Everything awful about independent cinema is on full view in this insufferable picture. Try watching the short that comes with the DVD. I gave the feature thirty minutes and the short five. A pox on this filmmaker.
Almost as funny as "Road To Morroco," this time Hope and Crosby swindle their way through Alaska. Hope snuggles up to a bear that he thinks is Dorothy Lamour ("some day I'll buy you real furs, not this cheap imitation") then the bear turns to the camera to complain that he doesn't get a line in the picture. If this isn't the high water mark of Western civilization, I don't know what is. In this, the fourth in the series, there is an awful lot of mugging and funny noise making -- probably the most schtick-laden so far. And, while all the films are just jaw-dropping in their racism, the sexism in "Road To Utopia" may be unparalleled. The objectification is nonstop; women are treated as treats, as toys as accessories ("Doctor's orders - can't have 'em anymore!"). Whereas usually Hope and Crosby are seen going gaga over women (you can almost see the hearts beating like in the Bugs Bunny cartoons) here they are flat out leering. If you've already come to grips that all of mankind is doomed, you can rationalize this into an endearing quality.
If you wanna see Bob Hope get in a WWF-style smackdown with a gorilla, look no further! About as racially sensitive as "Song of the South," the second "Road" movie is one of the nastiest -- even the women are scoundrels. Despite everyone ready to sell the other one into slavery or see them boiled in oil there's still time for some soft shoe and song. The best number is Bing "buh-buh-bum"ming along to African drumming and chants.
Now THAT'S the way it is done. This is one of the dopey-est movies ever made, with an aesthetic straight out of Mad Magazine. Zingers out the ying-yang, in-jokes, 4th wall destroyed and, yes, the talking camel named Mabel. I couldn't summarize the plot if my life depended on it, but this is Hope and Crosby at their most old school. If you don't like this. . .well, you probably have good taste. . .but if you like idiotic comedy (and the occasionally well-crooned love ode) than this is for you.
Fog, Scotland Yard, iron maidens, keys hidden in vases, a sharp-tongued spinster and an ingenue looking for adventure, a bad man with a moustache. You got a problem with any of this?
I couldn't find anything about this idiotic, implausible, horribly acted, illiterately written, ploddingly directed motion picture that wasn't fun for last nights beer-enhanced bad movie night. You thought your childhood was rough? A delightful piece of shit that will have you yelling at the TV,
Disclosure: when I first saw "Sweetback" I thought it was a piece of shit. Sure, I dug the importance of the film as product, but always considered it a case of The Emporer's New Clothes. While I still feel its rough-around-the-edges quality is, at times, inadvertant, this viewing -- especially after 3 beers -- took me on the right jazzy kalidescopic ride. Plus, I kinda knew what to expect. Come on, feet! Do yo' thing!
Some fun little musical numbers, but not as many quality zingers as I would like. Plus, some outrageous racism and sexism. You might wonder how a Howard Stern fan such as myself could blanche at sexism. . .but that just proves how much you don't know. It's all about context. Anyway, Bing Crosby, Bob Hope and Dorothy Lamour would make better films together later in the series. . .and I'll be revisiting them all over the next few weeks. Odd how this, the first one, doesn't bowl me over. Oh -- And they never make it to Singapore. That really bothered me.
Feh. All the subtle political complexities that made the original "Dirty Harry" and intellectual success are drained by this, episode four. As a thriller it is boring; no real mystery, the twists in the chase either implausible or uninteresting. There is, however, some dandy comic relief. Harry is teamed up not with a woman or a Hispanic this time, but a flatulent dog! Make my day indeed.
One of the most fun mind-fucker movies out there. Dated, yes, but this only helps the film. So many ways to enjoy this classic: as pulp, it keeps you on the edge of your seat, and as rich text, there is much to ponder. What to make of Prof. Brian O'Blivion's prophecies in light of Fox News and Al Jazeera? What to make of the "Videodrome" signal in light of direct TV porn? And. . .what to make of the last 30 minutes of this film?!? I've seen this movie 3 or 4 times -- I used to get annoyed by the end. Now I realize. . .what if it did all come together? Would that really be any better? Would the movie be better off if you could tie a nice little narrative bow on it and know what parts of the film are hallucination and what parts are "real?" Cronenberg is wiser just to drop the cow as he does without slowing the action down. The result is a "heavy" film that is fun to watch. . .over and over. . .just like "Videodrome" itself. It is Cronenberg's unique gift to somehow present his odd, obsessed, horrible, surreal themes in a way that is so entertaining and coy. This is as much a comedy as it is a horror film. Also -- Criterion has outdone itself here. The packaging is soooo fucking cool (the double DVD looks like an old BetaMax tape,) the menu screens look like bad video, and while I haven't listened to the commentary I have watched some of the raw video footage that makes its way into the film: Samurai Dreams and the actual "Videodrome" torture sequences. Watching that on grainy video. . . .that was a little creepy.
Mediocre play made mostly engaging due to late 60s location shooting and the overwhelming performance by Barbra Streisand at the zenith of her obnoxious charm. George Segal is the stick-in-the-mud pseudo intellectual aghast at Babs and her laissez-faire lifestyle. Heavy-handed at times, but occasionaly cute and clever, with one or two subtle moments. (Probably we can attribute these few moments to adapted Buck Henry; is this the first major release where you actually SEE the Pill?) Cameo by Robert Klein, music by Blood, Sweat & Tears. One hell of a time capsule.
On the cusp of being insufferable. Somehow I stayed just slightly interested, but was it because I truly wanted to know what the "secret" was (which, I should say, is pretty damned obvious) or because I hoped Scarlett Johansson would put on a more sexy outfit? This movie is poor and what's more it's a disgrace to all the lonely, alcoholic Southern literature professors out there. Travolta wants his Oscar so bad he is willing to cry drunkenly in the bathroom after urinating blood. Sorry, pal. . .you were more believable is "Staying Alive." Not everyone can pull a Peter Fonda in "Ulee's Gold." If you want the against-type brave anti- hero Oscar you have to, um, actually act. . .not just pout on screen. Stop this director before he/she (name is vague on gender) directs again!
Bing Crosby, Joan Fontaine and their two dogs fall in love in pre-WWI Austria. This movie starts out strong, but becomes boilerplate about 30 minutes in. You get the feeling Wilder and Brackett were phoning their script in; there's little of their trademark wit. If it weren't for Bing (and the occasional song, though this is hardly a "musical") this would totally blow.
Now *that's* the way you make a family picture. A fun premise, a coupla songs, some goofy jokes, a chase scene here and there, a beautiful dame in a long dress, a fat guy sidekick who falls down. Anyone who doesn't get a kick out of Bing Crosby "buh-buh-bumming" through medival history has some real problems.
Howard Hawks' famous recipe for a good picture: three great scenes, no bad scenes. JLG acheives this with "Notre Musique" but does it on his own terms -- we have three great themes, three moments, three concepts, three philosophical aha!s that float by in this river of many aha!s, none of them "bad." There's the exchange between the altruistic Israeli journalist and Palestinian intellectual who informs her (and us) that the only reason the world has any interest in the plight of the Palestinians is because their enemy is Israel. There's the revelation there will only be equality in life when there is no more death. . .an afterworld perhaps, but if there is nothing to achieve, why will anyone want to live? And there is the notion that perhaps death need not only be the currency of war -- and perhaps death can be an expression of peace. . .a concept floated a little bit in "Sophie's Choice," or maybe it was General Westmoreland destroying a village so he could save it? Obviously this is a heavy movie. But there are a couple of laughs if you can pick out the jokes. (The militant Native Americans wandering around the ruins of Sarajevo is comedy -- not mocking comedy, but, inexplicably, comedy.) I liked this movie a great deal, but that's just me. Sometimes the best art can't be explained ('cause, like, what actually happens in this movie?) and sometimes the best art feels like maybe, just maybe, the artist slapped some shit together and is calling it art. But if it washes over you and it feels right and you leave with your head buzzing then you know you've seen the real thing. Oh, and speaking of Howard Hawks, he kinda gets dissed a little bit here. . .a first in French cinema, but, if you recall, JLG is actually Swiss, so all bets are off.
I judge musician-profile docs thusly: would this interest someone who has never heard of this band before? The answer here - sure. It's not quite "Buena Vista Social Club," "Genghis Blues," or "The Last Waltz," but it gets the point across pretty darned well. I only wished for some archival live footage, instead of just that one concert (taped at Warsaw!) I still consider TMBG as one of my favorite groups of all time, so I knew all the facts presented here. Some of the talking head interviews were cool (their early collaboraters, esp.) but some made me want to shoot myself -- especially Ira Glass and Sarah Vowell. I really don't know which of those two I'd like to kill first. I'll probably have to go with Glass, since Glass discovered Vowell. . .and I did once have a phone conversation with Vowell (long story) and she was very polite. Oddly, Robert Krulwich, who certainly comes from the same school, doesn't annoy me. There's one unexpected, haunting moment. There is a live "in store" appearance taped at the Village Tower Records -- at 12 AM on Sept 11, 2001. A few hours away, and a few blocks away, from the terrorist attacks. The song, of course, the one that goes "Everyone's your friend in New York City. . . ."
Whereas with the first two Dirty Harry pictures one could argue that there are important political subtexts bandied about, this one is just pure Hollywood trash. But very enjoyable Hollywood trash, especially the Tyne Daley as Harry's partner subplot. (A woman partner? Whaaaaaaaat?) I only ended the film an hour ago and I've already forgotten what the bad guys were doing (some kinda Symbionese parody) but I cannot deny that the 98 or so minutes spent watching this was very entertaining.
This movie is only interesting when contrasted with "Dirty Harry," a film I saw last week, gave a "B" to, and now realize is absolutely brilliant. What makes "Dirty Harry" so fascinating is its unique political position, especially for 1971. It is, on its surface, in celebration of reactionary forces. Kill those fucking hippies. But the other villans, equally disdainful, is The Man. Authority and its rules: fuck 'em. Kill The Man, too. So what is Dirty Harry? Is he a force summoned up by the will of the "Silent Majority" or is he a Rebel With A Cause? A little of both. And the hippie in "Dirty Harry" is just note-perfect, violent yet weak. Anyway, what about "Magnum Force?" Here, Harry has to fight elements within his own group of police who take Dirty Harry-ing to excess. They are vigilantes, but they aren't gray about it like Harry is, but they have to go. When it is discovered that The Man is actually behind it all (no duh!) that just makes the reversal of "Magnum Force's" political point-of-view even more refracted. Screenplay by a young John Milius and a young Michael Cimino. Anyway, behind all this, a descent cop movie -- and Harry's Asian girlfriend is very sexy.
Lacking the verve and gusto of his other films. Worthwhile seeing if you are a fan, as you can kinda see l'essence du Wong in its embryonic form. (This is the first film Wong shot with DP Christopher Doyle.) Oddly, the movie's last half-hour is the best. Not because it builds, but because it kinda goes on an unexpected tangent. It's a smart move, as people leave in a good frame of mind, perhaps ready to write-off some of the spark-free dull parts. . .the ending kinda kicks some ass (and not just because there is some stylish violence, although this helps.) I can't say I want to watch this again, even when flipping around cable, but I'll neither say I demand my time and money back.
Even Fritz Lang lays an egg once in a while. The first half hour is great, the rest is jumbled hackwork. Lang later disowned the film and, apparantly, it bears little resmeblance to the original Graham Green novel. Still, anything with Ray Milland in a fedora isn't completely terrible.
Nicholson Baker's "The Fermata" without the sex. Set in 20s Paris. Lots of it shot atop the Eiffel Tower (and dangerously so) the city of Paris is "frozen" except for a small band of characters who go on a 4 day bender. Innovative and fun. And silent! Every now and then it is important to watch a good silent film to remind you what cinema is all about.
An odd little picture, not quite silent, not quite sound. Parisian gangsters, rude neighbors and a courageous song plugger (!) vie for the love a beautiful woman. Lots of scenes at taverns, dance halls, and rainswept stone streets. Ah, L'amour! A number of clever, purely visual bits, though not quite as funny or engaging as Clair's later "A Nous La Liberte."
You'd think an expose on social issued directed by Kazan with a Moss Hart screenplay would be good, wouldn't'cha, especially if it won the Academy Award. Well. . . unless you are like me and you feel that you one day have to check all the "classics" off the list, I strongly urge you to give this movie a miss. Not only is it a bore, it is inadvertantly insulting to Jews, to New Yorkers and to journalists. Other than a well written speech given by Dorothy McGuire defending her refusal to confront her family's racism (which would be just fine in essay form) there's nothing of contemporary merit here, save for perhaps the young Dean Stockwell. And the picture is too long and dull to entertain as time capsule. Celeste Holm won the Oscar, too, for a fairly lame Myrna Loy impersonation.
Odd, but I never saw this. After reading J Hoberman's brilliant book "The Dream Life," which uses the image of Callahan on its cover and talks quite a bit about its politics, I felt I really should. It's pretty good for a cop movie. I wish it was more an odd little time capsule from the late 60s instead of a launching pad for the brutal cop genre (still alive today) but it is pretty sharply written, bordering on literate. About as good as this type of movie can get and, as Hoberman suggests, acts as a nice political litmus test, open to all sorts of interpretations.
Miles and miles better than "The Phantom Menace." Each fight scene is cooler than the next; it is just a carnival to look at. The problem lies in the gaps between the fight scenes. I've done some serious thinking and my conclusion is this: there is no one to root for. Anakin, we know, is the bad guy. Hard to get behind him. And Obi-Wan, with all love to Ewan and Alec, is a wooden bore. The third POV is a mish-mosh of confusing. ominous ruminations from Yoda and Sam Jackson that are among the most boring scenes in the history of cinema. This is my second viewing and I still don't know what the hell this movie is about. Who is fighting who? Are we really rooting for a group that uses a eugenically cloned army to fight their war? Was Yoda behind the cloning? Are there enough of those robots out there to fight the Clones? When Jango Fett poison darts his hitwoman Zan, why doesn't he just dart Anakin and Obi-Wan, too? And, um, what are they fighting about again? And wasn't Terence Stamp in "The Phantom Menace?" Jurgen, Shappy -- somebody please tell me what's going on? Here's why "A New Hope" is a great film and why this is a groovy sound and light show but ultimately hollow -- "A New Hope" has Luke Skywalker. . . new to the World around here and we are discovering everything with him. And then there's a Princess to save and a metal sphere than blows up planets to destroy. 1, 2, 3. Unless you are obsessed with Star Wars and have time to do follow-up reading, it is impossible to know, or to care about, what is happening. Also, there is no Han Solo character. I just don't mean a lovable rogue, I mean a "real" character -- Han Solo would fit in on Earth. Bogart could have played Han Solo. Mace Windu, Count Dooku, Senator Amidala, Jango Fett and the God-awful kid playing young Boba. . .they all speak in staunch comic book speak. Oddly, it is Jar Jar Binks' brave Adlai Stevenson-at-the-UN stand in "Clones" that is the only moment in the entire film when something interesting happens coming from a character's humanity. Natalie Portman is a fine actress, but she is playing this part like cardboard. Carrie Fisher's Princess Leia had wit and depth. Anyway, that said, I liked the groovy screensaver aspect of this film an awful lot -- it is unmatched.
Solid ultra low-budget debut bringing the paranoid horror comedy of Polanski's "The Tenent" to the workplace environment. Playful and winningly aggrivating. If Ebiri had the budget and shot on film and hired decent actors (all but the lead and the crazy old man are awful) this would be a minor gem.
The biggest shock of this movie: how un-Bette Midler Bette Midler is in this picture. You think of Better Midler now, you think of a permanent guest on The View. Think of her in her heyday you think of her vamping around in a mermaid outfit and belting out tightly arranged Broadway numbers. But she was a relative unknown when cast for "The Rose," so she isn't in either of her personas. This unofficial Janis Joplin biopic is by the numbers but that doesn't make it a gripping flick to catch on TV as Ann and I did tonight. The performances are solid, the outfits are outrageous, the lighting kinda makes Bette look like Dee Snider from certain angles and Frederick Forrest does the best Scott Glenn impression he can. The scene with the drag queens (which I'm certain were added in after Bette was cast, as I don't think Janis had much of a gay New York following) is a few minutes of pure inspired fun. The meltdown ending, predictable as it may be, is touching in Midler's able hands. Alan Bates' character is a bore, though. It's funny, 'cause the song "The Rose" which was such a monster smash is the only late-70s/early-80s power ballad here, the rest is legit blues-rock.
Not at all what I expected. Come to think of it, I'm not sure what I expected. I thought this would be a political film about May '68, not a personal film about 3 young people so wrapped up in their own weird incest shit they ignore May '68. Anyway, it is a unique film -- I'm not sure I understand it 100%, but it is pretty hard not to daydream afterwards and wish you were part of this group. Young sexy things living in a labyrinthine apartment in Paris talking about movies and music and Maoism all day. I coulda done without the hymenal and menstrual blood, though . . .but that's just me. I'm also proud of myself as I was able to name all but two of the movie clips as they flashed on the screen. I was a little annoyed by the ending. I actually did a "that's it?!" in my apartment. I'm sure that in the original book this ending makes more sense, as themes that are only hinted at here are given further exploration and, therefore, the bit at the end has more gravity. Still. . .I think the image of Eva Green in black elbow length gloves and a towel (and nothing else) doing a reverse-cowgirl on Michael Pitt's face is what I'll remember long after the whimsy of the cineaste scenes have faded. Also -- people get worked up when there are penises on screen. And this usually relegates a film to NC-17. There's plenty of penis in this film. But there is something which is more rare: vagina! It is almost axiomatic that full frontal for a woman means she will be standing up and we'll see a glimpse of her pubic hair. But in "The Dreamers." septeganarian sleazeball Bertolucci lovingly pans his camera up a fully naked *reclining* Eva Green, such that a clear and studied vision of her actual sex organ is on display. I'm just sayin' is all.
Private Ryan, my ass. While that movie may have more chocolate sauce, Sam Fuller's autobiographical near-masterpiece is a newly restored 3 hour meditation on killing, dying and surviving. Plus, Luke Skywalker and Louis from Revenge of the Nerds are in it! As with most episodic films, some scenes aren't as memorable as others, but I definitely rank this as one of the best "this is what war is really like" films I've ever seen. Lee Marvin's performance is staggering.
Gary Cooper, Audrey Hepburn, Maurice Chevalier, Billy Wilder and IAL Diamond. You got a problem with that? If you can buy that Hepburn would fall for the aged Cooper with a face like a saddle bag (and I say she would -- he wears a white tie and lives in hotels!) then you won't have a problem. There are some classic bits of vaudeville schtick here, as well as some perfect gem scenes that only Wilder can deliver. . .the subtle use of sound cues for innuendo, the swiftly yet perfectly drawn side characters, the recurring jokes. The movie is great fun and if you don't like movies like this then I have nothing to say to you.
Odd little movie, perhaps would have been better as a short story. A French Donald Trump type hires a young hunk to be his personal food taster. (He has a phobia of fish.) It leads to an odd psychological non-sexual love affair. Kinda neat. Kinda.
A very strange picture, which at times seems very progressive and at other times is the most sexist movie ever made. I'd love to read a modern, feminist perspective on this film. Jack Lemmon's performance is great (good mimicry and physical comedy from him, which you don't always see) and there are some classic Wilder/Diamond zingers. Plus, Lou Jacobi in the perfect supporting role. It is about 30 minutes too long and the ending is retarded, but pretty hard to dislike this amiable farce.
Alexander Payne is one of America's most important contemporary artists. His last name details his area of expertise. I can't remember "laughing to keep from crying" so much at a movie since. . . since Payne's last film. "Sideways" is his best work, probably the best film of the year. Giamatti is upside down on the bed, half-listening to his mostly-awful best friend rant and rave about his midlife crisis, and we see what he sees. Bouncing tits on MTV's Beach House. THAT'S the way you nail it! One shot -- boom. It's funny AND it is painful. Sneaking back to the chubby waitresses house and discovering her having vulgur sex with her husband: funny, yes, and Giamatti's double take is hysterical. But what really happened in this scene? A quiet "good girl" gets a chance to live out her dream and screw a soap opera star only to get interrupted by real life -- her husband comes home. In the hours intervening as the two friends scheme to get the wallett back she and her husband have a screaming, tearful fight (all off camera of course) and finally face facts, at 6 AM, that their life is shit. He works nights, she watches soaps and works in a rib joint. They can only take solace in each other and have vulgur, brutal, potentially violent sex. (eg -- you are a fucking whore! Yes, I am a fucking whore!) The audience erupts in unbelievable laughter at this moment. The actress is all wrong. . .not what we expect. She's fat. And her voice is friendly and high pitched. Not at all what we've been trained to hear from Hollywood or the porn industry for a dirty-talk moment. It's as shocking a moment of cinema as any I've seen. . .like Raymond Burr looking right into the lens in "Rear Window." It is two characters dealing with pain: the cuckolded husband and the unattactive waitress. And it is only about two minutes of this brilliant, brilliant movie. I don't even want to get into the porch "seduction" scene or the wine-and-onion ring climax. . . .which had me in tears for three reasons: bittersweet the Giamatti had to uncork alone; proud that Giamatti finally uncorked; and loaded with bile, rage and professional jealousy in that I realize that I am just not yet able to write a scene like this.
The Groove Tube is 74 minutes long. 70 of those minutes are dull, unfunny torture. 2 of those minutes are kinda funny. The remaining 2 are funny. This movie came out before "Kentucky Fried Movie" or Saturday Night Live started running. It may have been ahead of its time in format. Fine. It isn't funny, though. But the naked girls (a new one appears every 4 scenes, like clockwork) are hot.
About as lamely put together as a documentary can be. If you never heard of Karl Rove or the sneaky tricks he's pulled you should read a detailed review of this film on the imdb or something. (As it happens, I watched this on Sundance right before bed and then, yags!, had a dream about Karl Rove!)
If you like this sort of thing, than this is the one to see. What sort of thing? Marajuana-friendly, plot-free supernatural horror film with horrible acting yet outrageous lighting, sets, garish prog-rock and colors colors colors. While watching this a small part of me is thinking "this is retarded" but most of me is thinking "this looks so frickin' cool." You make up your own mind.
The few gaffes of Episode IV are cleared up here and the result is a slam dunk. The comedy actually works, the timing is crisp, hell, there's even a good performance out of Mark Hamill (though I still like Chewbacca best.) (Two questions this time, though. One -- how is it that the THREE different big ass bad guy ships can't track the Millenium Falcon on radar when it is stuck to the side of one of 'em? I'll buy that the one it's stuck to won't catch it, but the others? Two -- The Millenium Falcon sneaks away with the trash (and what is that trash, really?) but Boba Fett is smart enough to hide himself with that trash to track the Falcon down. Fett has basically outsmarted Han Solo. Fine. So now he's following Han Solo to Cloud City. How is it that, as Lando Calrissian says, the Imperial Forces get there before the Millenium Falcon does? Especially considering that we see the giant ships zip away at light speed after they dump out the trash? It just doesn't add up.)
Very entertaining. Occasional moments of dreadful dialogue and some clunky pacing, plus some choppy acting by Mark Hamill and Carrie Fisher. Is this to emulate Saturday serials or because Lucas is a dolt? The world will never know. I like Chewbacca best. (Also -- what really was on Alderaan? Is it a peaceful planet with no weapons as Leia says? If so, why are Luke and Obi-Wan bringing R2-D2 there? There must've been *some* rebel base there of some sort.) (Also also -- you may as well mark me down as another of those people who is less-than-impressed with the "Special Edition" of this film. I'd never seen the new changes before and they kinda blow. The digital effects look dreadful. Oddly enough the one visual flaw from the original, the little box of light around the bad guy space ships during the Han & Luke shoot 'em up toward the end, remains intact.)
Watch this and YOU'LL want to sleep for three thousand years! Some of these old Universal horror films are still spooky fun (like the orig. "Frankenstein" pictures) but this one, like the orig. "Dracula," is a bore.
Yes! Awesome! From the opening pre-title use of The Specials' "Ghost Town" I knew we were in for a good ride. My only complaint is the five minutes in the third act when there's some actual tragedy. I applaud the film for getting me to care about the characters -- but this is a FUN movie, and I don't want anything sad to happen in it! Anyway, the performances are fantastic and the storyline is filled with very entertaining little hurdles. If you don't like this movie, you have real issues. (Though not as many issues as the crying kids who were dragged to this movie by their parents today at the Kaufman Astoria -- I keep forgetting that you can't can't can't go to this theater on weekends without expecting some hardcore ghetto activity.) I don't want to give away the ending, but the musical montage in the pub toward the end is to an all time SS Fun favorite (you may recall a singalong in New Orleans I wrote about) which both delighted and enraged me. Delighted me because it was brilliant, enraged me because now I can't use that song for something some day. Oh, and, yes, if you like Romero films there are a lot of little in jokes, too.
No one was more surprised than I how much I liked this much maligned film. Some of the criticisms are true -- there's hardly any there there. It's a tiny movie and the squandering of Emily Watson's talent is nearly criminal. Perhaps Anderson felt that hiring a great actress excused him from actually having to write a character. However, Adam Sandler's bursts of childish anger is absoultely striking as is the Rothko-like use of light leaks in the cinematography. And the way the sisters curse Sandler out like they are all still 12 years old is hysterical and very true to life. (How many people do you know that've never really grown up when they are with their family?) There's a wonderful dreamlike surreal quality to the whole project. . .just not one of those epic dreams that you wake up from and say "I gotta write a movie about that!"
Eeeeeeew! Bluuuuuuck! Graaaaaaak! But not just fingernail pus squirting out at the bathroom mirror money shots or regurgitation bile melting feet and hands. Also there is a true tragic love story. When Brundlefly discovers Ronnie's plan to have an abortion there is, amazingly, real feeling in the scene. Cronenberg's ability to play these scenes straight, yet still frightening, is remarkable. Also -- Goldblum's ranting pre-metamorphosis monologues ("Drink deep, or taste not, the plasma spring! Y'see what I'm sayin?") are an absolute riot and, perhaps, the greatest examples of the Cronenbergian "is he kidding or does he actually take this seriously" phenomenon. Plus, there's no good guy or bad guy. . .yet the movie was still a hit. Go figure.
Woody's funniest, indeed, pound for pound this movie may have more laughs packed into it than any other film ever made. That includes Duck Soup, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Airplane!, all the others. Also -- you can still see Woody perfecting his film persona here, but still heavily cribbing from Groucho, Buster Keaton, Charlie Chaplin, Bob Hope and, once or twice, Chico. Even Diane Keaton pulls out a few Groucho moments. This is meant as a compliment. Anyway, it's insane fun even if you don't know anything about Russian literature, which I certainly didn't when I first saw this at the age of 11. Wheat! I'm dead they're talkin' about wheat!!
When the only thing that's keeping you awake through a movie is its clever framing device you know you have a problem. This was on the "suggested viewing" list for, I presume, various feminist theory reasons back during freshman year, and, while I can't deny it may be fertile ground for some essays, it is also a potent cure for insomnia.
I can't give this film a letter grade because it wasn't really me that watched it. I've noticed that when I get really tired I get really slap-happy. This used to happen to my sister a lot and now, at age 29, it is happening to me. I watched "Rat Race," a All B-Star Cast bonanza that's a mix of "It's A Mad Mad Mad Mad World" and "Midnight Madness" toward the end of my time at the Austin Film Festival. No, it wasn't being screened there. I watched it in my hotel room after a particularly long night that was sponsored by both Bombay Sapphire and Dos Equiis Beer. I had about 3.5 hours sleep and had a full day and was just. . .giddy. So when Seth Green was dangling off a hot air balloon by hanging onto a cow's udder that sprayed the other guy in the face. . .well. . .I laughed so hard I had a major coughing spasm. I'd like to watch this again and see if it is actually funny.
Dylan Kidd gets the sophmore slump ("Roger Dodger" was a splendid "B+") and produces a steaming pile of camel dung. A failure on every basic screenwriting level such that even a half naked Laura Linney and a loveably smug Topher Grace (playing exactly 50% his character from "Traffic" and 50% his role on "That 70s Show") can't keep this from sucking something awful. I'm giving this a "D" instead of an "F" for two reasons. One is because there is one good moment in the film (and just like in "Tootsie" it is a necktie scene) where Kidd bothered to actually inject something resembling a theme and, two, I can't give anything with Linney in it an "F." Ipso facto the film has some merit if she is there.
I don't normally review shorts or TV, yet this short that aired on TV (Saturday Night Live, to be exact) is one of the funniest things I've ever seen in my life. I had a few drinks at the time, so the memory is hazy, but I do remember falling out of my seat as Glen Frey of the Eagles licked Ben Stiller's face and then forced him to sexily eat dog food.
Finely crafted character study about a repentent but unreformed child molester. Kevin Bacon is brilliant and will win this year's Independent Spirit Award. Mos Def, too, is fantastic in a small role. Kyra Sedgwick does her best with a difficult and, ultimately, poorly conceived part. C'est la vie. Nicole Kassell has made a terrific first film and hopefully won't disappear like Kimberly Peirce did after "Boys Don't Cry."
Comeuppance: The Movie! A fun movie about something not that interesting. One of the world's biggest assholes, Troy Duffy, very quickly jumps to the top of the entertainment pyramid. Why have you never heard of him? Because he is such an asshole (even by Hollywood standards) that the Industry quickly says "we made a mistake!" and rescinds their offer before any of his work (film and music) can see the light of day. Basically you get 45 minutes of watching a guy be a dick, then 45 minutes of gratification as his world crashes in around him. Probably not a very healthy psychological excercise, but fun nonetheless.
Before she moved on to hardcore pornography Catherine Breillat made some lovely little films that would dance around the edges of pornography and if you dared called it pornography it meant you were unaccepting of art. Anyway, this picture follows 48 hours in the emotional whirlwind life of a 14 year old busty French girl on vacation. Why this is legal to rent (through the mails, I'd like to point out!) isn't something I want to get into. . .as there are some eeriily real-looking scenes. And, yes, the girl was 14 was she shot the picture, unless the imdb lied about her age. But pedophilia aside, a typically slow-but-intrugiong picture as only the French can pull off.
Slick look at political campaign managers. I expected this to be super-80s and dated, but it isn't. Has there ever been a movie about a political campaign that *wasn't* a jaundiced look at how image trumps ideas? Note: the all star cast is fine here save for the usually great Julie Christie. She musta been huffin' on mounds of blow in between takes or something. . .she is just awful.
Flawed, yes, deeply flawed, but not quite as horrible as I was led to believe. Firstly, as one who's never read the book, I was at first taken with how different this is from the James Whale 1931 version. And through most of the picture I was taken with just how wise they were back then to shelve the melodramatic, rolling thunder plot. It just keeps going and going and gets more absurd and shifts through time and introduces people just to kill them and, frankly, makes it seem that the book was written on a drunken bender. But at other times, and perhaps I must give credit to Branagh's performance in a film loaded with hammy performances, I was moved by the central character's fury with, essentially, existence. The subtext here is rage against the machine, something untouched upon in the original film (which is fine because it has windmills and towers and Karloff's flat head) but shown here in all its frustration and depravity. These moments, chiefly Frankenstein's reactions to death, are striking, perhaps more so because the rest of this movie blows so overwhelmingly. Now -- De Niro. We don't like to admit it, but sometimes the guy is a fucking hack. And he is a joke here. There is a scene here where he and Branagh are angrily philosophizing in a cave and I flashed on those outtakes of Brando from "Apocalypse Now" that you see in "Hearts of Darkness." It's MST3K bad. All said, though, I'm glad that I finally saw this borderline-shitty movie, even if it is 10 years later.
Caught this on TCM's "The Essentials." The script is like an atomic clock. Dustin gets into drag 25 minutes in and by then we've met a half dozen fantastic characters and feel like we know them our whole lives. Perfect economic writing. Everyone has a favorite scene -- mine might be Teri Garr and the chocolate covered cherries. Her performance is hysterical and her character (the insecure and not-very-good faux-jolly unemployed actress) is the part she was born to play. I don't understand how Jessica Lange and not she got the oscar. But I take it back. . .the scenes with Pollack as George the agent. These five scenes kill me every time. Pollack's timing is wonderful. But, no. . .the party scene at the beginning. . .with Hoffman hitting on every woman there babbling about auras and Bill Murray waxing over his rain-drenched dream audience. . .surely that's the best scene. Or the wacky shopping montage? Or the big "live" climax? Who can choose?
In the top ten? Maybe, sure, why not? I'll tell you this, though. . .the last time I saw this, in the late 90s, I delighted in this being a period piece. It seemed altogether prescient today. Who'd'a thunk Major Kong would ever morph into our Secretary of Defense? Funniest scene: President Merkin Muffley's first phone call to Premier Kissoff. I could watch Sellers stammer for hours and never stop laughing.
The most criminally overlooked film in years. If you expect everything to be Fargo of course you will be disappointed. I liked this even more the second time; has as many quotable lines as any of their non-Lebowski films. See it again (and leave the subtitles on to really dig on the verbiage) and then come back to me. Also, and it pains me to say this, Tom Hanks is fucking genius here.
Could be renamed "Is Jordan Sleeping?" French cinema has so much to be proud of so it needen't worry that it can't produce a proper All-Star 3 hour war epic. Boring and confusing and completely lacking in subtlety. And (probably) improbable. I have nothing nice to say about this movie.
An overall fun concept. In 1987, when MTV still played videos and those videos were just become overblown lavish micro-epics, why not invite a number of great directors to pick a favorite aria and shoot its video any way you like. Some are more successful than others (thumbs up Julien Temple, Jean-Luc Godard and Franch Roddam; thumbs down Robert Altman and Derek Jarman) but overall this makes for an innovative and interesting sound and light show. Of particular note is how many future young stars appear in this as young, very naked women. I'm thinking of Elizabeth Hurley and Bridget Fonda, and a fully clothed Tilda Swinton.
There are five or so scenes when a thick Ray Liotta gets really angry and shouts and curses. Those scenes elevate this trite assembalge of cliche up from dreadful to nearly watchable.
Yes, of course, this movie is asinine. But it's the good kind of asinine. It looks marvelous (I literally gasped a few times) and the old movie tropes are quite fun (and I giggles many more times.) Esoteric New York references abound as do movie references. I caught a nice "1138," plus Gwyneth Paltrow quotes Thom Matthews in Dan O'Bannon's brilliant "The Return of the Living Dead": How can you kill someone who's already dead? Or, was she quoting Celia Montgomery from "Ultrachrist!"?
This is a movie about men who work at a car wash. They come in in the morning, make wise cracks during the day, then go home. Somehow it all works. Some of the comedy misfires, but some of it is damn funny. The few dramatic scenes, oddly, are very effective. Anyone who's worked a shitty punch-the-clock job can identify. And the soundtrack kicks much ass. Ann knows all the words to the title song!
It. . .never. . .ends. Truffaut, creator of some of cinema's most memorable characters, plays against his own strenghts to create a stiff, bourgeois melodrama. All the negative aspects of Merchant and Ivory are here, with none of the positives. This is the type of movie his "real" characters from The Last Metro or Bed and Board or (oddly)Jules and Jim would scoff at. I add oddly as the plot to this and Jules and Jim are kinda similar and, indeed, they are based on works by the same author. Anyway, everyone misfires once in a while, bully for FT for trying different things, I guess. The music is nice. But the dramatic close-up of burst-hyman-blood is very unnecessary
Let's hear it for the late-60s pseudo-intellectual head trip movie! Fitting perfectly on a double bill with Frankenheimer's Seconds, this smaller film stars Burt Lancaster as a delusional Connecticut man "swimming home" through a series of his neighbors' backyard pools. At each stop things get a little weirder until he finally makes it home to his punchline. Far too much of this film is spent focused on the obvious "mystery" of what really waits for Lancaster. And between each episode we are submitted to a pretty laughable psychedelic sound-and-light show. Still, I must give this film points for trying; it does lend itself well as a diving board (ahem) to philosophical arguement. Is it a death hallucination like some say is found in Point Blank? Is it a birth hallucination like some say is found in 2001? Is it just an opportunity to see Lancaster's bare ass? Either way we win.
Like a virigin on her prom night, I am so glad I waited. I finally saw what Cahiers du Cinema dubbed the greatest film in history in an actual theater. Murnau's classic fable, kinda like The Wizard of Oz meets Fargo is a fairly decent arguement for the addage that sound ruined pictures. A great story, remarkable imagery and a fantastic performance by Janet Gaynor. Hot stuff.
Now here's the story. I used to love the Transformers. My cousin David and I would play with our Transformers (and their red-headed stepchildren, the GoBots) and we'd watch the Saturday morning cartoon. But, by the time the movie came out in 1986. . .I guess I kinda outgrew them. Sue me. So I never saw the movie. That's why I give this the thumbs down, but can't stop thinking about "Tron." If I'd seen this in the theaters, and not "Tron," I'm sure it'd be the other way around. There are major probs with this movie though -- there is no introduction to any of the characters or conflict here. I've read that that was by design. . .it was simply meant as a continuation of the TV series. Fine -- but, oy, who can watch robots shoot at each other for 90 minutes and not get bored? I will give this movie credit for an unexpected John Steinbeck joke. (Yes, I'm serious.) And when I saw Soundwave the Decepticon I nearly jumped off the couch -- I remember when I got Soundwave for Chanukah.
Well intentioned character study collapses under the weight of its own self-importance. Kinda like a lighter version of "The Hours" in this regard. Not one of the characters develops or goes through any change, with the possible exception of the actress, who learns to accept her vanity. It's funny, because the shallow actress is the only even slightly likable character in this whole story. Ann was truly repulsed by this film -- a collection of horrible, selfish people, she called it. And the Jake Gyllenhaal subplut is just shoddily developed. Still, anything with Catherine Keener in it can't be that bad. Is there anyone who plays a bitch better than her? I much preferred Holofcener's "Walking and Talking."
The truth of the matter is, this is an ejoyable film. Sure, you can watch it at age 29 stone cold sober and it still won't make any sense (despite desperate theft from "Star Wars"), but it is giddy fun and the rotoscoped black & white is a completely sui generis look. There are some obvious gaps and I'm 99% certain it's due to cut scenes, but it is fun to notice that Jeff Bridges' Flynn is not that far away from The Dude. Furthermore I saw this at age 7 or 8 and never had my mind so blown away before.
Altman at his lightest, funniest and most (hiccup) Altman-esque. 50 speaking roles and a topless Mia Farrow. Nothing really important to take away from this movie, but a number of remarkable little moments. One scene in entirely in Italian without subtitles, yet it is absolutely breathtaking. Sadly, I saw this in pan-and-scan, which is a total disaster given Altman's penchant for packing his frame and using zooms.
This was one that I shoulda left in my memory. Somehow I'd convinced myself this was the quintessential late 1960s picture. It is, though, only average. The story is kinda poor and the documentary-lite footage really isn't THAT remarkable either. Also: one could argue that this film is extremely exploitative. What Wexler famously did was drop his actors in the middle of the 1968 Chicago riots and gave them one direction -- stay in character. It was a unique move -- however, if you feel that the 1968 demonstrations were a righteous uprising of a large group of people fighting for peace and justice, then to "borrow" that background for your little (poorly developed) story may just not be that cool. And when you learn that the famous line ("Look out, Haskell, it's real!") was dubbed in later. . .it just makes me thing the whole endeavor is lame. Yet there is enough meta-textuality to keep any undergraduate busy though -- indeed, I recall writing a paper on this one back in the day. And that's where the movie belongs. It's history, not entertainment. Maybe I should never revisit "Zabriskie Point" or "Le Weekend" lest a second viewing ruin those, too.
Henry Fonda good, Cliff Robertson bad. Sharp dialogue, wonderful photography, predictable storyline. Except for the gay stuff. That was a surprise. Top notch quasi-intellectual soap opera (much like "The West Wing," of which this is basically a prototype) and a fascinating time capsule. Thumbs very much up. Also: I didn't know Shelly Berman could act.
Somewhere below The Royal Tennenbaums and above Big Fish is Amélie. It's an odd genre. Let's call it quirksploitation. There's about 30 minutes too much of Amélie. . .right in the center where she's caring for her co-workers. I've seen the wacky co-workers on a million BBC sitcoms. When we stick to the cat-and-mouse clues-around-the-city love affair, the movie is really cookin'. There also may've been just one too many moments of unexplained poorly rendered digital glows of internal/eternal light after every time something nice happens. But, alas, the pros far outweigh the cons. Ms. Tatou is quite adorable and the voice-over is funny. The scene where M. Kassovitz is dressed like a skeleton going "Wooooo!" into her ear in the funhouse is absolutely inspired.
This was part of the trinity. I saw this, Jarmusch's Mystery Train and the Coens' Miller's Crossing at roughly the same time. They all went to NYU Film School so I figured I would too. So, basically, I have this movie to blame for not going to a real college and having a real job and actually having more than eighty-nine cents in my bank account. Still -- it is a fantastic movie. Watching it again (for the 20th time, probably, but the first time in years) I was amazed at how much of the cliched Robert De Niro impression actually come from this movie -- a movie he made well on into his career. The furrowed brow, the stammering, the "heh"s -- it all started here. Sadly, this movie spawned a thousand copycats (including Scorsese's own Casino, which is basically the same exact movie -- a good movie. . .but the same movie) and also pretty much invented swaggering dick 718 faux gangster machismo which is a bit of a neauseating thing if you live in New York City. There'd be no Victoria Gotti reality TV show 14 years later if there was no GoodFellas. There'd also be fewer car commercials set to classic rock. Scorsese pretty much nailed the pastiche-of-pop with this film (inventing the practice, really, with Mean Streets in the early 70s) and now, frankly, with very few exceptions, any movie that includes any kind of non-diagetic music on its soundtrack smacks of self-indulgence. Still -- you can't fault a brilliant work for its unfortunate legacy. GoodFellas is genius -- one of the best films ever made -- and connects with me on a deeply personal level. Unlike, say, De Palma's fun but distant crime opera Scarface, which some hold in equal regard. Scarface is spectacle, GoodFellas is character-driven storytelling. But if I was coming of age in 1983 when Scarface came out maybe I'd be singing a different tune . . .
True -- this is a minor film by John Sayles, but it is still absolutely remarkable. Let's not call it a one act or a short story, let's call it focused. First of all, it is fantastic to see Lili Taylor again. The last thing I saw her in (that I actually remember her being in) was the God awful Ransom with Mel Gibson. Anyway, she's terrific. And so is Maggie Gyllenhaal, who has a scene early on talking with her husband on a cell phone. This is a sixty second scene that should be studied in film acting classes. The script is all very basic, plain, nondescript dialogue, yet Gyllenhaal basically runs through every emotion in the dictionary before the conversation is over, showing this with her eyes yet desperately tries to hide this with her voice. It is staggering. A reviewer on imdb put it nicely when he said that Sayles gives himself a setup so rich with possibilities that he'd either have to make a 100 hour film or do what he did here, cut it loose and give you the 90 minute slice-of-life we have before us. First rule of show biz: always leave 'em wanting more.
To answer your question: no, I'd never seen this before. Listen, some things slip through the cracks. Anyway, I know a lot of people love this movie. . .but those who do are chumps. Edward Norton, yes, is great. But, shit, he was great in The Score, too, ya know? There are one or two shining moments (Norton's dinner table speech defending racism) but, all in all, this alleged expose on the White Power movement is a dopey after school special. The turnabouts by the characters are completely phoney and anyone who gives a whit about racial issues in this country can see that this movie probably does more harm than good. The screenplay is horrid and director Kaye (who started in TV ads and music videos) hasn't done squat since. New Line and he got in a battle over final cut on this project -- my gut tells me that the studio saved this from being even worse.
Sigh. The first 40 minutes of this movie are absolutely fantastic. And then it just stops. The story just stops moving, yet there's still an hour left of you and your date sitting in a theatre watching. . .something. . .up there flickering on the screen. It's actually quite remarkable from a train wreck perspective. Leconte has made many wonderful films. This ain't one of 'em.
Here's a movie that makes me nostalgic for drugs. This is now the second time I've seen it and I still don't know what the hell is going on. But who really cares when Ronald Mlodzik, in the role of Adrian Tripod, the chair of the House of Skin and last deciple of the renegade dermatologist Antoine Rouge wears a black peacoat and octogonal-shaped glasses. I haven't even gotten into the buildings -- all of which look like branch libraries on Roosevelt Island. I will not argue with you if you think this movie is bullshit -- or even if it makes you fall asleep. But. . .I dunno. . .somehow it speaks to me.
My friend Garrett, who works as a psychiatrist in a hospital, says this is the most honest portrayal of schizophrenia he's ever seen. It's a very good movie, kinda like a slightly more mellow Requiem For A Dream. Also interesting for movie lovers -- imagine if, say, there were no spaceships in Close Encounters? Then it would be like this. . .
This movie is best watched as a precursor to Paddy Chayefsky's later masterpiece Network. So many elements are the same in both films, yet this somehow feels dated. Network, even though equally rife with 70s references, is still prophetic. Unlike Network, this movie shoots for realism, so the satire isn't as biting. The whodunnit elements fall flat. And George C. Scott is a little over-the-top here, too. But some of the rants are fabulous. I'm being a little generous with my grade, but overall I was engaged in the movie, even though I knew it kinda blew.
I saw this, or most of it, many years ago. . .but it had kinda melded with Wise Blood, A Face in the Crowd and All the King's Men in my brain. All of these films are great -- the huckster's rise and fall story usually is. Burt Lancaster is just fantastic here -- some of his acting may be a little hammy today, but remembering when he did the bulk of his work, he really is a great link in the chain of naturalistic film acting. Anyway I'd like to see a "promise keeper" modernization of this one.
Dig this cast: John Hurt, Terence Stamp, Tim Roth (who's, like, 18) and Fernando Rey. And a very buxom Spanish woman. Kind've like a British version of Collateral in Spain (during the day.) The Hit drives nicely and unexpectedly into existential territories, keeping the plot and the "action" very secondary to the slice-of-life feel. When you've got performers like this, it's a safe bet.
To quote what someone else put on the imdb -- beautiful photography, weak on history. Made me realize how good Ken/Ric Burns actually are at the PBS-doc format.
Well, there you have it. Reactions during this film range from "how'd they do that" to "Zzzzzzz." And, yet, it's only about an hour. Film Forum wisely couched this with two of Maddin's earlier shorts, yet, alas, it reminds one that the short film is, indeed, Maddin's perfect medium. This movie is wild, but I can't say I enjoyed it.
I have officially given Magnolia a second chance -- which at 3 hours and 8 minutes is no small deal. The emporer still has no clothes. Hiring great actors to cry and curse and scream and then to film it with tracking shots and to assemble it with rapid cuts and loudly rising, melodramatic music will make it appear that what you are seeing is really, really. . .important. And you can even get duped for about an hour. The problem arises when it becomes evident that there is no story here. Even the framing device -- coincidences -- is a stretch: what, really, are the coincidences of this story that are presented as so flabbergasting? These people all tangentially know one another and they're all having a bad day replete with overwritten monologues? Here's my epiphany about Magnolia: It is a 3 hr and 8 minute trailer for an unmade movie. If you'd never seen it before and turned the channel to any specific scene (esp. one with Julianne Moore, Wm. H. Macy or John C. Reilly) you'd say "wow! This movie looks terrific! I'd like to see it from the beginning.) Seeing the whole thing gives you no additional insight into any of the "characters" than any one minute clip. This movie, as a script and as an idea and a general product with so much cache, should, really, get and "F," but some of those individual scenes (Henry Gibson flaming it up in a bar? Authors, Chaos vs. Superstring and Rub-a-dub? John C. Reilly flirting with a coke fiend?) are so well played, thanks to the great actors, that I'll be polite and give it the 'D+"
Bold statement: this is the best non-documentary ever shot on video. End stop. Bolder statement: this movie would be one of the all time greatest in history if it was shot on film. There is never a reason to shoot on video. I don't know what the hell they were thinking. Now -- luckily -- this is all at night, the camera keeps moving and the backdrop is LA, oftentimes from on high, so it still looks great. And Mann has always been an absolute master at camera placement. Dude just knows where to stick the lens. What about the story? It's great. I bought it. Modern Hitchcock. For most of the time it is a straight, plot-light classic like The Getaway or The Day of the Jackal or Point Blank. Then there is a twist and, what the hell, it works. Jamie Foxx is absolutely terrific and Tom Cruise is too. And, humorously enough, Jada Pinkett Smith plays a character named Annie Farrell.
Despite the fact that the last third of this film is, to use a sophisticated expression, retarded, the sheer oddity of this project and the wonderful performances net it a worthy "B+." Dan Hedaya deserved a best supporting oscar nod, or, at least, some well-publicized outrage at the lack of a nod for his performance of Nixon -- the second best on the big screen. Kirstin Dunst, who is always good, is indeed quite funny, as is her sidekick whose name I can't seem to remember, despite having looked it up twice. Bruce McCullogh as Carl Bernstein and Saul Rubinek as Kissinger are among the many notable cameos. All around, funny stuff, although I can't imagine someone who isn't into modern American history (or hasn't at least has seen All The President's Men) would like this.
A quite nice, small gem of a film rife with both touching and unnerving moments. Touching are the well observed moments of teens laying around on their beds listening to music and trying to figure out their lives; shocking is the unanticipated cruelty that all of the characters -- even the ones you like -- barb each other with at a moment's notice. (Also a little shocking is how close this film comes to dabbling in the general vicinity of child porn. There's no nudity, but there are some just-barely pubescent girls exuding Sapphic horniness on screen and touching themselves. It is never unnatural, but, I dunno, somewhere out there is a guy enjoying this movie for the wrong reason.) The big happy ending felt very contrived, forced and, ultimately, silly -- especially in comparison to the very well-observed earlier parts of the film.
While there are a couple of moments in this film that are sub par, the superb quality of the other scenes more than make up for it. Splendor in the Grass treats adolescence like an incurable disease. Natalie Wood looking up at the camera and slowly assuring us "I'm not a good girl" is, like, one of the five most riveting moments in all of cinema. She is beyond magnificent and she even pulls of the going-to-the-loony-bin scenes. (Why do all the women in Kazan's films go crazy?) It is also fun to see the Warren Beatty persona in its embryonic form here. Unfortunately we bring our later knowledge of Warren to this film and it does alter our perception of the character, but you can't fault him or Kazan for that. It's a very original movie and, I think, still resonant today despite the surface changes in our social codes. Has that much really changed? Also -- hadn't anybody in the 1920s heard of masturbating?
War Crimes: The Movie! Godard takes his comrade Francois Truffaut's famous claim that one can never make a truly anti-war film and stands it on his head. How about an anti-anti-war movie? Another excersize in Brechtian filmmaking, but this time a little sick and depraved (but still, occaisionally, funny) this is one of Godard's better ones. At 75 minutes, too short to be a straight up "A," though.
Everyone in the entire world hated this movie, but I found it to be oddly charming and funny. And not just because Woody Allen has a bit part in it. (His scenes are some of the lamest.) Alan Cumming as General Batista, though, is truly inspired. The central premise, Douglas McGrath as an inept Yalie stumbling through Cuba as a Clouseau-esque CIA spy, is just enough of a line to pin some good old-fashioned dumb comedy. About as good as a quality SCTV episode -- only about 30 minutes too long.
Sigh. What is it with Mamet these days? Like Spartan that came out this year, Heist starts out great and then peters out into the rediculous toward the end. Ann and I were literally shouting "enough!" at all the twists and reversals. Rickey Jay is great, though, and anything with Gene Hackman being a superman is definitely watchable (another reason Runaway Jury didn't totally suck.) I enjoyed the baffling one-liners, but Ann found them awful. Among them -- "My motherfucker is so cool, when he goes to bed, sheep count him," "I don't want you as quiet as an ant pissing on cotton. I want you as quiet as an ant not even thinking about pissing on cotton," "You know why the chicken crossed the road? Because the road crossed the chicken," and "She could talk her way out of a sunburn."
Call me the Christopher Hitchens of movie fanatics. I wish not to spit in your eye, beloved cineaste pantheon, but I must state: Zzzzzzzz. "L'Atalante" made me and my parents (neither of 'em slouches either in the film buff category) antsy and squirm for the end. Not that it was altogether bad. . . just not that great. I argued that anything made in 1934 deserved some slack -- mom then started to list the great films of the era that didn't make us scratch our heads. The Papa Jules character was entertaining, but not enough to save this. I give this a gentleman's "C" and now will take angry emails from the audience.
The Last Metro meets The Cat's Meow meets Those Who Love Me Can Take The Train meets Titanic with plenty of Italian opera, Serbian dancing and a sick, fetid rhinoceros to boot. This movie is absolutely fantastic and, I think, is the best of Feliini's post-8 1/2 movies I've seen.
A boy. A racoon. An oil derrick. Obviously a recipe for a meaningful ethnographic film. Great shots of nature and industry. Acting, not so much.
Among the stranger movies I've ever seen, Gumnaan is part Agatha Christie murder mystery, part Bollywood musical comedy, part mid-60s LSD freak-out. The musical sequences are great fun (this is what Enid was watching at the beginning of Ghost World) and the alleged drama is fun for camp (Raja Nawathe never saw a reaction shot he didn't like.) Mehmood, the comic actor in the delightful Padosan and 9 million other Hindi films, as the Rowan Atkinson-esque wacky butler, while completely out of place, is nonetheless welcome.
The choir was preached to well tonight at the Film Forum. Chuckles, snorts, gasps and self-righteous applause were heard throughout. That and the 145 minute running time (which seemed much longer) made me wish I'd done what I thought I was going to do -- wait for the DVD. Still, a well made movie that makes many good points and cries out desperately for an ombudsman at others. Michael Moore is here acting as comic relief (the man may've had a more lucrative career in standup and sitcoms) as is a bunch of other top shelf lefties any reader of "The Nation" is well familiar with. Which brings me to a point: this movie really lays out the overwhelming power cinema has, as well as its flaws. Nearly everything in The Corporation has been written about in the aforementioned Nation magazine and Harper's (and no doubt other lefty journals; I only read those two.) To actually see images, to hear voices talking about it, to experience the miracle of montage and sound effects and music drives a story home in a way that no muckraking five pages of print can. However, in those five pages lies a depth of inquiry and (in many cases) an understanding of all sides surrounding an issue. I left The Corporation all pumped up in a way I rarely am when I put down a magazine, but I also felt bombarded, spun around and, ultimately, asking more questions.
I'll admit that when I saw this in high school it was just for the flashes of brief nudity. A great example of Godard's early style, a deadpan character sketch teetering on the edge of documentary, essay and droll comedy. One of Anna Karina's best performances, too.
Fly Pan Am Airways and visit beautiful Sao Paolo, where all the men play drums and the women all lustily shake their breasts! The first hour or so feels like a corny (but enjoyable) tourism ad for 60s Brazil. Then, toward the end, when the Greek myth kicks in, it gets pretty cool. Hell is depicted as modern beaurocracy, not unlike the motion picture Brazil, but that's just a wild coincidence. Ann liked this one more than me. The music is great and I've already downloaded half the soundtrack.
Right on the border of A Man For All Seasons and an average episode of "Guiding Light" lies this classic I've been meaning to see for about 15 years. I enjoyed the performances and many of the sharp lines, but found myself with a headache at the end, waiting for all these jerks to stop yelling at each other. No doubt the chief selling point of this movie is the chess-like twists and double-twists as everyone schemes against one another -- but after a while it got overwhelming. I'm not complaining that it was difficult to follow, it just became exhausting; I knew that the scheme of the moment would be reversed in the very next scene and, thus, couldn't get that into it. Too much of a good thing, you might say. Anyway, it's a worthwhile film, don't get me wrong, but hardly the brilliant classic I was expecting.
Has the whole world gone crazy? I like Tobey Maguire, too, but you know what? If I want to see him I'll rent Wonder Boys again. People applaud this movie as being the first super hero movie with a "real" story. That may be, but it's a real story that sucks. The only good part was when Dr. Octopus' arms came to life and killed people in the hospital -- THAT was the Sam Raimi I know. Spider-Man 2 is boring.
A fairly standard spy story; Scientist Gary Cooper works with the Italian resistance to help nuclear physicists escape the Nazis. There are four remarkable things here. A surprisingly anti-Nukes message. A very European feel to the love story. A sympathetic portrayal of Nazi collaborators (what would *you* do?) And one of the best, most clever fight scenes I've ever watched. This plus the Casablanca ending makes for a great picture.
Let the Eagle Soar!! Catharsis in a packed theater. No, I don't buy everything Moore is selling, but I buy much of it. And my heart rate was up during most of the film. I left with a headache and Ann cried at the part you were supposed to cry at. This is not gotcha journalism, it is one man's anguished cry against injustice.
Friedkin was famously quoted as telling Henri-Georges Clouzot that he wanted to do a remake of his favorite film The Wages of Fear that would be inferior to the original. He suceeded. He didn't make an awful film; there are many remarkable sequences. But this film lacks the sharp charactirizations (although it spends 45 minutes showing convoluted backstory unseesn in the French version) and white-knuckle suspense the setting deserves. Friedkin's version, with its multimillion dollar budget, has flabbergasting photography and great montages. Plus, a neato Tangerine Dream score. I'm glad I saw this important, noble failure of 1970s cinema.
I am being very generous with my grade. Here's why: I enjoyed this. I enjoyed this bad movie. This movie is 100% implausible; the characters are either unmotivated and underwritten or their plot points are jammed in with the subtlety of an offshore oil rig. That said, when you are in each scene it is good fun to watch. Kinda like watching an old movie on TV and thinking, "boy, this is corny, but it's how they did it back then." Also, there's a fine line between verisimilitude and ungodly product placement.
It takes a man of true conviction to admit that one of the most noxious, contemptable people in the public forum has created a work of genius. I hate Quentin Tarantino. If I read of his disappearance tomorrow I'd dance for joy. Just the other day Ann had a thing on IFC with some press conference with him and I demanded she change the channel before I throw up. Still, if you haven't seen this movie in a while (last time for me, I think, was 1999) it still is fucking incredible. Every scene is a gem. Samuel L. Jackson's performance is note perfect. The surf guitar rock is some of the most inspired soundtrack use in cinema history. And the scene with the gimp is just insane. Like Eddie Van Halen, another genius that inspired legions of odious imitators, it is easy to blame Quentin for the god-awful hackwork so many other people turned in after this was made. But let's call a spade a spade: Pulp Fiction was wild and innovative ten years ago and it has not aged a day. It is fantastic, so much so that for a minute I was thinking I might eventually rent Kill Bill Volume II.
Band of Italian resistance scurry around trying to outwit Nazis. I know this is one of the most respected movies ever, and maybe its naturalistic elements were remarkable for its time, but it's only so-so today. And the tone is odd: half the time you follow a wacky Rowan Atkinson-like priest making goofy faces, the rest of the time is spent watching people get tortured. It's not a bad movie by any stretch, but I was expecting more.
Great date movie. More Harold and Maude than Welcome to the Dollhouse or "Freaks and Geeks," and this is a welcomed change. Ann loved the costumes (especially his boots) and the W.T. set. I loved the Dragonslayer poster and title sequence. We both loved the Ultrachrist!-style dance number ending. And neither of us particularly minded that there was absolutely no point to this movie at all. Maybe someone will explain the Elvis Costello connection to me. "You're such an idiot!!"
The lives of gay and lesbian orthodox Jews. The first thrity minutes is just the freak show you'd think it would be -- then the gears shift and this becomes rather touching. You'd think these people would be filled with rage at a God and religion that rejects them, instead we are witness to heartbreaking stories of hopelessley brainwashed people whose innate difference make them a square peg desperate to fit in a round hole.
I spent the bulk of this movie fantasizing about what Hermoine is going to look like in 3 years. The big "explanation" ending inside the tree house was straight out of The Big Sleep and, no, that isn't a compliment. The scripting and staging is just awkward here -- there's acres of exposition. I won't get fooled again, this is the last time I waste energy or money on another Harry Potter movie, especially at two and a half freaking hours!
Quite nerve-wracking poem about modern war and its effects on average citizens. Taking place in an alternate universe (or does it?) where nothing quite makes sense and scenes connect with the logic of a dream. . .or in this case a nightmare. Anyway, there are some really gripping images, but also the same old scenes of Swedes weeping and droning on and on about their inability to love. I'd like to see one Bergman film that leaves that on the cutting room floor. What's best is the implication that to survive war one has to be a prick. This is the central theme of Sophie's Choice and what ultimately leads her to what she considers the strong and righteous decision: suicide. In Shame, in order to keep his family alive, Max von Sydow must become a murderer, even killing at random for information and a new pair of boots. Is he a villan or a hero? He's a survivor, and we've all been taught that survivors are ipso facto good people -- but maybe the more rightous thing to do is to roll over and die as Liv Ullman wants to. Lastly, has Max von Sydow ever not been old??
This is the masterpiece Spike Lee has been trying to make ever since Do The Right Thing. It succeeds on every level and is much better than the similar Mystic River. This movie's relationship to New York after 9/11 can respectfuly compare to The Third Man and its relationship to Vienna after WWII.
If middle-brow non-lipstick lesbians are your bag, see this film. Actually, this is a wonderfully observed melodrama with many terrific scenes and very indicative of the fantastic films Sayles was about to create. There are moments where it feels a little like regional theater, but given the setting I'm not sure this is a detriment.
You ever seen an interview with a newlywed Christian couple who talk about how glad they are that they "waited" until their wedding night? That's me and waiting to see Persona in a movie house. I attempted to see this at the NYU film library freshman year (perhaps it was former film librarian John Schmit who queued it up for me?) but the VHS copy was so washed that I hap to stopp after 10 minutes -- I couldn't read the white-on-white subtitles. Perusing reviews of Persona online it is remarkable how many people compare its experience to one of a novel. I don't diagree that its visceral, empathetic effect is similar to kind usually reserved for literature, but what's neat is how the technique used to achieve this is 100% cinema. Persona is the high watermark of mid--60s modernism, in its psychology, its fashion, its music, its editing, its hairstyles, its title design, you name it. Yet, strangely, it doesn't look dated (So long as Calvin Klein advertises, that is.) Some moments in the film may make you wince with a knowing "WTF?" but those (few) moments only seem indulgent because an innovator like Bergman used them spariningly in 1966 only to be copied again and again throughout the rest of cinema's history. Anyway, if Film Forum was showing Persona again this week, I'd be going.
I am a little schizo on Antonioni. I adore two of his well-known films ("Blow-Up" and "Zabriske Point") and loathe two others ("Red Desert" and "L'Aventurra.") This one, "La Notte," did it for me. What can I say? Dig Netflix's stunning blurb: Michelangelo Antonioni's study of alienation and moral decay chronicles a day in the life of a middle-class couple whose marriage has been destroyed by mutual indifference and impenetrable lonliness. Huah!!
Something we all do is make exceptions for bad art by artists whose other work we like. I admit, I've done this. But no amount of rationalization can save this piece of dreck by one of my favorite filmmakers. I kept waiting for this movie to get weird, and when I realized that wouldn't happen I just waited for it to get interesting. Then I just waited for it to end. Laughable dialogue, horrendous acting, plot devices straight out of "Laugh Olympics," and, best of all, ridiculous balls-out faux-Springsteen rock anthems. I have no interest in drag racing but then again I have no interest in disco dancing -- this doesn't keep Saturday Night Fever from being great. What's fascinating about this whole endeavor is that Cronenberg still seems really proud of it. Maybe it reminds him of his youth. This rates a "D" and not an "F" because much of the documentary-style shooting is quite nice as is the inadvertent time capsule aspect vis-a-vis haircuts and pants.
Now -- don't get all crazy. I like this movie, I like Nick Ray, I like James Dean. But this is not as good as it gets credit for. For one, the dialogue is awful pretty much from top to bottom. Also, there are some very lame plot holes (why in the hell does Sal Mineo's absent mother keep a loaded gun under her pillow? And why would the loving maid, so worried about the confused, violent boy allow it to stay there?) The star of this movie is James Dean fighting against the pussification of the American male, and those chamber scenes with his father are, indeed, terrific (even if the dialogue is awfully on the nose.) But for a movie with so much over the top drama and obvious confict, there is plenty of ooky subtext. Does Natalie Wood's father ignore her because he is angry at himself for lusting after her budding 16 yr old body? The subtlety of this (and other similar) shades is one of the chief benefits of a 1955 production date. That and a bright red jacket.
A full-force hurricaine of entertainment. Big actors, big laughs, big plot twists, big sets. I think this is Hitchcock at his most fun and when he channels all his talents at fun, much like Spielberg with "Raiders of the Lost Ark," it is just remarkable. It was great to see this in a theater, not only from the visual perspective (wow! The U.N.! Rushmore! Matte paintings!) but to gasp with the audience when Martin Landau picks up Cary Grant's matchbook, titter when the cropduster seems to be coming right at us, and to giggle when the train drills into a tunnel. There is some method to the madness (to pun on the title) of this romp, of course. Many of the scenes are meant in a way to subvert the expectations created by the Cary Grant persona and from various "wrong man" movies in Hitchcock's book. I read an important-seeming essay once about NXNW's relevance as Cold War parable, especially vis-a-vis the Mount Rushmore scenes. And I say, sure, go for it.