The Future of Criticism

Here is a really insightful article on the future of film criticism by one of our most thoughtful film critics A.O. Scott.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/04/movies/04scott.html?th&emc=th

The Alphabet

An early short film by David Lynch from 1968.

Paris, je t'aime

For those not fluent in French, Paris je t'aime translates as Paris, I Love You. Love in Paris is a seemingly inexhaustible theme and here it is the thread tying eighteen short films together (with an emphasis on short: each film runs only about five minutes). One may suspect that, given all this fecundity the film would be uneven, but there are only a couple of shorts that feel unnecessary: the majority are remarkably engaging.

The contributors are a mixed bag of unknowns, screenwriters turned directors, and established names such as the Coen brothers, Gus Van Sant, Alfonso Cuaron, Wes Craven, & Alexander Payne. There are some familiar faces: Steve Buscemi, Natalie Portman, Gena Rowlands, Elijah Wood, & Nick Nolte all appear, but this isn't a film concerned with names or persona's. Sometimes it turns them on their head. For example, Wes Craven does not direct the short featuring a vampire (that's Vincenzo Natali) but rather a short about two lovers at the grave of Oscar Wilde.

Paris je t'aime represents an impressive cross-section of Paris: tourists, grandfathers, immigrants, mothers, actresses, nannies, and blind students are all treated with dignity and drawn with surprising complexity. The tone and mood of each short seems to vary: some are wistful, some are comic, and others deeply poignant.

Fellini Satyricon

Last night I headed down to the Kentucky Theater to catch a showing of Fellini Satyricon as part of the annual Rosa Goddard Foreign Film Festival. In the five years since I had first seen the film I had only a few strong memories, most of which involved extreme decadence. This second viewing certainly confirms that those memories were accurate but my impressions this time around center on the remarkable atmosphere Fellini created. All of the visuals are spectacular, to put it mildly, but it almost seems that he found a way to embody the spirit of debauched paganism to such an extent that even as a self-conscious viewer you begin to wonder if you are glimpsing a real snapshot of life in the early Roman empire.

From what I’ve read, this is what Fellini intended, even going so far as to describe the film as a “science fiction film projected into the past”. If ever a filmmaker was perfectly suited to explore the primitive spirit of antiquity, with all of its pageantry, sensuality, and brutality, it is most certainly Fellini. Like the ancient text it is loosely based on the film is fragmented, and like much of Fellini’s work it has no real plot but is rather a series of fantastical episodes whose strands are gracefully tied to one another.

I suppose you could debate whether the film is a warning against hedonism or a celebration of it, but seeing as how Fellini’s work for the past decade had abounded in sensuality, and of the emptiness that is found when it is sought as an end in itself, that seems unnecessary. Granted, the film is a bit messy, and may be, as Ebert affectionately referred to it “a reckless gesture”. Yet, coming from a man so fascinated with stylish excess, could we expect anything less?

Vicky Cristina Barcelona

Manhattan, with its dramatic black and white images of iconic New York landmarks complete with a Gershwin score, was Woody Allen's love letter to the Big Apple. In press reports he's said that he wanted to do the same thing for Barcelona, and if the golden-tinged cinematography, Gaudi architecture, and Spanish guitar don't resonate quite as deeply, it's probably because the city is an icon that is a little less familiar to America. But that doesn't mean it's not a success.

Initially, I had my doubts about where the film was headed. The voice-over narration, placed sporadically throughout, struck me as unnecessary, and some of the dialogue sounded a bit unnatural: it was articulate but not really conversational. Eventually though, the film seemed to find its rhythm, and turned into an intriguing yet breezy reflection on love and desire.

As always, Woody and casting director Juliet Taylor assemble a strong ensemble. Rebecca Hall (as Vicky) and Scarlett Johansson (as Cristina) compliment each other nicely and are a near perfect contrast in temperament. Cristina is attractive, impulsive, and a romantic, whereas Vicky is elegant but pragmatic. Yet Vicky's development is one of the chief strengths of the film.

There is also the Spanish half of the equation. Javier Bardem, fresh off his dark turn in No Country For Old Men, effortlessly portrays Juan Antonio, an artist and a natural charmer. His ex-wife, Maria Elena (Penelope Cruz), is a passionate though unstable artist seemingly adept at every artistic discipline. Her fiery presence in the film's second half is sure to generate a lot of Oscar buzz.

Somehow, these two American tourists get tangled up emotionally and physically with this Spanish couple, and though their escapades reveal Woody's deeply pragmatic (some would say pessimistic) views on desire, it stops well short of being any sort of morality play. While it carries some of the familiar Allen trademarks (affluent lovers, highbrow interests, urbane locales) it is fresh and lively, having a decidedly European tone, even for Woody. Roger Ebert has, I rightly believe, compared it to some of the works of French director Eric Rohmer.

Ebert also wonders if maybe we've taken Woody Allen for granted. Perhaps we have. This film is just another in a long line of remarkably consistent efforts. It may be under appreciated even by Allen fans who feel this film suffers by comparison to Annie Hall or Crimes & Misdemeanors. But I wonder that if years from now we'll look back and say, maybe with some surprise, "Hey, remember Vicky Cristina Barcelona? You know, that was a really beautiful movie!"

The Dark Knight

There's a scene in The Dark Knight where Alfred tells Bruce Wayne a story about a bandit he was trying to catch in Burma many years ago. The bandit stole rubies from a caravan in the forest and then threw them away. He stole, according to Alfred "because it was good sport. Because some men aren't looking for anything logical, like money. They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with. Some men just want to watch the world burn." Bruce then asks how they managed to capture him. Alfred's response: "we burned the forest down."

If there is a superhero that embodies the conflict of our age it is most assuredly Batman, and The Dark Knight is a near perfect cinematic expression of the turmoil in which we find ourselves. Although the problem of dealing with dangerous men is very old, the opportunities they have to wreak destruction have multiplied in recent years. And this latest Batman excursion is an examination of conscience posing as a Hollywood blockbuster.

An enormous amount of credit must go to director Christopher Nolan, whose foray into Gotham has redefined what comic book movies can be. The opening sequence, a taut and deadly bank robbery, calls to mind Stanley Kubrick, and with the rest of the film Nolan poises himself to join the ranks of such elite company. An array of striking shots stick with you: a mountain of cash doused with gasoline and set on fire, the eerie clown masks at the film's beginning, lingering close-ups of faces, and oh yes, the Joker.

Much has been made of Heath Ledger's performance, and, in my opinion, every accolade is justified. The darting tongue, the unnerving laugh and jerky voice, and the anarchic and unexpected bravado leering at you behind a coat of face paint make this Joker one of the most memorable of all movie characters. After seeing his remarkably understated turn in Brokeback Mountain and now this, possibly his greatest role, his death really seems tragic. America has lost one of its best young actors at the height of his powers.

But above all is the specter of Batman lingering in the shadows, contemplating how to fight the chaos of Joker (and later on Two-Face). Gotham is in many ways post 9/11 America and that message is conveyed without being too preachy. The invasion of privacy and the problem of fighting evil with questionable methods resonate strongly in 2008. But these are timeless concerns too, and in a way The Dark Knight returns us to the moral conflict long present in the Batman myth but that has been absent from cinematic adaptations. Can bad means lead to a good end? Does the ruthlessness required to eradicate evil destroy the good in one's self? How just is the vigilante?

It's a curious state of mind that finds you leaving The Dark Knight. Few commercial blockbusters walk such a fine moral tightrope. There is no clear answer to the troubling dilemmas presented. What is offered is the faintest glimmer of hope that good may somehow prevail even as it is chased into a great darkness.

Freaks

The love of beauty is a deep seated urge which dates back to the beginning of civilization. The revulsion with which we view the abnormal, the malformed and the mutilated is the result of long conditioning by our forefathers. The majority of freaks, themselves, are endowed with normal thoughts and emotions. Their lot is truly a heart-breaking one. They are forced into the most unnatural of lives. Therefore, they have built up among themselves a code of ethics to protect them from the barbs of normal people. Their rules are rigidly adhered to and the hurt of one is the hurt of all; the joy of one is the joy of all. The story about to be revealed is a story based on the effect of this code upon their lives (prologue to Freaks).

While waiting for a midnight showing of Eraserhead to begin, an acquaintance of mine told me he had seen Lynch’s avant-garde debut in the late 70’s on a double-bill with another cult-classic: Freaks. Most of the audience were hippie types and were talking and laughing as Freaks began, not knowing what was in store. However, once some of the freaks are first seen, playfully romping in an idyllic clearing, everyone fell silent. For the rest of the movie, he said, you could hear a pin drop.

That Freaks was actually released by a major Hollywood studio in 1932 is astonishing. The reaction to the film was intense and so negative that it was banned in the United Kingdom for thirty years and ruined the career of its’ director Tod Browning.

Hans, a sideshow midget, is seduced by the beautiful trapeze artist Cleopatra once she learns he has come into a large inheritance. Though she marries Hans, she continues her affair with another circus performer, Hercules the Strongman, and the two of them attempt to poison Hans in order to have his fortune. When the "freaks" learn about this they set out to exact a brutal revenge that leaves her the greatest freak of all.

The film used real-life "freaks" which were mostly performers from sideshows and circuses that showcase an array of abnormality and deformity. Pinheads, armless women, legless men, Siamese twins, the human torso, a hermaphrodite, a bearded lady, and midgets are among the societal outcasts that populate the film. They are mostly shown in mundane activities, thus reinforcing their interior "normality" and "humanity".

A common interpretation treats the film as a moral parable: the physically deformed are imbued with real humanity while the beautiful ones are revealed to be the true "freaks". The critique of appearances is a theme that can be found in works ranging from King Lear and Beauty & the Beast to King Kong, but a closer look at this film reveals greater complexity than is sometimes supposed.

Though Hans is seduced by Cleopatra, he has been attracted to her all along, and in order to have her he must reject the love of his diminutive (and genuinely good) fiance Frieda. Also, although nearly all of the "freaks" are portrayed in a sympathetic light, some of them exhibit a capacity for violence and brutality that is frightening. It is in the outcasts that the full range of humanity is most honestly depicted, where compassion and depravity struggle to coexist.

The film is not perfect. Most of the "normal" characters come off as caricatures and the ones that don't seem superfluous. Also, the ending (perhaps tacked on to make the film more palatable) is unsatisfying. Still, most of the film's brief sixty-four minutes are unforgettable. The documentary style approach to its subject matter, and the thinly veiled sexual undercurrent present in the film are worthy of further study and were years ahead of their time. Whether taken as a satire of the studio system or a commentary on society's treatment of its outcasts, Browning's film remains remarkably fresh and vital, one of the most unique viewing experiences one is likely to have.

There Will Be Blood

Richard Schickel, the venerable film critic for Time, has written a review that seems to typify the nearly unanimous critical praise heaped upon There Will Be Blood. Schickel subtitles his review “An American Tragedy”, and though few, if any, have taken up this particular interpretive angle, the unrestrained awe that underlies the criticism is shared by many. Although it is not uncommon to see gushing praise from prominent critics in response to such an artfully crafted film, the profusion of superlatives that surround P.T. Anderson’s latest work seem, at least in some instances, to be exercises in extreme hyperbole. For example, David Denby wrote in the New Yorker that it was “as astounding in its emotional force and as haunting and mysterious as anything seen in American movies in recent years”, and Richard Schickel called it “one of the most wholly original American movies ever made.” Then there is Manohla Dargis, who concluded her review for the New York Times by saying “But the film is above all a consummate work of art, one that transcends the historically fraught context of its making, and its pleasures are unapologetically aesthetic. It reveals, excites, disturbs, provokes, but the window it opens is to human consciousness itself.” (emphasis mine)

Clearly, there is a subjective element to every piece of criticism, this one included. Yet I can't help but feel that the ravishing praise is as much a response to form as it is to content. So rare is the occurrence of film as art that when one aspires to the craftsmanship of a Stanley Kubrick or an Orson Welles there is a tendency to respond enthusiastically to the ambition itself, and when one achieves the level of masterful style that PT Anderson has in this picture, you can somehow understand the excitement it creates. However, to merely respond to form or style is to look only at the surface. What about what lies beneath? What I witnessed in There Will Be Blood was a remarkable refinement and progression of form, but a critical and nearly egregious regression of the human element that has, at least up to this point, characterized Anderson's entire oeuvre. Some may say this latter characterization, which I take to be a flaw, is precisely the point. Where is the humanity? Not here. Well, OK.

Yet what I find problematic is not Daniel Plainview’s extreme (and unexplained) misanthropy. It is the lack of depth or marginalization of every other character in the film. Daniel Day-Lewis' performance is Oscar-worthy and on par with some of the greatest in the history of cinema, but his channeling of Daniel Plainview gives us such an all-consuming character that nearly everyone else is pushed to the background. Paul Dano, as Eli Sunday, does a fine job trying to match the blistering intensity of Daniel Day-Lewis, but he is relegated to a secondary role, functioning mostly as an antagonist to the savage and brooding specter of Plainview. What we are given is, in effect, a character study: a nearly immaculate portrait (stylistically speaking) of a man so obsessed, so competitive, so full of mistrust, that he is in the process of losing his soul. He cannot relate to others and is therefore a prisoner in his own self-imposed isolation. The film is merciless in its' portrayal of relational disintegration, revealing an eroding sense of compassion that ultimately results in the complete absence of love, which, theologically speaking, means that at this point the picture becomes the very image of hell.

I use the phrase "theologically speaking" because the film supposedly contains a religious dimension, yet looking for anything of substance in the film's treatment of it is a nearly fruitless endeavor. In reality the film never delves deeply into matters of faith. Several times phrases such as "washed in the blood" or "the blood of the lamb" are used, yet any spiritual significance or metaphorical richness such explicitly Christian language may possibly point towards is never explored. Like the film's few scenes that contain real human concern and compassion, they are tantalizingly inserted here and there, leading you to think there will be a revelation of some gravitas, but there is not. They quietly disappear, with little evidence that they ever existed.

Why this is such a critical failure is that the film is commonly interpreted as a look at the intersection of business and faith, and the conflict they seem to engender when they become bedfellows. Part of the trouble lies in the fact that Eli Sunday is the film's embodiment of religion, but he is only a straw man, a caricature of fundamentalist Christianity, and a poor one at that. While he radiates a charisma and ambition similar to that of Plainview, his inner person, his beliefs, and whatever gospel he preaches, remain a mystery. Only at the end, when Plainview repays one brutal, extracted confession with another, does the film allow us a real glimpse at Eli. In some cases his distance and mysteriousness wouldn't be such an issue but P.T. Anderson's films have always been character-driven and emotionally raw and bare, and this film seems, at least formally, to continue that trend. Exactly how such an impoverished character can reveal anything about a life of faith or even the duplicity and hypocrisy that are its pitfalls is unclear.

This is a film that on nearly every level, whether it's the acting, directing, cinematography, editing, or music, screams "masterpiece!" and yet its' ability to develop its ideas and characters never matches its' epic structure. I'm not exactly sure what Manohla Dargis meant in her review by "it's pleasures are unapologetically aesthetic." I'm wondering if she's referring to being overwhelmed by Robert Elswit's gorgeous cinematography, or Johnny Greenwood's masterful score, or the riveting acting and go for the jugular directorial style that the film radiates. Maybe. Maybe not. Yet I'm not convinced the film opens a door to human consciousness. Yes, maybe Plainview embodies the worst qualities endemic to unfettered capitalism. Maybe his isolation is symbolic of a certain type of American arrogance. But the film's focus narrows to such an extent that I'm not sure it has anything substantial or insightful to say about oil, or business, or religion. What it does well is show one man's leap into the abyss: his growing emotional and spiritual deformity reveal him to be an anti-Christ of sorts, and there's more than a little irony in his echo of Christ's last words which bring this film to a close.

I think Richard Schickel is right, that there is something tragic at play here. But for the film to truly be a tragedy it would seem one would need to have some idea of what has been lost, but that's not the case here. There is more bravado than reflection. Please don't misunderstand, despite my criticism, I can't deny the film's excellence on many levels. It goes where many films never dare to go. There Will Be Blood is one of the most deeply unsettling and psychologically intense films I've ever seen. Yet it's the sort of film that is easy to admire but proves harder to love. I entered it with more anticipation than I've had for anything since The New World. This could have been one for the ages. The tragedy is that it turns out to be something less.

The Lives of Others

For over two decades Berlin was a city divided, its populace fractured not by ethnicity or religion but political ideology. It was a microcosm of the Cold War where the boundary between East and West was, quite literally, concrete, but still rather tenuous. In The Lives of Others, the remarkable debut film from writer and director Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, we see only East Berlin, but the existence of the other side is something of which we are always acutely aware.

The film begins in the mid 1980’s, and ends after the fall of the Berlin Wall. We witness the efforts of the East German secret police, or the Stasi, as they attempt to monitor their citizens for any sign of dissent or disloyalty. Initially the primary face of the Stasi is Captain Gerd Wiesler (Ulrich Muhe), an intelligent, efficient, and perceptive man who is well-trained in the art of interrogation and whose suspicions are seemingly always aroused. With the permission of one of his superiors (and former classmate), he begins surveillance of a popular playwright, George Dreyman (Sebastian Koch), who is suspected by Wiesler of harboring Western sympathies. In reality Dreyman is supportive of the regime though he dislikes their harsh treatment of dissidents, such as his friend, a fellow writer, who has been blacklisted. He lives with his girlfriend Christa Maria (the beautiful Martina Gedick) whom is suspected by some of being a double agent, though this is a thought Dreyman himself cannot entertain. When his blacklisted friend commits suicide Dreyman decides to anonymously publish criticism of the regime’s methods in a Western paper, a decision that puts his literary career in jeoprady. Though he acts very cautiously, he never believes himself to be under surveillance, but much of the film takes place with Captain Wiesler listening to the events of Dreyman’s life. His loyalty to the regime comes into conflict with his inherent good nature. He begins to secretly display sympathy for Dreyman, which leads him down a potentially dangerous path.

Florian von Donnersmarck has crafted a film that is not only taut, suspenseful, and thoughtful, but also beautiful in every respect. From the photography to the well-paced narrative, to the moving score by Gabriel Yared, every part of the film contributes towards the excellence of the whole, but even if isolated and viewed separately each component manages to impress with its artfulness and craftsmanship. With The Lives of Others, von Donnersmarck has made, arguably, one of the best films of the past year and revealed himself to be a true talent. He has taken what on the surface could be a very traditional political thriller, and turned it into an engaging look at the divisions that lie in the heart. Many people in the film are wrestling with questions of ethics, but the consequences for doing the right thing are dire.

There is a piece of sheet music and a book that appear in the film that both bear the title Sonata for a Good Man. That could also function as a title for the film, since Wiesler and Dreyman are both good men. Everyone is tempted towards betrayal and disloyalty, but one form of subversion appears to be moral while the other does not. How does one differentiate between them? What is the impetus to do the right thing when that conviction may cost you everything?

Wiesler’s surveillance starts out detached, as state sanctioned voyeurism, but the inherent intimacy of the situation produces a conflicted conscience in the good man. One of the most profound things I think one can take away from this film is that, once you become involved in the lives of others, a funny thing happens. You start to care.

The Darjeeling Limited

The central focus and also the enduring obsession of nearly everything written about Wes Anderson and his films may be summarized in a four word phrase most commonly associated with E.B. White: the elements of style. While White’s slender volume was an impressive distillation of grammatical and compositional lucidity, personal profiles of Wes and critical reviews of his work are usually distillations themselves: accurate, if predictable, summaries of the Wes Anderson aesthetic, highly attentive to slow motion sequences, meticulous set design, French New Wave homage, and repeated use of British Invasion rock, to mention only a few of his most commented on techniques. Perhaps no director, at least no American director since Woody Allen, has been so identified with a particular style (though I would add that Woody’s stylistic versatility is often overlooked: who can honestly say that Stardust Memories or Match Point are cut from the same cloth as Annie Hall?) That style has, for an admittedly nominal audience, become as ubiquitous as the films themselves. For some, the quirky and peculiar seeds that began to blossom with Rushmore, and reached full-flowering in The Royal Tenenbaums, started to wilt once they appeared to be a permanent fixture rather than a temporary, though charming, calling card. So, with the messy, somewhat emotionally stilted, cartoonish, and childishly ornate Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou left to drift in the backwater, what does The Darjeeling Limited offer to Wes Anderson fans: a turn towards a different direction, or more of the same? The answer turns out to be: a bit of both.

Though sometimes described as a tale of three brothers on a spiritual quest in India, the film does not have the meditative quality that India might induce in a more mystically minded director (a la Terrence Malick). Even though the three brothers, Francis, Peter, and Jack, (Owen Wilson, Adrian Brody, and Jason Schwartzman respectively) are surrounded by holy shrines and temples, they quickly begin to bicker, initiating an air of frivolity and suspicion that lasts for most of the film. This is not to its detriment though: indeed, it results in most of the laughs. The humor is sharp and about as dry as an Indian summer, and carries, in typical Wes Anderson fashion, an undercurrent of melancholy and absurdity. In one early scene, Francis, Peter, and Jack sit in the dining car, traveling through an ancient land, seeking (at least in Francis’ eyes) a spiritual experience, but resort to trying each others controlled substances, as if they were filling up at a pharmaceutical buffet. The effect is comic, ironic, and more than a little sad: they begin to appear simultaneously as patently spoiled upper-crust basket cases and lovable fools.

Essentially, the The Darjeeling Limited plays out with a trio of alienated, fractured, but minimally hopeful and likeable western tourists trekking across a tropical landscape seeking some sort of reconciliation, however transitory it may be. The script has more life to it than did The Life Aquatic (an odd flop since Noah Baumbach was Wes’ co-writer) and each of the brothers, especially Francis and Peter, exhibit enough pathos to keep everything on track in the film’s awkward, and yes, predictable moments. Describing those moments in detail is unnecessary: anyone remotely familiar with his past work will spot them immediately. The difference here is that they punctuate, rather than define, the film.

The effect that the location has on the film may be debatable. For me, India is a canvass that very nearly paints itself, and here Anderson is armed with a dizzying array of spectacle, color, and sound with which to make his signature flourishes. There is usually something exotic or exaggerated about a Wes Anderson set, but the crucial difference here is that India is a naturally exotic environment, in contrast to the artificial though lavishly imagined interiors of the Tenenbaum house or Zissou’s ship. It is true that the train on which the brothers ride is impeccably and atypically stylish. Yet even if it is fantastic, it is not much more so than many of the natural locations. The inherent pageantry of India, though possibly romanticized through the western tourist’s eyes, tempers Anderson’s sometimes almost overwhelming stylishness. Perhaps for the first time since Rushmore, his characters appear to populate an actual environment.

Death (or is it life?) as a journey is an obvious though restrained theme throughout, and if this is a comedy it still harbors plenty of wounds. In a scene near the end of the film, Francis removes his bandages as he stares into a bathroom mirror. In that moment any semblance of a joke is also stripped away, and in a sense every kind of artifice is also removed, as the unveiled face of Owen Wilson manages to appear stark and somehow very real. It is a dangerous and beautiful moment, and yet it eschews tragedy and finds a way to live with its wounds. Like much of Hotel Chevalier, the short which precedes the film, this moment makes one ask: what would happen if Wes Anderson made an entire film in this manner? Watching The Darjeeling Limited one is tempted to draw parallels between Wes Anderson and his three protagonists. Both venture into new territory, unable to entirely leave the past behind, but manage, if only momentarily, to let go of some of the baggage.

Update! There Will Be Blood

Although its' release date is two months away, PT Anderson's latest film is generating a lot of critical attention complete with all of its' ensuing hyperbole. Are reactions to the film that reference John Huston, Stanley Kubrick, Citizen Kane and its legendary performance by the venerable Orson Welles justified? Is this film, as one early reviewer described it, really the cinematic eqivalent of heroin? There's no way to know, but my hunch is we're in for a real treat. Oh, and did I mention that Mr. Johnny Greenwood, Radiohead guitarist, ondes martenot master, and BBC Composer in Residence, has written the score? Be still my heart.

Hot Fuzz

Despite my recent post on Bergman’s passing, my attitude towards the current state of film is not completely hopeless, though the decline in philosophically rigorous filmmaking is a bit troubling. And though I make no apologies for appreciating films that are artful and thought provoking, I am not immune to less serious fare as long as it is good. For example, who could not love Wedding Crashers, and the outrageous spectacle of hilarity that was Will Ferrell at the film’s end? Lately such well-crafted films have been absent but a recent viewing of Hot Fuzz engendered an unexpected amount of enthusiasm for the life it injects into the parody genre and served as an introduction to the sizeable talents of director/writer Edgar Wright and writer/actor Simon Pegg.

These are the creators of the fantastically witty zombie spoof Shaun of the Dead, who now turn their eye on the often preposterous though always taut genre of the buddy cop film. The quiet village of Sandford serves as the backdrop where Nicholas Angel (Simon Pegg), an extremely dedicated and professional police officer fresh from London, uncovers a conspiracy of ridiculous proportions, and attempts to persuade the local police force that the grisly accidents that keep occurring are actually murders. He is teamed with the portly officer Frank Butterman (Nick Frost), a naïve but loyal sort who fantasizes about acting out scenes from Bad Boys and other police thrillers.

Hot Fuzz mercilessly lampoons all of the outrageous elements of the buddy-cop genre but with a lot of heart and enthusiasm. This isn’t an ironic exercise guided by detachment and condescension but an all-out, tongue-in-cheek, barrage of satire that has plenty of sincerity lurking about. In fact, the genius behind this film (and for that matter Shaun of the Dead) is that the material could be played as easily for drama as it could for laughs, and sometimes the distinction between the two is razor thin. This uncommon layering of comedy and drama makes the film a double-threat and a double-treat for anyone who misses well-crafted entertainment.

So, if it wasn’t enough that the Brits gave us Monty Python, Are You Being Served?, Terry Gilliam comedic fantasies, and The Office, we find ourselves treated to another gifted comedy-team from across the pond. Edgar Wright, Simon Pegg, and Nick Frost have that uncanny chemistry and talent that knows how to craft a laugh. Heck, they even created a hilarious (though all-too brief) role for Office/Extras star Stephen Merchant as the concerned owner of a missing swan. It’s small touches like that which should remind us that subtlety and nuance are not merely the tools of the art-house, and that when properly applied, they can make a genre parody not only entertaining, but also remarkably satisfying.

A Belated Farewell

What words can one add to the mountain of praise that has been bestowed upon Ingmar Bergman shortly after his death? What is one more stranger’s elegy? Several of these pieces have extolled the uncompromising seriousness and artfulness of the great director’s work but have also mentioned how his status has been diminished as his work has fallen out of favor. This I can only regard with complete bewilderment. How, if one is a true lover of the medium, could one possibly disregard a talent so prodigious and an artist of such exactitude and depth as that of Ingmar Bergman? Dismissing his significance by applying to him the title “the prime purveyor of Nordic gloom” seems almost juvenile. Is Dostoyevsky a less significant novelist because his work is of such a “serious” nature? At the risk of sounding too judgmental is it possible that perhaps Bergman’s falling out of favor with the younger generation is in direct correlation to the ascension of celebrated directors of a different sort: purveyors of glibness, irony, and sensationalism of every stripe? The passing of Bergman and (on the same day) Antonioni doesn’t to my mind mark the passing of a cinematic era, for that happened some time ago when both men’s work ceased to have the mass relevance they once possessed. But if you look around at the meager citizenry that subscribes to cinema as art you can’t help but feel that their passing does (no pun intended) put another couple of nails in the proverbial coffin.

Inland Empire

While perusing the movie listings of the local paper, often disheartened by the innocuous and inconsequential fare that they advertise, it is helpful to remember that there are those directors whose most recent feature films are a genuine event, a significant and all too infrequent glimpse into the tantalizing and profound power and beauty of the medium. David Lynch is most certainly a member of this group even though his work has never attracted the mainstream popularity of, say, Stanley Kubrick or Martin Scorsese. Given the idiosyncratic and experimental nature of his output it would be surprising indeed if Lynch transcended his status as a cult figure, yet even if his audience is smaller, his vision less entrenched in the collective cinematic psyche, it makes the arrival of a new film from him no less momentous than those of more celebrated auteurs. Six years have passed since Mulholland Drive seduced and bewildered us, leaving in its wake near unanimous critical praise and an impressive distillation of all things Lynch. Now we have Inland Empire, a dark, mind-bending collage of movie actors, directors, 19th century Poland, prostitutes galore, and a throwback sitcom of giant rabbits complete with laugh-track. While not a radical departure from previous films (there are some of the usual Lynch trademarks such as red curtains, women in distress, ominous and atmospheric sound, ect.) Inland Empire, with its rather dark and sometimes grainy digital veneer is a new and almost alien creation. Even those well-versed in the visual lexicon of the “Jimmy Stewart from Mars” may well concede that, once viewed, Lynch’s latest work will most surely deserve that often misused phrase “it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

The tagline on the movie poster reads “A woman in trouble.” That deceptively simple sentence actually turns out to be the best synopsis one can provide when attempting to describe the film. Laura Dern, in two or possibly three roles, plays an actress whose latest film turns out to be cursed, and finds her inner mental states beginning to deteriorate until it is difficult if not downright impossible to separate her identity from her onscreen self as well as that of her alternate reality self. I think. There is no linear progression though the film is not plot-less, as some critics seem to think. According to Lynch the creative process involved the filming of seemingly disconnected ideas that revealed a hidden unity after their completion, resulting in (his own words) “a story.” The difficulty of interpretation is that we often rely on narrative methods more suited for a stage play. Lynch came to film through painting, and Inland Empire is perhaps his best realization of the concept of “a moving painting”, a concept which guided him towards film in the first place. So although a story of some sort does exist within its frame perhaps it is useful to understand this film at least in part as an experience and interpretation of a series of reoccurring symbols and metaphors that visually tell a story. It is not wholly visual nor wholly dialogue: the narrative is not dispensable but neither is it primary. For David Lynch atmosphere is everything, and Inland Empire is its own world, a dark and brooding realm where subconscious struggles are visually signified in an almost hallucinatory way.

Ostensibly, the film appears concerned with the female psyche and its continual degradation and abuse at the hands of men who fetishize it for their own satisfaction and oppress it in order to reinforce their own dominance. The inner state in which Laura Dern wanders is dark but not exactly a wasteland. In it the recovery of identity becomes the key that will ultimately unlock the door to liberation. At times Inland Empire plays out like a surrealist exploitation flick with a gun wielding Laura Dern attempting to set things right, while at other times turning into a sophisticated horror film, where an almost palpable sense of psychological dread and grotesqueness permeates every square inch of available screen space. The nimble balancing act of the oddly beautiful with the darkness of the mind’s harsh lairs, the slow stirring of anticipation, the inimitable critique of Hollywood fantasy are all noteworthy achievements, but most impressive is Lynch’s ability to weave these dream-like deconstructive bits into an enigmatic but alluring whole. This is ambitious work but it will probably meet with a mixed reception due to its darker, more experimental elements. Where Mulholland Drive possessed a certain flair that one critic described as being akin to “the pop of a whore’s lip gloss”, Inland Empire is a darker, grittier affair where in extreme close ups faces are almost stretched in the manner of a fun-house mirror and the surrealism never ceases. Perhaps it is destined for a fate similar to that of Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon, another lengthy, technically significant excursion whose other merits are not immediately evident. Walking out of the theater my mind was reeling: time had been in some sense altered and my senses had not been assaulted but probed. This was a new experience: the light of cinema cast on a mysterious and inner land where the rays cannot penetrate but only dimly and beautifully reflect the strange manifestations that inhabit this realm.

Pan's Labyrinth

What a joy it is to find a film that captures the true nature of a fairy tale. All too often films with a fantastical dimension resort to cuteness and sentimentality in order to become more palatable to children or extreme darkness and gore to court the older viewer. Yet director Guillermo del Toro manages to strike that delicate balance of innocence and evil and by doing so acknowledges a duality that exists in all good fairy tales: beauty and cruelty. Pan’s Labyrinth has both of these qualities; it is hauntingly beautiful and yet savagely cruel. The story centers on Ofelia, a young girl who accompanies her pregnant mother to the country to stay with her new stepfather, Captain Vidal, a fascist who is fighting the rebels in post-civil war Spain. The Captain is the father of the unborn child but upon their arrival Ofelia finds she dislikes him and later insists “he is not my father.”

Immediately after arriving in a countryside brutally ravaged by the last throws of the civil war, Ofelia, a lover of books and fairy tales, begins to find signs of enchantment in the form of a flying insect that she recognizes as a fairy. Sure enough, the creature is able to morph its winged, slender, stick-like shape into a flying sprite that eventually leads her through a stone maze, or labyrinth, and into the underworld where she meets a faun (presumably a version of Pan though del Toro says that Pan and the faun are not one and the same) who informs her that she is the princess of this realm. Long ago she left it for the world of light and forgot her father and his kingdom, but her spirit has returned in the form of Ofelia. She is given three tasks to perform to prove herself as the princess, and meets a pair of fantastical monsters along the way. The first is a giant toad that lives underground beneath a tree, and the second is the Pale man, a towering, white, nearly androgynous creature whose eyes are in his hands rather than on his face. It must be said that the special effects and visual style of the film are astonishing, not because they create something we have never conceived, but because the fantastic creations onscreen are so organic. Every thing in Pan’s Labyrinth is so visceral and tangible that it seems to have sprouted from the earth.

This film may be compared to The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Spirited Away, and Alice in Wonderland. It may have many striking similarities with C.S. Lewis’ creation, and the young female protagonist alone in a strange and enchanted world is a trait common to them all. Another is originality. Though Pan’s Labyrinth is said to have borrowed from classical mythology, fairy tales, the classic Spanish film Spirit of the Beehive, and Borges, it takes its inspiration from these rich sources and creates its own distinctive world and populates it with creatures of a most relatable sort. Some are noble and virtuous, others despicable and horrific, but none are mere archetypes and this is its brilliance. It may be impossible to sympathize with Captain Vidal, but his unwavering discipline and commitment to his military cause reveals a man of intense though ultimately inhuman devotion. A quick study of history or even perusing One Hundred Years of Solitude will give you similar characters. Undoubtedly, del Toro’s film is ripe with political symbolism though my ignorance of this era and its conflict leaves me with only the basest of interpretations. Still, some of them are very hard not to see or at least dimly perceive, and it is the issue of perception that reverberates most loudly throughout Pan’s Labyrinth. Which is the real world and which the imaginative? Or are they one and the same? Which is more real, the Pale man or Captain Vidal? Which is more terrifying? The wonderful ambiguity that results from attempting to distinguish reality from fantasy is wonderfully articulated by New York Times critic A.O. Scott when he says “Pan’s Labyrinth is a political fable in the guise of a fairy tale. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Does the moral structure of the children’s story – with its clearly marked poles of good and evil, its narrative of dispossession and vindication – illuminate the nature of authoritarian rule? Or does the movie reveal fascism as a terrible fairy tale brought to life?” Perhaps the film leaves us somewhere in-between: remembering a beautiful, enchanting dream, but seeming to exist, in the words of A.O. Scott, “in the hard blue twilight of a world beyond the reach of fantasy.”

Before Sunrise, Before Sunset

What is love? Do we see it when it is right before our eyes? What is happiness? What about meaning and purpose for our lives? Can they be found? An assortment of these and other questions are what constitute the heart of Richard Linklater’s pair of films Before Sunrise and Before Sunset. The pseudo-intellectual and philosophical ruminations of early adulthood are given a graceful screen treatment that manages to capture these innate longings and speculations with patience and affection. The principal characters are Jesse (Ethan Hawke), an American student on vacation, and Celine (Julie Delpy), a French student on her way back to La Sorbonne. Their chance encounter is introduced in Before Sunrise when they meet on a train and spend a day and night walking through Vienna. Before Sunset is another look at them ten years later in Paris. Each film is essentially an extended conversation conducted against an iconic European backdrop that revels not only in the uncanny connection forged by two lovers but also in the art of conversing itself. It is as if each film is an ode to thoughtful yet pedestrian dialogue.

An American film with European preoccupations is rare (perhaps now we may even say that a European film with European preoccupations is rare!) but the wonderfully meandering and open-ended nature of each of these films recalls the aesthetic of such classic art-house fare as L’Avventura or La Dolce Vita. As there is practically no plot to speak of it may be said that nothing happens, and this is true so far as it is extended towards the traditional plot that introduces conflict and ends in resolution. No one is murdered, or betrayed, there is no bank heist or courtroom soliloquy. The significant action is internal: the common ground staked out by two young people, in love with the world and each other, who are all too aware of the tenuous nature of their desire.

Each film’s visual beauty is enhanced not only by the sumptuous locales, but also by the careful framing of faces and the lengthy tracking shots that heighten the experience of shared time. Richard Linklater and Kim Krizan wrote the first screenplay: they were aided in their efforts for the sequel by Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy, making the story’s second half a decidedly collaborative affair. Particularly memorable are the contributions by Julie Delpy, whose beautiful performance of an original song is followed by an endearing impression of Nina Simone that helps bring Before Sunset to a graceful close.

Volver

The most common meanings of the Spanish word “volver” are “to turn” and “to revert” and Pedro Almodovar’s film of the same name does plenty of both. Though it twists through the surface of propriety, turning up sordid family histories and broken relationships, there is at the heart of this tale a genuinely realized hope for reconciliation. The blessings and misfortunes of Raimunda (Penelope Cruz) and those near her constitute the film’s emotional and moral center. Despite living in near poverty and working menial jobs Raimunda still harbors a dream that if fully realized could liberate both her and her family. My ignorance of Spain makes it difficult to decide whether or not a woman such as Penelope Cruz, imbued with fiery wit and exotic beauty, would realistically occupy the lower rungs of Spanish society, but her performance is nothing if not vintage art house gold. The dearth of films that allow for performances where subtle looks and gestures carry great emotional weight or where a character’s personality requires a nimble gait to effectively capture pathos and humor is such that Cruz’s nuanced and justly praised performance arouses in the cinephile a passionate desire to proclaim that she has joined the ranks of Giulietta Masina and Catherine Deneuve. The wonderful thing is that this may not be hyperbole. Yet the glory is not solely Cruz’s, though her name and face help sell the film. This is an ensemble cast of considerable talent, and every woman that enters Almodovar’s prism is fleshed out and reflected as a mysterious and complex creature with a continually growing awareness of her own self.

Volver is tender, capricious, and funny, yet it contains dark undercurrents of violence, jealousy, infidelity, and deception. Perhaps more than any film I can remember, excluding some of the works of Ingmar Bergman, it is thoroughly a woman’s film. The few male characters that manage screen time are largely ephemeral: we do not know them except in the most superficial of ways. Yet this did not strike me as a tract of feminist rage or an exercise in male condemnation but rather a sustained view of the difficulties and joys that exist in female relationships of all stripes. All appear confronted with a past that threatens to devour both body and soul, and all seek a future where they may be free of such terrors. The way to reach it seems to be through true connection with family and friends, through compassion, and interestingly, through confession. Despite his deep concerns and themes, Almodovar appears to revel in the fun and titillation of the intentionally provocative nature of the trashy tabloid culture. This is evident in his consistent thematic preoccupation with social taboos with an eye always cast towards the erotic. So we are treated to the shock of the revealed secret, mortality depicted as both bittersweet and comically macabre, and human dignity thrust cruelly against the lurid backdrop of the daytime television talk show.

Curiously enough, it is usually in the midst of these scandalous moments that the truth is revealed. It is only in these moments that the wounds are treated, the scars accepted, and the ghostly apparitions find embodiment. Despite the fact that many of the plot elements in Almodovar’s films could be lifted straight from bad soap operas, there is something truly remarkable in his ability to find compassion for his characters and arouse that compassion in the viewer. For some reason his filmmaking style reminds me of Fellini. Perhaps it is a carnival spirit, the careful employment of bright and vivid color, or maybe a sensibility native to the Mediterranean, but the similarity, though slight, still seems to exist. Maybe it is reinforced by the graceful closure each is capable of bringing to their work, most notably an acute sense of melancholy lurking beneath a veneer of frivolity. At some point in Volver you become aware that the figures at the center of this spectacle are human, and that all are suffering, all are in a state of purgatory, each seeking liberation, atonement, and possibly (though one can’t be too sure) a measure of grace.

P.T. Anderson Article of Interest

While we pine for There Will Be Blood check out this article on PT Anderson over at Senses of Cinema. Its examines (among other things) his use of lens flares and the suggestive color schemes in Punch Drunk Love.

http://www.sensesofcinema.com/contents/05/35/pt_anderson.html

Stranger Than Fiction

Talladega Nights may boast more box office receipts and a half-nude lap around the speedway, but it is Stranger Than Fiction, that other Will Ferrell film of 2006, that truly beguiles us with its charm. Resting upon a fantastical premise yet endowed with enough humor and pathos to ground it in reality it is one of those odd, quirky, slightly left-field slices of cinema that still manages to court a modest audience. It tells the story of Harold Crick (Will Ferrell), an I.R.S. employee whose solitary existence is suddenly interrupted by a woman’s voice who begins to narrate the events of his life as they unfold, and who mentions rather off-handedly the news of his impending death. After some reflection Harold decides that this voice, possessing a crisp, British accent, and a better vocabulary than his own, must belong to a writer, and so enlists the help of an English professor, Dr. Jules Hilbert (Dustin Hoffman), to act as a literary detective in his pursuit of the writer’s identity. With this proverbial cloud hanging over his head, Harold manages to fall for Ana (Maggie Gyllenhaal), the owner of a bakery he is auditing, and soon his feelings about life become more complicated, and then so do ours about Harold. Meanwhile, the writer, Kay Eiffel (Emma Thompson), is unaware that the protagonist of her new novel is all too real and that her artistic decisions have actual consequences for a live human being. Her publisher has sent her an assistant, Penny Escher (Queen Latifah), to help oversee the book’s completion, but Kay’s inability to find a suitable death for Harold Crick, one with profound ironic and metaphoric properties, leaves her unable to finish it and plunges her into an artistic and psychological crisis, thus granting the real Harold his deepest wish: more time.

Given its literary preoccupations, this is at its heart a narrative-driven picture, and yet, there is something strangely arresting about its visuals. They compliment nicely the film’s sometimes whimsical, sometimes melancholy turns of plot. The genuine human longings reflected upon never feel exaggerated and are actually tempered somewhat by Marc Forster’s direction, which is lean and spare. Its’ spartan quality is amplified by many of the film’s locations. The careful employment of ultra-modern architecture, with its landscape of clean, polished surfaces, seems to mirror the barren inner life of its central protagonists: author and subject. It is largely in Ana’s bakery and home that we find external structure and interior décor imbued with real human warmth. There may be an air of predictability looming at certain times, but it never over-shadows the film’s surprisingly endearing cast of characters. True, there is a certain deliberate irony in the fact that the film saddles itself with the same dilemma as faces the novelist: the fate of Harold Crick. Everything unfolds so that some kind of resolution must take place, but deep down, it is not overly concerned with creating a heightened sense of anticipation for the inevitable climax, but in seeing ordinary moments of happiness and melancholy as small epiphanies.

Whether you detect in the film’s treatment of tragedy and comedy a faint whiff of sentimentality or honest, emotional catharsis, this much seems beyond dispute: it has an intellectual temerity and playfulness that are rare qualities of such accessible fare. Highly suggestive, it raises all sorts of interesting questions, leading the viewer to almost unconsciously create a range of dichotomies along the lines of art and life, tragedy and comedy, solitude and communion; the list could go on. It also wrestles good-naturedly with an issue of considerable heft, artistic excellence, and then quickly and wittily beckons us to see the inherent peculiarity of our own lives. In fact, its’ very title functions as a wake up call leading us towards that awareness. You may amble into the theater expecting a Will Ferrell comedy vehicle, but what you are treated to is an uncommon animal: aesthetics striving with the question of human life well-lived. Stranger Than Fiction is that desirable yet elusive figure in short supply at the multiplex these days: the pleasant surprise.

The Fountain

If anyone is lured towards The Fountain expecting a traditional blending of genres, a sci-fi romance hybrid for the CGI age, then the studio’s marketing team should sleep soundly at night knowing they have done their work well. For although science and romance have their respectful roles on the film’s periphery the main object of concern in this, director Darren Aronofsky’s third feature length film, is that most inevitable and mysterious of human limitations, physical death, and the persistent hope of immortality that accompanies it regardless of race, culture, or religious creed. Some higher power must have decided that ruminations on human mortality would be a tough sell especially when they dabble in the fantastic and emerge, as The Fountain does, as an impressive visual spectacle. The film’s substantive visual flair and indelible imagery will haunt you long after the credits roll, but here Aronofsky eschews the brisk, though extremely effective editing techniques of Requiem for a Dream, employing a more singular and philosophical tone that lifts this film into a whole other cinematic realm: it is closer in spirit to the work of Terrence Malick, Andrei Tarkovsky, or Krzysztof Kieslowski than anything a member of his directorial generation has so far produced.

At times astounding, occasionally frustrating, the film unfolds with a grace and mystery analogous to the organic forms that serve as its primary metaphors, branching out into different time periods and religious traditions in a wholly universal reflection on the quest for eternal life. To detail the plot is a delicate undertaking; the danger is not in revealing too much but rather misrepresenting the film as ambitious but hopelessly convoluted. However, a rudimentary distillation may be attempted. Tom (Hugh Jackman) is a modern day American neurosurgeon attempting to find a cure for his wife Izzi’s (Rachel Weisz) brain tumor. Izzi, though terminally ill, is writing a book called The Fountain which concerns a conquistador (Jackman again) who at the request of Queen Isabel (Weisz) has left Inquisition ravaged Spain to search the Mayan empire for a mythic tree of life, seeking immortality for himself and his queen, and salvation for his country. The book then transitions to the 26^th century where an astronaut (Jackman yet again) possessing the freshly shaved head and unadorned wardrobe of a Zen Buddhist novice ascends space in an enormous bubble, accompanied only by a tree of primordial dimensions. His destination, a nebula wrapped around a dying star believed by the Mayans to house the souls of the dead, appears to offer the hope of immortality and results in some of the film’s most unforgettable visuals.

Hugh Jackman ably infuses intensity and metaphysical resolve into each of his three roles while Rachel Weisz, as both Spanish monarch and Izzi, captures a real sense of vulnerability in addition to radiating a truly ethereal beauty. Unfortunately, Ellen Burstyn, so stunning in Requiem for a Dream, here inhabits a much more marginal figure as Tommy’s supervisor. Hers is a character of seriousness and genuine empathy yet her limited role does not allow for the full expression of her considerable talent. The film’s fluctuation in time and locales, from Central American jungles to transparent spacecraft, is in contrast to the singleness of theme that permeates this thousand year span. None of this is too revealing however, because The Fountain doesn’t offer us conflict in one age that is resolved in another. Though all three time periods appear to be inextricably linked there is an elliptical and decidedly non-linear structure to the film. Indeed, one of the film’s central visual metaphors, the ring, reinforces not only cyclical rhythms of life, death, and rebirth, but is also useful when applied to an understanding of the film’s narrative flow. In each age there are the same problems, the same temptations, and the same truth: a constantly reoccurring epiphany for those with the eyes to see.

Perhaps one of the most notable features of The Fountain is its utterly earnest and sincere treatment of all things spiritual. “What do you think about….death as an act of creation?” Izzi asks while reflecting on the Mayan creation myth, a loaded question that could easily stem from a Christian or Buddhist epistemology. There is an element of Buddhist thought underlying much of the film though its introduction seems somewhat arbitrary, at least in the film’s historical context. Still, it manages to coexist with Mayan religious ritual and Catholicism in such a way that their commonality is subtly, though distinctly highlighted. Such ecumenical treatment is remarkable in its best moments for cultivating a rare cinematic humanism that contains real spiritual dimensions. The film may contain the occasional stumble where, for example, the assumption of the lotus position in interstellar flight may make for awkward visual choreography and induce guffaws in even the most seriously inclined of viewers. Still, such missteps are rare. The real difficulty of The Fountain is deciding which understanding of immortality the film attempts to embody as true. The conviction that death is a disease to be cured is clearly repudiated as anti-human, and graceful, calm acceptance of death is depicted as virtuous. However, the question lingers: does our rebirth constitute any semblance of individuality or is it a more impersonal process, forsaking the limitations of the individual in order to be a part of all things? Since theologians and philosophers over millennia have failed to fully address these concerns it would be unfair to expect a film to provide definitive answers, and it is high praise to say that one attempts to raise itself above the level of momentary diversion and aspires to be that rarity among contemporary films: an instrument of sustained philosophical reflection. “I’m going to die” one of the characters says and it is this realization that is the heart of The Fountain. It is more important to recognize this fact than it is to try and penetrate the mystery itself. Functioning simultaneously as spectacle and visual meditation, Aronofsky’s beautiful handiwork challenges, confounds, and perplexes, but even in its imperfect striving manages to reach towards the heart of something so profound that experiencing it onscreen seems to be itself a form of prayer.