The Junk Food of Writing

An obvious title for a subtle film

2009-06-22T16:56:00.009-04:00

Mean Creek (Jacob Aaron Estes, 2004)

Back in 2004, Mean Creek was released to highly favorable reviews and paltry box-office (roughly $600k). In 2005 and beyond, Mean Creek was apparently forgotten. Its relative obscurity seems like an unfortunately logical trajectory for this small sensitive film; it's an intimate look at a topic that is often tackled by absurd, over-the-top TV-movies and after-school specials. Just like the subdued, intelligent small-fry in glasses who has trouble finding a seat at lunch, Mean Creek remains respected and complex yet unpopular.

In the face of verbal and physical abuse, Sam Merric (Rory Culkin) doesn't feel particularly comfortable. The core of Mean Creek focuses on Sam's disillusionment--how he gradually becomes jaded to a violent and unfair world of youth where biceps momentarily trump brains; Estes and Culkin delicately probe the difficultly of being a sensitive child in an indifferent universe (whether that represents only high school or a more expansive worldview is the question). On the surface, this affecting morality tale looks like just another teenage revenge story, but it has deeper levels than the usually shallow vindictive tale. The whole cast, blemishes and all, turn in impressively nuanced performances; they create a collective ensemble that displays a mature understanding of human dynamics. Mean Creek slightly wonders aimlessly and isn't completely devoid of tropes of teenage anomie, but it never loses focus of its piercing adolescent angst and treatise on the superfluity of (particularly unprovoked) violence. As the weight of the consequence becomes a heavy burden, Estes balances the gravitas with truthful ambiguity.

You can view Mean Creek online, at iReel.com.

Oh, the wonders of (one of) my internship(s)

2007-06-07T17:00:00.000-04:00

Backstory: My full-time, paid internship as a production editorial intern is at a publishing house, where most of my tasks include proofreading/copyediting and playing with maps/arguing with cartographers, among many other duties that sound dull but entertain me enough. This is my ode to the peculiar love I possess for proofreading.

-Oh, the pleasure I get from finding a mistake--making myself feel useful, important and, if it's a discreet error, rather clever.
-The mirth experienced upon discovering a comma splice--the joyful reaffirmation of finding a second.
-"Over production"? That's one word, right? Yes! Sweet sensation.

Hmm, it's almost 5:30; I should leave the office soon.

I'm allegic to dust.

2007-03-22T09:12:00.000-04:00

Oh dear, cobwebs are starting to grow on this blog. Let me just dust them off with my Top 20 on 2006, because I am nearly finished with that year in cinema (I topped out at 98). I hate to rank the top ten, because they're all nearly equal in my eyes. I, however, decided to include some thoughts on my three favorite films from this past year.

1. Old Joy (Riechardt)

Striking many truthful chords in tiny moments, Old Joy is an insightful meditation on near-middle-age malaise. On the surface, it revolves around a hiking trip through the lush, green woods of Portland with two, recently reunited old pals. One is a married thirtysomething on the brink of fatherhood while the other is on the precipice of stoner-oblivion. The interactions between these buddies are appropriately uncomfortable. Old Joy is emotionally charged in the most delicately nuanced way; the true emotions perpetually bubble under the surface. The characters realistically express themselves through facial expression, not over-explicit dialogue. Its title and presentation are richly ambiguous, but Old Joy is among the best of 2006 for its painfully honest depiction of expired friendship and the failure of nostalgia.

2. Duck Season (Eimbcke)

Forget the "Three Amigos" (Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, Guillermo del Toro and Alfonso Cuaron), the best film by a Mexican director was Duck Season. Do not be fooled by its minimalist facade—this little Mexican gem has the capacity to charm the coldest moviegoer with its modesty, dry wit and acute representation of those awkward early teenage years. The film, similar to that confusing and languid stage in life, is all about passing the time. Two young friends, an eccentric pizza delivery man and the pretty neighbor collectively cope with the lack of electricity after a blackout; consequently, they furtively tease out the film’s potent themes concerning the apprehensions of growing up and true camaraderie. Filled with droll humor and authentic, unforced epiphanies, Duck Season’s poignancy really sneaks up on you. Catch onto its wavelength and it will be a delightful experience.

3. Shortbus (Mitchell)

Despite the overbearing ubiquity of multi-narrative films in 2006, no film has come as close to capturing that elusive feeling of interconnectedness like Shortbus, John Cameron Mitchell’s follow up to his breath-of-fresh-air musical, Hedwig and the Angry Inch. The deeply emotional Shortbus succeeds due to its wide scope in tackling the conflicted inhabitants of Manhattan, its brilliant use of Animal Collective’s primal “Winters Love” and the honesty of its characters and performances. In Robert Altman’s wake, Shortbus is the only film to pay homage, and not bastardize or oversimplify, his mosaic paradigm. Unlike other films of its structural ilk, this candid presentation of sex and alienation in an increasingly modern world does not seem overly calculated; it’s entirely genuine. Shortbus is long on ideas—oh, and it’s absolutely hilarious.

And the rest...
4. The Death of Mr. Lazarescu (Puiu)
5. Brick (Johnson)
6. Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story (Winterbottom)
7. Volver (Almodovar)
8. Mutual Appreciation (Bujalski)
9. Woman on the Beach (Hong)
10. The Wayward Cloud (Tsai)
11. The Devil and Daniel Johnston (Feuerzeig)
12. The Hole Story (Karpovsky)
13. Monster House (Kenan)
14. Half Nelson (Fleck)
15. L’enfant (Dardenne bros.)
16. The Painted Veil (Curran)
17. LOL (Swanberg)
18. Iron Island (Rasoulof)
19. Marie Antoinette (Coppola)
20. Children of Men (Cuaron)

Pure musical genius.

2007-01-31T08:47:00.000-05:00

I have discovered my new favorite pop song, usurping Prussian Blue's anthemic "Victory Day."

http://www.eveningservice.com/Video

It's just so damn catchy -- I can't help but sing along to its truthful tunes, homophobic hooks and tempos of intolerance.

New Beginnings Camp, Summer 2007 -- sign me up!

I would rather be insane than boring.

2007-01-22T07:10:00.000-05:00

Do you remember that moment of every Academy Award ceremony when some random celebrity is given the menial task to state that the show will be broadcast in some inordinate amount of countries, as if the world really cares? This the first time I will be happy to hear that and not yell, "great -- now get off the stage and give away another award."

For the first year since I have become an unabashed Oscar watcher (I type "unabashed" with a bit of reservation, however, since our relationship can easily be summed up by the word "masochostic"), I will not be in front of my northeastern, American television watching the ceremony at promptly 8PM. I will comfortably settle, although I'm sure "uncomfortably squirm" will ultimately be more accurate, into the common room around 2 AM with some popcorn and other irascible cinephiles (and a few annoying fashionistas) to watch the Academy Awards on German television (even though I'm residing in a castle in the Netherlands).

Although only a week or two ago the Oscar race for nominations seemed wide open, it's inevitable that, as the guilds announce nominees and winners, the nominees become way too clear and, frankly, begin to bore me. Therefore, I'm offering my predictions, but I am only writing comments (or justifications) for my more irrational choices. This year, the only race with variety that should demand rationalizing commentary is the Best Supporting Actor race, which is becoming duller by the millisecond.

Best Picture:
Babel
The Departed
Dreamgirls
Little Miss Sunshine
The Queen

Ew. Yup.

Best Director:
Pedro Almodovar, Volver
Clint Eastwood, Letters from Iwo Jima
Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, Babel
Stephen Frears, The Queen
Martin Scorsese, The Departed

If any category feels deceptively secure, it's this one; I even believe that Frears is vulnerable. I'm expecting at least one foreign-language director, besides Inarritu (so either Almodovar, Cuaron, Del Toro), but I'm much too timid to predict any of them. Almodovar has been nominated here too recently and his film isn't even a lock for a screenplay nomination, which Volver needs in order for Pedro to break in here. Cuaron will not get in for the sole reason that it would make too many people happy and Del Toro probably does not have the buzz here to overcome his film's "genre" status (I think both will be awarded with screenplay nods, though). I have a sneaking suspicion that Almodovar will score here. If he's being anointed as the new Fellini for the Academy, he's got to start picking up those directing nods.

Best Actor:
Sacha Baron Cohen, Borat: Cultural Learnings of America to Make for Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan.
Leonardo DiCaprio, The Departed
Peter O'Toole, Venus
Will Smith, The Pursuit of Happyness
Forest Whitaker, The Last King of Scotland

I optimistically included Almodovar for wishful thinking and I'm pessimistically excluding Ryan Gosling here in hopes that I'll be pleasantly surprised. As for Sacha Baron Cohen, the academy has recently been trying their hardest to seem hip. Usually they just use the Best Song category ("It's Hard Out There for a Pimp," "Lose Yourself"), but this year they're turning towards the category they nominated a pirate in just a few years ago. Come on, even Warren Beatty attempted to mimic Borat in public (and what a hilariously awful and desperate attempt it was). I'm actually curious to see if DiCaprio makes the list for Blood Diamond. I have no idea what's going on with that mess, so I'm just leaving him up there for The Departed.

Best Actress:
Penelope Cruz, Volver
Judi Dench, Notes on a Scandal
Maggie Gyllenhaal, Sherrybaby
Helen Mirren, The Queen
Meryl Streep, The Devil Wears Prada

Why is Maggie on this list instead of Kate? Because I'm bored, or crazy -- I can't decide between the two, so let's just say both.

Best Supporting Actor:
Alan Arkin, Little Miss Sunshine
Jackie Earle Haley, Little Children
Djimon Hounsou, Blood Diamond
Eddie Murphy, Dreamgirls
Mark Wahlberg, The Departed

I would rather give Eddie Murphy an Oscar for his "Party All the Time" music video than Dreamgirls. I'm not exactly sure which is chessier. Only one Departed chap will make it. Remember, I'm going nuts here, because Jack makes so much more sense. I refuse, however, to make sense of this category.

Best Supporting Actress:
Adrianna Barraza, Babel
Cate Blanchett, Notes on a Scandal
Jennifer Hudson, Dreamgirls
Rinko Kikuchi, Babel
Catherine O'Hara, For Your Consideration

I'm almost as sure that Abigail Breslin will be left off this list as I was that she would snag a SAG nomination. Child stars usually need both a Golden Globe and SAG nomination to pull off an Oscar citation (like Haley Joel Osment). Abigail Breslin will join Freddie Highmore and Dakota Fanning at the SAG kid's table. The only thing I cannot figure out is...who is going to replace her?

Best Original Screenplay:
Babel
Little Miss Sunshine
Pan's Labyrinth
The Queen
Volver

I would include Half Nelson if I was sure which category it belongs in; since I'm uncertain, the Academy must also be, so no nomination for Fleck and Boden.

Best Adapted Screenplay:
Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan
Children of Men
The Departed
Dreamgirls
Little Children

Which heavy-handed drama will make it? Little Children or Notes on a Scandal. Which comedy will make it? Borat or Thank You for Smoking? They gave the middle finger to Patrick Marber for Closer even after the Globe nomination and the lack of WGA recognition is troubling. Perhaps personal preference is clouding my power of prediction, but I refuse to believe that Thank You for Smoking's fire-in-all-directions, yet oddly remain dull, satire can receive a nod. Since Little Children and Thank You for Smoking are both satires (albiet poor ones), only one of them will likely get in. With Globe and SAG love, Little Children should snag a spot to match Haley's nomination, leaving Borat looking nice.

As an added bonus, new grades are posted to the right, in the sidebar. Feel free to call me silly, sharp or downright certifiable; I'd appreciate it.

I don't know what "meme" means.

2006-12-04T21:23:00.000-05:00

1. Popcorn or candy?
Popcorn. Despite the annoyance of post-consumption kernel remnants, popcorn is the ideal theater snack for a reason. It smells delicious, it's lightweight and I can easily cram it into my mouth without taking my eyes off the screen. It can, unfortunately, be a bit noisy, though. Candy is too sweet for me -- I need to be in a certain mood to enjoy it. Popcorn, on the other hand, always makes a perfect lunch for a matinee. Oh, and please keep that salty yellow chemical sludge away from my pure popcorn.

2. Name a movie you've been meaning to see forever.
L'Avenntura and the other 442 films on my Netflix queue. I have, however, been keeping L'Avenntura (and a few others) in the teens in hope that they may appear at a theater that often runs retrospectives before I see it on DVD.

3. You are given the power to recall one Oscar: Who loses theirs and to whom?
Hilary Swank, wave bye-bye to your undeserved second Oscar. I'll use my cloning machine to create a replica and award Imelda Stauton and Kate Winslet their own Oscar.

4. Steal one costume from a movie for your wardrobe. Which will it be?
A mullet wig from This is Spinal Tap.

5. Your favorite film franchise is...
I don't like this question. Do the films of Pixar (sans the numbingly awful Cars) count? Probably not. The Charlie Brown films. I love the dance song in the series: Do-du-la-doo-da-do-doo-doo-doo-la-doo-doo.

6. Invite five movie people over for dinner. Who are they? Why'd you invite them? What do you feed them?

Patricia Clarkson. Why? So I can serve her those adoption papers (it's legal to have two mothers, right?).

Anna Karina. Why? Primarily, to admire her beauty in the physical realm. Perhaps she will say something intelligent and insightful.

Max Minghella. Why? Primarily, to admire his beauty in the physical realm. Perhaps he will say something intelligent and insightful.

Jean-Pierre Leaud. Why? He can give me all the dirt on the 60/70's French scene (a different perspective than Anna Karina, I'm sure). He's most likely provide a good amount of wit at the table, also.

Woody Allen. Why? Oh, no particular reason...

(and one more for good, even measure):

Miranda July. Why? Oh, I'm sure we'd complain about technology and this crazy postmodern world in a comical fashion -- we'll get along swimmingly.

Since I'm hardly a world class chef, I'd take them out to a restaurant for dinner (after a few coocktails at the house, of course). We'd go out for shabu-shabu, because it's rather interactive and delicious.

7. What is the appropriate punishment for people who answer cell phones in the movie theater?
I don't wish any more ill will on frequent cellphone users, but I do hope they enjoy the brain tumor they are rapidly developing.

8. Choose a female bodyguard: Ripley from Aliens. Mystique from X-Men. Sarah Connor from Terminator 2. The Bride from Kill Bill. Mace from Strange Days.
I don't like these choices. I'm going with Kat Stratford from 10 Things I Hate About You. Her verbal assaults are much more cutting than The Bride's knife (I realize this isn't exactly true, but I'd love it to be).

9. What's the scariest thing you've ever seen in a movie?
Laura Dern's gaping mouth in Blue Velvet. I would post a picture if I had one, or if I hated you.

10. Your favorite genre (excluding comedy and drama) is:
The metafilm (8½, All That Jazz, Sherman's March, Adaptation).

11. You are given the power to greenlight movies at a major studio for one year. How do you wield this power?
I'd resign.

12. Bonnie or Clyde?
The one that dies at the end.

13. Who are you tagging to answer this survey?
I would never be so mean.

Volver (Almodovar, 2006)

2006-12-03T11:37:00.000-05:00

An obligatory image of Penelope Cruz's beaming smile and gorgeous cleavage.

Despite the international success of his recent output, including All About My Mother, Talk to Her and Bad Education, Pedro Almodovar, Spain's most prominent director, seems to be returning to his kitschy, yet oddly affecting, roots with Volver. Therefore, the title, which literally translates into the Spanish infinitive "to return," holds a double meaning.

The plot revolves around the supernatural return of Irene (Carmen Maura, an Almodovar regular), mother of Raimunda (a luminous Penelope Cruz) and Sole (Lola Duenas), and the film itself serves as a homecoming for Almodovar. Career-long aficionados and new appreciators of the auteur will likely rejoice in Volver's flippant pizzazz, which mixes elements of Almodovar's earlier, campier productions and his deeper modern melodramas.

Volver is certainly not as heavy as Almodovar's most contemporary efforts, but this frothy concoction endures and resonates despite its lighter weight. It searches for truth and insight in a more focused area of emotional complexity: mother/daughter relationships.

The slickly stylish Volver fits perfectly into Almodovar's oeuvre, even though there is an alarming lack of transvestites. Almodovar compensates for this dearth of pre and post-op trannies with his trademark vivacity, sympathy and sanguine-soaked sets. He creates a pervasively mystical atmosphere in which to set his absurd story involving three generations of women coping with the past and the bizarre nature of life in a small Spanish village. Raimunda, Sole and Raimunda's twiggy daughter, Paula (Yohana Cobo), react in vastly different ways to the unexpected and paranormal arrival of the deceased Irene. Their reactions reflect the tumultuous relationships they had when Irene was alive. On the surface, Irene's reappearance is due to promises she left unfulfilled.

She regretted her semi-neglectful parenting upon death and now wishes to stay on earth as a compassionate guardian, mostly to help her daughters with life's troubles-mainly their "poor luck with men." Despite her compassion, she still isn't going to be picking up her World's Greatest Mother trophy anytime soon; she'll have to settle for a tacky mug. It's best to think of her as a maternal Casper, but also with flesh, long hair and female anatomy.

Volver is, undoubtedly, a picture made for primarily female audiences, albeit not in the shallow way an archetypical romantic comedy is. It's a colorful ode to domesticity, feminine familial bonds and dealing with haunting repressed memories. This discreetly feminist production isn't designed to be enjoyed by only one gender, though.

Despite its perpetual awareness of mortality (the film even opens in a graveyard), Volver never becomes overbearingly morose; it maintains a playfully dark tone. Most of Volver's charm lies in the darting glances its capable cast surreptitiously and assuredly shoots each other. At Cannes, the ladies of Volver were collectively awarded the Best Actress award. While this may seem a cop-out, not to mention indecisive of the jury, the performances do coexist in a community where every actress understands the nuances of her character and the way she relates and interacts with the other women. Although this is an ensemble piece, Penelope Cruz is individually incandescent.

With a strong character, mojitos and some cleavage, Cruz proves that she's most comfortable and well-suited for cinema in her native language. It would not be a shame if she never appeared in another English-language movie, as long as that guaranteed her presence in copious amounts of Spanish-language films. Dressed in radiant reds and purples and a face capable of extreme emotional range, Cruz seamlessly glows through Raimunda's life highs and lows. Similar to Sophia Loren, Cruz has the capacity to play a benevolent mother, daughter and sister and, without making it icky, remain a sex symbol. Her character is realistically flawed and Cruz handles Raimunda's imperfections with unapologetic ease.

In the narrative department, however, Volver ultimately runs into the same problem most of Almodovar's recent films have; it's a bit too jammed in the end. The narrative bounces smoothly throughout, yet the final twists and exposition are not given much space to breathe and shock in the film's hurried conclusion. Fortunately, what preceded it is an exuberant, lively bit of luscious fun.

While Almodovar's storytelling skills aren't always in top form, he visually commands every frame. The film's heart is always in the right place; it's refreshingly thoughtful. Volver's coda may seem overloaded, but due to its affectionate humanism, endearing characters and tender pathos, it earns nearly every sentiment and dry slice of humor presented to the audience. It's a lovely film, as warm as the Spanish sun.

For Your Consideration (Guest, 2006)

2006-11-14T15:53:00.000-05:00

The cast of For Your Consideration is in awe of the utter mediocrity

Working in an industry that is rumored to be full of narcissistic, avaricious and superficial twits, it’s unsurprising that some of the sharpest filmmakers, like Robert Altman and Billy Wilder, have successfully put their cinematic knife in the belly of the moviemaking machine in The Player and Sunset Boulevard, respectively.

Christopher Guest is no stranger to scrutinizing a community of losers and uncovering some bizarrely hilarious and dark truths. While small-town theatre, dog shows and folk music were all fresh areas for mockery, Hollywood, on the other hand, is not unexplored territory. Exposing vanity in the moviemaking business is similar to revealing Elton John’s sexuality. In fact, Christopher Guest previously satirized the movie industry in his directorial debut, The Big Picture.

For Your Consideration, however, focuses on a different aspect of the filmmaking trade – one that should not have a large impact but indubitably does: awards season. Despite this more concentrated scenario, placed on buzz’s affect on actors and overwrought Oscar bait, this monotonous movie still does not have much new to say. The centerpiece in this overstuffed assembly is veteran actress Marilyn Hack (Catherine O’Hara), whom—while filming the preposterously melodramatic Home for Purim—hears from a crew member that there is gossip on the internet of a possible Academy Award nomination for her. Ecstatic by the news, the buzz surrounds the set with most actors modestly stating their happiness for her. Suddenly and inexplicably, Home for Purim, which is just too lame to believe even the most idiotic Academy voters could nominate, begins to gain media coverage for two other stars in the film, Victor Allan Miller (Harry Shearer) and Callie Webb (Parker Posey).

In an interview, co-writers Christopher Guest and Eugene Levy disclosed their unorthodox methods of scripting. “The film, aside from the movie within a movie, is improvised,” Christopher Guest said. “There is a screenplay without dialogue – just scene by scene breakdowns of exposition and story and the actors have to get certain information out however they would like,” Eugene Levy added. “It’s an outline of only about 25 to 30 pages, but we spend nearly three months delineating scenes and characters. What the free actors do to it in terms of look, sound and voice is completely up to them.”Guest explained that he follows this unique style of filmmaking because “it’s spontaneous and it has some real connection to the way real people talk.”Although Guest and his loyal company have achieved this realistic spontaneity in their previous productions, much of For Your Consideration feels painfully strained. The usually reliable cast members appear as if they are delivering punch lines. While the actors battle to create the glibbest, most incompetent character, the film tops them all in glibness.

At 86 minutes, For Your Consideration is quick to cover all of its satiric bases—too quick. Therefore, the film is never cohesive and organic enough to be a cogent indictment of the absurdity of award season. An example of this slapdash way of filming, similar to a cinematic checklist, is a moment of potential truth when Parker Posey’s character breaks up with her colleague and boyfriend just after she hears Oscar buzz surrounding her performance. Although Parker Posey is a dependable improv actress, this scene ends nearly instantly—eradicating any plausibility the scene deserves. Perhaps she was hungry that day and wanted to cut early.

In his previous films, Guest and the rest of the cast delicately mocked the characters and setting. They poked fun at their stupidity, but always revealed the fragility of each vulnerable character. For Your Consideration is sorely lacking in humanity. This is due to the overabundance of characters; this more of a parade than an ensemble piece.

Christopher Guest and company also target the inanity of the media, since they are mostly to blame for altering the mindsets of those who anticipate nominations. The ensemble frivolously roasts the nauseating kitsch of Entertainment Tonight, TRL and late night shows and the self-involved hosts “Today”-style morning shows, and Charlie Rose to only moderate success.

Christopher Guest wanted to make it clear that “this film isn’t just about the Oscars – this is about the large amount of generic awards shows. It’s gotten to a point where it’s weighed down. It’s, ironically, something I don’t follow.” This is both an appropriate and odd comment for the director and co-writer of For Your Consideration to make. It’s astute of him to note that awards season is clouded with other precursor awards before the Oscars. His admittance that he does not keep track of this horse race is very telling, though. This lack of deep research is evident in the film, since it is completely oblivious to any other award show, therefore deserting any shred of logic.

Ultimately, For Your Consideration comes off as a sloppy and careless rant of someone who spent too much time listening to the self-involved prattle at the cast and crew snack table. Everything is just too cartoonish to be truly biting. For Your Consideration aims for sardonic and only reaches silly.

Fast Food Nation (Linklater, 2006)

2006-11-11T00:30:00.000-05:00

Corporations are nefarious. Even if you are unaware of this common belief, it will be drilled into you at every angle, thinly disguised under a layer of interweaved narratives, during Richard Linklater’s artlessly preachy Fast Food Nation.

With Fast Food Nation, Greg Kinnear, along with cast and crew, bite the big one.

The title may sound familiar, since the film is a very loose adaptation of Eric Schlosser’s meticulous, well-researched nonfiction exposé of the same name. Before the screening, Linklater, co-writing with Schlosser, warned fans of the muckraking bestseller that the film is not faithful to its source material. Instead, the filmmakers decided to weave a fictionalized mosaic, including a plethora of characters from three intertwining storylines that revolve around some aspect of the fast food industry.

This caveat is unnecessary, however, due to the film’s absurdly exaggerated presentation; it’s impossible to mistake the adaptation as nonfiction. Richard Linklater also preceded the showing of Fast Food Nation with a preface, “I’ll tell you what Fast Food Nation is not; it is not a documentary, a comedy or a satire.” Due to the film’s penchant to overstate the obvious and embellish the supposed truth, though, it’s difficult not to view it as a satirical farce.

Arriving in theaters a century after Upton Sinclair’s opus on immigration and Chicago’s meatpacking industry, Fast Food Nation—with its depiction of border-jumping Mexican factory workers, a complacent marketing executive (Greg Kinnear) and a naïve teenage employee (Ashley Johnson, best known as little Chrissy Seaver from “Growing Pains”)—similarly insists that it’s a jungle out there.

Fast Food Nation begins with familiarly colored yellow-and-red opening credits and then cuts to a dreamy sequence in a fast food eatery known as Mickeys. Mickeys is filled with happy families and youth baseball teams; the camera floats around until it reaches its destination: a “Big One,” Mickey’s featured burger. The camera closes-up on the burger and lingers for a moment before “entering” the burger, a David Lynch-style. At this moment, the film ostensibly severs all ties from idealized fantasy and sets up its multiple narratives in a world Linklater describes as “very realistic.” A gaggle of Mexicans (among them are Wilmer Valderrama and Maria Full of Grace’s Catalina Sandino Moreno) navigate through the desert to sneak into

America

, and later as they ride their bikes down the highway, it is apparent hat the land of opportunities is paved with chain restaurants.

For a film striving for gritty realism, though, Fast Food Nation consistently betrays it with hyperbole. Linklater’s cynicism towards greed and unhealthy diets, while justifiable, is ultimately harmful for this production; it carries him—and the film—over the top. Consequently, the overly disparaging and didactic presentation is harder to swallow than a greasy Big Mac. Within ten minutes of the film, Greg Kinnear’s character is informed that an outsider’s test found fecal matter in Mickeys’ burgers. “There’s shit in the burgers” yells another executive. Judging from cartoonish cameos by Bruce Willis and Ethan Hawke, the hamburgers are not the only things full of shit.

This is alarmingly discouraging, since Richard Linklater is often an adept, honest and insightful screenwriter and director; he has created such brilliantly talky and conceptual films such as Slacker, Before Sunrise, Waking Life and Before Sunset. Fans of the auteur can only hope that Fast Food Nation does not signal an end to Linklater’s philosophical and deeply humanistic works of all-talk-and-no-play and a start to vapid, preachy “call to action” filmmaking.

In an interview with the Beacon, Richard Linklater, casually displaying his social and political consciousness, acutely observed that there is “a mass delusion [in

America

]– you’re not supposed to care about your health.” He is just as talkative as the characters in his previous films, but he often pauses in introspection. When asked what he wants the audience to make of Fast Food Nation, he responded, “I hope people like the characters in the movie. That’s where my heart is: depicting life; it’s the reason why I did not do it as a documentary. I wasn’t concerned with only making one polemical, political single statement.” Similar to a corporation, however, the film is more focused on efficiency and message than the human element. Therefore, Linklater’s quest to make a dramatic character study fails, since most of the characters seem more like vague ideas than individuals. “I hope that people come out of it and maybe read up on the issues as consumers,” Linklater added. This is essential, since—despite the abundance of preachy statements—the film does not inform the audience much; it is more numbing than empowering.

Since the simplistic narratives are not working for him by the film’s close, Linklater throws in a gut-splattering and, for weak bellies, gut-wrenchingly graphic scene of slaughterhouse shenanigans. The cheap, uncreative choice to include this manipulative musical montage of meat in the denouement exposes Linklater’s desperation to serve the audience an unhappy meal. Ultimately, the film hits a hypocritical note because, due to all its deriding of corporations and their cruelty to animals, the film spends most of its running time beating a dead horse.

Stranger than Fiction (Forster, 2006)

2006-11-06T00:26:00.000-05:00

In screenwriting, a clever idea is a very dangerous possession. It’s even more daunting when that clever idea is bizarre and otherworldly. Can the execution transcend the thought-provoking concept? In Stranger Than Fiction’s ambitious case, not really.

Will Ferrell wisely takes acting lessons from Dustin Hoffman behind the scenes.

Stranger Than Fiction wears its ingenuity on its sleeve and is forcefully concerned with reasserting its attempted quirk and wit. It may be a playful exercise in self-conscious meta-narrative, but, ultimately, it’s perniciously shallow, even when searching to find depth in its typical themes.Most of the film is so preoccupied with reinvigorating the surface sharpness of its premise that it only flirts with its points on the nature of the narrative and the human condition. There’s no room for truly incisive commentary in this overstuffed production. The symbolic stand-in for humanity in Stranger than Fiction is the tightly programmed pawn, Harold Crick (a surprisingly tolerable and relatively restrained Will Ferrell).

Harold is disturbingly comfortable in his antiseptic, solitary world of suits and perfectly tied neckties. After 12 years of working for the IRS, he finds solace in uniformity and conformity. The modern architecture that surrounds him is metallic, ostentatiously geometric and very cold, reminiscent of Jacques Tati’s bleakly contemporary landscape in Playtime.

The imperious narrator explains that Harold is a man of “infinite numbers, endless calculations and few words.” As Harold brushes his teeth one Wednesday morning—counting each brush stroke—something abnormal occurs; Harold begins to hear a voiceover of his life. It accurately documents every move he makes and every thought he thinks. This omniscient voice belongs to Karen “Kay” Eiffel (a perfectly cast Emma Thompson), a chain-smoking, neurotic novelist who has not completed a book in nearly a decade. Karen is physically introduced into the film while standing on the ledge of a skyscraper, staring down at the pedestrians as they perform menial functions; she clearly represents a God-like figure, but she is unaware of Harold' human existence. This representation is pushed even further when the audience and Harold learn through her voiceover that she plans to kill off Harold Crick.

Troubled by his imminent death, Harold searches for an expert on literary theory, Professor Jules Hilbert (Dustin Hoffman, deftly playing the same basic role he did in I Heart Huckabees), and conveniently—and implausibly—begins a relationship with a counterculture baker he is auditing (Maggie Gyllenhaal). Harold even breaks a few rules and buys a guitar—this is Stranger than Fiction's uninspired way to depict Harold taking control of his life. It's shocking that he did not go for a red Porsche, also. Nonetheless, Harold's meaningless life is finally given significance just before he must face death. Isn’t it odd how that works out.

Although Stranger Than Fiction possesses a unique scenario, it is easy and helpful to describe it as a hybrid of two very successful pictures, Adaptation and The Truman Show. In comparison to Adaptation, it fails to amass the acumen on writing through Kay Eiffel that Charlie Kaufman provided in his script.It also lacks anything as enlightening as the Platonic allegory present in Peter Weir’s The Truman Show.

Stranger Than Fiction offers a brief, powerful statement about sacrificing one’s life to create an artistic masterpiece, but it too quickly glosses over this in favor of bland, self-aware charm. By the time Stranger Than Fiction begins to deal with the philosophical implications of its central concept, it bluffs and attempts to justify its contrivances while delivering a humdrum message. The film, along with Harold Crick, grapples with its magical realism. Soon it becomes apparent that this inventive idea is simply used to give context to trite philosophies on free will, fate and carpe diem. This platform is not the most solid one, either. Stranger Than Fiction is such an odd film to wrestle with, not because it fails while trying to challenge conventions, but because it flippantly treats Crick’s predicament as if it could easily exist in a realistic, modern society.

There’s no doubting director Marc Forster’s attempt to be eclectic—he previously directed the gritty drama Monster’s Ball, the shamelessly manipulative Finding Neverland, and the convoluted psychological thriller Stay—but this diversity should not be mistaken for accomplishment, even if Stranger Than Fiction is his least heavy-handed production to date.

Despite its promisingly singular premise, Stranger Than Fiction is too broad and provides no new insight into the themes it tackles. Instead of including a challenging interpretation of fatalism and existentialism, it offers an anemic romantic subplot. Although the tepid conclusion revolves around life’s subtleties, Stranger than Fiction is unfortunately a stranger to nuance. The film provokes Harold to seize the day, but it should be more concerned with seizing its own original idea in an unexpected way.

Dull "Scissors" needs sharpening

2006-10-30T01:53:00.000-05:00

Dysfunctional casts of characters are not rare in contemporary cinema. Unfortunately, many recent releases have neither improved upon the paradigm nor been subversive enough to experiment with the already exhausted conventions. Running with Scissors continues this streak of weak poseurs.

After Running with Scissors, Annette Bening wisely undergoes career counseling.

As an eccentric ensemble piece, it is missing the absurdist comedy of I Heart Huckabee’s and the peculiar pathos of The Royal Tenenbaums. This dull result is even more depressing when considering how fey and colorful Augusten Burrough’s memoirs, from which the film is based, are. Ultimately, the filmmakers accomplish one ostensibly infeasible task: they render Augusten Burroughs’ life unremarkable.

The film opens with a voiceover identifying itself, “My name is Augusten Burroughs.” A teenage Augusten (Joseph Cross) concludes this brief introduction by noting, “I guess it doesn’t really matter where I begin because no one is going to believe me, anyway.” It is not the strange events that occur, however, that makes this production unbelievable; it’s the way the filmmakers have taken candid accounts and neatly packaged them for easy digestion that strains this toothless film’s plausibility.

Running with Scissors revolves around Augusten Burroughs—a sensitive, aptly angst-ridden teenager whose upbringing was hardly conventional. He can thank his mother, Deirdre Burroughs (Annette Bening, taking full advantage of her character’s psychosis), for such a tumultuous childhood.

Deirdre, a vastly unstable and acerbic narcissist with delusions of grandeur, divorces her husband and selfishly decides that her quirky psychiatrist, Dr. Finch (Brian Cox, who is usually fantastic but is merely serviceable here), should adopt Augusten so she can concentrate on her emotions and writing. Dr. Finch has two odd daughters (Evan Rachel Wood and Gwyneth Paltrow, trying hard to give dimension to their one-note characters and failing) and an adopted, perilous thirtysomething son (Joseph Fiennes). Thus begins Augusten’s wayward trip through life and his struggle to cope with uncontrollable events.

The director of Running with Scissors, Ryan Murphy, has previously worked in television – he is credited as creator of the provocative FX series with slicing and dicing, “Nip/Tuck” and the teen cult (yet hardly classic) show, “Popular.” Perhaps that’s why, after moving to a new medium, the film is so jarringly episodic and lacking in cohesion. It lumps along from one scene to the next, pointing out another bizarre, yet candy-coated, vignette from Augusten’s memoirs.

Augusten whines from scene to scene, consistently complaining about living an abnormal existence, yet the film is not bold enough to justify his complaints. Even the spontaneous relationship between Augusten and a 32 year old male – the aforementioned adopted son of Dr. Finch – does not seem self-destructive and there are hardly any visibly negative affects. By the end, it’s downright tiresome. At least the devoted cast attempts to bring the film to a higher level.

Augusten isn’t annoying though – he is, oddly, not given enough material to be. Despite being the centerpiece, he’s simply drab. It’s difficult to blame actor Joseph Cross when the film’s script obviously has a bias towards Bening’s scene-stealing histrionics.

The stabs at whimsical humor mostly fall flat, and an attempt to inject heart into the production through three scenes with a subtext-exposing Mrs. Finch (Jill Clayburgh), are awkwardly placed. These scenes augment the film’s unevenness and tonal confusion. Therefore, it’s neither an effective idiosyncratic comedy nor a touching reflection on a teenage life and apprehension towards the future.

In an interview with Joseph Cross, he said that he identified with Augusten’s “loneliness amidst a chaotic atmosphere,” and the film does try to convey a theme of oppression, yet ultimately results in a scene of baffling optimism.

The narrative rolls out over the 70’s, and Murphy tries his best to capture this time period. His best, which consists of spending a large percentage of film’s budget on song rights, is not enough. Ryan Murphy doesn’t have the flair for 70’s kitsch; he mistakes a loaded soundtrack (including Elton John and Crosby, Stills & Nash) for earned retro status.

There’s a catchphrase that Deirdre uses in her writing workshop: “get the rage on the page.” A similarly rhyming phrase was probably uttered during a meeting of producers: “make it lean and put it on the screen.”

The title is very appropriate, since scissors were, apparently, heavily involved in the production. The adapters used scissors to snip out the bizarre nature of life, making every scene seem more like forced plot advancement than a capricious twist in Augusten’s journey. Somewhere along the line, someone tripped while running with scissors and accidentally castrated the production. Despite a mostly adept cast—including a diva-licious performance by Annette Bening—Running with Scissors has less balls than a Ken doll.

I saw a film today, oh boy.

2006-10-22T15:49:00.000-04:00

Actually, that's a lie; but if you lo0ok to your right, you will see that I have been watching movies despite completely neglecting my blog

Some may call my journal a child of sorts -- and if Marie Antoinette and Little Children have taught me much, it's that neglectful parenting is chic once again. Truffaut would have been so proud.

With deep “Corteo,” Cirque De Soleil doesn’t clown around

2006-10-21T10:56:00.000-04:00

In a brief scene within Cirque de Soleil’s Boston presentation of Corteo, an angel attempts to patiently teach the clown protagonist (Mauro Mozzani) how to fly. He is donned with makeshift wings and after a few gleeful moments of flight, he suddenly plunges towards the ground. The clown stabilizes only four feet above the stage and, after some flustered hesitation, flies back up to try again.

This cyclical pattern of ups and downs mirrors the structure of Corteo and, more broadly, life itself. Cirque de Soleil – Corteo is, essentially, an abstract examination of the bittersweet experience of being – dazzlingly documenting its jubilant highs and harsh lows.

Mauro Mozzani, steering the show as the nameless lead clown, seems to believe that the bitter tragedies of existence outweigh the mirth, since the play opens with him contemplating suicide. The non-linear narrative begins with Mozzani envisioning his well-attended funeral – “corteo” is an Italian term which translates into “procession.” The subsequent vignettes are a loose collection of symbolic, nostalgic introspections upon his past.

Despite the omnipresence of angels, this reflection upon a clown’s life is, thankfully, much more similar to Bob Fosse’s conceptual and insightful All That Jazz than Frank Capra’s schmaltzy It’s a Wonderful Life.

In an exuberant scene of adolescent tomfoolery, a handful of younger actors recreate a memory of pillow-fighting and bed-jumping. The pillows fly fast and the cast flips high in the air. The trampolines, which are artfully disguised in the beds, give the acrobats the height to perform their fantastic feats. The scene works twofold, as most do; it is an aesthetic wonder and it also captures the essence of childhood: unbridled joy.

The key tableau in Corteo, however, occurs near the middle; colorful, manic characters become uncontrollable with ecstasy until the ringmaster forcefully reminds them that they are attending a funeral. This prompts them to pause and invert their gleeful smiles. This most exposes the subtext of Corteo – in life, melancholy is penetrated by bliss, but bliss is ultimately punctuated with melancholy. The poignant and brilliantly staged finale proves that death does not always have to be morose, though.

Corteo is quite a technical achievement, but since every stunt is performed seamlessly, it appears to be pure magic that runs the show. Beds, bicycles, angels and clowns casually soar high over the stage. Shoes scurry across the floor without a human inhabiting them. Contortionists dangle from chandeliers raised fifty feet above the ground. There’s even a precious dwarf who acts as a human beach-ball.

Corteo is as well balanced as a tight rope walker. Not only is it an amalgam of choreography, gymnastics and slapstick comedy, but it is also a luminous and musical triumph.

There is much to feast your eyes and ears on simultaneously. Fortunately, the dexterous lighting acts as a guide for the wandering, hypnotized eye. Whatever you choose to focus on, your mouth is guaranteed to be gapping the whole time.

The multicultural mix of melodies perfectly complements Corteo’s multitude of diverse scenarios. The mid-song pauses are also equally effective – it’s the brief absence of sound that creates more palpable tension during breathtaking routines.

The visuals and music will astound throughout, but it is Corteo’s profound meaning that will resonate. Perhaps the dizzy feeling one may feel during the production is not simply due to its mesmerizing eye candy, but also the deep and empathetic observations it makes on someone else’s life. As Mozzani encounters people in his dream world, he often recognizes them as past acquaintances and shares a cathartic reunion with them. Although Corteo is an epic production, it’s delicately nuanced.

Cirque de Soleil is currently performing Corteo in the majestic blue and yellow big-top tent constructed in the parking lot of Suffolk Downs in East Boston. The creators, cast and crew deftly balance the inspired lunacy of the circus with the solemnity of the opera and the grace of ballet.

The whole event is spectacularly surreal and reminiscent of what a stage adaptation of a Federico Fellini film may resemble. Therefore, it is unsurprising that it bears such close similarity to Fellini’s 1963 masterpiece, 8 ½, which is a rumination on artistic frustration and a director’s life. As the anarchic, clown-filled denouement of that film suggests: life is a circus. The talents behind Corteo definitely agree.

New development(s)!

2006-09-23T13:43:00.000-04:00

Last night, I hit puberty again. It was slightly less confusing and awkward this time. Slightly.

Details may follow.

Oh, and I was recently fired from a serving job that I had not even yet begun; I was on the sixth day of the six day training program.

Details may follow.

Let your imaginations run wild.

I thought I was too old to have obsessions.

2006-08-27T12:34:00.000-04:00

My triumphant return to college/Boston will occur tomorrow, Monday. I stopped working and promptly started packing last Saturday. Since then I have been in some strange, transitory phase both physically and psychologically. I am prepared to leave, but I must stay for a week. I'm glad this week, which I've so sorely wallowed through, has finally come to an end (I had my wisdom teeth pulled to keep me busy, it seems). I've been arduously fighting off ennui, like always, with film, literature and music; I'd lead a completely insignificant life without them. Over the past week, I have fallen in love with a novel and a music video (that covers both film and music, correct?).

The novel is Virginia Woolf's delicate, yet tough, To the Lighthouse (more on that in my 'summer reading recap,' which should appear here in the near future). I discovered the music video --a medium I usually feel indifferent towards because the music occasionally clashes with the imagery in a negative way-- while browsing youtube in my boredom. The video is for Belle and Sebastian's catchy/meloncholy (of course, it's Belle and Sebastian) "Jonathon David."

How this video escaped me before, I have no idea -- but I'm very glad I did encounter it. It's my favorite contemporary band making a music video which closely resembles a French New Wave film (complete with jump cuts!).

Enjoy -- as I have many, many times. Does any particular film come to mind? I know one does. Take a wild guess.

Yeah, she's a little chubby.

2006-08-23T10:51:00.000-04:00

Catherine Breillat's Fat Girl is an incisive and indelible look at sexuality -- sexuality as a game of course. Larry Clark, take notes. The most telling scene is the 20 minute long, 'almost-every-teenager-has-probably-gone-through-this' seduction scene. Within these twenty minutes (which, when I looked at the DVD clock, was shocked to see was longer than 7 or 8 minutes), the dominance swaps from male to female, and back to the male again. Its playful, and ultimately devastating, to see the genders swap power -- and the scene is brillaintly acted. To make it even richer, the conversation and sexual acts are being voyeuristically watched by another character (through a couple of her fingers), whom they know is in the room (although a potent question to ask would be: did they ever forget she was there?).

The titular porker. You don't want to know what kind of photos I was exposed to during the google image search for this picture.

I really appreciate how, beyond the central 'relationsip' in the film, Breillat deftly manages to balance the corrupting of the sisters. One is being sexually exploited (by a skilled, yet still transparent, lothario) and her slightly-corpulent sister is becoming more and more sexually repressed (taking out her sexual frustration on various poles in the pool -- great little scene). I didn't think its insights into sisterhood were as successful as its statement on teenagers and sex, though. It's not exactly a subtle film, but it's just overtly malicious and candid enough (I, oddly, don't have a problem with the ending, which makes quite a bit of sense when considering the rest of the film, which is wrapped in such mourning) to get its point across effectively and uniquely. I think it's one of the better films to be released in 2001. It's right behind Monsters Inc.

By the way, seeing the film gives a new meaning to the DVD cover. It's probably one of my favorite Criterion covers -- I love when more information gives you a whole new perspective on an image.

More proof that God hates me (and the human race).

2006-08-21T17:36:00.000-04:00

Why were wisdom teeth (and, after I think about it, an appendix) ever placed in the human body (namely, mine)?

Today, I will have my wisom teeth removed. I know it's a rather simple operation, but I am not comforted by the idea of an operation being done in the back of my mouth. My grandmother called me yesterday to wish me 'luck' during the operation. This, of course, struck some sort of mental --not dental-- nerve; why would she call to wish me luck if it wasn't a big deal? So, thanks to my well-intending granmother, I have a vision in my head which is somewhat similar to this cartoon I encountered:

I believe three of my wisom teeth are 'impacted' (I've avoided finding out what that means for my own mental health, because I don't think its good). I will, fortunately, be put to (temporary) sleep when they start sawing away (a friend, who had them moved in Spain, just had a shot or two of novocaine -- the horror!). Needless to say, I will probably be watching A Chipmunk Adventure for the whole week -- and I'll try to steer clear of Little Shop of Horrors and Timmy the Tooth.

Therefore, please share (audience participation!) your stories of painful jaws, applesauce and painkillers. I need them.

The most unpleasant surprise of the summer? I think so.

2006-08-16T00:16:00.000-04:00

I was initially wary that Little Miss Sunshine would be an annoyingly platitiudinous, dysfunctional-family-goes-on-a-road-trip-to-self-discovery flick. And, you know what, it sort of is. The most shocking thing about the film, though, is that it doesn't helplessly try to grab the scarf-clad, Zach Braff acolytes; this film teaches me that all Sundance-approved productions can have flaws that come in all different shapes and sizes.

The well-intending cast of Little Miss Sunshine realize that they're stranded with a hopeless screenplay

Despite an advertising campaign very reminiscent to Garden State, the film is much more thematically similar to Alexander Payne's Sideways. Little Miss Sunshine is, essentially, a film about winners and losers -- and how losers can be winners. Isn't that sweet? Oh, and it's also a critique on suburbia, America (placed outside of the suburbs and on various highways) and superficiality. The film is funamentally very confused; the problem is that it's either not nasty enough or not genuine and sweet enough. Situations full of truth are stretched thin and made implausible by caricatures played by actors who try desperately to ground their characters -- characters which each take about 45 seconds to set-up (although we're given at least 10 minutes for each).

Each individual in the Hoover family is given a title (Steve Carrell is the 'gay, suicidal Proust-scholar,' while Paul Dano is the 'aloof, reserved Nieztche-reading teenager' and Alan Arkin is the 'certifiable, potty-mouthed, horny, drug-addicted grandpa' who is a veteran of some war); the characters are so exaggerated that its difficult to believe the screenwriter was unaware of their phoniness. Worse than them being caricatures, some of them don't even earn their predicated 'title.' I would never believe that Carrell's character is a homosexual, ex-professor if I wasn't repeatedly told so.

Then, towards the final act, the film builds a bit of its 'own' (confused, trite) philosphy ('suffering is the essence of life, so why try avoiding it?'), yet it contradicts itself in the very next scene (when the protagonist who just learned that pearl of wisdom tries to dissuade his younger sister from performing in a pageant, where he believes she'll suffer). Due to the film's various inconsistencies (in characters, warped philosophy and tone) Little Miss Sunshine is not just an irritating, clichéd, self-proclaimed 'indie flick,' but a rather unfunny, inept and muddled film.

The most pleasant surprise of the summer? I think so.

2006-08-10T13:41:00.000-04:00

After plans to see Little Miss Sunshine (a film I'm a bit wary of because I believe it may fall victim to indie-hipster niche-marketing, but I shall see if my instincts are off tomorrow) with a friend collapsed, my visiting cousins and I opted to take in a late show at the multiplex.

DJ: "I really, really hope hallucination is just a side-effect of puberty."

Monster House is probably the best film I've seen this summer, and it includes a statement on childhood and play more potent and less cloying than Finding Neverland's. Its ludicrous plot --an anthropomorphised house gobbles up basketballs, kites and tricycles (all symbols of youth and adolescent recreation) while snapping its tongue-like carpet at the protagonists if they step on the very green lawn-- doesn't exactly sound appealing to the reality-inclined viewer. The filmmakers, however, refreshingly cram much truth into such an absurd premise to produce a highly enjoyable, yet sinister and abstract production. As the thirteen year-old protagonists wave bye-bye to adolescence, their imaginations begin to run as wild as their burgeoning hormones (enter: Jenny, a sassy, young-teen neighbor).

Within five minutes of the film, DJ --the main "soon-to-be-a-man" kid-- accidently cracks his voice when addressing his parents; Monster House should be appreciated most as a film with rich subtext and a pitch-perfect representation of the confounding and physically/psychologically evolving period of a young adults life. It's not a film without some flaws -- and the second, more action-packed and narrative-driven, half is not nearly as intriguing or sharp as the angsty, deep first act, which captures the essence of puberty (giggle, giggle). Its depiction is spookily accurate.

It's a shockingly uncompromising, ominous and sophisticated film --despite the incongruous vulgar humor, which pops up on occasion-- about maturation, mortality and temptation. The films ideas and themes may be presented in a bit of a clunky manner at times (even though they are legitimate, honest and sincere) but the animation is always meticulous and the casting is particularly inspired.

In other news, Clerks II and World Trade Center contribute to the mediocre cinematic summer of 2006 (even if the Clerks sequel is much, much too vile to be considered 'mediocre').

Listen up.

2006-07-28T01:37:00.000-04:00

This is an announcement to those who like to raise their hand in the air, open their palm towards the person they are facing, and say "High five!":

Please don't do this to me. I have faced (false) accusations of racism and snobbery due to this silly, silly tradition.

In other news, I have discovered a small stage in the banquet room at the country club where I work. I am currently rounding up the 'Bamm Hollow players' and forcing them to perform an adaptation of Beckett/McCarthy's "Waiting for Godot, Our Waiter."

The startling success of that production will become my greatest accomplishment at work so far this summer -- usurping the time when I dryly convinced a coworker that I am into sadomasochism.

Ta ta.

I missed out on a Kodak moment.

2006-07-08T22:06:00.000-04:00

I spilled some milk at work today and the splash took the form of John Merrick (the elephant man) licking a lollipop.

Big Brother is Watching You.

2006-06-03T23:52:00.000-04:00

Caveat: this entry may frighten old men.

I'm downright terrified of most new technology. I do, however, admit to being somewhat dependent on certain advances in technology; I cannot imagine a life without the internet, AIM or my iPod. Everything else, however, chills my postmodern bones. The most recent fright I endured was at my aunt and uncle's house for Easter. I walked into the kitchen to fetch a drink and grab some hors d'oeuvres, and as I turned around I was greeted by a black and white television -- which my 15-month-year-old twin cousins appeared on. Apparently, baby moniters aren't enough -- so they (a very vague 'they') have a survellience camera planted in the corner of the childrens' bedroom. Let me clarify: this 20" moniter is sits on a counter in the middle of the kitchen. Orwell must have rolled in his grave as I ran from the kitchen. Later on that night I asked my sister to make my dinner plate for me.

I'm never punctual.

2006-05-26T21:55:00.000-04:00

If you've ever had the pleasure of meeting me in the flesh, and have designated a rendezvous point and time, you probably had to wait a minute or two. To avoid being uncharacteristic, I decided not to reveal my Top something (I think it's 18) of the films released in the United States in 2005 until...nearly five months into the following year (I made it in just under five, actually -- it seems I am improving a bit). I have no comments to make on the cinematic year of 2005 because, well, that was soooo long ago.

Top 10 (in alphabetical, or -- err-- numerical, order):

2046 (Wong Kar-Wai)
3-Iron (Kim Ki-Duk)
Caché (Michael Hanake)
Funny Ha Ha (Andrew Bujalski)
Grizzly Man (Werner Herzog)
Keane (Lodge Kerrigan)
Kings and Queen (Andre Desplechin)
Me and You and Everyone We Know (Miranda July)
Murderball (Henry Alex Rubin and Dana Adam Shapiro)
The Squid and the Whale (Noah Baumbach)

Then there's always a second tier which includes the other notable films of the year:

The Best of Youth (Marco Tullio Giordana)
Brokeback Mountain (Ang Lee)
Last Days (Gus van Sant)
Look at Me (Agnès Jaoui)
The New World (Terrence Malick)
Nobody Knows (Hirokazo Kore-eda)
Pride and Prejudice (Joe Wright)
Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit (Nick Park)

And, of course, the worst (also in alphabetical order):

Cinderella Man (Ron Howard)
Crash (Paul Haggis)
Derailed (Mikael Hafstrom)
Elizabethtown (Cameron Crowe)
Green Street Hooligans (Lexi Alexander)
Gunner Palace (Petra Epperlein and Michael Tucker)
Land of Plenty (Wim Wenders)
Memoirs of a Geisha (Rob Marshall)
Mrs. Henderson Presents (Stephen Frears)
North Country (Niki Caro)

These films were either woefully miscalculated, or insulted the medium and its audience by offering absolutely no insight or truth.

My annual count? 105.

The breakdown:

Very, very good (A-): 2
Very good (B+): 15
Good (B): 12
Mixed (B-): 28
Negative (C+ and down): 48

An Afternoon at the Scientology Center of Boston

2006-05-11T13:22:00.000-04:00

The sacred Scientology center of Boston -- which bears an uncanny resemblance to 111 Archer Ave. from The Royal Tenenbaums.

Two of my friends and I attended the service at 11:00, and it slowly evolved into a 'day at the center,' where we stayed for the next four hours.

We walked into the service a few minutes late. As we passed through the white doors, a man was playing folk-y songs on his guitar. We entered during a Moody Blues song, and then we were greeted to all of Simon and Garfunkel's "America."

Once the music ended, and we clapped, a middle-aged woman approached the podium. Before I go into detail on her reading, let me describe the audience she was speaking to. The room was rather small -- at least in comparison to other services I have been to -- and there were only about twenty-two scientologists occupying the metal, fold-out chairs. A few were dressed in their 'Sunday best' (including my friend and I), and a few were dressed in more bohemian-style hippie clothes. Behind the speaker was a fireplace, and a portrait of L. Ron Hubbard (who was amusingly referred to as LRH -- I, of course, was on an initial-based relationship with him by the end of my four hours, also) hung above it. To the left of the fireplace stood a podium with a sculpture of the bust of LRH. Obviously, they like this guy.

After perusing the room, I began to listen to the woman at the podium. She read a creed of sorts, which was very open-minded. I paraphrase: "We accept anyone despite their gender, race, color or religious affiliation to help discover their spirit." She subsequently read from an LRH essay entitled 'Personal Integrity' which implicitly (and occasionally VERY explicitly) spoke about pacifism and community. The woman, who had an eerily soothing voice, said that the way to understand yourself is to observe everyone else (we shouldn't only look into our own cranium, but also look at our neighbor, who is also looking into his own cranium). Afterwards, I found out that Paul Haggis practices scientology; my friend and I promptly created a thesis which proved Crash as scientologist propaganda.

We watched a video named "This is Scientology" which was a recording of a speaker (Mr. David Miscavige, if I recall correctly) at a large, celebrity-filled event (therefore, there were random cuts to Kelly Preston) that condemned 'the four horsemen': drugs, illiteracy, immorality and crime. Apparently, Scientologists have funded and built centers which aid to help cure wayward individuals of these four vices -- and these centers are open in 57 countries (Cut to a shot of a bunch of little African kids holding up a picture book with the yellow title printed on the top in big letters: "Learning to Learn"). They claim that drugs are bad and children are educated in the wrong manner (and, unsurprisingly, they offer no alternatives).

Next, we moved into another private screening room and watched a 20 minute orientation film on 16mm, which essentially starred the cast of Look Who's Talking (minus half of the swimming sperms). Luckily, the audio and visual began to move at different speeds and Kirstie Alley began speaking in Isaac Hayes' (who had testified right before her about his dedication to scientology) deep voice. Pretty funny.

After that reel malfunction, we headed downstairs and took personality surveys. It said I was a critical, neurotic, open-minded, outspoken, unhappy and unstable individual. Essentially, it told me I am a terrible human being and should seek improvement through the answers which Scientology will provide for me -- so, I am a perfect candidate. One of my other friends got rather similar results, and one was considered 'normal,' 'agreeable' and 'happy.' We made fun of him later.

After being told that I don't appreciate people, they hooked me up to a stress test. I had to hold the aluminum bars and think. Whenever the needle jumped, they asked me what I was thinking. I could never remember the thought. I was inadvertently making it very difficult to read me. Ultimately, I told him that the needle jumped at one point because I had a headache in the shower this morning, and I thought it might be a tumor (unbeknownst to me at the time, I was making a really witty allusion to Hannah and Her Sisters).

They never gave us an opportunity to leave, but I told them -- as I briefly sighed -- that I had a previous engagement at 3:30.

They were big on etymology -- always defining terms and their origins to shed 'light' on a topic. These details, however, rarely shed insight into the situation. That seemed to be the big problem with this organization: they gloated about having the answers -- yet they did not disclose the slightest bit of information on what these 'answers' may be. I think they just liked hearing themselves claim that THEY had the answers.

Yeah, it is basically a cult, but they did not make me wears Nike sneakers or drink Kool-Aid -- and they seemed like personable and well-intending individuals -- so they are A-OK with me. I would like to borrow one of their home theaters to watch films, though.

To those who have the power, please rename this:

2006-05-07T17:06:00.000-04:00

Please excuse the obligatory -- but, in the case, grotesque -- imagery. If you must, simple overlook it and misinterpret ever word which follows.

If you are an unfortunate individual, like myself, and occasionally wake up with a bit of gooey -- yet slightly hard -- bit of disgustingness in the corner of your eyes (as pictured above), then you will know how repulsive it is to scrape it out with your index finger. More vulgar than its color, squishiness and presence is its appelation. Unfortunately, there is no official name for it, so many use the crude slang words "eye boogers" to describe it. The other commonly used name is "crust," which is equally crass. Therefore, I beg anyone who has the influence to completely change the American vernacular to please give it a proper, and less tasteless term. So, please view this as a petition of some sort. Also, if any wonderful reader could tell me the scientific name (if one exists), I would be delighted.

Since classes/essays/exams ended this past Tuesday, and grades have been submitted and released, I have absolutely no responsibilites. Normally, I would be looking (or forced to look) for a job at this moment, but I decided to stay in Boston for another two weeks before heading back home to the exotic land known as New Jersey (I have decided to be a waiter this summer and find an internship when I return from Europe next summer). This has left me with an absurdly large amount of time to live a structureless life and do whatever pleases me. This, of course, is very, very dangerous. Simply put, I am confused by such freedom. Without a schedule, rigid or loose, I fear I may be leading a vacuous existence. Therefore, I try to kept myself occupied. In some cases, 'occupied' means spending time writing an entry about eye boogers.

Below, in bullets, are events I have partaken in within the past five days, due to my excessive, yet oddly welcome, amount of free time:

Had a picnic on the Boston Common with friends, where we played Wiffleball, ate hummus and fried dough, drank strawberry lemonade, and mocked tourists.
Ate 19 cheap Fla.Vor.Ice ice pops (and I am currently gnawing on an ice pop of the grape/purple variation -- yes, I am quite the multi-tasker).
Read my favorite playwright's (Edward Albee) adaptation of my favorite novel (Nabakov's Lolita).
Watched 6 films.
Finished a bottle of red wine by myself (in the company of others, of course -- I haven't gone that far off the deep end).
Wore my cheap black-and-white checkered sandals and walked in them for more than 100 feet -- and survived.
Misread 'sexiest' as 'sexist'...twice.
Listened to Modern English's new-wave "I Melt With You," which transcends 80's cheese, 16 times (its play-count on my iTunes is currently 137).
Witnessed a colorful sunset from the roof of my apartment building.
Went to Scientology service and stayed in the Scientology center (which looked uncannily similar to 111 Archer Ave. from The Royal Tenenbaums) for an extra three hours, where my friends and I watched two orientation videos, took a stress test, and filled out a personality survey (which told me I am a terrible human being and should seek improvement through the answers which Scientology will provide for me -- none of which they even slightly disclosed).
Walked at least 10 miles without the intention of walking a long distance.
Woke up without eye boogers/eye crust/[less uncouth name to be determined].

I am so accomplished.

Film Festival leaves prints all over Boston

2006-04-28T20:17:00.000-04:00

The ubiquitous icon of the 2006 Independent Film Festival of Boston, a thumbprint with a film reel embedded in the center, is perfectly emblematic of the staff, volunteers, and attendees of this 4^th annual celebration of cinema. They all bear this symbolic, permanent mark. The excitement and amicability these film zealots exude exposes their genetic, and infectious, love of filmmaking; there is no rigid hierarchy at the festival – whether filmgoers have a Chrome Pass

With this congeniality, however, comes sycophancy. Although the obsequious crowds, many of whom proudly showered compliments upon even the worst of trash in hopes of gaining indie-cred, became a bit grating, most were approachable and willing to defend their opinions in a spontaneous discussion on the sidewalk outside the theater. The Someday Café, which is conveniently adjacent to the Somerville Theater, was another popular forum for impromptu, intimate film symposiums – and the baristas made damn good lattes which kept me awake through the twenty-six hours I spent in a dark theater with flickering lights. or a ticket to a single screening, their passion for independent film unites them.

Opening night was greeted with a line which sprawled around the antique Somerville Theater in Davis Square – which served as the Mecca for low-budget-film believers. The massive queues -- which continued throughout the six days of the festival, an extension from last year’s four -- were so long that concession-snacking patrons had eaten most of their popcorn and candy before they even entered the theater doors.

Seventy-four films, the largest in the festival’s career, screened from April 19^th to April 24^th. The film festival began auspiciously with Half Nelson, an evocative and socially conscious study on the platonic, and implicitly political, relationship between a promising pupil, Drey (newcomer Shareeka Epps), and Mr. Dunne, 8^th grade history teacher (an impressive and scruffy Ryan Gosling, who proved himself a worthy actor in 2001 with The Believer), who is not as responsible outside of the classroom as the school expects him to be. He commits reprehensible acts that no conscientious teacher would practice, such as smoking crack to the beats of Broken Social Scene, being blithely promiscuous, and watching Charles in Charge. After basketball practice one day, Drey accidentally catches Mr. Dunne puffing his crack-pipe in a stall. This encounter, of course, complicates their relationship yet strengthens their bond of trust.

Half Nelson may deceptively sound as if it is a victim of its own dangerously hackneyed genre – unorthodox-teacher-inspires-youth-and-the-youth-reciprocates – but it is actually the defeater of its own brand. It upends the conventions which make those films, like Dead Poet’s Society, so spurious and shamelessly manipulative. The naturalistic performances ground the film in a harsh reality, which is enhanced by the film’s gritty exterior. Half Nelson is in no hurry to create convenient characterizations – nuances and details organically become apparent throughout the production.

Although the personal drama is handled intimately, the racial issues which the film addresses -- and subsequently marginalizes – are not dealt with confidently. The subordination of such issues, which never materialize much, leads one to believe that the filmmakers (Ryan Fleck and Ana Boden) had more to say than what ended up being communicated. Therefore, the topical portion of the film is unfortunately reduced to mere black-face paraphernalia and brief student presentations of revolutionary events which are jarringly placed in between scenes to overtly emphasize the filmmakers’ rage against humanity’s past injustices. Nonetheless, Half Nelson is a powerful and authentic glance at narcotics, schoolteachers, and change due to conflicting forces.

Film festivals offer an outlet for aspiring filmmakers who are just average guys and, quite often, you will encounter a film that is quite average. I stumbled upon a few cases of this dreadful mediocrity in two particular films which both focus on failure and, coincidentally, fail to transcend their trite plots: Cocaine Angel and The Last Romantic.

Cocaine Angel was the second film I saw at the film festival and, after Half Nelson, I was beginning to believe that hard drugs would be a festival motif. While Half Nelson is bleak yet diligent, Cocaine Angel is downright unconvincing. Cocaine Angel opens with the protagonist, doughy-faced ex-family man Scott, going through the tedious process of shooting-up. Similarly, the film itself is a drab, inept and utterly amateurish exercise in uninspired “oh-that-looks-cool” filmmaking, which hopelessly depicts a hopeless cocaine addict in the frame of a few days. The neophyte filmmaker, Michael Tully, is under the false impression that jittery camerawork and violin-infused music will compensate for the lack of genuine dramatic imagery in his lens. Even the dark humor in the film falls flat. A Q & A with Michael Tully afterwards validated my opinion on his clueless and arbitrary approach to directing.

If you have been to a film festival before, or perhaps even seen a film about a naïve writer coming-of-age, then you can indubitably skip the Manhattan-based The Last Romantic; its title is even representative of the ever-approaching, and very welcome, end to this category of film. From the start, the deep irony of this platitudinous production rears its head as both the musical score and the voiceover are reminiscent of the best love story of the past ten years: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. The Last Romantic fizzles so massively because it believes its earnest quirkiness, changing color-palette and livejournal-deep ruminations are charming and fresh – but it’s all very derivative and irritating. Essentially, the film is about leaving one’s mark on the world – which is literally played out in a cringe-worthy scene when the protagonist pens his name onto a subway seat before departing – and the filmmakers, Aaron and Adam Nee, have undoubtedly left their stain on the projection screen.

At the opening night gala, before the screening of Half Nelson, a snazzy video iPod was raffled off to a lucky ticket-holder. There was no such giveaway at the screening of Joe Swanberg’s LOL – a penetrating, yet casual, look at the deterioration of human relationships in the face of technology -- and those who were hoping for a cosmopolitan BlackBerry 8700series were sorely disappointed. In fact, some BlackBerry models may cost more than the budget of this film, which was an admirably scant $3000. As an individual who is both enthralled by the internet’s sticky web and terribly frightened by technology, LOL’s nonchalantly incisive depiction of human alienation due to technology's omnipresence and domineering affects stuck me as truthful and heartbreaking. It can get a little repetitive and implausible in its observations, but it gains much credit for not resorting to a didactic 'technology-is-bad' viewpoint. LOL’s laid-back approach to its message is what makes its vitriolic thesis so unsettling.

Thus concludes my journey into a weekend of queues, coffee, delirium and DV. I attended twelve films in five days during its six-day run, and the best two and the worst two were critiqued above. At one point in the festival, I had to buy a big bucket of popcorn – named after Orson Welles’ corpulent character from Touch of Evil – in hopes that the mechanical arm motion would keep me from either falling asleep or going insane. Now, perhaps I can be patient for the madness that will inevitably ensue once the 5^th Independent Film Festival of Boston comes around next Spring. Being a sane and considerably less sadistic moviegoer for 360 days of the year just isn’t as much fun.

Oh dear.

2006-04-23T00:03:00.000-04:00

Due to final essays/projects and my irresponsible method of spending the weekend, I have finally reached the point of delirium. I have slept for 5 hours over the past 48 hours and have sat in a theater for 18 of those remaining hours.

Some ratings:

Half Nelson: B
Cocaine Angel: D-
So Much So Fast: C
Edmond: C+
Look Both Ways: B
In Between Days: B-
The Puffy Chair: C
The Guatemalan Handshake: No. Just no. (D-, I guess)

So, a mixture of 'good,' 'mixed,' 'bad,' and 'horrendous.'

Highlights so far? Stalking Michael Cera (George Michael Bluth -- from Arrested Development, losers) and briefly meeting Jesse Eisenberg.

Who is this guy, again?

2006-04-21T12:52:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I have been absent recently. Yeah, I have slightly abandoned you recently. Yeah, I have been drowing in schoolwork recently. Yeah, I have had a bit of spare time to post recently. Yeah, I am unbelieveably lazy. These are all true.

Frankly, I am not sure why I am posting right now. Perhaps to rub this in your face:

Since I'm so crafty, I got a handy-dandy press pass for free -- which gives me access to every film/symposium/afterparty -- and I am taking full advantage of it.

Therefore, I do not have time for you jokers at the moment. I'll see you when the film fest has passed, all my final projects and essays have been handed in, and I have resurrected from the dead.

Let's estimate that the time will be around....May 7th. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Brick (Johnson, 2006)

2006-04-08T16:26:00.000-04:00

After leaving Third Rock from the Sun and landing in the world of risky cinema, Joseph Gordon-Levitt finally sees the light.

She’s the Man, a teenage adaptation of William Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, is currently circulating the multiplexes. Over the past decade, nearly a dozen modernized adaptations of Shakespeare have been mass produced and distributed (and, shockingly, not all starred Julia Stiles). If the bard can have at least a handful of his own youthful adaptations, whether he wants them or not -- I’m betting it’s the latter, since a handful of those updates warrant at least a few tosses in the grave -- why can’t Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler? Director Rian Johnson answers that question with the contemporary-set Brick, a sly, dexterous and dapper detective tale which serves as both an homage and a send-up of archetypal noir stories.

The plot of Brick is, in pure noir fashion, deceptively uncomplicated. After receiving a worrisome phone call from a missing ex-girlfriend, Emily (a whiny Emilie de Ravin), Brendan (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) begins an investigation around his present-day southern California high school for her and ends up in troubling situations. No, this is not the type of trouble that will send him to detention. Brendan, in an attempt to “shake things up,” becomes involved in the underground drug operations of his school, which are run by The Pin (a faux-hawk donning, duck-cane-holding Lukas Haas) out of the wood-paneled basement of his parent’s house. The film manages to sneak in a few allusions to The Maltese Falcon here -- Lukas Haas' brass falcons (which appear on his mailbox and in his lair) often pervade the mise-en-scène.

Instead of taking aim at high society and the seedy underbellies of bleak urban areas, this jaunty production dissects the social hierarchy inherent in high school. Floating through the cliques and stereotypes of high school (the Rubik’s-cube-wielding brain, the vampy theater queen, the bully with a Mustang and a violent case of roid rage – if you’ve been to high school, you know the cast of characters), Brendan gets lost in the mystery surrounding Emily’s disappearance – and, due to a palpably tense atmosphere, so does the audience. Brick knows what it is, and it may not transcend its boundaries, but it does what it knows very, very well.

Joseph Gordon-Levitt departed from sitcom-land when Third Rock from the Sun ended five years ago and has rocketed to indie stardom with audacious and astounding performances in 2001’s Manic and last year’s Mysterious Skin. In a heavily stylized performance, Joseph Gordon-Levitt imbues Brendan with a roguish know-how; his hands often remain in his beige jacket with his shoulders held high, as if a cold chill is perpetually blowing over him. Gordon-Levitt is in nearly every frame, and he deftly drives this joyride. The femme fatale, disguised as the needy popular girl, Laura, is portrayed by Nora Zehetner (think a more adorable and intelligent Rachel Bilson from The OC who is more sexy, dangerous, seductive and less…on The OC).

The vernacular of the film is a clever mélange of high school jargon and hardboiled noir shtick. While probing the student body to glean information from his peers, Brendan inquires who his ex-girlfriend has been eating lunch with – and instead of leaving a business card or an office address, he utters with a straight-face: “If you find her, tell her where to meet me – she knows where I eat lunch.” After Brendan gets beat up, which is a common occurrence in the few days this film chronicles, he cunningly tells the angered principal, “he tried to take my lunch money,” and then his blank expression evolves into a slight smirk before he quips, “it’s a good thing I brown-bagged it.”

Most surprisingly, Brick has a slick sense of humor; it’s all refreshingly self-aware and deliciously ironic. Essentially, it is as if the genre itself accidentally stepped into a time warp and there are deliberate, and amusing, anachronisms which did not translate well in a dramatic sense. Replace the cigarette and a glass of gin with a cookie and a glass of apple juice. These toddler treats are served, not by the mysterious butler, but the gentle and congenial mother of the teen drug kingpin of the town. Even the hazardous rendezvous points are scribbled on notebook paper, resembling a note which was passed around a classroom underneath the teacher’s nose. Disclosing all its clever visual details and pizzazz would be shameful, however, so I will pause there.

The novelty of the premise may begin to wear in the last act, but – despite a few lame twists – the film has enough brilliant moments to compensate. The film’s alluring visual style is mesmerizing, yet this is not a simple case of style vs. substance; it’s an incident where the style is the substance. Although it occasionally dips into amusing parody, Brick maintains a serious veneer, and some audience members may find it a bit overbearing. The setting is, of course, in a contemporary Orange County high school. Some over-the-top moments may prompt one to think “But…they’re just in high school, shouldn’t they be going to class or doing their homework?” This reaction is understandable, but rather irrelevant; any fan of the film noir genre will know that it is hardly grounded in realism. The most crucial aspect Brick, however, is whether it captures the essence of classic film noir successfully and still manages to thrill a young audience. I must say, with the arrival of this pitch-perfect homage -- which has a few of its own tricks up its sleeve -- it appears as if Rian Johnson and his cast clearly did their homework.

A break from monotony.

2006-03-14T15:15:00.000-05:00

Since this blog is so evidently cinema-centric, I have decided to focus on two other arts which are vital in my lifestyle and preoccupy most of my time: music and literature. Yes, they fulfill my "Holy Trinity" (move over Jesus, God and Holy Spirit). Even the blog profile structure recognizes that film, music and literature are essential -- it is quite fascinating how much you can discover about a person based upon their tastes and what works they identify themselves through. That, of course, is a strong theme in one of 2005's best: The Squid and the Whale. Oops, I'll shut up about film now (hopefully I can restrain myself).

I read a couple relatively short novels over my week-long spring break.

Post Office is the usual Bukowski -- and that's a compliment; I wouldn't want my Henry Chinaski any other way. Bukowski chronicles his days as a boozer (duh), a lover of multiple vulnerable women, a horse-gambler and an employee of the US Postal Service (where he is far from a poster-boy, of course). His flowing prose, which could mistakenly be labeled as perfunctory (when it is anything but), perfectly mirrors his attitudes and sharply distingues the small moments which reflect a larger picture. Despite the title, I enjoyed the scenes outside of his job (as I'm sure Bukowski did) and the literature really tales off in these moments. Perhaps not as good as the more insightful and "full" Ham on Rye, Post Office is, nonetheless, a quick, unique, depressingly comical and nonchalantly introspective novel.

Also, Henry James' Daisy Miller is a fantastic study on American and European relations (as in identity, conflicts and relationships). An effective American piece masquerading as a British story, this was my second work by James -- and I can most definitely see myself favorably exploring him more in the future.

I've been to a couple shows over the past month.

Animal Collective show: Slightly hit-or-miss and not one of the better shows I have attended this year, but it had a brilliant coda. Plus, I had to deal with an audience that was filled with dirty douchebags in scarves. They tried to start a moshpit at my show. A MOSHPIT at an Animal Collective show? People are silly. Needless to say, the obnoxious adolescents (who smelled like a bar of hotel soap -- grass edition) were terribly irritating. Not a bad time (it was quite fantastic in parts, actually), but I would not be in deep regret for missing it. Also, the fact that I was focusing more on the audience than the stage could be an indicator of how monotonous their act occasionally became. Nonetheless, their exploitation of abstractness in pop music should be appreciated.

Belle and Sebastian/The New Pornographers show: The New Pornographers were, once again, rather mediocre and sloppy (in a non-beneficial way). Despite the absence of Neko Case, however, they actually improved since I last saw them in October (the acoustics are better in this venue than the other one). Carl Newman either needs to put his mouth to the microphone or learn how to sing live. After faltering through the first couple songs, he fortunately improved for the second half of his set. Still, they live up to their name -- similar to pornography, they should be not be seen live because it will expose their falseness. In the studio, however, they're a hit.

Belle and Sebastian, on the other hand, were absolutely fantastic. They have wonderful audience interaction (Murdoch fell off the stage into the audience right in front of me) and put a classy concert-ish spin on all of their songs. They also handed out their complimentary fruit bowl. I got a strawberry. Oh, and they are quite the dancers; Stuart Murdoch dances similar to Molly Ringwald ala "The Breakfast Club" -- not to be confused with her dissimilar dancing moves in "Sixteen Candles" (fuck, I cannot believe this was my first cinema-slip in this entry) -- and Stevie dances like...well, I'm not exactly sure how to classify it. Awesomely odd? Yeah, that will do.

Tsotsi (Hood, 2006)

2006-03-13T23:52:00.000-05:00

Star Presley Chweneyagae steps out of the shadows to expose one of his two facial expressions.

Do not be fooled by its foreign title, nearly unpronounceable to the American tongue, Tsotsi (dubious pronunciation key: sot’see) is an accessible film, and will likely find mainstream audiences. Due to its recent Academy Award win for Best Foreign Language Film, and its shocking victory at Toronto (where it picked up the questionably illustrious People’s Choice Award), Tsotsi should entice viewers with a middlebrow sensibility. It is not difficult to discover why it has been universally embraced; it is crowd pleasing due to its sympathetic (if not simplistic) performances, sentimentality, and utter familiarity despite the distant locale. With its conventional narrative paradigm and overly humanized characters, Tsotsi may perhaps be the most affable gangster film in recent memory. No, that’s not a compliment. The film is too preoccupied with being a feel-good film about ruffian-redemption, class conflict, and poverty that it overshadows the brutal, gritty bleakness that remains in the peripheral of the wide-screen camera lens.

Tsotsi focuses directly on one of the hooligans plucked from the urban setting of Johannesburg, South Africa. After a game of dice, where the titular thug incorrectly states that 4 + 5 = 11, and a scene of unmitigated inhumanity, where he knifes a subway passenger for a few dollars with his gang-buddies, the gangsters congregate over a table of drinks at a bar. The music is thumping, the alcohol is trickling down their throats, and one of the gang members states his disgust in Tsotsi’s unapologetic aloofness to murder. Tsotsi, in his red Chuck Taylors (a sure symbol of poverty and edginess), responds to this by violently kicking him to a bloody pulp. The eponymous gangster runs from the bar and reaches an upper-middle class neighborhood. As a BMW, a sign of privilege, pulls into a driveway – Tsotsi carjacks the vehicle and shoots the middle-aged owner upon her resistance. Soon afterwards, the gurgled cooing of a toddler forces Tsotsi to turn around and discover an infant in the backseat.

‘Tsotsi,’ the Zulu word for ‘thug’ is the appellation that the protagonist has adopted. He claims to have no name from birth, immediately setting off bells indicating a boy with an oppressive past and identity problems. Oh, and the flashback within the first 15 minutes should clear up any questions about this character’s past (the flashbacks come fast and heavy-handed). Unsurprisingly, the stranded baby mirrors some of his childhood afflictions and the newborn also triggers a few repressed memories which forces Tsotsi to tear off his mask of anger and reconsider his lifestyle. Fortunately, despite the presence of a baby, the film avoids maudlin antics and cuteness exploitation.

In a recent interview with me, the gregarious Gavin Hood (director and screenwriter of Tsotsi) was comfortably sprawled out on his hotel couch – ready to talk about his film which he refers to as “a mythic, universal tale.” During the discussion he exclaimed: “You never want to bore your audience. I am a storyteller and I like to believe I have a respect for the viewer.” It is evident, however, that he does not trust that the viewer has seen many films before, or that they can form connections within the film without the film explicitly stating how everything adds up. Nevertheless, much to Mr. Hood’s credit – Tsotsi is never tedious or unentertaining, it is simply unsurprising.

Many films recently have overused a single word to make the implicit meaning within the film more obvious; I refer to this as the ‘subtextual key.’ Instead of leaving the audience to comprehend the message without any unnecessary help, the ‘subextual key’ is given to the audience multiple times to open a door which is not even locked. Just as Batman Begins did with “fear” and Munich did with “soul,” Tsotsi has found its ‘subtextual key’ in the adjective “decent.”

Even though the films attempt to accomplish different goals, the comparisons to City of God are inevitable. Essentially, Tsotsi is the humanizing of Lil Ze, the threatening and temperamental villain of Fernando Mierelles’ City of God – yet Tsotsi's main character is fundamentally absent of this daunting menace. Presley Chweneyagae, the baby-faced actor who plays Tsotsi, gives a performance which is affective – yet only contains two faces. In his “menacing” moments, he dons an eye-brow tilting glare, and in the soft scenes, he replaces his mean façade with a puppy-dog simper. In filmmaking respects, Gavin Hood is hardly a Mierelles doppelganger. Instead of capturing the milieu through a hyperkinetic documentary style similar to City of God, Hood tries to achieve a more intimate connection with the characters. His images are pristine, with the grittiness appearing in the frame – not on it. The film is indubitably well-shot, which is unsurprising since Gavin Hood has a background in stills-photography.

Despite fantastic cinematography and a few powerful moments, Tsotsi ultimately fails due to its predictable character arc. Everything is so transparently calculated; nothing is left to the viewer’s imagination and too much is revealed too early. In the closing shot of the film, the protagonist gracefully raises his arms; he is not only surrendering to the cops, but making a symbolic gesture to the purging of his previous violent life. What Tsotsi, the character and the film itself, are unaware of is that they surrendered to the audience long before this final moment.

I dislike the new year.

2006-03-08T14:27:00.000-05:00

2006? Psssh -- I prefer writing 5's to 6's.

As for these capsules which date back to the last week in 2005 -- I'm not lazy, I just take my time. Ok, that sentence is a bold-faced lie. Now that I am on Spring Break (yes, it is still winter in case you are wondering), I have a bit of time to scribble some chicken-scratch and hope it is coherent (which I'm sure most of it is not).

---

The Best of Youth (Giordana, 2005): B+, 7.6/10: [While looking at the six-hour running time in the theater pamphlet, I feared for the health of my ass. Fortunately, I am here to report that my posterior survived with nary a bruise. As a soapy-drama with a grand scope, it justifies its massive running time by being a rather monumental work. The film chronicles the life of two brothers, and sprawls out in the way their lives do. Along the way, it exposes the viewer to progressive, and yet stilted, history. Best of Youth is better at handling a moving plot than complex human emotions. (Oh, and positive points for clever use of art; particularly the moments where Picasso’s Guernica, Andy Warhol’s Mao-Tse Tung, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg slip into the frame/sound.)]

Scenes from a Mall (Mazursky, 1991): D-, 1.4/10: [Yikes, this is quite embarrassing. As if I needed another reason to hate the mall – I have to spend my time there listening to these vacuous characters bray at each other. Shame on you, Woody Allen (and what was with the rat-tailish faux-ponytail hairstyle – oh my!). This is abysmal filmmaking – filled with bi-polar screenwriting and the most obvious contrast and symbols I have seen in a film recently. A shattered family frame, a film about poverty in Bombay and the backdrop of the “joyous” holiday season. This is the type of film which should have had the big word “GOOD” on the DVD cover, as if to make on obvious contrast as to the quality of the filmmaking. There are also annoyingly unfunny and running gags – one in particular involving a mime. It is so refreshing to see Woody look him in the eye and say “Oh, fuck off.” I agree. If this self-righteous film thinks it has an iota of insight into marriage and divorce as “Scenes from a Marriage” (as the title evidently plays off of), then I am flabbergasted.]

Badlands (Malick, 1972): B, 7.1/10 [In most of Badlands’ marvelously framed wide shots, the vast sky occupies most of the space – and that is precisely where the heads of the characters remain throughout the film. The material, however, never justifies the strong themes within the production. The vapid voiceover was an interesting choice to expose the mundane characters, but the filmmaking never transcends the situation which it has set up for itself. Definitely one to rewatch sometime in the future – not because it is strange, but because it is so ordinary.]

Chuck and Buck (Arteta, 2000): B-, 6.1, 10: [This scenario had such potential, and the film occasionally succeeds most in being a creepy character piece about a terminally juvenile introvert. This film is a startling example of how acting can either make (Mike White’s scenes) or break (any second with Chris Weisz) a film’s dramatic momentum. It’s astonishing how much poor acting can destroy a film. Despite her comedic presence (and most of the film’s sardonic humor works), Lupe Ontiveras is kind (and unwelcome) enough to enter the picture and beat the subtext through in a highly inappropriate scene which exposes the director’s mistrust in the audience. My response is the definition of “mixed.”]

Radio Days (Allen, 1987): B, 7.3/10 [A nice bit of tasty nostalgia. Most of the characters, however, don't flourish outside of their introductions, and ultimately remain one or two-dimensional. Nonetheless, Woody nails the thematic last line, once again, Annie Hall-fashion.]

This is Spinal Tap (Reiner, 1984): B+, 8.3/10 [A satirical portrait of a gloriously mediocre momentarily-hair-metal band. Giddily enjoyable and sardonic – it both praises and judges the titular band through their kitschy fads (social commentary on trends poseurs, too!), indulgence, and obliviousness.]

Film Before Film (Nekes, 1986): C-, 3.3/10 [An utterly drab presentation of a potentially interesting topic. Instead of discovering inventive ways to introduce the audience to the pre-cinematic gadgets which contributed to the creation of modern cinema, the film tends to drift aimlessly, without an organized structure (it does not even follow the devices’ chronology). It ostensibly wants to defy the audience’s attention, yet occasionally tries to hook them with cheap flash games. This is an instructional video that dares you to learn anything.]

The New World (Malick, 2005): B+, 7.8/10 [I will not lie; I was excited for this. So excited, in fact, that I tripped up the escalator in the theatre lobby. Then, after I entered the theater itself, I stumbled on the stadium seating steps. Fortunately, Malick did not falter similarly. This is reflective and graceful filmmaking with several dichotomies at work here (most communicated through the – primitive vs. civilized, man vs. nature. At times it is both frustratingly opaque and fascinatingly so. Basically, you catch onto its wavelength, or become drowned in spacey views of landscape. What I found most enthralling was the character arc of Kilcher’s character. Oh, and the last 15 minutes of this film, with its blaring score adding to its hypnotic affect (hello, Wagner!), is paralyzing in its power.]

Metropolis (Lang, 1927): B+, 7.7/10: [Thought-provoking, yet ideologically problematic (it’s misogynous, and the first half advocates the need of benefits for oppressed workers, and second half nearly condones fascism – it goes from socialism to national socialism). Oh, and who is the ‘mediator’? Some upper-class kid who has never had a hard day in his life. The mediator business is also rather heavy-handed. Despite this, however, it is undoubtedly one of the most visually accomplished and appealing films of all time.]

R. Kelly's Trapped in the Closet: Transcends ratings: [Transcends thoughts.]

Now I am going to further ignore the Oscars. Goodbye.

Damnit.

2006-03-06T01:40:00.000-05:00

My TV now has a lamp in it.

Oh, and Brokeback Mountain did not lose to Crash because the Academy is homophobic -- it lost because the Academy has poor taste.

I am not ready for that feeling of dissatisfaction that comes immediately afterwards.

2006-03-05T01:45:00.000-05:00

[Caveat: This is strictly an Academy Awards predictions/favorites (if I even HAVE any) article -- my true Oscar rant is two entries below this.]

Before I disclose my 2006 Academy Award predictions and favorites, I must preface with a divulging confession: I unabashedly love the Oscars. If there is one aspect of the Oscars I can always count on, it is the ceremony’s consistency. I, personally, am consistently disappointed with the presentation, the vacuity, and the films they nominate and subsequently award (many of my “favorites” were chosen by default). Sure, I may win a few dollars in a gambling pool, but the sheer predictability and lack of satisfaction with the winners often makes me feel foolish as the closing credits stream across the screen. Yet, oddly, I obsessively watch every year and handicap the nominees up until that moment when each enveloped is exposed. Prior to the telecast, I check the odds on various Oscar sites and see every film nominated (it’s a personal obligation that I have which I cannot elucidate upon now because I don’t even understand it myself).

In regards to the rapidly approaching telecast, I do take comfort in one category over the rest: Best Song. It is not that the songs are particularly strong (in fact, I don’t much like any of them), but there are three music nominees instead of five; therefore, this guarantees that there will be two less musical numbers, which are notoriously tedious, at this year’s ceremony. This is a gift from the Hollywood gods. Oh, and did I mention that “It’s Hard out Here for a Pimp,” an anthemic hip-hop ballad with a variety of expletives from Hustle and Flow, is nominated? Yes, this is an amusing category, indeed – it’s unfortunate that Crash may add an Oscar to its tally with this derivative New Age drivel. Without further ado (or digression, hopefully), I will present my favorites and predictions in the 2006 Oscar race. I do so with a bit of trepidation, because I may be having a meal of my words on March 6th.

Predicted winners will be fat with bold print here before their heads become so. If I have a passionate favorite (one I would be most content with taking the prize) I will indicate it with italics (the "favorites" I mention in the blurbs were often by default). If I do not care much about any of the nominees, I will mark the most embarrassing nomination with the dreaded read print. Oh, what the hell, sometimes I will do all three.

Best Picture
"Brokeback Mountain"
"Capote"
"Crash"
"Good Night, and Good Luck."
"Munich"

Brokeback Mountain has it in the saddlebag. Over the past few months, it has trotted off with Best Picture awards from the various guilds and critic’s groups. Some may attempt to persuade otherwise by citing Crash’s victory at the Screen Actor’s Guild, but that was for “Best Ensemble,” in which Crash had twice the amount of cast members. Many delusional journalists are wasting ink by proclaiming a potential Crash upset, but I believe most are stirring this controversy solely to overshadow the inevitability of Brokeback’s win. If every award were this apparent, the gala would be completely devoid of shock (which, unfortunately, will probably be the case). Capote and Good Night, and Good Luck, two probing films which revolve around journalistic ethics, are too clinical and cold for the Academy and Munich is too politically ambivalent. I was not extremely impressed with any nominee, yet Brokeback’s resonating affect haunted my mind longer than any other film in this category.

Best Director
Ang Lee, “Brokeback Mountain”
Bennett Miller, “Capote”
Paul Haggis, “Crash”
George Clooney, “Good Night, and Good Luck."
Steven Spielberg, “Munich”

Despite frontrunner status in 2001 for Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Ang Lee lost in an upset to Steven Soderberg (for the terrific Traffic). This year, however, Lee is riding the Brokeback buzz and, with nearly every director’s prize under his cowboy hat, his position is very unlikely to be usurped. Actors-turned-directors are infamous for, in a shocking twist, grabbing this prize from deserving auteurs, but Mr. Clooney has a better chance in his other categories. Spielberg’s showy Munich and Haggis’ manipulative and contrived Crash fortunately have no chance (Haggis might, I suppose, but I am still not willing to accept his nomination as a reality). Personally speaking, the most auspicious presence here is Bennett Miller, directing his first feature film, who meticulously crafted Capote.

PERFORMANCE BY AN ACTOR IN A LEADING ROLE
Philip Seymour Hoffman - CAPOTE
Terrence Howard - HUSTLE & FLOW
Heath Ledger - BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN
Joaquin Phoenix - WALK THE LINE
David Strathairn - GOOD NIGHT, AND GOOD LUCK.

I cannot imagine anyone but Philip Seymour Hoffman, who accurately portrays the narcissistic, manipulative and soft-spoken Truman Capote, standing at the podium. After he escalates the stairs and approaches the microphone with his shiny new Oscar, he should simply say “Duh.” It may not be the most classy acceptance speech, but it would be the most honest. David Strathairn’s determined Murrow, Terrence Howard’s pimp-turned-rapper, and Joaquin Phoenix’s Cash-turned-drugged-up-crybaby are all admirable choices but they should start to practice their graceful-loser face now. Heath Ledger’s taciturn cowboy mumbled up quite a bit of buzz earlier in the award season, and he remains the dark horse (and my favorite -- even though this is a fantastic category), but Hoffman has collected nearly every precursor award – therefore, a win for the nuanced Mr. Ledger, or any other nominee in this category, seems quite infeasible.

PERFORMANCE BY AN ACTRESS IN A LEADING ROLE
Judi Dench - MRS. HENDERSON PRESENTS
Felicity Huffman - TRANSAMERICA
Keira Knightley - PRIDE & PREJUDICE
Charlize Theron - NORTH COUNTRY
Reese Witherspoon - WALK THE LINE

Due to the apparent deficiency in strong female performances (which is the consequence of a dearth of strong female characters), this category is anything but solid. Felicity Huffman’s unflattering and overpraised performance in Transamerica is slightly gimmicky, yet not as unworthy as two past Oscar-winners in this category: Judi Dench and Charlize Theron. Judi Dench’s performance is just as tiresome and unsurprising as the film she is trapped within. Charlize Theron’s nomination for the self-righteous North Country must have been received by default – and at previous award shows this year she has looked just as bored as she ought to. The young, charming women are the highlights of this race. Keira Knightly is impressively luminous as the sharp-tongued Elizabeth Bennet in the classic, yet modern and youthful, adaptation of Pride and Prejudice; for sheer surprise at her previously unseen acting abilities, I must admit that I am silently rooting for her respectable performance. Enjoy the gift-bags ladies, because none of this matters -- Reese Witherspoon is a shoo-in. Oh, and I’m sure she’ll accept the award in an expensive gown and million dollar earrings and proclaim how she feels like a “little girl from Tennessee.”

PERFORMANCE BY AN ACTOR IN A SUPPORTING ROLE
George Clooney - SYRIANA
Matt Dillon - CRASH
Paul Giamatti - CINDERELLA MAN
Jake Gyllenhaal - BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN
William Hurt - A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE

This should further be referred to as the “pity prize.” Similar to Best Actress, this category is rather pathetic – if possible, it is even more embarrassing. Despite containing the weakest nominees, it is the only award which cannot easily be determined. With the exception of William Hurt, who is a hoot in his scant 10-minute appearance in A History of Violence, the award could be handed to anyone. Matt Dillon and Jake Gyllenhaal benefit from being in the Best Picture contenders, and although many have joked that Jake’s nomination in the supporting category stemmed from his “on-the-bottom” status of the center relationship in Brokeback Mountain, I would still throw my vote in his direction for such a devastatingly poignant performance. Judging by previous awards, it is between Paul Giamatti and George Clooney -- two fine actors being rewarded for mediocre performances in problematic productions. At the moment, the pity prized seems destined to be clutched by the thrice-nominated George Clooney (director, actor, screenwriting); it will give him something else to stroke, giving his ego the break it highly needs.

PERFORMANCE BY AN ACTRESS IN A SUPPORTING ROLE
Amy Adams - JUNEBUG
Catherine Keener - CAPOTE
Frances McDormand - NORTH COUNTRY
Rachel Weisz - THE CONSTANT GARDENER
Michelle Williams - BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN

Three strong performances, three oppressed wives -- two are neglected, one is suffocated. As much as I respect Frances McDormand and Catherine Keener as thespians (especially the latter, who is one of my favorite contemporary actresses), their screenplays abandon them; McDormand is stuck in clichéd best-friend territory while Keener is a fantastic comic foil, she is ultimately used as a pawn to beat Capote’s subtext through. As for the aforementioned wives of the category, Rachel Weisz as the uber-liberal activist Tessa Quayle is likely to place an Oscar on her mantle next to her new Golden Globe and SAG award. The two young wild cards, Michelle Williams and Amy Adams, respectively graduate from teenybopper trash-TV (Dawson’s Creek) and second-rate cinema (close your eyes and point to a random film in her oeuvre). They are both heartbreaking in their roles, but Adams’ garrulous and pregnant chatterbox is my personal favorite.

Best Original Screenplay
“Crash” Screenplay by Paul Haggis & Bobby Moresco
“Good Night, and Good Luck.” Screenplay by George Clooney & Grant Heslov
“Match Point” Written by Woody Allen
“The Squid and the Whale” Written by Noah Baumbach
“Syriana” Written by Stephen Gaghan

This will indubitably win my annual “spit-on-the-television-screen” award. One of my favorite screenplays of the year, the painfully-honest Squid and the Whale, will lose to one of my least favorites, the transparent Crash. As a fanatical Woodyphile, I regret admit my slight disappointment towards the stagy Match Point, but it is basically out of the race anyway. Syriana – no thanks, I prefer my political films to be less discouraging and derivative. If the Academy wants to award Good Night, and Good Luck, this would be an acceptable consolation prize. Crash’s scribble, however, which cannot decide if it wants to be grounded in realism or a fantasyland, seems too far ahead. Only a year after justly rewarding the innovative and brilliantly thematic screenplay of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, this once-promising category seems to have become regressive.

The other ones:

Best Adapted Screenplay:
Will: Brokeback Mountain
Should: I abstain

Cinematography:
Will: Brokeback Mountain
Should: The New World (besides The Squid and the Whale's screenplay, it is the only nominee that is TRULY the best of the year -- and, guess what, it has absolutely no shot)

Editing:
Will: The Constant Gardener
Should: The Constant Gardener

Art Direction:
Will: Memoirs of a Geisha
Should: Pride and Prejudice

Costume Design:
Will: Memoirs of a Geisha
Should: Pride and Prejudice

Original Score:
Will: Brokeback Mountain
Should: Pride and Prejudice (although I would be fine with Brokeback Mountain)

Original Song (if you have not read the second paragraph of the introduction, go do that now)

Makeup:
Will: Narnia
Should: Star Wars?

Sound:
Will: Walk the Line
Should: War of the Worlds

Sound Editing:
Will: War of the Worlds (I think this one is the loudest)
Should: War of the Worlds

Animated Feature:
Will: Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit
Should: Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit (note: I have not seen Howl's Moving Castle)

Foreign Language:
Will: Paradise Now
Should: I have only seen Tsotsi, and it's not very good. Personally, I don't care to see any others (all of which look bait-y and heavy-handed -- right up the foreign committee's alley, of course).

Documentary:
Will: March of the Penguins
Should: Muderball (note: I really wish I had seen Darwin's Nightmare...and had not seen March of the anthropomorphised Penguins)

Short Documentary:
Will: God Sleeps in Rwanda (shouldn't that be: "God Slept Through the Terrible Horrors in Rwanda)
Should: ::shrug::

Animated Short:
Will: The Moon and the Son
Should: ::same shrug::

Fictional Short:
Will: Cashback
Should: Ouch, my shoulds hurt from shrugging

What bothers me most about this year is that I do not have any "hopeful" favorites -- it's damn near apathy all the way through (oh, and that Brokeback's strongest point is its heartbreaking performances -- yet they seem to be the only aspect of the film to be consistently overlook for almost every award). Off the top of my head, I cannot name more than one or two nominees I would actually be elated to see at the podium. How fucking depressing/boring is that. Even hope has ceased. Life has no meaning.

As you may have noticed, I went with nearly every favorite. I truly, madly, deeply dream that I am wrong on most. Remember -- pessimists are never disappointed. Oscar fanatics, however, often are.

"Independent" -- with quotes.

2006-03-05T00:28:00.000-05:00

That was pathetic (the awards, not the show -- I love me some dirty indie kings and queens). So much for independent spirit.

Transamerica winning Best First Screenplay over Me and You and Everyone We Know is downright REPREHENSIBLE. The voters must have misunderstood the category -- it is not supposed to be awarded to the faux-indie-screenplay which flaunts itself as being INDEPENDENT (as I noted in the former entry concerning Transamerica) and following every INDENDENT CONVENTION (and Hollywood screenwriting device) to a fuckin' homosexual T, but a unique screenplay with true personality and indepedent spirit.

The Squid and the Whale and Me and You and Everyone We Know, two of my top five of 2005 (what can I say? I like unwieldy titles), were both showered with deserved nominations and completely shut out of every award they should have won. That's simply disgusting (and, to make matters worse, Hackgis and Duncan Tucker won instead).

Oscar bitching to be posted in a moment. I simply needed to vent my frustration with these awards. I wish they would choose the winner on nomination night -- because then the various members would not be persuaded by EVERY OTHER AWARD SHOW. They always just pick whatever has the best chance at the Oscars (the only time they vote with their ostesibly "independent" minds is when none of the nominees are up for an Oscar. Oh wait, I forgot -- Transamerica won that award. Eww).

That's how the awards are at the ISAs, though -- I don't know why I try to convince myself otherwise. This hurt -- really badly. I know the Oscars won't make me feel this pain because I have a general indifference to the majority of nominees (and the only ones I am passionate about have no chance -- unless Adams pulls an upset).

Believe it or not, I started to feel physically ill after the show -- and I still have a headache three hours later. So awards shows ARE literally bad for my health.

An Inevitable Oscar Rant.

2006-03-03T00:00:00.000-05:00

This year the Oscars are political. That is the lead you will read in nearly every Oscar article this season. To every journalist who typed that short sentence, I have one thing to say: “No fucking shit, Sherlock.” The Oscars have always been political -- it is just on the surface this year. As you probably have heard, there is apparently a gay agenda (or, as I once heard it referred to as: a "conspiracy"). Yes, two of the most acclaimed films of the year were headlined by gay characters, Brokeback Mountain and Capote – and a Best Actress nominee for Transamerica played a transgender individual. Capote, however, is a moot point, because the film does its best to avoid homosexuality. In fact, the filmmakers of Capote must have broken their nails, because there is constant surface-scratching without any breakthrough (every homosexual reference is a “wait…is he, you know?” innuendo).

Transamerica wastes two hours of the audience’s time to force the hackneyed presentation of simple themes (such as tolerance and parenting) down their throats. The self-righteous production screams, in capital letters, “I am an INDEPENDENT movie, pay attention to me and give me more credit than I deserve”; this, of course, is ironic due to the overall conventionality and lazy Hollywood-inspired screenwriting devices it utilizes. Oh, it is also awkwardly comical and the last thirty minutes are Meet-the-Parents-kitschy. As Ali astutely observed, Felicity Huffman portrayed her character as if she was from another planet. I found this remark both humorous and absolutely correct because throughout the film (particularly when the audience first meets the character) she seemed to be channeling Vincent D’onofrio’s uncomfortable-alien-in-human’s-epidermis Edgar. The similarities are downright eerie and I must abruptly stop before I begin to become creeped out. Brokeback Mountain, however, is undoubtedly about homosexuality or, more aptly, forbidden love and repression.

The most egregious error of the Academy this year is not the extreme focus on homosexuality (the “look how accepting we are” shtick is so overblown), but the fact that the obvious, ham-fisted shenanigans of Crash slipped in as the ostensible runner-up. While I am glad that the film has sparked debate among the mainstream public, I cannot condone such preachy and manipulative filmmaking. The Oscar agenda isn’t particularly gay – it’s more about white man’s guilt than anything. I wonder if they could have gotten away with such a blatant “white man’s guilt” nomination if it wasn’t completely overshadowed by the homophobic cries of a small, but loud, margin of America.

Just a sidenote: My Microsoft Word spell check doesn’t even recognize the word “Brokeback” – but this film, whether you like it or not, is huge. I’m sure the next edition of Microsoft Word will not have that annoying red squiggle under it. It also did not recognize Paul Hackgis -- but I am sure people will be aware of this punny name when they come to their senses.

Stay tuned -- I'll post my large Oscar article tomorrow (and catch up on film reviews, since I will be on spring break...even though it is still very much the winter).

Not quite the update you were probably hoping for.

2006-02-20T13:23:00.000-05:00

Oh dear, what have we done?

I would write something on Mrs Henderson Presents if I remembered anything; it is a film with the rare ability to completely evaporate from the audience's memory the moment they reach the bathroom for their post-show toilet break. Perhaps that would be an ideal time to accomplish two tasks at once and puke at what you just spent money on. I was not expecting a fantastic film from Mrs. Henderson Presents, just a charming trifle to fill a Sunday matinee and complete my Oscar obligation. It did not start out poorly, just the usually British antics with the occasional witty one-liners and horny old-women (to establish itself as a piquant little production? right?). Soon it downwoard spirals into something I never expected: a smug, annoyingly self-righteous and mind-numbingly mediocre film.

The central relationship between the saucy Mrs Henderon and uptight Bob Hoskins (his character's name is lost on me at the moment -- what a shocker) which is meant to contain amusing moments of silly "trivial bickering," but I would say "irritatingly useless" moments of faux-witty banter. For some odd reason (lazy screenwriting, maybe?), the plot relies on these repetitive and random moments of snarky bitching (and don't even get me started on the "love story" which is almost forced upon the audience a few times).

I suppose Judi Dench would be the only reasons anyone would approach this production, so you want to hear about her Oscar-nominated performance. Well, it is effortless to the point of being bland; she is just as tiresome as the production. I blame the script for her phoned-in performance and failing to give her anything to really sink her crooked teeth into. The film has an obsession with constantly establishing the audacity of Mrs. Henderson, but the "look-how-funny-it-is-that-an-old-hag-just-said-that" gags are overused after the first occasion (which is unfortunate, due to the initial whiff of wit). Mrs. Henderson is also not given the chance to be developed until the manipulative denoument which sloppily spills the previously-absent subtext all over the place.

Essentially Calender Girls crossed with Being Julia, Mrs. Henderson Presents is a lowbrow picture for the "high-brow" crowd, and I am more than shocked by how many have bought into its frivilous and derivative nonsense. Sure, mammory glands are fun to watch for an hour, but substance is generally used to fill the space around the gorgeous curves of the exposed women. It attempts to add some poignancy when WWII breaks out; World War II was not only bad for history, but also bad for this film.

The sheer ephemerality of the production was likely a device the filmmakers must have cleverly used so that its cast and crew would not suffer from extreme low self-esteem after sitting through the premiere screening. It kept Bob Hoskins from commiting suicide, so respect it for that. C-

Postscript: I cannot help but notice the irony of Christopher Guest's presence. With Waiting for Guffman, he knew how to mock and pay homage to the stage, and most importantly --- make a good movie. Oh, and I realize that the sheer length of this post negates my first sentence, but my fingers just kept typing with passionate disgust.

Cancel your previous engagements.

2006-02-05T19:33:00.000-05:00

What are you doing tomorrow (Monday, January 6th) from 4-6 EST? You're listening to my friend and I for two wonderful hours on the radio: a.k.a The Normalcy Inspection Show.

We will have a weekly theme (tomorrow's will be a fantastic surprise), trivia, satire, and all kinds of brilliance.

http://wecb.emerson.edu/

Mondays, 4-6 EST: "The Normalcy Inspection Show." There's no legitimate reason not to listen.

Oh, and the Oscars can kiss my shiny ass.

I have priorities, you know.

2006-01-30T22:19:00.000-05:00

Yes, I could complete my procrastinated schoolwork, read some puritan poetry and cultivate my "intellect," but no -- where's the fun in that? Pop-culture madness takes precedence over the forced agenda of my American Literature professor. I can rationalize forever on how pop-culture is more relevant and important but...they would all be lies. So, without further bullshiting, I shall list the people who will have extreme Oscar anxiety for a little over a month (at least they can keep their sanity by looking forward to a guaranteed gift bag):

To gauge how "safe" I believe each prediction I make is, I will place the most likely at the top of each list, and the least possible at the bottom. And then I will name one alternate because I am that much of a wimp).

Best Picture:
Brokeback Mountain
Good Night, and Good Luck
Crash
Capote
Walk the Line

(alt: The Constant Gardener)
(I wish: The Squid and the Whale)

Best Director:
Ang Lee, Brokeback Mountain
George Clooney, Good Night, and Good Luck
Paul Haggis, Crash
David Cronenberg, A History of Violence
Fernando Mierelles, The Constant Gardener

(alt: Steven Spielberg, Munich)
(I wish: Wong Kar-Wai, 2046)

Best Actor:
Philip Seymour Hoffman, Capote
Heath Ledger, Brokeback Mountain
Joaquin Phoenix, Walk the Line
David Strathairn, Good Night, and Good Luck
Ralph Fiennes, The Constant Gardener

(alt: Terrence Howard, Hustle & Flow)
(I wish: Jeff Daniels, The Squid and the Whale)

Best Actress:
Reese Witherspoon, Walk the Line
Felicity Huffman, Transamerica
Judi Dench, Mrs. Henderson Presents
Charlize Theron, North Country
Gwenyth Paltrow, Proof

(alt: Ziyi Zhang, Memoirs of a Geisha)
(I wish: Emmanuelle Devos, Kings and Queen)

Best Supporting Actor:
George Clooney, Syriana
Paul Giamatti, Cinderella Man
Matt Dillon, Crash
(insert another Crash actor -- I'm such a dirty cheater, I know)
Frank Langella, Good Night, and Good Luck (ala Alan Alda, who I CALLED last year)

(alt: Bob Hoskins, Mrs. Henderson Presents)
(I wish: Jeffery Wright, either of the two movies I did not like regardless of his presence)

Best Supporting Actress:
Michelle Williams, Brokeback Mountain
Rachel Weisz, The Constant Gardener
Catherine Keener, Capote
Amy Adams, Junebug
Frances McDormand, North Country

(alt: Maria Bello, A History of Violence)
(I wish: Brenda Blethyn, Pride and Prejudice/Ziyi Zhang, 2046)

Best Original Screenplay:
Paul Haggis and Bobby Moresco, Crash
George Clooney and Grant Henslov, Good Night, and Good Luck
Noah Baumbach, The Squid and the Whale
Nick Park, Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit
Michael Haneke, Caché

(alt: Woody Allen, Match Point)
(I wish: Miranda July, Me and You and Everyone We Know)

Best Adapted Screenplay:
Diana Ossana and Larry McMurty, Brokeback Mountain
Dan Futterman, Capote
Josh Olson, A History of Violence
Jeffery Caine, The Constant Gardener
Dennis and Mangold, Walk the Line

(alt: Tony Kushner and Eric Roth, Munich)
(I wish: Agnes Jaoui, Look at Me -- I think it is original, but I simply cannot pick a worthy adapted screenplay. Has the year been that bad?)

Well, I shall see how off I am bright and early tomorrow at 8:30 EST. Last year I went 35/40 (the pride of my 2004 predictions: Alda's predicted apperance and Giamatti's predicted absence). This year, I'll guess that I go 33/40 (I'm losing my powers!).

Self-serving directors and actors in one entry!

2006-01-28T17:05:00.000-05:00

Ann Darrow (Naomi Watts) shows Peter Jackson how to use restraint.

From the opening credits of King Kong to the first moment the score swells, it is easy to realize that Peter Jackson has tried to create an old-fashioned spectacle. “Remember when films were events?” he implicitly asks the audience. The audience, however, is not completely aware of what they are in for. Actually, that’s not true at all; if they saw the running time or heard anything about this film previous to buying their ticket, then they have an idea of what they will discover. Hmm, let’s see – there are a couple of forced love stories, a film about filmmaking, a questionable interpretation of “bravery,” literary parallels (hell-o clunky "Heart of Darkness" allusions!), exploitation, and a treatise on man’s harmful relationship towards nature. None are very exposing or insightful, but Jackson’s seems comfortable with simply dipping his toe in this hodgepodge of themes. Kong himself, however, is technically quite an achievement. He is presented as a tantrum-prone, lovestruck ape with a dental problem, a proportional helping of heart and the attention span of a vaudeville audience.

Most of the film is undoubtedly self-aware, yet the campy moments have the fun sucked out due to the constant winking (“Fay will fit into her costume!”). As for its view of audacious filmmaking, there are self-reflexive moments injected in whenever Jackson would like to receive even more credit for what he has created (which is, admittedly, a massive project). Jackson must have mistakenly misunderstood that he was hired to remake just "King Kong" – not "King Kong", all the "Jurassic Park" movies and "Tremors".

The film is ridiculous – utterly ridiculous, and smugly loves itself for being so. Any complaint about implausibility will surely be quickly disregarded since the film involves, well, a gigantic ape (but, shockingly, does not revolve around him at all). There are a few far-fetched moments, however, that are downright distracting. Kong’s weight seems to fluctuate depending upon how cool something will look as it crumbles (ice cracking would just be boring), and Ann Darrow apparently is bone-less, and Jackson decides to remake another film: "The Indestructible Man," but with a female twist. Being asked to step into this world is difficult, because there is not enough original thrills and genuine emotion to enthrall. The middle segment is bogged down in tedious action scenes; aside from being repetitive, they are dragged out so long that the suspense has already disappeared less than halfway before their welcome end. The same goes for the repeated doughy-eyed moments which are interrupted by violence (it was partially effective the first time, but enough already). Enough already. Enough already. Enough already. It’s all just too much self-proclaimed “massiveness” and too little significant substance. Enough already. Enough already. C+, 5/10

I assumed that this would be a fine time to predict the SAG Guild Award winners, since it is essentially actors rewarding themselves, just as much King King was Jackson serving himself.

Best Ensemble: Crash (My choice: Brokeback Mountain)

Actors love Crash; they seem to love anything with a slightly "liberal" concept/agenda, even if it is poor filmmaking (this could help Brokeback, even though the very good filmmaking will most likely be overlooked because of its small, yet worthy, cast). The Crash cast is not terrible, I suppose, but hardly a good pick. I do not have a clear personal choice, as I believe that Brokeback Mountain and Good Night, and Good Luck both has fine casts. Nonetheless, I am spiteful about the marginalization of my Patty in GN, and GL, so I'll throw my vote towards Brokeback. Speaking of marginalization, I forgot there were other characters in Capote besides Truman himself (what a waste of the Keenster and Mr. Greenwood).

Best Actor: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Capote (My choice: Heath Ledger, Brokeback Mountain)

He's a character actor -- he's worked with everyone, and I assume he's rather well-liked (popularity goes the farthest at this awards show). Phoneix is in the big film, which always helps at the SAGs, but he seems rather introverted and awkward (and not in the eccentric-Johnny Depp way). Actors prefer their blockbuster award-winners to be eloquent and personable. Ledger is, as always, the potential upset, but SAG likes it's showy roles -- and even Hoffman's narcisstic Capote is more showy than the mumbling and repressed cowboy. Tis a shame; I had hoped Ledger would pick up at least a couple of awards, because his perfomance is just as good as Hoffman's.

Best Actress: Ms. Witherspoon, Walk the Line.

Reese. Reese. Reese. She's charming/popular/cute, and in a generic big box-office flick -- she's got it all wrapped up. I don't even like Reese much, but this pathetic category scares me. Let's just hope they don't waste screen-time on her douchebag-of-a-husband, Ryan Phillipe, again. Oh shit, he's going to get one of these for Crash, isn't he? Wait, so is Sandra Bullock? And Brendan Fraser? Oh, fuck. It seems as if I will have to turn off my TV immediately after the presenter utters "Crash."

Best Supporting Actor: Paul Giammati, Cinderella Man (My choice: Jake Gyllenhaal, Brokeback Mountain)

Yuck. This throwaway category would depress me more if the supporting actress race wasn't so strong this year. I fear they will get pulled into the Clooney trap, but no -- I believe they will fall into the Giammati trap.

Best Supporting Actress: Rachel Wiesz, The Constant Gardener (My choice: Amy Adams, Junebug)

Damn, I love Weisz, Adams and Williams (Adams and Williams are particularly great). Any of those will be fine with me. And it will, fortunately, be one of those. Now, I must decide -- which one? Eenie, meanie, miny, mo!

Actually, I used that method on almost all of them.

Munich (Spielberg, 2005)

2006-01-22T02:46:00.000-05:00


Hey look -- over there! I think that's where your accent went, Mr. Bana.

Another aesthetically impressive, engaging film which prompts questions we have been asked before. Begins strongly, with clever shots at the media (and their occasional inaccuracy), yet these astringent and informative moments are abandoned in favor of person confliction and subtextual overstatements.

Fundamentally, the film follows a band of fashionable and sassy assassins as they gain vindication for

Israel

(that’s all the summary you are getting from this capsule). Of course, there are the oh-so-convenient parallels to the current political situation – and they are handled with as much tact and subtlety as Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. The skillfulness of the filmmaking is not in question; this is a slick and stylish production, but it is nearly over-refined to the point of being shiny and overtly “look-at-me” (case in point: Eric Bana’s skullish facial shadow).

Eric Bana wins the 2005 award for most instantaneous and least plausible emotional response and gag reflex. His “tortured soul” is not deftly played out – it’s simply manifested in paranoia and….paleness. This obviousness is detrimental to the character’s overly apparent arc, and the audience’s ability to identify with him. Many of the ideas and themes within are backed up with weak symbolism and glossiness. It prompts imperative questions, but does not care to present them originally. Nonetheless, perhaps Spielberg should be patted on the back for presenting characters whose moral decisions are not distinctively black or white (yay for gray ambiguity!), but the message is inherently conflicting, so I’m really just glad that Spielberg did not completely destroy such thought-provoking provocations.

Unsurprisingly, the family themes are present, and every little cherub in the film is presented as a benevolent little piece of preciousness. Although it is fortunately not as mawkish as it could have easily been, the idea of “home” is also explored. After the delivery of one line as Bana talks to his wife (“You are my only home”), she acutely states, “That sounds so corny. Why did I have to marry such a sentimentalist?” This self-consciousness would have been appropriate and welcome in subsequent scenes, with Kate Capshaw popping up in the corner to point out the corniness. Similar to The Best of Youth, it is better at documenting history (although some of the exposition is sloppy) and delivering a smooth narrative than tackling “soul searching” (and it's use of "soul" is nearly as cringe-worthy as Batman Begins' unhealthy obsession with the word "fear"). Added bonus/negative: positive points for Edith Piaf -- and negative points for the excessive intercutting of killing and humping (complete with splashing water!). C+, 5.5/10

34 legitimate reasons for being vegetarian

2006-01-20T12:20:00.000-05:00

Last week, my friend and I rather impulsively decided that we were going to be vegetarians. We came to this decision amid ordering our thai food. As we picked up our noodles (she got Pad Thai, I went with Pad See Ew) with broccoli and tofu, we began to list the motives for becoming a vegetarian. Below, you will see the list we devised over our deliciously meat-less meal, and which was promptly written on the nearest napkin. This sacred napkin is currently hanging on my kitchen wall, directly across from my refrigerator and adjacent to the "Smash the Nazis" flyer I received from a lovely old communist woman. Hmm, perhaps I'll elucidate on that a bit later. Nonetheless, here are the top reasons to stop slaughtered animals from appearing your plate. These are in order of importance, of course:

1. Sense of superiorty
2. Chicken has gross veins
3. Cows smell funny
4. Animals carry viruses and diseases
5. Chickens look weird
6. Pigs make good pets
7. Pigs make muddy food
8. A lot of celebrities are vegetarians
9. Tofu deserves to die and be eaten
10. Cuts down on cooking preparation time (no silly "defrosting")
11. Won't have to worry about keeping Kosher (No, I'm not Jewish, so what?)
12. Wouldn't be able to live without the delightful quack of a live duck
13. Lambs are hairy -- I don't want hair in my food (same goes for Bison/Buffalo)
14. I don't want Sherri Lewis to roll in her grave
15. Deer are for mounting on your wall, not for eating
16. Squirrels scare me in general, let alone on my plate
17. Flipper was my best friend as a TV-obsessed youngster
18. "Gordy" and "Babe" were the best films of my childhood
19. Imitation crab tastes better anyway
20. The ability to be further delusion about what tastes good
21. Vegetables cannot talk; therefore, they are no fun
22. Vegetables make horrible pets
23. I DON'T wish I was an Oscar Meyer wiener
24. As much as I hate pidgeons, I still refuse to see them made into hot dogs
25. Green is prettier than pink and brown
26. Potatoes are the hip person's white meat
27. Pamela Anderson doesn't eat meat -- from animals, that is
28. Corporations fund the slaughter of South American guinea pigs
29. I can more easily get in on "feeble chic"
30. I will fit in more at Emerson College
31. For health reasons
32. Chicks love a vegetarian (See picture below)
33. Because M. Graham said so
34. Animal rights

I'm typing these out now because I am not sure how much longer I will go without eating meat. I have, however, gone a whole 6 days so far! Veggie power!

Whatever.

2006-01-16T19:06:00.000-05:00

Screw this. Yes, these are my (awfully safe) Golden Globe predictions. Oh, I hate myself.

Picture (Drama): Brokeback Mountain
Picture (Musical or Comedy): Pride and Prejudice
Director: Ang Lee, Brokeback Mountain
Actress (Drama): Felicity Huffman, TransAmerica
Actor (Drama): Philip Seymour Hoffman, Capote
Actress (Musical or Comedy): Reese Witherspoon, Walk the Line
Actor (Musical or Comedy): Joaquin Phoenix, Walk the Line
Supporting Actress: Rachel Weisz, The Constant Gardener
Supporting Actor: Matt Dillon, Crash
Screenplay: Good Night, and Good Luck
Foreign Film: Tsotsi
Score: Brokeback Mountain
Song: The Chronicles of Narnia (Alanis Morissette is enough of a star for them to fuck, right?)

The best, and most interesting, predictions:
Star most likely to be really fucking "Under the influence" when he/she accepts his/her award:
(Male) George Clooney
(Female) Alanis Morrissette (but stoned, not drunk)

Now, I must go watch Jeopardy! before the Globes. Hopefully that teenage "creature" loses -- he genuinely frightens me. Yikes.

Hormel is attacking your e-mail inbox.

2006-01-13T01:43:00.000-05:00

You sign on to your e-mail. 26 new messages in only one day? Wow, that’s a lot of mail. Then, much to your chagrin, you open up your box to discover that 25 have been sent by dozens of soul crushing junk-mail senders. Oh, and apparently your mother, who just learned how to type and click the ‘send’ button, says “Hi.” Not only are you irritated by your brief, and false, sense of popularity, but also by the fact that you have to now take approximately thirty-six seconds out of your busy schedule to check the little box and subsequently delete each piece of electronic waste with a click of the mouse. Click. It seems, however, as if junk-mailers have finally realized just how frustrating and time-consuming crap-mail can be (I’m sure the Hormel corporation is angered by trash e-mail’s most commonly known nickname: spam). In order to alleviate some of the aggravation, they have become quite clever (arbitrarily, most likely) in creating delightfully random, and therefore amusing, titles. For example, here are some comically verbose “subject” headings:

“Sender: Coleen Draper Subject: Re: My drive by incomprehension context”
“Sndr: Byron Gagne Subject: showy pedantic”
“Sndr: Reuben Joyner Subject: Bab it feeble, in temple”
“Sndr: Lourdes Lazano Subject: affable egotism”
“Sndr: Tina Wiggins Subject: crockery”
“Sndr: Janelle Berger Subject: Re: To drive go camel enchain”
“Sndr: Kenny Mays Subject: A live an manhandle rotunda”
“Sndr: Clinton Mcleod Subject: Re: To know no wispy”
“Sndr: Gino Villalobos Subject: You see go poverty”
“Sndr: Therese Nicholas Subject: copious ditto”
“Sndr: Lourdes Mckenna Subject: commute treachery elliptic”
“Sndr: Errol Sierra Subject: ithaca bolshevism michele”
“Sndr: Clinton Mcleod Subject: Re: To know no wispy”
“Sndr: Jasun Pagan Subject: on picnicking, its convulsive”
“Sndr: Crystal Knowles Subject: impertinent”

That last one is gold. Most of them are about mortgages, diet pills and penis enlargements.

Breakfast on Pluto (Jordan, 2005): Similar to my thoughts regarding Brokeback Mountain (although this sloppy production is inferior), I seem to enjoy Breakfast on Pluto more upon reflection than I did as I left the theater. Perhaps I am only focusing on the film's strongest points (how unlike me) upon recollection, but although the film is deeply flawed and inconsistent, it ultimately succeeds. The difference between Pluto and Brokeback, however, is that I admire Brokeback Mountain more as a “whole” than as the sum of its parts, while Breakfast at Pluto should be applauded for its occasional imaginative sequence. From the opening, I was a bit apprehensive -- Cillian Murphy's fabulously kitschy drag queen, Patrick “Kitten,” initially sounded eerily similar to Mrs. Doubtfire. Luckily, the Mrs.-Doubtfire-accent stops there. Overall, the film is rather scatterbrained, and the political moments are vague and flaccid. The film is, essentially, a twisted fairy-tale and the protagonist is most like an aloof, transvestic Forrest Gump. It also steals a fantastic scene from Wim Wedners' Paris, Texas, which takes place in a peep-show both -- but that is beside the point. Cillain Murphy pulls off the performance rather well, but he is unable to make the relationship “Kitten” has with another man very plausible. The most commendable part of this Candide-esque adventure is its brilliant use of dated pop music. The main character often says how much he (or she?) hates the word “serious,” because it fundamentally means “reality” – something the protagonist does not seem to have a grasp on. Mr. Jordan seems to have a similar problem with “seriousness” – he has no idea how to balance and portray it believably in such a whimsical feature. Like the protagonist’s path, this provides for a fey journey, but one with a dead-end. B-, 6.5/10

Caché (Haneke, 2005): A self-reflexive and riveting take on voyeurism (and filmmaking). Personally, I was able to discover (or project upon the film, if you must) a certain political subtext. On the surface, it is an invasion on a comfortable bourgeois estate (of which is perfectly captured its supposed milieu -- look at that bookshelf and modern furniture!). Subtextually, however, it is a thought-provoking attack on any household or lifestyle (any military invasion really, but since it is the most pertinent, I thought particularly about the homes in Iraq). Unwanted visitors watching over, yet they aren't particularly visible. This surveillance is unnerving and although the characters in this film only face psychological trauma, innocent households elsewhere (being blamed for things they may not have done) may not be so lucky to escape physical harm. Many have criticized the film for being pretentious -- its vagueness and openness making it simple for pseudo-intellectual viewers to cast upon their own interpretations. The film’s irony in scrutinizing the bourgeois for their smugness, yet reveling in its own. That may be a legitimate complaint, but I found the film to even be intriguing on a literal level. Sure, it does mix the themes du jour (a.k.a repression and the affects of memories), but it does so effectively, and rather uniquely. In The Piano Teacher, Haneke manifested Erika's (Hubbert) sexual repression through sadomasochism. Here, however, he uses tapes (whoever sent the tapes is not entirely irrelevant like some may claim, but it can be answered literally or symbolically) to suggest repression. The performances in this film are excellent, and when so much rests upon the acting, it helps to be exposed to such pitch-perfect devastation. The omnipresent camera's identity isn't the only thing hidden -- the protagonist's past is, also. And, frankly, I find this to be an innovative and consistently enthralling spin on a generic set-up. B+, 8/10

Match Point (Allen, 2005): B-, 6.5/10 [Basically, I was intrigued by Allen's depiction of the oblivious English aristocracy, yet I felt as if the filmmaker Woody was just as obtuse to reality. It can be pretty clever, yet it felt terribly stagy and unfulfilling at parts. It’s a modern opera, complete with operatic tones, music and not-so-subtle moments. In a film where lust and luck rule and love means nothing (that damn tennis metaphor just slipped in!), Woody is able to get a rather sensual, but unconvincing, performance from Ms. Johansson (but, really, when is she NOT overtly sexual). The other acting jobs are fine (Myers didn't fuck up a Woody film, as I initially worried) but the characters themselves seem suffocated. The film has an interesting bit of philosophy involved, but the film remains too idea-driven throughout. Sure, there is no god, yet Woody acts as the god to these characters -- controlling every one of their choices to make sense out of his existential thesis. This would be fine, if the characters felt more full and plausible.]
Waiting for Guffman (Guest, 1996): B+, 8/10 [Incisively deadpan, yet also a bittersweet look at an insular town in Whoknowswhere, USA. This is most likely Christopher Guest’s best, and includes some sardonic humor concerning inept musical productions and the kooks involved. Deftly, the film alternatively sympathizes with and mocks its characters in the most heartbreaking and hilarious ways.]
Muppets Take Manhattan (Oz, 1984): C+, 5.5/10 [The Muppets should be rejoiced for their madcap hilarity. Joyfully frivolous, the Muppets at their best are fabric versions of the Marx Brothers. This feature, however, follows too many conventions to be a charming little trifle. Miss Piggy should not be such a bore.]

Stream of Consciousness reactions to the BFCA's.

2006-01-10T02:41:00.000-05:00

First off, I refuse to call it the “critic’s choice awards.” Hell, even Joel Siegel was there – therefore, it was definitely not the Critic’s Choice awards. From here on, it shall be referred to only as the “BFCA’s,” because the acronym may lead people to misconstrue what the initials really stand for (as if the awards don’t enough). Perhaps “Be First Contemptible Award-show”? Yeah, that sounds about right.

0:04- Dennis Miller, after initially being alternately uncomfortable and esoteric, resorts to a Star Wars nerd joke in the opening monologue. Lame (the lameness, however, does not end there).

0:09- Did Mr. Miller just mention AGAIN that the BFCA’s are the first movie awards show of the season? Aside from being terribly redundant, this exposes exactly what this whole vapid night is about. The BFCA is the ADD child who just wants the title of being the “first precursor.” Give this show some Ritalin and tell it to stop rushing everything.

0:12- Crash wins its first award for Ensemble. My disappointment is almost atoned by the huge laugh I got from seeing the voice-cracking Brendan Fraser on stage. I use “almost” because amid his pubertal speech, I realized that this means Sandra Bullock has won an award other than a Blockbuster or People’s Choice Award. Yikes.

0:13- Oh my, and now Fraser is going on about Crash’s “importance.” Holy fuck, please do not let this continue. According to him, this film makes the viewer a better person. Well, I hope Brendan Fraser feels good about his film about white man’s guilt.

0:23- Good, Dennis Miller just self-consciously noted how weak the scripted jokes are. Eric McCormack had been hiding this truth behind his silly grin for the past few years. Miller is still failing miserably, however, and he seems to be fully conscious of this.

0:26- Wow, Robert Patrick is just as stiff in real life as he is in any sort of medium. His stupidity rubs off on the usually bright Maria Bello, as she has difficultly reading. They present the “Best” Documentary to March of the Penguins and the camera cuts to three theme-park-costumed penguins. This insufferable cuteness must end. Penguins are now on my shit list.

0:32- Paul Haggis accepts Noah Baumbach’s screenplay award, and Haggis’ name is accidentally engraved on it also. Kill me now. Bobby Moresco, the co-writer of Crash, has difficulty speaking; well, that makes a lot of sense. Haggis admits, “When we finished the script, we didn’t think it was a script. And when we finished the movie, we didn’t think we had a movie.” Once again, this makes perfect sense.

0:39- The presenter (I don’t care to remember who) not-so-subtly mentions that “most best supporting actresses went on to the Oscar.” Shut the fuck up about the Oscars! Whoa, the winner is a tie – I don’t believe I have ever seen that before. Even more astonishing: the winners satisfy me.

0:42- After watching those clips for Crash (with its cringe-worthy opening monologue), my disgust has been revived.

0:51- Caché? Australian? Wrong country, buddy. Oh, and wrong continent too. I hope this presenter is aware that Austria is a different country. Kung-Fu Hustle triumphs. Boo.

0:56- John Leguizamo, you’re indoors, and you’re no Jack Nicholson. Take off the shades. He nearly redeems himself by pointing out how “cocky” this award show is after he is forced to brag about its ability to predict the Oscars.

1:02- Dennis Miller just made an entirely incongruous “joke” about porn in 2010. It’s inappropriate in more way than one. Primarily, it’s simply unfunny.

1:09- Into the West? People sat through that? Bob Dylan’s doc deserved this award, damnit. Is that Skeet Ulrich? Shouldn’t he be in rehab somewhere?

1:14- Al Green was just name-dropped. Cool.

1:21 -Mr. Miller, leave the real-life prostitutes alone, just pick on Marshall and Memoirs of a Geisha – the true whores (now, you couldn’t possibly have thought that I could cover this event without taking a shot at such a horrendous film of visual promiscuity).

1:28- I’m shocked that Virginia Madsen was invited back, since she didn’t pick up the golden guy despite winning the BFCA’s “award” last year. I thought they would be bitter about her loss at the Oscars because they thought she would win (Thomas Hayden Church was nowhere to be seen). Paul Giammati seems to have a lot of fans at this awards show. Pity kudos must make him feel all warm this year. It seems to – he’s all choked up.

1:33- Please, please let me forget that Dennis Miller made an allusion to Footloose. Quickly.

1:37- Wow, Philip Seymour Hoffman had a shitty seat – and quite a walk to the podium. Was that a fat joke?

1:40- Josh Lucas, if you think it’s better to be understated than showy, then stop pushing your chest out like that.

1:42- Oh, Reese takes a few shots at critics. “It’s nice of you to come out in the daylight like this.” I think some critic tried to scream something nasty at her. Too bad they didn’t have a microphone on him.

1:48- Whoa, look at Angela Bassett’s triceps. I wouldn’t want to get in a fight with her.

1:49- Is Ang Lee really modest or just plain awkward? The show takes the focus off of Ang Lee to spotlight that goofball Joel Seigel? There are some serious problems here -- I just can’t begin to comprehend them.

1:54- The Best Picture acceptance speech really makes me realize how much of a phenomenon Brokeback Mountain really is – it cannot lose Best Picture at the Academy awards.

1:59-The volume of Dennis Miller’s last joke was cut off. What a great way to end the night.

The BFCA Awards are on within an hour: Predictions/favorites/unrelenting bickering within...

2006-01-09T19:08:00.000-05:00

They are also known as the "critics choice" awards, but when referred to as that, critics are given a terrible name (yeah, these awards aren't always up to par). I don't know much about them, but they will be on at 8 PM EST on the WB (Channel 11 near me). They often follow the worst kind of groupthink (a.k.a "let's be the biggest precursors to the Academy Awards and nominate the ones we think WILL be singled out by the Oscar, despite many being rather mediocre bait"), which is so odd because aren't they supposed to be scrutinizing folks? Nevertheless, I don't expect much from them, but my boredom has forced me to pick my favorites (most are named so by default) and make some arbitrary predictions. None of the top ten are in my top 10 (Brokeback might be my #10, actually), so I will rate the Best Pic nominees that I have seen (damnit, I really need to go check out King Kong and Munich sometime soon). So here I go:

Bold = predicted winner
*** = the most deserving
@@@ = if I could drop one nominee...

BEST PICTURE:
***Brokeback Mountain (B+)
Capote (B-)
Cinderella Man (C)
The Constant Gardener (B)
Crash (C)
Good Night, and Good Luck. (B-)
King Kong
@@@ Memoirs of a Geisha (D)
Munich
Walk the Line (C+)

BEST ACTOR:
@@@ Russell Crowe – “Cinderella Man”
Philip Seymour Hoffman – “Capote”
Terrence Howard – “Hustle & Flow”
***Heath Ledger – “Brokeback Mountain”
Joaquin Phoenix – “Walk the Line”
David Strathairn – “Good Night, and Good Luck.”

PSH, Ledger and Strathairn are all on the same level, so it was a difficult choice. Damnit, where the hell is Jeff Daniels!?!!? If he were nominated, he would be my sure winner.

BEST ACTRESS:
***Joan Allen – “The Upside of Anger”
Judi Dench - “Mrs. Henderson Presents”
Felicity Huffman – “Transamerica”
Keira Knightley – “Pride & Prejudice”
@@@ Charlize Theron – “North Country”
Reese Witherspoon – “Walk the Line”

Meh.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR:
George Clooney – “Syriana”
Kevin Costner – “The Upside of Anger”
Matt Dillon – “Crash”
Paul Giamatti – “Cinderella Man”
*** Jake Gyllenhaal – “Brokeback Mountain”
@@@ Terrence Howard – “Crash”

Let me echo the "meh."

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS:
Amy Adams – “Junebug”
Maria Bello – “A History of Violence”
Catherine Keener – “Capote”
@@@Frances McDormand – “North Country”
Rachel Weisz – “The Constant Gardener”
***Michelle Williams – “Brokeback Mountain”

Probably the only category that has over two worthy contenders.

BEST ACTING ENSEMBLE:
Crash
***Good Night, and Good Luck.
Rent
Syriana
@@@Sin City

By default.

BEST DIRECTOR:
***George Clooney – “Good Night, and Good Luck.”
@@@Paul Haggis – “Crash”
@@@Ron Howard – “Cinderella Man”
Peter Jackson – “King Kong”
Ang Lee – “Brokeback Mountain”
Steven Spielberg – “Munich”

Yeah, I really need to see King Kong and Munich, because I am not happy at all with my "favorite" here. Although I do have a weakspot for that pinko commie.

BEST WRITER:
*******Noah Baumbach – “The Squid and the Whale”
George Clooney and Grant Heslov – “Good Night, and Good Luck.”
Dan Futterman – “Capote”
@@@Paul Haggis and Bobby Moresco – “Crash”
Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana – “Brokeback Mountain”

Probably the only one in this whole damn award show that I am genuinely rooting for.

BEST ANIMATED FEATURE:
@@@“Chicken Little”
“Corpse Bride”
“Howl’s Moving Castle”
“Madagascar”
*****“Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit”

Oh wait, I really want this to win, also. As for the others, I have only seen Corpse Bride, which was rather drab. I couldn't even tolerate Chicken Little's insufferable trailers, so it has to go.

BEST YOUNG ACTOR:
Jesse Eisenberg – “The Squid and the Whale”
Alex Etel – “Millions”
@@@Freddie Highmore – “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”
***Owen Kline – “The Squid and the Whale”
Daniel Radcliffe – “Harry Potter and Goblet of Fire”

Wishful predicting, perhaps; either of the Squid's kids would be fine.

BEST YOUNG ACTRESS:
Flora Cross – “Bee Season”
Dakota Fanning – “War of the Worlds”
Georgie Henley – “The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe”
Q'Orianka Kilcher – “The New World”
@@@Emma Watson – “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire”

Eww. Don't make me choose.

BEST COMEDY MOVIE:
***The 40 Year-Old Virgin
Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang
Mrs. Henderson Presents
The Producers
@@@The Wedding Crashers

I am really mad I missed Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang. I am really glad I missed The Prodcuers.

BEST FAMILY FILM (LIVE ACTION):
@@@Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
Dreamer
@@@Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe

I've only seen Charlie and Harry, and neither are good.

BEST PICTURE MADE FOR TELEVISION:
Into the West
*******No Direction Home
Rome
Warm Springs

The Dylan doc, even though I have only seen half.

BEST FOREIGN LANGUAGE FILM:
Cache
@@@Kung Fu Hustle
Oldboy
Paradise Now
***2046

I'll accept Caché winning. As long as it isn't either Hustle or Oldboy.

BEST SONG:
“Hustle & Flow” – Terrence Howard – “Hustle & Flow”
“A Love That Will Never Grow Old” – Emmylou Harris – “Brokeback Mountain”
“Same in Any Language” – I Nine – “Elizabethtown”
“Seasons of Love” – Tracie Thoms, Jesse L. Martin and Cast – “Rent”
“Travelin’ Thru” – Dolly Parton – “Transamerica”

Fuck if I know.

BEST SOUNDTRACK:
Elizabethtown
Memoirs of a Geisha
The Producers
Rent
Walk the Line

If I cared, I'd actually waste my time using the *'s @'s and the bold function.

BEST COMPOSER:
James Horner – “The New World”
***Gustavo Santaolalla – “Brokeback Mountain”
@@@John Williams – “Memoirs of a Geisha”
Nancy Wilson – “Elizabethtown”

But damn, they should have turned the volume down on Brokeback's score a bit.

BEST DOCUMENTARY FEATURE:
Enron – The Smartest Guys in the Room (B)
***Grizzly Man (B+)
@@@Mad Hot Ballroom (C+)
@@@March of the Penguins (C+)
Murderball (B+)

Yeah...

Wow, in the end I realize just how extremely apathetic I am about this whole awards show (and season, in general). Where is the awards passion?!? It's going to be a lugubrious two months for any lover of film.

(Next entry will have updates with Junk e-mail, my reason to dislike the new year, French snobs, English snobs, Frivolous fabric (the Muppets!), Waiting for Godot (err -- I mean Guffman), and Transvestites who talk like Mrs. Doubtfire.)

Ouch. Sour Patch Kids scratch my tongue.

2005-12-28T00:10:00.000-05:00

Christmas was lovely; my family Christmas party was a drunken mess, as it very well should be.

To escape my New Jersey household, tomorrow’s agenda includes a train, Manhattan, Thai food, Woody Allen and Caché. Color me excited. I am torn, however, whether to buy a ticket online in advance for Match Point tomorrow. While it would be ideal to catch the 2:15 showing (I will arrive in Manhattan around 1:20, and then walk ten blocks – so I will probably approach the theater around 2:45), I cannot justify spending more money for the “convenience fee.” It is not that I am frugal, I just refuse to pay unnecessary charges to companies that are looking to make a “convenient” buck on paranoid payers. Plus, I simply enjoy buying a ticket the old way -- you know, at the box office.

It seems as if I will be in Boston for New Years. And, apparently, I will be embarking on my first “road trip” (5 hours constitutes as a minor road trip at least, right?). My friend claims that he is not sure how reliable his car is to make the trip, but questionable reliability is part of the road-trip-fun, isn’t it? It should be a good time, nonetheless.

Speaking of Boston, as I was walking up my street with my iPod earphones in place a couple weeks ago, I heard some familiar lyrics. The lyrics themselves, which were attached to a song by Ted Leo and the Pharmacists called “Bridges, Squares,” were recognizable due to their local relevance to me. Immediately, Mr. Leo mentions Kendall Square, a location which I frequent (mostly to see films at the arthouse, walk past a coffee shop which seems to be perpetually closed, and get food at a creepy Thai place with shady servers). The song subsequently name-drops the ‘Charles River’ and the ‘Red Line T train’ – two appellations every Bostonian must know. It was the next line that really hit home – they mentioned Joy Street, that wonderful lane that I live on. When I reached a computer, I checked the lyrics and, to my chagrin, I misheard those last lyrics, which are actually “joins stream.” How disappointing – I am, however, willing to be delusional if you are, because that would just be so cool if my street was actually featured in the song.

Oh, and inspired musicians – I think I know about those. Aside from some snazzy musical numbers in Walk the Line, however, I would never have thought that Johnny Cash was a very inspirational artist. I would just think he is another romantic sap with some standard-biopic-life-moments.

Walk the Line (Mangold, 2005): B-, 6/10 [Disappointingly falls into the unambitious, paint-by-the-numbers biopic category with last year’s Ray. Walk the Line simply lacks passion and, consequently, is rather drab and ineffective; also, there is absolutely no sort of surprise. By focusing on the love story (which, essentially, it strives to be), the film marginalizes what Johnny Cash actually was -- an artist. The film is too preoccupied with showing Cash's most embarrassing moments, including his drug addiction (which is quite trite) and his (what a shocker) antagonism with his father. Aside from that, I found Phoneix and Witherspoon to be outstandingly convincing, yet their relationship remained unconvincing. And I guess I should start blaming the actual fame-struggling musicians themselves for leading such generic lives (fight with my father, yell at my wife, cheat on her, and then do some drugs) – or perhaps I should blame filmmakers for solely including these insipid details. How about Johnny Cash’s religious epiphany? Remember – one of his main musical inspirations. Oh, and I could have sworn that Mangold seemed as if he wanted to ditch this project and just make a film about Dylan instead. He has a strange facsination with OTHER musicians (Elvis? Come on). Then again, he probably just did that so people would say, "look it's Elvis!" and, "did he just mention THE Bob Dylan!?" and feel good about themselves for recognition of the name-dropping. The film itself walks a thin line between a standard romantic comedy and a generic biopic.]

Brokeback Mountain (Lee, 2005): B+, 8/10 [Not quite the overwhelming theater experience I expected -- perhaps I can blame the audience, who laughed through the most devastating moments in the film (shocking, since I was in a metropolis), for that. I cannot, however, deny its resonating affect. To me, the film was about how unsatisfying life is when you must repress such feelings. I initially thought that the characters were a bit too worn out by the end of the film, but I must say I almost disagree with myself. I will undoubtedly see the film again sometime soon and come to an unwavering decision. It's a film that has rewarded me much more afterwards. My theater experience did not overwhelm me with emotion, but, upon reflection, I am glad that it did not. The overall lack of cultivation in the character's lives is directly (but not exclusively) due to their repression. Someone argued to me that the film felt a bit too "inert," but, to me, that is the most unsettling aspect of their relationship and, consequently, their lives. The ending, contrary to popular belief, is not very ambiguous. Ms. Hathaway's expression (no, not her timeline hairstyles) is the key to the truth. Speaking of the wives, Michelle Williams gives the most truly heartbreaking performance in the film. Her role, while being sorrowfully mislabeled as "small," is crucial -- and she handled it perfectly.]

Cries and Whispers (Bergman, 1972): A-/B+, 8.5/10 [Scarlet red pervades nearly every frame of this somber, painstakingly honest meditation on sisterhood, mortality (and other’s reactions to it), and happiness (yes, happiness). Such deep crimson red is highly appropriate to convey the stark emotions felt while watching the film. The truly strong martyr in the film is the maid (and so much more), Anna. Loyal and compassionate, she serves to symbolize the audience as she witnesses, and must endure, many of the events which occur in the scenes outside the minds of the characters. She’s also a maternal figure (in one scene, she even utilizes her breast to comfort a dying woman). To both its credit and detraction, the film is absolutely suffocating, Bergman does not let it breath as much as his other films that I have seen. Aesthetically speaking, however, the film is simply superlative; the cinematography meticulously captures the profiles of the multi-faceted characters and the ephemeral imagery (which can be rather overt) are all meticulously presented.]

I will now leave, and present to you a cinnamon bun which is said to eerily resemble Mother Teresa. Frankly, I think anyone who thinks so is delusional, but we are talking about religion, so such a reaction is appropriate (it DID come from Tennessee, after all). Apparently, it was recently stolen from the Bongo Java, where it was given bakery birth. Actually, I am that hell-bound thief. I stole it just so I could show you loyal readers – so at least I am a considerate kleptomaniac.

A Holiday Rumination

2005-12-24T15:26:00.000-05:00

When I was in 2nd grade, just before the eventful First Communion, my teacher asked my class why it is essential to receive the holy communion. I raised my hand and answered, "Well, sometimes I get hungry during mass and it holds me over until I go out to breakfast after church." True story -- and one of my favorites (partially because I was dead serious). Needless to say, Mrs. Wetzel wasn't very content with my answer. When I was younger I also thought that, instead of Doritos (or some other generic chip), priests casually ate the communion wafer (more commonly known as the 'host') as a snack. You know -- just sitting on the couch, watching some Full House, and munching on a bag of host. Yum.

Recently, someone pondered how people on the Atkins diet feel about communion. Is Jesus low carb? I find this to be a fascinating question. I will have to ask next time I am forced to go to mass with my parents (most likely tonight, Christmas Eve -- there's absolutely NO WAY I can get out of that). When I approach the golden chalice, I'll pause and ask if I can see the nutrition facts printed on the side of the box where the chunk of Jesus came from.

Oh religion, what a silly thing. According to an online survey, I am a humanist. Wait, why am I talking about religion around the holidays? It's not like religion is pertinent, or anything.

Merry Christmas.

Yikes.

2005-12-23T19:28:00.000-05:00

"Yikes" seems like a likely candidate to become my new overused word du jour (or whatever "month" is in French). Such past excessively-uttered words (or noises) have been "shite," "meh," "silly," "blah," and "eek (and sometimes I would substitute the 'k' with a 'p')." I believe that "Yikes" will be a worthy addition to such an esteemed bunch.

Well, it seems as if I am officially finished with my first semester ay my new university. I e-mailed my Fiction professor at 5:30 AM on Tuesday with my final portfolio. I had to revise two of my short stories, which were apparently too verbose, thematic and “idea-driven.” Let’s just say that I slept very well after I sent the e-mail out. Regarding my new location, I am very content with my choice to transfer to Boston. If I continue to talk about the reasons why I have had such a fantastic semester, I may start to get sentimental, and I can’t handle that mawkishness. I’ll just drop one word: Mongooses. If you’re confused, don’t worry -- even I don’t know what that means.

Tis the season to…see a lot of films? Well, I went to five films in the theaters in the past six days (one was a repeat, Wong Kar-Wai’s luscious 2046). Apparently, final projects/portfolios are subordinate when I need to see films. I have priorities, you know.

The Matador (Shephard, 2005): B-, 6/10 [I went to a screening of this nearly a month ago. While not much resonated, it is a testament to the film that I am actually writing about it now. This, of course, means that I did not completely forget about it like some other releases this year (Isn't it a shame to see so many films and only truly recall a handful? Perhaps, however, it is better to repress the fact that I ever saw Derailed). For a practice in wicked frivolity, this film slightly pleases, but ultimately disappoints. Think Analyze This, but with a hit-man instead of a mafia boss. Actually, that is exactly what this is; well, it is more like Analyze This mixed with a domestic surrounding, which I believe Analyze That included (judging by trailers, I haven’t seen that film, fortunately). The comedy within The Matador is not hilarious, but most of the clever lines work – as do the absolutely ridiculous one-liners that Brosnon’s washed-up “facilitator of fatalities” utters. Hope David and Greg Kinnear are serviceable, and their acceptance of Pierce Brosnon's profession, which plays out in a rather “matter-of-fact” manner is amusing. I admire the director’s attempts to create a character study within an antithetical-buddy-movie formula, but the attempts to reveal insight into the characters outside of characterization and through symbolism just falls completely flat. The metaphor of a matador is constantly stated – it is as if the filmmaker doesn’t understand that the audience will understand it the first time Bronson explains it; that’s not the only overt symbol, though. The identity-conflicted Brosnon looks into a mirror a dozen times throughout, and I began to cringe after the third occurrence. In the final, anticlimactic scene, he looks into the car mirror and disappears into the distance. His humdrum arc is a completely joke and when he screams at Kinnear’s character “Danny, I’m a fucking parody,” you cannot help but nod in agreement.]

Boys of Baraka (Ewing/Grady, 2005): B/B-, 6.5/10 [This is not a film which will likely be endorsed by the Baltimore Board of Public Education. The film opens with this staggering statistic: 76% percent of black males do not graduate high school. Contrary to the stimulating opening scene, the film would rather exhibit the drama and hobbies of the children than psychologically investigate their inevitable adaptation to their African surroundings. Although there is a plethora of opportunities, the film does not take advantage of its sociologically rich circumstances. The relocation of these children is what intrigued me the most and I yearned to see more of their assimilation. There is the occasional moment of insightful observation: the impoverished boys take their first plane trip on which they experiment with all the gadgets and a boy takes note of the gorgeous clouds in the barren African landscape. These instances, however, are unfortunately cut short (literally, they are 30 second scenes). Aside from these complaints, the film is successful in making its point. Most profoundly, it effectively juxtaposes these children’s parallel situations in Africa and Baltimore (upon returning to Baltimore, the children find themselves alienated by the “street life” of many Baltimore youths). Essentially, it is an inverted Born into Brothels (it tries to move children out of the United States, instead of into it); Baraka, however, is not nearly as affecting, perceptive or precious as Born into Brothels.]

Syriana (Gaghan, 2005): C+, 5/10 [Not short on ambition, yet sorely lacking in clarity. This muddled production may actually be proving a point with its impossible-to-follow intertwining storylines (I believe the confusion is deliberate), yet it also defeats its own purpose by doing so. The film touches on many points, and it has a lot to say, yet it obfuscates almost all of the “pressing” issues it addresses. Therefore, no real commentary on the oil situation is deeply explored and communicated to the open-minded audience this film is likely to draw. In an attempt to capture the unrelenting speed of such dense proceedings, it never gives the audience a chance to become involved and absorb the material. This, however, did not bother me as much as the film’s attempts to ALSO be an “ensemble picture.” The film unfortunately reminded me of another inept ensemble drama of the year: Crash. Both, in a pathetic attempt to inject their characters with emotional baggage and delve into their personal lives, give certain character’s weak subplots (a drunken family member seems to be the favorite for filmmakers in need of a quick character catharsis). Mr. Gaghan has, fundamentally, taken the plot-paradigm he created for Traffic and replaced drugs for oil. Traffic, however, was a brilliantly crafted political statement an ensemble drama. Fortunately, Syriana is uniformly acted (with the exception of Amanda Peet, who cannot act dramatically, because even when she is trying to be dramatic, it comes off as comedic) yet it is also inconsistently riveting and sorrowfully two-dimensional.]

Semester grades are posted tomorrow morning. Yikes.

I see too many movies.

2005-12-20T13:14:00.000-05:00

Films I have seen theatrically in 2005:

Brokeback Mountain
Boys of Baraka
Syriana
Walk the Line
Memoirs of a Geisha
The Dying Gaul
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
Pride and Prejudice
Shopgirl
Fun with Dick and Jane
Sarah Silverman: Jesus is Magic
The Matador
Hitch
Good Night, and Good Luck
Jarhead
The Squid and the Whale
Derailed
Capote
Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit
A History of Violence
Green Street Hooligans
Corpse Bride
North Country
Junebug
Fever Pitch
Grizzly Man
The Constant Gardener
2046
The 40 Year-Old Virgin
March of the Penguins
Broken Flowers
The Beat that My Heart Skipped
The Interpreter
The Aristocrats
Mad Hot Ballroom
Wedding Crashers
Bad News Bears
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
Saving Face
Trauma
My Summer of Love
War of the Worlds
Heights
Batman Begins
Cinderella Man
Thumbsucker
Sequins
Kings and Queen
Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith
Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room
3-Iron
Crash
In the Realms of the Unreal
Look at Me
Kung Fu Hustle
Sin City
Millions
Karaoke Terror
Survive Style 5+
Mardi Gras: Made in

China

The Nomi Song
Lonesome Jim
Me and You and Everyone We Know
Palindromes
The Edukators
Woman is the Future of Man
5 x 2: Five Times Two
Ma Mere
The Holy Girl
House of D
Mysterious Skin
Murderball
Somersault
Land of Plenty
Kontroll
A Tout de Suite
El Crimen Perfecto
Melinda and Melinda
Downfall
The Upside of Anger
Up and Down
Nobody Knows
Gunner Palace

Wow, that’s quite a lot – especially when considering that I didn’t even see a 2005 film until the middle of March. I believe I went over 80 by a few.

Oh, and it is color coded for the Holidays! Red = positive, Green = negative, Blue = mixed.

My friends and I went out to an expensive holiday dinner this past Saturday. I was the only one who forgot to wear Red/Green. I was wearing blue. Oops. Forutnately, I realized that I was just representing Hannukah. We had a politically correct holiday dinner, indeed.

Fun? That's debatable.

2005-12-16T13:08:00.000-05:00

Jim Carrey and Tea Leoni are on the lookout for subtlety

Following in contemporary Hollywood's tradition of failing to create original ideas, Fun with Dick and Jane is yet another remake to be released this year. The first Dick and Jane, which is filled with sharp jabs at the American lifestyle and class struggle, was released in 1977. One common criticism which is often stated regarding the polyester clad Dick and Jane from the Disco 70's is that the film is horribly dated. With the recent collapse of such conniving conglomerates as Arthur Anderson and Tyco, the original film's social commentary remains extremely relevant. Therefore, it does not seem strange to update this social satire. The ingenious plot is indubitably timely and rife with comedic possibilities; at least that is what director Dean Parisot (Galaxy Quest) thought. The results are somewhat mixed, however.

Fortunately, Parisot and screenwriters Nicholas Stroller and Judd Apatow (writer/director of the sweet and amusing 40 Year-Old Virgin and the prematurely cancelled television series Freaks and Geeks) relish in the new-millennium modernity of the new Dick and Jane. The film opens "a long, long time ago...in the year 2000." We witness Dick and Jane's banal daily routine, which they seem content enough with. They live in an upper-middle class suburb of Los Angeles, where Anglo destitution means not having the newest Mercedes model. Landscapers are laying down the new, fresh green grass on Dick and Jane's front lawn; this minor construction serves as a literal establishment of the suburban America setting. It also implicitly forebodes the inevitable deterioration.

After Dick's scandalous company, Globodyne, suffers an Enron-esque meltdown of illegal business and questionable ethics, which was inflicted by avaricious executives, Dick (an expectedly silly Jim Carrey) is forced to leave his job without any further compensation. Finding a new job is not as easy as Dick initially suspected, however.

After a three-month-long failed attempt to find employment, him and his wife, Jane (played with an adequate amount of stress and sass by Tea Leoni), start to worry about the bills and their source of income -- or lack, thereof. To quickly solve their economical dilemma, the browbeaten Dick and Jane turn to a life of thievery -- but they are hardly as competent as Bonnie and Clyde. The threat of bankruptcy and poverty is so frightening to Dick and Jane that they have a bit of an identity crisis, since they are unaccustomed to such financial troubles. The film has a similar identity crisis -- it is unsure whether to be a sharp, biting indictment on corporate America or a goofy holiday feature.

Fun with Dick and Jane is, essential, a thinly veiled social critique. In an observant moment of devastating truth, Jane yells at the landscapers, who are evicting her front lawn, in front of the neighbors as if she was simply a fastidious and under-appreciative housewife. This exposes Jane's mindset: she would rather be seen as a persnickety snob than someone who cannot afford landscaping. Most of these revealing moments are, however, dull -- this film is hardly a sardonic condemnation of America. It is a frivolous farce which attempts to be buff, but only amounts to fluff.

Although it is refreshing to see a studio film which is socially conscious, the sharp satire is diluted with silly slapstick. In an attempt to make the critique palatable, the film is rendered innocuous. Yet, oddly, the film is so preoccupied with its agenda that it lacks singular characters: the characterizations of Dick and Jane are just as simple as their monosyllabic names. Many of the more smart jokes are disrupted and overshadowed by a moment of coincidental silliness. But don't be fooled -- Dick and Jane aren't all fun. They mean business -- big business, that is; or, at least, that is what the film would like you to believe.

Its approach to corporate satire is very much in line with 2004's In Good Company and I Heart Huckabees. Unfortunately, it is not nearly as fulfilling as the former or as clever as the latter. Fun with Dick and Jane also finds room to fit in matrimonial mockery, just as Mr. and Mrs. Smith did this summer. The final heist is as stylishly, yet a bit more unwittingly, tricky as Ocean's 11. Such cinematic allusions are appropriate because Fun with Dick and Jane feels like just that -- an amalgamation of borrowed concepts (so, basically, it becomes the exact thing it is satirizing -- a corporate whole which is composed of other elements). This isn't blatant kleptomania, however; plus, Dick and Jane does contain some unique and acute humor (which is mostly focused on Spanglish, Enron executives and George W. Bush).

Ultimately, the overtly scrutinizing Fun with Dick and Jane is the cinematic equivalent of the couple at a dinner party who punctuate their every joke with a wink and laugh -- even if the joke is not always funny or subtle. They are tolerable, occasionally intelligent, and amusing, but not nearly as witty as they think they are. C+, 5.5/10

Lost in the Supermarket

2005-12-13T16:02:00.000-05:00

I haven’t had much time to think lately. The most time I have had recently was today, when I was in Whole Foods (which was a temporary hiatus from my double-digit-paged essay). A fastidious woman, who was just a high heel under 5 foot, stood in front of the waffle freezer (my destination) and took over 2 minutes to find the organic waffles she wanted. I stood behind her rather patiently for a bit over two full minutes; I know this because I started to count after it seemed as if a minute had elapsed. This was undoubtedly amusing, and the wait, shockingly, never bothered me. I doubt she noticed me – she seemed rather lost in the perfectly stacked boxes of frozen breakfast foods, which she made sure to casually disorganize after reading the fine print on every box. This brief time (which felt much longer, since I was inertly standing…and waiting) was strangely calming, though; it was very, very refreshing. This week of final projects has really made my head spin, and it will continue to until the 20th. So thank you, Miss short, nutrition-fact-checking lady. And god bless you for obliviously knocking over a sign and deciding that none of the waffles were for you.

Gung Ho-rrible (this film doesn't deserve a better pun)

2005-12-10T13:26:00.000-05:00

Memoirs of a Geisha (Marshall, 2005)

Zhang Ziyi and Ken Watanabe are practicing their grips for when they strangle the filmmakers

Culturally obtuse, ideologically repugnant, emotionally flat and shamelessly melodramatic, Memoirs of a Geisha features just as much jealousy-induced, catty bitchery as "Showgirls" and "Mean Girls." Its narrative structure is actually a shockingly similar mixture of the two. What Memoirs of a Geisha fails to realize is that these other two films were satires. Geisha, unfortunately for any astute audience member, attempts to play this childish antagonism straight. Even worse, the film terribly overdramatizes ever moment. The pulsating score overplays such silly events which, essentially, are mere juvenile pranks and common back-stabbing.

In a crucial scene which is meant to establish Zhang Ziyi’s Sayuri reputation as a highly desired geisha, Sayuri performs a wintry dance on a blue-tinted stage. A simulation (a word that constantly pops up in the mind of the viewer) of a snowstorm begins and the actress flails around the platform as if she is an epileptic having a seizure in a blizzard. This is a jarring scene of poor editing, pretty lights, and embarrassing choreography (I’ll avoid a Chicago comment here). The audience within the film seems extremely impressed and moved, yet the only profound aspect of the performance is how profoundly graceless it is.

Sayuri's liquid blue eyes, which are the key to her beauty in La-La land (a.k.a the Western version of Japan), are so apparently color-contacts that you cannot help but scream "liar" when she replies that she received those eyes from her mother. She obviously got them from her optometrist. This may seem a persnickety complaint, but it is quite pertinent since this complaint of inauthentic beauty can be extended to the whole artificially lush and deeply unconvincing production.

The main flaw in the film is its attempt to make the Japanese culture accessible to Americans; it has undergone the garish Hollywood treatment five times over. Do you recall the devastating restraint and subtlety in classic Japanese films? The producers are banking on the fact that you do not. Memoirs of a Geisha is as oriental and tasteless as a package of Ramen noodles

The cultural aspects, which are terribly manufactured, are mostly glossed over in favor of vacuous visual flair and an insipid love story which fails to be either interesting or unpredictable. The bit (and I mean very tiny bit) of insight we see into the role of a geisha is in the form of a trite training sequence. These ‘Intro to the Geisha 101’ moments are generically played for laughs, due to Sayuri's ineptness (yes, we even get the obligatory fall in heels, Ms. Congeniality-style). Oh, I did learn that Geisha’s take a really long time to get dressed, since they were extreme amounts of clothing. It is strange how a film with so many layers of clothing could have no idea what cinematic layers are.

After an American invasion begins the third act of the film, Sayuri’s Japanese village, Kyoto, apparently suffers from culture shock. Ironically, the village had already been westernized (read: bastardized) throughout the previous two acts. The American colonization is portrayed as if Kyoto has simply become the most desired Spring break destination. This isn’t colonization, this is Cancun-ization. Oh, and apparently there was some sort of war – I’m not really certain, and the film makes sure that there is a lack of clarity.

The script is also awkwardly westernized; the characters even use American colloquialisms! “There are other fish in the sea,” utters the benevolent Mameha, who is played by the only actress who seems to have a grasp on the English language, Michelle Yeoh. I would rather not complain about the controversial casting choices; I am more offended by the use of English than the casting of non-Japanese actresses (after all, Texan Renee Zellweger played the Brit chick Bridget Jones to perfection). Consistently throughout the film, I desperately urged to hear these actresses speak in their native tongues.

There is an ongoing and completely overt metaphor of running water, which symbolizes Sayuri’s adaptability and tenacity (which is hardly accurate in the first place, because Sayuri is a rather weak character). About four characters denote the "water" in Sayuri's eyes as if the explicit explanation of the metaphor at the beginning of the film did not suffice. This type of patronization and lack of subtlety is exhibited throughout the film. After a moment of loss and defeat, Sayuri tosses a token of affection off a cliff (a gorgeous, lush cliff, of course). This act of despair is followed by a cut to a stagnant pond, which is ham-fisted imagery meant to symbolize the stalled Sayuri’s lack of hope. Aptly, the film itself is identical to this body of water: it is beautiful, shallow and completely inert. D, (2.5/10)

Catching up.

2005-12-03T13:32:00.000-05:00

Due to my absence -- or, rather, nonexistence -- I have not posted my thoughts on the many films I have viewed recently (roughly within the past couple weeks). To save this from becoming an overlong bore-of-an-entry, I will simply post thoughts on a few films and list the rest. In subsequent entries, I will attempt to elaborate on the grades assigned to each film.

Preface: 2005 has been quite disappointing.

Jarhead (Mendes, 2005): Some fans of Jarhead claim (or should I say "fall back on the empty comeback") that those who reacted negatively towards it did not understand what Mendes was trying to accomplish. Can't a critical viewer understand its attempt and still dislike its presentation? I never felt that I did not "get" it, but I did, however, feel that the film was alternatively preachy and over-the-top. I admire Mendes' ambitious ideas (and his style), but it is extremely difficult to show an enthralling depiction of tedium without making it tedious for the audience. Ironically, I did not find it overly plodding -- just vacuous. Plus, the "futility of war" message is a bit overstated. Much to my chagrin, the film was psychologically disappointing -- Swofford is reading Camus' "The Stranger, " for goodness sake. And if Swofford was an ostensible "Meursault joins the marines," then the film did a rather poor job of exploring these character parallels. Frankly, I did not think any of the performances were that superlative (maybe Sarsgaard, but his character's personality was shot to hell anyway). In order for Sarsgaard's actions and outburts to be very effective, I needed to see more of his character and understand his affliction. I saw none of this; most of his backstory is simply dropped upon the audience at the most convenient time. He was the stereotypical "grunt-if-you-look-at-me" war character who ultimately, and inexplicably, becomes best buds with the protagonist. The film is undoubtedly Swafford-centric, and I think many of the supporting characters suffer because of that. I believe that an aesthetically accomplished film with such a unique visual style deserves more convincingly rich characters and a much less hackneyed paradigm-of-a-war-plot; you know, but a plot without the war. C, (5/10)

The Dying Gaul (Lucas, 2005): Although I was warned about it's mediocrity, I avoided a research paper and saw it. My stubbornness was mainly influenced by the cast and seeing Craig Lucas' first shot at directing (his Secret Lives of Dentists screenplay was admirable). Plus, steamy bisexuality! Although I am not completely pleased with my decision to overlook my urgent school assignments in favor of Mr. Campbell, Mr. Sarsgaard and my dear Patty, I do not regret my course of action. I went to see the cast and it is, undoubtedly, the main strength of the film; all three actors are uniformly impressive despite their previous high acclaim. The film itself is captivating, if deeply flawed. It gets much credit for avoiding that stagy feeling which usually mars stage-to-screen adaptations (which, I found out only afterwards, it is). The Dying Gaul mistakes vagueness for ambiguity and lack of information for subtlety. Not only is the second half contrived, even though it is fluidly paced, but even the narrative contrivances rely on unexplained implausibility. Even though the ideas are potent, they are never fully realized --and the metaphors, even though they are underdeveloped, are rather overt. Similar to the recent Harry Potter film (now there's a set-up for a great comparison), it suffers from feel like two films within one -- and the relevance is not always apparent. The first act is an intriguing, postmodern satire on Hollywood (sound familiar? -- well, I love Adaptation and all of its followers, anyway) and the film jarringly shifts into a contemporary noir complete with bisexuality and saucy chat-rooms. Despite my (it seems like) many complaints, the film is never stiff and kept me consistently interested. Strange, I know -- but this isn't exactly a normal film. B-/C+, (5.5/10)

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (Newell, 2005): Without having even read the book, I can tell that too many scenes were left out of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. There is a lack of a desired cohesion and the whole film seems simply thrown together, as it tries to patch up the transitions of the original text. To the film's credit, the film is alternatuively thrilling and amusing, but inconsistently so. As if the film did not have enough congruity problems, it feels as if these are two fillms in one -- and both are underdeveloped. One film is about the humanizing of the puberty-ridden young teenagers and how their magical world is really just a parallel of the real-world of nasty, bratty adolescents who have to worry about awkward sexual tensions and finding a date for the dance (and, consequently, learning the art of settling). This, of course, accounts for a few smugly charming moments of insufferable cuteness and teenage devastation. It is, essentially, a puberty video which should be shown in 5th grade Health classes (witness the bathtub scene for evidence). The other film is the usual adventure of Harry-must-save-some-students-and survive-Voldemort-again. The boy has a reputation to keep up! It's all very pleasing and not off-putting at all, but it still manages to feel unsatisfactory. C+, (5.5/10)

Pride and Prejudice (Wright, 2005): Where have all the British period dramas gone? I miss them. It seems as if I will simply have to turn to Merchant-Ivory DVD rentals. I realize there is not a strong market for these types of films -- which is why I am very elated with the release and success (both economic and cnematic) of Joe Wright's new adaptation of Austen's novel. While it is not as exceptional as Merchant-Ivory's best (A Room With a View, for example), Pride and Prejudice is superbly entertaining and resfreshingly literate. Many have justifiably noted the brilliantly fluid cinematography, but what struck me the most was the film's timelessness. It has the ability to capture the time period without feeling stiff and maintain the relevance of many films set in contemporary settings. The film is classic, but modern. The cast is uniformally magnificent; Brenda Blethyn gives my favorite supporting performance -- she makes blatant desperation seem so pathetically and charmingly hilarious. The film's most admirable trait is its sharp and witty screenplay, despite the moments where the dialogue seems as if the preserved prose is simply being regurgitated by the cast. B+, (8/10)

Safe (Haynes, 1995): As much as I would like to highly praise the idea-driven Safe, I cannot. It's frustrating -- I feel as if I should have been more affected by the production than I was. Similar to Julianne Moore's vacuous homemaker, I feel inexplicably dissatisfied. I appreciate Safe's uniqueness, ambition and strong, socially relevant, themes. Unfortunately, however, it is almost as if the film tries to tackle too many subjects; therefore, its overall effect is dulled. Is it a cold satire on upper-class banality? Is it an indictment on self-inflicted stress? Is it an example of a manifestation of repression? Is it a biting statement on humanity's carelessness with chemicals and lack of a land ethic? Is it a search for human singularity? Is it a tender allegory of the AIDS epidemic? Is it a frightening look at cults (yikes!)? Sure, it is all these things, but none of them feel complete -- the film is more of a thematic hodgepodge. There is a constant scratching of a surface. Perhaps I am simply dissatisfied due to its lack of real environmental confrontation. Actually most of the film feels quite "passive aggressive." Julianne Moore's performance as a helpless housewife is rather superb -- her malaise is palpable and her spaciness (which the film also seems to possess) is convincing. Although the themes overshadow her character, she manages to make the closing moments indelibly chilling. Perhaps upon a second viewing this thematically charged film will seem more cohesive, but for now, it remains a slight disappointment. B/B-, (6.5/10)

Shopgirl (Tucker, 2005): It attempts to being a "mood piece," but is really just a second-rate depiction of modern alienation. I wanted to like it much more than I did, but almost everything within the film was unconvincing (particularly the relationship at its core). I occasionally liked the use of the score, but the volume needed to be turned down just a bit. It came out blaring in moments when a sincere score would have been more effective. Martin's redundant voiceover shows how attached he is to his prose, but he needs to realize that this is a cinematic adaptation, and such omniscient narration is both clumsy and unnecessary. Aside from a few admirable moments, it is rather vacuous. C+, (5/10)

The rest:
Fun with Dick and Jane (Parisot, 2005): B-/C+, (5.5/10) [Occasionally observant, but ultimately innocuous, corprate satire. Full review will be posted next week.]
The Passenger (Antonioni, 1975): C, (4.5/10) [A few brilliant themes remain unexplored to their fullest potential. A point, and intriguing characters, are lost amid the tedium.]
The Seventh Seal (Bergman, 1957): A-, (9/10) [I wish I was more conscious when viewing this -- then I would have been able to post more extensive and astute thoughts. I was actually very tired when I watched the film (which I saw by sneaking into a friend of mine's film class), and I often wished I was more sharp and astute that day. Basically, though, I absorbed most of what I should in this symbolic, deep meditation on those "big" questions in life. What really struck me was how it was not completely morose; it is practically a comedy. The early scene in the church, which includes a man painting the walls with a mural of death, really explains everything. What shocked and pleased me was its original approach to such unanswerable questions -- it realized their lack of a definite answer and the film played out as an absurdist comedy. Brilliant, really.]
Hitch (Tennant, 2005): C+, (5/10) [I was treated to this disarming, but pedestrian, film on a trip back to college. Oh, it is just another reason to hate public transportation around the Holidays. Actually, this is the quintessential public transportation film: affable, harmless and completely typical. The man which this film was based off of (yes, such a 'dating doctor' does exist) spoke at my university. He was much more intelligent, interesting and original than this disposable rom-com.]
Sarah Silverman: Jesus is Magic (Lynch, 2005): C+, (5.5/10) [I like Sarah Silverman. I do. And I wanted to really like Jesus is Magic. I did. Basically a one-woman stad-up act, Sarah Silverman delivers her lines with a perfectly naive Jewish princess disposition, as always. She is undoubtedly testing the capablities of stand-up comedy here, but there is too much scratching of the surface and not enough deep exploration into politically-incorrect and boundry-pushing comedy. Plus, the film came to a screeching halt whenever an incongruous music sequence or a disappointing backstage confessional would pop up.]
Heavenly Creatures (Jackson, 1994): B+, (8/10) [Much more emotionally involving, well-acted, imaginative and heartbreaking than any of Jackson's Lord of the Ring films. The denouement is positively devastating.]

Happy belated birthday, Allen Stewart Konigsberg

2005-12-02T17:01:00.000-05:00

Yes, yes -- Woody Allen turned 70 yesterday. He now joins the ranks of such esteemed septuagenarians as, ummm, other brilliant artists who are between the ages of 70 and 80.

"I don't want to gain immortality through my work. I want to gain immortality by not dying."

Stay strong, Woody.

Today is a day that nebbish and neurotic New Yorkers should rejoice! (as should those who are fans of alliteration). In celebration of this fantastic feat of stamina, I will rank of Woody's films that I have had the pleasure (or displeasure) to have seen. They are not ranked within grouping.

The masterpieces:
Annie Hall
Crimes and Misdemeanors
Manhattan

The very, very good Wood:
Husbands and Wives
Hannah and Her Sisters
The Purple Rose of Cairo

His best early, funny ones:
Sleeper
Love and Death

Good Wood:
Sweet and Lowdown
Everyone Says I Love You
Stardust Memories
Zelig
Bananas

The serviceable Woody:
Take the Money and Run
Bullets Over Broadway
Interiors
Mighty Aphrodite
Another Woman
Deconstructing Harry
Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex*
Small Time Crooks

Woody's missteps:
Anything Else
Manhattan Murder Mystery
Melinda and Melinda
September

A public apology.

2005-12-01T10:17:00.000-05:00

I sincerely apologize to you, oh faithful reader, for subjecting you to trite lyrics (and it was not even intentional, unlike those damn emo-bloggers who would rather regurgitate song lyrics than originally express their disdain for humanity through eloquent rants). Apparently, the title which appeared above the preceding entry was taken from, as I suspected, a terrible pop song. This fact was brought to my attention by my extremely-helpful-when-I-don't-want-her-to-be friend, Jacquelyn (thanks Jacq, for riddling me with crippling guilt). This particularly schmaltzy piece of derivative banality, "Follow Through," is sung by Gavin DeGraw. Yes, that young musician who is seen as a demi-god by millions of melodramatic teenagers and bored housewives. They most likely believe his 'chariot' can fly ala Apollo. Frankly, I hope his trajectory will eventually lead to the scalding sun. As most fans adorably sigh, "Gavin Derawwww" -- I appropriately shudder "Gavin Degrewwww." Yes, that is how damn sharp and clever I am. To my credit (if it is even feasible to establish any credit at this point), I actually paraphrased his lyrics. Now please, brace yourself as I forever taint my blog with the words of Mr. DeGr[e]www:

"Oh, this is the start of something good
Don't you agree?"

First off: No, Gav, I disagree. Secondly, there is a brilliant irony in these lyrics and my use of them. Gavin's prose possesses an almost haughty certainty ("This IS the start of something good" -- bettah recognize), while my rendition used the dubious "could," as if there was a possibility for failure. Clearly, however, Gavin is the one who has never started anything good, while I inexplicably emerge victorious.

What confounds me the most is -- how did I hear this song? Is it that ubiquitous? If so -- I have officially become a full-blown misanthrope. Seriously, I never deliberately listened to Gavin DeGraw; perhaps it was being played in a friend's car (such as Jacquelyn's) or in a supermarket, or in an elevator.

Since I enjoy using the media as an ever-available scapegoat, I am going to blame subliminal messages in the media. Vote for Bush. Drink Fanta. Hear Gavin DeGraw lyrics.

This could be the start of something good.

2005-11-29T14:47:00.000-05:00

The start of originality, however, is questionable. I have no idea where I heard the titular phrase which is bolded above, but it seemed particularly apt. Sure, it sounds terribly trite (perhaps it is just some horrible pop lyrics) , but it's appropriate nonetheless. No, I am not always this derivative, but when I speak about beginning a 'blog,' I doubt you can expect me to be accepted as original. I could argue, however, that anyone who truly thinks they are "original" just is not knowldgeable enough to know that he is not. Why did we have to be born so late in civilization? All the completely inventive ideas have been discovered. Regardless -- Yes, I have finally joined to this vortex of techonological hell which I have observed, but not particpited in, for quite some time. I ultimately conformed because I felt as if I had no organized, aethetically pleasing database to preserve my film reviews and fleeting thoughts. Yeah, this blog is essential -- as if I do not have enough distractions in my life.

In case you are not familiar with my temperament, you will soon discover that I like to do three things the most: complain, talk about film, and complain about film. I rant and rave, yet do much more of the former than the latter. To begin on the proverbial "right foot" (the left one is so neglected), I have decided to praise two of my favorite films of 2005 so far. Yes, stubbornly critical Nick will disappear momentarily, as will the Nick who types in third person (although he will hopefully abscond forever). Bleeech, sorry.

Upon giddy reflection of the recent 2005 Independent Spirit nominations (announced this morning, I believe -- Link here: 'Squid' leads indie-film contenders), I have decided to write an in-depth recommendation on two films which received a few nominations. Hopefully, I will be able to persuade the indecisive, yet open-minded viewer to seek out these films.

While I do not wish to condemn all of 2005's cinematic offerings, I cannot help but note the lack of superlative filmmaking. Such "prestige" pictures as Good Night, and Good Luck, Capote, Jarhead and A History of Violence have all been slightly unsatisfying, despite their share of technical merits. Most recently, the only film that has been able to satiate my cineaste's palate is The Squid and the Whale. Not only is it a resonant portrayal of divorce, it also proves that a film does not need to be an epic length to be fulfilling. In the age of bloated blockbusters, this is a breath of fresh, intelligent air. The Squid and the Whale manages to be an emotional and intellectual powerhouse in its brief 81 minutes.

The Squid and the Whale, Noah Baumbach's autobiographical film, is a nuanced and acute depiction of family turmoil amid divorce, and the affect a couple's separation has on their two sons. Each character is distinctly drawn out and well-represented by the fantastic cast, which includes Jeff Daniels, Laura Linney, Jessie Eisenberg and Owen Kline. It is an honestly bittersweet gem; many moments which are devastating on the surface are pregnant with comedic flair. This underlying, subtle humor is never detrimental to the dramatic effect -- in fact, it only makes the film a more bitingly sharp and realistic production. In drama there is comedy, and in comedy there is drama. Although the film takes many risks, the only unconvincing part is when the snobby, intellectual patriarch (a brilliantly selfish Jeff Daniels) watches Three's Company. Even though the film directly focuses on the divorce's effect on each member of the family, it also exposes universal truths in the most ordinary situations with precision, wit and grace. This compliment can also be extended to another commendable treasure, which shares a similarly cumbersome title and pithy running time: Me and You and Everyone We Know,which is now available on DVD.

Fortunately, I attended a screening this past April with Miranda July, the director of Me and You and Everyone We Know. Ms. July was just as insecurely charming as her observant feature film. This piquant American indie explores the difficulty many individuals face when attempting to communicate with others in our strange, technologically advanced society. The genuine characters, which range from eccentric adults to precocious children, are injected with heart and quirk, making them uncannily identifiable. Even in the most vulgar moments, July is able to find sincerity. Her unique view of humanity is something to cherish.

Both The Squid and the Whale and Me and You and Everyone We Know share the subject matter of complex individuals struggling to connect with others. Although The Squid and the Whale is set in 1986 and Me and You and Everyone We Know relishes in its new-millennium modernity, the relevant themes transcend time periods. The Squid and the Whale and Me and You and Everyone We Know are refreshing character studies which exude independent spirit in the face of major studio productions. Both films contain some caustic moments, but there is a tender poignancy throughout. These films have what most current, insipid films lack: personality. They are handled with care, yet they never feel too precious. For these reasons, The Squid and the Whale and Me and You and Everyone We Know reinstate my faith in contemporary cinema.