Meanwhile, while most people have been hit hard by the catastrophic failure of the Bush economy (such as our double-layoff family), today comes the news that Wall Street gave out around $18.4 billion in bonuses last year, the sixth largest amount on record, according to the NYT.
Obama called this "shameful," but his out-of-control Liberal-Muslim-Communist player-hating does nothing to deter my swelling pride in the lions of business, feelings that will persist even as every one of them is lined up against the wall, blindfolded and shot in the head. I sure will miss them after they're gone!
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Business as Usual
I really admire the world of business and all of its leaders. When you can justify laying off a six-months-pregnant woman to protect your own salary, the human race is really advancing! Far from being filled with a murderous rage right now, I am full of praise for those captains of industry who, day after day, make the smart decisions that have kept our economy so healthy. When you can find a way to protect your own bank account by heartlessly screwing people who have worked very hard for you, you win! After all, this is what has made America great.
Classics at The Alameda: The Maltese Falcon
The third week of classics at the Alameda Theatre commenced yesterday afternoon with The Maltese Falcon, John Huston's first film and one of Humphrey Bogart's finest moments. I have always enjoyed the movie but have rarely been able to follow the storyline no matter how many times I see it. Still, it's always fun to see a movie like that on the big screen -
- even if the projection disappoints. This time, in addition to the usual strange focus issues - maybe it does have to do with print quality, though I still don't understand how that could be - the film was projected to fill the full rectangular screen. This meant that a good 1/5 or more of the image was cut off, ruining Huston's framing. Back in 1941, when the film was released, films came in the squarer 1.33:1 "Academy" aspect ratio. The projectionist could have used a special lens to project the film properly; don't know if they lacked the lens or made the choice to fill up the screen. I believe that some films have been shot with the intention of "masking" part of the frame during projection - I need to look into this, as I've always wondered about it - but Falcon was not one of them.
Enjoyably enough, prior to the main feature the classic comedy short, The Absent-Minded Waiter, starring Steve Martin, was shown.
- even if the projection disappoints. This time, in addition to the usual strange focus issues - maybe it does have to do with print quality, though I still don't understand how that could be - the film was projected to fill the full rectangular screen. This meant that a good 1/5 or more of the image was cut off, ruining Huston's framing. Back in 1941, when the film was released, films came in the squarer 1.33:1 "Academy" aspect ratio. The projectionist could have used a special lens to project the film properly; don't know if they lacked the lens or made the choice to fill up the screen. I believe that some films have been shot with the intention of "masking" part of the frame during projection - I need to look into this, as I've always wondered about it - but Falcon was not one of them.
Enjoyably enough, prior to the main feature the classic comedy short, The Absent-Minded Waiter, starring Steve Martin, was shown.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Slumdog Millionaire
Slumdog Millionaire might be 2008's most over-praised film, an honor I had thought I would bestow upon The Dark Knight. Audiences and critics seem to love Slumdog. I understand it to a point; it's a feel-good fantasy in an exotic setting about an orphan from a hellish slum who becomes rich and wins the girl of his dreams. I like fantasy, too - but not brutally dishonest fantasy.
Isn't any fantasy dishonest? Or any and every film, for that matter? Okay, but how far do you need to take this? Some films tell you up front that they are fantasies; Slumdog tries to have it both ways. It tries to be grounded in the reality of life in hell and make it flashy and sexy, too. It "corrects" the violence, filth and savage injustices of its characters' lives with coincidence, shallow characterization, all-conquering love and lies upon lies. I am not usually bothered when popular filmmakers use colorful Third World backdrops because they rarely ask us to take their tourism seriously (in The Incredible Hulk, for instance, or the Bourne and Bond films); also, I just don't give a shit about that kind of argument. But, alas, director Danny Boyle seems not to know that he is a tourist here, reminding me of the gullible travelers in his film's Taj Mahal sequence. Yep, it's a film set in India, made by a British director - and it has a Taj Mahal sequence. Of course it does.
To be fair, Boyle's Taj Mahal sequence is not without irony. I've tended to like his work in the past and had some hopes for this film, in spite of what its ad campaign suggested to me. The first half of the film is rather charming, too, when he's following the main character as a child. In spite of the horrors of their lives, children are resilient - to a point. It's just so bleeding unlikely that everything is going to work out so well, fall so neatly into place, for anyone as an adult, let alone someone who reaches adulthood under the circumstances depicted here, that the film just goes off the rails after a certain point.
That is to say, what had been a pleasant fantasy becomes an unpleasant, treacly fantasy that stops making sense even by its own rules. As one absurdity after another piles up, I start checking out.
As for the viewing experience, tonight we sat in the Alameda's balcony for the first time, which was a novel and extremely pleasant vantage. Sadly, in the row behind us was a pair of middle-aged women who seemed to mistake the gigantic, art deco theater for their own living room. They reacted audibly to each twist and turn of the film, including simple sounds and full sentences of advice for the characters, and they occasionally struck up conversation with each other. Perhaps my reaction to the film comes in part from the fact that I was distracted both by their noise and by what I might do about it.
I considered talking to them right in the middle of the film; I also went over several scenarios for talking to them after the film was over. In this situation, if I make it through the film without saying anything, there's about a 50% chance that I will say something afterwards. This time I said, "Ladies, a little too much talking during the movie." They flattened their faces at me and sort of subtly bent back and away. I continued, "This is not your living room."
By now, Kim had practically turned into a gas in her efforts to get out of there. We left.
Look, I don't crave that kind of confrontation. I don't love to embarrass my wife, or be a dick. But if you go to the movies, SHUT THE FUCK UP. Or don't go. Those are your options. If you are too stupid to understand that, you are too stupid to attend the movies.
Isn't any fantasy dishonest? Or any and every film, for that matter? Okay, but how far do you need to take this? Some films tell you up front that they are fantasies; Slumdog tries to have it both ways. It tries to be grounded in the reality of life in hell and make it flashy and sexy, too. It "corrects" the violence, filth and savage injustices of its characters' lives with coincidence, shallow characterization, all-conquering love and lies upon lies. I am not usually bothered when popular filmmakers use colorful Third World backdrops because they rarely ask us to take their tourism seriously (in The Incredible Hulk, for instance, or the Bourne and Bond films); also, I just don't give a shit about that kind of argument. But, alas, director Danny Boyle seems not to know that he is a tourist here, reminding me of the gullible travelers in his film's Taj Mahal sequence. Yep, it's a film set in India, made by a British director - and it has a Taj Mahal sequence. Of course it does.
To be fair, Boyle's Taj Mahal sequence is not without irony. I've tended to like his work in the past and had some hopes for this film, in spite of what its ad campaign suggested to me. The first half of the film is rather charming, too, when he's following the main character as a child. In spite of the horrors of their lives, children are resilient - to a point. It's just so bleeding unlikely that everything is going to work out so well, fall so neatly into place, for anyone as an adult, let alone someone who reaches adulthood under the circumstances depicted here, that the film just goes off the rails after a certain point.
That is to say, what had been a pleasant fantasy becomes an unpleasant, treacly fantasy that stops making sense even by its own rules. As one absurdity after another piles up, I start checking out.
As for the viewing experience, tonight we sat in the Alameda's balcony for the first time, which was a novel and extremely pleasant vantage. Sadly, in the row behind us was a pair of middle-aged women who seemed to mistake the gigantic, art deco theater for their own living room. They reacted audibly to each twist and turn of the film, including simple sounds and full sentences of advice for the characters, and they occasionally struck up conversation with each other. Perhaps my reaction to the film comes in part from the fact that I was distracted both by their noise and by what I might do about it.
I considered talking to them right in the middle of the film; I also went over several scenarios for talking to them after the film was over. In this situation, if I make it through the film without saying anything, there's about a 50% chance that I will say something afterwards. This time I said, "Ladies, a little too much talking during the movie." They flattened their faces at me and sort of subtly bent back and away. I continued, "This is not your living room."
By now, Kim had practically turned into a gas in her efforts to get out of there. We left.
Look, I don't crave that kind of confrontation. I don't love to embarrass my wife, or be a dick. But if you go to the movies, SHUT THE FUCK UP. Or don't go. Those are your options. If you are too stupid to understand that, you are too stupid to attend the movies.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Classics at The Alameda: North by Northwest
Cary Grant is my all-time favorite movie star. It's always great fun to see him in North by Northwest as the ultimate falsely-accused man-on-the-run - although Hitchcock made something of a specialty of this type of film, of course, including another one of my favorites, The 39 Steps. I'm pleased to say that the projection was pretty good today at the Alameda; rarely soft and pretty well-framed. Prior to the show, I asked the fellow at the snack bar whether the staff had pre-screened the print with an eye to ensuring good focus; turns out they did, until 5 AM this morning.
In addition to the feature presentation, the Alameda also screened a few charming shorts prior to the main show: Tex Avery's 1951 Symphony in Slang, a very short promo about a boy who sees Santa Claus in everyone and the classic John Waters "No Smoking" announcement. The latter was especially nice to see as it reminded me of my frequent trips to the old UC Theater in Berkeley when I first moved to California ten years ago. That sadly defunct repertory grindhouse played nightly double-features of classics, foreign films and cult favorites - and always opened the show with the sardonic Waters' bit:
Today, watching North by Northwest, I was struck by a couple of things. First - something I also noticed again last week during the Vertigo screening - Bernard Herrmann, the great film composer, frequently recycled bits and pieces of his scores, or at least that's how it seems to me. I first noticed this when writing a major essay on the use of sound in Citizen Kane in film school. Being a great fan of that film and also Vertigo, I noticed that some of the music in the first film seems to have been used for the second. This is not precisely the case; it's more a matter of very similar-sounding chord progressions sneaking into different compositions - and the very same progression I noticed in those films is present in North by Northwest, too!
If you're curious, listen to the music Herrmann uses in the Thatcher Library scene in Kane, just as the reporter, Mr. Thompson, begins to read Thatcher's journal, before the film dissolves into the depiction of the snowy day when Thatcher arrived to take young Kane away from his parents - and a certain favorite sled. Compare this music to the theme in Vertigo, repeated throughout the film, that can be heard as "Madeleine" stares at Carlotta's portrait in the Palace of the Legion of Honor. I could swear that I also heard the first few notes of this same theme at one point in North by Northwest, I believe when Cary Grant returnes to Eva Marie Saint's hotel room after his encounter with the malevolent crop duster.
The second thing that struck me today was how vividly the film illustrates Hitchcock's notions of the establishment and utility of suspense versus surprise in visual storytelling. Hitchcock was the "Master of Suspense," but I suspect that this has come to mean, for some, simply that he made "scary movies," like Psycho. The trouble there is that it's too easy to see Psycho as the precedent for the slasher movies that came afterward which, to this day, tend to rely much more on surprise than on suspense, to their detriment. (If you take a look at the trailer for the pointless remake, or "reboot," of Friday the 13th, you'll see what I mean.) Here, Hitchcock explains the difference in conversation with Francois Truffaut:
We are now having a very innocent little chat. Let us suppose that there is a bomb underneath this table between us. Nothing happens, and then all of a sudden, “Boom!” There is an explosion. The public is surprised, but prior to this surprise, it has seen an absolutely ordinary scene, of no special consequence. Now, let us take a suspense situation. The bomb is underneath the table and the audience knows it, probably because they have seen the anarchist place it there. The public is aware that the bomb is going to explode at one o’clock and there is a clock in the decor. The public can see that it is a quarter to one. In these conditions this same innocuous conversation becomes fascinating because the public is participating in the scene. The audience is longing to warn the characters on the screen: “You shouldn’t be talking about such trivial matters. There’s a bomb beneath you and it’s about to explode!”
In the first case we have given the public fifteen seconds of surprise at the moment of the explosion. In the second we have provided them with fifteen minutes of suspense. The conclusion is that whenever possible the public must be informed.
This is perhaps the key to Hitchcock's art; throughout North by Northwest, in big and small ways, we see examples of this in which we are shown something that is not immediately revealed to our hero. For instance, we learn long before Cary Grant that there is no George Kaplan; we are shown Eve's gun in her purse, though Grant doesn't know about it; Hitchcock pulls out to show us the henchman waiting on the other side of the rock as Grant and Saint flee across Mt. Rushmore. This approach is a big part of what keeps the film working, in all of its splendid preposterousness.
In addition to the feature presentation, the Alameda also screened a few charming shorts prior to the main show: Tex Avery's 1951 Symphony in Slang, a very short promo about a boy who sees Santa Claus in everyone and the classic John Waters "No Smoking" announcement. The latter was especially nice to see as it reminded me of my frequent trips to the old UC Theater in Berkeley when I first moved to California ten years ago. That sadly defunct repertory grindhouse played nightly double-features of classics, foreign films and cult favorites - and always opened the show with the sardonic Waters' bit:
Today, watching North by Northwest, I was struck by a couple of things. First - something I also noticed again last week during the Vertigo screening - Bernard Herrmann, the great film composer, frequently recycled bits and pieces of his scores, or at least that's how it seems to me. I first noticed this when writing a major essay on the use of sound in Citizen Kane in film school. Being a great fan of that film and also Vertigo, I noticed that some of the music in the first film seems to have been used for the second. This is not precisely the case; it's more a matter of very similar-sounding chord progressions sneaking into different compositions - and the very same progression I noticed in those films is present in North by Northwest, too!
If you're curious, listen to the music Herrmann uses in the Thatcher Library scene in Kane, just as the reporter, Mr. Thompson, begins to read Thatcher's journal, before the film dissolves into the depiction of the snowy day when Thatcher arrived to take young Kane away from his parents - and a certain favorite sled. Compare this music to the theme in Vertigo, repeated throughout the film, that can be heard as "Madeleine" stares at Carlotta's portrait in the Palace of the Legion of Honor. I could swear that I also heard the first few notes of this same theme at one point in North by Northwest, I believe when Cary Grant returnes to Eva Marie Saint's hotel room after his encounter with the malevolent crop duster.
The second thing that struck me today was how vividly the film illustrates Hitchcock's notions of the establishment and utility of suspense versus surprise in visual storytelling. Hitchcock was the "Master of Suspense," but I suspect that this has come to mean, for some, simply that he made "scary movies," like Psycho. The trouble there is that it's too easy to see Psycho as the precedent for the slasher movies that came afterward which, to this day, tend to rely much more on surprise than on suspense, to their detriment. (If you take a look at the trailer for the pointless remake, or "reboot," of Friday the 13th, you'll see what I mean.) Here, Hitchcock explains the difference in conversation with Francois Truffaut:
We are now having a very innocent little chat. Let us suppose that there is a bomb underneath this table between us. Nothing happens, and then all of a sudden, “Boom!” There is an explosion. The public is surprised, but prior to this surprise, it has seen an absolutely ordinary scene, of no special consequence. Now, let us take a suspense situation. The bomb is underneath the table and the audience knows it, probably because they have seen the anarchist place it there. The public is aware that the bomb is going to explode at one o’clock and there is a clock in the decor. The public can see that it is a quarter to one. In these conditions this same innocuous conversation becomes fascinating because the public is participating in the scene. The audience is longing to warn the characters on the screen: “You shouldn’t be talking about such trivial matters. There’s a bomb beneath you and it’s about to explode!”
In the first case we have given the public fifteen seconds of surprise at the moment of the explosion. In the second we have provided them with fifteen minutes of suspense. The conclusion is that whenever possible the public must be informed.
This is perhaps the key to Hitchcock's art; throughout North by Northwest, in big and small ways, we see examples of this in which we are shown something that is not immediately revealed to our hero. For instance, we learn long before Cary Grant that there is no George Kaplan; we are shown Eve's gun in her purse, though Grant doesn't know about it; Hitchcock pulls out to show us the henchman waiting on the other side of the rock as Grant and Saint flee across Mt. Rushmore. This approach is a big part of what keeps the film working, in all of its splendid preposterousness.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Can't tell me nothing
Lately, I've been obsessed with this video that comic Zach Galifianakis and singer/songwriter Will Oldham made for Kanye West's song, "Can't Tell Me Nothing," from last year's Graduation album:
I don't know why recording artists still make music videos, but it's definitely part of the game. What I mean is, I don't know who they are for or where one watches them, apart from YouTube. Kanye made an official video for "Can't Tell Me Nothing," then apparently asked Zach to make an alternative version, embedded above.
The official version features Kanye dancing around in the desert, with a chick in her underwear and a big piece of flowing fabric, some flashing lights, a fog machine and a Lamborghini Countach. It's a remarkably unimaginative video, apart from that it seems especially tossed-off and generic. It kind of just checks a list of rap video cliches and moves on. It's too bad, because the song itself is a pretty good hip-hop track, classic in its themes, poignantly conflicted in tone and bumpin'.
Somehow, in their alternative version, director Michael Blieden and Galifianakis tease out all of West's meaning and create a video that elevates the song far beyond what you'd expect. It's a hilarious video, yes, but more than that, it creates a surprisingly rich narrative and spins out all kinds of questions for the viewer - who are these guys? are they brothers? friends? lovers? where are they? what are their lives like? are they lonely? are they in pain? are the seeking redemption? Even in its absurdity, even in its moments of surreality or literalism, it's never less than beautiful, even beautifully wrong or strange. And some of the shots are simply stunning. My favorite are the magic hour shots of Zach in the straw hat in the green cornfield.
I get that to some people my reverence for this video and the degree to which I am reading into it will seem silly - after all, the filmmakers are just goofing off on Zach's farm with a bunch of cows, a red tractor and clog-dancing milkmaids. One might think they just improvised a bunch of shit, shot it, and slapped it together. I can understand that point of view, but I think it's very close-minded.
Galifianakis, if you look at his body of work thus far, appears to be some kind of genius. That's not a term I throw around lightly. His approach to comedy bears more than a passing resemblance to Andy Kaufman's, though he doesn't quite take it that far. He alienates his audience, insults them, tries to win them back, laments his failure to do so, reels off one non sequitur after another, tells unconnected series of simple jokes, and goofs on his beard, his weight and his own self-consciousness. In his skits, he vanishes into his characters, including that of his North Carolina-bred, back-country-accented, "twin brother," Seth, even as he completely fails to disguise himself. Likewise, in the music video, for me at least, while he is obviously Zach Galifianakis, he is something completely different as well - a hipster-farmer, dangerously unhinged, possibly violent or abusive, or maybe just closed back in upon himself in bottomless sorrow, his fierce, piercing gaze hooking into you. His level of commitment here is total, and I just can't look away.
I don't know why recording artists still make music videos, but it's definitely part of the game. What I mean is, I don't know who they are for or where one watches them, apart from YouTube. Kanye made an official video for "Can't Tell Me Nothing," then apparently asked Zach to make an alternative version, embedded above.
The official version features Kanye dancing around in the desert, with a chick in her underwear and a big piece of flowing fabric, some flashing lights, a fog machine and a Lamborghini Countach. It's a remarkably unimaginative video, apart from that it seems especially tossed-off and generic. It kind of just checks a list of rap video cliches and moves on. It's too bad, because the song itself is a pretty good hip-hop track, classic in its themes, poignantly conflicted in tone and bumpin'.
Somehow, in their alternative version, director Michael Blieden and Galifianakis tease out all of West's meaning and create a video that elevates the song far beyond what you'd expect. It's a hilarious video, yes, but more than that, it creates a surprisingly rich narrative and spins out all kinds of questions for the viewer - who are these guys? are they brothers? friends? lovers? where are they? what are their lives like? are they lonely? are they in pain? are the seeking redemption? Even in its absurdity, even in its moments of surreality or literalism, it's never less than beautiful, even beautifully wrong or strange. And some of the shots are simply stunning. My favorite are the magic hour shots of Zach in the straw hat in the green cornfield.
I get that to some people my reverence for this video and the degree to which I am reading into it will seem silly - after all, the filmmakers are just goofing off on Zach's farm with a bunch of cows, a red tractor and clog-dancing milkmaids. One might think they just improvised a bunch of shit, shot it, and slapped it together. I can understand that point of view, but I think it's very close-minded.
Galifianakis, if you look at his body of work thus far, appears to be some kind of genius. That's not a term I throw around lightly. His approach to comedy bears more than a passing resemblance to Andy Kaufman's, though he doesn't quite take it that far. He alienates his audience, insults them, tries to win them back, laments his failure to do so, reels off one non sequitur after another, tells unconnected series of simple jokes, and goofs on his beard, his weight and his own self-consciousness. In his skits, he vanishes into his characters, including that of his North Carolina-bred, back-country-accented, "twin brother," Seth, even as he completely fails to disguise himself. Likewise, in the music video, for me at least, while he is obviously Zach Galifianakis, he is something completely different as well - a hipster-farmer, dangerously unhinged, possibly violent or abusive, or maybe just closed back in upon himself in bottomless sorrow, his fierce, piercing gaze hooking into you. His level of commitment here is total, and I just can't look away.
Wish fulfillment
Dana Perino, my Bush-collaborator crush-object, is the one member of the administration I will miss. She makes lying hot! I thought this was a pretty funny bit, from last night's Daily Show. By which I mean, it's funny because it's true and we laugh so as not to cry.
As of this hour, Barack Obama is the 44th President of the United States.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Goodbye, dick!
Just wanted to take a moment to mark the final day of the seemingly endless term of the Worst President Ever. I will never understand for as long as I live how this pathetic, awful man managed to get elected President twice. It's the kind of thing that makes me hate my fellow Americans for being such idiotic dolts. I know there are people that I like who happen to be Republicans and who may have even voted for Bush. You elected a man of towering ignorance, dangerous stupidity and callous assholery. Twice. Thanks for nearly ruining America. Nice work, douchebags.
I'm looking forward to the new guy. I'm pretty curious to see what's going to happen. I'm cautiously optimistic. Mostly, I'm just relieved we're turning the page. Hopefully, good things are ahead.
What a relief!
I'm looking forward to the new guy. I'm pretty curious to see what's going to happen. I'm cautiously optimistic. Mostly, I'm just relieved we're turning the page. Hopefully, good things are ahead.
What a relief!
Catching up with the films of 2008
One of the (few) disadvantages of life in the San Francisco Bay Area affects movie-lovers like myself. Whereas nearly every film released in the United States will play in New York or Los Angeles, immediately, some of those will never play here and the rest will either play in one or two San Francisco theaters (as opposed to East Bay theaters) and then close, or open at an annoyingly slow pace weeks or months after that initial release. This situation is much better than that of most areas of the country, of course, where some of these films will simply never play at all - so, I should be thankful, I suppose, that I don't still live in Iowa. And I am.
The films I'm talking about are not the multiplex fodder that most Americans think of when they think of "the movies" (myself frequently included); I mean the smaller films that barely have a chance to find an audience before getting yanked from the few art house chains and independent theaters that remain and that never play in the sticks. I should confess, though, that I am not a very good cinephile. I will rarely travel far to see a good film - these days, it's tough to get me to leave the island, though I will do it for a special film that I won't get to see in a theater otherwise or that I feel I MUST see as soon as possible.
For instance, as a die-hard Woody Allen fan, I will always see his latest film immediately upon release. Most of them vanish shortly thereafter, although this year's effort, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, became popular enough to get a wider release and even won the Golden Globe for Best Musical or Comedy. So, good for Woody. This week, too, I plan to go to San Francisco to see the "roadtrip" version of Steven Soderbergh's Che, in which the whole film is shown rather than broken up into two parts. Four hours long? Shot on the Red One? Soderbergh and Del Toro? Violently mixed reviews? Cinephile catnip!
Last week, Scott and I traveled to Berkeley to see The Wrestler. We had heard all the buzz, so we had to catch it. I found the film to be very moving and satisfying, with minimal schmaltz and a quietly extraordinary performance from Mickey Rourke. Marisa Tomei, who has always seemed to me to be working hard (and impressively) to actually earn that Oscar she got way back in 1992, is also great here. I had been thinking about The Wrestler for a few days until I spoke to my film school buddy, Andy, who pointed out how terrible the script is - and he's right. The script for The Wrestler is a paint-by-numbers quickie sports-movie formula piece, with an embarrassingly awful subplot involving Rourke's estranged daughter. It could easily be that "Wallace Beery wrestling picture" Barton Fink finds himself unable to write.
But his argument left me strangely unmoved and failed to change my impression much. It's true that Andy and I have often disagreed about movies in the past - he has frequently said that I "like everything," an untrue statement on its face, but indicative of my ability to be swept away - but here it's not that we disagreed, exactly. It's that, at a certain point, the film went somewhere for me that I found quite interesting. Early on, the Tomei character quotes the passage in Isaiah that predicts the suffering of the Messiah and the redemption of believers - "by his stripes, we are healed" - which she unironically attributes to the film The Passion of the Christ. She's suggesting that the way Rourke's washed-up professional wrestler abuses his own body for our entertainment is not unlike what that Jesus character in the Passion undergoes. After I heard this, I felt I understood something essential about the character and about the filmmakers' purpose - it's a film about a man who believes he's nothing more than a piece of meat, good for nothing but a beating, and about his messy, faltering, daily search for redemption.
As an allegory, in its moving story and in its the performances, The Wrestler far transcends its script; I think it's Darren Aronofsky's best work to date. Fans of the Dardennes will note with interest some of the camerawork in the film, too - the Belgian brothers have developed a distinctive style for their super-realist dramas, two of which have won the Palme D'Or at Cannes in the last decade, in which they frequently hover their hand-held camera just over their subject's shoulder. Aronofsky co-opts this style frequently in his film in a way that, for me at least, immediately recalled The Son or Rosetta, among other films. I suppose if the Dardennes are, perhaps, the most-celebrated neo-realists working today (for lack of a better term), it makes sense that this kind of camera work (hardly unique to them, but somewhat unusual in narrative film) has become a kind of shorthand for "authenticity." A bit of a cheap trick, really, that Aronofsky uses only occasionally - but it's nice to see him trying new things.
Another film that makes much better use of Dardenne-style camerawork, less obtrusively and more rigorously fused with an objectively framed, devastatingly omissive mise-en-scene, is the 2007 Cannes winner, 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, by Romanian writer/director, Cristian Mungiu. I only saw this recently, on DVD, and it's an example of the kind of film that I am sometimes too lazy to see. Another is the likewise highly-praised, The Edge of Heaven, which I have had from Netflix for several weeks now. 4 Months I had for about four months. Okay, not that long; as the film is about an illegal abortion in Ceausescu's Romania, my very-pregnant wife opted out, and I assumed I was in for a big downer and it took me a little while (and her being out of town) to pop it into the DVD player.
I am very glad I did. It's an extraordinary film, powerful, clear-eyed and straightforward - it takes place in nearly real time and makes no political statements about abortion, apart from simply depicting the harrowing, horrifying ordeal of such a procedure under a dictatorship in which it's illegal. Most striking for me - because from early on I could see I would not be spared much, though the worst moment takes place off-screen - were the relationships. Otilia and her pregnant friend, Gabita, reminded me very strongly of some of the young women I knew in college. These women had extremely intense, emotional friendships of the kind that appear quite strange to young men, for whom things might be simpler or more straightforward, relationships that are sometimes strengthened by awful behavior rather than kindness, as if that awfulness itself is an assurance of intimacy: I would never dare to treat anyone else so horribly and with such selfishness; it is only because we are like sisters that I am willing to do so. It is not worth citing specifics because - if anyone were to actually read this post - I would hope not to ruin one minute of this film, which must be the best of the year.
I want to move now, quickly, through a few other films that I have seen recently, as I try to catch up with 2008:
Gran Torino, is a funny, satisfying bit of hokum, starring and directed by Clint Eastwood. The trailer sold the film as some kind of geriatric Dirty Harry film; in reality, it's another of Eastwood's sly revisionist takes on his violent persona, like Unforgiven, though not nearly as fine a work as that film. If sentimental and a bit hokey at times, this story of a ridiculously cranky, racist old-timer who loves his vintage Gran Torino and little else has enough specific and unique details of time, place and character to help the film work pretty well. Eastwood's character helped build the titular muscle car as a Ford mechanic in better times, and Eastwood-the-director clearly felt a resonance in this story of an old, muscular American archetype who finds the world changing all around him, even as he tries to cling to what he knows. It's a terrific performance, both gentle and foaming at the mouth, wise and reckless, stern and hilarious. (Seeing this film made me want to go back and watch the Dirty Harry films, the first two of which I screened over the weekend. They're a lot of silly fun, of course, but it's also interesting to see the San Francisco of the 70s as well as the filmmaking style of that time. And Clint Eastwood in the first Dirty Harry film must certainly have the Best Haircut in Cinema.)
Doubt is an example of the oft-tested rule that prize-winning plays rarely translate to the screen. Kim and I saw the film while we were up in Red Bluff, with a very well-behaved crowd, which I appreciated. And I think the blue-hairs in the audience had a nice time discussing the film afterwards; Kim and I actually had a long conversation about it as well. Any film that generates productive argument after leaving the theater has gotta be worth something, I'll give it that. For me, I guess I simply did not have any of the "doubt" about what happened that supposedly drives the film. The story, set in the 1950s, is about whether or not a priest at a Catholic school had some kind of inappropriate relationship with a young male student. Absolutely nothing in the film made me suspect that the priest had acted inappropriately. Nothing. Not the fact that he was played by Philip Seymour Hoffman, who always plays total schlubs and creepy losers, not the fact that he had longer-than-usual fingernails, not the fact that Meryl Streep demolished him and all available scenery in every scene she "shared" with him (which made it a pretty fun performance to watch, don't get me wrong - but I was certainly watching a performance, not any kind of recognizable human being). However, it became clear after leaving the theater that many other viewers thought the film was much more ambiguous than did I. Well, fine. Glad they enjoyed it.
Finally, a film I recently saw on DVD that many people probably also missed this year: In Bruges. Written and directed by the talented playwright, Martin McDonagh, it's one of those rare films that manages to balance beautifully between pitch-black comedy, poignant drama and violent action. Tonal shifts like that are very tough to pull off; on top of that, theater writers don't often make great screenwriters, let alone directors. McDonagh makes it all look easy here, making the tired hitmen-out-of-water genre fresh again with clever dialogue, rich characters, and genuinely heart-stopping twists and turns. Colin Farrell gives the best performance of his that I've seen - he's wonderfully oafish, idiotic, hilarious and moving, all at once - with terrific work from Brendan Gleason and Ralph Fiennes. Farrell pulled off an upset at the Golden Globes by winning in the comedic acting category - a richly deserved and unexpected win.
The films I'm talking about are not the multiplex fodder that most Americans think of when they think of "the movies" (myself frequently included); I mean the smaller films that barely have a chance to find an audience before getting yanked from the few art house chains and independent theaters that remain and that never play in the sticks. I should confess, though, that I am not a very good cinephile. I will rarely travel far to see a good film - these days, it's tough to get me to leave the island, though I will do it for a special film that I won't get to see in a theater otherwise or that I feel I MUST see as soon as possible.
For instance, as a die-hard Woody Allen fan, I will always see his latest film immediately upon release. Most of them vanish shortly thereafter, although this year's effort, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, became popular enough to get a wider release and even won the Golden Globe for Best Musical or Comedy. So, good for Woody. This week, too, I plan to go to San Francisco to see the "roadtrip" version of Steven Soderbergh's Che, in which the whole film is shown rather than broken up into two parts. Four hours long? Shot on the Red One? Soderbergh and Del Toro? Violently mixed reviews? Cinephile catnip!
Last week, Scott and I traveled to Berkeley to see The Wrestler. We had heard all the buzz, so we had to catch it. I found the film to be very moving and satisfying, with minimal schmaltz and a quietly extraordinary performance from Mickey Rourke. Marisa Tomei, who has always seemed to me to be working hard (and impressively) to actually earn that Oscar she got way back in 1992, is also great here. I had been thinking about The Wrestler for a few days until I spoke to my film school buddy, Andy, who pointed out how terrible the script is - and he's right. The script for The Wrestler is a paint-by-numbers quickie sports-movie formula piece, with an embarrassingly awful subplot involving Rourke's estranged daughter. It could easily be that "Wallace Beery wrestling picture" Barton Fink finds himself unable to write.
But his argument left me strangely unmoved and failed to change my impression much. It's true that Andy and I have often disagreed about movies in the past - he has frequently said that I "like everything," an untrue statement on its face, but indicative of my ability to be swept away - but here it's not that we disagreed, exactly. It's that, at a certain point, the film went somewhere for me that I found quite interesting. Early on, the Tomei character quotes the passage in Isaiah that predicts the suffering of the Messiah and the redemption of believers - "by his stripes, we are healed" - which she unironically attributes to the film The Passion of the Christ. She's suggesting that the way Rourke's washed-up professional wrestler abuses his own body for our entertainment is not unlike what that Jesus character in the Passion undergoes. After I heard this, I felt I understood something essential about the character and about the filmmakers' purpose - it's a film about a man who believes he's nothing more than a piece of meat, good for nothing but a beating, and about his messy, faltering, daily search for redemption.
As an allegory, in its moving story and in its the performances, The Wrestler far transcends its script; I think it's Darren Aronofsky's best work to date. Fans of the Dardennes will note with interest some of the camerawork in the film, too - the Belgian brothers have developed a distinctive style for their super-realist dramas, two of which have won the Palme D'Or at Cannes in the last decade, in which they frequently hover their hand-held camera just over their subject's shoulder. Aronofsky co-opts this style frequently in his film in a way that, for me at least, immediately recalled The Son or Rosetta, among other films. I suppose if the Dardennes are, perhaps, the most-celebrated neo-realists working today (for lack of a better term), it makes sense that this kind of camera work (hardly unique to them, but somewhat unusual in narrative film) has become a kind of shorthand for "authenticity." A bit of a cheap trick, really, that Aronofsky uses only occasionally - but it's nice to see him trying new things.
Another film that makes much better use of Dardenne-style camerawork, less obtrusively and more rigorously fused with an objectively framed, devastatingly omissive mise-en-scene, is the 2007 Cannes winner, 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, by Romanian writer/director, Cristian Mungiu. I only saw this recently, on DVD, and it's an example of the kind of film that I am sometimes too lazy to see. Another is the likewise highly-praised, The Edge of Heaven, which I have had from Netflix for several weeks now. 4 Months I had for about four months. Okay, not that long; as the film is about an illegal abortion in Ceausescu's Romania, my very-pregnant wife opted out, and I assumed I was in for a big downer and it took me a little while (and her being out of town) to pop it into the DVD player.
I am very glad I did. It's an extraordinary film, powerful, clear-eyed and straightforward - it takes place in nearly real time and makes no political statements about abortion, apart from simply depicting the harrowing, horrifying ordeal of such a procedure under a dictatorship in which it's illegal. Most striking for me - because from early on I could see I would not be spared much, though the worst moment takes place off-screen - were the relationships. Otilia and her pregnant friend, Gabita, reminded me very strongly of some of the young women I knew in college. These women had extremely intense, emotional friendships of the kind that appear quite strange to young men, for whom things might be simpler or more straightforward, relationships that are sometimes strengthened by awful behavior rather than kindness, as if that awfulness itself is an assurance of intimacy: I would never dare to treat anyone else so horribly and with such selfishness; it is only because we are like sisters that I am willing to do so. It is not worth citing specifics because - if anyone were to actually read this post - I would hope not to ruin one minute of this film, which must be the best of the year.
I want to move now, quickly, through a few other films that I have seen recently, as I try to catch up with 2008:
Gran Torino, is a funny, satisfying bit of hokum, starring and directed by Clint Eastwood. The trailer sold the film as some kind of geriatric Dirty Harry film; in reality, it's another of Eastwood's sly revisionist takes on his violent persona, like Unforgiven, though not nearly as fine a work as that film. If sentimental and a bit hokey at times, this story of a ridiculously cranky, racist old-timer who loves his vintage Gran Torino and little else has enough specific and unique details of time, place and character to help the film work pretty well. Eastwood's character helped build the titular muscle car as a Ford mechanic in better times, and Eastwood-the-director clearly felt a resonance in this story of an old, muscular American archetype who finds the world changing all around him, even as he tries to cling to what he knows. It's a terrific performance, both gentle and foaming at the mouth, wise and reckless, stern and hilarious. (Seeing this film made me want to go back and watch the Dirty Harry films, the first two of which I screened over the weekend. They're a lot of silly fun, of course, but it's also interesting to see the San Francisco of the 70s as well as the filmmaking style of that time. And Clint Eastwood in the first Dirty Harry film must certainly have the Best Haircut in Cinema.)
Doubt is an example of the oft-tested rule that prize-winning plays rarely translate to the screen. Kim and I saw the film while we were up in Red Bluff, with a very well-behaved crowd, which I appreciated. And I think the blue-hairs in the audience had a nice time discussing the film afterwards; Kim and I actually had a long conversation about it as well. Any film that generates productive argument after leaving the theater has gotta be worth something, I'll give it that. For me, I guess I simply did not have any of the "doubt" about what happened that supposedly drives the film. The story, set in the 1950s, is about whether or not a priest at a Catholic school had some kind of inappropriate relationship with a young male student. Absolutely nothing in the film made me suspect that the priest had acted inappropriately. Nothing. Not the fact that he was played by Philip Seymour Hoffman, who always plays total schlubs and creepy losers, not the fact that he had longer-than-usual fingernails, not the fact that Meryl Streep demolished him and all available scenery in every scene she "shared" with him (which made it a pretty fun performance to watch, don't get me wrong - but I was certainly watching a performance, not any kind of recognizable human being). However, it became clear after leaving the theater that many other viewers thought the film was much more ambiguous than did I. Well, fine. Glad they enjoyed it.Finally, a film I recently saw on DVD that many people probably also missed this year: In Bruges. Written and directed by the talented playwright, Martin McDonagh, it's one of those rare films that manages to balance beautifully between pitch-black comedy, poignant drama and violent action. Tonal shifts like that are very tough to pull off; on top of that, theater writers don't often make great screenwriters, let alone directors. McDonagh makes it all look easy here, making the tired hitmen-out-of-water genre fresh again with clever dialogue, rich characters, and genuinely heart-stopping twists and turns. Colin Farrell gives the best performance of his that I've seen - he's wonderfully oafish, idiotic, hilarious and moving, all at once - with terrific work from Brendan Gleason and Ralph Fiennes. Farrell pulled off an upset at the Golden Globes by winning in the comedic acting category - a richly deserved and unexpected win.
Classics at The Alameda, week two
Last week, Young and I attended a matinee of Vertigo, the first film in the Alameda's classic film series. This week is North by Northwest. It was great to see Vertigo on the big screen again. It's always an absorbing, mysterious and deeply rewarding film. The print was from the restoration done about a decade ago and was not in the greatest shape, but that's to be expected.
What cannot be tolerated are the persistent projection problems in the Alameda's historic theater. Unfortunately, I don't think I have attended a film in this theater that has not been out-of-focus at least once or twice during the show, or poorly-framed (as it was when I saw Milk). I have been a defender of this theater to some who have been up-in-arms about the projection problems; after all, it's been operating less than a year and still must work out the kinks. At this point, though, these problems are unacceptable.
What's worse is that the theater was controversial from the beginning for refusing to hire union projectionists - there was a small group of picketers during the grand opening last year - an issue that I have reluctantly overlooked out of self-interest (that is, I want to go to my local theater even if I don't really want to cross a picket line, actual or symbolic). Now, with the projection problems continuing, it looks like the theater owner has made a a pretty boneheaded mistake.
I have sent a comment to the theater management via their website, and I encourage other disgruntled customers to do the same. This is a beautifully renovated theater, and the kind of repertory programming they are reviving with this classics series (which theater sources say is only the beginning) deserves to be praised to the skies, but quality projection has got to be a top priority.
What cannot be tolerated are the persistent projection problems in the Alameda's historic theater. Unfortunately, I don't think I have attended a film in this theater that has not been out-of-focus at least once or twice during the show, or poorly-framed (as it was when I saw Milk). I have been a defender of this theater to some who have been up-in-arms about the projection problems; after all, it's been operating less than a year and still must work out the kinks. At this point, though, these problems are unacceptable.
What's worse is that the theater was controversial from the beginning for refusing to hire union projectionists - there was a small group of picketers during the grand opening last year - an issue that I have reluctantly overlooked out of self-interest (that is, I want to go to my local theater even if I don't really want to cross a picket line, actual or symbolic). Now, with the projection problems continuing, it looks like the theater owner has made a a pretty boneheaded mistake.
I have sent a comment to the theater management via their website, and I encourage other disgruntled customers to do the same. This is a beautifully renovated theater, and the kind of repertory programming they are reviving with this classics series (which theater sources say is only the beginning) deserves to be praised to the skies, but quality projection has got to be a top priority.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
That's why the walls are bleeding...
In a previous post, I suggested that all of America is an Indian burial ground. Stephen Colbert seems to agree:
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Cold Trail
Here's the trailer for a 2006 Icelandic film called Cold Trail - about a haunted dam, apparently. Interesting...
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Red Bluff trip
Over the New Year's long weekend, Kim and I decided to head upstate to Red Bluff, some place neither of us had ever been. We talk about one day buying some land out in the countryside somewhere, a place where we could camp or eventually build a cabin, and we wanted to check out the Red Bluff area as a potential location. Located about 30 miles south of Redding, with the Trinity Alps, Mt. Shasta and Lassen ringing in this northern end of California's central valley, Red Bluff is a wild, beautiful spot.
We stayed at the Motel 6 and spent one day driving in each direction. We went up to Lassen, which was mostly snowed in; on our way back we turned off the 36 and went for a short walk in the woods outside Red Bluff. We tried to drive back into town on Hogsback Road, but had to turn back when the fog rolled in and darkness fell. The road started out as a typical backcountry gravel road (except for the red-rock gravel) but soon declined into more of a volcanic rock-studded groove than a road. Kim's Subaru, which like all Subarus is a four-wheel drive, nevertheless lacked the clearance to reliably make the trip.
Another day we cruised up to Redding to see the Whiskeytown area and Lake Shasta - I'll write a follow-up post about the dam there. We saw the Sundial Bridge and strolled around the Turtle Bay Park a bit. Our third day trip took us west of Red Bluff out along the 36, into the stunning countryside where we hope to find a patch of property someday. Rolling hills, broad meadows and a network of rivers and streams, with snow-capped mountains on the horizon in three directions. It was some kind of dream of the West, an old and peaceful landscape.
We stayed at the Motel 6 and spent one day driving in each direction. We went up to Lassen, which was mostly snowed in; on our way back we turned off the 36 and went for a short walk in the woods outside Red Bluff. We tried to drive back into town on Hogsback Road, but had to turn back when the fog rolled in and darkness fell. The road started out as a typical backcountry gravel road (except for the red-rock gravel) but soon declined into more of a volcanic rock-studded groove than a road. Kim's Subaru, which like all Subarus is a four-wheel drive, nevertheless lacked the clearance to reliably make the trip.
Another day we cruised up to Redding to see the Whiskeytown area and Lake Shasta - I'll write a follow-up post about the dam there. We saw the Sundial Bridge and strolled around the Turtle Bay Park a bit. Our third day trip took us west of Red Bluff out along the 36, into the stunning countryside where we hope to find a patch of property someday. Rolling hills, broad meadows and a network of rivers and streams, with snow-capped mountains on the horizon in three directions. It was some kind of dream of the West, an old and peaceful landscape.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Classics at The Alameda!
Kudos to the Alameda Theatre and Cineplex which, beginning next week, will be running a classic film series on Wednesdays and Thursdays. I am very excited about this, even though I have seen this particular slate of films many, many times:January 14-15: Vertigo
January 21-22: North by Northwest
January 28-29: The Maltese Falcon
February 4-5: Rear Window
It's interesting that's it's basically a Hitchcock series, with a Huston thrown in - but they'll get no complaints from me. I hope this continues on throughout the year. I have longed for such a series since the fabulously renovated theater re-opened in May, but had not dared to hope there was room yet for repertory film programming in this world of ours. I will be attending every one of these films - and hopefully will be able to twist some nearby arms to attend with me.
I believe I have only seen Vertigo on the big screen in the past - though possibly Rear Window, too. The opportunity is simply not there often enough. I hope folks come out for these screenings so they will continue. The theater has changed the website announcement a couple of times since I first saw it; at one point the films were labeled as being on AFI's list of the 100 Best American Films, which suggests they might explore more of that list in the future. Yay! I hope they show Citizen Kane (which actually happens to be one of my favorite films, absolutely thrilling every time I see it, and I've seen it A LOT). I get the feeling that few people have actually watched the "greatest film of all time."
Which, about that - I brought up this series last night at the Lucky 13, where I successfully warded off the urge to smoke as my friends were doing, and there was some general argument about the relative weakness of AFI's list. I'd have to agree that lists that rank films (or whatever) in order of greatness are usually pretty stupid. Or perhaps the word is boring, or pointless. Whether the "greatest film" is Kane or The Rules of the Game or Ants in Your Pants of 1939 is really not a very interesting question. How the estimation of a film changes over time is rather interesting, though, which is why I think the Sight & Sound poll is valuable - this is a critics poll, taken every ten years since 1952 (with a separate director's poll, since 1992) by the British Film Institute, that asks for a list of the ten greatest films. Kane has topped the list since 1962, but what has come next has changed dramatically over time. The first film in The Alameda's series is now regarded as the #2 film of all time, for instance, though it didn't appear in the list until '82.
The best response to AFI's list, now a decade old (though it has been updated since), is that of my favorite film critic, Jonathan Rosenbaum. He rips AFI's list to shreds, for all the right reasons, and proposes an alternative list, unranked, that is vastly more idiosyncratic and worthwhile. Check it out here!
Whereas, this time in L.A., it was like this
Same zone, different girl. Any kind of life lesson in that, buddy?
I was there this time to help Andy with the reshoots for his long-awaited feature, Frogtown, for which I am one of the producers. Here, Jason hangs some diffusion while Andy talks to his actors, OS.
Every time I go to LA, there's a new brunch spot to try. This one was pretty fuckin' good. It's on Sunset near the Arclight.
Had fun with Ben in Venice prior to shooting.
Here we are shooting on the boardwalk after hours.
Here's Andy, that soulful fellow, with the rig. Frogtown has great potential, more than he realizes. It's hard to find perspective when you're in the trenches.I'm playing catch-up now: this all happened nearly a month ago. December happened, the holidays intervened, and there was just too much to do. This week, the first of the new year, in which I will turn 35 and in which my son will be born, I am ramping back up slowly to life-speed. There is so very much I need to do - one foot in front of the other.
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