natebell

The End of the Line

natebell — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 15:56:44 -0800

Oscar is knocking at my door. Better get in my licks…

The Blind Side. A rich white Memphis housewife takes in a hulking homeless black teenager and teaches him about God and football. He returns the favor by becoming a first-round NFL draft pick and an inseparable member of the family. Surefire, straight-arrow inspirational sports film succeeds as family entertainment and even manages to be mildly—microscopically—critical of the privileged social elite. Sandra Bullock does the subtlest acting of her career while director John Lee Hancock (who also adapted the bestselling book) does some careful steering through choppy emotional waters.

Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire. Despite the accolades and celebrity endorsements, an enormous slog. The title character, an obese African American single mother, illiterate and pregnant, battered and raped, finds sanctuary from her miserable existence in a pilot program that equips her with the strength to leave her cruelly abusive mother. Lee Daniels directs in a schizophrenic style that mutes the impact of the proceedings while the melodramatic details of the protagonist’s home life refuse to take any significant dramatic shape (although Gabourey Sidibe’s performance is a model of Bazinian realism). Big, loud, showboating work by Mo’Nique as the foul-mouthed couch-dwelling mother; small, quiet, modest work by Lenny Kravitz as a male nurse.

The Princess and the Frog. Disney’s generously animated, politically corrected fairy tale is a successful “return to form” after a long drought in that field. The locale (Depression-era New Orleans) is shrewdly selected for its cultural niceties, much of which—the jazz, the cuisine, the art deco styling—comes across exuberantly. One is nevertheless apt to feel a hint of disappointment at the noncommittal safety of some of the choices. Not even voodoo practitioners should be offended.

Up in the Air. George Clooney at his George Clooniest, a honey-voiced “career transition counselor” specially hired to downsize high-profile employees—a man well below the IRS taxman on the social pecking order. His eventual crisis of conscience leads to several well-telegraphed epiphanies, although director Jason Reitman is a smooth enough operator to bring them all off with little resistance. Undeniably relevant, timely, topical, the film carries with it a sense of its own gravity such that the lessons learned are tainted with a false sense of grandiosity.

The Last Station. Handsome period piece finds Tolstoy in his retirement years looking after his country estate, lording it over his idealistic disciples, and eternally arguing with his wife of many years over what to do with his valuable legacy. James McAvoy plays the young secretary who comes to spy on the family and winds up at the great author’s deathbed. Michael Hoffman’s film builds to a moving conclusion although it remains up until that point little more than superficially attractive. Savory performances by Christopher Plummer and Helen Mirren.

Invictus. Clint Eastwood’s respectful, respectable Nelson Mandela biopic turns out not to be much of a biopic at all, but a modestly proportioned sports movie with historical legitimacy. (The 1995 Rugby World Cup is perhaps distant enough in memory to justify its retelling.) What the film lacks in excitement it makes up for in feeling. Slowly but surely paced and carefully acted (most notably by Morgan Freeman, though Mandela’s princely dignity and measured cadence doesn’t present much of a challenge to this distinguished actor), its only goal is to spread goodwill, and apart from some phony, “just kidding” suspense devices, it does exactly that.

The Lovely Bones. Peter Jackson’s over-scaled rendering of an Anne Seabold bestseller isn’t remotely competent as a mystery and only fitfully effective as an afterlife fantasy. (The former provides at least one authentic Hitchcockian suspense scene while the latter gives us a New Age-y depiction of a heavenly waiting room.) Jackson never settles on an appropriate mood for the story’s wide fluctuations, which veer from harrowingly dark to sticky-sentimental. Stanley Tucci (acting behind horn-rimmed glasses, a blonde toupee, and blue contact lenses) works hard at his role as a pedophilic serial killer, but even he is compromised by the artsy cutting and expensive special effects. The mind is given plenty of opportunity to wonder at what Scottish director Lynne Ramsay, who’d once been attached to this hot property, might have brought to the morbid scenario.

Broken Embraces. An Almodovar cocktail: secrets, lies, multiple identities, an ambiguously folded narrative, long rounds of vigorous lovemaking, and Penelope Cruz. The warm bright color (courtesy of Rodrigo Prieto) is a constant delight, as is the superb strings score (Alberto Iglesias), but one cannot shake a feeling of déjà vu. Were a less experienced behind the camera, this would probably be considered some kind of tour de force. For Pedro Almodovar, it’s about par for the course.

Avatar. The tall blue humanoid aliens, with their lemur eyes and canine incisors, are visually intimidating protagonists, but they are only one of many creations lobbying for attention in this eye-gorging spectacle, James Cameron’s first since Titanic. The “revolutionary” 3-D imaging incorporates a wide palette and large depth of field, such that several planes are allowed to exist simultaneously with perfect clarity. The results can be accurately described as a transporting experience in spite of the corny storyline. The heavy cliché doesn’t seem to worry Cameron in the least, and he coordinates several exciting action sequences before submitting to a “happy” ending, the disturbing implications of which he appears to be cheerfully oblivious.

My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done. The increasingly eclectic Werner Herzog directed this low-budget indie about a depressed mama’s boy who experiences some kind of epiphany in the jungles of Peru and comes back to San Diego a crazed mystic. Based on a true case with a tragic outcome, its sadness and weirdness is not lost on Herzog, whose partnership with David Lynch (who executive produced) seems to have coaxed out the same scabrous humor typical of the latter. Apparently written, shot and edited in a mere five weeks, it exists in a vacuum far removed from the intrusions of real life. While not especially good, it remains something to see.

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. The immortal proprietor of a raggedy circus sideshow, doomed to wander the earth with a genuine magical chamber in tow, serves as the perfect subject for Terry Gilliam’s familiar musings on the visionary artist in a an unbelieving world. An authentically bedraggled Christopher Plummer fills out the lead role sympathetically, and the surrounding players (especially Tom Waits as a dapper Satan) round out the strangeness. Ramblingly plotted, it is genuinely inventive both in its zany effects (echoes of Monty Python) and in its ingenious use of several actors (Johnny Depp, Jude Law, and Colin Farrell) to patch over Heath Ledger’s untimely death—a special effect in itself. The ongoing battle between the extraordinary and the mundane is Gilliam’s primary occupation, and he wrestles with it boldly and bravely.

Sherlock Holmes. Guy Ritchie gives us a souped-up Holmes in a comic book plot that could “alter the very course of the world.” (Sigh.) A manic Robert Downey, Jr. and a dashing Jude Law provide passable panache, and Ritchie gives the Victorian locations a dingy, filthy sheen, but the ominous intimations of black magic—by far the most piquant ingredient in the mix—remain largely unrealized. There’s energy to spare in this overblown adventure, not least in the Irish jig that closes out the credits.

The White Ribbon. A quiet, unprepossessing, pre-WWI German town is gripped by a series of disquieting events: a barn burning, a cabbage patch mangling, a hit-and-run flogging, an eye gouging, a mysterious death or two. Who is responsible? The stringent, unyielding, corrupt patriarchs of the community, or their sullen, morbid, browbeaten children? Since this is a Michael Haneke film, the mystery lingers well past the closing credits. It’s a great mercy that the romance between an open-faced schoolteacher (who narrates as an old man) and a bashful nanny—the sole sympathetic characters—is allowed to give some contrast to the bleak goings-on. A mood of all-encompassing dread is sustained for all of the film’s two-and-a-half hours, though the significance of what we’re seeing telegraphed from the very first scene. In other words, the depiction of evil is trite.

Late Harvest

natebell — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 12:39:03 -0800

Struggling to keep up with a busy fall, lagging a little behind as usual, the reviewer soldiers on…

An Education. Smooth piece of ‘60s nostalgia about anEnglish schoolgirl who must choose between the steady, humdrum life her parentsenvision for her and the bohemian pleasures offered by an exciting butunscrupulous older man. What looks like a routine coming-of-age drama at firstglance comes vividly to life under the judicious direction of Lone Scherfig(one of the original members of the Dogme 95 group, if anyone still remembers),who demonstrates an intense appreciation for what it feels like to be young andintelligent and restless and trapped. As the schoolgirl, the incandescent CareyMulligan simulates a wide assortment of emotions with the ease of a seasonedprofessional.

Fantastic Mr. Fox. Wes Anderson comedy, family-safe butsophisticated enough to pass muster for all but the strictest cinephiles, abouta domesticated fox who falls back on his animal instincts when his family isthreatened by greedy farmers. Roald Dahl’s story proves an ideal opportunityfor Anderson to spin yet another portrait of a youthful spirit struggling toaccept responsible adulthood. The stop-motion techniques and autumnal Englishsettings bring to mind Nick Park, and afford Anderson even more control overhis constructed universe. None of it dampens the fun of the whole enterprise,or cheapens the emotion at its core.

The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call: New Orleans. Modestlybudgeted Werner Herzog police thriller (you heard correctly) about a wild copwhose back pains lead him from Vicodin to cocaine while investigating a drug-relatedmurder. Highlighted by an expertly cracked Nicolas Cage performance and astrange—and strangely lengthy—interlude involving hallucinatory iguanas, thefilm is as funny as Abel Ferrara’s Bad Lieutenant was anguished. Herzog treatsthe New Orleans environment as he would the jungles of Peru (with plenty ofattention paid to local color), and even the smallest role is interestinglycast and played. Worth seeing as a novelty item, but the all-encompassingweirdness and sordidness of the project is finally taxing.

La Danse. Two-and-a-half hour high-def video documentaryabout the Paris Opera Ballet that observes many arduous rehearsals,performances, and the occasional financier meeting, all without recourse tobackstage drama, narration, interviews, or even a helpful nameplate to identifythe onscreen subject. Frederick Wiseman, legendary practitioner of the directcinema, is the man at the helm, and he never imposes a point of view, so thatthe independent mind is allowed to wander where it likes, picking up straydetails here and there, taking in the atmosphere, admiring the spectacle ofbodies-in-motion. While it’s a far cry from the heated muckraking of TiticutFollies and Law and Order (Wiseman’s little-seen early masterpieces), theviewer is grateful for a piece of filmmaking that doesn’t cajole or bully—inother words, a documentary that is content to document.

The Road. Cormac McCarthy adaptation that waversuncomfortably between brutality and sentimentality, about a father and sonengaged in a long trek across an ashen wasteland—a less spectacular and moresobering vision of the apocalypse than the usual Hollywood fodder. JohnHillcoat’s direction comes briefly to life during a hair-raising scene in thebasement of a band of cannibals, but fails to disguise the story’s lumbering,episodic gait. Viggo Mortensen, looking like a skid row refugee in his soiledsnow coat and grubby beard, rises to the role of father with utmostdedication.

Leftovers

natebell — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 22:18:29 -0800

Back from Thanksgiving break, and filled to bursting with new cinema experiences. With so many films backlogged in my brain, I thought I might jettison a few:

Paranormal Activity. Exhibitionist horror on a micro budget and in a realistic vein: unknown actors, digital video, a pseudodocumentary style. The premise is simple beyond belief: a twentysomething couple set out to record a ghost or demon or what-have-you that’s been disturbing the furniture and that seems to have special designs on the girlfriend. The feeble development of a deeper plot is shoved aside for a series of well-timed shock effects: a creaking door, a shadowy shape, a bedroom attack, and much worse. One shot in particular, a wide angle on the sleeping couple, has a Pavlovian conditioning effect: every time we return to this setup, something worse transpires. Hokey and harmless in retrospect, fun and gripping if viewed under the right conditions (specifically a packed theater with good sound).

Where the Wild Things Are. A hip kids film, a frolic, but a downer just the same. Extrapolated from Maurice Sendak’s vivid 28-page children’s classic, it follows an imaginative, misbehaving, misunderstood boy to a magical kingdom ruled by mega-sized Muppets who, in a weird twist, turn out to be just as obstinate as he is. Fascinating at first as a sort of Freudian dream film (with the beasts reflecting the boy’s latent insecurities), it has nowhere to go, and gets there quickly. Spike Jonze’s zippy direction is hamstrung by his own saccharine screenplay (co-authored by Jonze and Dave Eggars), although an early episode involving a crushed igloo is stingingly realistic, and cuts to the heart of childhood experience. The creatures (furry yet fearsome) are beautifully realized, courtesy of Jim Henson’s Creature Shop.

Gentlemen Broncos. Another grotesque comedy from Jared and Jerusha Hess, the Mormon auteurs behind the bona fide cult classic Napoleon Dynamite and the less cultish but still bona fide Nacho Libre. Unfairly yanked from theaters after poor early box office and pitiful reviews, it’s a sometimes strained but often inspired lampoon of science fiction nerd culture. (The titles of some of the books provoke chuckles: “Yeast Lords,” “Cyborg Harpies,” “Troll Hole,” etc.) Two supporting actors emerge triumphant: Jemaine Clement, as a pompous fantasy author with Michael York’s sonorous voice; and Jennifer Coolidge, as a harried single mother and aspiring designer of hideous women’s fashions. The poop-and-barf jokes are misjudged and onerous, but the close kinship with marginalized losers betrays sympathy and even wonder. Perhaps only the faithful will dare find value in it. I, alas, am one of them.

The Box. Stone cold sci-fi, beefed up from a slim Richard Matheson story (“Button, Button”), and given the Richard Kelly treatment. In other words: solemn in approach, portentous in mood, ambitious in scope, and finally confusing in whole. What begins as a simple moral test in the style of W.W. Jacobs evolves (or rather devolves, depending on your view) into a cosmic crossing of Jean-Paul Sartre and Arthur C. Clarke. Frank Langella manages a few creepy notes as a shadowy figure with a crater where his left cheek used to be, and Arcade Fire’s husband and wife duo Win Butler and Regine Chassagne contribute an offbeat score.

Me and Orson Welles. Richard Linklater in a lighter mood, recreating the conditions under which a pre-Citizen Kane Orson Welles led the Mercury Theatre to triumph in an edgy rendering of Julius Caesar. Zac Efron is the assertive teenager who falls in love with art and Claire Danes, and whose illusions are shattered by the infidelities of theater folk. The ensemble cast is all-around excellent, with an extra round of applause going to Christian McKay who not only approximates Welles’s distinctive elocution, but also his arched brow and creased forehead. His image here as a titanic egotist and serial philanderer is a matter best left to his biographers and close friends.

A Christmas Carol

natebell — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 12:07:10 -0800

It seemed inevitable that Robert Zemeckis would eventually dig his meat hooks into Dickens’s 1843 novella, and that Jim Carrey would play several roles in it, including literature’s curmudgeon par excellence, Ebenezer Scrooge. The book is teeming with cinematic possibilities. One can almost picture Zemeckis, chief practitioner of the 3-D performance capture technique known as mocap, eyeing it like a Christmas goose. Mocap is one of those contentious cinematic developments that seems to divide people into various camps. One camp will explain how it allows visually creative directors to maneuver the camera however they like within an abstract space, and is therefore a useful tool, akin to the Steadicam or the greenscreen. The other camp will maintain that the process is too easy, that it makes a mockery of traditional animation, and that it can’t replicate certain movements, especially those that don’t adhere to the laws of physics. There is yet another camp that takes the moral high ground, arguing that it has an almost satanic dehumanizing effect, turning actors into weird facsimiles of human beings and stifling any meaningful drama.

All camps will find plenty to fuel their arguments in A Christmas Carol, an exhilarating excursion into Dickensian darkness that carries almost none of the emotional gravity of Dickens. Even those who haven’t read the book are familiar with the story: the cold, the miser, the ghosts, the redemption. But what is often overlooked is the fact that no other popular author dedicated himself to describing human happiness in all its shapes and qualities. Just as the word “Hitchcockian” evokes a certain atmosphere, the word “Dickensian” describes a certain texture—one that oscillates between stark despair and profound joy. There is no more moving a passage in A Christmas Carol (the book) than the depiction of the Cratchit family dinner. Their camaraderie and excitement overwhelms the fact of their dire poverty. It’s a shame then that Zemeckis is able to evoke only one half of Dickens (the fear, the snow, the grotesquerie), and not the other.

Not that Dickens isn’t frightening. After all, the book is a ghost story, and this is where the technology comes in handy. Marley’s ghost is a freakish wonder, ash-gray, baleful, literally blind (!), and under constant threat of decay. When he gets excited, his lower jaw dislocates and hangs perilously from the rest of his skull. Zemeckis may be the only filmmaker to give a faithful rendering of the Ghost of Christmas Past, described by its author as a “bright, clear jet of light,” albeit one with Jim Carrey’s leering face. And who else would have thought to make the flesh dissolve from the Ghost of Christmas Present’s bones as he dies a hideous midnight death? This is scary stuff, and satisfying in that sense, although it leaves little room for delight when Scrooge finally runs out into the snow in his nightgown.

Carrey is only so-so as Scrooge. He spits his lines out quickly in a way that makes you long for Alastair Sim. He seems to be having the most fun as the lewd, flickering flame of Christmas Past. Of the main actors (among whom can be spotted Colin Firth, Bob Hoskins and Robin Wright Penn), only Gary Oldman as Bob Cratchit manages to pierce his digital shell to give an affecting performance. Zemeckis and his “camera” are the real stars, and while he seems too infatuated with diving, swooping movements, the tour-of-London title sequence is a marvel, and it’s hard to protest the use of flowing long takes over frantic cutting.

A Christmas Carol has been advertised by Disney (who couldn’t resist branding the title with their familiar signature) as an experience, and it surely is that—in three-dimensional color. But the film, while reasonably faithful to the text, has a digital heart. Anybody familiar with Dickens will feel an opportunity has been lost.

A Serious Man

natebell — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 21:05:46 -0800

Time has allowed some introspection to creep into my (admittedly tardy) review of the Coens’ latest opus. The only thing I couldn’t seem to muster is a take on the pre-title sequence—surely one of the most audacious and baffling openings in recent history. If anyone has any theories as to the meaning of this Yiddish ghost sketch, I’d love to hear them. But more to the point:

If Joel and Ethan Coen are truly artists and not just skilled tricksters, then A Serious Man is a major work. Gutsy in its refusal to console its audience with tidy answers, it is a profoundly uncommercial work that locates spiritual anguish in a mundane Minnesota suburb, circa 1967. (The Coens were teenagers there.) There are few actors onscreen that audiences might recognize, and fewer characters for whom to cheer. The torrent of existential angst flows unchecked, and the gross interest in bodily foibles reaches a career-high peak. (It has been hotly debated whether the Coens are self-loathing of their Jewishness or merely embarrassed. How about cheerfully sardonic?)

The film is bitingly serious at heart despite keeping up appearances as a comedy, and uncommonly whiney, too—a cry of despair over the futility of life. The protagonist (Michael Stuhlbarg), a frustrated physics professor whose life starts to crumble around him, is elected for his ordinariness, his everymanliness. He seeks the help of three rabbis who offer him no succor. The only solace he is able to find is in the dubious refrain that he’s done nothing wrong.

Does the film say anything new about the human condition? I don’t think so. But then, the Coens have never been terribly original on that front. (Only Fargo still surprises with its insight into human behavior.) It’s their microscopic attention to detail that betrays a philosophical core. Putting insurmountable pressure on their characters, watching intently for what they will do, is their method of teasing out the Big Questions. And as master caricaturists they have developed a unique way of framing those questions. A Serious Man is not an easy movie to warm to, but it goes where few movies dare to do what all art should do.

Bright Star

natebell — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 00:04:51 -0700

I was so pleased with the experience of watching Bright Star at the Laemmle Monica 4 I wanted to catch it a second time before writing about it. Owing to dollars and distance, that may have to wait for DVD. For now, here are the beans on the brightest film of the still-young year:

Jane Campion’s embellishment of the real-life romance between John Keats and Fanny Brawne is both light on story and conventional in treatment, but it’s so intimately observed that it becomes something rare—a romance that’s truly romantic. The chasteness of the relationship (he died at the pitiful young age of 25 before he could marry her) seems to have inspired majestic restraint in a director well known for her sexual audacity. But while there is an absence of bare bodies onscreen, there is no dropping off in attention to sensual detail. Whether invoking a roomful of multi-colored butterflies, zeroing in on hands caressing books or needles sewing thread, or overseeing some of the most delicate kissing in cinema history, Campion is a master of the felicitous detail.

Keats is played by the diminutive Ben Whishaw in a performance that is becoming a specialty of his: the put-upon artist. He’s so touchingly tubercular you can almost forgive the sanctimonious treatment of the poet as a pure creature of emotion. (Young men bringing dates to this movie should prepare to be measured against an impossible adversary.) Abbey Cornish, as the resolute, self-reliant, modish Brawne (she designs and manufactures her own clothes) is every bit his equal—it’s hard to recall a more endearing screen couple. On hand as a safety measure against accusations of over-gentility is Paul Schneider, three-dimensionally loutish as Keats’s writing companion. There is also a little girl played by Edie Martin who has a face to match the cuteness of her nickname, “Toots.”

In a film so full of elements that harmonize (photography, sets, costumes), special mention must be given to Mark Bradshaw’s score, which accomplishes the tricky task of sounding contemporary while staying true to the tenor of the period, and whose strings soar to such amazing heights that it stirred a desire I haven’t felt in a good long while: to purchase the soundtrack. The crowd I saw it with at the Laemmle Santa Monica stayed till the very end—something I don’t remember seeing before or ever expect to again. In retrospect it probably had something to do with Whishaw’s spot on recitation of a Keats couplet over the closing credits.

Muckrakers

natebell — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 23:54:21 -0700

As providence would have it, two films about the evils of late capitalism arrived within a week of each other. They are duly recognized here:

The Informant! is the winkingly cynical, fact-based story of Mark Whitacre, the high-ranking manager of a lysine manufacturing plant who in the early ‘90s blew the whistle on his own company at the behest of the FBI. (The crime? Price fixing.) We are given several clues early on that Whiteacre (a paunchy, bespectacled, nerded-up Matt Damon) is shifty, unreliable, and not to be trusted, and Scott Z. Burns’s screenplay keeps us ignorant of his true character until the very last, where he is finally revealed to be (spoiler ahoy) just as guilty as the bigwigs he’s purportedly trying to take down. Directed by Steven Soderbergh in the loosey-goosey manner that is uniquely his own, the film is sarcastic and undramatic, as evidenced by the mocking, tweeting Marvin Hamlisch score and the melted cheddar cheese image. What impresses most is the director’s deft juggling of a fine stable of character actors including Tom Wilson, Clancy Brown, and, most delightfully of all, Scott Bakula.

Capitalism: A Love Story finds Michael Moore up to his usual shtick, interviewing evicted farmers, sanctioning off Goldman Sachs with yellow police tape, and re-dubbing footage from Jesus of Nazareth so that capitalist slogans spew from Christ’s mouth. The target of his bile is (surprise, surprise) corporate knavery, specifically the unholy alliance between the U.S. government and big business. It’s a tribute to Moore’s organizational skills that the inherently uncinematic subject matter is as lively as it is. More troublingly it is further evidence of his charlatanism as a documentary filmmaker. His Moorish repertoire (working class baseball cap, mordant voiceover, man-on-the-street cheekiness), at one time the markings of an original voice in American cinema, has never seemed more affected.

Suddenly, Last Summer

natebell — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 23:15:42 -0700

The first day of fall has arrived—what better opportunity to survey the summer harvest? It wasn’t the richest crop, but there’s a lot to look forward to what with a forthcoming Coen brothers comedy, a Wes Anderson animation, a Robert Zemeckis holiday extravaganza, and a shadowy Terrence Malick epic that threatens to be pushed back a year. Where I’m standing, the year is young. And that’s a good thing.

Walt & El Grupo. Excavation of an obscure corner of film history during which Walt Disney left the bosom of his flagging animation studio for the tangy nightlife of South America with respect to Roosevelt’s Good Neighbor policy. “El grupo” refers to the diverse team of artists who accompanied him there and came back with the rudiments for Saludos Amigos and The Three Caballeros, two of his most vibrantly colored feature films. What Theodore Thomas’s documentary lacks in drama and tension it makes up for in clarity and organization. (Extra points for shooting in soft 35mm as opposed to digital video.) Disney buffs won’t need any further endorsement than the sight of Uncle Walt in gaucho garb riding a bucking bronco.

Extract. Mike Judge’s previous excursion into the workplace, Office Space, provided laughs at the expense of the dimwitted management of a computer software company. Here, the sympathies lie squarely with the owner of a flavoring plant (Jason Bateman) whose staff, wife, and next-door neighbors drive him to the edge of sanity. Judge, a former cartoonist who likes to paint characters with bold, broad strokes, betrays a basic regard for individual worth even when depicting human nature at its stupidest and most self-seeking. (Though, to be fair, one particularly annoying character is smote by what appears to be the hand of God.) The result is a film that is both warm and cynical, an anomalous cocktail that goes some ways in combating the bland shot-making.

Ponyo. Japanese animator Hayao Miyazaki keeps threatening to retire with each picture, which makes every new release a momentous occasion. This beguilingly strange fantasy, about an affectionate fish with a human head who years to be human, is a good example of his wide-eyed whimsy. (Great scene in which a boy and his mother try to outpace a looming tsunami along a precarious coastal highway.) The primary threat to the safety of the characters—the derangement of Mother Nature—is uninspired, but the film runs steadily on childlike emotions and naïve dialogue. (Sample: “She’s become so powerful she’s opened up a hole in the fabric of reality.” Or, my favorite: “If the boy’s love isn’t real then Ponyo will turn into sea foam.”) Miyazaki’s practiced hand produces one enchanted image after another, and the plot emulates Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid without quite reaching the emotional heights of that undisputed classic.

District 9. Instant cult film that at the moment occupies the #40 slot in IMDb’s user-appointed list of the top films ever made, just ahead of Hitchcock’s Vertigo. (We’ll see how long it holds.) A self-congratulatory sci-fi about a group of stranded aliens living in a segregated slum of Johannesburg and the government’s insensitive attempts to relocate them. The early and obvious stabs at social commentary are jettisoned in favor of frenzied action sequences, though the creatures (depreciatively referred to as “prawns”) are convincing, and the lead human (Sharlto Copley) gives a physically demanding performance as the government stooge who learns a tough lesson in ethnic reconciliation. A few clever ideas; a lot of unpleasant violence.

Funny People. Judd Apatow’s crack at grownup comedy, concerning a depressed comedian and his untidy personal life, is fueled by unforced repartee between its two principals (Adam Sandler and Seth Rogan) and a feel for the ungainliness of human relationships. The incidental pleasures aren’t enough to sustain the indulgent runtime (two-and-a-half hours) or counterbalance the wet sentimentality. A horde of scatological allusions, remarkable for their range and frequency, confirms Apatow as our penis poet laureate.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Whereas previous installments tended to be kind to the nonreader, this sixth piece of the sorcerer saga is more uncaring toward the uninitiated. Full of pregnant glances and meaningful lines sure to be deciphered and appreciated only by diehard devotees, this stagnantly paced, suffocatingly atmospheric fantasy pushes the plot only a little further downfield. As usual, the adult cast (especially a Shakespearean Alan Rickman) carries the day with their experienced oratory while the rapidly maturing protagonists go through the familiar motions of teenage torment and disillusionment.

Public Enemies. Michael Mann’s stylish addition to the gangster genre, for all its resources (bankable stars, piles of production value), ranks well below John Milius’s 1973 masterpiece Dillinger, and only a little higher than Dan Curtis’s made-for-TV cheapie Melvin Purvis: G-Man. The use of thin-looking high definition video occasionally gives the impression that you are watching a well-produced student film (or, perhaps more charitably, a DVD featurette). Only in the extended shootouts does Mann betray his prowess as an action director—some of the night scenes appear to be lit only by the sporadic blast of machinegun fire. Though it adds very little to the Dillinger myth, the two-and-a-half hours go by quickly.

The Hurt Locker. Kathryn Bigalow employs a small cast and a compulsively jittery camera to tell the story of a frazzled American bomb squad in war-ravaged Baghdad. The best of several good scenes: a long-range sniper battle in which each side painstakingly takes turns firing. There’s a Hawksian dynamic to the tight-knit group of professionals and plenty of outside peril to keep the story tense, plus a good feel for mangy detail and the toll of war on the innocent. The “war is a drug” thesis is overemphasized to the point where a preliminary title card spells it all out for you.

Whatever Works. Woody Allen’s vinegary comedy about an aging misanthrope’s fling with a bubbly teenager cuts even more corners than Vicky Cristina Barcelona: straight-to-camera soliloquies, bland declarative sentences, lazy blocking, and the like. The characters are reduced to mere spokespersons for the director’s bohemian-bordering-on-nihilistic worldview. Made tolerable by the cast and the no-nonsense professionalism of the filmmaking, one can’t help but feel that this is the beginning of the end of a long and varied career. Woody is beginning to sound like one of his beloved records—a broken one.

Moon. Low budget, high-concept science fiction with the dial set to slow and eerie. It doesn’t build to a climax or final punch line but carefully, patiently dispenses with critical information the moment it’s needed. The central idea is sprung relatively early, allowing for plenty of introspection, and the pieces eventually amount to a scathing—and scathingly funny—indictment of big business. Isolated against a drab set, Sam Rockwell, like Bruce Dern in Silent Running, performs admirably in a tricky role, and Jones and writing partner Nathan Parker capitalize on the same lurking fear central to 2001: A Space Odyssey—namely, that you are a pawn in some kind of vast conspiracy.

Summer Hours. From Olivier Assayas, a quiet drama about a group of siblings forced to divvy up the possessions of their recently deceased mother (the graceful Edith Scob, whose presence haunts the movie even when she’s gone). The setting is a verdant estate in a provincial French town—a magical sort of place that seems to be a repository for fragrant memories. The themes that slowly emerge—themes dealing with memory, legacy, and sentimental value—are mysterious and elusive, and the film is that much richer for it.

Easy Virtue. An honorable but ill-fated attempt to jazz up a once jazzy Noel Coward play by revamping some ‘20s songs, casting a pair of hotties in the lead roles, and making various other “meaningful” updates. (The father of the family is now a member of WWI’s “Lost Generation.”) It almost works, but director Stephan Elliot’s attempts at frothiness don’t have the intended freshening effect, and the young ones (Jessica Biel, Ben Barnes) are easily outclassed by the old fogies (Kristin Scott Thomas, Colin Firth). Excellent establishing shots of the country estate; one ill-advised scene in which Biel accidentally crushes a Chihuahua.

Angels & Demons. Pricey follow-up to the risible Da Vinci Code, with the inexpressive Tom Hanks reprising his role as the Illuminati-chasing symbologist of Dan Brown’s popular potboilers. Lots of running and talking; several tasteless images of priests roasting over huge bonfires, drowning in public fountains, hanging onto their protruding guts, etc. The Catholics don’t come out ahead, but neither does director Ron Howard.

Lorna's Silence

natebell — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 11:36:57 -0700

Looking back on a meager summer, the most momentous release of the season came and went with a whisper. At the widest point of its release, Lorna’s Silence played in a scant 16 theaters, a number that seems unjust and yet perfectly suited to the modesty of its makers. (In my daydreams, Lorna’s Silence outperforms Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen to become the ninth highest grossing film of all time.) This is the fifth feature from Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne, the fraternal filmmaking team responsible for some of the most potent imports of the last ten years. If there is an overarching theme in their work, it has to do with the discovery of the spirit, which has earned them a place alongside the sainted Robert Bresson.

The young lady of the title, a stony beauty played with magnificent poise by Arta Dobroshi, is involved in a sham marriage to a stranger in order to gain Belgian citizenship. Her “husband” (Dardenne regular Jeremie Renier) is a scrawny drug addict who sleeps in the living room of her apartment. His desperate cries in the night are like the pangs of her conscience, a constant reminder of her secret sin. She tries her best to be indifferent to his suffering, but his pathetic dependence on her stimulates her moral sense and sets into motion a series of events that ends in tragedy. Or is it redemption? One of the glories of this courageously subtle film is the ambiguity of its final scene.

For fans, all the Dardenne trademarks are present: a closely observant, impassive camera, a frigidly downbeat Belgian setting, and a cast of actors so natural that you may feel embarrassed for eavesdropping. And though the pace can be felt to slacken during some of the more convoluted stretches, the filmmakers’ commitment to character and their devotion to the inscrutabilities of the human soul are kept in constant focus. Like any of the Dardennes’ films, Lorna’s Silence permits the audience nothing less than deep commitment.

Inglourious Basterds

natebell — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 15:38:29 -0700

Inglourious Basterds, Quentin Tarantino’s shockingly violent WWII fantasy, is a late summer jolt of electricity. While the director’s blatant disregard for good taste has never been more apparent, it actually for once works to his advantage. A film that features lines like, “Say goodbye to your Nazi balls” doesn’t beg to be taken seriously after all. It aims low and hits its target with precision.

Tarantino, “QT” to his friends, is a filmmaker forever to be filed under “problematic.” Like the disturbed kid who enjoys pulling the wings off butterflies (but can’t explain why), he has a cruel streak that finds vent in bravura scenes of torture and violence. He appears to be most comfortable working with primitive emotions like fear and rage, and his knack for riling audiences would be legendary if only he had an audience to speak of. (Despite the Oscar nominations, he’s still the property of a cult.) His favorite theme is revenge, or, if you want to split hairs, retribution. The conscientiously profane dialogue that litters his screenplays is often praised for its creativity, though it has always sounded very sophomoric to these ears, very junior high (scatology spiked with the “f” word). His inability or unwillingness to deal with three-dimensional people in favor of caricatures or stereotypes suggests a lack of interest in the world beyond the movie theater. (Jackie Brown is the sole exception, thanks to the humanizing performances of Pam Grier and Robert Forster.) In short, he’s immature, unprincipled, and not to be trusted. A real basterd.

What ought to be discussed—what cannot be denied—is the man’s skill with the camera and his narrative sophistication. Tarantino is enough of a natural filmmaker (or else has absorbed enough cinema through osmosis) to know how to compose a shot, how long to hold it, how to create and sustain a rhythm or mood. These are not negligible virtues. As far as his narrative inventiveness goes, when not meddling with nonlinearity (a gimmick that made him famous with Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction) he is a proud practitioner of what could be termed the “art of taking one’s time.” Three major set pieces (one in a farmhouse, one in a tavern, one in a movie theater) are drawn out to exquisitely suspenseful lengths before the inevitable violent payoff. Even the casual gesture (a cigarette extinguished in a piece of strudel, for example) is given its due. Some may resent this unhurried attention to detail and call it self-admiring, call it indulgent, but after a summer full of sound and fury there’s no doubt it serves a definite need.

The plot (of which the less you know beforehand, the better) involves a special group of American commandos (led by Brad Pitt, a mysterious rope burn around his neck), a smilingly sadistic S.S. officer known as the Jew Hunter (the often brilliant Christof Waltz, Best Actor winner at Cannes), the proprietor of a French movie house (Melanie Laurent) and a plot to kill the Führer (not the historical plot dramatized in Valkyrie, but a purely fantastic one inspired by Hitchcock’s Sabotage). It crescendos with a fiery scene of unquestionable visceral impact, one that safely—perhaps childishly—bets on a universal hatred of Hitler. There is nothing heroic about it, but then heroism seems to be far from Tarantino’s mind. If Inglourious Basterds doesn’t mark for its auteur a progression toward discernment and sophistication, at least it proves he hasn’t lost his touch.