3 posts tagged “children of men”
After seeing a pretty effective trailer, I was convinced that Vacancy was going to be a big deal. The stranded-couple-turned-snuff-film-candidates premise looked familiar, but the glimpses of Frank Whaley gone wrong were enough to get me hooked.
I overestimated the tremendous drawing power of Frank Whaley.
Not only is Vacancy a poor excuse for a scary movie, but no one went to see it. Which is fine. Because it's a poor excuse for a scary movie.
A list of grievances:
- Not every troubled couple in cinema needs to have a dead kid to justify their marital difficulties. Like... c'mon, writers. Sometimes people just fight. (It works in Children Of Men because the whole fucking movie is about the loss of children. How dare you think that I was speaking ill of Children Of Men.)
- As with a lot of lo-fi premises gone awry (Saw and its progeny), there is far too much business. Luke Wilson and Kate Beckinsale almost hit a raccoon, their car makes noise, they stop for gas, their car breaks down, they walk in the dark, etc. etc. etc. WHY? We needn't feel that our couple was conspired into this hotel room. People stop at motels all the time, which is the whole reason that the concept has resonance. If anything, all this activity defuses the tension because by the time they actually walk into the room, it's glaringly obvious that something is wrong. The Pinewood Motel is cartoonish, and anyone with half a brain would run once they heard the playback of terrified screams coming from Frank Whaley's backroom as they arrange for their room. Yeah, that actually happens.
- Frank Whaley is an underrated actor, and so I am glad to see him working. And his evil-editor-slash-hotel-clerk is good fun to watch. But he is only fun. There is no depth to his goofy, scene-chewing menace. You sir, are no Norman Bates.
- If it is possible to be exploitative of exploitation, this film does it. Vacancy never comes close to the savage terror implied by its snippets of snuff footage, and at the end of the day it's the same chase-and-scream bologna that only passes for horror film. But it seems to think that it has the cred (Is that a disgusting concept?) that comes with the voyeurism of brutality, while never investing totally in what that means. It's softcore porn, Faces of Death without the death.
But I did enjoy:
- Luke Wilson's "What am I doing on a movie set?" goofiness makes the invective that he's supposed to hurl at his wife a real treat to watch.
- Speaking of Luke Wilson, he is fattening up nicely.
We'll get 'em next time, Frank Whaley.
A) A few of these films were released elsewhere previously, but had their first U.S. release in 2006.
B) I have not seen plenty of movies that are supposed to be good, like Babel, The Queen and Letters From Iwo Jima.
So here goes.
When the lights came up at the conclusion of Children Of Men, I was a jiggling heap of tension and sobs. OK, so I wasn't sobbing, but I did feel that anybody within reach was in danger of getting smacked in the face if they made any sudden moves.
Cuarón directs his childless dystopia with tremendous balls. It's bravado, "look at me" filmmaking, but somehow never distractingly desperate for attention. Rather, the film feels like the long awaited radical response to the here and now, a period of history that is defined by its extremes. Unapologetically prescient, Cuarón has crafted a terrifying endorsement of activism in the face of insurmountable human evil.
And though mired in all that bullshit, the film still feels deeply personal. What it nails so beautifully is the specifics of a life in which it's so easy to enjoy the fruits of inaction. The government isn't marching you off to a gas chamber, so life is pretty good. The film knows how significant it all is, but then, so do I. From its jarring first scene to its maddeningly unsatisfying ending, the film is as certain to be as simultaneously relevant and timeless as two films to which it is indebted, Brazil and The Battle of Algiers.
2) Block Party (Michel Gondry)
Well, artistically, it didn't. Shot in 2004, the film follows Dave as he recruits a few busloads of Midwesterners to come to Brooklyn and watch an amazing concert, including performances by Mos Def, Jill Scott, The Roots, Dead Prez, and a little band called The Fugees. Dave is laconic and hilarious, the music is incredible, and the film is beautifully photographed. I love 16mm film.
There is no particular drama to speak of, unless unexpected rain counts as drama (which it does). The film is sometimes political, but it's strongest at conveying a sense of celebration and, above all, inclusiveness. Is that a word?
Here is music that is skillfull and intelligent, that bears little to no resemblance to the jiggling booties and bling bling that you'd find on BET on any given afternoon. It's a shame that that BET crowd or the TRL crowd or the "Chappelle's Show" crowd (read: frat boys) or the AARP crowd didn't turn out in droves. Because this is really a movie for everyone.
Oh and and and people were bopping their heads and stomping their feet in the theater. Which was really lovely.
3) Shortbus (John Cameron Mitchell)
In a year that brought us Ted Haggard's platonic massages, Mark Foley's "overly friendly" instant messages, and Dustin Diamond's filthy latino pal, let's not underestimate the value of a healthy attitude towards sex. Though childlike in its wonder, Shortbus is a film of boundless maturity when it comes to the issues that surround the putting of dingles into hoo-has (and occasionally poop-chutes).
Shot on glorious 16mm (IMDb says 35mm, but I heard John Cameron Mitchell say otherwise on Elvis Mitchell's The Treatment), Shortbus has an actual indie feel to it (as opposed to a "Sundance Indie"), due in large part to the clunky performances by unknowns and the intermingling of their plot threads. But even the terrible acting is endearing in its earnestness, and the weaving in and out of particular stories works really well because of the skill with which it's all centered around the Shortbus club, a hangout/orgy space for sexually adventerous New Yorkers.
Mitchell has made a film that reclaims sex, not only from evangelicals who would have you deny its existence, but also from mindless pornography (and the children's entertainment that has come to resemble it). The sex here is very real. It is messy, confusing, juicy, and joyful. With the spunky attitude of a Saturday morning cartoon and the precision of a manifesto, Mitchell has created one of the most hopeful films of the year.
In fact, the film also has one of the best renditions of the "Star Spangled Banner" that I've heard, and when you couple that with the fact that the film serves as a response to the more pornographic elements of our culture, it almost sounds like a conservative's dream! Get Bill O'Reilly on the phone. This movie is on the front lines of the culture war with him.
Note: I know that these clubs do exist. And I am sure that they are scary, scary places, with little of the gaiety and hilarity that the Shortbus club leads us to believe we'd find. But the fact that the film makes the place believable, and turns a carniverous three-way makeout session into one of the most touching moments I've seen on film this year, is to be commended.
4) Jackass Number Two (Jeff Tremaine)
Speaking of maturity and precision, there's Jackass Number Two. No... really...
In September, Greg Boardman, a theater owner in Hoopeston, Illinois closed his theater for a week rather than show Jackass Number Two, Beerfest, or The Covenant, saying that he was "pissed off" at the "lousy material" Hollywood was foisting upon him. What's worse, the jokey media coverage of the decision never called the man's taste into question. "Well, of course the movies are lousy," the stories seemed to say, "and here's a guy who's standing up for decent American values."
Now, I didn't see The Covenant. Or Beerfest. But I will say this. By denying the people of Hoopeston the unadulterated jubilation that is Jackass Number Two, Boardman did his community a disservice. Number Two contains some of the more revolting sequences ever committed to film I guess, but it's also got huge leaps of creativity. In a world glutted with CGI, where no images, however convincing, can be trusted, these guys are concerned only with what is real, what is actually happening in front of the camera at this moment.
OK, so maybe it's not mature. But that's the point, isn't it? Here are guys that are willing to do anything, anything, in the service of their reversion to a fetal state of pain and shit-eating. It's primal, and the audience with whom I saw it was roaring with disgust and incredible appreciation. It was the most fun I've had in a theater all year.
And what of Greg Boardman? Obviously, he has the right to show whatever films he wants to show. Wouldn't it be great if he had groown so sick of the Hollywood system that he chose to reopen as a repertory theater, showing restored Billy Wilder films and decent prints of Truffaut or Kurosawa? Maybe a little 70mm action? Or if he decided to seek out independent films by local talent, creating a bustling art house that would bring the avant garde to Hoopeston?
Boardman reopened the following week with Invincible and Open Season.
Note: I am not just being an asshole. I saw Invincible, and it was manipulative Disney sports porn (sporn?).
5) The Departed (Martin Scorsese)
The Departed is a display of such sheer goddamn competence (and I mean that in a good way) that it reminds you, in a year full of Inside Mans, Casino Royales, and Da Vinci Codes, that a thriller is best served thrilling. The performances are amazing ("Mark Whalberg stands out" is a sentence I never thought I'd say), the direction is fluid and dynamic, and the script is compelling. It's one of the only movies of the year that I felt like seeing twice.
6) L'Armée Des Ombres (Army of Shadows) (Jean-Pierre Melville)
I feel inadequate to the task of describing how this film has been stuck in my brain for six months. Melville's account of the French Resistance is maddeningly quiet (as are Melville's zany heist films), but the discipline with which it's all staged and photographed is a perfect vehicle to showcase the discipline required of the film's tragic characters.
7) Brick (Rian Johnson)
My initial reaction to Brick was a simple, "That was cool." On reflection (and second viewing), it's clear that the film captures so perfectly the key idea of film noir and, more importantly, the novels from which it was birthed.
And the idea is this: A man alone. In every sense of the word.
8) The Proposition (John Hillcoat)
Reviewed here.
9) Little Children (Todd Field)
It's official. I love Kate Winslet.
OK, now that that's out of the way. Little Children is Todd Field's poignant and focused observation of the lives of a few adulterous stay-at-home parents. The affair provides the foreground action for a portrait of a New England suburb living in fear of a recently released sexual deviant. Is that an OK word to use? Deviant? I'm not sure.
The film is melodramatic and the climax is deeply problematic, but in the end it earns its melodrama through an investment in character that is usually missing from these "blow the lid open on perfect suburban life" type things. They're not all on pills and they're not all sleeping with their teenage daughters (I'm looking at you, The Quiet).
Above all though, Field and Tom Perrotta, on whose book it's based, are deeply compassionate towards their subjects. There are no monsters here: not the sexual predator (?) or the meathead cop out to get him. There are no innocents either, as Winslet's Sarah and Wilson's Brad turn out to be enormously selfish, and recognizably human, characters.
Well maybe the little children are innocent. Wait... little children... Little Children... ooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh.
This film would make a great double feature companion to Shortbus. I'm just saying.
Oh, and there's a killer voice over narration, maybe the best since Alec Baldwin took the mic in The Royal Tenenbaums.
10) Temporada De Patos (Duck Season) (Fernando Eimbcke)
And we round out the list with a film that Cuarón produced. Way to go, you Mexican bastard. Keep importing nice little indies and lending credibility to our children's fantasy franchises, and maybe the Bush administration won't kick you out. Or at least you can be part of our "guest worker program".
Charming and well photographed, sure, but Duck Season is also really well observed. I mean, here are middle class kids (in Mexico, how novel) who are more concerned with Xbox and pizza than they are with girls and family. It's a really wrenching look at why these two kids are so disaffected, but it avoids being "ABOUT A GENERATION" in big letters and somehow remains (like Children Of Men) deeply personal. Recommended.
I am aware of the lack of diversity represented above. All of the directors are men, and for this I am sorry. To whom, I'm not really sure.
Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan
Little Miss Sunshine
I am sure that both of these will walk away with Oscars this year.
Most Insane Self Reverence
Lady In The Water
Shyamalan casts himself as a messianic writer who must die to save humanity. It also contains one of the most pathetic swipes at film critics I've seen since Mayor Ebert (haha get it?) was eaten by Godzilla in 1998. Oh Bob Balaban, why?
Most Egregious Waste of Alec Baldwin
Running With Scissors
Though I am told that the memoir on which the film is based is high quality, I doubt that I'll ever read it. Because of this film.
Most Distracted By Its Own Importance/Star Power
Bobby
It may be well intentioned, but Jesus Christ. The archive footage of Robert Kennedy provides the only moments of any emotional weight.
Most Disappointing (from a personal standpoint)
Superman Returns
As expounded upon here.
Pan's Labyrinth
(Guillermo Del Toro, 2006)
Marge: Did anybody see that new Woodsy Allen movie?
Flanders: Y'know, I like his movies, except for that nervous fella that's always in 'em.
To say that I would have liked to have seen Pan's Labyrinth in the hands of another director is not fair. Written and directed by Guillermo Del Toro, it is his story to tell. Who am I to take that away from him?
Some asshole with internet access. That's who.
I am told that Pan's Labyrinth is the most beautiful, wrenching film of the year. And I see how it could be. In war torn Spain, Ofelia (Ivana Baquero) accompanies her widowed mother to the outpost of Captain Vidal (Sergi López), Ofelia's new stepfather and a herald of the newly empowered fascist regime. As Vidal quashes a noble rebellion, Ofelia becomes embroiled in the magical world of the forest around the outpost, in which a woodland faun tasks her with proving herself the heiress of a fantastical birthright.
Intellectually, I love this film. What's not to love? It's got beautiful production design, fine performances, it respects the intelligence of its audience (and by intelligence, I mean ability to watch people get stabbed), and it's all in the service of decrying blind obedience. Sold!
I'm torn, though. I wonder if the film is too territorial about its R rating (or the Spanish equivalent). This is fantasy strictly for adults, made so by the gruesome nature of the war around Ofelia. Vidal smashes skulls in, defiles corpses, and uses his pistol as casually as a flyswatter. Kudos for pulling no punches in a film that's about the brutality of fascism, but there is little here in the way of economy. When we are shown Vidal's violence once, it is all we need to inform the rest of the piece. But Vidal never stops, and he is dangerously close to becoming cartoonishly evil throughout, even tinkering in his lab like a mad scientist. The film seeks to take fantasy out of the realm of children, and it is often succesful. But the brutality of the film sometimes feels like its overcompensating, replacing a psychological depth that would truly speak to the adult viewer with the gratuitous violence that only adults are allowed to watch. "This is for adults! Of course it is, can't you see all the blood?"
I think I would forgive all of this if the film were a little less clean. From a design standpoint, the Faun is a complete triumph. But in terms of cinematography, the film is just... there. Here is a film that is being hailed as the most visually inventive fantasy film since The Wizard Of Oz, and to me it looked like it was shot by CSI's 2nd unit crew. (This is also a criticism I would level against Del Toro's Hellboy, which took a gloriously murky comic book and turned it into a slick, Hollywood shell of a film). In a year in which Children Of Men shows us just what a dynamic camera can do to an audience, Pan's Labyrinth doesn't even opt for an minimalist cinematography; it's too clean and self-aware to be invisible, too boring to be evocative.
I'll say this; it takes a special filmmaker to make his or her own film exactly the way he or she wants to make it, based on no pre-existing properties, strictly from his or her own mind, and make a film that is not a failure but a disappointment. If that makes any sense. I think it does.
Note: The film is being sold on the back of Handsy Eyes, that ghoulish imp who shows up in all of the press material. And Handsy Eyes is terrifying. That is not in question.
