Smooth_J

Under discussion:

Waltz With Bashir  (2008)

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.

Under discussion:

Trainspotting  (1996)

Memento  (2001)

28 Days Later  (2003)

Brokeback Mountain  (2005)

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button  (2008)

Little Miss Sunshine  (2006)

Juno  (2007)

The Dark Knight  (2008)

Slumdog Millionaire  (2008)

The Wrestler  (2008)

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.

Under discussion:

Belle de jour  (1967)

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)

Under discussion:

My Winnipeg  (2008)

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.

Under discussion:

Stranger Than Paradise  (1984)

Kicking and Screaming  (1995)

Team Picture  (2007)

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.

Under discussion:

8 1/2  (1963)

La Dolce Vita  (1960)

Raising Arizona  (1987)

12 Monkeys  (1995)

Fargo  (1996)

The Big Lebowski  (1997)

O Brother, Where Art Thou?  (2000)

Michael Clayton  (2007)

No Country for Old Men  (2007)

Burn After Reading  (2008)

The Coens have the uncanny ability to make you laugh hysterically and then make you feel like a total jerk for laughing, all in the same stride.  Burn After Reading provides that sort of fun-filled game of the Coens providing you with outstanding entertainment, all the while toying with you and laughing smugly to themselves.  A standard moviegoer walks out of Burn After Reading with a big, goofy smile, having thoroughly enjoyed the antics and witticisms of the array of imbeciles portrayed onscreen.  The avid filmgoer (and Coen devotee) will walk out of the film with the same goofy smile, except realizing how stupid the Coens just made everyone and everything in the world look.  Oh, Ethan and Joel, how you mock us...

The film opens with a wide shot of the United States from an "intelligence" standpoint in outer space.  I believe that the purpose of this was to establish the only firm idea in the film: You are in Washington, DC, in the United States.  Have fun.

The beginning segments introduce the players, known now by everyone interested in seeing the film and therefore pointless for me to list.  Needless to say, everyone is excellent.  George Clooney, though panned by some critics as giving a bland, "Clooney" performance, is great, playing an extension of his role in O Brother, Where Art Thou?, except now he has a gun and is a sex addict.  He has some of the best scenes in the movie, and there are a shitload of great scenes.  Tilda Swinton is a stone cold bitch, and its perfect.  I am one of the few who thought she was overrated (hardcore) in Michael Clayton, but she really proves herself in this movie.  While she's not necessarily one of the more hysterical characters, she's definitely very solid and provides a strong contrast to the broad comedy of the other characters.

Frances McDormand, I hate to say, was a bit undervalued...some of her big scenes were duds.  However, I thought she was great, injecting her part with vulnerability and witless determination.

John Malkovich plays a man who is enraged beyond belief with the "morons that he's had to deal with his whole fucking life."  Seeing him lose it is an enlightening experience.  I was convinced about how awesome this film would be after seeing the production photos of his walking down the street in a bathrobe, underwear, and a beater while carrying a drink in one hand and a hatchet in the other.  I can see that one scene becoming truly iconic for Malkovich.

Brad Pitt is a hardass.  Chad is a character that could have so easily become a caricature of the average stupid guy, a buffoon who nobody really cares about, he's just there for laughs.  But Pitt makes the character a real person, that guy you see at the gym that's nice to everybody but who's only topics of conversation are what his senses are attuned to at the moment (The ADD guy who's charismatic enough for everyone to ignore how incredibly emtpy-headed he is).  He is the lovable character, the "Donnie", who the audience immediately relates with and finds the funniest.  The joy he seems to take in this role takes him back 10 years, almost back to the insane glee of 12 Monkeys.

Pitt's character brings me to my previous topic of lamentable laughter.  Like Fargo, the Coens want the audience to think that the most disturbing of occurences are funny.  They want you to double over when William H. Macy fights the cops who are restraining him, squealing like a captured pig, lamenting his life and going insane.  That's their idea of fun.  And then afterwards, they throw something in, basically saying "You insensitive prick, you laughed at that?"  There are a couple scenes of that in Burn After Reading.  Several, actually.  And it's embarrassing to be the only "insensitive prick" in the theater cackling even as the camera pans to the aftermath of one of these scenes.  I mean, I'm sure other people realized it, but had the sense to keep their mirth to themselves.

I find that buckets of fun.

The supporting players provide a lot of the movie's other vital organs (if the main characters are the heart--albeit, a decrepid one).  JK Simmons is outstanding, the only major character that has any real sense.  He acts as a narrator almost; an outsider, seeing the events with just as much confusion as the viewer.  His lines sum up everything about the movie, making sure that the audience knows that it's all in good fun.  Nothing really matters, so don't worry if you don't get it.  We don't get it either.

Richard Jenkins is the only character with a noticeable soul (except perhaps Clooney, hidden deep inside his perpetually horny complexion).  He's a poor, lovelorn old guy, without so much as the courage to profess his love to the shallow, dull McDormand.  He is almost seen with contempt by the viewer, being such a pathetic old man, but the Coens quickly make you realize how much of a dick you are for thinking that.  And lastly David Rasche, a seldom heard of actor, is effectively deadpan as the informer of JK Simmons' CIA Superior.  Somehow, his performance stands out, probably because of its normalcy compared to the weirdness of everybody else.

I came to the conclusion early on in the film that this is just the Coens having fun, following the brutal and poetic No Country with some goofy fun.  As Peter Travers successfully analyzed, the Coens have followed all of their more serious subjects with their trademark "zany" (for lack of a better word) comedies.  As usual, they throw in their two-sense about society, humanity, and what have you.  They thoroughly believe that most people are dim-witted, but it doesn't change the fact that these sorts of people have to be dealt with nonetheless.  However, Burn After Reading shows that the Coens can show these sorts of characters with compassion.  Their previous efforts, such as Fargo and Raising Arizona, were criticized for being condescending towards their own characters.  I disagree.  While those two films were a bit more pessimistic about these people, both of them (especially Fargo) demonstrate the Coens' love of these people.  Why would they continue to make movies about them if they were just ridiculing them?  They find depths in characters that seem one note and shallow.  They give you a reason to their moronic delusions.  They make you feel for them, and realize "Oh, wow, I guess that is pretty stupid when I do that."

It may be a stretch, but their work almost brings to mind the two Fellinis that I've seen, La Dolce Vita and 8 1/2.  In the booklet for LDV, an essay proclaims that Fellini was primarily an entertaining, infusing his stories with existentialism and satire.  While I think the Coens are different in a lot of ways, this could just as easily be said about them.

Burn After Reading is basically just evidence that the Coens having a good time is better and more profound than most film-makers' serious efforts.  While they are cynical, making each of their movies an inside joke that only they can really decipher, they always manage to entertain their audience.  As usual, this review really only touched on the surface of the hundreds of things that can be said about this film.  But, all you need to know essentially is that it's a hilarious entry into the Coens' filmography, and has the potential to gain a cult status with The Big Lebowski if it duds with critics.  I doubt it will, however, now that the Coens have officially proved themselves with No Country, giving them the freedom to do whatever the **** they want.

(Oh, did I mention I'm a fan?)

Under discussion:

Memento  (2001)

Insomnia  (2002)

Batman Begins  (2005)

The Prestige  (2006)

Something about Insomnia just did not work.  I mean, it had the makings of a great movie, and to be honest, it almost was a great movie.  But there was just something missing, something lacking from the basic feel of the movie that couldn't really be made up for, no matter how hard Pacino, Williams, and director Chris Nolan tried.

The story is pretty obviously a remake of a Norwegian film made in the 90s, which apparently is pretty superior to this; one thing that this film succeeded at was making me put that film on the top of my list of films to see.  The general idea of the story is excellent, with the guilt and insanity of the murder case thrown in with Dormer's (Pacino's) own guilt for the accidental murder of his partner and his shady tactics used to put a child murderer behind bars in LA.

The insomnia of the midnight sun is absolutely perfect.  It seems as though insomnia is a great subject for Nolan to tackle, since in each and every one of his movies to date involves his depiction of the acute sensory details of his characters' illusions and flashbacks.  In Memento, it's Guy Pearce's momentary flashbacks of his wife being brutally beaten.  In The Prestige, there are very specific images of drowning and guilty flashbacks.  Even in Batman Begins he uses a very acute, jumpy imagery to portray the effects of Scarecrow's hallucinogen.  In Insomnia, he manages to use most of these tricks the entire movie--the jumpy eye movements, the flashes of light, the strange sounds of everyday life echoing in the ears.  On the level of Nolan's direction, the film in beautiful.

However, something is just wrong with the script.  Nothing is really ever played out as it should be--it's not as though there's much to be desired.  I can't really even place my finger on it.  I mean, the film is a taut, nearly explosive thriller.  But why did I feel so disconnected from it?  My only explanation is that the pacing of the film was just slightly off, and the ending was a pretty cliched, making use of a awfully bland and textbook performance by Hilary Swank (bleh).  I mean, even she sort of contributed to the film's overall lackluster feel, and she should have been a huge asset.

Pacino and Williams are great...it's actually really interesting to see Pacino play a role like this, since his character's are usually so collected and outspoken, while in this he is forced to downplay and portray a man who is slowly going insane from lack of sleep. ("Six days," says Williams.  "You beat my record.")

The film is worth watching, because it's surely entertaining and well-made.  Nolan really tries his hardest, and there's nothing you can say to criticize his direction.  But the script is lacking, and Hilary Swank pretty much sucks.

Under discussion:

2001: A Space Odyssey  (1968)

Chinatown  (1974)

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly  (1967)

Once Upon a Time in the West  (1969)

The Seventh Seal  (1957)

Vampyr  (1931)

Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb  (1964)

Pulp Fiction  (1994)

Being John Malkovich  (1999)

Mulholland Dr.  (2001)

Inland Empire  (2006)

I'm Not There  (2007)

Atonement  (2007)

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly  (2007)

The idea for this analysis came to mind when I recently saw Bergman's The Seventh Seal.  While I was not quite as blown away by the film as most accolades of the film would suggest, I still found it to be an excellent movie, and could see very clearly the influence it has had on so many films that have come after it.

The one scene that I especially noticed a direct legacy in later films was a short, almost gimmicky little snippet during the medieval religious cult scene in the town--where the drums are beating loudly, people are screaming in agony as whips crack, and monks and other repenters are carrying enormous crosses on their backs.  There is a short string of profile shots: Antonius, Jons, and "The Girl" (the only specific name I could find for her anywhere on the internet).  The cuts between the faces are done with the beats of the drums; they are perfectly centered, with mist or smoke rising in the backgrounds, adding to each image's raw, black-and-white imagery; and each face perfectly describes what each character is feeling in the specific scene.  Antonius stares onward at the happenings, in the middle of an intense existential dilemma, scrutinizing the scene and attempting to sort out what it all could mean.  Jons observes with amused (yet somewhat disturbed) contempt for not only the people of the scene, but for all of humanity.  And The Girl stares ahead in fear, the only one of them who truly realizes the oncoming apocalypse at such an early stage.  At first glance, it seems like an empty trick thrown in for effect by Bergman.  But such use of tone and the profile shot have been used countless times, seemingly originated by Bergman and his equals at this time of cinematic experimentation.  For example, this technique of switching profiles to the beat of something is used pretty much verbatum in the film I'm Not There, where Todd Haynes switches between all the faces of Bob Dylan to the sound of gunshots--all in misty black-and-white photography.

What makes a profile shot so effective is that (sorry for this cliche...) every face tells a story, and it only takes a skilled actor, a good director, and a camera with the right film to turn it into a work of art.  But I mean, portraits and sculpture dating back to prehistoric times make use of the nuances of the human face, from Egyptian sculptures of pharaohs, the stone heads of Easter Island, and technically even Native American tikis.  Different societies and different mediums of art have used the face for various forms of expression, and it is probably one of the most common depictions in art.  Look at the Mona Lisa--it's one of the most famous works of art ever created, and it is a painting of a woman's face.  It's the mystery behind her expressions, her features, her true identity that makes the work so timeless and so debatable.

However, there's something about seeing the human face framed in a camera--especially on a black-and-white one--that is so beautiful and so perfect.  In my mind, who cares about Joe Wright's five minute tracking shot.  Hundreds of extras, thousands of dollars, all to capture a vast expanse of imagery without any empathy involved.  For a well-done profile shot, all one needs an actor, a director, and a camera--nothing else.  I'm not necessarily saying that a tracking shot would not be a work of art, since it is one in itself, but I feel as though such broadness cannot capture the undeniable intimacy of human emotion that is shown on any person's face.  Even one's eyes, shifting crazily during a "trip" through time and space (2001: A Space Odyssey) have the ability to captivate a viewer, and give them a glimpse into a character's psyche.

Last night, while running through this topic in my head, I came up with several movies and genres that utilize the human profile extensively.  The first that came to mind was the film-noir genre, with its fims' personal, close feel.  Who can forget the faces of the tortured heroes of these films, driving around puffing on their ever-present cigarettes?  While my knowledge of this genre is pretty limited, I know enough to recognize the faces of the classic noir heroes.  Neo-noir and crime films have taken up these techniques, especially films like Pulp Fiction (and other Tarantino) and Chinatown (which is pretty much classic noir).

Another film that really sticks out in my mind is The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, with its infamous final shoot-out of only profile shots and guns.  Leone had a gift for the small touches of the human face, as he also demonstrates his penchant for this in Once Upon a Time in the West.  He perfectly illustrates the dirtiness and inherent wickedness in a lot of his characters through perfectly staged shots of their sweaty, grizzled faces.

Kubrick was an auteur in many ways, and one that I have especially noticed is his perfect use of a framed, still camera shot.  One of my favorites occurs in Dr. Strangelove, with the shot of General Jack Ripper during one of his monologues, where the camera is beneath his face and it basically looking right up his nose at a crooked angle.  Just the staging of this shot gives the viewer a perfect sense of how unhinged the man really is.  It's hilarity through just good direction.

Now, I hate to stray off of my established topic, but I feel as though I can't discuss the profile shot without talking about its cinematic opposite, the subjective shot.  While not nearly as popular, in the right hands, it can be nearly as effective as the human profile.  David Lynch has pretty much mastered this craft, and he uses it flawlessly to create almost unbearable terror in Inland Empire.  One of the most terrifying experiences I've every had while watching a movie happened when I watched Mulholland Dr. for the first time, when the man in the restaraunt is walking to face the monster in the alley--Lynch uses the man's point of view to emphasize the horror being faced.  I pretty much shit my pants.  Did that aspect of the film really serve much of a purpose?  No, not really.  But it has an undeniable finesse and effectiveness that makes it essential to the overall tone of the movie.  Another film that uses the subjective point of view to enhance horror is one that I watched recently, Dreyer's Vampyr.  It is a short scene in which it is used, but creates a great sense of claustrophic fear.

A couple of films that go hand-in-hand in terms of use of POV are Being John Malkovich and Diving Bell and the Butterfly.  BJM flawlessly portrays being inside the head of someone else, from the sound effects to the imagery.  You ARE walking around in someone else's shoes, and it's amazing.  DB&tB also uses this technique of seeing the world through someone else's eyes.  Schnabel meticulously recreates the feeling of being confined within one's mind, with no escape and no possible sense of escape.  It is a beautiful technique used in an absolutely beautiful film, and it heightens the unending and unavoidable sadness of the film.  In a convoluted way, the film also makes great use of the profile shot--from the eyes of Bauby.  The lighting and camera effects used illustrate the beauty of his nurse's faces unlike anything I have ever seen, framing them in his one eye with the foggy edges.  The camera examines their features as though you are Bauby, longing to reach out and touch them, but you can't and it is near torture.

For the most part, it is foreign directors that use these sort of simple shots to greatest effect--I feel as though they typically can emphasize beauty better than any American director ever could, not only through profile and POV but also through beauty of landscapes.

Now, I know I must address that nearly every movie uses these sorts of methods, and my film repertoire may not permit me to do a full elucidation on such topics.  However, I have always been taken aback by the immense possibilities of film-making.  As I have dreams of becoming a film-maker, I can't help but analyze such things when I watch movies, and take them to mind when imagining camera angles and writing ideas.  And the things that I have always marveled at are the simple things that can be done by anyone with an idea, a camera, and subject.  That's where the true beauty of film-making lies, in its simplest artistry.

Under discussion:

The Heart of the World  (2000)

The Saddest Music in the World  (2003)

I've had a sort of strange interest in Guy Maddin's films for a while now, and I think I've seen every single one of his short films whether they be on Youtube or other sites of similar nature.  In my humble opinion, I think he is one of the most original and greatest film-makers out there right now.  And The Saddest Music in the World utilizes his unique vision to outstanding extent.

Using film-stock that looks recycled from the 1920s, Maddin creates a melancholy dream-scape of depression-era Winnipeg.  It is a town of lost souls, as is the entire world outside of it, but this contest to find who is in fact that saddest country in the world (judged through song) brings the people together and brings a sort of drunken life to a world that has fallen asleep to escape the sadness of the depression.  Some of the insights towards human sorrow are bitingly funny, as are the references to humanities undying love of beer (the winners of the competitions get to slide into a pool full of beer--and they're called weird if they don't drink out of it).

The film is also an examination of family ethics, played out through a bizarre love story.  Roderick, Chester's brother, is an insane hypochondriac, who may or may not be the saddest person in the world, or may just be overreacting.  Roderick's ex-wife, who is now Chester's gal-pal, is a scatter-brained nymphomaniac who has visions of her dead son that she has forgotten about completely.  And Roderick's father, played with perfect love-lorn sadness by David Fox, is an alcoholic who caused the tragic accident in which the founder the contest lost both of her legs.  Oh, and he happens to be hopelessly in love with her, but she is infinitely infatuated with Chester.

The events that follow are played out through stunning black-and-white visuals, tongue-in-cheek humor, and oustanding music to create one of the finest films that it has ever been my fortune to see.  Everything meshes perfectly, from the themes of sadness and depression to the surprising social relevence, mixed in with Maddin's trademark frantic editing and silent-era strangeness.  It is not quite as stimulating and frenzied as his short masterpiece The Heart of the World, but it is every bit as unique and captivating.

"I ask you--is there anybody here as happy as I am?"

And a man in a moose hat laughs at you.

Under discussion:

Shrek  (2001)

The Spiderwick Chronicles  (2008)

The Spiderwick Chronicles rises above most family fare in that it boasts a truly interesting and provocative fantasy premise without taking itself too seriously.  Yes, there are the customary family issues that set the backdrop for almost every family box-office smash, but this film actually incorporates them into the meaning of the story as a whole.  The main character, Jared (played by the always remarkable Freddie Highmore), is much closer with his father who has recently separated from his stressed-out and seemingly depressed mother.  And, while most films of this type would take this story line to cliched heights of ridiculous magnitude, Jared's loyalty for his father is instead tested and stressed based on what is actually happening in the main plot of the story, not thrown in to exploit the emotions of the patriarchal audience.  And the sub-plot of Arthur Spiderwick (David Strathairn?  YES!) and his neglect for his daughter because of his obsessive research in the "fantastical world around him" seems in fact symbolic of any of the characters' neglect of the realities of the world and what they have to face as human beings.

And, looking at the film as compared to any other film, and not just in contrast with other family films, there is one very noticable high point that I found very interesting.  The villain, the first unloveable ogre put on the screen since the original Shrek, is not completely big and bad.  It is in actuality one of the most vulnerable creatures (including the humans) on the screen.  His undying fixation on getting the Field Guide (of the magical realm?) is an ultimate weakness, shown deliberately by the film-makers, most prominently during the final stand-off between him and Jared.  During this struggle, the ogre is both seemingly invincible yet strangely pathetic in his attempts, heightened by a clever cameo of Jared's father (it's predictable, but effective--watch the film and see what I mean).

And the ending, both incredibly ironic and abrubtly hilarious, just goes to show what's great about this movie: it can be very, very out there without being at all pretentious.  It is strictly fantasy, and not once does it try to be anything other than escapist fun.

Under discussion:

Reservoir Dogs  (1992)

Pulp Fiction  (1994)

Jackie Brown  (1997)

Jackie Brown is really an overall strange movie, not in subject matter but in style and content.  It's an obvious Tarantino movie, with the ghetto conversations about seemingly superfluous topics and the long, meandering narrative with plenty of plot-twists and episodes, some labeled on-screen as such.  It's really enjoyable despite its 2 1/2 hour run time, which actually seems to fly by without so much as a stutter in plotting.

This movie really made me realize just how great Tarantino is with story structure.  Even his critics can't say that the man has such a distinctive and confident poise behind the camera, and such a grasp on the intricacies of typical story structure.  He seems to be having so much fun with this movie, and effortlessly makes the story glide from plot-twist to plot-twist.  It would be so funny to see what a convoluted mess this movie may have been in the hands of most other directors--but Tarantino doesn't even let you think about how extensive the plot is, he just keeps it moving.

All of the players are outstanding, the stand-outs being Pam Grier as a seductive and powerful Jackie Brown and Robert Forster as the lonely and quietly tortured Max Cherry.  This is perhaps the best performance of the film, as he brings the coolness of a typical noir hero while hiding the sadness and longing behind his weathered eyes.  Samuel L. Jackson is the epitome of cool, as usual, and perfectly demonstrates his outstanding charisma even when the role almost seems to cool for its own good.  Even so, he's a very effective "baddie."  Robert DeNiro is gives a nicely understated performance as an ex-con and now stoner who has trouble remembering where his car is during a sting (in a very, very funny, very Tarantino scene).  Michael Keaton gives a convincing performance as an ATF agent trying to nail Samuel L. Jackson's character.

Something interesting I found about this film is how it mixed so many genres of movies while still having a distinctive Tarantino tone.  Though it's seemingly advertised as a blaxploitation homage, it is more distinctively neo-noir.  There are the very obvious blaxploitation elements, however, that keeps you from thinking that it is completely noir.  And, obviously, it is a gangster "sting" flick.  It is sort of fun to tweak conventions as to who would be the set hero of the film: Basic noir conventions would say that Max Cherry is the hero, being a weathered and collected old soul and trying to romance a mysterious and bad-ass woman.  However, you might also say that Jackie would be the noir hero, in that she's definitely the main character, and is just as weathered and calm as Max Cherry, and is always smoking a cigarette.  In terms of blaxploitation, Jackie is definitely the hero, with Samuel L. Jackson's Ordell being the trademark bad-guy.  It's interesting that Tarantino made Ordell such a main character in the actual film, since you know him as much as you know anyone else in the story, and he is quite obviously a villain.

All in all, this may be remembered as Tarantino's weakest film of the 90s, though it is still excellent.  His characteristic sequences are what make the film great, such as the scene in which Chris Tucker makes a cameo.  It is such a quietly hysterical scene, with its seemingly pointless discussion and debate of a random topic followed by a quick and brutal piece of gangsterdom.  It's Tarantino having fun with the style that he created in Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction, and it's really a blast to watch.

Under discussion:

Blue Velvet  (1986)

Dune  (1984)

The Elephant Man  (1980)

Eraserhead  (1977)

Pi  (1998)

The Straight Story  (1999)

Requiem for a Dream  (2000)

The Fountain  (2006)

I recently saw Eraserhead, after months of waiting for it come back into stock on Amazon.com, and I loved it.  It was, without a doubt, the strangest film I've ever seen, surpassing anything I've seen as of yet by far.  I watched it with my sister, and she was actually disturbed for several days after watching it and I felt really bad...especially since I found it so amazing.

Throughout the film, I kept thinking whether or not it was good that I saw the extremely similar Pi before I had seen Eraserhead.  Pi is a very obvious tribute to this movie in more ways than one, and in more ways than the extremely obvious black and white (15mm?) film and the general surreal, bizarre tones.  Both films are centered around a misfit, probably early 20s, disillusioned male in worlds and societies that neither of them can really even begin to understand.  They both live in small, secluded inner-city apartments with very sexy neighbors that they are obviously very attracted to but are too scared to pursue.  These are the basic similarities, but there are also some very strange (maybe not even intentional) tributes/similarities: Both films contain an electric drill to the head; in both, at some point, when a certain object is poked, a crescendo of sounds occurs until it is not being touched anymore; and both have a fascination of strange objects of paranoia, such as a computer screen and a disembodied brain (Pi), and a radiator and a mutant baby (Eraserhead).

The point of the matter is, these films are incredibly similar, yet extremely different at the same time.  Their respective auters, David Lynch and Darren Aronofsky, are both revolutionary film-makers.  Lynch is a legend, and Aronofsky is definitely soon to be one (especially after Requiem for a Dream, which is already considered a classic).  But, the strange thing about Pi and Eraserhead being so similar lays in the fact that their styles are so inexplicably different. 

Lynch's films are all slow-paced, brooding, dream-like odysseys into unknown psychological territory.  He explores the dark sides of human conciousness by making incredibly weird occurrences seem like commonplace in all of his films, and despicable and often annoying characters that seem demonic yet unreal at the same time; unreal, of course, being the operative term for any work that Lynch has ever done (with the exceptions apparently being The Straight Story and The Elephant Man).

Aronofsky, however, makes his films fast-paced, emotionally draining assaults on the senses.  Requiem was probably one of the saddest movies I have ever seen.  It is a complete and total downer, but it is not by any means slow; it pushes forward towards its devastating climax at a breakneck, non-stop pace, all the while shocking and assaulting the viewer with images and scenes both beautiful and disgusting.  Pi was just as fast paced; so much was crammed into the ninety-something minute runtime that you were left wanting so much more, for the film to go on forever.  The quick edits, the strange sounds and phenomena associated with taking drugs (also VERY apparent in Requiem), and the brutally catchy techno soundtrack all make the viewer on the edge of their seat, in an entranced adrenaline rush unlike anything else.  These same techniques are also used in the not-so-emotional (in fact, it's quite lifeless) The Fountain.  I really hope that was just a hiccup in Aronofsky's career...not that it was bad, I just feel it 4 years too late and 10 million dollars underdone.  (The story of his attempts to make the film are actually more upsetting than the film itself.)

Now, there's the issue in my theory that Lynch's films are also assaults on the senses, more "experience" films than anything else; that's true, but the styles of these two directors are so different that it's just sort of irrelevent to discuss.

Eraserhead and Pi were Lynch's and Aronofsky's (respectively) first feature films, which is an interesting comparison.  The most effective explanation for this is that both films were very possible to make on a shoe-string budget, and would not have even worked if too much money had been spent.  It would have given a too refined feel to the productions, instead of the achingly personal feel that they ended up with.  Both films almost feel as if the main character is in fact an incarnation of their directors, written to express their inner-anguish and apparent paranoias towards the world.

The final point I would like to make pertains to the directions both directors went in their careers.  At first glance, it seems like they took complete polar opposites in terms of film choices--however, after examining their filmographies, their choices are actually remarkably similar.  Both followed a critically acclaimed (or at least critically noticed) low-budget debut with an emotional film that garnered world-wide and popular attention (The Elephant Man for Lynch, and Requiem for Aronofsky).  Both films received Oscar nominations (Lynch's first directing nod) and other awards attention.  And then (this is the most noticable correlation) both made bigger-budget, high-brow, studio sci-fi films that divided audiences and critics.  Lynch made Dune, a classic wrong-move in his career, and he battled to get it made the way he wanted.  The studio cuts literally destroyed the film.  Aronofsky made The Fountain, which was also a commercial failure, and started its downfall years before with fights with the studio over budget and script issues. 

And then, this is where Aronofsky's career cuts off; he has several upcoming movies that I am not quite familiar with, but I'm hoping will be returns to form for him.  Lynch's next film after Dune certainly was--he went on to make Blue Velvet, which garnered him worldwide acclaim and yet another Oscar nomination (I have got to see that movie...).  Lynch went on to have a long, illustrious career, and is still making movies and being an overall weirdo to this day.  Hopefully, Aronofsky will take another page from Lynch's book and do the same.

And now back to a question that I find reoccurring on every movie site I go to:  Which is better, Pi or Eraserhead?  Personally, I connected more to Eraserhead's bizarre symbolism and dream-like tone.  However, I definitely found myself to be more enraptured overall by Pi's fast-paced, crank-like hallucinations.  Overall concensus?

Who cares? (Hah)

Under discussion:

The City of Lost Children  (1995)

The title of this review is not necessarily true...a lot of the film feels taken from some of Terry Gilliam's abandoned sketches and crazed idea chains.  However, it is an extremely good film, and a very enjoyable escape into an irrational and horrifying alternate world.

Films about dreams tend to really get me...the depths of the imagination are completely interesting to me, and seeing them put onto film is just a magical experience.  This film, with the outstanding direction of Jeunet and Caro, achieves this feeling seamlessly.  The movie feels alternately like a bad dream and the type of dream you have after eating something weird right before you go to sleep--not necessarily a nightmare, but it certainly isn't happy, and you just sort of drift through it, taking in the bizarre scenery and the ever changing array of characters.

The difference between one of these dreams and this film is merely that you actually care what happens to these characters, and it is well-plotted.  Somehow, it manages to garner both feelings...and it makes for a really great movie.

Ron Perlman seems out of place for a while, but he soon meshes famously with the film as a whole, bringing a good deal of emotion to "One" without overdoing the cheese-factor that could have been eminent with the relationship between him and Miette.  Daniel Emilfork is completely perfect, playing a sort of Frankenstein's monster with the most selfish of intentions for his evils--he wishes for the ability to dream.  This is a strange concept, but it's really interesting to see how they make it play out so well.  Dominique Pinon is also very good, bringing the comic relief of the role of the various clones in the lab.  He is also successfully insane as the "original" scientist of the operation.

My final concesus is that this is a brilliant film, but I'm also a sucker for anything surreal and abstract.  It's definitely a bizarre, futuristic fairy tale, but it really has a heart somewhere beneath it's outer illusory layers.

Under discussion:

Walker  (1987)

I noticed no one has said anything about this movie, so I figured I would be the first to say that it is a pretty good film.  It is all in all a commentary on the 1980s Nicaraguan conflict, exploiting the story of a forgotten American "hero" during the time of Manifest Destiny.  What it is really trying to say is that the idea of Manifest Destiny and ultra-patriotism still existed in the United States, especially during the 1970s-80s, when we just couldn't seem to keep our noses out of Central American affairs.  It succeeds on that level, but not too many others.

The acting is at times pretty corny...Ed Harris successfully portrays William Walker and his many undeveloped personality traits, but even he slips up at times as his performance slips into camp.  Peter Boyle makes a pretty funny cameo as millionaire Cornelius Vanderbilt, the man who funds Walker's campaign in Nicaragua and ultimately sets him up as dictator.

Some of the scenes are actually really cool, such a scene where Walker walks right down the middle of an apparent massacre in a village, telling his men to press on even though it seems all is lost.  A man asks him what he is doing, to which he replies, "The only thing I know how to do...advance."  A scene in which they burn the town of their dictatorships residence at the end is a little bit drawn out, with probably around 4-6 minutes of burning buildings and depravity of Walker's soldiers (called "Walker's Immortals").  It's one of many scenes that seems forced and just doesn't work...however, for each of these scenes, there is a few that do, which makes the movie an overall accomplishment.

The film's infamous anachronisms that appear as Walker's dictatorship begins to fall apart actually seem relatively in place in terms of the story.  It is hilarious in most cases, and just puzzling in others.  My personal favorite is the cover of Newsweek, where one of the smaller stories listed on the cover is something about gay priests.  The main cover, however, shows Walker's face, claiming him as an American hero.  This was really just to show the celebrity status someone gains when they conquer and exploit in the name of America.

While it certainly would not be recommended for the most cynical of human beings, it is an entertaining experiment in politcal satire.  While it often delves into the realm of the hallucinatory and the bizarre, it mostly stays on its main topic, though it is very good at doing both.  Especially in the final sequence, which I thought was the most impressive part of the entire film.

Under discussion:

Apocalypse Now  (1979)

A Clockwork Orange  (1971)

This was one of my most difficult decisions…there is an undisputed number 1 spot, which will be revealed when I get to writing something that will successfully pay homage to the film itself, but this spot was tough.  I thought it was clear-cut for a while, but then I recently saw a film that I really wanted to add.  Both films are pretty bleak, pretty disturbing, and pretty strange; and both are definite classics, outstanding films from legendary directors.  So, after much deliberation, here is number 2 and number 2½.

2.  Apocalypse Now I have always been intrigued by this movie.  I saw a good deal of it on AMC when I was about 12 years old, and promptly set to begging my parents to let me go out and buy/rent it.  Finally, after ragging them for the better part of two years, I bought a copy of it.  It completely and utterly blew my mind.

Never had I seen such brilliant film-making.  The viewer is sucked completely into the unstable mind of veteran special-ops agent Willard, on a journey down a savage river that loses all sense of time, reality, and purpose.  He is sent out to kill a man he does not even know; and is meant to learn about through transcripts and letters documenting his rise and fall.  No one knows when this expedition will end—but all seem to know that it will inevitably end in tragedy.

Martin Sheen gives a supremely understated and powerful performance…while it is not exactly a showy role, it is one that was probably extremely difficult to pull off, in that a lot of the film is him sitting on the boat examining documents about Kurtz.  However, he does the job famously.  Robert Duvall is hilarious (yet somewhat unsettling) in his classic and brilliant small role.  His character (Col. Kilgore) is a larger than life character, perfectly representing the bizarre truths about Americans, military types especially; it is pretty self-explanatory what I mean when you look at the fact that they bomb and pillage a Vietnamese town (perfectly edited to Cry of the Valkries) only for the opportunity to see one of Willard’s men, a professional surfer, showcase his talents.  It really illustrates the exploitative nature of the American military, hitting the mark perfectly, just as the rest of the film does in illustrating the chaos and madness of not only the Vietnam war, but war in general.

Say what you want about Marlon Brando’s performance, but I found it to be deeply and strangely unsettling.  This could be because he was facing the same sort of issues at that time in his life; he was becoming increasingly reclusive and separating himself more and more from humanity, believing that he was above everybody else.  This attitude was perfect to portray Kurtz, a man who is trapped by his own insanity.  Some of his monologues are peculiar yet greatly profound.

The beginning and ending sequences are almost entities in themselves when you talk about this film.  Both are trippy, stylish, and edited to awesome music and sounds.  In the beginning, the song is ironically The End by The Doors, in the most perfect sequence of any film I have ever seen.  As the film and Willard descend into madness, this song is chronicling it, as well as the sound of helicopter rotors as the fan spins.  The ending is just beautiful—Kurtz clearly wants Willard to be the one to kill him, before offering him the last temptation by giving him a glimpse of his philosophy.  I still get the chills as Willard rises out of the red water…it’s completely incredible.  As is the entire movie.

2½ .  A Clockwork Orange Now, I only recently saw this movie, but I really just had to include it here up near my top two, since I was really taken aback by its power.  This movie actually has a more personal meaning to me; my mom and dad constantly tell the story of their first date, during which my dad took my mom to see this movie, and my mom dumped him soon following, for the reason that she was so immensely disturbed by it.  I’ve always thought this was hilarious, and I’ve always wanted to see it out of curiosity.

I would have to watch it again to write a full analysis, but it was worth mentioning.  I was especially amazed by the scene by the water where Alex puts his “droogs” back in their place—slow motion imagery melded with music in its finest form.  And this was only one of about a dozen scenes that really stuck out in my mind.  Stanley Kubrick was a total genius.

Under discussion:

Naked Lunch  (1991)

I somehow discovered this movie on Amazon a few weeks ago, and after reading up on it, I bought it out pure curiosity, and based on the fact that I had loved all the criterion films I had bought before this one.  I’m still amazed at how much I liked this movie.

I would like to start off by mentioning that William S. Burroughs is one of the most interesting people I have ever heard of, and I plan on reading his work very soon.  What is most fascinating about him is trying to decipher what about is actually true, and what about him is myth or fiction.  He actually reminds of a more literary Hunter S. Thompson, one of my favorite characters in writing (or even history).

However, it was not only these few reasons that I found the movie so exceptional.  The exposition is especially well-done, introducing you to Peter Weller’s Bill Lee character and his deadpan delivery of exterminator lines.  Even when the film is anchored in reality, it has a strange, surreal feel to it, heightened by awesome saxophone work by Ornette Coleman and a quietly strange score by Howard Shore.  Soon after Bill Lee utters the line “Exterminate all rational thought—that is the conclusion I have come to”, which acts as self-explanatory advice to the viewer, the film dips into the surreal and haunting world of a writer struggling with a near impossible work to finish.

Peter Weller is outstanding.  I have never seen such a perfectly deadpan performance that still contains so much depth and undertones in the right parts of his portrayal.  Judy Davis is also very good as his unfaithful, drug addled wife (and later lover?).  Most of the other performances are pretty much bit parts, shown to heighten the insignificance of normal human contact in the writing process.  There are a couple characters, however, to pay attention to—Ian Holm plays a fellow writer in “Interzone”, who lends Bill his cherished typewriter, only to have it be labeled as an “enemy agent” by Bill’s typewriter and destroyed.  Roy Scheider very effectively plays the role of a drug manufacturer in Interzone, and also seems to have a lot of fun with the part, hamming it up near the end of the final act.

It is also important to note that most of the occurrences in the film are in fact happening, but the way they are portrayed is through Bill Lee’s hallucinatory visions, as he believes that everything is assignment from a secret organization, and his writing is merely “reports.”

What is remarkable about the film is that it never delves into bizarrity without making you genuinely care what happens to Lee.  You watch his deliriums and dependencies spiral out of control, but he always retains his main character traits, though they may not be all that likeable.  It is difficult to watch sometimes, as it is often graphic and disturbing, but in the end, it is an extremely rewarding, yet puzzling, experience.

All in all, it is a meditation on the difficulties of the writing process, and the effect that drugs may have on a writer in the middle of it.  Burroughs really struggled with similar hallucinations and difficulties while writing the novel in Tangier, giving the film a very credible stand on the subject matter.  It was very effective that Cronenberg included not only events from the novel, but various happenings in Burroughs’ life and even some parts of his other books.  He even uses the William Tell routine to demonstrate what Burroughs said, in his own words, “Inspired him to be a writer.”  The significance of including it again after finally leaving Interzone is very simple—the “accidental” murder of his wife got him there, got him into writing; and now it is ultimately what will help him to finish his novel, and leave Interzone.

Under discussion:

Manda Bala  (2007)

As it was a documentary, I held off from watching Manda Bala for a pretty long time, despite the intriguing cover art and synopsis.  I am sort of mad that I held off for so long, since I was surprised to find that it was really quite good.

In Brazil, especially the Sao Paulo district, political corruption runs rampant, as do the equally powerful kidnapping and crime rings in the city slums.  The film begins by introducing a frog farm owner, who claims he would “never harm frogs in the wild”, but harvests them for various reasons at his business.  The scenes and descriptions of how the farm works are extremely well-done, and are the most stylistically done sequences of the film.

In the beginning, it’s hard to figure out just where the film is going, since so many different themes are presented, and it’s difficult to tell how they’re tied together (such as a woman describing her experience in being kidnapped in contrast with the frog farm).  However, once the film gets into full swing, and it’s revealed that the frog farm was in fact part of a money laundering scheme by fraudulent government officials, there are some powerful and eye-opening statements made.

One of the major and most interesting sub-topics shown is of a plastic surgeon, who in wake of the influx of ear-severing occurring during kidnappings, has developed a revolutionary new way to rebuild the ear.  It is fascinating, yet at the same time frustrating, seeing this man set to work, when in reality he is merely making profit off of other people’s suffering.  Because on one hand, he is helping them fix their deformities and help them out after such a traumatic experience, but in the other hand, he is making them pay immense amounts of money to get it done.

The film as a whole is extremely stylized, with perfectly timed ironic jibes and the metaphorical use of the frogs in representing Brazilian society.  It is often hilarious to see the film-makers begin their interviews so friendly and casual, and then ask a blunt, precise question that renders the subject speechless.  The best is when they get to interview Jader Barbalho, the maestro of the most diabolical of the money embezzlement schemes.  The interview begins with friendly questions as to his policy—and ends with Jader walking out of the room after being asked about a certain frog ranch.  The film-maker’s sense of irony and darkly exploitative humor is what makes the movie so compelling as a whole, and so powerful in the end.

Some of the subjects that Jason Kohn managed to talk with are extremely impressive, and one of these is a kidnapper/bank-robber from the Sao Paulo slums.  Some of the things revealed in this interview are the most disturbing yet overwhelmingly moving things said in the film.  It is amazing that one cannot bring themself to hate this man that is so clearly ruthless and would kill most people without a thought, because he is so oblivious to the wrong that he is doing.  The only reason he does it is because he has to in order to survive—and help his entire neighborhood to survive.  His final lines are profoundly emotional and eye-opening.

Manda Bala is a very good documentary.  It is very easy to see why it garnered such apparent acclaim, and won the Sundance best documentary.  Not only is its subject and ideas important, but it is carried out in a way that is fresh, stylish, and entertaining.