A fervent wave of nostalgia overcame me each time the trailer for “Where the Wild Things Are” interrupted a T.V. show. Half a glance at the quadruple human-size fluffy monster in the sand with a freckled boy in a wolf suit awoke memories of mom reading with her spooky voice while I anticipated the cross-hatched forest beasts. The chanting chorus of a favorite Arcade Fire song made me feel at ease in my recognition, I was an educated white person born in the seventies that identified with a larger group of artsy young professionals, we could all celebrate Max’s originality (i.e. our own), a quality under-appreciated by the outside world. Max was our mascot in 2009.
In a career not unlike Michel Gondry’s, Spike Jonze has been known for directing Charlie Kaufman scripts (“Being John Malkovich” and “Adaptation” ) and many indie rock videos (Pavement, Bjork, the Beastie Boys). “Where the Wild Things Are” champions the winning aspects of Jonze’s previous work; the endless paradigms of Kauffman and the precise editing a music video here represent the chaos and beauty found only in a child’s imagination. Unfortunately, the book that represents so many of our American childhoods, was only 36 pages long, and contained but ten whole sentences, whereas Jonze’s film version is over an hour and half, demanding a thicker plot.
Jonze enlisted friend and celebrated author Dave Eggers for screenwriting help but the result feels forced. While vast landscapes of forests and deserts are interchanged under expert lighting on magnificent CGI muppets, the dialogue grows tiresome. A touching parallel between the monsters and Max’s family unit is not over-stated, but runs stale as another game of hand-held camera following Max running through the forest ensues. In this way the unnecessary plot lays flat on a series of beautiful images that need no justification. The debuting young actor (Max Records) is honest in his response to his new community, and especially real in his reactions to his mother and sister. For this reason, the opening scenes before Max’s descent into monster- land are the most poignant and interesting, further enhanced by Catherine Keener who plays a working single mom.
Thus you may ask whether or not this is a children’s movie. The countless mudslinging in the monster scenes of “Where the Wild Things Are” may interest a child more than an adult, but the intricate exposé of Max’s problems might fatigue a child before the monsters appear. While the book was written for the pre-literate, this is a film of generational nostalgia complete with the indie-rock score of the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s Karen O. a spokeswoman for many new alternative parents .
“Where the Wild Things Are” is certainly Spike Jonze’s most ambitious film to date, and his visual interpretation of a perfect children’s book adds new landscapes and realism to our faded memories. However, the specificity of Max’s familial fantasies and the sheer length of Max’s foray into his unique utopia/hell leaves the viewer believing once again the book is indeed better than the movie, and perhaps in this instance, the trailer is still better.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
"Thirst" by Park Chan-Wook
With all the teen-vampire fanaticism, the foreign art-film take on Dracula might pass you by. However, the Swedish Tomas Alfredson’s “Let the Right One In,” and the Korean Park Chan-Wook’s “Thirst” are original romances where bloodlust is anything but skin deep. Park is best known for his vengeance triology, (“Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance,” “Old Boy”, and “Sympathy for Lady Vengeance”). In these films, characters who are subjected to violence become heroes when they retaliate with elaborate murder schemes. One suffers through gore in his films’ first half, but the conclusive proof of justice is in fact more blood and pain. Eventually, the carnage becomes more delicious than disgusting, for it is all shed in the name of fairness.
The plot of “Thirst” is primarily shaped by Emil Zola’s Thérèse Raquin (1867). However, Park sets the naturalist French novel in modern day South Korea, and uses vampirism as a metaphor for the novel’s tragic, addictive love affair. Perhaps Park’s most inventive touch was to rewrite Zola’s Laurent, a gambler who can no longer afford the brothel, as a moral priest (Priest Sang-hyien is played by Kang-ho Sang, who also played the lead in Park’s 2002 breakthrough film, “Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance.”) The film openly references Robert Bresson’s 1951 classic “Diary of a Country Priest” as Sang-hyien explains his struggle to suppress sexual desire in a voice-over while vigorously writing in a journal. The priest punishes himself by whacking his penis with a wooden stick when it becomes erect. When this does not suffice, he participates in a dangerous medical study in South Africa. There, ignorant doctors infect Sang-hyien with the vampire virus through a blood transfusion. When he returns to Korea, his sexual desire for Tae-joo (Ok-viri Kim), the wife of his sickly childhood friend, marries a new obscene desire for human blood.
The sex scenes between Ok-viri Kim and Kang-ho Sang are reminiscent of the best of David Cronenberg and Catherine Breillat, exploring passion from both perspectives with animalistic flare. The sniffing, sucking, licking, and biting, is as audible as visual; in a particularly sensuous moment Sang-hyien gives two long strokes of the tongue to Tae-joo’s clean pale arm pit. The film is reliant on their chemistry, as their addiction to blood and to each other spawns the jealousy and torment that become their ultimate downfall. Kang-ho Sang’s striking good looks make him the seductive vampire, while his awkwardness and inconsistent righteousness, demonstrate his character’s contradiction. As in “Sympathy for Lady Vengeance,” Park transgresses gender roles to make the female lead a physical force with which to be reckoned. In fact, Tae-joo’s intermingles her desire for blood and her desire for revenge on her in-laws. Ok-viri Kim as Tae-joo shows timing and character development, first shy and needy, as a vampire she is bold and selfish with hunger. Blue costumes and white powder aid her transformation into a shining ravenous imp.
The violence of “Thirst” is not as startling or as realistic as Park’s best films, and the CGI that normally ties scenes together, at times appears too animated (when Tae-joo and Sang-hyien bounce from rooftop to rooftop one remembers early Nintendo.) Yet the characters’ complexity and strength, and the modernization of the 19th century storyline, render “Thirst” a fascinating chapter in the recent Global North vampire frenzy. Park Chan-Wook couples the actors’ intensity with self-awareness, directing a film that is as tragic and true as it is humorous.
The plot of “Thirst” is primarily shaped by Emil Zola’s Thérèse Raquin (1867). However, Park sets the naturalist French novel in modern day South Korea, and uses vampirism as a metaphor for the novel’s tragic, addictive love affair. Perhaps Park’s most inventive touch was to rewrite Zola’s Laurent, a gambler who can no longer afford the brothel, as a moral priest (Priest Sang-hyien is played by Kang-ho Sang, who also played the lead in Park’s 2002 breakthrough film, “Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance.”) The film openly references Robert Bresson’s 1951 classic “Diary of a Country Priest” as Sang-hyien explains his struggle to suppress sexual desire in a voice-over while vigorously writing in a journal. The priest punishes himself by whacking his penis with a wooden stick when it becomes erect. When this does not suffice, he participates in a dangerous medical study in South Africa. There, ignorant doctors infect Sang-hyien with the vampire virus through a blood transfusion. When he returns to Korea, his sexual desire for Tae-joo (Ok-viri Kim), the wife of his sickly childhood friend, marries a new obscene desire for human blood.
The sex scenes between Ok-viri Kim and Kang-ho Sang are reminiscent of the best of David Cronenberg and Catherine Breillat, exploring passion from both perspectives with animalistic flare. The sniffing, sucking, licking, and biting, is as audible as visual; in a particularly sensuous moment Sang-hyien gives two long strokes of the tongue to Tae-joo’s clean pale arm pit. The film is reliant on their chemistry, as their addiction to blood and to each other spawns the jealousy and torment that become their ultimate downfall. Kang-ho Sang’s striking good looks make him the seductive vampire, while his awkwardness and inconsistent righteousness, demonstrate his character’s contradiction. As in “Sympathy for Lady Vengeance,” Park transgresses gender roles to make the female lead a physical force with which to be reckoned. In fact, Tae-joo’s intermingles her desire for blood and her desire for revenge on her in-laws. Ok-viri Kim as Tae-joo shows timing and character development, first shy and needy, as a vampire she is bold and selfish with hunger. Blue costumes and white powder aid her transformation into a shining ravenous imp.
The violence of “Thirst” is not as startling or as realistic as Park’s best films, and the CGI that normally ties scenes together, at times appears too animated (when Tae-joo and Sang-hyien bounce from rooftop to rooftop one remembers early Nintendo.) Yet the characters’ complexity and strength, and the modernization of the 19th century storyline, render “Thirst” a fascinating chapter in the recent Global North vampire frenzy. Park Chan-Wook couples the actors’ intensity with self-awareness, directing a film that is as tragic and true as it is humorous.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
"The Silence of Lorna"
"The Silence of Lorna"
The Dardenne brothers, Luc and Jean-Pierre, first won international attention in 1996 with "La promesse", a film that dealt with Belgium’s clandestine immigration and which showcased the acting debut of the then 15-year-old, Jérémie Renier. Five films later, the Dardenne brothers are still exposing the misfortunes of immigrants and the extremely talented Jérémie Renier—now 28. However, as the title indicates, this film is Lorna’s story, a young Albanian immigrant, expertly played by Arta Dubroshi. Lorna immigrates to open a snack bar in Belgium with her boyfriend. However, her financial/citizenship path is paved by an international crook that arranges marriages for foreigners. Junkies are ideal for citizenship marriages, as they accept a small amount of cash in exchange for a ring, and usually die of an overdose within a year. Claudy (Renier) complicates the plan when he sincerely cares for Lorna and attempts to come clean. Lorna’s boss wants to force his overdose, and Lorna feels utterly responsible for Claudy’s life.
The inverse of Hollywood production, the Dardennes’ superb realism is captured with a single camera, natural lighting, and brilliantly honest performances. Dubroshi’s restrained expressions and blank stares convey Lorna’s internal conflict in the film’s first half. Eventually, Dubroshi exhibits Lorna’s conundrum with self-utterances and a fearful demeanor. "Le silence de Lorna" follows a social-realist tradition that comments on the unjust world; frequent shots of money affirm its unwavering importance, and Lorna’s final situation is the outcome of a long struggle to succeed in Western Europe.
The Dardenne brothers, Luc and Jean-Pierre, first won international attention in 1996 with "La promesse", a film that dealt with Belgium’s clandestine immigration and which showcased the acting debut of the then 15-year-old, Jérémie Renier. Five films later, the Dardenne brothers are still exposing the misfortunes of immigrants and the extremely talented Jérémie Renier—now 28. However, as the title indicates, this film is Lorna’s story, a young Albanian immigrant, expertly played by Arta Dubroshi. Lorna immigrates to open a snack bar in Belgium with her boyfriend. However, her financial/citizenship path is paved by an international crook that arranges marriages for foreigners. Junkies are ideal for citizenship marriages, as they accept a small amount of cash in exchange for a ring, and usually die of an overdose within a year. Claudy (Renier) complicates the plan when he sincerely cares for Lorna and attempts to come clean. Lorna’s boss wants to force his overdose, and Lorna feels utterly responsible for Claudy’s life.
The inverse of Hollywood production, the Dardennes’ superb realism is captured with a single camera, natural lighting, and brilliantly honest performances. Dubroshi’s restrained expressions and blank stares convey Lorna’s internal conflict in the film’s first half. Eventually, Dubroshi exhibits Lorna’s conundrum with self-utterances and a fearful demeanor. "Le silence de Lorna" follows a social-realist tradition that comments on the unjust world; frequent shots of money affirm its unwavering importance, and Lorna’s final situation is the outcome of a long struggle to succeed in Western Europe.
"Hump Day"
Hump Day
It might surprise viewers to know that the writer/director of "Humpday" is a woman. Lynn Sheldon’s independent feature is almost exclusively about men, and the awkward line where homosexuality and homosociality meet. Ben (Mark Duplass) is a newly wed happily contemplating the prospect of children when his wilder college buddy, Andrew (Joshua Leonard), shows up at his door. Soon after, Andrew finds a party of non-conformist artists and invites Ben along. Late in the night, after untucking his shirt and bong toking, Ben agrees to participate with Andrew in a home-video porn festival, Humpfest, claiming it is part of a larger statement of artistic integrity, straight men having gay sex.
What begins as intoxicated party babble, begins to take shape as a possible venture. The men question the project’s symbolic value; for Andrew it will mean the completion of a project, for Ben it will prove he is larger than his current lifestyle's suburban values. Still both men refuse to directly confront what their desire to participate in Humpfest might suggest about their sexuality. Lynn Sheldon teases the question, and makes every glance between the men questionable. This ambiguity troubles traditional audience expectations of male friendship, and satirizes the typical buddy flic. Nevertheless, the film is wrought with the purest cinema comedy, straight men pretending not to be…or perhaps, the reverse.
It might surprise viewers to know that the writer/director of "Humpday" is a woman. Lynn Sheldon’s independent feature is almost exclusively about men, and the awkward line where homosexuality and homosociality meet. Ben (Mark Duplass) is a newly wed happily contemplating the prospect of children when his wilder college buddy, Andrew (Joshua Leonard), shows up at his door. Soon after, Andrew finds a party of non-conformist artists and invites Ben along. Late in the night, after untucking his shirt and bong toking, Ben agrees to participate with Andrew in a home-video porn festival, Humpfest, claiming it is part of a larger statement of artistic integrity, straight men having gay sex.
What begins as intoxicated party babble, begins to take shape as a possible venture. The men question the project’s symbolic value; for Andrew it will mean the completion of a project, for Ben it will prove he is larger than his current lifestyle's suburban values. Still both men refuse to directly confront what their desire to participate in Humpfest might suggest about their sexuality. Lynn Sheldon teases the question, and makes every glance between the men questionable. This ambiguity troubles traditional audience expectations of male friendship, and satirizes the typical buddy flic. Nevertheless, the film is wrought with the purest cinema comedy, straight men pretending not to be…or perhaps, the reverse.
"Moon"
"Moon"
Much of the buzz surrounding "Moon" was due to the director’s famous rock-star dad, David Bowie. Indeed, it seems the apple does not fall far from the tree when it comes to pop mythologizing the outer-space: Bowie, aka Ziggy Stardust, starred as “the man who fell to earth” in Nicholas Roeg’s 1976 film and his son’s debut continues where his father’s space lore left off—late 70s/early 80s sci-fi is responsible for the film’s tone and look. In fact, Moon’s spacecraft could easily be a replica of Alien’s Nostromo. Furthermore, the space scenes are done exclusively with models, dismissing today’s “realism” to recall a time before CGI.
A script that draws on themes found in 2001 and Solyaris further enhances this nostalgic return to a bygone era of sci-fi. Sam Rockwell plays Sam Bell whose dualism lies in more than his role’s true-to-life first name. A lone technician who sends masses of a fuel source from the moon to earth, his sole conversation mate is his computer, Gerti (Kevin Spacey), who responds to Sam’s need for human interaction with dead-pan comic relief. When a crash occurs, and Sam Bell recovers to be awoken by his doppelganger, a competition ensues; who will be the real Sam Bell, Sam or Sam? Sam Rockwell’s performance seems incredibly human, especially when his character(s) struggles with the concept of not being so. The film retains some optimism where it might have spiraled into dystopia and is likewise an auspicious debut for its director, Duncan Jones.
Much of the buzz surrounding "Moon" was due to the director’s famous rock-star dad, David Bowie. Indeed, it seems the apple does not fall far from the tree when it comes to pop mythologizing the outer-space: Bowie, aka Ziggy Stardust, starred as “the man who fell to earth” in Nicholas Roeg’s 1976 film and his son’s debut continues where his father’s space lore left off—late 70s/early 80s sci-fi is responsible for the film’s tone and look. In fact, Moon’s spacecraft could easily be a replica of Alien’s Nostromo. Furthermore, the space scenes are done exclusively with models, dismissing today’s “realism” to recall a time before CGI.
A script that draws on themes found in 2001 and Solyaris further enhances this nostalgic return to a bygone era of sci-fi. Sam Rockwell plays Sam Bell whose dualism lies in more than his role’s true-to-life first name. A lone technician who sends masses of a fuel source from the moon to earth, his sole conversation mate is his computer, Gerti (Kevin Spacey), who responds to Sam’s need for human interaction with dead-pan comic relief. When a crash occurs, and Sam Bell recovers to be awoken by his doppelganger, a competition ensues; who will be the real Sam Bell, Sam or Sam? Sam Rockwell’s performance seems incredibly human, especially when his character(s) struggles with the concept of not being so. The film retains some optimism where it might have spiraled into dystopia and is likewise an auspicious debut for its director, Duncan Jones.
Funny People
Funny People
Judd Apatow’s third feature aspires to be deeper than his usual comedy fare. In his previous films, the 40-year-old Virgin and Knocked-up, immature men (virgin) (pothead) prove to be adults, when becoming capable of long-term romantic relationships (i.e. marriage and kids). Funny People follows a similar tract except this time the long-term relationship is a friendship/mentorship between male comedians. The drama quotient is a fear of death underscoring a plethora of dick jokes. A rich and famous film star, George Simmons (Adam Sandler), hits bottom when diagnosed with a rare and deadly disease. Hoping to put new blood into his career, he hires a young struggling comedian Ira Wright (Seth Rogan) to write jokes. This offers Ira opportunities he’d only dreamed of: sharing a bill with James Taylor, flying in a private jet. The payoff is Ira must keep George Simmons from being alone, which means accompanying him to the doctor’s office, and sitting by his bed side to talk him to sleep, a heady feat for the boy-come-man.
Rogan and Sandler share a particular brand of goofball humor that compliments their on-screen chemistry. Unfortunately, an unnecessary romantic subplot detracts from the film’s comedy and/or the profound statements about comedy the film almost makes. When Simmons is ill he refinds his lost true love Laura (Leslie Mann), who is now married with children. Their tryst proffers many problems for the married mom, and after several days of struggle (and nearly an hour of screen time) she decides that her marriage is more important than true love and dumps Simmons to keep her husband, a cheating Australian trader. The audience sympathizes with Ira as he steers George away from ruining the “happy” family. In this way, Apatow demonstrates his family values yet again. Funny People is not as hilarious as Apatow’s previous features, but when the film is the most interesting, it scrapes off the surface of celebrity status and the joke-writing industry.
Judd Apatow’s third feature aspires to be deeper than his usual comedy fare. In his previous films, the 40-year-old Virgin and Knocked-up, immature men (virgin) (pothead) prove to be adults, when becoming capable of long-term romantic relationships (i.e. marriage and kids). Funny People follows a similar tract except this time the long-term relationship is a friendship/mentorship between male comedians. The drama quotient is a fear of death underscoring a plethora of dick jokes. A rich and famous film star, George Simmons (Adam Sandler), hits bottom when diagnosed with a rare and deadly disease. Hoping to put new blood into his career, he hires a young struggling comedian Ira Wright (Seth Rogan) to write jokes. This offers Ira opportunities he’d only dreamed of: sharing a bill with James Taylor, flying in a private jet. The payoff is Ira must keep George Simmons from being alone, which means accompanying him to the doctor’s office, and sitting by his bed side to talk him to sleep, a heady feat for the boy-come-man.
Rogan and Sandler share a particular brand of goofball humor that compliments their on-screen chemistry. Unfortunately, an unnecessary romantic subplot detracts from the film’s comedy and/or the profound statements about comedy the film almost makes. When Simmons is ill he refinds his lost true love Laura (Leslie Mann), who is now married with children. Their tryst proffers many problems for the married mom, and after several days of struggle (and nearly an hour of screen time) she decides that her marriage is more important than true love and dumps Simmons to keep her husband, a cheating Australian trader. The audience sympathizes with Ira as he steers George away from ruining the “happy” family. In this way, Apatow demonstrates his family values yet again. Funny People is not as hilarious as Apatow’s previous features, but when the film is the most interesting, it scrapes off the surface of celebrity status and the joke-writing industry.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
The French Academy Awards, the Césars
French Cinema in 2008, at the César awards.
My expectations for the 2008 César awards were high. If the French made better films, dressed better and spoke a better language, then surely their Academy Awards would be superior. What’s more I was suffering from cinema depression; a week earlier I had watched the Oscars; grimacing at Hugh Jackman’s song and dance numbers and feigning surprise when "Slumdog Millionaire" slam-dunked a year of mediocre Hollywood. I needed cinema affirmation.
Initially, I thought my expectations were met when 2008 president of the César Awards, Charlotte Gainsbourg, pencil-thin in black glitter with a luscious pout and long disheveled bangs, introduced the ceremony with all the style and elegance of her model mom and rock-star dad. However as soon as the epitome of chic left the stage her foil appeared, Antoine de Caunes, comedian and TV personality, speaking in a high-pitched Muppet voice—you know the French love Jerry Lewis! Unfortunately, though I had survived the Hugh Jackman and Béyoncé butchering of the musical into a Oscar medley the week before, I now found myself watching a budget-cut French version of the same routine; de Caunes cockled “Singin’ in the Rain” with his strangled-chicken voice, while gleefully splashing in puddles of stage-rain.
Why sing a song from an American musical in English at a French film award ceremony? France prides itself on inventing film, n’est-ce pas? Perhaps the answer could be found in the camera constantly panning the American stars Dustin Hoffman and Sean Penn. In fact, as soon as de Caunes took his raincoat off and yelled in English “the musical is back!” he informed the audience that The Sean Penn was present. The audience then applauded even more than they had for his wet chicken song when de Caunes interrupted in English again to say “Yooo air so fucking grrrate man!” Yes, Hollywood and its Oscars were never far away from the César award ceremony, and as Gertrude Stein once said, “An award ceremony is an award ceremony is an award ceremony…”
And is Hollywood far enough away from contemporary French film? French cinema in 2008 was dominated by gender types: the gangster film ("Public Enemy no. 1" and "the Death Instinct") and the fragile female sanity ("Sassarine"). That is to say, the year’s most celebrated films did not break any formal rules and primarily repeated clichés established across the pond. In fact the most original French film of 2008, came from a director of yester-year. Founding New-Wave left-bank director, Agnès Varda, made "Les plages de Agnès" ("The Beaches of Agnès") to celebrate her life, loves, and career at 80 years of age.
My expectations for the 2008 César awards were high. If the French made better films, dressed better and spoke a better language, then surely their Academy Awards would be superior. What’s more I was suffering from cinema depression; a week earlier I had watched the Oscars; grimacing at Hugh Jackman’s song and dance numbers and feigning surprise when "Slumdog Millionaire" slam-dunked a year of mediocre Hollywood. I needed cinema affirmation.
Initially, I thought my expectations were met when 2008 president of the César Awards, Charlotte Gainsbourg, pencil-thin in black glitter with a luscious pout and long disheveled bangs, introduced the ceremony with all the style and elegance of her model mom and rock-star dad. However as soon as the epitome of chic left the stage her foil appeared, Antoine de Caunes, comedian and TV personality, speaking in a high-pitched Muppet voice—you know the French love Jerry Lewis! Unfortunately, though I had survived the Hugh Jackman and Béyoncé butchering of the musical into a Oscar medley the week before, I now found myself watching a budget-cut French version of the same routine; de Caunes cockled “Singin’ in the Rain” with his strangled-chicken voice, while gleefully splashing in puddles of stage-rain.
Why sing a song from an American musical in English at a French film award ceremony? France prides itself on inventing film, n’est-ce pas? Perhaps the answer could be found in the camera constantly panning the American stars Dustin Hoffman and Sean Penn. In fact, as soon as de Caunes took his raincoat off and yelled in English “the musical is back!” he informed the audience that The Sean Penn was present. The audience then applauded even more than they had for his wet chicken song when de Caunes interrupted in English again to say “Yooo air so fucking grrrate man!” Yes, Hollywood and its Oscars were never far away from the César award ceremony, and as Gertrude Stein once said, “An award ceremony is an award ceremony is an award ceremony…”
And is Hollywood far enough away from contemporary French film? French cinema in 2008 was dominated by gender types: the gangster film ("Public Enemy no. 1" and "the Death Instinct") and the fragile female sanity ("Sassarine"). That is to say, the year’s most celebrated films did not break any formal rules and primarily repeated clichés established across the pond. In fact the most original French film of 2008, came from a director of yester-year. Founding New-Wave left-bank director, Agnès Varda, made "Les plages de Agnès" ("The Beaches of Agnès") to celebrate her life, loves, and career at 80 years of age.
"Les Plages d'Agnès" ("The Beaches of Agnès")
Les Plages d’Agnès
"Les Plages d’Agnès" won the César for best documentary, though the film defies categorization. While Varda revisits nearly all of her films in the 110-minute feature with clips and commentary, she also reflects on her life’s pleasures, sorrows, dreams and fantasies. Several times she makes old photographs new on film by finding actors to play herself as a child and as a young woman. She then interacts and poses with them in New Wave style—never shying away from showing the director directing, or revealing the camera to the camera. This approach is not a jarring demystification of cinema as it was in the 60s. In this autobiographical film that traces the mind of Varda, the mise-en-abyme welcomes the audience and then holds them deep inside a rich imagination. In this way, "Les Plages d’Agnès" liberates cinema from common formulas and paradigms, and offers Varda the ultimate expression. Mortality is especially present in several of the film’s most poignant moments; while Varda throws single red roses at photographs she took in the 50s of great actors from the National Theater, she sobs that although the photographs give others happiness, they bring her a sense of sorrow because these great actors once young and beautiful are now dead and gone. The death of her late husband, Jacques Demy, from AIDS is a returning source of sadness in the film, and the viewer feels the stark loneliness of turning 80 alone. However, "Les Plages d’Agnès" spirals and circles through reality and art, past work and celebrity encounters, never dwelling on death or its proximity. Agnès Varda, the wise fairy, guides us through a self-portrait of her creativity, celebrating the joy of life and its pains in equal measure.
"Les Plages d’Agnès" won the César for best documentary, though the film defies categorization. While Varda revisits nearly all of her films in the 110-minute feature with clips and commentary, she also reflects on her life’s pleasures, sorrows, dreams and fantasies. Several times she makes old photographs new on film by finding actors to play herself as a child and as a young woman. She then interacts and poses with them in New Wave style—never shying away from showing the director directing, or revealing the camera to the camera. This approach is not a jarring demystification of cinema as it was in the 60s. In this autobiographical film that traces the mind of Varda, the mise-en-abyme welcomes the audience and then holds them deep inside a rich imagination. In this way, "Les Plages d’Agnès" liberates cinema from common formulas and paradigms, and offers Varda the ultimate expression. Mortality is especially present in several of the film’s most poignant moments; while Varda throws single red roses at photographs she took in the 50s of great actors from the National Theater, she sobs that although the photographs give others happiness, they bring her a sense of sorrow because these great actors once young and beautiful are now dead and gone. The death of her late husband, Jacques Demy, from AIDS is a returning source of sadness in the film, and the viewer feels the stark loneliness of turning 80 alone. However, "Les Plages d’Agnès" spirals and circles through reality and art, past work and celebrity encounters, never dwelling on death or its proximity. Agnès Varda, the wise fairy, guides us through a self-portrait of her creativity, celebrating the joy of life and its pains in equal measure.
"Versailles" by Pierre Schöeller
"Versailles"
Though Varda speaks of her sejours in Cuba and China shortly after their revolutions in "Les Plages" (see review above), she hardly mentions the Algerian War in which France was directly involved during one of her most celebrated periods (1954-1962). In general, directors in the French cinema of 2008 were political, but less than recent years ("Caché" (2005), "Les Indigènes" (2006), "L’ennemi intime" (2008). This year directors allowed viewers to make associations without forcing an ideology. "Versailles", Pierre Schöeller’s first film, did discuss poverty in France, but primarily received attention due to the surprise death of its starring protagonist, Guillame Depardieu. (Guillame, son of Gérard, had a motorcycle crash in October and could not recover due to drug and alcohol abuse.) In fact, French reviews discussed Depardieu’s performance, which won a César nomination and the film’s subtle cinematography, but did not contemplate the film’s social commentary.
The first half of the narrative of "Versailles" centers on the destitute taking shelter in the woods surrounding the palace of Louis XIV. Homeless Nina (Judith Chemla) wanders aimlessly through the Versailles forest with her young son (Max Baissette de Malglaive) when she finds Damien (Depardieu) dressed poor but Calvin Kleinish—in all black with greasy hair—who welcomes the mom to his shack to shack up. However, when Damien awakes from post-coital slumber he finds Nina has left him alone with her excessively cute pre-verbal son. After the boy’s adorableness wears Damien down, he figuratively becomes the boy’s father and decides to leave the squatter camping lifestyle for a prodigal return. It is thereby revealed that Damien had upper middle-class beginnings and opportunities and the homeless romp was a rebellious angst phase.
Although other homeless campers are featured in the film’s first half, Damien’s middle-class roots prompt a larger question: Is squatting simply a way to challenge the capitalist system? Or is it in fact endemic in a society with a 10% unemployment rate? When Nina abandons her son, she easily finds a respectable job caring for the elderly, suggesting that homelessness and unemployment are a choice—at least for the young attractive white French characters that represent the homeless in "Versailles". Schöeller enforces this understanding of poverty as rebelliousness by casting Guillame Depardieu, who was rumored to have a temper and drug problems long before his death. The actor has the intimating presence of his father, with a much slighter frame, and his anger and frustration at parenting the foundling and at his own parents’ bourgeois lifestyle, demonstrate the predictable but believable acting style characteristic of the Depardieu family. It is the sublime cinematography of nature in the first half of the film that is more interesting than the acting or the storyline. The Versailles grounds offer cinematographer Julien Hirsh plenty of opportunities to boast his understanding of natural light, also demonstrated in Pascale Ferran's "Lady Chatterley" (2006).
Though Varda speaks of her sejours in Cuba and China shortly after their revolutions in "Les Plages" (see review above), she hardly mentions the Algerian War in which France was directly involved during one of her most celebrated periods (1954-1962). In general, directors in the French cinema of 2008 were political, but less than recent years ("Caché" (2005), "Les Indigènes" (2006), "L’ennemi intime" (2008). This year directors allowed viewers to make associations without forcing an ideology. "Versailles", Pierre Schöeller’s first film, did discuss poverty in France, but primarily received attention due to the surprise death of its starring protagonist, Guillame Depardieu. (Guillame, son of Gérard, had a motorcycle crash in October and could not recover due to drug and alcohol abuse.) In fact, French reviews discussed Depardieu’s performance, which won a César nomination and the film’s subtle cinematography, but did not contemplate the film’s social commentary.
The first half of the narrative of "Versailles" centers on the destitute taking shelter in the woods surrounding the palace of Louis XIV. Homeless Nina (Judith Chemla) wanders aimlessly through the Versailles forest with her young son (Max Baissette de Malglaive) when she finds Damien (Depardieu) dressed poor but Calvin Kleinish—in all black with greasy hair—who welcomes the mom to his shack to shack up. However, when Damien awakes from post-coital slumber he finds Nina has left him alone with her excessively cute pre-verbal son. After the boy’s adorableness wears Damien down, he figuratively becomes the boy’s father and decides to leave the squatter camping lifestyle for a prodigal return. It is thereby revealed that Damien had upper middle-class beginnings and opportunities and the homeless romp was a rebellious angst phase.
Although other homeless campers are featured in the film’s first half, Damien’s middle-class roots prompt a larger question: Is squatting simply a way to challenge the capitalist system? Or is it in fact endemic in a society with a 10% unemployment rate? When Nina abandons her son, she easily finds a respectable job caring for the elderly, suggesting that homelessness and unemployment are a choice—at least for the young attractive white French characters that represent the homeless in "Versailles". Schöeller enforces this understanding of poverty as rebelliousness by casting Guillame Depardieu, who was rumored to have a temper and drug problems long before his death. The actor has the intimating presence of his father, with a much slighter frame, and his anger and frustration at parenting the foundling and at his own parents’ bourgeois lifestyle, demonstrate the predictable but believable acting style characteristic of the Depardieu family. It is the sublime cinematography of nature in the first half of the film that is more interesting than the acting or the storyline. The Versailles grounds offer cinematographer Julien Hirsh plenty of opportunities to boast his understanding of natural light, also demonstrated in Pascale Ferran's "Lady Chatterley" (2006).
Saturday, April 11, 2009
The Mesrine films by Jean-François Richet
"L'instinct de mort" ("The Death Instinct" and "L'ennemi public no.1" ("Public Ennemy Number 1")
Guillame Depardieu died in the year he was nominated for the César for best actor (see above for review of "Versailles"). However, despite the tragic real-life drama, Depardieu could not win the César over Vincent Cassel’s performance as Jacques Mesrine in the most popular French films of 2008, "L’instinct de mort" ("Death instinct") and "L’ennemi public no.1" ("Public Enemy Number 1"). The two films together form a bio-pic of France’s most famous criminal, a bank robber at his peak in the 70s, who increased his fame by escaping twice from prison and interviewing with top-selling magazines such as “Paris Match.” The films are based on Mesrine’s autobiography but heavily adapted by screenwriter Abdel Raouf Dafri who also directed a violent ghetto (banlieue) tv series “La commune.” The film follows a gangster formula, complete with car chases, gunfights, and suitcases of cash, but also takes on the prison-escape genre.
Although both films primarily glorify Mesrine, there are also frequent allusions to the Algerian War that seek our attention. L’instinct de mort begins where Mesrine learns to kill, Algerian War. Mesrine as a soldier, follows orders to torture and kill supposed FLN members in a prison, but shows his gallant side when he kills a male Algerian instead of a female. When he returns from war, Mesrine is bored by his employment possibilities and enticed by the money and women of the gangster lifestyle. He begins killing for mob boss Guido (Gérard Depardieu), who incidently is part of the OAS (Organization of the Secret Army) and they shoot Arabs together while jeering racist insults. Near the end of the second film, "L’ennemi public no.1", Mesrine decides to kill a right-wing journalist who has contradicted him. With another prison escapee who is also a left-wing activist, Mesrine meets the journalist at a cave entrance, and then baits the journalist inside, by offering an interview. After verbally assaulting him, Mesrine straggles the journalist with a scarf saying, “You want to know what I learned in the Algerian War, I’ll teach you.”
The symbolism of the sequence is overt; the French killed many Algerians who were hiding in caves with bombs, and strangulation was a common torture technique. Thus the murder of the journalist completely subverts the racism against Arabs demonstrated in the first film, and ensures the audience’s forgiveness. If Mesrine kills Arabs by order or for money in part I, before the end of his life he does penance by torturing and assassinating a xenophobic nationalist mouthpiece. Mesrine does not suffer for the crimes he committed during the Algerian War, but takes vengeance on their interpretation in the years following Algeria’s liberation. The likes of this journalist and his politics, which recall the National Front, could easily be found in contemporary French media. This makes the brutal murder more engaging for the 2008 public, and doubles their respect for the hero.
Cassel executes Mesrine’s bow legged swagger and fast-paced Parisian slang with the bravado indicative of his character’s criminal career. Cassel was so dedicated to the role that he gained a true pot belly, which is exposed in several pretzel love scenes, for authenticity. This achievement garnered Cassel the César for best actor, and Jean-François Richet, the director in charge of the impersonation and all the action editing, a César for best director. However, though the Mesrine features were the most successful films at the French box office in 2008, they did not win the board’s selection for best picture. It was Mesrine’s alter-ego Séraphine (Yolande Moreau), an early 20th century maid come primitive artist, who walked the stage for best actress, and her film ("Séraphine") which stole the best film trophy from the bank robber. In this instance the César committee did yield to the Hollywood pressure of the action film, but transgressed the box office to award a lesser-known biographical film on a lesser-known artist.
Guillame Depardieu died in the year he was nominated for the César for best actor (see above for review of "Versailles"). However, despite the tragic real-life drama, Depardieu could not win the César over Vincent Cassel’s performance as Jacques Mesrine in the most popular French films of 2008, "L’instinct de mort" ("Death instinct") and "L’ennemi public no.1" ("Public Enemy Number 1"). The two films together form a bio-pic of France’s most famous criminal, a bank robber at his peak in the 70s, who increased his fame by escaping twice from prison and interviewing with top-selling magazines such as “Paris Match.” The films are based on Mesrine’s autobiography but heavily adapted by screenwriter Abdel Raouf Dafri who also directed a violent ghetto (banlieue) tv series “La commune.” The film follows a gangster formula, complete with car chases, gunfights, and suitcases of cash, but also takes on the prison-escape genre.
Although both films primarily glorify Mesrine, there are also frequent allusions to the Algerian War that seek our attention. L’instinct de mort begins where Mesrine learns to kill, Algerian War. Mesrine as a soldier, follows orders to torture and kill supposed FLN members in a prison, but shows his gallant side when he kills a male Algerian instead of a female. When he returns from war, Mesrine is bored by his employment possibilities and enticed by the money and women of the gangster lifestyle. He begins killing for mob boss Guido (Gérard Depardieu), who incidently is part of the OAS (Organization of the Secret Army) and they shoot Arabs together while jeering racist insults. Near the end of the second film, "L’ennemi public no.1", Mesrine decides to kill a right-wing journalist who has contradicted him. With another prison escapee who is also a left-wing activist, Mesrine meets the journalist at a cave entrance, and then baits the journalist inside, by offering an interview. After verbally assaulting him, Mesrine straggles the journalist with a scarf saying, “You want to know what I learned in the Algerian War, I’ll teach you.”
The symbolism of the sequence is overt; the French killed many Algerians who were hiding in caves with bombs, and strangulation was a common torture technique. Thus the murder of the journalist completely subverts the racism against Arabs demonstrated in the first film, and ensures the audience’s forgiveness. If Mesrine kills Arabs by order or for money in part I, before the end of his life he does penance by torturing and assassinating a xenophobic nationalist mouthpiece. Mesrine does not suffer for the crimes he committed during the Algerian War, but takes vengeance on their interpretation in the years following Algeria’s liberation. The likes of this journalist and his politics, which recall the National Front, could easily be found in contemporary French media. This makes the brutal murder more engaging for the 2008 public, and doubles their respect for the hero.
Cassel executes Mesrine’s bow legged swagger and fast-paced Parisian slang with the bravado indicative of his character’s criminal career. Cassel was so dedicated to the role that he gained a true pot belly, which is exposed in several pretzel love scenes, for authenticity. This achievement garnered Cassel the César for best actor, and Jean-François Richet, the director in charge of the impersonation and all the action editing, a César for best director. However, though the Mesrine features were the most successful films at the French box office in 2008, they did not win the board’s selection for best picture. It was Mesrine’s alter-ego Séraphine (Yolande Moreau), an early 20th century maid come primitive artist, who walked the stage for best actress, and her film ("Séraphine") which stole the best film trophy from the bank robber. In this instance the César committee did yield to the Hollywood pressure of the action film, but transgressed the box office to award a lesser-known biographical film on a lesser-known artist.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
"Gomorra": The world is the Camorras
“Gomorra” opens with a surprise mafia shoot-down, at of all places, a tanning salon. Stocky men in panties lather themselves with oil, unsuspicious of the cancerous blue light, or the mafia brother behind them with a gun in his trunks. This opening sequence rolls before credits or even an establishing shot, and represents the film’s revisionist turn in cinema. For the gangster tan, like the gangster film, is a false image that has become a commodity. But just as the tans are revealed as artificial, the next two hours of “Gomorrah” prove Hollywood’s stylish rendition of mafia violence an utter lie with dire consequences. Now, at long last, Hollywood’s gangster film has a contender, for the distant Italian reality of mafia devastation in Naples has shown cinema its face. With no apologies, kindness, or glamour, “Gomorra” exposes how the omnipotent Camorra gang controls Naples and all of its layers, (tunnels, highways, and quarries) with five interrelated narratives of corruption.
Though the tanning salon does not appear again, it remains an important symbol; for the film significantly treats body-conscious teens that are lured into the gang-life by its superficial trappings, (clothing, motorbikes, and cars). One is reminded of Truffaut’s “400 Coups” when Toto (who appears to be thirteen or fourteen) stares in the mirror during several long-takes, however this time the conclusion is less open, and more disturbing (eventually Toto decides the Camorra gang is a more important family than his own). If “Scarface,” the 1932 Hawks’ version or the De Palma production of 1983, fetishized the gangster life by violently destroying the American moral code, “Gomorra” now annihilates this perversion. Two teen boys who quote “Scarface” while playing guns, and believe that “the world is yours” sign might as well be placed on their block in Naples, die a gruesome death for their innocent belief in the Hollywood gangster and the guns and coke that added authentencity to their Tony Montana impersonations. (Evidently, De Palma gave permission for this use of “Scarface,” but I cannot find his reaction to “Gomorra.”)
The film is not only about teens; a large portion of the film, and a still larger portion of the book on which “Gomorra” is based, explain how haute couture is essentially a mob enterprise, and how the dumping of toxic waste is not regulated by the government but orchestrated underground by the Mafioso. The violence in “Gomorrah” is primarily aural, this is not to say that the images of death and gunfire do not equal that of any mob flick staple, but that the sound design is the most emphatic and terrifying to date. By the end of the film, the frequent gunfire and bloody web of narratives have frazzled and affronted the spectator. This makes the didactic series of statistics a welcome solidifying summary of what you have learned; the numbers are clear, the mob is bad and controls everything in Italy. But despite the fast heartbeat and loose editing, one is the wiser for viewing “Gormorra.” Matteo Garrone’s film translation of Robert Saviano’s book, is an overdue response to Hollywood’s vision of the Italian gangster, and an important film puzzle piece to the truth of global corruption, its sides snugly touching “Syriana” and “City of God.”
Though the tanning salon does not appear again, it remains an important symbol; for the film significantly treats body-conscious teens that are lured into the gang-life by its superficial trappings, (clothing, motorbikes, and cars). One is reminded of Truffaut’s “400 Coups” when Toto (who appears to be thirteen or fourteen) stares in the mirror during several long-takes, however this time the conclusion is less open, and more disturbing (eventually Toto decides the Camorra gang is a more important family than his own). If “Scarface,” the 1932 Hawks’ version or the De Palma production of 1983, fetishized the gangster life by violently destroying the American moral code, “Gomorra” now annihilates this perversion. Two teen boys who quote “Scarface” while playing guns, and believe that “the world is yours” sign might as well be placed on their block in Naples, die a gruesome death for their innocent belief in the Hollywood gangster and the guns and coke that added authentencity to their Tony Montana impersonations. (Evidently, De Palma gave permission for this use of “Scarface,” but I cannot find his reaction to “Gomorra.”)
The film is not only about teens; a large portion of the film, and a still larger portion of the book on which “Gomorra” is based, explain how haute couture is essentially a mob enterprise, and how the dumping of toxic waste is not regulated by the government but orchestrated underground by the Mafioso. The violence in “Gomorrah” is primarily aural, this is not to say that the images of death and gunfire do not equal that of any mob flick staple, but that the sound design is the most emphatic and terrifying to date. By the end of the film, the frequent gunfire and bloody web of narratives have frazzled and affronted the spectator. This makes the didactic series of statistics a welcome solidifying summary of what you have learned; the numbers are clear, the mob is bad and controls everything in Italy. But despite the fast heartbeat and loose editing, one is the wiser for viewing “Gormorra.” Matteo Garrone’s film translation of Robert Saviano’s book, is an overdue response to Hollywood’s vision of the Italian gangster, and an important film puzzle piece to the truth of global corruption, its sides snugly touching “Syriana” and “City of God.”
Friday, January 16, 2009
Vintage Eastwood in “The Gran Torino”
Vintage Eastwood in “The Gran Torino”
“The Gran Torino” refers to a vintage ’72 car protected by a feeble garage and the gun power of its owner, Korean War vet Walt Kolwalkski, (Clint Eastwood.) Everyone longs for a chance to drive the mint condition Gran Torino, including Walt’s materialistic son and suburban nightmare family, his painfully shy teenage neighbor, and the violent gang of Hmong gangsters, who like Walt, tote guns. Just as everyone in the film yearns to cruise the prized vintage Ford, “Gran Torrino”’s target audience craves vintage Eastwood. Strumming memories of Dirty Harry, Eastwood as Walt delivers countless versions of “Make my day” (now the word “goon” is added) and squints with every bit of the same severity.
Although the dialogue in Nick Schenk’s first screenplay’s frequently proves amateur, the plot itself offers a modern if simplistic view of American society in 2008: Sr. citizen Walt, who embodies the racism of his generation, has outlived his wife and is the only white man left in his deteriorating, now Chinese, neighborhood. At long last Walt confronts his prejudice when he accidentally becomes friends with the Chinese family next door while protecting (by chance) their awkward teenage son (Thao played by Bee Vang) from Hmong gangsters. The choice of the Hmongs as the community in anguish reveals a Hollywood orientalism (the Hmong culture makes for an exotic contrast to Walt’s, and the audience’s, middle-American values.) However, the Hmong decision was primarily practical; the “n” word is still unacceptable, and even at 78, Eastwood can tower over the diminutive Hmongs.
In “Gran Torino” the elderly but fit Eastwood recaptures the allure of his past roles. Though Eastwood was 37 years younger when he developed the iconographic Harry Callahan under Don Siegal, and younger still when he built his tough cowboy appeal (“Rawhide”, “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,”) in “Gran Torino” the cold call to justice is rejuvenated as a crotchety old man. If Eastwood’s lines and performance are predictable, they are doubly comic, for each time nostalgia is retrieved an element of spoof results. (In fact, today the Union Square audience roared at each of Walt’s threats and bigoted insults.)
David Schwartz in his interview complimented Eastwood by saying “Gran Torino” resembled classic Hollywood. Yes, there are many long shots of the neighborhood, the story holds a moral, and the characters (other than Walt) are flat types. However, the film is primarily a vehicle for Eastwood (and his public) to relive his acting-glory days. Eastwood has perfected the delivery and timing of the quiet, vengeful rebel and is further aided by a script tailor-made for him (according to Eastwood, screen-writer Schenk hunted down his agent.) “Gran Torino” does not rival any of Eastwood’s recent directorial gems, (“Million Dollar Baby,” “Mystic River,” “Flags of our Fathers”) but it does make an interesting bookend for Eastwood's silent and angry persona.
“The Gran Torino” refers to a vintage ’72 car protected by a feeble garage and the gun power of its owner, Korean War vet Walt Kolwalkski, (Clint Eastwood.) Everyone longs for a chance to drive the mint condition Gran Torino, including Walt’s materialistic son and suburban nightmare family, his painfully shy teenage neighbor, and the violent gang of Hmong gangsters, who like Walt, tote guns. Just as everyone in the film yearns to cruise the prized vintage Ford, “Gran Torrino”’s target audience craves vintage Eastwood. Strumming memories of Dirty Harry, Eastwood as Walt delivers countless versions of “Make my day” (now the word “goon” is added) and squints with every bit of the same severity.
Although the dialogue in Nick Schenk’s first screenplay’s frequently proves amateur, the plot itself offers a modern if simplistic view of American society in 2008: Sr. citizen Walt, who embodies the racism of his generation, has outlived his wife and is the only white man left in his deteriorating, now Chinese, neighborhood. At long last Walt confronts his prejudice when he accidentally becomes friends with the Chinese family next door while protecting (by chance) their awkward teenage son (Thao played by Bee Vang) from Hmong gangsters. The choice of the Hmongs as the community in anguish reveals a Hollywood orientalism (the Hmong culture makes for an exotic contrast to Walt’s, and the audience’s, middle-American values.) However, the Hmong decision was primarily practical; the “n” word is still unacceptable, and even at 78, Eastwood can tower over the diminutive Hmongs.
In “Gran Torino” the elderly but fit Eastwood recaptures the allure of his past roles. Though Eastwood was 37 years younger when he developed the iconographic Harry Callahan under Don Siegal, and younger still when he built his tough cowboy appeal (“Rawhide”, “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,”) in “Gran Torino” the cold call to justice is rejuvenated as a crotchety old man. If Eastwood’s lines and performance are predictable, they are doubly comic, for each time nostalgia is retrieved an element of spoof results. (In fact, today the Union Square audience roared at each of Walt’s threats and bigoted insults.)
David Schwartz in his interview complimented Eastwood by saying “Gran Torino” resembled classic Hollywood. Yes, there are many long shots of the neighborhood, the story holds a moral, and the characters (other than Walt) are flat types. However, the film is primarily a vehicle for Eastwood (and his public) to relive his acting-glory days. Eastwood has perfected the delivery and timing of the quiet, vengeful rebel and is further aided by a script tailor-made for him (according to Eastwood, screen-writer Schenk hunted down his agent.) “Gran Torino” does not rival any of Eastwood’s recent directorial gems, (“Million Dollar Baby,” “Mystic River,” “Flags of our Fathers”) but it does make an interesting bookend for Eastwood's silent and angry persona.
Monday, December 29, 2008
"The Wrestler": Believe the Hype
“The Wrestler”: Believe the Hype
The hype surrounding “The Wrestler” was enough to kill any film; “Mickey is back!” “The best-actor Oscar!” Yet in all honesty, without the hype I would not have paid the admission to watch men in tights and wigs smash each other to a pulp. In fact as a bourgeois ABD yogini female the WWF is something I have carefully avoided my entire life. But on that note, the film is an insightful commentary on the male population who seek such entertainment, on class and education boundaries that promote it, and on the effects such “sports” have on their labor. One should be forewarned, according to the film’s gripping realism, professional wrestlers do not fake all of the blood and back breaking, (or rather some of the faking is actually done with razors.)
For this reason the film is ingenious and difficult to watch. In the film’s first half, the audience intimately witnesses the wreckage done to “Randy the Ram” (Mickey Rourke.) His tightly framed face screams agony and repression louder than the referee’s megaphone. Close-ups of his limbs twisting and then pounding down (the sound design is grueling) left me squirming with sympathy in my seat. To this extent Aronofsky has surpassed and banalized violence in cinema; for rather than presenting us with the realism of violence in war, "The Wrestler" presents us with the realism of violence in performance— within a performance.
The casting of Mickey Rourke as Randy makes the paradigm complete. Rourke like Randy enjoyed considerable success in the 80s as a bad boy. In addition, though Rourke never wrestled, he enjoyed another concussion inducing sport, boxing, and did brutal damage to his brain and face. Although the basic storyline is often trite, (an overacted angry daughter (Evan Rachel Wood) emerges almost as an afterthought,) Rourke is so compelling in this role that the camera and the audience can scarcely focus on secondary matters. Therefore, there is barely enough space to contemplate another age-limited industry, stripping, though Pam (Marisa Tomei) skillfully demonstrates the other sex’s more typical compromise. If you are one for 80s nostalgia, you will enjoy all the hair-metal hits that might have been played at wrestling events, as well as the superb score co-written by Slash. The film closes with an almost too appropriate Bruce Springsteen song “One-trick pony” providing the perfect finale to a picture about an underclass of the entertainment industry. To this extent "The Wrestler" can be compared not only to "Rocky", and "Raging Bull" but to "Boogie Nights."
The hype surrounding “The Wrestler” was enough to kill any film; “Mickey is back!” “The best-actor Oscar!” Yet in all honesty, without the hype I would not have paid the admission to watch men in tights and wigs smash each other to a pulp. In fact as a bourgeois ABD yogini female the WWF is something I have carefully avoided my entire life. But on that note, the film is an insightful commentary on the male population who seek such entertainment, on class and education boundaries that promote it, and on the effects such “sports” have on their labor. One should be forewarned, according to the film’s gripping realism, professional wrestlers do not fake all of the blood and back breaking, (or rather some of the faking is actually done with razors.)
For this reason the film is ingenious and difficult to watch. In the film’s first half, the audience intimately witnesses the wreckage done to “Randy the Ram” (Mickey Rourke.) His tightly framed face screams agony and repression louder than the referee’s megaphone. Close-ups of his limbs twisting and then pounding down (the sound design is grueling) left me squirming with sympathy in my seat. To this extent Aronofsky has surpassed and banalized violence in cinema; for rather than presenting us with the realism of violence in war, "The Wrestler" presents us with the realism of violence in performance— within a performance.
The casting of Mickey Rourke as Randy makes the paradigm complete. Rourke like Randy enjoyed considerable success in the 80s as a bad boy. In addition, though Rourke never wrestled, he enjoyed another concussion inducing sport, boxing, and did brutal damage to his brain and face. Although the basic storyline is often trite, (an overacted angry daughter (Evan Rachel Wood) emerges almost as an afterthought,) Rourke is so compelling in this role that the camera and the audience can scarcely focus on secondary matters. Therefore, there is barely enough space to contemplate another age-limited industry, stripping, though Pam (Marisa Tomei) skillfully demonstrates the other sex’s more typical compromise. If you are one for 80s nostalgia, you will enjoy all the hair-metal hits that might have been played at wrestling events, as well as the superb score co-written by Slash. The film closes with an almost too appropriate Bruce Springsteen song “One-trick pony” providing the perfect finale to a picture about an underclass of the entertainment industry. To this extent "The Wrestler" can be compared not only to "Rocky", and "Raging Bull" but to "Boogie Nights."
Sunday, December 21, 2008
"Doubt" now an Oscar nominated play...
"Doubt" now an Oscar nominated play...
We are a media obsessed nation that has created a media obsessed world. No matter how many Tonies a play wins, it will gross only a fraction of an Oscar-winning film. Therefore, the marketing trick for John Patrick Shanley was to make “Doubt” his Tony award winning play, into a Hollywood vehicle that would ensure Oscars, thus $$$. To guarantee this success Oscar favorites Meryl Streep and Phillip Seymour Hoffman were cast as clergy and Howard Shore composed an appropriate if typical score. The plot follows a battle for power that ignites when a catholic school’s principle, Sister Beauvier (Streep) accuses the priest, Father Brendan Flynt (Hoffman), of molesting the school’s only black student. Though the story is simple and timely, it takes place in the pre-sex scandal days of 1964, which makes the reproach and the surrounding secrecy all the more compelling.
Sarcasm aside, no two screen actors could proffer as much anticipation of genius acting as the Streep/Hoffman duo. Both deliver their usual great performances, though Streep’s characterization as a militant nun is especially convincing. Each of her gestures depicts the restraint of her service, and the emotions dwelling beneath. Gendered behaviors are perhaps exaggerated for symbolism, and just as Sister Beauvier keeps a tense face and controlled attitude, Hoffman as Father Flynt, appears relaxed and jolly (that is before the insinuations begin.)
Though the script is as open and ambiguous as the title suggests, the audience cannot help but search desperately for Father Flynt’s truth, (debates between audience members will ensue as the credits roll.) Cameras offer tight cantered close-ups of the expert actors that reveal mystery and depths of emotion. Even so, "Doubt" seems to favor a theatrical setting, the mysterious dialogue cannot be improved with camera angles and the symbolism is at moments too overt for cinematic realism.
We are a media obsessed nation that has created a media obsessed world. No matter how many Tonies a play wins, it will gross only a fraction of an Oscar-winning film. Therefore, the marketing trick for John Patrick Shanley was to make “Doubt” his Tony award winning play, into a Hollywood vehicle that would ensure Oscars, thus $$$. To guarantee this success Oscar favorites Meryl Streep and Phillip Seymour Hoffman were cast as clergy and Howard Shore composed an appropriate if typical score. The plot follows a battle for power that ignites when a catholic school’s principle, Sister Beauvier (Streep) accuses the priest, Father Brendan Flynt (Hoffman), of molesting the school’s only black student. Though the story is simple and timely, it takes place in the pre-sex scandal days of 1964, which makes the reproach and the surrounding secrecy all the more compelling.
Sarcasm aside, no two screen actors could proffer as much anticipation of genius acting as the Streep/Hoffman duo. Both deliver their usual great performances, though Streep’s characterization as a militant nun is especially convincing. Each of her gestures depicts the restraint of her service, and the emotions dwelling beneath. Gendered behaviors are perhaps exaggerated for symbolism, and just as Sister Beauvier keeps a tense face and controlled attitude, Hoffman as Father Flynt, appears relaxed and jolly (that is before the insinuations begin.)
Though the script is as open and ambiguous as the title suggests, the audience cannot help but search desperately for Father Flynt’s truth, (debates between audience members will ensue as the credits roll.) Cameras offer tight cantered close-ups of the expert actors that reveal mystery and depths of emotion. Even so, "Doubt" seems to favor a theatrical setting, the mysterious dialogue cannot be improved with camera angles and the symbolism is at moments too overt for cinematic realism.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
The Class, What Takes Place Between Parisian Classroom Walls
Although the English title of Laurent Cantet’s seventh film The Class explicates the film’s subject, a 9th grade school class, it lacks the greater symbolism of the original title Entre les Murs (literally “between the walls” in English.) This spatial reference, lost in translation, indicates the importance of the actual classroom that houses all the frustration and wonder of the fourteen year-olds who study French with Mr. Bégaudeau. (In fact, only three scenes of the film take place outside the classroom and they are still within the confines of the high school.) In this way the film maintains its focus on the school environment and how the structure affects the teens and their teachers, and only rarely alludes to what might occur outside of school walls.
If you did not know, you would probably believe that The Class was a documentary. The students are expertly photographed, usually with a hand-held camera. But unlike Rachel’s Getting Married which desperately attempted realism with a whip-cam and shaky shooting, the camera floats and effortlessly focuses on acne-faced, braces-wearing, rebellious teens who appear so typically proud and confused, that the line between fiction and documentary disappears. Though neo-realist films have often cast non-professional actors, an entire cast of fourteen year-old non-professionals playing themselves in high school, trumps any realism an older person off the street might offer. In addition, the principal teacher is played by the film’s screenwriter, a real teacher who taught in Paris and penned a best selling novel about the experience before making it into a script. So François Bégaudeau, like most of his students, shares his name with his character, and performs with all the honesty this suggests.
It is astonishing that one feature film about a high school class in Paris can address so many of France’s contemporary problems in less than two hours; the French identity struggles to be defined by kids whose relationship to France is complicated by immigration, community, and a non-ethnic authority figure. Although Mr. Bégaudeau’s class is relaxed, violence ensues when one student refuses to use the polite address of “vous” with his teacher, demonstrating the importance of language in maintaining order. Of course language is central in a French class – Mr. Bégaudeau’s challenge is to make proper French relevant to kids who do not hear French spoken “correctly” outside of the classroom.
Never fear that The Class is reminiscent of Hollywood white teacher in a rough neighborhood films Dangerous Minds and Freedom Writers. There is no happy ending where the children realize their worth and set goals, and there is no sad ending where the students despair in self-destructive activities. The film simply presents a year of high school existence and allows the audience to analyze this chapter’s greater significance. The last shot of the film leaves the audience with a chill, the classroom where the children and teacher have exchanged knowledge and emotions is for the first time in the film empty; the space swells and reverberates with the transient meaning of all that has taken place between the walls.
Although the English title of Laurent Cantet’s seventh film The Class explicates the film’s subject, a 9th grade school class, it lacks the greater symbolism of the original title Entre les Murs (literally “between the walls” in English.) This spatial reference, lost in translation, indicates the importance of the actual classroom that houses all the frustration and wonder of the fourteen year-olds who study French with Mr. Bégaudeau. (In fact, only three scenes of the film take place outside the classroom and they are still within the confines of the high school.) In this way the film maintains its focus on the school environment and how the structure affects the teens and their teachers, and only rarely alludes to what might occur outside of school walls.
If you did not know, you would probably believe that The Class was a documentary. The students are expertly photographed, usually with a hand-held camera. But unlike Rachel’s Getting Married which desperately attempted realism with a whip-cam and shaky shooting, the camera floats and effortlessly focuses on acne-faced, braces-wearing, rebellious teens who appear so typically proud and confused, that the line between fiction and documentary disappears. Though neo-realist films have often cast non-professional actors, an entire cast of fourteen year-old non-professionals playing themselves in high school, trumps any realism an older person off the street might offer. In addition, the principal teacher is played by the film’s screenwriter, a real teacher who taught in Paris and penned a best selling novel about the experience before making it into a script. So François Bégaudeau, like most of his students, shares his name with his character, and performs with all the honesty this suggests.
It is astonishing that one feature film about a high school class in Paris can address so many of France’s contemporary problems in less than two hours; the French identity struggles to be defined by kids whose relationship to France is complicated by immigration, community, and a non-ethnic authority figure. Although Mr. Bégaudeau’s class is relaxed, violence ensues when one student refuses to use the polite address of “vous” with his teacher, demonstrating the importance of language in maintaining order. Of course language is central in a French class – Mr. Bégaudeau’s challenge is to make proper French relevant to kids who do not hear French spoken “correctly” outside of the classroom.
Never fear that The Class is reminiscent of Hollywood white teacher in a rough neighborhood films Dangerous Minds and Freedom Writers. There is no happy ending where the children realize their worth and set goals, and there is no sad ending where the students despair in self-destructive activities. The film simply presents a year of high school existence and allows the audience to analyze this chapter’s greater significance. The last shot of the film leaves the audience with a chill, the classroom where the children and teacher have exchanged knowledge and emotions is for the first time in the film empty; the space swells and reverberates with the transient meaning of all that has taken place between the walls.
Synecdoche, New York: Kaufman left to his own devices
Anyone who saw the preview for Synecdoche, New York anxiously awaited what promised to be the king of Kaufman films. The trailer guaranteed all the confusion of time and space that has become Kaufman’s signature with a bewilderment bonus in the credits, this time Kaufman would direct! In the past screenwriter Charlie Kaufman enhanced the surreality of his scripts with the creativity of music-video directors Spike Jonze (Being John Malkovich,) and Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Human Nature.) However, in Synecdoche, New York Kaufman is left to his own devices to either soar in amnesia or drown in self-pity. He decidedly does both.
Synecdoche, NY is the most ambitious of Kaufman’s work, perhaps because it is the most self-referential. Therefore one imagines that Kaufman carefully considered our nation’s finest actors before choosing Phillip Seymour Hoffman (who won an Oscar for Capote) to play the agonizing hypochondriac. Although Hoffman’s ability and range cannot be denied, his talents seem lost in the circular world of Kaufman. Where Truman Capote went from a witty and gay best-selling author to a morbidly intoxicated loner, Caton of Synecdoche, NY changes more through age-altering make-up than through character development. We know that Caton is a talented artist because he wins a prestigious grant to write and direct a play, yet no statements or actions worthy of such awards are apparent. Moreover, one assumes that despite his gut and negativity, Caton attracts beautiful women (Michelle Williams, Samantha Morton, Hope Davis) because of his artistic genius; on closer examination the women’s enchantment with Caton appears only as the icing of a generally dystopic, but fully hetero, male fantasy.
In short, this is a study of one (white male) artist’s consciousness, of his internal fears, failures and desires-- a fact which could improve or ruin the film for you depending on how much you identify with Caton. Obviously Kaufman identifies with the director of his creation, and in fact the director/character relationship is not dissimilar to that of Fellini and his alter ego Guido in 8 1/2. In both films macro- and microcosms blur while exploring the interior world of a creative mastermind, (a man whose imagination is really none other than that of the film’s director.) And although casting the overweight Hoffman as oneself is much more self-deprecating than casting pretty boy Mastroianni, it is fully appropriate in a pessimistic film with a depressive perspective.
Yet where Guido’s failure ultimately becomes a triumph in 8 1/2, Synecdoche, NY ends as a post 9/11 failure. The world Caton attempts to recreate in a warehouse swings out of proportion until Caton is left wandering through the remnants of a war-ravaged industrial city. The last 30 minutes, which drag steadily closer to Caton’s demise, simulate his fatigue and despair leaving the audience equally exhausted. This oversight in editing overshadows Kaufman’s circular mirroring twists which kept the script alive in the film’s first half; eventually what was as grotesque and haunting as a Francis Bacon self portrait, becomes tired, dull, and repetitive. Yet this might be precisely the view of life Kaufman wanted to suggest.
Anyone who saw the preview for Synecdoche, New York anxiously awaited what promised to be the king of Kaufman films. The trailer guaranteed all the confusion of time and space that has become Kaufman’s signature with a bewilderment bonus in the credits, this time Kaufman would direct! In the past screenwriter Charlie Kaufman enhanced the surreality of his scripts with the creativity of music-video directors Spike Jonze (Being John Malkovich,) and Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Human Nature.) However, in Synecdoche, New York Kaufman is left to his own devices to either soar in amnesia or drown in self-pity. He decidedly does both.
Synecdoche, NY is the most ambitious of Kaufman’s work, perhaps because it is the most self-referential. Therefore one imagines that Kaufman carefully considered our nation’s finest actors before choosing Phillip Seymour Hoffman (who won an Oscar for Capote) to play the agonizing hypochondriac. Although Hoffman’s ability and range cannot be denied, his talents seem lost in the circular world of Kaufman. Where Truman Capote went from a witty and gay best-selling author to a morbidly intoxicated loner, Caton of Synecdoche, NY changes more through age-altering make-up than through character development. We know that Caton is a talented artist because he wins a prestigious grant to write and direct a play, yet no statements or actions worthy of such awards are apparent. Moreover, one assumes that despite his gut and negativity, Caton attracts beautiful women (Michelle Williams, Samantha Morton, Hope Davis) because of his artistic genius; on closer examination the women’s enchantment with Caton appears only as the icing of a generally dystopic, but fully hetero, male fantasy.
In short, this is a study of one (white male) artist’s consciousness, of his internal fears, failures and desires-- a fact which could improve or ruin the film for you depending on how much you identify with Caton. Obviously Kaufman identifies with the director of his creation, and in fact the director/character relationship is not dissimilar to that of Fellini and his alter ego Guido in 8 1/2. In both films macro- and microcosms blur while exploring the interior world of a creative mastermind, (a man whose imagination is really none other than that of the film’s director.) And although casting the overweight Hoffman as oneself is much more self-deprecating than casting pretty boy Mastroianni, it is fully appropriate in a pessimistic film with a depressive perspective.
Yet where Guido’s failure ultimately becomes a triumph in 8 1/2, Synecdoche, NY ends as a post 9/11 failure. The world Caton attempts to recreate in a warehouse swings out of proportion until Caton is left wandering through the remnants of a war-ravaged industrial city. The last 30 minutes, which drag steadily closer to Caton’s demise, simulate his fatigue and despair leaving the audience equally exhausted. This oversight in editing overshadows Kaufman’s circular mirroring twists which kept the script alive in the film’s first half; eventually what was as grotesque and haunting as a Francis Bacon self portrait, becomes tired, dull, and repetitive. Yet this might be precisely the view of life Kaufman wanted to suggest.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
"Battle In Seattle" is not "Medium Cool"
"Battle in Seattle" has gained more press exposure than the average
independent film due to its controversial setting, the riots and
demonstrations attended by over 50,000 at the WTO conference in
Seattle, Washington of 1999, as well as its talk show hopping
Hollywood star; Cherlize Theron. Yes, the talented actress who
surpassed expectations when playing an overweight killer in "Monster"
(2003) is presently melting her Oscar for an engagement ring by
starring in her Irish fiancé's directorial debut. In truth "Battle in
Seattle" follows so many narratives, it is difficult to say that
Theron is the star, even if her name is its publicized feature; by
following the trials and tribulations of four racially diverse young
hetero-activists, and in addition a television reporter, a cop, his
pregnant wife, and the mayor of Seattle, the narrative strives to be
Altmanesque, but results in a collage of under-developed stereo-types.
In truth, though the film's production company, "Insight" is
independent, "Battle in Seattle" does not appear to subscribe to the
rules of such categorization; the film takes no risks in casting
unknowns (and instead casts many minor players of the major world) and
its plot follows the classical Hollywood paradigme complete with an
emotional score and a happy ending.
Yet the film's influences prove its espoir to higher filmmaking. As
already stated Townsend nods to Altman, but his primary inspiration is
another political film of a protest turned riot, Haskell Wexler's
"Medium Cool" (1969). "Medium Cool" follows the story of a television
journalist obsessed with capturing the real story of change in Chicago
despite being dismissed by his station. Only weeks before the DNC he
develops a relationship with a West Virginian mother and her
12-year-old son. The narrative thus comments on the state of media and
the interdependent web of the personal and political, while its
editing and cinematography further blur documentary and fiction. This
attempt at transgressing fiction and non-fiction is Townsend's most
overt reference to "Medium Cool"; actors are placed within the riots
by splicing documentary news footage when an establishing shot is
needed. This is seemingly infantile when compared with Wexler's
approach, for rather than researching footage of police brutality at
the DNC in '68, Wexler anticipated the protests and wrote his script
to include it. By physically placing his fictional characters within
the unrest, Wexler questioned the nature of cinema. Townsend rather
questions the nature of originality, or lack there of, while
celebrating predictability. While Wexler captures the beat of 1968 in
the year itself, Townsend reconstructs what he only witnessed via the
web, almost a decade later. Hence, though Townsend is emulating the
immediacy and realism of "Medium Cool," the montage looks as if he
badly cut and pasted videos. Furthermore, the artificial dialogue and
the flat characters contrast greatly with the actual footage of the
riot. Thus the film's Hollywood tendencies are enhanced and the
realism of "Medium Cool" or "La Battaglia di Algeri" is never
approximated.
Though no slight reference is made to the political circumstances of
2008, the film premieres roughly a month after the RNC where police
again used teargas on peaceful protestors. Similarities between the
need for action in 1999 and 2008 abound and one might assume that
Townsend hopes to inspire current activism with the stories of
fictional scruffy jeans and tee-shirt heroes. Jay (Martin Henderson)
is the most post-hippie looking with a beard and a scarf, and thus
deserves as the white male protagonist to be cast as the mastermind
behind all of the protest organization. His blossoming romance with
Lou (Michèle Rodriguez) struggles to keep our attention, and almost
wins through the sheer humor of trite sexist dialogue. Rodriguez who
started her career as almost butch in "Girlfight" (2000), continues to
play feisty and tough, though now with a sweet loving feminine touch.
She relaxes her fist throwing anarchist tendencies when sobbing in her
jail cell, and then holding hands through the bars with Jay as he
tells her to "stop crying like a girl." (How serendipitous that within
all the chaos of the 1999 Seattle WTO shut down, our lovers' would
land next to each other in the jailhouse!) Unfortunately, if Jay and
Lou do inspire you to activism, it will not be in hopes of romance.
The romance plot does not even seem to interest the actors, and adds
nothing to their "Let's go out and get those motherfuckers! (direct
quote)" ideology.
The other activist to note is the African-American one, Django
(Outkast's André 3000). Django is like most black supporting roles,
and most are supporting (and most are played by rap artists), he
offers comic relief and optimism for the white characters and
audience. Django can be facing the teargas, at the end of a police
baton, with others bleeding in jail, but will always, as a good
performer, wear a big smile. Although Jay's back story is the death of
his activist brother who was chained to tree and then cut down, and
beforehand Lou became a wanted criminal when she incinerated her
father's animal testing lab, Django's past is only referred to when he
recounts a bedtime story his grandpa told him about turtles. One must
suppose that this sweet story is what inspired Django's love of
turtles and subsequent fierce opposition against the turtle-killing
fishing industry. Although Outkast deemed "Scooby-Doo" the non-cartoon
2002 feature, worthy of a soundtrack song, the only hint of André's
musicality in "Battle in Seattle" is a acapella rendition of Bobby
McFerrin's "Don't worry be happy" completing his feeble part with yet
more black entertainment.
If the actors appear as cardboard cutouts of radicals and anarchists,
one should note that Townsend in a search for accuracy did consult
David Solnit, a real Direct Action Network organizer who was part of
the WTO protests in 1999. Solnit tried to correct the script, and
evidently did alter large sections despite the director's resistance.
He explains in Yes Magazine, that he with other activists succeeded
with a pressure campaign, "applying tactics (they) often used in
anti-corporate campaigns," but were consulted "too late to change the
film's basic narrative." Alas, one may hope that perhaps with more
time, Solnit and friends could have corrected not only the stereotypes
of activists but also the consistently banal dialogue, and what
becomes an obstacle course of characters. Other veteran WTO-protest
participants who do not agree with the film's portrayal of Seattle in
1999 have bonded together on a website, therealbattleinseattle.org,
which follows Solnit's conclusion to settle for the mediocre. Their
website statement: "It's a huge improvement over corporate media lies,
but won't tell the motives or thinking of the people who shutdown the
WTO." Although, one can easily agree that the Direct Action Network
characters are superficial constructions, the film primarily affronts
the activist community with its weak script piped full of lofty
meaningless inspirational statements and a badly directed cast that
was then later, badly edited.
Although the film inserts footage of the violence committed to
protesters by cops, police are in no way demonized. In fact Dale,
(Woody Harrelson), a low level mob-control cop might be the most fully
developed character. Dale's pregnant wife, Ella (Charlize Theron), is
beaten and miscarries when she passes through an unavoidable riot on
her way home. Dale's sadness turns to rage when he is forced to return
to work after learning the unfortunate news, and this fuels his
violent attack on our peaceful protagonist, Jay. Dale alone chases Jay
through Seattle's side streets and beats him to a pulp at a church
before he handcuffs his narrow wrists. But because this climatic
confrontation between antagonist (cop-bad guy) and protagonist
(Jay-organizer-good-guy) must be resolved, the film allows for major
character development in a jail make-up chat where Dale visits Jay and
says that he is sorry several times. Jay then tells him that it is
okay, "You were just doing your job." This is a surprising turn around
for the audience who has only twenty minutes before watched the two
characters thrash violently at one another with objects.
Theoretically, the miscarriage of Dale's wife and his apology would
allow the audience to sympathize with his character despite his crime.
Yet the opacity of Dale's attack and the apology leave the viewer
apathetic. This is part of larger general disinterest, for the
audience cannot relate to any of the stereotypes presented in "Battle
at Seattle," whether it be a cop or a radical.
First time Irish director Stuart Townsend (whose career highlights
include a guest role as a pastry chef on "Will and Grace") filmed with
a didactic purpose for those who might have forgotten this historic
clash between activists and police, vandalism and media. He thus
begins and ends "Battle in Seattle" as a very expensive power-point
presentation, with charts dissolving into more charts, arrows pointing
to dates, and photos cut into smaller photos. Despite Townsend's aim
to win a place in classrooms, his over-wrought style becomes less
educational than clunky and confusing, and though the film aims to be
objective in capturing both the activist and the cop perspective, the
bookends of data wash the film in a liberal preachy-ness. If you do
consider yourself to be politically liberal, "Battle in Seattle" is
another film that will shame you, by painting left politics as the
simplistic wet dreams of the Hollywood industry. Indeed in an act of
self-respect one is tempted to deny affiliation with the
fatigue-jacket backpack crew already described. If this situation
befalls you, I recommend returning to earlier times of American
activism by rediscovering "Medium Cool," a film that is
ground-breaking and relevant forty years after its release. The riots
of "Medium Cool" are frightening in their violence, and compelling in
their place within a fiction narrative; "Battle in Seattle" is at its
best a watered-down tribute to this film of '69 that still exposes the
reality of protest and media in the United States.
independent film due to its controversial setting, the riots and
demonstrations attended by over 50,000 at the WTO conference in
Seattle, Washington of 1999, as well as its talk show hopping
Hollywood star; Cherlize Theron. Yes, the talented actress who
surpassed expectations when playing an overweight killer in "Monster"
(2003) is presently melting her Oscar for an engagement ring by
starring in her Irish fiancé's directorial debut. In truth "Battle in
Seattle" follows so many narratives, it is difficult to say that
Theron is the star, even if her name is its publicized feature; by
following the trials and tribulations of four racially diverse young
hetero-activists, and in addition a television reporter, a cop, his
pregnant wife, and the mayor of Seattle, the narrative strives to be
Altmanesque, but results in a collage of under-developed stereo-types.
In truth, though the film's production company, "Insight" is
independent, "Battle in Seattle" does not appear to subscribe to the
rules of such categorization; the film takes no risks in casting
unknowns (and instead casts many minor players of the major world) and
its plot follows the classical Hollywood paradigme complete with an
emotional score and a happy ending.
Yet the film's influences prove its espoir to higher filmmaking. As
already stated Townsend nods to Altman, but his primary inspiration is
another political film of a protest turned riot, Haskell Wexler's
"Medium Cool" (1969). "Medium Cool" follows the story of a television
journalist obsessed with capturing the real story of change in Chicago
despite being dismissed by his station. Only weeks before the DNC he
develops a relationship with a West Virginian mother and her
12-year-old son. The narrative thus comments on the state of media and
the interdependent web of the personal and political, while its
editing and cinematography further blur documentary and fiction. This
attempt at transgressing fiction and non-fiction is Townsend's most
overt reference to "Medium Cool"; actors are placed within the riots
by splicing documentary news footage when an establishing shot is
needed. This is seemingly infantile when compared with Wexler's
approach, for rather than researching footage of police brutality at
the DNC in '68, Wexler anticipated the protests and wrote his script
to include it. By physically placing his fictional characters within
the unrest, Wexler questioned the nature of cinema. Townsend rather
questions the nature of originality, or lack there of, while
celebrating predictability. While Wexler captures the beat of 1968 in
the year itself, Townsend reconstructs what he only witnessed via the
web, almost a decade later. Hence, though Townsend is emulating the
immediacy and realism of "Medium Cool," the montage looks as if he
badly cut and pasted videos. Furthermore, the artificial dialogue and
the flat characters contrast greatly with the actual footage of the
riot. Thus the film's Hollywood tendencies are enhanced and the
realism of "Medium Cool" or "La Battaglia di Algeri" is never
approximated.
Though no slight reference is made to the political circumstances of
2008, the film premieres roughly a month after the RNC where police
again used teargas on peaceful protestors. Similarities between the
need for action in 1999 and 2008 abound and one might assume that
Townsend hopes to inspire current activism with the stories of
fictional scruffy jeans and tee-shirt heroes. Jay (Martin Henderson)
is the most post-hippie looking with a beard and a scarf, and thus
deserves as the white male protagonist to be cast as the mastermind
behind all of the protest organization. His blossoming romance with
Lou (Michèle Rodriguez) struggles to keep our attention, and almost
wins through the sheer humor of trite sexist dialogue. Rodriguez who
started her career as almost butch in "Girlfight" (2000), continues to
play feisty and tough, though now with a sweet loving feminine touch.
She relaxes her fist throwing anarchist tendencies when sobbing in her
jail cell, and then holding hands through the bars with Jay as he
tells her to "stop crying like a girl." (How serendipitous that within
all the chaos of the 1999 Seattle WTO shut down, our lovers' would
land next to each other in the jailhouse!) Unfortunately, if Jay and
Lou do inspire you to activism, it will not be in hopes of romance.
The romance plot does not even seem to interest the actors, and adds
nothing to their "Let's go out and get those motherfuckers! (direct
quote)" ideology.
The other activist to note is the African-American one, Django
(Outkast's André 3000). Django is like most black supporting roles,
and most are supporting (and most are played by rap artists), he
offers comic relief and optimism for the white characters and
audience. Django can be facing the teargas, at the end of a police
baton, with others bleeding in jail, but will always, as a good
performer, wear a big smile. Although Jay's back story is the death of
his activist brother who was chained to tree and then cut down, and
beforehand Lou became a wanted criminal when she incinerated her
father's animal testing lab, Django's past is only referred to when he
recounts a bedtime story his grandpa told him about turtles. One must
suppose that this sweet story is what inspired Django's love of
turtles and subsequent fierce opposition against the turtle-killing
fishing industry. Although Outkast deemed "Scooby-Doo" the non-cartoon
2002 feature, worthy of a soundtrack song, the only hint of André's
musicality in "Battle in Seattle" is a acapella rendition of Bobby
McFerrin's "Don't worry be happy" completing his feeble part with yet
more black entertainment.
If the actors appear as cardboard cutouts of radicals and anarchists,
one should note that Townsend in a search for accuracy did consult
David Solnit, a real Direct Action Network organizer who was part of
the WTO protests in 1999. Solnit tried to correct the script, and
evidently did alter large sections despite the director's resistance.
He explains in Yes Magazine, that he with other activists succeeded
with a pressure campaign, "applying tactics (they) often used in
anti-corporate campaigns," but were consulted "too late to change the
film's basic narrative." Alas, one may hope that perhaps with more
time, Solnit and friends could have corrected not only the stereotypes
of activists but also the consistently banal dialogue, and what
becomes an obstacle course of characters. Other veteran WTO-protest
participants who do not agree with the film's portrayal of Seattle in
1999 have bonded together on a website, therealbattleinseattle.org,
which follows Solnit's conclusion to settle for the mediocre. Their
website statement: "It's a huge improvement over corporate media lies,
but won't tell the motives or thinking of the people who shutdown the
WTO." Although, one can easily agree that the Direct Action Network
characters are superficial constructions, the film primarily affronts
the activist community with its weak script piped full of lofty
meaningless inspirational statements and a badly directed cast that
was then later, badly edited.
Although the film inserts footage of the violence committed to
protesters by cops, police are in no way demonized. In fact Dale,
(Woody Harrelson), a low level mob-control cop might be the most fully
developed character. Dale's pregnant wife, Ella (Charlize Theron), is
beaten and miscarries when she passes through an unavoidable riot on
her way home. Dale's sadness turns to rage when he is forced to return
to work after learning the unfortunate news, and this fuels his
violent attack on our peaceful protagonist, Jay. Dale alone chases Jay
through Seattle's side streets and beats him to a pulp at a church
before he handcuffs his narrow wrists. But because this climatic
confrontation between antagonist (cop-bad guy) and protagonist
(Jay-organizer-good-guy) must be resolved, the film allows for major
character development in a jail make-up chat where Dale visits Jay and
says that he is sorry several times. Jay then tells him that it is
okay, "You were just doing your job." This is a surprising turn around
for the audience who has only twenty minutes before watched the two
characters thrash violently at one another with objects.
Theoretically, the miscarriage of Dale's wife and his apology would
allow the audience to sympathize with his character despite his crime.
Yet the opacity of Dale's attack and the apology leave the viewer
apathetic. This is part of larger general disinterest, for the
audience cannot relate to any of the stereotypes presented in "Battle
at Seattle," whether it be a cop or a radical.
First time Irish director Stuart Townsend (whose career highlights
include a guest role as a pastry chef on "Will and Grace") filmed with
a didactic purpose for those who might have forgotten this historic
clash between activists and police, vandalism and media. He thus
begins and ends "Battle in Seattle" as a very expensive power-point
presentation, with charts dissolving into more charts, arrows pointing
to dates, and photos cut into smaller photos. Despite Townsend's aim
to win a place in classrooms, his over-wrought style becomes less
educational than clunky and confusing, and though the film aims to be
objective in capturing both the activist and the cop perspective, the
bookends of data wash the film in a liberal preachy-ness. If you do
consider yourself to be politically liberal, "Battle in Seattle" is
another film that will shame you, by painting left politics as the
simplistic wet dreams of the Hollywood industry. Indeed in an act of
self-respect one is tempted to deny affiliation with the
fatigue-jacket backpack crew already described. If this situation
befalls you, I recommend returning to earlier times of American
activism by rediscovering "Medium Cool," a film that is
ground-breaking and relevant forty years after its release. The riots
of "Medium Cool" are frightening in their violence, and compelling in
their place within a fiction narrative; "Battle in Seattle" is at its
best a watered-down tribute to this film of '69 that still exposes the
reality of protest and media in the United States.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
"There will be Blood," the New Western
The prophecy "There Will Be Blood" is announced against a black drop as the first frame of the eponymous feature: the letters, which recall the white, spindly Gothic script of a hymnal and their appearance in the cinema, underscore the film’s central struggle between religion and capitalism. Indeed, it is the mutual dependence of the twin themes that control the life of oil tycoon Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day Lewis) and all those whom he dominates. Simple dichotomies, such as the black and white of this title frame, become a complex web between the two principal characters in an epic of power; black quickly comes to signify oil and its commander’s smothering properties, while white implies the affected prophetic gesture in the pioneer hymnal of Eli (Paul Dano), a nascent Evangelical minister, and Daniel’s arch-nemesis. The ominous title, Peter’s prophesy of humanity’s gory finale, is a Biblical quotation from Acts, and its implications of fear, and fate apply to the spectator’s viewing experience as well. Anticipation of murder, constantly augmented by dissonant rising chords and Lewis’s driven face reddened by firelight, propel the spectator into the most original cinematic depiction of the American West to date. In the new Western, cowboys and Indians are replaced by the greed of capitalism and the Evangelical Christian church. One might question director Paul Thomas Anderson’s political motivations, (the film premieres as the United States struggle in a war many claim is based on oil and religion.) Though the film can be understood in allegorical terms, it is truly character-driven, showcasing remarkable performances that are only made more effective by the photography of glistening oil and the eeriness of a doom-inflected score.
Daniel Day Lewis delivers without a question what many claim is the performance of his career. Yet his performance of nihilism would be incomplete without the tension produced by the preacher Eli (Paul Dano). Perhaps Paul Dano won the part of Eli because he so convincingly played a similar role of a Bible-thumping teen in "The King." However, here, it is the tension between the actors that empowers their dialogue and the physicality of their gestures towards and against one another make the conflict visually arresting. Although Dano was cast as Eli only four days prior to shooting, the decision was anything but haphazard. Lewis and Dano previously played adversaries in the 2005 film, "The Ballad of Jack and Rose," in which Lewis as the father of Rose is angered by Dano’s sexual advances towards his daughter. Though their first film together proved the fierceness of their chemistry, in "There Will Be Blood" the potential of method acting antagonism is reached. Although Lewis’ mastery of greed and distance could carry the audience for the film’s two-and-a-half hours, it is the chime of Dano’s whining pleas and the tumble of his weak limbs that push Lewis’ characterization of misanthropy into drive.
The grandeur of the epic grasps the spectator in the first fifteen minutes of the film, which are completely free of dialogue: amid high pitches and rattling, we witness a lone miner dive deep into his hole to discover the Midas touch. Soon his tiny gold mine becomes a well and Plainview gains associates to haul buckets of grease into a black pond. Eventually the oil well machinery litters the dusty golden landscape, absorbing the pool and leaving Plainview a rich man who has never lost the perseverance of his desperate, gold-digging past. The sequence ends as an oil well motions against the hills and a setting sun shines in front of Plainview; though still covered in the day’s spoils, he now coos an orphaned baby on his knees, demonstrating the need for affection at the core of the stoic gaze, a need that can only be satisfied from a creature as non-threatening and ignorant as child.
Though there are countless overt references to the Bible in the dialogue, the over-riding Biblical theme is again a pairing, that of Cain and Abel, that is represented by dark and light. Visual allusions abound in the dripping black with which Daniel baptizes his foundling son H. W. and again as the dark sheen of his face gleams in the firelight during the sick ecstasy of oil burst. The hypocrisy of Eli is apparent early in the film; his dream of a powerful ministry allows him to accept the oil-thirsty Daniel’s bargaining price for his family’s land in exchange for a small bonus he in fact never receives. Sky blue and heavenly clouds are reflected in a broad puddle of oil when Eli walks by, symbolizing his false hopes to turn oil money into his own godly enterprise. In the shadows of his covered church the young minister wrestles a devil made of air, and then runs gloriously into the sun’s rays to release Satan to the breeze. However, the simplicity of the Cain and Abel story or the dark/light metaphor is misleading in a film with such superb details. The characters develop gradually and significantly with each scene so that each glance and gesture is rich with meaning, as is the meticulous framing which often profiles Eli and Daniel as they debate and demand.
The sheen of oil, often running and spurting like blood, is magically enhanced by an expert sound design, leaving the empty landscape a wondrous audio retreat. The clanking of oil rigs and the roar of fire is exquisitely highlighted by the score composed by Johnny Greenwood of Radiohead. The spacious haunting sounds of Arvo Pärt infiltrate one scene; it is in this tradition of music that Greenwood composes the disturbing score so reliant on silence. An escalating chord quickens your pulse, and an eerie dialogue of strings mimics the pastor and the oilman’s verbal duels.
Daniel Plainview’s most vicious turn is revealed in the emotional climax preceding the finale in which he claims his son is nothing to him but competition, but the evil root within Daniel, which has grown stronger through fortune and its soothing decadence, and the fraudulent hysterics of Eli’s ministry meet again in the more anticipated showdown. This scene at last relieves the spectator of the title’s prediction, but more importantly completes a circle within the film’s narrative while at the same time reaching a pinnacle of comic irony. The scene takes place twenty years after Eli and Daniel first meet and reveals how the rivals’ antagonism has developed through the Roaring Twenties; Eli has become a radio preacher and speaks with an affected theatric confidence, while Daniel, an alcoholic in a mansion complete with a bowling alley, is even more alone after having rejected his son. Now, he drools hate in his lonely but expensive pit of despair. The mounting tension between the actors is never more biting as in their final duel, and the paradox and power of money never more translucent. Now Greenwood’s cryptic score is abandoned as Hadyn's major chords and a dancing time signature celebrate Abel's murder of Cain and irony's triumph over violence.
Daniel Day Lewis delivers without a question what many claim is the performance of his career. Yet his performance of nihilism would be incomplete without the tension produced by the preacher Eli (Paul Dano). Perhaps Paul Dano won the part of Eli because he so convincingly played a similar role of a Bible-thumping teen in "The King." However, here, it is the tension between the actors that empowers their dialogue and the physicality of their gestures towards and against one another make the conflict visually arresting. Although Dano was cast as Eli only four days prior to shooting, the decision was anything but haphazard. Lewis and Dano previously played adversaries in the 2005 film, "The Ballad of Jack and Rose," in which Lewis as the father of Rose is angered by Dano’s sexual advances towards his daughter. Though their first film together proved the fierceness of their chemistry, in "There Will Be Blood" the potential of method acting antagonism is reached. Although Lewis’ mastery of greed and distance could carry the audience for the film’s two-and-a-half hours, it is the chime of Dano’s whining pleas and the tumble of his weak limbs that push Lewis’ characterization of misanthropy into drive.
The grandeur of the epic grasps the spectator in the first fifteen minutes of the film, which are completely free of dialogue: amid high pitches and rattling, we witness a lone miner dive deep into his hole to discover the Midas touch. Soon his tiny gold mine becomes a well and Plainview gains associates to haul buckets of grease into a black pond. Eventually the oil well machinery litters the dusty golden landscape, absorbing the pool and leaving Plainview a rich man who has never lost the perseverance of his desperate, gold-digging past. The sequence ends as an oil well motions against the hills and a setting sun shines in front of Plainview; though still covered in the day’s spoils, he now coos an orphaned baby on his knees, demonstrating the need for affection at the core of the stoic gaze, a need that can only be satisfied from a creature as non-threatening and ignorant as child.
Though there are countless overt references to the Bible in the dialogue, the over-riding Biblical theme is again a pairing, that of Cain and Abel, that is represented by dark and light. Visual allusions abound in the dripping black with which Daniel baptizes his foundling son H. W. and again as the dark sheen of his face gleams in the firelight during the sick ecstasy of oil burst. The hypocrisy of Eli is apparent early in the film; his dream of a powerful ministry allows him to accept the oil-thirsty Daniel’s bargaining price for his family’s land in exchange for a small bonus he in fact never receives. Sky blue and heavenly clouds are reflected in a broad puddle of oil when Eli walks by, symbolizing his false hopes to turn oil money into his own godly enterprise. In the shadows of his covered church the young minister wrestles a devil made of air, and then runs gloriously into the sun’s rays to release Satan to the breeze. However, the simplicity of the Cain and Abel story or the dark/light metaphor is misleading in a film with such superb details. The characters develop gradually and significantly with each scene so that each glance and gesture is rich with meaning, as is the meticulous framing which often profiles Eli and Daniel as they debate and demand.
The sheen of oil, often running and spurting like blood, is magically enhanced by an expert sound design, leaving the empty landscape a wondrous audio retreat. The clanking of oil rigs and the roar of fire is exquisitely highlighted by the score composed by Johnny Greenwood of Radiohead. The spacious haunting sounds of Arvo Pärt infiltrate one scene; it is in this tradition of music that Greenwood composes the disturbing score so reliant on silence. An escalating chord quickens your pulse, and an eerie dialogue of strings mimics the pastor and the oilman’s verbal duels.
Daniel Plainview’s most vicious turn is revealed in the emotional climax preceding the finale in which he claims his son is nothing to him but competition, but the evil root within Daniel, which has grown stronger through fortune and its soothing decadence, and the fraudulent hysterics of Eli’s ministry meet again in the more anticipated showdown. This scene at last relieves the spectator of the title’s prediction, but more importantly completes a circle within the film’s narrative while at the same time reaching a pinnacle of comic irony. The scene takes place twenty years after Eli and Daniel first meet and reveals how the rivals’ antagonism has developed through the Roaring Twenties; Eli has become a radio preacher and speaks with an affected theatric confidence, while Daniel, an alcoholic in a mansion complete with a bowling alley, is even more alone after having rejected his son. Now, he drools hate in his lonely but expensive pit of despair. The mounting tension between the actors is never more biting as in their final duel, and the paradox and power of money never more translucent. Now Greenwood’s cryptic score is abandoned as Hadyn's major chords and a dancing time signature celebrate Abel's murder of Cain and irony's triumph over violence.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Cronenberg's Gangster Film, "Eastern Promises"
As the title of Cronenberg’s 2005 film A History of Violence suggests, Cronenberg has a penchant for violence, and as the converted will know, this proclivity for blood extends to the squishy and squirmy. Thus it stands to reason that after mastering horror, sci-fi, and drama (and creating his own sub-genre which could be termed psych-fantasy-horror) Cronenberg would at last grapple with the most acclaimed genre of violence, the gangster film. Although Cronenberg had previously battled David Lynch in the “who is the weirdest” director debate, with Eastern Promises Cronenberg competes with Coppola and Scorsese to recount the story of an immigrant family in the throngs of the crime underworld.
To his credit, Cronenberg enlisted Viggo Mortensen to enchant the audience with Russian gangland exoticism. Mortensen, who so expertly walked the line between good and evil in A History of Violence, confuses our moral compass again. In Violence, his character's darker impulses had a veneer of pure Americana complete with diner pie and football games. This time he plays the foreigner, Nikolai, a tattooed mafia chauffeur whose moral roots are grounded outside the mob in goodness. A brief scene with a Scotland Yard detective in the second half of the film explains Nikolai’s true character; although Nikolai is determined to be a starred member of the Vory v Zakone, it is only to usurp power from evil, as we learn that Nikolai is in fact an informer. What’s more, although Mortensen’s gangster cool captivates the audience with its rugged elegance (i.e. when he puts his cigarette out on his tongue), an undercurrent of honesty portends his mafia future.
Naomi Watts as Anna is the most obvious of Nikolai’s longings towards honest goodness. The embodiment of pure female righteousness, Anna, a childless but baby-loving midwife, is the ideal foil to the testosterone-driven mafia. Perhaps it is divine intervention that brings this innocent creature to speak with the head of the Russian mob about a diary found on a teen that died in labor. The baby was saved and Anna feels it is her duty to find the family of the nameless deceased so as to save the newborn from foster care. Following a business card to the fine Russian restaurant found within the dead girl’s journal she meets the owner Semyon played by Armin Mueller-Stahl. It is this through this initial encounter that Semyon realizes the diary contains the most secret of secret mafia information, and that as long as the diary exists his operation is in danger of being discovered. The plot consists essentially of two intermingled intrigues:, Anna seeks justice in the name of the orphan baby while Semyon tries to keep the story quiet; in the more ambiguous, Nikolai struggles to climb into the mafia inner circle though his motives always remain mysterious. Is he seeking power? Or justice? In the name of Hollywood simplicity the film’s ending unites baby and Anna. Yet the second intrigue intones a sadder note: who is Nikolai and what are his true goals?
Although this film by no means competes with The Godfather or Goodfellas, it also fails to continue the originality of Cronenberg classics such as Videodrome or Dead Ringers. While the Cronenberg touch is much lighter this time around, the legacy is present in the subtle but transgressive homoeroticism, and in the exposition of Viggo Mortensen, first in black boy shorts and then completely nude. To this extent, Cronenberg modernizes the gangster picture and the Hollywood blockbuster. Although sexual tension between Anna and Nikolai is alluded to in the script, it is only homoerotic tension between Nikolai and Semyon’s son Kirill (Vincent Cassel) that surfaces. Perhaps Anna is too prissy in her cable-knit sweaters and hospital clothes to ignite a real fantasy for Nikolai (or the audience). In fact, he appears to be more interested sexually in Anna’s motorcycle. Thus, there is more on screen tension between the two men than there is between Anna and Nikolai, the scripted romance. Comforting Kirill, Nikolai embraces him from behind, stroking his shoulders. Finally, the camera closes in on the men as if to film a kiss when Nikolai lightly brushes Kirill’s cheek, and then backs away. In a more playful homo-sexed moment, a drunken Kirill falls to Nikolai’s feet, then on hands and knees pushes his ass in Nikolai’s direction. Kirill’s limp wrist is a mafia joke, and a source of denial and shame. It is never clear to what extent Nikolai is manipulating Kirill for power, allowing his butt slaps and ogling with hopes of a payback. Camera work enhances the queerness of their relationship, making their awkward co-dependency the most compelling element of their scenes together.
If your knowledge of Russia culture is as lacking as my own, and consists of vodka, bathhouses (and I suppose a sprinkling of literature) you will be pleased to see more of what you know in Eastern Promises. Vodka is not only a favorite beverage, it also serves as a disinfectant and an inflammant. There is also a Russian bathhouse, which provides Viggo Mortensen an occasion to expose his lean toned body, all the while keeping the film’s heterosexual meter high with a gruesome fight scene. Actually, our hero is the only nude combatant; the other fighters are heavily clothed in black leather jackets, making Viggo’s inked skin even more arresting. Fans will be happy to see here that Cronenberg is up to his usual tricks: just when you imagine that Nikolai has escaped the obese soldier’s knife, a last gasp of life requires a poking assault complete with an expert sound design of squish. There is also a humorous element to the scene’s anxiety: Mortensen’s nudity and his combatant’s girth freshly recall Borat, another film that posited contradictions of homophobia and mass culture.
The fight scene is the centerpiece of Eastern Promises and it is unfortunate that all that follows is a sentimental tying of strings. Anna’s dream of becoming a mom is fulfilled, and the dark and mysterious Nikolai becomes more of a gallant superhero. Yet Viggo Mortensen is the heart of the film, and his acting and charm are almost enough to temper the script’s melodrama and toxic finale. It is the last shot of Mortensen that reminds us that Nikolai’s true character is impenetrable. As he drinks alone in the dimly lit red of the Russian restaurant a hopeful voice-over of the dead Tatiana reads from her diary that life will be better in London than Russia, combining the travesty of an immigrant’s misfortune with Nikolai’s lonely vodka-induced stare. Irony has not entirely escaped Eastern Promises thanks to Mortensen’s skill and the remnants of Cronenberg’s vision.
To his credit, Cronenberg enlisted Viggo Mortensen to enchant the audience with Russian gangland exoticism. Mortensen, who so expertly walked the line between good and evil in A History of Violence, confuses our moral compass again. In Violence, his character's darker impulses had a veneer of pure Americana complete with diner pie and football games. This time he plays the foreigner, Nikolai, a tattooed mafia chauffeur whose moral roots are grounded outside the mob in goodness. A brief scene with a Scotland Yard detective in the second half of the film explains Nikolai’s true character; although Nikolai is determined to be a starred member of the Vory v Zakone, it is only to usurp power from evil, as we learn that Nikolai is in fact an informer. What’s more, although Mortensen’s gangster cool captivates the audience with its rugged elegance (i.e. when he puts his cigarette out on his tongue), an undercurrent of honesty portends his mafia future.
Naomi Watts as Anna is the most obvious of Nikolai’s longings towards honest goodness. The embodiment of pure female righteousness, Anna, a childless but baby-loving midwife, is the ideal foil to the testosterone-driven mafia. Perhaps it is divine intervention that brings this innocent creature to speak with the head of the Russian mob about a diary found on a teen that died in labor. The baby was saved and Anna feels it is her duty to find the family of the nameless deceased so as to save the newborn from foster care. Following a business card to the fine Russian restaurant found within the dead girl’s journal she meets the owner Semyon played by Armin Mueller-Stahl. It is this through this initial encounter that Semyon realizes the diary contains the most secret of secret mafia information, and that as long as the diary exists his operation is in danger of being discovered. The plot consists essentially of two intermingled intrigues:, Anna seeks justice in the name of the orphan baby while Semyon tries to keep the story quiet; in the more ambiguous, Nikolai struggles to climb into the mafia inner circle though his motives always remain mysterious. Is he seeking power? Or justice? In the name of Hollywood simplicity the film’s ending unites baby and Anna. Yet the second intrigue intones a sadder note: who is Nikolai and what are his true goals?
Although this film by no means competes with The Godfather or Goodfellas, it also fails to continue the originality of Cronenberg classics such as Videodrome or Dead Ringers. While the Cronenberg touch is much lighter this time around, the legacy is present in the subtle but transgressive homoeroticism, and in the exposition of Viggo Mortensen, first in black boy shorts and then completely nude. To this extent, Cronenberg modernizes the gangster picture and the Hollywood blockbuster. Although sexual tension between Anna and Nikolai is alluded to in the script, it is only homoerotic tension between Nikolai and Semyon’s son Kirill (Vincent Cassel) that surfaces. Perhaps Anna is too prissy in her cable-knit sweaters and hospital clothes to ignite a real fantasy for Nikolai (or the audience). In fact, he appears to be more interested sexually in Anna’s motorcycle. Thus, there is more on screen tension between the two men than there is between Anna and Nikolai, the scripted romance. Comforting Kirill, Nikolai embraces him from behind, stroking his shoulders. Finally, the camera closes in on the men as if to film a kiss when Nikolai lightly brushes Kirill’s cheek, and then backs away. In a more playful homo-sexed moment, a drunken Kirill falls to Nikolai’s feet, then on hands and knees pushes his ass in Nikolai’s direction. Kirill’s limp wrist is a mafia joke, and a source of denial and shame. It is never clear to what extent Nikolai is manipulating Kirill for power, allowing his butt slaps and ogling with hopes of a payback. Camera work enhances the queerness of their relationship, making their awkward co-dependency the most compelling element of their scenes together.
If your knowledge of Russia culture is as lacking as my own, and consists of vodka, bathhouses (and I suppose a sprinkling of literature) you will be pleased to see more of what you know in Eastern Promises. Vodka is not only a favorite beverage, it also serves as a disinfectant and an inflammant. There is also a Russian bathhouse, which provides Viggo Mortensen an occasion to expose his lean toned body, all the while keeping the film’s heterosexual meter high with a gruesome fight scene. Actually, our hero is the only nude combatant; the other fighters are heavily clothed in black leather jackets, making Viggo’s inked skin even more arresting. Fans will be happy to see here that Cronenberg is up to his usual tricks: just when you imagine that Nikolai has escaped the obese soldier’s knife, a last gasp of life requires a poking assault complete with an expert sound design of squish. There is also a humorous element to the scene’s anxiety: Mortensen’s nudity and his combatant’s girth freshly recall Borat, another film that posited contradictions of homophobia and mass culture.
The fight scene is the centerpiece of Eastern Promises and it is unfortunate that all that follows is a sentimental tying of strings. Anna’s dream of becoming a mom is fulfilled, and the dark and mysterious Nikolai becomes more of a gallant superhero. Yet Viggo Mortensen is the heart of the film, and his acting and charm are almost enough to temper the script’s melodrama and toxic finale. It is the last shot of Mortensen that reminds us that Nikolai’s true character is impenetrable. As he drinks alone in the dimly lit red of the Russian restaurant a hopeful voice-over of the dead Tatiana reads from her diary that life will be better in London than Russia, combining the travesty of an immigrant’s misfortune with Nikolai’s lonely vodka-induced stare. Irony has not entirely escaped Eastern Promises thanks to Mortensen’s skill and the remnants of Cronenberg’s vision.
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