him ideal cover, and his tugboat employer, Captain Mike, played by Jared Harris) or who he never sees again (Elizabeth Abbott; Daisy's husband) and therefore cannot discover his secret. Most significant is Daisy. The secret is the center of her life, yet she keeps the truth from her daughter until she's on her death bed. That's dedication! Benjamin's general course of action is that he lives a fitting life in his current backwards age situation, lets it run its course, and then moves on so that he isn't discovered. His resulting inability to make many lasting relationships is as heartbreaking as his unusual demise.

There is a lack of strong sadness in the film, with the exception of the final, tearful few minutes, but therein lies one of the film's strongest pieces. Director Fincher, he of such dark fare as Se7en, Fight Club, and Zodiac, and, interestingly, sentimental target Roth (perhaps weaned off the sap by working on The Insider and Munich) are to thank for that. Growing up in the old folks' home, Benjamin becomes accustomed to death, and when it strikes his loved ones, he's able to not let it slow him down. In such scenes, Fincher and Roth keep the film from becoming overly sentimental by keeping the story moving and focusing on Benjamin and Daisy's relationship. In the sepia-tinged world that Fincher depicts, and through the honest, blunt statements Roth scripts for his characters, none such sappiness can endure. As a result of this dynamic team, Benjamin's situation is more than extraordinary to carry the film, and with equally superb performances and technology surrounding said story, the film cannot help but soar, even when it winds down.

As Benjamin's life nears its end, he embraces his isolation and travels the world with the body of a teenager and the soul of an old man. The montage of his treks to what appear to be India are visually and emotionally rich, and serves as the perfect preamble to his decay into dementia and death in an increasingly youthful vessel. In the above sequence, Benjamin completes his personal bucket list completely alone and without fanfare, and the "just-so" attitude with which he has conducted his life carries him and us through to his final chapter. It is as if both parties are coming to accept that precious little time is left, and yet for us (and Daisy), letting go is terribly difficult.

The resulting climactic feeling is so strong because we are emotionally invested in Benjamin throughout the film. The entire time, we know that Benjamin is going to die, and yet, like our own unavoidable death, we put off thinking about it until it's on top of us. Then, when it hits, it's stunning and beautiful.

Saying goodbye to Benjamin is the hardest thing to do this year in cinema, and one of the most difficult in the history of film. As a character, he is so magnetic that we cannot help but love him, just as Daisy and those who take the time to know him do. To accompany his story with visuals so appealing that they beg to be lived in, and to firmly trust in an auteur behind the camera, one in such complete control of a fragile story because he too loves film, is sublime. To experience The Curious Case of Benjamin Button over and over, with the same satisfying results, is simply a gift.