Tonight I saw the latest Michael Moore documentary Capitalism: A Love Story.
The man is nothing if not entertaining.
True to form, the film is laced with "stunts" that are almost funnier in the trailer (trying to make a citizen's arrest on the execs on Wall Street; arriving in an armored truck at banks to take America's money back). What's better are his sincere interviews with experts in the economic field and stories of individuals who were affected by the collapse.
One family had their farm house mortgage go from a manageable $1700 to an impossible $2700 per month, and surrendered the home to foreclosure. Aside from losing their physical living space, they were sacrificing some of their history, said the wife, who had the farm in her family for decades. She is seen fiercely chopping flowers from a bush in her yard to perhaps preserve something of the original land as the eviction staff simultaneously collects house keys from her husband. They were paid a whopping $1000 to prepare the property for the next owners.
Another family, with a Mom and Dad who worked for Wal-Mart, were shocked to find that Wal-Mart collected the life insurance money when Mom passed away suddenly from a severe asthma problem. Though Dad had over $100,000 in medical bills to pay after her death, and a $6,000 funeral, Wal-Mart offered nothing to help with the expenses. And he'd been a loyal employee of theirs most of his adult life who still had three kids to support.
Perhaps the most unsettling stories were those of our commercial airline pilots—some who are forced to collect food stamps because their pay is so low ($17,000 was one quoted salary). Others take on second jobs, which obviously could exhaust them physically and hinder their ability to do their day job, which is keeping us flying customers in the air. How can we pay fast food managers more than we pay our skilled pilots?
Moore blames capitalism for all of these woes, but I have to disagree and blame it on corporate greed (and yes, there is a difference).
He shows an example of a completely productive co-op bread-making company in California, where the assembly line workers make the same salaries (an impressive $65,000) as the CEO. Granted, the model is very socialist in its principles, but at the end of the day, they are functioning as tax-paying capitalists. The more bread they sell, the higher their paychecks.
I see nothing wrong with that. In fact, if there was a branch of the bread-baking company in Seattle, I'd probably apply to be a baker. Or a packager. Or any other job where I could punch in, do my thing in a pleasant environment and go home without worry of being laid off or the need to take on freelance writing gigs to fund my rare vacations. The argument is in a backward way in favor of capitalism: make a good product, create demand for it and reap the benefits.
At the heart of the economic collapse in our country was greed. Greed mixed with big government mixed with deregulation.
I wanted to stand up and cheer when I learned our President recently supported a group of workers in Chicago that refused to leave the plant they were fired from without sufficient severance packages. They went about their protest in a peaceful way and got exactly what they demanded from the notorious Bank of America. Kudos to them, and kudos to President Obama for sticking to his principles despite election contributions he received from the bankers in question. I'm happy his values can't be bought, and I'm happy I voted for him.
America is finally moving in the right direction by putting votes toward those who inspire real change (kudos to the female rep. from Ohio who is featured fighting for what's right), and for that I can say Moore's unpopular film tactics still serve a purpose.
Though I don't agree that capitalism is inherently evil, or that it can't work, I do support his motivation to bring power to the people.
If we don't act on these human injustices, who will?
~~~
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Where the Wild Things Are
This morning I saw Where the Wild Things Are, starring Max Records and the voice of James Gandolfini.
Based on the classic children's book of the same name, I was apprehensive when I heard it was going to be turned into a live-action film—the movie is never as good as the book, and how dare Director Spike Jonze risk tarnishing one of my beloved childhood reads?
I went back and forth with those thoughts after I saw the nearly universal praise showered upon the film by many notable critics who I faithfully trust. There must be something magical about it, I assumed. They must see the spirit of the text come to life in a way they never imagined.
So I decided to give it a go and spent the majority of the film feeling guilty for getting bored and looking at my watch.
But first, the positive stuff: Max Records, a first-time actor who plays Max, absolutely embodies the essence of the child in the book. He's smart, vulnerable, sweet and angry, just as he should be. The beginning of the film is also strong—Catherine Keener as Max's mom is convincing as a haggard single parent trying to navigate a difficult job and balance raising two children on her own. We see no evidence of Dad, but realize how uncomfortable Max is when Mom has a date over for dinner. So far, so good.
The transition from Max's bedroom (where he's sent without dinner, just like the book) to the place Where the Wild Things Are is more elaborate than it needs to be and will probably scare the bejesus out of children under the age of 10 or so, but he gets there. At night. Via some terrifying (yet beautiful in the daytime) beach on the Australian coast.
Instead of "staring into their yellow eyes without blinking once" to become the Wild Things' king, he simply tells them he's their king, and they curiously accept that.
"They" are a dysfunctional family of beings that look identical to the drawings in Sendak's book, but sound like a collection of dumbed-down Hollywood actors...er...because that's where their voices come from.
And therein lies the largest problem I had with the movie: the all-too-recognizable voices.
I'm sorry, but James Gandolfini will always be Tony Soprano. And Lauren Ambrose will always be Claire from Six Feet Under. Those two especially, have such distinct speaking patterns it's hard not to picture the physical human while you're watching the mechanical animal. It's the first thing that removes you from your childhood impressions of the story.
The second is the assignment of personalities to each "thing." There's the Big Mean Man (Carol) who's driven away the Strong Independent Woman (KW), the Fighting Couple (Ira and Judith), the Outcasts (Terry and Bob), and so forth. By personifying them with stereotypical human behaviors, the splendor of the unknown is removed, leaving little hope for magic to appear.
Legend has it Maurice Sendak fashioned the "Things" after his extended family. If that's true, he was smart not to name them specifically or box them into any traits. Ambiguity is a good thing.
Another annoyance is the blatant way in which allegory is presented again and again. When Max arrives, the Things want him to "take away the sadness." A few days later, they want to build a utopia (but not allow everyone to sleep in the pile).
Such obvious lessons are fine for a children's film, but the way it's shot and shown makes it feel like it's for us adults. And if that's the case, the result is somewhat melancholy, as we know the idealism most of us have in youth fades considerably the older we get.
Jonze should be commended for the visual beauty of this film, and for discovering a great young actor who undoubtedly has a fine career ahead of him.
But the story for me shall remain where it belongs—in the pages of my well-worn copy of the book.
~~~
Based on the classic children's book of the same name, I was apprehensive when I heard it was going to be turned into a live-action film—the movie is never as good as the book, and how dare Director Spike Jonze risk tarnishing one of my beloved childhood reads?
I went back and forth with those thoughts after I saw the nearly universal praise showered upon the film by many notable critics who I faithfully trust. There must be something magical about it, I assumed. They must see the spirit of the text come to life in a way they never imagined.
So I decided to give it a go and spent the majority of the film feeling guilty for getting bored and looking at my watch.
But first, the positive stuff: Max Records, a first-time actor who plays Max, absolutely embodies the essence of the child in the book. He's smart, vulnerable, sweet and angry, just as he should be. The beginning of the film is also strong—Catherine Keener as Max's mom is convincing as a haggard single parent trying to navigate a difficult job and balance raising two children on her own. We see no evidence of Dad, but realize how uncomfortable Max is when Mom has a date over for dinner. So far, so good.
The transition from Max's bedroom (where he's sent without dinner, just like the book) to the place Where the Wild Things Are is more elaborate than it needs to be and will probably scare the bejesus out of children under the age of 10 or so, but he gets there. At night. Via some terrifying (yet beautiful in the daytime) beach on the Australian coast.
Instead of "staring into their yellow eyes without blinking once" to become the Wild Things' king, he simply tells them he's their king, and they curiously accept that.
"They" are a dysfunctional family of beings that look identical to the drawings in Sendak's book, but sound like a collection of dumbed-down Hollywood actors...er...because that's where their voices come from.
And therein lies the largest problem I had with the movie: the all-too-recognizable voices.
I'm sorry, but James Gandolfini will always be Tony Soprano. And Lauren Ambrose will always be Claire from Six Feet Under. Those two especially, have such distinct speaking patterns it's hard not to picture the physical human while you're watching the mechanical animal. It's the first thing that removes you from your childhood impressions of the story.
The second is the assignment of personalities to each "thing." There's the Big Mean Man (Carol) who's driven away the Strong Independent Woman (KW), the Fighting Couple (Ira and Judith), the Outcasts (Terry and Bob), and so forth. By personifying them with stereotypical human behaviors, the splendor of the unknown is removed, leaving little hope for magic to appear.
Legend has it Maurice Sendak fashioned the "Things" after his extended family. If that's true, he was smart not to name them specifically or box them into any traits. Ambiguity is a good thing.
Another annoyance is the blatant way in which allegory is presented again and again. When Max arrives, the Things want him to "take away the sadness." A few days later, they want to build a utopia (but not allow everyone to sleep in the pile).
Such obvious lessons are fine for a children's film, but the way it's shot and shown makes it feel like it's for us adults. And if that's the case, the result is somewhat melancholy, as we know the idealism most of us have in youth fades considerably the older we get.
Jonze should be commended for the visual beauty of this film, and for discovering a great young actor who undoubtedly has a fine career ahead of him.
But the story for me shall remain where it belongs—in the pages of my well-worn copy of the book.
~~~
Friday, October 16, 2009
The Invention of Lying
Tonight I saw The Invention of Lying, starring Ricky Gervais and Jennifer Garner.
The alternate reality in which Mark (Gervais) and Anna (Garner) live in doesn't allow for lying. Actually, the citizens don't always just tell the truth—they say everything that comes to mind, even if it may be hurtful to the other person. It is a filter-free society, which makes folks like Mark miserable.
In the span of a few days, Mark loses his job, gets evicted from his apartment and has a disappointing date with Anna, whom he adores. As he goes to the bank to withdraw his last $300, the bank's computer system crashes and they can't check his balance. He knows he only has $300, but it's $800 he needs to pay his rent, so he says $800. And because everyone tells the truth, the teller has no reason to disbelieve him. She hands over his $800 and he's on his way.
He's invented lying.
He doesn't quite understand this gift, but when he tries it out on a few of his buddies (telling them he's a black Eskimo named Doug) and it works, he decides to use it to improve his life.
Soon he has enough money to stay in his apartment and take Anna on a second date, to a nicer restaurant. Things go well on that second date until Anna again confesses she can't be romantically involved with him because he's not a desirable genetic match for her (though he makes her laugh and makes her happy). During the date, his mother falls ill and the couple rush to her side in the hospital. On her deathbed, Mark realizes she's terrified of dying so he invents a story about a paradise afterlife to comfort her. Hospital officials overhear the fib and take it for gospel, alerting the news media to his wisdom, which prompts a mob of sorts to camp outside his residence.
He's not only invented lying, he's invented religion. And this is where the movie becomes preachy in the opposite way that films typically do.
Soon he's proclaiming edicts that sound dangerously like commandments (yes, there's ten) from a Pizza Hut box where he's scribbled them under the pressure of the crowd. Did I mention he's a screenwriter too?
The impromptu way Mark creates the rules of society is meant to highlight the absurdity of Biblical texts, which of course were recorded by men. God becomes "Man in the Sky" and houses resembling churches emerge to give folks a "quiet place to think about the Man in the Sky."
It all amounts to a great big wink in the direction of atheists who may be cheering, and an unflattering mirror to those devout.
I appreciated the clever dialog, the many cameos (Rob Lowe, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Tina Fey), the performances by the two leads and the sweetness of their courting, but it all could have moved a bit faster.
At the heart of the story is heart—the message being that we should not live our lives simply to please our families or friends, or conform to society's expectations, even if our brains tell us that is right.
We should follow the instinct that lies deep within us to be good people and seek out someone who fulfills our every dream no matter what sort of package they arrive in.
I wish the film had focused more on that.
~~~
The alternate reality in which Mark (Gervais) and Anna (Garner) live in doesn't allow for lying. Actually, the citizens don't always just tell the truth—they say everything that comes to mind, even if it may be hurtful to the other person. It is a filter-free society, which makes folks like Mark miserable.
In the span of a few days, Mark loses his job, gets evicted from his apartment and has a disappointing date with Anna, whom he adores. As he goes to the bank to withdraw his last $300, the bank's computer system crashes and they can't check his balance. He knows he only has $300, but it's $800 he needs to pay his rent, so he says $800. And because everyone tells the truth, the teller has no reason to disbelieve him. She hands over his $800 and he's on his way.
He's invented lying.
He doesn't quite understand this gift, but when he tries it out on a few of his buddies (telling them he's a black Eskimo named Doug) and it works, he decides to use it to improve his life.
Soon he has enough money to stay in his apartment and take Anna on a second date, to a nicer restaurant. Things go well on that second date until Anna again confesses she can't be romantically involved with him because he's not a desirable genetic match for her (though he makes her laugh and makes her happy). During the date, his mother falls ill and the couple rush to her side in the hospital. On her deathbed, Mark realizes she's terrified of dying so he invents a story about a paradise afterlife to comfort her. Hospital officials overhear the fib and take it for gospel, alerting the news media to his wisdom, which prompts a mob of sorts to camp outside his residence.
He's not only invented lying, he's invented religion. And this is where the movie becomes preachy in the opposite way that films typically do.
Soon he's proclaiming edicts that sound dangerously like commandments (yes, there's ten) from a Pizza Hut box where he's scribbled them under the pressure of the crowd. Did I mention he's a screenwriter too?
The impromptu way Mark creates the rules of society is meant to highlight the absurdity of Biblical texts, which of course were recorded by men. God becomes "Man in the Sky" and houses resembling churches emerge to give folks a "quiet place to think about the Man in the Sky."
It all amounts to a great big wink in the direction of atheists who may be cheering, and an unflattering mirror to those devout.
I appreciated the clever dialog, the many cameos (Rob Lowe, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Tina Fey), the performances by the two leads and the sweetness of their courting, but it all could have moved a bit faster.
At the heart of the story is heart—the message being that we should not live our lives simply to please our families or friends, or conform to society's expectations, even if our brains tell us that is right.
We should follow the instinct that lies deep within us to be good people and seek out someone who fulfills our every dream no matter what sort of package they arrive in.
I wish the film had focused more on that.
~~~
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The September Issue
Tonight I saw The September Issue, a documentary that follows famed Vogue editor Anna Wintour in the months leading up to—well—a September issue.
The year is 2007. The financial bubble has yet to burst and excess is exactly what the magazine is going for as they try to break their record for the most pages (they did, with over 800).
Designers, stylists, photographers, models, a celebrity (Sienna Miller, the cover subject) and even the poor documentarian making this film are scrutinized, degraded and scoffed at throughout by the Queen Bee of Fashion. For such a petite lady, she does pack quite a punch.
As the most prominent designers from the biggest fashion houses in the world show their newest lines to her, she looks bored. She tells one he doesn't have enough color and another that there isn't any "evening" in his set.
Little do they know, right?
Having worked in the fashion industry for eight years, none of what happened on screen was the least bit shocking to me, but it did serve as a reminder of what a negative business 'pretty clothing' really is.
What's most interesting in the film is the dynamic between Wintour and legendary stylist Grace Coddington (who has been at the magazine just as long, and began her career as a model). They snip and snark at each other both privately and publicly, then reluctantly administer mutual praise as if they know they should. Both ladies are forces to be reckoned with, and one gets the sense that the combination of their personalities and tastes may be what makes the end product work.
As far as documentaries go, I would register it on the weak side. The director didn't ever bring Anna out of her comfort zone, so we don't see anything that we don't expect to see. Really, the most revealing thing we learn is that Anna has an incredibly pleasant daughter who seems to want nothing to do with the fashion industry.
The conversation about Anna's siblings thinking her profession was trite could've made for wonderful cinema. But all we got was a soundbite.
```
The year is 2007. The financial bubble has yet to burst and excess is exactly what the magazine is going for as they try to break their record for the most pages (they did, with over 800).
Designers, stylists, photographers, models, a celebrity (Sienna Miller, the cover subject) and even the poor documentarian making this film are scrutinized, degraded and scoffed at throughout by the Queen Bee of Fashion. For such a petite lady, she does pack quite a punch.
As the most prominent designers from the biggest fashion houses in the world show their newest lines to her, she looks bored. She tells one he doesn't have enough color and another that there isn't any "evening" in his set.
Little do they know, right?
Having worked in the fashion industry for eight years, none of what happened on screen was the least bit shocking to me, but it did serve as a reminder of what a negative business 'pretty clothing' really is.
What's most interesting in the film is the dynamic between Wintour and legendary stylist Grace Coddington (who has been at the magazine just as long, and began her career as a model). They snip and snark at each other both privately and publicly, then reluctantly administer mutual praise as if they know they should. Both ladies are forces to be reckoned with, and one gets the sense that the combination of their personalities and tastes may be what makes the end product work.
As far as documentaries go, I would register it on the weak side. The director didn't ever bring Anna out of her comfort zone, so we don't see anything that we don't expect to see. Really, the most revealing thing we learn is that Anna has an incredibly pleasant daughter who seems to want nothing to do with the fashion industry.
The conversation about Anna's siblings thinking her profession was trite could've made for wonderful cinema. But all we got was a soundbite.
```
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Precious
Tonight I screened Precious, starring Gabourey Sidibe and Mo' Nique.
Clareece (Sidibe) is a 16-year-old student living in Harlem who is known as "Precious" to her family and teachers.
She does well in school though she can't read or write, and comes home every night to cook and take care of her physically and verbally abusive mother Mary (Mo'Nique), who is a welfare recipient that likes to watch game shows.
Clareece's principal expels her when she learns she is pregnant with her second child and arranges for her to enroll at a nearby alternative school. What the school administration doesn't realize is that the child, like Clareece's toddler-age daughter, is the product of rape. By her father.
Precious is overweight, illiterate, poor and ridiculed, but something about her spirit enables her to seek a better future for herself. Despite the protest of her mother (who feels she should also go on welfare), she applies herself at the alternative school, learning to read and write. Her teacher takes a special interest in her and builds the first healthy relationship she's probably ever had.
A counselor (played by a surprisingly good Mariah Carey) is also assigned to her, and the truth about her family life begins to unfold, which serves as a healing force in the progress of Precious.
Soon she's made friends at school, given birth to a baby in a hospital and vows to make a better life for herself and her son.
Then life interferes and throws another enormous trauma her way.
At this point in the film, after watching a slew of amazing performances, I wondered how much more the writer could put on the actors. If Precious were a real human being, there is very little chance she could've survived everything she was forced to endure without losing her mind.
But the sad thing is, there are a lot of Precious teens out there. Probably many who have suffered similar grievances and come out of it bearing only hidden scars.
The film does a good job of getting to the core of each of our main characters and also making them real enough to worry about. Truly, it felt more like a call to action than a means of entertainment.
But sometimes, that's okay.
~~~
Clareece (Sidibe) is a 16-year-old student living in Harlem who is known as "Precious" to her family and teachers.
She does well in school though she can't read or write, and comes home every night to cook and take care of her physically and verbally abusive mother Mary (Mo'Nique), who is a welfare recipient that likes to watch game shows.
Clareece's principal expels her when she learns she is pregnant with her second child and arranges for her to enroll at a nearby alternative school. What the school administration doesn't realize is that the child, like Clareece's toddler-age daughter, is the product of rape. By her father.
Precious is overweight, illiterate, poor and ridiculed, but something about her spirit enables her to seek a better future for herself. Despite the protest of her mother (who feels she should also go on welfare), she applies herself at the alternative school, learning to read and write. Her teacher takes a special interest in her and builds the first healthy relationship she's probably ever had.
A counselor (played by a surprisingly good Mariah Carey) is also assigned to her, and the truth about her family life begins to unfold, which serves as a healing force in the progress of Precious.
Soon she's made friends at school, given birth to a baby in a hospital and vows to make a better life for herself and her son.
Then life interferes and throws another enormous trauma her way.
At this point in the film, after watching a slew of amazing performances, I wondered how much more the writer could put on the actors. If Precious were a real human being, there is very little chance she could've survived everything she was forced to endure without losing her mind.
But the sad thing is, there are a lot of Precious teens out there. Probably many who have suffered similar grievances and come out of it bearing only hidden scars.
The film does a good job of getting to the core of each of our main characters and also making them real enough to worry about. Truly, it felt more like a call to action than a means of entertainment.
But sometimes, that's okay.
~~~
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Paranormal Activity
Today I saw Paranormal Activity, starring Katie Featherston and Micah Sloat.
It is not often that a film with long periods of nothing can keep me gripping my theater seat, shifting and fidgeting with anxiousness throughout, but this one did.
Katie and Micah are a twentysomething couple who live together in a house that appears too fancy to belong to a graduate student and a day trader, but horror films demand a greater suspension of disbelief, so I'll see past that detail.
They seem like a happy enough couple—she comfortably roams the house in skimpy tank tops and unflattering boxer shorts; he's on the obnoxious side, but clearly in love with her.
When we join their life in progress, Micah is trying out his new video camera by filming Katie in everyday situations (studying, pouring wine, etc.) and attempting to catch 'evidence' of whatever paranormal force seems to be disturbing her at night.
The shaky camera work isn't as nauseating as that of The Blair Witch Project, but it does serve as a constant reminder that the production quality isn't going to get any better.
Said camera is soon anchored on a tripod facing their bed each night to be left on as they sleep, and us audience members are granted the privilege of seeing things happen as the footage is captured.
First, the only indication of unrest is the quiet, kooky music. Whenever the time on the video clock advances to the place where we're supposed to pay attention, the score creeps into the background. It's an obvious technique, but in a charmingly low-budget way, it works.
Next are the slamming doors, Katie's mysterious sleepwalking, hints about her imperfect childhood, and the frustration that builds from Micah's resistance to call the demonologist (recommended by a ghostbuster) for help. We want him to quit being such a dork and we want her to do what she needs to do on her own if he's not on board.
Instead, he plays with a Ouija board and makes things worse.
Without giving anything away, that's the beginning of the end, which is unfortunately much weaker than the story's build-up.
That said, for only four people appearing on-screen and only one set utilized in the entire film, the writer did mount a healthy dose of suspense and old-fashioned jumpy payoffs. It's just a shame the big finale didn't deliver.
~~~
It is not often that a film with long periods of nothing can keep me gripping my theater seat, shifting and fidgeting with anxiousness throughout, but this one did.
Katie and Micah are a twentysomething couple who live together in a house that appears too fancy to belong to a graduate student and a day trader, but horror films demand a greater suspension of disbelief, so I'll see past that detail.
They seem like a happy enough couple—she comfortably roams the house in skimpy tank tops and unflattering boxer shorts; he's on the obnoxious side, but clearly in love with her.
When we join their life in progress, Micah is trying out his new video camera by filming Katie in everyday situations (studying, pouring wine, etc.) and attempting to catch 'evidence' of whatever paranormal force seems to be disturbing her at night.
The shaky camera work isn't as nauseating as that of The Blair Witch Project, but it does serve as a constant reminder that the production quality isn't going to get any better.
Said camera is soon anchored on a tripod facing their bed each night to be left on as they sleep, and us audience members are granted the privilege of seeing things happen as the footage is captured.
First, the only indication of unrest is the quiet, kooky music. Whenever the time on the video clock advances to the place where we're supposed to pay attention, the score creeps into the background. It's an obvious technique, but in a charmingly low-budget way, it works.
Next are the slamming doors, Katie's mysterious sleepwalking, hints about her imperfect childhood, and the frustration that builds from Micah's resistance to call the demonologist (recommended by a ghostbuster) for help. We want him to quit being such a dork and we want her to do what she needs to do on her own if he's not on board.
Instead, he plays with a Ouija board and makes things worse.
Without giving anything away, that's the beginning of the end, which is unfortunately much weaker than the story's build-up.
That said, for only four people appearing on-screen and only one set utilized in the entire film, the writer did mount a healthy dose of suspense and old-fashioned jumpy payoffs. It's just a shame the big finale didn't deliver.
~~~
Monday, September 28, 2009
Bright Star
Yesterday I saw Bright Star, starring Abbey Cornish and Ben Whishaw.
It will be the topic of Cinebanter #80, so tune in October 12 for our review.
It will be the topic of Cinebanter #80, so tune in October 12 for our review.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
The Informant!
On Monday I saw The Informant!, starring Matt Damon and Scott Bakula.
It was the topic of Cinebanter #78, which is available here.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Extract
On Sunday I saw Extract, starring Jason Bateman and Ben Affleck.
Writer/director Mike Judge has made me laugh in the past with the cult classic Office Space, and the doomsday comedy Idiocracy. As a fan of his, and just about everyone in the cast, I was greatly anticipating this new flick. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to anticipate.
Bateman plays Joel, a self-made business owner who runs an extract (as in "vanilla") factory. He's in a marriage that no longer sexually satisfies him, and desires an affair with a new temporary employee Cindy (Mila Kunis). However, he loves his wife, so he doesn't want to cheat without having leverage.
In a drunken, horse-tranquilized conversation with his friend/bartender Dean (Affleck), he decides it would be a good idea to hire a jigolo to seduce her so he wouldn't feel guilty consummating with Cindy. She takes the bait and immediately embarks on a passionate affair that lingers long past the "one time" that Joel hired him.
And to make matters worse, there's been an accident at the extract factory that causes their financial future to come into question. There is a con artist in the midst and a snake of a lawyer (played almost too well by Gene Simmons) to take advantage of the situation.
Add to that an annoying neighbor and you have pieces of about ten different movies; some of which are funny, some of which are not.
The standout performance here is undoubtedly Ben Affleck who comfortably resumes his Dazed and Confused stoner-stupor and delivers laughs each time he opens his mouth.
But sadly, despite the other star power, the story falls flat and feels false in too many ways (con artist unbelievable, Joel's marriage not authentic, etc.)
In an effort to prove how rare we intelligent entities are in suburban America, Judge forgot to make the story smart enough.
~~~
Writer/director Mike Judge has made me laugh in the past with the cult classic Office Space, and the doomsday comedy Idiocracy. As a fan of his, and just about everyone in the cast, I was greatly anticipating this new flick. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to anticipate.
Bateman plays Joel, a self-made business owner who runs an extract (as in "vanilla") factory. He's in a marriage that no longer sexually satisfies him, and desires an affair with a new temporary employee Cindy (Mila Kunis). However, he loves his wife, so he doesn't want to cheat without having leverage.
In a drunken, horse-tranquilized conversation with his friend/bartender Dean (Affleck), he decides it would be a good idea to hire a jigolo to seduce her so he wouldn't feel guilty consummating with Cindy. She takes the bait and immediately embarks on a passionate affair that lingers long past the "one time" that Joel hired him.
And to make matters worse, there's been an accident at the extract factory that causes their financial future to come into question. There is a con artist in the midst and a snake of a lawyer (played almost too well by Gene Simmons) to take advantage of the situation.
Add to that an annoying neighbor and you have pieces of about ten different movies; some of which are funny, some of which are not.
The standout performance here is undoubtedly Ben Affleck who comfortably resumes his Dazed and Confused stoner-stupor and delivers laughs each time he opens his mouth.
But sadly, despite the other star power, the story falls flat and feels false in too many ways (con artist unbelievable, Joel's marriage not authentic, etc.)
In an effort to prove how rare we intelligent entities are in suburban America, Judge forgot to make the story smart enough.
~~~
Monday, September 21, 2009
Séraphine
On Saturday night, I saw Séraphine, starring Yolande Moreau and Ulrich Tukur.
Séraphine de Senlis was a famous French painter who died in a mental institution in 1942. This film gives us a glimpse into her life from the time of her discovery until the time of her death, which proves to be a detriment because the subject is so fascinating.
Séraphine (played by the magnificent Yolande Moreau) when we meet her is a poverty-stricken housekeeper who bows her head in compliance with every order that is barked in her direction. She worked in a convent before serving private families, so she maintains a strong religious faith and ethic. She also hears from angels.
After her grueling hours of scrubbing and cleaning each day, she retreats to her small quarters to paint as the angels instruct her to. She creates lush portraits of scenery—flowers and fruits in vibrant hues that rival those of any fine artist.
A guest who comes to stay in the home where she works, Wilhelm Uhde (Tukur), stumbles upon a piece of her artwork and begins questioning its origins. The affluent homeowner tells the truth: her housekeeper painted it and she can't wait to get rid of it. Uhde is an art dealer who has made many notable discoveries in the art world and believes her work could sell.
He encourages Séraphine to keep developing her gift, then must flee the area because of the looming war. She does continue painting—using ingredients of her own creation mixed in with traditional paints—and hones her craft to impressive new levels.
How did she learn to do this? What was her childhood like? Did anyone else in her family have the gift? All of these questions go unanswered in the film, but crave to be asked.
By the time Uhde returns in the late 1920s, Séraphine has an arsenal of works available for his purchase and promotion. He gladly obliges and sends the always-poor artist into financial freedom.
Unfortunately, the story does not have a happy ending. Séraphine spends her riches very rapidly despite the approaching Depression and continues to hear the angels sending her messages. Her behavior grows more erratic until finally the townspeople have her committed.
Moreau's interpretation of this possibly schizophrenic artist was stunning, even if the film's pace was almost painfully slow. Because you can't help but care for this fragile soul, you stick with the story and continue to hope she will be rescued.
Of course, once Séraphine entered the hospital, she was never again aware that her talent was celebrated. She lived out her years in a lonely, confused state of medicated isolation.
Her work survived her and continues to thrive today in museums around France and exhibitions around the world. Also, one of the ingredients in her paintings has apparently served as an incredible preservative so the colors continue to appear as they were when she mixed them.
If only the angels she heard could show her how much joy her work brought to the world.
~~~
Séraphine de Senlis was a famous French painter who died in a mental institution in 1942. This film gives us a glimpse into her life from the time of her discovery until the time of her death, which proves to be a detriment because the subject is so fascinating.
Séraphine (played by the magnificent Yolande Moreau) when we meet her is a poverty-stricken housekeeper who bows her head in compliance with every order that is barked in her direction. She worked in a convent before serving private families, so she maintains a strong religious faith and ethic. She also hears from angels.
After her grueling hours of scrubbing and cleaning each day, she retreats to her small quarters to paint as the angels instruct her to. She creates lush portraits of scenery—flowers and fruits in vibrant hues that rival those of any fine artist.
A guest who comes to stay in the home where she works, Wilhelm Uhde (Tukur), stumbles upon a piece of her artwork and begins questioning its origins. The affluent homeowner tells the truth: her housekeeper painted it and she can't wait to get rid of it. Uhde is an art dealer who has made many notable discoveries in the art world and believes her work could sell.
He encourages Séraphine to keep developing her gift, then must flee the area because of the looming war. She does continue painting—using ingredients of her own creation mixed in with traditional paints—and hones her craft to impressive new levels.
How did she learn to do this? What was her childhood like? Did anyone else in her family have the gift? All of these questions go unanswered in the film, but crave to be asked.
By the time Uhde returns in the late 1920s, Séraphine has an arsenal of works available for his purchase and promotion. He gladly obliges and sends the always-poor artist into financial freedom.
Unfortunately, the story does not have a happy ending. Séraphine spends her riches very rapidly despite the approaching Depression and continues to hear the angels sending her messages. Her behavior grows more erratic until finally the townspeople have her committed.
Moreau's interpretation of this possibly schizophrenic artist was stunning, even if the film's pace was almost painfully slow. Because you can't help but care for this fragile soul, you stick with the story and continue to hope she will be rescued.
Of course, once Séraphine entered the hospital, she was never again aware that her talent was celebrated. She lived out her years in a lonely, confused state of medicated isolation.
Her work survived her and continues to thrive today in museums around France and exhibitions around the world. Also, one of the ingredients in her paintings has apparently served as an incredible preservative so the colors continue to appear as they were when she mixed them.
If only the angels she heard could show her how much joy her work brought to the world.
~~~
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Big Fan
Last night I screened Big Fan, starring Patton Oswalt and Kevin Corrigan.
Paul Aufiero (Oswalt) is a sad soul. He works a dead-end job as a parking booth attendant, lives with his mother and has no relationships to speak of except with that of his best friend Sal (Corrigan). Did I mention, he's in his mid 30s?
Everyone around Paul pities him, but Paul himself. Despite all of the obvious negatives in his life, he has one thing that keeps him going: his love for the New York Giants. He attends home games, calls in regularly to a sports radio show with scripted rants for their opponents and meticulously keeps track of scores and players.
But when one of his obsessive actions takes fandom too far, he single-handedly jeopardizes the future of the team. To prevent giving it all away, I won't say what that action was, but it was completely believable. And the way folks around him react to it is also authentic.
How he handles it will have you cringing, and the surprise twist ending will shock you almost as much as the ghost in The Sixth Sense did. I have to admit, I didn't see it coming.
So is the film worth watching? Sure. It's well-written and its characters are realistic (if not a bit exaggerated in a few cases). It has some laughs along the way and has a quiet pace, but that's okay—it just gives viewers a sense of what it must be like to live a lonely existence.
Anyone who has ever had an obsession will see parts of themselves in Paul, whether they want to or not. And how far they've taken their obsession will most likely determine the intensity of their reaction.
It also reminds us not to judge too harshly—sometimes lives aren't depressing until their critics make them so.
~~~
Paul Aufiero (Oswalt) is a sad soul. He works a dead-end job as a parking booth attendant, lives with his mother and has no relationships to speak of except with that of his best friend Sal (Corrigan). Did I mention, he's in his mid 30s?
Everyone around Paul pities him, but Paul himself. Despite all of the obvious negatives in his life, he has one thing that keeps him going: his love for the New York Giants. He attends home games, calls in regularly to a sports radio show with scripted rants for their opponents and meticulously keeps track of scores and players.
But when one of his obsessive actions takes fandom too far, he single-handedly jeopardizes the future of the team. To prevent giving it all away, I won't say what that action was, but it was completely believable. And the way folks around him react to it is also authentic.
How he handles it will have you cringing, and the surprise twist ending will shock you almost as much as the ghost in The Sixth Sense did. I have to admit, I didn't see it coming.
So is the film worth watching? Sure. It's well-written and its characters are realistic (if not a bit exaggerated in a few cases). It has some laughs along the way and has a quiet pace, but that's okay—it just gives viewers a sense of what it must be like to live a lonely existence.
Anyone who has ever had an obsession will see parts of themselves in Paul, whether they want to or not. And how far they've taken their obsession will most likely determine the intensity of their reaction.
It also reminds us not to judge too harshly—sometimes lives aren't depressing until their critics make them so.
~~~
Sunday, August 30, 2009
It Might Get Loud
Tonight I saw the documentary It Might Get Loud.
What an incredible rush of music storytelling.
Three guitar Gods from three different generations (and really, three different genres of music), come together to talk about their favorite topic: guitar playing.
The elder statesman of the bunch is a white-haired Jimmy Page of the legendary Led Zeppelin; the in-the-middle genius is U2's The Edge; the new kid on the block is Jack White of The White Stripes. All complement one another in style and technique like time-traveling puzzle pieces that happen to have landed in the same era.
I thought it would be incredibly difficult for me not to favor The Edge, as I'm an unapologetic U2 fanatic, but really the movie is so painstakingly equal, it would be hard call anyone the star.
White is easily the most nervous, looking anxiously out the car window as he arrives for the summit. In footage with his own band or alone he is confident—even cocky; with the two other subjects he is humble and respectful. If only his styling wasn't so distracting (he looks like Johnny Depp as Willy Wonka), I may even declare him physically attractive.
The Edge, who I've watched on a regular basis since I was six, seemed like...well...The Edge. In other words, maybe the only rock star on the planet to appear more interested in the musical method than all of the fame/women/money that come with it.
Jimmy Page was almost unbearably sweet. The man who developed Stairway to Heaven now seems like a classy Grandpa who could tell you stories that would spin your head.
Thankfully, the stories all three musicians share in this film are sincere, honest and loaded with details that will send geeks salivating for their Gibsons. They give enough background about their entries into the music world without telling their life stories in the process. Why? Because this is a film about guitar playing.
The moments of spontaneity are the most delightful to watch—Page playing air guitar to one of the songs that inspired him; Edge realizing he was playing the wrong chord during a jam; White grinning as the older two enlighten him.
Director Davis Guggenheim achieves a brilliant balance between the summit and archival footage of each guest. The men seem at ease telling their stories to the camera and to each other, and take us on informal modern day tours of their past (a special treat for me was seeing the school where U2 met).
Perhaps the chemistry and the kindness of the subjects is why the outcome is so satisfying or maybe the director just had ways of getting them relaxed before filming so it appeared very natural. Whatever the reason, it was a genius idea that worked.
Now if only Guggenheim would make a series out of it and focus on drummers next. I'd like to place my order for Ringo Starr, Stuart Copeland and Dave Grohl.
~~~
What an incredible rush of music storytelling.
Three guitar Gods from three different generations (and really, three different genres of music), come together to talk about their favorite topic: guitar playing.
The elder statesman of the bunch is a white-haired Jimmy Page of the legendary Led Zeppelin; the in-the-middle genius is U2's The Edge; the new kid on the block is Jack White of The White Stripes. All complement one another in style and technique like time-traveling puzzle pieces that happen to have landed in the same era.
I thought it would be incredibly difficult for me not to favor The Edge, as I'm an unapologetic U2 fanatic, but really the movie is so painstakingly equal, it would be hard call anyone the star.
White is easily the most nervous, looking anxiously out the car window as he arrives for the summit. In footage with his own band or alone he is confident—even cocky; with the two other subjects he is humble and respectful. If only his styling wasn't so distracting (he looks like Johnny Depp as Willy Wonka), I may even declare him physically attractive.
The Edge, who I've watched on a regular basis since I was six, seemed like...well...The Edge. In other words, maybe the only rock star on the planet to appear more interested in the musical method than all of the fame/women/money that come with it.
Jimmy Page was almost unbearably sweet. The man who developed Stairway to Heaven now seems like a classy Grandpa who could tell you stories that would spin your head.
Thankfully, the stories all three musicians share in this film are sincere, honest and loaded with details that will send geeks salivating for their Gibsons. They give enough background about their entries into the music world without telling their life stories in the process. Why? Because this is a film about guitar playing.
The moments of spontaneity are the most delightful to watch—Page playing air guitar to one of the songs that inspired him; Edge realizing he was playing the wrong chord during a jam; White grinning as the older two enlighten him.
Director Davis Guggenheim achieves a brilliant balance between the summit and archival footage of each guest. The men seem at ease telling their stories to the camera and to each other, and take us on informal modern day tours of their past (a special treat for me was seeing the school where U2 met).
Perhaps the chemistry and the kindness of the subjects is why the outcome is so satisfying or maybe the director just had ways of getting them relaxed before filming so it appeared very natural. Whatever the reason, it was a genius idea that worked.
Now if only Guggenheim would make a series out of it and focus on drummers next. I'd like to place my order for Ringo Starr, Stuart Copeland and Dave Grohl.
~~~
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Inglourious Basterds
Tonight I saw Inglourious Basterds, starring Brad Pitt and Christoph Waltz.
I was the perfect age to fall for Quentin Tarantino's magic when his first films hit the big screen. Reservoir Dogs happened in high school and Pulp Fiction defined college. I distinctly remember all of the "men" in my circle going to see Pulp Fiction opening night; then my polite boyfriend at the time taking me alone the following night, worried for my reaction. I apparently laughed harder than any of them had.
We could quote the 'Madonna' scene from Dogs in our sleep and the soundtracks of both films played constantly for the next four years throughout our apartments in Columbia, Missouri.
Now the most famous Missourian—Brad Pitt—is the star of QT's new flick about a Jewish-American group of soldiers (nicknamed the 'basterds') who, of course fictionally, terrorize Nazis who are occupying France (did I mention it's 1941?), scalping and killing them as savagely as they did their victims.
Pitt is intentionally funny as southern Lieutenant Aldo Raine. With a mustache like Hitler's and an accent that sounds as if Sling Blade and Dolly Parton had a child, he mugs throughout the movie pausing for laughs as often as we'll offer them (which I'll admit, is sort of frequently). Christoph Waltz who plays the Nazi Colonel Hans Landa, however, steals the show. His balance of slime, refined politeness and revolting evil comes out in a charming way that's somewhat difficult to explain, so I'll just say this: when the camera is near him, your focus is nowhere else. Not even on the former Sexiest Man Alive.
And of course, there is a damsel in distress by way of Shoshana (Melanie Laurent), the young Jewish girl who escaped the Colonel's wrath only to encounter him years later at her cinema in Paris. Her expressions and mannerisms play the role perfectly with minimal words and maximum intention. An especially great scene takes place over dessert with the Colonel.
Truthfully, there is a lot to like about this movie. With Ennio Morricone and David Bowie both appearing on the soundtrack, there is a distinctive flavor that accompanies each scene and beat almost perfectly, and the bold reds and blacks that paint the canvas of most Tarantino films are also present and effective.
But while his earlier hits and even the more recent Death Proof had a palpable pace, Basterds drags in many places that are intended to infuse tension.
There are also many 'shocking' violent scenes, but once you've gasped through the first bloody few, the remaining 15 or 20 seem glib. I dare say...they're gratuitous.
All in all, it's not really a war film or a crime caper or a black comedy. True to Tarantino's style, it's a wondersalad of all of the above without the major elements that make any of the genres work.
Clever dialog, superb actors and bad guys everyone wants to see 'get theirs' will go a long way, but unfortunately don't add up to a victorious directorial return to form.
I was the perfect age to fall for Quentin Tarantino's magic when his first films hit the big screen. Reservoir Dogs happened in high school and Pulp Fiction defined college. I distinctly remember all of the "men" in my circle going to see Pulp Fiction opening night; then my polite boyfriend at the time taking me alone the following night, worried for my reaction. I apparently laughed harder than any of them had.
We could quote the 'Madonna' scene from Dogs in our sleep and the soundtracks of both films played constantly for the next four years throughout our apartments in Columbia, Missouri.
Now the most famous Missourian—Brad Pitt—is the star of QT's new flick about a Jewish-American group of soldiers (nicknamed the 'basterds') who, of course fictionally, terrorize Nazis who are occupying France (did I mention it's 1941?), scalping and killing them as savagely as they did their victims.
Pitt is intentionally funny as southern Lieutenant Aldo Raine. With a mustache like Hitler's and an accent that sounds as if Sling Blade and Dolly Parton had a child, he mugs throughout the movie pausing for laughs as often as we'll offer them (which I'll admit, is sort of frequently). Christoph Waltz who plays the Nazi Colonel Hans Landa, however, steals the show. His balance of slime, refined politeness and revolting evil comes out in a charming way that's somewhat difficult to explain, so I'll just say this: when the camera is near him, your focus is nowhere else. Not even on the former Sexiest Man Alive.
And of course, there is a damsel in distress by way of Shoshana (Melanie Laurent), the young Jewish girl who escaped the Colonel's wrath only to encounter him years later at her cinema in Paris. Her expressions and mannerisms play the role perfectly with minimal words and maximum intention. An especially great scene takes place over dessert with the Colonel.
Truthfully, there is a lot to like about this movie. With Ennio Morricone and David Bowie both appearing on the soundtrack, there is a distinctive flavor that accompanies each scene and beat almost perfectly, and the bold reds and blacks that paint the canvas of most Tarantino films are also present and effective.
But while his earlier hits and even the more recent Death Proof had a palpable pace, Basterds drags in many places that are intended to infuse tension.
There are also many 'shocking' violent scenes, but once you've gasped through the first bloody few, the remaining 15 or 20 seem glib. I dare say...they're gratuitous.
All in all, it's not really a war film or a crime caper or a black comedy. True to Tarantino's style, it's a wondersalad of all of the above without the major elements that make any of the genres work.
Clever dialog, superb actors and bad guys everyone wants to see 'get theirs' will go a long way, but unfortunately don't add up to a victorious directorial return to form.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
A Perfect Getaway
Tonight I saw A Perfect Getaway, starring Steve Zahn and Timothy Olyphant.
A sickening sweet, somewhat nerdy couple, Cliff (Zahn) and Sydney (Milla Jovovich) set out on their Hawaiian honeymoon armed with camping equipment, hiking permits and a video camera.
When we're first alone with them, they're arguing over picking up hitchhikers. Cliff stops the car and the eager couple on the side of the road climb in. The newlyweds get a funny feeling about them and backpeddle their offer, which greatly angers the man. They continue on the road alone, only to encounter the odd couple later in their journey.
Soon they find out that there are killers on the loose and the murderers may be on their island.
Somewhat inexperienced at hiking the complicated cliffs of Hawaii, they join up with Nick (Olyphant) and his girlfriend Gina (Kiele Sanchez) who seem to know how to navigate the area. They display unique behavior (killing animals, revealing weaponry, etc.), which unnerves Cliff and Sydney. Both couples joke about suspecting the other as the killers, but see the hitchhikers arrested for the crimes in a dramatic police helicopter search.
All's well that ends well? Not so much. But unfortunately, this spoiler-free review can't say anything more.
Is there blood? Yes. Will the killers be revealed? Yes. Is the way the film reveals the murderers clever? Somewhat (but a key sequence almost goes too fast to be effective).
The screenplay-come-to-life storytelling device that they use in the last third of the movie is a nice touch, and the performances keep you entertained throughout.
It was just a little too easy to solve the mystery.
~~~
A sickening sweet, somewhat nerdy couple, Cliff (Zahn) and Sydney (Milla Jovovich) set out on their Hawaiian honeymoon armed with camping equipment, hiking permits and a video camera.
When we're first alone with them, they're arguing over picking up hitchhikers. Cliff stops the car and the eager couple on the side of the road climb in. The newlyweds get a funny feeling about them and backpeddle their offer, which greatly angers the man. They continue on the road alone, only to encounter the odd couple later in their journey.
Soon they find out that there are killers on the loose and the murderers may be on their island.
Somewhat inexperienced at hiking the complicated cliffs of Hawaii, they join up with Nick (Olyphant) and his girlfriend Gina (Kiele Sanchez) who seem to know how to navigate the area. They display unique behavior (killing animals, revealing weaponry, etc.), which unnerves Cliff and Sydney. Both couples joke about suspecting the other as the killers, but see the hitchhikers arrested for the crimes in a dramatic police helicopter search.
All's well that ends well? Not so much. But unfortunately, this spoiler-free review can't say anything more.
Is there blood? Yes. Will the killers be revealed? Yes. Is the way the film reveals the murderers clever? Somewhat (but a key sequence almost goes too fast to be effective).
The screenplay-come-to-life storytelling device that they use in the last third of the movie is a nice touch, and the performances keep you entertained throughout.
It was just a little too easy to solve the mystery.
~~~
Monday, August 10, 2009
Cheri
Tonight I saw Cheri, starring Michelle Pfeiffer and Rupert Friend.
Prostitution never looked so good.
Lea (Pfeiffer) is an escort-to-the-stars in turn-of-the-century France. Her friend Charlotte (Kathy Bates) is past her prime and concerned more with the upbringing of her teenage son Chéri (Friend) than with establishing more clients. The only women they mingle with are those in their shared profession and competition seems absent from their tangles, as there are plenty of men to go around.
But Lea only wants one man—or boy, really. She wants Chéri, who has seduced her into letting him stay at her Normandy estate for a greedy length of time. She shows him the proper way around a bedroom, buys him lavish gifts, feeds him, clothes him, and probably bathes him. She is his lover, but she is also his surrogate mother.
When his real mother returns to collect him and marry him off to another teenager, Lea is devastated but retains her dignity. As the new young couple heads to Italy for a honeymoon, Lea escapes to a new home and leaves no forwarding address.
Both parties are miserable apart—Chéri's marriage, though faithful, is completely loveless, and Lea seems to take on another lover only to pass the time.
When they finally realize they can't happily live apart, it may be too late to do anything about it. Oh, the perils of true love.
As a fan of the book, I knew what the outcome would be and I dare say the film is much lighter and funnier than the original text. The lead couple is convincing and well-matched with Pfeiffer's sharp, mature features directly contrasting the feminine curves of Friend's. But the real scene-stealer is the always-phenomenal Kathy Bates, who lights up the screen for better or for worse with her spunky energy.
To break this film down to one word, I'd call it a "romp."
And a pleasurable one, for what it's worth.
~~~
Prostitution never looked so good.
Lea (Pfeiffer) is an escort-to-the-stars in turn-of-the-century France. Her friend Charlotte (Kathy Bates) is past her prime and concerned more with the upbringing of her teenage son Chéri (Friend) than with establishing more clients. The only women they mingle with are those in their shared profession and competition seems absent from their tangles, as there are plenty of men to go around.
But Lea only wants one man—or boy, really. She wants Chéri, who has seduced her into letting him stay at her Normandy estate for a greedy length of time. She shows him the proper way around a bedroom, buys him lavish gifts, feeds him, clothes him, and probably bathes him. She is his lover, but she is also his surrogate mother.
When his real mother returns to collect him and marry him off to another teenager, Lea is devastated but retains her dignity. As the new young couple heads to Italy for a honeymoon, Lea escapes to a new home and leaves no forwarding address.
Both parties are miserable apart—Chéri's marriage, though faithful, is completely loveless, and Lea seems to take on another lover only to pass the time.
When they finally realize they can't happily live apart, it may be too late to do anything about it. Oh, the perils of true love.
As a fan of the book, I knew what the outcome would be and I dare say the film is much lighter and funnier than the original text. The lead couple is convincing and well-matched with Pfeiffer's sharp, mature features directly contrasting the feminine curves of Friend's. But the real scene-stealer is the always-phenomenal Kathy Bates, who lights up the screen for better or for worse with her spunky energy.
To break this film down to one word, I'd call it a "romp."
And a pleasurable one, for what it's worth.
~~~
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Betty Blue: The Director's Cut
Today I saw Betty Blue: The Director's Cut, starring Béatrice Dalle and Jean-Hugues Anglade. [note: this film has one more hour of footage than its original theatrical release contained in 1986.]
185 minutes is a long time to spend with anyone—especially fictional characters who are as unlikeable as they are abundant. Unfortunately, that was the case today when I sat through this soft-core porn, which masquerades as pretentious art.
Zorg (Anglade) is a novelist who is making a living as a caretaker at a desolate beach resort. We assume his life is relatively peaceful before he meets Betty (but since the first scene is him making love to her, I suppose we'll never know), a passionate, sexy woman who doesn't have much of a purpose except "loving" him.
In bed, their relationship is as strong as can be. They are inhibition-free during their sexual escapades and seem to be genuinely fond of each other's bodies. So fond that for over half the movie one or both of them are naked.
Anyway, Zorg is mezmerized by Betty's vibrant (though imperfect) smile and her undying attention to him, so he risks his caretaking job by allowing her to live with him against the owner's wishes. In return, she helps him paint bungalows and all seems to work out well until...said boss shows up and she gets so angry she throws all of Zorg's belongings out the window. Literally.
Normal men would take pause at this development and expel the crazy bitch from their life, but not Zorg. He passively accepts her rage and even allows her to begin typing up a novel he's scripted by hand in several volumes of journals. Then they set the place on fire.
Next up is a new life in a (presumably) new town, where they become great friends with their landlady and her eventual partner. They trade work for rent, have amazing sex, and all is well until... Betty is working as a server at their restaurant and stabs a lippy patron with a fork.
Think the red flags are waving high enough for Zorg to notice? Not so much. He must really like having sex. With her. Because not only does he keep her around (staying faithful to her as well), but he starts over with her again in a new locale managing a piano store. They sell a piano on their first day, have amazing sex, and well, you get the idea.
With each progressive act of crazy that Betty commits, you wonder more what the hell is wrong with this man. Everyone knows someone who is in or has been in an abusive relationship, but this is ridiculous. The woman is beyond disturbed ("I hear voices") and her antics repeatedly threaten both of their lives.
By the time the final act played out (in which Betty does something so horrific the audience I was sitting with audibly gasped), I was planning my dinner menu, thinking about the music I'd program for my evening workout and wondering why I shelled out money for the ticket to see this in the first place.
Sure, there are some cool sex scenes, but without characters that one can truly invest in or care about, the 'love story' progression only feels predictable and weak.
~~~
185 minutes is a long time to spend with anyone—especially fictional characters who are as unlikeable as they are abundant. Unfortunately, that was the case today when I sat through this soft-core porn, which masquerades as pretentious art.
Zorg (Anglade) is a novelist who is making a living as a caretaker at a desolate beach resort. We assume his life is relatively peaceful before he meets Betty (but since the first scene is him making love to her, I suppose we'll never know), a passionate, sexy woman who doesn't have much of a purpose except "loving" him.
In bed, their relationship is as strong as can be. They are inhibition-free during their sexual escapades and seem to be genuinely fond of each other's bodies. So fond that for over half the movie one or both of them are naked.
Anyway, Zorg is mezmerized by Betty's vibrant (though imperfect) smile and her undying attention to him, so he risks his caretaking job by allowing her to live with him against the owner's wishes. In return, she helps him paint bungalows and all seems to work out well until...said boss shows up and she gets so angry she throws all of Zorg's belongings out the window. Literally.
Normal men would take pause at this development and expel the crazy bitch from their life, but not Zorg. He passively accepts her rage and even allows her to begin typing up a novel he's scripted by hand in several volumes of journals. Then they set the place on fire.
Next up is a new life in a (presumably) new town, where they become great friends with their landlady and her eventual partner. They trade work for rent, have amazing sex, and all is well until... Betty is working as a server at their restaurant and stabs a lippy patron with a fork.
Think the red flags are waving high enough for Zorg to notice? Not so much. He must really like having sex. With her. Because not only does he keep her around (staying faithful to her as well), but he starts over with her again in a new locale managing a piano store. They sell a piano on their first day, have amazing sex, and well, you get the idea.
With each progressive act of crazy that Betty commits, you wonder more what the hell is wrong with this man. Everyone knows someone who is in or has been in an abusive relationship, but this is ridiculous. The woman is beyond disturbed ("I hear voices") and her antics repeatedly threaten both of their lives.
By the time the final act played out (in which Betty does something so horrific the audience I was sitting with audibly gasped), I was planning my dinner menu, thinking about the music I'd program for my evening workout and wondering why I shelled out money for the ticket to see this in the first place.
Sure, there are some cool sex scenes, but without characters that one can truly invest in or care about, the 'love story' progression only feels predictable and weak.
~~~
Saturday, August 08, 2009
The Hangover
Tonight I saw The Hangover, starring Bradley Cooper and Zach Galifianakis.
I never expected to laugh this hard at a guy buddy movie.
You see, a couple days before Doug (Justin Bartha) is scheduled to get married, his buddies Phil (Cooper), Stu (Ed Helms) and future brother-in-law Alan (Galifianakis) take him to Las Vegas for a bachelor party. Pretty normal scenario, yes? Sure, it is. Until everything goes horribly wrong.
First, Phil decides that the double rooms they've booked won't be good enough for their one-night party, so he talks the group into reserving the $4000+ suite, which the desk clerk refers to as "pretty awesome."
Then Alan, the obligatory "overweight guy" who desperately wants to fit in, pours everyone a shot of Jagermeister on the rooftop of Caesar's Palace and toasts the occasion. After that, no one remembers a thing until the men (minus Doug) wake up in their completely trashed environment amongst food, vomit, broken glass, live chickens, a baby and Mike Tyson's tiger. Yes, Mike Tyson's tiger.
In an attempt to find the missing groom, the men re-trace their forgotten steps using credit card receipts, eyewitness accounts—even a hospital wristband—only to encounter surly doctors, giddy wedding chapel owners, Chinese mobsters and (thankfully) the baby's mother.
To give away even one of the hilarious scenarios or jokes would screw up the fast-paced rhythm of this comedy, so I'll refrain. But I will say, with very little bathroom humor, screenwriters Jon Lucas and Scott Moore manage to make scene after scene laugh-out-loud funny.
While most of the dialog is surely geared toward men, the majority of what happens to them is universally funny. Old-fashioned slapstick in some ways; cleverly sarcastic in others.
Overall, a very satisfying, silly romp leading up to perhaps the best end credits since Ferris Bueller's Day Off.
~~~
I never expected to laugh this hard at a guy buddy movie.
You see, a couple days before Doug (Justin Bartha) is scheduled to get married, his buddies Phil (Cooper), Stu (Ed Helms) and future brother-in-law Alan (Galifianakis) take him to Las Vegas for a bachelor party. Pretty normal scenario, yes? Sure, it is. Until everything goes horribly wrong.
First, Phil decides that the double rooms they've booked won't be good enough for their one-night party, so he talks the group into reserving the $4000+ suite, which the desk clerk refers to as "pretty awesome."
Then Alan, the obligatory "overweight guy" who desperately wants to fit in, pours everyone a shot of Jagermeister on the rooftop of Caesar's Palace and toasts the occasion. After that, no one remembers a thing until the men (minus Doug) wake up in their completely trashed environment amongst food, vomit, broken glass, live chickens, a baby and Mike Tyson's tiger. Yes, Mike Tyson's tiger.
In an attempt to find the missing groom, the men re-trace their forgotten steps using credit card receipts, eyewitness accounts—even a hospital wristband—only to encounter surly doctors, giddy wedding chapel owners, Chinese mobsters and (thankfully) the baby's mother.
To give away even one of the hilarious scenarios or jokes would screw up the fast-paced rhythm of this comedy, so I'll refrain. But I will say, with very little bathroom humor, screenwriters Jon Lucas and Scott Moore manage to make scene after scene laugh-out-loud funny.
While most of the dialog is surely geared toward men, the majority of what happens to them is universally funny. Old-fashioned slapstick in some ways; cleverly sarcastic in others.
Overall, a very satisfying, silly romp leading up to perhaps the best end credits since Ferris Bueller's Day Off.
~~~
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
The Magic of Netflix
I have to admit, as far as efficiency and great customer service go, Netflix puts most of the working world to shame.
Since a friend first gave me a subscription as a gift a few years back, I've been positively addicted to this most-pleasant constant in my life. With a queue that gets arranged and rearranged at my every whim, all I have to do to satisfy my cinematic craving at any given moment is click a button on my computer. A day or two later, as if my magic, that very disc appears in my mailbox. Or, for more immediate gratification, I can choose something from my list that has a "play" button next to it and watch it on my Mac.
The selection can't be beat, the titles are endless, and the recommendations are usually very accurate (if you're a freak like me and you rate nearly everything you watch). Furthermore, there are seldom issues with delivery speed or the quality of the DVD. And if there are, the call center has the most friendly voices in business that are all too happy to help.
Really, the should call it "NetFIX."
A writer for the Chicago Tribune recently marveled like the rest of us at their well-oiled machine, then went behind the scenes to see their secrets of success. His article about it is here.
From the sound of it, they have an organized factory that's not prone to outside distractions, allow their employees regular breaks for exercise and rest, and mix sophisticated technology with human hard work to achieve fast, accurate results.
What a curious recipe in this day and age.
~~~
Since a friend first gave me a subscription as a gift a few years back, I've been positively addicted to this most-pleasant constant in my life. With a queue that gets arranged and rearranged at my every whim, all I have to do to satisfy my cinematic craving at any given moment is click a button on my computer. A day or two later, as if my magic, that very disc appears in my mailbox. Or, for more immediate gratification, I can choose something from my list that has a "play" button next to it and watch it on my Mac.
The selection can't be beat, the titles are endless, and the recommendations are usually very accurate (if you're a freak like me and you rate nearly everything you watch). Furthermore, there are seldom issues with delivery speed or the quality of the DVD. And if there are, the call center has the most friendly voices in business that are all too happy to help.
Really, the should call it "NetFIX."
A writer for the Chicago Tribune recently marveled like the rest of us at their well-oiled machine, then went behind the scenes to see their secrets of success. His article about it is here.
From the sound of it, they have an organized factory that's not prone to outside distractions, allow their employees regular breaks for exercise and rest, and mix sophisticated technology with human hard work to achieve fast, accurate results.
What a curious recipe in this day and age.
~~~
Sunday, August 02, 2009
The Girl From Monaco
Today I saw The Girl From Monaco, starring Fabrice Luchini and Louise Bourgoin.
Bertrand (Luchini) is a fiftysomething high-powered defense attorney that comes to Monaco to represent a wealthy old woman accused of murder. Within days of his arrival, that woman's son has insisted upon and provided him with Zem (Christophe Abadi), a bodyguard who slightly resembles President Obama.
Zem's presence is professional if not intrusive, as Bertrand is powerful in the courtroom but never in the hands of a beautiful woman.
Enter Audrey the Weather Girl (Louise Bourgoin). A classic blond gold digger in her 20s with her sights set on Bertrand and his paycheck. She rapidly seduces him, though Zem warns his boss that she's trouble, and Audrey soon has her lover believing they are in love.
We see the murder case progress intermittently, but that's not the exciting part of the film. The thrill is watching the sexual exploits (only a few of which actually take place on screen) of Audrey and Bertrand, and the implied exploits of Audrey and whomever else in Monaco that's interested.
The unspoken friendship between Zem and Bertrand is also significant and plays out surprisingly in the last act, which takes the film from comedy to drama.
Aside from the mysterious nature of Zem and the motivation behind his actions, the film doesn't really leave you guessing much or even wanting more—but that's okay.
A little entertainment for the sake of entertainment is not always a bad thing in cinema.
~~~
Bertrand (Luchini) is a fiftysomething high-powered defense attorney that comes to Monaco to represent a wealthy old woman accused of murder. Within days of his arrival, that woman's son has insisted upon and provided him with Zem (Christophe Abadi), a bodyguard who slightly resembles President Obama.
Zem's presence is professional if not intrusive, as Bertrand is powerful in the courtroom but never in the hands of a beautiful woman.
Enter Audrey the Weather Girl (Louise Bourgoin). A classic blond gold digger in her 20s with her sights set on Bertrand and his paycheck. She rapidly seduces him, though Zem warns his boss that she's trouble, and Audrey soon has her lover believing they are in love.
We see the murder case progress intermittently, but that's not the exciting part of the film. The thrill is watching the sexual exploits (only a few of which actually take place on screen) of Audrey and Bertrand, and the implied exploits of Audrey and whomever else in Monaco that's interested.
The unspoken friendship between Zem and Bertrand is also significant and plays out surprisingly in the last act, which takes the film from comedy to drama.
Aside from the mysterious nature of Zem and the motivation behind his actions, the film doesn't really leave you guessing much or even wanting more—but that's okay.
A little entertainment for the sake of entertainment is not always a bad thing in cinema.
~~~
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