And your mother, too! This movie simply blew me away. It takes the horny teenage boy plus road trip trope out of Hollywood’s immature hands and turns it into a powerful mediation on life and death, class and politics, interior (personal) and exterior (world at large) realities. Americans can’t handle honest portrayals of sex (let alone much else) in their movies, which comes from an innate sense of prudish restraint and a penchant for substituting sensational gestures for raw emotion. This movie is pure raw emotion (which is not to say it is not intelligent). Some of the best scenes in the film, in my opinion, are the miniature departures from the main narrative – a funeral procession, a wedding, one of the characters’ hometowns – that provide context and new insights. Not the kind of connect-the-dots backstory you would get in an American movie (like, oh, he was abandoned as a child, that explains why he has difficulties forming emotional attachments), but rather the kinds of small details that are all too human. It’s the kind of movie that leaves you lying beaten up on the side of a dusty road breathing air into your lungs with a renewed gratitude at this miracle called life.
Filed under: Film | Tags: burn after reading, coen brothers, fargo, lebowski, no country
I’m finally allowing myself to admit there may be diminishing returns with every subsequent Coen brothers movie I view. It’s the formula that gets to me. For all their mastery of every aspect of the art of film – from script to soundtrack to direction to cinematography to editing – the plot of nearly every Coen brothers movie can be reduced to the single phrase: “Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.”
That said, I still laughed my ass off at Burn After Reading.
On a continuum of their films, with No Country representing the darkest extreme and Big Lebowski representing the lightest, and Fargo at dead center, I’d place it about midway between Fargo and Lebowski.
Brad Pitt, as always, is an unfortunate distraction in the proceedings. You know what it’s like: you’re trying to get into a movie but can’t get past the fact that Brad Pitt is there being Brad Pitt, all ham and fist, blocking you from actually connecting with the story.
And George Clooney. How many times is he going to play a fast-talking shifty womanizer for the Coen bros? I actually enjoyed it in Oh Brother, but it’s become a pretty thin schtick.
The others are top-notch, however. The Coens always seem to elicit the best from their crew. I thought Richard Jenkins in particular as the tragicomic gym manager with a somewhat unusual past played his role with superb understatement.
Filed under: Film, Sport, Surf | Tags: elvis, endless summer, laird hamilton, monster waves, riding giants
I’m not sure if it is possible to make a bad surf movie, given the subject matter. By surf movie, I am, of course, not referring to the ones from the 50s intermittently starring Elvis, though they had their charms. Those were beach movies. I’m talking about the genre of rambling surf documentaries initiated by Endless Summer.
Among its class, Riding Giants is above average. Given the subject matter – monster wave riding – the action is killer. I appreciated it for the well-executed history of surfing through to what the film presents as its natural end: the continued search for a bigger wave. Maybe a bit too much focus on Laird Hamilton, with no disrespect intended to what he’s accomplished.
Filed under: Film | Tags: darren aronofsky, gritty, mickey rourke, the wrestler
The Wrestler. A powerful, gritty film full of truth about the human condition. You can see how a slick but empty film like Slumdog Millionaire would trump a film like this in this grand ol’ America. We like our dreams glossy, our bodies pumped, and our mortgages subprime. But we’re going to pay for it much like Randy the Ram has to pay for it. The best we can hope for is to go out in a blaze of glory. This is a movie of consequence, about consequence. It has an astute eye for detail that brings you up close and personal with the characters. If the film is built out of archetypes and motifs that are tired and cliched (the down and out sports hero, the hooker with the heart of gold), it doesn’t matter. The art is in the execution, and Aronofsky (Pi, Requiem for a Dream) is one of the genius directors of our generation. And yes, Mickey Rourke is every bit as good as they say.
Milk. Should’ve been titled “Milquetoast”. Sean Penn gives a nuanced, immersive, ballsy performance. But then again, when does he not? Even so, the script and direction made it pretty hard to care about or feel anything one way or another about this Harvey Milk, let alone anyone else in the film. These are supposed to be 70s queers we’re talking about here. Maybe our society just can’t do “flamboyant” anymore – maybe it’s not politically correct to portray gays as queenish. Narrative follows the standard biopic formula note for note. It’s like watching a checklist of events. Dan White, as portrayed adequately by the talented Josh Brolin, is a vague figure with various stated motives, but I thought Brolin looked a little uncertain of where to take his character. This is criminal – if you read about Dan White, you realize his character is as abundant with potential as Milk – but both just come off as subdued, dull and flat. If you like movies that give you pause for thought about your plans for tomorrow, this one’s for you.
Children of Men: a pretty righteous sci-fi action thriller that succeeds on many levels. The fundamental concept behind the movie – the destructive nature of organizations and individuals willing to sacrifice others to achieve their own ends, even as they claim to champion basic human causes -
is vividly articulated, but never with an overly heavy hand. The idea of personal sanctuary in a dehumanizing landscape (best evoked by Jasper’s hideout) is also expressed in ways touching and intimate. Pacing: masterful. Choreography of some of the most brutal and shocking scenes: tremendous. One decanter of wine plus this movie equals an evening well-spent.
Filed under: Film, Hawaii, North Shore, Surf | Tags: cheese, North Shore, Surf
North Shore: massive nug of 80s cheese, rich like Velveeta. Kind of like the Karate Kid on a surfboard. Love the local color. And to be honest, it’s not all that far off the mark. As a haole with the kind of questionable surf skills possessed by Rick Kane at the outset of the story, I have had a couple close calls with the locals that were practically carbon copies of scenes in the movie.
“He so haole he doesn’t even know he haole.”
This is a film sure to draw a reaction from the audience. Its intent is to provoke, though one is not always sure what it is trying to say. This was my first encounter with Werner Herzog’s unique “oeuvre”, and I’m not entirely sure where to begin with commentary. On some levels, it has more in common with Spinal Tap than the so-called documentary genre to which it allegedly belongs. Herzog is a master at orchestrating absurdity and awkwardness. The scene in which one of the girlfriends of Treadwell (the doomed subject of the film) receives his still-running watch retrieved from his severed hand stands out as a shining example. The anti-poignancy and sheer woodenness of the moment is both riveting and hilarious.
But I believe there is much more depth to the movie that keeps it from descending to the level of a simple character assassination/exploitation, though clearly Herzog molds the story to match his intent. Treadwell’s story to me is more than a commentary on a sad freak at the fringes of society (though it is that, too), it is a peek at the futility of the human endeavor, a glimpse at the madness of human dreams, and a critique of our celebrity- and media-obsessed culture. I kept thinking, were Treadwell’s motives really so different from the exhibitionists who go on reality tv shows – or write blogs, for that matter?
A really fascinating portrait that will stay on your mind for some time after viewing.
I imagine the pitch coming across Danny Boyle’s desk: The Tourism Bureau of India invites you to film a movie in our country for the advancement of tourism to our developing nation. For the sum of _billion rupees, we propose to commission you to do for us what you did for heroin with Trainspotting. Do what you want for a story, we don’t particularly care. Just make us look damn sexy.
Danny Boyle, you have earned your money. Begging street urchins and extreme poverty never looked so unthreatening and, well, beautiful. And the Taj Mahal money shot was a real winner. Sure, it’s a rough and tumble culture, but none of that is actually real, because in this world evil thugs suddenly have convenient and unexplained changes of heart and die in a shootout, lying in a bathtub full of money to protect two other characters you barely even care about.
Slumdog clearly deserved the Oscar, because it fit so perfectly the archetypal Best Picture mold. It pantomimes depth without actually leaving the surface, it favors cheap emotion-tugging tactics over story and character development. I’d put it in the same category as Titanic.
Oh, and that dance scene at the end would appear pathetic to anyone who had ever seen a real Bollywood film – what were they thinking?
If you have a designerly bone in your body, you must see this beautiful documentary. Ostensibly about Helvetica, it uses the font more as a launchpad for discussing the evolution of typography and graphic design since the birth of the classic Swiss typeface. Helvetica, according to the film, is a stake in the ground that has been embraced, rejected, and returned to again and again over the last several decades. It is more than a font: a touchstone of fundamental design principles around which the “progress” of design continues to dance. Directed by Gary Hustwit, whose new film Objectified will no doubt equally amaze.
